Vision and Stagecraft in Sophocles 0709923287, 9780709923282, 0226744043

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VISION AND STAGECRAFT IN SOPHOCLES David Seale

THE UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO PRESS

The University of Chicago Press, Chicago 6063 7 Croom Helm Ltd, London SWl 1 © 1982 by David Seale All rights reserved. Published 1982 Printed and bound in Great Britain 89 88 87 86 85 84 83 82 54321 Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data

Seale, David. Vision and stagecraft in Sophocles. Revision of thesis (Ph.D.) - University of London, 1973. Bibliography: p. 261 Includes index. 1. Sophocles - Criticism and interpretation. I. Title PA4417.S45 1982 882'.0l 82-50459 ISBN 0-226-74404-3 AACR2

CONTENTS

Preface

10

1. Introduction: Aristotelian Principles, Visual

Conventions, the Visual Theme

12

2. The Philoctetes: Illusion and Surprise

26

3. The Electro: Illusion and Suffering

56

4. The Antigone: Concrete Visualisation

84

5. The Oedipus at Co/onus: Inner Vision

113

6. The Ajax: the Shame of Revelation

144

7. The Women of Trachis: the Verge of Truth

181

8. Oedipus the King: Blindness and Sight

215

Select Bibliography

261

Index

264

To my mother and in memory of my father

PREFACE

This book is an attempt to show the distinctiveness of Sophoclean stagecraft. It is intended to appeal to non-specialists, students of drama in particular, as well as to classicists. I have tried to keep the reader who has no knowledge of the plays informed of the plot as the discussion proceeds and to this end each play is interpreted scene by scene. This manner of presentation will also I hope help the reader to adopt the spectator's point of view, to visualise the drama as it unfolds. The translations which I have put together, and which are in the main based on Jebb's interpretation of the original, make no claim to literary merit; they are very much dictated by the need to present the central theme of the book, which has an important linguistic component, with precision and clarity. Certain distinctive elements of the Greek are appended in a transliterated form so that striking patterns of imagery and effects of verbal repetition may be fully appreciated. I have used the text of A.C. Pearson throughout, Sophoclis Fabulae (Clarendon Press, Oxford, 1928), and where I have resorted to other readings I have made reference to them in the notes. This book grew out of a doctoral dissertation which was submitted to the University of London as long ago as 1973. And my first and deepest debt of gratitude is to Professor R.P. Winnington-Ingram who supervised the original thesis and has guided my work ever since. Without his great learning, his keen and helpful criticism, and his constant encouragement this book would never have been written. I am profoundly indebted as well to Mrs P.E. Easterling who has helped me so generously from the first, checking innumerable drafts, discussing problems and suggesting improvements. To both of them I owe so much, not only for their contributions to this book, too numerous to list, but also for their kindness and concern; I shall always remember with great happiness my annual visits to London and Cambridge. I would also like to express my thanks to Professor Katherine Worth who supported my efforts at a critical stage and to Dr Oliver Taplin who read my preliminary draft and offered valuable criticisms. There are many others to whom I owe thanks but in particular I would like to mention Dr Shirley Barlowe, Michael Wood and, from among my colleagues at Bishop's University, David Rittenhouse, who over the years has taught me much about the nature of drama in general, and

10

Preface

11

Richard Green, who kindly corrected the final draft of the manuscript. Finally I should record my thanks to the Canada Council, the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada, and Bishop's University, through whose generosity I was able to spend successive summers in England, at the University of Cambridge and the Institute of Classical Studies, London. And here I would like to acknowledge my particular gratitude to the Director of the Institute, Professor Eric Handley, who has always taken an interest in my work and made me feel at home in the place where I have done most of my research. Above all I am grateful to Bishop's University for a sabbatical leave which allowed me to concentrate on my studies at a decisive time. My wife, Gilly, has been patient throughout, looking after home and family almost singlehandedly. My fondest hope is that she will read my book on Sophocles now that it has finally been completed.

1

INTRODUCTION: ARISTOTELIAN PRINCIPLES, VISUAL CONVENTIONS, THE VISUAL THEME

This book offers an interpretation of Sophocles' stagecraft. In this external and hence obtrusive sphere of their art playwrights readily acquire a reputation. In Greek tragedy it is Aeschylus who attracts attention with his massive and marvellous theatrical effects, while the staginess of Euripides is well attested in scenes which range from the sordidly realistic to those of ceremonial splendour. And in the case of Euripides it is always possible to point to his particular fondness for the deus ex machina in which a god is literally swung into the action by crane. Sophocles escapes the limelight; his drama, in general, is marked by the absence of this kind of conspicuous and easily definable exterior. But it does not follow that Sophocles is reluctant to employ the aid of spectacle for his own dramatic purposes. To believe this would be to overlook the intricacy of his stagecraft and to exclude the spectacular element from his work altogether. When Aristotle categorised spectacle as the least significant of his six determinant 'parts' of tragedy,1 he gave authority to an ideal of visual austerity which, however it may have been challenged in its applicability to later forms of drama, has maintained an abiding influence on the criticism of Greek tragedy itself. Two main principles emerge from the scattered and often ambiguous references to spectacle in Aristotle's discussion. First, there is the view that, while spectacle may be used to arouse 'pity' and 'fear', it is the sign of superior artistry if these emotions result from the inner structure of the plot.2 Euripides is usually regarded as the target of Aristotle's criticism here. The pathetic ceremonies which follow the monstrous murder of Hector's young son in the Trojan Women readily come to mind; the mangled corpse is not only brought back to the stage, but exhibited on the shield of his father as the focus of a long lament. On the other hand, the importance of arbitrary suffering to the idea of the play and indeed to Euripides' whole conception of tragedy could theoretically reconcile the display with the Aristotelian formula which seems really to be addressed to the problem of gratuitous spectacle. But, more to the point is the actual frequency and significance of such visual effects in Sophocles; the grim sight of Oedipus in Oedipus the King, blinded and bearing the sign of the self-mutilation, is with us for the whole of the 12

Introduction

13

final scene, finally to be exploited by the presence of his two young daughters who are brought for him to hold before they are dragged away. There is, too, the gruesome exhibition of Heracles' agony in the Women of Trachis and the staging of Ajax' suicide in the Ajax, while the Philoctetes presents a continuous spectacle of suffering which includes two suicide attempts and the hero's complete collapse into unconsciousness. The second principle concerns a form of spectacle which Aristotle rules out altogether as alien to the purpose of tragedy: the spectacle of what he calls the 'monstrous' rather than the 'terrible'. 3 In this instance Aeschylus is universally assumed to be the culprit and the example usually adduced is the apparently devastating effect made by the hideous Furies in the Eumenides. 4 Whatever Aristotle had in mind this kind of exotic spectacle is distinctively Aeschylean, but very much a part of his 'elemental' drama. There is nothing quite like this in Sophocles. Another similar exotic effect, the deus ex machina, is viewed by Aristotle as a threat to the all-important logic of plot. 5 In this instance Aristotle explicitly singles out Euripides for blame when it can easily be shown that dislocation has its own logic in Euripides' fractured universe. And here, again, there is the interesting fact that Sophocles, whose plays are models of Aristotelian construction, makes use of this spectacular device in his Philoctetes. There is, then, an unmistakable impression in Aristotle's Poetics that spectacle is insignificant and liable to vulgar exploitation. 6 The consequent interpretation of Aristotle has involved a tacit acceptance of his ideal of austerity, and illustration of his standards of 'excess' has been restricted to the work of Aeschylus and Euripides. This silence about Sophocles carries the implication that his dramas epitomise Aristotle's ideal and this may please the purists. But it does not do justice to Sophocles' theatrical genius. For while the general compactness of his plots entails the avoidance of mere visual ostentation, this simply argues for a stage presentation which is appropriate, not one which is insignificant and untheatrical. Aristotle was writing a long time after the original productions of the great tragedies and was, in any case, less concerned with the practicalities of theatrical performance. This 'philosophical' approach, fortified as it has been by the work of scholars whose natural inclination was to regard drama primarily as thought, has become deeply ingrained in critical thinking. But, once visualised, the texts speak for themselves; Sophocles is quite capable of devising the impressive stage spectacle and there are occasions when spectacle takes over; the Philoctetes is visually one of the most

14

Introduction

intriguing as well as the most spectacular plays in the whole of Greek tragedy. But the simple argument against the notion that spectacle is insignificant in Sophocles is provided by the facts of the ancient Greek theatre, its physical context and visual conventions. 7 All drama is spectacular, Greek tragedy especially so by virtue of its remarkable conventions. The plays were performed in a vast open-air theatre with a seating capacity of some fifteen thousand. The finest surviving example is the theatre of Epidaurus, which, although dated to the later period of the fourth century, gives a clear idea of the structure and dimension of the ancient theatre in the earlier classical period. 8 It is more than a theatre, it is a setting. Anybody who compares his feelings as a spectator even in a large opera house, for example, with what he feels in a small intimate theatre will realise the significance, the visual significance, of this kind of setting. But it is what the sheer size of the Greek theatre must mean for the performance that really matters. The acting area itself, which consists of the distinctive circular or almost circular orchestra at ground level and the stage, located on the edge of the 'circle' farthest from the rising tiers of spectactors and raised a little above the orchestra level, is extremely spacious by modern standards. But, significantly, the orchestra is taken up by the presence of a chorus of fifteen who, by convention, enter very soon after the play begins and only leave, with very rare exceptions, at its conclusion. The size alone even of a quiescent chorus is sufficient to ensure an impressive and permanent presence 'on-stage'. When, however, the chorus comes to life in the various choreographic movements which accompany its formal odes and which may even have been employed to dramatise moments in the general action, the effect may be called spectacular in the fullest sense. The chief advantage of the chorus is its unique capacity to communicate large emotional effects, and this is as much a function of its visual as of its vocal impact. The point is easily illustrated by the increased sense of horror conveyed by a silent recoil, if it is carried out collectively and in unison. Joy, grief, religious fervour, excitement, all are heightened by the visual movement and physical amplification which only a chorus can give. The elaborate choral odes which intervene at regular intervals in the spoken dialogue and which, loosely speaking, comment on the 'significance' of the dramatic events and relate them to a larger framework of universal law, may in deepening the action be thought to slow down or even arrest forward movement. But this 'pause' for philosophising coincides with an increase in the external movement on-stage and an enlargement of emotion. It is one thing to have a chorus of one

Introduction

15

as in Anouilh's Antigone or a philosopher-character like Orestes in Sartre's The Flies impart significance, quite another to have the Greek chorus do it. With its visual character the tragic chorus is the perfect medium for transforming thought into an aesthetic of action. It is a mistake easily made in the reading of Greek tragedy to take the choral odes as interludes or act divisions in the modern sense. This is an especially important caveat for Sophoclean drama where the chorus is so closely integrated into the action. They are characters. What they say and do can hardly represent a pause in the action. The permanence of the chorus's stage presence, which does not allow for an effective change of scene, and its extraordinary visual power ensure a continuous spectacle and create the single economical movement for which Greek tragedy is so well known. 9 They are - in the absence of elaborate physical settings - the 'living' scenery of the play. 10 But can the words of the chorus be clearly heard? We are all aware of this difficulty in modem choral performance. The answer seems to lie in the solo flute accompaniment for the Greek chorus and the harmony of the music with the accentuations of pitch which characterised spoken Greek. The heavy orchestral scoring which makes opera a predominantly musical experience and which is sometimes unwisely adopted in modern productions of Greek tragedy was not a factor in original performance. Moreover, although it can be argued that a number of Euripides' choral odes fall into the category of musical interludes, it would be very surprising if the many dense and intricately wrought odes of Greek tragedy were composed only to be vaguely appreciated in the actual delivery. And there is always the visual accompaniment, the gestures of the dance, to reinforce the meaning of the words. One important conclusion to be drawn from all this is that, although the chorus is a convention determined by the origin of dramatic performance in the dance, the large theatre is best served by large or vivid effects. Hence the use of masks, which consisted of the whole headpiece including the hair, for all characters. This practice, too, goes back to the religious origins of tragedy, but in a theatre of this size, where one face would look very much like another and where there was a total absence of female actors, this convention made necessary distinctions of age, sex and status visible to the spectator. The evidence of vase-paintings indicates that the masks were, as far as possible, naturalistic;11 there is, too, an impression of variety in hair-style, feature and complexion. 12 The texts of the plays themselves also tend to confirm the belief that during this earlier period masks were far from being

16

Introduction

stereotyped and had the flexibility to accommodate the more special· ised requirements, such as the expression of mourning, distinctive beauty and the like. 13 There was even perhaps a blood-stained mask to be worn by Oedipus after the self-blinding. Skilful use was also made of the ample space and the various physical levels afforded by the acting area. Characters could enter the raised stage directly from the central door of a building which was used as a tiring house for the actors and whose front wall provided the scenic background (the skene) of the action, usually a simple representation of a palace or a temple; or, alternatively, they could arrive from the 'outside world', along either of the so-called parodoi which were long entrance ways into the orchestra, between the ends of the front wall and the seats of the audience. An entry ( or exit) by this means was a fairly long process and could be used to accumulate significance, for example, in a way normally precluded by the modern theatre. The arrival and departure of the chorus were invariably accomplished along the parodoi and were obviously impressive movements. Although its formal songs were perf orrned in the orchestra and the actors used the stage proper for most of the time, there was free movement and verbal communication between the two levels of orchestra and stage. Neither area was reserved. The integral role of the chorus in the plot was thus a matter of physical illustration as well. Indeed there are formal scenes of lyrical interchange, usually known as kommoi, which enlarge our emotional response to a character rather than to the whole dramatic situation as in the case of the choral odes. The roof of the stage building provides a third level of action, usually, though not exclusively, for the appearance of the gods. This is visually an appropriately dominating location for the imposition of divine will, the more so since an epiphany was presumably dramatised by all the characters on-stage turning their backs on the audience to gaze up at the god. Again, it is the live reaction which enhances the spectacle. The generic character of the plots also logically entails the spectacular element: the material of Greek tragedy is drawn from myths of a grand and heroic past. All the main characters are of noble blood, many trace their origins back to divine ancestry, while the gods themselves materialise on-stage in all their traditional splendour. The picture that we have from literary and archaeological evidence seems to indicate colourful costumes and long flowing robes. 14 But, apart from dress, there is the pageantry associated with royalty, entrances by chariot, processions and, of course, silent attendants, extras whose presence is often overlooked. In reading Greek tragedy especially, with its absence

Introduction

17

of explicit scenic instructions, there is a natural tendency to visualise the two or three spoken parts and only to accept the presence of extras the moment they are mentioned. Further, it is important to realise that the simplicity of physical scenery places the burden on the stage representatives, on their masks and costume, on their numbers, movement and grouping. For example, it is the figure of the nurse in the Women of Trachis who must convey the impression of domesticity and family life. Indeed, in this respect careful attention should be paid to any humble character in such aristocratic society; the worlds of court and the common man are not scenically separate as they are in Shakespeare. But the real point of the argument is to combat the automatic assumption of austerity when it comes to numbers. Ensemble scenes are not necessarily gratuitous spectacle; they express, amongst other things, public situations and public relationships. The arrival of the armed guards in the Agamemnon, the double chorus at the end of the Suppliant Women and the massive trial scene in the Eumenides are action and idea in visible form. This, of course, is Aeschylus. But there are two big scenes in the Women of Trachis in which Sophocles clearly employs a large number of extras. And yet the highly significant public ceremony which opens Oedipus the King has been reduced by some critics to a pathetic representative group of two or three extras. There is, to be sure, always the question of expense. But we know that during this period Athens lavished tremendous sums of money on her artistic programmes15 and it was only towards the end of the long war with Sparta that we hear of cut-backs which affected the theatre. 16 In fact, the expense of each production was largely carried by one of Athens' wealthiest citizens; and while the Choregus, as the sponsor was officially called, would spend in accordance with his means, the prestige associated with the competition was likely to induce him to be generous. If there is a place for large ensemble scenes which are not immediately to be branded as extraneous pomp, the theatre at Athens was in every respect ideally geared to their accommodation. There is, too, a substantial element of the irrational in Greek myth. Strange creatures, miraculous transformations, stupendous feats of physical strength, gruesome deaths and impossible exploits complete the rich miscellaneous texture of the mythical tradition. Now this is a storehouse of poetic symbols, but when it comes to staging certain kinds of action we know the technical difficulties involved and irrational material of this kind presents particularly acute problems - although they are less serious in the theatre of convention than in the theatre

18

Introduction

which aims to be realistic. In fact the spectacular design of Aeschylus' Prometheus Bound, which includes the frenzied arrival of the cowheaded maiden, lo, shows the facility of the Greek theatre in this regard. The key factor is not technical difficulty but dramatic conception. And it is in this area, in the handling of irrational material, that Sophocles tends to avoid the visual explicitness which characterises the work of his two great contemporaries. In the Prometheus Bound the violence and the wonder are not an intrusion into an otherwise rational world; they are primeval, they are the world, and so visibly inform the action. Similarly, the flawed and chaotic universe of Euripides is reflected in the external fabric of construction, in episodic plots and in the visible exhibition of irrational evil such as, in the Bacchae, the return of Agave flaunting the head of her own son, impaled on a stake. ---.. It is quite different with Sophocles; his is a rational universe which allows a place for the irrational. The whole mystery of life is intelligible but beyond the capacity of man's intelligence, great and restless though that intelligence may be. Where there is an eruption of the irrational it is mapped out in a predictable and understandable pattern or has its place in the larger order of things. Oedipus the King is not about incest nor about the passion which caused Oedipus to kill; it is about a man who discovers a dark secret. While the nature of Oedipus' •crime' intensifies the horror, what matters is that the crime is unknown and then known. The nature of incest is not explored, the nature of knowledge is. The emphasis is on the process rather than the content of revelation. The spectre of the irrational past haunts the whole of the Women of Trachis, but it is only present in the language of the play, in a sequence of bestial images; when the •beast' achieves its epiphany in the visual exposure of Heracles' tortured body it takes the form of a •revelation' which shows the appearance within a larger rational structure, the pattern of the tragedy itself. Thus the more grotesque displays of Euripidean drama and the strange theatrical symbols of Aeschylus' primitive and pre-rational world would have no place in the plays of Sophocles. - The main controversy in the sphere of stage spectacle concerns realism. It should first be said that the trend towards realism which can be traced in the work of Euripides and even in the final plays of Sophocles is largely a matter of content not performance. Euripides, in trying to capture the •realities' of human existence, introduced new sexual and social themes often with a psychological interest and, in exposing the false ideals of the heroic world, he turned to the more commonplace as a means of revealing man as he really was. There was a greater emphasis on the ignoble, even sordid, side of human nature,

Introduction

19

and on man's pathetic struggle with overpowering and incomprehensible forces. But he was working with the same set of artificial conventions. The increase in naturalistic detail which is usually associated with realism, although it can be accommodated to a degree in the language of the play, is hardly possible in most aspects of visual presentation. Subtle and detailed changes in facial expression remain precluded by the mask and would, in any case, be lost in the Greek theatre. If a character is tearful or has a glint in his eye, then we shall be informed that this is so. One exception may have been the scenic facade. Sophocles is credited with the invention of scene-painting17 but there is no way of knowing whether this was realistic or merely decorative. If it is a Sophoclean invention it is hardly conceivable from what we know of Sophoclean artistry that it would simply have served the purpose of embellishment. So some elaboration of scenery may have occurred, perhaps connected with the extra topographical detail in the dialogue of the later plays of the period. Costume can sometimes be effective in conveying personal disaster or suffering more realistically, but this cannot be related to a trend in the theatre: the first extant play that we have, the Persians of Aeschylus, shows the defeated Xerxes in 'tattered finery' .18 And some figures of myth, such as Philoctetes, demand their own unique appearance at whatever period they become stage characters, although the grim squalor of Philoctetes' suffering may conceivably have been more 'real' in Sophocles' version of the story than in the much earlier play of Aeschylus. Even Euripides has to expose the commonplace or the vicious in kings and princes; he cannot have the common man as a central character. The crucial question is the degree of realism in the acting from the beginning and the extent to which stage properties are used when they are mentioned in the text. Unfortunately, the answer to this is that we do not know. What can reasonably be ruled out is the view that the size of the theatre precludes visual effects, that Greek tragedy was statuesque and carried by the rhetoric and imagery of the spoken word. The texts imply a good deal of stage action and gesture and the question is whether it was stylised or naturalistic. 19 This is not as critical as it might seem; stylisation is simply a code of stage movement and the important thing is that action is expressed. There is no means of discovering exactly how actors performed in the ancient theatre and the assumption of this discussion is that action was fairly naturalistic, a position which is generally accepted by modern critics.20 The only necessity is the obvious but important one that the stage business must

20

/ntroductio,i

be clearly visible. And actually a number of significant movements fulftl this requirement naturally: kneeling, praying, supplication, prostration. There are very few actions which could be regarded as beyond the actor's capability and, at least as far as Sophocles is concerned, no such massive effects, as the 'cataclysm' at the end of the Prometheus Bound, which might raise the question as to whether they were ever staged at all. Of course a good deal of what is technically difficult as well as what is deliberately reserved for the imagination is conveyed verbally. Often an apparent limitation is turned to advantage: the contrasting imagery of light and darkness which is so prominent in Sophocles' plays is more than an expedient dictated by an open-air performance permanently bathed in sunshine; it becomes a key symbol in the tragic conception. Death (and large-scale violence) is usually conveyed by the speech of a messenger. But his report is not infrequently succeeded by a tableau of corpses which is presented by the striking conventional device of the eccyclema, a mobile platform rolled out of the central doorway .21 In the literal sense an interior scene is revealed, although it quickly blends into the stage picture, unlike the temporary impression given by words, an enduring emblem of the unseen violence which has occurred. But this visual artifice does emphasise a fact which may perhaps be surprising to the modern spectator: all Greek tragedies take place outside. To an Athenian audience of the time accustomed to the outdoor life, it was more acceptable to see affairs of family and state discussed 'in public'. And the convention is skilfully exploited by Sophocles: in the Electra, for example, where the restless presence of Electra outside the palace is dramatised as an act of public defiance against those with whom she is compelled to live. As regards stage properties, many are so crucial to the working of a scene or to the meaning of the whole tragedy, like the great bow in Sophocles' Philoctetes, that it is difficult to imagine the plays without them. There are, too, occasions when verbal description must be accompanied by visual effect. It would be incongruous, for example, in Sophocles' Electra to have Electra dressed like everybody else when characters keep speaking of her slavish and mournful appearance. There is, then, good reason to believe that within the conventional framework there is room for a fair degree of naturalistic performance. So much for the actual conventions of Sophocles' stage. How did Sophocles use them? One could approach the subject of Sophocles' stagecraft in a number of ways. But there is one theme which invites the audience to look at the action with a double perspective, through

Introduction

21

its own eyes and through the eyes of those on-stage. Characters provide an internal commentary of how they themselves visualise or 'see' dramatic situations and a whole visual image of action is built up which the spectator matches against his own actual view. The most obvious expression of this is the paradox of blindness and sight which is brought out in the confrontation between the blind prophet, Teiresias, and Oedipus in Oedipus the King. Who is really blind? The question is not merely harboured in the situation but explicitly posed in the visual imagery of the verbal exchange, in the opposition of light and darkness and the elaborate play on physical and mental blindness. What we have is a virtually independent poetic symbolism which is based on the scenic situation but which develops its own imaginative power. In other words, the irony depends on what the audience already knows, on its awareness of Oedipus' incest and his own ignorance of it, rather than on what it 'sees' in the actual stage situation. But it is often the case that the visual language has reference to a specific visual effect; when, for example, in the Women of Trachis Deianira is confronted on-stage with what she is told and what she herself admits is 'visible' evidence that all is well, she is literally staring disaster in the face. The tableau of captive women, which is proof of her husband's victory and salvation, also contains the beautiful Iole who is visibly identifiable by the audience as Heracles' new mistress. Deianira's claim to 'see' falls short of what is there on-stage and what is actually seen by the spectator. The scene itself, unlike the Teiresias scene, creates the disparity of knowledge before our eyes. The typical pattern, however, of a Sophoclean play is a sequence, a movement from delusion to truth. The climax is invariably a revelation, in terms of the visual metaphor, a moment when something is truly 'seen'. Thus in Heracles' physical unveiling of his own tortured body in the final stages of the same play, Deianira's language of delusion has become for his situation the language of real insight: For I shall reveal this from under the covers. Look, gaze everyone on my wretched body, see my misery, how pitiable I am. The perceptions on-stage now coincide with those of the spectator. The curve of revelation, the progression from illusion to reality, is thus reflected as a change in visual meaning. In fact explicit emphasis is given to spectacle as such rather than to what it depicts; it is not a question of a specific motif given visual expression, but the idea of seeing itself which provides the primary

22

Introduction

subject-matter of the scenic situation: the captives and Iole embody the suffering of war, they typify the sudden and tragic shifts in man's fortunes and suggest the themes of conquest and slavery; Iole as an individual presence symbolises the captivating power of Aphrodite. The spectacle is rich and complex, but what counts is whether Deianira 'sees' its real significance. This emphasis on visual perception in individual scenes is also, as we have noted, reflected in the larger perspective, in the displacement of one kind of seeing by another. In this way the visual metaphor projects the theme of knowledge as a process also, a particular pattern of revelation. This purely theatrical symbolism, which is created from the interplay between the actual and the interpreted stage picture, presents itself as the logical focus of a discussion of Sophoclean spectacle, since it reveals a harmony of verbal and visual elements which is distinctively Sophoclean; and in the second place it offers the prospect of a theory of general application: Sophocles' underlying tragic conception, the paradox of an intelligible universe, becomes, in the world of the stage, the paradox of visible action. Visual language, as it is used in this study, covers the whole range of words connected with the operation of sight, words denoting the function and mode of visual perception, the conditions, for example, of light and darkness, and the clarity or obscurity with which an object is seen. The principal danger in analysing this language is the tendency to read significance into words which are, after all, commonplace. But usually the dramatic significance is evident in the recurrence of expressions and their organisation into an observable pattern or sequence. There are, too, many instances where the language itself is emphasised by pleonasms and qualifications of clarity: time and again in the Electra Chrysothemis claims before Electra that she has 'clear' visible indications of Orestes' living presence. At this point Electra disbelieves what we know to be true. A little later she makes her own claim to clarity of perception when she believes what we know to be false, that Orestes is dead. But, above all, even apparently unexceptional references to sight pick up meaning either because of simultaneous links with the immediate visual context or through a more general relationship with the total design of stage spectacle. Thus the language basically displays two distinct, though within the dramatic development, related emphases: one ironic, the other literal and corroborative. In each case the spectacle either contradicts or confirms the expressed perceptions of those on-stage. The unifying idea of this study, then, is drawn from this special relationship between the image world of seeing and the 'actual' world

Introduction

23

of what is seen on-stage. In this way the contrast between appearance and reality, which is so fundamental to Sophocles' way of looking at tragic situations, is embodied in scenic form. This compact design of verbal and visual unity naturally does not account for the whole of Sophoclean spectacle, but provides a focus of visual meaning and technique. In fact one play, the Philoctetes, is notable for the absence of the metaphorical language of sight and therefore of the 'visual theme' per se. This is to be explained by the play's unique design, which is not ironic but melodramatic. And it is interesting to observe that, apart from its other untraditional features which are manifestations of the more relaxed structure, there is a freer and more blatant use of stage spectacle. One chapter will be devoted to each of the seven plays. The plays are not treated in chronological order but in a progressive sequence which, more or less, reflects in each successive play the increasing prominence of the 'visual theme'. This arrangement is merely a convenience dictated by Sophocles' uneven use of the theatrical technique emphasised in the discussion. Thus drama:, which revolve around the contrast between appearance and reality, like the Women of Trachis and Oedipus the King, occupy a large part of the discussion and are reserved for the final chapters. Oedipus the King is actually the subject of the concluding chapter, since it exhibits the most formal harmony of spectacle and visual language. The Philoctetes, on the other hand, is examined first since there is no such specific harmony, although as Sophocles' most spectacular drama it serves as an exciting introduction to Sophocles' stagecraft in clear contradiction to its supposed austerity.

Notes 1. Aristotle, Poetics, 1450b. 2. Aristotle, ibid., 145 3b. 3. Aristotle, ibid., 145 3b. 4. G.F. Else.Aristotle's Poetics: The Argument (Harvard University Press, Cambridge, Mass., 1957), pp. 278 and 410; also D.W. Lucas,Aristotle Poetics (Clarendon Press, Oxford, 1968), p. 150. S. Aristotle, Poetics, 1454a-b. 6. Aristotle's attitude to stage spectacle is well brought out by 0. Taplin, The Stagecraft of Aeschylus (Clarendon Press, Oxford, 1977), Appendix F, pp. 477-9. 7. In most studies visual conventions tend to be treated without reference to their significance for the actual plays. 0. Taplin's monumental work, Stagecraft of Aeschylus, is the notable exception. For the best introduction, however, the

24

Introduction

reader is directed to Greek Tragedy in Action (Methuen, London, 197 8), pp. 1-21, by the same author. See also P. Walcot, Greek Drama in its Theatrical and Social Context (University of Wales Press, Cardiff, 1976). 8. The remains of the theatre at Athens are much less impressive, but the same kind of dimensions are involved. T.B.L. Webster, Greek Theatre Production (Methuen, London, 1956), pp. 4-5, quotes the figures for the 'Periclean' theatre, finally reconstructed towards the end of the fifth century; the width of the stage proper was 45 feet; the diameter of the circular orchestra, and so the distance from the front of the stage across the orchestra to the front row of the spectators, was 60 feet; the back rows were approximately 300 feet from the stage. For a more detailed study see A.W. Pickard-Cambridge, The Theatre of Dionysus in Athens (Clarendon Press, Oxford, 1946). See also P.D. Arnott, An Introduction to the Greek Theatre (Macmillan, London, 1959), pp. 32-4, and H.C. Baldry, The Greek Tragic Theatre (Chatto and Windus, London, 1971), pp. 36-53. 9. This is more than the formal continuity of which Taplin speaks, Stagecraft of Aeschylus, p. 50. Taplin's concept (pp. 49-60), that the Choral songs function in conjunction with the pattern of exits and entrances to divide the drama into 'acts', says much that is crucial and new about the scenic form of Greek tragedy. But his 'ground pattern' does not really deny the overall impression of visual continuity; rather it gives that continuity its distinctive shape. In any case Taplin's structural formula avowedly has the flexibility which allows for a greater or lesser explicitness in the articulation of 'scenes'. In Sophocles, for example, there are two plays, the Electra and the Oedipus at Co/onus, where the main character is on-stage, along with the Chorus, for virtually the whole of the performance. The sense of visual continuity here is both overwhelming and important for the tragic meaning. This is less true in other plays, but in general the most striking break in continuity occurs precisely on those rare occasions when the Chorus leaves the scene. 10. On the function of choral imagery in scene-setting see S.A. Barlow, The Imagery of Euripides (Methuen, London, 1971), pp. 17-42. 11. The evidence is assembled by A.W. Pickard-Cambridge, The Dramatic Festivals of Athens, 2nd edn (Clarendon Press, Oxford, 1968), pp. 180-93. The earliest piece of evidence, a vase-painting from Athens of 4 70-460 B.C., J.D. Beazley, Attic Red-figure Vase-painters, 2nd edn (Oarendon Press, Oxford, 1963), vol 1, p. 495, shows a boy holding a mask and, as Pickard-Cambridge observes (p. 181), 'It is ... sufficiently clear that the intentions of the original mask-maker were naturalistic, with no attempts at any kind of exaggeration.' The rest of the vase-paintings relevant to the earlier period lead to the same conclusion (p. 192). . 12. Pickard-Cambridge, Dramatic Festivals, p. 192. 13. For example, characters in mourning are described as having shorn hair, and the distinctive feminine beauty of Dionysus in the Bacchae of Euripides is generally assumed to be represented by his mask. On the variety and special effects of the mask see again Pickard-Cambridge, Dramatic Festivals, p. 192. Cf. also the ancient author, Pollux, 4, l 33ff., who lists a wide range of masks even for the later period which is one of much greater standardisation. 14. Here, however, the evidence is less clear. There is the passage in Aristophanes' Frogs (1060ff.), which suggests that Aeschylus' heroes were dressed in more mioestic robes, and this seems to accord with a statement in the Life of Aeschylus, unfortunately of doubtful value, that Aeschylus invented a more grandiose costume, perhaps involving robes that were long enough to trail. The vase-paintings show a greater degree of ornamentation towards the end of the fifth century. But there is little description in the actual text of the plays to give an impression of what the kings and queens of the Greek stage wore. On the whole question of dress see the cautious conclusions of Pickard-Cambridge,

Introduction

25

Dramatic Festivals, pp. 198-204. 15. See Plutarch, Life of Pericles, eh. 12-13. 16. In the year 406-405 B.C. the duties of each choregus were divided between two citizens. See Pickard-Cambridge, Dramatic Festivals, p. 87. 17. Aristotle, Poetics, 1449a. Vitruvius, however, 7, pref. 11, attributes the invention to the painter Agatharcus, working for Aeschylus. Webster, who argues for the existence of quite naturalistic scenery even in the pre-Periclean theatre, Greek Theatre Production, pp. 14-18, is sure that Aristotle is right. Cf. also Pickard-Cambridge, Theatre of Dionysus, p. 124. 18. Taplin, Stagecraft of Aeschyhls, p. 121. 19. The difficulties are well put by Pickard-Cambridge, Dramatic Festivals, pp. 171-6. 20. See, especially, the convincing arguments of Taplin, Stagecraft of Aeschylus, pp. 28-39. 21. A review of the long argument as to the nature and even the existence of this device in the fifth century is not appropriate to this brief introduction. No less an authority than Pickard-Cambridge rejects the idea of such a device for the fifth century after an exhaustive examination of the evidence, Theatre of Dionysus, pp. 100-22. But some kind of trolley seems to be required to reveal tableaux and certainly there are a number of scenes in Sophocles where it is clearly indicated. For the existence of the eccyclema in the fifth century see Taplin, Stagecraft of Aeschylus, pp. 442-3; Webster, Greek Theatre Production, pp. 8-9; and Arnott, Introduction to the Greek Theatre, pp. 42-3.

2

THE PHILOCTETES: ILLUSION AND SURPRISE

Most of the tragedies which were composed for the Greek theatre with its vast and open layout had domestic settings or at least were located within a civic or social context. The physical intimacy which might be thought desirable for plots which revolve round the internal workings of a family was hardly captured by the scenic facade of a palace. Political plays, it is true, can rely on the use of extras in public ceremonies or crowd scenes. But the drama which takes place in a rustic setting begins with a distinct advantage in terms of realism of scene or of ambience at least. When in addition the hero of the play is an outcast, a reject from society, there is to begin with a harmony of situation and character which necessarily involves an increase in realism. Such a play is the Philoctetes, written towards the end of Sophocles' life and at a time when the general trend towards realism had been given added impetus by the revolutionary dramas of Euripides. The scene is set on the island of Lemnos, which we learn is a trackless and barren place, uninhabited except for the presence of the hero, Philoctetes. For this the general setting of the theatre is ideal. But the specifics of the scenic arrangement are a matter of conjecture, raising the age-old controversy about things said as opposed to things seen. There is also the particular problem of the degree of realism in the Greek theatre. One thing is certain: there is something quite special about the location of the dramatic events, whether this is conveyed by verbal or visual means. The background is not created to be quickly forgotten; it unfolds by a process of apprehensive discovery in the prologue and is brought back to the audience repeatedly by the words of Philoctetes himself. This is not simple scene-setting; he addresses his natural surroundings directly, personalises them in a way which forges an intimate bond between himself and the place which he has been forced to make his home. More so than any other hero in Sophocles, Philoctetes is a character defined by scenic context. Location impinges on the sense or the mind at almost every point. This is the desolate spot where now, suddenly, there is so much coming and going, the spot which Philoctetes either relinquishes or inhabits for ever. But whether he is leaving or staying, he expresses his emotional attachment to it. Thus in the course of the play a symbolic relationship is established between the main character, the fluctuating action of which he is the 26

The Philoctetes

27

focus and the physical setting in which it all takes place. The passion of Philoctetes could only have occurred there. But what does the spectator really see? There is good reason to think that the verbal scene-painting is an elaboration of a basic visual set. The details of physical environment which figure in Philoctetes' anguished apostrophes are important for the moments they dramatise, and the dramatic point of these moments, Philoctetes' attachment to his bleak surroundings, is made by the fact of his personal address. But the allimportant cave which is Philoctetes' home is another matter entirely. This possesses a powerful and enduring symbolism; the rocky cave is emblematic of the basic mode of Philoctetes' existence, its primitiveness, its dependence on raw nature, its isolation. And it would be very surprising if it were not visually represented, a constant and evocative reminder of character and situation. There would be little difficulty in adapting the scenic facade, which accommodated panels, to represent a rocky cliff. 1 And the orchestra would correspond to the beach. The cave, as we are frequently reminded, has two mouths and is conceived as a tunnel pierced through the cliff side. But only one mouth, the seaward entrance, is visible to the spectator, the other being merely imagined as an opening through the other side of the cliff. The alternative of having both entrances face the audience, like two gaping eyes, would perhaps be a more arresting sight but does not allow for the arrival of the hero in the manner indicated in the text. The real problem concerns the height of the cave, which is 'located' at the top of the cliff, high enough at least for Philoctetes to attempt suicide by hurling himself down a precipice. Was the illusion of height created by visual means? It is perfectly possible and consistent with the full information provided in the text that the audience was meant to imagine the stage floor as a high ledge above the 'beach', with the central doorway serving as the cave entrance. But critics have been impelled to seek more realistic alternatives. Webster2 advocates the use of the eccyclema, pushed out in the beginning to give extra height to the floor of the cave. But clearly the extra height involved is insuffi. cient to make the threat of suicide convincing. Woodhouse's solution is to visualise the cave as being the upper part of the doorway. 3 This conception requires a level platform extending in front of the cave, on which Philoctetes can emerge and stand. There would also have to be a path leading up to the cave, allowing movement between the two levels. Such improvised structures are possible, but involve one serious problem which must be faced: the Philoctetes was produced in the

28

The Philoctetes

conventional format, along with two other tragedies and a final satyr play. We have no knowledge of their titles or the sequence in which the tragic trilogy was performed, but any radical transformation of the traditional set to meet the special requirements of one play would entail an unusual and laborious process of scene changes and can be safely ruled out. Against this, presumably, must be weighed the extraordinary visual realism of the Philoctetes and its melodramatic character. And the incident of Philoctetes' attempted suicide might fail artistically, if it did not convince. Since, however, the stage-set could not possibly represent cliffs convincingly, this aspect is probably best left to the imagination. The visual requirements of the Philoctetes will remain a matter of legitimate controversy. But these few suggested touches of scenery would combine with the wealth of topographical detail to stress the uniqueness of the location. The scenery, then, would exploit to advantage the basic realism of the theatrical setting but a good deal would depend on the imagination. Above all, for an audience accustomed to the simple and civilised scene before the palace, the set before them already, before the drama gets under way, would offer them the prospect of exotic and unusually exciting action. Two Greek warriors enter from a parodos. They are accompanied by one other less important figure who is one of their sailors. Their steps are tentative and wary. One is noticeably older than the other. This is Odysseus, the wily Greek hero. The younger man is Neoptolemus, son of the greatest warrior at Troy, Achilles. Odysseus leads the way; he has been here before and recognises the spot where ten years before he and the Greek commanders of the expedition to Troy had deserted Philoctetes. The latter had been bitten by a snake in the sacred grove of Chryse and the stench of his festering wound, combined with his screams of agony, had become intolerable to his companions and a religious embarrassment for the whole expedition. Odysseus is looking to find the cave which he knows Philoctetes inhabits but, significantly, it is the junior man who is sent ahead to do the actual searching. Odysseus, afraid of being recognised and facing the awful bow which Philoctetes constantly has in his possession, lurks in the background after leading the way and sends Neoptolemus to climb the path and make the discovery. Already the history of terrible suffering which has been packed into the opening lines has transformed the scene into an image of existence, with the cave as the dominant symbol of the barbaric life to which Philoctetes has been reduced and a stark testament to the inhumanity

The Philoctetes

29

of his former colleagues. The image is developed in more gruesome detail; Neoptolemus looks into the cave and shouts down what he sees: a mattress of leaves, a rude cup of wood and tinder for the fire; the rest of the cave is bare. The real horror is reserved for last and is disclosed after a brief delay, which may mark the progress of Neoptolemus into the cave: rags full of the disease's discharge, the sight elicits a cry of shocked amazement {38-9). We see the grim tokens through the eyes of Neoptolemus. Moreover, there and then in the imagination, Philoctetes becomes a 'creature' of the environment, growing in horror as the large external impression of the landscape converges on the intimate and unseen aids with which he administers to his own diseased body. Odysseus is manifestly not involved in the discovery, since he is felt to be far enough away that he does not 'perceive' the cave which Neoptolemus has come upon. Once Neoptolemus has confirmed for him that this is Philoctetes' abode but that it is empty, he sends the sailor along the parodos to protect their backs, a further show of apprehension which now implants the suspicion that Philoctetes might suddenly appear from the rear. The whole sequence plays on the imagination and is full of visual suspense. The opening of the drama presents a situation in which Neoptolemus alone comes into contact with the outward manifestations of Philoctetes' squalid and neglected condition. The total picture is one which invites the audience to watch Neoptolemus' reaction, to observe him observe. Visually the pattern is set in the careful distance of Odysseus and Neoptolemus' close contact. The spatial distinction provides the measure for the degrees of personal involvement which are explored. The basis for the special relationship between Neoptolemus and Philoctetes is laid by Odysseus' restricted situation. The physical location of Odysseus on the margins of the action is actually one of the striking external features of the drama and admirably illustrates the detachment and caution of his role. Neoptolemus, by contrast, is implicated in the action. The action in question, searching, and the goal it implies, discovery, make up a sequence of ideas which characteristically frame a Sophoclean play.4 Here searching is explicit in the stage business and it is the first motif of the drama, instantly communicated by the entry of two men, before a word is spoken. Neoptolemus is then assigned the role on his own. He is now the searcher and his will be the recognition. Philoctetes is the man sought and the man who will be 'discovered'. The two men now discuss the purpose of their mission. The more educated Athenians in the audience may have come to the play with some knowledge of the epic versions of the myth about Philoctetes

30

The Philoctetes

and the significance of his presence in the sack of Troy after ten long years. Many Athenians would also have had the opportunity to see the dramas by Aeschylus and Euripides on the same topic. 5 The question of prior knowledge is always a difficult one, but any precise knowledge which the audience may be supposed to have brought to the play is immediately dissipated into a mass of ambiguities; Odysseus is shown as a man constantly preoccupied with the bow as though it provides the sole reason of his mission {68, 78, 113, 115). Neoptolemus, for his part, seems to be concerned about the future role of Philoctetes himself in the enterprise. 6 It can be argued that Odysseus' obsession with the bow is one of a man who knows that Philoctetes is invincible while he has it in his possession.7 A revelation of character might also be intended; Odysseus is only interested in the hard practicalities of the mission, in contrast to his companion who is already aware of the human element. But neither of these possibilities alters the fact that when it comes to the exact nature of the mission the audience is in the dark. They are not quite sure whether it is sufficient that the bow alone be brought to Troy or whether Philoctetes, its owner, must also come. Of course this ambiguity in the drama must be reckoned against one of the basic features of the myth, Philoctetes' presence at the fall of Troy. But when it comes to the manner in which he gets there the dramatist is free to innovate in an area which is vague and it is here that uncertainty can easily be created. We are presented not with two but with three possible means of achieving Philoctetes' capture: force, trickery and persuasion. All three methods are pointedly differentiated from each other (90-1, 102, 103). The human factor complicates the issue even further. Neoptolemus does not like the idea of trickery and favours force. Odysseus rules out both force and persuasion in favour of trickery, his traditional mode of operation. One quickly realises the range of possible combinations and contradictions. It is impossible to disentangle one thread to which the audience can cling. The design is deliberately ambiguous and complex so that they may be led this way and that, never quite sure of the exact nature of the mission nor of the method which is eventually to be successful.8 This is not to say that they would not grasp the essentials of the situation. One procedure is finally agreed on, deception, and Neoptolemus agrees to carry it out. The immediate prospect is an intrigue and the question is whether Neoptolemus will succeed. But herein lies the crux of the uncertainty, in the ambiguous attitude of Neoptolemus himself. He is reluctant to embark upon the policy of deception, since it goes against his nature, and yet he accepts his

The Philoctetes

31

comm1s1on. Thus, from the spectator's point of view, an ambiguous plan is to be put into effect by an ambivalent character. Odysseus works out a contingency plan; he will send the spy who was earlier despatched to guard the rear back to the ship, but if Neoptolemus and Philoctetes are too long in coming he will send him back once again, dressed as a trader and with a long story that Neoptolemus can use as he sees fit.· Odysseus himself now leaves for the ship. He is the off-stage architect of the scheme. The master of deceit cannot himself engage in it, and the man he has chosen to replace him despises it. The Chorus is composed of Neoptolemus' sailors. Instead of the traditional entry song the sailors engage in lyrical dialogue with their young commander. The whole exchange focuses on the cave, which is inspected with obvious apprehension, and on the man with the 'terrifying walk' 9 who inhabits it. They reflect with what, from the private context, can only be genuine pity on his loneline~ and suffering, but they are there to help Neoptolemus and his deceptive designs. Their role, too, is thus potentially ambiguous. However, their given identification with the mission means that their mere presence involves the absolute isolation of Philoctetes. He is beyond the pale, cut off from family, companionship and society at large. But there is a hint from Neoptolemus that the gods will ensure the presence of Philoctetes before Troy at the appointed time (I 96-200). The final section of lyrics is taken up by a dramatic relay of the crescendo of warning noises that signify the imminent arrival of Philoctetes. Sophocles takes full advantage of a moment which has already aroused the highest expectation 10 and which is guaranteed to be spectacular by the mere aspect of Philoctetes' appearance. The Chorus tells Neoptolemus to be quiet. The sailors have heard the sound of a man in agony and the 'noise of a shambling gait'. They hear another sound which is 'not the song of a shepherd' but a 'shouting' which becomes, just before the arrival, a 'terrible shrieking'. Philoctetes emerges from his grim cavern, where 'he dominates the stage, aloft centre, against his proper background of rugged cave'. 11 It is a fearsome and pitiful sight, his body covered in animal skins, his diseased foot, his lameness, a man brutalised and showing all the signs of physical degradation. 12 It is true that his lameness would be seen to better advantage if he made a long and painful entry from the parodos 13 but the uncharacteristic preponderance of words denot• ing sound as opposed to sight is against this. And there is equal advantage in the effect of the immediately perceived link between man and

32

The Philoctetes

environment in the entry from the cave. This 'unseen' arrival would be impossible if both entrances to the cave were visible, and constitutes the main argument against such a scenic conception. At his side he holds the magic bow of Heracles, standing almost as high as the hero himself, who probably crouches more like some wild creature than a human being. Vase-paintings which represent the bow of Heracles in dramatic performance portray it as disappointingly small and easily portable, but a bow which is held in such awe, as it is in this particular play, and which is so prominent in the action is likely to be a much more impressive-looking weapon. The importance of Philoctetes' appearance to the development would seem to demand a fair degree of explicit realism. His barbarous and repulsive exterior is the obvious denial of his own Greekness and civilisation as well as the deeper possibilities which are eventually realised: human contact, friendship, intrinsic worth. And Sophocles is careful to accentuate the initial challenge presented by his appearance through the physical recoil of both Neoptolemus and the Chorus (225-6). 14 What Philoctetes is looking for is more than human contact but friendship against his loneliness. Neoptolemus, along with his colleagues, has to make an approach for quite different reasons. Philoctetes needs them and they need him. But instead his terrifying aspect has created a distance and their physical separation in the context becomes symbolic of the initial relationship, of the immense gulf between them. And Philoctetes' appearance is not the only barrier to real communication. Philoctetes is struck by the appearance of Neoptolemus and the sailors, by the 'visible shape' of their Greek apparel which is at heart the 'friendliest' sight to him. But we know that they are his enemies, out to deceive him. 15 And in this deception, they are helped by their dress and, what is more poignantly ironic, by Philoctetes' basic love of his countrymen. Philoctetes takes the initiative in this strange meeting and has difficulty in getting Neoptolemus to speak. 16 This is a sign which the spectator is invited to interpret: Neoptolemus is hesitant, perhaps overawed, perhaps caught between his duty and the intrusion of conscience. In fact this first contact establishes the pattern of the relationship: Philoctetes is an explicit figure, Neoptolemus is taciturn, an inscrutable as well as a passive character. Neoptolemus finally replies: 'We are Greeks.' Philoctetes is overcome when he hears the 'dearest' sound of his own language, and the ice is broken. What follows is Philoctetes' version of his desertion and suffering and then Neoptolemus' own story. In the process Philoctetes identifies

The Philoctetes

33

himself to a supposedly ignorant Neoptolemus as the lord of Heracles' weapons. The only other occasion on which he mentions the bow reveals its crucial significance to its owner: the bow which Odysseus desires for military purposes is the hero's only means of livelihood. Neoptolemus' story is a mixture of fabrication and truth, with the truth ironically aiding the deception. 17 Neoptolemus identifies himself as the son of Achilles - which is true. He has deserted the Greek army at Troy over a bitter dispute with the sons of Atreus, the commanders and Odysseus. This is false. But the cause of the supposed quarrel, the award of his father's arms to Odysseus, is a genuine and famous incident in the mythical tradition. The Chorus joins in with support of Neoptolemus' feelings. There is already a suspicion of genuine sympathy and a real sense of relationship surfaces in the cataloguing of heroes at Troy. All the best who should be alive, like Achilles himself, are dead, while the wicked, like Odysseus, the sons of Atreus and the evil Thersites, are flourishing. Neoptolemus' pride in his father's achievements is part of the 'real' Neoptolemus and makes this shared heroic ideal an authentic point of contact. Throughout the whole exchange Neoptolemus makes no mention of the bow which cannot be far from his thoughts and which is there for all to see.18 It is at this point of increasing sympathy that Neoptolemus suddenly announces that he is going to go home. Specific motivation for the departure defies formulation from the welter of possibilities. 19 The broad alternatives of pretence and sincerity present themselves to the audience. To what extent has the meeting with Philoctetes worked upon the known reluctance and heroic mentality of the young man? The visual effect of Neoptolemus actually on his way may incline one to assume that he has repented of the enterprise. On the other hand, the indication of an adverse wind for sailing to Scyros, Neoptolemus' home, might cause the perceptive spectator to hesitate before accepting what appears contrary to the will of the gods.20 In any event, the pitiful sight of Philoctetes limping from the entrance of his rocky cave - perhaps our first real view of his infirmity - interrupts his departure. He comes right up to Neoptolemus and makes an impassioned plea not to be deserted, to be taken on board Neoptolemus' ship. The pathos of the situation and the pressure on Neoptolemus are intensified by Philoctetes' abject supplication, as though the initial plea is having no effect. An even more pathetic sight is envisaged by Webster who takes Philoctetes' words to mean that he tries but fails because of his infirmity to supplicate properly. 21 Such an emphasis on physical

34

The Philoctetes

awkwardness would be quite extraordinary but not impossible in view of the more dramatic developments later. There is a strong sense that Neoptolemus is motionless. The action is suspended; we are waiting for him to make his move. The appeal goes on at great length and then it is the Chorus who reacts, not Neoptolemus. This delay in speaking suggests the same kind of hesitation as before, only it can now, in view of the greater pressure of this appeal, truly be called indecision. What the Chorus does is urge its lord to take pity on the suppliant. Is this merely a show of compassion? The establishment earlier of the sailors' genuine pity for Philoctetes, before they had seen the extremity of his plight, does not allow the audience automatically to conclude that they are simply aiding the deception. The ambiguous attitude of Neoptolemus is reproduced in his followers. There is no double perspective, no clue to a 'real' level of action. Neoptolemus, who is inscrutable and at this point the centre of attention, responds to the Chorus and ignores the man at his feet. He is, initially, reluctant and then agrees to take Philoctetes on board his ship. There is now an urgency about his manner: But if it seems best, let us sail, let him start quickly.

(526)

Philoctetes' desire to venerate the ground of his cave in the light of Neoptolemus' mood comes as a postponement. And, after all, Neoptolemus has already seen the inside of the cave which Philoctetes is eager to show him. Again, visual effect gives a false or premature authentication to Neoptolemus' sincerity; we see the two men walk towards the cave for a last ostentatious farewell only to be interrupted by the arrival of the so-called trader, accompanied by another sailor. Odysseus, concerned about the delay, has obviously decided to employ the ruse suggested in the prologue. A scenic pattern is beginning to emerge quite clearly. 22 On two occasions now we have seen characters make a final move which visually serves as the ostensible corroboration of a supposed resolution of the intrigue. If the hesitation of Neoptolemus means indecision, this must be decision. The problem is that the audience is unsure what the decision is and the interruption prevents them from finding out. Does it signal the success of Neoptolemus' deception? Or is it proof of Neoptolemus' repentance? The vagueness of their knowledge about the mission enables them to be led along in the belief that something decisive is in process. The arrival of the 'trader', even though it was forecast as a possibility, thus comes as a surprise which breaks an

The Philoctetes

35

illusion and brings the prospect of new development. The presence of the 'trader' reminds us of the unseen influence of Odysseus who is working by proxy. Virtually the whole scene is enacted between the 'trader' and Neoptolemus but for Philoctetes' benefit. The 'trader's' story is that, by chance, on his way from Troy he came upon the ships of Neoptolemus. He informs Neoptolemus of the new plans of the Greeks to capture him, but it transpires that Odysseus is not involved. He is pursuing somebody else, Philoctetes, and is ready to use persuasion but will resort to force, if necessary. For the first time we hear of an actual oracle which, in the version of the 'trader' at least, dictates that if Troy is to be taken Philoctctes must be brought there and by persuasion. With this last disclosure the three options of the prologue seem to have been reduced to one, persuasion. This has the authority of the gods. But the question is whether in a speech which is mostly lies we are to take this as the true text of the oracle. 23 And the 'trader', after revealing the exclusive requirement of persuasion in the oracle, tells us for a second time that Odysseus is prepared to use force. Meanwhile the third option, trickery, is still being employed. The 'trader', with his story told, leaves the situation to Neoptolemus and makes off with his companion down the parodos. Although the 'trader's' story may have been designed to hurry Philoctetes to leave Lemnos with Neoptolemus, the decision to leave was already finalised. When, therefore, Philoctetes insists on going, there has been no apparent development, merely a resumption of the earlier situation. Neoptolemus, however, is unwilling to go until the wind is favourable (639-40). Now this hesitation is in marked contrast to his earlier haste before the arrival of the trader. Thus it is quite clear on-stage that the effect of the 'trader's' intervention has been to slow things down not speed them up. And this is a subtle indication of Neoptolemus' increasing disenchantment with his role. After an argument he reluctantly agrees to go, but the impression given is one of real reluctance compared with the earlier pretence (526). 24 An interesting point of correspondence is that the same formula of resignation is used in both 'departures':

If it seems best, let us go.

(645)

It is as though things are beyond his control - it is not his decision - and this reflects the situation. He is the man on the spot while Odysseus, who is safely out of the way, exercises the control. At the same time there is a hint of a more inscrutable control: what is 'really'

36

The Philoctetes

best, god's plan, remains to be discovered. It is also noticeable and consistent with the change in Neoptolemus that it is now he who delays the departure by suggesting to Philoctetes that he should take what he needs from the cave. Apart from the concern he shows, he is the one who on this occasion directs movement towards the cave. The direction of the stage movement is important. Philoctetes is stranded and desperate to leave. Movement by Philoctetes in the seaward direction, towards and along the parodos, is on the face of it the means of achieving this end. The problem is that it also leads him into a trap, the exchange of one bondage for another. On the other hand, movement in the opposite direction, towards the cave, leads nowhere and leaves Philoctetes where he is, a prisoner of the environment. Movement in either direction is futile. Such is Philoctetes' position and it is beginning to be revealed in the meaningless intensity of the movement on-stage. Something has to break. For the first time the great bow which Philoctetes has been holding all along becomes the explicit focus of attention. 25 Neoptolemus lets us know for the first time that he has noticed the bow and he does so very tentatively: Is that indeed the famous bow which you now hold?

(654)

This initial tentativeness turns into reverent veneration and even religious awe: Is it possible to get sight of it even from nearby and for me to hold it and worship it as a god? (656-7) Philoctetes' response is generous: it is holy and right for Neoptolemus to hold it because of what he has given Philoctetes, the chance to see his homeland and his dear ones. The bow is clearly a sacred and hallowed object. From its first mention there has been a distinct possibility that Neoptolemus might get to hold it: in accordance with what he says he presumably goes right up to Philoctetes to get his close sight of the weapon and worship it. But Philoctetes' generosity falls tantalisingly short of actually handing the weapon over. He tells Neoptolemus to take courage; it will be possible for him to touch the bow - but only to give it back so that he can boast that he alone of mortals touched it because of his 'excellence'. The bow, then, has never before left the hands of Philoctetes. It is not only sacred but untouchable, and the point about the whole encounter is that Neoptolemus

The Philoctetes

37

almost, but does not quite, touch the weapon. Instead of advancing the intrigue this scene demonstrates how difficult it is even to touch the bow, let alone to wrest it from its owner. 26 In fact the visible contest of ownership is just beginning and we are introduced to the how's divinity and to the idea that it is only possessed by one who does good. Philoctetes himself received it after helping Heracles in his physical suffering. Past benefaction is a pattern for the future and we are waiting for the action which will merit Neoptolemus' receiving the weapon under the new rules of ownership. This is a turning-point; the deepening of the how's symbolism makes the subsequent action qualitatively different. The bow is now an instrument of good works, not simply a weapon of destruction. A military expedition has become a struggle towards humanity, a new sacred mission with its own tantalisingly unattainable prize. After failing to get hold of the bow, Neoptolemus says that a friend is better than all possessions. And he seems to have 'seen' ( 671) something of Philoctetes' true nature. 27 But we need more than words. From this point we shall be watching what happens to the bow. The two men enter the cave together, with Philoctetes initiating the familiarity of the move. The Chorus, left to itself, sings of the terrible fate of Philoctetes. It appears to be completely engaged with the hero and his distress. And it ends with the sure prospect of his happy return home now that he has met up with Neoptolemus. What does this mean? Is this the end of the deception and the abandonment of the mission? The passage is particularly surprising to those critics who insist that the audience all along is in a position to detect the real direction of the drama, to see through the illusion of haphazardness. But here there is nobody onstage for the Chorus to deceive and therefore no conspiracy for the audience to enter. Jebb 'retrieves' the situation by the desperate suggestion that the re-emergence of Neoptolemus and Philoctetes from the cave has drawn forth the language of deception. 28 But the truth is that in this play the audience is caught up in the developments of the moment and in this particular instance Sophocles has employed the emotional power of the Chorus to underline the joyful transformation of Philoctetes' situation. 29 The audience's uncertainty allows it to be led down blind alleys and it can only accept as genuine what is said in the absence of the two men and what is allowed for in the ambiguity of the Chorus's attitude. In Philoctetes' seizure his physical suffering, which visually has been gradually becoming more intrusive, reaches a climax which engulfs the action. It is a spectacular display which has no parallel in extant Greek

38

The Philoctetes

tragedy. 30 The very length of the episode (730-866) puts it in a category of its own. There is a considerable period of time for the spectator to see and reflect upon Philoctetes' terrible condition and to watch Neoptolemus doing the same. Interspersed between periods of rationality there are three distinct spasms, all accompanied by cries of agony. There are obvious signs in the text of the most violent convulsions, which are further accentuated by the frantic efforts of Neoptolemus to handle the situation. It is a rare scene of intense and exciting activity, and very disjointed. The sequence begins with the re-emergence of Neoptolemus and Philoctetes from the cave. They are descending to the beach below when Philoctetes stops dead in his tracks. 31 There is a brief pregnant silence to which Neoptolemus anxiously alludes (731), followed by a cry of pain. On this occasion departure is interrupted by the onset of the disease, but there is the same visual impression of arrested movement; the whole action slows down until it comes to an absolute halt in the collapse of Philoctetes. There is a good deal of stopping and starting until Philoctetes finally admits to the unspeakable assault of the disease and begs for pity from a nonplussed Neoptolemus. The crisis of this first attack now compels Philoctetes to surrender his precious bow until he recovers. Neoptolemus agrees to keep it safely, away that is from Philoctetes' enemies, and the great weapon is handed over to him. This act of transfer marks a real step forward in the hitherto faltering development. It is a totally new situation. But what ostensibly represents a breakthrough in terms of the mission is hedged by the lack of direction which Neoptolemus feels the moment he takes possession of the crucial object: he offers a prayer which suggests that he and Philoctetes may go together but that the direction they take is unknown and in the hands of the gods. The divine purpose remains a mystery. The onset of the second attack produces an anguished and hesitant silence in Neoptolemus (804ff.). The frantic insistency of Philoctetes' anxious efforts to elicit a response from Neoptolemus indicates a quite dramatic series of pauses.32 The hesitancy is finally broken by a handshake which Philoctetes demands in confirmation of Neoptolemus' promise not to desert him. As far as one can tell, this is the first time that firm physical contact is made and we see the two men brought, temporarily at least, close together, an occurrence which we should compare with Neoptolemus' initial recoil from the squalid figure. Then, quite suddenly, with the final assault of the disease, this closeness develops into a violent struggle in which Neoptolemus clings to

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Philoctetes in the apprehension that he might do himself harm by throwing himself from the cliff. In his frenzy Philoctetes has his eyes turned upwards towards the heavens and even the touch of Neoptolemus' hand cannot be tolerated. Neoptolemus lets him go and Philoctetes collapses on his back in a coma, his face upturned to the sky. This is all visible on-stage with the final grim details of his physical state being carried by verbal description: Sweat drenches his whole body and a bleeding trickle has burst out black from the end of his foot. 33 (823-5) What does the bow in Neoptolemus' hand signify now? The silent recumbent body now becomes the visual focus of an impressive kommos. The tableau thus formed is a landmark in the dramatic action which at this juncture has come to a full stop. The hero lies prostrate before his deceiver, who holds in his hand the very livelihood of the stricken man at his feet. Are we to assume the success of Odysseus' strategy? The pause in the action, after the intensity of what preceded, now allows time to review Neoptolemus' position. The Chorus, ever ambiguous, calls on Sleep as a double blessing, which will relieve the pain of Philoctetes but also cover its own designs for him. For those who earlier foresaw a happy homecoming for Philoctetes there is no doubt. Philoctetes is asleep. It is time to act. The clear implication is that Philoctetes should be left now that Neoptolemus has the bow. It is at this point that Neoptolemus delivers a revelatory, even oracular pronouncement: it is vain to sail without Philoctetes; god's order was to bring this man. But this is not the oracle, at least not simply. Neoptolemus may know the oracle, although the impression given thus far is that he has a much vaguer sense of god's will. But it is quite clear from his own words that it is only now, in the situation in which he finds himself, that he understands its true meaning, that he 'sees' (839) 34 the human imperatives which coincide with the divine injunction. The policy of exploitation becomes transparent at the moment of its success, and the reversal of priority, from the obvious value of the bow to the more mysterious value of the repulsive and helpless Philoctetes himself, looks forward to a more inward, a more spiritual course of development. 35 This is now a profounder mission and seen by Neoptolemus in a flash of 'divine' insight. The hitherto separate course of human endeavour moves closer to the direction ordained by god. The Chorus, as if to emphasise the change in Neoptolemus' attitude,

4-0

The Philoctetes

remains concerned with the external advantages offered by Philoctetes' collapse and renews its efforts to encourage Neoptolemus to make off with the bow. But Neoptolemus tells the sailors to be quiet because he sees Philoctetes stirring and raising his head. He is still there, as he promised, when Philoctetes sits up. The hero is once again ready to be off. Physical contact is renewed when Neoptolemus helps Philoctetes to his feet. They are on their way when departure is again frustrated, this time by Neoptolemus suddenly stopping. 36 The visual correspondence between this interruption and that of Philoctetes earlier is underlined by Neoptolemus' echoing of Philoctetes' cries of anguish. His mental agony is made to appear equivalent to Philoctetes' physical agony. What Neoptolemus stops for is the recognition that he cannot go on with the deceit and his embarrassed confession about the whole intrigue is painfully made. This then, finally, is the real Neoptolemus but what is he prepared to do? Philoctetes repeatedly demands the return of his bow. Neoptolemus' response is to relapse into one of his silences which show him interminably on the point of action. There is no gesture to hand the bow back. The play again is virtually at a standstill. The impasse is elaborated in a repeated formula of stage movement and address. There are two identical sequences (932-7 and 950-2): in each case the hero begs for the bow, is met with silence and turns to face and apostrophise his natural environment. In the first instance Neoptolemus clearly turns to avert his gaze from Philoctetes and this is likely the gesture which accompanies the second silence as well. What is expressed on-stage is a breakdown in human communication which forces Philoctetes to turn to the only companions he knows, the rugged and wild aspects of his surroundings. This emotional performance exerts extreme pressure on NeoptoIemus and there follows a good deal of expressed hesitation from both him and the Chorus. This last indecision marks the very brink of repentance and the bow is clearly on the point of being returned, though only, it should be noted, by an act of passivesurrender,37 when Odysseus, accompanied by two sailors, makes a sudden and surprising intervention from his place of concealment - perhaps from behind the scenic facade 38 or, more likely, from the parodos - and stops the occurrence. He does not venture into the action; his warning shout from the sidelines is sufficient. 39 But Odysseus' control over proceedings is not complete; he, too, on entry demands the bow from his junior colleague (975). There is no verbal refusal but the audience sees what occurs; the bow remains with Neoptolemus, symbolic of the power of

The Philoctetes

41

decision which still rests with him. However, what Odysseus' entry has achieved is the frustration of action which promised to be decisive. Neoptolemus, in fact, is visibly trapped at this point between the two opposing pressures which have made up his internal dilemma from the beginning: both Odysseus and Philoctetes, who matches Odysseus (981) in demanding the bow, are demanding a decision. Neoptolemus' retention of the weapon thus highlights the fact that once again the action is frozen in indecision. Meanwhile Odysseus has not yet touched the bow which all along we have known he longs to grasp. Odysseus now threatens to use force to bring Philoctetes to Troy and thus takes up the option excluded by the oracle but suggested by the 'trader' as a last resort which Odysseus was prepared to use. The heated exchange which follows between Philoctetes and Odysseus culminates in the actual violence threatened: the distraught hero tries to commit suicide by jumping from the 'cliff in front of the cave.40 Odysseus has him physically restrained by the two sailors. It is noticeable that Odysseus sends his men into action while he stays on the fringe of it. And we are surely meant to compare this detached seizure with Neoptolemus' physical commitment to save him in the earlier suicide attempt, and to realise the different sense of importance each man attaches to Philoctetes' salvation. And so another unexpected and violent incident comes to nothing. Philoctetes is held fast while he delivers a long and bitter attack on his enemies. Neoptolemus, who has not spoken a word since the arrival of Odysseus, is characterised by Philoctetes as Odysseus' front-man ( 100715). Philoctetes' 'clear' impression is that the young man's silence _betraysanger at his own failure and pity for Philoctetes himself ( 101112). This, then, is not now the silence of hesitation and it is reasonable to suppose some kind of dumb show41 by Neoptolemus to express the crucial change from his internal conflict to his suppression by the presence of Odysseus. Again, Neoptolemus is the silent observer of Philoctetes' indignity and we are watching and hoping for a break in his passive stance of acceptance. The preservation and capture of the hero emphasises his importance to Odysseus, a fact which Philoctetes begins to exploit. Odysseus' response is to order his release: We do not need you now that we have these arms.

(1055-6)

After Neoptolemus' recognition of the absolute necessity to take Philoctetes with them, we are back to the 'solution' which dispenses

42

The Philoctetes

with Philoctetes altogether! Odysseus' explicit interference negates the progress so painfully achieved and revives the ambiguity: does Odysseus mean what he says, is he impiously disobeying the oracle, at least as reported by the 'trader'? Or is this a further ploy? The familar exhortation, 'Let us go', is embodied in the familiar movement. The spectators watch the departure of Neoptolemus and Odysseus. They have seen it all before. Is there to be another interruption? Philoctetes turns from one to the other with a succession of pleas. First, he tries to speak with Odysseus but he is already on his way. Next, the hero addresses Neoptolemus as Achilles' son, as though to remind him of their shared heroic ideal, and asks if he intends to leave him like this, without a word. Neoptolemus' failure to speak is underlined by the fact that he has not followed Odysseus but stands still, with his eyes fixed on Philoctetes. Some such effect is evident in Odysseus' anxious command to Neoptolemus 'to stop looking at' (1068) 42 the broken hero for fear of ruining the expedition. Philoctetes turns to the Chorus, his last resort, if he is not to be utterly deserted. The sailors look to Neoptolemus for guidance and he finally allows them to stay until they are called. And so Neoptolemus and Odysseus depart. But in Neoptolemus' lingering the expectation has been skilfully created that he ,might not go. He has threatened to leave before and this is the first time that he has actually left the stage. And it is his departure which looks convincingly final. The arrival of Odysseus after such a long period of absence materialises as a new pressure which renews the hesitation of Neoptolemus and sets back the deeper human development which was on the point of fruition. The sense of finality in the exit of the two men receives further confirmation in a long kommos scene between the Chorus and Philoctetes, a powerful lament whereby we are led to believe in the ultimate abandonment of the hero. Characteristically Philoctetes addresses and personalises the cave and the locale where he expects to remain alone for ever. The scene is crowned by the departure of the Chorus which begins to take shape in stage movement (1179). The convention that the Chorus only leaves the acting area at the conclusion of a drama makes this the most convincing technique for creating the illusion of finality .43 And this more spectacular exit is reserved for a stage in the drama where, at least in terms of lateness, a conclusion is perfectly possible. Of course such a conclusion would fly in the face of the audience's knowledge that Philoctetes was present at the sack of Troy and the question is to what extent they succumb to the spell of what they are seeing. Again, the audience is tantalised with a possibility

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which would reverse the unreal direction, namely Philoctetes' yielding to the obvious pressure which the Chorus creates out of its own departure. There is an explicit battle of wills: can he get them to stay, can they get him to leave? The scene has all the appearance of the breaking point. But Philoctetes does not yield. He passes his greatest test. The Chorus proceeds on its way and this leads to Philoctetes' last pathetic utterance: 'I am nothing.' His disappearance into the cave signals final abandonment. But, at the last moment, the movement does stop, to take another surprising turn. Neoptolemus and Odysseus reappear (1220). Surprising too that Neoptolemus has the bow when moments before Philoctetes has led us to believe that it is Odysseus who has control of the weapon. This is a repeat of the opening entrance except that, significantly, Neoptolemus is leading the way with Odysseus trying to hinder his progress. They are locked in a fierce argument 44 over the bow, which Neoptolemus is intent on returning. Odysseus makes a move to draw his sword. Neoptolemus follows suit. More inconclusive action: the threat of violence does not materialise and Odysseus leaves him to it. This is all very melodramatic but it shows Neoptolemus becoming his own man. The silent struggle with Odysseus which was evident in his last exit now becomes visible and is finally resolved by the physical act of freeing himself from external control. In terms of action this return is an initiative which marks the end of Neoptolemus' passive indecision. He proceeds 'up the path' to the cave. Philoctetes, who has heard the commotion from inside the cave, emerges and is surprised to see Neoptolemus back. The young man tries to speak with him but the point made by Philoctetes is that words are vain. This prepares for action which is at the same time the most condensed and the most decisive of the drama. Neoptolemus makes to hand the bow back. But Odysseus suddenly returns to the action from his place of concealment at precisely the same moment as before: as the bow is being returned. Certainly nothing has led us to expect the return of Odysseus at this critical moment and his brief period away from the action adds to the surprise and provides a clear indication that Odysseus is becoming frantic and losing control of the situation. The off-stage schemer is being pressured into involvement. The interruption is staged in very much the same manner as the earlier one (974), when Odysseus prevailed upon the hesitant Neoptolemus not to return the weapon. 45 His failure on this occasion points to the importance and conclusiveness of what Neoptolemus does. Moreover Neoptolemus came back with the intention of returning the bow: it is handed over freely,

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The Philoctetes

not surrendered. 46 And so Philoctetes is recognised on his own terms. But Neoptolemus' move is not merely symbolic of his own change of mind, his own rejection of expediency. Its practical consequence is immediately embodied in stage action. There is one important difference in the way Odysseus' two interventions are staged. The first, as we saw, came from the sidelines. Here it looks as though for the first time Odysseus is drawn into the action proper. 47 As soon as Philoctetes sees Odysseus he bends the bow and aims it directly at him. The action freezes for a moment into the visible threat of violence - only to be averted by the intrusion of Neoptolemus who struggles to spoil Philoctetes' aim and by the ignominious retreat of Odysseus from the scene. Neoptolemus is now clearly imposing himself on the whole action. And the point about Odysseus' deepest penetration into the action is that it is followed by his removal from the scene altogether. This piece of exciting stage business is not merely a colourful embellishment but a logical and significant end to the sequence involving the bow. Since its establishment as a sacred and unattainable prize, we have been ever alert to see who will get possession of the weapon. Odysseus never lays a hand on it, though he comes close. 48 The persistent efforts of Odysseus to influence and control events from the edge of the action terminate with his final flight from the whole scene, although, given the twists and turns of the plot thus far, the spectator cannot be completely sure that this is the last he will see of him. In his complete disarray we are witnessing the total collapse of his harsh policy of expediency and we are left with the solid relationship of the two men on-stage. But what of expediency? The new 'reality' is apparently more remote from the target not nearer to it. But Neoptolemus makes an appeal to their friendship and resorts to persuasion. This is the final op ·on, the only one which has not been explored, and it is in accordce with the prescription that Philoctetes come to Troy 'willingly', which emerges in Neoptolemus' version of the oracle (l 329ff.). This is the fullest account so far of Helenus' prediction, again as though Neoptolemus' knowledge of the oracle keeps pace with the increase in his human understanding: the presence of Philoctetes at Troy with the bow and with Neoptolemus must occur before Philoctetes' disease is cured; and the fall of Troy will take place in the following summer. After what has happened this must be the genuine text of the oracle and there is an inevitability about the whole prediction which in any case merely reminds the audience of historical facts it already knows.

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Gods and men are on the same course. Success is assured. Everything points to Philoctetes' yielding to persuasion. But what happens? Persuasion fails. Our highest expectations are dashed once again and another astonishing solution begins to take shape: Neoptolemus and Philoctetes will sail together, not to Troy, but homewards. Neoptolemus shows the same resignation: 'If it seems best, let us go.' We have come full circle; in intent it is a repeat of the first abortive departure (533). The familiar movement signals confirmation; the solution to which they have both consented begins to materialise before our eyes (1402). Robinson comments on the vividness of these moments: Lewis Campbell saw correctly that here Neoptolemus is offering Philoctetes his arm or perhaps his shoulder to lean on. The tableau at this point - this at the human level is the only ending possible granted the situation and the natures of Neoptolemus and Philoctetes - must symbolize Neoptolemus' final recognition that Philoctetes both needs and deserves help on his own terms. The actors must link arms and begin a slow and painful exit. 49 This sight is a direct challenge to the audience's knowledge. Sophocles, having mystified his audience with abortive realisations of known options, now poses a solution which is the more unexpected because already tried, but which nevertheless is an authentic culmination of the developing human relationship between Philoctetes and Neoptolemus. On this level it commands belief. The most surprising twist, however, has been reserved. As the spectator watches the compelling sight before him, the slow departure of the two figures, his eyes are suddenly directed to another sight, the spectacular apparition of Heracles, who would probably emerge on the roof of the scenic facade, on the top of the cave. It is the crowning surprise in a play which abounds in the unexpected. This is the deified Heracles, 'young and beautiful . . . very different from the bearded Heracles of the labours and the final agony'. 50 His 'excellence' is visible in his appearance as he makes clear to Philoctetes. The point seems to be that the life of Heracles, which passed through toil to immortal excellence, is the predicted pattern of Philoctetes' life (141822). Thus what the figure of Heracles represents is a glorious vision of Philoctetes' own future which contrasts with the present image of his existence. The 'search' for the hero is over. But the human 'solution' is not so much superseded as sanctified by the divine dispensation. 51 This is the visible convergence of the two planes of action which has

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The Philoctetes

been foreshadowed by the growth of the oracle in Neoptolemus' mind. The friendship is established, as it must be to be genuine, without concern for expediency and then redirected to its proper goal, the sack of Troy. The moment that the burden of expediency, imposed by Odysseus at the play's beginning, is discarded it is reimposed by god. This is now a divine mission; the claims of humanity and expediency are reconciled and Philoctetes finally yields to the words of Heracles, a god finally delivering the word of god. The use of the deus ex machina, since Aristotle's reservations about it, has generally been regarded as a threat to dramatic logic and sometimes even a sign of inferior craftmanship. After all, the irrational element is made more apparent by the concrete shape which it is given. A god materialises from nowhere. So, too, in this drama the epiphany of Heracles has been seen as a sudden dislocation which contravenes the logic of the development. 52 And it does miraculously solve a seemingly insoluble situation. But the unusual ending of the deus ex machina is not an isolated occurrence, allowing Sophocles to terminate a drama which is 'bogged down', 53 but the culminating entrance of a whole series of surprising entrances and hence a perfect theatrical conclusion to the drama. Moreover, as with all the preceding surprises, it is not in the strictest sense contrary to expectation nor is it an incident which is suddenly introduced without basis. The potential for the unexpected is there in the material of the play, in the options which are successively explored. 54 So, too, we are to some extent psychologically prepared for the appearance of Heracles as the possessor of the bow and the friend of Philoctetes, and so uniquely qualified to supervene at the end. 55 It may be attractive to regard the human solution embodied in the exit of Neoptolemus and Philoctetes as the 'real' ending with the deus ex machinamerely wrenching the play back into line with the tradition of the myth. But to end with 'illusion' would be to deny the ba"ic movement from appearance to reality. Without undermining what has been achieved in the human sphere the final reality of the 'creature' is, surprisingly, a divine one. There is still a favourable wind for Troy. With this last message Heracles speeds them on their way and disappears whence he came. 56 The much-awaited solution is invested with ultimate authority by yet another stage departure, one, however, which proceeds unchecked by further intervention. It is heralded immediately (1445ff.) and is certainly in progress 57 as Philoctetes bids farewell to his island abode. 'The landscape seems to have become softer when Philoctetes says goodbye to it.' 58 Both Philoctetes and Neoptolemus are joined by the Chorus

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and leave the acting area. Let us all go together. 59

{1469)

This is a new formula and the language implies the significance of the unity which is visible in the pattern of movement. Philoctetes exchanges his hard impersonal surroundings for the company of people, a final sign of his integration back into human society. The scene of so many comings and goings is left empty. The procession is a conventional way of bringing proceedings to a close, but on this occasion the exit of all has a special appropriateness, lending a sense of finality and harmony to a solution which is not at last illusory. The Philoctetes is unique among the plays of Sophocles in its direct visual appeal. This prominence of stage spectacle has been attributed to the so-called happy ending which controls the dramatic mood and structure; dramas of 'reconciliation' - as both the Philoctetes and the Oedipus at Colonus are defined, lacking as they do a natural culmination of dramatic interest - presuppose a long struggle which is necessarily episodical. The relaxation in the intensity of the action also allows for 'quiet contemplation', and 'meditative inwardness' takes the place of dramatic energy. This kind of structure relies more on external aids to supply dramatic stimulation and spectacle comes more into its own. 60 On closer analysis the lack of intensity, as far as the Philoctetes is concerned, has two discrete aspects: there is a matrix of suffering which tends to make the plot stationary, but which also generates a series of incidents and a fair amount of exciting activity. Indeed the fundamental tension of the play may be said to reside in the conflict between the forces of rest and motion. Both aspects are served by spectacle. Visually the suffering of Philoctetes, who is rendered immobile and then refuses to move, is exploited to the limit, to the point where what is essentially passive becomes almost an active ingredient in the proceedings. On the other hand, the episodic development which revolves round him and expresses the exaggerated and abortive efforts to induce movement is emphasised by an assortment of visual effects which range from simple exits and entrances to the miraculous and impressive appearance of Heracles. There is the strongest visual impression that everybody can come and go as they please, everybody that is except Philoctetes. But there is a further crucial difference in the quality of the spectacle assigned to each aspect, which exposes the conflict in another form, as one between illusion and reality.

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The Philoctetes

Much of the dramatic technique of the play relies not on the audience's knowledge but on its ignorance or, more correctly, its uncertainty.61 The vagueness of the initial exposition determines the nature of the action, allowing for unexpected changes of direction. The element of surprise is an integral part of the episodic development. 62 As we have seen, the surprise is such that it does not entail a structure which is arbitrarily digressive but operates within a complex framework. The drama is episodic in the sense that its goal is reached by detours rather than by direct line. But the relaxation of structure is always under careful control. What it does mean, however, is that the deception of Philoctetes is presented without the clear-cut ironies which are the hallmark of Sophocles' artistry. Once the deception is under way, although it is true that we know that there is an intrigue in progress and we have a general expectation that things will not be what they purport to be, Sophocles only half lets us in on the plot. The audience is caught up in the complexity; not only do they not view the action from their traditional vantage of superior knowledge, but there is actually a reversal of standpoint: remarkably, two characters on-stage, Odysseus and Neoptolemus, know more than the audience and they appear reluctant to tell what they know, for example, about the oracle, or, especially in the case of Neoptolemus, what they feel.63 And this basic uncertainty is, at certain moments, transformed into illusion by a kind of visual manipulation. What we see at various points in the drama appears as a confirmation of a possible conclusion to the intrigue which in reality turns out to be no more than a false turn. There is a series of 'illusory' endings whose plausibility rests on the implanted ambiguities of the prologue. The visual composition is, to a large extent, determined by the continual introduction and withdrawal of characters. 64 This external mode of action is, by its very nature, especially effective in creating the required rapid displacement of response as illusion alternates with surprise. The stage departure is action, not mere words, and we are convinced by the visible evidence. On the other hand, it is the inherent aspect of immediacy and suddenness in spectacle which best engineers surprise. This pattern of visual action invites the spectator to believe what he sees; it is enthralling. There is no information available to allow the double_ or ironic perspective and the intellectual detachment that goes with it. Sophocles, having chosen mythical material which ends in success, shields the audience from the conclusion they know by retarding and reversing the expected progress of the plot, by submerging the sense of inevitability and introducing the tactic of surprise.

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Counterbalancing the illusory movement is a sequence of realistic effects. These all focus on Philoctetes' suffering and are realistic in the conventional sense that they purport to be naturalistic, but also in the special sense of this drama that they are genuine - real as opposed to illusory. Just as everything that Philoctetes says is free of deception, so the spectacle of his suffering is 'real'. And this reality is conceived as the force which challenges and, after a long struggle, dispels the illusion and pretence of the intrigue by penetrating the disguise of Neoptolemus. There is a systematic interlarding of the real with the illusory effect; each departure gains in emotional effectiveness through a more intense exhibition of Philoctetes' suffering, whether it be supplication, attempted suicide or total collapse. And ironically, since we are aware of Neoptolemus' sensitivities, the mounting intensity of Philoctetes' agony makes each successive 'solution' more convincing; the real reinforces the illusory. But the deeper irony of Philoctetes' realistic suffering is that it is, after all, deceptive in an important sense: his physical condition conceals his basic humanity and worth. Indeed, underlying the intricate and obtrusive waywardness of the plot is a larger movement from appearance to reality which itself encompasses a complex of movements, from the physical to the spiritual, from the bestial to the human, from helplessness to strength, from external to internal values. All the theatricality of the setting and of the hero's appearance and suffering, all the outward excitement and violence of the stage action deliberately disguise the inner struggle and the kind of reality which is to emerge. This brings us to the function of the bow. In a particular sense the bow affords the only clear indication which the spectator can trust as a pointer to what is going on. It is admittedly intrinsic to the myth and basic to the enterprise which is portrayed in the drama. But Sophocles also capitalises on its purely visual possibilities: it becomes a primary element in the special mechanics of the action rather than retaining its original symbolic properties from myth. The only other clue is the brief initial glimpse into the reality of Neoptolemus' make-up. But he is silent when it matters. The curve of the real movement is hidden in his silence which is felt, without actually being perceived, to signify an increasing concern and sympathy for Philoctetes at the expense of the mission. One of the great theatrical contrasts of the play in fact is the inscrutability of Neoptolemus' actions and silences against the obviousness of Philoctetes, both in the sight he presents and the noise that he makes. The plot manifestly never gets anywhere; it only

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The Philoctetes

promises, its overt intensity merely stressing its abortiveness. The real progress is unspectacular and silent, in the mind of Neoptolemus, until the return of the bow, the deus ex machina and the impressive processional exit make it explicit on-stage and accelerate the action to its belated conclusion. But one overall impression is inescapable; from the moment Philoctetes makes his first entry until the closing scene we have before us one sight of terrible suffering after another. Suffering, of course, is something we expect in tragedy. But one scene of pathos is far different from what we have in the Philoctetes: five long episodes of utter anguish. Moreover a good deal of the pity we feel for Philoctetes is aroused by spectacle.65 Aristotle would certainly have disapproved of such heavy reliance on these aids to achieve emotional effect. In the Philoctetes the suffering of the hero, both physical and mental, is not a single outgrowth of the plot, a culminating point, but rather a continuous display. There is, of course, an interest in the irony of the situation whereby the suffering of Philoctetes is caused by the very people who now need his help. But one cannot avoid the conclusion that Sophocles in this play concentrates more on the fact of suffering than on its causes. This suffering is a given which creates two levels of action, one obtrusive, exciting and episodic, the other hidden, psychological and purposeful. In this quite different design he was foilowing the contemporary trends towards realism, exciting intrigue, theatrical surprise and spectacle. But they only subserve a plot which is unmistakably Sophoclean in its patterns of appearance and reality; for in the last analysis it is not suffering but the 'sight' of suffering which is the main concern. On the stage with the one who suffers is the one who observes. Neoptolemus 'sees through' a visual disguise and takes pit. This confrontation of roles and ideas makes up a scenic conception which we will meet again; for in Sophocles tragic humanity is always a problem of perception, always a thing 'discovered'.

Notes 1. A.W. Pickard-Cambridge, The Theatre of Dionysus in Athens (Oarendon Press, Oxford, 1946), pp. 49-50, sees no difficulty in creating the simple realistic touches required. See also T.B.L. Webster, Greek Theatre Production (Methuen, London, 1956), pp. 14-18, who argues for the existence of more naturalistic scenery even in the pre-Periclean theatre; and N.C. Hourmouziades, Production and Imagination in Euripides (Greek Society for Humanistic Studies, Publications, 2nd Series, Athens, 1965), pp. 35-43. 2. T.B.L. Webster (ed.), Philoctetes (Cambridge University Press, Cambridge,

The Philoctetes

51

1970), p. 8. 3. W.J. Woodhouse, 'The Scenic Arrangements of the Philoctetes of Sophocles', Journal of Hellenic Studies, vol 32 (1912), pp. 239-49. 4. On this favourite theme and its illustration see, H. Diller, 'Menschendarstellung und Handlungsfiihrung bei Sophokles', Kleine Schriften zue Antiken Literatur (Beck, Munich, 1971), pp. 292ff. 5. See the discussion of RC. Jebb (ed.), Philoctetes (Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 1898), pp. xii-xix on the epic versions of the myth and the preceding plays by Aeschylus and Euripides; and especially W.M. Calder III, 'Aeschylus' Philoctetes', Greek, Roman and Byzantine Studies, vol 11 (1970), pp. 171-9; also F. Jouan, Euripide et les Legendes des Chants Cypriens (Les Belles Lettres, Paris, 1966), pp. 308-17, for an appreciation of the myth ;µid vase representation; and T.B.L. Webster, Monuments Illustrating Tragedy and Satyr Play, Bulletin of the Institute of ClassicalStudies, Suppl no. 20 (1967), p. 162. 6. This sharp difference of attitude is emphasised by A.E. Hinds, 'The Prophecy of Helenus in Sophocles' Philoctetes', aassical Quarterly, n.s., vol. 17 (1967), p. 171. 7. Thus LM. Linforth, 'Philoctetes: The Play and the Man', University of Ozlifomia Publications in ClassicalPhilology, vol. 15, no. 3 (1956), p. 103. 8. The wide difference of opinion as to the precise nature of the audience's knowledge merely testifies to Sophocles' success in this regard. 9. Webster's suggested translation, Philoctetes, on 146ff. 10. On the suspense of this kind of arrival see 0. Taplin, The Stagecraft of Aeschylus (Clarendon Press, Oxford, 1977), p. 297. 11. A.M. Dale, 'Seen and Unseen on the Greek Stage', Wiener Studien, vol. 69 (1956), p. 104. 12. Essentially D.B. Robinson's visualisation, 'Topics in Sophocles' Philoctetes', Oassical Quarterly, n.s., vol 19 (1969), p. 41. 13. Favoured by Robinson, ibid., pp. 34ff. 14. Indicated by Philoctetes' desperate demand that they not shrink in fear (225-6). 15. The distinction between the civilised appearance of Neoptolemus and the uncivilised appearance of Philoctetes is a reverse of the moral truth: Philoctetes is honest, Neoptolemus and his men are deceivers. See 0. Taplin, Greek Tragedy in Action (Methuen, London, 1978), pp. 4 7-8. 16. On the silence of Neoptolemus throughout the play see the excellent study ofW. Steidle, 'Die Weissagung im Philoktet des Sophokles und die Gestalt des Neoptolemos', Studien zum Antiken Drama (Fink, Munich, 1968), pp. 169-92. Cf. also Taplin, Greek Tragedy in Action, pp. 113-14. 17. Steidle, in 'Die Weissagung im Philoktet des Sophokles und die Gestalt des Neoptolemos', has decisively shown that the sincerity of Neoptolemus ensures the success of the deception. Truth and decit are interwoven into the ambiguity of his role. 18. In view of the innumerable references to the bow throughout this looks like deliberate dissimulation. P.W. Harsh, 'The Role of the Bow in the Philoctetes of Sophocles', American Journal of Philology, vol 81 (1960), p. 412, calculates that the word for bow alone, apart from the words meaning weapon, etc., occurs twenty-four times in the text 19. For example, the two quite different possibilities which Linforth discusses, 'Philoctetes: The Play and the Man', p. 112; T. von Wilamowitz, Die Dramatische Technik des Sophokles (Philologische Untersuchungen 22, Berlin, 1917), p. 280, argues that on the spectator's assumption that Neoptolemus is only interested in the bow he must be regarded as having given up the enterprise and be intending to leave. G. Perrotta, Sofocle (Principato, Messina, 1935), pp. 425ff., interprets the move as a purely technical device to prompt the supplication of Philoctetes

52

The Philoctetes

which follows. Linforth himself sees the departure as a deception so that Neoptolemus can get Philoctetes in his power. But the truth of the matter is that the spectator has no means of knowing what is in Neoptolemus' mind. 20. L. Campbell, (ed.), Sophocles (Clarendon Press, Oxford, 1882), vol. 2, p. 361, interprets the references to the fair wind blowing towards Troy (464,639, 855, 1450) as signifying the intention of the gods. 21. Webster, Philoctetes, on 486. 22. The delayed departure has also been emphasised by Steidle, in 'Die Weissagung in Philoktet des Sophokles und die Gestalt des Neoptolemos', but it is the relationship between Philoctetes and Neoptolemus which takes precedence in his discussion. For Steidle (p. 186) the departure represents a 'spatial separation' which is symbolic of the frustrated attempts of the two men to make contact with each other. See also 0. Taplin, 'Significant Actions in Sophocles' Philoctetes', Greek, Roman and Byzantine Studies, vol 12 (1971), pp. 25-44, who develops the notion. 23. The point is well understood by Robinson, 'Topics in Sophocles' Philoctetes', p. 49: 'Sophocles at no point allows any of his characters to purport to quote the exact words of the oracle of Helenus verbatim and in full, uncut, unexpanded, and uninterpreted.' See also Hinds, 'The Prophecy of Helenus in Sophocles' Philoctetes'; and B.M.W. Knox 's resume of the problems associated with the oracle, The Heroic Temper (University of California Press, Berkeley and Los Angeles, Ca., 1964), p. 187, n. 21. Knox quickly puts the matter into perspective: there is no inconsistency in Sophocles' treatment of the oracle as many scholars have assumed. But he fails to stress the audience's lack of awareness of the precise terms of the oracle. His notion, which is perfectly correct, that one of the options has oracular validity, does not alter the fact that the audience is unsure which one it is. 24. Thus Webster, Philoctetes, on 619. 25. As Taplin well observes, in Greek Tragedy in Action, p. 90, the 'trader', whose story immediately precedes this development, makes a point of mentioning only Philoctetes, not the bow. For Taplin's treatment of the whole sequence involving the bow, see pp. 89-93. 26. One quite different view of this sequence has been put forward by W. Arrowsmith in a paper delivered to a conference on the 'Ancient Greek Theatre' at McMaster University, Hamilton, Ontario, Canada, in March, 1977. Arrowsmith visualises Philoctetes, when he speaks of holding the bow, as holding it aloft, over his head, and has Neoptolemus join him, finally, to hold up the bow along with his new-found friend. The bow is thus the link which joins the two men together. This is envisaged as 'the sacrament of the bow', a ceremony which enacts the veneration in the dialogue and which symbolises the newly established friendship and the ideal of benefaction implied in the history of the bow. This interpretation makes imaginative use of contemporary artistic representation and there is no doubt that it makes for a fine theatrical image. It also stresses something which has not been given sufficient significance, the sacredness of Heracles' bow and the awe in which it is held. But this visualisation is not in accord with the requirements of the text, which specifically look forward to a future handling of bow, nor with the tentative character of the whole episode. Indeed, it is precisely reverent distance that veneration implies. What is it that should not be touched except that which is holy and sacrosanct? 27. R.P. Winnington-lngram, in Sophocles: An Interpretation (Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 1980), p. 286, has drawn attention to the language which Neoptolemus uses. The stress on seeing here is also confirmed by later instances, for example at 839 and 1068. 28. Jebb, Philoctetes, on 676-729. 29. See the discussion of R.W.B. Burton, The Chorus in Sophocles' Tragedies

The Philoctetes

53

(Clarendon Press, Oxford, 1980), pp. 237-8. 30. There is, however, an undeniable visual similarity between this scene and that of Heracles' suffering in the Women of Trachis, confirmed by striking verbal echoes. See D.M. Jones, 'The Sleep of Philoctetes', Clas&icalReview, vol. 63 (1949), pp. 83-5. Cf. also the agony of Hippolytus in Euripides' Hippolytus and that of the charioteer in the Rhesus. On pathos in general see Aristotle, Poetics, 1452b, 11-13. 31. See Jebb, Philoctetes and Campbell, Sophocles, on pp. 730ff. 32. Thus Steidle, 'Die Weissagung im Philoktet des Sophokles und die Gestalt des Neoptolemos', p. 182. 33. These last detailed effects could not possibly be conveyed visually in such a vast theatre, but this does not mean that those larger effects which can should be eliminated. On the other hand, there is a dramatic advantage in having Neoptolemus, whose reaction to suffering is so important, speak the grim details which cannot be seen. For a good discussion of this incident see P. Walcot, Greek Drama in it, Theatrical and Social Context (University of Wales Press, Cardiff, 1976), p. 47. 34. Thus P.E. Easterling, 'Philoctetes and Modem Criticism', Rlinois C1assical Studies, vol 3 (1978), p. 34: 'Neoptolemus seems to be expressing his "seeing" something that he has not properly seen before.' 35. The theatrical situation is well characterised by C. Segal, 'Philoctetes and the Imperishable Piety', Hermes, vol. 105 (1977), p. 145. 36. P. Mazon's stage direction, on 895, in P. Mazon (trans.), and A. Dain (ed.), Sophocle III (Les Belles Lettres, Paris, 1960). 37. Again the precise nature of the action is observed by Steidle, 'Die Weissagung im Philoktet des Sophokles und die Gestalt des Neoptolemos', p. 183. 38. Taplin's suggestion, in 'Significant Actions in Sophocles' Philoctetes' (p. 29), may perhaps be best suited to the suddenness of the intervention; Odysseus steps from behind the scenic facade. But it is equally possible that Odysseus enters suddenly from the paraodos, as favoured by Webster, Philoctetes, on 974, and this would be more appropriate to the idea that he does not really get implicated in the action. 39. It is possible to interpret the intervention as a physical one in which Odysseus pushes Neoptolemus aside and stands between him and Philoctetes, thus actually obstructing the transfer. This is Steidle's view, 'Die Weissagung im Philoktet des Sophokles und die Gestalt des Neoptolemos', p. 183, based on Odysseus' categorical assurance that Neoptolemus would never hand the bow back, even if he wanted to (981-2). However, these words need not imply that Neoptolemus is being physically prevented by Odysseus but simply that he is unable to translate his feelings into action. Moreover Philoctetes hears Odysseus' voice first and only then sees him and this would seem to indicate that Odysseus has maintained his distance. He is, of course, not out of sight; see Taplin, Stagecraft of Aeschylus, p. 116, n. 1. 40. It is this incident which has induced some scholars to argue for an actual cliff.

41. See Steidle, 'Die Weissagung im Philoktet des Sophokles und die Gestalt des Neoptolemos', p. 184. K. Reinhardt, in Sophocles, trans. by H. and D. Harvey (Blackwell, Oxford, 1979), p. 185, contrasts the peak of Odysseus' claims with the deeper and deeper silence of Neoptolemus. 42. As Winnington-lngram notes, Sophocles, p. 289, n. 33: 'The present imperative at 1068 must be given its proper force.' 43. In the extant plays of Sophocles this convention is only broken in the Ajax, where it is a quite special case, allowing the lonely suicide of Ajax to be accommodated on stage. 44. The entry in mid-dialogue is a rare naturalistic device. See Taplin,

54

The Philoctetes

Stagecraft of Aeschylus, p. 364. 45. See the observation of Woodhouse, 'The Scenic Arrangements of the Philoctetes of Sophocles', p. 247, n. 16; and the detailed correspondences noted by Taplin, 'Significant Actions in Sophocles' Philoctetes', pp. 28-9; and, more recently, Taplin, Greek Tragedy in Action, pp. 131-3. 46. The important contrast brought out by Steidle, 'Die Weissagung im Philoktet des Sophokles und die Gestalt des Neoptolemos', p. 185. 47. On this occasion Odysseus says: 'And you see me nearby' (1296). If on the previous intervention Odysseus is conceived as pushing Neoptolemus out of the way, then on this occasion it is Neoptolemus who must push Odysseus out of the way (Steidle, 'Die Weissagung im Philoktet des Sophokles und die Gestalt des Neoptolemos', p. 185). 48. Robinson, 'Topics in Sophocles' Philoctetes', p. 41. 49. Robinson, ibid., p. 42. 50. Webster, Philoctetes, on 1420. There does seem to be something special about this epiphany, though it is difficult to know what it is precisely. Thus Campbell, Sophocles, on 1420: 'This implies some more elaborate stage effect than is commonly supposed to have belonged to the Greek theatre.' 51. One cannot, however, go as far as C. Campbell, who speaks of only one event in the exodos and has Heracles appear at the moment the two men make their departure (1402), a number of lines before Heracles speaks. There must be an interruption; we must see the friendship in action. But see the interesting article by C. Campbeli 'A Theophany', Theorla to Theory, voL 6 (1972), pp. 82ff. 52. Thus, for example, H.D.F. Kitto, Form and Meaning in Drama (Methuen, London, 1956), pp. 130ff.; and Linforth, 'Philoctetes: The Play and the Man', pp. 150-1. 5 3. A.J.A. Waldock, Sophocles the Dramatist (Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 1951), p. 206. 54. On this see A.F. Garvie, 'Deceit, Violence, and Persuasion in the Philoctetes', Studi Oassici in Onore di Quintino Cataudella, vol. 1 (1972), pp. 213-26. Easterling, 'Philoctetes and Modem Criticism', has stressed the characteristic lucidity which Sophocles is able to achieve despite the complexity of plot. 55. Thus Winnington-lngram, Sophocles, p. 299. 56. Heracles is probably withdrawn at 1451 (Campbell, Sophocles) and departs by the same way he entered, which was probably from behind by means of stairs. 57. Thus Jebb, Philoctetes, on 1452. 58. Webster, Philoctetes, on 1453. Cf. also Segal, 'Philoctetes and the Imperishable Piety', p. 155. 59. This is the last time that we hear this insistent exhortation. Apart from similar expressions of departure see 464, 533, 635, 637, 645, 1179, 1402, 1469. 60. Campbell's analysis, Sophocles, vol. 1 (1879), pp. 261-2. 61. A good deal of the discussion which follows summarises the argument in the author's article, 'The Element of Surprise in Sophocles' Philoctetes', Bulletin of the Institute of Oassical Studies, vol 19 (197 2), pp. 94-102. 62. Those scholars who have paid attention to the visual elements of the play, most notably Steidle, Robinson and Taplin, have offered new insights into its dramatic structure. G.H. Gellie, in Sophocles: A Reading (Melbourne University Press, Melbourne, 1972), pp. 131-58, speaks of the ignorance of the audience, although his discussion allows for certainty at times. Waldock, in Sophocles the Dramatist (p. 198), marks the careful indefiniteness of the opening but rejects the uncertainty of the audience which this entails (p. 201). 63. In contrast see the view of C.M. Bowra, Sophoclean Tragedy (Oxford University Press, London, 1944), p. 263, who takes the obscurities of the

The Philoctetes

55

prologue to indicate the illusion of the characters, a line of argument which presses this play into the more typical Sophoclean mould and which fails to recognise its distinctive quality. 64. For a brief survey of the pattern see Taplin, Greek Tragedy In Action, pp. 67-9. 65. This is not to say that a great deal of pathos is not also generated by the words of the characters, for example, by Neoptolemus' pretence that he has never heard of Philoctetes, by Philoctetes' joy at hearing Greek spoken, or by the Chorus's meditation on the hero's isolation.

3

THE ELECTRA: ILLUSION AND SUFFERING

The Electra opens with the arrival of three men from a parodos, an old s!ave and two young noblemen. It is the slave who leads the way and who speaks first and at length: 0 son of him who was once general at Troy, Agamemnon ... The young man to whom he speaks is, of course, Orestes, but his identity is established in these opening words not by name but by relationship, to a father of military fame. 1 Orestes' companion, with whom he is constantly associated in the mythical tradition, is Pylades, in the drama a wholly silent figure who stays close to Orestes' side. The old slave is Orestes' aged tutor and he proceeds to point out the landmarks of the surroundings which he at least remembers. But his function goes beyond mere scene-setting: he presents the place which Orestes always desired 'to see' in person (3). The plain is familiar and longed for, ancestral Argos, the city is Mycenae, rich in gold, the palace is that of the Pelopidae, rich in death. The whole demonstration converges on the house of murder and Orestes 'may say that he sees' his heart's desire (9). It is the house from which he was rescued as a boy, handed over to the tutor by his sister, Electra, after the murder of his father. Now preserved and nourished to manhood Orestes is back to avenge his father's death. A new day is dawning for them from the dark night of stars, the 'bright' sunlight stirring the 'clear' morning voices of the birds (17-19). The place, the time, the setting, all is visible, radiant and clear. And Orestes' first words of response show that this is the essential meaning of the tutor's exposition: My dearest of men-servants, how clear to me are the tokens which you make manifest fphaineis] , noble that you are towards us. 2

(23-4) The entry is not just an artifice to start the proceedings, it embodies a vision, the return of the avenging son. The unusual initiative of the slave serves the important function of loading the arrival with particular significance but it also establishes his relationship to Orestes, one which still seems to be that of guiding 56

The Electra

57

tutor. His call to action at the conclusion of his speech confirms this impression, and Orestes himself records his appreciation of the slave's encouragement and even bids the tutor to correct him if he fails to take the proper opportunity. The role of the tutor implies a good deal about the character of Orestes. Orestes tells us that he has sought the advice of Apollo's oracle at Delphi. But he was only interested in how the vengeance was to be accomplished.3 The justice of the revenge is not in doubt; it is only a question of methods. The god's response is unequivocal and explicit: it must be a deception, not a military expedition. Orestes cannot be like his father; and in Orestes' practical conception of the enterprise Apollo's advice is duly translated into the superiority of words over action. The tutor is to enter the house when he has the chance and fabricate a story that Orestes has been killed in the chariot race at the Pythian games, Apollo's own festival. He is, apparently, to aid his deceptive part, already crowned with a wreath of myrtle, 4 the sign that he brings good tidings (43). Orestes and Pylades, again armed with the tutor's 'clear' inside information, will then turn up with an um which supposedly contains the ashes of Orestes. The fictional death will mean actual salvation; words will become deeds. There is, too, a cynical understanding that there is glory as well as safety in words. What need of action and its dangers! Is this the true son of Agamemnon? The mission suits the unheroic character of the man who is to carry it out. 5 And yet the vengeance is made out to be a glorious affair; unsure of himself at the beginning (31 ), Orestes ends in a blaze of confidence, conceiving of himself as a shining star, 6 about to materialise from all the fiction and 'glare' upon his enemies (65-6). The setting brings forth its hero. All the various signs of light and clarity are brought together in a single symbol of revenge, Orestes himself. The self-image corresponds with the bright promise of the new dawning day, but is undermined by the cynical and deceptive means by which it is to be realised. The enterprise is already an enigma of fact and fiction, a dilemma of real and apparent light. The departure of the avengers shows them acting on their resolution to seize the opportune moment and is dramatised by a prayer from Orestes, who turns and addresses his father's house as its just and divinely appointed purifier. But the exit is suddenly arrested by the sound of lamentations from within. The tutor takes them to be those of a servant. Orestes wonders, however, whether it is Electra and suggests that they wait and see. But the old man takes command - just

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The Electra

as Orestes said he should - and ushers Orestes and Pylades off to do Apollo's bidding. 7 The sound of suffering is dismissed. The mission comes first. The tutor himself hurries back the way they all arrived, while the two younger men proceed along the other parodos to make libations at the tomb of Agamemnon and also to garland it wit~ cuttings from Orestes' 'luxuriant' hair. The scene ends as it began in the shadow of the dead Agamemnon and under the direction of the tutor. The separate and hasty departures signal that the intrigue is under way. Electra enters moments after Orestes has departed. 8 The clear and visible contact, almost made, is broken off; to the avengers everything at Argos is clearly visible - except Electra's suffering. This scenic separation . determines the pattern of the ensuing stage action and compartmentalises the drama. Orestes will only return for the final activities. Although we can expect him at any moment, he is actually to be external to the main proceedings, operating from behind the scenes as befits his conspiratorial role. It also means that the stage can be left to Electra who has to deal with a succession of visitors before she can welcome the man she has really been waiting for. In this way Sophocles increases anticipation of the development which has just been so pointedly checked, the reunion of Orestes and Electra. More generally the scenic structure is arranged so that the spectator is granted an initial view of Orestes, an insight into his character, and a most detailed account of his plans, whereas those at Argos are denied this privilege - Electra, as we have just seen, in a particularly tantalising way. This lack of communication between the intrigue off-stage and the action on-stage is then exploited by the visual significance which is attached to Orestes' return in the language of the play. All the characters, and especially Electra, are made to come to terms with his 'presence' through a variety of visual indications. Thus his deceptive arrival, his closeness and his distance, 9 is played out as an elaborate visual delusion which not only sets forth the antithesis between appearance and reality but also contrasts Orestes' absolute protection with Electra's absolute exposure. The entry of Electra from the palace is spectacular: she is a grim and pathetic figure. We learn in the course of the play that she is a slave in her own house and has suffered physical as well as mental abuse. She has lost her beauty, she is wasting away, unmarried, childless and all alone. By her own description she is dressed shamefully ( 191) and most editors have her dressed in squalid rags. Indeed, her visual appearance is emphasised in the play and, since it sets her apart from the rest of the

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characters, to have her attired in the same fashion as everybody else would be quite incongruous. 10 And she would almost certainly wear the mask of mourning, with its close-cropped hair, to suggest the allconsuming grief that she feels for her dead father. Orestes, too, must come to see the sister and this is the sight that will confront him. Sophocles has also made a point of introducing Electra as a solitary figure. 11 She takes up her position of lamentation in front of the palace before the Chorus makes its appearance. Her outpouring of grief and insistent calls for vengeance are a prelude to a long kommos scene which replaces the more usual Choral ode. In this way the Chorus of Argive maidens is seen on entry in relationship to Electra rather than assuming its own independent role. They are free-born women and their dress would provide an immediate and effective contrast with Electra's servile appearance. But they are sympathisers and actually function as a vehicle for expressing the heroine's situation, enlarging our sense of her plight and preoccupations. The whole history of violence, hatred and hopeless suffering 'lives' in the focal character rather than emerging as a background of universal significance in choral song. How different, then, are the worlds of the two who are forced to separate. The one has companions and a guiding hand, the other is an outcast from all. Here stood the young and noble Orestes, his luxuriant locks not yet shorn for mourning; there in his place stands Electra, squalid, wasted, her hair already a testament of long-felt grief. The very fleeting appearance of the new arrivals contrasts with the lonely station of the chronic sufferer. And there is a whole new cast as though the play begins afresh and in another realm - the realm of women. Argos, visually, is a different place. And this difference is made explicit and accentuated by Electra's appropriation of the avengers' language. In the course of her long lament Electra takes up the visual imagery of the prologue, but in a way which stresses her own compartment of perception; for Electra the light of day, which has just signalled a new beginning, is merely a witness to the signs of self-inflicted punishment. Day is never mentioned without night and the compound image expresses a full circle of suffering, an endless pattern of torment (86ff. and 258-60). 12 The illusion is further underlined by her obsessive longing for Orestes; the bright star of vengeance of the prologue is, in her words, the brother who 'is yearning to come but does not think it right to appear [phanenai]' (I 72). 13 The ironic sense of near and far is there again in the emphatic reminder of the visual design. Like Orestes, too, Electra 'sees' clearly - but only the exquisitely

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The Electra

cruel reminders of her own misery. In the long speech which follows the kommos she sees herself as literally beseiged by physical sights (258, 260, 267, 268, 271, 281) 14 which torment her: Aegisthus on her father's throne, his adoption of her father's robes, his libations at the hearth where he killed Agamemnon, his sleeping in her father's bed, a feast named and celebrated in honour of her father's death. Her father's absence consumes her; she only sees tokens of usurpation. This is how Electra sees the land of Argos, the reality after the illusion, the gloom after the light. Moreover, Electra's position at home is that of an alien as well as a slave. Indeed we discover that she is not supposed to be 'roaming' outside the house and would not now be there were it not for Aegisthus' absence in the country (312f-l3). Electra's language here - and it is the second time that she has used it about herself - implies restless movement, a going to and fro. Her location outside the palace, which is determined by convention, is being skilfully exploited: it is an escape from the sights within so vividly described as well as an assertion of freedom, an expression of defiance. The concluding moments of the dialogue between Electra and the Chorus are taken up with the insistent question of Orestes' return. All this talk of Orestes leads us to expect his reappearance, but Chrysothemis, Electra's sister, is the next to arrive.15 We see immediately that she is carrying something which we later discover to be offerings for Agamemnon's grave. She is actually on her way to do an errand for her mother, Clytemnestra, and the meeting with Electra in effect produces an embarrassing interruption. She is introduced rather pointedly by the Chorus as being of the same flesh and blood as Electra, but this merely draws attention to the striking contrast which her appearance makes with the wretched figure of Electra. And the opulent existence which Electra accuses her sister of enjoying would seem to require that she be dressed in the full finery of a princess. The visual contrast between the two figures is the theatrical expression of the deeper conflicts of character and behaviour which the scene explores. Indeed it is clear, not only from her first words but also from the initiative she takes, that Chrysothemis is affected by the sight of Electra. Her first reaction is aggressive. She deplores the futility of Electra's parading her feelings outside the house. And the words of Chrysothemis make it plain that this is habitual behaviour. But the spectacle which Electra presents also produces a defensive reaction and Chrysothemis proceeds guiltily to explain her own behaviour. Thus the compromising caution and obedience of Chrysothemis are revealed in contrast to the courageous and rebellious stance of Electra. But the

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difference is really a matter of what is shown on the surface. Chrysothemis claims to have the same feelings as her sister but does not have the strength to reveal them (333ff.). For Electra this 'hatred in word and not deed' is the cowardice of inaction and she scornfully rejects the splendid life which Chrysothemis' obsequiousness brings her. The comparison is between overt and secretive behaviour. There is no facade or mystery about Electra, no inner depths or ambiguity of character to be discovered. Every emotion and attitude is made explicit in her immoderate and unceasing lamentation, in her defiant public stance, symbolised on-stage in her location and agitated movements outside the house, even in her physical appearance. Her suffering and waiting are not those of passive acceptance. She makes a spectacle of herself; it is an expression of her will and freedom to act within the strictures of her situation. Her 'slavery' and imprisonment in the house she abhors make a much more powerful impression of action than the clever conspiracy of Orestes, who lurks in safety behind the scenes. Chrysothemis gives up her efforts to persuade Electra of her folly and makes to go. Only at this point is the original errand of Chrysothemis brought up; it has been prompted by a dream which Clytemnestra has had the previous night. Now it is true that the dream is part of the tradition, but Sophocles - by exaggerating its visual symbolism adapts the material to his own ironic scheme. Thus Chrysothemis speaks of a 'vision' which Clytemnestra has 'seen', and its content, which is delivered as though it were fact, 16 is the second coming of Agamemnon into the 'light'. For the audience the return of Agamemnon has already occurred in the return of his son who thus again appears not to come completely in his own right. For Clytemnestra, of course, this frightening visual phenomenon requires explanation. And so, as Greeks were wont to do when they had had a disturbing dream, but also in a way which continues the symbolism, Clytemnestra, we are told, has revealed it to the sun, the all-seeing god and dispeller of darkness.17 Clytemnestra, then, is afraid and Electra takes comfort at the news. As a result the earlier disagreement between the two sisters is forgotten and the stage action which concludes their meeting brings them visibly into partnership. Electra prevails upon Chrysothemis to relinquish the errand for Clytemnestra and to substitute her gifts for their own. Chrysothemis accepts from Electra a lock of hair and her girdle, 'small and unadorned tokens' but all that she has, to which at Electra's request she adds a lock from her own 'luxuriant' curls. Again, Electra's chronic grief and suffering are compared with a grief only now forthcoming. And the spectator cannot fail to recall that Orestes' offerings were also

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'luxurious'. 111 The face of grief is not left to the mere visual impression of Electra's mask; the mask becomes a distinctive emblem which is pointed out. Whether, however, the locks are actually cut is uncertain. There are a number of instances in Greek tragedy in which hair is said to be cut during the action, including the shearing of Dionysus' effeminate curls in the Bacchae of Euripides. This last is an important symbolic gesture which seems to require enactment and which may accordingly testify to a general stage practice that is likely to be followed here. 19 So Chrysothemis leaves for the tomb of Agamemnon. She is anxious not to be found out but her original purpose has been first postponed and then reversed; she has crossed the path of the great sufferer. Electra remains on-stage while the Chorus sings of the justice and vengeance which are now 'foreshown'. The dream is assumed to be a clear omen and the Chorus itself becomes the prophet of its dire fulfilment: There are no prophecies for mortal men in fearful dreams nor in oracles if this apparition [phasma] of the night will not hold good. (497-502) The Chorus's description of the dream is reminiscent of the image of Orestes' actual arrival in the prologue, of light emerging from darkness: its confidence is grounded in a reality of which the audience is already aware. The entrance of Clytemnestra after the Choral ode is sudden and unprepared for. It is remarkably similar to that of Chrysothemis. 20 In each case the sight of Electra is emphasised by the initiative assumed by the new arrivals, both of whom burst into speeches which are at first critical of Electra then self-defensive. The mere spectacle of the wretched figure is their silent accuser, and the explicit and immediate concern of both is that Electra should not be outside making a public display of herself. Again, the words of Clytemnestra give the impression that Electra is persistently outside and that she does not stand still before the palace but roams freely about the stage. There is, too, in both meetings the same sense of interruption, both entrances being motivated by the bringing of offerings (which in the case of Clytemnestra are carried by a silent attendant) but resulting in confrontation with Electra. This scheme of entries shows not only the timeless and enduring quality of Electra's suffering but also its power, its capacity to affect those who come into contact with it. Clytemnestra

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is there to propitiate Apollo, but this important stage ritual is again postponed by the argument provoked by the meeting. Clytemnestra seeks to justify her killing of Agamemnon, but is more than matched by Electra's refutation. Any unnaturalness that may be felt in seeing such a basic conflict emerge at this 'late point' in the history of their relationship is disguised by the natural drama of Clytemnestra catching Electra outside the house and being prompted to feel anger and guilt at the sight which Electra presents. The visual picture sets a physically wretched 'slave' against a dignified and elegantly dressed queen. But in the argument the spiritual and moral strength of Electra again wins the day. The shouts and threats which conclude the exchange are followed by the dramatic silence which Electra permits for Clytemnestra's prayer. This is her domain; she does not leave the stage to make way for Clytemnestra's private act of worship. Clytemnestra bids her attendant raise the fruits of offering and set them on the altar of Apollo, which stands in front of the palace. She herself moves away from Electra towards the altar. And we watch her pray for deliverance to the god who, we know, initiated the vengeance against her.21 The presence of Electra as a silent witness to this arresting ceremony produces the classic Sophoclean situation in which various levels of knowledge are brought into play. Electra is aware of the reason for Clytemnestra's prayer; Clytemnestra does not know of her awareness; both are ignorant of Orestes' arrival. This situation of awareness is underlined by the visual language of Clytemnestra's prayer which suggests a dilemma of perception. Clytemnestra is self-consciously secretive and unwilling, as she puts it, to 'unfold her whole thought to the light' because of the presence of Electra. But this merely reminds us of Chrysothemis' story, of how Clytemnestra had disclosed the dream to the sun when she thought nobody was listening. And we note that it is the mistress who is inhibited, not the 'slave'; the silence of Electra is more destructive than any words. 22 More specifically ironic is the way in which Clytemnestra brings up the dream; when she describes it as an 'apparition' (phasmata, 644) seen in the night, she is reIMlating,and very obviously, the Chorus's own description of it (501), in effect stressing its familiarity to those from whom she would conceal it and invoking the Chorus's vision of its fulfilment. Meanwhile for the audience the dream image coincides with the real image of Orestes' return; what Clytemnestra has seen darkly has taken place before our eyes. When she goes to appeal to Apollo to grant accomplishment of the dream if it has 'appeared' (pephenen,

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646) for good, and to let it fall back on her enemies if for harm, she formulates an ambiguity which exactly accommodates the conflict of emotions on-stage. And what is characterised as a visual ambiguity anticipates a visual resolution. We are waiting to see something; dream perception will give way to real perception. The conclusion of Clytemnestra's prayer is the last touch of preparation for what is about to happen. In Electra's presence she 'leaves unspoken' what we know she is really hoping for, the death of Orestes. In this last dark hint she is addressing Apollo as though there is a secret communication between herself and the god. But in affirming that all things are 'seen' by the sons of Zeus (659), she is pointing more than she knows to her own human blindness. Enter the old tutor, wreathed in myrtle, with news of Orestes' death! The prayer is answered, in his arrival is the 'appearance of good'. This is a miracle of timing. His appearance is, of course, predetermined by the conspiracy and it is true that we expect him, but the meticulous arrangement of his intervention discloses a divine pattern of control which is implicit in the structure of events. The point at which the intrigue invades the situation at Argos is, so to speak, inspired. It is not simply that Clytemnestra and Electra are deceived by the trickery of man; they are deceived by Apollo's messenger. This is not a human conspiracy carried out with initial advice from a god; Apollo's unseen influence is also there, active in the human endeavour. From the spectators' viewpoint the entrance speaks for itself. Not only do they have advance notice of what the old man is going to say, but they know that it will be all lies. But there are some surprises; the tutor, whose crown of myrtle already presumes a certain reception, ventures to tell Clytemnestra that she will find the news of her son's death pleasant. So much for maternal feelings from the tutor's cynical standpoint. Thus Clytemnestra's last secret, her unspoken hope, materialises immediately in a visible and unambiguous joy. Again, the spectators cannot possibly be prepared for the long and brilliant fabrication which they hear. The old man's narrative is of epic proportion and quality, an enthralling tale which virtually assumes its own artistic independence. The old tutor conjures up the heroic panorama of the Pythian games, held it should be noticed in honour of the god to whom Clytemnestra has just addressed herself, Apollo. 23 Orestes dies in its most spectacular and prestigious competition, the chariot race. The image of Orestes is one of brilliant heroism; he is a man of action, of unique achievement and strength. And, once again, we are reminded that he is the son of Agamemnon who once collected a famous army

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from Greece. But here the fiction confirms him as the true heir to his famous father. He enters the games a 'glowing' figure, 'an object of wonderment and admiration to all' (685). Upright and steadfast throughout the thrilling contest, he ends up spread-eagled on the ground, his corpse mangled beyond recognition, his mighty frame finally reduced to pitiable ashes and confined in a tiny um. The elaborate and shocking story is utterly convincing. The speech, however, comes to an end with an exaggeratedly explicit assurance that the account is an eyewitness report: Such then is the story, bitter enough in words, but for those who saw it, as we indeed saw it, the greatest of all woes that I have seen. (761-3) The conclusion defines the character of the whole speech. The visual significance of the tutor's entry carries over into his speaking part: he presents Clytemnestra and Electra with a visible 'truth'. At the same time the redundancy of the visual language betrays the lie. The deliberate clash with the implicit and highly seductive detail of the preceding narrative revives the double perspective 24 and breaks the spell to which even the audience is likely to have succumbed; what is evident fiction for the theatre audience is plain fact for the audience on-stage. Dramatically the remarkable care and conviction with which the old tutor manufactures the false reality affords Orestes absolute protection. This is all according to plan. But Orestes' safety involves a cruel assault on Electra's emotions. Even Clytemnestra, to the tutor's surprise, after her initial relief at the news seems to be affected by the details of the catastrophe. But in essence the arrival of the tutor precipitates a switch in emotions: the apprehension of Clytemnestra is transformed into relief, the hope of Electra into anguish. The tutor is impassive and plays his part well. He does not have the innocent and cheerful lack of awareness that the Corinthian messenger has in Oedipus the King, but he enters the scene without knowing its emotional arrangement. He is clearly surprised at the mixed feelings of Clytemnestra and he gives no sign at least that he knows who Electra is. He rearranges and tampers with the deepest feelings, oblivious of the spiritual devastation he causes. This 'triangular' scene epitomises Sophocles' special view of the complexity of experience: both the depth and the movement of the scene are ironic. Various levels of awareness are operating on various states of emotion; a switch in knowledge involves a switch in feeling.

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One wonders, too, whether this intensely ironic scene is not further complicated by a more general ambiguity, for it is difficult to resist the impression that the playwright intends the deliverer of the report to convey a truth of which he himself, the tutor, is unaware, a message which is buried in all the conscious fiction but which rings true for the spectator. From the beginning there has been a question mark about Orestes. The vile nature of what he must do is, to be sure, prescribed by the mythical tradition; the son of the great general must murder his own mother. But in the drama there is no disguising of this harsh reality; it is actually emphasised by the cynical methods employed, methods whose cost is dramatically exposed in this very scene. The old man's long description brings the drama to a full stop and a whole different world is disclosed. Its events are false but the picture is authentic and familiar. It is the brilliant and competitive world of the epic heroes. But this is not an exciting episode designed to appeal to the audience's taste for epic description. The incongruity of the imagined grandeur within the framework of the grim intrigue in actual process seems deliberate. In the play Orestes is everything that he is not in the story. The explicit and brilliant expectations attached to his return in the prologue are to be measured against the progressively darker implications of the revenge. May the audience be meant to take from this mass of fabrication the truth that the 'heroic' Orestes has in fact died? 25 After all, the true heroism is there before us, in the person of Electra. While Orestes performs imaginary feats and suffers imaginary death, Electra is subjected to real torment. There is visual meaning in the design of having Orestes off-stage and Electra on-stage. Orestes is ostensibly the star, but Electra takes on the burden of the revenge. There is perhaps as well as symbolic truth in the old man's narrative which features Orestes initially as the same radiant figure (685) presented to us in the prologue. Is the story a metaphor of the whole play? Do the 'ashes' of the epic contest anticipate the grim conclusion of the tragedy itself! The contrast between appearance and reality does not simply depend upon the obvious concealment of Orestes' presence, it also entails a more subtle dilemma about the meaning of his presence for our judgement of the revenge. The old man feigns to depart and cleverly gets himself invited into the house. No words have passed between him and Electra and his exit underlines the lack of concern for her feelings and the primacy of the mission. Oytemnestra's newly acquired indifference to Electra is also embodied in her departure, which is an exact reversal of her entry; she is now content to leave the noise of lamentation before the

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palace. Electra is left alone, abandoned to illusion. She resolves never to enter the house and live with murderers. Her position outside the house now becomes the place of final defiance, the spot where she is prepared to die. In the long and desperate lament which fallows between Electra and the Chorus, all that was so surely foreseen before is now conceived as either lost or hidden away. Where are the thunderbolts of Zeus, where the glowing sun, if overseeing these occurrences they hide them and are content? Hope in those who are 'clearly' (phaneros, 832) gone to Hades is false comfort; the kind of avenger who 'appeared' (ephane, 846) for Amphiaraus is gone, snatched away; Orestes has hidden away. Enter Chrysothemis from Agamemnon's tomb with clear visible proof of Orestes' presence! Chrysothemis 'rushes' (872) towards Electra with her joyful news: Orestes is present with us, know this from me, in visible form, just (877-8) as you see me. She speaks of a palpable reality - and she has the evidence, 'clear' tokens which she has personally 'seen' (886).. Electra makes perception the issue of the whole encounter, reading fiction not fact into her sister's words. What warranty, poor girl, have you seen, to what, pray, did you tum (887-8) your eyes that you are burning with this fatal fire? So Chrysothemis is prompted to tell her story, which is described by her (892) and actually unfolds as a whole process of visual discovery. Not just the tuft of hair but all the offerings at the grave are produced, each in tum a token that was 'seen' (894, 897, 900), the streams of milk, the wreath of flowers, the freshly severed lock. The lock of hair is reserved as the high point of the demonstration, the first glimpse of it gradually expanding into a sight which fills her eyes. She speaks, indeed, as though she has seen the whole person, so vivid is the imagined impression: As soon as I saw it something leapt within me at the familiar sight [omma] , to see this proof of Orestes, dearest of all mortals. (902-4) The full range of the possible meanings for omma is exploited: literally meaning the eye it cap be used to refer to the whole countenance, as

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in this instance, or simply to any sight, usually with the additional connotation, again applicable here, of a light which implies hope or comfort. 26 Moreover, the repetition of omma ahnost immediately (906), where it refers to the tear-filled eye of Chrysothemis, has the effect of stressing Chrysothemis' feeling for Orestes by linking her mental picture with her tears. 27 This visual image of Orestes crowns the proof. But Chrysothemis, who has so rightly sensed the radiance of Orestes and who has seen the evidence with her own eyes (again at 923), is convinced in a matter of a few words that Orestes is dead. The spectator would have been certain that the arrival of Chrysothemis from the tomb and all the business involving the tokens signalled true recognition. And this false recognition would have had special meaning for the original audience, who may have been aware of Aeschylus' version of the same incident and been already anticipating recognition to be effected by locks of hair. The highest expectations have been dashed. What we have instead is an amazing juxtaposition; in rapid sequence we have observed Electra believe what we know to be false and then disbelieve what we know to be true. One is struck by the balance of the conflicting signs; visual evidence competes with visual evidence. And Electra accepts the set which is false. This is all very understandable in the circumstances; deliberate deception is at work and the lock of hair could have been sent as a memorial by someone else, perhaps, as Electra believes, for Orestes' death (933). But it is surely correct to speak of the delusion inherent in the human condition. For what Electra accepts is not simply the consequence of human deception. 28 It is in the nature of things that Electra is convinced by the false when the true is available. The desperate situation now shows up, once again, the courage of Electra, which is characterised as explicitly masculine, against the submissiveness of Chrysothemis. Electra plans action, the murder of the man, Aegisthus. She tries to enlist the aid of Chrysothemis but a rift develops which is symbolised by the departure of Chrysothemis.If we observe the movement of this scene we realise that it reverses the earlier one involving Chrysothemis. There, an initial difference between the two is resolved in harmony; here, the exit of Chrysothemis is in the nature of a desertion and we are meant to feel the loneliness of her who is compelled to fight alone. But there is no shrinking from the prospect. The deed must be done and she will do it with her own hand. To some extent this may be wishful thinking, born of desperation, but the departure of Chrysothemis also portrays Electra passing her greatest test. 2~

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Electra, just now isolated, stays through the Choral ode which honours and magnifies her lonely stand. Let the message go forth to the dead spirit of Agamemnon; she has followed the life of unceasing lamentation; she is ready to die in a righteous cause; may she win through. Electra at this point is the heir to the man's part, to a vengeance which is both noble and just. Orestes suddenly returns to the stage unannounced. The arrival is supremely conceived: 30 the clear yet veiled answer to prayer and loneliness. He is accompanied by the faithful Pylades and two attendants. In his absence he has been the centre of attention, a figure conjured up from dream, tokens and epic fantasy, but one who, as is strongly emphasised, has been purportedly seen. Now he arrives in person. The meeting which was first aborted in its re-enactment inherits an emotional imbalance. Orestes is the same remote and fleeting figure of the prologue, Electra has bared her soul. We know all that the brother means to the sister, we know nothing of what the sister means to the brother. The whole burden of recognition, before the scene begins, is placed on Electra. And what must she face? He brings with him the urn containing 'his own ashes', which is carried by one of his attendants. In her delusion Electra can only accept the clarity of the visible evidence before her. With obvious horror she enquires: Surely this is never the clear [emphane] proof of the report we heard that you bring? (1108-9) Orestes replies: As you see we bring the meagre remains of the dead man in this small urn. (1113-14) Electra is convinced by the closeness of a truth which she can almost touch: This is that which we heard now manifest. I behold, as it seems, a grief ready to hand. (1115-16) But more than this, Electra begs in fact to touch the urn and Orestes signals to his attendants to hand it to her, his detachment marked by the manner in which he lets her have the vessel, through the agency of others. Electra, for her part, not only sees the evidence now, she feels it, clasps it in her hands and even speaks to it. The death of Orestes

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becomes tangible. There is a mesmeric quality about this strange contact and the physical attachment symbolises the inseparable bond between the illusion and its victim. Electra turns away from Orestes and the 'ashes' become the focus of the scene: Electra's long emotional speech is delivered as a personal address to the urn as though to a living being. Bright when he was sent away, he is nothing now. Dead in a strange land, he was nursed in vain by his sister. Everything is dead and gone. Such is the outcome of Orestes' promise to 'appear' (phanoumenos, 1155); instead of the dear shape of Orestes only ashes and a vain shadow. All this with Orestes before her alive and well. Electra is brought to an excruciating point of suffering. Every emotion is wrung from her by the object which guarantees Orestes' safety. The absolute exposure of Electra and the absolute protection of Orestes could not be more blatantly portrayed. What is Orestes' attitude to this incredible scene? 31 He has real difficulty in recognising the 'wretched slave' before him, but is very quickly presented with indications that she is actually his sister, and adjusts to the situation. 32 But, as with the tutor, his cold indifference and caution show his preoccupation with his assumed role. There is a good deal in Electra's long speech which would reveal her identity but its very length makes him a silent and, we are bound to infer, incredulous spectator. Eventually he cannot control his tongue from expressing what he feels: Is this the noble form of Electra?

(1177)

It is with extreme difficulty that he tries to reconcile what he hears with what he sees, a disbelief which we should perhaps compare with his instant recognition of her voice in the prologue, when he was unable to see her. In fact Electra's visual appearance becomes from this point the focus of his attention; Orestes is faced with the sight which he was denied in the triumphant opening - when the way was first cleared for the mission. But does Orestes really come to terms with the inner life which the visible disfigurement signifies? He speaks to a 'form' cruelly and godlessly ravaged (1181), he 'inspects' his sister with cries of dismay ( 1184 ), he 'sees' his own ills in the 'conspicuousness' of the ills before him (1 I 87). The pity of Orestes at first is real enough, but yet we hear finally from Electra that he 'sees' but a few of her ills. This is bound to strike a chord with an audience which, in contrast to Orestes, has witnessed the depths of her misery in scene after scene. Moreover Orestes seems to take advantage of the remark to test her:

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And how could there be any more hateful woes to behold than these? ( 1189) He knows very well what she means, but insists on making sure who is abusing her and whether she expects any help to be found. There is a cold pragmatism here which reasserts itself before the final expression of his pity: 0 unhappy girl, how all along I have been pitying you as I see you. (1199) Thus the sight of suffering in this drama has elicited a pity which in the end is not free from the considerations of expediency. Moreover, to reinforce the point, Orestes also makes sure that he is among friends before allowing Electra her revelation. This, then, is Orestes' revelation and from this point he gradually brings Electra to hers. He has to coax Electra to hand back the urn which she is reluctant to part with. Orestes himself hints at the symbolic nature of what we are about to see: Let go of this urn, then, and you will find out everything.

(1205)

There is a struggle for possession of the urn. Electra, in a gesture of supplication, raises her hand to touch his face, 33 adjuring him not to rob her of her dearest possession. And she clings to it throughout the mounting intensity of the revelation, until Orestes discloses his father's signet ring, an extra elaboration to the traditional story and the final piece of visual proof which brings about the recognition. The stage action itself marks Electra's passage from delusion to truth: she sets aside the urn and embraces her brother. The exact point at which she relinquishes the urn - perhaps Orestes gently takes it from her" - probably occurs just before the first indication that she is open to the possibility that Orestes is buried elsewhere (1218). At this juncture at least her attention moves from the urn to the figure before her. Whatever else Sophocles meant by this rejection of the 'dead' in favour of the living, the visible act shows Electra exchanging what is illusory for what is real. 'O dearest light.' Electra's delirious cry realises the bright promise of the prologue; Orestes is no longer a visual image, he is palpable, there for all to see. Thus Electra presents him to the Chorus:

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The Chorus responds: We do see and for the event a tear of rejoicing steals from our eyes. (1230-1) The eyes are opened and it is the eyes which bear witness to the high emotion of the revelation. And how revelation for the sufferer overshadows revelation for the schemer! This is the vision which was first denied, then re-fashioned from the painful struggle between true and false evidence. It is the second epiphany of the avenger and a far greater truth has been revealed. But what does this new 'reality' signify? The whole business is carried out at the most obvious level and turns on the simple question of Orestes' identity and the joy of its disclosure. But the recognition is not the climax of the play. This light of joy is premature; it is not the light of vengeance, the symbolic target declared at the beginning of the play. The real meaning of Orestes' presence is the task ahead and the grimness of this enterprise overshadows the climax of joy and shows it to be fleeting and illusory. The 'recognition duo', 35 which immediately ~elebrates the reunion of brother and sister, visibly highlights the encroachment of the mission on the new-found joy. For the reunion is marred by Orestes' nervous apprehension about the explicitness of Electra's behaviour: he is urging silence while she indulges in loud exultation. She makes the point that there is nothing to fear from the women outside the house, but Orestes is worried that even women can be dangerous. Again, Electra's courage and openness make a striking antithesis to Orestes' cautious pragmatism. It is difficult to know what actions accompany the words. Electra is clearly enraptured by Orestes' visible presence (pephenotos, 1261; phanenai, 1274); he is obsessed with his cover and is liable to have freed himself from the initial embrace, attempting to resist the open intimacy and also keeping an eye on the house. But Electra is finally irresistible and the 'duo' concludes with language which clearly implies a picture of physical rapture in which Electra is gazing at Orestes and he at her. 36

Electra. Now I have you. You have appeared [prouphanes] with (1285-6) your dearest eyes looking at me.

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This is the culmination of the elaborate process of visible substantiation. Electra hears the false and the true, then she sees the false and the true and holds them in her hands. But the picture is quickly and harshly shattered by Orestes' merciless urgency for action, although it is noticeable that he has to ask Electra how he should proceed. Rapture gives way to the practical requirements of secrecy. Indeed, a good deal of emphasis is placed on the adverse effect which the 'light' of their radiant faces may have on their carefully concealed plans. 37 The suppression of joy is meant to be temporary, until success is achieved, but it stresses not only the secrecy of the enterprise but also its grimness. We learn in fact that hatred is etched on the face of Electra; she is too steeped in it to smile. Orestes suddenly calls for silence. He has heard somebody coming from the house. Electra feigns to be speaking to strangers and we realise how well she has adapted to her new and quite different role as deceiver. But there is no need; it is only the old tutor, 38 who upbraids them for the delay, cursing their long speeches and their insatiable cries of joy. His appearance involves another recognition by Electra which prompts the same cry of delirious joy as before in the case of Orestes. 'O dearest light.' In the context this second joyful display serves to increase the fear of discovery. But the revelation is strangely exaggerated in the mind of Electra who 'seems to see her father' in the figure of the old tutor. The almost hysterical joy - according to one scholar Electra fondles the tutor's hands and feet 39 - is absolutely appropriate to the emotional turmoil to which Electra has been subjected. By contrast, Orestes is impatient, the tutor dismissive. Once again joy, here even more fleeting and unreal, is suppressed and the intrigue takes over. We learn from the old tutor that Clytemnestra is all alone; there are no men inside to protect her. Such is the nature of the venture which the two warriors on-stage are about to undertake. The entry of the tutor changes the character of the action. In accordance with the new urgency for action there is a marked increase in the coming and going. This change in tempo signals the end of the more contemplative phase of the drama and initiates a sequence of exciting activity. The departures occur at intervals and become increasingly momentous. His role complete, the tutor slips away down the parodos. Orestes and Pylades enter the house, pausing before the images of the gods in the vestibule, to perform an act of silent reverence. Electra stays behind and again has the stage to herself. She turns to the statue of Apollo. Again, the dominance of her role and personality is impressed upon us. The conventional salutation of Orestes and Pylades is

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overshadowed by the power of the solemn and solitary prayer for divine assistance. From the visual point of view this is a remarkable parallel to Clytemnestra's earlier invocation to the same god. The illusion of Clytemnestra's prayer - and perhaps her vain offerings are still there on the altar - is to be seen in the light of the certain fulfilment of this second appeal. This is the first time that Electra has left the stage and it is a dramatic exit. The waiting is over. The 'passive' sufferer takes an active and influential role in the new momentum. 40 The entry of the avengers into the house is dramatised by the Chorus as the pursuit of hounds, which cannot be escaped. 41 It is the realisation of a dream, a deed of guile and darkness guided by the god Hermes. This is not simply the entrance of two men bent on vengeance; what passes within is divine justice incarnate. 42 Electra unexpectedly re-enters from the house. She has only been away for the shortest period of time and she 'darts forth' from the central door, to keep a look-out for Aegisthus. Now comes the celebrated moment when she stands on her own and in full view, while Clytemnestra is murdered behind the scenes. She is at once the commentator and stage-manager of the unseen violence. She calls for silence and sets the scene: Clytemnestra is adorning the urn for burial while the two men stand nearby. This, of course, is the interior scene she has just left. But what follows is Electra's response to the sounds she hears from within:

Clytemnestra. Ah! 0 house deserted of friends and full of murderers. Electra. Someone is crying out within. Do you not hear, my friends? {1404-6) The horror of the Chorus's reaction {1408) from the orchestra further dramatises the gloating pleasure of Electra, who stands right before the palace, presiding over the treacherous and bloody deed. But it is not simply that we visualise the murder through the imagination of Electra; she becomes involved in the off-stage scene, participates directly in the verbal exchange:

Clytemnestra. 0 child, child, pity your mother who gave you birth. Electra. But he was not pitied by you nor the father that begot him. (1410-12) Electra speaks on behalf of Orestes, she replaces him in the dialogue.

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More than this she 'takes over' the action:

Clytemnestra. Ah! I have been struck. Electra. Strike, if you have the strength, a double blow. Clytemnestra. Ah! Struck again.

(1415-16)

Electra gives the order and Orestes obeys. On the auditory level the whole scene is enacted between Clytemnestra and Electra along with the Chorus, on the visual level we see only Electra (and the Chorus). The perpetrator of the deed is neither seen nor heard. This remarkable exploitation of the convention of off-stage violence breaks down the scenic compartments of interior and exterior with great effect. We have one scene in which Electra is the prime mover. The myth requires that Orestes commit the matricide but Electra appears mentally, if not physically, to appropriate the act by the violence of the language with which she wills it. It is her play and this horror is her affair, expressed in the peculiar logic of the play whereby the passive power of emotion becomes by its very explicitness a kind of action. The lamentation of Electra and the sight she presents on-stage are more truly action than the wary and secretive activities of Orestes. Moreover, the stage confrontation between Orestes and Clytemnestra, which Aeschylus uses to reveal the hesitancy of Orestes and the sense of moral dilemma, is not part of Sophocles' scenic design. The murder is a much colder and more repulsive business. On-stage there is pleasure, not remorse. From this point in the play Electra visibly takes command. Orestes and Pylades emerge with Orestes carrying the blood-stained sword. There is hardly time to announce their success when Aegisthus is seen approaching. A frantic discussion follows, then Electra ushers them into the palace. She is now supervising the exits and entrances. 'Leave it to me,' says Electra. Once again Electra faces the opposition on her own. She is, of course, prepared for the arrival of Aegisthus; she has been looking out for him (1402). The deception which follows is composed as a scenic corollary to the urn scene. Both scenes rely on the same kind of visual effects and this visual correspondence establishes connections and draws out the exquisite irony of the reversal. While the matricide is undeniably one of the Il'\ajor climaxes of the play - and certainly there is no shying away from it 43 ,- and while convention dictates that it take place offstage, it is enclosed and, from a certain point of view, overshadowed by the two deception scenes which are actually staged.44 Indeed, the body of Clytemnestra is not displayed in its own right (that we may

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reflect on the rights and wrongs of matricide), but is employed to set up the deceiving of Aegisthus. And actually the matricide is barely announced before making way for the pressing matter of Aegisthus.45 Aegisthus is alone, at the mercy of the conspirators. He is aggressive with Electra, confident in the 'knowledge' of Orestes' death. But he wants to be sure. Electra assures him that the death of Orestes is not simply a matter of report but a revealed fact. Aegisthus asks for visible substantiation: Is it there for us actually to recognise in plain view [kamphane J? (1454) Electra's response mockingly picks up the language of Aegisthus' request, but implies the more shocking spectacle which the audience knows is in store for Aegisthus:

It is there and a sight not to be envied at all.

(1455)

The game of cat and mouse has begun. Aegisthus, surrounded by those who know, orders silence and demands a public disclosure, an exemplary display for those who would challenge his authority. Electra, still the stage-manager, obligingly 'opens the gates'. The eccyclema is pushed forward to reveal the shrouded corpse of Clytemnestra with Orestes and Pylades standing beside it. Aegisthus views the grim evidence from a distance, shocked by what he sees: 0 Zeus, I see an apparition [phasma]

(1466)

It is no mere coincidence that Aegisthus uses the word 'apparition' (phasma). 46 It does, of course, capture the nightmarish quality of the

presentation, but it is also the word which has been applied to the dream of Clytemnestra What Clytemnestra saw earlier and what Aegisthus sees now express a pattern of connected development. And there is the real phasma standing before him, 47 the figure of Orestes himself. Dream is about to become reality. The language of sight anticipates the physical unmasking which marks the final transition from apparent to real perception. 48 Aegisthus asks Orestes and Pylades to remove the cover: Loose all the covers from the eyes ...

(1468)

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Aegisthus means the veil from the eyes of the corpse, but the implication of the scene suggests that the scales are about to fall from his own eyes.49 Orestes now joins in the act, taunting his victim and, we may suppose, luring him closer to the body: You yourself lift it. This is not mine but yours to see and greet (1470-1) with love. At this point Aegisthus is right beside the corpse. He hesitates and asks Electra to see if Clytemnestra is in the house. 'She is near you. Do not look elsewhere' ( 1474) is Orestes' ironic rejoinder. Aegisthus removes the veil:

Ah! What do I see?

(1475)

He staggers back, stricken by the horror of the disclosure. But the final revelation has to come: he turns from the corpse and gazes at his tormentor. The play's last recognition is Aegisthus' recognition of Orestes. His discovery is a 'macabre dramatic rhyme' 50 of Electra's earlier one. Once again the dead have become the living. But the calculated cruelty of the vengeance, which is reminiscent of Euripides, is also revealing about the avengers themselves. In the final moments of the drama there is confirmation of the hints that have appeared earlier that the light which heralded the joyful recognition and which symbolised the return of Orestes is a brief prelude to the renewal of darkness. 51 The imagery of darkness lends the appropriate colour to the disconcerting questions which form the sinister undercurrent of the 'successful' conclusion. Electra in her brutal way impatiently insists that Aegisthus be slain immediately and that his body be thrown out, a prey it seems to dogs and birds, and out of sight. 52 To such a point has the heroine of this play been reduced and these are the last words we hear from her, a final venomous outburst. Meanwhile Orestes' last move is yet again prompted by another and he orders Aegisthus into the house. The justice of what is about to happen is questioned by Aegisthus who asks what need there is of darkness. Again, Sophocles exploits the convention of off-stage violence. The culminating act of Orestes' vengeance is appropriately to be a secret business behind the scenes. There is no heroism here. Moreover, as the dialogue emphasises, Orestes compels Aegisthus to tread the same path to slaughter as

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Agamemnon. Thus when we see Orestes pushing Aegisthus towards the central door we are witnessing an exquisite revenge. And the shadow of his great father which was there in Orestes' arrival, in the first words of the play, is there in his final departure. Our last view of Electra is also appropriate. She remains on-stage,53 in front of the house where she has always been, a picture of physical and spiritual destruction. The Chorus brings the play to an end. The abrupt concluding statement that the chain of revenge and suffering is at an end hardly dispels the inherent evil of the final situation. Such is the real significance of the return of bright vengeance. Visually the Electra is more austere than the Philoctetes. There is, however, the same lingering over suffering and it is given the same kind of powerful expression, through the visual appearance and lamentation of the main character. There is, too, on the surface at least, a 'happy' ending in which the vengeance of Orestes and Electra is successfully concluded. As with the Philoctetes, the influence of this kind of ending is observable in the careful orchestration of delays and digressions which put off the moments of recognition and revenge until the final phase of the drama, and which in the course of events prolong and intensify the agony of Electra. Indeed the whole development leading to Electra's recognition of Orestes is a false trail which culminates in the corroboration of Orestes' 'death' by the arrival of his ashes. At this juncture, more than two-thirds of the way through the play, Electra has proceeded from faint hope to utter desperation - that is, in a direction opposite to the eventual outcome. 54 All this is reminiscent of the Philoctetes with one crucial difference; here, Sophocles supplies a double perspective which affords the spectator a clear impression of the real development. In the Philoctetes there is a conscious effort to nullify the audience's knowledge of Philoctetes' part in the fall of Troy, to direct them away from the known result and involve them in the proceedings on-stage which bid fair to produce the opposite. In the Electra involvement of this kind, in misleading or illusory trends, is reserved for Electra while the audience looks on in the sure knowledge that Orestes has returned and 'all will be well'. The entire play is structured into two scenic compartments. It is not that characters happen to see things differently from the spectator; we watch their perceptions put to the test in a series of visual proofs. The fact is that we sense Electra's suffering not so much through the evidence of her plight at home, though this is dramatically presented, as through the torment which is

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bound up with her illusion. Ironically, the arrival of Orestes is the reason for her greatest anguish and her greatest sense of isolation. But there is one matter about which the audience is uncertain, the cost of success. In the Philoctetes the successful conclusion is reserved as a surprise, in this play the final success is undermined by the cost involved to achieve it. The end is assumed to be just; there is no hesitation on the part of the avengers on this account, no moral dilemma. But the reality turns out to be different. The suspicion is implanted in the prologue, in the contrast between Orestes' cynical attitude to his task and the brilliant expectations of his self-conception. But the audience cannot possibly be prepared for what occurs: the moral disintegration of Electra, the central figure who gives the tragedy its meaning. Electra's presence on the stage, in its duration and its visual impressiveness, is predominant in a way that no other is in Sophocles, except possibly that of Oedipus in the Oedipus at Co/onus. This scenic fact is the key to the nature of the action. Orestes is a secretive schemer, a pragmatist who needs guidance, unheroic, unemotional. It is no mere accident that Orestes spends most of the play 'behind the scenes', and his one momentous act is virtually appropriated by his sister. Orestes is truly the foil for Electra. His intrigue makes her an explicit figure, exposes her deepest emotions, makes her - the passive one - the prime mover. Grief, hatred, anguish, joy, all are brought out into the open. Like those of Philoctetes, although she lives in objective illusion, Electra's feelings are all real in the profoundest sense. But finally and the sequence is decisive - she becomes the grim sadist and the cruel deceiver. The play is an exploration of means, a progressive disclosure of the tragic cost of a just cause. This design is formulated as an actual process of revelation in which the first triumphant arrival gathers its real and darker visibility. There is a pattern of false and true which becomes more and more explicit as the world of visual images achieves its realisation in the tangible emblems of fact and fiction. From the first image of brilliant clarity the plan of Apollo, deception, unfolds with growing cruelty, a shifting vision which even at the last combines success with spiritual annihilation. Clytemnestra, Chrysothemis, Aegisthus and, above all, Electra are revealed by the way they see Orestes; for to see the son of Agamemnon is to see the nature of vengeance. This explicitness of visual meaning is achieved by the clear link between visual language and visual effect. The climax of this pattern is the climax of the tragedy itself: the structure of visual decepti9n which encloses the matricide. Thus the contrast between illusion and reality is

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not only embodied in the two great scenes of spectacle, it adually gives the drama its distinctive form. In the Electra we may surely speak of a 'visual theme': the cost of vengeance, the suffering and the cruelty, is something that we come to see.

Notes I. The opening line has been attacked as spurious by M.W. Haslam, 'The Authenticity of Euripides, Phoenissae 1-2 and Sophocles, Electra l ', Greek, Roman and Byzantine Studies, voL 16 (1975), pp. 149-74. There is some legitimate suspicion about the opening, but Haslam's dramatic arguments at least are not convincing; the military fame of Agamemnon is an important element of the drama, serving to illuminate the unheroic task which faces his son, 2. Neither R.C. Jebb (ed.), Electra (Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 1907), on 23 ff., nor J .H. Kells (ed.), Electra (Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 1973), on 23ff., give the idea of visual clarity, which is very striking in the original, its due prominence. 3. Kells, Electra, p. 4, rightly emphasises this point, but assumes that it casts doubt on the justice of the revenge from the very beginning. 4. The original Greek is difficult to interpret and we have no sure knowledge of how the actor was attired, A number of commentators hold the description to refer to the 'white hair' of Pylades, but in the context the wreath of myrtle is more clearly indicated. See, especially, 666-7. 5. See K. Reinhardt's disparagement of Orestes' heroic stature, Sophocles, trans. by H. and D. Harvey (Blackwell, Oxford, 1979), p. 137. 6. The poetic structure of light and darkness is well treated by C.P. Segal in the course of his comprehensive interpretation, 'The Electra of Sophocles', Transactions of the American Philological Association, vol. 97 (1966), pp. 473-545. C(. also T.M. Woodard, 'Electra by Sophocles: The Dialectical Design',Harvard Studies in ClassicalPhilology, vol. 68 (1964), pp. 163-205, and 'Electra by Sophocles: The Dialectical Design', II, Harvard Studies in ClassicalPhilology, voL 70 (1965), pp. 195-233. 7. The initiative of the slave has prompted F.H. Sandbach, in 'Sophocles, Electra 77-85', Proceedings of the Cambridge Philological Society, n.s., voL 23 (1977), pp. 71-3, to reassign the tutor's lines (82-5) to Orestes. But there is nothing strange about the tutor's behaviour; it is in keeping with his role here and throughout the play. 8. As 0. Taplin notes, The Stagecraft of Aeschylus (Clarendon Press, Oxford, 197 7), pp. 246- 7, the entry and lyrical solo of Electra, before the entry of the Chorus, are exceptional. Thus the exit of Orestes and the entry of Electra are brought together in an unusual and striking manner. Distance is created out of virtual contact. See Reinhardt, Sophocles, p. 139. 9. On the dramatic tension of this contradiction see Reinhardt, Sophocles, p. 139. 10. For the opposite view see J. Gould, 'Dramatic Character and "Human Intelligibility" in Greek Tragedy', Proceedings of the Cambridge Philological Society, n.s., voL 24 (1978), pp. 43-67. As Gould points out (p. 50), vasepaintings do not show any figures in rags, but this may simply reflect artistic convention rather than the actual conditions of dramatic performance. 11. This further effect of the unusual structural technique is well brought out by Taplin, Stagecraft of Aeschylus, pp. 246-7. See also R.W.B. Burton,

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The Chorus in Sophocles' Tragedies (Clarendon Press, Oxford, 1980), p. 189. 12. On this point it should be observed that the images of light are not exclusively associated with Orestes, nor are those of darkness only applied to the world of Electra, the image structure implied by Woodard, 'Electra by Sophocles: The Dialectical Design', II, pp. 210 and 215. 13. Phainesthai, 'to come to light', is a word especially associated with Orestes. Cf. in particular its repeated occurrence in Electra's joyful celebration of his arrival (1261, 1274, 1285). 14. Woodard's preoccupation with the notion of dialectic, 'Electra by Sophocles: The Dialectical Design', II, p. 205, leads him to speak of Electra as possessing a vision which 'extends beyond eyesight', as inhabiting a non-visual world in contrast to the concrete visible world of Orestes. The concentration of visual terms assigned to Electra in this passage hardly supports such a view. 15. On the unexpectedness of Chrysothemis' entry see J.C. Kamerbeek (ed.),, Electra (Brill, Leiden, 1974), on 310-27. 16. Cf. L. Campbell (ed.), Sophocles (Clarendon Press, Oxford, 1881), vol. 2, on 419. 17. Jebb, Electra, on 424ff., explains the custom in terms of these traditional attributes of the sun. 18. Thus Kells, Electra, on 452. 19. A.W. Pickard-Cambridge, in The Dramatic Festivals of Athens, 2nd edn (Clarendon Press, Oxford, 1966), p. 192, quotes this passage from the Electra and two other examples: Sophocles, Ajax, 117 3, and Euripides, Helen, 1087. He does not mention the more famous incident in Euripides' Bacchae, on which see E.R. Dodds (ed.), Bacchae, 2nd edn (Oarendon Press, Oxford, 1960), on 493-7. Dodds in fact rejects the idea that the shearing of Dionysus' copious locks is actually carried out, on the grounds that more explicit indications in the text would be expected. But his substituted (stage?) action, Pentheus' recoil from the god's challenge, is not even mentioned in the text. 20. Kamerbeek, Electra, p. 78. 21. It is probably not justif"table to understand the idea of light in Apollo's title, Lukeios. The etymological connection of /uk- with light is accepted by Jebb, Electra, on 644ff. Segal, 'The Electra of Sophocles', p. 4 77, n. 11, also countenances a possible association. But, even given the prominence of the theme of light and darkness, it is extremely doubtful whether an Athenian audience familiar with this traditional epithet would have read this meaning into Clytemnestra's invocation. In any case the prayer to Apollo, the god most closely associated with Orestes, reminds us of his arrival and, ironically, of its dire meaning for Clytemnestra 22. Cf. Oedipus' destructive silence in the Oedipus at Co/onus, 1254-134 7. For the distinction between the 'self-contained' silence and the 'penetrating' silence see Reinhardt, Sophocles, p. 217. 23. The point is well taken by W. Sale (ed.), Electra (Prentice Hall, Englewood Cliffs, NJ, 197 3), p. 130: 'Apollo is answering Clytemnestra's prayer, and the answer seems to run that Apollo killed Orestes at the god's own games.' 24. See Kamerbeek, Electra, on 762. 25. Sale's conclusion on the meaning of the speech is almost identical but his insistence on seeing Orestes as a 'brave and resourceful' character undermines the force of his argument. See Sale's excellent discussion, Electra, pp. 18-20. 26. For the metaphorical use of light to indicate hope, joy, safety, etc., see L.R. Farnell. The Works of Pindar (Macmillan, London, 1932), on Pythian V, 17, pp. 169-71. Cf. also J.C. Kamerbeek (ed.), The Trachiniae (Brill, Leiden, 1959), on 203, 4. 27. P.E. Easterling, 'Repetition in Sophocles', Hermes, vol. 101 (1973), p. 27.

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28. This is an important qualification of the influential view of Reinhardt, Sophocles, pp. 38ff., that illusion in the Electra is solely the result of human craft. 29. Thus W. Steidle, 'Anhang: Zur Electra des Sophokles', Studien zum Antiken Drama (Fink, Munich, 1968), p. 92. 30. On the connection of Orestes' arrival with the preceding Choral ode and the impression of epiphany see Burton, The Chorus in Sophocles' Tragedies, pp. 214-15. 31. On the recognition scene as a whole see the perceptive study of F. Solmsen, Electra and Orestes, Three Recognitions in Greek Tragedy (Noord Hollandsche Uitgevers Maatschappij, Amsterdam, 1967), pp. 18-34. 32. It can be argued that Orestes recognises Electra immediately and is forced to relinquish his disguise. But see the convincing case made for Orestes' ignorance by Reinhardt, Sophocles, p. 263, n. 24, and Kells, Electra, on 1123ff. Cf. also Solmsen, Electra and Orestes, p. 26. 33. Jebb's tentative stage direction, Electra, on 1208. 34. Jebb, ibid., p. 165. 35. Kemerbeek's description, Electra, p. 162. 36. Prosopsin (1286) not merely 'face' but implying the action of (Orestes) 'looking at' (Electra). Cf. Ajax, 70, for the same word and meaning. See A.A. Long, 'Sophocles Ajax 68-10', Museum Helveticum, voL 21 (1964), pp. 228-31. 37. Sophocles seems to be making a quite deliberate point that any joy here is short-lived, overshadowed by the dark task ahead. From this point there is indeed little room for rejoicing as the play progresses to its grim conclusion. 38. D. Bain, in Actors and Audience (Oxford University Press, Oxford, 1977), p. 81, observes the special effectiveness of the stage action where tension is built up and then reduced by the unexpected arrival of a friend. 39. Kells, Electra, on 1357ff. 40. Thus Steidle, 'Anhang: Zur Electra des Sophokles', p. 93. 41. On the significance of the Furies see especially R.P. Winnington-lngram, Sophocles: An Interpretation (Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 1980), pp. 217-47. 42. See Sale's excellent analysis of the ode, Electra, p. 22. 43. For the contrary view see Jebb, Electra, pp. xl-xlii, and also A.J.A. Waldock, Sophocles the Dramatist (Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 1952), p. 179, given new support more recently by P.T. Stevens, 'Sophocles: Electra, Doom or Triumph?', Greece and Rome, vol. 25 (1978), pp. 111-20. Stevens, who takes issue with Kells's ironic interpretation, underestimates the horror of the matricide. Moreover, the fact that neither Orestes nor Electra show any remorse (Stevens) does not underline the justice of their cause but rather points to their moral bankruptcy. 44. Steidle, 'Anhang: Zur Electra des Sophokles', in particular brings out the significance of the Aegisthus scene for understanding the character and role of Electra, and makes a good case for regarding it as the climax of the play. 45. Also, as Winnington-lngram has argued, Sophocles, pp. 234-5, if Oytemnestra's death had come last Sophocles would have had to emphasise the traditional fate of Orestes at the hands of the avenging Furies, something he wanted to avoid in a play about Electra. 46. Pharma is a rare word in Sophocles but, significantly, it occurs three times in this play. It is often applied to strange natural phenomena as well as to 'spectral apparitions' and omens (see Kamerbeek, Electra, on 1466). As a derivative of phainein, the word so closely bound up with Orestes' arrival, the image captures the sinister aura of mystery which is here finally resolved. 4 7. Thus Kamerbeek, Electra, on 1466. 48. The 'uncovering' of something terrible is a characteristic event in

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Sophocles. Cf. Ajax, 1003; the Women of Trachis, 1078; Oedipus the King, 1426-8. 49. An irony noted by Segal, 'The Electra of Sophocles', p. 527. 50. Kamerbeek's phrase, Electra, on 1470. 51. As Segal observes, 'The Electra of Sophocles', p. 491, there is a progression from the light in the prologue to the darkness surrounding the death of Aegisthus. Cf. also J.T. Sheppard, 'Electra: A Defense of Sophocles', C1assicalReview, vol 41 (1927), pp. 2-9. 52. The whole of the Antigone makes much of the impiety of such behaviour. 53. There is, of course, no indication in the text but this seems to be the appropriate conclusion to what is Electra's tragedy. See Sale's stage direction, Electra, p. 181. 54. The preservation of Electra's illusion is one feature which more than any other gives the drama its distinctly Sophoclean cast. For a contrary view see W. Headlam's assessment in G. Thomson's edition of the Oresteia of Aeschylus (Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 1938), vol 2, p. 217: 'In the Electra of Sophocles there is hardly any touch which in one form or another is not already to be found in Aeschylus.' For further interesting points of comparison see R.P. Winnington-Ingram, 'The Electra of Sophocles; Prolegomena to an Interpretation', Proceedings of the Cambridge Philological Society, n.s., vol 3 (19545), pp. 20-6.

4

THE ANTIGONE: CONCRETE VISUALISATION

Two young girls enter from the central door. One brings the other on to the stage, leading her by the hand. She has something she wants to tiell her, something private and confidential: 0 Ismene, my kindred sister, my own dearest sister ... The opening address is extraordinarily elaborate and signifies more than the conventional warmth of a family relationship; the keynote of the drama, kinship, is immediately sounded on the lips of her who is to stake her life on its obligations. This is Antigone, in her earliest youth. 1 It is her secret initiative with her sister, lsmene, which sets the tragedy in motion. They stand before the royal palace at Thebes, the house that once belonged to their father. Family is indeed the subject-matter of the whole scene, the ill-starred family of Oedipus. We hear of the selfinflicted blindness of Oedipus himself, the suicide of his mother and wife, Jocasta, and now most recently, the mutual fratricide of his two sons, Eteocles and Polynices. His daughters, now before us, are the sole survivors (58). They are there together as a unit, in visual harmony, their closeness set against the verbal background of violent family conflict. And the question is whether they can overcome a new evil which has befallen them - as a pair. The new evil of which Antigone speaks is the proclamation of Creon, now king, which prescribes discriminatory treatment for the bodies of her two brothers: Eteocles, the defender of the city, is to be buried with due honour; Polynices, who has invaded Thebes with foreign troops, is to be left unburied and unwept. The horror of the exposed corpse is impressed upon us by Antigone with shocking clarity; it will provide an unending feast for birds, as they see it from the air. But she intends to defy the proclamation and bury her brother's corpse at the risk of death by public stoning. Here, in the darkness of pre-dawn (16 and 100), Antigone tries to involve Ismene in her secret resolve. Her failure signals the breakup of this last family relationship and we watch the heroine of the tragedy come into being before our eyes. Ismene is cautious, obedient to male authority and lacks the courage of her convictions. Antigone is fearless, self-reliant and willing to die for hers. And she disdains Ismene's promise of concealment, ready to

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match Creon's 'proclamation' with her own, a love of kindred declared in deed (86- 7). 2 The growing rift which develops in the course of the scene culminates in their separate departures, a visible rupture of the initial harmony. The shape of the theatre makes this severance particularly impressive; Ismene withdraws unobtrusively to wait in the palace, Antigone leaves by a parodos. 3 The independence, the singlemindedness, the open and solitary defiance are all there in the long walk from the scene. Antigone separates herself from all that Ismene is. And she abandons one who is no longer a sister, for she goes to be with the dead, the only kindred that remains to her. The exit of Antigone is an emblem of her absolute isolation. For a moment the stage is empty. Then the Chorus enters from the other parodos, oblivious of the intrigue to which the audience has been privy and, as yet, unaware of Creon's proclamation. The personality of the Chorus is irnportant. 4 It consists of the elders of Thebes, who represent community. The conflict between private and public morality which lies at the heart of the tragedy is already foreshown in the scenic contrast, the desolate figure set against the harmonious group. As in the Electra the prologue is separated from the world of the play, and even more dramatically; Antigone is the main character and she is distinctive among the 'heroes' of Sophoclean tragedy in her given isolation from the Chorus, by age, by status and, uniquely, by sex. The elders have come to celebrate the city's glorious victory over the foreign invaders and they fill the scene with sound and movement as personal grief gives way to public exultation: Ray of the sun, fairest light that ever appeared fphanen] on sevengated Thebe, you appeared [ephanthes] finally, eye of golden day, having come above the streams of Dirce . . . ( l 00-5) These first choral lyrics of the play, with one image of light piled upon another, echo and re-echo a visible joy. But the brilliant sunlight which they hail actually belongs to the previous day of victory and the dramatic sequence has it emerge from the pre-dawn darkness of Antigone's ominous venture. The ecstatic performance - and this is the land of Dionysus, the god of ecstasy ( 151-4) - is thus out of place, an illusion of brightness which has already passed, 5 as the final image of night perhaps implies ( 152). Creon, the new king, is announced in the grand manner, arriving as heir to the victory and its illusions. The impressive entry is matched by the way in which he dominates the scene. Our first view of him is

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significant. He is a public figure, a king addressing his elders on matters of state. He speaks at length and without interruption. There is no conflict, nobody to voice criticism or disapproval. Creon, centre stage, is the image of authority and assurance. What is clearly an inaugural address, constructed around conventional formulas of statecraft and political wisdom, is also a self-introduction. Authoritarian, impersonal, rigid, a man exclusively devoted to the state - invoking its established traditions, surrounded by those who embody them - such is Antigone's antagonist. Nothing could be more remote from the intensely personal and volatile world of the prologue. And we are clearly meant to mark the scenic juxtaposition of family and state; Creon actually appropriates Antigone's own language of love, twisting her devotion to kindred into his own devotion to the city (183, 187, 190). Even more striking, Creon is made to speak of his edict as being 'brother' to his political precepts; brotherliness for Creon, it seems, is a harmony between political ideals and practice. The restatement of the decree also invites the audience to make a comparison. For the second time the full horror of the exposed corpse is revealed, on this occasion through Creon's eyes. He too - but even more obviously - emphasises the 'sight' which Polynices' torn and desecrated body presents and he is made to reveal himself, to show the kind of ruler he is. Earlier he has subscribed to the maxim that 'it is impossible to know any man fully, in soul and thinking and judgement, until he has been seen fphane, 177] versed in rule and law-giving'. There is already a hint here of a general cast of mind which emerges more clearly in the course of the play: Creon only trusts what is visible and empirically verifiable.6 But at this moment he is thinking of himself in particular, newly come to office, unproven in its responsibilities. Thus when he later draws attention to the sight of the corpse and adds in the same breath, 'Such is my thinking', he is harking back to the earlier maxim and providing the visible proof of the kind of ruler he himself is. The sight which causes Antigone's instinctive revulsion is proudly proclaimed by Creon to serve as a token of his rule. The Chorus supports Creon's stance, resigned in the crisis to an authority which holds sway over the dead as well as the living. There and then Creon obliges his elders to be 'watchers' of his edict and, ready for the practical problem, he has already posted 'watchers' to oversee the corpse. Creon is not simply exacting vengeance on the corpse; he is 'watching' for something, waiting to uncover those who would secretly plot against him. 7 And the external situation of the attack on Thebes is a natural justification for his suspicions. The only

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motive that he can conceive of as prompting 'men' to risk death is profit. His idea of the whole problem grows out of the world in which we see him, the world of politics, unified by crisis, pragmatic, male. He is shut off from the world which actually threatens him. The double frame of the scenic design, which separates and contrasts the two antagonists, establishes a structure of appearance and reality: Creon, who imputes the shallowest motives to 'men', is peculiarly blind to the deep and personal motives already declared in opposition. Suddenly the harmony and decorum of the scene are interrupted by the faltering arrival of a common soldier. His appearance is unannounced and comes as a surprise. He enters along the parodosby which Antigone left and his entry, on cue, as it were, after Creon's talk of the watch, is bound to alert the audience for news of Antigone's discovery. This is not what happens. To be sure he is one of the guards who have been watching the corpse. But he is terrified, incoherent and defensive, nervously parading his own second thoughts about the wisdom of coming at all, rehearsing the stops and starts of his trip, and asking for reassurance that his coming was the right way to save his own skin. Not a word of news, only the guard's absorption with his own safety, amusing in its blatancy. Even at this point Creon has difficulty in extracting the information. The guard insists on talking about himself. He did not do it nor did he see the doer. It would not be fair for him to suffer. Creon seethes with anger. More hesitation by the guard and then, at last, the news: the ritual of burial has been carried out on the corpse. 'Who of men dared to do these things?' But the guard does not know. This is the surprise of the scene. What is even more surprising is the absence of any visible signs of human activity or agency. The guard has to tell an impossible story. There is no evidence of the strokes of the pick-axe nor of earth displaced: the earth was hard and unbroken with no signs of wheel tracks. In a word the doer was 'invisible' (asemos,252). Is this the work of the defiant Antigone, eager to publicise her action and ready to die for it? Nor is the question simply this; the whole incident begins to take on the aspect of a miracle.8 The guard, in explanation of the 'marvel', blurts out that the body had 'disappeared' (ephanisto, 255), but what he means, as he hastily adds, is that it was covered by a light dust. In the nervous confusion of the guard even what is there is 'invisible'. 'No signs were apparent' (semeia . .. oute . .. exephaineto, 257-8) either of dogs or wild beasts which seem miraculously to have been kept away by the layer of light dust on the body. The watchmen alone remain to take the blame and none of them was a 'clear' culprit. The frightened

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guard can only compile a catalogue of evidence which was not there, a list of signs which were not seen. Thus the threatened disclosure of Antigone 's 'crime' does not materialise. The Chorus is left to make the suggestion of divine responsibility an explicit and persuasive possibility. The elders are, after all, I ' unhampered by the knowledge that Antigone had left to perform the '; burial and theirs is an immediate and, we may assume, natural reaction ' to the incredible tale: ... Perhaps this deed is even sent by the gods.

(278-9)

For the spectators, who have watched Antigone set out to bury her brother, the matter is more puzzling. They have prima-facie evidence that Antigone is responsible and they are bound to question the notion that the gods are solely responsible for the burial. But they must sense that somehow a simple human act has assumed the proportions of a miracle. The anger, too, with which Creon repudiates any thought of supernatural intervention looks suspiciously like a refusal to face the truth. What precisely is happening in this scene is that, as the act of burial grows in significance in the mind of the audience, it is simultaneously being trivialised in Creon's; his answer to the puzzle is what he has been watching an.cl waiting for, a secret political conspiracy prompted by love of ill-gotten gain. The burial itself has become the issue of appearance and reality, a deepening mystery which begins to expose Creon's shallow perceptions. The frustrating lack of evidence has a marked effect on Creon; he becomes fixated on the need for visible substantiation. He must have a culprit that he can see with his own eyes: If you do not find the man whose hand performed this burial and make him visible [ekphaneit'J before my eyes . . . (306- 7) Further exasperated by the guard's cryptic manner, Creon accuses him of complicity and threatens dire penalties. The poor guard is all that Creon has, a scapegoat ready to hand, and as the guard himself neatly points out, accused by Crean on false opinion. Impatient with the guard's refinements on the theme of 'appearance' Crean returns to the concrete need which is now overpowering: If you do not make visible [phaneite} 9 the doers of these things (324-5)

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These are Creon's exit lines, a final and repeated insistence on the visible evidence, confirmation of his own cynical preconceptions. He stalks into the palace. Thus Creon's response is to discount the mystery and look for the material answer. The reverse is true for the spectator~ he was looking for the material answer, the discovery of Antigone, and' 1 cannot discount mystery. · The guard makes good his escape down the parodos, hardly able to believe his good fortune: 'You will not see me here again.' 10 The remark, which is thrown at Creon's departing back, is the ironic answer to Creon's demand for a visible resolution of the mystery and the main question of the scene is left hanging: will Crean ever uncover his political conspiracy? But the guard's departure does signal that the search is under way, a search for visual clarification, however misconceived. The external situation shows a lowly watchman in pursuit of political rebels and he may never return. But the audience knows that a far profounder reality is waiting to be revealed. There is a secret opposition to Crean. Visibility ..will come. And Sophocles immediately elevates the level of the drama with some of the greatest lyrics in the whole of Greek tragedy. It is no coincidence that the most 'vulgar' scene in Sophocles is followed by the most majestic statement on man's greatness. 11 The Choral ode sets out the nature and achievements of the 'strange and wonderful creature', man, accomplished, all-inventive, intelligent, yet finally morally ambiguous, coming sometimes to good, sometimes to ill. The action, however it may have been viewed by the audience, is suddenly dignified by the implication that man himself, so grandly conceived, is the actor. But man in his greatness, in his formidable skills, has an equivocal fate. And this fate is finally seen within the framework of the city - the Chorus's own proper concern - where adherence to the laws of the land and to the right of the gods is set against evil and daring. These two pillars of political morality, man's justice and god's justice, ironically the very grounds of the conflict which is to emerge, are here linked together in a single vision. The climax of the ode is in fact an assertion of community - presumably the greatest achievement of the wonder that is man - which in its dying tones rejects the 'transgressor' as a stateless outcast. And the last words, in keeping with the assumption throughout the political sequence, allude to a man. At this very moment the young girl, Antigone, is led slowly forward from the parodos, under guard. 12 Rejection is enacted. The return of Antigone is spectacular, its dramatic impact further enhanced by the immediate theatrical touches and by the expectations

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which her return has accumulated from the delay of her appearance and from the larger and grander framework in which the tragedy is now set. Antigone herself arrives with her head bowed ( 441) and the elders cannot believe their eyes, shocked by a sight which they take to be a 'portent sent by god'. As they first sensed the agency of god in the burial (278), so now their language betrays the awe as though god hitaself has come. The doer lives up to the deed; Antigone's silent rtappearance13 is endowed with divinity. At the same time and at another level, the guard has, unexpectedly, produced what was asked of him by Creon, the visual evidence of conspiracy. The guard has only just left the stage and we are told not to expect him. Yet here he is, full of himself. The brief delay of Creon's arrival not only allows the presentation of the captive to be dramatised by the Chorus but also emphasises the eager initiative of the guard who, in contrast to the terror of his first entry, is impelled to seek Creon out. And in keeping with this change in the stage business, an insolent confidence has replaced the guard's earlier hesitations. He is delighted to be there. Instead of the impossible account of missing evidence he has brought clear proof to offer his master. He actually saw Antigone perform the burial rites and here she is, the perpetrator of the crime, before Creon's eyes just as he had demanded. The guard impertinently turns his master's concern for clear substantiation to good account: Am I speaking plainly and clearly?

(405)

How different in fact is the second report of the guard. Creon is given a clear and detailed eyewitness account of a second burial in which Antigone is caught in the act. But, as with the previous absence of evidence, there is something wonderful now about its coming to light. The watching guards were suddenly engulfed by a storm of dust that filled heaven and earth, 'a plague from god'. They 'closed their eyes' and endured. The moment the storm clears 'the girl is seen'. And how noble is the humble guard's description of the grief-stricken Antigone and her simple act of devotion! The discovery is in the nature of an epiphany. 14 And there she is before us, still silent, attracting 'all eyes during the description of her action, whilst her own eyes are fixed upon the ground'. 15 Antigone is a visual symbol, in her stage presence as well as in the narrative. The guard finally reverts to the matter of proof; there was no dismay on the part of Antigone and no denial of the deed. The framework of the speech is 'evidence', its core is divine revelation. The common man's

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simple admiration, which can shine through his own joy of self-preservation, develops and confirms the Chorus's amazement at her entrance. The reaction of Creon to the silent, bowed figure is far different. When, at last, he addresses her directly it is to pose a simple legal question: does she agree that she did the deed or does she deny-it? Antigone lifts up her head, speaks and comes alive. She is, for the first time, 'face to face' with Creon. Where all the various themes are ranged on one side or the other, concentrated in the opposition of the two central characters, such a meeting enacts the very idea of the tragedy. The visual presentation does not rely on the use of tokens, stage properties or costuming, but on the physical pattern of confrontation created by the two figures. Antigone's simple gesture brings her world into open conflict with Creon's. Again, her stage performance mirrors her performance in the description of the guard; her words are a proud acceptance of responsibility for the burial. It is a dramatic moment, the flash of defiance after the long silence. Only now does Creon dismiss the guard. He is only free of the charge (445) when Antigone is ready to take it on. Creon has his palpable proof. In fact the exchange is between one for whom life is everything and one for whom life is nothing. The guard who entered in fear and trembling departs in a transport of relief. Antigone stays to fulfil her destiny. Thus is the noble acceptance of death set against the 'vulgar' preservation of life. The aura which the inner drama created around the silent figure lies beyond the statesman's vision. There are then, strictly speaking, two burials. 16 In performance this would almost certainly appear as two contrasting views of a single burial_ or at least, if observed, would be regarded as of little conse~nce. Wha_t_matters is the dllble_persp~stive.Initially we are given the distinct idea of supernatural involvement, while the expected relevation of human agency is dramatically delayed. The contrast between the two reports of the guard is a contrast between the unseen and the seen, the mysterious and the manifest. And the visual language has its theatrical, non-verbal counterpart; on-stage the guard arrives without the culprit, then with the culprit. Theatrically Antigone's silent reappearance captures all the mystery and the wonder of her off-stage act, while fulfilling the appropriate visual requirement for her meeting with the 'watchful' Creon. The dramatic effect of the 'double burial' is no less than a revelation of Creon's blindness. Unable to perceive the hand of god in the first instance and disposed as he is to accept only simple and concrete explanations, he 'is then presented with the fact of Antigone's guilt. Legality is satisfied. For him the search is over; he has

has

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his political conspiracy and he need delve no further into the deeper issues of Polynices' burial. The characterisation of the guard throughout is artfully conceived. His fear adds to the confusion of an already mysterious occurrence and all his talk of invisibility leaves Creon baffled and enraged. The communication of the miraculous through the imagination of the humble soldier is not only dramatically effective but strikes the note of authentiSllY·At the same time the relationship between commoner and king ensures that the miracle will pass Creon by. The king gets what he orders, the discovery of a secret plot. In his second scene the nobility of Antigone's action is that much more resplendent seen through the eyes of common humanity, while heroism and self-sacrifice can be set against the hopes and fears of the ordinary man. The aesthetics of the scenic arrangement are also intriguing. The great showpiece of the play, the lofty ode to man, is framed by the two watchman scenes. The sequence is mystery, prodigy, revelation. The arrival of Antigone materialises from the magnificent assertion of man's genius, the unexplored universe of the tragic conflict which is unfolding. The silent captive in her embodiment of god's inscrutable will emerges as the touchstone of the ode's validity: the Chorus's two foundations of civic harmony now stand in mutual opposition. Thus Antigone confronts Creon. She meets him on his own ground; he has his attendants and his councillors with him. Throughout the scene she is a young girl among men. Creon immediately comes to the business of establishing conscious defiance and Antigone readily accepts that the proclamation was 'clear' (emphane, 448) to her. Her stand is not here, within the purview of man's legal systems. She stands on the superior claim of divine law which culminates in her famous appeal to the 'unwritten and unfailing statutes of the gods' ( 454), laws which are eternal and which 'came to light' ('phane) from a source unknown to man. Her opposition thus takes shape from another higher and more mysterious realm. She dismissively concedes what is manifest at the human level. Antigone is proud of what she has done and ready to die for it. There is no thought of yielding. Creon's response is fashioned from the world which Antigone has just dismissed, the one he occupies on the stage. He stands on his dignity as a man, on his authority as a king. He has no intention of being bested by a woman; even rigid spirits can be broken; and the ties of kinship are of no account. As for mystery, it must have a political basis. Unprompted he brings Ismene into the reckoning. He has seen her agitation in the palace and mistakes it as a sign of complicity in the assault against the state:

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The mind is wont to stand convicted of its treason before the deed, when people are planning mischief in the dark. (493-4) In demanding that lsmene also be brought forth as an accomplice Crean is desperately trying to build up resistance on ground which Antigone has already conceded. 17 ~is ~ords, moreover, have a distinctive legal colouring and he actually summons Ismene as though she were a wi_tnessin the law-court. 18 While Antigone is speaking of gods, Crean is looking to uncover further~ence of treason. The conspiracy is not satisfied by the young girl before him. As we await the arrival of Ismene the formality of set speeches gives way to the greater intensity of line-by-line disputation, each argument tearing them further apart. This final exchange is prompted by Antigone's belief that the Chorus approves of her glorious deed but is fearful to speak it: Creon. You alone of these Thebans see this. Antigone. These also see it; but they control their tongue for you.

(508-9) Antigone's seizure of Creon's point about sight, which is a striking effect in the original, not only establishes this final and sharpest separation as a separation of perceptions but also introduces a new element which for the first time brings into serious question the solidarity onstage between king and elders. Who is really isolated: Antigone or Crean? The imputation of tyranny and its suggested link with blindness are the first hints of the isolation which ends the tragedy. Creon's. With the rift more sharply defined and Antigone's death confirmed, Ismene's arrival is announced. Ismene appears from the palace and, like Antigone before her, she is under guard. The Chorus's introduction, which is unusually pointed in its concentration on the physical aspects of Ismene's countenance, is a touching portrait of beauty fused with grief. It is otherwise with Crean; he addresses a 'lurking viper' who is 'secretly' draining his blood. He has his two conspirators now (533). The arrival is for Crean the evidence of the 'secret machinations' (493-4) and thus repeats, if less dramatically, the arrival of Antigone, creating a pattern of legal detection. In ~-a~_h. case the impression of the Chorus corresponds with the understanding of the spectator, so that Crean is felt to face a real truth which he alone does not see. And here Crean pairs together the two that were last seen torn apart. Again,

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as with Antigone, Creon's first and, in this case, only question is the legal one: will she confess her part in the burial or will she swear that she knew nothing of it. Again, too, instead of collapse there is proud acceptance, as Ismene tries desperately to be Antigone's partner after the fact. What follows is actually a reversal of the prologue 19 with Creon looking on in silent incomprehension as the two girls fight to claim the deed and its consequence. The effect of Creon 's exclusion from the dialogue is to make him an observer of a disconnected performance, a performance which the spectator sees as a natural sequel to the opening scene. Antigone's rejection of her sister is harsh but perhaps cannot be separated from what it entails, Ismene's life. But, more important, is the sense that Antigone's strength of feeling for her brother and her intuition of right were valid because of their immediacy. Ismene cannot enter the same realm of feeling; the time when it was possible has passed. The separation of the prologue is thus underlined, isolation jealously protected. What divides them, now quite explicitly, is life and death and new relationships are established, cruelly defined by Antigone in the old terms. Already dead herself in her own eyes (55960), she brands her sister as ally to Creon. Her own relationship can only be with the dead just as her sister's can only be with the living. The performance is over and Creon breaks his silence: ·Of these two maidens I say that one has been recently seen (pephanthai] foolish, the other foolish since she was first born.

(561-2) Creon's conclusion is a visual observation, the appropriate fulfilment of his immediate silent part but also a fitting end to the detective role he has adopted from the beginning: the secret viper can be added tc the 'evidence' that has already been brought to light, Antigone; that which re-enacts separation for the spectator confirms Creon's initial belief in the pair (533). The rest of the scene takes place between lsmene and Creon with the Chorus joining in at the end. 20 This structure of two distinct segments underlines the gulf which was finalised between Antigone and Creon before Ismene's arrival and exploits the total isolation of Antigone in a particularly striking way. Thus Antigone does not address Creon directly throughout the whole scene involving Ismene. It is left to Ismene to intercede with Creon: to bring up the forthcoming marriage between Antigone and his own son, Haemon, and to point out the

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special love of the relationship. This is the necessary preparation for the Haemon scene, but it is remarkable that .mL)V._2rd_ of Haemon passes Antigone's lips. In fact, Antigone has already chosen death; it is out of character for her to apply pre~ure to Creon. Moreover the sequence dramatises the exclusive concern of Antigone for !i_erbrother which is borne out by all that follows. Antigone's final silence signals her detachment from any continuing struggle with Creon. She has made the case for justice on its own merits and she has won what she desired, the exclusive honour of serving the dead. Creon for his part dismisses the appeal of Ismene. Death is the sentence of both girls and both are marched into the palace under guard. To the king's mind they are not yet separate. 21 His conspiracy is still intact. Creon remains on-stage throughout the Choral ode which follows, 22 a grim unearthing of the insidious workings of 'blind folly'. The infatuation and ruin to which man succumbs is sent by the gods, and in the elaborate scheme of visual imagery23 this procedure is presented as the onset of darkness which here has overwhelmed the light spread over the last root of the house of Oedipus. In evident contrast stands the blaze of everlasting light which symbolises Zeus' permanent rule over heaven and which, in the sequence of ideas, has the final emphasis. This radical change in man's estate, from the earlier splendour of the 'ode to man', is really a new perception of him in relation to the gods. The ambiguity of good and evil, simply stated in the 'ode to man', is now revealed to be a riddle of appearance and reality, a conflict with the gods that man cannot win: or with wisdom ... has the famous saying been brought to light [pephantai] , that evil at length seems good, to him whose mind god ads to ruin. (620-4) ~ This is a_realJigh.Lof truth. We have been aware, since the first appearance of the watchman, that the gods are mysteriously involved. Now this involvement takes the clearer shape of malignant powers which bring a man, all unknowingly, to his doom. The action and fate of Antigone is uppermost in the elders' mind and certainly they are specific-enough in their initial reflections. But it is Creon who is there, a still figure behind the sombre movements of the dance. 24 And he is the one who epitomises the delusion that comes before disaster. The culminating truth of the ode derives from the fate of Antigone and her house, already sealed, but it cannot in the mind of the spectator be divorced from the fate which is yet to be determined, that of Creon

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and his house. Enter Creon's youngest son. The Chorus announces the arrival of Haemon from the palace and the immediate question is whether he is embittered over his bride's fate. The rational Creon takes the entry to pose a rather different question: surely he has not come to 'rave' against his father? Creon's earlier view of lsmene's behaviour (492), that she was out of her senses, corresponds with his apprehension about his son. 'My father, I am yours.' Haemon's first words come as a surprise. He is Creon's son, not Antigone's bridegroom and this is so throughout the scene. There is no word of the love that we expected. He puts his father's good guidance before his marriage. Creon, seen now for the first time in a family relationship, seizes upon Haemon's deference to expand upon the importance of obedience, of citizens to the ruler of the city, of the female to the male, of sons to fathers. All Creon's relationships are defined by authority; the family is the microcosm of the state. And he clings to the clarity of the evidence (emphanos)by which Antigone's disobedience to the state has been uncovered. There can be no doubt about his decision to kill her. Haemon's reply reveals a sincere concern for his father's welfare and is carefully constructed within Creon 's exclusive frame of reference, politics. The economy of Haemon's role needs to be fully appreciated. 25 is not only involved in a close relationship with both antagonists; he also comes as the voice of the citizens of Thebes whose secret admiration for Antigone he proceeds to disclose. What Haemon avowedly tries to do is to get Creon to 'see' his own political isolation (688-9). The explanation he offers of Creon's blindness is the same one that we heard from Antigone:

t;-

For your eye [omma] is terrible to the citizens as regards such words which may displease you to hear; but I can hear these complaints in the dark . . . ( 690-2) The visual imagery develops its meaning from its relationship with the idea of hearing. The 'eye' of the tyrant is not the seeing eye; it suppresses the truth. Haemon, on the other hand, hears 'in the dark', that is away from the fearful light of Creon 's eye. 26 The disparity in perception between father and son not only connects illusion with tyranny but also adds to the growing impression of Creon 's isolation from his citizens. Haemon proceeds to outline the city's grief for Antigone and its recognition of her noble acti9n in saving her brother's body from the ravages of dogs and birds. But he returns in summary to his opening

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idea: 'Such is the dark tale that steals abroad' (700). The framework of imagery defines the proposition. This is the second mystery that Creon has had to face - but cloaking the same problem. So, too, when Haemon comes to the matter of 'discovery' he brings back to mind Creon's earlier requirement for visible clarity, in the event almost imitating his father's manner of speech: For whoever thinks that he alone is wise, that in speech or spirit he has no equal, such people when they are laid open are always seen to be empty. (707-9) Haemon's whole presentation is addressed to Creon's perceptions and the question seems to be whether the mystery of Antigone's act can be seen anew from a political point of view. Haemon's final words are an appeal to Creon to give in and to change his mind, in effect, to accept the wisdom of the younger man. As the argument intensifies Haemon returns with greater and greater emphasis to Creon's separation from the city. In all this he makes no mention of his love for Antigone. It is Creon who brings her up and who repeatedly accuses Haemon of being her slave, while Haemon - and it is very noticeable - stays with the moral and political argument. Creon is determined that Haemon will not marry Antigone alive; Haemon, with equal assurance, that her death will mean another's. Creon, mistaking the veiled threat of suicide as a threat to himself, delivers his final answer: Lead out the wretch, that she may die immediately in his presence before his eyes [ommata] - close by her bridegroom. (760-1) This grim demonstration of Creon's brutality is a self-revelation as Wore. Creon wants Haemon to see where he, Creon, stands; he wants to show how much he cares for the relationship between his son and his bride. He is a firm believer in the truth which the eyes can see. Wh_a.!is also clear is that Creon here vividly brings to the surface what he conceives Haemon to be suppres$g. For in the course of the whole encounter Creon harps on Haemon's relationship with Antigone while Aaemon himself scrupulously avoids it. From Creon's first apprehension to his last outburst - to the last words on his lips - Haemon is the bridegroom. The part which Haemon actually plays, the true son and and spokesman of the city, is never comprehended. Thus, once more, it is made evident that the real issue has passed Creon by. The crude

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'spectacle' which he threatens is the visualisation of his own misguided preoccupation. Haemon's response is to seize on Creon's words and throw them back in his face: No, not close by me - never think this - shall she die, nor will you ever see my face again with your eyes so that you may rave among ( those of your friends as are willing to endure you. (762-5) And these are his parting words. The point seems to be that not only will Creon not have his spectacle but he will never see his son again; he has gone to his death. But this bitter exchange is also the ~_l_irrl~ of the scene and it takes the form of a conflict between what Creon will or will not 'see'. The idea of the scene is thus revealed conclusively by the sudden and explicit accumulation of the language which has char cterised the meeting throughout. The exit line is also the same as that of return to save Ajax; in fact he has found his own salvation and in death will save them. Immediately after Ajax has fallen on his sword the two half-choruses re-enter from opposite directions, along the parodoi, one appearing a moment or so after the other. Their agitated arrival interrupts the peaceful quality of the solo performance and also provides the necessary distraction which allows the actor playing Ajax to get off-stage and the dummy to be substituted from the central door. The corpse of Ajax, which is the visual focus of the ensuing scenes, must have been thrust forward, perhaps by means of the eccyclema. But it is quite clear that the Chorus is not supposed to see it. 53 The first group is busy searching. They pause. They have looked everywhere; there is nowhere else to go. They hear but at first do not see the other group, which begins to pick its way from the other side. Then the two leaders of the Choral sections call across to each other:

Semi-Chorus I. Do you have anything then? Semi-Chorus 2. Only much toil and nothing more to see. Semi-Chorus 1. Well, neither is the man anywhere clear to view [deloi phaneis] along the path from the rays of the sun [ from (875-8) the east] .

',/

They give up the search and join together to begin the kommos. They call upon the fishermen, the Olympian goddesses and the rivers to call forth if they have 'seen' the man of fierce spirit roaming. For their part they find it hard that after so much wandering they cannot come near him nor 'see' where the 'elusive' 54 one is. The whole theatrical effect is reinforced by the verbal emphasis on sight, and closely resembles the Choral search for Oedipus in the Oedipus at Co/onus. But here the movement of the Chorus is a more spectacular repeat of the individual search which opens the play. This design of repeated search divides the drama into two distinct phases of discovery. The manner of the Chorus's return makes the corpse of Ajax the visual focus of the second phase and sets up the succession of arrivals who also come to see. 7 • The actual discovery of the corpse shows Sophocles' sure sense of theatre. The Chorus has just given up hope of finding Ajax when a cry of dismay is heard off-stage. It is Tecmessa; like Ajax she is introduced by the sound of anguish before she actually comes into view. With her second outcry the Chorus catches sight of her. The precise stage business is again unclear, but presumably Tecmessa has entered from the

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central door near the corpse which she now kneels beside. 55 Her entry is a highly dramatic interruption of the kommos in which she is to play her part. She describes what she sees: Here lies our Ajax, newly slain, folded around the hidden sword.

(898-9) The verbal impression is precise and striking. The sword-point lifts the garment to an apex from which the folds descend. 56 The sword is then 'hidden' in the manner Ajax darkly hinted at in the speech of deception, but its presence is apparent beneath the covering of the clothes. The actual sight should probably match the description. The sword has to be there in any case for Teucer to remove later. Tecmessa, in fact, singles out the sword again, 'fixed' and 'surrounded' by the body as the clear (906) proof of Ajax' suicide. Once more, it is not simply the corpse but its particular disposition 'around' the sword to which Tecmessa draws our attention. The sword, the 'fixture' in the ground (907), is the true emblem of the man and preserves the fatal relationship between the weapon and its possessor. This, then, is the quite special centre-piece of the ensuing lamentations, with the sounds of anguish, the gestures of grief, the melancholy accompaniment of the flute all adding to the effect. 57 The suggestion that the Chorus is about to view the body prompts a cry from Tecmessa, whose immediate reaction is to shield the pitiable corpse from the eyes of all: He must not be gazed at! But in this enfolding cloak I shall cover him completely, for no man, who was a friend, could endure to see him... (915-17) With these words she envelops the whole bloodied corpse, using perhaps her own mantle. As before, it is a sight which cannot be faced, 58 while her action also prepares for the further unveiling which is to occur. The lament now continues over the shrouded form which still preserves the presence of the sword. The reflections are of the fatal contest of arms and of Ajax' intractability and stubbornness. But the dominant impression of the dawning realisation is what is to become of them all: Tecmessa, the Chorus, the young child. And where is Teucer to lift and compose the corpse? There is utter dread of the ruthlessness and mockery of their enemies. But this legitimate sense of exposure and defencelessness involves one crucial misconception about Odysseus:

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No doubt, the much enduring hero exults in his dark-eyed soul and (955-8) mocks with great laughter at these raging sorrows. The imputation of dark malevolence to Odysseus' eyes is the exact reverse of the reality disclosed in the prologue, bringing back the humane vision which is yet to find realisation. But in the end Tecmessa begins to understand the significance of Ajax' death: she takes some comfort in it. Where is the triumph over the dead? His death is a matter for gods not men: Ajax is no longer for them, while to me he has left distress and (972-3) mourning and is gone. These are actually Tecmessa's last words of the play and provide a perfect moment for her to depart, leaving the stage to Teucer. Most commentators, however, have her stay for Teucer's entry so that she can leave to fetch the child on his instructions. It is true that she returns later with the child to play out her silent role, but Teucer's request is not addressed to anyone specifically and could easily have been carried out by an attendant. There would be no real problem about Tecmessa's later arrival with the child. Perhaps the point should not be pressed, but Tecmessa's departure here is raised as a possibility which would provide a fine moment, dramatising the end of her active role in the play. 59 Teucer, whose fateful appeatance has long been foreshadowed, finally arrives on the scene from the camp. Like Ajax and Tecmessa before him, he is announced by a cry of anguish before he is seen.6() And it looks from Teucer's later description (997) that he arrives like Odysseus, a keen tracker of Ajax' steps. He addresses Ajax the moment he appears: 0 dearest Ajax, 0 eye [omma] so dear to me.

(977)

Once more the precious comfort and the light that Ajax represents are captured by the image of the eye, which simultaneously signifies the 'sight' that confirms the rumour of his death. The next thought of Teucer is for Ajax' child. If Tecmessa is there he takes no notice of her; she merely rushes off to bring the all-important son. Teucer is a continuation of Ajax in his concern for the son and in his indifference towards Tecmessa, who is a pathetic and lonely figure throughout. Even death does not interrupt the wishes and the will of Ajax.

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The initial discovery by Teucer of Ajax' death is simply a prelude to a more elaborate process which culminates in a dramatic unveiling, the delay serving to dramatise the problem of facing the truth. He slowly approaches the corpse and stops before it: 0 most painful to me of all sights that I ever saw with my eyes. 61 (992-3) The high concentration of visual terms, piled one upon the other, conveys in a climax of pathos his terrible absorption with the sight before him. He 'sees' and 'is destroyed' (1001) by the proof of the rumour he hard. Now finally he steels himself to face the full horror of the corpse 62 and asks the cover to be removed: Come, uncover him so that I may see the worst.

(1003)

An attendant is presumably on hand to oblige. When he lifts up the cover which Tecmessa placed over the corpse he is revealing 'the sight which cannot be endured' and Teucer's own language is an echo of Tecmessa's before him:

0 eye [omma] which cannot be gazed upon and of such cruel resolve . . . (1004) The revelation begins and ends with the image of the eye. The development of meaning which the image undergoes expresses the development of the revelation; the light of comfort has become the light of bitter ~ truth, the light which cannot be faced. This, then, is Teucer's discovery and he delivers a long address to the now exposed corpse. At this moment of ultimate revelation he thinks of himself, of the troubles that are piled up for him. In particular, and like Ajax before him, he speaks of the problem of facing his father. He will be openly scorned; no word will be hidden. Then he turns to the duties which Ajax has laid upon him. First, he attends to the removal of Ajax' body from the sword: Alas, what shall I do? How shall I draw you, unhappy man, from the cruel point of this shimmering sword, the slayer, it seems, by whom you were made to gasp your last? Now do you see how Hector, though dead, was to destroy you in time? ( 1024- 7)

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With these words, Teucer painfully draws the sword from Ajax' body ,63 adding his own burden of meaning to a weapon already loaded with fate. It now carries the influence of the dead Hector, its 'shimmering' hue betokening its own sinister changeability. The fascination with the sword brings him round to face the Chorus to deliver the general lesson, sword in hand: Consider, by the gods, the fortune of two men. With the girdle that was given to him by this man here Hector was clamped to the chariot rails and crushed until he breathed out his life. And this man had a gift from Hector and by this he perished in a deadly fall. Did not the Fury, then, fabricate this sword and Hades, are grim craftsman, that girdle? I, for my part, would say that these things and all things are contrived by the gods for men. ( 1028-37) The whole idea and pattern of the tragedy are condensed into the bloody emblem which Teucer holds and points to. The full and final significance of the sword is now disclosed. Hereafter the weapon is barely mentioned. The raising of the sword is the first act in the raising of the body. 64 And the appearance of Menelaus, the king of Sparta, interrupts the proceedings and precipitates the crisis concerning the burial. He catches Teucer near the corpse, in the act, so to speak, of raising it, and orders him to leave it as it is. Menelaus, it should be noted, is the fourth visitor to arrive at the scene of Ajax' death. To an Athenian audience he is characteristically harsh and arrogant. His quite natural indignation at the attempt on his life is far outweighed by the pleasure he takes in Ajax' downfall. His vindictiveness is barely cloaked by his general appeals to law and order. He is there to take advantage of the corpse, to throw it to the dogs. Teucer shows him scant respect and vigorously defends Ajax' ungovernable nature. The level of the debate sinks to bickering and boasting. It is the stretched corpse of Ajax, great in body and soul, that underlines the pusillanimity of the world which survives him; Ajax grows in stature against the menof eI11pty words. -~-Menelaus is ineffective and departs, mouthing threats of force. The Chorus, apprehending a greater strife to follow, urges Teucer to hasten and prepare Ajax' grave, a grave which 'will always be renowned in the eyes of mortals'. The preservation of Ajax' reputation is clearly bound up with the securing of his burial. At this moment Tecmessa arrives with the child. But it was the child who was sent for and he is the focus of attention. Teucer gently summons the child to him and escorts .

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him to the corpse of his father. Then he gets him to kneel down and touch him. It is noticeable that the child is carrying a lock of Tecmessa's hair as well as his own. The small child is the suppliant, he is the protector of the corpse, not Tecmessa. She may take up a suppliant position, as most commentators suggest, but presumably remains at a distance. Teucer now cuts off his own lock of hair and gives it to the child to keep. He must depart to arrange the burial and he leaves the child clinging to the corpse, bidding him not to be moved by anyone. As he departs he commits the body to the protection of the Chorus. But the impression - and here the visual scene confirms what has been said - is that the corpse of the great Ajax is protected by the embrace of the small child who would have to be torn away from his vigil. Against this silent background the Chorus reflects on the hardship of war, on the ruinous and shameful labour on alien soil which is the warrior's lot. Even so the followers have hitherto been protected by the bulwark of the furious Ajax, whose terrible fate now prompts them to long for the familiar landmarks of home. Teucer suddenly reappears, with Agamemnon, whom he has spotted hurrying to the scene, hot on his heels. Teucer himself has only been away for a few moments and this rapid succession of entries from the same direction adds to the effect of mounting crisis. The lonely spot where Ajax chose to die now becomes a scene of activity and jangling dispute. The tableau o( silent supplication is framed by two scenes of loud debate. Agamemnon is a more formidable figure than Menelaus and probably his costume reflects his supreme status, the commander-in-chief and king of kings.65 Arrogant and tyrannical, he denies the valour of Ajax and portrays him as a brainless hulk. Like Menelaus he is there to press his victory over the dead, for him 'a shade', no longer a man. This scornful description is an intentional echo of the sympathetic evaluation of man offered in the prologue by Odysseus, whose reappearance is here subtly foreshadowed. The level of the debate degenerates into a noisy slanging match, reaching an impasse which only violem;e would seem able to resolve. At this crucial point Odysseus returns to the stage. He is announced and immediately recognised as mediator. He brings with him the humane understanding which he has shown earlier. He is not now the searcher, he knows the truth; no longer an enemy but a friend. The direct manner of Odysseus' intervention is very much in contrast to the circling movement of his initial appearance.66 He recognises the true worth of Ajax and, in particular, judges Ajax to be second only

✓

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to Achilles at Troy. In a sense he is reversingthe decision contained in the award of the arms of Achilles. Sophocles has fastened on the paradox of the traditional tale, that it is the intellectual not the warrior who receives the prize of armour. In the play the gentle and compassionate figure which Odysseus becomes may mark him as the man of a newly emerging tradition. But he is not the true heir of Achilles. The man of iron is. The manner in which Odysseus prevails is interesting. He is clever, manipulative, diplomatic above all else, a man of the new era. He exploits Agamemnon's weakness and his preoccupation with appearances, and he plays upon his long-standing friendship with the commanderin-chief. Odysseus' newly acquired humanity is brought up, but in the end Agamemnon accedes because he likes Odysseus and because he can evade the responsibility by handing it over to his friend. He takes his leave without any understanding of the humane principles for which Odysseus stands; he simply yields to the skills of persuasion. Odysseus remains, his earlier vision made good in action. The same blend of selfishness and altruism is explicitly in evidence: Odysseus, too, will come to the need for burial. Odysseus stays behind to accept the responsibility. And he actually offers his personal assistance. The Chorus and Teucer finally recognise the wisdom so dramatically revealed to the spectator in the opening scene. But Teucer is unwilling to allow Odysseus to participate in the intimate arrangements of the burial in deference to the still-implacable enmity of their lord. The intransigent will of the dead Ajax dominates right up to the final moments. The yielding. is Agamemnon's and Menelaus', the adaptation Odysseus'. Ajax remains from first to last fixed and immovable. What his last defiant gesture has ensured is not only his reputation but the safety of his family and friends. Although the role of Odysseus is indispensable to the successful outcome, the death of Ajax - the proof of man's mortal nature - provides the necessary circumstance in which Odysseus' humanity can operate. Athena does not return. The solution represents the force of compassion which is an exclusively human not a divine property. In this way man's prudence and adaptability meet with man's courage and intransigence in final resolution. Odysseus readily accepts his exclusion from the fmal ceremonies and departs from the scene. There is no fanfare about his generosity. As ·with Theseus, his brief appearance has the quality of modesty. But his good offices do not mark a reconciliation. The world of Odysseus and the world of Ajax remain apart, and it is Ajax who is the centre of

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attention in the final moments. The procession is composed of his loyal companions and his family, of his world in fact. At no point in the play is there any conscious communication between Ajax and his enemies. After the initial humiliation we only see Ajax among friends. The concluding spectacle is impressive, although the precise stage business admits of several possibilities. Teucer issues instructions which imply a quite elaborate organisation of movement and grouping. One group is supposed to go to dig the grave, another to bring the armour except the shield, and yet a third to bring the tripod. It seems best to assume that Teucer is speaking to attendants who move to and fro to carry out their separate tasks.67 It may be that it is the Chorus who receives the instructions. 68 . But, if this is so, they would surely wait in order to participate in the processional exit, and this would then create the impression of unity, rather than the division which the words of Teucer indicate. On the other hand, the separate exits of three sections of the Chorus - to the right, to the left and in front of the spectators69 - would destroy the effect of procession. The advantages of having the attendants perform the final instructions rather than the Chorus are considerable. The flurry of activity to compose the corpse after the long debate would be highly dramatic and it means that the armour and the tripod can actually be brought on to the stage for inclusion in the procession. This would not only add to the grandeur of it all, but the procession would then be the fulfilment of Ajax' last wishes: to be buried with his armour. There is no democratic vote for the possession of Ajax' arms. He has personally disposed of them in his own special way, the shield, the sword and, now in death, the rest of his armour. The drama that is set in motion by the award of the arms of Achilles deals with a second, quite different, disposition of arms. The emblems of the great warrior and his unbending spirit accompany him to the grave. This conception of the stage arrangements also means that the Chorus can finally line up behind the corpse as a unit and make up an impressive and solemn procession. Another important piece of stage business is the attachment of the small child to the corpse as it is raised. Again, Teucer gently brings Eurysaces, the only person of any concern to Ajax, close to the body. Tecmessa, who has been silent throughout these final scenes, presumably maintains the distance she has been assigned from the beginning. Thus the corpse which has lain throughout the final part of the play is dramatically borne aloft; the recovery of glory is proclaimed. But the huge frame is also the protector of those who bear it forth. Those who protect the corpse of Ajax are also protected by it. The Chorus's final

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comment speaks of the unexpectedness of this final visual revelation. After the degradation, the hero is restored to his true status. The Ajax is a continuous spectacle of unusual and arresting theatrical effects. The appearance of the goddess Athena, the display of Ajax' madness, the tableau of the slaughtered cattle, the suicide on the stage, the effigy of the corpse, the silent supplication of the child and the final spectacular exit make up a pageant of grandeur which is reminiscent of Aeschylus.-x> This succession of scenic effects is contained within a framework of repeated search, itself a striking feature of the visual composition. Thus the dramatic action, with all its variety and complexity of theme, is defined overall as a process of discovery, a sequence of search and revelation. This theatrical conception has its poetic counterpart in the pattern of visual imagery. The first entry of Ajax is not simply the disclosure of madness; it is light after darkness, sight after blindness. The shrouded corpse of Ajax is not merely there to provide a scenic context; it is there to be unveiled, a sight to be seen. A structure of revelation answers the structure of search. The double scheme of search divides the drama into two phases of revelation which correspond to the life and death of the hero, to his shame and rehabilitation. Odysseus in the prologue penetrates the essence of the situation. He searches for and discovers the real Ajax beneath the appearance of madness. He sees through to the end, taking the spectator with him. We have much to learn about the hero during the course of the play, but we have from the beginning a vision of his destiny. He is, beneath the arrogance, the violence and the insanity, a man. What follows the prologue is an elaboration of Odysseus' insight, a revelation which fills in the gaps of Odysseus' inspired leap. The divided structure has a further important implication; revelation comes in stages. The larger construction of the play is reflected in the miniature patterns of the scenic design. Within a scene, what is one person's revelation is another's deception. And this illustrates the central wisdom of the piece, the knowledge to which Ajax gives such majestic utterance, that the shifts and vicissitudes of life are subject to time and its cycle of revelation and concealment. But the idea of sight is also the link between the process of revelation and the heroic subject-matter, the contents, so to speak, of revelation. The spectacles of madness and degradation are not merely revelations of the truth, they are scenes of humiliation. It is not only the eye of understanding but the eye of malice which is engaged. The value that is assigned to the stage spectacle is precisely the value

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and importance which are attached by the hero to 'appearance'. The visual imagery which prefigures Ajax' first arrival on stage makes it at once a revelation and an exposure. This double significance is preserved in the later development of meaning which the visual symbolism undergoes. Gloating, courage, cowardice, shame - the whole network of heroic motifs which have to do with the problem of facing the revelation - are structured into the visual theme which culminates in the first climax of Ajax' suicide, the hero's answer to that problem. What follows is a secondary phase of revelation, which is an attempt to understand Ajax through his death. The true and final significance of Ajax' tragedy must be 'discovered' in the corpse which becomes the new focus of the visual theme; the rehabilitation, like the humiliation, is something which must be perceived. The same duality of theme is also carried by the sword, the emblem of the hero but also the enigmatic symbol of appearance and reality. An object of increasing visual prominence, the fatal weapon accumulates symbolic significance to the point where it virtually harbours the meaning of the entire play. It expresses the rising movement of Ajax' fortunes and hence the movement of the play itself; the sword 'performs' the act which degrades and the act which resurrects the hero. It is the symbol of an unchanging will, yet also of the changing world which that very will rejects. It is finally the fatal agent of divine purpose. Ajax 'discovers' the world and himself in relation to the world through the sword. As with the Samurai warrior, the holding of the 'weapon seems to exert a powerful influence on its possessor. The ominous undertones of the speech of deception flow from this mysterious relationship between the warrior and the sword, which seems tc summon forth Ajax' realnature and draw him irresistibly to his suicide. To those on-stage the sword in Ajax' hand is deceptive as his speech is deceptive. Then, hero and sword are unveiled in their true relationship: death. The design of the Ajax is remarkably similar to that of the Oedipus at Co/onus. The focus of discovery in both plays is the figure of the hero himself and there is the same sequence of revelation, a dramatic insight, which reveals the essence of the tragic situation, followed by a more elaborate re-statement. There is, in addition, a close resemblance in the massive Choral searches which put the same emphasis on the 'elusiveness' of the hero and give the same clear definition to the renewal of search. As with Oedipus, too, Ajax' tragic nature is mirrored in his visual aspect. His madness, his delusion, his courage, his problem of 'face', the light and comfort he represents for his devoted

-

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followers, and finally the bitterness of his death, all are symbolised by the changing image of Ajax' 'eye' (omma). In this way the essence of the man accommodates the process by which he is revealed: Ajax' heroism is a mystery that unfolds in phases, a truth that is finally seen but, more particularly, a truth that is finally faced. For in the Ajax the traditional movement from appearance to reality takes place in a world where 'appearance' is everything. It is this heroic context which gives the visual theme its special meaning - which is not simply revelation but the shame of revelation.

Notes 1. Well stated by K. Reinhardt, Sophocle,, trans. by H. and D. Harvey

(Blackwell, Oxford, 1979), p. 9. 2 This is what the text seems to imply. See the translation of R.C. Jebb (ed.), Ajax (Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 1896), 'To peer within these doors' (11), and the suggestion ofW.B. Stanford (ed.), in Ajax, (Macmillan, London, 1973), that the door may actually be open. 3. The position which Athena occupies on-stage is a matter of controversy. Indeed there is a question as to whether she is visible at all to the audience. Jebb, Ajax, on 15, assumes that Athena speaks from the theologeion. The difficulties of this assumption are put by A.W. Pickard-Cambridge, in 11,e Theatre of Diony,u1 in Athen, (Oarendon Press, Oxford, 1946), p. 48, and accepted by Stanford, Ajax, on 15; namely, that the long dialogue between one actor on the theologeion or roof, where divine epiphanies were made in the earlier period (0. Taplin, 11,e Stagecraft of Ae:rchylu, (Clarendon Press, Oxford, 1977), pp. 440-1), and one on the ground would be awkward and that the pretence of invisibility for such an extended period would be hard to sustain. These are specific technical considerations which take no account of the scene as a whole, and the connection between stage spectacle and visual imagery which is its main feature. The fact that Odysseus claims not to see her is no reason to suppose that she is concealed, or partially concealed, from the audience (see Taplin, Stagecraft of Ae,chylu,, p. 116, n. 1). In fact the second character to appear, Ajax, clearly sees the goddess. The prologue sets blindness against sight in a complex pattern of contrasts, which includes the audience's own visual perception. The idea that the goddess is at first out of sight and then appears would add an intolerable complication to an already elaborate scheme. The goddess should be visible from the beginning and her position aloft would be well representative of the divine power and omniscience which she shows forth. In this way the audience can follow the sequence which contrasts Odysseus' perceptions with those of Ajax. For Athena's appearance on the theologeion see also J.C. Kamerbeek (ed.), Ajax (Brill, Leiden, 1953), on 14, 15, and the arguments ofW.M. Calder III, 'The Entrance of Athena in Ajax', Oaaical Philology, vol 60 (1965), pp. 114-16. Reinhardt's interpretation, Sophocle,, likewise envisages the visible presence of Athena. Similar conclusions on the contrast between blindness and sight have also been reached, quite independently, by R.G.A. Buxton, 'Blindness and Limits: Sophokles and the Logic of Myth', Journal of Hellenic Studie,, vol 100 ( 1980), pp. 22-37. 4. This is how Stanford, Ajax, on 21-2, understands the term. See also J. Ferguson, 'Ambiguity inA/ax', Dioniso, vol 44 (1970), p. 13.

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5. These two lines have been condemned as an interpolation by E. Fraenkel, 'SophoklesAias 68-70', Museum Helveticum, vol 20 (1963), pp. 103-6, who is bothered by Athena's repetition of the identical idea (85). They are well defended by A.A. Long, 'Sophocles Ajax 68-70', Museum Helveticum, vol 21 (1964), pp. 228-31, who points out, amongst other things, that, in accordance with Sophocles' practice of using abstract nouns to draw attention to a particular quality or action, the final words could mean 'to see your looking at (him)', rather than 'to see your face', the more usual translation. Long's linguistic argument is supported by the dramatic development which thus sets Odysseus' sight against Ajax' sightlessness. The lingering hesitation which prompts Athena to repeat herself also increases the dreadful anticipation of Ajax' entry. 6. Thus Kamerbeek, Ajax, on 68. 7. Stanford, Ajax, on 7 4, points out the the precise significance of Athena's language. 8. See Stanford, Ajax, on 81. 9. Kamerbeek, Ajax, on 303, accepts the stage direction of Ajax' laughter but does not follow up Tecmessa's description of his frantic entry and exit and the shouting with which he delivers his lines. 10. There is no clear indication that he is carrying the scourge, but commentators usually assume its presence in accordance with the later title, Ajax Carrying a Whip, which was given to the play in order to distinguish it from another play by Sophocles about Ajax' less famous namesake, Ajax from Locris. The assumption is surely a fair one and the whip would capture the barbarism and cruelty which characterise the madness. 0. Taplin, in Greek Tragedy in Action (Methuen, London, 1978), p. 188, n. 7, questions the presence of the whip, but his suggestion that Nax may be holding the sword (p. 85) is supported even less by the immediate indications. In any case the sword should probably not be seen until it is dramatically revealed for Ajax' great speech (646ff.). 11. There is no impression of dim vision. He seems to see her immediately and addresses her the moment he appears. See Jebb, Ajax, on 15, and Reinhardt, Sophocles, p. 9. 12. lliad, 15, 686-7. The stature and voice of Ajax in the Homeric tradition suit Sophocles' conception of the hero and would almost certainly be represented by the actor, although it should not be forgotten that the actor who plays Ajax is also needed to play the part of Teucer, a much lesser figure. See Stanford, Ajax, p. XXV. 13. His 'enlightened egoism' (Stanford, ibid., on 124-6). 14. Critics have been at pains to justify Athena's action (C.M. Bowra, Sophoclean Tragedy (Oxford University Press, London, 1944), pp. 35ff.), or to integrate the goddess into a coherent Sophoclean religion (Jebb, Ajax, p. xii). While her attitude to Odysseus' humane reaction is not made clear - it is possible that she is testing him - her justice is the harsh justice of Homeric society. 15. On the supreme significance of 'reputation' in heroic society see A.W.H. Adkins, Merit and Rerponsibility (Oarendon Press, Oxford, 1960), pp. 48ff. 16. On 'shame' and related values in the heroic age see Adkins, ibid., pp. 43ff. and 154ff. 17. Jebb, Ajax, p. xiv, notes that the older version of the myth probably did not contain any deed of violence. 18. Thus Stanford,Ajax, on 191. 19. For the importance of this symbolism see Stanford, ibid., Appendix C, pp. 275-6; and more recently, W.B. Stanford, 'Light and Darkness in Sophocles' Ajax', Greek, Roman and Byzantine Studies, vol 19 (1978), pp. 189-97. Cf. also D. Cohen, 'The Imagery of Sophocles: A Study of Ajax' Suicide', Greece and Rome, vol 25 (1978), pp. 24-36.

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20. L. Campbell (ed.), Sophocles (Clarendon Press, Oxford, 1881), vol 2, on 229. 21. Emphasised by Reinhardt, Sophocles, p. 17. 22. The suggestion of the scholiast, on 334. 23. Most editors accept that the eccyclemll is employed here. Stanford, Ajax, on 348, following Pickard-Cambridge, Theatre of Dionysus, pp. 109-10, rejects the idea on the grounds that there is no indication that the audience can see into the hut The language of sight and revelation, however, seems to suggest the contrary and the dramatic effect of the whole scene would be seriously impaired without the tlbleau. 24. 'He sits there enmired with dishonour and despair' (Taplin, Greek Tragedy in Action, p. 108). a. also CampbelL Sophocles, on 351, and Kamerbeek, Ajax, on 351-3. 25. On the difficult question of Nax' mental slate, see the brilliant study of R.P. Winnington-lngram, Sophocles: An Interpretation (Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 1980), pp. 11-56. 26. Thus Stanford, Ajax, on 379-82. 27. Kamerbeek, Ajax, on 379, notes the irony. 28. R.W.B. Burton's perceptive stage direction, in The O,oros in Sophocles' Tragedies (Clarendon Press, Oxford, 1980), p. 22, based on Ajax' last word (426-7). 29. Campbell's 'goddess of the petrifying glance', Sophocles, vol 2, p. 2. 30. Reinhardt, Sophocles, pp. 21-2. 31. Also countenanced by Taplin, Greek Tragedy in Action, p. 64, but rejected. 32. The implicit confidence is an important indication of Ajax' purpose in committing suicide. On the meaning of the tense see Stanford, Ajax, on 577. 3 3. Kamerbeek, Ajax, pp. 13 3-4, for example, has them leave and re-enter with Ajax at 646. 34. Jebb's stage direction, in Ajax, on 595. Cf. also Stanford, Ajax, on 595. 35. For the sword theme see Stanford, Ajax, Appendix C, pp. 277-8, and Cohen, 'The Imagery of Sophocles: A Study of Ajax' Suicide'. 36. The interpretations are too numerous to consider. Reinhardt, Sophocles, pp. 23-7, offers a fine analysis; and, more recently; Taplin, Greek Tragedy in Action, has provided new insights into the speech and its relationship with the rest of the play. Stanford's commentary gives a detailed account of the ambiguous language. Cf. also M. SicherL 'The Tragic Issue in Sophocles' Ajax', Yale Qassical Studies, vol 25 (1977), pp. 67-98;and J. Moore, 'The Dissembling Speech of Ajax', Yale Oassical Studies, vol 25 (1977), pp. 47-66. 37. This important aspect is emphasised by B.M.W. Knox, 'The Ajax of Sophocles', Harvard Studies in Qassical Philology, vol 65 (1961), pp. 1-37. 38. Thus Reinhardt, Sophocles, p. 24. 39. Stanford, Ajax, on 658-60. 40. This is not quite the same position taken by Taplin, who speaks of a deepening understanding which only now takes account of his wife and child, in Greek Tragedy in Action, pp. 129-30. Ajax, from the beginning, senses that his suicide, which is immediately contemplated, will preserve his all-important son. The plan of action is there from the outset; in this scene it is simply revealed in more detail and in the larger scheme of things. 41. Taplin, ibid., p. 130. 42. The text is doubtful here. Stanford, Ajax, on 714, retains the last portion of the line, which is deleted by Pearson and others because of a lack of metrical correspondence with 701. But, as Kamerbeek observes, Ajax, on 714, the joy would be expressed most ambiguously if the last words are not retained. 43. Kamerbeek,Ajax, p. 152.

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44. The suggested scenic arrangements which follow are basically those of Stanford. 45. Rightly insisted upon by Reinhardt, Sophocles, p. 2 38, n. 17. 46. The crucial theme of cOnnection which Reinhardt fastens upon, ibid., p. 23ff. 47. Surely not even partially concealed. Both Jebb, Ajax, on 815, and Kamerbeek, Ajax, p. 168, suggest that only the point was visible. This is hardly likely to be effective in such a large theatre. The whole business of arranging the sword must surely have been carried out in full view, whether or not the final moment of the suicide was shielded by the 'bushes'. The sword must have been wholly visible, 'the waiting blade' as Taplin envisages it, Greek Tragedy in Action, p. 86. 48. On this point see the excellent discussion of Knox, 'The Ajax of Sophocles', p. 20. 49. The imagery of the sword's sharpness is carefully explored by Stanford, Ajax, especially on 817-20 and 821-2. 50. Jebb, Ajax, on 834, quotes this Aeschylean treatment (The Thracian Women, fr. 83) of the alternative tradition - reported by a messenger. 51. So Stanford, 'Light and Darkness in Sophocles' Ajax', p. 194. 52. Scholiast, on 864. 53. It may be that P.D. Amott, Greek Scenic Conventions (Clarendon Press, Oxford, 1962), Appendix II, pp. 131-3, is right when he argues that the corpse is only pushed forward later. In this case Tecmessa and the corpse are revealed simultaneously on the eccyclema (894-5). But Arnott is chiefly concerned that the suicide should not overshadow the revelation of the corpse and he takes the praise of Timotheus to refer not to his realistic portrayal of the suicide but to his ability to keep up the suspense from the time when the doors close on Ajax' suicide - for this is how, in Arnott's view, the final moments of death are concealed - until they are opened to reveal the body with Tecmessa already beside it. This would be a dramatic enough revelation and it allows the dummy to be substituted behind the scenes, but it seems to be a rather far-fetched interpretation of the scholiast's comments on the acting ability of Timotheus, the 'cut throat'. Surely the obvious meaning is that he is good at committing the suicide on stage, the performance which Amott regards as partially concealed and which he wants to play down. As we shall see, the other disadvantage of having Tecmessa revealed with the corpse is that we do not then see her discovering the corpse, which would be more in keeping with Sophocles' scenic design. 54. The meaning of the word is uncertain. It may mean 'enfeebled in mind' (Jebb) but Stanford's suggestion, 'elusive', seems more apt in the context. 55. Jebb, Ajax, on 891, has her enter from the left, Campbell, Sophocles, from the centre. 56. Campbell's fine visualisation, Sophocles, on 899. 57. Thus Stanford, Ajax, on 892. 58. These are not simply technical devices concerned with the problem of substituting the dummy as Taplin believes, Greek Tragedy in Action, p. 189, n. 5. The unveiling, which is here prepared for, is a favourite theatrical theme of Sophocles. Cf. the uncovering of Clytemnestra's corpse in the Electra and the disclosure of Heracles' diseased body in Women of Trachis. 59. The problem is discussed by Stanford, Ajax, on 984-5. 60. See Taplin's excellent comments on this theatrical effect, Greek Tragedy in Action, p. 109, and the 'desolation' which sounds upon the audience's ears. 61. As H. Diller notes 'Menschendarstellung und Handlungsfiihrung bei Sophokles', Kleine Schriften zur Antiken Literatur (Beck, Munich, 1971), p. 291, the lingering and the reluctance intensify the suspense. And it is another theatrical expression of the problem of facing the truth.

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62. Stanford, Ajax, on 1003-4. 63. Kamerbeek, Ajax, on 1028. 64. Thus Taplin, Greek Tragedy in Action, p. 87. 65. Stanford, Ajax, on l 226ff. 66. Taplin, Greek Tragedy in Action, p. 41. 67. Campbell's stage direction, Sophocles, on 1403-8. 68. Jebb, Ajax, on 1403. 69. N. Wecklein's suggestion which is raised by Jebb only to be rejected. 70. T.B.L. Webster,An Introduction to Sophocles, 2nd edn (Methuen, London, 1969), p. 167, notes the Aeschylean influence.

7

THE WOMEN OF TRACHIS: THE VERGE OF TRUTH

There is a saying among men, which came to light long ago, that you may not completely learn of the lot of mortals, whether it be good or bad, until a man dies.

This piece of conventional wisdom is the generality which opens the Women of Trachis. It is a remarkable beginning for a play by Sophocles. This level of understanding, only achieved in Oedipus the King after a long and anguished search, is the first utterance we hear from Deianira, wife of the legendary Heracles. The scene is set at Trachis before the house of the great man, and Deianira has just entered from the central door. She is a woman of mature years, the mother of a grown-up family, experienced in life and, as we are soon to discover, schooled in its miseries. She is also a queen, though living in exile. The age of Deianira would be reflected by her mask and is actually of some significance in the play, being related to her experience and understanding of life and to the challenge she faces from a younger woman. The old nurse, who follows her mistress on-stage, remains very much in the background throughout Deianira's opening address. In enshrining an age-old truth about human knowledge, the maxim 1 poses the question, and sets forth the conditions, of its own applicability to the present; it attunes the audience to a dramatic development which accommodates its prior knowledge in a certain way. We are thus inclined to regard the plot itself as furnishing the last crucial stages to a pattern of human existence which must be completed in order to test the validity of the maxim, and to envisage the deaths of Deianira and Heracles, which are known from the myth, as the end points required within the plot. Everything looks forward to some final revelation. More immediately, this emphasis on retrospection2 stresses a simple truth which we all know, that life at best is an uncertain business. But then comes the contradiction: Deianira knows, even before she dies, that her lot is bitter and unhappy ( 4-5). On the face of it, one is tempted to ask where Deianira can proceed from here. With such knowledge in her possession what is it that she can search out? And yet there is an immediate search for her long-departed husband, Heracles, and simultaneously for the clarification of a mysterious oracle about his destiny. And so the tragic truth of the maxim, when it 181

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is finally asserted, involves ironic confinnation for Deianira, an acceptance of what was already feared. The gap between what she 'knows' (and fears) at the beginning and what is eventually discovered is not very large. This compression, which depends on the high level of knowledge built into the predisposition of Deianira, increases the element of pathos and also - and this is especially important - favours greater subtlety in the process of revelation. For Deianira, unlike Oedipus, does not inhabit and therefore cannot be expelled from a whole world of illusion. Moreover the final knowledge of Oedipus, however destructive, is at the same time a mark of his greatness; it is an achievement which confers genuine stature. This knowledge, or at least the knowledge which is important for her predicament, Deianira has virtually grasped from the beginning. Accordingly, its potential to endow Deianira with the same greatness of spirit is pre-empted, and it is the sense of the vanity rather than the achievement of man which attends her final discovery. On the other hand, paradoxically, one of the play's special fascinations is the abundance of scope which illusion is given even within this compressed movement. There is a confidence in Deianira's 'I know', as though 'knowing the worst', disillusionment, is a guarantee against illusion itself. But the irony is that even in this 'knowing' Deianira's bleak pessimism falls short of the disaster which the audience really knows is in store. And this double perspective, which sets virtual knowledge against actual knowledge, emerges in the language which Deianira employs. Deianira's description of the saying as a maxim which 'came to light' (phaneis),3 however muted the metaphor must be at this early point, inaugurates the drama with its most frequent image and with the idea which informs the whole action, revelation. Her immediate and pointed rejection of the ancient revelation in favour of her own 'knowledge from experience' sets her very much on her own course. Everything which follows is structured in the initial dichotomy and circles back to the proverbial truth so confidently discounted. For the audience, in fact, there is, in the narrowest sense, no development of knowledge at all; the maxim is both the germ and the lesson of the drama. And yet the play is so designed that the audience too vacillates between this prepossession of the real situation and its engagement with the illusion and suspense of the moment. Indeed, the intellectual detachment of the audience, which has just been created by Deianira's opening sentiments, is immediately counterbalanced by its close involvement in her feelings. The long personal statement into which Deianira launches after dismissing the wisdom of

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the past leaves the maxim as an unconnected abstraction, seemingly irrevelant to the realities of the present. The stage perspective is important; Deianira is not seen in a significant stage relationship. She is not part of a larger ceremony as Oedipus is in the prologue of Oedipus the King, for she is not a public figure. Neither is she initially involved in any real sense with the nurse. The latter is a slave, as she herself makes a point of reminding us; she is not addressed personally by Deianira, and obviously stands at a discreet distance,4 allowing the regal figure of Deianira to have the centre of the stage. Thus Deianira delivers what is virtually a soliloquy. Her initial relationship is with the spectators. Her sad reflections are for their benefit and they who have entered into her innermost thoughts become conditioned to watch events through her eyes and through her mental pictures. The action grows out of her consciousness, out of her private grief. The hard and anxious life with Heracles preoccupies Deianira's thoughts. First, she recalls the horrific and bizarre initiation into marriage in which Heracles overcomes her wooer, the river god Achelous - a metamorphic monster - appearing at various times in the form of a bull, a 'shimmering' snake and a bearded man with the horns of an ox. This kind of irrational material is commonplace in the myths about Heracles; his is a primeval world of brute strength, of miraculous and prodigious feats performed against man and beast alike. But this imagined tableau of a sinister and gruesome past seems far removed from the present scene before us. The vast ancient theatre cannot reproduce the physical intimacy of the home-setting. The absence of the interior scene also means the absence of the detailed domestic sets, which in the modern theatre can say so much about character and situation. Instead, however, Deianira is seen at home with her nurse. There is a domestic reality here, and a thoughtful dignity in the figure of Deianira, which clash strangely with the violent and primitive world just glimpsed. From this beginning Deianira proceeds to air her grief and bitterness over Heracles' frequent and prolonged absences. She is all alone. The persistence in her life of fear and uncertainty is captured by an image of interminable night (29-30) and we can already discern, even if in fragmentary form, contrasts of theme taking shape in symbolic terms; the light from the past has been dismissed and we are left in the darkness of Deianira's inner thought. 5 Matters have now come to a head in a renewed anxiety about his latest absence. Deianira is particularly tormented by a mysterious oracle, a message written on a tablet and left by Heracles before he departed on the las1 occasion. The contents of the message remain tantalisingly undisclosed

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as Deianira comes to the end of her long speech of self-introduction. This is a slow start; it is all reflection and this lack of movement is shown to be dramatically significant by the role of the nurse. She apologises that as a slave she has to prompt her free-born mistress to send her eldest son, Hyllus, to find out about Heracles. Deianira has done nothing about her grief and the nurse's embarrassment neatly stresses the queen's passivity in a matter which is so crucial to her. 6 The real action of the play, then, is initiated by the nurse. Hyllus arrives at the opportune moment. He, too, only speaks of Heracles; the rumour of his father's latest expedition against king Eurytus of Euboea (the land, it transpires, to which the text of the oracle refers) brings Deianira to reveal its curiously ambiguous import: Heracles is either about to complete the end of his life or, having accomplished the present feat, will have now and hereafter a well-blessed life. There is no certainty here. And so the search is set in motion for the long-departed Heracles, and Hyllus, in language which suggests a weightier quest, undertakes to find out 'the whole truth of the matter'. As we have seen, it is quite typical of Sophocles to include the idea of searching in the early stages of his dramas, 7 and here the exit of Hyllus, which concludes the prologue, is a simple and immediately apparent sign that the process of revelation foreshadowed in the opening maxim is now under way. What is the mysterious destiny of Heracles? The ambiguity of the oracle duplicates the ambiguity of the maxim; in a sense the oracle is the maxim realised in a specific and concrete form: there is the same balance of hope and fear, of good and evil, only it is now poised on an actual search for truth. The abstract formula is to be submitted to the pressure of 'real' events. So, too, in the mental absorption with the absence of Heracles, resides the highest visual expectations about his return. The departure of Hyllus along the parodos and of the nurse into the house leaves Deianira alone on the stage for the entry of the Chorus. They are free-born women of Trachis, friends and sympathisers of Deianira, yet all maidens, unmarried, inexperienced, and all wearing the masks of young women. 8 These make up the living foreground of the drama. From this point Deianira is never alone in terms of sympathy and encouragement, but she is isolated visibly by her age and by the attendant suffering and understanding which, in the course of the play, are set against the massive effects of youthful joy and optimism which only a Chorus can produce. They enter in silence,9 taking up their formation in the orchestra before they begin to sing. This means that Deianira is there in the

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background for the beginning of the ode when they pick up the vague suggestion of light and dark from the prologue and mould it into a clear visual contrast: You, whom shimmering night brings forth when she herself is slain and puts to rest at the time of your full splendour, o sun, sun ... (94-6) The sense of perpetual alternation, expressed here in the larger sphere of nature, is impressed in various ways upon almost all of the subsequent action. Of more immediate interest, the Chorus with its new formulation brings into apparent question the permanence of Deianira's night-born apprehensions. But the night is strangely primary in the aesthetics of this invocation to the sun and certainly the prime mover in the partnership. 10 This subtly undermines the Chorus's consequent impression of the sun's brilliant power which is called upon as the possessor of superior 'vision' (omma, 102) to 'herald' the whereabouts of Heracles. The image of the sun as 'the eye of heaven' is a traditional one. But this elaborate invocation, though it is composed of traditional elements, is not merely a conventional appeal to personified nature. The visual symbolism proclaims the main goal of the drama, the return of Heracles, in terms which hint at the illusion beneath the radiant expectations of that event. The whole assumption of glorious discovery is the initial answer to the dark mystery and apprehension of the prologue. When the Chorus turns in thought to Deianira's predicament, it must also turn physically - and the numbers involved would make this quite a dramatic movement - to face her in order to accommodate the direct address ( 121). By this act the personal crisis of Deianira becomes bound up by implication with the larger patterns of nature and human existence which form the climax of the song; the initial contrast of night and day which introduces the ode is brought back in these later stages and enlarged into a cyclical view of the fortunes of man. The memorable image of 'shimmering' night reappears, clearly revealed in this larger context as analogous in its transience to the vicissitudes of life. The Chorus is suggesting more explicitly a joyful break in the sorrows of Deianira according to the natural rhythm that night yields to day . 11 The audience, however, is being asked to contemplate not a transformation but a possible alternative to the pessimism of Deianira, whose plight is also given extensive treatment in the course of the ode. We may say that the grounds for hope are introduced.

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The next long episode leads to the first of the two big processions and is characterised by retarding devices which build up the tension. In the first place Deianira does not forego her disillusionment; she is not an Oedipus, ready to grasp at the first prospect of illusion. In a long response to the Chorus she opposes its abstract theorising with her own actual experience. Her mind returns to the oracle and she delivers the fullest version of its text, which now includes a detailed chronology. Quite certain of permanent widowhood once more, she resorts to her own language of gloom. This low point in her hopes makes this the dramatic moment for the arrival of the messenger from the parodos, announced by the Chorus leader as the bringer of good news and wearing the crown of laurel to show the point. 12 He is an old man and comes hurrying straight to Deianira despite his years, pleased and proud that he is the first to arrive and eager to tell his good news and receive a little something for his trouble; Heracles is alive and well and is bringing the 'first-fruits' of his victory. In Sophocles it is often the most humble who deliver the most vital tidings. Despite the messenger's explicitness, Deianira in seeming bewilderment asks him what he has said. The old man replies that Heracles will 'soon' be coming, 'having appeared' (phanenta, 186) 13 in conquering might. His language indicates the visual splendour of the prospect and an impression of concrete fact, as though he had already arrived. Deianira is naturally a little incredulous and anxious. The news is not only unexpected but unofficial. Here she is confronted with an old man interested in a reward. How is it that the official herald, Lichas himself, 14 is not here if all is well with Heracles ( 192)? The suspicion about the delay is allayed for Deianira by the old man's explanation that Lichas is besieged by inquisitive crowds. But the incidental arrival of the news and the crudeness of the character who delivers it are de1iberately inappropriate to the significance and brilliance of the victory. Indeed, at the end of the exchange we discover that the function of the messenger is to announce the arrival not of Heracles but of the herald Lichas, so that matters become bogged down in mere rehearsal: You will see him straightaway, clearly visible [emphane].

(199)

It seems that Lichas' arrival, too, is just around the corner and given the same visual significance as Heracles'. Meanwhile after the abrupt news about Heracles the whole focus has been cleverly moved to Lichas and his arrival becomes the substitute evidence that all is well.

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Thus Deianira's final conviction of Heracles' salvation is expressed as a joy which has become visible: Raise your voice, 0 women, both you within the house and you without, since now we are gladdened by the unexpected light [omma] of this message which has risen for me. {202-4) Now this is a skilful piece of composition. The visual emphasis in the language of the messenger is natural: he is not the official spokesman and he is conscious of the pressure to 'prove' his reliability. This leads to the dramatically more important assumption of the same language by Deianira. In the most natural manner the report of the old man becomes for Deianira a visible entity. The precise word she chooses is omma, literally meaning 'eye', or 'sight'. The common metaphorical meaning, light of joy or comfort, also suits the idea of the whole image which seems to be an intentional echo of the rising sun, the 'eye of heaven'. 15 This visual echo in fact suggests a pattern of substantiation in which Deianira is now involved: the concrete prospect promised by the messenger and accepted by Deianira corroborates the earlier fiction of the Chorus. The character and role of the messenger are basic preparation for the great scene of Deianira's visual delusion. The Choral song which follows is made up of a blend of elements. It is both a paean, a song of thanksgiving to Apollo, and a celebration of the ecstasy of Dionysus.16 Indeed, it has been suggested that the maidens actually crown themselves with wreaths of ivy as they 'succumb to the spell of the flute and the swift steps of the Bacchic dance' (216-21). The contents of the song also imply distribution of the verses, either between the Chorus leader and the rest of the Chorus or between two semi-choruses. One interpretation of Deianira's double invitation (204) is to have a group of handmaidens descend from inside the house to join in the Choral ceremony. Various combinations of physical grouping and line distribution are possible, but it certainly looks as though one party opens with the exultant exhortation to raise the song of triumph and a second party delivers its rapturous consent. Then finally all join in to voice the joyous refrain, 'O Paean'. The overall impression, in sight and sound, is one of delirious rejoicing, actually the only moment of 'unclouded joy' in the drama.17 The celebration of good news before bad is a well-known theatrical technique of Sophocles. But what follows is not a typical reversal. The illusionjust established is not suddenly shattered by tragic disclosure;

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it is rather overshadowed, and then only to develop a new focus and a new intricacy. The transfonnation is pure theatre: the lively and exultant ceremonies are suddenly interrupted by the appearance of a slow and utterly silent procession of mourning captives. These are the first-fruits of victory promised by the old man. They are all women. But they would almost certainly contrast with the Chorus in their masks of mourning, and they may be dressed as slaves. Their silence betokens the inexpressible grief of war, their walk and bearing the utter dejection of their new status. This is true of all except one. We learn about her special looks during the course of the scene. She stands out from the rest in both appearance and demeanour. She is young and distinctively beautiful; she is also of noble birth. These are aspects of and become the subject of actual comment. In fact she her appear111Jce is a princess, Iole, the daughter of Eurytus himself, and the new mistress of Heracles. Iole's presence raises two questions which are interconnected. In the first place, would the audience identify her and be aware of her status the moment they see her enter, or must they wait for the more explicit process of identification which occurs during the scene? Certainty on this point is not possible and there is room for widely differing interpretations. The love for Iole is well founded in tradition,1 8 but the actual meeting of Iole and Deianira is probably Sophoclean. 19 The premiss that Deianira is not aware of the relationship between Heracles and Iole also seems to be an invention of Sophocles. With this creative interpretation of the myth Sophocles has devised a purely theatrical basis for his favourite scene of delusion and this design would lose a good deal of its force if the audience were ignorant of Iole's identity beforehand. The second question is to what extent the verbal portrayal of Iole is a subsequent and dramatically gradual piecing together of an actual visual impression which is instant and comprehensive. Again, the requirements of the scene seem to favour reinforcement of the audience's prior knowledge and the fullest and most effective visualisation of Iole's identity and character. And this view, as we shall see in a moment, is supported by the explicit importance which the dialogue attaches to visual perception. Her distinctive beauty could easily be conveyed by a special mask, just as the mask of Dionysus in the Bacchae of Euripides must be assumed to express the effeminate beauty of the god. 20 There is no indication about the ages of the rest of the group. If they were older, the visible youth of Iole would add to this effect. The women are, however, specially chosen by Heracles and in iew of his traditional reputation, which is very much an aspect of the •

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play itself, they are all likely to be young and attractive. Finally, her costume could easily have differentiated her from the others and suggested her superior status and nobility. Through such assumptions of visual presentation the spectator would identify her immediately. The other alternative, which cannot be ruled out and which would be very effective in a different way, is to conceive of Joie as a mysterious figure. Her distinctive appearance, which is still theatrically necessary to this latter interpretation, would then serve to stimulate curiosity or even perhaps vague awareness as to who she was.21 On either reading the visual presence of Joie must be one which captures attention. The moment that the procession comes into view the Chorus noticeably interrupts its paean to introduce the new arrivals, and it does so in a way which quite deliberately dramatises the visual impact of their entry on the proceedings: See, see, my dear lady, these things are present, face to face, and clear for you to behold. (222-4)

The earlier language of sight has here come together in a remarkable concentration, thus marking with appropriate intensity the actuality of what was promised. Their stage arrival in fact crowns the process of visible substantiation foreshadowed in the language. The good news to all appearances is confirmed. The spectacle is specifically directed to Deianira, whose response adds to the cumulative effect: J do see, my dear ladies, nor has it escaped the guardianship of my eye [omma] so that I do not see this train. (225-6) Deianira not only echoes the words of the Chorus but in a peculiarly redundant way stresses the watchful perceptiveness of her eye as she observes the train of captives. The audience is bound to react by intensifying its own visual response, to test its own view of the scenic situation against that of Deianira. The double perspective established at the outset is now embodied in the stage spectacle; we are watching Deianira watch. In fact when we try to envisage Deianira's stage presence in relation to the physical context she is, in purely theatrical terms, the second focus of attention, counterbalancing the effect of Iole. The slow procession once it comes to a halt becomes a living frieze. The dramatic incident of the scene requires that the captives take up their position

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at the back of the stage and face the audience. 22 The larger tableau of these women, combined with the now inactive Chorus, is the most impressive such effect in Sophocles. If we accept the description of the train's size by Deianira (496) as literally represented, we can assume the employment of a fair number of extras. In terms of sheer numbers in the acting area this scene has swelled into a large ( and wholly silent) assembly. The full stage has the effect of intensifying the silence into an ominous and expectant quiet. They are not there to generate the impression of great activity; they are there to be looked at. Deianira is surrounded by younger women; more specifically she is physically placed between two distinct representative groups, one imbued with the joy and optimism of youth, the other, equally young, but already experienced in the extremity of grief. The circle of grief and joy just formulated in the lyrics of the Chorus is here embodied in the stage groupings, and Deianira's position, between two large formations, suggests the pressure of two opposing forces, the essential conflict of the scene. The other two figures are men: Lichas, the herald, is the official presenter of the captives; the old messenger, whose presence as a fourth person of significance involves an unusual inflation of the traditional •triangular' scene, hovers silently in the background, apparently redundant with his role already fulfilled. Deianira, then, is the other key figure. The focus of this full and elaborately organised stage is on the two women. All the visual expectation is there in this silent and unconscious meeting. The magnetism is quite explicit: lole is there to be seen, Deianira is there to see. But in the first interchange it is the presence of Lichas which is accorded primary visual significance. Deianira greets his arrival as representing a •visible' (phanenta, 228) joy. She does not, however, leave it at that. Something else is there: lole's presence fails to provoke a word of notice, and yet in the very apprehension which Deianira tacks on to her welcome of Lichas, 'if indeed you bring joy', she is there. This in effect is how the whole scene works, with Iole operating beneath the surface of the dialogue while being the focus of the external staging. And the scene itself, which is actually a grandiose substitute for and delay of Heracles' appearance, only gets round to the magnetic figure of Iole by similarly phased detours. Conversely Hcracles, who is conspicuously absent, monopolises the attention. The stage is crowded beyond normal practice, the stage picture packed with obvious significance. And yet Deianira's first thought is of the man who is not there, Heracles.

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Lichas brings the official news that all is well and he is able to corroborate it by referring Deianira to what she 'sees with her own eyes' (241). Deianira turns to face the captives, a move which creates the highest expectation. But Iole fails to attract the attention of the watchful Deianira. Her comments concern the women as a group. She does, however, penetrate beneath the external significance of their predicament, beneath the obvious joy which they represent for herself. And it happens in a way which demonstrates the basic subtlety of the psychological situation; she is induced by the sight of the women to say: They are worthy of pity, if their misfortunes do not deceive me. (243) In this sentiment Deianira shows an initial sympathetic understanding which is to be elaborated a little later in the scene. Characteristically, she is quick to sense the disaster, even though it is the reason for her own joy. At a deeper level still the conditional nature of her pity Deianira is always speaking conditionally - betrays an uncanny intuition that she is being deceived. Explicit attention is now switched from the women, and the crisis of identification is forestalled by the long and detailed account of Heracles' exploits leading to his conquest of Eurytus. Against all this detail and with Iole in full view, her omission from the story is designed to tantalise. Towards the end of the speech Llchas directs Deianira's gaze back to the captive women and re-creates the tension of imminent disclosure (283). The Chorus leader presses her own optimistic view on Deianira, reinforcing the facade of visible evidence: the presence of the women justifies Deianira's 'manifest' (emphanes, 291) joy. Deianira admits to the inevitability of joy, but it is for her tinged with apprehension; the source of her joy is the picture of another's misery. There follows a really memorable passage in which the image of what she sees reveals Deianira's own true character: there is cause for the prudent to fear for the man who prospers; a terrible pity has come upon her as she 'sees' the women before her (299). And finally, she makes the connection between the sight of such misfortune {306) and her own fears. There is a special kind of irony in apprehensions which lack the one basis which makes them well-founded, in this case the identity of Iole. The illusion hangs on this one oversight, but the deeper meaning of the tableau as a whole does not elude the understanding and intuitions of Deianira.

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In Oedipus the King, it is in the nature of the particular form which illusion and reality take that Oedipus and Jocasta are convinced by apparent facts. Not so with Deianira; she is always on the verge of truth. She is caught between the fear and understanding instilled by the captives and the joy and illusion pressed upon her by the Chorus: the ambiguity and tension of her inner state of mind is signified in the stage organisation, in her encirclement by those who have experienced suffering and those who have found joy. This 'psychological' spectacle23 affords an opportunity for Sophocles to fashion a deeply sympathetic portrait of Deianira. Especially striking is the compassion for others which is seen, here quite explicitly, to arise from the fear for herself. As Kamerbeek puts it so well, pity places man 'on the verge of an abyss, the abyss of human destiny'. 24 The sight of suffering here intensified by silence is once more the important link which reveals the kinship of the two emotions, and in this regard Deianira's 'enlightened egoism' 25 is exactly comparable to that of Theseus in the Oedipus at Co/onus and Odysseus in the Ajax. The similarity with the Odysseus scene is particularly close; expected to take pleasure in the exhibition of Ajax' shame, Odysseus is instead moved to pity, and by the same process of thought as Deianira - from general reflection on man's shadowy existence to his own fears for himself. The shadow of fear which prevails from Deianira's contemplation of the group leads to the personal confrontation with Iole, as though the fear just aroused is attracted to the greater fear which lole represents. Psychological movement, which is difficult to present theatrically, can now be marvellously conveyed in the physical movement of Deianira. The individual encounter, which has been imminent from the start, has been held back to form the climax of the deception. The initial expectation aroused by her appearance has been augmented by the repeated neglect of her presence. Although it is natural that Deianira should notice Iole at some point, the way in which the scene is constructed makes fear the motivating power, and on this point it is clear that too glaring a presentation of Iole might undermine the whole effect. When Deianira at last makes a move towards her rival it is the first step towards truth. She stands before her and addresses her personally: 'O unhappy woman, who of young women are you?' The audience might be forgiven for thinking that with this development revelation is at hand. But Iole utters no word of response, and attention is drawn to this by the necessity Deianira feels to make the enquiries of Lichas (3 I O). The silence of neglect has become the silence of reticence. The direct address dramatises the long silence into a pregnant

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moment of silence. What does it betoken? The comments of Deianira provide a clue. What she says is that she pities Iole most of all, 'seeing' some expression of 'feeling' or 'understanding' in the silent figure with which she appears to identify. 26 It is possible that this 'special look' was physically represented by, for example, a stance of proud composure, which would contrast very effectively with the dejection of the group as a whole and which would simultaneously characterise the nobility noted by Deianira (309). But the important consideration is surely something else: what the spectator sees is Heracles' mistress whose understanding or feeling must go beyond what Deianira sees. When Deianira responds to her appearance sympathetically, the clear irony of this reaction would seem to entail the irony that she has mistaken Iole's expression or only partially read its significance. From the beginning, and most notably in this very scene, the understanding of Deianira has been carefully brought out and this dramatic fact favours the interpretation of Iole's at traction for Deianira as her similar quality of understanding. The irony then becomes the exquisite one of Deianira seeing her own understanding in Iole and being understood more than she knows. 27 The approach to Iole is quite clearly presented as a high point in a single process: there is a switch from the comprehensive focus of the group to the concentrated focus of Iole, whereby the same ideas are subjected to a new intensity. When Deianira approaches lole she is by this very act intensifying her own feelings of pity and fear and the silent irony of the scenic situation. She tells us herself: her whom she should pity least of all she pities 'most of all'. And the real question is which of the two women deserves the most pity. When she actually accosts Iole she is in the grip of the most powerful intuition; she is on the verge of knowing. Iole's resolute silence compels her to turn back to Lichas. She lights upon the truth without knowing it: 'Is she not of the royal household? Did Eurytus have any offspring?' Lichas is evasive. Deianira is insistent. She turns back to Iole. There is a probing quality in her movements, a sense of frustration followed by a refusal to give up. On this occasion the intimacy of the renewed request implies that she goes right up to Iole, symbolising on-stage the nearest point to truth and the point of highest emotion: What is your name, tell me, from you to me, since it is a misfortune (320-1) not to know who you are. There is hardly need to point out that the knowledge in question is

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itself fraught with misfortune. Surely this is the moment of truth. Still no word from Iole, but this time her silence prompts explicit comment. Lichas nervously makes the point that she is not likely to speak if past behaviour is any indication. He explains that she has not 'said' (prouphenen, 324) a word of any kind because of grief. The word which Lichas employs is a most unusual one for expressing the simple idea of speaking. It is a compound of the key word denoting 'revelation'. And this, of course, is just the point; the real promise of the scene, revelation, has not been fulfilled, and Lichas' own vocabulary unconsciously shows that Iole has something to reveal, that her silence implies a threat of things to come which are now unspoken. And so Iole stays silent. Deianira, when she moves away from Iole, moves away from knowledge. By way of confirming the inconclusiveness of the whole encounter, Deianira orders departure into the house. The captive women begin to leave in silence. The spectator at this point is watching the proceedings with all their promise of disclosure coming to an end with the illusion of Deianira intact and with lole's fateful entry into the house. But as lole, Lichas and the captives are passing from view, the threat of final concealment is suddenly dispelled by a last minute intervention from the old messenger. He checks Deianira who is clearly on her way (339-40). This is an important moment on-stage. Their withdrawal from the procession marks the visible rupture of the illusion and a reversal of dramatic direction: Deianira turns round to confront knowledge. 28 Additionally, this separation from Lichas and the captives makes for the private disclosure of infonnation and sets up the counter-deception of Lichas. It looks as though the old man and Deianira wait until the exeunt is complete. Then the messenger reveals the whole truth about Iole's identity and status. The old messenger's critical intrusion raises questions about the long period of his complete silence. What has he been doing and what contribution does he make to the scene just witnessed? One extreme is to visualise him almost hopping from one foot to another during the evasions of Lichas and the enquiries of Deianira. 29 But it is a good question as to whether this kind of dumb show, in which somebody is gesturing while loather is speaking, was possible in the Greek theatre. The factors of distance and masked perfonnance would make it difficult to identify the speaker. Moreover, no attention is drawn to the figure and· it is more likely that his inside knowledge is not detected until it is explicitly recognised in retrospect. This does not mean to preclude a sense of uneasiness which his silent presence betrays. He

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could easily have been withdrawn before the arrival of the captives and his staying throughout the big scene must have raised the question as to whether his role was complete. After all, in the context of the formal presentation he is a rather incongruous figure. Actually his presence, which has been regarded as a cumbersome addition to the scene and technically unavoidable, 30 enables the preservation of Iole's silence. Within the scheme of things somebody has to act as revealer and it is obviously important to Sophocles' purpose that it not be Iole. She is to be the purely passive agent of disaster. Silences are characteristically composed so that they may be dramatically broken. This is true of the messenger here and of Heracles later. Cassandra's famous scene in the Agamemnon, which in many ways is similar to the Iole scene and might be thought to have influenced Sophocles, conforms to the traditional pattern, resulting in one of the most dramatic outbursts in tragic drama. But Iole's silence is very different; it lasts out the scene and the play. But for the moment we only know that she has not uttered a word thus far. No other scene in Sophocles or perhaps anywhere else in extant Greek tragedy relies so heavily on unspoken thought as the scene just witnessed. At the same time it is the largest ensemble scene in Sophocles. Of all those assembled only two, apart from the brief contribution from the Chorus leader, actually speak. The cross-rhythms which usually characterise such 'triangular' scenes (although Sophocles makes unique use of four characters in this one) are here implicit in theatrical silences. There is no violent movement; the scene is statuesque, contemplative and psychological. There is a step-by-step movement towards knowledge which culminates in the physical confrontation of the two women, and at this point the movement stops before a wall of silence, on the brink of knowledge. The focus moves from the mental picture of Heracles to the visible aspect of the group of captives and finally to the palpable presence of Iole. Deianira herself, confronted with the overall sight of the captives, alone of all those on-stage displays a special understanding, but before the personal threat of Iole she is alone in ignorance. There is indeed no obvious contrast between blindness and sight. The more subtle dichotomy of Deianira's position is realised in the ambiguity which her language - and almost all the language of sight is assigned to her - picks up from the visual context. The interruption of the old man inaugurates revelation immediately and Deianira comes to know the identity of Iole and her relationship with Heracles. It can hardly fail to escape our notice that, after the failure of Deianira's insistent probing with all the evidence

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assembled for scrutiny, the crucial knowledge comes to light through the agency of an interfering old man. He has already stolen Lichas' thunder by anticipating the 'good' news. Now with the same kind of relish he discloses the bad. It is noticeable, too, that with the revelation of Eros as the bewitching power (354-5) Deianira for the first time speaks of lole's beauty which 'shines' forth in her 'eye' (omma, 379). 31 The deceptive 'eye of light and comfort' has become the 'eye' of beguiling beauty. Deianira begins to realise that she has accepted a 'secret' bane within the house. When Lichas returns to the stage he finds Deianira armed with the information from the messenger. The tables are turned and Lichas is systematically unmasked. The old messenger, oblivious to the sensitivity of the situation, enjoys his part in nudging Lichas towards a confession. There is an important scenic contrast; it is quite extraordinary to see the silent and humble onlooker of the large ensemble scene now badgering the dignified figure of Lichas and breaking down the facade of officialdom. Reality emerges, after the stage has emptied, in the smaller situation where the lowly character and his cruder methods come more into their own. The irony of appearance and reality is evident not only in the contrast between the public ceremony and the intimate gathering but in the personal confrontation between the lowly and the grand. Deianira for her part emerges as the kind of person that demands the truth, 32 with the added implication that she can handle the knowledge when it is revealed. She understands how it is with men, she understands the power of Love. There is no cause to blame Heracles or Iole; they suffer from a disease. Deianira's long appeal ( 436-56) to Lichas is met with a pregnant silence which dramatises the renewal of her plea for truth: And if you fear, you fear without reason since not to know is what would hurt me. What danger is there in knowing? (457-9) Here the very words which point to Deianira's special quality of understandin~ become an omen of disaster. Again, we are made to feel the closeness of Deianira to what lies ahead at the same moment that we discern her delusion. It is in this context that Deianira repeats her acceptance of Iole's passion and reconfirms the pity elicited by the 'sight' of Iole, destroyed, as she was, by her own beauty and the unwilling destroyer of her own fatherland. All that Deianira says is

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in keeping with the understanding and compassion that we know she possesses. Lichas' disclosure comes as a dramatic break of his silence and his own position is explained. His motive in concealment is aimed at saving Deianira the pain. One is reminded of the similarly based reluctance of the herdsman in Oedipus the King. It is, of course, one of the ironies of illusion in Sophocles - and it is true to life - that it is nourished by such humane considerations. In this way great stress is laid on the bitterness and destructiveness of knowledge which is prominently foreshadowed in these exchanges, and also on the great burden which is imposed on the revealer. Hence the need for a simple interfering old man who enjoys doing the job. There is one minor piece of stage business which shows up the nervous reluctance of Lichas in this regard. Llchas no sooner enters than he is ready to be off (394), drawing attention to the obvious signs of his own departure. Deianira makes a good deal of it too, complaining bitterly about the fact that Lichas is 'darting' away before they have had a chance to speak. And so he is restrained and the truth elicited. After the visual power of the preceding scene this is noticeably a verbal battle. But the significant revelation is the visible disclosure (phaneis, 433) of invincible Eros, a destructive and infectious disease, but to all appearances understood and accepted by Deianira. And so the concealed implications of the train of captives have been uncovered. But the discovery itself is only a partial disclosure. It merely provides the key to a remote past, to which Deianira is now drawn, but which has yet to reveal its secrets. Deianira's new-found knowledge is one stage in a process and it is actually to lead to renewed delusion. With Deianira's ominous promise of a gift in exchange for the gift of the captives she and Lichas enter the house, while the old man walks off down the parodos. It is perhaps significant that Deianira's first departure from the scene is to coincide with her decision to act. Her passive waiting for Heracles is over. The Chorus has the stage to itself for the first time and it expands upon the important revelation of the preceding scene. The women sing of the goddess of Love who wins great victories. Love, we learn. is an arch-deceiver. Their general theme is illustrated by thetr recollection of the contest of love to which Deianira briefly referred in her opening speech. Again, the vividness of the impression gives the effect of a tableau. The Chorus presents a more developed picture than Deianira, and the struggle is painted in more gruesome detail, as the monstrous 'spectre' (phasma) of Acheloiis and the might of Heracles grapple for

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Deianira's hand. Included in this larger portraiture is Deianira herself, the maid with 'the beautiful eyes' (524) who sits on a 'far-glancing' hillside. It is no le~ the 'eye' (omma) of the bride over which they fight, and the 'eye' which patiently awaits the outcome of the primitive violence (527-8). It is not simply that the most beautiful part, the eye, represents the whole person; the watching eye is also an image of passivity. And the imagery echoes Deianira's description of Iole's visual beauty (379), thus linking the young Deianira's earliest attraction for Heracles to the current spell which Iole now holds over him. Deianira in the imagined tableau, as Iole in the stage presentation, symbolises the passive power of attraction, the power of Aphrodite herself. For Aphrodite is the 'umpire' of the grim contest (515); this is her world. The shadow of the violent and irrational past which looms over the present is merely a repetition of Love's previous victory. Deianira re-emerges on her own and without Lichas' knowledge. She is carrying a casket in her hands. She engages in a 'secretive' conversation with the Chorus, which concerns her plan to win Heracles back from Joie with a love-charm; Deianira has realised that she cannot compete with the flower of youth that the 'eye' is want to cull. She explains the strange manner in which she came by the charm. It was given to her by Nessus, the centaur, who had tried to lay wanton hands on her as he was carrying her across the river Evenus and had been killed by the posioned arrow of Heracles. In his dying throes the monster gathers from his fatal wound the mixture of gore and poison, originally the black bile of the Hydra, the dread tentacled beast of Lerna, and presses it upon Deianira as a gift, to be used as an irresistible love-chann. The long-preserved 'secret' is about to be tested, and the casket she carries contains a robe carefully anointed with the unguent according to the precise instructions of Nessus. The proposed plan of action is initially undermined, before the re-entry of Lichas, by the reflections of Deianira and the Chorus on the nature of what they are doing. Deianira, true to herself, is hesitant before her momentous decision. The plan 'seems' to be a good one. But she knows that the future cannot be foreseen. She has to act before she can find out. This is the maxim in a slightly altered fonn, with a different time-scale but with retrospection still the precondition of knowledge. Lichas enters and her hesitancy is concealed beneath an exaggerated optimism; the manner in which she anticipates the visual realisation of her plan is a clear forecast of disaster: ...

that he should not let the light of the sun see the robe nor a

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holy precinct nor the gleam from the hearth, until he stands publicly, conspicuous before all eyes r,,haneros emphanos] , and shows it to the gods on a day when bulls are slaughtered. For so I had prayed, that if I should ever see or hear that he had come safely home I would with all justice dress him in this robe, and would make him radiant r,,hanein] before the gods, a new sacrificer in new raiment. ( 606-13) The whole passage is conceived in terms of light. And this bright future is conjured up from the most vile darkness of the past which is not there as mere background but reactivated. As in the Chorus's earlier invocation to the sun, the primary and controlling element of the pattern is darkness. Deianira literally arrays Heracles in a cloak of glory, reinvesting, as it were, her hopes in a fictional transformation. This renewal of the brilliant aura around Heracles re-creates the shattered illusion of his return and this most condensed visual image of Heracles, which includes the really remarkable collocation 'visibly visible' (phaneros emphanos), is reserved for the apprehensive Deianira to compose. The fact, too, that the very careful instructions about the robe are made to devolve on the prohibition of light is a means of dramatising the threat posed by concealment, what in fact the casket before us also signifies in concrete terms. The moment of revelation is engineered to coincide with the donning of the robe by Heracles when the garment will first be exposed to the light of day. There is thus a conscious and, as it turns out, successful effort to keep the 'secret' locked up. The casket and its contents are the subject-matter of the whole dialogue. As the scene proceeds, the small container which Deianira brings on to the stage accumulates symbolic value until it comes to embody the whole idea of the scene. In the first place, it is an emblem of appearances, an ornately embellished container which hides a horrifying secret, a gift which is not a gift. It is also emblematic of the convergence of the past ( which is repeatedly referred to in the scene), the present and the future. Locked inside is the poison and blood of ancient conflict which is the hidden potential for the future. The present, on the other hand, is acutely felt in Deianira's critical act of handing over the casket to Lichas. This one small gesture represents the only real action which Deianira takes in the whole play, the one act of daring which contradicts her female passivity. And in this single act we are watching Deianira create her own tragedy. A whole web of deception is involved; in deceiving Lichas Deianira is deceiving herself,

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and she is at the same time preparing the deception of Heracles. At some point in the future the past will reveal its secret. But now the casket is closed, its contents hidden from view. For this is in the nature of the present; the decision to act is taken in the dark and that is the whole point of the casket-scene. Llchas departs with the 'gift' along the parodos; Deianira re-enters the house. There is no going back on the decision. The Chorus, predictably, sets a mood of joyous expectation, imagining the music and fanfare which will attend the hero on his way homewards. But it is Deianira who unexpectedly returns to the stage. The mood of hope, as before, is interrupted by Deianira's new fears about the outcome of her decision. A rhythm of deception and revelation is becoming apparent. She is now afraid that she will, as she puts it, 'be seen' (phanesomai., 666) soon to have done great wrong. The immediate occurrence of the key word echoes the vocabulary which she employed to build up the brilliant expectations of the preceding scene, but here its meaning is deliberately modified by grammatical construction to rule out any suggestion of mere appearance and to indicate real and authentic revelation. This neat manipulation of meaning enables Sophocles to compose the answering revelation in precisely the same terms as the illusion, so that the change is observed as a change in visual perception. Deianira proceeds to spell out the very meaning which the audience had read into the act of transferring the casket; in retrospect she describes her enthusiasm for action as having 'no clear grounds' (adelon, 670). Recognition has come because of an unexpected marvel: the tuft of wool which she used to anoint the robe has been destroyed. But if we observe the strict meaning of the original, what she actually says is that it has 'disappeared' (ephanistai, 676). The word anticipates the total negation of Deianira's earlier vision. There is then a detailed recapitulation of the visual precautions taken with the robe before she made the presentation. She had made sure all along that the drug had been kept away from the sunlight and from the warm rays of the sun. When she anointed the robe and folded it away in the casket she was also careful to shield it from firelight. But when she returned to the house she beheld a terrible portent: the small piece of wool with which she had anointed the robe had become exposed to the sun's full radiance and had grown hot. At that point it melted entirely 'out of sight' (adelon, 698), and the idea of disappearance is repeated. The imagined revelation, like its earlier counterpart, is elaborately constructed from visual symbolism. The preceding edifice of radiance here crumbles into nothing, and light, in its more intense form of burning heat, becomes

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the light of reality, the agent of decomposition - in the longer view the portent of the special doom of Heracles, death by fire on Mount Oeta. The drama has entered a new phase of reality which is signalled by the figurative breaking up of the fictional image. What is left is a language of literal truth, stripped of all ambiguity. The seeming has turned into stark visual reality. Immediately Hyllus enters with news of his father's terrible fate, delivering it as an indictment against Deianira. His function goes beyond the claim he makes to being an eyewitness reporter. He establishes the fate of his father as an irreversible visible fact: 'What has appeared to sight (phanthen, 7 43) 33 cannot be undone.' He even seems to carry out the sight of his stricken father with him on to the stage (746-7). The real picture has displaced the old illusion. Yet even here Hyllus has not completely understood what he has seen, a point which is emphasised a little later in the exit of Deianira. Hyllus, in the manner of a messenger, launches into a long and graphic description of the onset of the disease at the donning of the robe and the burning agony of its ravages on Heracles' body. We also learn of the grim fate of Lichas, brutally killed by the anguished Heracles. Deianira stands in dazed taciturnity throughout and leaves without a word. Sophocles, besides being aware of the effectiveness of the mute figure in foreshadowing disaster, recognises that before certain kinds of revelation words have limitations. And we might be meant to recall the earlier model of Iole, also reduced to silent understanding by disaster. But this is a typical Sophoclean effect and the silent exits of Eurydice in the Antigone and Jocasta in Oedipus the King are instructive. 34 All three women depart to commit suicide. In both Oedipus the King and in this play the exit involves deception. The anguished departure of Jocasta, which is anxiously alluded to by the Chorus, is completely dismissed by Oedipus. So, too, Deianira's silent departure deceives Hyllus who reads it as an admission of guilt. But one important difference distinguishes the departure of Deianira. Both Eurydice's and Jocasta's exits are precipitous. In the case of Deianira there is much discussion of her exit and she is addressed directly as she is leaving the stage. Hers would seem to be a slower business altogether. And this is eloquent of her special fate; it captures the appropriate dejection for the nature of her fall which can only amount to a sad acceptance of a situation for which her knowledge has prepared her. Finally, however, and most important, Deianira is a more central figure than either Jocasta or Eurydice, and her final departure, which comes at a pivotal point in the drama, visibly ruptures the expectations of the

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development, and so the prospective meeting to which everything has been direct is aborted. Hyllus follows his mother into the house and we are left to the reflections of the Chorus. The ode which follows develops the 'manifest' certainty of predicted doom, the real preparation for Heracles' arrival. They piece together the whole network of deception which, as Easterling has shown, exhibits an intricate linking of theme through the use of verbal reminiscence and structural parallels.35 The 'shimmering spectre' of Hydra, the sinister manifestation of its poison in the blood of Nessus, and the craft of the centaur himself are implicated as joint forces of vengeance. The beast from the past is brought out into the open. All is made clear in the summarising statement of the ode: The approaching fate reveals beforehand [prophainei] deception and infatuation. (849-50) The ode concludes with the dramatic revelation of the controlling force which is at work: Aphrodite. The image of a violent and especially deceitful goddess, a disease which infects through beauty, has progressively emerged. Now comes the crowning disclosure. She is the accomplisher, poison and blood are the tools of her trade, hideous monsters her sinister agents. But there is one further fascinating possibility which is suggested by the manner in which the Chorus characterises her role: But the Cyprian Goddess, the silent handmaid, has been revealed as the clear [phanera. .. ephane] accomplisher of these things. (860-1) The description of Aphrodite fits the character and role of lole perfectly. The words of choral lyric are clearly audible in perfonnance and here they are most emphatic. Iole is not present on-stage but she is there in the imagination. She is not merely Heracles' mistress, she is Aphrodite's agent of deception - something which does not come to light in the unmasking of Lichas with all its appearance of unearthing the whole truth. Moreover, the contrast between appearance and reality is emphasised in another important aspect: the grim terror of Aphrodite has the face of beauty for which lole is the perfect vehicle. There is, too, a fine paradox in the idea of a silent accomplisher: that the whole tragedy is brought about through purely passive agency. And this, of course, is how beauty works. as we saw with Deianira before, through

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the passive power of attraction. The statuesque and unbroken silence of Iole is theatrically the ideal embodiment of Aphrodite's absolute physicality. This is the final deeper meaning of Iole's silence. Once again, the concentrated language in which the disclosure is couched, with the really striking repetition, 'visible . . . made visible' (phanera ... ephane), recalls the visual impact of Iole's stage appearance, so that we may perceive the antithesis between its deceptive facade then and its clear significance now. We await a stage appearance utterly transformed from the original visual expectations. But before Heracles is seen to approach, the end of Deianira is lavishly treated. The nurse returns to give a poignant picture of her suicide. There seems to be deliberate design in having the nurse, who opened the play with Deianira, present the final chapter of her mistress's life. Apart from the external aspect of balance Sophocles re-creates the domesticity of the opening scene and so frames Deianira's stage existence in a special way, the departing words of the nurse actually echoing the opening maxim and Deianira's first crucial utterance. The nurse's speech stresses Deianira's involvement with house and home and her devotion to the marriage bed upon which she actually commits suicide; and the story is more effective from one who has herself been involved in the family. Deianira's sad end prompts another late recognition, this time by Hyllus, of his own misconceptions about his mother's motives. This is included in the nurse's story, so that when Hyllus appears in the next scene with Heracles the audience is aware that he comes armed with a new understanding. The final stages of the drama belong to Heracles and begin with his much publicised entry. Deianira is not there to receive him. This spatial separation is reinforced, or rather superseded, by the exploration of the relationship between Heracles and Hyllus, who is there awaiting his father's arrival.36 This second phase of the tragedy with its heavy reliance on external aids enacts the reversal in the ironically appropriate medium and dimension: Heracles' return is spectacular but not in the manner envisaged. But the change of meaning, from the ironic to the literal, which the visual symbolism has undergone, has already prepared for the new reality. The immediate buildup, as with the Iole scene, is carefully orchestrated by the Chorus. There is first a general supposition that an 'unspeakable wonder' is coming before the house (961). The bearers of the litter, led by an old man, then come into view of the Chorus who observes that they are foreigners. The procession is one of heavy yet 'noiseless' steps. Heracles arrives 'without a word' and the question to be answered is whether he is dead or just sleeping.

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Such then is the arrival of the conqueror and the man of action: supine, unconscious and carried by foreign hands. His body is covered. And the point of the accompanying group of foreign mercenaries is to capture the rootlessness of the great warrior. 37 The two big set-pieces of the tragedy are thus introduced by processions which are identical in their slow and silent movement. The exact extent of their visual similarity in other respects is a matter of conjecture. The number of extras involved, the manner in which they carry themselves and the position they finally take on-stage could easily be identical. But contrast is equally important. Here we have a procession of men not women, and the central figure, on his back and all covered up, makes a strong contrast with the dignified and explicitly beautiful maiden who is the focus of the earlier scene. The 'scenic rhyme' 38 invites consideration of the second spectacle in the light of the first and in this comparison of the final ceremony with the rehearsal we are made to realise the disparity between promise and fulfilment, the arch, so to speak, of the tragedy itself. The formal process of revelation gets under way with some diffi. culty. 39 Hyllus, who probably rushes to Heracles' side, disturbs the quiet with his own cries of anguish and is admonished into silence by the old man who acts as the spokesman of the foreigners; Heracles is quietly asleep and must not be disturbed for fear of reviving the 'disease' which plagues him. There is in all this the expectation of terrible disclosure. Suddenly Heracles wakes up and breaks into agonised speech. This is a typically explosive rupture of silence and it appears that Sophocles intends the audience to recall the silence of the Joie scene, if only to compare its unbreakable persistence there with the fragility here. The silent beginning of this scene is composed for the dramatic advantage which its breaking confers on the brute force of revelation and the contrast this now provides with the unspoken and subtle undercurrents of the earlier scene. The whole sequence takes its character from the first outcry with the onset of violent movements replacing the stationary effect. As in the case of Philoctetes, the disease 'visits' and there is the same sporadic effect. This means that the prolonged exposure of physical pain is punctuated with cries of distress, while the symptoms of the disease, clinically specified in the language of contemporary medicine, are presumably acted out in the appropriate convulsions and writhings. There is, too, a good deal of movement in the attempts to relieve the suffering. These external effects add to the realism and to the consciously unmitigated tone of the whole performance.

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What we are witnessing is the terrible manifestation of love's power in the hideous physical form which expresses its true nature, disease. Heracles' fate is to be viewed as the direct outcome of his passion for Iole and Deianira's passion for him. Heracles himself calls attention to the visible fact of his agony (997-9) and this is followed by the climactic display. He asks Hyllus to approach and stand nearby while he throws the coverlet off to expose his tortured body: For I shall reveal this from under the covers. Look, gaze everyone on my wretched body, see my misery, how pitiable I am. (1078-80) This is something which occurs between father and son, Hyllus being there beside him. But a broader symbolism becomes apparent in his words of command, in the extending of the private exposure for Hyllus' benefit into a public gesture. In fact one of the noticeable differences between the group of captive women and the group of foreigners is that the former are there to be scrutinised, they are the subject of comment and part of the tentative process of observation, whereas the latter are themselves observers, there to gaze upon a figure who is from the beginning the unequivocal centre of attention. This unveiling with its visual imperatives is a typically obtrusive device to convey revelation,40 but it is especially right that Heracles is literally divested of his former brilliance. The clash between the actual and the imagined sight is in the form required by the dramatic conception; we were originally anticipating splendour but what we actually see is horror, the materialisation of the brutal and bestial forces so prominent in the narrative. The question is what do we see underneath the coverlet. From the description in the text, the fatal robe which clings to Heracles' body is a magnificent festal garment, handwoven by Deianira, and with the lifting of the veil we should perhaps expect to see it.41 On the other hand, if we observe strictly the way in which the poison works, we should rather suppose that the robe has already decomposed and that Heracles' costume, more or less elaborately, represents the hideous progress of the disease on the exposed body. The exhibition of his diseased body, while he is listing his previous feats of physical strehgth and even apostrophising his own limbs, presents the reversal in purely physical terms. No better image of self-absorption could be imagined. And, again, the very crude physicality of the show contrasts so completely with the psychological subtlety of the lole scene, the horror of Heracles with the beauty of lole, his ranting with

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her aloof silence. This, then, marks the end of the search for Heracles. Hyllus, the searcher who left the stage in the opening scene, is the one who now stands right before him. The enormity of this revelation almost obliterates the question of Heracles' misconceptions about Deianira. When it does arise it is quickly superseded by the unsuspected and ultimate disclosure to which it leads. Heracles is under the impression that Deianira deliberately deceived him with her gift. She is for him 'false-eyed', 42 the image of the eye again linking deception and love. Now he says this at the beginning of his speech, with the result that Hyllus has to wait through the effusions of Heracles before he can put the matter right. This represents another contrast with the Iole scene, where everybody conspires to keep quiet about the truth which Deianira is seeking. Here, Hyllus is bursting to say something and cannot get a word in edgeways. He has been trying to make an interjection ( 1115) and finally Heracles provides him with a pause. Hyllus anxiously comes to the issue on which he cannot remain silent ( 1126), the error of Deianira. The careful buildup to the disclosure adds to the lack of impact which it has. It is brutally disregarded by Heracles and Deianira is virtually forgotten in the wider implications of the information for Heracles: the mention of Nessus by Hyllus has provoked a shriek of recognition from Heracles. The audience at this moment is in the dark, for this is not an item which has been foreshadowed. Heracles introduces something new and surprising. The nature and manner of the revelation require the audience to cast its mind back; a second oracle, even more remote than the one introduced by Deianira at the play's beginning, is only now disclosed and its significance understood in the exactness of its interlocking relationship with the other oracle. Heracles had been mysteriously told by an ancient oracle of Zeus that he would die at the hands of nobody who draws breath. Nessus is the dead monster who, through Deianira, has 'killed' Heracles. The explanation of Heracles ties together, quite explicitly, the threads of the tragedy into a coherent whole. The pattern of human existence is at last comprehended because complete. What was 'foreshown' (prophanton, ll59) long ago by Zeus has been realised. The repeated employment of the word 'foreshown' ( 1163) sets the moment of divine knowledge in the distant past against the present hindsight which is the condition of man's knowledge. Heracles himself now takes on the role of revealer (phano, 1164); with clear-cut precision he demonstrates the congruence of the two remote oracles and their point of validation in the present. He recognises that until now he 'lived under the delusion'43 ( 1171) that he would fare

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well. Now that these things 'clearly meet' he is prepared to deliver his last instructions. This repeated idea of clear congruence is very import• ant. The entire tragedy is composed of piecemeal revelation; the play even begins with revelation, the ancient maxim which came to light long ago. Contained within this opening revelation is the target of a completed pattern. It has now been reached in this late point of revealed convergence. In the end the focus of attention is not the contents of the final revelation, the display of irrational evil, but the rational process of revelation in which that evil is framed. The actual conclusion of the play is enigmatic. There seems to be another revelation (if the visual language is followed through to the end) which is ambiguous, in contrast to the clarity which precedes it, and is, so to speak, tacked on to the main process. It is of a different kind and has been described as the revelation of Hyllus as a son worthy of his father. 44 There is no question that the relationship between father and son is the chief concern at the end of the play (and it paral• lels that between Zeus and Heracles who are also father and son).45 However else this final development is attached to the basic themes of the play, it seems to finalise the complete divorce of the two worlds of Deianira and Heracles. And it is possible to trace the occurrence on. stage, if we go back to the beginning of the scene and focus on what happens between Hyllus and Heracles. We should remember that when Hyllus meets his father he has been affected by the suicide of his mother and what it tells him. He is the only link with the altruism and understanding of his mother. And he is primarily interested in making his father understand the human error of his mother's action. Apparently Hyllus first makes contact with Heracles by actually touching him (1020). Earlier, when Heracles complains of being moved, it is likely through the activities of the old man. As Winnington-lngram has conclusively shown, the earlier emphasis is on Heracles being among strangers. The physical contact here marks a turning-point, whereby Hyllus is ostensibly brought into a relationship with his father, one 'which governs the remainder of the play' .46 Heracles, who seems in his agony not to see Hyllus, tells him how to hold him and lift him up for relief. At some point Hyllus must withdraw to accommodate the later move where Heracles summons Hyllus to approach and view the sufferings from a closer vantage point ( I 07 6). After the diatribe against Deianira Heracles asks Hyllus to prove that he is a true son by rejecting his mother. The test takes the form of a peculiarly brutal choice. Hyllus is ordered personally to deliver Deianira to Heracles for righteous punishment, so that he can then decide which 'sight' he finds more

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grievous, his mother's or hi!i father's outraged form. With this in mind Heracles asks Hyllus to draw near again and stand beside him for the disclosure of his own tortured frame, although, as we saw, it is also done in the manner of a public gesture. It is difficult not to compare the unsolicited pity which the captives drew from Deianira with the crude demand for pity expressed here. The audience might be justifed in expecting that the truth about Deianira will change the brutal tenor of things. This manifestly does not happen. Amidst further insistence that he 'show' (phaneis, 1158) himself the true son of his father, Hyllus is drawn into blind acceptance of obedience to his father. And Hyllus' acquiescence is solemnised by an oath which is confirmed by the clasping of hands. With this act the link with Deianira is cut, and Heracles presses his outrageous demands upon his son, marriage with his mistress Iole, the cause of the tragedy, and the preparation of his own funeral pyre. In the end Hyllus becomes a true son, and the divorce between human understanding and brute insensitivity is complete with the latter in the ascendancy at the end of the play. Nothing appears to be learnt from the painful process of revelation and what Heracles hands on to his son is not a new wisdom from suffering but his own heroic ideals.47 The final exit of Heracles brings this scene and the whole play to a dignified close. The sporadic outbursts of Heracles are finally reduced to silence by his own resolution to curb his tongue, the third and final silence by tragic realisation. The cortege forms and bears him aloft, and a last silent procession carries Heracles away to his unique doom. This is a very impressive movement involving both the group of mercenaries who bear the litter and the Chorus who follows behind. It is possible to interpret what is usually regarded as an invitation to the Chorus to join the procession as an invitation to Iole. But this would be, at a moment when the drama is about to conclude, a truly remarkable appearance by Iole and extremely disruptive. 48 The focus should remain on the relationship between father and son which Hyllus implicitly contrasts with the more mysterious one between Heracles and Zeus himself. There is in the last silent departure a visible recovery of heroism. But we must be careful not to extend this to the deification which follows his death in the mythical tradition. As Reinhardt observes, the ending of this play is not the deification of Heracles but his death. 49 And Hyllus bitterly accepts what has happened in terms of the basic perspective revealed by the drama: 'No man foresees the future .. .' (1270). This is what makes this tragedy so pessimistic; it is merely what Deianira understood so well at the beginning of the drama:

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There is a saying among men, which came to light long ago, that you may not completely learn of the lot of mortals, whether it be good or bad, until a man dies.

The overall design and technique of revelation in the Women of Trochis is quite distinctive. The influence of the maxim and its position, at the very start of the play, are critical. A kind of determinism which is instantly comprehended pervades Oedipus the King. The past cannot be altered, it simply awaits disclosure. The Women of Trachis too exhibits a deterministic framework, but the comprehension of the audience as well as the characters is carefully delayed. The point is easily seen in the external device of the two oracles which formalise the predetermined nature of what occurs;5" only with the late revelation and explanation of the second oracle can the audience confidently interpret determinism, so that its knowledge comes in accordance with the prescription of the maxim, in retrospect. This reservation of composite knowledge also means that the audience, despite its apprehension of catastrophe and any prior acquaintance with the myth, is more easily drawn into the dominant mood of anticipation which informs the whole action. In Oedipus the King, the pattern of action as opposed to that of revelation is complete before the tragedy begins. This is not the case in the Women of Trachis. Deianira fashions her own tragedy while we watch her do it. Her illusion is actively created out of the dramatic action in a way which Oedipus' is not. It is not antecedent, it resides initially in the hope of things to come, and later, under the pressure of bitter revelation, in action which is undertaken to influence the course of events. The nature of the plot demands its own process of revelation. In Oedipus the King revelation is progressive; a whole initial structure of illusion is dismantled through successive disclosures which, though invariably perceived as comforting illusions, converge ineluctably on the final reality. There the boundary between illusion and reality is rather vague. In the Women of Trachis there is a similar succession of revelations, but they alternate with a corresponding series of deceptions which makes a clear distinction between what is illusion and what is reality. Neither are these revelations misperceived; on the contrary they provide the firm base for tragic action. It is the play's great irony that knowledge is disastrous. Had the deceit of Lichas, for example, been successfully maintained Deianira would not have sent the fatal robe. In this way emphasis is placed on action, on the struggle

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to maintain illusions about the future within a framework of increasing but incomplete knowledge. At the end of it all, and only then, comes the recognition that hope has been blind. And the maxim is recalled when its validity has been asserted. Time is a crucial factor in all this. Of course, the overwhelming sense of the past is communicated by the wealth of direct reference to 'ancient' prophecies, tokens and incidents, as well as the whole cyclical nature of the development. But additionally, in a special sense, the past elaborates the form in which the central idea of knowledge is cast. Now the idea of time as revealer is a common one in Sophoclean drama, but there is a particular complexity in the manner in which it is treated here, one which is perfectly adapted to the uniqueness of the plot. There is, as we have seen, a rhythm of revelation within the drama which provides the basis for action. Most notably Deianira, on the strength of her new-found knowledge about Iole, proposes to act. She is deceived at one moment, she is aware at the next. This is a rapid transformation and typical of the internal design. Time has not kept its secret for very long. But the past, which is antecedent to the play's beginning, conceals the fatal deception of Nessus of which the counterrevelation occurs only late within the span of the drama itself. This disparity of tempo in revelations, between the immediate past within the scope of the drama and the remote anterior past, creates a conspicuous encroachment of one time sequence on another. The secret so long preserved and untried is introduced into the intensity of the present crisis; the earliest deception is last revealed. This divided timestructure gives the irony of Deianira's position an extra point of complication. She acts outside the large perspective of time (her first move, we remember, is to dismiss the wisdom of the past); in terms of what she really understands, her past is the immediate past, while the dark futurt has yet to unfold. There is in effect the strongest sense that Deianira is stranded in the middle of an open-ended tunnel. The incompleteness defines the illusion and this brings us back once again to the formula embodied in the maxim. It follows finally that the underlying conception of appearance and reality is expressed in accordance with this temporal design, that is, in the form of a disparity between anticipation and fulfilment. And this scheme is especially evident in the visual techniques employed. In the first place, there is the sequential division of the action between the cwo protagonists. The first halt of the play is dominated by the stage presence of Deianira, and we only see Heracles after our last sight of Deianira. The two never meet on-stage. This spatial and temporal

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separation produces an intentional dislocation which captures all the illusion of human hopes and endeavour and the final divorce of two different worlds of existence. This division is highlighted by the formality of two impressive ensemble scenes. The first, involving Iole, begins as a procession and develops into a set-piece of tragic delusion. It takes shape out of a prelude of ironic visual indications, while the scene itself revolves around the idea of visual perception. Similar in visual scope and format, the much heralded arrival of Heracles and the attendant revelations signify the answering reality. Thus the contrast between appearance and reality is polarised in a sequence of spectacle, a kind of two-part structure which sets forth the dynamics of reversal. The vocabulary of 'seeing' and 'appearing' makes up a chain of anticipatory imagery which forms the massive rehearsal for the stage appearance of Heracles. One striking thread in this chain is the haunting image of love's eye which conceals the spectre of bestiality that is to emerge and links the deceptive beauty of Deianira and Iole in a pattern of catastrophe. But overall the structure of visual imagery is the structure of hope and understanding. In this way high expectations are raised so that they may be shown false in retrospect, and the appearance of Heracles, which comes as the ironic climax of the whole process of visible substantiation, comes, simultaneously, as an ironic confirmation of the truth of the opening maxim. The procession involving lole is the false realisation of the visual imagery, just as the procession involving Heracles is its true realisation. In this regard the Women of Tracris achieves a formal harmony between stage spectacle and visual language which is perhaps only surpassed by Oedipus the King.

Notes 1. The general importance of the introductory maxim is emphasised by P.E. Easterling, 'Sophocles, Trachiniz_e',Bulletin of the Institute of aasdcal Studies, vol 15 (1968), pp. 58-9, who takes it to be 'a kind of clue to the way in which Sophocles wants us to look at the play'. 2 See C. Whitman, Sophocles (Harvard University Press, Cambridge, Mass., 1951), pp. 103-21, whose interpretation of the play is based on the idea of late learning. 3. Phainesthai, 'to come to light', is the key word in the pattern of visual imagery which is imprinted on the play. The variety of meaning which has to be given to it within a complete translation fails to convey the impression of repetition which in this play is very distinctiVe. Repetition is actually a favourite Sophoclean technique for which see P.E. Easterling, 'Repetition in Sophocles', Hermes, vol 10 l (197 3), pp. 14-34. On the visual imagery see also C. Segal, 'Sophocles' Trachiniae: Myth, Poetry, and Heroic Values', Yale Oassical Studies, vol 25 (1977), pp. 143-5; and S.E. Laurence, The Dramatic Epistemology ot

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Sophocles' Trachiniae', Phoenix, vol 32 (1978), pp. 288-304. 4. Thus J.C. Kamerbeek (ed.), The Trachiniae (Brill, Leiden, 1959), p. 9. It is possible that she is not present for most of Deianira's speech and enters a little later, in time for her own first speech. 5. Whitman, Sophocles, p. 111, is good on this connection of ideas. 6. This does not diminish the stature of Deianira, who responds with dignity and urgency to the suggestion, but simply emphasises the self-sufficiency of Heracles and the natural passivity which this imposes on his wife. Her life is one of patience and reflection, his is all momentous action. On all this see P.E. Easterling, 'Character in Sophocles', Greece and Rome, voL 24 (1977), pp. 122-3. 7. See, for example, the prologues of the Ajax and the Philoctetes. 8. The important contrast between middle age and youth is noted by R.W.B. Burton, The Chorus in Sophocles' Tragedies (Clarendon Press, Oxford, 1980), p. 42. 9. For the probable silent entry of the Chorus here and elsewhere in Sophocles see A.W. Pickard-Cambridge, The Dramatic Festivals of Athens, 2nd edn (Clarendon Press, Oxford, 1968), p. 243. 10. 'The sun is put under the control of night; and this is a counterpoise to the brilliant description of the sun as a source of knowledge', R.P. Winningtonlngram, Sophocles: An Interpretation (Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 1980), Appendix A, p. 330. 11. As Easterling points out, 'Sophocles, Trachiniae', p. 59, 'Deianira's way of life violates the natural rhythm.' 12. Or a crown of olive. See Kamerbeek, Trachiniae, on 178. 13. Both Kamerbeek, Trachiniae; and R.C. Jebb (ed.), The Trachiniae (Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 1892), observe the vividness of phanenta. The frequency of the aorist participle is a noticeable feature of the pattern. Cf. 228, 433, 743, 1158. 14. There is no need to accept the misunderstanding which H. Lloyd-Jones, 'Sophoclea', Classical Quarterly, n.s., vol. 4 (1954), pp. 93-4, interprets in~ scene; that Deianira is enquiring about Heracles (autos) and the messenger takes'-her to be referring to Lichas. Lichas' ab/i11!nce is her main concern when confronted with this unofficial report. 15. On the complexity of the imagery see K.amerbeek, Trachiniae, on 203, 204. 16. The following analysis and suggestions are basically those of Kamerbeek, ibid., on 205-25. 17. Noted by A. Beck, 'Der Empfang loles', Hermes, vol. 81 (1953), p. 17, as the only such moment in the whole drama 18. On the legend in epic and lyric seeJebb, I'rachinuze, xv-xx, and Kamerbeek, Trachiniae, pp. 1-7. The epic poem 'The Capture of Oechalia' treated Heracles' passion for lole. 19. Persuasively argued by Beck, 'Der Empfang loles'. 20. Thus Pickard-Cambridge, Dramatic Festivals of Athens, p. 192, on the mask of Dionysus at least 21. Kamerbeek, Trachinuze, p. 14. 22. The captives at all events have to enter the house later on; they are an integral part of the proceedings on the raised stage; and one of their number, Iole, is involved in a close confrontation with Deianira. 23. T.B.L. Webster, Greek Art and Literature (Clarendon Press, Oxford, 1939), p. 58, distinguishes this kind of 'psychological' spectacle from 'ecplectic' spectacle, which is designed merely to astonish. 24. Kamerbeek, Trachinuze, on 306. Cf. also S.H. Butcher, Aristotle's Theory of Poetry and Fine Art, 4th edn (Dover Publications, New York, 1951), pp. 25666.

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25. W.B. Stanford's description of the same attitude in Odysseus, Stanford (ed.), Ajax (Macmillan, London, 197 3), on 124-6. 26. Phronein can also mean 'to feel' as well as 'to understand'. Cf. for example, Ajax, 942. And this is the right word for Deianira's understanding, which is really intuitive rather than intellectual Kamerbeek's interpretation of 'self-control', equatingphronein with sophronein, is surely wrong. See especially Winnington-lngram. Sophocles, pp. 76-7. 27. D.J. Mastronarde, Contact and Discontinuity, University of California Publications in Classical Studies, vol. 21 (University of California Press, Berkeley, Ca., 1979), pp. 76-7, has a good discussion of the whole problem of Iole's silence. 28. This piece of stage business is well appreciated by 0. Taplin, 'Significant Actions in Sophocles' Philoctetes', Greek, Roman and Byzantine Studies, vol 12 (1971), p. 30. 29. So U. Parlavantza-Friedrich, Tduschungsszenin in den Tragodien des Sophokles (De Gruyter, Berlin, 1969), p. 29, who countenances the posstbility of gestures of impatience on the part of the messenger. But his presence cannot be dismissed as of no account ai all. 0. Taplin, The Stagecraft of Aeschylus (Clarendon Press, Oxford, 1977), pp. 89 and 91, admits that the lingering of the messenger is exceptional but argues that his presence is unobtrusive. If his presence is exceptiona~ then it will be noticed and the question must arise as to what he is doing there. He is hardly an unobtrusive figure in the situation either in his appearance or in his behaviour. 30. K. Reinhardt, Sophocles, trans. by H. and D. Harvey (Blackwe~ Oxford, 1979), pp. 41-2, in concluding the presence of the messenger to be cumbersome, since he has to stand aside while Lichas delivers his deceptive message, is perhaps too eager to demonstrate that the Women of Trachis is an early play and exhibits a less advanced technique of revelation. 31. Pearson's reading, omma, is uncertain but well defended by Kamerbeek, Trachiniae, on 379, who takes it to mean literally the eye (of Joie) with the implication of its erotic power. 32. Noted by Beck, 'Der Empfang Ioles', pp. 18-19, and compared to Oedipus' similarly unrelenting pursuit of clarity. 33. On phanthen Jebb, Trachiniae, comments: 'The word is fitting at a moment when his mind is full of the terrible sight which he has just seen.' 34. See Kamerbeek, Trachiniae, on 813; and F.L. Shisler, 'The Use of Stage Business to Portray Emotion in Greek Tragedy', American Journal of Philology, vol 66 (1945), p. 387. 35. Easterling, 'Sophocles, Trachiniae', p. 65. 36. Hyllus does not enter with Heracles as has been assumed from the apparent indications in the nurse's speech (901ff.) that he has already gone out to meet his father. See the cogent arguments of R.P. Winnington-lngram, 'Tragica', Bulletin of the Institute of CfassicalStudies, vol 16 (1969), pp. 44-7. See also Taplin, Stagecraft of Aeschylus, p. 177. 37. A point which is made by Winnington-lngram, 'Tragica', p. 45, who observes that the impression of a rootless hero is evident throughout the play. 38. Kamerbeek's phrase, Trachiniae, p. 201. 39. On the general movement from delusion to truth in this scene see the observations of Reinhardt, Sophocles, pp. 61-2. 40. Cf. also the disclosure of Ajax' body (Ajax, 1003) and the unveiling of Clytemnestra's corpse (Elecr-ra,1466ff.). 41. K.F. Slater, 'Some Suggestions for Staging the Trachiniae', Arton, n.s., voL 3 (1976), pp. 57-68, visualises a 'gold robe interwoven with bloody streaks'. 42. Jebb's translation of doliipis, literally 'with deceitful face or eye'. Kamerbeek rightly suggests a connection with euopis (5 23), 'of beautiful eye'. The image of love's eye, a~ we have seen, is very prominent in the drama.

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43. Kamerbeek's translation. 44. Thus D. Grene, The Complete Greek Tragedies, D. Grene and R. Lattimore (eds.), Sophocles, vol. 2 (University of Chicago Press, Chicago and London, 1969), p. 66. 45. See Easterling, 'Sophocles, Trachiniae', p. 67, for the importance of this theme. 46. Winnington-lngram, 'Tragica', p. 46. 4 7. This interpretation of the conclusion is perhaps too unequivocal; it is possible to see a certain ambivalence provided that it is not overstated. In the myth Hyllus and Iole were the ancestors of the Heraclidae and this may have induced acceptance of what appears to be a monstrous match in the ending of the play. On the other hand, the emphasis given to the reluctance of Hyllus to take lole for his wife inclines one to believe that Sophocles is intentionally confronting his audience with a contrast between what he is presenting in the drama and what is implied in the age-old tradition. On all this see the detailed discussion of J.K. MacKinnon, 'Heracles' Intention in His Second Request of Hyllus', Classical Quarterly, n.s., vol 21 (1971), pp. 33-41. There is also the myth of Heracles' special end and the idea that we meet, for example, in the Philoctetes, that it is a glorious event to be associated with. This would mitigate the harshness of Heracles' demand that Hyllus light the pyre. But we should be cautious of making too much of the apotheosis: the play ends with Heracles' death. One point that should be noticed is that Heracles does eventually relieve Hyllus of this particular imposition, and this may mean that we are not expected to feel that Hyllus is completely brutalised. Hyllus, after all, is being forced to do these things. 48. The text and assignment of the final lines are controversial and the arguments need not be repeated here. The invitation to the Chorus (1275) would seem to balance the one given to the mercenaries (1264). An earlier entry by Joie is probably ruled out by the lack of any announcement or indication in the text. But the idea has been given new support by Burton, The O,orus in Sophocles' Tragedies, pp. 81-2, who argues that a silent entry at 1222-7 is possible when Heracles orders Hyllus to take her for his own, and would be an appropriate culmination of her role as the silent agent of the destruction. But even Burton himself equivocates in the end, leaving the whole question as an intriguing problem for the producer to solve. Cf. also T.F. Hoey, 'Ambiguity in the Exodos of Sophocles' Trachiniae',Arethusa, vol 10 (1977), pp. 288-9. 49. Reinhardt, Sophocles, pp. 62-3. 50. See H.D.F. Kitto, Poiesis: Structure and Thought (University of California Press, Berkeley and Los Angeles, Ca., 1966), pp. 154-99, on the dramatic function of oracles in the play.

8

OEDIPUS THE KING: BLINDNESS AND SIGHT

Oedipus the King opens with a movement, not a tableau. 1 Before a word is spoken a group of suppliants enters from a parodos and makes rapidly for the altars in front of the palace. The manner of their arrival bespeaks the earnestness of their supplication; they are in need of salvation. They are dressed in the traditional style of suppliants, in white tunics and cloaks, their hair bound in fillets, also of white. In their hands they are carrying olive branches, wreathed in wool, which they lay on the altars. 2 The composition of the whole gathering is made up from three separate groups which are later pointed out (16-19): children, chosen young men and aged priests, who perhaps marshal the others. This division into three groups was presumably reflected in the stage presentation 3 and seems to confirm that this initial entry was indeed a kind of formal procession. They all sit down by the altars where they have laid their olive branches, in the posture of supplication. The old priest, who is to be their spokesman and who likely led the procession, may remain standing - although initially, until he is called upon to speak, he too may be seated like his fellow suppliants. As this large movement comes to an end and the crowd settles there is an air of expectation. 4 Then, as if summoned by the silent throng, Oedipus, the king of Thebes, comes forth from the central door. Those at his feet press closely around him. The visual relationship between the 'solitary' 5 standing figure and the prostrate assembly is immediately reinforced in a particular and striking way: 'Children .. .' This, the first word of the tragedy, Oedipus addresses to young and old alike. On the one hand, it is a natural expression of the role which the presence of the suppliants confers upon him. He is the leader, the protector, the patriarch. On the other hand, there is the real father, the polluted one, who at the last is compelled to relinquish the daughters born of his own incest. The image of the father is the instant link between the external political circumstance and the lurking family horror. Oedipus' relationship with his 'children' begins and ends the drama. Our fust view of Oedipus, then, is of a man in the public eye, a beloved king who is sought by his people. This matching of the large group against the single figure provides the scenic background for the developing interplay between the public and the private domain. All 215

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that the words of the old priest make him, the wise monarch, the intellectual, the saviour, the almost god, is enhanced by the stage picture. And 'appearances' are founded in facts: this scene is a repeat, made visual, of a past calamity when the city was similarly 'cast down' and 'raised' by the wisdom of Oedipus. The outsider who solved the riddle of the Sphinx and became king is a man uniquely qualified to solve the current mystery of the plague. But Oedipus' private past is no less prominent, uncannily and inextricably interwoven with the playing of the public part. When he appears before the waiting crowd he comes of his own accord, to be among his people and to hear their appeals in person ( 6- 7). This 'instinctive' entry is consonant with the fact that, after the pretence of enquiry, he already knows the significance of their presence. But, ironically, this initial understanding of others' suffering leads directly to the unconscious intuition of his own doomed existence: he takes on the suffering of the entire city as a personal belonging. The identification is real and appalling; he is a native Theban, he is the monumental sufferer, his 'sickness' is their sickness. The public spectacle is suddenly a spectre of private disaster as the single figure 'absorbs' the mass of woe before him, as he becomes the true embodiment of the fallen city. Visually, the crowd which exalts him is also the measure of his ruin. Moreover Oedipus eradicates his own personal existence only to light upon it in the very adoption of the public stance. And this sets the pattern for nearly all his utterance in the early scenes; the public role makes him the unconscious voice of his own secrets. In no other of the extant plays of Sophocles does the action open with a public ceremony. Even more remarkable is the contrast between the expectations of the myth and the first theatrical impression. The man with the most celebrated secret steps, unasked and unhesitating, into the limelight of a large open assembly. And the setting is more than a physical context; Oedipus understands it by instinct, he identifies with it, it is his conscious world. But the apparent splendour resonates with another more sinister meaning. This truth is no remote and buried thing, it is at hand in the public crisis, lying in wait for the man of public conscience, almost visible in the public gesturing. Illusion and reality co-exist under the same aspect, overlapping and confused the one with the other. 6 Every self-conscious response to the public situation opens up a recess of the private inner realm which, to the spectator's eye, more aptly and with increasing fascination fulfils the meaning of the stage presentation. The impressive start to the play also discloses a whole world looking

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to a single figure. The course of events rests upon him; he is the one who must act. 7 No, rather he has already acted. Oedipus himself tells us that he has sent Creon, his brother-in-law, to consult the oracle of Apollo at Delphi. And he is even now restless about the unreasonable delay, so ready is he to 'act' upon all that god 'makes plain'. These last words coincide explicitly with a signal on-stage which announces Creon's approach (79); the suppliants, or perhaps only those nearest to the parodos on the left, make some visible sign to the old priest that they have caught sight of Creon. 8 The stir creates more than the usual expectancy for an entrance and we should perhaps remember that the audience is not quite sure how the truth that they already know is destined to be revealed. The opportune connection between Oedipus' commitment to god's clear guidance and Creon's appearance is fraught with suspense. Then, as Creon strides into view, Oedipus makes a brief and fervent plea: 0 Lord Apollo, would that he come bright in saving fortune, even as (80-1) he is bright in looks [ommati]. Creon's arrival is a message of light from the revealing god, a sight which betokens hope and comfort. Yet Oedipus' words are cautious, they allow, ominously, for the discrepancy between brilliant 'appearance' and brilliant fortune. The visual interpretation is taken up by the priest with a similar undertone of uncertainty: Creon wears a crown of bay leaves, which is rich with berries, a further token, 'to all seeming', of welcome news. Creon is still at a distance when Oedipus addresses him directly, anxiously enquiring about the tidings the moment Crean is within earshot. 'Good': the first response of Creon, now before Oedipus, summarily corroborates the apparent indications. Creon is a visual symbol before he speaks. He is not simply the bringer of news, he is the first arrival on the scene and he introduces the whole problem which confronts Oedipus: 'appearances'. Such is the coming of Apollo's light. The character of Creon 's arrival determines the character of the scene which it initiates; the dilemma between appearance and reality simply emerges in greater detail. The long introduction of Creon is a good example of the cumulative effect which can be created out of the entry from the parodos. His appearance is one that gradually comes into sharper and sharper visual focus. The concern about his absence, the thP-atrical warning of his approach, the gener:tl impression of his 'bright' countenance, the detailed splendour of his Delphic crown and the final confirmatory contact, all dramatise

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a movement which must pass by the crowd before halting in front of the figure of Oedipus himself. Visual effect coincides with visual meaning. And the audience is already being manoeuvred into the position of marking Oedipus' perceptions, the very matter of the tragedy. After the peremptory reassurance Creon is ready to go within to divulge the actual content of the oracle in private. But Oedipus expressly demands a public disclosure, confident in the public gaze, open before all,9 making good his identification with those around him. At this Creon delivers Apollo's 'manifest' (emphanos) bidding; there is a defilement in the land which must be driven out. The murder of Laius, king before Oedipus, must be expiated by a banishment or by retaliatory bloodshed; the language of Creon at this point carefully avoids mention of the number involved in the crime. We now observe Oedipus showing his preference for visual rather than hearsay evidence, but at the same time a tone of unconcern, a sense of his own remoteness from his dead predecessor is ingeniously conveyed: 10 I know it well from what I hear. For I never yet saw him.

(105) The irony is luxuriant: he has not only seen Laius, he has killed him, while more truly than he knows Oedipus has 'yet' to see. This ground illusion about his true circumstance is supported by one apparent fact of the crime which gradually materialises in the course of Creon's reconstruction of the event. The 'murderers', as they are first casually referred to, become the 'robbers' of an eyewitness report which emphatically discounts the idea of a single culprit. After Creon's initial vagueness the number and nature of the criminals are established, in the most natural manner. as a visible fact. At the same time it is the notion of the single perpetrator which subconsciously takes root in Oedipus' mind, his own words circling back on himself as the real criminal. 11 Thus Creon's spoken message matches the message of his entry: 'appearance' is substantiated. And everything is made to hang on the single thread of visual evidence. All the servants in Laius' retinue were killed except the fleeing eyewitness and all that he saw was uncertain except the 'robbers'. 12 The king, however, takes up the threat to kingship; the eyewitness himself is passed over, a nameless nobody. But the man who simply saw is waiting in the wings. The foundation of final revelation, the meeting between the great king and the faceless servant, has been laid. The report of robbers quickly engenders the suspicion of bribery

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and implants a whole new illusion which belongs to the drama, which is inherent in the very theatrical situation and fostered by it: the actual threat to Oedipus himself becomes a threat to the city which he embodies and to the office of the king which increasingly preoccupies him. The given illusion of the traditional tale begins to be propped up not only by apparent truth but by its collusion with dramatic circumstance.13 And why, asks Oedipus finally, was a crime of such magnitude not followed up? Creon's last response yields the result of the whole enquiry, a pattern of mystery: The riddling Sphinx had made us let unseen things (aphane] go and (130-1} was constraining us to look at what was at our doors. Oedipus seizes on the words which summon him to his appointed role: No, from a new start I shall again bring them to light [phano]. (132) The symbolism which introduced Creon returns in full prominence to link his coming with a mystery of the past. Creon's arrival represents a second visual challenge, Apollo's on this occasion, not the Sphinx's. Moreover, the outcome of the meeting with Creon is the outcome of the prologue itself. The taking up of the challenge is the cuhnination of Oedipus' part in the opening scene. For the solver of riddles this is not a new and strange encounter but a confident resumption of his proper calling: Oedipus is again14 the great bringer of light, 1S Before Oedipus retires to the palace he bids the suppliants rise with all speed from the altars and lift their suppliant branches. But, in the same breath, he demands another assembly of the Theban people as proof of his intention; he leaves the stage 'to act', which is, by his own explanation, 'to be made manifest': For either we shall be seen [phanoumeth help or fallen.

1 successful with the god's ( 145-6)

The last speech itself, of which these are the parting words, is framed by the visual imagery, but its meaning has switched from active to passive. The role of revealer implies the fate, revelation, but in a way which finally casts the victor as the victim. 16

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Oedipus makes his exit, followed by Creon who probably allows a moment to pass in order to underline Oedipus' first step to discovery. Now, at the request of the old priest, the crowd of suppliants rises, each taking their branch from the altars, and makes its way down the par40 (prouphane) in speech, saying that Oedipus was doomed to lie with his mother, that he would 'manifest before the eyes of men a breed unendurable to see', and that he would slay his own father. The impression is one of evil clarity, fashioned from the light of the oracular god and, significantly, unendurable to the eye. Oedipus, when he flees Corinth (794), is fleeing the fate which the eyes cannot endure; he makes for some place where he should 'never see' fulfilment of the evil prophecies (796). The horrendous content of the revelation is foreshown: incest, and with it the logic of self-blinding. But only now comes the part of the story where he has to brace himself to be frank and truthful (800), the meeting at the three ways. In his mind what has preceded is an escape from a mysterious fate, something he wants to share with Jocasta but irrelevant to his main concern, the slaying of a man whom he shudders to think is Laius, Jocasta's fonner lord. There is no inkling that the man he has killed is his own father - because this is what he still fears in relation to Polybus; prompted by the prospect of being exiled from Thebes, the old anxiety returns and again his eyes are the objects of the assault foreboded. The thought that he must on no account 'see' his own kind in Corinth (824) grows into the final dread-filled prohibition: Forbid, forbid, 0 pure and awful gods, that I should see that day! No, may I disappear [aphantos] from men's sight before I see such (830-3) a stain of disaster fixed on me. ~

Thus, at the conclusion of his personal history, it is the horrendous

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vision of Apollo that returns to haunt him. The conscious apprehension, concerning the incident at the three ways, is enclosed by the deeper terror of seeing, which is mysteriously brought to the surface by his recollection of the fatal meeting. And how the confident tone and phrasing of his given language has changed. This now is the language of a man who will blind himself. And there is something else forewarned in the wish to obliterate himself; the polluted one will himself be an unendurable sight to the eyes of others. But even as regards the lesser fear concerning Laius' death he entertains a hope: there is the eyewitness. This is the second time in this scene that the eyewitness has been brought up and a certain design in detectable. The real and ominous visual significance of his coming is matched by the illusory and hopeful. The sequence is important. The illusion comes as a response to the visual terror of Apollo and, fed by desperation, is manufactured from the single detail omitted from the initial anxious process of corroboration. Oedipus is the one to reintroduce the 'herdsman', as he is now called. Jocasta, now more reluctant than before, questions the need: Whatever is the confidence you place in his appearance fpephas(838) menou J? It is consistent with Jocasta's primary purpose and natural to her way of speaking that she wants to know what his arrival represents in visible terms. She is already preparing to use him as a prop for her own cause against prophecy. And she receives the answer she needs; there is still the contradiction of the number, the story that Laius was killed by many. Clinging to the role she came to fulfil Jocasta, in the face of Oedipus' hesitancy, transforms the verbal report into a permanent and unalterable visible fact, a matter of public record: No, be sure that the word was thus brought to light fphanen J and he cannot unsay it, for the city heard these things, not I alone. (848-50) Jocasta presses it further. Even supposing that the servant were to modify his tale, she regards her main visual evidence to be unassailable by the herdsman's: Never, lord, can he bring to light [phanei] that Laius' death at least truly conf arms with prophecy, since Loxias expressly said that he

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would die at the hands of my child.

(851-4)

Jocasta has not moved from her opening stance and the 'facts' of the second declaration are the same. But whereas previously the visual proofs were 'concise' and sweeping, here they are put back together in a more elaborate formulation which is not quite logical and which has the air of desperation. 41 Jocasta has it that, whatever the herdsman says, her visual world remains intact. Her intention is clearly to account for the herdsman, to provide comfort and allay the fears on her own and once and for all. This is no longer the confident demonstration of a manifest truth, it is a struggle to maintain appearance. But it will not do for Oedipus; his response to Jocasta's more passionate reassertion of faith is non-committal and he insists that she summon the herdsman. The scene in fact ends ambiguously, with Jocasta's role unfilfilled. When she takes Oedipus into the house he is still the troubled one, she still the comforter. The man that 'nobody sees' or has bothered to see is not the hinge of the whole visual dilemma. And he who has persistently spoken of a single culprit now pins all his hopes on the tale that the murder was committed by many. It is not simply this scene which waits upon the crucial seizure of the eyewitness's importance but the whole of the preceding action, since he was first mentioned. The omen of his 'unique' survival approaches fulfilment. The scepticism of Jocasta and Oedipus' acquiescence is followed by the central Choral ode of the play which is an impassioned appeal for purity and piety .42 The elders' mood has become one of grave disquiet at what they take to be blasphemy and they assert the traditional values of religion and morality. Without explicitly censuring the two figures who have just withdrawn, they complain of a criminal and arrogant contempt for the gods. In particular the whole of divine prophecy is threatened and they pray, without realising the dire implications for their lord, that the 'fading' oracles of Laius may be fulfilled. Their whole utterance converges on the decline of Apollo's worship which is summed up in a last despairing thought: And nowhere is Apollo manifest [emphanes] in honours and religion (909-10) is gone. The eclipse of Apollo is particularly impressive in the light of their previous ode of which the present utterance is to a large extent a recantation. There the visibility of Apollo was proclaimed but counterbalanced by the visibility of Oedipus. Here the vindication of Oedipus seems to entail the fading of Apollo. As we have seen, the play can be

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viewed in terms of the relationship between Apollo and Oedipus, both bringers of light. At this important stage the balance which was previously conceived is now shown to be impossible. It is man against god. Enter Jocasta, accompanied by an attendant bearing emblems of Apollo's worship. The god, with marvellous irony, is given visible honour on cue, as it were, and by the one who blasphemed against him. Her entry is quite unexpected and gives the impression of unfinished business, to bring release from fear. She has been trying to comfort Oedipus inside and now, quite clearly as an afterthought and as a last resort, approaches the altar of the god whom she has just scorned and who happens to be 'very near'. Jocasta has brought with her offerings of incense and a branch wreathed in wool to lay on the altar. No sooner has she offered her brief prayer for deliverance than an old traveller appears from the parodos, eagerly entering the acting area but strange to his surroundings and obviously looking for something. The timing is miraculous and it is evident from the messenger's first words, addressed as they are to the Chorus, that Jocasta is still before the -~tar. Apollo has answered; the 'unseen' god is made manifest. 43 ~Thus Apollo has come, as he always does, as an 'appearance' of truth: the intervention seems to be fortuitous, the messenger seems to be a stranger, the news seems to be good. But immediately the spectator sees through to a reality which comes in the nature of a reversal. For Jocasta's approach to Apollo is the second such supplication, designed to remind us of the adoring crowd of the opening ceremony. 44 And it is not simply that concern for the whole city is now concern for the king. How different is the answer to prayer! There Oedipus appeared forth like a god, the giver of light and comfort. Here he is behind the scenes, stricken with fear (922-3); and it is god himself who comes to Oedipus. But this is not all. Taken with Jocasta's reappearance, the effect is of one unexpected entry after another. This is not the herdsman summoned 'in haste' but a complete stranger from Corinth. There is a sudden waywardness about the action which contrasts noticeably with the planned appearances of Creon and Teiresias and which actually sets back Oedipus' latest arrangement, the arrival of the herdsman. This 'loss of control' is made all the more apparent by the conspicous absence of Oedipus, who has overseen previous arrivals. In fact this man has to seek Oedipus out and he does so in a curiously playful way, his· first homely enquiry seemingly making sport of the similar sound in Greek of Oedipus' name and the word for 'where'. 45 And, for the first time, there is a play on the double role of Jocasta, who is

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introduced as mother and wife. What is new, then, about this arrival is the sense of a pursuing doom, of a fiendish game in which appearance actively seeks out its victim, that the reality which awaits may be all the more crushing. The absence of Oedipus also plays up the dominant but still unfulfilled role of Jocasta. It is her prayer that is answered, one charade calling forth another. But let it be said that she is not looking for her own comfort but, as is hinted in her manner of enquiry into the messenger's purpose, for some further 'token' (semenai)perhaps that will bring comfort to her husband. The fact that she is there to receive the news means that she can usurp the messenger's function and relieve her husband's anxieties personally and in her own way. The old man gleefully lingers over his secret, mysteriously characterising it in advance as joyful, yet somewhat distressing, and holding back the actual word till the last moment: the people of Corinth will make Oedipus their new king - Polybus is dead. Jocasta, true to her nature, is immediately satisfied, despatching her maid-servant to bring Oedipus, while she proclaims the falseness of oracles. The irony of the visual sequence, the prayer and the response, is here marvellously brought out. Jocasta, who only approached the god as a last resort, takes a clear demonstration of the divine power as confirmation of her scepticism. Moreover, it is for her a visible thing: Oedipus is summoned to 'look at' the state of prophecy. His re-emergence, which is instant upon the summons, is the last of a flurry of entrances which immeasurably increases the excitement of the unexpected turn of events. Jocasta is the one to tell him, but only of the death of Polybus; the old man is very put out at having to 'clarify' the last and, to him, distressing part of his news. And Oedipus yields to a way of seeing, the one no less to which he was summoned: 'Why, indeed, my wife, should a man look at the hearth of the Pythian seer?' The messenger looks on in astonishment as the joy now rings out between the two people before him. The exclusion of the 'stranger' from the dialogue is important: for the moment he is out of things, his signals of good and bad confused, his role spoiled. But then the seeming settlement of Oedipus' anxiety concerning his father is suddenly overshadowed by the lingering fear of his mother. How like Oedipus to be cautious in hope and how Jocasta responds in her way: a man must dismiss such notions; many before now slept with their mother in dreams also (981-2). The point about this most famous passage is not primarily the technical one,46 that dreams as well as oracles were regarded as prophetic, but the ironic one that Jocasta is

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discounting such horror as 'fantasy' when the horror is real, there before us in the relationship on the stage. But the haunting fear of his 'living' mother is not laid to rest and Oedipus' apprehension draws forth Jocasta's best effort, perhaps the most striking example of her technique: But yet the tomb of your father is a great eye.

(987)

There is in the equation of a death with comfort a single-mindedness of purpose which epitomises Jocasta's whole performance and it turns out to be her last attempt to console. But it is the concreteness of the expression which also impresses. The metaphor not only gives the sense of a bright and sudden comfort but is also delivered as the concise summary of the gathering visual meaning which is being created out of the messenger's arrival: the tomb of Polybus helps them to see that oracles are of no account. 47 But Oedipus is not completely satisfied, still troubled by the nagging fear of 'her who lives'. This is the opportunity that the old man has been waiting for: he is bursting with the very news that will allay Oedipus' residual fear. He can be important again and win his reward. It is now Jocasta's turn to look on, powerless to stop the joyful chatter of the man who now takes over from her. The 'real' movement of the scene which takes place in its latter half is contained in her silence. She is, from first to last, the visual focus of the remaining action, and it is not simply the fact of her protracted silence which makes her so. Almost immediately, as the herdsman first prepares, with obvious relish, the ground for his new and staggering revelation, Oedipus returns regretfully to the parents he has had to keep away from: But nevertheless it is the sweetest thing to see the eyes of parents. 48 (999) This striking image is one of Oedipus gazing at his parents and his parents gazing at him, a picture of cheated rapture which is the natural preface to his eventual excitement at the prospect which the herdsman is about to offer, new parents. But said in the presence of Jocasta the actual effect is one of terrible unawareness. Thus with increasing emphasis the long stage relationship begins truly to be exploited as a blind encounter; and what the silent Jocasta brings finally into full play - and it should be noted that the end of her role is approaching - is the fundamental ambiguity of perception which the beginning of

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the scene introduced, the double role of mother and wife. The stranger's actual words of 'comfort' are that Polybus is no more the father of Oedipus than he himself is. And it is his greatest joy to tell the story of how he personally rescued Oedipus as a foundling long ago, on the slopes of Mount Cithaeron. The lowly 'stranger' turns out to be a virtual father to the king as the mask of formality is dropped and the homely and playful manner of the old man becomes true familiarity:

Son, it ispretty 49 clear that you don't know what you are doing. (1008) Meanwhile Oedipus, too, has changed the style of address from 'stranger' to 'aged sire'. 50 Strangeness is suddenly closeness. It is impossible to know whether the reallocation of the speaking part, from Jocasta to the messenger, implies a realignment of the groupings on-stage, but the clearest impression of the long and exclusive exchange between Oedipus and the messenger is that Jocasta has become detached in consequence of Oedipus' new involvement. As she is brought to the realisation of her real and dreadful closeness, he is withdrawing into the humble world of the messenger, the world of final illusion. Oedipus' long inquisition of the messenger leads ultimately to the herdsman, who has already been summoned; the man who handed over the child to the old man is identified as none other than the man who saw the murder of Laius. This is not simply a device to serve dramatic economy. The external intrusion of the Corinthian and the inner struggle before the palace at Thebes converge upon the same ominous figure; chance turns out to be the mere appearance of chance, the deceptive vehicle of a single gathering doom. Moreover, this review of the herdsman's stage appearance gives a clear indication of the ironic turnabout: Jocasta's illusions about his coming (848ff.) are now replaced by Oedipus'. The symmetrical design is marked by the return of the visual imagery which gradually rises to a second peak of intensity, defining anew, through Oedipus' eyes, the visual expectations of the awaited arrival. At first, before the identity is realised, Oedipus is anxious 'to see' the man in question. Then he demands the 'sign' (semenath) which he is sure is the key to final revelation (1050) has anyone present 'seen' him? The Chorus thinks that it is the same man that Oedipus was seeking 'to see before' but suggests that Jocasta might best speak to that. Thus, marvellously, the task of identification falls, like a stone,

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on the long-silent 'wife'. She has to struggle against an identification which has already been made. And the herdsman is already on his way! Her desperate attempt to dismiss his significance, which marks the climax of her growing fear about his arrival since she first volunteered that he was readily available, is now a losing cause; it merely promotes Oedipus' more and more vehement belief in the ultimate visual meaning which the herdsman represents for the fulfilment of his great role; at this point he will not be satisfied until he 'sees' him:

It could not be that, with such signs [semeia]in my grasp, I will not bring to tight fphano] my birth. (1058-9) Within the context of his 'scene' with Jocasta his words are reminiscent of her first presumptions (71 O). He ends the meeting where she began; and it is his turn to claim what will and what will not be made visible by the herdsman: Take courage; even if I shall be seen fphano] thrice a slave from a mother who is thrice a slave, you will not be seen [ekphanei] (1062-3) base. The climactic formulation of the imagery, taken with the one that immediately precedes, involves a noticeable switch from the active to the passive mode; it is the victim once more who speaks. Here, at last, the concern round which his images of sight cluster, is the fundamental one, birth. But what he 'visualises' is all a final and most desperate illusion; he disassociates from his own origins the woman who is most horribly bound up with them, her true intimacy made evident by her silence. The illusion does not materialise out of the blue; it arises from the external situation. The arrival of the old messenger, now silent once more, has given the dilemma of appearance and reality yet another shape: the paradox of the mother and the wife is reinforced by the paradox of the lowly and the noble. This last divergence of perception is set up by the figure of Jocasta, who becomes the medium through which Oedipus and the spectator interpret the situation: a wife's silence for Oedipus, a mother's for the spectator. The issue is resolved by Oedipus' insistence that the herdsman be brought forthwith. Once finalised, the arrival prompts the sudden and immediate departure of Jocasta. The appearance which the inner drama has all along been preparing for and which has here emerged as the final battleground for the contest between illusion and reality is at hand. With

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his certain coming reality approaches in its final disguise. And there will be no power of easy comfort or concealment to meet this last challenge; Jocasta is gone and the contest is over. Jocasta 'rushes' from the scene with a cry of anguish, her last avowed utterance. The silence (1075) to which the Chorus ominously draws our attention is not a theatrical silence but rather reticence~ 1 the Chorus is underscoring Jocasta's own parting threat, that she will speak no more. 52 Thus the long initial silence ends in the permanent silence of a last anguished purpose. The passionate dissuasion which intervenes is a brief and hopeless struggle. Oedipus misperceives Jocasta's entire performance and the 'silent' exit is the culmination of the deception, not only entrenching his original illusion - he immediately reacts by repeating his unalterable resolve to 'see' his origins even if they be lowly ( 1076- 7) - but also elevating it into a new and more thrilling vision. Sophocles makes it clear that this is an exchange; Oedipus dismisses the 'vain wife' 53 (1078-9) to embrace the 'mother' who gave him birth, beneficent Fortune. The real mother has been exchanged for the illusory. The end of the scene makes finally explicit the underlying irony of perception with which the scene began, the still inconceivable mingle of mother and wife in the one figure. Oedipus' mood of elevation infects the loyal Chorus who, with all foreboding miraculously gone, fills out Oedipus' vision of his birth with the most exalted possibilities, the supreme delusion before the most hideous revelation. The brevity of the ode makes a preceding exit by Oedipus unlikely since he would have to return almost immediately, a movement made doubly awkward by the presence of the messenger who would have to accompany him. No, the man perched on the abyss is there; so too is his newly important companion, the old man who represents the half-realised past which awaits fulfilment. 54 The messenger, silent since the devastating disclosure of his encounter with a herdsman long ago, is the visual link between the first and second scenes of revelation. His staying is unusual, his meddlesome role clearly not yet complete. Cithaeron - in the Chorus's exultant imaginings the natural haunt of gods and so the native soil of Oedipus' divinity - is about to come alive in the recreation of a far more humble, a far more painful scene of the hero's first beginning. The third party of those fateful events is awaited. The introductipn of the man who will reveal all is finely conceived. The arrival is an elaborate affair, very similar to Creon's in its exploitation of the long entry from the parodos, but also reminiscent of Teiresias' entry. The herdsman appears supported on either side by two

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of Oedipus' attendants. He is of venerable age, clothed in rustic garb, and probably rests upon a shepherd's staff. His progress is slow and he is led towards Oedipus. The contrast with the eager and playful entry of the Corinthian which immediately precedes is very striking; here is the man who has purposely avoided facing the king. And the messenger, we remember, had to seek Oedipus out; the herdsman enters to a waiting reception. Indeed the most clearly marked antithesis is the sudden unexpectedness of the Corinthian's arrival against the weight of expectation which the Theban inherits. And this expectation is immediately put on the highest stretch by the commentary from the stage which accompanies the last reluctant steps of the herdsman towards the fateful meeting with Oedipus. 55 As with the very first arrival of Crean, it is a question of 'seeing' and Oedipus, bringing to bear the same calculating mind, makes guesses and pieces together a visual encounter which 'he has not yet come across' (I 110). As the old man first comes into view, Oedipus 'seems to see' the herdsman whom they have been seeking. But he turns to the elder, since they have 'seen' the man before. After the Chorus's reassurance he turns to the old messenger for his: yes, this is the man whom you 'see'. The role of eyewitness to which so much was originally attached is forgotten; the new evidence from Thebes and Corinth converges to certify the real but elusive visual significance of the herdsman. He is trapped and when he actually comes before the king it is quite clear from Oedipus' first insistent command that he will not 'look' his master in the face (1121)! This long-delayed appearance is the perfect one for the man who saw but who did not wish to be seen. Moreover, it is marvellously ironic that Oedipus alone 'seems to see' the figure of fate for the first time. The stage is set, finally, for the second meeting and the true seeing. The scene reunites the three people involved in the meeting on Mount Cithaeron long ago. The mysterious pain of a long-forgotten past is brilliantly re-created. One of the great achievements of the play is the vivid sense we have that we are watching a repeat, a psychological re-living of the events rather than a dramatisation of the events themselves. As the play opens in the aura of Oedipus' success - the solving of the Sphinx' riddle - so now, and most naturally at the end, his most remote past - the second riddle - is brought to its light. The long years are carried in the figures on-stage: Oedipus - and the text is explicit on this point - is surrounded by old men, 56 and the one that matters, the old herdsman, is vague and forgetful. The contrast in the entries of the two old men is carried over into this, their second meeting: the Corinthian, who interferes almost immediately, cannot

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stop chattering; the herdsman in the event has to be forced to speak. The messenger takes it upon himself to jog the other's memory and, all unknowingly and with matter-of-fact cheerfulness, hurries on the approaching doom. When he triumphantly points to Oedipus as the very boy that the Theban gave him the herdsman first absorbs the full horror of what is unfolding. He screams at the Corinthian to hold his tongue; but it is too late. The rest of the scene takes place between Oedipus and the herdsman with the old messenger looking on, much like Jocasta in the preceding scene, while his 'help' turns into disaster. His role is over at the moment that he traps the herdsman. Oedipus extracts the truth from the horror-stricken herdsman word by word, threatening him with torture and death if he does not speak out. It is important and highly dramatic that the herdsman comes to his full realisation at the precise instant that Oedipus takes over. The final confrontation is between one who knows all and one who must know all. After the initial evasion Oedipus orders his attendants to twist the old man's arms behind his back and every word of truth that comes out is forced from a prisoner and a slave. Only thus is revelation achieved.57 Moreover, the physical seizure of the herdsman is the theatrical culmination of a development, the tangible grasping of an elusive truth. From the first insubstantial rumour the drama has progressively closed in on a figure of constantly shifting significance. The very scene in which he makes his appearance is a gradual process of entrapment; he arrives reluctantly and under escort; he is first identified by all, disarmed by the messenger, cornered and finally. pinned down by Oedipus. With all that has been unearthed it is amazing how many questions need to be answered and how many connections confirmed: he did hand over the child to the Corinthian; it belonged to the house of Laius; it was the son of Laius; Jocasta gave it to him in the first instance; it was given to be exposed; she heard an oracle that it would kill his father. The actual facts are now established; the last question of all, 58 is of a different order: why did the herdsman save him? The whole meaning of the tragedy rests on the reply, the herdsman's final utterance: it was an act of simple human pity that preserved Oedipus for this most horrible of fates. The scene on Cithaeron has given up its secret and only now, after the answer to this last enquiry, is the cry of revelation heard: Ah! Ah! Everything has come out clear. 0 light, may I now look upon you for the last time,/ have been seen [pephasmai] accursed 59 in being born from those I was born from, accursed in living with

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those I have lived with, accursed in the killing of those I killed. (1182-5) Thus is the climactic scene, like those which precede it, a process of visible substantiation, a final true act of seeing. With these last agonised words Oedipus rushes frantically into the palace. 60 The great bringer of light, now that light has come, cannot bear to look upon it. This is the anguish of a man who leaves to destroy his sight. Revelation is one brief, piercing moment of physical light before darkness; and the horror of his whole existence flashes before us, all falling on the single word, 'I have been seen'. The final emphasis is not on his seeing, but on the object of sight which he declares himself to be. The phase of revelation is over and a new phase announced, the exhibition which the imagery foreshadowed from the first. The presence of the two old men should not be forgotten. 61 This is their revelation too. The great king of the grand opening scene is discovered before their humble presence and through their crude agency. In Sophocles the irony of appearance and reality often breaks down into a contrast between the lowly and the noble; it is the humble who are the carriers of truth and here Oedipus' fallen greatness is set beside the simple humanity which can know no such fall. With the frantic departure they are left stricken and uncomprehending for a moment before they go their separate ways and slowly out of sight, down the parodoi. This is a triple departure. The image is one of disintegration; a whole world has been shattered. The ode which ensues is a lamentation of the fall.62 The fate of the great king is presented as a universal paradigm of man's transitory and shadowy existence. And the main constituents of the reversal are exposed within the framework of his, mankind's, inevitable expulsion from illusion, the movement which we have just watched accomplished on-stage. The lesson is immediately and vividly drawn at the start in the fonn of a question: For what man, what man wins more of happiness than a seeming and after that a falling away? ( 1189-92) The elders are referring not only to Oedipus' illusions about himself, but also to their own illusions about him. And the answer is given in terms of the theatrical presentation: the images of Oedipus' former popular fame make up a lyrical reminiscence of the opening spectacle, the very 'seeming' which has dominated the play's

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perspective. In like fashion the second part of the ode asks the question and answers with the 'evidence' of the new reality, incest. Here, in preparation for the closing spectacle, the language - which now carries its literal meaning - sets forth a reality now truly visible: Time the all-seeinghas found you out against your will.

(1213)

The traditional idea of time as revealer is a favourite one of Sophocles but here the unwillingness of the victim is introduced as an important special element which attunes us to the initial distinction to be made between what has been seen and what remains to be seen; Oedipus, even at the last, did not foresee the result of his search,63 whereas the spectacle he is about to make of himself comes after knowledge has been achieved, a deliberate self-chosen act. At the end the horrified Chorus can only wish that it had never 'seen' Oedipus (I 217-18) and the ode draws its final bitter conclusion: To say it true, through you I got new breath and through you I have (1220-2) now laid my eye to sleep. The image of the closed eye is the prelude to the most shocking visual disclosure. Enter the second messenger from the palace. He has two tales of woe to reveal, one which will be heard and one which will be 'seen' (I 224), one which the palace conceals and one which it will soon 'bring forth to the light' (phanei, 1229). The distinction prepares for the great exhibition of suffering which focuses on Oedipus alone: Jocasta's suicide will only be heard; we shall behold Oedipus' self-mutiliation. And this visual revelation is to be of a different kind than that which preceded; these woes are 'willed' this time, not 'unwilled' (1230) and we are warned that those sufferings are most painful which are 'seen' (phanos') to be 'self-chosen'. For all the climactic power of the previous revelation words cannot carry the culmination of truth and pain. The true climax is to be an actual visible presentation. 64 As promised, we first hear of the suicide of Jocasta, the pain of which, the Chorus is reminded, is absent because it is not for them to 'see'. Moreover, even in the telling, the fate of Jocasta is not presented fully or in its own right, but in its effect on Oedipus. We are pointedly deprived of a visual description of her last moments: she has locked herself away and Oedipus had prevented anyone from 'seeing' her death through to the end (1253). All eyes in fact switch (1254) to the

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frantic figure of Oedipus; he breaks down the bolt to reveal and to see for himself her hanging corpse. And her woe immediately gives way to the 'terrible sight' on which the whole narrative converges and whose horror by contrast is described in loving detail. Snatching the brooches from her dress and right before her outstretched corpse, Oedipus smites his own eyes again and again, addressing them directly: Saying words like these, that they would not see more the evils that he was suffering and working but henceforth in darkness they would see those whom they ought never to have seen, and not know those whom he once desired to know! (1271-4) The assault on himself is made against the single offending part, his eyes, eyes which have seen what they shoul(j not have seen and not seen what they should have seen. He is punishing the eyes which did not in the past perform their due function and also shutting himself off for the future from a light he can no longer endure. The emphasis is on the darkness that he imposes but there is in the confusion of seeing and non-seeing an impression that the eyes that did not see in the past will see in the future - albeit in darkness. The self-blinding contains the suggestion of true seeing. The tale of the horror within prepares us for the exhibition which the messenger first promised and to which he now gives final introduction. Oedipus cries for someone 'to open the bolts' and 'show' him to all the Thebans. As has been well observed there are no biers, no eccyclema, no apparatus. 65 The hero of this play puts himself on show. After the self-blinding comes self-exposure66 and the self-blinding becomes other than it was. It is no longer a personal affair; this is done for Thebes. He makes an emblem of himself, he brings to light what was always there, his own blindness. This is the awesome fulfilment of the public commitment he first made. Moreover, the circle of doom which the visual imagery, now active in meaning, now passive, kept ever before us is perfectly realised in the entry of one who is both revealer and revealed. What the messenger also tells us is that Oedipus' purpose as well is self-exile, but that he lacks strength and someone to guide him. This third and final self-infliction is the issue which is worked out in the course of the scene. For the present, as the messenger reaches the climax of his long introduction, the sight itself fills all thought: For the sickness is too great to bear. And he will show it to you also, for, look, the barriers of the gates are opening, and you will

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soon see a sight which even one who hates must pity.

(1293-6)

The immediate preface to Oedipus' return is thus framed, in a very striking way, by the same blending of images; the barriers are unlocked, the cavern opens, the gruesome truth breaks forth. The emergence of Oedipus is a shocking spectacle. After the long and grisly tale of woe - and the constant warnings that we are on the verge of seeing it - the entry possesses an imagined aspect of horror which is fully matched by the actual physical impression.67 He stumbles on to the stage, groping in his blindness, with his mask, now bloodstained, showing the terrible self-mutilation. He does not speak for a moment; the Chorus responds to a sight only: 0 terrible suffering for men to see, 0 most dread of all that I have met. (1297-9) And then they actually turn away from a 'sight' (1303), which fills them with fascination and horror at the same time {1305). After the great climax which saw Oedipus' departure, his return posed the danger of being anti-climactic.68 But the sensational visual event that Sophocles creates out of the return is not a gratuitous theatrical gesture. It is prefigured in the play's imagery, it is the seer's vision realised, it is the sight of sights in a tragedy which is about seeing. As in the beginning so in the end Oedipus draws the gaze of all. The Chorus's shock at Oedipus' physical condition is from the first bound up with the question which dominates the kommos: what possible purpose did Oedipus have in blinding himselfl 69 The elders' horrible fascination with the suffering that they see (again at 1312) is set against Oedipus' new experience of darkness, its physical torture and the tortures of memory. There is at first no communication and recognition is effected by the sound of his loyal friend's voice. The question is put again: how did he endure to 'quench' his own vision? What spirit moved him to it? His answer: it was Apollo, but it was his very own hands that did the deed. This is a true insight;10 he sees, behind his own self-willed acts, the mysterious agency that the spectator has been aware of all along. As with the revelation so with the self-blinding, Apollo is somehow responsible. When Oedipus recognises Apollo he recognises the larger pattern of his tragedy, the strange and irresistible coming of self-knowledge.71 This is not to deny Oedipus' own despairing purpose which he goes on to declare:

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What need was there for me to see, for whom in seeing there was ( 1334-5) nothing sweet to see? But this is a more rational formulation than his first instinctive accusation of his eyes ( 1271), and its inadequacy as a final solution is almost immediately felt in his anguished demand for a more comprehensive excommu~cation, exile. And certainly with the further explication of his suffering, the Chorus is not convinced that living in blindness is better than death. The kommos concludes with its main question unanswered: why the blinding? The failure invites Oedipus to justify his act, now for a third time 72 and at length. The first part of the speech is a catalogue of the visual ordeals he has escape from, the first one countering the Chorus's specific challenge that death were better: For, if I had sight, I did not know with what eyes I could ever have seen my father when I came to the house of Hades, or my unhappy mother ... But do you suppose that the sight of children, born as they were born, was desirable for me to gaze upon? No, never with my eyes. Nor was the town [for me to see] nor the tower nor the holy statues of the gods, of which I deprived myself, by my own command that all should thrust away the impious one, the one seen [phanenta] to be unholy and of Laius' line. After branding such a stain on me was I to see these citizens with (1371-86) steady eyes? No, least of all! With what rhetoric now is one sight after another raised and dismissed by the blind one! What an array of visions is now banished from his eyes. But it is not enough. The very explicitness and cumulative power of the justification anticipates its falsification. There is no escape from memory; and the last part of the speech is a long apostrophe of the horrors in his life, not banished but vividly before him. The sequence of the speech and of the whole scene shows the illusion of Oedipus' solution: with the subsidence of physical pain the mental torment takes over. And the outcome proves the point: Oedipus ends up in a self-contradiction. After demanding to be brought into the light he now demand to be 'hidden' away - where the Chorus will 'see' him no more - after arguing against death he now begs to be killed. What also impresses is his utter helplessness. The blinding makes the once great

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man of action a totally passive figure; unable to make his way to the Chorus, he bids the elders approach and touch him and not be afraid. But any possible movement is prevented by the approach of Creon. The problem - what to do with Oedipus - is left to Creon, king in Oedipus' stead (1418). The visual scene at this point, with Oedipus begging to be approached, is the scene in the prologue in reverse, and Creon's arrival, there eagerly awaited, is here cause of grave apprehension. The words which are assigned to Oedipus are carefully chosen: What ground for trust can be made visible (phaneitai] by me? For in the past I have been discovered false to him in everything. (1420-1) The very accusation he made against Creon before is applicable to himself. The arrival of Creon brings reversal. Whatever is made of this controversial final scene, this fact is inescapable. It is reversal that Oedipus must stand up to, it is reversal which supplies the elusive true meaning of the self-blinding. Creon first gives reassurance that he is not there to mock or cast reproach. 73 This basic humanity provides the context for the working out of the issue which he inherits from the Chorus: will Oedipus be taken into exile, his own first and insistent desire and the finale promised throughout the play? But Creon, shocked by the impiety of the 'uncovered head' immediately orders that Oedipus be moved into the house, as an affront to the sun and to the light of day, as a 'sight' fit only for kinsmen. The actual conflict does not appear to be significant: Oedipus presses for his own method of removing himself from all contact with men, exile. But a massive reversal of direction is at stake. '14 The oracle of Apollo, Teiresias' dire predictions, Oedipus' own imprecations, all point to the exile of the polluted one. And there is even a place marked out for the wanderer, Cithaeron. It was Creon who first declared the 'manifest' bidding of Apollo. Yet now that it is literally manifest before him he wants to consult the god again and be sure. So, too, Oedipus, the one who saw mystery, now has the clearest understanding of the oracle (1440); he knows that exile is his destiny, he knows that he has been preserved for some special fate. Moreover, the myth of his wanderings tells the audience that he will be proved right. The resurgence of Oedipus' imperious manner which has been well recognised in this final scene75 is connected with this sure vision of his future. In this he sees more than the pious Creon.

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The display of suffering comes to its climax with the arrival of his two daughters. Oedipus has begged Creon to be allowed to touch and hold them. Already he is contradicting the whole purpose of the selfmutilation: his hands are to be his eyes (1469-70). The generosity of Creon is immediately substantiated, an unquestioned thing. Oedipus hears their sobs, he gropes for them, and they come and cling to their father: 'O children.' With this repeated echo of the opening spectacle the reversal is brought home with crushing power, the tableau of exaltation set against the tableau of ruin. As the crowd was silent so now are his daughters. Here, at last, is the real father with the real children. He stoops down, bringing his bloody sockets level with his children's gaze: Come here, come to these hands of mine, hands of your brother, hands of your father, which made these once bright eyes to see in this way - his, who neither seeing nor knowing was seen [ephanthen] to become your father by her from whom he himself was born. For you also I weep since I have no power to see you, when I think of the bitter life in the future. (1480-7) The whole visual meaning of his fate is condensed into this, the final formulation of the play's controlling imagery. Still there is the seeing and the being seen. After showing himself to Thebes he shows himself to the silence of children and horror turns to pity. The hands which so tenderly hold them are the hands which are imbued with the blind and the knowing abominations which he has done to himself. But, above all, they are the hands that 'see': he 'feels' the horror he has created and again in his blindness he speaks of 'seeing', which at this point is not the fulfilment of his first anguished purpose, the physical assault, but a new kind of inner vision. The external victory is Creon's. Oedipus first wins his way: he gets Creon to give him his hand in promise that he will care for his daughters. But then, immediately, Creon puts an end to the lamentation and enforces his wishes that Oedipus go into the house. There is still one last flash of the old Oedipus as he resists and imposes the condition that he will proceed to exile. But Creon insists that he wait for what is god's gift. And it is not simply an exit but a forced and heart-wrenching separation from his children. However much we may perceive the 'recovery' of Oedipus in this final scene, the sequence is decisive. 76 The departure and separation come last and they represent the most devastating reversal; not only is the immediate will of Oedipus

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defeated, the direction of the drama and Oedipus' control over it is handed over to the untragic man, to the cautious Creon. Even in the final steps into the palace reversal is proclaimed; Oedipus, blind and helpless, is led off by Creon.77 How different from his first impressive appearance! The final departure may contradict the expectations of exile, but it is a superbly appropriate answer to the initiative of Oedipus' first entry. The tragedy of Oedipus is a pattern repeated, the solving of a second riddle. The hero sets out from a world erected on his previous success; the light he first brought is for the eyes to see; his intellectual reputation a visible and proven truth. The highly theatrical opening is a declaration of this visibility. What matters above all about Oedipus' stature, with all its determinants, is its clarity, the material impression. The rest of the play may rightly be regarded as the struggle to dismantle a vision, how Oedipus is seen and how he sees himself. The end of the play is the end of this struggle: when another vision materialises. Between the two great tableau-scenes there are exits and entrances which determine the scenic structure. And here visual significance is built in by imagery. In fact it is no exaggeration to say that Sophocles' favourite technique, the linking of visual image and visual effect, is the organising principle of composition. It is not sufficient merely to draw attention to the paradoxical imagery of the Teiresias scene, or to remark in a general way on the density of the visual imagery throughout the play. 78 The imagei-yof sight constitutes a wh~n--- sequence which has a distinctive pattern and which is inseparnected able from the development of scenes. Almost every arrival introduces a scene which begins and ends with a cluster of visual images; a visual problem is posed, a visual interpretation offered. This framework of imagery defines the character of each unit of development as a selfcontained proce~ of seeing, one step in the larger pattern of revelation. Once Oedipus has taken the stage he is confronted with a series of stage entries which test the great talent with which he is endowed in the opening ceremony, his capacity to see through a mystery. The sequence and pattern of the arrivals is all-important. There is an evident symmetry in the first and last pairs of scenes. The eagerness of Creon and reluctance of Teiresias are paralleled by the eagerness of the Corinthian and the reluctance of the Theban. In performance these long entrances from the parodos would have made an impression: a rhythm of appearance and reality, joy and grief. Moreover the effect is of a repeated process. And this is exactly the intent of the playwright.

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The man who comes first, Teiresias, carries the most expectations: he knows all. But the climax is premature and revelation fails. The man who comes last, who starts with the least expectations, who is dismissed in favour of Teiresias, is successful where the seer failed. After the full power of prophetic disclosure we must wait on the last detail. It is not the lord seer of Apollo who brings light but the humble herdsman. The impression of success after failure is very much a matter of scenic effect. And the sequence of scenes mirrors the sequence of imagery, the massive paradox anticipating the stage by stage revelation. Throughout the final phase Oedipus plays the active role, the interpreter of the visual signs. But his language from the beginning contains a passive as well as an active sense, an ominous indicator of the circular process. The re-entry of Oedipus after the self-blinding, helpless, groping forward, horribly mutilated, is the theatrical realisation of the visual imagery, but in its real and sinister significance: he becomes an object of sight. More than this, it is conscious self. revelation. Thus while externally the last portion of the tragedy shows others coming to terms with the sight of Oedipus it is also a process whereby Oedipus, in darkness, comes to terms with himself. Indeed the climax of the final sequence, which moves from the horror of the Chorus to the horror of Creon, is the silent innocence and incomprehension of the children, the deliberate contrast with Oedipus' awful understanding of himself. His first entry, the very embodiment of initiative and understanding, is the illusion. Only when he is forcibly separated from his children and leaves under the control of another is his true knowledge declared: self-knowledge. While it is true that Oedipus dominates the process of revelation he is yet surrounded by a whole cast of revealers. Whether reluctant or eager, unconscious or conscious, all bring their own visible 'truth'. And they are all dramatised as the agents of the divine revealer, Apollo. The god, who is detected, more or less dramatically, behind every arrival, becomes more and more manifest until that fine theatrical moment when he is summoned by the sceptical Jocasta from 'obscurity' and materialises in the guise of the old Corinthian. The climax is reached when Oedipus himself is also disclosed as the agent of Apollo: when the purpose of the hero is shown to merge with the purpose of god and the grim alliance stands revealed. The elders too, who are so closely bound up with the attitudes and moods of their king, are seized by the idea of visibility. Thus the images of sight are not monopolised by the great bringer of light, they are

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'the language of the play', which is to say the language of 'Apollo's coming'. The play, which is generally regarded as typifying the genius of Sophoclean artistry, is also most typical of the playwright's stagecraft. In the first place, while Oedipus the King does not have the theatricality of the Philoctetes it is, contrary to the impression often given, a drama of enormous visual power. The opening processional, with its divisions of age, its ritualistic character, its silence, is a truly spectacular beginning to the tragedy. The end is equally spectacular, the tableau of the two helpless children, also silent, clinging to their ruined father. The exploitation of children to evoke pathos is supposed to be Euripidean. Yet in two of seven plays, the Ajax and Oedipus the King, Sophocles employs just such an effect. And this is not to mention the heart-rending separation and reunion of the two daughters in the Oedipus at Co/onus. Enormity confronts innocence, terrible knowledge silent incomprehension. And how important is this scene in Oedipus the King; it comes last and it is that against which the beginning is measured. From success to ruin, from authority to impotence, from kingship to beggary, the reversal worked out by the whole play is very much a visual demonstration. Moreover, the scene of final pathos is but the climax of a long display of horror and suffering. The emergence of Oedipus, stumbling and self-mutilated, introduces a sight which is with us until the end of the play, no shorter 'a spectacle of horror' than the sight of Pentheus' impaled head in the Bacchae of Euripides. Best known for the brilliance and tautness of its plot-construction, for its exemplification of the Aristotelian ideal, Oedipus the King is very much a play for the stage. But it is in the harmonious blending of this spectacular element with the whole verbal and visual texture of the play that Oedipus the King of all the plays is most typical. The scenic form of the entire play is constructed from the relationship between visual language and visual effect. As the opening and closing spectacles are, beyond what they depict, visible declarations, so each scene of the development which links them is a visual process. And could there be a more logical outcome of the scenic design than the climax of self-disclosure? Could there be a more telling theatrical emblem of Sophocles' tragic view of man than the sightless and stumbling figure? This close harmony of visual technique and visual meaning, which achieves perfection in Oedipus the King, reveals the essence of Sophoclean dramaturgy, where stagecraft and tragic conception are always united by the idea of vision.

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Notes 1. The question, much discussed, turns on whether the entry represents an arrival proper or a conventional expedient to allow the opening tableau to be formed, the so-called 'cancelled entry'. P. Burian, "The Play before the Prologue: Initial Tableaux on the Greek Stage', Ancient and Modem: Essays in Honour of G.F. Else (University of Michigan Press, Ann Arbor, Mich., 1977), pp. 83-4, presents a convincing case for the complete stage presentation, which is fully formulated in the text as a ritual procession and which, as B.M.W. Knox has shown, Oedipus at Thebes (Yale University Press, New Haven, 1957), pp. 159-60, is dramatically of great significance; they come to Oedipus as to a god. The opening scene introduces an important ambiguity: the suppliants approach altars which are god's but also Oedipus' (16), and it is not make explicit at this point that one altar at least is Apollo's. At all events it is Oedipus who appears. The 'equation' with god is the first expression of a relationship which is only truly revealed when Oedipus at the last acknowledges the divine master of his fate, in a cry which recognises Apollo (1329) and in the final return to the house, in which, hidden away, he must await the god's word. For a thorough discussion of the general problem of the 'cancelled entry' see 0. Taplin, The Stagecraft of Aeschylus (Clarendon Press, Oxford, I 977), pp. 134-6. 2. R.C. Jebb's visualisation of the scene, in Jebb (ed.), The Oedipus Tyrannus (Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 1893). 3. There has been a certain reluctance to accept the presence of a large assembly. The main concern is the inconvenience of the exit of too large a number just prior to the arrival of the Chorus. This inconvenience is overstressed, given the spaciousness of the Greek theatre. For the extreme view see W.M. Calder III, "The Staging of the Prologue of Oedipus Tyrannus', Phoenix, vol. 13 (1959), pp. 121-9, who supposes that the audience was addressed from the stage as the people of Thebes, two mute boys being all that was required for the actual supplication. The notion of 'audience address' in the case of Greek tragedy has, however, been brought into serious doubt by D. Bain, 'Audience Address in Greek Tragedy', ClassicalQuarterly, n.s., vol. 25 (1975), pp. 13-25, whose arguments are further reinforced by Taplin, Stagecraft of Aeschylus, pp. 129-30. Most editors in fact accept the employment of a significant number of extras. But one word of caution is in order; clearly the group should not be larger than the Chorus that comes later as the representative body of the Theban people. On the question of composition, the text (16-19) has been suspected. See especially A.S. Henry, 'Sophocles, Oedipus Tyrannus: The Interpretation of the Opening Scene and The Text of 1. 18', ClassicalQuarterly, n.s., vol. 17 (1967), pp. 48-51. The three divisions of age, however, are accepted by most editors and represent categories appropriate for supplication. It may be that the children are in the majority. 4. It is possible, as Burian suggests, "The Play before the Prologue: Initial Tableaux on the Greek Stage', p. 83, that the spokesman of the group, the priest of Zeus, is given a prominence on-stage which might lead the audience to believe that he was there to open the proceedings. In this case the entry of Oedipus, unannounced as it is, would occur as something of a surprise. 5. There may be a retinue; Oedipus is a king and his wealth is not an insignificant aspect of his status. It is one of the three ideas apostrophised by Oedipus (380) and figures in the prophet's vision of the great reversal ( 455). But on-stage any attendants that Oedipus might have would not take away from the essential relationship of king and subjects. 6. The importance of this theme is the main concern of K. Reinhardt's brilliant study, Sophocles, trans. by H. and D. Harvey (Blackwell, Oxford, 1979), pp. 94-134. 7. The 'active' energy of Oedipus in his search for truth is reflected throughout

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in the explicitness of his language and in the control he exercises over events. 8. Jebb's stage direction, Oedipus Tyrannus, on 78. 9. Thus Reinhardt, Sophocles, p. 97. I 0. Jebb notes, Oedipus Tyrannus, on 105, how the colloquial usage skilfully conveys the tone of unconcern. 11. The skill and intricacy with which the theme of 'robber' and 'robbers' is developed is beyond the scope of this study. See especially the perceptive commentary of J.T. Sheppard (ed.), The Oedipus Tyrannus of Sophocles (Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 1920). 12. The uniqueness of the survivor and his visual evidence, very pronounced in the original, already hints at the irony of the dismissal. 13. The joining of the new illusion to the innate illusion is well brought out by Reinhardt, Sophocles, p. 99. 14. Surely 'again' has reference to the riddle (Jebb, Oedipus Tyrannus) not to the mystery of Laius' death (Sheppard, Oedipus Tyrannus of Sophocles) which was left unsolved. 15. He becomes, in Reinhardt's memorable phrase, 'the mighty revealer', but it is only with these words, at this culminating point and not, as Reinhardt implies in Sophocles, p. 97, earlier in the scene, that he may truly be called such. 16. The visual imagery is simply one feature of the whole pattern of 'reflexion' which is built into Oedipus' manner of speaking. T. Gould (ed.), Oedipus the King (Prentice Hall, Englewood Cliffs, NJ, 1970), for example on 107, draws attention to Oedipus' often emphatic mention of 'hands' in the prologue and throughout the play. For the hand that will avenge the murder (l 07) is the same as the hand of the murderer, the hand which will in fact be used against himself in the selfmutilation. Cf. 139-40, 231,266, 810-11, 821-2, 996, 1329-35, 1481-3. And perhaps, as Gould suggests, there are gestures of the hand to accompany the verbal references. 17. See the careful analysis of R.W.B. Burton, The Chorus in Sophocles' Tragedies (Clarendon Press, Oxford, 1980), pp. 138-48. 18. Quite explicitly Oedipus is assumed to answer the prayers of the Chorus (216). He may, then, return to the stage at some point before the ode concludes. 19. For the repeated use of the word 'lord' see R.P. Winnington-lngram, 'The Second Stasimon of the Oedipus Tyrannus', Journal of Hellenic Studies, vol 9 I ( I 97 I), p. 127, n. 4 I, and more recently, Sophocles: An Interpretation (Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, I 980), p. 193, n. 43. 20. Thus Taplin, Stagecraft of Aeschylus, p. 138, n. 2. 21. The repeat of the antithesis is noted by F.W. Schneidewin (ed.), Oedipus Tyrannos (Weidmann, Berlin, 1856), on 293. The text is dubious, but most editors retain 'the man who saw' against the anonymous conjecture, 'the doer', adopted by Pearson. The idea that the murderer himself is the witness is typical of the irony which refers back to the guilt of the speaker. 22. On the significance of blindness and scercraft in myth see the interesting article by R.G.A. Buxton, 'Blindness and Limits: Sophokles and the Logic of Myth', Journal of Hellenic Studies, vol. 100 ( J980), pp. 22-3 7. 23. At least Oedipus bids him 'not to turn away'. The move also seems to be confirmed by the way in which Teiresias breaks off his utterance, as though reminded of his reluctance. See J.C. Kamerbeek (ed.), Oedipus Tyrannus (Brill, Leiden, 1967), on 325. 24. Reinhardt, Sophocles, p. I 06. 25. On Oedipus' preoccupation with his power and his tendency to behaviour which typifies the tyrant sec Sheppard, Oedipus Tyrannus of Sophocles; and V. Ehrenberg, Sophocles and Pericles (Blackwell, Oxford, 1954), p. 67. 26. Jebb 's translation, Oedipus Tyrannus, on 395. 27. As Reinhardt observes, Sophocles, p. 109, the words make up 'an

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257

expression of the whole of human existence'. 28. Thus L. Campbell (ed.), Sophocles (Clarendon Press, Oxford, 1879). vol 1, on 437. · 29. Kamerbeek's 'pillars of the prophecy', Oedipus Tyrannus, on 457. 30. For H. Drexler, 'Die Teiiesias-Szene des Konig Oedipus', Maia,vol. 8 (1956), p. 6, one of the psychological incongruities of the scene is this later boldness compared with the initial refusal to speak. But the initial motive is not fear but compassion. The later revelation is delivered in temper and this is perfectly consistent with the psychology of the development. 31. The silence is ambiguous. Here the Teiresias scene in the,Antigone is instructive; Creon stays on to speak, to show anxiety, finally to yield. The silence of Oedipus is intentionally more intriguing and it is not clearly one of defeat. He is not crushed by the truth - which he in fact cannot grasp - but he is left with vague anxieties. The lack of reaction has caused some critics to suggest that Oedipus departs at the beginning of Teiresias' last speech so that he does not hear the final revelation. This view of the stage action also solves the problem of the supposed stupidity of Oedipus in not seeing a truth which is spelled out for him. See most recently B.M.W. Knox, 'Sophocles, Oedipus Tyrannos 446: Exit Oedipus?' Greek, Roman and Byzantine Studies, vol. 21 (1980), pp. 321-32, whose defence of the early exit still does not convince. The main difficulty for Knox is the clarity of Teiresias' final speech in comparison with the earlier ones. But in fact the speech, as before, is constructed from paradoxes and contains the whole confusion of Oedipus' relationships, the whole pattern of his tragedy, past, present and future. Added to all this there is also the confusion of indirect and direct address. Knox also omits to mention the particular and, in terms of the confrontation, consistent emphasis that Teiresias gives to his final speech: he is not afraid 'to face' Oedipus (447-8). The idea that Teiresias, a blind man no less, is addressing an empty stage surely makes nonsense of the whole scene. And does not Oedipus act immediately and hereafter in accordance with the seer's last instruction: 'Go inside and consider these things'? We shall see the words of the seer come back to him. The position taken here is also supported by a quite different set of arguments in an excellent discussion by D. Bain, 'A Misunderstood Scene in Sophokles, Oidipous (O.T. 300-462)', Greece and Rome, vol. 26 (1979), pp. 132-45. Bain, who well appreciates the difference between the play performed and the play read, points out three important factors which help to play down the apparent unreality of Oedipus' blindness: the dramatic sequence, which makes almost no mention of Oedipus' terrible past before the confrontation with the seer, the variety of the versions of the Oedipus myth, which, even given its fame, would allow for some uncertainty on the part of the audience, and the willingness of the audience to succumb to the spell of the dramatist's art. Cf. also the pertinent remarks of P.E. Easterling, 'Character in Sophocles', Greece and Rome, vol. 24 ( 1977), pp. 124-5: 'Teiresias accuses Oedipus of killing a man he knows he has never met, a king what is more, whom he could hardly expect to meet and kill without realizing it in some casual skirmish.' For further valuable discussion see Shepphard, Oedipus Tyrannus of Sophocles, on 462, and 0. Taplin, Greek Tragedy in Action (Methuen, London, 1978), pp. 43-4. 32. The sequence of the Chorus's reflections is often questioned on the natural assumption that the Chorus might have been expected to express its horror at the denunciation of Oedipus before dealing with the 'unseen' fugitive. Many of the reasons are well put by Burton, The Chorus in Sophocles' Tragedies, p. 149, but one point seems to be that the Chorus's solid vision of Oedipus is not shaken by the Teiresias scene and this is reinforced by the sequence. 33. This reading is not certain but has received general acceptance (Jebb, Kamerbeek, Sheppard). Pearson, however, adopts an alternative. 34. This is well observed by Reinhardt, Sophocles, p. 111.

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35. As Winnington-lngram observes, Sophocles, p. 183: 'She argues from apparent facts.' 36. Again, noticeably, the imagery provides the framework for the speech. 37. Oedipus is quite clearly startled by the mention of the 'three ways' and by this alone. It is not at all strange that he remains deceived as regards the worst of his situation. As Sheppard points out, Oedipus Tyrannus of Sophocles, on 726: 'It is characteristic of Oedipus that he becomes absorbed with any idea which seizes him, and neglects for the moment every other thought.' See also J. Carriere, 'Ambigilite et Vraisemblance des Oedipe-Roi', Pallas, vol. 4 (1956), pp. l lff. The rejection of the whole idea by P.H. Vellacott, Sophocles and Oedipus (Macmillan, London, 1971), whose main purpose is to show that Oedipus possesses his guilty knowledge from the beginning, is special pleading for an ingenious but unconvincing interpretation. 38. Suggested by Gould, Oedipus the King, on 728. 39. The Greek word, 'out of sight', can be taken in an active or a passive sense. Most editors (Campbell, Jebb, Schneidewin) adopt the meaning that the herdsman 'does not want to see' the city. But the passive sense is surely present, if not prevalent: the herdsman does not want 'to have Oedipus see him'. Throughout the play and particularly when the herdsman actually appears, the issue very much involves Oedipus seeing the herdsman. See Gould, Oedipus the King, on 762. 40. Gould's translation of the manuscript reading, prouphane. G. Hermann's conjecture, quoted by Jebb and adopted in Pearson's text, 'he revealed' (prouphenen), is much less dramatic and does not convey the sense of sudden surprise. See Schneidewin, Oedipus Tyrannos, on 790. 41. On the obscurity of her argument see Reinhardt, Sophocles, p. 257, n. 23. 42. On the dramatic significance of this difficult ode see especially Winnington-lngram, Sophocles, pp. 185-204. Cf. J.C. Kamerbeek, 'Comments on the Second Stasimon of the Oedipus Tyrannus', Wiener Studien, vol. 79 (1966), pp. 80-92; G.H. Gellie, 'The Second Stasimon of the Oedipus Tyrannus', American Journal of Philology, vol. 85 (1964), pp. 113-23; and most recently Burton, The O,orus in Sophocles' Tragedies, pp. 158-69. See also D.A. Hester, 'Oedipus and Jonah', Proceedings of the Cambridge Philological Sock! ty, n. s., vol 23 (1977), pp. 32-61, for this and other problems as well as an excellent bibliography. 43. This fine theatrical effect has been well discussed. But see in particular H.D.F. Kitto's still indispensable account, Greek Tragedy, 3rd edn (Methuen, London, 1961),p. 139. ,,; 44. The dramatic rhyme noticed by Gould, Oedipus the King, on 913. 45. Surely this is a conscious effect on Sophocles' part; the messenger is 'delighted with his own cleverness' (Sheppard, Oedipus Tyrannus of Sophocles). 46. For which see Gould's thorough discussion, Oedipus the King, on 981. 47. Thus Jebb, Oedipus Tyrannus, on 987. 48. Gould as ever insists that the visual image be given its full force; it is the 'eyes' which Oedipus imagines not the 'face', which the word commonly means. The mutuality of 'seeing' and 'being seen', as we have observed, is a feature of the imagery. Cf. Ajax, 70 and Electra, 1285-6. 49. As Jebb emphasises, 'thoroughly a colloquialism'. 50. After 'stranger' the address is noticeably respectful Thus Gould, Oedipus the ((ing, on 990. 51. Recognised by Jebb, Oedipus Tyrannus, on 1072: 'Jocasta ... has spoken passionate worth immediately before going.' Cf. the exit of Haemon in the Antigone. In one basic sense the exit is similar to that of Deianira: both are departures which are misconstrued. But here the delusion is much more significant. It is surely mistaken to assume a dramatic pause between her last anguished words and her departure.

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52. See Gould, Oedipus the King, on 1075. 53. 'Wife' is perhaps a rather forced translation of gune, which in the generalising context clearly refers to 'womankind' as well. But there is, throughout the scene, a play on the neutral meaning of gune, 'lady' or 'woman', and the more dramatic meaning, 'wife'. 54. The presence of the messenger is invariably forgotten by critics. 55. The long introduction is yet another example of the effective use which can be made of the entry from the parodos. 56. Gould, Oedipus the King, on 990, rightly points out this important theatrical fact. 57. It is not clear that the scene would be played with the herdsman actually tortured. 1155 might indicate that the threat of violence is enough. 58. Not only in this scene but in the whole of the play thus far. 59. Jebb's translation. 60. It may be with the further terrible cry, later described (1252), as he passes through the doors (Gould, Oedipus the King, on 1252). 61. Kitto's sure sense of theatre does not let him forget these two important characters, Greek Tragedy, p. 141: 'He (the Corinthian] sees his new King rush into the palace; and then - the final ode? Not yet. These two actors have to make their exit, by the long side-passages, in full view of the audience; some forty yards of exit. And as we watch them stumbling out we have time to reflect that this is the outcome for them, of their merciful interest in an abandoned baby.' For a contrary view see Taplin, Stagecraft of Aeschylus, p. 91: 'And at OT 1185 the Corinthian and the old shepherd go unnoticed in the high pathos of Oedipus' discovery.' But it is difficult to see how they could go unnoticed. While they are both secondary characters they have a significance beyond the conventional role of their counterparts in other plays. The scene is also a reunion; and this is the parting of the ways. 62. For the structure and content of the ode see Burton, The Chorus in Sophocles' Tragedies, pp. 168-70. 63. Nor, originally, did he know that 'his actions were crimes' (Winningtonlngrarn, Sophocles, p. 174, n. 63). 64. The case is well made by A. Cameron, The Identity of Oedipus the King (New York University Press, New York, 1968), pp. 97-103. See also Winningtonlngram, Sophocles, pp. 176- 7. 65. Reinhardt, Sophocles, p. 130. 66. See Cameron's perceptive interpretation, The Identity of Oedipus the King, p. 122, n. 16: 'Oedipus' insistence on showing himself is highly significant, the self-disclosure or self-revelation being the concrete expression of the man who discovers himself and marking the public character of this self-discovery.' 67. The technique of preparing the audience through speech and then showing the result is stressed by Burton, The Chorus in Sophocles' Tragedies, p. 179. 68. The crucial problem noted by Winnington-lngram, Sophocles, p. 176. 69. The insistent question of the ode. See Burton, The Chorus in Sophocles' Tragedies, p. 182. 70. Thus Winnington-lngrarn, Sophocles, p. 178. 71. Apollo was the god most concerned with self-knowledge. The importance of this for the play is rightly emphasised by Cameron, The Identity of Oedipus the King, pp. 15ff., and Winnington-Ingram, Sophocles, p. 178. 72. Gould, Oedipus the King, on 1367, emphasises the insistent explanations of the mutilation. 73. While there is a certain coldness about Creon, there is no reason to doubt his sincerity which is not impugned by anything that he does in the course of the scene. 74. The whole problem of the final exit, which in fact reverses all the

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expectations of the drama, is well treated by Taplin, Greek Tragedy in Action, pp. 45-6. 75. Knox, Oedipus at Thebes, pp. 185-96. 76. This is an important qualification of Knox's interpretation which goes beyond the evidence. 77. The distribution and even the authenticity of the last lines of the Chorus are open to serious question. See especially the careful investigation of R.D. Dawe, Studies on the Text of Sophocles (Brill, Leiden, 1973), vol. 1, pp. 266-7 3, who concludes that they are spurious. 78. It is a common fallacy to think that imagery is accounted for by simply counting the number of times a word appears. Nor is it sufficient to mark accumulations of imagery. Variety in the formulation itself, position in the dramatic development, context and sequence are all important factors. Here the relationship between the imagery and the organisation of scenes is crucial.

SELECT BIBLIOGRAPHY

This bibliography is a selected list of books and articles which have been most valuable for this study. It does not contain all the works cited in the notes and one or two are listed which have not been referred to. Most, but not all, concern or include aspects of theatrical presentation and are chosen for their accessibility and appeal to the general reader.

GeneralWorks

Arnott, P.D. An Introduction to the Greek Theatre (Macmillan, London, 1959) -Greek Scenic Conventions (Clarendon Press, Oxford, 1962) Bain, D. Actors and Audience (Oxford University Press, Oxford,1977) -'Audience Address in Greek Tragedy', Classical Quarterly, n.s., vol. 25 (1975), pp. 13-25 Baldry, H.C. The Greek Tragic Theatre (Chatto and Windus, London, 1971) Dale, A.M. 'Seen and Unseen on the Greek Stage', Wiener Studien, vol. 69 (1956), pp. 96-106 Gould, J. 'Dramatic Character and Human Intelligibility in Greek Tragedy', Proceedmgs of the Cambridge Philological Society, n.s., vol. 24 (1978), pp. 43-67 Kitto, H.D.F. Form and Meaning in, Drama (Methuen, London, 1956) -Greek Tragedy, 3rd edn (Methuen, London, 1961) -Poiesis: Structure and Thought (University of California Press, Berkeley and Los Angeles, Ca., 1966) Taplin, 0. 'Aeschylean Silences and Silences in Aeschylus', Harvard Studies in Qassical Philology, vol. 76 (I 972), pp. 57-97 -The Stagecraft of Aeschylus ( Clarendon Press, Oxford, 1977) ---,- Greek Tragedy in Action (Methuen, London, 1978) Walcot, P. Greek Drama in its Theatrical and Social Context (University of Wales Press, Cardiff, 1976) Webster, T.B.L. Greek Theatre Production (Methuen, London, 1956)

262

Select Bibliography

Workson Sophocles Bain, D. 'A Misunderstood Scene in Sophokles Oidipous (0. T. 300462)', Greece and Rome, vol. 26 (1979), pp. 132-45 Bowra, C.M. Sophoclean Tragedy (Oxford University Press, London, 1944) Burian, P. 'The Play before the Prologue: Initial Tableaux on the Greek Stage', Ancient and Modem: Essays in Honour of G.F. Else (University of Michigan Press, Ann Arbor, Mich., 1977), pp. 79-94 Burton, R.W.B. The Chorus in Sophocles' Tragedies (Clarendon Press, Oxford, 1980) Buxton, R.G.A. 'Blindness and Limits: Sophokles and the Logic of Myth', Journal of Hellenic Studies, vol. 100 ( 1980), pp. 22-37 Cameron, A. The Identity of Oedipus the King (New York University Press, New York, 1968) Dodds, E.R. 'On Misunderstanding the Oedipus Rex', Greece and Rome, vol. 13 (1966), pp. 37-49 Easterling, P.E. 'Oedipus and Polynices', Proceedings of the Cambridge Philological Society, n.s., vol. 13 (1967), pp. 1-13 'Sophocles, Trachiniae', Bulletin of the Institute of Qassica/ Studies, vol. 15 ( 1968), pp. 58-69 'Philoctetes and Modern Criticism', Illinois Qassica/ Studies, vol. 3 (I 978), pp. 27-39 Gellie, G.H. Sophocles: A Reading (Melbourne University Press, Melbourne, 1972) Goheen, R.F. The Imagery of Sophocles' 'Antigone' (Princeton University Press, Princeton, NJ, 1951) Gould, T. ( ed.), Oedipus the King (Prentice Hall, Englewood Cliffs, NJ, 1970) Kirkwood, G.M. A Study of Sophoclean Drama (Cornell University Press, Ithaca, NY, 1958) Knox, B.M.W. Oedipus at Thebes (Yale University Press, New Haven, 1957) -'The Ajax of Sophocles', Harvard Studies in ClassicalPhilology, vol. 65 (1961), pp. 1-37 -The Heroic Temper (University of California Press, Berkeley and Los Angeles, Ca., 1964) 'Sophocles, Oedipus Tyrannos 446: exit Oedipus?' Greek, Roman and Byzantine Studies, vol. 21 (1980), pp. 321-2 Reinhardt, K. Sophocles, trans. H. and D. Harvey (Blackwell, Oxford, 1979)

Select Bibliography

263

Robinson, D.B. 'Topics in Sophocles' Philoctetes', Qassical Quarterly, n.s., vol. 19 (1969), pp. 34-56 Sale, W. (ed.),Electra (Prentice Hall, Englewood Cliffs, NJ, 1973) Seale, D. 'The Element of Surprise in Sophocles' Philoctetes', Bulletin of the Institute of Qassical Studies, vol. 19 ( 1972), pp. 94-102 Segal, C. 'Sophocles' Trachiniae: Myth, Poetry, and Heroic Values', Yale ClassicalStudies, vol. 25 {1977), pp. 99-158 Stanford, W.B. 'Light and Darkness in Sophocles' Ajax', Greek, Roman and Byzantine Studies, vol. 19 (1978), pp. 189-97 Steidle, W. 'Die Weissagung im Philoktet des Sophokles und die Gestalt des Neoptolemos', Studien zum Antiken Drama (Fink, Munich, 1968), pp. 169-92 Taplin, 0. 'Significant Actions in Sophocles' Philoctetes', Greek, Roman and Byzantine Studies, vol. 12(1971), pp. 25-44 Webster, W.B.L. An Introduction to Sophocles, 2nd edn (Methuen, London, 1969) Whitman, C. Sophocles (Harvard University Press, Cambridge, Mass., 1951) Winnington-Ingram, R.P. 'A Religious Function of Greek Tragedy', Journal of Hellenic Studies, vol. 74 (1954), pp. 16-24 -Sophocles: An Interpretation (Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 1980) [Addendum. I regret that I have not been able to take full account of two articles listed above: B.M.W. Knox, 'Sophocles, Oedipus Tyrannos 446: Exit Oedipus?' Greek, Roman and Byzantine Studies, 2 I ( 1980), pp. 321-2, and R.G.A. Buxton, 'Blindness and Limits: Sophokles and the Logic of Myth', Journal of Hellenic Studies, vol. 100 (1980), pp. 22-37.]

INDEX

Aeschylus: costume 19; ensemble scenes 17; irrational in 18; 'monstrous' in 13; Orestes 75; Philoctetes 19, 30; realism 20; silence 195; spectacle 13; theatrical effects 12 Ajax, compared with: Oedipus at Co/onus 148-9, 166, 172-3, 175-6, 192, 228;Oedipusthe King 228, 254;Philoctetes 154, 159; Women of Trachis 192 altars 63-4, 215, 220, 237; see also stage ritual Anouilh, Jean: Antigone 15 Antigone, compared with: Oedipus at Co/onus 136; Oedipus the King 101-2, 103-4, 109, 201, 227; Women of Trachis 201 appearance and reality 23, 50, 88, 95, 121, 125, 128, 202, 210; dramatic movement from appearance to reality 119, 140, 176; entrances 217, 221, 238, 252; imagery 57,201; lowly contrasted with noble 196,241, 245; scenic design 58, 87, 211; tokens 66, 76, 160, 175, 199; unveiling 76; see also illusion and reality Aristotle: austerity 12, 13; deus ex machina 13; Euripides 12; 'monstrous' in 13; pity and fear 148; spectacle 12, 50, 254 austerity (visual) 23, 109; Aristotle 12, 13 blindness 64, 107, 145-6, 251; and sight 229, absence of obvious contrast 195, paradoxical imagery 21, 139-40, 147-8, 160, 223-7, prophetic blindness 103, 223-7, scenic design 147-8, 149, 174, stage business 139-40; external appearance of character 117, 120,121,124,135, 139; guide figure: blind character as guide 136-7, entrance 101-2, 114, 222, exit 103, 227, role of guide 117,120,125,127,131,

264

140, stage movement 121-3; imagery 96; mask of 114, 131, 248; prophetic 108, 227; scenic design 87, 91, 239; stage action 114-15, 119,137,248, 24950, 252 characters: as symbols 109; attached to scenic context 26- 7, 31, 113, 118, 124, 128, 132, 139; Chorus as 15;off-stage 29, 34-5, 40, 43, 44, 79 Choregus 17 choreography 14-15; see also stage actions, choral Chorus 14-15; as character 15; as emotional instrument 14, 37, 99; as scenery 15; choral odes 14-15, presence of characters during 62, 95, 101, 129,134, 157-8, 184-5,242; division of 119, 162-3, 173, 187; extension of main character 59; extra Chorus 187; isolates main character 85, 100, 101; stage actions 14, 32, 42-3, 119, 120, 130-1, 185, 248; vehicle of illusion 85, 104, 161-2, 187-8, 242; see also entrances, choral and exits, choral compartments of acting space: imagined 148; scenic 113-14, 116, 119, 122; visual correspondence 137 costume 16, 17, 60, 171, 188, 215, 243; absence of special effect 91, 109; Aeschylus 19; as deception 32; crowns etc. 57, 64, 186, 187; distinctive 188-9; external appearance 32, 58, 114; realistic 19-20, 58-9, 114; robe of Herakles 205; used for contrast 60, 63; see also external appearance and masks death 64-5, 105, 165-6; equated with comfort 239; messenger reports 20, 104-5, 203, 246-7; spectacle 17; see also eccyclema

Index and visual conventions deception: aided by truth 33; alternating with revelation 200; and love 197,202,206,211; costume as 32; human intrigue 30-2, 34,48,57,64-5, 73; through tokens 68; through visual effect 69-70, 75-6, 79,191, 192, 199-200; unconscious 160, 175 deus ex machina 16, 45-6, 50, 144, 174; Aristotle 13; Euripides 12, 13; lack of 109; Sophocles 13 discovery 28-9, 50, 67,150, 175; and search 29, 139; in nature of epiphany 90; visual 67; see also revelation double perspective 20-1, 65, 78, 91; employing perceptions on-stage 29,38, 122,139,148,189 dumb show 41, 131; difficulty of 194-5 eavesdropping 104, 118

eccyclema 27,109,157,166;

lack of 24 7; reveals interior scene 20; tableau scenes with 76, 106, 153; see also tableaux Electra, compared with: Oedipus the King 65; Philoctetes 78-9 ensemble scenes 17, 26, 189-90, 195, 211, 215-16, 221; Aeschylus 17; lack of 109; visual correspondence 204 entrances: bound up with choral odes 85-6,89-90,92,95-6,99, 109, 133,189, 220;choral 16,31,85, 117,119,150,220, scattered 119, silent 184, separate, divided 166; consecutive 181; contrasting 90, 129-30, 134, 171,222,2423, 243-4, 252-3; delayed 186, 190, 242-3; 'hot on the heels', of entrance 171,229, of exit 119; immediately anticipated 217, 222; in mid-dialogue 43; 'instinctive' 216; long entrance from parados 16,114,124, 129-30, 217-18,237-8, 242-3,252-3; of isolated figure 58-9; opportune 132, 136, 138, 184; pattern of 43,46,62,72,93, 101,109,115, 117,136,203,222,237, 242-3, 252-3; processional 105, 186, 188, 203-4, 215; searching 28-9,

265

144-5, 166-7, 168; signalled from stage 217-18; signalling recognition 127, 171; silentl89-90; surprise 32, 34-5, 42, 43, 46, 48, 60, 62-3, 69, 74, 87, 90, 101, 124,132,158, 200,237;visual correspondence 43-4, 62-3, 93, 119, 136-7, 242-3, 252-3 Epidaurus: theatre at 14 Euripides: Aristotle on 12; choral odes l5;deusexmachina 12, 13; irrational in 12, 18; mask of Dionysus in Bacchae 188; pathos 12, 133, 254;Philoctetes 30; realism 12, 26; spectacle 12, 254; stage action 62 exits: arrested 57-8; as end of passivity 74, 197; as reversal 66- 7, 68; as separation 130, 136, 157,227, 251-2; choral 16, delayed 42-3, divided 162-3, 173; consecutive 73; contrast between leaving and staying 91,231; delayed 33, 34, 35-6, 38, 40, 45, 130, 226; distinctive lack of 78, 107; emblem of isolation 85; lingering 42-3, 46-7; long exit down parodos 16, 100-1, 161, 245; pattern of 34, 47-9, 109, 220, illusion and surprise 34-5, 48; precipitous 44, 98, 105, 201-2, 242, 245; processional 50, 136-8, 173, 174, 194, 208, 220; separate simultaneous 58, 85, 184, 227, triple 162, 245; silent 105, 242, slow 201-2; supervised 75, 236; visual correspondence 77-8, 103; visual language as exit-line 88-9, 98 external appearance 31, 113, 120, 121-2, 127, 130, 134-5, 140, 205, 248, 253; and costume 114; see also costume extras 204; in public ceremony 26; silent 16-17, 56; see also ensemble scenes illusion 46, 67, 78-9, 113, 182, 194, 200, 215-54 passim; alternating with surprise 48; and departure 34-5, 48; and desire to comfort 232; Chorus creates 85, 104, 161-2, 187-8, 242; connected

266

Index

with tyranny 93, 96; nourished by human compassion 197; represented by scenic isolation 210-11; visual effect 70, 191 illusion and reality 160, 192, 209, 241-2; dramatic movement from illusion to reality 60, 71; scenic design 4 7-9, 79-80, 216; stage action 71; see also appearance and reality imagery: legal 91, 93, 94; light and darkness 20, 22, 62, 77, 150, 174, 185, 199, 245, darkness 138, 183, 253, day and night 56, 59, 185, light 57, 61, 63, 66, 70, 165, 220-l,228,234,253;of weaponry 157, 159, 164; paradox of light and dark 21, 151, 154, 224-6; visual 21-3, 252 interior scene 74-5, 145, 183; imagined 29; see also eccyclema irrational: Aeschylus 18; Euripides 12, 18; Sophocles 18, 183; spectacle 17-18 isolation 99, 100, 107, 108, 109, 163; of main character by Chorus 85, 100, 101; solitary figure 59, 73, 78, 94, 133, 163, 165, 215, isolated by departure 69, 85, 98 kommos 16, 100, 151-2, 166-7, 231, 248-9; as lament 42; replacing choral ode 59; with tableau 39, 105-7, 153-4 masks 15, 19; blind 15-16, 114,131; blood-stained 16, 114, 248; distinctions of age 15, 181, 184; distinctive beauty 15-16, 188-9; masked performance 194; of Dionysus in Bacchae 188; of mourning 59, 62, 188 messenger: and imagination 138; reported death and violence 20, 104-5, 203, 246- 7; silent role of 190 'monstrous': in Aeschylus 13; in Aristotle 13 Oedipus at Co/onus, compared with: Ajax 148-9, 166, 172-3, 175-6, 192, 228; Antigone 136; Oedipus the King 118, 124-5, 126,228, 254;Philoctetes 133,121,126,

138-9; Women of Trachis 126, 192 Oedipus the King, compared with: Ajax 228, 254;Antigone 101-2, 103-4, 109, 201, 221;Electra 65; Oedipus at Co/onus 118, 124-5, 126,228, 254;Phi/octetes 23, 254; Women of Trachis 23, 126,181,182,183,192,197, 201, 209, 211 omma ('eye') 96, 97, 197; 'face' 151, 155; light of hope and comfort 67-8, 151, 168-9, 187,217, 239; light of truth 169; of beauty 196, 198; of fear and courage 150-1; of heaven 185; watching eye 189, 19f' orchestra 14 pageantry 16; see also entrances, processional and exits, processional parodos 16; see also entrances and exits pathos 169, 182; and sight 33-4, 80, 134-5, 140; Euripides 12, 133, 254; spectacle 37-8, 47-9, 50, 61, 254; use of children 156, 170-1, 173,251,253,254 Philoctetes, compared with: Ajax 154, 159; Electra 78-9; Oedipus at Co/onus 113, 121, 126, 138-9; Oedipus the King 23, 254; Women of Trachis 23, 204 physical contact: clasping of hands 38, 208; embrace 72-3, 124, 133-4, 136; family group 125, 251; physical restraint 41, 130-1; physical support 40, 45; touching 207; with children 251; see also stage actions and violence pity 31, 34,127,244; and fear 12, 148-9, 192, 193, Aristotle 12, 148, involving sight 123, 127, 148-9, 191, 196-7, 207-8, 248, 251 presence on-stage: absence following 138; as visual symbol 90; during choral ode 62, 95, 101, 129, 134, 157-8, 184-5, 242; lasting 79, 115 psychological movement 192 psychological spectacle 192, 195 public ceremony 17, 26, 215-16,

Index 221; contrasted with private setting 118; extras in 26 realism 26, 32, 113; Aeschylus 20; and imagination 26, 27-8; costume 19, 20, 58-9, 114; Euripides 12, 26; performance 18-20; scenery 26, 113; violence 204 recognition 29, 77, 107, 200, 203, 206, 210, 248; by tokens 69- 72, 105; false 68; non-visual 70; penetrating physical disguise 70-1, 117,122,124,127; 'recognition duo' 72; see also revelation reunion 72, 124, 133-4, 243-5 revelation 21,103,181, 195-6, 199, 206,218,231-2,239,246,248; alternating with deception 200; and delusion 155, 242; and entrance 147, 175; and theatrical sequence of search 120, 144, 149-50, 174, 206; and violence 129, 244; divine 221, 253; dread of facing 15 0-1 ; imagery 14 7, 16~ 175,182,194,202; miniature 134, 233; of character 117, 127; pattern of 162,165, 252; process of 79, 122, 139, 174,204,207,208,253; prophetic 223-8; recognition 71-2, 73; rhythm of 210; role of revealer, divine 221, 253-4, lowly character 87-9, 90-2, 195, 237-42, 242-5; sequence of 140; stage-by-stage 228, 253; surprising 206; Time as revealer 159, 162, 210, 246; unveiling 21, 76-7, 163,167,169, 175,205,207-8; visual theme 176 roof (theologeion) 16, 45, 144-5 Sartre, Jean-Paul: The Flies 15 scene changes: between plays 28; role of Chorus 15, 163 scene-painting: grove of trees 163; military encampment 144, 163; rocky cliff 27; rural landscape 114; Sophocles 19; verbal 27 scenery: address to 40, 42, 46, 154; Chorus as 15; realistic 26, 133; rocks in Oedipus at Co/onus 114; screen of bushes in Ajax 16 3-4;

267

simplicity of 17; statue of Colonus 114, 116; symbolic 27-9, 114, 163 scenic separation: prologue separate from rest of play 58, 59, 85, 87, 108, 149; separate worlds of characters 78, 172-3, 203, 21011,227 searching 91-2, 147, 181, 206, 221, 222, 230, 246; and discovery 29,139; and revelation 120, 149-50, 174, 228; imagined by Chorus 228; stage action, action of characters 28, 29, 144-5, 1667, 168, 174, choral action 119, 129, 140, 162-3, 165-6, 175, exit to search 89, 184 seeing: idea of 21-2, 139-40; sight and sound 119-20, 130, 136, 218,222 setting: domestic 26; rustic 26, 113, 114; through character 17, 183 silence 73,161,227; after departure 227, 231; before revelation 190, 195,227; breaking of 94, 130, 131,133,135,195,197,204; complex 192-3, 194; detached 95, 133-4, 240; development of 192-3, 239-42; intensifying visual effect 135, 192; lasting 90-1, 194,195, 202-3;of children 157, 253; of dilemma 32, 34, 38, 40, 49; of grief 188; of messenger 190, 242; of observation 41, 42, role of observer 41, 50, 63, 148-9; silent entrance 89-90, choral 184, processional 188, 203-4, 215; silent exit 105, 201-2, 242, processional 194, 208; silent extras 16-17, 56; silent ministry 127, 131; silent recoil 14; silent tableau 39, 171, 174, 190, 221, 251, 254; statuesque 105, 202-3; suspenseful 118; unspoken thought 195; see also dumb show skene (scenic facade) 16, 19, 27, 114, 118, 163; see also scenepainting soliloquy 155, 158-61, 165, 182-3 Sophocles: deus ex machina 13; ensemble scenes 195; irrational in 18; scene-painting 19; silent exits

268

Index

201-2; spectacle 12, 13-14; triangular scenes 195; see also individual plays spectacle 21-2; Aeschylus 13; Aristotle 12, 50, 254; austere 23, 109; blatant 23; Euripides 12, 254; gratuitous 12; not gratuitous 17, 248; psychological 192, 195; Sophocles 12, 13; visual effect 20-3, 63, 252, 254 stage actions: choral 14, 32, 42-3, 119, 120, 130-1, 185,248; gesture 15, 19-20, 71, 217-18; movement 60, 61, 62, 115, 1212, 139, 194, 204, 226, 223, lack of 38-9, 47, 126, 132, 137, 139, 204, recoil 38, 146, 248; shearing of locks 61-2, 171; transfer of tokens 38, 43-4, 50, 69, 71, 199-200;seealso entrances, exits and searching stage directions: explicit 122 stage effects: effigy 174 stage management: scene changes between plays 28; scene-shifters 163; staging of suicide 165; substitution of dummy 163, 166; trick sword 165 stage organisation: groupings 190, 192,205,215,240; spatial relationship 29; stage position symbolic 193; symbolic use of separation 121;seealso exits, separate simultaneous and tableaux stage properties (tokens) 19, 67-8, 210,215,237; armour and tripod 173; bier 105, lack of 246-7; bow 20, 30, 32, 33, 36-7, 38,40-1,43-4,49-50, 159;carnage 153,156,157,174; casket 198, 200, emblem of appearance and reality 199; girdle 61; lack of 91, 109; litter 203-4; locks of hair 61, 171; scourge 147; shield 156-7; sword 163-4, 167, 169-70, emblem of appearance and reality 160, 175, visual effect of 158-60; um 57, 69-70, 71 stage ritual 163-4; in departure 220; prayer 63-4, 73-4, 117-18, 237; 'sacrament of the bow'

36-7; shearing of locks 61-2; visual correspondence see also altars suicide 144, 152, 157; attempted 13, 28, 41; on-stage 13, 163-5, 174; reported 104-5, 106, 203, 246-7 supplication 33-4, 134, 171, 215, 223; gesture of 71; silent 171, 174; visual correspondence 237 surprise 45, 48, 64, 79, 87; alternating with illusion 48; and spectacle 4 7-9; see also entrances, surprise symbolism: actions 194; characters as symbols 109; scenery 27, 28-9; stage position 193; theatrical 22; use of space 121; visual 61; see also stage properties (tokens) tableaux 44, 107, 127, 133-4, 171, 191, 215, 252, 254; and eccyclema 76, 106, 153; carnage 174; corpse(s) 106, 108-9, 153, 167, 169- 70, 174, as emblem of appearance and reality 76; group tableaux 125, 135-6, 251; imagined 183, 197-8; living frieze 189-90; tableau effect- 226; visual correspondence 251; with kommos 39, 105-7, 153-4 tempo: change in 73; rapid succession of entrances 171; slow 184 theatre, ancient Greek: physical aspects of 14 Timotheus of Zacynthus 165 traingular scenes 65, 190, 195, 243-4; Sophocles 195 violence 44, 130-1, 132, 139; onstage 41, 62,165,204,244; pattern of 132; physical restraint 41; realistic 204; reported in messenger speech 20, 104-5, 246-7; revelation 129, 244; spectacle 17; verbal description 3 8-9; see also visual conventions visual conventions 14-20; death offstage 74-5, 77-8; outside performance 20, 60, 61, 62; violence off-stage 74-5, 77-8 visual correspondence 41, 73-4, 77, 93, 103, 105, 237, 242-3;

Index employing compartments of acting space 13 7; mirror scenes, repeated sequence 40, 43-4, 62-3, 77-8, 119, 122, 132, 136, 166, reversal 66, 68, 75, 136-7, 204,211, 251-2;seea/so entrances, pattern of and exits, pattern of visual delusion 58, 187,188,211

269

visual theme 80, 176; absent from Philoctetes 23

Women of Trachis, compared with: Ajax 192;Antigone 201; Oedipus at Co/onus 126, 192; Oedipus the King 23, 126, 181, 182, 183, 192, 197,201,209, 2ll;Philoctetes 23, 204