The Past in Aeschylus and Sophocles [1 ed.] 3110257521, 9783110257526, 9783110257564

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Poulheria Kyriakou The Past in Aeschylus and Sophocles

Trends in Classics – Supplementary Volumes Edited by Franco Montanari and Antonios Rengakos Scientific Committee Alberto Bernabé · Margarethe Billerbeck · Claude Calame Philip R. Hardie · Stephen J. Harrison · Stephen Hinds Richard Hunter · Christina Kraus · Giuseppe Mastromarco Gregory Nagy · Theodore D. Papanghelis · Giusto Picone Kurt Raaflaub · Bernhard Zimmermann

Volume 11

De Gruyter

The Past in Aeschylus and Sophocles by Poulheria Kyriakou

De Gruyter

ISBN 978-3-11-025752-6 e-ISBN 978-3-11-025756-4 ISSN 1868-4785 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Kyriakou, Poulheria. The past in Aeschylus and Sophocles / by Poulheria Kyriakou. p. cm. – (Trends in classics – supplementary volumes) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-3-11-025752-6 (hardcover : acid-free paper) 1. Aeschylus – Characters. 2. Sophocles – Characters. 3. Characters and characteristics in literature. I. Title. PA3829.K96 2011 882’.01—dc22 2011009922

Bibliographic information published by the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; detailed bibliographic data are available in the Internet at http://dnb.d-nb.de. © 2011 Walter de Gruyter GmbH & Co. KG, Berlin/Boston Typesetting: Apex CoVantage Logo: Christopher Schneider, Laufen Printing: Hubert & Co. GmbH & Co. KG, Göttingen Printed on acid-free paper Printed in Germany www.degruyter.com

For Theokritos κοινὰ δ’ ἔχειν τε καὶ μέλλειν

Acknowledgments It is a pleasure to acknowledge the debts I have incurred during the preparation of this book. Patrick Finglass and Daniel Jacob, who read the typescript as referees, waived their anonymity for the sake of more efficient communication. They saved me from several mistakes of various kinds and made many judicious comments and insightful suggestions. I am very grateful for their assistance. Patrick also generously sent me the typescript of his major forthcoming commentary on Ajax. Although I received it too late to be able to use it extensively and modify my discussion accordingly, it has offered valuable help, and I was gratified to see that we agree on important issues. Several former and current students as well as friends and colleagues did not begrudge the time it took them to procure bibliographical items and read parts of the typescript. Most often I relied on the truly exceptional helpfulness of Alexandros Kampakoglou. I also wish to thank for their help Stavros Frangoulidis, Theophilos Kyriakidis, Nikos Miltsios, Agapi Stefanidou, and Yannis Tzifopoulos. Many thanks are due to the staff of Walter de Gruyter for their great efficiency, and especially to the editors of Trends in Classics Franco Montanari and Antonios Rengakos for accepting the book in the series. On many and diverse occasions, Antonios also unstintingly provided welcome advice, encouragement, support, and entertainment. A loyal friend, he has been willing to graciously remember and forget what I wished him to. As always, my husband and colleague Theokritos Kouremenos has shown himself the most generous friend, supporter and helper. Apart from sacrificing much in order to look after me throughout with affection and vigilant care, he readily put aside his own pursuits and devoted much time and effort to reading the typescript several times, correcting errors, sharing his knowledge and insights, making suggestions, and criticizing my arguments. Knowing well that my resources are poor and I cannot adequately return his kindness, I at least fully acknowledge it, and dedicate this book to him, for past, present, and, hopefully, future.

Contents Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . A.

Aeschylus . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15 I. II. III. IV. V.

B.

1

Persae . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Septem . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Supplices . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Agamemnon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Choephori and Eumenides . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

. . . . .

17 37 65 89 143

Sophocles . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 185 VI. VII. VIII. IX. X. XI.

. . . . . .

187 241 315 371 433 471

Conclusions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Appendices. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Bibliography. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Index of passages. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Index of names and subjects . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

507 517 543 559 591

Ajax . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Philoctetes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Electra . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Trachiniae . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Oedipus Tyrannus . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Oedipus Coloneus . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Introduction In Greek tragedy time is associated with changes that often take the form of shattering revelations. Several characters, such as the Sophoclean Ajax, Deianeira, or Heracles, wish and attempt to undo some of these changes. In effect, they try to freeze time, by creating or perpetuating a certain state of affairs that approximates as much as possible a past state they view as most honorable, and thus advantageous to, or worthy of, themselves. Others, such as Xerxes in Aeschylus’ Persae, or members of the Atreid family in all tragedians, try to effect changes themselves, by correcting actual or perceived wrongs and fixing actual or perceived problems, in order to secure a similar benefit. Such attempts of the characters are most often shaped in connection with (their view of ) not only their personal but also their familial and/or communal past. Despite the prominence of the theme of the past in tragedy, which offers the playwrights considerable latitude for variation, to my knowledge no study devoted exclusively to the topic has been undertaken so far, although it has been discussed to varying extents in the framework of more general critical works. Obviously, the present study aims to fill this gap only partially, since, for reasons of size and economy, it leaves out Euripides. The past pervades, and may be said to define, Greek tragedy, as indeed most of Greek poetry, on a fundamental level. Like epic and much of lyric, tragedy draws its subject matter mainly from the repository of stories about heroes of old, which had already been treated, often several times, in the poetic tradition. Of the very few, albeit intriguing, exceptions, only Aeschylus’ Persae survives. The rest of the extant plays may be viewed as contributions to a complex poetic exploration of traditional stories, in a process that extended far back into the past and would, notionally at least, continue into the future. Regrettably, since very little of the long and rich legacy on which the tragedians could draw upon has survived, the vagaries of transmission restrict the range and probably the accuracy of critical discussions. Detection and appreciation of the debts of tragedians to their predecessors are mostly matters of educated guess for scholars. Often, it is virtually impossible to know, and fruitless to try to guess, the kind or range of innovations a tragedian introduced into his treatment of the old myths, or if, and to

2

Introduction

what extent, the work of predecessors significantly influenced the shaping of his own. Even when the work of a predecessor or two has survived and is considered an important model for a poet and his audience, certainty is difficult to attain. Given the paucity of available material, an obvious example to take is the treatment of the myth of Agamemnon’s family in the surviving works of Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides. Since Aeschylus’ Oresteia is a monumental, masterly trilogy, modern scholars as well as spectators and readers take it practically for granted that Sophocles, Euripides and their audience would take it very seriously into account. In fact, there is no clear evidence about, no way of knowing, and little benefit in trying to guess, their attitude toward the Oresteia. The present study will deal only tangentially with the links of the plays of Aeschylus and Sophocles to the poetic past, for two reasons. The first is the paucity of evidence just mentioned. The second is the fact that, despite, or rather because of, this paucity, several worthy laborers have already tilled the field of possible associations and comparisons between extant texts. The attempts of the Homeric Andromache and the Sophoclean Tecmessa to dissuade their men, the fathers of their only children, from going to their deaths have been adequately scrutinized. Similarly, the laments of Electra for her father, and the matricide of Orestes, which attracted the Furies (or not), have been meticulously studied in all their extant variations. The primary goal of this monograph is to examine the import of the past within the surviving plays of Aeschylus and Sophocles and determine whether the treatment of the past differs within the work of each poet and between them. The past is defined as the time of events that precede those dramatized in the plays. For instance, in Sophocles’ O T, Oedipus’ dispatching of Creon to Delphi belongs to the past, but not Creon’s report of the oracle to Oedipus and the suppliants. The characters’ view of themselves (and others) and their view of the past, which informs their all-important decisions and (re)actions, are in a continuous, complex feedback relationship. Most characters harbor an idea of the past that is for all intents and purposes fixed. On the other hand, the decisions, actions, and especially the (perceived) freedom of choice of characters often bear on the interpretation, and thus on the impact, of prior events, which is often reviewed, reconsidered, and, sometimes, consciously manipulated. Since I do not aspire to offer new insights to the discussion of freedom of choice in the tragedy of Aeschylus and Sophocles, I will not enter it in this book. Nevertheless, for the sake of clarity, a word about this notoriously complicated issue is in order. Without doubt, if the characters have

Introduction

3

no or little freedom of choice, any study of their decisions, actions, and the way these are connected to the past can only be a study of illusion or selfdelusion. This view is not as implausible as might seem at first sight, but I do not find it convincing, since the evidence from the plays does not credibly support it. Next I will outline the main problems by way of some examples, which indicate that the freedom of choice of the characters is occasionally more extensive than is usually thought to be. Paradoxically, this is the case when divinely backed pronouncements such as curses and oracles come to be fulfilled. In extant tragedy, the question of Agamemnon’s freedom of choice at Aulis and especially the consequences of the sacrifice of his daughter Iphigeneia conspicuously exemplify the complexities of the issue under discussion. If Agamemnon was free to kill or spare the girl, as his wife and murderer Clytaemestra believes, how should one view the position of the other characters toward Clytaemestra? Are they wrong to ignore her claims to retaliatory justice, and to consider and punish her crime as morally repugnant? If Agamemnon did not act freely, as the Sophoclean Electra argues, is Clytaemestra’s confidence in the justice of, and even her freedom of choice in, her revenge a pathetic illusion or self-delusion? Was she, like her husband, just an instrument of hostile divinities in charge of internecine talio, a mere link in a chain of family murders, the moral background of which is difficult to determine in both the human and the divine spheres? In a similar vein, was the decision of the Aeschylean Eteocles to face his brother at the seventh gate of Thebes predetermined by the curse of Oedipus on his sons, or was it a free decision, fixing coordinates for the fulfillment of the curse that had not been specified when it was pronounced? More intriguingly, perhaps, did the decision of the Sophoclean Heracles to send Iole to his home as his live-in concubine, and especially the decision of his wife Deianeira to use the charm of Nessus to win Heracles back, fix the outcome of the oracle of Zeus to Heracles, delivered years ago at Dodona? It is not certain that the oracle was formulated disjunctively, predicting release from labors or death for Heracles at the end of fifteen months after he had left home for the last time. It is possible that it predicted only release from labors. In any case, given the condition of Heracles after the gift Deianeira sent him, the characters realize that his release from labors could only be achieved in death. However, it is not absolutely clear that the oracle of Zeus predicted a pre-determined event, which would take place irrespective of the choices of the mortals involved. As I will argue in the chapter on Trachiniae, Sophocles presents Deianeira as a person who did have the intellectual and emotional wherewithal

4

Introduction

to avoid the disaster she brings on herself and her family. If one takes into account the formulation of the oracle, especially in its disjunctive version, it is difficult to shake off the suspicion that things could have turned out differently for the couple and their family, at least for a while after the timeframe specified in the oracle. If Heracles had not sent Iole to his home, and especially if Deianeira had not decided to react as she did, blinded by her desires and unable to retain her customary restraint, Heracles might have enjoyed his release from labors in a peaceful life, at least for a while, instead of finding it in a terrible death. Nor was the older oracle of Zeus to Heracles, which predicted that he would die at the hands of no living being but an inhabitant of Hades, more deterministic, as it did not in any way specify Nessus and his charm, or even intentional killing. It cannot be ruled out on the basis of that oracle that Heracles would be killed accidentally, for instance by a weapon that had formerly belonged to a man who would be dead at the time of the hero’s demise. Alternatively, there were many inhabitants of Hades who would have an interest in taking revenge on Heracles by killing him. The list of his victims was long, and among the latest entries were the male members of Iole’s family. It cannot be ruled out on the basis of either oracle delivered to Heracles that one of his victims, for instance Iole’s brother Iphitus or her father Eurytus, would have managed to engineer his death. Had Nessus failed to use Deianeira as the instrument of his revenge, Eurytus, for instance, might have succeeded in using Iole for the same purpose. Conceivably, such a plan would have materialized a while after the end of Heracles’ labors, and he would have enjoyed a period of peaceful retirement with his family. Other oracles that did not predict an event destined to take place in predetermined time and by predetermined agency are those mentioned by the ghost of Darius in Aeschylus’ Persae. Since Darius had thought that the oracles would be fulfilled in the remoter future and comes to believe that the impious rashness of Xerxes was the cause of the Salamis disaster, the timeframe of the fulfillment of the oracles was not predetermined. Again, as in the case of the old oracle delivered to Heracles in Trachiniae, Darius’ prediction of the Plataea disaster does not necessarily imply that the oracles contained specifications he did not mention in his first reference to them. He says that he infers the future calamity from the recent disaster at Salamis, which indicates that the fulfillment of the oracles has begun. Darius asserts that the process is irreversible and will thus be completed in the time of Xerxes’ current expedition against Greece, which has been marred by the impiety of the leader and his army. It is then unlikely that the oracles

Introduction

5

contained specifications that could have provided the recipient with clues as to the circumstances of their fulfillment. Alternatively, even if the oracles predicted the loss of a Persian army in Boeotia, this prediction would not necessarily include a timeframe. If so, Xerxes’ actions fixed the fulfillment of the oracles, although, according to Darius, the gods aided and abetted his son’s folly, as they commonly do. In Oedipus Coloneus, moreover, the part of Apollo’s oracle to Oedipus that pertains to the end of his life does not seem to exclude freedom of choice on the part of the recipient. This oracle predicted that Oedipus would reach the end of his troubled life at a grove of august goddesses, benefiting his hosts and harming his banishers. It did not indicate where, or when exactly, it would be fulfilled. At the beginning of the play, Oedipus is a long-suffering old man, but this does not automatically entail that he is about to die. His arrival at a grove of dread goddesses is an indication that he is, and he interprets it as such, although his transition can apparently proceed as predicted only if he manages, with the help of the goddesses to whom he prays, to convince the locals to grant him asylum. This does not turn out to be a problem, but the play contains a twist that foregrounds Oedipus’ freedom of choice. Because of another Delphic oracle received fairly recently by the Thebans, which said that their wellbeing depended on Oedipus, alive or dead, the Thebans send Creon on a mission to persuade the exile to return home to Thebes. The plot proceeds by means of many other twists and turns, such as the arrival of Ismene with the goal of informing her father about the situation at home, but the most important is that Oedipus has the choice of remaining in Athens or returning to Thebes. Since the old Delphic oracle did not specify his last destination, the land in which he would meet his end could be any one that would host him last and had a precinct of august goddesses such as the Eumenides or, for instance, Demeter and Persephone. Of course, the Thebans had exiled Oedipus, and the Athenians eventually agree to host him. However, at the beginning of the play, when he prays to the Eumenides at Colonus, the Athenians have not granted him asylum yet. For their part, the Thebans are poised to ask him to return home, although he does not know that yet, and their offer will be unsatisfactory, and its presentation fraudulent. In any case, Oedipus makes his decision before learning the verdict on his petition for asylum in Athens. The Athenians, the Thebans, and especially Oedipus himself are apparently free to make choices that seem to fix the fulfillment of divine mandates. No divine or human external constraint prevents them from making different choices that would result in Oedipus’ return to Thebes, blessings

6

Introduction

for it and harm for Athens, as Athens would be the last city to exile and Thebes the last to host him. Despite such remarkable indications, there is little doubt that no single answer or formula can be found that may cover all cases, or issues raised by the study, of freedom of choice in tragedy. It certainly cannot be ruled out that the events predicted in oracles were actually predetermined: the gods did not provide specifications, but that does not automatically mean that the mortals involved were free to determine the way the oracles would be fulfilled. Greek tragedians, and other Greek poets, did not care to address issues such as divine knowledge and determinism except through ambiguous hints. Concerning human freedom of choice, they mostly eschewed the presentation of characters completely lacking it. This is the freedom of choice that results from the lack of external – in the context of tragedy, mainly divine – constraint, operating at a specific moment against the will of the individual targeted. In most cases, divine will operates through the impulses or considerations of the humans involved in its realization, whether they realize and acknowledge it or not, and irrespective of the degree of specificity of relevant divine predictions such as oracles. To return to the examples considered at the beginning, in Aeschylus’ Oresteia, the capture of Troy as punishment for the transgression of Paris seems to be the will of Zeus Xenios. Nevertheless, the sacrifice of Iphigeneia does not seem to be a corollary of the realization of this will. Aeschylus does not indicate that Zeus forces Agamemnon to sacrifice his daughter so that the punitive expedition may take place. If Agamemnon had chosen to spare Iphigeneia, the will of Zeus would presumably have been accomplished in some other manner, although this potentiality is not addressed in the trilogy. Of Labdacid plays, the curse of Oedipus on his sons in Aeschylus’ Septem, which condemned them to divide their inheritance by the sword, is bound to lead them to fratricidal conflict. Eteocles (and Polyneices) freely decided to bring forward, or certainly not to try to postpone, their inevitable confrontation and commit mutual fratricide on the field of honor. There also does not appear to be any possibility that Oedipus in Sophocles’ OT could have spared his father. In parricide (and incest) Oedipus had no choice. He did try to avoid his crimes but had no chance of success. Still, the specific time, place, and manner of death of his father Laius were determined by Oedipus’ impulses, to go into self-imposed exile from Corinth and to react violently to Laius’ road-rage. The fated crime of parricide took place as it did because Oedipus and Laius were the men they were: intelligent

Introduction

7

and confident, or impulsive and foolish, to the point of trying to thwart the fulfillment of oracles, as well as haughty and ruthless to the point of not hesitating to attack stranger travelers on a public road. Such speculations cannot count as a comprehensive solution to the problem of free will in the tragedy of Aeschylus and Sophocles, especially from the perspective of innate moral determinism. Divine will or fate may operate through human choices, whether impulsive or considered, as e.g. the actions and reactions of Laius and Oedipus in O T indicate, but are these choices truly voluntary or controllable? To take the example of Agamemnon’s family again, did Agamemnon and especially Clytaemestra have full control over their decisions to commit their crimes? It is possible that Iphigeneia’s sacrifice was not fated, either as a necessary prerequisite for the punishment of Troy or as punishment for the slaughter of Thyestes’ children. Even so, would, and ultimately could, Agamemnon have chosen to spare his daughter, being the man Aeschylus and the other tragedians represented him to be, eager to undertake the expedition for various reasons, personal and familial? In a similar vein, it is not clear that the gods in charge of internecine talio such as the Pleisthenid daemon in Aeschylus’ Agamemnon used Clytaemestra as their instrument. Still, assuming that they did not, would she have spared her husband, being the woman the poet represented her to be, eager to punish him for the perceived wrongs he had inflicted on her and to acquire the dominant position she apparently craved in her family and city? The possibility that some characters were born criminals or victims complicates the question of tragic freedom of choice, but only or mainly as far as modern audiences and scholars are concerned. The characters of Aeschylus and Sophocles, and conceivably the tragedians themselves, are not preoccupied with the problem of innate determinism. It is true that the values and principles of many characters, especially Sophoclean heroes such as Ajax or Electra but also Aeschylean ones such as Eteocles, do seem to leave little room for flexibility in moral choices. As a character’s system of values is largely determined by his or her inborn qualities, or physis, his or her choices may be thought to be presented as innately determined. On the other hand, as the cases of the young Neoptolemus in Philoctetes and even the mature Deianeira in Trachiniae show, such determinism is not portrayed as inescapably rigid: it may be weakened or overruled under the influence of others or one’s own impulses. In any case, in extant Greek tragedy agents are never absolved of moral responsibility for their crimes and are judged and punished on the basis of this responsibility. To remain with the example of Agamemnon’s family,

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Introduction

Orestes and Electra believe that their mother killed their father because she was an immoral wife and mother, prone to adultery, material acquisitiveness, and indifference toward her children. Neither they nor the choruses or the minor characters ever entertain the possibility that her moral constitution did not allow her to act differently, namely to resist her lewd impulses and spare Agamemnon, or at least to eschew her association with Aegisthus and disfranchisement of her children. They never say or imply that she did not really have a choice in acting as she did because the gods had made her immoral, or her heart or seat of intelligence consisted of a particular arrangement of atoms, for instance. Thus her children punish her not only because she committed crimes that should be punished irrespective of her motives and freedom of choice but also, and, as far as their emotions are concerned, primarily, because she yielded to criminal impulses which she should and could have resisted. Given that the characters of Aeschylus and Sophocles believe that there is freedom of choice, at least with regard to moral responsibility for crimes, this study will focus on the role of the past in their decisions, actions and view of themselves and others, as already indicated. I will examine whether different characters or groups have different or evolving views of the past and, if so, to what extent and how this difference and evolution may be accounted for. Apart from minor characters such as messengers and attendants, choruses are the most obvious candidates for the expression of divergent views, as they are often different from the main character(s) in age, sex, and social status. Their involvement in the travails of the principal(s) may be heavy or indirect. In general, primarily in Sophoclean plays, closer ties of choruses to principals do not result in greater engagement of choruses with the past, which may provide better insights into its relationship to present and future. On the other hand, the lyrical vehicle of expression provides several choruses, especially Aeschylean ones, with the opportunity to probe the past in ways rarely open to principals. Unlike the latter, choruses may consider, sometimes repeatedly, the remote past as a foil to the dramatic present. The distinction between recent and remote past is not particularly prominent in the works studied in this book. The most significant but partial exception is Aeschylus’ Oresteia, the only extant trilogy. Agamemnon includes several reviews of the recent and the remoter past, in various registers. In the last two plays of the trilogy, which dramatize the punishment of Agamemnon’s killers and its consequences, the focus shifts to, and stays almost exclusively on, the latest misfortunes. I will argue in the relevant chapters that this shift is due to the structural requirements of the

Introduction

9

trilogy and Aeschylus’ choices in the portrayal of different characters. It is likely that other trilogies handled the past in a similar manner. The characters in virtually all extant plays do have to come to grips with the past, whether remote or recent, personal/familial or communal, or both. This may include prophecies difficult to fulfill, in emotional or practical terms, such as that of Calchas in Agamemnon or Helenus in Philoctetes, and ambiguous or open-ended oracles such as those delivered by Zeus to Heracles in Trachiniae. The challenging and largely inscrutable backdrop against which the characters need to make their decisions and act turns darker and harder to negotiate when it includes a (family) curse or inherited guilt. There are also many innocent sufferers in tragedy, but great suffering due to past wrongs or misfortunes is likely to have a corrosive effect on morale and, more often and troublingly, on morality. In Aeschylus’ Choephori Electra is initially unsure of what she should do and afraid that the stranger who claims to be her brother may wish to mock her misfortunes. In the kommos, she shows a more determined and ruthless aspect, which may be associated with the mistreatment she suffered after the murder of her father and her recollection of it. In Sophocles’ Electra Agamemnon’s daughters not only suffer much at the hands of their mother and stepfather but also disagree on the appropriate mode of conduct toward the hated couple. The feistier Electra oversteps, even by her own admission, the limits of proper behavior. At the end of the play, she urges the desecration of Aegisthus’ body. The more timid Chrysothemis is resigned to her harsh fate, cowering before the couple and berating Electra. When the false news of Orestes’ death arrives, she loses all hope for the future and refuses to support her sister, failing to offer even a word of praise or sympathy. As already suggested, the beliefs, decisions, and (re)actions of the characters are often mediated through their view of the past or their (re)vision(s) of it. The shaping of their view of themselves and others as responsible agents with free will and (un)worthy members of a family and/or community owes much to this process of examining the past and (re)constructing a narrative of it. On the other hand, the characters’ conception of themselves and others and their perception of the obligation to (re)act in specific ways influence their (re)construction and narrative of the past, or their occasional failure to provide such a narrative. Often, this ultimately impacts on their future as well as the future of others. Sophocles’ OC provides a gripping illustration of the manner in which a character’s views of past and present influence each other, with farreaching consequences. Oedipus decides to reject the entreaties of his male

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Introduction

kinsmen because he holds them responsible for his exile and plight in it. His hatred of them apparently influences his view of past events, and this view nourishes his hatred and inflexibility, leading him to choose to ask for asylum and stay in Athens. Less prominently, but in a similar vein, in Aeschylus’ Oresteia the children of Agamemnon and Clytaemestra cherish their father and deplore his ignominious murder, the defining event in their lives. They view themselves as his disfranchised heirs, who have been subjected to various sorts of abuse by their murderous mother and stepfather: the children need to punish the guilty couple in order to restore their status and house. Their concentration on the murder of their father, the guilt of their mother, and their own sufferings naturally makes them view their father as entirely blameless and their mother as the incarnation of evil, a shameless adulteress, unworthy mother, and greedy usurper. This may not be unexpected, but their failure to consider, or even to mention, the plight of their sister Iphigeneia, with the exception of a single, passing reference by Electra in Choephori (242), is remarkable, and difficult to account for only in terms of their attitude to their parents. For Orestes and Electra, Iphigeneia apparently died too long ago to matter much anymore. They care little to go over the circumstances of her sacrifice, and much less to probe its connections with their troubles: her victimization seems to pale in comparison with the murder of their father and especially their own grievances. As pointed out above, they view themselves as the victims of their mother’s immorality. They never entertain the possibility that she had any other motives for murdering their father, not even in order to dismiss her claims. Moreover, because of their preoccupation with their own sufferings, they fail to take into account not only their sister’s sacrifice, the most glaring omission, but also the rest of their family’s internecine past, not to mention the moral problems of the Trojan war. The Sophoclean Ajax too defines himself through the past, his valiant achievements and especially those of his father Telamon. Viewing himself as the best warrior deserving the highest rewards for his prowess, Ajax fails to acknowledge even Achilles’ fighting superiority. He also fails to consider the possibility that Telamon may not repudiate him for the failing to win Achilles’ arms, or to take revenge for this failure, but for ignoring his advice and insulting the gods. Philoctetes, a hero very similar to Ajax in his intransigence, hates profoundly the Atreids and Odysseus, whom he considers responsible for his abandonment on Lemnos. This hatred makes him behave unjustly toward his new friend Neoptolemus. It also has led him to form an idealized, distorted view of various comrades he regards as

Introduction

11

honorable. Because of his self-conception as an innocent and noble victim of despicable men, who wronged him grievously in the past, he divides the world in black and white, in utter villains and heroic paragons of nobility. This unconsidered dichotomy renders him incapable of reaching a sober and just verdict on the role of the honorable comrades in his abandonment and their share of responsibility for his plight. Despite this deficiency, Philoctetes has a consistent view of his past, and thus of his present and future. For all the flaws of the narrative he constructs on the basis of this view, he is eloquent and eventually manages to convince the young Neoptolemus to do his bidding without regard for the grave problems it involves. Philoctetes’ enemy Odysseus fails to offer an alternative narrative of the past and thus fails completely to sway Neoptolemus. Although the mission of Odysseus has divine backing and is meant to serve the common good, his apparent inability to deal with, or indifference toward, the past dooms him to failure. The mission is saved at the last moment with the intervention of the immortalized Heracles ex machina, who offers a narrative that associates Philoctetes’ past with his own. His divine credentials and goodwill toward his addressees notwithstanding, Heracles also deals with the past in a manner reminiscent of Philoctetes’ unconsidered view of it. As they strive to secure a future they deem and project as morally just for themselves and others, the human characters become involved in a complex process of integrating past and present, and often future. This integration meets with mixed success, as seams and cracks are almost invariably visible. The Aeschylean Danaids, who flee from Egypt to Argos to avoid the unwanted marriage with their cousins, the sons of their uncle Aegyptus, view themselves as very similar to Io, to whom they trace their descent. In the narrative they construct, the persecution and peregrinations of Io in the remote past prefigure their own troubles, and they hope to be delivered as she was. Since they vehemently reject marriage, their equation with Io can only be made at the cost of downplaying Io’s sexual relationship with Zeus. Deianeira and Heracles in Trachiniae wish to perpetuate their past and present in the future, although they are faced with irrevocable changes. Deianeira wishes to continue being the only consort in Heracles’ house, although she is past her prime, and Heracles has taken Iole as his live-in concubine. Heracles is not willing to release his sexual control over Iole even when he is dead. To fulfill their wishes, both spouses need to negotiate the assistance of helpers, with disastrous results. Against her better judgment, disregarding her knowledge and insights, Deianeira turns to the

12

Introduction

instructions of Nessus, her old would-be ravisher and Heracles’ victim. She soon ends up killing her cherished husband and committing suicide alone and repudiated by her family, before the tragic truth comes out. Heracles forces his son Hyllus to promise to take his place in the bed of Iole. The boy is devastated, but his father is only concerned with securing his vicarious enjoyment of Iole, the last and fatal object of his sexual desire. Irrespective of the power of their intellect or emotions, the methods they use to achieve their ends, and the consequences of their actions, virtually all Aeschylean and Sophoclean main characters scrutinize the past. However, Sophocles’ characters seem to have a greater attachment to it. This may be an accident of transmission and is to an extent counterbalanced by the greater preoccupation of Aeschylean choruses with the past. Nevertheless, I will argue in this study that, because of the feedback between the self-conception of the characters and their conception of the past, no character or play reaches a clear and comprehensive view of the past, and this failure forms a substantial part of the tragic condition as dramatized by Aeschylus and Sophocles. I will not discuss Prometheus Vinctus because I am fairly satisfied by the arguments of those who do not consider it a work of Aeschylus, at least in its present form. I will also omit Sophocles’ Antigone because the conflict over the burial of Polyneices, primarily the decision of Antigone to bury him in defiance of the prohibition and intransigence of Creon, is not directly linked to the terrible past of the Labdacid family. The play leaves little doubt that Antigone, a true daughter of her father, would proceed to bury her brother even if things were different within her family. Although the misfortunes of the family may play a role in her decision, this is motivated mainly by moral/religious concerns, which make her ignore even her engagement to Haemon and their future. On the other side, the decision of Creon to prohibit the burial of Polyneices and desecrate his body is taken on the basis of Polyneices’ sacrilegious attack on his home city, but the play focuses instead on Creon’s dealing with Antigone and her supporters, real or imagined, and this is not significantly determined by past events. For the rest, I discuss Aeschylus’ plays in chronological order. This choice provides a convenient or conventional manner of classifying the plays because I have not observed any linear development in the treatment of the past from earlier to later plays. The chronology of most Sophoclean plays is not certain. I begin with Ajax, which is usually

Introduction

13

considered a fairly early, if not the earliest, surviving work, but I continue with the late Philoctetes (409 BC), as the two plays share several themes. Most important for my purposes, they stress the defining influence of the past on the decision the heroes have to make in the face of a loathsome situation and after suffering deception due to divine or human intervention. Electra and Trachiniae are discussed in the order of the OCT edition, with no implication that this was the actual order of their composition or performance. I also discuss O T before the posthumously produced OC. These plays are not as closely interrelated as Ajax and Philoctetes, but the figure of Oedipus as the main hero in both makes at least an association of order almost inevitable.

A. AESCHYLUS

I. Persae 1. Beginning at the end To modern audiences, Persae has two important distinctions: it is the earliest surviving tragedy (472 BC) and the only extant one with historical subject matter, the Persian reception of the news of the Salamis catastrophe of 480 BC and the return home of the defeated king Xerxes. Obviously, only the choice of historical subject matter was relevant to the original audience, and this perhaps only to the extent that the play dealt with a quite recent naval battle, which many among the spectators, their families and friends had experienced as combatants or civilians. Since the modern concept of myth was not self-evidently shared by the Greeks, they did not necessarily doubt the historicity of figures and events now viewed as mythical, although they did disagree on specifics. In this light, tragedies with “mythical” and “historical” subjects would not be very sharply differentiated, despite the fact that recent history provided the plots for very few tragedies.1 Persae has given rise to several scholarly debates, over its value as a historical source, especially in relation to Herodotus’ account of the battle of Salamis, its possible political or propagandistic goals, and its contribution to the fashioning of Athenian/Greek self-perception and Athenian civic/imperial ideology.2 Such debates fall mostly outside the scope of this study. I will discuss briefly at the end the over-arching question whether the play is mostly sympathetic or hostile toward Persia(ns). In the framework of the play’s presentation of the Persian defeat as divine punishment for human folly, the ensuing discussion will focus mainly on the problematization of the characters’ perception of the past as a foil to present and future contingencies.

1

2

For myth and history as inspiration for tragic plots in general and Persae in particular see Harrison (2000) 25–26, Föllinger (2003) 241–48, Kapsomenos (2004), and Garvie (2009) ix–x. For the historical accuracy of the play see e.g. Podlecki (1966) ch. 2, Pelling (1997), Harrison (2000) 26–30, and Wallinga (2005), esp. ch. 3, 5, 6 and 9. Cf. Garvie (2009) 181–82. For the other debates see nn. 35–37 below.

18

I. Persae

The subject of Persae is particularly amenable to reflections on past and future. It has been called a nostos play,3 but Xerxes’ actual nostos is much delayed, and nothing changes after his arrival (908ff.). He accomplishes nothing, receives no information, commits no crime, and undergoes no further change in his circumstances. He does not meet any member of his family, make any decision or announcement, and does not even seem to have acquired any knowledge or insight. Xerxes appears as a regretful commander, who laments the loss of his comrades and his own survival (915– 17, 962–66, 974–77, 988–91; cf. 931–34), blaming his fortune (908–12, 941–43) and his enemies’ prowess (1026–27). The play does not indicate beyond doubt that the admonitions of the ghost of his father Darius to the chorus and the Queen to restrain and comfort his rash son (829–38) fall on deaf ears. Nevertheless, Xerxes’ potential healing and coming to terms with the catastrophe, including the realization of his culpability and eventual care to avoid further disasters, fall outside the limits of the play. Winnington-Ingram argues that Darius’ explanation of the Persian defeats at Salamis and Plataea as punishment for hubristic folly fails to register with the other characters. This failure becomes most obvious in the exodus (908–1077), when Xerxes and the chorus attribute the disaster to divine agency, taking up the theme of divine envy and hostility that had dominated the play before Darius’ appearance.4 It is true that the hubris of Xerxes becomes a cardinal issue only in the pronouncements of his father, but the exodus, devoted to lamentation and emotional release, cannot count as proof that the chorus at least have learnt nothing from Darius. The last stasimon (852–907) and the exodus do not deal with the future at all, and Darius had said that Xerxes would only bear to listen to his mother (838). The play seems to indicate that the king’s condition and the laments appropriate to the terrible disaster leave little room for admonitions from the chorus, or for contemplation of the distant future – the proximate future will be as ruinous as the recent past (796–822; cf. 843–44). Although chastisement or enlightenment is absent from the exodus, the play at least

3 4

See Taplin (1977) 124–25; cf. B IV n. 6 below. Winnington-Ingram (1983) 13–14. Cf. Parker (2009) 128–29. Garvie (2009) xxii–xxxii calls the two explanations of the Persian disaster the “moral” and “amoral” view respectively. For Xerxes’ hubris cf. the discussion in the next section with n. 15. The oracles Darius mentions predicted Persian military setbacks (739–42, 800–2). For the failure of these oracles to provide temporal or other specifications see the discussion of freedom of choice in the Introduction.

1. Beginning at the end

19

does leave open the possibility that the characters may behave more soberly in the remoter future, a feature that further distinguishes Persae from the majority of extant tragic plays. Garvie correctly points out that neither Persae nor any other tragedy presents a simple, moralistic view of crime and punishment, or of the apportionment of human and divine responsibility in human suffering. Nevertheless, even if the oracles received by Darius (739–42; cf. 800–2) indicated or implied that the Persian might would be destroyed because of divine resentment, Xerxes’ folly seems to have triggered their fulfillment. Of course, realistically, Xerxes would not necessarily know that his building of the Bosporus bridge would be offensive to the gods, and the play does not state that he built it in full awareness and defiance of divine resentment for it. Also, the play does not specify whether the expedition would not have ended in disaster if Xerxes had used ships to transport his army across the Aegean, or even if the army had not desecrated the temples and statues of Greek gods. But Aeschylus was not apparently concerned with providing full explanations or with covering all eventualities in connection with the Persian defeats. Darius suggests that Xerxes should and could have understood that the building of the bridge was impious and ruinous. In a similar vein, logistical and moral alternatives are simply not considered. If one wishes to consider them, one may assume that they would not necessarily have guaranteed the success of the expedition but at least they would not have brought about its failure. A reading of the play focusing on its depiction of folly and failure and on the openness of its ending is not mutually exclusive with views such as that of Griffith, who suggests that the play provides a reaffirmation of social and political order. This is comforting, to both characters and, most crucially and unexpectedly, audience: mediated by the presentation of Darius as an idealized father-figure who protects family and state, the reassertion of Xerxes’ control at the end is satisfyingly closural.5 The play, though, never shows Xerxes’ rule to be in serious danger, at least not in the dramatic time of the play, and his differences from his father are, in my opinion, emphasized more than Griffith allows.6 My main objection to his

5 6

Griffith (2007). For earlier scholars who suggested that the final scene has a rehabilitating effect see Conacher (1996) 31 n. 56. Cf. Lloyd (2007) 6–7, and n. 25 below. For the similarities between Xerxes and Darius see Saïd (1981), and cf. Belloni (1982) 192–93, Euben (1986) 363, and Rosenbloom (1993) 190, (2006) 146–47.

20

I. Persae

reading of the play and tragedy in general concerns his argument about tragedy’s apparent favor toward monarchic/aristocratic regimes and figures of authority, who are presented as caring, fatherly protectors. While this favor is an indisputable fact, the explanation for it may more plausibly be sought in the genre’s indebtedness to tradition than in the biases of authors and audience, which can be detected through the lens of Lacanian psychoanalysis. Tragedy, like epic and lyric before it, is a highly traditional genre, whose plot-lines are taken from, or based on, the mythical/literary tradition. Epic and much of lyric sang the stories of kings and monarchies, which unfold in a time long before the political demise of these institutions. The simplest answer to the question why tragedy does not depict the fall of monarchies is that the tradition it draws upon does not include such stories, since it was formed long before the rise of democracy and, in most cases, tyranny. As far as regime criticism is concerned, there is a fair degree of it in tragedy, and it involves the excesses of both “autocracy” and “democracy.” On the other hand, tragic authors had no reason to depict only evil monarchs, as their tradition did not include only this sort, and such a choice would provide no clear dramatic benefit. Tragedy could certainly abandon the tradition, but such a possibility is purely theoretical, and its failure to materialize cannot be attributed, only or primarily, to Athenian liking for strong, autocratic father figures. To be sure, Greek society in general was patriarchal, and its literature could hardly reject patriarchy. Comedy, which invents its plots, also ends its plays with the reaffirmation of patriarchal order, as Griffith himself points out.7 The closure in Persae is satisfying and comforting to the extent that the fate of the army, over which chorus and Queen agonized in the first part of the play, has become known, and Xerxes has returned, although virtually alone, and burdened by the crushing weight of a terrible defeat. His personal fate, though, and the fortunes of his empire remain open-ended. Most of the play is devoted to the past, and the handling of this major theme is intriguingly complex.

2. In the beginning there was Xerxes The Persian view of Xerxes’ campaign and the defeat at Salamis expressed in the play, i.e. Aeschylus’ version of the Athenian implied view (of the

7

Griffith (2007) 132.

2. In the beginning there was Xerxes

21

Persian view) of the war, is unsurprising in the context of Greek poetic tradition in general and the tragic genre in particular. The vanquished habitually attribute their defeat to the wish of the divine power(s) to denigrate them, either because of unprovoked and inscrutable hostility, or as punishment for moral/religious transgressions. The victors exult in the perceived boon of divine support, which they attribute to their piety, and to divine loathing for their impious adversaries. A reading of the play along these lines does not rule out emphasis on the political or constitutional shortcomings of the Persians. On the contrary, it clarifies the picture of the background of the defeat sketched in the play.8 Following the appearance of Darius’ ghost, there remains no doubt that the Persian campaign was doomed from the beginning, despite the huge army’s enormous numerical and logistical superiority (cf. 334–52) and the prowess of its commanders (303–30, 441–44; cf. 21–59, 955–1003). Since Persia is governed by an absolute monarch (cf. 763–64), the blame falls squarely on the shoulders of Xerxes, the commander-in-chief. Young and impulsively reckless (744, 782), Xerxes fails to follow his father’s advice (783). He is also vulnerable to taunts issued by evil companions: this is how the Queen explains their son’s decision to undertake the campaign to the ghost of her husband (753–58). Her view could be easily taken as the result of maternal bias and as an attempt at exoneration,9 but the play does not indicate that the Queen’s judgment is (hopelessly) flawed. Xerxes’ readiness to believe the tale of the Greek emissary at Salamis (353–73), for instance, may be thought to corroborate the narrative of his thoughtlessness. Harrison insists that the Queen’s presentation includes stock motifs of the negative portrayal of Persian monarchy in Greek authors, including the pernicious influence of selfish royal women on Persian rulers.10

8 For the intertwining of these two aspects in the play see e.g. Goldhill (1988) 193. Cf. Heath (1987) 65, and Parker (1996) 210. Harrison (2000) 100–2 thinks that religion is subordinated to politics, but the fact that the theme of hubris, for instance, is a cultural commonplace does not diminish its importance. Cf. Conacher (1996) 5–7, who cautions that the critical tendency toward disparagement of the importance of the nemesis theme does not do justice to the play’s complexity and especially its multi-faceted handling of its central theme. 9 Cf. e.g. Smethurst (1989) 136, and Georges (1994) 87. 10 Harrison (2000) 78–81. For negative views of the Queen cf. Clifton (1963) 114, and Schenker (1994) 288.

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This assessment is hard to substantiate in the case of the Queen.11 Even if valid, it should not lead to the conclusion that Greek authors and audiences did not share, or held in contempt, the views expressed by Persian characters. On the contrary, it is plausible to assume that the portrayal of Persia in Greek sources was shaped largely by Greek beliefs, and not only with a view to depicting a polar “otherness,” which would serve as the basis of self-definition.12 Herodotus and Thucydides will later present not only the Persian but also the Athenian empire in a manner quite similar to the presentation of Xerxes’ empire in Persae.13 Even if Aeschylus meant to portray the Queen as part of a corrupt royal machine, he would not necessarily fashion her statements and judgments so as to make (all of ) them completely repellent or alienating to the audience.14 Influenced by evil companions or not, Xerxes’ damningly hubristic mistake, which doomed his campaign, destroyed his army, and caused terrible woe to his people, was to insult the gods by bridging over the Hellespont (744–50). Most scholars suggest that his actual hubris was the attempt to expand Persian rule from Asia to Europe, and that the bridging of the Hellespont was merely a potent symbol of the offense.15 This view

11 For a good discussion of the presentation of the Queen in Persae see McClure (2006), esp. 79–84, who argues that she is presented in Greek rather than Persian terms, as a concerned, respectable mother and matron, dedicated to her duties toward gods and men, deferring to males and uninterested in the game of power. Dominick (2007) suggests that Aeschylus and Herodotus present Xerxes’ mother as both different from and similar to Greek women, thus challenging their audience’s notion of different and similar. For the Queen in Persae cf. the discussion below. 12 This position has been advocated at its most extreme by Hall (1989) 56–100 and especially in her edition of the play (1996) 12–13. For criticism of the latter see the reviews of Rosenbloom (1998), and Sommerstein (1998). Cf. Rhodes (2003) 115–16, and Garvie (2009) xx–xxii. 13 See Rosenbloom (2006) 94–95. For Persian-style hubris of the Athenians in Herodotus cf. Fornara (1971) 55–56, Stadter (1992), and Moles (1996); for Thucydides’ view cf. Tuplin (1996) 193, and Miller (1997) ch. 9. 14 Michelini (1982) 149–53 suggests that the Queen’s view (753–58) is a glimpse of a tragedy of character, Xerxes’ personal tragedy, as it were, which is not allowed to develop, because Darius’ view dominates the stage, leaving Xerxes’ personal story out of focus. For the Queen’s other assessment of Xerxes’ motives (473–77) see the discussion in 4 below. 15 See e.g. Winnington-Ingram (1983) 10–11, and Conacher (1996) 25, with further references in n. 40. Winnington-Ingram associates this symbolism with Agamemnon’s walking over the tapestries in the so-called carpet scene in Agamemnon, an

2. In the beginning there was Xerxes

23

is based on Darius’ claim that Zeus ordained for one man to be the ruler of all Asia rich in flocks (762–64). There is no plausible reason why this statement should be taken to imply more that it says. According to Darius, Zeus ordained that one man would have huge power and wealth, not that his rule should be limited to Asia. The emphasis falls on the extent of the Persian empire under one ruler: Darius stresses the god-ordained vastness and riches of the empire, not its god-ordained limits. The mention of Asia is natural in the context of a historical review since the Persian empire was created in Asia: there is no implication that it should necessarily be confined to it. No character in the play, and least of all Darius, who conquered several European cities (cf. 868–902), ever expresses concern that Xerxes overstepped his Asian mandate, only that he campaigned against a distant and valiant land over the sea (cf. 231–45).16 The aspirations for expansion of Persian rule to Europe, or the attempt made by a land power to dominate a sea people, may be presented in a negative light in the play,17 but the root of Xerxes’ problem lay elsewhere. Faced with the challenge of transporting his huge force across the sea, and over-confident in his power, he offended the gods grievously. In the play, the bridging of the Hellespont is presented as the main offense, and Persian rule over Europe, if it may be accorded importance, would have followed as a result, a prospect doomed from the

act which he views as “a symbol of sacrilege, resumptive of all relevant acts of similar impiety” (p. 90). The carpet-scene may contain such symbolism (cf. A IV n. 82 below), but Agamemnon’s personal and inherited offenses are clearly stated and emphatically elaborated upon in the play. On the contrary, Persae includes no suggestion or implication that Xerxes committed any offense prior to the bridging of the sea, and there is no mention of any crime committed by his father or other forebears. Conacher, quoting Kitto, claims that no Greek would normally consider a bridge of ships an impiety. As already indicated in the previous section, and irrespective of the relevant views of other Greeks as well as of the question whether modern scholars are in a position to imagine them, Aeschylus did suggest that the bridge offended the divine Hellespont, the gods, and especially Poseidon (723, 744–50). 16 In response to the chorus’ inquiry about proper Persian action in the future (787–89), the ghost of Darius does not urge cessation of European ventures but only cessation of attacks against Greece (790, 823–26). More tellingly, he explains his advice with a reference to logistical problems (792, 794), not a divinely sanctioned prohibition of a joint rule over Asia and Europe. 17 Cf. Michelini (1982) 82–83, who suggests that the play presents the Persians as land dwellers and the Greeks essentially as a sea people.

24

I. Persae

beginning because of Xerxes’ impiety. Equally devastatingly, the Persian army desecrated the shrines and statues of the Greek gods (807–12), an offense for which the decimation of the remaining host at Plataea will provide further severe punishment (800–6, 813–22).

3. The ghost of the father Xerxes’ ruinous folly is shown in a worse light because the characters perceive it as the failure of a ruler and son to live up to the achievements of his father and great predecessor Darius. The appearance of the ghost of the king himself gives a new spin to the tale of gloom that dominated the play from the chorus’ intimations in the parodos (8–15, 93–100 and 114–39), which were followed by the Queen’s narration of her ominous dream and the subsequent portent (176–214), and the messenger’s report of the disaster (249–55, 302–514). Darius, and the glorious past he both represents and takes credit for, is a cardinal figure in the play, and he is invoked repeatedly before the appearance of his ghost. As soon as Xerxes is mentioned, he is called “a king born of Darius” (βασιλεὺς Δαρειογενής, 6).18 The Queen is greeted as “elderly mother of Xerxes and consort of Darius” (156): both rulers are revered as gods by the Persians (157),19 although the fate of the expedition and Xerxes’ fortunes hang in the balance (158). The Queen mentions Darius twice upon her entrance (160, 164). More significantly, both father and son appear in her ominous dream, Darius pitying the fall of his son from the wrecked chariot, and Xerxes tearing his clothes at the sight of his father (197–99). The chorus advise the Queen to propitiate the gods and her dead husband Darius with offerings (215–25). The elders mention the losses the Athenian army

18 The same appellation occurs at the end of the parodos (144–45). West emends Δαρειογενής to Δανάης τε γόνου (145), a reference to Perseus, the eponymous ancestor of the Persians (cf. 80). This enables him to emend and retain 146, which other editors delete. But the suggested corruption of 145 is difficult to explain, especially since the first reference to Xerxes’ paternity occurred dozens of lines earlier. On 146 see Garvie (2009) 94–95; cf. Föllinger (2003) 267 n. 154. 19 There is no indication that the historical Persians worshipped their kings as gods; see Harrison (2000) 87. Nevertheless, Darius is invoked as a god in the play (620, 642–43); see Court (1994) 47, and cf. Griffith (2007) 122–24. Garvie (2009) on 157 thinks that this is an exaggeration since Darius is also called “equal to the gods” (634, 856).

3. The ghost of the father

25

inflicted on Darius’ force (244),20 shortly before the messenger’s arrival. Following his report of the disaster, the first stasimon (532–97) includes a brief but nostalgic reference to Darius’ military efficiency and benevolent rule over his people (555–57). In the rest of the play until Xerxes’ appearance, Darius’ temperance, wisdom and successes are repeatedly contrasted with his son’s failures. The ghost of the king reveals that the destruction of the Persian army at Salamis had been foretold by oracles (739–42). Since this disaster has occurred, he is certain that the other disaster predicted in the oracles will take place, namely that the Persian force left in Greece will be decimated at Plataea as a punishment for their desecration of the statues and temples of the gods (800–22). Darius, though, does not suggest that the Salamis disaster was simply a fated setback but explains that Xerxes’ youthful and impious folly was the trigger for the speedy fulfillment of the oracles (742–50; cf. 782–86). He also advises the chorus and the Queen to admonish and restrain Xerxes (829–38). In the last stasimon, the chorus recall Darius’ reign as a virtual golden age of uninterrupted and glorious achievements, now undone by the recent naval disaster (852–907; cf. 652–56). It is far from surprising that a young king and commander-in-chief is consistently compared with his royal father. Moreover, the appearance of the ghost serves important functions. The moral/religious background of the Salamis disaster as well as predictions and admonitions to the stricken people could only be provided by a Persian figure of authority with special access to the divine. The castigation of Xerxes’ shortcomings by his own father puts the king’s failures into starker relief. In conjunction with the fulsome praise of Darius by the chorus and the Queen (709–11) and his own review of the achievements of Xerxes’ Medo-Persian predecessors (765–81), the paternal condemnation underscores vividly Xerxes’ inadequacy as a successor to great men.21 Instead of standing on the

20 At 236 the chorus remind the Queen that the Athenian army has wrought much evil to the Persians. The text has been suspected. If it is genuine, the statement must allude to Marathon too but is not limited to it: an Athenian audience would probably also think of the capture of Sardis. 21 McClure (2006) 84, 88–91 points out that the presence of both parents onstage and the naming of Xerxes in parts dealing with his shortcomings and disastrous hubris contribute to the representation of the king as a youth unfit for royal duty, being major elements in the formulation of the discourse of blame for his reckless and dishonorable actions. For the contrast between Darius and Xerxes cf. n. 25 below.

26

I. Persae

shoulders of giants, Xerxes is shown to stand next to them and is made to look disastrously puny. The contrast between the admirable rulers of the past and the present destroyer of Asia is simply shattering. All these dramatic benefits notwithstanding, there is no doubt that an authoritative figure other than Darius could have served the same purposes equally well, without compromising the play’s thematic framework or even patriotic/partisan concerns. To assume that Darius was indispensable because Aeschylus’ choice of this character was successful is circular. An aged counselor, a prophet, a priest, or a god could easily have fulfilled Darius’ function. Tragic convention, according to which foreign peoples worshipped the same gods as Greeks, would have facilitated the choice of a god. In such case, the contrast between Darius and Xerxes would have remained largely unchanged. Even details such as Darius’ distress at his son’s folly and failure could have been communicated to the audience by another authority figure. Xerxes himself could also have been shown to recall belatedly the oracles his father mentions and the advice he had received from him; the prophecy of the Plataea disaster could have been given in a royal dream. Much more intriguingly, the inclusion of Darius in a play dealing with recent historical events, which were connected to his own campaigns, and stressing Xerxes’ relationship to him was virtually bound to make the audience recall Darius’ campaigns. In particular, the Athenian audience of 472 BC watching a play that consistently compared Xerxes with his father could not but recall Marathon and draw the obvious connections.22 Nevertheless, the significance of Marathon is minimized, and other failures of Darius are completely glossed over.23 Aeschylus apparently made a series of remarkable choices in Persae. He presented the ghost of Darius onstage, although this appearance does not seem to have been absolutely necessary in the framework of the play’s plot. Moreover, not only did he stress Darius’ wisdom, piety and successes as a foil to Xerxes’ recklessness, hubris and

22 If Phrynichus’ recent Phoenissae (probably 476 BC), to which Persae is indebted according to its hypothesis, made the connection explicit, the audience’s recollection and the peculiarity of Aeschylus’ handling of Marathon might be further reinforced. Cf. next n. 23 See Saïd (1981) 35. Harrison (2000) 85–86 objects that Marathon is not glossed over, but there can be no doubt that it receives minimal emphasis; cf. the discussion below. The suppression of Darius’ failed Scythian campaign, which involved the bridging of the Thracian Bosporus, stands out, but this at least was not part of the audience’s history; cf. Winnington-Ingram (1983) 9.

4. The specter of Marathon

27

incompetence, but he also put in the mouth of the ghost a review of Medo-Persian history. On the other hand, neither this thoughtful and efficient shepherd of his people nor any other character lays any emphasis on the disaster of Marathon, which the audience of the play would probably recall, or mentions other controversial ventures. An inquiry into Aeschylus’ rationale for making this combination of choices is surely in order.

4. The specter of Marathon Aeschylus apparently wished to celebrate the victories of Salamis and Psyttaleia by depicting Xerxes in the worst possible light.24 This he chose to do mainly through an unfavorable comparison of the king with his

24 It is not clear to modern readers why he emphasizes Psyttaleia, which neither Herodotus (8.76, 95) nor modern historians consider particularly important. For the differences in the accounts of Herodotus and Aeschylus see Wallinga (2005) 88, (2006), and Rosenbloom (2006) 72. Perhaps contemporary perceptions differed from later assessments. A wish to balance the implicit praise lavished on Themistocles, the democratic commander at Salamis, with corresponding praise of Aristeides, the aristocratic commander at Psyttaleia (and Themistocles’ aristocratic enemy), may have also played some role. For the possible political background of the emphasis on Psyttaleia see Harrison (2000) 97, Föllinger (2003) 241 n. 25, and Rosenbloom (2006) 73–74. Conacher (1996) 18 n. 32 considers such speculation fruitless. Hignett (1963) 238 suggests that the emphasis on Psyttaleia serves to round off the Greek success by adding the component of a land battle to the naval victory of Salamis, and thus celebrating the success of Athenian hoplites. Saïd (1992–93) points out that lightly armed troops were also involved in the slaughter of the Persians. Cf. Wallinga (2005) 88–89 and (2006), who speculates that the reason for Aeschylus’ emphasis on Psyttaleia may have been more personal than political: instead of wishing to glorify the hoplites and/or, implicitly, Aristeides, Aeschylus may have wished to stress the importance of a lesser achievement because he may have been one of the hoplites stationed along the shores of Salamis and may have participated in the Psyttaleia attack. Garvie (2009) 204–5 is perhaps right to think that it would have been strange to praise Aristeides by ignoring his hoplites and stressing the contribution of marines. According to Garvie, the emphasis on Psyttaleia serves dramatic rather than political purposes. There is no doubt that dramatic purposes were paramount in Aeschylus’ choices, but the distinction between hoplites and marines was perhaps not so sharp, at least in the context of a play, all the more since Aristeides’ hoplites naturally reached Psyttaleia by ship.

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father,25 as suggested in the previous section. The presentation of Darius as the moral and political role model Xerxes disastrously failed to live up to may be thought to entail the air-brushing of Darius’ defeat at Marathon from the picture of the play.26 Clearly, Aeschylus could not, and possibly did not wish to, suppress completely the battle of Marathon, a quite recent and important event. Even if he had wished or chosen to do so, it is highly unlikely that the audience would not have recalled it, as indicated above. In contrast to plays with mythological, or, from a Greek perspective, chronologically remote, plots, in a play dramatizing recent events the playwright’s choices would not be bound to be the audience’s primary guide in the recollection or reception of these events. Furthermore, as already suggested, the centrality and stature of Darius were virtually bound not only to bring the audience in mind of Marathon but also to face them with the paradox of the characters’, most conspicuously Darius’ own, failure to take it adequately into account. Aeschylus’ presentation of Darius was certainly no impediment to a different treatment of Marathon in the play. Apart from the obvious fact that Aeschylus could very well have chosen to present Darius differently, Marathon could have been accorded greater weight without significant modifications in the presentation of Darius. The messenger, the chorus, and/or Xerxes himself could have mentioned Marathon and associated it with Salamis without denigrating Darius, or exonerating Xerxes for the Salamis disaster. From among these options, Aeschylus chose to have the ghost of Darius himself appear onstage, and even review Medo-Persian history, without so much as a mention of Marathon (or the Scythian campaign). It is rather implausible to assume that a comparison with Marathon would complicate the presentation of the Greek victory at Salamis by fostering the image of Xerxes as a pious son and ruler, eager to punish the enemies of his father and country, and thus partially contributing to his exoneration. Most of the blame that the king receives, especially from the ghost of his father, is due to the arrogant folly he displayed in the execution of the campaign rather than to his decision to undertake it. Since Darius is portrayed as wise and pious, references to Marathon, especially by characters other than his ghost, could have served to accentuate rather than play down Xerxes’ folly. The play could certainly have adopted the

25 See e.g. Podlecki (1966) 9, Alexanderson (1967), de Romilly (1968) 11, Conacher (1996) 8, 29–30, and Föllinger (2003) 255. Cf. n. 21 above. 26 See Föllinger (2003) 263, and cf. previous n.

4. The specter of Marathon

29

position that the Persian defeat at Salamis far exceeded the losses at Marathon,27 which generally reflects historical facts and does not entail any major alteration in the play’s outlook, or any offense to Marathon veterans and their families or friends among the audience. I will return to the audience’s view of Xerxes’ wish for revenge in a moment. For now, the two references to Marathon in the play, especially the second, may provide some clue to the rationale of Aeschylus’ choices. The first (244), made by the chorus, does not include the name of Marathon. The Queen’s response (245), though, draws a connection between the expeditions of Darius and Xerxes, by raising the specter of a defeat similar to that mentioned by the chorus looming over the current Persian expedition against Athens, just before the arrival of the messenger with news of the recent disaster. The second, explicit and more extensive, reference to Marathon belongs to the Queen herself. Following the report on the Psyttaleia disaster, she addresses the cruel daemon and complains that he dashed Persian expectations (472–73): Xerxes had thought that he would take revenge on Athens for the Marathon defeat but he only managed to amass a great burden of woes on top of the Marathon fatalities (473–77). This is a credible reconstruction of Xerxes’ motives, especially from a Persian point of view, although not necessarily an accurate, complete, or the only possible one.28 Remarkably, it is the only one of its kind in the play. Later on, in the exchange with the ghost of her husband, the Queen herself offers a different one (753–58),29 discussed in 2 above. The male characters do not take up either of the two explanations, and the motivation for the disastrous campaign is not even mentioned again after the departure of Darius’ ghost. It is true that the two statements of the Queen are not irreconcilably contradictory. Xerxes may well have wished to take revenge for Marathon, and he may have been incited to undertake his disastrous expedition by the taunts of evil companions. But neither the

27 There may be an oblique allusion to this difference in Darius’ reference to the limited costs of his campaigns in comparison to Xerxes’ disastrous Greek expedition (780–81), but see next section. For the Queen’s reference to Marathon (473–77) see the discussion below. 28 For Xerxes’ motivation in Herodotus see Rosenbloom (2006) 23. 29 Her earlier reference to the divinity who abetted Xerxes’ plan (724) does not involve another view of his motivation for mounting the campaign but concerns the bridging of the Hellespont and involves double motivation. Cf. Darius’ subsequent emphasis on the vicious circle of human folly and divine support for it (742).

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Queen nor anybody else makes this obvious association. What is more noteworthy, the Queen obviously attempts to exonerate her son or alleviate his guilt not by evoking his wish to take revenge on his father’s enemies but by accusing Xerxes’ evil entourage of inciting him to replicate his father’s successes. Dramatic considerations such as the wish to emphasize Xerxes’ folly, to depict in a plausible manner the psychology and sensitivity of the characters, or to secure a favorable audience response to the representation of Xerxes’ motivation, cannot account for the inconsistency. I have argued above that emphasis on Marathon would not have been incompatible with a negative portrayal of Xerxes, especially if the crucial distinction between the decision to undertake the campaign, which the Persians at least could view as morally neutral, and its ruinously impious execution had been emphasized in the context of a comparison between Marathon and Salamis. In a similar vein, the Queen cannot plausibly be thought to avoid mentioning Marathon in order not to upset Darius. She does attribute Xerxes’ decision to campaign against Greece to his desire to live up to his father’s achievements, although she claims that he had been led astray by evil men who taunted him as unworthy of his valiant father. It is not clear that Darius would be offended by a reference to Marathon, and it is not psychologically plausible that a father would find a son’s misguided desire to make up for a paternal setback more troubling than a son’s misguided wish to emulate paternal achievements. It is certainly conceivable that the invaded people, who had had to abandon their homes and temples to be devastated and desecrated by Xerxes’ army, would not have received favorably a play emphasizing the invading leader’s pious wish to take revenge for a defeat of his glorious father and country: a narrative presenting the Persian king as a source of woe to his family and country, and his defeat as divinely ordained punishment, announced in oracles and inflicted by the supreme god, is more congenial. But Xerxes’ wish to avenge Marathon was a plausible factor in his decision to attack Greece, and it was perhaps rumored or taken for granted by his Greek enemies. Persae does draw attention to this wish with the Queen’s first reference to her son’s motives (473–77). Besides, misguided filial piety and impious imperial folly would not have been incompatible in this play. At any rate, it is far-fetched to assume that the audience’s view of the historical Xerxes explains the puzzling inconsistency in the opinions of a fictional character of a play with an all-Persian cast. Aeschylus could certainly have devised more apposite ways of denigrating the Persians and thus ingratiating his audience.

5. Glories to rags: the elusiveness of the past

31

In view of the above, the Queen’s statements may only be thought to exemplify the difficulty of the characters to deal with the past in any thoughtful, salubrious, or at least consistent manner. It is perhaps not accidental that the Queen’s prevarications occur in the context of her exchanges with different male interlocutors, who emphasize different aspects of the disaster. Whether this reveals a condescending view of (Persian) women or not, it certainly suggests quite forcefully the elusiveness of the past. If the Queen, a senior royal lady, revered by all and supremely devoted to the physical and political welfare of her son, cannot decide upon, and provide a consistent account of, his motives in different contexts, then it is unlikely that any other mortal character would be more adept at handling the weight of the past on the present and future.

5. Glories to rags: the elusiveness of the past This difficulty of dealing with the past becomes quite obvious from the chorus’ recollections of a virtually idyllic past under Darius. Even more tellingly, the references of Darius, a very special character endowed with privileged insights, to his own reign indicate that not even the ghost of a wise king surveying past and future is much better placed to deal with the past. As indicated already, there is no mention of Marathon or any other military setbacks suffered by Darius in his pronouncements.30 It is true that he mentions the national burden of the campaigns that he and the other predecessors of Xerxes undertook (781, 785–86). An oblique allusion to Marathon (and the Scythian expedition) may also be thought to lurk in the collective reference to his own numerous campaigns with his large host

30 Conacher (1996) 29–30 suggests that a distinction is drawn between the campaigns in which Darius was present as leader and those conducted by his commanders such as the one that led to the battle of Marathon and the European ventures mentioned in the third stasimon (864–902). This serves to shield Darius from the charge of impious folly burdening his son, who wished to yoke Asia and Europe, against the will of Zeus. But the play nowhere draws the alleged distinction or implies that the king would not be blamed for the problems of campaigns he did not personally lead. Such a view would also entail that he would take greater credit for glorious ventures he commanded in person, an implication that would automatically undermine the chorus’ praise of Darius’ achievements in the last stasimon. For the view that the real offense of Xerxes in the play was the attempt to extend Asian rule to Europe rather than the bridging of the Hellespont see the discussion in 2 with nn. 15–17 above.

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(780). Nevertheless, even if one takes this charitable approach, one still cannot gloss over the fact that Darius fails to refer explicitly to Marathon, and the other characters fail to assess the defeat properly, at least from the perspective of an Athenian audience bound to associate Marathon and Salamis. Especially Darius’ castigation of his son’s bridging of the Hellespont is intriguingly ironic in view of his own similar bridging of the Thracian Bosporus in the unsuccessful Scythian campaign (Hdt. 4.87–89). It is not uncommon for tragic characters to downplay, suppress, or alter facts that might compromise their cases and affect other people’s view of them.31 It has indeed been suggested that Darius is presented as a self-serving despot, eager to foster or safeguard a positive image of his reign.32 There are two kinds of objections that might be raised against such a view of Darius. First, he is not only presented as a wise ruler, at least as much wiser than his son, but he is also a deceased man with special insights into the divine will on account of his status and the oracles he had received before his death. He has little plausible motivation for trying to preserve his positive image. It is obvious that the chorus’ respect for him knows no limits. They are his age-mates (681, 784), summon him reverentially from Hades (625–80), show great respect and awe when he appears (694–702), and expect profit from his insights and advice (787–89). Besides, it is plausible to assume, and Darius’ admonitions at the end of the scene indicate, that the dead king wishes to protect not only his own image but also his son and line from potential political unrest, much like his wife does.33 If so, Darius’ review of Medo-Persian history and his castigation of his son for foolishly breaking with an august imperial tradition would be largely self-defeating. It is difficult to believe that Aeschylus would implicitly suggest that a caring father and dead king would

31 Admittedly, most instances are found in Euripides’ extant work, which is much larger anyway, and involve despicable characters. Salient examples are Jason in Medea and Polymestor in Hecuba; Menelaus in Andromache or Helen in Troades may also be included in that category. Of Sophoclean characters, the Atreids in Ajax and Creon in OC are conspicuous for their skewed and/or dishonest claims. See B I 8 and VI 3 below. In Aeschylus no character engages in similar self-promotion. The Danaids in Supplices do stress their identification with Io, but their insistence on it seems to be the result of their fantastic self-definition rather than a ploy to convince Pelasgus and the Argives. See A III 2–4 below. 32 See e.g. Gagarin (1976) 52, and Kantzios (2004) 13–14. 33 For the similarity in the behavior of the Queen and Darius see Harrison (2000) 81, 86–87, although his overall view of the royal couple is different from mine.

6. Slaves of one man, and sons of the Greeks

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suppress his own failings and potentially endanger his dynasty by stressing his son’s shortcomings in order not to harm his own image, which was in no obvious danger of revision anyway. But even if one accepts this proposition, one is again led to the conclusion that the characters of the play, including those endowed with special qualities such as Darius, formulate, and, in the absence of contrary evidence, are most probably meant to be perceived as having, a view of the past that both distorts historical reality and cannot be of use in the charting of a better course of future action. The play aimed, primarily at least, at an Athenian audience,34 the majority of whom must have had clear and strong views on, and indeed personal experience of, past events, which receive a treatment clashing with this experience. Such a treatment was apparently designed to highlight the characters’ limitations. Aeschylus decided to achieve this effect by presenting onstage the character of an august royal mother and especially the ghost of her venerable husband. Both are intimately related to Xerxes, and Darius surveys past and future from a position of authority. He is also responsible for Marathon, but fails to articulate a credible picture of his own failure, or associate it in any way with his son’s problems.

6. Slaves of one man, and sons of the Greeks Whether this fallibility, attributable to cognitive myopia or personal and dynastic concerns, was meant to be perceived as a(nother) specifically Persian defect, implicitly contrasted with superior Greek/Athenian cognitive powers, morality, or constitution, is difficult to determine. The question is certainly part of the broader issue of the play’s treatment of, and the audience’s response to, the Persian enemy. Scholars have taken three approaches to Aeschylus’ portrayal of the Persians: some think that the play is a triumphal ode to Greek victory and superiority, whether ethnic, moral, political, or overall;35 others read it as intended to evoke audience sympathy toward

34 For possible performances of Athenian plays outside Athens, or at least their resonance with non-Athenian spectators at the Dionysia, see the literature cited by Mitchell (2006) 218 n. 36. 35 See e.g. Lattimore (1943), Hall (1989) 69–100, Georges (1994) 85–113, and Harrison (2000) 103–15.

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the enemy through its emphasis on the common human condition;36 a third group believe that it fosters patriotic pride, and perhaps fighting spirit against a still dangerous foe, while also stressing the dignity and humanity of the enemies as a marker of common human vulnerability, and perhaps as a warning against future Athenian/Greek lapses comparable to those that led to the shattering Persian defeats.37 There is no doubt that certainty is impossible and that different members of the audience may well have had very different reactions to the play, given its subject-matter. As already pointed out, these reactions were possibly more variable than to plays with mythological subjects, and more independent of the author’s intentions. It is safer perhaps to adopt a cautious position and eschew extreme interpretations that favor chauvinistic or propagandistic readings of the play. As already suggested, its emphasis on deleteriously foolish arrogance and impiety, one of the commonest motifs in Greek literature, may hardly be disregarded, and thus read simply as an indictment of specifically Persian failings. The Persians were not defeated because they were slaves prostrating themselves, literally and metaphorically, to intolerant and unaccountable monarchs, who styled themselves as gods, but because their ruler was inadequate, and their enemies clever, pious, and valiant. The play does not name a single Greek and does not emphasize only the role

36 See Kitto (19613) 38, Pavlovskis (1978), Ebbott (2000), and Rehm (2002) 239–51. Föllinger (2003) 254–86 also stresses the themes that the play shares with the rest of Aeschylus’ work and its strategies for exciting pity and fear. Garvie (2007) 174–79 (cf. [2009] xxi–xxii) makes a convincing case that the play aims at inciting the audience’s pity for the enemies and fear for themselves, although I do not agree with his claim that hubris is only retrospectively acknowledged as such, while until the appearance of Darius the play emphasizes Xerxes’ errors of judgment. See the discussion in 1 and cf. n. 15 above. 37 See Murray (1940) 129, Winnington-Ingram (1983) 14–15, Goldhill (1988) 193, Smethurst (1989) 139–41, Meier (1993) 78, Pelling (1997) 17, and Rosenbloom (2006) 95–97. The most recent proponent of this view is Hopman (2009), who claims that the audience are invited to share the chorus’ initial rejection and eventual reintegration of Xerxes. This mapping of audience emotions is not implausible, although the alleged means of their creation is: it is not clear why the chorus would be more cardinal in this respect than Xerxes’ parents or the messenger, and the elders certainly do not exhibit more “Hellenic” features than the rest of the characters.

6. Slaves of one man, and sons of the Greeks

35

of the navy in the victory38 but does nod to Sparta (817) and mention Marathon. If such choices may be considered as propaganda in favor of Themistocles, a prominent democratic leader facing the danger of ostracism, or of Athenian democracy as opposed to aristocratic conservatism or oriental despotism, then all plays may be viewed as propaganda of one hue or another. But this is an unprofitable, Procrustean approach. To return to the subject of the present discussion, the characters’ failure to assess the past properly, i.e. consistently and fully, is a crucial, thought-provoking issue in the play. The final answer to the question whether it should be taken as a distinctly Persian defect, indicative of the cognitive/moral and political/constitutional inferiority of the original audience’s main foreign enemy at the time, has to be deferred until after the examination of the other plays that feature Greek characters, or, in the case of Supplices, a cast that includes the Greek Pelasgus and characters of Greek origin. For now, let it suffice to say that in Persae, which presents a foreign country and people as, to an extent, familiar, the characters’ view of the past is reminiscent of an unexamined view of a foreign country, often and wrongly assumed to exhibit certain, hazily defined, familiar features.

38 For these choices see Conacher (1996) 18 n. 31 and Griffith (2007) 127 n. 75, who explain it along dramatic lines.

II. Septem contra Thebas 1. The work of Ares: king Eteocles and his subjects and foes Septem, like Supplices, is the only surviving play of its connected trilogy, and its third play, like Eumenides. Both features complicate the task of interpretation, especially with regard to the burden of the past on the family and city of Eteocles. They also constitute a warning against optimism about the possibility of reconstructing the other plays and recovering the general trends of the trilogy. Eumenides is the obvious cautionary example in this respect: it omits all mention not only of Aegisthus but also of the sacrifice of Iphigeneia as well as previous killings in the family. Equally troublingly, if only Choephori had survived, it would have also been virtually impossible for anyone to imagine with any degree of accuracy the content of Agamemnon or Eumenides. The hare omen, the Cassandra scene, Clytaemestra’s (self-)representation as the avenger of her slain daughter, or the constitution of the Areopagus court as well as Athena’s role in Orestes’ acquittal and especially in the conciliation of the Erinyes would quite likely never have been guessed, or have gained wide recognition, as Aeschylus’ most plausible choices. Even the sole survival of Agamemnon, the first play of the trilogy, would have hardly provided clues to the thematic and structural choices that inform its companion plays, e.g. the limited role of Electra, the ruse of Orestes, the great central kommos and the proactive stance of the chorus, the exchange between mother and son in Choephori, or the trial of Orestes as dramatized in Eumenides. An ancient characterization of Septem as “full of Ares” has survived.1 This is perhaps somewhat misleading because more than half of the play is devoted to the Theban preparations for the enemy onslaught rather than the

1

Aristophanes’ ‘Aeschylus’ famously extols its martial and civic qualities (“a drama . . . full of Ares; every viewer of it would have been seized by the desire to be warlike,” R. 1021–22), admittedly in self-promotional praise. Gorgias (DK 82 B 24) seems to have been the first to express, or perhaps to echo, the description in a more serious context. See Dover (1993) 31; cf. 319.

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onslaught itself, which receives quite limited attention. The background of the war also comes into focus in the second half of the play, but critical discussion of the impact of the past is not facilitated by the few details it includes. The monumental central part, the so-called shield scene (375–676), is devoted to the positioning of Theban champions at the city’s gates. It also deals extensively, as does the rest of the play, with the frame of mind of both attackers and besieged. The attackers come into focus in the reports of the messenger, briefly in the prologue (39–53) and in greater detail in the shield scene. The chorus of Theban maidens express the fears of the civilian population in the face of the imminent attack on the city, first almost hysterically in the parodos (78–181) and later with more restraint (287–368, 452–56, 481–85, 521–25, 626–30), following the reprimand of king Eteocles in the first episode (182–286). Their prayers to the gods for protection, preservation of the city and avoidance of the cruel lot of slavery are crucial in highlighting the terrible danger facing non-combatants but contribute little to the elucidation of the background of the conflict. The male population of Thebes is represented almost exclusively by Eteocles: the six Theban champions defending six gates of the city never appear onstage, and are much less vividly described than their Argive foes and Eteocles, the seventh champion. A mute assembly of male citizens is addressed by Eteocles in the prologue (1–38).2 Hutchinson thinks that the first speech of Eteocles (1–38) highlights his position as king, and the second (69–77), a prayer delivered in solitude, his isolation from the community as son of Oedipus and subject to a dreadful curse.3 The distinction is perhaps too neat: Eteocles’ prayer, and his alleged isolation, is brief, and he is entirely focused on the city throughout. More tellingly, the citizens do not respond to his first commands, and the scene is substantially different from the prologue of Sophocles’ O T, with which it is usually associated. If the last scene of Septem (1005–78) is excluded as spurious,4 two messengers also appear onstage. The first and last messenger speeches are quite short (39–68, 792–802 and 811–19). Even the lengthy second episode, which includes the shield scene, brings out primarily Eteocles’ piety5 and calm skill in

2

3 4 5

Taplin (1977) 129–30 argues for the presence of silent extras against scholars who suggested that the citizens were merely imagined, or that Eteocles addressed the theater audience. Hutchinson (1985) 41–42. See n. 23 below. This becomes apparent already in the prologue (8–35, 69–77), and then in his confrontation with the chorus in the first episode (236, 265–80), for which see

1. The work of Ares: king Eteocles and his subjects and foes

39

successfully reversing the hubristic challenges of the Argives as well as his strategic competence in selecting the appropriate champion to stand again each enemy leader, at least at the six of the seven gates. Otherwise, it adds little to the depiction of Eteocles’ comrades in arms. I will discuss Eteocles’ decision to stand at the seventh gate in 4 below. For now, let it suffice to say that the focus on the king highlights his commendable qualities as a thoughtful and efficient leader, able to retain control of the situation at all times. The play also repeatedly indicates that responsibility for the defense of the city rests exclusively with him (1–3, 36–38, 57–58, 62–68, 282–86, 650–52). This is probably meant to suggest Eteocles’ importance and excellence but also perhaps his relative isolation from the community. The king is not shown to be closely associated with any of his subjects. His first words in the play, the brief introduction to his instructions to the citizens (1–9), point to his concentration on the task at hand and his responsibilities as ruler (1–3) but primarily to his precarious position in case of defeat (5–8)6 and even to the lack of recognition in victory (4). Out of the nine lines of the introduction, a full six and a half refer directly to him and his burden of responsibility (1–3 and 5–8). The second and longer part, which includes his name (6), is a projection of public blame for his potential failure to defend the city. Of the rest, 4 refers indirectly to him. Even in the final prayer to Zeus the averter to thwart the capture of the city (8–9), which may associate the king with the supreme divine ruler, Eteocles may also be asking for protection from the blame that would accrue to him in case of defeat. Although the play does not present Eteocles as a tyrannical ruler feared or despised by his subjects, it does not include any references to his consulting with, or taking advice from, anybody.7 The unnamed seer, presumably Teiresias, is a public figure, who merely reveals the plans of the enemies (24–29). On the contrary, despite the presentation of the Argive champions, with the exception of the seer Amphiaraus (568–619), as embodiments of arrogant impiety in the shield scene, the Seven are portrayed as a more close-knit, headstrong and outspoken group than Eteocles and his Theban subjects. In the prologue, the imminent attack on Thebes is said to be the

6 7

the discussion in the next section. For Eteocles’ piety cf. Hutchinson (1985) xxxv–xxxvi. For the interpretation of this passage see Appendix A I.1. For the play’s presentation of Eteocles as absolute ruler see recently West (2006) 33–34.

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product of nightly deliberation and planning on the part of the Argives (27–29). Before joining battle, the Seven take an oath to capture Thebes or die (42–48), and place mementoes on the chariot of king Adrastus to be taken home to their parents (49–51). Tydeus has the gall to accuse Amphiaraus of cowardice (382–83). For his part, the only pious leader among the Seven vilifies the belligerent firebrand, calling him the instructor of Argos in the greatest evils and the councilor of Adrastus in planning the disastrous expedition (571–75). He also attacks Polyneices and his impious campaign against his native city with a foreign army (566–86). Although the Thebans do not lack concord and fighting spirit, and there is no indication that they lack freedom of speech, there is no doubt that the responsibility for the defense of Thebes seems to fall on Eteocles alone, while the rest of the Thebans contribute intelligence or carry out his orders, albeit with competent eagerness and noble conviction. Ironically, Eteocles is closely associated with only one Theban, the only one outside the walls of the city, his closest living male relative and worst enemy. This association and the connection of the war to the terrible past of the Theban royal family emerge in full force for the first time only toward the end of the second episode (677–78),8 after Eteocles has announced his decision to confront his brother at the seventh gate (653–76). Although the first part of the play, which presents Eteocles as a competent ruler at the helm of a city threatened with obliteration by powerful enemies, suppresses the king’s descent from a highly troubled and polluted family,9 the second part is primarily concerned with the mutual fratricide.

8

The chorus urge Eteocles not to become like in temper to his brother, who is referred to as τῷ κάκιστ’ αὐδωμένῳ (678). Winnington-Ingram (1983) 34 n. 49 and Hutchinson (1985) ad loc. think that αὐδώμενος is passive and the phrase means “the man with the worst name,” with a backward glance at the etymology of Polyneices’ name (‘the man of much strife’) implied at 658 (cf. 577–78). But since the verb can be middle (Eum. 380; cf. Ch. 151, 272), it may have been deliberately chosen to cover both ‘be called’ and ‘speak, say’. Since Eteocles has just declared his intention to confront his brother in battle, the chorus urge him not to become like his brother, who is horribly named and has just been reported to have declared his intention to sack his native city and engage in mutual fratricide (631–36). 9 Eteocles is addressed and referred to as son of Oedipus by the chorus (203, 372), but nothing is said of his family history. The king himself and the messenger use his personal name only (6, 39). For Eteocles’ mention of his father’s curse and Erinys (70) in his prayer to the gods see the discussion in the next section.

2. The work of Ares and Erinys: Eteocles vs. Polyneices and city vs. family

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2. The work of Ares and Erinys: Eteocles vs. Polyneices and city vs. family In the second stasimon (720–91), the most important source on the background of the fraternal conflict and family history in the play, the abomination of fratricide and the Argive attack on Thebes appear as a continuation of the long-standing troubles of the Theban royal family. These included Laius’ disobedience of a thrice-pronounced Delphic oracle (742–52), and unwitting internecine murder as well as incest in the previous generation (753–57). Oedipus also cursed his sons to divide their inheritance by the sword, perhaps invoking reconciliation through the services of a foreign arbiter, which turns out to be the Scythian Iron (727–33, 766–67, 785–90; cf. 883, 906–9, 941–44). In the second part of the play, Eteocles the competent king and commander-in-chief becomes also Eteocles the accursed son of Oedipus and brother of the accursed Polyneices. This quite belated association between family and city, centered on the figure of Eteocles, presents two interpretive puzzles: first, why Aeschylus suppresses the history of the family for so long and, second, how he interlinks the fate of family and city in the second part of the play. I will start with the second issue because the text provides some explicit clues to its elucidation, which may serve as a basis for suggesting a solution to the first. In the first part of the play, the fortunes of family and city are associated only once, briefly and ominously, by Eteocles himself, who invokes his father’s curse (70) in his prayer to the gods for protection of the city in the prologue (69–77). He then mentions the curse repeatedly before his last exit, at 655, and in his replies to the attempts of the chorus to dissuade him from standing against Polyneices (695–97, 709). It has been argued that the first reference to the curse and Eteocles’ behavior, primarily his treatment of the chorus (182–281), in the first part of the play are telling and unsettling, meant to undermine his (self-)representation as an efficient leader, unfazed by the prospect of the impending conflict. The inclusion of the curse in Eteocles’ prayer shows that the curse dominates his thoughts, although, following this outburst, he, and everybody else, eschews mention of it, and any other association between family and city, until 655. This extensive suppression notwithstanding, the prayer in the prologue is allegedly enough to indicate that the present conflict has a darker and much more personal background than the rest of the first part of the play allows, especially if the limiting particle γε after πόλιν at 71 is taken into account: Eteocles prays that the gods spare at least the city, obviously in

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contrast to (their willingness to destroy) the doomed family. Beside the association between family and city that this prayer implies, the prayer to the curse in particular is futile because the Erinys is implacable. It is also very dangerous because the explicit references to destruction of the city, which mirror the language of curses, are ill-omened and likely to draw the malevolent power’s attention on the city. Generally, Eteocles’ prayer is clearly indicative of a man unable to stop his pollution from infecting the city. In this vein, his rebuke of the chorus and insistence on silence in the first episode, a harsh attempt to control the women’s language and interaction with the divine, reveal that he is under the influence of the malevolent power of the curse throughout. His fear of the curse leads him to ominously annul a legitimate prayer. Only Eteocles’ death will free the city from the malignant infection of the curse and his polluting speech.10 Against this hostile reading, it may first be pointed out that Oedipus, the previous play of the trilogy, did not necessarily include Oedipus’ curse on his sons. If so, the audience would not necessarily have attached much importance to the unspecified curse, which will become prominent much later, in the second part of the play, or thought that it was influencing Eteocles’ behavior already in the prologue. The absence of the curse from Oedipus may sound eccentric but it may not be so, especially if the quarrel of the brothers was not included in the play either. It is not easy to accept that the second play of the trilogy contained nothing concerning Oedipus’ sons:11 Sophocles’ O T does not, but it is not part of a connected trilogy. It is certainly quite likely that Oedipus included the curse and perhaps (some reference to) the quarrel.12 Be that as it may, the mention of Oedipus and the curse in Eteocles’ prayer does form a link with the past. There can be little reasonable doubt that the fate of family and city had been associated already in Laius, the first play of the trilogy, probably through Apollo’s oracle to Laius (cf. 742–49, 802, 842–44), and the second play, Oedipus, may also have contained similar suggestions. No Greek audience would be likely to completely disregard

10 See Stehle (2005); Winnington-Ingram (1983) 25–29 discusses less damningly Eteocles’ prayer and his insistence on silence. Cf. Patzer (1958) 103–5. For Eteocles’ treatment of the chorus see Just (1989) 198–204, Zeitlin (1990) 106–9, and Foley (2001) 46–48. Cf. also n. 17 below. 11 For Oedipus’ curse see Appendix A I.2. 12 It would also have to include Oedipus’ and perhaps Jocasta’s death. It seems a lot for one play, but the revelation of Oedipus’ identity would not necessarily be as protracted as in Sophocles’ O T.

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the association, to which I will return below. For now, it is important not to gloss over the fact that in Septem the curse and the past will reappear only at 653–55. However significant or ominous Eteocles’ prayer to the curse may be deemed to be, and however helpful the content of the previous plays in the establishment of the association of family and city, Aeschylus chose to suppress all references to this association for the better part of the third play of the Theban trilogy. This choice cannot be trivial, and its effect cannot be counterbalanced by the single, early, and perhaps obscure reference to the curse. Certainly, the futility of the prayer can hardly count against Eteocles: he does not pray to the Erinys only, and he does ask for something not directly in her jurisdiction, and thus, potentially at least, negotiable. It is also strange to accuse Eteocles of harboring a skewed view of the divine in contrast to the pious chorus, who will later express a view virtually identical with his: in their attempt to dissuade him from confronting his brother, they suggest that sacrifices to the gods drive the Erinys out of the house (699–701). Sacrifices are not substantially different from prayers, and a group of pious maidens unaffected by any maddening curse should know that the Erinys is implacable, and thus immovable.13 Whether Eteocles’ prayer to the Erinys or his rebuke of the pious chorus is ill-omened depends on how accurately modern readers are in a position to gauge Greek perceptions of verbal pollution. Since such matters are obviously difficult to judge, especially in the context of a literary work, conclusions can only be tentative. In any case, the Argive attack, already underway when Eteocles makes his prayer, shows that the attention of the Erinys has already zeroed in on the city: it will soon be made clear that the war resulted from the Erinys-motivated feud of the city’s two princes over its control. Again, the previous play may have included information about the feud. Irrespective of that possibility, in Septem it is not Eteocles’ prayer that summons the Erinys. Indeed, if his prayer and behavior had insulted and alienated the gods, one cannot see how and why the hostile divinities

13 A lex sacra from Selinous (SEG xliii. 630), published in 1993 and dated probably to the fifth century, indicates that some demonic figures of vengeance could be ritually propitiated; see Sewell-Rutter (2007) 85–86, and Parker (2009) 142. But even if such rituals were familiar to Aeschylus and his audience, tragedy virtually invariably presents implacable Erinyes and irrevocable curses. Cf. Sewell-Rutter (2007) 101. Besides, as will be argued below, Polyneices’ challenge to Eteocles and the Argive attack on Thebes left little room to the Theban king for attempts at propitiation and reconciliation.

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would have spared the city. What is most important in this connection is that the city escapes capture under the king’s leadership: his last exit does not lead to the city’s final liberation from his and his tainted family’s polluting influence but to escape from the present danger. Eteocles’ death is not a sacrifice made in exchange for the salvation of the city.14 Since Laius had disobeyed the oracle of Apollo and begotten offspring, the safety of the city does not hinge on the fate, or pollution, of his royal descendants, at least in a broad time frame. In the present war, the death of Eteocles, Polyneices, or both does not guarantee Theban victory (cf. 764–65).15 Nevertheless, it is won under Eteocles’ command, and apparently with divine blessings. The gods will not punish the city for the king’s prayer to them and rebuke of the chorus. Eteocles’ harsh attempts to restrain the chorus’ panicky supplication of the gods for protection in the parodos take up the first episode of the play (182–281) except for the last five lines (282–86). It is generally accepted that this extensive interaction, which is not intimately related to the matter at hand, the organization of the city’s defense, is meant to throw light on Eteocles’ attitude toward the divine, his subjects, and his competence as protector of the city. Since it does not affect my argument, I will not discuss in detail this consensus or more controversial claims to the effect that Eteocles is a misogynist, a man who considers himself superior to irrational women and entitled to control their impassioned utterances, perhaps motivated by his aversion toward his impious and incestuous parents and especially his mother.16 It should only be kept in mind that Aeschylus and his audience would not necessarily consider the episode particularly extensive.17 There is

14 For the so-called Opfertod theory see the bibliography cited by Thalmann (1978) 150 n. 1 and Gruber (2009) 194 n. 87. Against this theory see e.g. Brown (1977) 311, Hutchinson (1985) 53–54, 149, 158, Conacher (1996) 69, and Föllinger (2003) 140–41. Seidensticker (2009) 223–24 n. 58 thinks that the annihilation of the family through the death of the brothers saves the city but that this salvation is the result of, rather than the motive for, Eteocles’ decision. 15 Not even victory in the present war can guarantee that the city will not suffer in the future; see below. 16 See e.g. Winnington-Ingram (1983) 45–46, and the literature cited by Foley (2001) 46 n. 91 and 92. For Eteocles’ treatment of the chorus see n. 10 above and cf. next n. 17 Hutchinson (1985) 75 suggests that Eteocles’ invective is not exceptionally harsh, and that it exemplifies the misogynistic tradition in Greek culture and poetry. For Goldhill (1987) 26–27, who argues that this association is superficial, Eteocles’ incestuous parentage is of paramount importance: it predisposes him to mistrust

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certainly no evidence in the episode or the play that Eteocles hates his mother, especially since the supposed crime of Jocasta, for which Eteocles would despise her and all women, would be her reckless encouragement to Laius to disobey Apollo’s oracle. But this view hinges on taking φίλων (ἀβουλιᾶν) at 750 as a subjective genitive rather than an adjective, a speculative and unconvincing assumption. In general, it is implausible that the episode is meant to condemn either Eteocles or the chorus.18 The chorus panic, even if they manage to pull themselves together at the end of the parodos, and Eteocles may plausibly be viewed as overbearing, overreacting, and overly dismissive of the chorus and their piety. But no tragic character, and certainly no Aeschylean character, is above reproach. Nevertheless, despite their excesses and failings, the women and Eteocles manage to achieve their immediate goals.

The troubles of both city and family seem to go back to Laius’ disobedience of Apollo’s oracle: this transgression apparently provides the link between the fates of family and city. As already suggested, the significant connection between family and city is only drawn in the second half of the play, in the second stasimon, which includes the narrative of Laius’ culpability.

3. The word of Apollo: the oracle of Laius and the safety of Thebes The content of the oracle Laius disobeyed is somewhat surprising to modern audiences, who are more familiar with Delphic injunctions to the Theban king to remain childless because he was fated to be killed by his son. According to the chorus of Septem, Apollo thrice prophesied to Laius that the safety of Thebes would be guaranteed if he died without issue (745–49). This apparent discrepancy between city-centered oracle and family-centered woes, which followed Laius’ disobedience of the oracle, led some scholars to the conclusion that Laius was guilty of two crimes, disobedience to Apollo, and an earlier, equally or more serious one, which actually motivated the oracle, perhaps in response to an inquiry made by Laius. On this view, the earlier crime was responsible for the woes of the

women and loathe the formation of an oikos with them. Cf. Goldhill (1999) 402. See, though, the discussion below. 18 See Stehle (2005) and Lawrence (2007) 341–43 respectively.

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family, and Laius’ disobedience of the oracle endangered the city. The earlier crime, referred to in the second stasimon as “the ancient, soon punished, transgression” (παλαιγενῆ . . . παρβασίαν ὠκύποινον, 742–44), would be the rape of Chrysippus, a son of Pelops. According to one version of the story, Pelops cursed Laius to die childless or to be killed by his son, and the consequences of this curse now afflict the third generation, Laius’ grandchildren.19 This reconstruction is based on the tenuous and confused evidence of the so-called Peisander scholium (on Eur. Ph. 1760, Schwartz 414) and the unsubstantiated identification of the Peisander it cites as its source with a sixth-century Rhodian epic poet. Otherwise, Laius’ rape of Chrysippus is first found in Euripides’ Chrysippus. Laius’ murder by his son or any other family misfortune is not mentioned in Apollo’s oracle as reported by the chorus of Septem. Nevertheless, there are valid reasons why, on the basis of this report, one cannot conclude with reasonable confidence that Laius’ murder and the other family misfortunes were not the punishment for, or at least a direct consequence of, his disobeying the oracle. First, the chorus do not necessarily reproduce the oracle verbatim, especially since more detailed relevant information may have been provided in the previous plays. Besides, prophecies and oracles are notoriously stingy on details and hard to understand (cf. Ag. 1255). Tragic oracles and prophecies rarely include specifics and are often shrouded in ambiguity.20 Second, there are indications in Septem itself that the present conflict is the result of Laius’ disobedience of the oracle. This is the only unforced interpretation of his story in the second stasimon (742–52), and the reference to his disastrous counsels at 750 is echoed by the herald (802)21 and the chorus (842), both of whom refer to the mutual

19 See Lloyd-Jones (19832 ) 120–21, and Thalmann (1978) 15–17. For other references to older literature see West (1999) 43–44, Föllinger (2003) 148–49, and Hubbard (2006) 234–35, who all argue against the view that Laius’ transgression involved the rape of Chrysippus. 20 Prominent examples are the oracles of Zeus in Sophocles’ Trachiniae and the prophecy of Helenus in Philoctetes. See B IV 6 with n. 67 and B II 3 below. Cf. the discussion of freedom of choice in the Introduction. 21 The herald’s reference to Apollo at 800–2 may indicate that the oracle delivered to Laius has been fulfilled with the death of the brothers, since theirs is apparently the last generation of the family. This is non-committal about the full content of the oracle, which certainly included the safety of the city. The brothers’ death is the final consequence of the bad counsels, i.e. the disobedience, of Laius on the family but not necessarily the final consequence on the city. Cf. n. 43 below. The herald’s statement does not necessarily indicate a form of the oracle different from the one

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fratricide. Third, even if the oracle only foretold the destruction of the city as punishment for Laius’ disobedience, this does not indicate that the family misfortunes were punishment for a different transgression. If, for instance, Apollo’s oracle was given in response to an inquiry concerning the safety of the city, the god would only provide an answer to this inquiry. The answer, though, would neither include nor exclude other misfortunes that would befall the recipient in case of disobedience. All in all, it is much more plausible to assume that Laius may have included a more informative, or a suitably more vague, form of the oracle in question than to postulate an obscure old crime of Laius, especially since such an assumption helps to elucidate very little in Septem or the trilogy. Given the state of currently available evidence, both the woes of the royal family and the troubles of the city go back to Laius’ disobedience of Apollo’s oracle.22 As already suggested, the attack of the Seven is only the latest of the city’s troubles, and possibly not the last. It has been preceded by the horror of the Sphinx and perhaps by political instability generated by the demise of Laius and Oedipus. Conceivably, the dynastic troubles generated by the quarrel of Oedipus’ sons may have also appeared in some form in the previous play. The future sack of Thebes by the Epigonoi, the children of the Seven, is probably suppressed in the play. But this need not be meant to suggest that the city’s future safety is guaranteed. The last scene (1005–78) with the division of family and city over Polyneices’ burial is probably spurious,23 but the death of Eteocles and the extinction of the royal line certainly create new challenges for the city. Besides, a future annihilation of Thebes as apparently predicted in Apollo’s oracle to Laius is not mutually exclusive with the suppression of the fourth generation of Labdacids. The city could very well be captured or destroyed by an enemy army, whether Argive or other, and this army did not have to be led by Polyneices’ son(s). Apollo brought about the fratricidal slaughter of the sons of Oedipus as part of

reported in the second stasimon, as Hutchinson (1985) 175 suggests. If anything, the statement might be thought to indicate that the oracle also included some reference to the family, or at least that it was open-ended. 22 If one wishes to find an explanation for the harsh oracle, despite tragedy’s lack of concern with such explanations, one might easily turn to the earlier history of the family and city, to the mistreatment of Semele and the rejection of the cult of Dionysus. Cf. Hubbard (2006) 234–35. 23 See Hutchinson (1985) ad loc., and Barrett (2007) 322–50; cf. West (2006) 34–35.

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the punishment for the disobedience of Laius in the third generation of the family. The oracle to Laius has not been fulfilled because Thebes has not perished yet. However, the daemon of its royal house ceases his work now that the family is utterly destroyed (959–60): he is satisfied with the fulfillment of Oedipus’ curse, a prior consequence of Laius’ disobedience, which mediated the final destruction of the line.

4. Eteocles (and Polyneices): free to choose, or cursed to be fratricides? Since the troubles of Thebes and its royal family apparently go back to a transgression committed by Laius, the grandfather of the city’s king and commander-in-chief, it would be plausible to expect that the first part of the play would not suppress the family history as extensively as it does. This suppression, including references to Polyneices until 576, and Eteocles’ onstage allocation of the Theban champions, including himself, at the city gates24 may be thought to be meant to create a powerful effect of surprise for the audience: more than halfway into the play, they would still not know for certain whether Eteocles would face his brother and where. Separating the play in two parts and presenting a different Eteocles in each, Aeschylus highlighted different aspects of a terrible situation. In the second part, he focused on the power of the curse to submerge everything in its inescapable fulfillment.25 I will discuss the role of the curse and of Eteocles (and Polyneices) in its fulfillment in a moment. For now, it is true that the particular gate at which the brothers would fight may not have been known to the audience, although the tradition may have included some indication.26 On the other hand, the presence of Polyneices in the invading force and the confrontation of the brothers can hardly have been a surprise to any Greek audience and especially to the spectators of the trilogy. Apart from the tradition, and

24 For the timing of Eteocles’ allocation of the champions see Appendix A I.3. 25 For a list of such views see Winnington-Ingram (1983) 22. Cf. also n. 44 and the discussion of Föllinger’s argument in 6 below. 26 Berman (2007) 104–11 argues that the naming of the gates and the matching of gates and champions were probably Aeschylus’ innovations. This may be so, but the meeting of the brothers at a gate, whether unnamed, named, or otherwise specified, and perhaps at the seventh, which is significantly numbered, may have been part of the epic or some other earlier treatment of the story.

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the possible handling of Oedipus’ curse and the brothers’ quarrel in the previous play, Eteocles’ assertion that he would appoint six champions beside himself for the defense of the gates (282–84) left little doubt that the two brothers would eventually meet in battle, even if Eteocles did not choose to face Polyneices at his allotted gate. But there is no dramatic or supernatural reason that might lead the audience to think that Eteocles would eschew the choice. In any case, the real surprise for the original audience would be Eteocles’ choice not to face his brother and/or the brothers’ failure to meet and annihilate each other in the battle for the city. In this light, eventual astonishment or enlightenment of the audience in the second part of the play was apparently not Aeschylus’ purpose in suppressing the family history in the first part. It may then be plausibly suggested that, by first focusing almost exclusively on Eteocles as a leader of worthy men (and chastiser of anxious women), Aeschylus meant to indicate that Eteocles’ decision to confront his brother at the seventh gate was not merely the consequence of the family past. Instead, to an extent at least, it was a free choice, dictated by his office and values. Despite its plausibility, this suggestion cannot be adopted without further scrutiny. Undoubtedly, the loss of the previous plays, especially Oedipus, undermines the certainty of any conclusion about the full impact of the past on the present. The vagueness of the background of the fraternal quarrel and the fact that Polyneices does not appear onstage to present his claims to the paternal inheritance place question marks over Eteocles’ behavior and final decision: modern audiences and critics cannot reach an informed conclusion about each brother’s share of guilt in the quarrel and his moral mettle.27 It has also been argued that fully articulated characterization may not legitimately be brought to bear on the interpretation of Aeschylus’ plays.28

27 It is not clear that ancient audiences were in a better position, since it cannot be ruled out that Polyneices’ exile was not mentioned, or accounted for, in the previous play of the trilogy. Certainly, irrespective of the circumstances of his exile, his attack on his native city is presented as morally unjustifiable. The play leaves little doubt that the brothers are equally guilty of (willingly engaging in mutual) fratricide, but Polyneices is the aggressor in the present war and Eteocles the defender of the city. Yet Eteocles’ view of Polyneices’ inherent proclivity to injustice (662–71) is not supported by any other indication in the play, and quite possibly not in Oedipus, either. Cf. n. 34 below. 28 See Hutchinson (1985) xxxiv.

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Most scholars now agree that tragic characterization is not a modern invention or anachronism. Although Greek tragic figures are very different from modern fictional characters, this difference does not eliminate characterization from the arsenal of Greek tragedians. It is then quite implausible that Eteocles, the single principal of the play, should be denied a distinctive character of his own.29 Whether he has freedom of choice is a much more complicated issue, given the presence of the curse and divine hostility toward the family. As already pointed out, after the messenger has finished his report of Polyneices’ presence at the seventh gate, Eteocles himself invokes the curse (655), which had been mentioned only once before, in his prayer to it in the prologue (70). Eteocles’ distraught invocation follows his lament on the state of his god-hated family (653–54). There is no doubt that the past emerges now in full transcendental force to stake its claims on the last generation. Yet Eteocles immediately cuts his lament short (656–57), and explains his eagerness to confront his brother in terms of justice and equality (658–75). He does refer to the past but only to argue that his brother has always been recklessly and mindlessly unjust (662–71). The brothers are equal in status, but Eteocles presents himself as, and may well be assumed to believe himself to be, superior in piety and counsel. Only when the chorus try to dissuade him does Eteocles state openly that the fratricidal duel and the latest misfortunes of the god-forsaken family have been predetermined by the gods and the curse (689–91, 695–97, 702–4, 709–11, 719). His own vision, though, is fixed on the benefit he can reap even in his disastrous predicament, on the safeguarding of his honor as a noble man and a brave fighter (683–85, 717). As his name portends, Eteocles seeks to win/preserve kleos, and to avoid shame, even in the midst of a terrible, god-ordained misfortune. Since fratricide and death are inevitable, at least let them come without shame. Before examining more closely Eteocles’ decision to stand against his brother at the seventh gate, a word about the expectations of the brothers is in order. The play does not make it absolutely clear that they expect to die in combat, in full awareness that the curse drives them to their death by each other’s hand. Critical uncertainty about their view of their

29 For the debate on tragic character see Kyriakou (2006) 30–31. Cf. Clark and Csapo (1991) 119–25, and Seidensticker (2009), esp. 205–15 (for Eteocles as the first tragic hero with a distinctive character, also demonstrated by his use of language, see 227–28).

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prospects is greater in the case of Polyneices, who does not appear onstage. He is not reported to mention or consider the damning paternal curse, and he is said to envisage not only mutual fratricide (636) but also his victory (635; cf. 642–48), survival of both brothers, and retaliatory expulsion of the offending brother from the city (637–38). For his part, Eteocles mentions thank offerings to the gods in case of victory (271–78), although it is not clear that he expects to make them himself. There is no reason to assume that Polyneices is unaware of his father’s curse or deluded about its consequences, and Eteocles is certainly fully aware of them.30 He never says openly that he is actually going out to die. Still, his understanding of the impact of the curse and his repeated references to glorious and fated death (684, 697, 704; cf. 689–91), backed by the following stasimon, leave little doubt that he only expects mutual fratricide. Polyneices’ views are not as important for an assessment of the play as Eteocles’, but it should probably be taken into account that Polyneices is a principal leader of the invading army: his position would make an open prediction of his death by the hand of the king of Thebes very awkward. In any case, his forceful projection of mutual fratricide, mentioned before the alternative, indicates that he too is fully aware of the strong possibility that neither brother will survive their confrontation.

5. Eteocles (and Polyneices): choosing destined fratricide on the field of kleos Concerning Eteocles’ decision and its relation to his presentation before it, or the relation of past and present, of divine necessity and human free will, in the play, it is crucial to be very clear about the specific content of the decision under discussion. Eteocles needs to rise to the challenge presented by Polyneices’ posting at a particular gate and by his eagerness to confront his brother in combat. Eteocles is not free to choose or reject fratricide but can only decide not to try to eschew fratricide presently, especially since at 702–4 he rejects the chorus’ view that the gods will eventually become more benevolent (698–701, 705–8; cf. 716). To my knowledge, scholars

30 There is no indication that the dream(s) mentioned at 710–11 represent an earlier stage, during which Eteocles was deluded about the import of the curse, whose true meaning he realizes now, as Burnett (1973) 351–61 suggests; see Conacher (1996) 55.

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have failed to specify the content of Eteocles’ decision and his position, although they are among the most important issues in the play. In a fairly recent discussion of the play, for instance, it is argued that Eteocles is a character in whom divine and human motivations are combined in an extraordinarily perfect alignment, mediated through his complete appropriation of his father’s curse and his inherited guilt. He goes out to meet his brother because he is Eteocles, son of Oedipus and grandson of Laius. “Self-motivated and untouched by doubt,” he differs from Agamemnon in the homonymous play and Orestes in Choephori, who at least consider alternatives, lament their deed, and/or seek to steel themselves for their decisions in various ways. Oedipus’ son “is so locked in to his Labdacid heritage that he needs no divine monitions or human cajolings.”31 Eteocles does not go out to meet his brother for such reasons. The concept of one’s appropriation of family troubles and paternal curses is at best opaque and at worst vacuous. Eteocles simply knows that he cannot escape standing opposite, and probably killing, his brother in a mutually lethal conflict. This necessity is determined by his troubled lineage and especially by his father’s curse. What he decides to do is not to postpone the fratricide, and this decision has nothing to do with his being the son and grandson of perpetrators of heinous crimes, as will be argued below. Agamemnon and Orestes do not face an attacking warrior adversary, and do not have to commit their crimes on the field of battle and honor. Unlike Eteocles, they (feel that they) have some room for deliberation, and Agamemnon at least does not seem to be bound to kill his daughter the way Eteocles is destined to fight with and probably kill Polyneices at some point. Nevertheless, Agamemnon, like Eteocles, considers his honor as a commander-in-chief (Ag. 212–13). Orestes is not a warrior but he, too, invokes his father’s kleos (Ch. 345–54; cf. 302–3). The outcome of the fraternal conflict would not apparently be different if Eteocles cared only about killing his brother and paid little attention to anything else, or if the curse maddened and drove him to commit the terrible crime of fratricide. However, Aeschylus does seem to have invested considerable care in making sure that the audience saw more in Eteocles than an accursed fratricide-to-be, maddened by the curse and impiously yearning to shed his brother’s blood. The poet nowhere indicates or implies that Eteocles (or Polyneices, for that matter) would not respond in the manner he does to a potential fraternal challenge even in the absence

31 Sewell-Rutter (2007) 161. Cf. n. 38 below.

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of the paternal curse. Such absence would only leave room for some optimism that fratricide and the extinction of the family might in the end be avoided, as the chorus think. As argued above, the power of the curse is ineluctable. It is also inextricably bound with implacable divine hostility toward the Labdacid line (653, 690–91; cf. 718–19), which ultimately goes back to Laius’ transgression. Eteocles counters the chorus’ admonition to eschew fratricide by stressing that the crime is fated, willed by the gods, and predetermined by the paternal curse. Committing it is evil, but trying to eschew it in the circumstances is shameful. It is also potentially dangerous to the city.32 The decision to fight and probably commit fratricide has already been made for Eteocles and Polyneices long ago by their father, as the second part of the play makes clear. Eteocles (and Polyneices) can of course accept his fate, which he does, whether he welcomes it or not, and the play seems to suggest that Eteocles at least does not. The play, though, does not focus on his (or his brother’s) acceptance of fate but on the nobler decision that lies in his power to make. In theory, this could involve an attempt to annul the curse, through eschewing confrontation with Polyneices, or actively pursuing reconciliation with him. In Greek myth and literature, there are several examples of heroes who tried, and failed miserably, to escape the fulfillment of a damning prediction, most notably (and closest to Eteocles and Polyneices) Laius and Oedipus. In any case, for reasons that have to do with his idiosyncrasy or family history or both, Eteocles does not operate under elusions of escaping the inevitable, and the play does not problematize his pragmatism by suggesting that it is rooted in madness or immorality. Besides, Polyneices’ reported claims, not to mention the outrageous threats of his fellow Argive leaders,

32 Although it is not clear that Eteocles is the only suitable defender of the seventh gate, he is certainly the most appropriate. Since the curse apparently condemned Polyneices to die at his brother’s hands, any opponent other than Eteocles would have failed to kill him and perhaps to defend the gate, and thus the city would be endangered in this or in a future war. It is probably not trivial that Eteocles does not use this fairly strong argument in the exposition of his decision to confront his brother: both Polyneices’ challenge and Eteocles’ response are issued in the framework of a personal and familial dispute, which, given the opponents’ status, also affects their city. In the first part, the play focuses on Eteocles’ public capacity as royal commander-in-chief. In response to the report on Polyneices’ stationing at the seventh gate and especially his aspirations and claims, Eteocles makes and announces his decision on the basis of familial doom and personal kleos. Cf. next n. This emphasis of course does not obscure his public role.

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do not seem to leave room for reconciliation,33 and the play does not problematize his claims to justice by suggesting that they are worthless or impious, either.34 In this light, despite the dire necessity of conflict and ruin under which he consciously operates, Eteocles, certainly condemned, perhaps flawed, but still noble, has some room for free choice left. The curse determined the mutual fratricide by the sword but as far as can be gleaned from the chorus’ references to it, not its specific timing or occasion. The process of determining this occasion has been initiated by Polyneices’ initiative to launch a war against his native city and his brother. Eteocles, then, is in a position to decide whether he will respond to his brother’s challenge by engaging in mutual fratricide right there and then, at the seventh gate in the imminent battle for the city. On this reading, and very significantly, the first part of the play, which glossed over the curse and the family misfortunes, focusing on the besieged city and the king as its commander, was meant to leave little doubt that he would. In Eteocles’ view, if he shirks, he will only manage to lose good repute before he loses a life fated to be lost at his brother’s hands anyway. He may choose to prolong his (and his brother’s) life for a while, but this option is unacceptable to him because it entails loss of his honor as a warrior leader and dereliction of his duty as king and commander-in-chief. Since Polyneices, backed by a mighty foreign army bent on capturing Thebes, is challenging him, and the gods will not relent, the accursed and doomed Eteocles can only look forward to winning the glory of meeting the enemy challenge and defending the city courageously. He cannot escape the horror of fratricide but he certainly can escape the shame of cowardice and defeat.35

33 Like the Sophoclean Polyneices in OC, and unlike the Euripidean hero, for instance, who declares himself ready to withdraw the army even at the last moment if Eteocles agrees to give him his due (Ph. 484–91), the Aeschylean Polyneices never broaches the possibility of reconciliation. For the presentation of the fraternal conflict and the Labdacid myth in the three tragedians cf. the discussion of Föllinger’s argument in 6 below. 34 For Polyneices’ aspirations to piety and divine support, which contrast with the impious claims of his comrades, see Hutchinson (1985) 143. Cf. WinningtonIngram (1983) 31, and Conacher (1996) 51. These concerns of course do not annul the outrage of attacking and aspiring to capture his native city. Cf. n. 27 above. 35 Winnington-Ingram (1983) 37–39 argues that the benefit of posthumous kleos (683–85) and the benefit Eteocles imagines the curse to promise him, namely Polyneices’ death (695–97), are virtually the same: Eteocles operates as a Homeric

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This is the “graver lament” (δυσφορώτερος γόος) he mentions at 657: its greater burden consists in his potential failure to preserve his honor and fulfill his public role beside incurring the miasma of fratricide and suffering the consequences of the paternal curse, the destruction of the godforsaken family. In sum, even if Eteocles did not have freedom of choice, Aeschylus certainly did. He presented a hero concentrating on duty and glory while he could very well present a man all-consumed with the curse or maddened with apprehension or glee at the prospect of fratricide. What is more, his Eteocles is not delusional: he knows what he is doing and why, and the play does not indicate that the kleos he is seeking is false. It is true that, after Eteocles’ final exit, the play focuses almost exclusively on the fulfillment of the curse and the similarity of the two brothers. From this point of view, Eteocles’ kleos, prominent in the etymology of his name, is assimilated to the impious strife inherent in the name of his brother. But kleos is a contentious concept throughout Greek literature, from Homer onwards.36 In Septem, the impiety of fratricide and of earlier family crimes casts a long shadow on kleos, but it is undeniable that not only Eteocles shares in the impiety of the strife but also Polyneices shares in the kleos of the mighty conflict. Even if this fame may ultimately turn out to be indistinguishable from blame, at the very least, on the metatheatrical level, the play implies its importance. Be that as it may, Aeschylus’ probable concern was not to suggest that kleos is unambiguously positive but that it can be a very powerful motive, even in a context that would seem to be quite inhospitable to it. Aeschylus has tried to show, and managed to succeed in showing, that a man bound by a curse could also act freely as a heroic king and a noble warrior.

hero, who needs to take revenge for any injustice and insult to his rights and status, like those Polyneices is currently offering to his brother with his claims. It is not clear that “the later death” (ὑστέρου μόρου) at 697 would be Polyneices’ instead of Eteocles’ own, but Winnington-Ingram is probably right in interpreting Eteocles’ statements in terms of heroic values. Eteocles is the defender of a city under attack: he needs to rise to the challenge and protect it valiantly. For the heroic background of the quarrel see also Long (1986), and cf. next n. In my view, the most plausible interpretation of 697, already implied above, is that Eteocles imagines the curse to promise him a profit if he engages in mutual fratricide now, by pointing out that his death by his brother’s hand will certainly occur later but will be inglorious; see Hutchinson (1985) ad loc. 36 Cf. Kyriakou (2008) 282. For the etymology of the brothers’ names cf. 829–31, and Zeitlin (1990) 107, 110.

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6. Eteocles: enforcer of the curse and polluter of the city? In her discussion of Aeschylus’ dramatic choices in the play, Föllinger argues fairly forcefully that the playwright made daring innovations in the Labdacid trilogy, which had not been anticipated in epic or lyric, and have not been replicated by Sophocles and Euripides.37 Given the loss of most pre-Aeschylean works (and the companion plays of Septem), any argument about innovation is quite speculative, and one can only be skeptical about it. Nevertheless, the comparison between Aeschylus and his successors can be made on firmer ground. Föllinger points out that in Sophocles’ OC and Euripides’ Phoenissae the brothers make an attempt to escape the consequences of their father’s miasma or curse by striking deals. In Septem Eteocles becomes the enforcer of his father’s curse through his conviction that the curse necessitates the fratricide and his decision to confront Polyneices at the seventh gate. On this reading, despite the brothers’ identical motivation, a desire for personal honor and glory, Polyneices does not carry quite the same burden of guilt as his brother: Eteocles’ decision, taken against the chorus’ sound advice to the contrary, is ultimately responsible for the fulfillment of the curse.38 What is more striking, unlike his successors, who focus on the family and do not connect family and city, Aeschylus closely associates the fate of the city with the choices of the troubled family. This association is made, first, by means of Apollo’s city-oriented oracle to Laius and, second, by means of the confrontation of an egoistical Eteocles, who eventually emerges as the enforcer of the paternal curse, with the chorus, who represent the interests of the city and try unsuccessfully to thwart the miasma of the fratricide that will endanger it.39 Apart from the fact that the background of the fraternal conflict in Aeschylus cannot be recovered and may have been similar to the versions found in Sophocles and Euripides, there is no substantive difference between the versions of the three tragedians. In all plays in question, whether the brothers initially struck a deal or not, they soon quarreled and engaged in a fatal conflict. One’s view of the quarrel cannot hinge on any prior,

37 Föllinger (2003) 133–80, esp. 145ff. 38 Föllinger (2003) 168–70. 39 Föllinger (2003) 170–79. Foley (2001) 48, 50 n. 110 also stresses the detrimental consequences of the miasma of fratricide on the city. Cf. Gruber (2009) 194–96.

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short-lived agreement between the brothers, which was likely, if not bound, to turn sour anyway. One should only take into account the father’s miasma or curse, which may have led to the quarrel and certainly led to the mutual fratricide. Even if the Aeschylean Oedipus cursed his sons because of his impious birth, as Föllinger claims,40 this has nothing to do with the dramatization of Eteocles’ decision in Septem. If Eteocles may be thought to be the enforcer of the paternal curse in any surviving play, this would certainly be Euripides’ Phoenissae. In any case, the brothers share equally the responsibility for the fulfillment of the curse, at least for the manner and timing of the fulfillment. If Eteocles was ultimately responsible for the fulfillment, Polyneices was its prime mover. Not only does Eteocles escape the ignominy of greater censure but also no Theban, not even Eteocles himself, dwells on the sacrilegious nature of Polyneices’ attack on his native city, although Amphiaraus’ tirade (580–86) leaves no doubt about it. Both brothers are equally responsible for their doom. Whether Eteocles decided to stand at the seventh gate or not, Polyneices would seek out his brother in battle, conceivably certain that the king of Thebes was bound to confront his invader brother, since Eteocles probably has not changed since his brother’s departure from Thebes. Concerning the city, even if the oracle in the first play of the trilogy contained nothing else, Aeschylus’ choice would be a matter of emphasis rather than substance. Since in all tragic versions of the story the oracle was given to the king of Thebes and concerned his offspring, the connection between city and family is obvious, whether the oracle mentions city or family or both. Sophocles’ OC makes clear that Thebes will suffer defeat in the future because of the anger of the heroized Oedipus. The latest oracle of Apollo linked the fate of the city with Oedipus’ benevolence toward it. The attack of the Argives is the first danger that Thebes faces and, although it will not lead to its annihilation, it initiates a long series of troubles. Oedipus’ curse on his sons and their fratricide are just the first results of his hostility toward his family and city, which will be followed by several others.41 Even in Euripides’ play the connection between family

40 See Appendix A I.2 n. 10. 41 For the treatment of the myth in OC see B VI 1 below. The Sophoclean version of the myth belies the claim of Föllinger (2003) 179 that the reasons for Oedipus’ anger are rather banal in the younger tragedians compared to Aeschylus. Nothing in Euripides’ Phoenissae supports such a view, either.

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and city is quite clear. The city weathers one attack, although at the price of losing the king and the innocent Menoeceus beside other casualties. The troubles of family and city are not necessarily over, even if the iambic part of the exodus (1582ff.) is spurious.42 Finally, there is no indication in Aeschylus’ play that the chorus fear annihilation of the city in the future because of the miasma the fratricide will generate. The reference to the miasma does not include the city, and nowhere do the chorus point out anything of that sort to Eteocles. Their fear that the city may perish along with the royal line (764–65), which echoes Eteocles’ prayer in the prologue (69–72), is not fear of the fratricidal miasma but of the fulfillment of Apollo’s oracle to Laius (742–49) along with the fulfillment of Oedipus’ curse on his sons (766–91). The chorus’ repeated and emphatic references to the miasma involve Eteocles only and are obviously made with a view to scaring him away from fratricide by invoking the burden of indelible, personal and familial, pollution. In their only mention of the miasma after his exit (734–38), they associate it with the old troubles of the house (739–41), not with any future troubles of the city. If they express fear despite the report of Theban victory,43 this has nothing to do with the miasma of fratricide, since it is far from clear that it would affect Thebes, especially as both murderous brothers have perished. There is no indication that, had Oedipus not cursed his sons and had no fratricide taken place, Laius’ disobedience would not have endangered and annihilated the city in the future.

7. The quest for honor: a mad thirst for fraternal blood? In view of the above, the Aeschylean Eteocles does not decide to confront his brother because he feels bound to do so by the paternal curse and thus becomes its enforcer. As already suggested, since the curse is binding, no decision of the individuals affected by it can enforce or otherwise interfere with it. Eteocles’ (and Polyneices’) decision, or his alignment with the will

42 For its authenticity see the discussion of Mastronarde (1994) 591–94. 43 The only possible expression of fear may occur at 843 (μέριμνα δ’ ἀμφὶ πτόλιν). But the “concern” may be the sorrow over the death of the brothers; see Hutchinson (1985) ad loc. Even if it is concern for the fate of the city, the context (840–47) leaves little doubt that it stems from Apollo’s oracle to Laius, which predicted the destruction of the city in case the king had children.

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of the gods, merely makes the fulfillment of the curse imminent. As argued in the Introduction, no Greek tragedian ever presented characters acting with no choice whatsoever, although it is true that their choices are almost invariably (self-)destructive and certainly never enable them to counter the will of the gods. Quite the contrary, this will seems often to be fulfilled through the characters’ (de)faults. It is also true that Aeschylus lays much emphasis on inherited guilt and intergenerational destruction, but this emphasis does not obliterate personal motives and choice. Aeschylus’ drama, especially the Oresteia, thematizes and problematizes the intriguing link between inescapable divine law or will and human (im)morality. In Septem, though, Aeschylus seems to privilege an emphasis on Eteocles’ (personal) virtue over his (inherited) vices. As repeatedly suggested already, the play presents a man bound to die and kill impiously as a noble leader, determined to die imminently in honorable defense of his city, which faced mortal peril because of a powerful enemy onslaught. Eteocles’ decision to stand at the seventh gate does not amount to a sudden abandonment of his public, lucid persona that dominated the first part of the play, and an immersion in the private, dark world of personal ambition and family doom.44 On such readings of the play, the honor he is seeking is not only fatally tainted by the prospect of fratricide but also circumscribed by an internecine conflict that has nothing to do with the defense of the city and his capacity as its royal defender. Despite his previous worthy, or delusional, attempts to be a good king, Eteocles (recognizes that he) has now become maddened by the lust to shed his brother’s blood, and he is seeking only this vitiated glory. These suggestions overlook the crucial fact (again, crucial in the context of the story as dramatized by Aeschylus) that the glory and honor Eteocles is seeking cannot be dissociated from his capacity as king in charge of the defense of the city. The glory of Eteocles will be vitiated because he will have killed his brother in battle, but the fratricide is not the distinction he is seeking. He wishes to protect Thebes from the onslaught of the enemies, whoever they might be, and at any cost. Eteocles includes himself in the company of the Theban champions before he hears anything about Polyneices. As already suggested, there is little reasonable doubt that he is aware of Polyneices’ presence and

44 See e.g. Rosenmeyer (1982) 221, Long (1986) 183, and Seidensticker (2009) 223–24 n. 58.

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probably of his claims because he seems to reserve himself for Polyneices’ gate. Nevertheless, Eteocles’ attitude up to his announcement of his posting, and especially his responses to the chorus following it, indicate that he chooses Polyneices’ gate because he is aware that Polyneices is issuing a challenge specifically to him. This challenge amounts to the fulfillment of the curse and the destruction of the family. Still, failure to take it up would be utterly disgraceful for Eteocles, adding indelible insult, i.e. shame and blame for ignoble shirking and deficient protection of the city, to certain injury, i.e. death as predetermined by the inescapable curse and divine hostility. Although the enemy is a brother, it is noble, and one’s inalienable right and duty, to confront the enemy.45 Since the brother appears in the guise of an enemy leader at the head of a foreign army, and given Eteocles’ office and principles, the fratricidal conflict is bound to occur on the field of military honor. Whether Eteocles (or Polyneices) harbors a mad desire for his brother’s blood is unclear, and ultimately irrelevant, both to him and to the interpretation of the play. Fighting necessitates and generates a certain state of mind that may be called blood lust or worse, but it is important that all references to unlawful desire and yearning for the harvest of fraternal blood are made by the chorus. Eteocles explains why he cannot desist from the act they describe so graphically: he does not care to disclaim their suggestions but insists throughout that he cannot, and should not try to, escape because the gods are driving the family to swift perdition. The closest Eteocles comes to adopting a language similar to that of the chorus is at 715: “whetted (τεθηγμένον) as I am, you will not blunt me with argument (λόγῳ).” λόγος of course also means ‘reason,’ and Eteocles may wish to contrast his passion in the face of fratricidal battle with the chorus’ reasoned moderation in argument. Several scholars have argued that Eteocles is arming himself onstage: toward the end of the scene, he is turning into a killing machine, impervious to the voice of piety and reason.46 Whether arming himself or not, yearning for slaughter or not, Eteo-

45 This is the justice mentioned in Eteocles’ rhetorical question (673) “who else is more entitled (τίς ἄλλος μᾶλλον ἐνδικώτερος;) [to confront Polyneices]?” The mention of justice echoes the rejection of Polyneices’ claims in the main part of Eteocles’ speech (662–71), but the symmetry at the end of it (672–75) also points in the direction of the other meaning. 46 For references see Taplin (1977) 158 n. 1, who rejects this view (159–61). Cf. Hutchinson (1985) 152–53, and next n.

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cles has repeatedly presented his reasons for his decision to stand against his brother instantly. Thalmann compares unfavorably Eteocles’ statement at 715 with Prometheus’ prediction of the behavior of Hypermestra: desire will lure one of the girls not to kill her husband, but her resolution (to kill him) will be blunted; she will choose to be called a coward rather than a polluted killer, and she will become the progenitor of a royal line in Argos (Prom. 865–69).47 If anything, the comparison demonstrates the inevitability and appropriateness of Eteocles’ decision. First of all, just like Eteocles, Hypermestra acts motivated by an irrational force, desire, which may be compared with Oedipus’ curse, although the two are not necessarily identical in their ineluctability. What is more important, Hypermestra could afford a reputation of cowardice much more easily than Eteocles: she was a woman with no public role and would survive to enjoy not only life with her beloved husband but also the starting of a royal family. The curse left Eteocles (and Polyneices) no credible hope of survival and no room for any compensatory benefit other than the honor of not postponing the inevitable and facing it valiantly in military combat.

Polyneices mentions retaliatory exile of the offending brother as a possible outcome of the fraternal confrontation (637–38), but Eteocles’ grim certainty shows that this is an illusion. His first and last reply to the chorus include references to evils or misfortunes (683, 719), and his honor appears also at the beginning and end of the exchange (683–84, 717). Almost all his replies also mention the implacability of the gods and/or the curse (689–91, 695–97, 702–4, 709, 719; cf. 710–11). As already suggested, Eteocles seems to have no illusions or delusions as to the nature of the confrontation or its outcome, mutual death. Even if either brother survived the confrontation, the miasma of fratricide and the all-powerful hostility of the gods toward the family left little room for hope that he would be in a position to enjoy his success. The important thing for Eteocles is not so much to kill his brother, yielding to the frenzy of fratricidal blood lust, as to die honorably in the process of committing

47 Thalmann (1978) 95–97. The syntax at 865 (μίαν δὲ παίδων ἵμερος θέλξει) is ambiguous in that παίδων may be construed with μίαν as partitive gen. or with ἵμερος as objective gen. In the first case, Hypermestra’s motive is sexual desire, in the second desire for children. Thalmann does not discuss the ambiguity. I agree with Garvie (20062 ) 225 and Winnington-Ingram (1983) 65–66, who argue for the former interpretation. But acceptance of the rival interpretation does not affect my argument.

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fated fratricide.48 More precisely, Eteocles prefers and decides to die imminently instead of postponing the unavoidable. His decision safeguards his honor as warrior and leader and ensures the salvation of his city, at least in the present war. The opposite decision would have obliterated his honor and possibly doomed the city. In either case, Eteocles is a condemned son and impious brother. Of course, in principle, Eteocles could privilege fraternal piety over everything else, even the salvation of the city, but the first part of the play is fashioned precisely so as to make such a choice on the part of the king impossible.

8. Black Erinys and bitter Ares: the fury of destruction in past, present, and future Aeschylus’ choice to pivot a play dramatizing the travails of an internecine and incestuous royal family and its city on warrior honor and the quest for glory is remarkable and has not been replicated in the surviving works of his successors. Earlier transgressions, generating intergenerational guilt, pollution, and doom, were likely to figure large in Septem, the last play of its trilogy. Aeschylus relegated the contemplation of the family past to the end. In the rest of the play, including the dramatization of the crucial decision of Eteocles, he privileged emphasis on the main character’s warrior values and his sense of duty toward his city and subjects. The contrast between the women of the chorus, the representatives of the civilian population, and the king is obvious in all parts of the play, although the women’s suppression of the curse and the family history in the parodos and the first stasimon assimilates them to an extent to Eteocles. After the shield scene, the women focus almost exclusively on the curse and the fate of the family and do not offer any thanks to the gods for the salvation of the city, for which they prayed almost compulsively at the beginning. As already implied, this shift, which makes them almost solely responsible for the review of the past in the play, also distances them from the consistent concentration of the principal on present and future. The play presents males as preoccupied with the work of Ares and the (ambivalent) kleos it brings, virtually to the exclusion of everything else. Neither Polyneices nor Eteocles elaborates on the prehistory of the

48 Cf. Lawrence (2007) 348.

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present conflict. Even the pious and prescient Amphiaraus not only eschews such references but also makes the blame that will accrue to Polyneices for his attack on his native city an important part of his tirade (580–83). In a similar vein, he finishes his taunts against Polyneices (and Tydeus and, by extension, their companions) and allows battle to begin with a proud litotes that points to his own future honor and glory (589). The attack on Thebes has many similarities with the Trojan campaign, which, in the surviving Aeschylean work, has an important role only in Agamemnon. In both cases, a mighty army sets on an ancient, well-fortified, and god-beloved city to redress an impious insult to a leader offered by a member of the city’s royal family. But the attacking army show impiety as well: the leaders of the Trojan campaign sacrificed a young woman in order to set out for Troy, and their victory becomes tainted by their failure to observe the requisite piety in the captured city; in the Theban campaign, Polyneices, the fruit of an incestuous union and the scion of a god-hated family, is a Theban attacking and aspiring to capture his own city after his father has cursed him to engage in mortal fight with his brother. With the exception of Amphiaraus, Polyneices’ fellow leaders are impious and hubristic, and there is no reason to assume that they would behave with more restraint if they captured Thebes. These similarities notwithstanding, the differences are equally important. The hubristic leaders accompanying Polyneices are larger than life, virtually monstrous, despisers of gods, and similar to mythical creatures such as the Giants and Typhon, although Aeschylus includes an early glimpse of their humanity in the scout’s first report (49–51). These attackers fail to capture Thebes: more than their avid and impious aspirations, the noble prowess of the victorious defenders and especially the behavior of their doomed leader makes the drama indeed full of Ares instead of, or at least before it turns into, a drama full of Erinys. Nevertheless, it should not be forgotten, and the play hardly allows the audience to disregard, that Ares is the god impersonating the frenzied spirit of war, and this spirit does not necessarily motivate only figures such as Tydeus and Capaneus: after all, unpleasant, bitter Ares is responsible for the division of the paternal inheritance between Eteocles and Polyneices (910, 944–46), and the mighty curse of Oedipus upon his sons has been fulfilled, through their choice, on the field of martial honor, in the battle for control of their city. In this light, the royal family’s troubles are intimately connected with the city’s fate, with regard to Oedipus’ curse, the present war, the salvation of Thebes as well as, probably, its endangerment

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or annihilation in a future war, the ultimate consequence of Laius’ oracle. Moreover, despite their aspirations to justice, piety and noble prowess, the brothers, and most conspicuously Eteocles, the main character of the play, may be viewed as frenzied, not so much by the influence of their father’s Erinys as by their devotion to Ares, the divinity whose furious presence pervades the play throughout.

III. Supplices 1. A missing oracle? The only surviving part of the Danaid trilogy, Supplices has occupied a prominent place in dramatic criticism. Before the publication of a papyrus fragment with didascalic information indicating that Aeschylus won first prize with the trilogy in a festival in which Sophocles came second (POxy 2256.3), most scholars had thought that Supplices was Aeschylus’ earliest surviving work: believed to date from as early as the 490s, it exemplified, among other archaic features, the prominence of the chorus, which receded in later dramas.1 But even now that a later date, after 467 and likely in 463 BC, has become the new scholarly orthodoxy (though not an unchallenged one),2 the play retains its claims to uniqueness and originality. The chorus, made up of the headstrong and fairly enigmatic daughters of Danaus, has not only a protagonistic role but also an intriguing personality, especially as manifested in their attachment to an idiosyncratic narrative of the remote past.

1

2

The papyrus was published by Lobel (1952); cf. T 70 Radt. For the dating of the play and discussion of earlier views see Garvie (20062 ) ix–xii, 1–28, and Friis Johansen-Whittle (1980) 21–29. Cf. Föllinger (2003) 183–86, and next n. For the prominence of the chorus see Murnaghan (2005) 183–84, who suggests that it is not an indication of earliness or immaturity but foregrounds tragedy’s links with non-dramatic choral poetry. It has been challenged by Scullion (2002), who argues for a date in the mid-470s or, more conservatively, for 470. Much depends on the reliability of the sources on Sophocles’ birth, debut, and first victory. If he was born in 496 BC, then his career could have started in the 470s. If it began in 468 with a victory, then it is likely that Supplices was produced in 463, if the name of the archon of that year (Archedemides) is correctly restored in the first line of the didascalic fragment. But unlike a very early date in the 490s for Supplices, a date in the 470s cannot be ruled out with confidence, on either internal or external grounds; see Garvie (20062 ) x–xi, and cf. Sandin (2005) 2–4. Such a shift in the dating of the play would hardly impact its interpretation, or the history of Greek drama, to the extent that the latter may be reconstructed on the basis of the surviving plays and fragments.

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This will be discussed shortly. First, I will address the scholarly argument about an element in the play which pertains closely to the present study and has been considered crucial in the presentation of the Danaids. The play nowhere explains why the chorus passionately reject, and go to great lengths to avoid, marriage to their first cousins the Aegyptiads, and possibly, or practically, marriage in general. Since Supplices is probably the first play of its trilogy, this silence becomes all the more extraordinary, whether the rest of the trilogy included relevant information or not. The play is thus the only example among surviving Aeschylean dramas in which action does not seem to be determined, partially at least, by the past, in the form of oracles, prophecies, curses, and/or inherited guilt working through the law of retaliation.3 In Septem and Oresteia internecine crimes, occurring with grim regularity and featuring sinister similarities, blight successive generations of families doomed by oracles and curses. The repercussions of the crimes also affect the families’ communities – in the case of Eumenides even a host community. In Persae the defeats at Salamis and Plataea are attributed to Xerxes’ hubristic arrogance, which brought about the swift fulfillment of oracles predicting dire misfortunes for the Persian empire. Despite the absence of any reference to an oracle or curse in Supplices, for more than two decades now, since the publication of an influential article by Sicherl,4 several scholars have accepted that an oracle was actually the starting point of the action of Supplices too, and indeed of the entire Danaid trilogy, which included Aegyptii and Danaides. According to these scholars, the oracle predicted that Danaus would be killed by a son-in-law, and his daughters shun marriage to spare him this fate. Sicherl suggests that the oracle would be first mentioned in the last play of the trilogy, Danaides, mainly for reasons of suspense. Rösler and Sommerstein find this very unconvincing: they take up a view proposed on other grounds by earlier scholars, arguing that Supplices was the second play of the trilogy and the oracle had been communicated to the audience in the first play, Aegyptii.5 Hose argues that the oracle could be either ante eventum or post eventum, i.e. it could be revealed either before or after the flight of Danaus

3 4 5

Cf. Sansone (1975) 40. Sicherl (1986). Rösler (2007), Sommerstein (1995), (1996) 143–49; cf. Lossau (1998) 66–67, 70, and Turner (2001). Cf. also next n. Garvie (20062 ) 185–86 surveys the views of mainly nineteenth-century scholars who argued that Supplices came second in the trilogy; more recently Griffith (1986) 324 also suggested that this order is a possibility. Föllinger (2003) 201–4 agrees with Sicherl and the rest about the

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and his daughters from Egypt, and so it cannot be used as a criterion for deciding the order of Aegyptii and Supplices.6 In support of their view that the oracle provides a clear and straightforward answer to the question why the Danaids oppose (cousin) marriage, one of the play’s critical knots, Sicherl and his followers suggest that the terms used for the marriage (108–9) refer to kin murder in other Aeschylean plays (S. 687, 692–94, 750–51, 756–57, 831, 875; Ag. 1493, 1517, 1590, Ch. 525). This implies that marriage (to the Aegyptiads) would make the Danaids accomplices in the murder of their father. The proponents of the oracle theory also submit that the oracle provides a satisfactory solution to another thorny problem in the play, the role of Danaus as leader of his daughters and councilor in their petition for asylum at Argos. Such confident claims notwithstanding, the contribution of the oracle to the interpretation of the play is dubious at best. Most of the objections listed below have already been put forth in one form or another,7 but I will review and supplement them briefly to make my position on this significant issue clear. The proponents of the oracle theory argue that evidence for the existence of the oracle is provided by a scholion of six words (διὰ τὸ μὴ θανατωθῆναι τὸν πατέρα) on line 37 of the play, which explains why the marriage between the Danaids and the sons of Aegyptus is prohibited by Themis. The Danaids pray that the gods destroy their pursuers at sea (30–36) “before they mount the marriage-beds of unwilling partners, from which Right debars them, usurping the jurisdiction of their uncle” (πρίν ποτε λέκτρων ὧν Θέμις εἴργει,/ σφετεριξάμενοι πατρα – δελφείαν/ τήνδ’ ἀεκόντων, ἐπιβῆναι, 37–39). Since πατραδελφεία is hapax, its exact meaning is difficult to determine. Given that πατράδελφος means ‘father’s brother, paternal uncle’ and that the Aegyptiads are said to usurp this relationship, πατραδελφεία may indicate that they usurp the rights of their uncle Danaus over his daughters. This is bold, as Friis-Johansen and Whittle point out, but not particularly strained, as they think:8 although Danaus has paternal rights over his daughters, the chorus’ statement reflects

6 7 8

importance of the oracle but suggests that it probably mentioned only the sons of Aegyptus as potentially murderous sons-in-law. Hose (2006). See Conacher (1996) 109–11, Rohweder (1998) 112–13, 135–36, Gödde (2000) 4–5, Sandin (2005) 9–13, Garvie (20062 ) xvii–xix, and Lloyd (2007) 14–18. Friis-Johansen and Whittle (1980) ad loc.

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the point of view and the legal, or quasi-legal, prerogative of the Aegyptiads. The scholion on line 37 has been associated with other scholia and late evidence,9 but these cannot be used as reliable basis for the reconstruction of Aeschylus’ trilogy, unless some explicit indication points in Aeschylus’ direction. Such an indication is not to be found in these sources. The scholion on line 37 is more likely to mean “because their father has not been killed” than “for fear that their father would be killed,” as the proponents of the oracle theory would have it. The most crucial objection is that Themis prohibits not the Danaids but the Aegyptiads from entering the beds of their cousins. The reason is provided in the next two lines (σφετεριξάμενοι πατραδελφείαν/ τήνδ’ ἀεκόντων, ἐπιβῆναι, 38–39):10 the Aegyptiads are would-be usurpers of their uncle’s rights, and the marriage is against the will of the Danaids and their father. The scholiast may have misinterpreted or loosely interpreted the jurisdiction of Themis. The scholion can hardly be thought to point specifically to an oracle anyway. Even if it does, it is unclear whether it involves the version of the story dramatized in Aeschylus’ Danaid trilogy11 or reflects later sources, since it cannot be taken for granted that the scholia did not suffer excisions, abbreviations, or other alterations in the transmission. Sicherl himself suggests that τὸ βούλεσθαι or something similar fell out from the scholiast’s comment: why would other losses be ruled out or not be contemplated? What is more important and virtually damning for the case of Sicherl and the rest is that no word about or allusion to any oracle, or to a bloody feud between Danaus and Aegyptus, or to a previous attempt on Danaus’ life, is to be found in Supplices – all the alleged allusions may very well be explained otherwise. It is obvious from the very beginning of the play that the Danaids and their father view the Aegyptiads’ claim to cousin marriage

9 See the scholion on H. Il. 1.42, which is based on Apollod. 2.11–13. See also sch. on Prom. 853a, and cf. sch. on Eur. Hec. 886, Or. 872, Stat. Theb. 2.222, 6.269. Cf. also Paus. 2.19.6, and Eust. 1.60 Van der Valk. 10 West prints a comma after ἀεκόντων. Friis-Johansen and Whittle place the comma after τήνδ(ε), taking ἀεκόντων as a qualification of the following ἐπιβῆναι. Cf. Sandin (2005) 59. This may be preferable, since the reference to usurpation at 38 already implies unwillingness on the victims’ part, but the position of the genitive may have been chosen on purpose in order both to strengthen the previous clause and to qualify the following infinitive. Page prints no comma anywhere in 37–39, perhaps the best editorial choice for the passage. 11 See Garvie (20062 ) xix, and cf. Conacher (1996) 111.

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as lustful, hubristic and impious because the prospective bridegrooms pursue unwilling partners (30, 37–39, 81, 104, 106–11, 224–29, 422, 426, 528, 741, 751, 755–59, 817–21, 845; cf. 1031–32). There is no indication that the girls think that the marriage would make them impious parricides: their fear is that it would make them slaves to hubristic and violent men (335; cf. 221, 392–93, 791). The impious mind at 9–10 (ἀσεβῆ/ διάνοιαν) and the frenzied mind at 109 (διάνοιαν μαινόλιν) belong to the Aegyptiads. The simile equating the Danaids with doves and their cousins with predatory ravens (223–27) is used by Danaus and reflects his family’s view of the Aegyptiads, which is also exemplified at 750–63: it has nothing to do with the potential responsibility of the Danaids for their father’s murder. Similarly, Danaus’ advice to his daughters in his last speech to behave modestly and avoid a reputation for licentiousness in Argos (993–1009) is not an indirect but urgent reminder of their duty to remain unmarried and thus protect his life. If a threatening oracle existed and the family had gone to such lengths to avoid its fulfillment, it would be very strange if Danaus suddenly feared that the flirtations of Argive men would entice his daughters to lightheartedly proceed to marry these local suitors, one of whom would be bound to become his killer. Besides, there is no mention of, or allusion to, marriage in his speech, and no clear reason why the presence of Argive guards would have prevented such a reference. Danaus’ emphasis on his daughters’ enticing beauty and vulnerable virginal honor also speaks against associating his speech with the prospect of marriage. The speech includes only a very clear admonition to his daughters to avoid compromising, licentious behavior that will please his enemies and alienate the Argives, their new friends, hosts and protectors.12 It should not be disregarded that before Danaus’ last entrance the Danaids themselves expressed a similar concern for avoiding native censure (973–76). Tragic characters often stress the need of foreigners, especially exiles, to find or retain favor with their hosts through circumspect and generally thoughtful behavior (194–203, S. 545–48, S. OC 171–72, Eur. Md. 222, Suppl. 892–95, Ph. 388–95).

12 For this admonition and the position of Danaus and his daughters concerning the girls’ marriage to men other than their cousins see the discussion below. For Danaus’ role in the play see Garvie (20062 ) 135–38, and Friis Johansen and Whittle (1980) 27. Cf. Murnaghan (2005) 190–91, who associates it with the role of chorus leaders in non-dramatic choral lyric.

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Oracles certainly appear in Greek literature, before, in, and after Aeschylus, with delay or even post eventum. In a similar vein, facts or events that have a cardinal role in one play of a trilogy are mentioned in passing or suppressed entirely in the next.13 Nevertheless, there is hardly an epic or dramatic poem in which the failure to mention an oracle would be as significant and inexplicable as in Supplices. The creation of suspense, a scholarly subterfuge in most cases anyway, has been rejected for the play and the trilogy under discussion even by Rösler.14 Poets never relied on their audience’s knowledge of the mythic tradition to cover information gaps in their works, and there is no evidence that the pre-Aeschylean tradition included an oracle to Danaus, as the proponents of the oracle theory acknowledge. Even if it did, this still does not answer the question why Aeschylus chose to suppress the oracle completely. The mention post eventum of oracles or prophecies in Homer’s Odyssey (9.507–12, 10.330–32), Sophocles’ Ajax (745–57), OT (787–93), and Trachiniae (1159–73), or even in Aeschylus’ own Persae (739–42) has nothing to do with the alleged suppression of the oracle in Supplices: although at least some of these predictions are important in illuminating the background of the action and the decisions of the characters, none is crucial to the action per se.15 On the contrary, the success of the Danaids’ petition for asylum depends crucially on the reason for their flight from Egypt and the right of their cousins to marry them. Even if the audience had heard about the oracle in the previous play, why would the Danaids and their father hide from the Argive king the crucial information that the girls’ marriage to their cousins (or to any men) equals death for the father? This vital and pious concern would be likely to strike a chord with a reluctant potential provider of asylum. At the very least, there is no conceivable reason why the Danaids, determined to stake everything, even their very lives, on avoiding marriage, would have preferred vague and potentially suspect

13 The most obvious examples from extant Aeschylus are the single, passing mention of Iphigeneia’s sacrifice in Choephori (242) and the suppression of Aegisthus and the family crimes in Eumenides. Cf. the discussion in A V 2–3 and 9 below. 14 Rösler (2007) 180. Cf. Sommerstein (1995) 117, and Hose (2006) 92. 15 The examples of post eventum predictions mentioned are discussed by Hose (2006). In Septem Aeschylus includes an early mention of Oedipus’ curse at the end of the prologue (70), although the play comes last in the trilogy, and the curse, which eventually becomes very prominent in the play (653ff.), may have been mentioned in Oedipus, the previous play. For the import of the curse in Septem see the discussion in II 4–6 above.

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allusions to an ill-defined aversion to marriage (to the Aegyptiads) over a straightforward, unobjectionable explanation that celibacy and asylum would save the precious life of their beloved father. The suggestion that the reason for the suppression was their wish not to reveal to Pelasgus that their cousins had a valid claim on them16 is unfounded because Pelasgus believes that the cousins do anyway, and he reveals his view fairly early on (387–91). Rösler argues that the play deals with supplication, and suppliants were not, and did not feel, obliged to reveal the background of their troubles to their hosts because they could rely on their rights as suppliants. In his view, Danaus and his daughters feel that the disclosure of the oracle would jeopardize their case: the Argives might reject their supplication, fearing that they would be punished by the gods for their collaboration in the attempt to thwart an oracle, which would be fulfilled anyway, and that the eventual murder of Danaus would pollute the city.17 First, the explication of a silence through the postulation of fears is problematic and inspires little confidence since it is very difficult to justify. Second, there are hardly any suppliants who fail to disclose the background of their supplication as completely as the Danaids do, especially since the disclosure would likely win them some sympathy, as suggested above. The appeal to the rights of the suppliants could be made, and the trump card of the suppliants’ threat to commit suicide and pollute the city (455–67) could be played, whether the oracle was disclosed or not. Pelasgus elaborates on the enormity of the dilemma he faces anyway (407–17, 438–54, 467a–77), and there is no evidence that attempts to thwart the fulfillment of an oracle draw divine punishment. Besides, there is no reason to assume that the Aeschylean Argives were convinced that the fulfillment of an oracle cannot be thwarted, or that the Danaids thought that their hosts were. In that case, the Argives would choose the miasma of rejecting supplication, which is presented as inevitable and absolutely deleterious in the play, over the miasma caused by Danaus’ murder (cf. 987–88), which would not necessarily be as indelible. At any rate, if one is willing to believe that Danaus and his daughters are ready, and indeed conspire diligently, to hide the oracle from the Argives in order to bolster their case, it is difficult to imagine why they would not

16 See Sicherl (1986) 106. For the claim of the Aegyptiads on the Danaids cf. the discussion in 4 with n. 42 below. 17 Rösler (2007) 183–84, 196–97.

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conspire to present a doctored version of the truth in order to win some sympathy from their hosts, by claiming at least that Danaus was in danger of getting killed by the Egyptians. Last but not least, Rösler fails to answer the plausible question why the Danaids and/or their father fail to mention the oracle when they are alone onstage and plan their petition strategy, before the arrival of the king, when the chorus threaten even Zeus in order to secure his help (154–74), or when they give free rein to their fears before the arrival of the Egyptian herald (735–824). The audience’s supposed knowledge of the oracle cannot explain away the fact that Danaus and his daughters seem to ignore the oracle or to suppress it with inexplicable consistency even when they are among themselves. Faced with this problem, Sommerstein suggests that the Danaids are ignorant of the oracle: Danaus had not thought it safe to reveal it, and brainwashed his daughters, who acted like his virtual pawns, to view marriage as unnatural.18 But why would Danaus mistrust daughters he had no trouble turning into his pawns, if such characterization of the Danaids may be accepted, and why would he not brainwash them to cooperate with him in his efforts to save his life?19 Generally, the proponents of the oracle theory are forced to argue that this all-important factor had to be diligently suppressed, perhaps on more than one occasion. Apart from the reticence in Argos, Sommerstein claims that Danaus could not disclose the true reason for his refusal to give away his daughters to marriage to their cousins in Egypt. Keeping a daughter or ward unmarried was criminal, and the perpetrator of this crime would be despised by his dependents and the community, like Acrisius, the father of Danae, and Aegisthus, the stepfather of Electra.20 But both Acrisius and Aegisthus were cruel to the girls. Danaus was a loving and beloved father, and the situation and attitude of his daughters had nothing to do with those of Danae, Electra, or other mythical heroines maltreated by their fathers or stepfathers. There is no obvious reason why Danaus would hide the oracle from his relatives, especially if there were no feud between the families, and since disclosure would provide an adequate reason for his

18 Sommerstein (1995) 116, 119. 19 If, on top of the oracle hypothesis, one needs to make further implausible, hard to explain, e silentio assumptions, then one is on slippery critical ground. Turner (2001) 28 n. 9, for instance, claims without any argument that Danaus had instilled an aversion to marriage in his ignorant daughters, and quite astonishingly suggests that the scholion on line 37 allows this inference. 20 Sommerstein (1995) 114–16, 122.

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rejection of their proposal. In final analysis, he could claim that the daughters could marry after his death, and, if the oracle mentioned only the sons of Aegyptus as his fated killers, the case for his rejection of them as sonsin-law would be strengthened in both Egypt and Argos. In view of these problems, it is preferable to abandon the idea of an Aeschylean oracle altogether. It cannot be credibly supported by any piece of evidence, and it almost certainly necessitates the placing of Supplices in the second position of the trilogy, which creates problems of its own. A very extensive amount of material would have to be handled in the last play, Danaides, which would include the war between Argives and Egyptians, the defeat of the former, probably the death of Pelasgus, possibly a crisis of succession, the marriage of the Danaids and the Aegyptiads, the murder of the bridegrooms except Lynceus, and the resolution of the conflict, which would have to feature Danaus’ murder by Lynceus, perhaps following an earlier attempt by the father to punish the disobedient Hypermestra, and arrangements for the future of her murderous sisters. Rösler is right that Aeschylus could manage much of it by means of narration,21 but this assumption, which in the particular case projects an especially non-dramatic play, is still a quite steep critical price to pay for the sake of shoring up the argument for an elusive and useless oracle. Nor is there any substantial similarity between the events not dramatized in other plays and trilogies and those supposedly narrated in the Danaid trilogy, as Sommerstein suggests.22 The Theban trilogy does not necessarily omit anything of importance, and even the passing over of some of Odysseus’ adventures in the Odysseus trilogy cannot compare with the choices Aeschylus is foisted with in the case of the Danaid trilogy. The playwright did not have to follow Homer’s Odyssey in his Odysseus trilogy but he would need to dramatize events that were crucial in his own treatment of the myth in the Danaid trilogy. As already suggested, the fulfillment of the oracle, which is guaranteed to occur, necessitates the murder of Danaus by Lynceus (or, more implausibly, another son-in-law, following the Danaids’ second marriage, if it occurred). This is an unwarranted narrowing down of Aeschylus’ options, especially since Pindar, a contemporary of Aeschylus, mentions a version of the myth hardly compatible with Danaus’ murder by Lynceus in Pythian 9 (112–16; cf. Hdt. 2.98, Paus. 7.16), composed in 474 BC. The existence

21 Rösler (2007) 181–82. 22 Sommerstein (1995) 118.

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of the oracle would also exacerbate Hypermestra’s dilemma considerably. It is not impossible that sexual passion or wifely duty overrode filial devotion in an Aeschylean play, but one cannot take that easily for granted and assume that the heroine’s dilemma was dealt with rather summarily, probably only in a report post eventum. More problematically, the oracle theory does not facilitate the interpretation of Supplices: for the theory to have any interpretive purchase, one needs to postulate something of which there is no trace in the play, the Danaids’ fear of participating in the murder of their father. As pointed out above, the Danaids nowhere express a fear that their marriage will make them guilty of internecine impiety: their only and persistent fear is that they will become virtual slaves to hubristic men. Worst of all, the theory saddles Aeschylus with a silence that is inexplicable and all but dramatically ruinous. As things stand, and unless new information emerges, there is no clear explanation in the play, and conceivably in the trilogy, why the Danaids hate their cousins and reject marriage to them with such vehemence.23 The play also does not provide any clear answer to the notorious question mentioned at the beginning of this chapter, namely whether the Danaids only reject marriage to the Aegyptiads or marriage in general. Friis Johansen and Whittle correctly dispute the argument of Garvie that a number of passages (144ff., 392–93, 426, 528ff., 643, 790, 798–99, 804–7, 818, 1017) point to general rejection of marriage, since they all occur in the context of, and may be explained as, references to the Aegyptiads.24 Even if one accepts that the passages indicate general aversion to marriage, no explanation for such aversion is provided in the play, and none is easy to fathom, so the critical conundrum remains. On the other hand, no passage points to acceptance or credible expectation of unforced marriage, either, pace Friis Johansen and Whittle, who think that some passages do (79–82, 337, 1031–32, 1052–53, 1062–67).25 The statement of the Danaids that their father had given each of them a maid as dowry (978–79) may

23 For explanations of the Danaids’ aversion toward the Aegyptiads such as personal dislike, rejection of endogamy, or a family feud, none of which can be substantiated on the basis of evidence provided in the play, see Friis Johansen and Whittle (1980) 33–40. Cf. Föllinger (2003) 197–98, and Grethlein (2003) 47–48. 24 See Friis Johansen and Whittle (1980) 31–32; Garvie (20062 ) 221. 25 See Friis Johansen and Whittle (1980) 32–33.

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not be genuine.26 In any case, it remains unclear whether this “dowry” may count as an indication that he still, in the dramatic time of the play, expects his daughters to marry. He certainly expects that Argive men will covet them (996–1005), but this is no indication that he expects them to marry sometime, or that the daughters anticipate marriage. On the contrary, if his wish that the troubles the family has suffered so far do not prove fruitless (1006–9) has any special meaning, it may indicate that he wants his daughters to continue having nothing to do with men. Nevertheless, as suggested earlier, his primary concern is undoubtedly the preservation of his and his daughters’ good name, which might become smeared not only by actual lapses but also, and in the context of his admonitions perhaps primarily, by the damaging perception of licentiousness (cf. Eur. Tr. 647–49). In this light, 1006–9 may not be an admonition against future marriage but may very well be, and in my opinion probably are, a warning against the daughters’ inappropriate association with men: if the girls succumb to flirtations too quickly and easily, presumably before the war with the Egyptians has been concluded, and/or before the family has become established and trusted in Argos as honorable metics, their reputation will be ruined, and the father’s enemies, Egyptian and/ or Argive, will rejoice. Danaus’ admonition, then, cannot be used as evidence that he and his daughters either accept or reject marriage to men other than their relatives. Be that as it may, despite the absence of explicit endorsement of unforced marriage, the absence of explicit rejection of such marriage perhaps carries relatively greater weight. Thus the comparatively safer critical route leads to the assumption, admittedly e silentio, that the Danaids reject marriage only to the Aegyptiads. On the other hand, one cannot and should not disregard the disadvantage that arguments and assumptions e silentio have by definition. In particular, the silence on which the assumption in question is based is very persistent and dramatically very difficult to account for. In a play where the Danaids express repeatedly their abhorrence of forced marriage to violent bridegrooms, there is not a single reference to the desired kind of marriage and partner that would highlight the contrast, not even at the end, when the secondary chorus criticize the Danaids’ obsessive rejection of marriage (1034ff.). If these considerations are taken

26 Taplin (1977) 230–38 discusses in detail the problems that a secondary chorus of maids presents in the play and especially in a part of the play that has many other structural and staging problems. Cf. n. 40 below.

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into account, as they should be, the assumption in question should be slightly modified: the Danaids’ rejection of marriage to their cousins is for all intents and purposes tantamount to general rejection of marriage, whether this is motivated by their devotion to celibacy, however that might be thought to have come about, or is a passionate reaction to their cousins’ aggression.27 In either case, the rejection of marriage is unlikely to be attributable to an oracle or a family feud that preceded the family’s rejection of the Aegyptiads’ wooing and the flight from Egypt.

2. Io: kinship and asylum Even without an oracle or feud, the past looms large in the play, but in a quite peculiar way in comparison with most other surviving tragedies. Although the Danaids deal extensively with the past, they never elucidate the background of their flight from Egypt, as already pointed out. For reasons that are (now) largely indecipherable, the poet decided not to elaborate upon their personal history. To an extent paradoxically, the chorus do not provide extensive informative reviews of their past, a failure that perhaps becomes less striking because of their protagonistic role. Danaus’ fairly circumscribed part and Pelasgus’ lack of personal connection with the family facilitate the eschewing of focus on the family’s past, which fosters the enigmatic character of the chorus throughout the play. Remarkably, the Danaids evoke the past constantly, but their analepses involve almost exclusively the story of Io’s persecution by Hera and salvation by Zeus. The women and their father reckon that they can petition and gain asylum in Argos, thus avoiding the hated marriage, because the family trace their descent to Io, an Argive priestess of Hera and one of Zeus’ mortal lovers. The goddess transformed her rival into a cow and put Argus in charge of her. After Argus’ murder by Hermes, Hera sent a gadfly to torment and pursue Io. Her long and trying peregrinations ended in Egypt, the Danaids’ home-country, where she was cured and gave birth to Epaphus through the liberating touch and breath of Zeus (15–17, 40–46, 291–315, 524–37, 575–89, 1062–67; cf. 172, 401–2, 592–94, 652–53).

27 See Winnington-Ingram (1983) 60–61, and cf. Sandin (2005) 90–91. For psychoanalytic explanations of the Danaids’ supposed misandry see the overview of literature in Belfiore (2000) 40.

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Epaphus sired Libya, who gave birth to Belus, who sired the brothers Danaus and Aegyptus (313–23). This genealogy reveals immediately that the Aegyptiads have as strong a claim to Zeus’ protection and, in principle at least, to Argive goodwill as their female cousins. The latter of course suppress their relatives’ connection to Zeus and Io, and no other character mentions it, but it is certainly a fact, and it may have played some role in other parts of the trilogy. The Danaids hope that the Argives will feel bound to succor their helpless female cousins, the foreign-born suppliants and Io’s descendants. The women also expect and invoke the help of Zeus and the other gods on various grounds, but the connection with Io is paramount in their prayers. Thus the gods of Argos,28 and especially Zeus the protector of suppliants, are asked to take pity on and protect the powerless female suppliants fleeing a group of hubristic males eager to marry them against their (and their father’s) will (1–39, 79–153). But the supreme god is also beseeched, and wishfully thought, to specifically favor the persecuted female descendants of his long-suffering and hunted mistress, whom he favored superbly and rescued benevolently (15–18, 40–49, 168–74, 524–89). I will return to the Danaids’ view of the relationship of Zeus and Io shortly. For now, it is important to focus on the Danaids’ chance of gaining asylum. Early on, and then repeatedly throughout, the play leaves little doubt that this chance depends primarily on their suppliant status,29 their

28 The enmity of Hera, the principal goddess of Argos, toward Io, her one-time priestess and subsequent rival, was likely to undermine the case of the Danaids. The offended and vindictive goddess would not be favorably disposed toward descendants of Io, especially women who associated themselves so closely with Io and rejected marriage, one of Hera’s main areas of jurisdiction. The Danaids express anxiety about her sexual jealousy (162–67 = 175a-f ), but the issue does not reappear in the play. It is not impossible, though, that Hera had a more prominent role in the rest of the trilogy, both as hostile and protective divinity, especially if she appeared as goddess of marriage at the end. She is mentioned at 1035 in association with Aphrodite (and Zeus). For Hera’s possible role at the end of the trilogy cf. Garvie (20062 ) 226, and Winnington-Ingram (1983) 71 n. 53. See also Appendix A II. 29 Significantly, at a perilous moment, after the arrival of the Egyptian ship and the departure of their father to warn the Argives, the Danaids give free rein to their horror of forced marriage and express emphatically their readiness even to die in order to avoid it (787–807). Friis Johansen and Whittle (1980) 38 think that these wishes and proclamations are not serious. Irrespective of the seriousness of their intentions, the appeal to Zeus at the end of the song (808–24) indicates that

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persistent and emphatic claim to Argive and specifically Ioan ancestry notwithstanding. This is not surprising: apart from the problem already mentioned, the relation of Zeus and the Argives to the Aegyptiads, the Danaids simply cannot rely, exclusively or even primarily, on their Argive origin to ensure help from the Argives. A Greek could reject a relative’s request for assistance without risking divine retribution, although he did risk ignominy. In tragedy, this is obvious, for instance, from Orestes’ appeal to Menelaus in Euripides’ Orestes (642–79), and the dispute of Menelaus and Agamemnon in IA (318–414). In neither play is religious transgression or divine wrath invoked, although one’s obligations toward relatives are, and emphatically so.30 The suppliants’ appeal to blood relation in Euripides’ Heraclidae (207–13) and Supplices (263–66) is at best a secondary reason for the success of their petition. Aethra and Theseus do not mention it in Supplices while Demophon says that his primary reason for protecting the suppliants is his reverence of Zeus (Hcld. 238–39). Thucydides (1.24) also narrates the story of the Epidamnian colonists who appealed to their mother city Corcyra for help. The ambassadors of the colony apparently did not think that their blood ties to the mother city were sufficient to guarantee their success but sought to bolster their case through supplication at the altar of Hera. The threat of divine wrath, especially the wrath of Zeus the protector of suppliants and guest-friends, was a powerful means of putting pressure on the supplicated, although in practice of course many chose to ignore it, as the Corcyreans did. Danaus’ first and emphatic advice to his daughters is that they should assume the position of reverent suppliants (186–96), and the Danaids appeal constantly to their suppliant status whenever they are within earshot of Argives (50–62, 345, 348–53, 359–64, 381–86, 418–37). Pelasgus finally gives in to their appeals to him to respect their suppliant status (478–79). More accurately, not even this status and the obligations it creates for the recipients of the supplication are enough to guarantee the success of

the Danaids’ main hope of avoiding disaster lies in their status as pious suppliants. Their descent from Zeus and Io furnishes additional basis for expecting help (524–37, 590–94) because gods, like mortals, were expected to help their relatives. Cf. S. 140–42 and the other passages collected by Friis Johansen and Whittle (1980) on 168–74. 30 Cf. S. Aj. 1304–5, Ant. 639–47, Eur. Or. 682–86, 717–21, 736, 740, 748–52, 769, 1056–59, 1615–17, and Hcld. 26–30 (Iolaus wishes to avoid the blame of betraying Heracles’ children, his young orphaned relatives).

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the Danaids’ petition. This is achieved only when they manage to excite Argive fear rather than pity or respect: Pelasgus’ resistance and helplessness in the face of his terrible dilemma are finally overcome when the suppliants threaten to commit suicide by hanging themselves from the statues of the gods and thus causing the city abominable pollution (455–67).31 Pelasgus had already announced his intention to defer the decision about the Danaids’ petition to the Argive assembly (365–69; cf. 397–401) before the women threatened to commit suicide, and his plan does not change afterwards. Nevertheless, he declares that he will respect the wrath of Zeus the protector of suppliants, “the supreme fear among humans” (478–79), and significantly takes specific steps to secure the granting of asylum by manipulating the assembly (480–89, 500–3, 516–23; cf. 615–24) only after the women have made their threat. Thus the Danaids’ Argive origin becomes early on secondary or even irrelevant, at least in connection with their petition. Pelasgus of course invokes the Argive origin of the suppliants to convince the people’s assembly (618; cf. 356) but he also invokes their status as guest-friends (618–20). At any rate, the case seems to rest primarily on the danger of offending Zeus the protector of suppliants, whose anger Pelasgus is reported to have invoked at the beginning of his speech (616–18). In his reply to the Egyptian herald, Pelasgus also seems to suggest that the decision of the city was taken mainly with a view to protecting the helpless women from the violence of their persecutors (940–45; cf. 486–89). The Danaids of course repeat their claim to Argive kinship in their benedictions of the Argives (652–53), but this is part of their narrative throughout the play. Besides, the kinship is mentioned only once while there are repeated references to Zeus the protector of guest-friends and suppliants in the benedictions (627, 641, 671–73; cf. 646). It has been suggested that Pelasgus’ dilemma is exacerbated by the fear that war with the Aegyptiads involves the shedding of kindred blood, as indicated by 449 and 474.32 In the second passage, the blood in question is clearly that

31 The women follow basically the same strategy in their appeal to Zeus for help in the parodos. They present themselves as pious suppliants, victims of the ruthless hubris of violent, godless men, who are bent on subjecting them to forced marriage (22a–39, 77–85, 104–16, 141–43 = 151–53; cf. 324–30). They also stress their descent from Zeus and Io (168–74; cf. 22a, 40–49, 531–38, 590–94). At the end of the parodos, though, they threaten suicide (154–61) and elaborate on the grave consequences of the miasma it will generate for the supplicated (168–74). 32 See Belfiore (2000) 42.

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shared by the Danaids and the Egyptians. This is the case also in the first passage, as Friis Johansen and Whittle argue,33 but Pelasgus is thinking of the Argives as representatives of the Danaids in war, or of vicarious shedding of kindred blood, as it were. Be that as it may, even if kinship contributes to the success of the Danaids’ petition, there is no denying the fact that it is far from the decisive factor in it: the Danaids’ supplication, and especially the threat to take it to city-polluting limits, secures them Pelasgus’ crucial advocacy.

3. Io: persecution and deliverance Whether conducive to the granting of asylum or not, the Danaids’ descent from Io is an indisputable fact. Yet these intriguing and unsettling maidens, who are rarely called so in the play (188, 480, 1003; cf. 149), seem to define their very existence with reference to the past and their connection with Io in a different, although related, manner. She was an Argive woman, and they seek Argive protection as her descendants, but they clearly believe that their crucial link with her is provided by their capacity as persecuted women rather than their descent. Io was eventually saved, as they fervently hope to be, through the benevolent intervention of Zeus.34 This association is already intimated in the parodos (15–18, 40–49) but is fully articulated in the first stasimon (524–99), which is sung when the Danaids are alone onstage for the first time in the play and await the decision of the Argive assembly.35

33 Friis Johansen and Whittle (1980) ad loc. 34 The most extensive study of the theme of Io in the play and the trilogy is that of Murray (1958), who discusses the imagery associated with her. He argues that the Danaids’ idiosyncratic view of the relationship of Io and Zeus and the relevant imagery illuminate the character of the Danaids and provide a clue to the end of the trilogy: it celebrated the vindication of Hypermestra as the new Io accepting motherhood, which her sisters had rejected. Murray does not always observe the distinction between theme and image and overinterprets certain recurrent words and themes; he also overemphasizes the association of the Danaid trilogy with Prometheus and the importance of motherhood in it. For criticism of his arguments see Garvie (20062 ) 70–71, 224–25, and Föllinger (2003) 216 n. 173; cf. the discussion below. For the theme of Io in the play see also Kuntz (1993) 62, and Belfiore (2000) 39–62. 35 Significantly, the last reference to their similarity with Io occurs in the exodus (1062–67) and precedes their parting wish (1068–73). For the last reference to Io cf. the discussion in the next section.

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The Danaids’ journey from Egypt to Argos mirrors Io’s: they have left the place Io traveled to and travel to the place she had left from. The Danaids believe and stress that Zeus favors women, Io and her female descendants, and he will deliver the latter as he delivered the former. This is not an implausible narrative, especially in view of the usual form of Greek appeals to the divine, which capitalized on the assumption that previous help offered to the petitioner and/or his or her family set a precedent for future divine assistance. The intriguing element in the Danaids’ narrative is their failure to put in proper perspective, or elaborate upon, the fact that Zeus had a sexual relationship with Io, and that she suffered mightily because of it. The Danaids do not indicate that Io rejected or resented Zeus’ affections, and they lay all the blame for her troubles at Hera’s powerful, heavenly door (299–311; cf. 538–64, 586–87). It is obvious, though, that the girl suffered because of her union with Zeus. Modern audiences at least would be unlikely to doubt that Zeus’ desire for Io initiated the woman’s troubles, as is often the case in myths of unions of gods with mortals, especially girls. Nevertheless, it is a fair guess that the image of the male god as a rapist and insensitive pleasure-seeker did not automatically suggest itself to Greek audiences, unless an author chose to highlight it, as Euripides does in Ion, for instance. The outlook of Aeschylus’ Supplices is different, and, even if the Danaids have a biased view of the relationship of Io and Zeus, the unbiased view would hardly involve blaming Zeus for mating with Io. On the other hand, there is no indication that this absence of blame would blind Greek audiences to the origin of Io’s troubles. In any case, Io’s deliverance took place in Egypt through the extraordinary intervention of Zeus and especially with the birth of a son. To be sure, as just suggested, the union of Zeus and Io was not necessarily forced, and thus Epaphus was not the offspring of a violent mating, as Murray, for instance, argues.36 In Supplices Zeus was not responsible for the transformation of Io into a cow, he did not treat her violently or inconsiderately, and he certainly put an end to her sufferings in a compassionate, gentle, and presumably rewarding, manner. There is thus no glaring inconsistency between the Danaids’ idiosyncratic narrative of Io’s story and the “facts” of the story as may be gathered from this narrative, irrespective of the Danaids’ view of it.

36 Murray (1958) 69. See also Brill (2009) 174, who argues for an ambivalent presentation of Zeus in the play, especially at 315. Cf. n. 39 below.

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Still, even if such mitigating, as it were, factors are taken into account, the Danaids’ difference from Io cannot be overlooked. Io suffered because of her sexual union with Zeus, which aroused the jealousy of Hera, and stopped suffering when she gave birth to a son. The Danaids are virgins and hope not simply to escape troubles but specifically to escape troubles they believe would arise from marriage, or from a particular kind of marriage. They also fail to acknowledge, or even hint at, the dissimilarity, stressing instead their identity with Io.37 As indicated above, the Danaids also never say anything about, or in any way indicate explicitly, the kind of bridegroom or marriage, if any, they desire, and they emphasize Zeus’ capacity as Io’s deliverer and ancestor of their race rather than his capacity as Io’s partner. Since Io’s deliverance took place in the framework of her sexual relationship with Zeus and resulted in her miraculous impregnation by the god in Egypt, the distinction between Zeus the deliverer and Zeus the lover of Io cannot be too sharp. On the other hand, it certainly cannot be disregarded that the virginal and persecuted Danaids are likely to, and indeed do, lay much greater emphasis on Io’s salvation than on her sexuality: the only reference to Zeus exclusively as Io’s sexual partner is at 295 and involves the union in Argos, not Egypt. All the other references include Zeus’ double capacity as Io’s deliverer and Epaphus’ father. Thus the Danaids construct a skewed personal narrative out of Io’s story, pivoted primarily on Io’s persecution and miraculous deliverance from troubles through Zeus’ special benevolence toward her. This rousing tale, which the women are constantly recounting to themselves, is apparently for personal consumption. The Danaids cannot, and never really, use it to bolster their petition for asylum, and Danaus, who was responsible for planning their

37 Zeitlin (1992) 226–28 makes the interesting point that the Danaids reject not only forced marriage but also human marriage and aspire to a union with Zeus, whom they regard and address in erotic terms, or to a union with a divine father. If so, this would add an extra unsettling dimension to the girls’ self-perception and the narrative of their association with Io. The problem is that Zeus was the ancestor of the Danaids and their wish for a union with him would be incestuous. Although there is no reference to their mother in the play, there is also no indication that Danaus and/or his daughters view their relationship in sexualized terms, which might explain the girls’ passionate rejection of marriage as reluctance to separate from the father, for whom they substitute Zeus.

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flight from Egypt to Argos on the basis of the family’s Argive origin, is never associated with the narrative of Io’s flight and rescue.38

4. Io, the Danaids, and the mind of Zeus: fantasies of the past or predictions of the future The question that readily suggests itself concerns the reason for the Danaids’ creative or emotive reworking of the past, perhaps the most radical in extant Aeschylean drama, especially given its relative lack of importance in the success of the suppliants’ immediate goal, the securing of asylum. A plausible answer is that their narrative of Io’s troubles and deliverance answers to their wish to buttress their flattering self-perception. The Danaids are supremely dedicated to their goal of fleeing marriage (to the Aegyptiads) and by turns pathetic, strident, and menacing. They expect, and believe that they deserve, divine and human protection because they are pious and just. Their claim to justice and expectation of divinely sponsored deliverance is mainly based on their self-perception as virtual reincarnations of Io, i.e. on their narrative of Io’s persecution and deliverance.39 Until the

38 Given the virtual identity of views between father and daughters, this silence does not suggest that Danaus disagrees with his daughters, but it is probably important that he never touches on Io’s story and his daughters’ similarities with her. He is also almost always absent when the Danaids recount Io’s story. On the other hand, Danaus repeatedly urges his daughters to be cool-headed and show restraint and moderation (176, 198–99, 203, 724–25, 772–73), and praises them when they follow his advice (710). This may be indicative of an anxiety generated not only by the difficult situation they face but also, and perhaps primarily, by his awareness of their penchant toward uncontrolled excitement and exaggeration, which may be viewed as the root of their Io narrative. 39 Brill (2009) argues that this narrative is the result of the Danaids’ attempt to deal with their anxiety over their readiness to use violence, which associates them with the tyranny of their pursuers. The women flee violent sexual aggressors but are ready to secure the success of their petition by threatening to perform an act of violence and aggression, their ritually polluting suicide. Since Zeus’ union with Io, which created their line, involved aggression, the Danaids legitimize their stance by reworking the myth so as to erase the violence involved. There is no doubt that the Danaids present Zeus as a liberator rather as an aggressor, but there is also no indication that they recognize his aggression, or that they experience any anxious conflict over their own aggressive behavior. They try to legitimize their rejection of marriage and request for asylum by presenting Io as a persecuted victim rather

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appearance of the secondary chorus,40 the narrative of the Danaids is never seriously challenged. For obvious reasons, Danaus and Pelasgus focus on their immediate goal, the securing of asylum and the persuasion of the assembly respectively, which is far more pressing than the scrutiny of the narrative of Io’s story, almost always related by the Danaids in the absence of male characters anyway. More important, the outrageous behavior of the Egyptian herald and his followers (825–907), the representatives of the Aegyptiads, can only serve to corroborate the Danaids’ view of their pursuers and themselves in relation to them, which is the core of their selfperception. Scholars have discussed the portrayal of the Aegyptiads, and more generally Egyptians, as exemplifying barbarity in juxtaposition to Greek civility and a host of issues associated with this portrayal: the suppliants’ relation to their pursuers, Danaus’ possible assumption of power at Argos, the founding of a new royal line by Lynceus and Hypermestra, and the influence of contemporary Athenian politics on Aeschylus’ representation of the Greek-barbarian polarity.41 Such issues exceed the scope of this study and will not be discussed except to the extent that they involve Io and her progeny. The foreign origin of prominent families and clans is ubiquitous in myth, as are various associations of Greeks and non-Greeks, and Aeschylus did not invent the connection of Egypt and Argos. The negative traits of the Aegyptiads and their henchmen are attributed to their impiety rather than their foreign origin. Pelasgus is no more scathing in his

than a sexual mate. Brill’s association of the threat of suicide with tyranny is also difficult to substantiate. 40 This may be composed of the Danaids’ female attendants or Danaus’ Argive bodyguards. The arguments of Friis Johansen and Whittle (1980) on 1018–73 in support of the second alternative seem more persuasive than those of scholars who opt for the first. See also Garvie (20062 ) xvii. Nevertheless, if one puts aside the many other problems, discussed extensively by Taplin (1977) 230–38, which would disqualify either party or even both, the effect of the objections of the secondary chorus to the Danaids’ rejection of marriage would be equally strong, whether voiced by maids or bodyguards. The dangerous and potentially untenable extremity of the Danaids’ position would become obvious if their own maids, young Egyptian women like their mistresses, distanced themselves from the Danaids at the moment just after the latter would have secured sanctuary in Argos. Despite their being women and probably sympathetic to their mistresses, the maids would not share the Danaids’ conviction that the gods support their cause and their readiness to disparage Aphrodite. For the chorus of bodyguards see below. 41 See Turner (2001), and Mitchell (2006).

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dismissal of the Egyptian herald than, for instance, Demophon, who castigates the impious behavior of the Argive herald as barbarous (Eur. Hcld. 130–33; cf. 101–4, 107–8, 254, 258) and threatens to kill him (270–73), or Theseus, who vilifies the wholly inappropriate comportment of the Theban envoy Creon in Athens (S. OC 904–36). The foreign origin of the arrivals, Danaus and his daughters as well as their relatives, is an important theme in the play, and presumably the trilogy, but in connection with the dispute that motivated the flight from Egypt and especially the granting of asylum in Argos rather than with the Greek-barbarian polarity and its role in Athenian politics in the decades after the Persian wars.

Significantly, only after the Danaids have achieved their goal to escape extradition and marriage to their cousins, does the secondary chorus of Argive bodyguards suggest that the attitude of the Danaids is extreme, Aphrodite’s power is invincible, and Zeus’ counsels are infinite (1035–51). Even if the Aegyptiads commit hubris, the Danaids, and, by implication, their Argive protectors, are in danger of perpetrating the same crime (1061). This becomes most obvious from the Danaids’ wish in the exodus that Zeus grant victory to the women (1068–69), which echoes the Egyptian herald’s parting wish for male victory (950–51). As the Egyptians go to war ignoring Zeus the protector of suppliants, the Danaids go to war ignoring Aphrodite. The Argive men charged with the protection of Danaus, and by extension his daughters, and bound to suffer or even die in the imminent war, suggest that the outcome of the conflict may well not be what the Danaids pray for. The men’s reservations may also be taken as the crowning indication that the decision of the city was not taken on the merits of the Danaids’ case, since the Argives do not believe that the gods are necessarily on the side of those who reject marriage with a passion bordering on religious offense. The men point out that the Danaids, like many other women, may or will eventually have to get married (1050–51), since Zeus’ mind knows no limits (1048–49). The Danaids pick up the description of Zeus’ mind (1057–58) but predictably return to his deliverance of Io, praying for a similar favor to themselves (1062–67), in response to the guards’ admonition for a moderate and pious prayer (1059, 1061). The last word of the play belongs to the chorus, but their narrative of Zeus’ deliverance of Io does not serve, and is probably not meant, to persuade anybody, at least not any mortal, and certainly not the audience. They may sympathize with the Danaids’ cause, as Aeschylus probably planned for them to do, but not because the case has irrefutable claims to

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piety and justice, which the women highlight through their aspiration to be delivered from their troubles like Io. Instead, audience sympathy is generated through the Danaids’ strong commitment to their cause and the play’s focalization almost exclusively through them – their enemies’ viewpoint, irrespective of the men’s hubristic or criminal behavior, is never really presented in any detail. Faced with Pelasgus’ hostility (911–15), the Egyptian herald only has the opportunity to suggest that he is recovering lost property (918; cf. 924), and points to the Aegyptiads’ relation to, and thus valid claim on, the Danaids (932–33). Earlier, Pelasgus himself had mentioned the Egyptian law according to which the Aegyptiads laid claim on the Danaids (387–91). This reference is peculiar in that it is not based on any Egyptian law or custom known from Aeschylus’ time.42 Possibly, the poet chose to mention this law in the play for reasons that would become clearer later on in the trilogy. It is not unparalleled for heralds to suggest that their masters have jurisdiction over fugitives fleeing from their land (cf. Eur. Hcld. 139–43, 175, 267), but no character disputes the validity of the Egyptian herald’s claim, only the manner of its enforcement in a foreign country.43 The Aegyptiads’ rights over the Danaids, which seem to supersede even Danaus’ paternal rights of guardianship, are apparently strong and certainly nowhere dismissed. If so, their pursuit of the Danaids and their aggression may be thought to be, and perhaps to have been presented at some point in the trilogy as, an excessive response to an insult to their authority inflicted when the Danaids refused to marry them and took flight from Egypt. In Supplices, though, the possible validity of such legal claims cannot begin to compare with the emphasis on the narrative of Io’s story, which defines both the chorus’ self-perception and the play’s focalization. Io is represented as a victim of unjust persecution and recipient of the favor of Zeus, the benevolent protector and deliverer of the suffering, at the expense of her associations with sexuality and childbirth. In this vein, the Danaids’ self-perception entails their uncompromising rejection of marriage to the Aegyptiads. Eventually, the Danaids will not avoid the hateful

42 See Föllinger (2003) 203. 43 Contrast Iolaus’ rejection of the Argive herald’s claim (Eur. Hcld. 184–98). Orestes’ defiant assertion that he is taking home the lost sister he has now recovered (Eur. IT 1361–63) is also reminiscent of the Egyptian herald’s attitude. Like Pelasgus, the Taurians do not dispute Orestes’ jurisdiction but reject his claim on other reasons (1364).

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marriage, and thus the error in their view of the past perhaps becomes more conspicuous than the reservations of the secondary chorus at the end of Supplices allow. But the Aegyptiads will also die, and their death will likely be Zeus’ punishment for their hubris toward his female descendants and suppliants. If the trilogy ended with the killers’ purification and a second marriage, Zeus would eventually become their deliverer, although they would have to pay their dues to Aphrodite. Zeus’ mind, which the Danaids at the end of Supplices claim to fail to understand, would prove inscrutable, but his plans would include their deliverance, as they had included Io’s: like Io, her female descendants would be saved after much suffering and in an unfathomable, virtually miraculous fashion. Alternatively, Zeus, the ἐφάπτωρ of Io (535), may have proven all-remembering and not forgotten that Io had been very different from her female descendants.44

44 For the end of the trilogy see Appendix A II.

IV. Agamemnon 1. Myth and past Perhaps more than in other Aeschylean plays, including Choephori and Eumenides, the presentation of the past in Agamemnon, the first play of the only surviving tragic trilogy, is intimately related to the playwright’s shaping of the myth, especially his treatment of Iphigeneia’s sacrifice and Agamemnon’s guilt. The transgressions committed by the victorious army during the sack of Troy seem to form another current of guilt,1 which runs independently toward punishment, until it unites with the blood shed at Aulis and much earlier, to prepare Thyestes’ banquet. The showering drops of Agamemnon’s own blood, described with erotic exultation by his killer wife (1389–92), will in time precipitate other crimes in the troubled family. The ensuing discussion of Agamemnon (and Oresteia) will focus mainly on the process of attempted rationalization and justification of the internecine murders, primarily through the agents’ invocation of their personal grievances. Although these operate mainly in the framework of talio, and the chorus of Agamemnon (and the other plays) repeatedly connect past, present and future on the basis of ineluctable divine laws, no clear, comprehensive picture of causality emerges at the end of the play(s) and, to an extent, the trilogy. This is all the more remarkable since no character lacks crucial information, and various characters engage in a search for clues to present and future contingencies, especially in the first two plays of the trilogy. Yet the tantalizing questions regarding the motivation of various agents and the interlocking of human and divine will remain unanswered to the end. Of the earlier surviving Aeschylean works, Persae features silences, discrepancies and idiosyncratic views of the past that allow a degree of ambiguity in connection with it to persist, but Xerxes’ failings, which caused grave misfortunes to his people, are never in doubt and are not intimately associated with past outrages. Supplices deals with the past selectively, and Septem offers a fairly clear view of its relatively limited role in the events

1

For these outrages see the discussion in 5 below.

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dramatized, especially Eteocles’ decision to confront his brother at the seventh gate of Thebes. By contrast, Agamemnon both focuses on the past, indeed on several moments of the Argive ruling family’s internecine history, and fails to offer a clear view of the background of the latest crimes. Unsurprisingly, as already suggested, the past is brought to bear on the crimes and the perpetrators’ (share of ) responsibility for them. The characters’ probing of the past foregrounds the limitations of their view of it and highlights the mixed results of the perpetrators’ attempted rationalization of their crimes. The companion plays of Agamemnon, in which the import of the past gradually diminishes anyway, will not modify this picture, as will be argued in V below. What makes Agamemnon particularly extraordinary in its treatment of the past is that, apart from the perpetrators of family crimes and the chorus, no fewer than two seers are involved in the assessment of murders past and future. Yet their pronouncements are not easy to reconcile and thus ultimately not much more illuminating than those of the other characters. Calchas does not appear onstage, but his pronouncements at Aulis are quoted verbatim by the chorus (126–55). Although he did not seem to address the past,2 his pronouncements, reported many years after they were made, not only belong to the past of the play’s characters but are also (viewed by the chorus as) very likely to provide clues to the crucial event of Iphigeneia’s sacrifice and its potentially sinister consequences. Cassandra appears onstage for a considerable while and speaks extensively about present, past and future, both near and remote (1090ff.). She deals extensively with Clytaemestra’s crime but does not so much as mention Iphigeneia’s sacrifice as her (alleged) motive. In Cassandra’s visions and speeches, Thyestes’ banquet appears as the only family crime for which Agamemnon pays with his life, just as it does in Aegisthus’ claims (1577–1611). I will first turn to Clytaemestra’s view of her crime.

2. Awesome Clytaemestra: murderer, mother, and daemon Agamemnon is famously dominated by the towering figure of the queen, even, and perhaps primarily, during the relatively brief appearance onstage

2

For the possibility that he refers to Thyestes’ banquet at 154–55 see the discussion in 4 below.

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of the title character, her royal husband and imminent victim (810–957). Clytaemestra’s skill in the use of language and rhetoric is nothing less than formidable.3 Before Agamemnon’s return, Clytaemestra delivers extensive speeches, in which she describes at length the arrival of the beacon signal from Troy (281–316) and speculates about the possibility that the sacking army may commit outrages in the captured city (320–50). She also deals with the past, mainly her behavior during her husband’s long absence (606–14, 858–905), but with a view to outwitting her enemy, as she herself openly and defiantly admits later (1372–76).4 It is after the murders of Agamemnon and Cassandra that her examination of the past becomes much more straightforward and crucial to the articulation of the play’s (and the trilogy’s) themes. Clytaemestra unabashedly boasts of her deed (1394) and presents herself as the just punisher of the monstrous aggressor, the callous sacrificer of her beloved daughter Iphigeneia, his own very child (1525–29; cf. 1415–18). Her boasting is indicative of her self-perception as an avenger and even a warrior who punishes the enemy for a past slight, the killing of a kinsman. Most characteristically, her last claim about the justice of her revenge (1525–29) includes the assertion that she has deprived her foe of the opportunity to boast in Hades, presumably over the shade of his unavenged daughter and for having escaped talio. This is a poignant reworking of a common Iliadic boasting motif in the framework of an internecine family: warriors boasting over the bodies of slain or dying adversaries often claim that the latest kill avenges a previous loss of a kinsman or comrade and deprives the opposite party of the satisfaction that the dead man’s relatives and comrades failed to take revenge for his death.5

Clytaemestra repeatedly confirms her agency in, and full responsibility for, Agamemnon’s murder (1379–80, 1404–6, 1431–33). She proclaims herself ready to accept the verdict of the chorus (1402–3), although she stresses that they judge her too harshly, accusing them of double standards: they

3

4 5

Goldhill’s study (1984) deals extensively with it. See also e.g. Sevieri (1991), Hester (1995) 31–36, McClure (1999) 71–80, and Foley (2001) 207–11, with further bibliography. For Clytaemestra’s manipulation of Agamemnon in the so-called carpet scene (905–57) cf. n. 82 below. Cf. also Appendix A III.6. See Kyriakou (2001) 260–62, 274–77. For Clytaemestra’s use of military language cf. McClure (1997) 121, and for her boasting see also the discussion below.

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had never considered Agamemnon guilty of filicide but they are ready to condemn her to exile and the hatred and curses of the people (1412–21). Foley points out that death rather than banishment was the normal Athenian punishment for premeditated murder, as appears in the chorus’ threat to Aegisthus (1615–16). The milder sentence envisaged for the female perpetrator suggests that the chorus reject her claim that she acted voluntarily and with premeditation and her attempt at representing herself in male/heroic terms.6 But the chorus do not threaten or foresee only exile, and it is more plausible that they shift from heroic to later modes of punishment. First, responding to Clytaemestra’s claims that she acted as a just, heroic avenger of her slain daughter, they propose the punishment epic murderers usually have to suffer. Clytaemestra also suggests that they should have banished Agamemnon for his crime (1419–20), apparently as a perfectly acceptable punishment for a male murderer. After she has invoked Iphigeneia’s sacrifice (1412–21) and threatened the elders that they will face a prepared foe and may come to rue the day (1421–25), they switch to the heavier, and consonant with post-epic norms, punishment of death, although in the form of tragic talio rather than a popular court sentence (1429–30), as in the case of Aegisthus.

The second threat of the chorus leads to the first mention of Aegisthus in the exchange: he is there for her (1434–37), and Agamemnon has had his just deserts (1395–96, 1405–6, 1529). He was the seducer of Trojan Chryseises and he deserved to die together with his latest paramour, the prophetess Cassandra, the singer of her own doom (1438–47).7 There is no mistaking the resentment against Agamemnon’s bringing Cassandra home with him: the piling of characterizations (1440–43) perhaps echoes sarcastically Agamemnon’s reference to Cassandra before he entered the house (954–55). Contemptuously and perhaps angrily,

6 7

Foley (2001) 212–13. This lament may be either the one Cassandra intoned before she entered the house or one uttered offstage and out of hearing of the chorus and audience, before she died in the house. At 1313–14 Cassandra says that she goes into the house to lament there too her and Agamemnon’s fate, but she then suggests that she wishes to make one last pronouncement or utter a last lament before she enters the house (1322–30; cf. 1136–39, 1146–49, 1156–61, 1167–72). It is not implausible to assume that Clytaemestra refers to Cassandra’s lament or cries before her murder (cf. Fraenkel [1950] 685), but the audience would certainly think of Cassandra’s onstage presence, and (probably imagine that) her offstage lament, if sung at all, must for all intents and purposes have been very similar to its onstage counterpart.

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Clytaemestra presents Cassandra as a woman in love, or in lust, with Agamemnon and refers to Cassandra’s lament as an enamored woman’s dirge for herself and her lover. Nevertheless, Agamemnon’s adultery with Cassandra, if adultery is the right term, does not motivate his murder. Clytaemestra’s statements about Cassandra, especially the claim that Cassandra’s death was an added relish to her pleasure (1446–47),8 explain why she killed Cassandra but not Agamemnon. His relationship with Cassandra, or his other concubines, has no place in the tortuous workings of fate and talio. Agamemnon’s murder had been planned before his return (1377–78), and Cassandra’s presence did not contribute to it, although the presence of the concubine can only have boosted Clytaemestra’s hatred of her husband. Cardinal and controversial issues likely to affect one’s view of Agamemnon’s murder are the personal guilt of the victim, the basis of Clytaemestra’s claims to be the agent of revenge for Iphigeneia’s sacrifice, and the role of the Pleisthenid daemon in using Clytaemestra as an instrument in order to destroy the son of Atreus in retaliation for the slaughter of Thyestes’ children (1497–1504). Irrespective of one’s position on them, there is no reason to imagine that Clytaemestra would attempt to justify her deed by also claiming that she killed Agamemnon because he brought Cassandra home with him.9 It is true that Clytaemestra only mentions Cassandra (1440–47) immediately after she has admitted to her relationship with Aegisthus (1434–37). Although the association between the marital infidelities of the two spouses may be present, Agamemnon’s relationship with Cassandra cannot be used as adequate justification for his murder by his wife, and there is no sign that Clytaemestra is unaware of that. The chorus certainly do not mention or allude to the adultery, neither Agamemnon’s nor, openly at least, Clytaemestra’s.10 Her contemptuous references to Agamemnon’s

8 For Cassandra’s reference to Clytaemestra’s view of her murder see the discussion in 5 below. 9 Only in Euripides’ Electra (1030–40) does Clytaemestra claim that Cassandra’s presence made her finally decide on killing her husband. She also attempts to justify her adultery with Aegisthus through an appeal to women’s tendency to imitate their adulterous husbands and her need for a collaborator in the murder (1046–48). For the ambiguities and weaknesses in her claims see Kyriakou (2008) 263–64. 10 Their association of Clytaemestra with her sister Helen (1453–54, 1468–71) may imply a common adulterous proclivity, but they openly bring up the adultery only in one of the taunts they hurl at the despicable Aegisthus (1625–27).

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affairs with Trojan women and especially Cassandra contribute to the image of his worthlessness that she sketches. In particular, they (may be meant to) challenge the chorus’ view of him as an august ruler murdered ignominiously. On the other hand, the justification of her deed, or the exposition of her point of view, does not include Agamemnon’s extra-marital affairs. As already suggested, Clytaemestra, who exults repeatedly and provocatively in her deed, insists virtually from beginning to end that she killed Agamemnon in order to take revenge for his sacrifice of their daughter Iphigeneia. In most of her addresses to the chorus she mentions Iphigeneia. The exceptions are: a) her first speech (1372–98) and her first response to the chorus (1401–6), the most exultant references to her crime before the epirrhematic section, which stress the justice of her revenge – by contrast, when the chorus fail to address her claims and add the threat of punishment (1409–11) to their suggestions that she is immoral and insane (1399–1400, 1407–9), she brings up Iphigeneia’s death explicitly and counterattacks with the accusation of double standards (1412–21); b) her admonition to the chorus not to wish for death and not to blame Helen for the many Greek deaths at Troy (1462–67),11 which culminated with Agamemnon’s murder (1455–61); c) her praise (1475–80) of the chorus’ first reference to the daemon of the family (1468–74) and her invocation of Atreus’ alastôr (1497–1504), the only significant exceptions, to which I will return in a moment. Her praise (1567) of the chorus’ last summing up of the house’s abiding ruin (1560–66) also does not include an explicit reference to Iphigeneia, but the chorus had indicated their inability to judge the competing claims to internecine justice (1560–62) in response to her last reference to her daughter (1555–59).

It is actually this last reference, with one of the play’s most vivid and arresting images,12 that virtually silences the chorus’ accusations against her: it

11 For this admonition see n. 19 below. 12 This last image and mention of Iphigeneia in the play harks back to, and reverses, the evocation of her participation in her father’s banquets: in the parodos the chorus recalled how she had honored lovingly her beloved father’s third libation with a song (243–47). In connection with another ritual context, her father’s funeral, which will follow her mother’s third libation to Zeus of the underworld (cf. 1386–87), Clytaemestra says that his daughter Iphigeneia will lovingly welcome

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befuddles the elders to the point of admitting that talio is at work and the family has been glued to retributive destruction (1560–66). The only shift in Clytaemestra’s position is marked by her invocation of the alastôr of Atreus. This is the fierce spirit responsible for punishing the cruel feast offered by Agamemnon’s father, the butcher of his brother’s children, through the murder ( lit. the sacrifice) of his grown son by the hand of the latter’s wife (1497–1504; cf. 1475–80). The double-pronged question, why, and why at this particular point, Clytaemestra attributes responsibility for her crime to this daemon, is crucial and may not be overlooked in any assessment of her (view of her) responsibility and its connection with the criminal past of the Atreid house. Two answers may be deemed plausible. First, as the excitement of the murder and Clytaemestra’s defiance subside in tandem, the killer wishes to shift responsibility for her crime to a supernatural force, turning to one intimately connected with the beginning of the house’s internecine troubles.13 Second, she emphasizes the workings of Atreus’ alastôr because the chorus’ previous references to the daemon (1468–74, 1481–84) seem to open up a conduit for the establishment of some common ground between the regicide and the community. In either, and actually any, case, the choice to stress Atreus’ crime in connection with Agamemnon’s murder is made at a rhetorically difficult moment. Her principal argument that Agamemnon paid with his life for the sacrifice of Iphigeneia and the chorus’ references to the daemon of the house do not seem to have limited the elders’ sympathy for the lost king and their hostility toward his murderer (cf. 1489–96). Although the elders have admitted that the will of Zeus governs everything and all these woes have been god-ordained (1485–88), they may hardly be thought to tread common ground with Clytaemestra. I will return to the chorus’ gradual gaining of perspective. The first answer is difficult to accept, especially as formulated above. It is unlikely that Clytaemestra seeks to shift responsibility for, and evade the consequences of, her crime. Apart from the common Greek belief, which is nowhere challenged in the play, that mortals bear responsibility for their crimes even when a supernatural agent instigated them, Clytaemestra nowhere seeks to abdicate responsibility, nor does she seem to

her father in Hades with an embrace (1555–59). On both occasions, the chorus express pessimism and certainty that retribution will come (248–54, 1560–66). 13 See e.g. Daube (1939) 186 and 190, Rosenmeyer (1982) 240, Winnington-Ingram (1983) 112, O’Daly (1985), Conacher (1987) 52, and Thiel (1993) 394–95.

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believe that it is possible for her to be completely exonerated.14 Although the chorus do not repeat their threat of exile, and she hopes to avoid death as punishment for her crime, at the end of her exchange with the chorus (1567–76) and at the end of the play (1654–61), she is fully conscious of the gravity of her deed and the daemon’s baleful impact. She declares herself willing to pay at least a material price in exchange for the pact she wishes to strike with the family’s daemon (1574–76), perhaps with a view to also facilitating the truce she wishes to establish with the community. Some version of the second answer, then, would seem to be more promising. Foley suggests that Clytaemestra wishes to present her crime in terms that the chorus may find more acceptable than the appeal to Iphigeneia’s sacrifice. The elders have voiced their deep concern over the humiliating manner of Agamemnon’s death by the hand of a treacherous woman, which was unworthy of a king and even a free man (1489–96; cf. 1454–61, 1468–74). Clytaemestra seeks to answer these claims by arguing that Agamemnon died as he deserved, as a victim of a male daemon who works in the paternal line and avenged Thyestes’ children (1497–1504).15 But Clytaemestra effectively answers the chorus’ claims about Agamemnon’s ignoble death in her next and last, unfortunately corrupt, reference to Iphigeneia’s sacrifice. She suggests that Agamemnon’s death was not ignoble because he killed Iphigeneia (treacherously?) and that he has now merely acquired his just deserts: dying by the sword as he killed, he has been rendered unable to boast in Hades for his “achievement” (1521–29). The murder was just, not despite its being perpetrated by a woman but because it was perpetrated by a just avenger, the closest grieving relative of the innocent victim. Foley claims that the chorus do not see Aegisthus’ connection with the daemon.16 This is most unlikely in the wake of Cassandra’s scene (1217–25; cf. 1095–97, 1106, 1242–44) and the anapaests preceding Clytaemestra’s appearance (1338–42). The elders do not fail to understand that the murder was, in part at least, a punishment for Atreus’ crime, in which Aegisthus had obviously a high stake. Moreover, the disquieting shadow of evil dealings in the house and the city, namely the adultery and imminent establishment of tyranny, has been hanging over the play since the prologue (18–19, 546–50, 807–9, 1354–65). There is little doubt that

14 Cf. Neuberg (1991), Käppel (1998) 174, and Foley (2001) 218. 15 Foley (2001) 217–24. 16 Foley (2001) 222.

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the chorus are aware of Aegisthus’ involvement in Agamemnon’s murder, at least as an instigator and dishonorable accomplice, especially following Clytaemestra’s defiant reference to him as her lover and protector (1434–37). Whether the murders were in the male or the female line makes little difference to the elders and, most important of all, there is no reason to imagine that Clytaemestra thought that it would. Clytaemestra stresses the daemon’s agency because this is the only entity that seems likely to generate some common ground between her and the chorus, but not along the lines of the opposition of male and female. It is significant that, in the entire exchange, agreement and indeed praise is voiced only by Clytaemestra and in connection with the daemon (1475–77, 1567), after the chorus’ first reference to him (1468–74) and after their last and crowning reference to the law of retaliation, which of course involves the daemon of the house (1560–66).17 For the rest, Clytaemestra disagrees openly with the chorus, upbraiding and correcting them. The elders nowhere praise her, but some of their comments indicate (partial) agreement with her claims (1481–88, 1508–12, 1560–61). These comments are also always made in connection with the daemon and the hereditary guilt of the house. Following the first part of the exchange, which is informed by wrath and hostility, the chorus’ mood shifts to dejection and despair at the loss of Agamemnon (1448–61). This shift is probably not unrelated to Clytaemestra’s powerful claim to have avenged her daughter (1417–18, 1431–33), but as already suggested above, only at the end will the chorus admit that passing judgment exceeds their power (1560–61) and that Zeus’ law of retaliation reigns supreme (1562–66). For the time being, they lament what to them is a highly unsettling aspect of Agamemnon’s fate, the fact that he suffered much because of a woman and lost his life by a woman’s hand (1453–54). After they have wished for death (1448–52), their first attempt to make sense of the murder through an examination of past guilt involves Helen, the perennial scapegoat. Her agency has already been repeatedly lamented in the play, not least because it caused the loss of many lives (60–67, 404–8, 447–48, 681–99). Here too the elders attribute responsibility for the war’s casualties

17 Another important indication that both parties agree on the influence of the daemon is Clytaemestra’s reference to him in her attempt to diffuse the latest crisis between Aegisthus and the chorus (1659–60). For the chorus’ reference to the daemon at 1667 see the discussion in 3 below.

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but also for Agamemnon’s loss, the crowning casualty, to deranged Helen (1455–61).18 The death wish and the accusations against Helen soften a little Clytaemestra’s asperity toward the elders for the first time: she offers that there is no reason to wish for death and that Helen is not to be held responsible for the casualties of the war (1462–67). The implication is that others bear a much greater burden of guilt: Agamemnon was responsible for his daughter’s sacrifice (and perhaps, partly at least, for the loss of life at Troy),19 and Clytaemestra is responsible for his murder, her revenge for the sacrifice. In keeping with the milder tone of her response, the attribution of responsibility to the real culprits is left implicit, and the chorus do not pick up the issue. Instead, they continue lamenting the baleful influence of women on the house of the two Tantalid brothers but they now associate it with the daemon who works, to the chorus’ great dismay, through women: like a hateful raven, he has now settled and sings tunelessly a hymn as a vaunt over Agamemnon’s body (1468–74).20

18 For the text and meaning of 1458–61 see Appendix A III.1. 19 Clytaemestra’s reference to “Danaan” losses (1466) may be an implicit correction of the elders’ lament over the many lives lost by Helen’s agency (1455–57): Helen should not be blamed for the woes of the war, and she may be connected only with the Danaan losses anyway, although in Clytaemestra’s view that too is a mistaken association. The Trojan losses are presumably to be attributed to others, probably Paris and the Trojan themselves but also perhaps to the (impious) conquerors of Troy, above all Agamemnon. 20 It is not clear whether the daemon or Clytaemestra is said to be standing over the body, but the meaning is not affected either way. The qualification ἰσόψυχον (1470), attributed to the power (κράτος) of the daemon wielded through Helen and Clytaemestra, presents a more difficult problem. As Fraenkel (1950) ad loc. argues, there is no plausible indication of corruption, and the second element cannot easily be considered pleonastic. He suggests that the power might be equal to the soul(s), in the sense of coming from the soul(s), possibly of the sisters. It is perhaps more likely that, in the context, and following the lament over the war casualties and the death of Agamemnon, the compound indicates that the daemon wields power equal to the soul(s), in the sense ‘life,’ of the two Tantalids, i.e. that the daemon wields life or death power over them. Only Agamemnon’s death comes into question here but apart from the fact that Helen’s power over Menelaus (and all men) is a traditional motif, it should not perhaps be forgotten that Menelaus’ fate is still unclear: even if he returns home, the daemon might kill him just as he killed his brother. This is a very tentative suggestion, given the bold obscurity of expression it postulates and the lack of parallels. Its only arguable advantage is that it is in accordance with the common formation and meaning of ἰσο- compounds in classical Greek.

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Clytaemestra seizes on the reference to the daemon. As already suggested, she seems to reckon that it provides her with her only chance of reaching some understanding with the chorus and the community, despite the persistence of the elders’ hostility toward her (and Helen). After their accusations and threats, their appeal to the daemon may be thought to represent some shift of direction, a new and somewhat broader perspective, which might eventually lead to a less harsh assessment of her crime. She praises their insight and emphasizes the power of the internecine daemon, ever eager for new blood (1475–80). It is noteworthy that, although the elders mentioned only the daemon afflicting the two brothers, Clytaemestra directs their attention to the daemon of the entire family, perhaps aided by their designation of the brothers as Tantalids (1469). Since it is only an association with the daemon of the family that may help her case, she claims that the elders have invoked this daemon, and approves of their insight. It is probably also significant that she does not mention Thyestes’ banquet yet: she apparently attributes to the influence of the daemon all killings in the family, primarily of course Iphigeneia’s and Agamemnon’s. She is only concerned with those murders and attributes them to the daemon because the chorus’ lament has offered her the opportunity to do so. The elders acknowledge the power of the daemon (1481–84) but switch their focus to Zeus (1485–88), the all-powerful moderator, whose might they have been reflecting upon since the prologue (60–62, 160–83, 355–69, 469–70, 748, 1022–24). This shift does not really suit Clytaemestra’s purposes: the chorus’ concentration on the indisputable fact that everything happens through the will of Zeus has the potential to obstruct the path to understanding that seemed to open with the reference to the daemon. The chorus also take up their lament for Agamemnon (1489–96), expanding on their previous expression of distress at his fate. Clytaemestra makes her last and most forceful attempt to lead them back to the path she considered promising: she claims specifically that she was the instrument of the alastôr who killed Agamemnon in requital for the murder of the children of Thyestes by Atreus (1497–1504). As already argued, this claim is not to be attributed to her desire to exonerate herself, although the chorus interpret it as such (1505–6), or to be viewed as an attempt to present the murder as retribution in the male rather than the female line. Since her appeal to the sacrifice of Iphigeneia (1432–33; cf. 1412–21) failed to mollify the chorus, and the elders invoked the daemon, she tries to make them view her crime in terms of intergenerational guilt and talio.

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She now suppresses Iphigeneia’s sacrifice as cause for Agamemnon’s murder, not because its mention would suggest that the murder was committed in the female line, which the chorus find less dignified, but because the elders have not been convinced by her previous invocation of the sacrifice. Her appeal to the daemon and Thyestes’ banquet meets with some success: although the chorus misinterpret the import of her association with the daemon (1505–6), they acknowledge his terrible role in the internecine crimes (1507–12). This seems to be a significant step in a direction which Clytaemestra finds more advantageous than their acknowledgment of the daemon’s influence on the house (1481–84). Nevertheless, the elders go back to lamenting the ignoble death of their king (1513–20), and Clytaemestra returns to her appeal to Iphigeneia’s sacrifice (1521–29). As already pointed out, the chorus admit their inability to pass final judgment (1560–61) after the last mention of Iphigeneia in the play (1555–59). They had admitted earlier that the house was being destroyed (1530–36). The focus then shifted to the future with the inquiry about Agamemnon’s burial (1541–50), answered most effectively by Clytaemestra (1551–59). Finally, the elders point out that talio is a fixed law guaranteed by Zeus and that the destructive seed of curse in the house cannot be expelled (1562–66; cf. 1533–36). Clytaemestra makes her only concession in the entire play: she expresses her hope to strike a deal with the destructive daemon of the house and put an end to the internecine killings (1567–76). The chorus do not respond to her statement, but it is obvious that some understanding, at least concerning the chain of crime and punishment, has been reached. Clytaemestra seems to realize that Agamemnon’s death was a punishment for all previous deaths in the family, although this realization does not affect her conviction, and indeed the fact, that her own motive for the murder was her wish to take revenge for Iphigeneia’s sacrifice. A possibility that a ruse is at work at this point cannot be ruled out: Clytaemestra may pretend that she agrees with the chorus and adopt a humbler stance in order to ensure the community’s tolerance. But the chorus have already indicated that they are no longer ready to condemn her outright (1561). Besides, an assumption to the effect that Clytaemestra gains no insight whatsoever at the end of her long and wrenching confrontation with the elders would be very bold and unnecessarily narrow. As repeatedly pointed out above, the community’s attitude toward her is certainly an important issue. The killer’s declaration of willingness to pay a heavy material price in exchange for immunity (1574–76) may be made partly with a view to ensuring some tolerance on the part of the

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community, in contrast to Aegisthus’ complete disregard of this crucial matter and provocative declaration of his material concerns (1638–39). On the other hand, the import of Clytaemestra’s last reference to the frenzy of internecine killings may just not be quite the same as her first reference to the daemon of the family (1475–80; cf. 1500–4), which was meant, primarily at least, to deflect the chorus’ criticisms by means of an argument they could not refute. The last reference has a very personal focus, and it is not undermined or belied by anything that follows. More important perhaps, Clytaemestra now contemplates the workings of the daemon no longer as the agent of the latest retaliatory murder but as the potential victim of the next one.

3. Avenger and tyrant: the ineptitude of Aegisthus The fragile balance just established is confounded by the appearance of Aegisthus (1577ff.), the brother of the children butchered by Atreus for Thyestes’ banquet. The vengeance for this crime became a major theme in the play since Cassandra’s scene. Aegisthus not only fails to win any sympathy or tolerance from the chorus but also engages in an exchange of threats and insults that would have come to physical violence (1649–53) if not for Clytaemestra’s intervention (1654–61). The elders’ hatred and unrelenting condemnation of Aegisthus is understandable: he was an adulterous, scheming stay-at-home, who plotted against the general of the victorious army (1625–27) and did not even have the courage to kill his victim himself (1634–35, 1643–46). Equally significant, his professed ambition to use the victim’s wealth and become a tyrant, lording over the citizens (1617–24, 1628, 1632, 1638–42), certainly alienates the representatives of a city that has just received back the long-suffering, victorious army. On the other hand, the chorus’ failure to openly acknowledge that Aegisthus, for all his shortcomings, was an agent of just(ified), or at the very least expected, revenge is quite remarkable: his claims to be a just avenger of his siblings and father (1577–1611) are as plausible as Clytaemestra’s invocation of Iphigeneia’s sacrifice. His arguments are not substantially different from hers, and are not refuted by the chorus. Moreover, his case is supported by Cassandra’s prophecies, although these involved primarily Clytaemestra’s motivation and act. I will return to Cassandra’s (and Calchas’) prophecies in a moment. For now, it is obvious that Aegisthus’ failure to convince or at least to sway the chorus enough to make them concede the legitimacy of his

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revenge is to be attributed primarily to his rhetorical ineptitude, which contrasts sharply with Clytaemestra’s powerful brilliance. Aegisthus does not exhibit any awareness of talio and the perpetuation of the cycle of blood in the family, let alone of the role that Iphigeneia’s sacrifice played in the murder of Agamemnon. More tellingly, after his first speech, in which he expounds his case and, less plausibly, suggests that he was the sole planner of the murder (1604, 1609), Aegisthus never returns to these fundamental issues.21 Instead, he repeatedly insults the chorus as lowly servants with a big mouth and threatens to punish them severely for their impertinence (1617–24, 1628–32, 1649, 1662–64, 1666, 1670; cf. 1639–42). The inadequacy of his responses to the chorus is exemplified from the very first instance. The elders respond to his speech (1612–16) in a manner reminiscent of their reaction to Clytaemestra’s first speeches (1399–1400, 1407–11, 1426–30), but Aegisthus’ reaction is markedly different from hers (1617–24).22 Still, despite the inadequacy of his rhetoric, his bombast and threats, the chorus nowhere dispute that Aegisthus had the right to avenge his siblings but only castigate his manner of executing the murderous plot and the advantages he wishes to reap from his shameful act. Aegisthus’ underhand role in Agamemnon’s murder and disgraceful abusing of the chorus lead the latter to suppress an open acknowledgment of the legitimacy of his revenge. They also mention twice Orestes’ name, expressing the hope that he will return to kill the guilty pair and liberate the citizens (1646–48, 1667). The second instance (1667) includes a reference to daemon, the last in the play. This is not necessarily the spirit of vengeance that will continue plaguing the house: in the previous mention of Orestes, his return from exile received the qualification “with favorable fortune” (πρευμενεῖ τύχηι, 1647), and daemon is usually and plausibly rendered “destiny” or “fortune” at 1667. It seems probable, though, that, following Clytaemestra’s

21 He only deigns to answer the chorus’ contemptuous accusation of cowardice (1634–35) by offering that plotting, apparently the treacherous manner of killing Agamemnon, naturally belonged to Clytaemestra (1636–37). This of course does not adequately explain why he did not strike the fatal blow himself, and the chorus next ask him so directly (1643–46), apparently without seriously expecting an answer, which indeed never comes. 22 Even when she answers the chorus’ threat of punishment (1410–11) with a counterthreat (1421–25), Clytaemestra never suggests that she is superior to them. For the pettiness of Aegisthus and his inability to exercise control over language see Goldhill (1984) 96–98. Cf. Foley (2001) 206–7.

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last and significant reference to the grievous blows she and Aegisthus received from the daemon’s hoof (1660), the chorus’ choice of word indicates that vengeance will come through the agency of this particular force, whose workings have already been examined and acknowledged. It is also probably not accidental that the elders had not mentioned Orestes in the epirrhema: although Clytaemestra’s punishment was virtually bound to come from her son, her powerful argumentation, and perhaps the horror of matricide, may be viewed as plausible explanations why the elders refrained from threatening Clytaemestra openly with Orestes’ return.

Unsurprisingly for a Greek play, and ironically for one featuring learning through suffering as a major theme, the end of Agamemnon includes no major shift in the outlook of the characters, at least in comparison with the end of the epirrhema. Aegisthus, who is less complex a character than Clytaemestra and the chorus, is arrogantly confident, pleased with himself, and ready to reap the fruits of the advantage his new situation offers him, with no thought for the return of Orestes or the hostility of the citizens. The chorus are outspoken but unable to do anything against the usurpers, placing their hopes in Orestes’ return and the inexorability of talio.23 As indicated above, the diffusion of the last crisis is the work of Clytaemestra. She had already shown some interest in reaching an understanding with the community before Aegisthus’ appearance. She now rejects further bloodshed and reiterates her hope of drawing a line under the family’s misfortunes (1654–56), acknowledging again the baleful influence of the daemon (1659–60). The men continue sparring for a moment (1662–71), although they have obviously rejected the use of violence, and Clytaemestra takes no part in this exchange. She is, though, the one who finally cuts the brawl short and sends everybody home (1672–73) by diplomatically addressing Aegisthus and echoing one of his less stinging insults to the chorus, the first and last time she refers dismissively to them in the play: Aegisthus is admonished not to

23 The possibility that Orestes will also have to suffer the consequences of his crime is never broached. It would probably be excessive to expect such a concern at this point of the play and from a group of elders who have just lost their legitimate king and face the unenviable prospect of living, perhaps of ending their lives, under the tyranny of the adulterous usurper and his formidable consort. Nevertheless, their last statement in the epirrhema (1565–66) without doubt encompasses not only Orestes but also all future generations of the accursed house.

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heed “these empty barkings” (ματαίων τῶνδ’ ὑλαγμάτων, 1672; cf. 1631). If Clytaemestra changes, as is commonly suggested, her change does not involve a shift from a rebellious, masculinized aspiration to male heroism to a submissive, feminized, wifely stance. Clytaemestra never loses or renounces her ability to think and lead. Her mastery of language and rhetoric remains unaffected to the end of Agamemnon.24 Clytaemestra’s change involves her view of the crimes in the house rather than her view of herself as a perpetrator of the latest crime or as Aegisthus’ consort. It appears, then, that Agamemnon is no different from several other plays in featuring characters who, to varying degrees, perceive and present a partial, and potentially biased, picture of the past. Clytaemestra insists on Iphigeneia’s sacrifice, and Aegisthus on Thyestes’ banquet, as the crime that primarily or exclusively motivated Agamemnon’s murder. Each conspirator also claims to be the one chiefly responsible for planning the fully justified murder. Despite their horror at Agamemnon’s death by the hand of a scheming woman and their disgust at Aegisthus’ adultery and his failure to execute his victim himself, the elders of the chorus do not really dispute the killers’ claims to be the just avengers of slain family members. This is not surprising, since their belief in the inexorability of talio is expressed, more or less explicitly, throughout the play. Should one, then, reach the conclusion that Agamemnon died because he sacrificed his daughter and his father had slaughtered Thyestes’ children?25 Put in slightly different terms, did Aeschylus wish for the audience to think that the gods punished Agamemnon for all the blood he and Atreus had shed?26 An affirmative answer would have been easy but for one astonishing complication: as suggested at the beginning, those most likely and indeed qualified to provide an authoritative answer to this most crucial issue, the role of past events in determining present and future developments, make quite puzzling pronouncements. They are the seers Calchas and Cassandra, who have privileged access to past, present and future, and communicate their insights in riddling and plain language. These inspired prophets do not seem to agree with each other on the causal association of Agamemnon’s murder with the earlier crimes in the family.

24 For her appearance and performance in Choephori see V 1–3 below. 25 For the army’s impious behavior at Troy and its burden on Agamemnon see the discussion in 5 below. 26 On Agamemnon’s freedom of choice at Aulis see Appendix A III.2.

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4. The prophecy of Calchas: the devouring of the young At first sight, the pronouncements of Calchas may be considered relatively easier to deal with. The famous omen of the two eagles which devour a pregnant hare and its unborn young at Aulis (115–20) precedes the problem with the adverse winds and Artemis’ demand for Iphigeneia’s sacrifice (184–204). The omen does not concern exclusively Agamemnon, and Calchas does not openly predict the commander’s death. However, the interpretation of the omen (126–55) includes an undeniable allusion to future trouble for Agamemnon in its last part:

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ἰήιον δὴ καλέω Παιῶνα, μή τινας ἀντιπνόους Δαναοῖς χρονίας ἐχενῆιδας ἀπλοίας τεύξηι, σπευδομένα θυσίαν ἑτέραν, ἄνομόν τιν’, ἄδαιτον, νεικέων τέκτονα σύμφυτον, οὐ δεισήνορα. μίμνει γὰρ φοβερὰ παλίνορτος οἰκονόμος δολία, μνάμων Mῆνις τεκνόποινος.

Calchas calls upon Apollo the Healer lest Artemis send adverse winds to the Greeks and demand a terrible sacrifice that will cause quarrels, without fear of the husband, because of the permanence of the ever-arising wrath, the treacherous housekeeper, which remembers and avenges children. Since it will become clear later on in the play, through no less an authority than Cassandra, that Agamemnon will pay with his life for Thyestes’ banquet, it is remarkable that Calchas does not appear to associate the future trouble he predicts with the terrible old crime. This dissonance led some scholars to think that Calchas does indeed allude to the slaughter of Thyestes’ children at 154–55 and that the hostility of Artemis toward Agamemnon may be explained through her old grudge over the sacrifice of those children: as a goddess kind to the young of all creatures (140–43), she wishes to punish Agamemnon for his father’s crime by demanding the sacrifice of his daughter.27 The reading hangs on the quite weak thread of associating οὐ δεισήνορα (153) with θυσίαν (150) rather than with νεικέων τέκτονα σύμφυτον

27 See Lebeck (1971) 33–35, Furley (1986), Käppel (1998) 86–93, and Föllinger (2003) 68–71. Cf. Seidensticker (2009) 243.

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(152), and interpreting it as “unafraid of men,” in the sense “not respecting human beings.” This probably stretches the meaning of the compound, especially of its first component, too far: fear is simply not identical or interchangeable with respect, either emotionally or linguistically. There is also no reason why the second component would point to men, let alone human beings, in general rather than one particular man: the context clearly has, and will continue having, to do with the action of one man and its consequences on his house. Even if the compound qualifies the sacrifice, it does come after the reference to quarrels, and is at least colored by it. Since the quarrels can only point to Clytaemestra’s grudge, the lack of the fear of man probably points to her too. What is equally, and perhaps more, problematic is the association between the cause of Artemis’ anger, the devouring of the pregnant hare and its unborn young, which portends Troy’s future fall and the resulting slaughter of its flocks, and the goddess’ alleged wish to punish Agamemnon for Atreus’ outrage through the sacrifice of Iphigeneia.28 If Artemis had been angry because Atreus butchered his brother’s children and she had been eager to punish his son, there is no conceivable reason why the sacrifice of Iphigeneia would have been linked with the omen. In other words, in that case Aeschylus could, and probably would, have presented a version of the story featuring a clear and logically straightforward reason for Artemis’ wrath. But he has not done so, and there is no way any critic can circumvent the problem of Artemis’ wrath at the meal of the eagles, or the destruction of Troy. Critics quote approvingly their predecessors who comment that the omen is a sign rather than a cause of Iphigeneia’s imminent sacrifice,29 and it could be claimed that the omen is an image of Thyestes’ banquet. But the similarities between the omen and either slaughter are tenuous. Even if they are thought to be important, the problem of the connection of Artemis’ wrath with the omen and the destruction of Troy remains unresolved. Furthermore, Agamemnon will pay for his father’s offense not (only) with the sacrifice of Iphigeneia at Aulis before he leaves for Troy but (also) with his own life when he returns home after the sack of Troy. What is the connection between Thyestes’ banquet and the two deaths in requital for

28 For the play’s glossing over of the guilt and punishment of Atreus’ second son Menelaus see the discussion in 5 below. 29 See Goldhill (1984) 24 n. 42, and Furley (1986) 113 n. 15, 115; cf. Fraenkel (1950) 97, and Lebeck (1971) 35.

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it? Those who see Thyestes’ banquet as the solution to all the problems in the part of the parodos devoted to the events at Aulis do not address the issue, but it is certainly of cardinal importance. Is Iphigeneia’s sacrifice a preliminary ritual that satisfies Artemis for ten years, until she can exact a full recompense for the murder of Thyestes’ children by means of the murder of Atreus’ son? If so, what is the connection of Artemis with Zeus, the Erinyes, or Atreus’ alastôr, who will later appear as the agents responsible for the murder of Agamemnon in requital for Thyestes’ banquet? Do they use the wrath of Artemis at the meal of the eagles in order to lay the ground, as it were, for Clytaemestra’s part in the killing of Agamemnon, which would ultimately atone for Thyestes’ banquet? If so, then Clytaemestra’s wrath over the killing of her daughter reassumes its dominant place in Calchas’ prophecy and significantly undermines the argument of the scholars who suggest that Calchas’ last statement (154–55) refers to Thyestes’ banquet. In view of these objections, the banquet is probably absent from Calchas’ prophecy. I do not wish to reject the possibility that the omen and/ or the prediction of Iphigeneia’s sacrifice would put at least some members of the audience in mind of the terrible old crime. It is possible that Aeschylus had associated, and wished for the audience to associate imagistically, the grisly end of the pregnant hare and its young with the brutal slaughter of Thyestes’ children and with the devastating sacrifice of the young Iphigeneia. Still, it is important to keep in mind that no reference to Thyestes and the old family crimes has been made so far and none will be made until Cassandra’s appearance. Besides, Artemis is not connected with the punishment for Thyestes’ banquet in any strand of the tradition while she is always responsible for the sacrifice of Iphigeneia. No member of the audience could be even remotely certain that the banquet would be mentioned or accorded any special significance in the play. On the contrary, from the first mention of Artemis in Calchas’ prophecy onwards, there could be little doubt that the sacrifice of the girl Iphigeneia would be a cardinal theme, as full of pathos as of consequences. No audience who heard that the sinister sacrifice would cause quarrels, “for there remains a treacherous housekeeper, the ever-arising terrible wrath, which remembers and avenges children”30 (154–55), would have failed to

30 Schein (1982) 14 (cf. [2009] 393) and Goldhill (1984) 25 suggest that τεκνόποινος (155) can mean both ‘child-avenging’ and ‘avenged-by-child,’ and that the latter

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connect this dreaded event with its dreadful consequences. In the dramatic time of the play, the sacrifice belonged to the past, and it would be unlikely for the audience to associate Calchas’ statement with an obscure, in the framework of the play so far, event of the remoter family history, which might never become relevant. Calchas’ prophecies refer to the future of the Argive royal house: the assumption that the seer foreshadows in riddling language Cassandra’s visions of the past yields no dramatic benefit and offers no satisfactory answer to some of the play’s most persistent interpretive questions such as the cause of Artemis’ wrath and Agamemnon’s guilt. Artemis’ wrath remains the major problem.31 The most radical position is to accept the text as it stands: Artemis became enraged because the two eagles, which represented Agamemnon and Menelaus, devoured the pregnant hare and its unborn young.32 Fraenkel derides such a transfer of responsibility as implausible and unbecoming a play centrally concerned with the dynamics of guilt and atonement. He also objects to the suggestion that Artemis strikes a preemptive, as it were, blow to Agamemnon because such punishment would imply an otherwise unattested moral/religious principle, δράσοντι παθεῖν, which would operate in tandem with the established δράσαντι παθεῖν, one of the play’s (and the trilogy’s) thematic cornerstones.33 His own solution is that Aeschylus suppressed the traditional reason for Artemis’ wrath, namely an offense of commission or omission on the part of Agamemnon:

would be an allusion to Orestes’ revenge. Aeschylus may have included such an allusion, but at this point the former meaning is clearly predominant while there is little dramatic gain to be derived from the latter: Orestes’ revenge, a given in the mythical tradition and a trilogy named Oresteia anyway, is too far removed, both temporally and dramatically, to be particularly relevant here. 31 I outline my position concerning Agamemnon’s guilt in Appendix A III.2. 32 See Page in Denniston-Page (1957) xxv–xxix, and Conacher (1987) 9–10, 81. Others suggest that Artemis wished to punish Agamemnon, the future conqueror of Troy, because she was the protectress of all young life (Daube [1939] 147; cf. Peradotto [1969]), was favorably disposed toward Troy as her protecting goddess (Lloyd-Jones [1962] 189–90, Nicolai [1988] 19), or meant to hinder the Trojan expedition (Neitzel [1979], Bergson [1982], Thiel [1993] 46–87). 33 Fraenkel (1950) 97. Page in Denniston-Page (1957) xxvii suggests that the punishment is for a past offense, the devouring of the hare, but this does not solve the problem of transferability.

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such a causal chain would have diminished the severity of his dilemma and the gravity of his decision to sacrifice his daughter, which is the fountainhead of his suffering. “While suppressing the cause, he [sc. Aeschylus] elaborated the details of the sign whose unfavourable elements portended the disapproval of Artemis.”34 It is of course not entirely clear that Aeschylus presented Iphigeneia’s sacrifice as the beginning of all woe for Agamemnon: this seems to be the chorus’ view in the parodos, but it is certainly not the only one presented in the play or the trilogy. Still, I definitely share the view that Agamemnon’s choice was of paramount importance and had grave consequences for him and his family. My main difficulty with the view of Fraenkel and others who reject a literal reading of the omen and its interpretation is that they do not reject it entirely. Instead, they accept one part of Calchas’ interpretation and reject the other: they have no problem with accepting that the eagles symbolize Agamemnon and Menelaus and that the death of the pregnant hare is a sign of Troy’s future destruction, but find unacceptable that the gods in general and Artemis in particular would get angry and demand a sacrifice as preemptive punishment for the reckless destruction portended in the omen. The reasoning and authority that may be marshaled to justify such selectivity are difficult to detect. Omens (and their interpretation) are by definition irrational or illogical, at least in the view of modern, rationalist or secular readers. It is no more illogical to accept the second part of the eagle omen than the first. More specifically, even if Artemis is angry with Agamemnon for a reason not mentioned in the play, a strange assumption on the part of a scholar who is willing to work only with what the poet mentions explicitly, does not her disapproval manifest itself in her reaction to the behavior of the eagles and her demand for Iphigeneia’s sacrifice? The bold or unusual step that Aeschylus took in the parodos may consist in postulating a punishment for a future offense rather than a punishment for an unstated offense implausibly masquerading as an unfavorable omen. Critics usually and correctly stress the fluidity of the prophetic context, in which identities as well as past, present, and future coalesce. If, in the framework of the omen, Agamemnon is one of the eagles, then the future is already here. Artemis asks for, or consents to, the fulfillment of the ambivalent omen (144–46). The eagle(s) who stop(s) the hare from

34 Fraenkel (1950) 99.

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running its final course also become(s) trapped. If one thinks that this does not eliminate the alleged problem of δράσοντι παθεῖν, one may assume that Artemis sought to strike a grievous preliminary blow that would also lay the groundwork for Agamemnon’s definitive punishment after the destruction of Troy. But such an assumption necessitates the postulation of a complicated causal chain, which is probably unnecessary, for there is no compelling reason why Aeschylus would not have presented a goddess who asked for a punitive sacrifice before the actual offensive deed. Alternatively, one may take the sacrifice of Iphigeneia not as divine punishment, preliminary or final, for a future offense but as ominous manifestation of supreme divine displeasure at the meal of the eagles symbolizing the future reckless slaughter at Troy. Before his prediction of the sacrifice, Calchas cautioned that divine jealousy might strike a preliminary blow and overshadow the great bit for Troy’s mouth, the army on its campaign (131–33), and Fraenkel finds such a preliminary blow acceptable. In this light, Iphigeneia’s sacrifice may be viewed as such a blow of divine jealousy: in all versions of the story that include the Aulis sacrifice, including Aeschylus’, the sacrifice bodes ill for the expedition in general and the Argive royal family in particular. But I am inclined to believe that Artemis’ demand for Iphigeneia’s sacrifice was a preemptive punishment for the slaughter at Troy. In any case, the sacrifice did motivate a chain of sinister events. “The craft of Calchas does not lack fulfillment,” chant the chorus just before the end of the parodos (249). This does not refer to the death of Iphigeneia, as Furley, for instance, claims.35 At the very least, it does not refer to her death only. More recently, Griffith suggested that the chorus’ vague report of the actual sacrifice (“what happened next I neither saw nor tell,” 248) and some other passages in the trilogy possibly prepare for the revelations in the satyr play Proteus, now lost. In this play Menelaus would learn that all the blood, sweat and tears shed over more than a grueling decade were due to misunderstandings: in truth, Artemis saved Iphigeneia at Aulis, Helen never actually went to Troy, and men fought and died because of and for images. According to Griffith, these revelations, especially Iphigeneia’s salvation, would make the “theodicy” of the trilogy “a little more palatable.”36

35 Furley (1986) 117. 36 Griffith (2002) 237–50; the quotation is from p. 243.

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On the contrary, they would probably make it virtually grotesque. Artemis would save one innocent life, but the gods would allow the carnage of the war to take place and the internecine murders in Agamemnon’s family to be committed because an image went to Troy and another one was “sacrificed” at Aulis. The death of Iphigeneia is attested before Aeschylus because Pindar’s Pythian 11, which mentions it at 22–23, is quite securely dated several years before Oresteia, in 474.37 More important, Aeschylus emphasized the horror of the sacrifice and its consequences. It would then be absurd to assume that the entire trilogy culminated in a satyr play revealing that the terrible crimes and their punishment dramatized in the trilogy were the result of unfortunate overreaction on the part of misguided mortals. I have argued elsewhere that the survival of Iphigeneia in Euripides’ IT does not expose the futility of her parents’ murders because the play does not deal with Clytaemestra’s motivation, or the background of the internecine crimes in general. The play’s only vague hint at Clytaemestra’s motivation (927) indicates that her murder of Agamemnon had little to do with Iphigeneia’s sacrifice.38 Aeschylus made the diametrically opposite choice in Oresteia, especially in Agamemnon: he focused on the past, the sacrifice, and Clytaemestra’s reaction to it. Although neither play nor trilogy indicates beyond all doubt that Clytaemestra would have spared her husband if he had spared their daughter, in other words whether the sacrifice was her only motive for the murder, Agamemnon and Clytaemestra certainly emphasize the sacrifice as much as possible, presenting it as the main and the only motive respectively. There is also no getting around the absolute lack of evidence about a close connection between trilogy and satyr play, and it cannot be simply assumed that they formed a thematically and structurally coherent whole. Whatever the relationship of a tragic trilogy to the subsequent satyr play might be, there is no indication that any playwright would opt for a pathetic subversion of his trilogy and its characters’ actions in a satyr play. It is possible, although utterly unprovable, that Griffith’s reconstruction of the plot of Proteus is generally accurate,39 but this does not affect the presentation of the theology of the trilogy, which certainly did not prepare for its own deconstruction.

37 See most recently the comprehensive discussion of Finglass (2007a) 5–27. 38 See Kyriakou (2006) 22–23, and cf. 11–12. 39 For the plot of the satyr play cf. the discussion with n. 43 below.

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The most natural interpretation of Ag. 248 is that the chorus were present at Aulis until Iphigeneia was led to the altar. It is unlikely that they left before, and did not witness, the striking of the fatal blow but whatever they did, their deliberations in the parodos do not end with Iphigeneia’s sacrifice. The elders take up the theme of justice and learning through suffering. This certainly points to the destruction of Troy, possibly completed by now, but also to the fate of the conquerors. The chorus turn to the future and express for the first time their deep anxiety about it. Calchas had talked about a sacrifice that would create quarrels and would generate no fear of the man/husband. Even if one agrees, for the sake of the argument, that Thyestes’ banquet is implied in Calchas’ prophecy, the discrepancy between Calchas’ emphasis on Iphigeneia’s sacrifice and Cassandra’s exclusive focus on the banquet, which is overlooked by those who detect an early reference to Thyestes’ banquet, cannot be eliminated, and may indirectly support the case for Calchas’ failure to allude to the banquet.

5. The predictions of Cassandra: banquets and murders As indicated above, Cassandra’s certain suppression of Iphigeneia’s sacrifice is more puzzling than Calchas’ almost certain failure to refer to Thyestes’ banquet. Cassandra breathes no word about the sacrifice or Agamemnon’s offense, although she dwells extensively on Clytaemestra’s imminent act and the Erinyes that haunt a house steeped in internecine blood. In a series of prophetic visions and speeches, Cassandra predicts to the chorus, who cannot, or refuse to, understand, Agamemnon’s and her own death (1090– 1278, 1285–1314), as well as Orestes’ return and revenge on the killers (1279–84, 1315–20). What is more crucial in connection with the present discussion and perhaps the play, Cassandra explicitly and repeatedly connects Agamemnon’s murder with the crimes of the previous generation, Thyestes’ adultery with Atreus’ wife and especially Atreus’ retaliatory hosting of the terrible banquet (1215–38; cf. 1090–1118, 1186–93). If Cassandra had focused on Aegisthus and his imminent revenge for the slaying of his siblings, her complete suppression of Iphigeneia’s sacrifice would have been less puzzling. Aegisthus, though, is mentioned only thrice in the entire scene (1223–25, 1259, 1319), never by name and very succinctly – in the last two instances by means of a single word. Only in the first reference does he appear as plotting revenge for his siblings

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on Agamemnon.40 In the second, he is merely pictured as a wolf, the unworthy bedmate of the two-footed lioness Clytaemestra in the absence of her husband, the noble lion. At 1319 he is referred to as the man who will fall in revenge for the death of the ill-mated man. Cassandra seems to be virtually obsessed with Clytaemestra’s cunning and her ruthless daring, but she never hints at Iphigeneia’s sacrifice,41 not even as Clytaemestra’s alleged motive or pretext for her crime. This is arguably the play’s greatest conundrum facing critics that explore the background of Agamemnon’s murder and attempt to trace the causal chain of the crimes dramatized in the trilogy back to past offenses. The play presents two reasons for Agamemnon’s death, Iphigeneia’s sacrifice and Thyestes’ banquet. Both are backed by prophetic authority and accepted by the chorus as valid, while each killer of Agamemnon invokes one of them as a just motive for the murder in the final part of the play. Even if one accepts that the two crimes were related and the sacrifice of Iphigeneia was a manifestation of the ancestral curse, which guaranteed Agamemnon’s death and drove him to commit a crime that burdened him with personal guilt, this association does not explain the probable failure of Calchas and the certain failure of Cassandra to connect the two crimes or at least to mention both of them. Before proceeding with the discussion of this discrepancy, a word about a possible third, two-pronged reason for Agamemnon’s punishment is in order. This is the terrible bloodshed in the war undertaken for the sake of an adulterous woman and the outrages committed during Troy’s sack. Whether Artemis’ wrath over the meal of the eagles, or the future reckless slaughter at Troy, had been satisfied with the sacrifice of Iphigeneia at Aulis or not, the (other) gods may have become enraged at the conquerors’ lack of restraint and their impiety. As already mentioned,

40 For the text of 1224 see Appendix A III.3. 41 The reference to Clytaemestra as a raging hellish mother (θυίουσαν Ἅιδου μητέρ’) at 1235 should probably not be taken as an allusion to the sacrifice. The context is completely negative, and Cassandra does not report the feelings or views of the monstrous Clytaemestra but her attitude toward her family, apparently the surviving members. If μητέρ(α) is not corrupt, Cassandra must refer to her as the hellish mother of Orestes and Electra. It is implausible that Iphigeneia’s sacrifice, a theme of cardinal importance in the play, would be mentioned only so briefly and obscurely by Cassandra, all of whose predictions include repetitions in various registers. Besides, the description of Clytaemestra as Iphigeneia’s raging hellish mother is quite improbable even in the mouth of an utterly hostile Cassandra.

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Clytaemestra reflects on the possibility that the conquering army may commit outrages in the captured city and that the gods will punish the offenders on their return home (338–50). The chorus also highlight the huge loss of Achaean life in the campaign and the dangerous resentment against the generals it generates in the afflicted families, which may motivate divine punishment of the guilty (432–74). Nevertheless, even if one assumes that the bloodshed and the impiety burden specifically or primarily Agamemnon, the play does not indicate that these aspects of his guilt were as important in his murder as the family crimes. The emphasis on Iphigeneia’s sacrifice and Thyestes’ banquet seems to leave little doubt that Agamemnon would have perished, even if the war had had few casualties and no outrages had been committed during the sack of Troy. The play never returns to the outrages in question after Clytaemestra has raised the very valid concern over them. The retention of 527 (“the altars and the shrines of the gods have disappeared”), often, and with good reason, deleted by editors, does not affect my argument. Denniston-Page suggest that this line is the only confirmation in the play that the offenses contemplated earlier took place.42 But it is implausible that the punishable sacrilege burdening the army and the commander would be confirmed so briefly, by such an unlikely character as the herald, and in an unlikely celebratory context. It is true, though, that, even without the line, little doubt can be left that the total destruction of the city (525–28) included its religious monuments. Still, the subsequent failure of all characters, especially of Cassandra and Clytaemestra, to refer to sacrilege and punishment indicates the (relative) lack of importance of this theme in comparison with the family crimes. Besides, in both the mythical tradition and the play, the punishment that afflicted the army for the sacrileges committed during the sack of Troy did not affect Agamemnon personally. This was the storm that devastated the fleet on the return voyage, killing many and sending others off course, most notably Menelaus. The concern raised by Clytaemestra prepares for the announcement of the storm rather than Agamemnon’s death. Neither the play nor the trilogy specifies whether Menelaus survived the storm, and Orestes executes his revenge in Choephori without his uncle’s assistance or any knowledge of his fate. Revermann suggests that Menelaus’ return home, anticipated at 617–33 and 674–79 (cf. Ch. 1041, a

42 Denniston-Page (1957) ad loc.

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corrupt passage), was dramatized in the lost satyr play Proteus.43 There is no indication that this play dealt with Menelaus’ return rather than his wanderings but whatever its plot, there is no overlooking an issue that has, as far as I know, largely escaped scholarly attention: even if Menelaus perished at sea, he received no punishment at Aulis, certainly nothing that might equal the severity of his brother’s misfortune. Besides, since Menelaus’ survival was unanimously attested in the mythical and literary tradition, the audience of Aeschylus’ trilogy would plausibly expect that he survived the storm and would eventually return home to live out his days without further troubles. Although he is one of the hare-devouring eagles, and the second son of the offending Atreus, and although he will return home after several years, only Agamemnon and members of his nuclear family suffer terribly and die. This inequality in the fate of the two brothers and commanders cannot be explained on the basis of any known Greek moral or religious principle: Agamemnon’s seniority in age or office does not make him more likely to pay with his life for his father’s crime (or for the casualties and outrages of the war) than his brother. Aeschylus apparently made a point to stress the closeness and concord of the brothers. They reside in the same ancestral house at Argos (3, 400, 427–28, 1087–88; cf. 617–19) and set out to punish the affront suffered by both, not merely as brothers but as hosts of Paris. Their shared command of the expedition is stressed emphatically (40–71, 108–12, 122–25), and they are both said to be the targets of the displeasure of the aggrieved citizens, who resent the loss of their loved ones in a war undertaken on morally dubious, personal grounds (445–51). The brothers are also the targets of the potential wrath of the gods motivated by the citizens’ curses and the war bloodshed (456–74). Nevertheless, only Agamemnon is punished at Aulis and eventually dies. There is no other way to deal with the discrepancy in the brothers’ fate but to accept that Aeschylus wished both to present a picture of perfect fraternal concord and to focus on the terrible fate of the senior brother.44 The playwright apparently did his best to downplay the

43 Revermann (2008) 249–50. For the satyr play’s connection with the trilogy see the discussion in 4 with nn. 36–39 above. 44 The play’s emphasis on seniority is also suggested by its repeated references to Priam. It is natural for Troy to be called Priam’s city (267, 710, 812–15, 1335–36), but it is far from self-evident that the Trojan campaign would be envisaged as litigation between the Atreids and Priam (40–44, 451). The war is described as a conflict of two states represented by their kings, although Priam is never directly

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disparity in the brothers’ fate: apart from the outstanding possibility that Menelaus may have perished in the storm, both brothers cannot restrain their tears when Calchas announces Artemis’ demand for the sacrifice of Iphigeneia (202–4), an indication that the loss of the girl deeply affects her uncle too; the return of Helen to Menelaus is never mentioned explicitly and may be only very obliquely suggested (534–35, 822–24); Clytaemestra does not even complain that Agamemnon sacrificed Iphigeneia because of Menelaus’ family troubles, as is common in other plays (S. El. 537–45, Eur. El. 1027–29, 1041–44). Although Menelaus probably escapes scot-free, the characters do not know it yet. Still, the demand for Iphigeneia’s sacrifice following the omen of the two eagles and the probable survival of Menelaus are dissonances that cannot be eliminated.45 Be that as it may, the loss of life, especially Achaean life, in the war is stressed in the play,46 in contrast to the outrages committed in the captured city, for which Menelaus is punished. The great number of war casualties may thus be thought to have a role in Agamemnon’s death. The war was certainly undertaken under the auspices of Zeus Xenios as a punitive expedition against the sacrilegious and hubristic Paris and his conniving people. This does not of course eliminate the guilt that burdens the Achaean commanders on account of the many casualties of their army. It should not be disregarded, though, that the chorus declare to Agamemnon

associated with Paris’ offense. Nevertheless, since the family of Paris and the Trojan community in general are not exempt from blame (700–16; cf. 737–49), the guilt of Priam may be thought to be implied in the collective censure. The main burden of responsibility for the war and the destruction of Troy falls on Paris (60–62, 362–66, 399–402, 532–37, 1156), but Priam is the adversary of the Greek commanders. 45 The end of the herald’s report on the fate of Menelaus (674–79) is also remarkable: he suggests that Menelaus will hopefully return through the contrivances of Zeus, who does not yet wish to eliminate the race entirely. The herald must have in mind Menelaus’ nuclear family because otherwise the statement is gibberish, since Agamemnon is back and has children, especially Orestes. Nevertheless, the choice of term for the family (γένος, 678) is likely to make the audience think of the Atreid or the Pleisthenid line (cf. 1117, 1566, 1602): since Agamemnon will soon die, Menelaus will be the only surviving member of the current adult generation of the family. The fate of Orestes will also eventually hang in a very precarious balance. 46 Although Artemis’ reaction to the meal of the eagles seems to suggest otherwise, responsibility for the destruction of Troy and the sufferings of her people is consistently and primarily attributed to Paris (cf. n. 44 above). See the discussion of the second stasimon in 6 below.

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that his victory has eliminated their old resentment over the war for Helen’s sake (799–809). This is an important statement, made by elders who may plausibly be viewed as representatives of the attacking people and had anticipated that the Atreids would suffer the consequences of the curses of the citizens for the losses incurred in the war. In the rest of the play (and the trilogy), the affected citizens are nowhere said to bear a grudge against Agamemnon or to have any sympathy for his killers. The chorus also never broach the matter of the war casualties in connection with the commanders again, and later blame only Helen for the many lives lost under Troy and for Agamemnon’s murder (1455–61).47 Toward the end of their confrontation with Clytaemestra, the chorus mention Agamemnon’s “great deeds” (1545–46) and refer to him as a “divine man” (1548). The herald, who dwells on the hardships and losses of the long campaign (510–11, 551–74), also praises Agamemnon (518–32; cf. 580–82) and nowhere insinuates that the returning veterans bear any grudge against the commander, or even that their fallen comrades ever did. A reference to punishment for Troy’s capture is also probably absent from 1287–88: it is unlikely that Cassandra, who repeatedly laments the misfortunes of her city, family and herself, would only allude to the punishment of the conquering general in such a succinct way. The judgment of the gods she mentions is surely the punishment for Thyestes’ banquet, the event she has been stressing all along. A connection between Agamemnon’s murder and the loss of life at Troy may be drawn only indirectly, through Iphigeneia’s sacrifice, the crime which Calchas, the chorus, and Clytaemestra consider as (one of ) the main cause(s) for the king’s punishment, and which Cassandra glosses over. Although Calchas, who predicts Troy’s capture (126), nowhere implies that the gods will punish Agamemnon for the many casualties of the war (and/or for offenses committed during the sack of Troy), Artemis demands Iphigeneia’s sacrifice because she hates the meal of the eagles, which represent the eventual conquerors Agamemnon and Menelaus. The goddess seems to have become upset mainly by the prospective loss of animal life at Troy (cf. 127–30), or the prospective loss of (young) Trojan life, but Iphigeneia’s sacrifice, connected with this loss, will eventually lead to Agamemnon’s death, whether Artemis meant for the sacrifice to do so or not. In this light, the proximate cause and primary motive for

47 For the different views of the chorus and Clytaemestra on Helen’s guilt see n. 19 above.

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Agamemnon’s murder are still to be sought in Clytaemestra’s anger over the loss of her daughter. This loss temporally preceded the Trojan slaughter, and Clytaemestra’s emotions were not affected by the bloodshed of the war or the sacrileges committed at Troy, none of which, not even Cassandra’s rape, is ever mentioned. Returning to the prophetic utterances of Calchas and Cassandra in the play, the discrepancy between them has been variously explained. Those who believe that Calchas’ prophecy cryptically alludes to Thyestes’ banquet48 view Cassandra’s references to it as an example of a common pattern in Aeschylus’ drama: the plays gradually reveal the explanation of early, unsettling pronouncements, often made in riddling language. I argued against such readings of Calchas’ prophecy in the previous section, and they explain what Cassandra’s utterances contain, not what they omit, anyway. Equally and perhaps more controversially, Cassandra’s suppression of Iphigeneia’s sacrifice is attributed to her loyalty to Agamemnon and hatred of Clytaemestra.49 Although it is true that Cassandra expresses no great animosity against Agamemnon and she has some sympathy for him as a fellow victim (1227–30, 1258–63, 1286–89, 1313–14), no sign of particular loyalty may be detected in her statements. Cassandra has the most personal of all conceivable reasons to abhor Clytaemestra, her killer-to-be, and a treacherous and ruthless one at that. But as already suggested above, a mention of Iphigeneia’s sacrifice as Clytaemestra’s alleged motive would not have exonerated the killer, harmed Agamemnon’s image, or suggested a diminution of Cassandra’s alleged loyalty to her master. Since Clytaemestra figures so prominently in Cassandra’s prophecies and she rather than Aegisthus will have the major role in the next part of the play, Cassandra could easily mention or allude to Iphigeneia’s sacrifice without damage to any of the play’s dramatic concerns. Following Wohl, Foley suggests that Cassandra assimilates herself to the patriline and completely adopts the male point of view. She is identified with Iphigeneia “as a (here voluntary) bride/sacrificial victim,” and takes over the role of the legitimate wife from the adulterous spouse, preparing the way for his children’s exoneration of Agamemnon in Choephori.50 The suggested identification with Iphigeneia has no support in the text or the

48 See n. 27 above. 49 Conacher (1987) 41, 45; cf. next n. 50 Wohl (1998) 110–16; Foley (2001) 93.

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trilogy, and Cassandra certainly does nothing voluntarily. Besides, Cassandra does not stress so much Clytaemestra’s adultery as her treachery and ruthlessness, while the foreshadowing of the next play involves the bare fact of Orestes’ revenge.51 The most serious problem is the assumption that a prophetess is inspired by her god, or is free and willing, to make choices of allegiance (for purposes of upward mobility and self-promotion?) and to adopt specific attitudes in the manner of a bourgeois spouse or a social commentator. A more plausible suggestion would perhaps be that, as a servant of the male god Apollo, who will be the champion of Orestes and the male in the next two plays, Cassandra is inspired to adopt the male point of view. But such an adoption does not automatically entail or adequately explain the complete exclusion of Iphigeneia from the prophecy. Helen is also not mentioned but she is not directly involved in the imminent murders, and her role in the destruction of Troy is suggested in the lament over Paris’ disastrous marriage (1156–57).

An eloquent case to explain Cassandra’s emphasis on the crimes of the previous generation and her suppression of Iphigeneia’s sacrifice has been constructed by Fraenkel. He suggests that Cassandra insists on Thyestes’ adultery and the banquet in her speeches, when she is sober and calm, because she wishes to convince the chorus that she is not a false prophet and thus persuade them to believe her prophecy of Agamemnon’s doom. Since Apollo’s punishment for her trickery had condemned her prophecies to disbelief (1207–12), Cassandra needs and attempts to establish her credibility by proving her detailed knowledge of past crimes, which she could only acquire through her genuine prophetic skill. Despite the direct causal connection that Cassandra draws between the earlier family crimes and Agamemnon’s punishment, Aeschylus makes it clear that Agamemnon is punished for the sacrifice of Iphigeneia and the loss of many men in a war fought for the sake of a woman. If Aeschylus wished to establish the causal link suggested by Cassandra as fundamental, he certainly had opportunity to do so earlier in the play. The crimes of the previous generation contribute only secondarily to Agamemnon’s death, and Cassandra’s prophecies serve to establish Aegisthus’ grievances against Agamemnon rather than the burden of Atreus’ crime on his son.52

51 For Cassandra’s view of this revenge see the discussion below. 52 Fraenkel (1950) 624–27.

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There is no doubt that the play seems to present at least two causes for Agamemnon’s downfall. As argued above, these are probably the sacrifice of Iphigeneia and Thyestes’ banquet rather than the sacrifice and the number of war casualties. Moreover, the causes Fraenkel identifies are not as straightforwardly hierarchized as he suggests. Aeschylus does dwell on Agamemnon’s personal responsibility, but this does not diminish the seriousness of the ancestral crime. More problematically, the apparent lack of emphasis on hereditary vs. personal guilt is established, with an unsettling whiff of circularity, on the basis of the late mention of the ancestral crimes53 and especially the failure of the chorus to mention or allude to them. But the latter is of dubious interpretive value: at no point in the play does Aeschylus present the chorus as enjoying special insights, and their utterances cannot be used as a privileged guide to the establishment of Agamemnon’s guilt. The chorus know of the crimes of the previous generation, indeed they suggest that “the entire city shouts them” (1106). As soon as Cassandra mentions the godlessness and internecine slaughter of the house (1090–92), they realize which murder she is tracking (1093–94), and she immediately confirms their inference (1095–97)–this is the first (explicit) mention of the banquet in the play. The elders also know of the adultery of Aegisthus and Clytaemestra.54 The chorus’ failure to draw any connection between crimes of the remoter past, the present and (potentially) the future before Cassandra’s revelations is not a consequence of Aeschylus’ shaping of the plot so as to stress Agamemnon’s responsibility but a consequence of the playwright’s

53 More recently, Sewell-Rutter (2007) 21–23, 75–76 also suggests that the late mention of the daemon of the house and Thyestes’ curse by characters with an obvious interest to justify their crime should be taken into account in any assessment of the play. He does not discuss Agamemnon in detail and does not deal with the problems posed by the seers’ utterances or the chorus’ failure to mention Thyestes’ banquet but suggests that all causes mentioned in the play form a causal nexus. Despite the general validity of this view, Sewell-Rutter wrongly thinks that the daemon of the house and Thyestes’ curse become important only in the exodus: although Cassandra does not mention them explicitly, her insistence on the slaughter of the children and the Erinyes of the house form a complex with the subsequent statements of Agamemnon’s killers. The audience learn from Aegisthus that Thyestes had cursed the entire race (1598–1602), but no new link in the chain of crime and punishment is provided following Cassandra’s prophecies. Thyestes’ banquet is mentioned well before the exodus, and by an inspired prophetess, a character hardly similar to the killers. 54 See the discussion in 6 below.

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shaping of the plot so as to stress the elders’ limitations. They fear the future because they have heard Calchas’ prophecy and experienced Iphigeneia’s sacrifice, the curses of the families of the long-suffering army back home, and the shenanigans of the queen during the king’s absence. The chorus do not go beyond this knowledge, although they know of Thyestes’ banquet. I will return to their limitations below. For now, their fear and their forebodings are not the end of the story, and it is unclear in what the alleged greater emphasis on Agamemnon’s personal responsibility consists, especially since the concern with the loss of life and the outrages committed at Troy recedes to the background after the arrival of the herald, as argued above. Certainly, Cassandra’s scene is much longer than the recollections of the sacrifice in the parodos. The chorus have established Agamemnon’s guilt, but Cassandra’s prophecies surge as another wave of calamity upon the mind of the elders and the audience. The problem why Cassandra mentions only the crimes of the previous generation cannot be solved with appeals to her attempt to persuade the chorus of her trustworthiness by adducing proofs of her mantic competence. It is not clear that Cassandra wishes to warn the chorus of Agamemnon’s doom, or, even if she does, that she needs to demonstrate to them her prophetic credentials by means of her knowledge of the banquet. Cassandra knows that nothing can stop the future (1240, 1299–1301) and she begins prophesying following an onslaught of mantic visions (1090ff.), not a conscious decision to warn the elders or even to predict the future to them. These visions include the slaughtered children and their father (1096–97; cf. 1215–25). She also knows that the elders are bound to disbelieve her but she does not really care because they will soon witness what she predicts (1239–41).55 It is probably not accidental or trivial that, when she has plainly announced Agamemnon’s murder (1246) and the chorus inquire about the identity of the man plotting it (1251), she does not spell out Clytaemestra’s name or Aegisthus’ part in the plot (1252, 1254). On the other hand, the chorus never express any doubt concerning her mantic prowess. Instead, they state that her mantic fame had preceded her (1098–99) and that her prophecies seem believable to them (1213). Most significantly, they do not reject as false her prediction of Agamemnon’s death: they pray that it may not come true (1249) and reiterate their inability to understand (1253). Furthermore, after her exit, they view

55 For the pathetic combination of knowledge and powerlessness in Cassandra’s scene see Schein (1982).

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Agamemnon’s death in requital for previous murders as quite probable (1338–42). As Fraenkel himself in his note on 1185 correctly points out, it would be cheap to object that Cassandra’s knowledge of the crimes she describes could stem from mere hearsay and cannot really prove her prophetic competence: the poet and his audience would never raise such an objection. The same, though, goes for Iphigeneia’s sacrifice: Cassandra could certainly also have used this event to prove her mantic prowess, if that had been her concern. Finally, Aegisthus’ grievances and his share in plotting Agamemnon’s murder,56 the revelation of which certainly did not necessitate the complete suppression of Iphigeneia’s sacrifice, cannot be dissociated from Atreus’ slaughter of Thyestes’ children and its burden on Agamemnon. In view of the above, there seems to be little room left for finding a satisfactory solution to the problem posed by the discrepancy in the revelations of Calchas and Cassandra. One may assume the self-evident, that Apollo imparts different or partial insights to different prophets at different times, although no light can be shed on the background of this multiplicity. Another possibility is to assume that mantic insights or visions are filtered through the personal concerns of the prophets at the moment they receive and communicate their visions or insights. This is not necessarily mutually exclusive with the previous suggestion: the seers reveal what they are rendered able to reveal at any given time, and their revelations are shaped by their attitude toward the event they predict, in the case of Calchas horror at Iphigeneia’s sacrifice and in the case of Cassandra abhorrence at the plot of Aegisthus and especially Clytaemestra, which will destroy the prophetess too. The seers’ emotions block the rest of the past, conceivably with the god’s approval, which is granted for reasons that are indecipherable, or at any rate for reasons that the poet does not care to explore. I have argued above that loyalty to Agamemnon cannot explain the exclusion of Iphigeneia from Cassandra’s prophecy. A better explanation is probably her

56 Conacher (1987) 45 draws attention to the fact that Cassandra indicates Thyestes’ adultery rather than the banquet as the first crime in the family (1191–93) and suggests that this serves to present Aegisthus as the heir to his father’s adulterous nature as well as the wrath of the Erinyes. But Agamemnon’s murder would automatically make Aegisthus liable to punishment by the family Erinyes anyway, and the banquet is certainly emphasized by Cassandra (1090–97, 1215–25; cf. 1117–18, 1188–90). Nevertheless, Thyestes’ adultery may be thought to be inscribed in the larger concern of the trilogy with illicit sexual liaisons and their detrimental consequences on family and community.

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personal distress at the prospect of the violent, miserable end, as a slaveconcubine, of her unhappy life as an unfortunate prophetess (1258–78, 1326; cf. 1080–82, 1136–39, 1149, 1160–61, 1172, 1303). There is at least one indication that Cassandra’s prophecy takes on a fairly strong emotional coloring that obscures the precise course of future events and especially the motivation of the agents. Cassandra predicts that a son, obviously Orestes, now in exile will return to avenge the murder of herself and his father by killing his mother (1279–84): a woman will die for a woman and a man for a man (1318–19). Although not factually inaccurate or misleading, this is certainly a bold personal view of Orestes’ revenge: the son was bound to punish his mother, irrespective of her murder of Cassandra. Except for Clytaemestra’s allusion to Agamemnon’s extra-marital affairs in Choephori (918), the two subsequent plays of the trilogy do not include any reference to the prophetess. Clytaemestra will die by the hand of her son, and thus Cassandra may draw some consolation for her own imminent death. But Orestes will not be concerned with the Trojan concubine of his father, and it is not clear that the gods will be either (cf. 1279), although in an Aeschylean play the shedding of blood demands blood. Less remarkably but just as indicatively, Cassandra’s references to Clytaemestra’s preparations for, and view of, the concubine’s murder (1258–63) also seem to project a role for the victim that her killer’s later statements do not corroborate. Admittedly, this is not a particularly reliable basis for judgment, but there is no obvious and rhetorically cogent reason why Clytaemestra would wish to hide from the chorus the background of her dealing with Cassandra, especially the further instigation to murder that Cassandra’s arrival provided. As argued earlier, Clytaemestra insists that she killed Agamemnon to avenge Iphigeneia’s sacrifice, and the plan for the murder was in place long before his return and Cassandra’s arrival (1377–78). The murder of his concubine offered his killer wife an extra relish (1446–47), but Cassandra’s arrival did not motivate, or contribute to, his murder. However, the seer seems to imply that Agamemnon will be murdered partly for bringing her with him, although Aeschylus apparently took care to avoid explicitness in order not to undermine Cassandra’s credentials. Fraenkel correctly suggests that her reference to wages at 1261 (κἀμοῦ μισθόν) is ambiguous: it may mean that Clytaemestra intends to pay wages to Agamemnon for bringing Cassandra with him or to pay wages to Cassandra for her arrival.57 Because of this ambiguity, Cassandra’s words do at

57 Fraenkel (1950) 583 and, quoting the opinion of Barrett, 831.

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least leave open the possibility that Agamemnon’s murder will be a punishment for his bringing her with him. The reference to Clytaemestra’s boasting while whetting the sword against Agamemnon at 1262 (ἐπεύχεται θήγουσα φωτὶ φάσγανον) also makes an association between his murder and punishment for Cassandra’s arrival (ἐμῆς ἀγωγῆς ἀντιτείσεσθαι φόνον, 1263) quite cogent. Obviously, though, Clytaemestra may whet the sword against Agamemnon and boast of punishing Cassandra.58

6. The chorus: visions of the past The problem posed by the prophetic utterances in the play brings out the difficulty of making sense of the past and associating it competently with present and future. If seers do not provide integrated views of past, present and future, then mortals lacking prophetic gifts stand little chance of acquiring such views, and the past will continue to glance out from behind a veil like a bashful bride (cf. 1179). Characteristically, the elders of the chorus have great difficulty in dealing with the past. They are onstage virtually throughout the play, struggling to understand how human and divine motivations interlock and how the past comes to bear on present and future. Their age, indisputable piety and humanity as well as their lack of direct personal involvement in the trials and tribulations of the Argive royal house, at least until Agamemnon’s murder, are likely to make them better qualified to deal with the past than the principals.59

58 Only the Euripidean Cassandra predicts unambiguously that Agamemnon will die for taking her home with him and exults in the prospect of her exacting glorious revenge on the captor of Troy (Tr. 356–66, 404–5, 444–61). No other motive for Agamemnon’s murder is mentioned. But Euripides retains the ambiguity of the prophecies, transferring it to another level: although no audience would doubt that Agamemnon and Cassandra would die, and Orestes would kill his mother, no audience can be sure that Cassandra predicts accurately Clytaemestra’s motivation. Since Iphigeneia’s sacrifice is alluded to by Cassandra (370–72), and Clytaemestra’s adultery was a fact of the tradition not denied in the play, the audience may hardly take the prophecy of Cassandra’s role in the destruction of the Atreid house at face value, as there is no clear indication that Apollo revealed the motives of the killer(s) to the prophetess. See Kyriakou (2008) 256–61. 59 The elders’ relative neutrality and impartiality are also suggested by their failure to mention any sons or relatives of theirs as combatants at Troy. In contrast to other tragic choruses, who have personal experience of hardships and misfortunes, such as the chorus of Sophocles’ Ajax and Euripides’ Supplices or Troades, and despite

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Aegisthus and, to a lesser extent, Clytaemestra, immersed in their passion for revenge and success, and facing an utterly hostile community, are much less likely to assess their own or their victim’s situation lucidly. For his part, Agamemnon at Aulis made his terrible decision choosing to push aside the dreadful prospect of its consequences. When he returns to Argos, he focuses only on the revenge he took on Troy (810–29) and announces that he will hold assemblies in order to take appropriate care of public matters (844–50). Unaware of the situation at home during the army’s absence, he shows no eagerness to receive information right away. The elders of the chorus are very different. They provide reflective, although, unsurprisingly, not identical in specifics, manner and size, reviews of the fairly recent past, the misfortunes and sorrows connected with the Trojan war. The parodos and the first two stasima deal in rough chronological order with Aulis (184–249), the war (355–398, 429–74), and the capture of Troy (681–782). The first stasimon also includes a flashback to the situation at Argos before the launching of the campaign and the events at Aulis (399–428).60 The most conspicuous thematic thread that runs through the songs is the somber realization that human folly leads to crime and, above all, the certainty that the guilty will be punished. “Any deed of ἄτη in this play, any misery of Agamemnon, his house, and his people, as well as the disaster of the Trojans, can and must be traced back to its origin. That origin lies in the events that immediately preceded or accompanied the beginning of the war against Troy. Unless in every single case the παρακοπὰ πρωτοπήμων is recalled and its dreadful implications are made clear, the process of relentless retribution, the work of the god’s supreme will, cannot be sufficiently understood,” observes Fraenkel in connection with the parodos and the stasima.61 I pointed out earlier that Iphigeneia’s sacrifice, although very important, was not necessarily the origin of all woe for Agamemnon, and the same applies to his family, but the search for clues and origins does inform the play in general and the chorus’ utterances in particular. Because of their Argive origin and advanced age, it is virtually impossible that the elders would not have full knowledge of the history of the

the emphasis on communal suffering and resentment of the war in Agamemnon (429–74), the elders never state that the war touched them directly. 60 For the third stasimon (975–1034), the shortest song with the briefest mention of the past, see below. 61 Fraenkel (1950) 357.

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Argive royal house. Nevertheless, it is telling that this knowledge is not confirmed until about two thirds through the play (1096–97). The chorus’ cautious statements to the herald (548–50, 615–16) and especially Agamemnon (807–9; cf. 788–98) also indicate awareness of the troubling situation at home during the war, apparently and primarily due to the dealings of Aegisthus with Agamemnon’s wife and their queen, although, as already suggested, the chorus never mention the adultery before their confrontation with Aegisthus (1625–27). The elders’ attitude toward the queen is quite cool, which is not necessarily to be attributed only to male bias. Their first address to Clytaemestra is respectful but lukewarm at best (258–60). They feel the need to state, and remind Clytaemestra of, the reason why they reverence her: she is the regent of a throne left empty (lit. deserted) because of the male ruler’s absence. At the end of the first stasimon, they express renewed doubts about the trustworthiness of her news and disparage female gullibility (475–88).62 Nowhere in the first part of the play is there any indication that the chorus are favorably disposed toward the queen, although they never say anything specific against her. What is more, early on, and long before the elders decline to illuminate the herald about the situation at home (548), the watchman alludes to the lamentable goings-on in the house (16–19; cf. 37–38) and refers to people who know and understand his covert speech (36–39). When the aged chorus appear immediately afterwards (40ff.) and reflect thoughtfully on past, present and future, the audience are likely to think that these prudent men belong to the knowledgeable people mentioned by the watchman. Yet these aged, knowledgeable, reflective and even inspired men63 look for clues to the terrible issues they tackle only as far back in time as Paris’ visit to Argos and the Aulis sacrifice. This is likely (meant) to give one pause, at least eventually, in the wake of Cassandra’s graphic visions of the old crimes and predictions of their imminent consequences. The chorus themselves will ultimately envisage previous and future bloodshed as a destructive rain of blood that threatens to swamp the house (1530–36). But in the parodos and the three stasima the remoter past of the family does not receive attention. It is also noteworthy that the chorus’ choice of angle and register in each of the four lyric pieces seems to be determined

62 For this difficult part see the discussion with n. 74 below. 63 At the beginning of the lyric part of the parodos, they assert their authority by famously declaring that still from the gods their age in life breathes upon them persuasion in song, their warlike strength (104–7).

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by immediately preceding actions and statements of other characters, mainly Clytaemestra and, to a lesser extent, the herald.64 The last indication of the influence of other characters on choral utterances is possibly provided by the short anapaestic piece that follows Cassandra’s exit (1331–42). The chorus begin with a gnomic comment on mankind’s insatiable appetite for ever greater prosperity, εὖ πράσσειν (1331–34). Next, they turn to Agamemnon’s prophesied impending doom, which, if it occurs, will exemplify the common human lot of misfortune: if those granted great success and honor by the gods fall so miserably, then no mortal is immune to misfortune (1335–42). The connection of the gnomic part with Agamemnon’s case is fairly loose: it is not clear what kind of additional prosperity Agamemnon should have rejected, or how, and especially why, if he had, for instance, rejected the glory of becoming Troy’s captor, he would have avoided punishment for crimes that long preceded the Trojan campaign. It is implausible that, in the wake of Cassandra’s revelations, the chorus would have ignored Thyestes’ banquet and implied that Agamemnon was bound to be punished for Iphigeneia’s sacrifice only, which enabled the capture of Troy and the additional prosperity it offered Agamemnon. The theme of transient wellbeing, exemplified by Agamemnon’s imminent demise, featured in Cassandra’s utterances (1287–88; cf. 1227–30), and in her parting words she lamented the human condition (1327–30). Under the influence of such somber reflections, the chorus associate Agamemnon’s present state with conditions that do not strictly apply to his case. Nevertheless, it is significant that, shortly after Cassandra’s revelations, the chorus avoid specifying the deaths for which Agamemnon will probably pay with his life and choose to mention “other deaths” (1339–40), which may, although need not, include Iphigeneia’s sacrifice and, less likely, the many casualties of the war.

To be sure, dramatic concerns guarantee the prominence of the Trojan war in the chorus’ utterances. Similarly, the chorus are bound to react to the events taking place and to the utterances of other characters. Aeschylus’ choice to stress Agamemnon’s responsibility for the sacrifice of Iphigeneia and its consequences also made it imperative that the sacrifice would receive a substantial treatment in at least one part of the play and by at least one character. Clytaemestra’s murderous plot made it impossible for her to air her grievances before the murder without running the risk of arousing suspicions that might

64 The issues touched upon in the songs are also taken up in the episodes that follow; see the discussion below.

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compromise her success. Since a confrontation between the spouses is for the same reason out of the question, and Cassandra does not mention Iphigeneia, the sacrifice could only be addressed by the chorus. The choice of the parodos for this purpose serves to highlight Agamemnon’s personal guilt and its likely consequences very early on in the play. It is also adequately motivated within the context established by the prologue, as will be explained in a moment. But the thematically determined and dramatically justified prominence of the war does not render consideration of earlier events unrelated to it inappropriate, unlikely, or impossible. In a play eminently preoccupied with the past of the Argive royal house, it is remarkable, and probably not incidental, that the Argive elders, familiar with the history of the house and repeatedly turning to the past, seem to be able to survey only a limited part of it, the portion and aspect that becomes apparent to them through present developments. The chorus enter with their gaze firmly fixed on the beginning of the Trojan campaign: “This is the tenth year since the great plaintiff against Priam, lord Menelaus and Agamemnon . . . sailed with an Argive fleet of a thousand ships from this land” (40–46). The present is determined with reference to a cardinal past event, which long ago initiated a campaign that has not yet been completed, as far as the elders know. The present, both communal and personal, is unpleasant: the grueling war is ongoing (68), and the chorus are very old, already well past the age of military service ten years ago (72–82). Future happiness is also uncertain: the elders do not even dare to express confidence in the hope that the sacrifices offered to all the city gods by Clytaemestra are thank-offerings for the capture of Troy (100–3; cf. 261–63). The only certainty is future doom for those who offended in the past (60–71, 176–83, 249–51).65 Guilt attaches primarily to Paris and the Trojans, but they are not the focus of the song.

65 The future itself appears prominently at 252–54: “You will hear of the future when it happens. Let it be greeted in advance (προχαιρέτω, 252). It is the same as lamenting it in advance.” προχαιρέτω has been suspected but for no very good reason. It is most unlikely that the chorus who had sung “say woe, woe but may the good prevail” (121, 139, 159) and proclaimed that Calchas’ craft does not lack fulfillment (249) would shift their position so radically as to state the triviality that it is equally inappropriate to rejoice and to lament in advance. They have been, and will keep, reflecting on grave errors and sorrows: nowhere do they seem eager to rejoice prematurely. There is only one mention of tears of joy (270), after Clytaemestra announces the news of Troy’s capture, and the elders soon express serious reservations as to the trustworthiness of the beacon signal (475–92). Not

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The chorus recall extensively the sacrifice of Iphigeneia (198–247; cf. 147–59). This is the terrible price paid for the launching of the mighty fleet, the imposing armament gathered by the sturdy sons of Atreus to exact punishment from the Trojan offender of hospitality under the auspices of Zeus Xenios, for the sake of a woman of many husbands (40–67). The tangle of contradictions that will inform the entire trilogy becomes apparent already in the parodos of its first play, but the chorus concentrate on the shattering event of the sacrifice, Agamemnon’s responsibility and his eventual punishment. This focus, thematically advantageous, may be easily accounted for in dramatic terms: the chorus visit the royal house to find out the reason for the sacrifices ordered and offered by the queen (83–103, 261–63).66 The elders recall the absent king and, unsurprisingly, the trouble that afflicted him and marred the beginning of the expedition. As pointed out above, despite their focus on the Atreid commanders, especially Agamemnon, in the parodos, the elders not only fail to mention the troubles of the family in the previous generation67 but also fail to allude to the present troubling situation of the house. This failure is quite striking, as the parodos follows immediately upon the watchman’s prologue speech with its dark insinuations about the current deplorable situation of the house (16–19), which the house itself would reveal clearly if it acquired a voice (37–38). I observed already that these hints would predispose the audience to think that the chorus would also be aware of the situation in the house and perhaps to expect that the elders would be more explicit about these troubles. On the other hand, it is remarkable, and probably not unrelated to the consistent failure of the chorus (and other characters) to provide a

even when the herald and Agamemnon appear is there much talk of rejoicing (cf. 498), only declarations of loyalty to the victorious rulers (619, 788–809). So neither πρὸ χαιρέτω, suggested by Ahrens and adopted by Denniston-Page and West, nor πρόχαιρε τῷ, suggested by Heyse and supported by Lloyd-Jones (2006) 41–42, is needed. The chorus are distraught and pessimistic but finish the parodos with the conventional wish that, for the rest, i.e. despite everything, things may turn out well (255), as they have already wished in the refrain cited above and will again wish later (998–1000, 1249). Cf. 349, and the wish at the end of the herald’s report of the devastating storm and Menelaus’ disappearance (674). 66 On the motivation for the chorus’ arrival see Appendix A III.4. 67 This failure becomes even more remarkable if Calchas actually alludes to Thyestes’ banquet at 154–55, although he probably does not; see the discussion of his prophecy in 4 above.

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comprehensive survey of the past, that the poet inserts in the short speech of the knowledgeable watchman a reference to the past whose selective sweep makes it vague to the point of inaccuracy. This engaging character says that the Atreid house had been excellently managed in the past, in contrast to its present lamentable state (18–19). The loyal servant certainly alludes to Clytaemestra’s adultery and its possible dire consequences for the master of the house upon his return, but to describe the Argive royal house or even Agamemnon’s household as excellently managed in the past, following Iphigeneia’s sacrifice, is a gross exaggeration or a blind oversight. The sacrifice and the troubled beginning of the expedition as well as its potential consequences shift into focus in the parodos, but the queen’s adultery and Thyestes’ banquet, the talk of the town (1106), are completely glossed over in the utterances of the loyal and knowledgeable elders of Argos, who hope for the victorious return of their king but worry about the future of the conqueror of Troy. In the first episode, Clytaemestra announces to the chorus the longawaited and much-anticipated capture of Troy (267, 269), offering as proof the arrival of the beacon signal and describing its journey in detail (281– 316). As pointed out earlier, she also raises the concern that the captors may be lured by their love of gain to commit impiety that will compromise the safety of their return home (338–50). The first stasimon (355– 487) is a response to the announcement of the capture of Troy and to the worry about the fate of the captors. To a lesser extent, the song also looks forward to the herald’s report of the hardships the army suffered during the prolonged campaign (510–11, 555–74) and of the destructive storm on the return voyage (648–73). The chorus’ recollections of the past now involve the time before and especially after Iphigeneia’s sacrifice, the long years of the war, primarily from the point of view of the Achaean fighters and their families – the Trojans will occupy the next stasimon. The song begins with an appeal to lord Zeus and the friendly night, the provider of great glories (355–56). In a reminiscence of the parodos, the Trojans are said to have been captured in the net of Zeus Xenios, who directed his inescapable arrow against Paris (357–66). From the deadly stroke of Zeus on Troy the chorus’ thoughts move to the punishment of all transgressors: their, and their community’s, doom is certain and cannot be averted (367–98), just as in the case of Paris, who offended the table of hospitality by stealing the wife of his host (399–402). The mere mention of this woman causes the song’s focus to shift momentarily to her (403–8), but then the linear progress of the song is

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interrupted. The chorus switch back their attention to men but not to Paris and his arrival at Troy with his beautiful consort. Telescoping the terrible Trojan conflict, the “legacy” the adulteress left to her fellowcitizens and the “dowry” she took with her to Troy, into a mere four lines (403–6), the singers linger back in Argos, in the very house whose gates closed behind the nimble-footed Helen, who dared a thing past daring (407–8). A pathetic picture of the shocked, silent and longing Menelaus is sketched in the report of the utterances of the seers in the house (δόμων προφῆται, 409), an intriguing choice that perhaps harks back to Calchas’ prophecies in the parodos. The identity of this group of functionaries, the end of whose speech is indeterminate, has been disputed. Some scholars think that they are house seers, and others suggest that they are spokespersons for the house.68 The meaning of προφήτης = ‘pronouncer, spokesperson,’ usually for a god, does not overlap with that of μάντις = ‘seer,’69 and ruling households are not known to have employed domestic seers, as Denniston-Page point out.70 Besides, the reported speech of the men in question does not include any prophecy or prediction that would require mantic skills. But surely seers do not only make predictions, the existence of spokespersons for the royal family is equally unattested, and the concept itself is bizarre. No announcements whatsoever, especially on a royal spouse’s elopement with a foreign guest and the abandoned husband’s feelings, were expected from the Argive or any Greek palace. If Menelaus had lost his speech, and the citizens had expected updates on the situation in the royal house, then Agamemnon would certainly have been the person to provide them. The prophetic capacity of the speakers lends authority to their statements, and the men may not have served the Atreid household exclusively.

After the report of the seers’ utterances, the song still refuses to move to Troy or the Achaean camp under its walls, although it glosses over Aulis,71 both the event of the sacrifice and its consequences.

68 69 70 71

See Fletcher (1999) 34–36, who adopts the second interpretation. See Fraenkel (1950) on 1099. Denniston-Page (1957) on 409. The only conceivable, admittedly very oblique, allusion to the troubles of the house that followed Helen’s elopement may perhaps be detected in the reference to the greater sorrows at the hearth (427–28). But since the previous section is devoted to Menelaus’ distress and the following to the army’s families, postulating the allusion involves stretching of the interpretive envelope. Similarly, the later

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The focus now shifts to the houses in Argos and all over Greece: the non-combatants endure valiantly the sorrows of the campaign but primarily mourn the loss of their loved ones (429–55), illustrated by the heartbreaking metaphor of the gold-changer Ares and the arrival of the Greek equivalent of body-bags, the funeral urns filled with the ashes of the brave fighters, fallen through the agency of another man’s woman (437–48).72 The only references to Troy in this section are as point of departure for the ashes of brave Greek dead (440) and as burial ground for some of their fallen comrades, concealed in the land they occupy (452–55). The resentful and wrathful muttering of the bereaved families against the Atreids is as dangerous as a curse (449–51, 456–57). The threat of punishment now seems to hang over Agamemnon or both Atreids not because Iphigeneia was sacrificed for the sake of a war undertaken for a woman but because many good men were sacrificed for the sake of another man’s woman. δημοκράτου δ’ ἀρᾶς τίνει χρέος (457) may mean that the angry talk of the citizens (ἀστῶν φάτις ξὺν κότωι, 456) is the fulfillment, or a first stage of the fulfillment, of a public curse that had been pronounced long ago, at the earlier stages of the war, as Fraenkel suggests.73 It is unlikely, though, that the muttering and resentment would follow rather than precede and lead to the pronouncement of a public curse against the Atreids. If a curse had already been pronounced, the talk of the citizens would have been irrelevant, and it can hardly be thought to fulfill a curse, which is not fulfilled in installments anyway. A citizen revolt is also not mentioned or implied anywhere in the play, pace Fraenkel. One should perhaps opt for a less specific reading: the resentful talk of the citizens pays the debt of a popular curse, in the sense that it has the potential of harming the targets through envy (cf. 450–51), as a curse destroys its targets. It is best to assume that no curse has been pronounced yet. A curse is bound to be fulfilled, but as already suggested, Menelaus at least will probably not suffer any lethal or disastrous punishment, and Agamemnon will not die because many men fell at Troy.

reference to those who kill many (461) could in theory hark back also to the sacrifice of Iphigeneia, but the context hardly favors such an association. 72 Two ἀντι- adjectival compounds, unattested elsewhere, and possibly coined by Aeschylus, mark two devastating, related reversals afflicting both sides in the war by the agency of Helen: destruction in the place of a dowry (ἀντίφερνονN. . . φθοράν, 406) for the Trojans and ashes in the place of men for the Greeks (ἀντήνορος σποδοῦ, 442–43). 73 Fraenkel (1950) ad loc.

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Although more than one crime burdens Agamemnon, the chorus’ shift of perspective after their insistence on Iphigeneia’s sacrifice in the parodos creates an impression of inconsistency: the many fatalities at Troy will only be mentioned by the chorus again after Agamemnon’s murder and they will be attributed to Helen (1455–57). It is also worth stressing that the song does not deal explicitly or exclusively with Agamemnon but with both Atreids and, more broadly, with the conquering army, mentioned as sackers of Troy several times (267, 269, 320, 340, 577, 824; cf. Ch. 302–3). Still, it is a plausible assumption that no audience hearing the song would fail to consider the problems and prospects of the senior commander. For dramatic reasons, the plight of the fighters and their families and the heavy burden of the bloodshed of the war had to be addressed in the play, but this need did not dictate, and does not adequately explain, the complete suppression of Iphigeneia’s sacrifice in the song. Just as intriguingly, and almost imperceptibly, a song that started as a thanksgiving hymn of celebration turns into an elegy of disappearance, longing, mourning and foreboding. Punishment and loss are the two major themes that run through the stasimon, but the second is dominant: not only is it allotted much greater space and more evocative images but it also encompasses the guilty Paris and Troy as well as the innocent families of the Achaean dead. The initial salute to the great and glorious gains of victory is undercut by the subsequent images of past losses and the specter of future disaster. After the anapaestic introduction with its positive outlook (355–66), the review of the past begins with gnomic reflections on the stroke of Zeus and the image of the hubristic man: over-confident in his family’s wealth, he kicks the altar of justice out of sight to his detriment because wealth cannot offer him shelter (367–84). The review ends, in conspicuous ring-composition, with the Erinyes dimming the unjust man out of his prosperous existence and sending him to Hades where there is no help. A thunderbolt is hurled by the eyes of Zeus on the man who receives exceeding praise for achievements that arouse envy (462–70). In between, the song offers the beguiling image of a bird flying out of a chasing boy’s reach (393–94) and of the adulterous wife stepping out of her house’s gates (407–8). Then images of images take over, her husband’s visions of the woman who went overseas, in his waking and in his fleeting dreams (414–26). Much more grievous losses are regretted in one of the longest sections of the song dealing with the death of the brave soldiers in battle and the reactions of their longsuffering families who receive their remains and blame the Atreids (429–51).

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The last loss in the song is figurative: in the epode, the chorus retract their certainty about Troy’s capture and express renewed doubts about the trustworthiness of the beacon signal (475–88). This completely unparalleled and unexpected turnaround is very difficult to explain satisfactorily, either in psychological or dramatic terms.74 If one does not wish to believe that Aeschylus made a serious dramatic miscalculation, there remains little to suggest as an explanation but to claim that the turnaround may be linked associatively with the chorus’ pessimistic review of the past, especially the theme of loss and destruction. Clytaemestra’s concern over the behavior of the conquerors in the captured city likely provided a stimulus for w(e)ariness, reminiscent of the chorus’ pessimism at the end of the parodos. Although the elders do not repeat any of Clytaemestra’s concerns, they recall the sorrows and unpaid debts of a long and bloody war undertaken for the sake of an awesomely transgressive woman, and wonder whether even the good news of the capture of Troy will vanish like rumors spread by gullible women. The second stasimon (681–782) focuses on Helen, the extraordinary woman who has never been far from the chorus’ thoughts since the beginning of the play and is named in this song for the first time (688). This is the last extensive and the least controversial review of the past undertaken by the chorus, and to an extent by any character, because neither Cassandra’s visions of Thyestes’ banquet nor Aegisthus’ report of his family’s misfortunes may compare with it. The elders deal with a completed event, and their insights into infatuation, guilt and punishment are much clearer than those found in the other songs. Again, the end of the war, now confirmed beyond any doubt by the messenger, puts the elders in mind of its beginning, but they now reflect on the destruction of Troy and the woman who brought it about. This is the part of the story that, contrary to expectation, had not been included in the first stasimon. The change of focus has a gender aspect, as the first stasimon dealt almost exclusively with the deeds and emotions of men, apart from the memorable glimpse of the departing adulteress and the reference to the terrible consequences of her insufferable deed (403–8). Although the families who received the remains and lamented the loss of their loved ones certainly

74 For thoughtful discussions see Fraenkel (1950) 246–49, and Winnington-Ingram (1983) 210–12. Cf. Conacher (1987) 23–24, and Fletcher (1999). DennistonPage (1957) 113–14 state the problem and the absence of a plausible solution succinctly and clearly. See also Appendix A III.5.

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included women, men and their problems predominated throughout. This obtains for the play in general: in contrast to virtually all the other surviving Aeschylean plays, the sufferings of women, especially aged mothers and young girls, receive almost no emphasis in Agamemnon, with the partial exception of Iphigeneia, who is certainly a special case. The appearance of Cassandra compensates to an extent for the imbalance, but her capacity as an unfortunate seer comes to the fore much more prominently than her capacity as a captive woman, a representative of her fellow Trojan women. It is probably not accidental that the plight of Trojan wives is mentioned briefly only by Clytaemestra (326–27) and in the context of a statement that deals with the misfortunes of all Trojan survivors (326–29). More intriguingly, her claims of her wifely suffering and despair during the war may be thought to capture in a distorting mirror a reflection of the troubles of genuinely worried womenfolk of the Achaean army (858–76, 887–94). Apart from Cassandra and to an extent Iphigeneia, the only prominent women in the play are the formidable sisters Helen and Clytaemestra, and the focus of the second song on the destruction caused by the mesmerizing Helen cannot be dissociated from the upcoming, terrifying performance of her sister from the next episode onwards.

Like the first stasimon, the second one looks not only back to its immediate predecessor but also forward to Agamemnon’s report of the destruction of Troy and its guilty royal family (810–29). Undeniably, the second song may be thought to be more inclusive in its selection of themes than the rest. The initial emphasis on naming, with the probing of the correctness of Helen’s name and the chorus’ first attempt to understand this marvelous being (681–89), brings out the issue of the reliability of linguistic signs. This had already appeared in the herald’s concern not to adulterate the nature of his happy message by mixing it with the report of bad news (636–49) and, earlier, in the chorus’ comment (615–16) on Clytaemestra’s speech to the herald (587–614). This concern will resurface in the chorus’ welcoming address to Agamemnon (783–98) and, much more poignantly, in Clytaemestra’s exaggerated praise of, and assurances to, her husband (895–905; cf. 966–72).75 The end of the song

75 Cf. her claims (1372–73, 1401–4) and the chorus’ reaction after the murder (1399–1400, 1426) as well as the confrontation of Aegisthus and the chorus (1612ff.). Cf. also 1475, 1567. The third stasimon (975–1034) will deal with the inability of the heart and mind to make meaningful and timely utterances. The intelligibility, accuracy, form and meaning of Cassandra’s utterances will also be

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picks up the theme of punishable hubris and justice, now from the perspective not only of wealth and prosperity but also of the counterfeit praise of mortals that accompanies them (773–82). Troy’s wealth and Paris’ related guilt have been much discussed. DennistonPage argue that Paris was a product of his dissolutely wealthy society and that his guilt was fostered by, or mediated through, its corrupt values: caught in this nexus, Paris could not but commit impiety.76 There is no doubt that wealth is stressed throughout the play, most often by the chorus, but not in connection with Troy exclusively or even primarily. More specifically, Troy is never said to be particularly wealthy, and the Trojans are never charged with corruption due to excessive wealth. To take just one indicative case, the famous lion-cub fable (717–36) does not include any reference to wealth. Although the epic tradition did present a rich Troy (Il. 18.288–92, 24.543–46; cf. 17.225–26), the emphasis on wealth in Agamemnon may more plausibly be viewed as an exemplification of a staple lyric theme, transgression and its punishment. The most common reason why men and communities become overconfident and commit impiety to their detriment is prosperity, which normally includes (great) wealth but is not always limited to, or associated with, it. All references to wealth made by the chorus occur in sections of general, gnomic reflections (377–84, 471–74, 763–82). Only by implication and indirectly, then, could the crime of Paris and the destruction of Troy be associated with their wealth. More significantly, the chorus advance the position that wealth per se does not cause hubristic transgression (750–62). The play does not elaborate on the guilt of Paris beyond stating repeatedly that he disgraced his host’s table and offended Zeus Xenios, who justly punished him for his transgression. Speculations whether his guilt may be connected with the Judgment of the goddesses, which is not mentioned or alluded to in the play, or the wealth of Troy, cannot be substantiated.77

In the first stasimon the chorus had pointed out the danger of divine punishment motivated by excessive praise of great achievements such as the capture of cities (468–74). The herald also suggested that Agamemnon

major issues in her scene; see 1074–75, 1078–79, 1093–1109, 1105–6, 1112–13, 1130–35, 1150–55, 1162–63, 1199–1201, 1242–45, 1252–55. 76 Denniston-Page (1957) 102–4. 77 For the guilt of the Trojan community see the discussion below. For Agamemnon’s treading on the purple tapestries in the so-called carpet scene cf. n. 82 below and Appendix A III.6.

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deserved praise (529–32; cf. 580–82), and praise will feature prominently in the rest of the play (783–87, 916–17, 1240–41, 1402–4). Finally, the song’s extensive references to the child-parent relationship (717–36, 750–72), both literal and metaphorical, foregrounds one of the play’s (and the trilogy’s) main concerns, first touched upon in the play in the story of Iphigeneia’s sacrifice (198–247) and last in the chorus’ reference to Orestes’ projected return as an avenger of his father (1646–48, 1667). This multiplicity of themes notwithstanding, the song primarily focuses on Helen at Troy, possibly inspired by the herald’s insistence on the Achaean victory and his consistent wish to downplay the cost and extent of the sacrifices involved (503–37, 551–82). As the chorus’ somber analepses and reflections in the first stasimon may be associated with Clytaemestra’s earlier and sobering projection of punishable impiety on the part of the conquering army at Troy (338–50), the herald’s report inspired thoughts of Troy’s destruction and its agent.78 Helen, whom we last glimpsed stepping, lightly and light-heartedly, out of the Atreid house’s gates (407–8), had come out of her delicate chamber-curtains to sail to Troy, propelled by a strong and favorable wind (690–92). Achingly beautiful and seductively desirable, she was a mesmerizing delight that morphed into a bloody Erinys, bringing tears and laments to the city (737–49; cf. 700–716). The song deals extensively with the infatuation and guilt of the destroyed community. The intolerable affliction of the city mentioned in the first stasimon (395) is now elaborated upon, but the focus is almost exclusively on those who received the enticing, innocent-looking Helen in their family and community. Although the offense against the host table and the punishment it entailed is mentioned (699–706), Paris is named only once in the song, in the imagined lament of the destroyed city and in connection with his marriage to Helen (713). The city shared in the guilt and deserved punishment: it welcomed the radiant and lovable offenders, and the groom’s family sang a wedding-song for the adulterous couple (706–8), which the city now has unlearned and replaced with a dirge, having

78 An implicit charge against Helen as the destroyer not only of Trojans but also of many Greeks, especially in view of the herald’s reluctant revelation of the killer storm (636–73), cannot be ruled out. In view of the impending return of Agamemnon, the brief appearance and deceptive speech of Helen’s sister (587–614) may also be thought to have once more, and with particular urgency, raised the specter of the sisters’ lethally transgressive nature.

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endured pitiful bloodshed (709–16): as already pointed out, the theme of god-driven punishment is shared with the previous song, but the beauty and glitter that infatuates men, families and communities is the major contribution of this song to the chorus’ lament for the human condition. A dirge is also sung by the heart of the chorus (990–94) in the third stasimon (975–1034). As most critics have observed, it is natural, and indeed completely in character, for this chorus to be very apprehensive at this point, after the meeting of the royal couple and especially the false, exaggerated welcome extended by the queen (855–905; cf. 958–74) as well as the so-called carpet-scene (905–57). In contrast to the previous songs, and as may be expected, given the king’s return, the third stasimon focuses on the present and future much more than on past events and crimes, and also foreshadows the direction of the chorus’ subsequent utterances. Nothing in the speeches of the principals in the preceding episode prepares specifically for the single very brief reference to the past in the song, the departure of the fleet for Troy, captured in the suggestive image of the sand flying up with the throwing-in of the mooring cables (984–87).79 Nevertheless, the meeting of the spouses and primarily the towering presence and ominous behavior of Clytaemestra may be thought to remind the elders of the bloody price paid by the father and commander for the departure of the fleet and of the remembering, child-avenging wrath lurking as house-keeper in (the guardian of ) his house (cf. 154–55).80 But no reference to Iphigeneia’s sacrifice is made, and neither of the royal spouses is mentioned.81 This song is arguably the least transparent contribution of the chorus. On the one hand, it incorporates motifs from all previous songs, and not only songs, which will also feature prominently in

79 Agamemnon spoke of Troy’s destruction (810–29), a theme already well represented in the chorus’ previous utterances, and of the behavior of his comrades (832–44), which is of no interest to the chorus, although it served to round off the history of the terrible war. Clytaemestra catalogued at length her alleged sufferings during the war (858–76, 887–94), but it has already become apparent that the chorus will neither sympathize with nor antagonize her. 80 Goldhill (1984) 74–75 follows Fraenkel in associating Agamemnon’s address to his wife (914) with Penelope’s speech to the disguised Odysseus (Od. 19.525–26) but suggests that the context of the Odyssey passage is relevant too, indicating the disloyalty of Clytaemestra through the differences from Penelope; cf. Morrell (1997). 81 For suggested allusions to the sacrifice during the meeting of Clytaemestra and Agamemnon see Appendix A III.6.

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the rest of the play: apart from a sense of impending doom and the fear that something dreadful, obviously retribution for past crimes, will come to pass, the themes of mantic predictions, wealth and misfortune, the impossibility of atoning for slaughter, and the cardinal role of Zeus in regulating human affairs are also touched upon. The arrival at the threshold of the future, as it were, places the chorus in a very difficult position. They cannot foresee or articulate with any degree of clarity what is to come. The royal couple’s words and behavior do not offer any new insights into either past or future. Agamemnon’s walking over the purple embroideries at the insistence of Clytaemestra does not seem to alarm the chorus, as they never mention or allude to it in the song or anywhere else. In the anapaestic interlude after Cassandra’s exit, they will declare that the conqueror of Troy is honored by the gods (θεοτίμητος, 1336) and will contemplate his punishment in retaliation for previous deaths (1337–42), not for walking over precious tapestries. Cassandra also never says anything about or hints at any offense of Agamemnon. Thus Agamemnon’s granting of Clytaemestra’s request is probably not meant to be received as the final disastrous impiety, indicative of the king’s inability to resist improper impulses and his imminent demise as a consequence, although some modern readers, and conceivably some members of the original audience, thought so.82 Be that as it may, reviews of the past cannot help the elders anymore because such reviews only nurture the dark forebodings that now predominate in their heart (and other internal organs). They believe that, in times of adversity, total destruction, imaged

82 See e.g. Denniston-Page (1957) 151–52. Fraenkel (1950) 441–42 suggests that Agamemnon, in awareness of the danger, walks on the embroideries because he is a gentleman unwilling to best a woman and has lost the will to fight and resist. This view has not found much favor, perhaps justifiably. In any case, Fraenkel is reported to have subsequently changed it; see Court (1994) 203 n. 64. Nevertheless, there is no doubt that Agamemnon yields following the exchange about female victory and graceful capitulation of those enjoying prosperity (940–43), presumably as a result of victory. The scene definitely demonstrates Clytaemestra’s mastery of language and persuasion. It possibly also evokes imagistic associations with Iphigeneia’s sacrifice, the shedding of blood, and the ruin of the house, looking forward especially to Agamemnon’s entanglement in the cloth. I will not contribute arguments to the interminable discussion about Agamemnon’s reason(s) for ceding to Clytaemestra and the function of the so-called carpet-scene because I believe that, like the parodos, this part of the play offers very few clues, conceivably on purpose. For a sober review of the proposed suggestions see recently Seidensticker (2009) 232–35.

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as a shipwreck, possibly a reminiscence of the killing storm that destroyed the returning army, may be avoided with cautious sacrifices (1001–17). But when a man’s black blood has been spilt, Zeus does not allow the threshold of death to be crossed back (1018–24). West, who claims that Fraenkel’s interpretation of the passage is incoherent, argues that the verb needed at 1024 is κατένευσεν = ‘consented’ and the harm mentioned should be taken to be Asclepius’ punishment, not Zeus’ motive for stopping his resurrecting the dead.83 The chorus’ point may rather be that resurrections are out of the question for any man. Not even Asclepius, a demigod, and the only one who knew how to raise the dead (1022–23), was allowed by Zeus to practice his craft because it would entail harm. West thinks that Asclepius’ service was harmless. On the contrary, and as becomes obvious from the rest of the stanza, it would entail the greatest upheaval in natural, divinely ordained, boundaries. The reference to harm, though, may also point to Asclepius’ punishment.

The choice to focus on a man’s blood blurs the association with Iphigeneia’s sacrifice, or the many deaths at Troy, let alone with the murder of Thyestes’ children. Despite the intimation it suggests, the image is probably not meant to foreshadow the murder of Agamemnon and much less the revenge of Orestes because the possibility of prediction is rejected. The chorus finish, again in ring composition, by pointing out that their heart cannot accomplish anything timely: divine disposition, which apportions lots, does not allow the heart to usurp the prerogative of the tongue and speak out before it (1025–34). This is the most puzzling part of this difficult song. It has long been pointed out that the referent of the lots is obscure. It has not, to my knowledge, been observed that so is the referent of τάδ(ε), the content of the heart’s revelations, at 1029. It cannot point back to what has just preceded because the chorus have stated their view of the irrevocability of death and Zeus’ role in it quite clearly. It can only refer to what this conviction entails for the present situation. But this does not appear to be what the elders are saying, and this inconcinnity is the linguistic sign of their predicament. Both their tongue and their heart are restrained.84 The

83 West (1990) 209. Lloyd-Jones (1993) 6 = (2005) 171 supports Fraenkel’s view. 84 Burnett (1991) 291 suggests that the roaring heart tries to take over the office of the tongue, but “by definition what is repressed cannot speak, but it can silence the voice of the ego, and so the ode comes to a violent stop.” The heart, though, does not appear to either try to take over or to silence anything.

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former can only speak with certainty post eventum, presumably after the mind has grasped what happened,85 perhaps through the subject’s suffering, and the latter cannot anticipate the former: the mind is ablaze (1034), but no outlet for the fire or the heat can be found because the divine ordinance forbids premature disclosing. This prohibition undoubtedly affects most of this chorus’ magnificent songs, whose contribution to the articulation of the play (and the trilogy) is evident even to a casual audience. The elders, repeatedly contemplating a bloody past and a dark future, which are determined by inexorable divine laws and mediated through disastrous mortal weaknesses, provide much information and food for thought to an attentive audience but no comprehensive picture of either past or future. It is telling that their last song, the most explicit statement of their mantic and narrative amêchania, is studded with terms and images that will come into sharper and terrifying focus in their subsequent exchanges with two much more powerful characters, the prophetess Cassandra and the murderess Clytaemestra: inauspicious mantic song (979 ~ 1140–45, 1150–55, 1173–77), courage (982–83, 993–94 ~ 1298–1302, 1316, 1402–3, 1434–37), proofs and (eye-) witnessing (988–89 ~ 1095, 1184–85, 1194–97, 1317, 1506), the lament of an Erinys (991–92 ~ 1119–20; cf. 1186–93, 1472–74), and especially spilt blood (1018–21 ~ 1092, 1094, 1188–90, 1277–78, 1292–94, 1309–12, 1389–92, 1427–28, 1478–80, 1509–12, 1533–34, 1572–76). The elders’ lot is limited to painful remembrance of parts of the past and somber anticipation of a disquieting future: both epiphanies and initiatives that might lead to decisive interventions are beyond their reach. Only the heart and mind of Cassandra and primarily Clytaemestra can have valid expectations and/or plan in advance. The two women speak in both hidden and straight language, which (are meant to) deceive and

85 This is not stated explicitly in the song, and the issue is not addressed by commentators, but the assumption is plausible in the light of other choral statements, especially the end of the parodos (252–54; cf. 179–81) and the chorus’ reaction to Agamemnon’s cries (1346–71): although they have been forewarned by Cassandra and do not seem to entertain any serious doubts about what is happening in the house and the consequences of the murder, they finish their deliberations with the claim that they should know for sure before they decide on what to do (1366–71). Fraenkel (1950) 642–43 is right that no conclusion or formal agreement is reached but as he admits (644), the last three speakers are in favor of finding out. Their view is not opposed, and the appearance of Clytaemestra (1372) in a way answers their wish for information.

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illuminate men. Cassandra achieves nothing, and she probably does not aim at achieving anything, but her prophecies reach into the remoter past as well as the imminent and the distant future, to Orestes’ revenge, which lies beyond the play’s boundaries. Yet the last word of the play (1672–73), like the last word in her confrontation with the chorus (1567–76), belongs to the formidable Clytaemestra, and harks back to the prologue (34–39; cf. 255–57, 349–50, 674): the house is burdened with horrendous misfortunes, but a hope of arranging things for the best under the circumstances is expressed. Clytaemestra has appeared as the character best able and willing to survey with reasonable competence, although not comprehensively or impartially, at least past and present. She too, though, cannot deal with the future. The last expectations of her fearless heart (cf. 1402) are doomed, in contrast to those attributed to her heart of manly counsel in the prologue (10–11). In her first appearance in the next play of the trilogy (Ch. 668ff.), she will retain her commanding stature and outlook but will not command the same control over reviewing and using the horrors of the past in her defense. She will perish by deception as she killed (Ch. 888).

V. Choephori and Eumenides 1. Clytaemestra the mistress of the house In comparison with Agamemnon, Clytaemestra appears relatively briefly, and quite late, in Choephori. She has a part in only two, although crucial, scenes, the reception of the supposed strangers (668–718) and the debate with Orestes before her death (892–930). As expected, given the brevity of the scenes, the references to the past in them are not extensive. Clytaemestra laments the impact of the terrible curse of the house on her and her own and claims that Orestes’ absence from the blighted house was fortunate (691–99). In her attempt to dissuade Orestes from killing her, she turns to events that preceded her crime (896–98, 908, 918, 920). Her lament obviously harks back to the view of the curse she expressed in Agamemnon (1497–1504, 1567–76, 1659–60), but it is the confrontation with her son that offers the most fertile ground for comparison with her claims to have exacted a justified revenge in the first play of the trilogy. Her bearing in her first scene in Choephori provides significant pointers to her depiction and mode of argumentation in the final and most wrenching debate of her life. When she first appears again at the threshold she had dominated in Agamemnon, Clytaemestra is calm and imposing, obviously the same woman who had stopped the Argive elders and Aegisthus from coming to blows and sent them home, regretting the recent woes and expressing a hope that bloodshed might stop (Ag. 1654–61, 1672–73; cf. 1567–76). She appears as a true mistress of the house, and her first words are about it: the house has everything one normally expects from a good home, i.e. an affluent, well-managed, and hospitable one, including the presence of honest people (668–71).1 But the house has a dark history: when she hears of

1

The choice of comforts to highlight (bath, bed) and the claim about the integrity of the occupants are possibly ironic. See e.g. Goldhill (1984) 164–65, Garvie (1986) 224, Conacher (1987) 119, and Konishi (1990) 178. But it should be kept in mind that Agamemnon was not a guest in his own house, and neither was the war captive slave Cassandra. Besides, except for the masters, all other people in

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Orestes’ supposed death (674–90), she immediately launches on her lament over the terrible curse of the house, which deprives her of friends/loved ones (691–97).2 The house’s expectation of a cure for its frenzied madness is now destroyed (698–99).3 Strictly speaking, this loss does not completely annul Clytaemestra’s earlier hopes of striking a pact with the daemon of the house and ending internecine killings (Ag. 1567–76). On the other hand, the latest misfortune of the house caused by the curse indicates that divine hostility continues undiminished, and this cannot but affect adversely its present masters. Clytaemestra rules over a benighted house (and a community) with festering, and, now even by her own admission, incurable wounds (cf. 841–43). I will return to the community’s situation and view of the queen in a moment. For now, it is important to observe that, despite the latest development, both her position of power in the house and her intellectual power seem to remain unaffected. She does claim that men are in charge of matters requiring deeper deliberation than hospitality (εἰ δ’ ἄλλο πρᾶξαι δεῖ τι βουλιώτερον,/ ἀνδρῶν τόδ’ ἐστὶν ἔργον, οἷς κοινώσομεν, 672–73) but she also announces that she will communicate the news to, and hold deliberations with, the male masters of the house (716–18). Her share in the deliberations must be obvious to the audience.4 Later on, she will also grasp immediately the point of the servant’s riddling reference to the revenge of the dead upon the living (οἲ ’γώ· ξυνῆκα τοὔπος ἐξ αἰνιγμάτων, 887). In Sophocles’ Electra (1479) ξυνῆκα τοὔπος, also following an exclamation and responding to a riddling reference to the dead, is pronounced by Aegisthus. In Choephori Aegisthus’ brief appearance (838–54) points up

2

3

4

the house such as Electra and the loyal servants have not committed or aided and abetted any crime yet. The issue of the sincerity of this lament has been much discussed. See Appendix A IV.1. In my view, not only is the question of sincerity unanswerable, it is moot too because the answer would not seriously affect any reading of the play. Recent editors adopt Portus’ βακχείας κακῆς for M’s βακχίας καλῆς at 698. The revelry may be an echo of the chorus of Erinyes in Cassandra’s prophecy (Ag. 1186–93) and anticipate the appearance of the chorus in Eumenides; cf. Garvie (1986) on 698–99. See Winnington-Ingram (1983) 116, who points out too that βουλιώτερον (672) next to ἀνδρῶν (673) is reminiscent of Clytaemestra’s ἀνδρόβουλον κέαρ (Ag. 11). Another reminiscence may be the open-ended use of εὐβούλως at 696: the word refers to Orestes’ good counsel, obviously in staying away, as Garvie (1986) ad loc. suggests, but it may also point to her own εὐβουλία in sending him away from the wretched house.

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Clytaemestra’s superiority. Aegisthus too is calmer than he was during his confrontation with the chorus in Agamemnon, but his grasp of the situation has not progressed at all. Although he exits voicing his confidence in his perceptive mind (854), he fails to understand anything. Since Orestes had not envisaged telling him anything before striking the deadly blow (571–76), it is not even clear that Aegisthus realizes who his killer is. His statements about the wounds of the house (841–43) and the unreliability of rumors trusted by excitable females (845–46) are mere repetitions of statements made by Clytaemestra (692–99) and the chorus in Agamemnon (276, 475–88; cf. 590–93). Although, ironically, he is right to mistrust the particular messengers, his reasons for doing so are baseless, and he is in any case deceived by women and like the women he denigrates.5 Despite Clytaemestra’s undiminished powers, her control of house, family and community is undercut by the god-driven return of Orestes and the successful deception he practices. In Agamemnon the community, as represented by the chorus, had been hostile to Clytaemestra but especially to Aegisthus, whose bombastic provocations infuriated the elders to the point of explosion. Just before his hateful appearance, the force of Clytaemestra’s arguments had at least been recognized by the chorus (Ag. 1560–61), and a sort of fragile balance between killer and community seemed to be not entirely beyond reach. In Choephori the hostility of the community has grown with the years and the establishment of the hated tyranny of the usurpers (75–83; cf. 789–93, 863–68, 937–45, 961–72, 1044–47). The first characterization of Clytaemestra in the play is the chorus’ “godless woman” (δύσθεος γυνά, 46; cf. 191, 525). Her very children also describe her as hateful and lecherous, a ruthless, killing monster (132–41, 234, 241, 248–49; cf. 420, 491–95, 994–96). The most conspicuous sign of trouble is the event that motivates the entrance of the chorus and Electra. As the chorus explain, before they even mention the godless woman, in the dead of night the dream-prophet of the house screamed a hair-raising message full of rancor from the innermost of the house; the dream-interpreters vowed that it signified the passionate anger of those under the earth toward the killers (32–41). Later, the chorus inform Orestes of the dream in greater detail (523–33). It caused Clytaemestra to wake up screaming in terror and to send libations to Agamemnon’s tomb, expecting a cure for the misfortunes (535–39; cf.

5

Cf. Hester (1995) 36.

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42–46). Orestes interprets the dream as a portent of his mother’s annihilation at his hands (540–50). The action of both Agamemnon and Choephori is motivated by a sign that the sleeping Clytaemestra receives from Agamemnon. In the first play, it is a joyous, hopeful one, bringing light in darkness and fulfillment of hopes and prayers (20–24); Clytaemestra is urged to rise from bed and utter a cry of celebration (25–30); offerings are made to all the gods in gratitude for the good news (87–96, 587–97). The second sign is shuddering, coming from the dark realm of earth demons and screaming at night in the women’s chambers (32–36); Clytaemestra is startled from sleep (535),6 and many lamps are lit for the sake of the mistress (536–37).

2. Clytaemestra the adulteress and victim of matricide Darkness and fear, to the point of despair and eventually madness, are predominant themes in Choephori. It is obvious from the chorus’ statements and their admonitions to Electra and Orestes that the household and community of the dead Agamemnon live in fear of the hateful usurpers (50–59, 75–83, 264–68, 719–20, 872–74). On the other side, Aegisthus’ mistrust of the messengers and his desire for an eyewitness account (844–47, 851–54) reveal his fear of conspiracy and revenge. As suggested above, the powerful Clytaemestra herself is also subject to her emotions, especially to fear, much more than in Agamemnon, where she had denied fear, even if primarily as a means of steeling herself against the chorus’ accusations (1434–37). Generated by the ominous prophetic dream of her snake-child, fear is the emotion stressed in connection with her at the beginning and end of Choephori – φόβος is actually the last word she speaks before her death (929). She also uses repeatedly the same exclamation (οἲ ’γώ) in laments for deaths (691, 887, 893, 928), including her own imminent one. Totally devoid of

6

Perhaps the later call of Aegisthus’ servant to those sleeping inopportunely (881–82) is also not to be taken metaphorically but is meant to indicate that Clytaemestra had retired for the night. If so, she receives another summons of sorts from the dead (886) and is startled from bed, only for another sacrifice to take place (cf. 904); for the sacrificial language see Garvie (1986) ad loc. But it is likelier that the call is metaphorical, although this does not diminish the impact of the announcement of sudden, unsuspected disaster and imminent bloodshed.

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friends (cf. 717), she is now unable to defend herself.7 Aegisthus is dead, and his death elicits Clytaemestra’s only expression of affection for him in the play (893; cf. Ag. 1654).8 This affectionate lament whets the tongue of Orestes (894–95), who is now wielding the killing sword and claiming the moral high ground qua avenger of a slain family member, as his mother had done in the previous play. The son is presented as no mean user of language, and his response to his mother’s emotional utterance sets the tone for the entire crucial exchange that precedes the fateful matricide. The exchange revolves around Clytaemestra’s adultery and the mistreatment of her son that, in his view, the adultery motivated. This of course does not imply that Clytaemestra dies (primarily) because, in an early and defining moment of emotional lack of control, she let slip something that incensed her son. There is no doubt that Orestes would kill her no matter what she said or did, especially after Pylades’ crucial intervention (900–2). Although her address to the dead Aegisthus certainly does not help her case, the framework and consequences of illicit (emotional) attachment that the address and the ensuing debate foreground are of far greater significance. This attachment provides a clue to the solution of the most difficult problem posed by Clytaemestra’s defense, why she does not mention or allude to the event that dominated her exchange with the chorus in Agamemnon (1393ff.), the sacrifice of Iphigeneia. The only conceivable allusion to it may be located in Clytaemestra’s reference to Agamemnon’s “follies” (μάτας, 918), but the choice of a word with pronounced sexual connotations and especially the predominance of adultery in the context as well as Orestes’ dismissive response (920) virtually preclude a reference to Iphigeneia. It is also very unlikely that Clytaemestra alluded to the loss of Iphigeneia in her address to the curse of the house at 694–95 because this would involve a radical shift in her view of

7

8

It is highly improbable that Clytaemestra actually lays hold of the ax she is asking for at 889, or, even if she does, that she has any opportunity of trying to use it. See Taplin (1977) 349, and Garvie (1986) ad loc. Unsurprisingly, the play includes no other expression of affection for Aegisthus. The cries of the servant announcing his death (875–77) may be taken as an expression of distress at the death of a beloved master. More plausibly, given their brevity, context, and especially the hostility of other household servants such as the chorus and the nurse toward Aegisthus, the cries should be interpreted as an expression of fear in the face of an unforeseen event, especially if 883–84 are attributed to the servant.

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Agamemnon’s guilt as articulated in the previous play. If Aeschylus wished to suggest such a shift, he would probably not do so with a passing and obscure allusion.9

Iphigeneia is notoriously mentioned only once, and in passing, in Choephori (242), by her sister Electra, herself not mentioned in Agamemnon. She says that Iphigeneia was pitilessly sacrificed, which may count as a faint echo of the unresolved contradictions that haunt the first play of the trilogy. Nevertheless, Electra’s earlier statements and her immediately preceding deprecation of her mother (240–41) effectively quash any possibility of taking the reference to her sister as partial at least exoneration of her mother’s crime. Agamemnon’s surviving daughter feels sorry for her sister, but the sacrifice does not diminish her respect for her father.10 Clytaemestra’s defense of her crime certainly failed to convince her daughter, although Electra’s view of the situation is determined mainly by her own grievances. The power of the case against Clytaemestra constructed in Choephori stems precisely from the sufferings of its main advocates, her own innocent and victimized surviving children, who are loyal only to their dead father. The (re-)establishment of male/paternal supremacy is a cardinal axis of the play, but this certainly does not explain why Clytaemestra herself does not mention Iphigeneia. Foley, for instance, claims that the play ignores Iphigeneia’s sacrifice, Clytaemestra’s main justification for her act. It also ignores the links between Thyestes’ banquet and Agamemnon’s murder, dismissing Aegisthus as a mere adulterer and highlighting the monstrosity of Clytaemestra’s mariticide.11 On the next page, she suggests that the claims of the female child are ignored and that the chorus mention

9 The only other possible indirect reference to Iphigeneia’s sacrifice in the play may be detected in the nurse’s mention of the old misfortunes of the house (744–46). If it is there, it is also of little dramatic significance, and suggests no ambivalence toward Agamemnon, or sympathy for Clytaemestra. 10 Garvie (1986) on 242 and 255 suggests that the reference to the pitiless sacrifice, the other sacrifices offered by Agamemnon, and the eagle imagery, which recalls the parodos of Agamemnon, hint at his guilt, although this is of little dramatic value in Choephori. Metaphors and images do occur repeatedly throughout the trilogy but they cannot make up for the absence of significant references to Iphigeneia’s sacrifice, especially in Clytaemestra’s defense. 11 Foley (2001) 231.

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three crimes, including Thyestes’ banquet (1065–69), in the paternal line.12 The contradiction concerning Thyestes’ banquet is perhaps to be attributed to confusion between the play and Clytaemestra’s defense because it is only the latter that fails to include any reference to the banquet. Similarly, Aegisthus’ claims are only dismissed by Orestes, who sees Aegisthus as a mere womanish adulterer (304–5, 989–90).13

3. Clytaemestra, Orestes, and Iphigeneia Since Orestes is in a position of power, as a successful deceiver, a determined executioner and especially a rightful avenger, the exchange with his mother is conducted on his terms, and his mother’s defense is constructed in this circumscribed context. Clytaemestra makes an attempt to dissuade a son determined to kill her because she killed his father and fortified in his determination through his resentment of her adultery and her neglect of her children’s rights, especially his own. Orestes is about to conduct an execution, not stage a trial: his mother’s reasons for killing his father, even if he thought that she had some beyond her filthy adulterous passion, are irrelevant to him. He is about to slay her for what she did, when she killed his father and afterwards, indifferent to everything else. In this light, Clytaemestra’s failure to invoke Iphigeneia’s sacrifice should be taken as another manifestation of her argumentative skills, displayed in Agamemnon to great success, rather than a sign of the second play’s different concerns. Undeniably, the past is handled differently in Choephori than in Agamemnon, but the orientation of the second play is indirectly fostered rather

12 Foley (2001) 232. The beginning of Clytaemestra’s address to the curse of the house (692) also probably reminded the audience of her invocation of the family daemon in Agamemnon (1497–1504, 1567–76, 1659–60), although the sequence (693–99) immediately indicates that she laments the impact of the loss of Orestes. Aegisthus’ reference to the internecine wounds of the house (841–43) cannot but be taken to include the banquet, as may the nurse’s reference to the misfortunes of Atreus’ house (744–46). Orestes’ prediction of the third unmixed drink of blood the murderous Erinys will have (577–78) should be viewed as a metaphor for the end of internecine killing rather than as a literal third murder, following those of Thyestes’ children and Agamemnon; see Garvie (1986) on 576–78. 13 The contemptuous attitude toward Aegisthus is another echo of Agamemnon. On the other hand, Agamemnon’s children view both Clytaemestra and Aegisthus as equally responsible and deserving punishment for Agamemnon’s murder, even if their mother’s role looms larger for them. See below.

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than determined by Clytaemestra’s failure to invoke her daughter’s sacrifice. Aeschylus apparently did not wish to have one of his most memorable and eloquent characters argue incompetently, even if he composed a chauvinistic play. He did not have Clytaemestra employ an argument a priori condemned to failure, or invoke a past that the murder of Orestes’ father and especially his own exile and disfranchisement had made virtually irrelevant. In contrast to the chorus of Agamemnon, the character of Orestes whom the audience have become familiar with so far would simply not have been swayed by appeals to the sacrifice of his sister.14 An appeal to Thyestes’ banquet or the curse of the house would also have been singularly inopportune and doomed to failure, since it was inevitably bound to elicit associations with Aegisthus’ claims and the adultery, which the victimized and dispossessed Orestes utterly reviled. Clytaemestra’s main hope of success thus lies in her invocation of her maternal bond with Orestes, and she tries to exploit this bond virtually from the very beginning, immediately following Orestes’ angry response to her misguided lament for Aegisthus. She bares her breast and appeals to her nurturing of Orestes with its nourishing milk, evoking the tender (and, in the context, utterly disarming) image of the baby often drowsing while nursing (896–98). In Greek literature the first appeal to a son with a display of his mother’s bared breast is found in Iliad (22.82–85), although in a different context. Hecuba supplicates Hector to enter the walls of Troy and avoid a confrontation with Achilles by showing the son the breast she offered to soothe his distress when he was an infant.15 It is not clear that

14 It goes without saying that Aeschylus could have presented a change in the attitude of Orestes in the face of the powerful argument of Iphigeneia’s sacrifice. But the playwright nowhere presents such a shift in a character’s viewpoint, either in this or in any other of his surviving plays. Besides, a mention of the sacrifice would probably have extended the exchange considerably. Since Aeschylus stressed Agamemnon’s responsibility for the sacrifice in the first play, it is difficult to imagine how he would have managed to have Orestes dismiss his father’s guilt and the whole issue of his sister’s sacrifice in the space of a line or two, without running the risk of presenting a callous brother and an incompetent debater. But it is implausible that a concern for the size of the exchange or Orestes’ positive portrayal is the main or an important reason for the suppression of the sacrifice. 15 O’Neill (1998) argues that the reminiscence includes the association of Hector with a fierce mountain snake in the subsequent simile (Il. 22.93–96), which bolsters Orestes’ association with the snake in his mother’s dream. O’Neill also suggests that the pursuit of the Erinyes (Eum. 245–53) recalls Achilles’ pursuit of Hector (Il. 22.188–93). But links between Orestes and Hector are undermined

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Aeschylus had this scene in mind, especially since most of archaic poetry has been lost – an intriguing fragment is, for instance, the appeal of Geryon’s mother Callirhoe to her son (Stesich. S13 PMGF ), which includes a reference to the offer of the maternal breast, possibly reminiscent of the Iliadic precedent. Nevertheless, if Aeschylus had mainly Hecuba’s appeal in mind, he modified it in interesting ways. Hecuba (and possibly the Stesichorean Callirhoe) referred to the offer of the breast as a means of soothing a restless infant. In a similar manner, Orestes’ nurse in Choephori had elaborated on an infant’s bodily needs and the caretaker’s pains in looking after a speechless, animal-like being (750–60). Clytaemestra’s appeal evokes two of a baby’s main activities, nursing and sleeping, one melding into the other, which are essential to his growth. This mother, though, does not refer explicitly to offering her breast to (cf. 531), or to soothing, her baby. Instead, she describes the infant as attached to the breast and sucking out its nourishing milk with his gums (897–98). The unusual and striking detail of the gums vivifies the image in a manner not necessarily comforting, especially if one associates it with the jaws of the snake that appeared in Clytaemestra’s dream and whose menacing gaping at her breast Orestes graphically imagined earlier (543–46). Irrespective of such unsettling associations, Clytaemestra nearly succeeds in her attempt to sway Orestes (899), but Pylades’ intervention (900–2) fatally undermines her case. Her attempt to invoke the neutral force of fate (910), since she cannot use the sacrifice of Iphigeneia or Thyestes’ banquet in her defense, also leads up a blind alley. The very last weapon in her fast emptying arsenal, the appeal to parental curses and maternal Erinyes, is intimately connected with the first, and she tries twice to use it, before and after the appeal to fate. Still operating in the context of the physical bond between mother and child, she invokes the respectful debt of a son toward a living mother, the tropheia he owes her for her nurturing of him (908). When this fails, she turns to parental curses, motivated by a child’s abusive behavior (912). Finally, when it has become obvious that Orestes will not relent, she tries to incite his fear of a dead mother’s Erinyes (924). Unfortunately for her, Orestes’ potential attempt to avoid

by the totally different behavior and fate of the two heroes after their mothers’ supplication: if any spectator or reader recalls Hector’s serpentine determination, s/he is bound to recall also its melting before Achilles’ onslaught and the pathetic end of the confrontation.

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the wrath of her Erinyes makes him a sure target of the Erinyes of his dead father (925). As already suggested, it is indicative that more than a third of this highly dramatic confrontation between mother and son, fifteen lines (894–95, 904–7, 913–21) out of thirty-nine (892–930), is devoted mainly to the mother’s adultery and the related charge of the son’s disfranchisement. Apart from Orestes’ hesitation at the sight of the maternal breast (899) and his indignant rejection of the request for tropheia (909), the adultery and his shameful casting out are the only issues that elicit an emotional response involving his own troubles from the matricide-to-be. They are also the only issues open to some negotiation between mother and son, and the only ones debated. Orestes invokes the murder of his father only at the beginning and end of the scene (909, 927, 930). His first response (894–95) to a statement made by his mother (893) and even his first declaration of her indictment (905–7), which includes the first reference to her crime in the scene, are expressions of anger and contempt at her adultery. His hostility is heightened by his conviction that the abuse he suffered at her hands annihilates her claims to his filial piety, as is manifest by his bitter, damning accusations of child-trafficking (913, 915). In Orestes’ view, his mother’s adulterous and unmotherly conduct precludes any show of mercy on his part. As already indicated, no debate about her reasons, or any form of justification, for killing Agamemnon takes place: Clytaemestra’s only attempt to shift the confrontation to Agamemnon’s guilt with an allusion to his infidelities (918) is dismissed by Orestes with an endorsement of conventional morality (919; cf. 921).

4. Orestes and Electra: the fading and reshaping of the past In Choephori the past obviously becomes less grippingly complicated than in Agamemnon, and the defining role of the tangle of conflicting claims will diminish even further in Eumenides. In the second play of the trilogy, Orestes and Electra are motivated to hate and (wish to) kill their mother as much by their father’s murder as by their own troubles, which include their failure to offer the last rites to their dishonored father (7–9, 429–49, 1014–15; cf. 510–11). A proper funeral for Agamemnon had been the chorus’ last concern in the previous play (Ag. 1541–50) and had been answered by Clytaemestra with a scathing and confounding reference to the dead Iphigeneia: there would be no laments from Agamemnon’s living

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relatives, but Iphigeneia would lovingly welcome her father in Hades (Ag. 1551–59). In Choephori Iphigeneia’s surviving siblings, the avengers of their father, see their mother as the killer of their father, not their father as the killer of their sister, let alone as the son of a killer of his brother’s children. A progressive fading of the issues of the remoter past, with a corresponding sharper focusing on the more recent past and the present, is unsurprising in the framework of a tragic trilogy, especially one dealing with internecine crimes committed by successive generations. Members of each generation of a murderous family are very likely to be concerned primarily with the latest crime, specifically with their obligation and desire to avenge it, thereby also restoring their honor and status. Choephori dramatizes the troubles of the surviving children and their efforts to set things aright with the support of sympathizers. A focus on Clytaemestra’s grievances would have had grave dramatic disadvantages: it would have repeated material presented in the previous play and problematized further the troubling act of matricide by obscuring the progress of justice. It should also probably be taken into account that, in the dramatic time of the play, Electra and especially Orestes are much younger than their parents in Agamemnon and suffer because of their father’s death in ways that neither the sacrifice of Iphigeneia nor the murder of Agamemnon entailed for their father and especially their mother.16 It is thus to be expected that the long-suffering children would not only idolize their father but also, and primarily, strive to ameliorate their prospects in life by restoring the old order. Nevertheless, even if one factors in all these considerations, the diminution of the importance of the past in comparison with Agamemnon cannot be disregarded. Not only do not Agamemnon’s murderers, especially Clytaemestra, state their cases but other characters also do not report any of their claims, however briefly, not even to castigate the flimsiness of the

16 Ironically, in Agamemnon Aegisthus says that he had grown up in exile and returned to plot revenge for his siblings’ slaughter (1605–9). The exiled Orestes too returns to take revenge (cf. Ag. 1646–48, 1667, Eum. 462–64). Still, although he may be imagined as younger than Agamemnon, Aegisthus is hardly a youth at the time of his cousin’s murder. Another ironic similarity with Aegisthus (Ag. 1610–11) is Orestes’ declaration of willingness to die after he will have taken his revenge (Ch. 434–38).

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murderers’ excuses.17 On the other hand, the emphasis on Clytaemestra’s adultery, although unsurprising, seems overloaded to the point of distortion. Her children complain bitterly that it was the motive for their mistreatment (132–37, 913–21). They do not openly associate the murder of their father with the adultery, but the constant hammering on it and especially the absence of any reference to other motives suggest that, in their eyes, the adultery may be considered as the only motive for all of Clytaemestra’s crimes. Naturally, the usurpation of the house and throne and the resulting material benefits that accrue to the tyrannical usurpers are also mentioned and deplored (135–37, 237, 252–54, 301–4, 479–82, 974). I will return to Orestes’ dispossession shortly. For now, it should be pointed out that the usurpation mainly benefits Aegisthus, although the children and their friends do not distinguish the members of the guilty couple. Usurpation and tyranny are inextricably linked with the adultery, as a component of the depraved criminals’ behavior, but this is never traced back to the remoter past through any kind of probing into the internecine background of Agamemnon’s murder. Well before the confrontation of Orestes and Clytaemestra, the long first episode (84–584), which includes the great kommos (306–478), indicates quite clearly the failure of the siblings and their friends to consider the past properly. Electra recognizes Orestes in an emotionally charged scene (164–245), and the siblings are reunited after many terrible years, at the tomb of their beloved father, and in the presence of Pylades and trusted house-slaves. In these circumstances they have every opportunity to review and lament past and present and plot for the future. Despite their several references to the past (and the importance of the future), the siblings elide the remoter history of the house, concentrating on the more recent past and the present. The virtual suppression of Iphigeneia’s sacrifice is the clearest sign of, and is matched by, a more general lack of preoccupation with the Trojan war in the play, in contrast to Agamemnon. Orestes refers to the war twice, in the exposition of his personal reasons for the revenge at the end of his speech

17 This might be associated with Cassandra’s failure to report Clytaemestra’s claims to a just revenge in Agamemnon, but the difference between the characters of the two plays is much more substantial than any association: Cassandra stresses the burden of the crimes of the previous generation and does not dwell on Clytaemestra’s adultery; see the discussion in IV 5 above.

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before the kommos (303) and in the kommos itself (345–53). I will discuss the first reference in a moment. The second one, picked up by the chorus (354–62) and Electra (363–71), is a counterfactual wish that his father had died and been buried at Troy, leaving behind enviable glory to his house and children. The sacrifice of Iphigeneia, the many sorrows of the campaign for the sake of Helen (cf. Ag. 427–51), and the bitter irony of being buried in the conquered enemy land (cf. Ag. 452–55) are completely ignored.18 “Orestes naturally thinks of the capture of Troy as a glorious enterprise,” notes Garvie.19 But Orestes’ opinion may be considered natural only because Orestes is presented as he is in the play: it is not ex hypothesi natural for the brother of a girl sacrificed by their own father not to be concerned with the sacrifice and to lionize the glory of a morally ambiguous campaign undertaken at such a bloody price, to the exclusion of everything else. For their part, the chorus expatiate on the beautiful death of Agamemnon’s friends and the concord between them and their commander in life and death, an obvious contrast to Agamemnon’s report of widespread lack of genuine loyalty among his comrades with the exception of Odysseus (Ag. 838–44). Electra rejects the wish for her father’s death at Troy but substitutes it with a more fantastic one for the death of his killers there, realistically of Aegisthus, although he did not even go to the war. Garvie correctly points out that “. . . it would be wrong to look for realism in what is in any case an unreal wish.”20 Counterfactual wishes are a common lament trope, especially in laments for combatants who survived wars only to perish miserably later, without the glory they would have gained as honorable war dead.21 This kommos, though, is not a mere lament: it is also and primarily an appeal to Agamemnon and the chthonic powers for help, and such wishes seem quite out of place in it,22 especially since Agamemnon perished with his daughter’s blood on his hands. The wish for an annulment of the (reworked) past and especially for a benign present underscores the siblings’ limited concern with, and perhaps understanding of, the complex

18 The only other reference to Troy comes at the beginning of the third stasimon (935–36), but the chorus recall only the punishment of the Priamids, suppressing again all mention of the moral ambiguities of the revenge on them. 19 Garvie (1986) on 303. 20 Garvie (1986) on 367–71. 21 See Garvie (1986) on 345–53. 22 Cf. the chorus’ dismissal of Electra’s wish (372–74). For the function of the kommos see n. 27 below.

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background of their problems: nowhere in the kommos or the play is there a wish that Iphigeneia had not died. As already suggested, verisimilitude and dramatic economy make it unlikely for the characters of the second play of a trilogy to expatiate on events that preceded the murder and the other troubles that preoccupy them. After all, even in Agamemnon the chorus’ concern with the moral issues and great losses of the Trojan campaign recedes following the king’s return. But Orestes and Electra are not Argive elders, or even household slaves: it is significant and striking that the sacrifice of Iphigeneia goes virtually unmentioned by her siblings. Besides, the Trojan war could have been suppressed even further in the play, had the playwright merely wished to downplay it in its entirety: the kommos and the third stasimon are not even particularly apt to accommodate references to the glory of Agamemnon and the justice of the campaign he headed respectively. The small number and the specific content and context of the references to the war suggest that the sheer inclusion of these references serve to highlight the characters’ concerns. Orestes’ first reference to Troy brings out more conspicuously than the kommos the strong pull of the present on the (reworked) past. After the detailed exposition of the threats of annihilation that Apollo pronounced to deter Orestes from disobeying the revenge oracle (271–96), the avenger-to-be points out that he also has personal motives for the deed (299–304): “Many desires converge into one, the god’s orders,23 and the great grief for my father, and the pressure of my dispossession, that the citizens, the most glorious of men, captors of Troy with good counsel,24 may not be subject to two women.” It is certainly uncontroversial to believe

23 It is not clear whether these orders (ἐφετμαί, 300) are the same as the threats just recounted or the oracle of matricide per se. The second possibility is easier to reconcile with the mention of “desires” that motivate Orestes to his revenge, although the distinction between oracle and threats is admittedly slim. 24 εὐδόξῳ φρενί (303) does not refer to people’s opinion of the Argive conquerors and is thus not tautological with εὐκλεεστάτους βροτῶν (302) but forms a complex with it. The qualification εὐδόξῳ φρενί describes the advantage that allowed the capture of Troy. The Argives, who gained the greatest glory by capturing the city, acquired this glory with their mind of sound, or gloriously sound, counsel. The excellent planning and valiant execution of the war brought about the overthrow of Troy and the reward, the greatest glory. Apart from the suppression of the moral ambiguities associated with the war, the superlative praise of Argive glory contrasts with the more restrained reference to the glory of the victorious commander that the herald included in his announcement of the victory in Agamemnon (τίεσθαι δ’ ἀξιώτατος βροτῶν/ τῶν νῦν, 531–32). Orestes also suppresses all reference to

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that great glory lives on and to contrast the present outrageous situation of veterans with the glory they acquired in the past. A decent prince and ruler-to-be is certainly also supposed to care for his subjects in general and for honorable veterans in particular. Nevertheless, it is striking that the civic humiliation of the glorious veterans is inserted in, and amalgamated with, the reference to Orestes’ dispossession. Some scholars paraphrase the two as distinct motives.25 The possibility of textual corruption has also been considered.26 This view is based on the conviction that Orestes’ wish to recover his patrimony cannot be the same as, and expressed in an amalgamation with, the desire to end the humiliating subjugation of the glorious veterans to unworthy tyrants. Since the two desires are logically different, textual corruption cannot be ruled out. It is likely, though, that the unusual construction highlights the unusual viewpoint of the speaker. The association between patrimony and kingship notwithstanding, to Orestes (and Electra) the most pressing consideration is the recovery of his patrimony and status. In Orestes’ speech of three dozen lines before the kommos (269–305), even his distress over his father’s fate occupies only three words (πατρὸς πένθος μέγα, 300), in contrast mainly to the threats of Apollo (271–96) but also to the desire to recover his patrimony (301–5), stolen by the incarnation of evil, his adulterous mother and her womanish mate. This of course does not imply that the siblings are indifferent to their father’s fate and care only to punish his murderers in order to benefit from the restoration of the old order. On the contrary, both siblings wish to be pious, even toward their mother (122, 899). Still, their relative indifference to the complex issues of the past, with the exception of their own mistreatment, cannot be denied, and is one of the hallmarks of their difference from their elders, especially their mother, in the previous play.

5. The presence of helpers Turning again to the kommos, the most extensive, and from the audience’s perspective, interesting references to the past it includes involve Agamemnon’s

divine involvement in the capture of Troy until his appeal to Athena in the next play (Eum. 455–58). 25 See e.g. Winnington-Ingram (1983) 138, Court (1994) 221, and Porter (2005) 307. 26 See Winnington-Ingram (1983) 138 n. 20, and Garvie (1986) on 301–2.

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disgraceful burial and mutilation by the tyrannical usurpers (429–33, 439–44). Electra also recounts her forced exclusion and inability to offer proper lament (445–49), and both she and the chorus urge Orestes to remember these outrages and avenge them properly (450–55). On the other hand, the kommos is primarily intended to rouse the ire of the dead Agamemnon and ensure his cooperation and the support of the chthonic powers. Obviously, I side with those who disagree with Lesky and follow Schadewaldt in thinking that the function of the kommos is not to fortify an hesitant and uncommitted Orestes, who has not yet decided to take his revenge, especially to commit the matricide.27 Orestes arrives at Argos fully committed to his revenge: the play offers no basis for assumptions to the effect that without the meeting with his sister and the kommos his revenge would have been jeopardized or compromised. That said, the kommos not only includes information on past abuses but also fosters the reestablishment of Orestes’ connection with his father, which cannot be dismissed as a mere preliminary to the execution of the revenge. The exile had prevented the son from participating in the father’s funeral and honoring his tomb, thereby consolidating the claim to the paternal inheritance.28 Käppel argues at length that the appeal to Agamemnon succeeds much more spectacularly than is apparent at first view and that the results of the kommos are manifest in the way the punishment of the killers unfolds. Orestes’ plans (560–84) prove misguided and ineffectual. The spirit of Agamemnon motivates Clytaemestra to receive the strangers (668–718) and dispatch the nurse on her mission (734–65), which is foiled by the chorus in a move crucial to Orestes’ success (766–73): the women instruct the nurse to tell Aegisthus to come without his bodyguard.29 There is no suggestion in this or other plays that human actions are micromanaged by supernatural agents in such a stiflingly meticulous way. The chorus’ advice to the nurse may have helped Orestes, but it is implausible that the main function of the great kommos would be preparation for a detail whose significance is not stressed by any character. Käppel’s assumption that the presence of Aegisthus’ bodyguards would result in Orestes’ failure is unwarranted. Nowhere in myth or literature, not even in Euripides’ Electra or

27 Lesky (1943); Schadewaldt (1932). For a review of previous literature and discussion of the function of the kommos see Garvie (1986) 123–24, Sier (1988) 68–82, Court (1994) 218–48, and Käppel (1998) 204–32. Cf. Appendix A IV.2. 28 See Foley (2001) 33–34, and cf. Föllinger (2003) 94. 29 Käppel (1998) 215–32.

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Orestes, do Orestes’ plans fail because of the presence of his victims’ armed followers. Even if one accepted that the chorus’ advice to the nurse was the crucial factor in Orestes’ success, again Clytaemestra’s reception of the strangers cannot have been motivated by the spirit of Agamemnon: since Aegisthus was not at home, she was bound to be the receiving hostess herself. Agamemnon’s spirit would then have to be considered responsible for the absence of Aegisthus, who may have left before the kommos. But such speculations are, to say the least, unprofitable. The dream of Clytaemestra is also unlikely to be the chthonic powers’ means of bringing about the revenge for the murder of Agamemnon. On this view, the chthonic powers brought about the meeting of the siblings at the tomb and the offering of the libations for a purpose that contradicted the sender’s intentions.30 Käppel claims that Agamemnon’s spirit sent Clytaemestra the dream,31 but such an occurrence would be unparalleled in Greek (and Roman) literature: the dead may only be thought to send or cause dreams in which they appear, and usually speak, themselves, although in such cases too the ultimate authority are probably gods.32 It is also strange to assume that the underworld powers, already intent on destroying Clytaemestra imminently, motivated her to take action that would result in her emissaries’ offerings and appeal to them to destroy her imminently. Finally, unlike Euripides’ Electra, for instance, Choephori does not suggest or imply that Orestes needed his sister’s assistance in the execution of his revenge or his deceit, as argued above. Clytaemestra’s dream is symbolic-prophetic and creates an effect of pervasive, fearful gloom and imminent doom. It is part of the punishment of Clytaemestra and motivates the meeting of the siblings, which is important for various reasons but not in connection with the execution of their mother’s punishment.

There is no indication that Orestes and Electra depend entirely on supernatural forces or, to put it crudely, are mere puppets of the gods, in contrast to their elders. On the other hand, although divine forces are prominently involved in the events dramatized and evoked in Agamemnon, Choephori lends divine involvement in human affairs a renewed force and urgency. Not only is the second play smaller and more sharply focused, its characters are also intimately associated with the divine. Orestes, who delivers the initial prayer for assistance (1–5, 18–19), returns home to fulfill Apollo’s oracle. Both Olympian and chthonic powers wish for Orestes to take revenge and

30 See Garvie (1986) 54, and Käppel (1998) 201–4. 31 Käppel (1998) 203 and passim. 32 Cf. Walde (2001) 442.

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are ready to punish him if he does not.33 Electra and the chorus arrive at the tomb to pour libations to Agamemnon at the behest of Clytaemestra, who herself had received an ominous message from the dead in the form of a terrifying dream (22–163). The conspiracy to kill the usurpers (246–584), which takes place onstage, includes the great kommos (306–478). The prominence of divine involvement in Choephori notwithstanding, the main difference between the principals of the first two plays of the trilogy is not to be found in their different relationship to the divine but in their self-perception and the choruses’ perception of them. It does not do justice to the complexity of Agamemnon to see Clytaemestra and, to a lesser extent, Agamemnon as completely free agents who decide upon and execute their crimes with the gods as helpers. Clytaemestra at least may plausibly be viewed as an agent of divine forces. Even Aegisthus is not radically different, despite his moral pettiness and material acquisitiveness. None of them, though, declares that s/he had received divine orders or is/ feels threatened with heavy punishment in case of non-compliance. There is no (need of a) bracing reminder of divine mandates just before the killings, and all three agents are perceived by the chorus as fully responsible for their actions. Orestes is also never said to have been forced, or otherwise bound, to kill his father’s murderers,34 but the force of, and threats in, Apollo’s mandate practically eliminate the possibility of disobedience, especially given the presence of the vigilant Pylades. Electra and Orestes are always accompanied by friends and seeking their support as well as that of divine forces benevolent to their cause, although they harbor righteous claims to revenge, which are (viewed as) less controversial than their mother’s, the horrible prospect of matricide notwithstanding.35 The prominence and

33 See Winnington-Ingram (1983) 136, and Garvie (1986) xxxi–xxxiii, with discussion of earlier literature. 34 The horror of matricide and the (modern) focus on it, to a large extent thematically determined by the trilogy, tend to obscure the fact that Orestes’ plan involves both Aegisthus and Clytaemestra. At least before he kills Aegisthus, the challenge, the bracing, and even the appeal to the dead Agamemnon definitely include Aegisthus. The threats of Apollo also did not target the son’s potential reluctance to kill his mother only. 35 Porter (2005) makes a convincing case concerning the progressive diminution of human stature and initiative and indeed the capacity for individual greatness in the trilogy. This diminution is effected through the establishment of a new, cooperative or democratic society, based on, and defined by, vertical and horizontal cooperation.

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constant presence of these friendly helpers seem to foster the siblings’ unwillingness or inability, already noted above, to review comprehensively the past of their family. Most remarkably, and certainly not accidentally, nowhere in the play do the siblings indicate their awareness that this past includes a succession of internecine crimes.

6. The chorus: talio and memory Since Clytaemestra and, especially, Aegisthus have small and circumscribed roles in Choephori, the siblings’ singular failure to take stock of the bloody history of their house may only be rivaled by the chorus’ indifference to it. Following the choral contributions of the Argive elders and their constant probing of the past in Agamemnon, this choice is most probably meant to be significant and noticed by the audience. To be sure, the theme of retributive justice is very prominent in the slave-women’s utterances. This prominence forms a strong link to Agamemnon, but the association has the effect of underscoring rather than blurring the difference between the two plays: instead of surveying the internecine history of the house, the slave-women focus exclusively on Clytaemestra’s crime and Orestes’ revenge, just as the siblings do. What is more significant, only at the very end, following the murders and especially Orestes’ descent into delusions from the attack of the Erinyes, do the chorus raise the possibility that Orestes will suffer in his turn (1073–76).36 For the rest, the women hope, pray and express unshakeable confidence that Orestes’ revenge will have no adverse consequences, for him, the house, the city, or all of them: the murder of the usurpers is the great, god-willed victory of the fated avenger, which cleanses the pollution and restores the fortunes of the benighted house, liberates the city, and reestablishes the rightful heir and ruler to his ancestral privileges.

36 The only other allusions to future doom for Orestes are the two brief comments (1009, 1018–20) in response to his speeches after the matricide, of which the second follows Orestes’ own admission of pollution and distress (1016–17). Besides, both statements apply to Clytaemestra as well as Orestes and of course all criminals. Before the onslaught of the Erinyes, and despite Clytaemestra’s threatening warning (924), there is nothing approximating the certainty of the chorus of Agamemnon that the latest murder will cause further bloodshed in the house. For the end of the kommos see below.

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The chorus have been thought to reflect on, and express distress over, the curse of the house at the end of the kommos (466–75):37 after all the eager encouragement they have offered to both siblings and especially to Orestes, when the appeal to the dead is finally drawing to a close, and Orestes has declared his resolve to kill his mother (434–38), the women seem to lose their nerve and switch to lament for the crimes of the house and pessimistic foreboding of future trouble. This view of the end of the kommos cannot be substantiated by the rest of it and especially by the statement (463–65) preceding the last strophic pair and the anapaests concluding the entire kommos (476–78). In the context of the appeal to the dead Agamemnon and the repeated references to his humiliating manner of death and burial, the lament over the stroke of atê and the unceasing pain of the house in the last strophe (466–70) most likely involves primarily these highly regrettable events. The chorus offer a last lament over the unavenged horror still defiling the house and proceed to a declaration that these festering wounds inflicted within the family can only be cured from within the house (471–75). This is the hymn of the underworld gods (475) and retributive justice, whose invocation causes shuddering (463) because of the bloody strife it involves (474). Still, long-awaited revenge is fated (464), and the chorus contemplate its arrival and pray for the victory of the children with the aid of the underworld gods (465, 476–78). Even if the coming matricide is lamented, and this is a big if because the matricide was unambiguously mentioned only once in the kommos (434–38; cf. 385), amid repeated subsequent references to the killing of both enemies, this does not constitute a shift in the chorus’ attitude. Orestes’ task is very difficult, and that is the reason why the chorus will address the absent man directly in the second stasimon and try to offer encouragement by urging him to be a new Perseus (826–37).

37 See e.g. Sier (1988) 90, who also points out that the association of Orestes’ revenge with the curse of the house is nowhere else to be found in the kommos. The chorus’ earlier response (410–17) to Orestes’ anguished appeal to the underworld powers and his expression of perplexity (405–9) is the only a sign of weakness on their part in the kommos, but it is transient and may also be viewed as calculated to stimulate Orestes to action. The text of the last part of the chorus’ response (415–17) is damaged, but the women mention confidence (415) and lack of distress (416), a possible encouragement to Orestes to behave accordingly.

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West suggests that Apollo was mentioned at the corrupt end of the song, where the chorus reassure Orestes that the god’s mandates guarantee his immunity: “a death exempt from blame by Apollo” (ἀναίτιον δ’/ ἐξ Ἀπόλλωνος μόρον, 836–37). West also thinks that the reference to Apollo contains a hint of future trouble because other gods might find Orestes guilty.38 It is implausible that the chorus, who have not been told of, and have never suggested, anything similar before, would make a weighty statement that would preempt in a rather perfunctory manner Orestes’ announcement of Apollo’s promise of immunity to him (1029–32). There has also been no hint of opposition between Apollo and other gods such as the Erinyes so far. All gods have been invoked before and are believed to favor Orestes: it would be dramatically inelegant and virtually ruinous if, at a climactic moment, the chorus undermined their appeals with a limiting qualification, nor is there any reason to assume unconscious undermining on their part.

Whether the matricide is deplored or not, and in my view it is not, there is certainly no allusion to crimes preceding Agamemnon’s murder at the end of the kommos. As already suggested, no character refers openly to Thyestes’ banquet before the very end of the play.39 The detection of a reference to the curse of the house in the kommos is the result of excessive scholarly eagerness for such a reference. It would be out of character for this chorus in general and for their stance at this moment in particular to qualify their statements with a prediction of their champion’s fated

38 West (1990) 256–57. 39 Other passages that might be thought to refer to the chain of family murders are the end of the first stasimon (649–52), and the appeal to the household gods in the second (800–6). But the context of both clearly suggests that they point to Agamemnon’s murder and its punishment. The image of child-birth and the possible allusion to Clytaemestra’s name (τέκνον δ’ ἐπεισφέρει δόμοις/ αἱμάτων παλαιτέρων/ τίνει μύσος χρόνῳ κλυτὰ/ βυσσόφρων Ἐρινύς, 649–52) effectively limit the references to Orestes’ revenge, as does the prayer to the gods in the house for punishment of the old murder with fresh blood (τῶν πάλαι πεπραγμένων/ λύσασθ’ αἷμα προσφάτοις δίκαις, 804–5) and for an end to the cycle of blood (γέρων φόνος μηκέτ’ ἐν δόμοις τέκοι, 806). For the first stasimon cf. the discussion below. The violation of the sanctity of marriage in adultery mentioned in the parodos (71) may be an allusion to the disastrous adulterous liaisons that preceded that of Clytaemestra and Aegisthus, but the reference may be to a violation of virginity. In any case, the allusion is very brief, there is certainly no suggestion of a family curse, and the emphasis of the stanza (71–74) is on retribution for murder, not adultery.

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punishment according to the law of retaliation. Even if Aeschylus cared little for consistency in the chorus’ or any character’s views and emotional attitude, it would be unbecoming of an author of even modest competence to have his characters fall in flagrant contradictions in the space of a couple of lines, especially when such an extravagant choice serves no dramatic purpose. But the text of the kommos leaves little doubt that Aeschylus did not make such a choice. Much more than in the kommos, the absence of any explicit reference to the crimes of the house is noteworthy in the first stasimon (585–652), the chorus’ first song alone onstage and their most reflective contribution in the play. It is unlikely that Orestes and Pylades stay on during the song.40 In one of the staging notes accompanying his translation, Battezzato makes much of the baggage mentioned at 560 and 675, arguing that its presence onstage from the beginning would be awkward, and an exit of Pylades and Orestes for the sole purpose of bringing it would be unmotivated because they are already in front of the house door.41 A satisfactory answer to such concerns has to involve the staging of the play as a whole. Without entering into details that exceed the scope of my discussion, I believe that tomb and house are at some distance from each other, and the chorus’ instant move from the former to the latter entails some breach of verisimilitude. If Orestes and Pylades carry anything, which is far from certain and not even naturalistically necessary, then they may very well have exited to fetch it at 584. At the beginning of the play, they are visiting the tomb, not the house, and may have left or hidden the baggage out of the audience’s view, as the conspirators have hidden the urn in Sophocles’ Electra (54–55). It is much more implausible to assume that Orestes and Pylades stay on during the song and delay their attempt to enter until its end, especially if the song is performed in front of the house. Such an assumption involves a much greater breach of verisimilitude, which would serve no dramatic purpose. Even if the song is thought to be performed at the tomb, there is no reason for Orestes and Pylades to dally further.

Following the emotional reunion of the siblings and the rousing appeal to the powers of the underworld in the kommos, the stasimon reflects a calmer mood and includes no direct prayer to gods for help in the revenge, although it ends with the prediction of the imminent triumph of retributive

40 See Taplin (1977) 338. 41 Battezzato (1995) 426 n. 116.

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justice (646–52). For the first and last time in the play, the song broadens the scope of reflection on Clytaemestra’s crime and its imminent punishment by associating them with previous internecine crimes. These, though, are not the internecine crimes that preceded Agamemnon’s murder but crimes committed by mythological heroines (603–22, 631–38).42 Despite the song’s early reference to male excessive boldness of spirit (594–95), male crimes are completely ignored, and the rest of the song is devoted to female transgressions,43 until the reference to Orestes’ imminent revenge at the end, which is of course presented as just punishment for Clytaemestra’s crime (649–52). Undoubtedly, the references to the remote past may be, and have indeed been, thought to point also to the older crimes within the house.44 Nevertheless, it is important that no explicit mention of, or clear allusion to, these crimes is found in the song, although at the very least Aerope’s adultery, the “initial transgression” (πρώταρχον ἄτην, Ag. 1192), could easily have been alluded to. Consistent glossing over of (a portion of ) the past is remarkable in any tragic context but conspicuously so when undertaken by the chorus of a play such as Choephori, the second in a tragic trilogy dealing with (the justification of ) past crimes and their eventual punishment. The mature women of the chorus belong to the family and live in the troubled house, are loyal to Agamemnon and his children, and are certainly aware of the family’s history. Despite their servile status and non-Argive origin, they are intimately involved in the action.45 Throughout the play, they project a very powerful persona: not only does a timid and perplexed Electra seek and receive their advice (84–123) but the women also constantly encourage and support both siblings, participate in the conspiracy, instruct the

42 Garvie (1986) 202 points out that the song is the first surviving tragic, and the only surviving Aeschylean, example of a very substantial mythological catalogue. 43 For the Lemnian crime mentioned as the last mythological example (631–38) see Appendix A IV.3. 44 See e.g. Lebeck (1967), and Taplin (1977) 342. For the end of the stasimon (649–52) cf. n. 39 above. 45 Rosenmeyer (1982) 65 observes that the women are left alone onstage much more often than other Aeschylean choruses. But the common entry with Electra, the kommos, and the general identification of their views with those of the siblings dim this distinction.

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nurse to deceive Aegisthus (770–73), and function as representatives of the Argive people after the murders.46 The difference from the chorus of Agamemnon is obvious. Although the Argive elders are very sympathetic to Agamemnon and disturbed by the goings-on in the house during his absence, they have an ambivalent attitude toward the king, both as father and as commander of a dubiously motivated war, at least before his return. A complex but partial picture of the past and a terrible anxiety about the future are articulated in their elaborate and somber songs. Outwitted and outperformed by the brilliant and terrifying Clytaemestra, the elders know and understand much, although they are not determined enough to intervene. Still, they try to warn the herald and Agamemnon and refuse to condone the murder of the king, or to bow to Aegisthus. Most significantly, they are fully aware that the future is determined by the long series of past transgressions and conflicting claims to justice. The chorus of proactive slave-women in Choephori never question either Agamemnon’s actions or Orestes’ matricide. As already suggested, they do not contemplate the possibility that the chain of murders may continue beyond Orestes’ revenge and never refer openly to such a chain until the very end, when they mention Thyestes’ children but not

46 For Electra’s dependence on the chorus see Appendix A IV.2. McCall (1990) 17–30 makes a compelling case for the forcefulness of the choral persona in the play. He argues for the women’s non-Trojan origin and points out that Aeschylus’ paradoxical choice of dominant female slaves is inscribed in the trilogy’s representation of multiple and unsettling inversions. He also detects a progress in the choice of choruses, from the feeble and vacillating elders of Agamemnon to the divine Erinyes of Eumenides. For the difference of the chorus of Choephori from the chorus of Agamemnon see, though, the discussion below. Föllinger (2003) 127–28 suggests that the choice of a chorus of war captives loyal to Agamemnon is meant to increase audience sympathy with the dead king and point up the disfranchisement of his children, who can rely only on the foreigner Pylades and people of low social status for loyalty and support. The city’s hostility to the usurpers and the chorus’ apparent function as its representatives weaken the second claim: the siblings do not establish contact with, or rely on, any citizen because of the nature of their revenge plan, not because of the absence of potential supporters among the citizens. Although the people of Argos fear the ruling couple, there is no indication that they would not support the siblings. It is also unlikely that Aeschylus would consider his slave-women’s view of Agamemnon so dramatically crucial as to make a group of them the play’s chorus if there were no other reasons for the choice: the attitude of the household slaves could become obvious in the speech of the nurse, who is given an important scene and role.

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Iphigeneia. Aeschylus presents a strong, supportive and involved chorus but gives them a short memory. Clytaemestra, now living with her lover, her fellow conspirator and usurper, killed her husband, dishonored his body, and abused their children. This is an indictment as powerful as can be pronounced against a wife and mother, and there is no doubt that she fully deserves to die, condemned by humans and gods alike. It is not the whole story, though, and certainly not the story told in Agamemnon, in which various narratives of the past cast long shadows on the present and future. In Choephori, the past, its memory and shadow become less complicated and fade considerably. As pointed out earlier, the third play of the trilogy takes this blurring much further.

7. Eumenides: feuding gods onstage Eumenides deals with the punishment of crime, as do its companion plays, but is very different from them, and not only in its outcome. Most remarkably, the only speaking mortal character with a substantial part and involvement in the action is Orestes. The other speaking mortals are the Pythia, who opens the play (1–63), the secondary chorus of the female temple servants of Athena, who close it (1032–47), and (the ghost of the dead) Clytaemestra (94–139).47 The part of the temple servants is very short and contributes little to the play’s articulation. The speech of the Pythia has some similarities to the prologue speeches of Agamemnon and Choephori. It provides standard information such as dramatic setting (3–4, 11), expounds the speaker’s situation, and is followed by an intriguing occurrence that signifies change and sets the play in motion. Nevertheless, the difference of the Pythia from the prologue speakers in the companion plays is obvious. She is ignorant even of the identity of the temple visitors (39–59) and has nothing to do with them. Not only Orestes in Choephori but also the watchman in Agamemnon is more directly involved in the troubles of the Atreid house. Also in contrast to the companion plays, the Pythia is not the only speaking character that appears before the parodos.

Gods dominate the play from beginning to end and are concerned primarily with their prerogatives and place in the divine pecking order and secondarily with Orestes’ troubles. The matricide’s fortunes, his condem-

47 For the import of her appearance see the discussion in 11 below.

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nation and destruction or acquittal and restitution, are not only in the hands of these gods but also fought over by them in an arena of fierce competition for honors and supremacy. Even after Orestes’ acquittal, Athena and the Erinyes continue to disagree, threaten each other, and negotiate for the preservation and allocation of prerogatives. Although divine involvement in human affairs was substantial and consistently recognized in the companion plays, the gods were both invisible and united. It is true that the split between Apollo (and, by implication, Zeus, the guarantor of his son’s oracles [cf. Eum. 19, 616–18, 713]) and the Erinyes seems to become apparent at the end of Choephori (1029–32; cf. Eum. 797–99), when Apollo’s promise to Orestes that he would evade punishment for the matricide is first stated explicitly. But apart from the fact that the promise is mentioned before the onslaught of the Erinyes at the end, the division between the gods is only implicit, and the manner of its subsequent development left unclear. The chorus say that Orestes will be purified only by the liberating touch of Apollo (1059–60), which implies that this purification will be enough to save Orestes from the maddening and deadly persecution of the Erinyes. The attitude of the Erinyes to the prospect of Orestes’ purification and deliverance is not broached. In the last play of the trilogy, the Erinyes and their divine opponents appear and feud onstage as rival champions of the old and new divine order. The final reconciliation of the “old” and “young” gods, the establishment of a new cult, and the presentation of Athens as a community forever reaping the benefits of piety and solid, divinely sanctioned institutions obviously provide dramatic closure. The trilogy ends with the (re) establishment of order on both the divine and the human level. Yet discovering a satisfactory explanation or a religiously cogent reason for the initial divine split in Eumenides, especially in view of the absence of such division in the companion plays, is problematic. Sommerstein suggests that Zeus and the gods evolve according to the law of learning through suffering, which eventually overrides the law dictating that the doer must suffer, and appear as conscious of, and obliged to honor, their responsibilities toward mortals. Zeus eventually realizes that his championing of the law of retaliation would entail the ruin of innocent communities such as Argos after Orestes’ matricide and Athens after his acquittal.48 It is not very plausible, and certainly not indicated anywhere, that

48 Sommerstein (1989) 22–25.

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Orestes’ matricide and his punishment by the Erinyes would entail danger for Argos, or that Zeus would care even if they did. Argos would not necessarily be thrown in a state of destructive lawlessness or anarchy if Orestes perished. Besides, the Argive community is not necessarily less culpable than, for instance, the Trojans: the Argives could have condemned Atreus, Agamemnon, or his killers to exile or death as certainly as the Trojans should have banished Paris. In a similar vein, Athens would not have been endangered if the law of retaliation had been observed without deviation. Podlecki thinks that the play projects an image of justice that is imperfect but the only one possible if life is to go on, and human communities are to acquire conflict-resolution mechanisms that ensure some kind of civic, divinely protected harmony.49 The new system of justice is certainly less harsh on human communities, but talio did not represent a mortal danger to the human race, and the younger gods did not have to foster a new order. It is probably better to content oneself with the view that Aeschylus did not (care to) present a divine order absolutely free of inconsistency throughout the trilogy. Doers must suffer, but some such as Atreus escape personal retribution, although their descendants are punished, for reasons that are never even broached, let alone made clear, in the trilogy. Others such as Menelaus and especially Orestes suffer trials and tribulations but also escape capital punishment, and their descendants will escape suffering altogether: some gods, for their own reasons such as the promotion of their position in the divine order, the preservation of favorite individuals and families, or the enhancement of the status of beloved communities, apparently deem that it should be so, and are able to overpower and mollify their dissenting colleagues.50

8. The old vs. the new divine order: past and present The dominance and rivalry of the gods foster, and account for, the play’s persistent lack of concern with the past, more specifically with the motives of human actions versus the actions per se, and primarily versus the status

49 Podlecki (1989) 50. 50 It is also perhaps not accidental that Orestes’ acquittal takes place in a context in which, conveniently, there is no descendant of his victims, who would be eager to pursue talio in the future. For the Erinyes’ acceptance of a trial see the discussion in the next section.

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and gender of the human agents. Although Orestes is the sole defendant, Clytaemestra too seems to be on trial. Yet the merits of the respective cases are suppressed in favor of the relationship and different status of perpetrators and victims as well as the amoral, if not prejudicial, relationship of divine champions to their mortal protégés. In this framework, the causal matrix that emerged from the complex interface of past, present and future in the companion plays, especially Agamemnon, now becomes a strict, quite unexpected and unexamined polarity: the doer must suffer, or escape. By definition, mortals, often found in a state of uncertainty and perplexity about human affairs and divine will, are much more likely than gods to revisit the past for clues, guidance and justification. Nevertheless, at first blush, the gods’ indifference toward the past in Eumenides is quite surprising because their division is articulated along temporal and generational lines.51 The Erinyes stress their seniority and the insolence of the younger gods: confident in their connection with their father Zeus (229; cf. 826–29), these gods transgress moral/religious laws such as ritual purity and undercut the ancient and august prerogatives of the older goddesses.52 The Erinyes do not explain why they accept Athena’s jurisdiction and agree to subject their persecution of Orestes, in other words the exercise of their prerogative, to the verdict of a court. Käppel suggests that they do not realize that they hand over their prerogative to Athena, charmed by her respectful bearing toward them, which contrasts with Apollo’s contemptuous behavior.53 There is no indication of inadvertent forsaking in the text. It is more plausible that the Erinyes need to accept Athena’s authority if they hope to punish Orestes. Given the split between older and younger, or chthonic and Olympian, gods, Orestes is subject to two conflicting divine jurisdictions. For all their blustering (174–78, 225, 230–31, 255–75, 299–306), the Erinyes are in no position to neutralize the younger gods’ protection of Orestes and

51 For the cardinal role of temporal coordinates in the play see recently Revermann (2008). 52 See 149–54, 162–78, 227–31, 321–27, 778–93 = 808–23, 837–47 = 870–80; cf. 490–565, 723–24, 727–28, 731. In comparison to the Erinyes, Zeus himself also belongs to the younger divine generation, although his junior status remains largely implicit and is somewhat obscured by the presence of his children onstage. The Erinyes stress his mistreatment of his father Cronus, significantly described as “elderly” (πρεσβύτην, 641), probably already feeble like an old man at the time Zeus attacked and incarcerated him. For this misleading claim see Sommerstein (1989) ad loc. Cf. the discussion below. 53 Käppel (1998) 258–61.

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destroy him, as Apollo had made quite clear to them before they left Delphi (224, 226, 232). Of course, Athena’s stance and authority facilitate their acceptance of a trial, but the fact remains that they need to accept it if they are to exercise their prerogative.

The Erinyes and Apollo invoke specific past events in order to bolster their case in the trial.54 The goddesses try to counter Apollo’s testimony that the matricide oracle he delivered to Orestes was backed by the full authority of his father Zeus, like all Delphic oracles (616–18). They object that Zeus cannot logically support a father’s rights over a mother’s because he himself had little regard for his own elderly father Cronus (640–43). The Erinyes also bring up Apollo’s transgressive behavior in the house of Pheres (723–24): the god deferred the day of death for Pheres’ son Admetus, who received license to escape his appointed demise through the services of a volunteer willing to die in his place. The ruthless and disrespectful Apollo inebriated and tricked the Moirai, another group of ancient goddesses (727–28). For his part, Apollo rejects the Erinyes’ accusation that his oracular shrine has been defiled by the presence of, and his support for, the polluted matricide Orestes (715–16; cf. 162–73, 204): he invokes his father Zeus’ purification of Ixion as a precedent for the benevolent and non-polluting reception of a kin murderer (717–18).55 The gods’ invocation of the past notwithstanding, there is no disregarding the fact that their references to it are not only fewer than but also qualitatively different from those in Agamemnon and Choephori. The actions of the gods and their consequences are not as temporally confined as those of humans. Thus, for instance, Cronus has been, and will continue being, incarcerated for an indefinite period of time; Apollo’s disrespect toward the members of the older divine generation was perhaps initiated but certainly did not end with his deception of the Moirai at Pheres’ house, at least according to the Erinyes. What is far more significant, the impact of the mention of those few past incidents cannot begin to compare with that of the invocations of the

54 It is perhaps ironic that the first flashback on the past of various divinities, which occurs early on, does not prepare for the bitter divisions among the gods that will inform the play: already in the prologue, the Pythia reviews the peaceful transition of power in the Delphic oracle and important episodes in the life story of its divine occupants (1–19) and Dionysus (24–26), another major divine presence at Delphi. 55 Athena also refers to Ixion as a precedent for Orestes’ supplication (441) and, implicitly, for her willingness to receive him and hear his case; cf. the discussion with n. 65 below.

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past in the companion plays, such as Clytaemestra’s references to Iphigeneia in Agamemnon (1521–29, 1555–59; cf. 1414–20, 1432–33) and the children’s accusations of their mother in Choephori (132–37, 190–91, 240–41, 418–22, 429–43, 991–1006; cf. 913–21). Like most arguments in the divine conflict, especially those advanced in the trial, the succinct appeals to the past are poorly chosen because of their limited relevance and their vulnerability to rebuttal. I will return to the trial arguments in a moment. For now, Zeus’ mistreatment of Cronus hardly proves that he would not favor Orestes’ matricide since there is no connection between Zeus’ and Orestes’ attitude and obligation toward their fathers. Similarly, Apollo’s rhetorical question about Zeus’ benevolent reception of the suppliant Ixion (717–18) may be thought to backfire: Ixion went on to impiously aspire to Hera’s bed (Diod. 4.69.3–4, sch. Pi. P. 2.40, sch. AR 3.62), and thus Zeus could easily be thought to have made a mistake. The Erinyes do not exploit this potentially destructive weakness in Apollo’s argument, as Apollo does not point out the difference between Zeus and Orestes. Admittedly, Ixion’s impious folly is not mentioned in the play, and one may assume that it should be ignored, although Ixion was one of the great legendary sinners of myth. But his outrage is not denied in the play either, as is, for instance, the violent transition of power at Delphi (1–19), and some members of the audience are likely to have recalled it. In any case, the weakness of the arguments and a failure to rebut them adequately are indicative of the overall tenor of the divine conflict in general and the gods’ references to the past in particular. The latter are used mainly as rhetorical artifices rather than as means of arguing a case and refuting opposing claims. It is telling that Apollo’s reference to Ixion and the Erinyes’ censure of his past dealings with the Moirai occur after the end of the arguments, when the presiding magistrate Athena has already called on the jurors to cast their ballots (708–10). After delivering threatening warnings to the jurors (711–14; cf. 719–20), prosecution and defense continue to spar, presumably as voting is taking place, but their hyperbolic taunts (716, 724) or insults (721–22, 729–30) can hardly prove anything, and there is no indication that they influence the outcome of the trial in any significant way.

9. Prosecution and defense: the arguments As pointed out above, the relative indifference of prosecution and defense toward the facts and their concentration on the morality and status of the adversaries and their friends, reminiscent of many an Athenian pleader’s

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way of handling a case, had already become obvious in the arguments that preceded the jurors’ voting. The position of the plaintiffs is the most forcefully articulated, perhaps as befits their awesome presence (46–59, 410–12). Although the Erinyes undergo a change at the end,56 they are very consistent until then. From early on, they repeat emphatically that they have been allotted by fate and divine agreement a dreadful chthonic realm unfrequented by other gods. Nevertheless, they have a prerogative and perform a function crucial to the preservation of moral and social order (208, 210, 308–20, 334–40, 347–67, 381–96, 415–23; cf. 125, 747). They do not acknowledge any possibility of acquittal or mitigating circumstances for the matricide Orestes (427) and believe that the consequences of his act are absolutely damning (258–75, 299–305; cf. 653–56). As indicated above, they also complain repeatedly that his acquittal by the agency of the younger gods disrespectfully robs them of their ancient honors. Apollo, keen to protect his suppliant, is scornful of the unlikable goddesses from the beginning (67–73, 179–97, 209, 228). As Orestes’ defense witness, he testifies that he gave the crucial oracle (614–21; cf. 713–14). As the defendant’s advocate, he insults the prosecution (644; cf. 721–22, 729–30) and engages in sophistries to undermine their case (645–51,

56 This involves a highlighting of the benevolent aspect of their identity rather than an acquisition of entirely novel functions; see Easterling (2008) 231–34, who suggests that the association of the Erinyes with the Semnai Theai/Eumenides in cult promotes the benevolent aspect of the Erinyes but also underscores their dreadful nature because the Semnai Theai/Eumenides were also terrifying goddesses. Cf. Gruber (2009) 429, 467–68. For the cult of the Semnai Theai and their associations with the Erinyes see Henrichs (1994) 43–54, Käppel (1998) 270–71, and Parker (2009) 145–51, with further literature. Sewell-Rutter (2007) 107–9 also focuses on the issue of the Erinyes’ change at the end, but his argument is not convincing. He seems to confuse the goddesses’ final consent to spare the Athenians and accept their new cult with their desisting from Orestes’ persecution. Since they apparently had little choice but to accept the trial, there was never a possibility that they would continue pursuing Orestes after an acquitting verdict. Strangely, Sewell-Rutter suggests that the Erinyes’ embodiment and presentation onstage made them more tractable and limited the multi-faceted nature attributed to them in the companion plays. “They are now champions of a single issue, and one that is shown to be susceptible of decision” (109, emphasis added). No such showing occurs in the play. Besides, in every play of the trilogy the Erinyes as punitive agents punish the latest crime, even if they stand for a blighted family’s entire burden of woes. In the last play, there is no “reification” of (abstract?) Erinyes, or any limitation of the goddesses’ functions. Last but not least, their embodiment and involvement in the trial do not automatically entail a more tractable persona.

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657–66). His second argument, the (in)famous claim that the mother is not a true parent of a child, as demonstrated by Athena’s birth, has several weaknesses, and the jury as well as the audience were unlikely to be convinced by it.57 Apollo also infamously urges the jurors to commit perjury (619–21), tries to influence and intimidate them (713–14), and is not above resorting to bribery to secure a favorable verdict (667–73): the Athenian alliance with Argos, first promised by Orestes in his appeal to Athena to come to his aid (289–91), is invoked as Apollo’s reason for sending Orestes to Athens. I pointed out earlier that the Erinyes, whose power to harm Athens was acknowledged by Athena before the trial (476–79), also issue threats at the end (711–12, 719–20, 733). Nevertheless, Apollo is more vulgar, perhaps less secure than his adversaries and more direct than his suppliant, in his readiness to use every (dubious) argument to bolster his quite weak, and quite weakly argued, case. Of the specifics of the case against Clytaemestra, invoked to justify his oracle, Orestes’ advocate mentions briefly only the manner of Agamemnon’s death, mainly the hobbling robe. This is done for the benefit of Athena and the human jury (629–37), and especially in order to rouse the anger of the latter, as Apollo admits openly at the end of his speech (638–39). Leaving aside the fact that this is the earliest attempt at exploiting a jury’s emotions, and especially a male jury’s prejudicial phobias, recorded in literature, the concern with Agamemnon’s manner of death and with the identity of his killer have been recurrent motifs in the trilogy. Apollo, though, stresses the killer’s sex and lack of military credentials to the exclusion of everything else: her treatment of the victim’s body and his disgraceful burial, another matter of great anxiety in the companion plays, is never mentioned. Burial, although potentially as emotive an issue as manner of death, concerns primarily the family and friends of the deceased. The Athenian jurors may be stung only because a woman tricked and killed a king and a competent general. More surprisingly, Clytaemestra’s adultery and the adulterous couple’s usurpation of their victim’s office and assets, sensitive issues with a very clear potential of moving a male citizen jury, are also totally ignored. In other words, the defense of Clytaemestra’s killer ignores not only motives that could attenuate her guilt, as would be expected, but also motives that could aggravate it and work in Orestes’ favor. If no other evidence existed,

57 See Sommerstein (1989) on 657–66. For the arguments in Orestes’ defense cf. Grethlein (2003) 232–50.

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it would be impossible to suspect through an examination of Apollo’s testimony that Clytaemestra had been involved in an adulterous affair, which also had grave political implications. For Orestes’ defense, the existence and collaboration of Clytaemestra’s lover, and subsequent tyrannical usurper of the slain king’s office (and Orestes’ patrimony), are so completely irrelevant that they do not warrant so much as a passing mention. Even if Clytaemestra had been the most chaste of wives, and had never been associated with a man who aspired to be a tyrant, her crime would apparently have been equally heinous because she was a deceitful woman who killed a man, a king, and a general. Apollo does not even care to specify the campaign in which Agamemnon was commander-in-chief, and his reference to Agamemnon’s conducting of the campaign (631–32) is perfunctory. Although it is clear and expected that Apollo would not care to enlighten the Athenian jury about the troubles and misfortunes associated with the Trojan expedition, it is much less clear that he would not include a word of praise for the commander or even an explicit statement of his victory. Only the act of Agamemnon’s murder, his office, manner of death and, especially, the identity of his killer matter. Any general, any king, any man/husband is worthier than any (non-fighting) woman/wife. Athena, more restrained and respectful toward the Erinyes than Apollo (413–14, 418; cf. 434), presumes to keep a neutral and thoughtful stance from the beginning (470–89): she asks for the circumstances of Orestes’ matricide when she first hears of it (426) and is keen on hearing his reply to the Erinyes’ accusations (436–42). On the other hand, she makes common cause with Apollo (and Zeus), apparently not so much because she is convinced but rather because she lacks a mother (736) and favors the male, although in the manner of a virago and not a sexually defined female (737–38).58 She eventually manages to charm the cheated Erinyes (cf. 81–82) with offers of honors in the land of Athens (804–7, 833–36, 853–69, 881–87) but she also hints at the option of using more forceful means at her disposal (826–29). As already suggested, the past of Orestes and his family, their internecine rivalries, and the background of their decisions are largely irrelevant to these gods. Although the circumstances of Orestes’ matricide are supposed to be a very, if not the most, important element in his defense and the court’s decision, Orestes is saved because he

58 For Athena’s androgyny and her transgression of sex barriers see WinningtonIngram (1983) 124–31, and Goldhill (1984) 258–59.

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is the suppliant of Apollo, who manages to involve Athena, who sets up a court and institutionalizes the legal rule of the tie vote. There is no doubt that Zeus favored the acquittal of Orestes and had endorsed the matricide oracle of Apollo, although the Erinyes themselves never explicitly acknowledge his role. Still, the manner of the acquittal and especially the arguments employed in the trial are neither impregnable nor ever said to have the backing of Zeus. Most glaringly, Clytaemestra is referred to by Orestes’ advocate as merely a devious and murderous woman/ wife:59 like all women, she is a receptacle of the male seed, and a surrogate parent (658–61). Agamemnon is not only an august royal general and a naval commander-in-chief (625–26, 636–37) but also, as father, the only real parent. After his acquittal, Orestes will claim that Zeus saved him because he showed respect for the murder of the father (760–61) and, before the verdict, Athena puts the case for the support of the defendant most bluntly (739–40): “For these reasons, I will not consider more important the death of a woman who killed a man, the overseer of the household.” Athena’s reference to Agamemnon’s socially or patriarchally determined position as head of the household has been viewed as the real justification of her stance and an improvement over Apollo’s arguments. Her appeal to her lack of a mother and loyalty to her father is made in order not to infuriate the Erinyes through an open declaration of the weakness of their ca(u)se: the audience are not to take her statement of absolute support for the male seriously because she carefully points out her rejection of marriage (737). Athena does not make general claims, stress the heinous nature of Clytaemestra’s crime, or appeal to the higher authority of Zeus. Instead, she presents both Agamemnon’s and Clytaemestra’s deaths as equally grave, speaks for herself and explains her position in universally accepted terms, namely by implying that the death of Clytaemestra destroyed one person while the death of Agamemnon jeopardized an entire house. Despite this

59 This may or may not be significant, but her name occurs only once in the play, in her ghost’s self-identification to the Erinyes (116). No other character refers to her by name or even by patronymic. Agamemnon is also named once (456) but by Orestes, and both he and Apollo refer to his offices and accomplishments. In Choephori too Clytaemestra’s name is used only once, by a slave (882), but the suppression is less conspicuous because her children naturally (and poignantly) refer to her as mother.

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restraint, as a motherless daughter of Zeus, loyal to her only parent, she now emerges as the appropriate representative of the mind and will of Zeus.60 There is no indication that Athena considers the death of Agamemnon and Clytaemestra of equal gravity, or that her last claim should be thought to carry greater weight than the rest. The assumption that she seeks not to infuriate the Erinyes is e silentio and gratuitous. Agamemnon’s capacity as head of the household is certainly an important factor in the defense of Orestes, who was the disfranchised heir of his father. Nevertheless, this capacity cannot be, and is not, dissociated from Agamemnon’s other divinely sponsored and socially esteemed capacities: all these presuppose his sex or gender, which is valorized at the expense of that of Clytaemestra. Athena’s argument is hardly different from, or superior to, those of Apollo, and thus the basic distinction remains that between a man and a woman: “I will not consider more important the death of a woman who killed a man.” The latter was by definition the master of the household, and Athena’s reference to it does not guarantee or contribute significantly to the acquittal of the matricide. The emergence of the goddess as the representative of Zeus is due to her capacity as patroness of Athens and the Areopagus rather than her more skillful or diplomatic stance during the trial. Nevertheless, she does project such a persona, which enhances her prestige and prepares for her role as conciliator of the Erinyes following the court’s verdict.

60 See Sommerstein (1989) on 736–40. Conacher (1987) 167, who cites Schottlaender (1970), thinks that Orestes is acquitted because, in contrast to his parents’ secular motives for their crimes, his motives are divinely inspired, and Athena endorses his acquittal by pointing to the issue of patrimony in her reference to Agamemnon’s position in the household. It is difficult to see a clear difference between Orestes’ wish to recover his patrimony and Agamemnon’s wish not to abort the Trojan expedition since the latter too presumably had Zeus’ backing. Conacher suggests that “Clytemnestra’s motive of erotic passion and erotic jealousy complement her motive of outraged mother-love.” As argued in IV 2 above, Clytaemestra did not kill Agamemnon because she was motivated by erotic jealousy. It is also not suggested that she had a passion for Aegisthus. The view of Schottlaender that Athena introduces a fresh argument and breaks the deadlock created by the rival claims of father and mother is also inaccurate: Agamemnon’s capacity as Orestes’ father was certainly not the only argument employed so far by Apollo, who had also stressed Agamemnon’s authority as a noble man, Zeusappointed king, and commander of the fleet (625–39).

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10. Orestes: the arguments of the defendant and the case of the suppliant The relative indifference toward past events and the suppression of specifics are even more conspicuous and unexpected in the mouth of Orestes, although his dependence on Apollo and Athena, and his limited role in the trial, may be thought to mitigate the effect. Unlike the immortal characters, who are mainly concerned with prerogatives that transgress temporal divisions and limitations, he is a mortal man, i.e. a temporally and culturally defined being. He also, unlike the gods, appeared and played a cardinal role in Choephori, in which he presented at some length his personal grievances against his mother, primarily his exile and disfranchisement, which he (as well as Electra and the chorus) attributed to her adultery and conspiracy with her accomplice, the cowardly usurper Aegisthus. Until the attack of the Erinyes at the end of that play, the killing of the guilty couple was viewed by all characters not only as just revenge and the prerequisite for Orestes’ restitution but also as the liberation of his house and city from hated usurpers and tyrants. Nothing of this personal and political background to the matricide is mentioned by the defendant in the trial or anywhere in Eumenides until after the verdict has been delivered.61 Only then, in his speech of thanks to Athena, does Orestes mention his definitive restitution and recovery of his patrimony with the help of his protector gods (754–61), also elaborating on his (and Apollo’s) earlier promise of an Athenian alliance with Argos (762–77).62 This indicates that, unsurprisingly, the personal concerns that underlay his decision to commit matricide have not been forgotten or become irrelevant to him. If so, his failure to refer to them earlier, and especially in the trial, is not easy to account for. To be sure, a lengthy review of issues handled in the companion play(s) would be dramatically unprofitable and inelegant. But a mere mention of, or allusion to, those issues would certainly not diminish the dramatic force of the third play. Another, more serious, objection might be that

61 The exile is mentioned at 462 but without any specifics, more as an explanation of his reference to his return (κατελθών), which does not need elaboration anyway. The circumstances of his exile, or even whether he had been allowed to return or not, are suppressed. For his reference to his father’s manner of death (458–61) see below. 62 For the end of Orestes’ speech see Appendix A V.1.

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Clytaemestra’s adultery, Orestes’ exile, and the loss of his patrimony cannot count as mitigating circumstances in the eyes of the plaintiffs in his trial. A son and prince who suffers disfranchisement at the hands of his adulterous mother and her consort cannot claim (and hope to defeat the divine prosecution on the grounds) that this grievance justified matricide. On the other hand, Orestes, like his advocate Apollo, and unlike his mother in Choephori, is not entirely above appealing to the past in his employment of specious arguments. In his only attempt to answer the prosecution’s charges, he tries to argue that the matricide was justified not only because his mother had killed his father but also because she had killed her husband (600, 602), and this before Apollo made the case for the primacy of the male. This clumsy argument is bound to fail: the Erinyes would never accept that a matricide should be acquitted because his victim had killed his father and her husband. It is also unlikely that the jury would be impressed by such a shoddy attempt to emphasize Agamemnon’s double capacity in order to double his killer’s guilt and absolve his avenger. Orestes adduces nothing to support his claim, no argument about his mother’s insidious way of killing his father, not even his father’s office, or male supremacy in general.63 It is Apollo who will take over from Orestes very soon and try to exploit the jury’s respect for authority and the dignity of a male ruler by invoking the ignominious manner of Agamemnon’s death. There is no cogent reason why his suppliant, the defendant whose very life hung in the balance, would not try to influence the jury with a similar, and potentially just as stirring, appeal to their sympathy for his plight. Equally puzzlingly, neither Orestes nor Apollo points out to the Erinyes that they would have persecuted Orestes if he had failed to avenge his father. Orestes had the unenviable choice between dying as a victim of his father’s or his mother’s posthumous wrath. Orestes and/or Apollo

63 He only picks up the charge of double standards (604) that Apollo had leveled against the Erinyes on the grounds that they persecuted blood-kin murderers but failed to punish other murders within the family such as Clytaemestra’s (211, 213–23). It is not a very strong argument, since the Erinyes have jurisdiction only over kin murder and some other offenses, although they sometimes do not care to specify precisely the limits of their prerogative (313–20, 334–40, 421). In any case, Orestes cannot plausibly claim that he punished his mariticide mother because the Erinyes failed to persecute her: the goddess’ prerogative is not a matter of judgment or negotiation in the trial, and its limitations cannot be used as grounds for Orestes’ absolution.

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could have argued that, faced with this terrible predicament, Orestes chose to punish his unworthy mother and try to recover his patrimony, showing his loyalty to his glorious and humiliated father, house and city (cf. Ch. 297–305). As with the other arguments of the defense, there is little doubt that an appeal to Orestes’ predicament would not have impressed his prosecution: the goddesses were unlikely to take pity on anyone who would have transgressed the ancient laws they protected. An insoluble dilemma faced by a transgressor would be irrelevant to them: their prerogative, on which they fall back repeatedly until Athena manages to bring them around, dictated the punishment of kin murder irrespective of the killer’s circumstances. A human jury or audience, though, would have acknowledged the harshness of Orestes’ plight and probably sympathized with him, although this would not necessarily have led to his acquittal. At any rate, Orestes had invoked his father’s Erinyes to good rhetorical effect in his confrontation with his mother (Ch. 925), and Euripides’ Orestes, for instance, employs the same powerful argument in the debate with Tyndareus (Or. 580–84). In the trial in Eumenides, however, neither Orestes, who had earlier, on Apollo’s authority, described at length the terrors the paternal Erinyes would have inflicted on him (Ch. 271–96) and relies on the oracular god’s authority and testimony for his acquittal, nor Apollo himself attempts to invoke Agamemnon’s Erinyes in order to win the jury’s sympathy. This failure becomes more remarkable if viewed against the backdrop of Orestes’ pre-trial mention of the threats of punishment, although not explicitly of the paternal Erinyes, in case of his non-compliance with Apollo’s oracle (465–67), and the rest of his attempt to win Athena’s favor. He not only promised the establishment of an alliance between Argos and Athens in exchange for Athena’s support for him (289–91) but also invoked her destruction of Troy with the help of his father Agamemnon, the commander of the naval expedition against the city (455–58).64

64 This is the only reference to Troy after Athena, upon her arrival, specified that she had been in the Troad to take possession of lands granted to her and the Athenians (or the sons of Theseus) by the Achaean leaders in the Trojan war (397–402). But Athena’s reference has hardly anything to do with the plot, although it seems likely that it is related to Athenian territorial claims, either earlier or contemporary, in the area. See Sommerstein (1989) ad loc., and Griffith (1995) 98–100. Athena does not mention the name of any Achaean leader or even of the city of Troy, in contrast to Orestes. She also nowhere shows any special affection for Agamemnon as her former ally or instrument, and Orestes’ appeal to her association with his father

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Despite the succinctness of his references to the past, Orestes also deems beneficial or necessary to recount one part of the story of his father’s murder to Athena, the manner of his death in the bath upon his return from Troy (458–61), presumably in order to move Athena’s sympathy. Remarkably, this is precisely the part of the story that he will not narrate and Apollo will use to arouse the jury’s anger (631–39), and it is a part that the external audience have been hearing ever since Cassandra’s scene in Agamemnon – the infamous robe was also shown onstage in the exodus of the companion plays. Moreover, when he arrives at Athens, Orestes also refers to the more recent past. He is particularly anxious to prove that he has been purified and does not supplicate Athena as a polluted murderer (235–39, 280–89; cf. 576–78). More controversially, he later suggests that his pollution is a source of anxiety to the goddess and hastens again to assure her of his purity (443–53). But nowhere does Athena show any such anxiety, and her mention of Ixion (441), also picked up by Apollo later (717–18), is hardly a sign of discomfort in the mouth of Zeus’ beloved and loyal children. Orestes, though, seizes on the mention of Ixion and stresses his difference from him, apparently in another move to secure Athena’s benevolence.65 It is apparent, then, that Aeschylus has Orestes, and his protector Apollo, evoke the past, both his own and his family’s, for the sake of advancing their case by winning the sympathy of Athena and the jury. These references are brief, very selective and rarely chosen judiciously or consistently for maximum effect. Nevertheless, their sheer presence indicates that the suppression of Orestes’ personal grievances against his mother is not dictated by, or the result of, a sweeping suppression of the past, which would not allow the inclusion of details of the defendant’s personal history, or at least of specifics that do not, or would not, help his case. The characters show relative indifference and/or rhetorical incompetence in their assessment and narrative of the past. The only plausible answer to the question why the past, which held a much more prominent and indeed defining place in the companion plays, fades in Eumenides is that the play brings to a head the process of the progressive diminution of its role in the trilogy.

does not seem to help his case. Neither he nor Apollo invokes it again, unlike the promise of the alliance with Argos. 65 For Orestes’ purity see Appendix A V.2.

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11. A split vote: is the past ever past? This diminution is crucial to the restoration of the dynamics of gender power dramatized in the third play: a court set up by gods acquits the matricide Orestes, the killer of the rebellious Clytaemestra, who considered herself the equal of her royal husband and the justified, worthy avenger of her slain daughter. Clytaemestra of course makes a memorable appearance as a ghost early on in the play (94–139). Her spectral apparition to the sleeping Erinyes has been viewed as the final sign of the gradual reduction of her stature in the trilogy: the awesome woman who expressed contempt for apparitions in dreams in Agamemnon (275) and used them to deceive her husband (891–94), the haunted criminal who had a scary dream in Choephori (32–41, 523–39, 929) now becomes an insubstantial, vanishing dream herself.66 Alternatively, and perhaps more plausibly, the brief appearance of her ghost may be viewed as a final tribute to her tenacity and power. The only character who appears in all three plays of the trilogy, Clytaemestra in Eumenides retains her linguistic forcefulness and rhetorical eloquence, and it is she who rouses the sleeping Erinyes to action. After the horrified description put in the mouth of the Pythia (46–59) and Apollo’s contemptuous, disgusted references to them (67–73), the ghost is the first character to both identify the goddesses as such (115) and focus on their prerogative (121–22; cf. 101–2) and methods of punishing their victims (131–39), which will be main motifs in the play. Clytaemestra also refers to the past and urges the goddesses to reward her for offerings she had made to them (106–110). Since the Erinyes are not known to have had any cult, this detail may be meant to indicate Clytaemestra’s peculiar dealings even with infernal powers and her manipulative abilities. Be that as it may, her admission that she is not only being dishonored in the underworld by the sluggishness of the Erinyes in upholding her rights but also constantly reviled for her crime (95–102) implies that her confidence in the justice of her revenge has been misguided: Iphigeneia is not said to have welcomed her mother in Hades, and no inhabitant of the underworld seems to have been impressed by Clytaemestra’s claims. Even more conspicuously than with the failure of Clytaemestra’s ca(u)se and the restoration of male order, the play is eminently concerned with Athenian institutions, the position of Athens in Greece, and the city’s

66 See Winnington-Ingram (1983) 119.

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privileged relationship with heroes and gods throughout time, in the mythical past and the audience’s present and future. Under the tutelage of her wise and persuasive patron goddess, the city that breaks the cycle of retaliatory bloodshed is blessed by goddesses hitherto responsible for talio but now enjoying a new cult, which emphasizes their powers to bless and protect.67 This conciliation notwithstanding, Orestes’ acquittal remains problematic, and the impasse reached at the end of the companion plays remains largely unresolved. The first trial of the new court ends in a split vote, and the decision is taken by means of a radical, divine intervention. Athena herself faced a dilemma similar to that the chorus acknowledged toward the end of Agamemnon (1560–66) and, less acutely but no less certainly, at the end of Choephori (1074–76). The goddess admitted that judging was difficult not only for mortals but also for herself (470–81). Nevertheless, this admission is different from those found in the other plays, and not only because it is made by a principal and around the middle of the play, and not even because the dilemma it acknowledges does not prove irresolvable. The most conspicuous difference, especially from Agamemnon, is that the dilemma does not spring from the conflicting merits of two equally valid cases but from the equally respectable identities of the opposing parties. Not only the prerogative and power of the Erinyes to

67 As suggested in n. 56 above, the “new” goddesses in fact preserve their previous double identity. The most explicit, and quite puzzling, statement of continuity is voiced by Athena, who cautions the Athenians over the powers of the goddesses (930–37). The text of 932 is problematic, but the general meaning of the passage is not in serious doubt: the goddesses will punish a transgressor, who does not realize the source of his troubles; the crimes of his ancestors lead him to the goddesses to be destroyed. The sudden emphasis on inherited guilt and transgenerational punishment, to the exclusion (?) of personal guilt, is perplexing in a play that focused exclusively on Orestes’ (and his mother’s) crime and included no reference or allusion to family troubles. The text may have been more seriously disturbed than it appears to be and it should perhaps be interpreted to mean that one’s own crimes lead one to destruction. Athena’s statement would then be a summary of the Erinyes’ own description of the demise of their guilty victims (368–77), in which the assaulted transgressor is said to lose his wits (377). Cf. 553–65. Sommerstein (1989) 264–65 (cf. Podlecki [1989] 188) thinks that the Erinyes will not punish an innocent man for the crimes of his forebears but a guilty man who has inherited an ancestral propensity to criminal arrogance. This is plausible in the framework of the trilogy, but the text seems to offer no very solid basis for such an assumption, since “shouting loudly” (936; cf. 559–60) refers to the prisoner’s reaction rather than his previous boastful attitude that motivated his arrest and punishment.

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inflict harm are taken into account (476–81), which would be unsurprising in a case that involves divinities, but also Orestes’ capacity as a suppliant is put forth as the sole reason why he cannot be dismissed (473–74). His claims to have exacted a justified revenge for his father (459–64), even his invocation of Apollo’s oracle (465–67), are not mentioned by Athena before or in the trial. The goddess invokes Apollo’s oracle and its backing by Zeus’ authority in her first attempt to console the Erinyes and convince them that their defeat does not entail dishonor (794–99). She claims that there was “clear testimony from Zeus” (797) and that the very provider of the oracle testified himself that Orestes should not be punished for his crime (798–99). But the Erinyes never disputed that Apollo delivered the fateful oracle. In fact, that was the basis of their quarrel with him and the younger gods in general. They viewed Apollo as the transgressor of divine laws and defiler of his own house, the divine model of the criminals they pursued. As to the “clear testimony from Zeus,” I pointed out earlier that the Erinyes never accept that Zeus really inspired and endorsed the matricide oracle. Athena herself, whose intervention was crucial for Orestes’ acquittal, did not mention her brother’s oracle or her father’s authority in her ruling (735–41).

As has often been observed, the trilogy leads to an absolution but not to a real resolution.68 The progressive diminution of the role of the (human) past underli(n)es both the achievement of the former and the failure of the latter.

68 See e.g. Jones (1962) 111–12, Goldhill (1984) 262–83, Garvie (1986) 145–46, and Porter (2005).

B. SOPHOCLES

I. Ajax 1. Light shadows: Ajax and Athena Less than two thirds through the Sophoclean play that bears his name, Ajax commits suicide in order to restore his honor (865). He believes that he has suffered devastating humiliation in his attempt to take revenge for an insult, the awarding of Achilles’ arms to Odysseus by a panel of judges.1 Feeling irreparably dishonored, he had set out the night before to kill his enemies, the army leaders, and primarily the Atreids and Odysseus. In his view, these men had robbed him of a prize that rightfully belonged to him by virtue of his prowess. The goddess Athena intervened and stopped him by driving him mad and making him attack the army’s flocks (and their guardians) in the belief that they were the army leaders.2 After his recovery, Ajax remains obstinate, self-assured and brusque until his death. Thus, already well before he falls upon his sword, the audience would entertain little doubt that such a man would commit suicide in shame and disgust at the humiliation he suffered because of his attack on the animals.3

1

2

3

The play does not name or otherwise specify the members of the panel but at least leaves no doubt that they were mortal and Achaean. In other versions of the myth, Athena and Trojans were involved in the judgment; see Garvie (1998) 2–3. For the ambiguity surrounding the background of the judgment of arms (and Athena’s role) in Ajax see the discussion in 8 below. In his conversation with Athena in the prologue, when still mad, he gloats in the revenge he thinks he has taken on the robbers of “his” arms (100). Even when he regains his sanity, he does not abandon the belief that he would have been the undisputed winner in a fair trial (441–44; cf. 418–27). His sense of entitlement, violent reaction at the perceived insult, and wish that the whole army come to harm (843–44; cf. 95, 1055) are reminiscent of the behavior of the Iliadic Achilles (cf. Il. 1.409–10). Athena also intervenes to stop both Achilles and Ajax from killing their enemies, by talking sense into the former (Il. 1.207–14) and by maddening the latter. Nevertheless, the differences between the two heroes seem to be more significant than their similarities, as will be argued below. The conclusion of his first speech (470–80) leaves very little room for optimism, although some members of the audience may share the chorus’ joy following his so-called “deception speech” (646–92), on which see the discussion in 4 below.

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His fate had been sealed, in part at least, immediately before the dramatic time of the play and at its very beginning, when he was still insane. The messenger’s report will reveal that the problems of Ajax with the goddess Athena had been of much longer standing, although it seems that her destructive wrath will pursue him only for the day (756–57, 801–2). As the seer Calchas is reported to suggest to Teucer, the half-brother of Ajax, a window of opportunity for the salvation of his brother remains open (778–79) if Ajax stays in his hut for the duration of the day (749–55). According to Calchas, the only character who provides an explanation for Athena’s hatred,4 Ajax had insulted the goddess in the past by boastfully dismissing her paraenesis when she tried to encourage him on the battlefield (770–77). Earlier, when he was leaving home for the war, he had also hubristically dismissed his father’s pious admonition to always seek victory with the aid of the gods (762–70). The question whether the hero’s downfall was pre-determined and motivated by Athena’s wish to destroy him has been much discussed. First of all, critics disagree over the reason for Athena’s hostility toward Ajax. Some dismiss the report of Calchas’ opinion and think that she became lethally angry because he meant to attack his colleagues. Garvie, though, is right that neither Greek views on revenge nor Athena’s or any other character’s statements support this view.5 The issue whether Ajax committed hubris against Athena and thereby incurred her wrath, as Calchas indicates, has been viewed as more difficult to decide. Garvie stresses that the word hubris does not occur in any reference to the hero’s behavior toward Athena or the gods. He also finds it hard to believe that the key of the play would be found in two unconnected events that took place before its dramatic time and are unrelated to its action. He suggests that Athena’s anger is not so grave because it will last only for one day, and thinks that the foolish words Ajax spoke in the past do not explain his downfall but serve other dramatic purposes. They reestablish the audience’s sense of his pride in his heroic nature after his apparent change of heart registered in the so-called deception speech (646–92) in order to prepare the audience

4

5

In the kommos after Ajax’ death, Tecmessa will claim that Athena caused this misfortune for the sake of Odysseus (952–53), but this view is not corroborated by any other statement in the play, certainly not by Athena’s words and actions in the prologue. Nevertheless, hostility toward Ajax and favoritism toward his enemy are not incompatible or mutually exclusive motives. Garvie (1998) 11–12, with a review of previous literature.

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for the hero’s final monologue (815–65). They also blunt the disapproval that the audience may feel for his attack on his enemies by reasserting his heroic excellence and thus contributing to his rehabilitation.6 None of these objections and suggestions may withstand serious scrutiny. The absence of the word hubris from references to the hero’s disrespect toward Athena does not guarantee absence of the offense. Greek had many ways of indicating hubris. The word is used as a catchall term (and not always appropriately) by modern scholars, but their terminological choices should not affect the interpretation of the play. The offense of Ajax is not mere foolishness, as Garvie implies, but the worst kind of impiety that a Greek person can commit, blurring the inviolable line separating mortals and immortals, as the messenger stresses in ring-composition at the beginning and end of his report of Calchas’ explanation for the hostility of Athena (760–61, 776–77). The two events mentioned by the seer are not unconnected but rather part of a pattern of behavior, which also features in the play, although not so starkly. In the prologue, Ajax, still in the throes of madness, brusquely

6

Garvie (1998) 12–14 and 196–97. The last suggestion has also been made by Machin (1981) 31–59, esp. 51–59, who reads the play as a movement from the initial presentation of a guilty, condemnable Ajax to his final rehabilitation as an innocent hero. Calchas’ prophecy serves to smooth the transition from the negative to the positive portrayal of Ajax. This view may stand only if one accepts that the hero’s attack on the leaders is presented as a despicable act, but this is certainly not the case. There is no doubt that Ajax tried to kill the leaders, but his guilt hinges on his reasons, not on the act per se. The prologue and the play as a whole do not clarify whether Ajax was right to consider the verdict of the judges unjust. If he was right, it is not particularly plausible that the original audience would disapprove of a heroic character’s attempt to punish his enemies by killing them, especially since no other means of punishment was readily available to Ajax. Cf. previous n. and the discussion in 3 with n. 28 below. Lawrence (2005) 20, 27 n. 22 suggests that the attempt on the leaders was anti-social and immoral because no society could afford no limitations to the rule of harming one’s enemies. This may be so, but the play raises the issue of such limitations only in the case of dead enemies. At any rate, the audience could only reserve judgment about the morality of Ajax’ attempt in the prologue, given that Athena does not seem to punish him for this attempt, certainly not only for it. Even if Machin’s argument stood as put forth, the fact that the offense of Ajax against Athena stems from his confidence in his heroic excellence would contribute little to his rehabilitation. If anything, it would reinforce widely held beliefs that exceptional individuals may easily, and detrimentally, fail to observe the boundary that separates humans from gods. For the rehabilitation of Ajax see the discussion in 7 and 8 below.

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rejects Athena’s request not to torture his prisoner Odysseus (111–13), in reality a ram (240–44). Later, when he regains his sanity, he declares that he owes nothing to the gods anymore (589–90). Such statements and events bespeak a state of mind that accounts for his behavior in the play. One can only see them as unrelated to the action of the play if one does not believe that Ajax perishes because of the impiety they manifest. Their having occurred before the action of the play certainly does not diminish or erase their significance. They may also serve other dramatic ends than the one apparent in Calchas’ words, but it is arbitrary to dismiss the seer’s explanations without any evidence in the text that would warrant such dismissal. The limited duration of Athena’s wrath (756–57, 778–79, 801–2) does serve to heighten suspense, as Garvie believes, but this function is not incompatible with, and does not eliminate, the gravity of Ajax’ offense. First of all, and as Garvie seems to admit, the limited duration would be significant only if Ajax survived the fateful day. If the wrath of a divinity is upon a man for one day, and this day is his last because the divinity destroys him on it, one is hardly justified to view the man’s offense and the divinity’s wrath as light. One day is more than enough for the downfall (or salvation) of a mortal, as Athena herself points out in the prologue (131–32).7 Apart from the fact that Ajax would probably not see his situation differently the next day, even if he did not leave his hut during the day in question, Calchas’ tentative formulation of the possibility of saving him and the addition of the qualification “with the help of god” (σὺν θεῷ, 779) point to the virtual futility of the attempt. Since Athena destroys Ajax on the fateful day, and he does not repent or try to atone for his offense, which he never appears to realize anyway, the hostility of the goddess remains undiminished. None of her statements at the end of the prologue contradicts Calchas’ explanation for her hostility to Ajax. Athena, gleefully vindictive and, to modern tastes at least, mean-spirited, does not care to enlighten Odysseus concerning the

7

That human fortunes could change radically, usually for the worse, and often in a single day was a common motif in Greek literature. See Kyriakou (2006) 244. The temporal framework of most tragic plots, in which the action lasts for a part of one day, also bears this out. Cf., for instance, the famous saying of Teiresias in O T (438), and the ironic confidence of Clytaemestra that the present day has brought her relief from her fears and that she will spend the rest of her days in peace (El. 783–87). For other parallels, and the importance of the fateful single day in Ajax, see Finglass (forthcoming) on 131–32. For the motif of the single day see also Jacob (1982) 203–8, and Schwindt (1994) 17–21.

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background of her dealings with Ajax. But no tragic god is much different from her, and many are much crueler and more enigmatic. The offenses of Ajax in the past are certainly not “the key” to the play because there is no such thing. Nevertheless, they are as worthy of consideration as anything else said about Ajax in the play. If his past behavior toward the gods is a crucial factor in his downfall, then it should be taken into account in the discussion of the major issue whether his decision to commit suicide was motivated by Athena or not.8 Athena is certainly not shown or said to be involved in his decision: she does not tell Odysseus anything about it in the prologue, and no relevant hint appears anywhere in the rest of the play. If the suicide of Ajax was part of her plan, he is certainly not presented as a puppet: he decides to kill himself because he is the man he is and remains virtually unchanged throughout, even when he is in the throes of madness. It is common for individual Homeric warriors, and more often for either of the two enemy camps, to lose their nerve or take courage due to divine intervention. Usually for a short period of time, the bravest leaders behave as cowards and vice versa. On the contrary, divine intervention does not effect a change of personality in Ajax, not even a temporary one. It is important that in the prologue Athena seems to revel in humiliating Ajax and making sure that his humiliation would become known to the whole army (66–67; cf. 79, 81). Taking into account her parting reference to divine hatred of base men (132–33) and especially the report of the speech of Calchas to Teucer (752–79), it is unlikely that humiliation was the ultimate punishment she meant to inflict on Ajax. In this light, then, Athena may be thought to have specifically decided to destroy Ajax by having him commit suicide, i.e. by merely letting his inborn sense of superiority and honor lead him to the expected decision. Nevertheless, there is no reason to adopt such an over-specific line of interpretation. Humiliating exposure of his madness was Athena’s immediate goal. This would undoubtedly bring about the destruction of Ajax but not necessarily through suicide. Isolation from the army and public

8

On whether her role may be thought to extend as far back as the judgment of arms see the discussion in 8 below. As already implied at the beginning of this section, it is clear that the main motive for the decision of Ajax to kill his colleagues and to commit suicide was the same, a wish to redress an insult to his honor as a great warrior. His emotions and reasoning, and their possible divine motivation, which led to both decisions, must then have been very similar.

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execution, perhaps by stoning (227–32, 253–56, 408–9; cf. 727–28), is another possibility. If so, Sophocles does not present Ajax as a Homeric hero whose decisions and actions result from divine inspiration and his own freewill.9 Athena wished to humiliate and destroy Ajax, not, necessarily at least, to destroy him in a specific, predetermined way, carefully thought out in advance and executed with magisterial inexorability through the hero’s own decision. Sophocles chose to show the hostile goddess at the beginning rather than the end of the play,10 where she would be likely to provide some explanation concerning her role in the punishment of Ajax and perhaps instructions to the survivors. Her appearance forms an unsettling divine background to the drama of the great hero, which Sophocles structures around his decision-making process and the reactions of his family and community to his fatal decision. Ajax commits suicide because he shamed himself in the eyes of mortals, especially his father Telamon, whose glorious achievements he disgracefully failed to match.

2. A heavy shadow: Telamon Martial prowess, the expected honors resulting from it, and the glorious excellence they signify form the core of the self-perception of Ajax. In his view, Telamon in the remoter and himself in the recent past, before the judgment of arms, exemplified these virtues to the highest degree. This past excellence is the standard against which Ajax judges himself and others. As appears from his over-confident statements that insulted Athena and the other gods (767–69, 774–75), Ajax thinks that even divine admonitions and assistance to excellent men not only are a waste of time but also

9 This fullness or over-determination, the most famous example of which is probably Achilles’ decision not to kill Agamemnon following the intervention of Athena (Il. 1.194–221), has been called double motivation. See Lesky (1961); cf. Whitman (1958) 248. 10 A similar early appearance by a ruthless divinity, Aphrodite, is found in the prologue of Euripides’ Hippolytus, but there are important differences between the two plays. Although Aphrodite does not give away, so to speak, the exact plot of the play, she does say that Hippolytus, who had offended her, and the innocent Phaedra, who will become the instrument of her revenge, will die within the day (21–22, 43–57). Also, Artemis appears in the exodus of the play and explains, among other things, Aphrodite’s behavior to the characters (1301–12, 1327–41, 1400–4, 1416–22).

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diminish the glory of such men. As is obvious from his laments in the kommos and from his speech after it, he believes that the gods can only harm excellent men by assisting their inferior enemies and thus making the excellent the laughing-stock of the unworthy (367, 382, 401–3, 450–56; cf. 957–62, 988–89, 1042–43). Ajax conceives of himself and those close to him as being in a perpetual state of conflict or war with their enemies, which extends over past, present and future. Apart from the hated Atreids and Odysseus, Hector is also his eternal enemy, although he is dead and had gallantly presented him with the fatal sword, following the tie in their duel (661–65, 817–18). Ajax dies by this sword, to which I will return. His brother Teucer is his valiant and loyal comrade and second-in-command,11 much like Patroclus was to Achilles. The way Ajax envisages the future of his son Eurysaces reveals his views. The boy will look after his father’s parents in their old age (570), inherit the famous paternal shield he is named after (574–76), and fight his father’s enemies in a manner worthy of his father (556–57). Given Ajax’ hatred of Hector, it is poignantly ironic that his farewell speech to Eurysaces (550–77) echoes Hector’s prayer for his son Astyanax in Iliad 6 (476–81). Unlike Hector, though, Ajax does not wish that his son surpass him in valor (550–51). He allows that the child will be a source of joy to his mother, but in his childhood (558–59), not when he brings back bloody spoils from battle and people say that he is much better than his father, as Hector suggests (Il. 6.479–81). Apart from the shield, the rest of the armor of Ajax is not bequeathed to his son, his brother, or any other worthy man (577; cf. 1407–8). Not even his brother Teucer is allowed to set up a contest for it (572–73). The hero’s exalted idea of himself also becomes apparent from his failure to pronounce himself second at least to Achilles in the army (424–27), especially if one recalls that Achilles himself acknowledged, at least after Patroclus’ death, that he was best on the battlefield but not in the assembly (Il. 18.105–6). Achilles is not the role model of Ajax but only the fair judge of his valor (441–44). As indicated above, Telamon is clearly the model

11 Ajax expresses no affection for, or emotional attachment to, Teucer. On the contrary, Teucer repeatedly expresses his love for Ajax (977, 996, 1015; cf. 1410), the only male character to do so in the play. This does not necessarily indicate that Ajax did not love his brother but is probably meant to highlight the difference in their personality.

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Ajax aspires to imitate, although this first becomes clear in the speech after the kommos (430–80), when the hero has regained his composure. Telamon is first mentioned in the play by Ajax’ men, who form the chorus, and enter addressing their leader as “son of Telamon” (134; cf. 183).12 Upon her entrance, Tecmessa, the spear-bride of Ajax and mother of his son, also includes herself in the number of those “who care for the house of Telamon far away” (203–4). References to the hero’s father are not unparalleled or extraordinary in a play set at the Greek camp at Troy and featuring characters well known from the epic tradition. Parents, especially fathers, are important in the epic. In Ajax, parents and families feature prominently, at least until Odysseus’ intervention at the end, and, in their hostility, the chorus once allude to Odysseus’ bastardy (189). The references to Telamon, though, are especially marked. He seems to hover over the play, an imposing and unforgiving figure of a severe elder, who does not fade away with the suicide of his son but comes into focus again through the references of his other son to his obstreperous character (1008–20). From Teucer we also learn some details of Telamon’s achievements. While both Ajax and Teucer mention their father’s valor with an almost identical phrase (435, 1300), it is Teucer who explains, among other things, that Telamon followed Heracles and excelled in the first capture of Troy, receiving as a reward from his commander the Trojan princess who became Teucer’s mother (1299–1303). Ajax is less expansive but leaves no doubt as to his view of his father: Telamon has set a high standard of heroic conduct, and his son should measure up to it. However, it takes a while for this heroic son to mention the father he admires and aspires to imitate. Ajax fails to mention his father in his off-stage cries, or at least in the kommos. This failure is indicative of his emotional upheaval, and his temporary inability to take full control of his situation. When Ajax is first heard off-stage, he calls for Teucer (339, 342), presumably the only man he considers a loyal ally able to offer help in his present misfortune.

12 It is perhaps not accidental that the enemies of Ajax do not use his patronymic or mention his father. It is also probably telling that the illegitimate Teucer is never addressed or referred to as son of Telamon. The sons of Atreus are most commonly referred to as Atreids, but this may be an expedient way of mentioning both of them. In the debate after the suicide of Ajax, the chorus and Teucer address, and refer to, Agamemnon and Menelaus by their personal names. Odysseus addresses Agamemnon by his patronymic only once (1349), in an apparent attempt to shame him into abandoning his dishonorable vindictiveness.

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Perhaps Ajax summons Teucer in order to entrust him with the care of his son Eurysaces.13 Ajax actually commits the boy to his brother’s care later (560–70). One should probably not interpret a cry uttered when Ajax is still reeling in the light of his later instructions for his son’s care. In such emotional turmoil, he is probably thinking only of himself. Some commentators think that at 339 Ajax calls for Eurysaces because Tecmessa so interprets his cry (340–41), and the appellation “child” (παῖ) without further specification can hardly be used for a brother. When the boy does not appear, he calls for Teucer (342) in order to appoint him as the guardian of the boy.14 Garvie suggests that the cry of Ajax would confuse the audience as much as Tecmessa and sees no point in this. But a man that has barely recovered from a delusional fit and finds himself utterly ruined, as he thinks, can hardly be expected to call out in clearly and immediately intelligible fashion. A brother may be addressed as “child” (παῖ) in unambiguous (and emotive) contexts (OC 1420, 1431). The ambiguous cry is meant to show Ajax’ emotional turmoil, captured in this emotive appeal, which indicates indifference or inability to express himself clearly. Dramatically, Tecmessa’s interpretation reveals her anxious concern about the boy’s wellbeing and prepares for his appearance later. 342 certainly does not sound like a summons to a different person but an explanation of the first call issued at 339. Should one perhaps imagine that Ajax hears Tecmessa’s words? In Euripides’ Medea (1277–78) the boys inside the house respond to the chorus’ utterance from outside (1275–76).

Unfortunately, Teucer is absent on a plundering raid, which, in his despair, Ajax impatiently views as too protracted (342–43). I will return to Teucer’s absence later. In comparison with his speech following it, in the kommos Ajax vents his emotions, apparently still overwhelmed by his predicament. He mentions almost exclusively the very recent past and his slaughter of the animals in his failed attempt to kill his enemies. Only at the end does he look further back, to his status as a matchless warrior (418–26; cf. 364–65). He first addresses the chorus emotively as his only loyal friends and invites them to see the depths of his misery (348–53).15 He then calls his sailors

13 This is the view of the scholiast (Christodoulou 97), and Renehan (1992) 344. 14 See Jebb (1896), Stanford (1963), and Garvie (1998) on 339. 15 The vivid image that Ajax uses captures his helplessness in the face of overpowering odds, and every detail seems to be significant. This is an important indication that, although still emotionally distraught, Ajax is well aware of his situation. He describes himself as assaulted by a wave, which, unusually, encloses and encircles

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the only minders he can see who will care for him (359–60).16 From then on, his utterances capture the successive emotional stages in his journey to full recovery and his final decision. Shortly after he comes onstage, his admonition to the chorus to join in his killing (συνδάιξον, 361) seems to bring to his mind the terrible contrast between his former fearlessness on the battlefield (364–65) and his pathetic slaughter of the fearless animals (366).17 Distress over his humiliation (367) now swiftly replaces the self-pity that marked his initial laments: his enemies escaped his sword, which killed animals (372–76), and the debased will now mock him gleefully (379–82). Ajax then utters a passionate wish to take revenge by killing his enemies (384–85, 387–90), and a suicidal wish (391). The latter momentarily

him. The wave is also said to be sent up by a deadly storm, a probable allusion to the slaughtered animals all around him. Feeling swept away and laid low by his misfortune, he may also implicitly contrast his downfall with the steadfastness of the chorus: note the phrase “still remaining firm in true custom [i.e. your loyalty]” (μόνοι ἔτ’ ἐμμένοντες ὀρθῷ νόμῳ, 350), which may also suggest their ability to stand on their feet. Cf. Tecmessa’s earlier references to his falling and lying or sitting where he has fallen (207, 309, 323–25). Cf. also the chorus’ emphasis on the interdependence of great and smaller men (160–61), and their regret that Ajax remained in his hut, as if rooted to the spot for a long time, allowing his enemies to smear his name (190–99). 16 The term “shepherds” (ποιμένων, 360) he uses has troubled scholars because it implies overlordship or command, and the existence of others, who may care for and assist Ajax but are hard to identify. Finglass (forthcoming) ad loc. also thinks that a plurality of shepherds overseeing one individual is a perversion. Such objections are unwarranted. The great, harsh and valiant Ajax, the bulwark of his men, is now in need of “shepherds” himself. The use of the word in the context of the aftermath of his slaughter of the animals and their tenders adds pathos; cf. Garvie (1998) ad loc. Ajax views the chorus as acting in unison, virtually as one person, especially as from 356 onwards he addresses them in the singular. The other “shepherd” is of course Teucer. Ajax has already called for him (342–43), but he is away, and his brother can only discover a “minder” in the chorus. 17 ἀφόβοις may mean that the beasts had no fear or that they caused no fear. Both meanings suit the context, but the former makes the statement, and the comparison between the past and present of Ajax, bitterly ironic. Instead of being fearless in the battle against human enemies, Ajax now proved fierce in another challenging conflict, this time with bold animals. Animals of course have no fear not because they are brave, as human foes may be, but because they are unsuspecting creatures. The fierce slaughter of such creatures is a devastating humiliation to Ajax and bound to make him a laughing-stock, as he himself indicates immediately below (367).

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throws him back into his initial despair: he now reflects that he is finished because Athena pursues him to his destruction and the army is set to kill him (394–409). In the last part of the kommos, he predicts for the first time in the play that he will soon be dead, presumably by his own hand. He appeals to the landmarks of the Trojan landscape, probably as impartial witnesses, and assures any sane man of the certainty of his intention (412–17).18 The end of this itinerary is marked by the declaration of his unsurpassed superiority as a warrior (418–26),19 and the contrast with his present utterly dishonored state (426–27).20 The chorus cannot contradict him, although they would like to (428–29). The evocation of his status as a warrior in the campaign very naturally leads to his speech in iambic trimeters (430–80), in which he reviews his present situation and future prospects before he announces his decision to kill himself. In contrast to the kommos, the remoter past appears prominently in this cardinal speech. Telamon’s exploits in the first capture of Troy figure prominently as does the burden they place on Ajax but also his own worth and his hatred of his enemies on account of Achilles’ arms. Ajax begins and ends his deliberations with Telamon and his own wish to prove himself to his father (434–40, 470–80). He points out that he is not inferior to his father in the acts of courage he has performed so far, but instead of winning fair rewards that would match those of Telamon, he is completely and irreparably disgraced by the Greeks. This is notoriously Achilles’ constant complaint in Iliad. A fair judge such as Achilles would have awarded the arms to Ajax (441–44), but the Atreids and Odysseus cheated and robbed him of his prize (445–46). What is more, Athena’s intervention sent him the fit of insanity and stopped him from taking his just revenge, making him the laughing-stock of his enemies (447–56). In

18 φρονῶν (417) is probably chosen with regard to his own previous state of mind and points to himself more than to anybody else. 19 As already suggested, Ajax conspicuously, and very revealingly for his presentation in the play, fails to acknowledge that the Trojan land had actually seen a greater man arrive, Achilles. The traditional ranking of the two warriors appears later, in Odysseus’ speech to Agamemnon (1338–41). 20 The last sentence is epigrammatic and lapidary, reminiscent of a funeral inscription. The choice of the verb “I lie” (πρόκειμαι, 427) suggests a corpse laid out for burial, an ironic implication in view of the upcoming opposition of the Atreids to his burial, as Garvie (1998) ad loc. notes. Loss of honor is tantamount to death; cf. 440. For other references to Ajax lying or sitting where he has fallen cf. n. 15 above.

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such circumstances, Ajax cannot envisage sailing home and facing Telamon because he is certain that his father would receive the son who came short most unkindly (460–66). This belief differentiates Ajax from the Iliadic Achilles, whose first impulse in response to his comrades’ entreaties in the embassy is to sail back home to Phthia and his father Peleus (Il. 9.356–63, 393–400; cf. 1.169–71). Achilles does not even entertain the possibility that Peleus might be displeased with him for returning home without glory or Briseis. Perhaps tellingly for Sophocles’ conception of his hero, the situation of Ajax is closer to that of Hector, who decides to stay outside the walls and fight Achilles because he fears blame if he enters the city (Il. 22.99–110). Also, the only Iliadic episodes referred to in the play involve Hector, Ajax’ duel with him (1283–87; cf. 661–63, 815–23, 1025–27) and Ajax’ defense of the ships against Hector’s onslaught (1273–82). By contrast, the notorious quarrel of Achilles and Agamemnon is never mentioned. Although Ajax himself and his friends, especially Teucer in the debate with the Atreids over the burial of Ajax, have abundant occasion to mention or allude to the quarrel, they never do so.21

The audience cannot be sure of Telamon’s reaction to his son’s homecoming. Nevertheless, Teucer’s similar dread of his father’s stern temper and unforgiving gaze (1008–11, 1017–20) might eventually lead them to assume that the concerns of Ajax were not entirely off the mark. As already suggested, his belief that Telamon will react adversely to his disgrace is the crucial factor in his decision to commit suicide: the cheated and disgraced warrior will not dare to show his face to his father, who will not even bear to look at a son showing up “naked,” without adequate prizes (462–65). Ajax finds it imperative to seek to do something that will show his father that the son sired by him is not a coward by nature (470–72). A nobleman should live well or die well (479–80). A man who finds himself in a state of irreparable disgrace, as Ajax believes that he does, should not continue

21 Ajax may also have withdrawn from the battle like Achilles (see n. 57 below), but neither the withdrawal of Achilles nor even any other Greek leaders apart from him and those appearing in the play are mentioned. One can only speculate about Sophocles’ reworking of Homeric material. Since the subject matter of Ajax is not Iliadic, the play may have echoed more consistently its Cyclic sources. On the other hand, Sophocles may not have wished to evoke Achilles’ superiority to Ajax, or any past occasion on which Ajax had cooperated with his later foes such as the Iliadic embassy to Achilles and the non-Iliadic defense of his body.

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to entertain false hopes: he should put an end to his shameful life, the prolongation of which may afford him no pleasurable relief from his troubles (473–78). 476 is difficult to interpret, since “merely bringing one near to and moving one back from death” seems to be an unintelligible oxymoron. The succession of days can only bring a man nearer to his death, not push him back from it. Jebb and others think that Sophocles alludes to the game of draughts or to the racecourse, but none of these metaphors may convincingly explain Ajax’ thought. Garvie very tentatively suggests that, although one’s progression toward death is indeed inexorably linear, each day one stays alive may be thought of as a postponement of death. He acknowledges that the combination of ideas is difficult, but the most important objection is probably that the view of each day as a postponement of death for everyone is irrelevant to the deliberations of Ajax. If the text is sound, one may perhaps assume that Ajax conflates two ideas, the inevitable approach of death with each passing day for every man and the (shameful) postponement of death by the miserable man who fails to cut his pathetic life short through suicide. All men are bound to die, but those who are honored profit from a long life, in which they enjoy their glory and privileges. Those who have been dishonored can have no benefit but only additional shame from a long life or what amounts to their own prolongation of their miserable life. In poetry the certainty of inglorious death following an obscure life is often contrasted with the nobility of seeking glory at the cost of one’s transient life (e.g. Il. 12.322–28, 18.115–26, Callin. 1.12–17 W2, Pi. O. 1.81–84; cf. S. Ant. 460–68, 502–4). Irreparably disgraced men such as Ajax, bound to die and approaching their death with each passing day like everyone else, should not live out their shameful days but be put out of their misery as soon as possible by their own hand, thereby restoring their honor.

Obviously, Ajax is, if not nearly obsessed, at least eminently preoccupied with his father’s glory, which is central to his self-conception: similar to his father in valor and apparently temper, he entertains no doubts about Telamon’s negative reaction to his return without adequate spoils.22 On the

22 Ajax is harsh and irascible (205–6, 312–13, 369, 589, 591–92, 594–95) as well as a strict father favoring a hard education (548–49, 556–57). It is easily conceivable that, if he lived to old age, Ajax would be very similar to Telamon as described by Teucer (1008–20). Concerning the spoils, even if Ajax returned home right away, he would bring with him at least Tecmessa, the mother of his son and Telamon’s only grandson. Nevertheless, she and anything else that Ajax might have amassed

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other hand, the reason for Telamon’s displeasure would not necessarily be the failure of his son to secure the arms or to punish his enemies, as Ajax believes. It will appear later that Telamon is a pious man (764–65). Conceivably, if he learned that Ajax, who had rejected his pious advice (767–69), also insulted and thus infuriated Athena (770–76), he would castigate and revile his son’s impiety rather than his lack of distinction. But Ajax, who does not realize that he has incurred divine wrath because of his impious statements, cannot consider such possibilities and is only preoccupied with his father’s past achievements. The burden that these achievements place on the son and his anxiety over his father’s view of him leave him only two options, either a glorious life or, failing that, an immediate, honorable suicide. As already pointed out, in the eyes of Ajax, his suicide will prove to his valiant father that the son he fathered is not a coward and thus compensate for the disgrace that Ajax thinks he has brought on himself and his father. In his discussion of the Greek concept of shame (aiskhunê), Konstan suggests that Ajax’ motive for committing suicide is not shame: the hero decides to kill himself because he possibly fears for his life, since he believes that the army is ready to kill him, and fears facing his father. Konstan thinks that there is no reason why Ajax would feel ashamed since his failure to exact revenge for the insult he received was due to a temporary spell of insanity and not a fault of his own. Thus, in fear for his life and still harboring a great, frustrated anger on account of the insult and his inability to take revenge for it, Ajax decides to commit suicide.23 Shame per se is rarely mentioned explicitly in the play, but Ajax and his friends are certain that his enemies will draw great satisfaction from, and will gleefully mock him for, his disastrously failed attempt to kill his enemies (367, 382–83, 454). This causes them great emotional anguish, which can fairly be described as shame, although shame does not exhaust the range of emotions experienced in a situation of public disgrace. Only once in the kommos, and in a state of emotional upheaval, does Ajax mention the army’s revenge on him (408–9). Even if one should place great weight on this passing reference, fear for his life hardly leads a man to commit suicide.

over the years of the siege would not compare with the most conspicuous prize, which became available only after Achilles’ death, the champion’s arms. These would be the equivalent of the greatest spoil in the first campaign against Troy, Laomedon’s daughter, who was awarded to Telamon by his commander Heracles and became Teucer’s mother (1299–1303). 23 Konstan (2006) 105–6.

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The chorus, for instance, who had envisaged the death of Ajax by stoning in the first kommos and expressed their fear of sharing their leader’s fate (251–56; cf. 230–32), think that they should steal away on foot or row away as soon as possible (240–50). Suicide may seem preferable if one fears that one’s death at the hands of others will be painful or humiliating. But Ajax cannot be imagined to fear that the army will torture him before his death. If he is concerned with further humiliation, then shame, or a wish to avoid further loss of status and mockery by his enemies, motivates him to commit suicide.24 And certainly Ajax is not afraid of facing Telamon but is ashamed of doing so in his present situation. His status has been fatally diminished by his failure, and this loss of face and status will aggrieve Telamon, who will be found to have sired a worthless son. Even if Ajax did not fail because of a flaw in his character, although that too is debatable, he does not, and cannot, reason as Konstan or Tecmessa and the chorus suggest but feels irreparably disgraced by, and ashamed for, his failure.

The similarities of Ajax with his father and his preoccupation with the past achievements of Telamon determine only his manner of death, suicide, not his manner of committing suicide. The latter seems to be decided upon in view of an event of the more recent past, the quarrel of Ajax with the Atreids, which has generated his deep hatred of them. After rejecting the prospect of returning to Salamis without Achilles’ arms, and before declaring his resolve to prove his bravery to his father, Ajax entertains another option, to undertake a suicide mission by attacking the Trojans alone and dying valiantly in single combat with the enemies (466–68). This is rejected summarily on the grounds that it would give the Atreids pleasure (469). It is beyond doubt that Telamon’s glory or attitude is not a factor, let alone the main factor, in the dismissal of this option. Indeed, one would have a hard time imagining why even as sternly fierce and one-sided a man as Telamon would frown upon his son’s decision to commit suicide by inflicting significant losses on the enemy in a lone foray. There is no clear or conceivable reason why an obstreperous aged father and honored veteran of a previous war would consider it more honorable if his warrior son committed suicide by falling on his sword on a deserted spot of the enemy beach. Neither in the play nor in Greek literature is there any indication

24 For the fear of mockery as a potent motive for tragic action see the overview of Catto (1991), 18–19 on Ajax.

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that a father and an old hero would be more comfortable with a son’s private suicide than with a suicidal attack on the enemy. Ajax decides to commit suicide in the manner he does because he hates the Atreids for the insult they inflicted upon him by disregarding his valor and awarding the coveted prize of the arms to a scoundrel (445–46). The pleasure of the Atreids would apparently not spring from an assumed perverse preference for suicide attacks over private suicides, especially since both methods would be equally effective in eliminating their hated enemy. A suicide attack by Ajax would give them pleasure presumably because it would advance their cause. Ajax would kill a fair number of Trojan champions before he fell and would thus doubly benefit the Atreids – it is not accidental that Ajax mentions only them, the leaders of the campaign, and not his hated rival Odysseus in this context, although of course the entire army, who back the Atreids and hate Ajax (458; cf. 408–9), would benefit from his foray.

3. Enemies and friends Enmity pervades the play literally from beginning to end, reaching even beyond it, and beyond death. The illegitimate Teucer fears harsh treatment and merciless disfranchisement by his cantankerous father, if he returns home without Ajax (1008–20).25 Apart from the enmity of Greeks and Trojans, the Greek camp is riven with factional and inter-personal strife. The play begins with Athena’s address to Odysseus as someone always trying to outsmart the enemy, identified in the present case as Ajax (1–7). Despite Odysseus’ noble and perhaps unexpected stance at the end

25 Nevertheless, family members also support each other, as is obvious from Teucer’s affection for, and support of, his brother and, to a lesser extent, from Ajax’ reliance on Teucer. Apart from, and even more than, Tecmessa (cf. n. 52 below), Teucer also expresses love and longing for his dead brother; see n. 11 above. His first words in the play (974) are the same as his brother’s first sane words (333, 336) and Tecmessa’s exclamation when she discovers the body of Ajax (891). But the two brothers seem to operate in a totally hostile world, as again Teucer’s words (1021–22) and his hostile reception by his comrades upon his return (721–32) indicate. It is telling, though, that, in the first part of the play, Teucer is far away. Nobody blames him for his absence (cf., though, 342–43), but it is keenly felt (563–64, 826–30; cf. 797, 804, 920–22), as it deprives Ajax of his support. No friend or family member manages to reach Ajax before it is too late.

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(1332ff.), and Teucer’s recognition of the importance of his unhoped-for mediation (1381–92), his last offer to help with the funeral (1378–80) is politely denied by Teucer (1393–99). “I would have liked to do these things; but if it is not philon to you that I do, I will accept your view and leave” (1400–1), he says before exiting. Only the dead man’s family and comrades present are allowed to prepare his funeral.26 Teucer invites Odysseus to it and gives him license to bring along any other comrade who wishes to attend (1396–97), but it seems likely that this is just a courteous formality. Odysseus, at any rate, does not respond to it, and it is unclear whether he will attend. The funeral itself is not shown in the play, and thus the issue of participation in it remains undecided. There is certainly no suggestion in the play that any other comrade than Odysseus and perhaps Calchas would like to pay the last respects to Ajax. The motif of the instability of friendship is twice mentioned, once by Ajax in the so-called deception speech (680– 83),27 and once by Odysseus in the exodus (1359). The permanence of enmity is stressed repeatedly by Ajax, until the very end of his life, and his enemies. As suggested above, Ajax can conceive only of a life in which he excels in vanquishing enemies and winning glorious prizes, in the manner of his father in the past, or of an honorable death that restores his injured reputation and comforts Telamon by proving his son’s worth: no alternative in life or death, no accommodation, or compromise is conceivable. Apart from Ajax in the so-called deception speech (678–80), Odysseus is the only male character that rejects fixity in perpetual enmity, at least toward a dead and noble foe (1336–57; cf. 1376–80). His humane attitude may be thought to be prompted, or at least reinforced, by his privileged access to Athena’s dealings at the beginning of the play, and the shock and awe the fierceness of divine hostility toward helpless mortals produces in him (118–33). Indicatively, Tecmessa is the only character in the play who envisages the possibility that the enemies of Ajax will come to miss him in battle and realize his worth when he is dead and they cannot benefit from his services any longer (961–65). No male character makes any similar suggestion, not even Ajax himself, or Teucer, and certainly not Odysseus.

26 For Odysseus’ exclusion see Roberts (1993) 583–85. 27 Ajax also mentions the transience of hostility in this context (678–80), but it is quite clear from his other statements, and especially his behavior, that he does not believe in this transience and only includes it for the sake of the deception. For the speech see the discussion in 4 below.

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The attribution of this prediction to Tecmessa and the silence of the male characters (or, in the case of Agamemnon, the denial of the exceptional status of Ajax) become more important if one associates them with the famous meeting of Ajax and Odysseus in Hades, which Odysseus relates in Odyssey (11.543–65). He tells the implacable Ajax that the judgment of arms was the result of divine hostility toward the Achaeans, and caused the loss of a precious bulwark of a comrade (11.555–56, 558–60). The army lamented this loss as much as that of Achilles (11.556–58). This seems to be a diplomatically retouched comparison on the part of an Odysseus eager to make peace with Ajax because he otherwise repeatedly indicates Achilles’ superiority (11.550–51; cf. 11.469–70, 482–86). Nevertheless, Odysseus does not merely pretend that the loss of Ajax was a serious blow to the army because he says as much to his Phaeacian audience (11.549–50) and even wishes that he had never won the victory that led to the loss of Ajax (11.548).

The most conspicuous token of fixity and enmity in the play is Hector’s sword, firmly implanted by Ajax himself in the enemy Trojan soil (817–22). Paradoxically, this weapon also provides Ajax with the means of staying true to himself, as he believes, by salvaging his tarnished reputation and proving himself a worthy son of his father. This paradox is worth examining closely, as it is intimately connected with the views of Ajax about enemies and friends, or past, present and future. The sword came to his possession in a fairly extraordinary manner, at the conclusion of his duel with Hector, which is narrated in Iliad 7 (181–312). As already suggested, this duel and his defense of the ships against Hector’s raging onslaught are the two incidents singled out in the play as the high points of his career and contributions to the Greek campaign, in his and his friends’ view all too easily forgotten by his ungrateful comrades (405–9, 616–20, 1266–71). The isolation of Ajax from the community of the army, including, to an extent, his own men, is a prominent motif throughout the play. Even before the dramatic time of the play, he set out alone at dusk to kill his enemies (285–87). This is certainly not an indication that he has abandoned his principles, adulterated his true nature, and adopted the ways of his enemy, the crafty Odysseus.28 Ajax is a much better warrior and he could easily have killed

28 For this view see e.g. Segal (1981) 124, Bowie (1983) 114, Scodel (1984) 23, Stevens (1986) 328, and Bradshaw (1991) 117.

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his enemies in single combat, but single combat was not a possibility. One can hardly imagine that his enemies would have accepted a challenge, had he issued one, and, if he had attacked them openly, the rest of the army would have assisted them. In Iliad Achilles is ready to draw his sword and kill Agamemnon in the assembly (1.188–94), but Agamemnon has insulted him by issuing an outrageous demand, and it is not clear that the other leaders would want to support Agamemnon. The situation of Ajax is very different, as there is no indication in the play that the army shares his and his friends’ belief that he has been cheated in the judgment of arms. Irrespective of such comparisons, neither in the play nor elsewhere in Greek literature is there any basis for arguing that the heroic code excludes the use of trickery against enemies. Ajax may be faulted for believing, or overreacting in the belief, that the Greek leaders conspired to wrong him. Nevertheless, since he has no doubt that they behaved immorally toward him and are thus his enemies, his choice of revenge is legitimate and does not violate his principles. Just a couple of examples are sufficient to illustrate the ethics of deception in epic and tragedy. Ambushes are an uncontroversial and valorized part of Homeric warfare (Il. 1.226–28, 13.277, Od. 11.523–32). Achilles also consents to the plan of deceiving the Trojans by sending Patroclus into battle with his armor (Il. 16.40–42; cf. 11.798–801). Neoptolemus’ reluctance to deceive Philoctetes in Sophocles’ Philoctetes cannot self-evidently be taken as indication that the young man harbored an unqualified aversion to the use of trickery against enemies. Neoptolemus preferred to prevail by other means, hoping to use honest persuasion (86–120). Besides, heroes had a much more ambivalent attitude to verbal deception, and speech in general in battle contexts, than to stratagems.29

Ajax also sets out alone to commit suicide in a remote part of the seashore (654–60, 690), and asks the Sun to bring the news of his death to his parents (845–51). In his last words, he salutes not only his distant homeland but also the Trojan springs, rivers and plains as his nurturers (859–63).30

29 For ambush and trickery see Pritchett (1974) 177–89, Wheeler (1988), Whitehead (1988), and Van Wees (1996) 37. For Neoptolemus and Philoctetes see II 1 below. 30 Ajax had also invoked Trojan landmarks earlier, in connection with his greatness and dishonoring (412–26). See especially 418–20, his apostrophe to Scamander’s kindly streams. For a defense of the MSS reading εὔφρονες at 420 see Finglass (forthcoming) ad loc. Cf. Lloyd-Jones and Wilson (1997) 18–19. I do not agree with Garvie who suggests that Ajax sets himself apart from the other Greeks in this appeal by implying that the river’s streams are kind to them but hostile to him.

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What is most striking and indicative of a radical reversal of norms, which may imply a potential for change in the attitude of Ajax, is his statement that he planted the sword of Hector with care in the enemy Trojan land so that it will be most kind in granting him a speedy death (819–22).31 The oxymoron of an enemy weapon and land with a kind disposition, even if the latter is brought about by his own action, shows that Ajax can achieve what he wishes by relying on his Trojan enemies.32 Actually, this is the second level of reversals in the reference to the sword and the imminent suicide: gifts, even those made by enemies, and swords stuck in the ground, whether the enemy or the friendly sort, do not normally kill people, and people do not normally kill themselves. Jebb thinks that Ajax lists three reasons for the efficacy of the sword, its being the gift of an enemy, its being fixed in hostile soil, and its careful planting in it. According to Jebb, who brings as corroborating evidence the statement of Ajax at 661–65, Ajax rues his guest-friendship with Hector and considers the sword his bane.33

A reference by an Argive speaker to Argives in connection with the Trojan landscape and without any further specification naturally includes the speaker himself. Certainly, as part of Troy, the Trojan landscape belongs to the enemy side and may be thought to be inimical to Ajax and all Argives; see especially 459, and cf. 819, with next n. These passages, though, include statements of an indisputable fact. In his more emotional addresses to the Trojan landscape, Ajax takes into account the nurture it has been providing to the enemy host. In this respect, he finds it friendly, and in his situation friendlier than his fellow Argives. It may count as another sign of his isolation that his own men nowhere share his view of the Trojan landscape; cf. 601–5 and 1207–10, with nn. 63–64 below. 31 As Kamerbeek (19632 ) observes, 819 does not show personal animosity. On the other hand, in its context, it may enhance the effect of the extraordinary situation of Ajax. In his references to his hated enemies, he uses exclusively the emotionally colored ἐχθρός, as do most characters in the play. Only Menelaus also uses πολέμιος (1132; cf. 1133). The two terms are often used interchangeably, but cf. e.g. Philoctetes’ reference to Odysseus (Ph. 1302–3; cf. also 1323). 32 Cf. the initial reference to the efficient slayer (τομώτατος, lit. “sharpest,” 815), which may recall the end of his instructions to Tecmessa concerning the uselessness of incantations when surgery (lit. “cutting”) is in order (581–82). 33 Jebb (1896) on 817. The reference to guest-friendship has been rejected by Kane (1996), who argues that ξένων at 817 = “of foreigners.” Cf. Finglass (forthcoming) on 815–18. It is true that in Iliad Ajax and Hector did not establish a relationship of guest-friendship through their gift-exchange, and there are no other references to such a relationship in Sophocles’ play. But the choice of a word designating guest-friendship, in a context of reversals and gift-exchange, is unlikely to be used only in the sense ‘foreign’. Had Sophocles only wished to designate non-Greeks,

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Under normal circumstances, an enemy sword is most likely to kill, and thus be feared and detested by, its potential victim. But Ajax and the Achaean army loath each other, and Ajax’ decision to commit suicide puts him in an abnormal position of further isolation from his community. In these circumstances, death and the weapon that brings it about are welcome. The important factor that ensures the sword’s lethal function is Ajax’ care in sharpening and implanting it with care. Apart from his reference to the sword in the so-called deception speech (661–65), there is no other indication in the play that Ajax considers the sword of Hector his bane, and he certainly does not repeat this claim in the monologue before his suicide, in which he does not regret the fact that his relationship with Hector is mediating his death. In the last part of his speech addressed to the body of Ajax, Teucer refers to the fact that Hector’s sword finally killed Ajax, after Hector’s death (1025–27). He invites the chorus to consider the terrible fate of, and divine hostility toward, the two men, who perished each by means of the other’s gift (1028–39). Teucer’s musings on their fate and the human condition have been deleted by Lloyd-Jones and Wilson and Finglass, who follow Morstadt.34 I share fully their objections to these lines and would even like to delete the two previous ones (1026–27), substituting e.g. ἐγώ for the last two syllables of 1025. This would eliminate all reference to Hector’s killing of Ajax and make the last part of 1025 a very common interjection in laments, already uttered by Teucer earlier (981). It would certainly make a much more fitting conclusion to Teucer’s speech of pathos and distress than the quite irrelevant and rather abrupt question at 1026–27, which, if kept, seems to demand a sequel, or to imply that the outcome of the duel of Hector and Ajax was ultimately in Hector’s favor. In any case, even if no lines are deleted, Teucer’s musings have no relevance to the feelings of Ajax, and, what is equally important, Teucer himself does not claim that the sword was the bane of Ajax or that the gifts of enemies are no gifts and bring no benefit. It should also perhaps be taken into account that neither Tecmessa nor the chorus in their lament before Teucer’s arrival acknowledge or deplore the fact that Ajax died by Hector’s sword. Later, though, Ajax and Hector will be associated in death through the chorus’ use of the phrase “hollow trench” (κοίλην κάπετον, 1165) for

he could, and likely would, easily have used an unambiguous ethnic such as e.g. Τρώων or Φρυγῶν. 34 Lloyd-Jones and Wilson (1997) 27, and Finglass (forthcoming) on 1028–39.

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the grave of Ajax, a probable borrowing from Homer’s description of the cavity in which Hector’s bones were placed (Il. 24.797).

It is precarious to use claims made only in the deception speech as evidence for the interpretation of other parts of the play. Only the instructions to Tecmessa and especially the chorus at its end (684–92) should be taken in earnest, since they do not conflict with Ajax’ decision to commit suicide. Earlier, Ajax had interrupted his farewell speech to his son and instructed the chorus to convey his wishes about Eurysaces and his arms to Teucer (565–77). In the end of the deception speech, Ajax does not mention the boy because that would betray his intentions but asks the chorus to tell Teucer “to care for me” (688–89). This vague, general instruction will soon turn out to include not only the care for the boy but also and primarily the defense of Ajax’ body against outrages by his enemies (826–30). Ajax also commits his men to Teucer’s care (689). The chorus must take his last instructions as covering only the time of their leader’s absence, but these are course meant to cover a much more prolonged time-span.

4. Deception of friends? It is obvious from the above that I consider the famous and much-debated speech that opens the second episode (646–92) as intended by Ajax to deceive his listeners, at least as far as his plans for the suicide are concerned. The interpretation of the speech does not affect my argument, but since the speech not only mentions the sword of Hector and the quarrel of Ajax with the Atreids but is also a part of the play that has been viewed as ambiguous and difficult to interpret by most critics, I will make my position clear with regard to it before proceeding.35 Ajax claims upon his entrance that he has changed and become softened (ἐθηλύνθην, lit. “become feminized”) by Tecmessa (651–52). The use of the verb alone should alert any, even moderately attentive, listener to the possibility of dissimulation because, whatever else he may become, Ajax can hardly ever be thought to become soft like a woman. Tecmessa had earlier claimed that, upon realizing his plight, he engaged in

35 For a review of the various interpretations see Hesk (2003) ch. 5; cf. Instone (2007) 232.

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lamentations that he previously despised as a sign of cowardice (317–20). This does not indicate that he has become feminized, nor does Tecmessa imply that he has, but shows his extreme emotional distress at the magnitude of his extraordinary misfortune. His constancy is not shared by the chorus, whom Teucer will later urge to defend Ajax’ body like men and not stand by like women (1182–84). Ajax cannot be absolutely immune to change,36 but at least tries and succeeds to remain true to his dearest desire, to be a proud and glorious champion like his father.

Ajax then claims that he has learnt temperance, and will henceforth revere the gods and the ruling Atreids (666–68). None of these statements is repeated or implied in his final monologue. Critics have made various suggestions to account for the discrepancy between his statements in the deception speech and his decision to commit suicide. They have claimed that he is still insane because he remains insane throughout the play, that he experiences a real change of heart but then goes insane again, and that the deception is meant to protect his family from retaliation by the enemies.37 No support for such ideas can be found anywhere in the play. Persistent insanity or another bout of madness does not come into question, and Ajax commits his family, i.e. his son, to the care of Teucer, clearly stating that his brother’s guardianship will protect the boy from his father’s enemies even in the absence of his father (560–64). Gellie thought that the speech presents an insolvable dilemma: “Ajax cannot change and Ajax cannot lie. If Ajax cannot change, he speaks to deceive; if Ajax cannot lie, he is recording an honest change of heart.”38 The second premise is false, and thus the dilemma vanishes immediately. There is no indication in the play or elsewhere that Ajax, or any other hero for that matter, cannot lie for specific purposes. It is certain that Ajax speaks ambiguously, and one may, if one so wishes, attribute the extensive and almost studied ambiguity of his language to inborn or heroic aversion to outright dissimulation. It is more plausible, though, to attribute it to his awareness of the truth, which colors his deceptive speech. The play does not indicate his reasons for such a deception, and thus speculation about them cannot yield any definitive answer.

36 Cf. Blundell (1989) 84–86. 37 For a review of such suggestions see Garvie (1998) on 331–32, 646–92, and 666–67. 38 Gellie (1972) 12.

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It is possible that Ajax actually feels pity for Tecmessa, as he claims (652–53), and perhaps even for the chorus, and wishes to spare their feelings. He does not seem to be cruel or heartless, although, apart from the speech, his humanity never leads him to dwell on the suffering of others or try to spare them.39 We do not know whether he actually feels pity for Tecmessa, as most modern audiences and readers would like him to do, but his possible pity does not alter his plans. The softness induced in him by Tecmessa may refer to the speech itself,40 or his decision to deceive his friends by means of the speech, but one can hardly see the point of such a remark, which would be obscure to the original external audience and as likely to be misinterpreted by them as by the internal audience. What is perhaps a more serious objection to the suggestion that Ajax feels pity and wishes to spare his friends’ feelings is that the time won and the amount of suffering spared are indeed negligible. It is more plausible to assume that Ajax wishes to avoid the trouble of having to answer persistent questions and possibly of suffering interference with his plans, although nobody would have been able to stop him from committing suicide.41 A more difficult question is whether Ajax really comes to appreciate temperance, even if he does not wish to survive and practice it. Does he now believe that one should show temperance, and is his suicide his way of reconciling himself with the gods by atoning for his outrages, and accepting the sovereignty of the Atreids? As was the case with the previous questions, our fairest chance of answering this one is by turning to the rest

39 Ajax shows greatest sympathy for the plight of his mother (849, 850). In his appeal to the Sun to bring the news of his misfortune and death to his parents, he stops for a moment and imagines with pity the shrill laments of his mother resonating throughout the city (851), an unconscious echo of the chorus’ much more pathetic description of Eriboea’s laments (621–34). Cf. n. 59 below. This fleeting emotional outburst is immediately suppressed without further ado and with a selfexhortation to do the deed as soon as possible (853–54). Whether Ajax really pities Tecmessa or not, he says nothing and leaves no instructions about her, although it is plausible that he and the audience take it for granted that she will follow Eurysaces and Teucer to Salamis. Cf. n. 72 below. 40 See Easterling (1984) 6; cf. Winnington-Ingram (1980) 48, and March (1991–93) 19. 41 Garvie (1998) on 646–92 points out that there are also dramatic reasons for the deception speech, since Sophocles wanted Ajax to die alone and isolated, as is typical of Sophoclean heroes, and onstage, an arrangement that necessitated the removal of Tecmessa and the chorus. This of course cannot be the only or the main reason; cf. Blundell (1989) 84.

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of the play, especially to the all-important last speech of Ajax. Nothing in this speech, and certainly nothing in the first episode, indicates that his position toward gods and men changes at all. He believes that the gods hate him (457–58; cf. 401–3, 589–90), which is true enough, but he shows no awareness that he has offended them, in particular Athena, or any wish to placate them. He does not even mention Athena in his last speech, or say anything to the effect that his death is an expiatory self-sacrifice and that he would like the gods to view it as such. It is obvious from the first episode that his decision was based on his wish to live, or, failing that, to die in a manner that would satisfy his father. The offense against Athena comes as a surprise to the audience in the third episode. This is one of the clearest indicators in the play that Ajax dies unchanged. Unaware of any offense he has committed, he cannot repent, come to adopt, or even appreciate, a different attitude. Learning through suffering certainly does not apply to Ajax, as it does not to most tragic heroes. Concerning his behavior toward the Atreids, it is clear that he never regrets his attempt to kill them and dies continuing to hate them. He also curses them as well as the entire army (835–44).42 His failure to entertain the possibility of attacking his enemies again and his decision to commit suicide are not signs that he has been converted from a man of action to a man of thoughtful deliberation, who, implicitly at least, acknowledges the error of his former ways. Given Athena’s previous intervention, mounting another attack would be a disastrously absurd idea, and Ajax could only entertain it if he became mad again. His suicide has nothing to do with learning temperance and accepting the Atreids’ authority over him. The latter is dubious anyway, and convincingly disputed by Teucer later, in his debate with Menelaus after Ajax’ death.43 It is also quite irrelevant to the matter of the judgment of arms, since the Atreids were not the judges and

42 Gardiner (1987) 78 implies that the curse includes his own men. It would also include Teucer, but it is unlikely that Ajax really wishes for the destruction of his brother and comrades, or that Sophocles puts in the mouth of the hero such a monstrous wish. (The motif of a careless vow or curse is irrelevant in the context.) Ajax curses his enemies, who now make up the entire army, except for his brother and men. If his curse also included his friends, then at 408–9 he would claim that they too wish to execute him. For Gardiner’s view of Ajax cf. the discussion with n. 70 below. 43 Agamemnon’s authority over the leaders of the army is not hierarchically guaranteed, either in the play or in Homer’s Iliad. See the discussion in 8 below.

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could only tamper with the process. This is hardly the kind of authority that Ajax would wish or learn to respect. Even the principle of universal alternation, which Ajax evokes in arguably the most beautiful lines given to him in the play (669–76), cannot possibly lead one to the conclusion that one should yield to one’s superiors. Apart from the fact that Ajax is unlikely to honestly consider himself subordinate to the Atreids or anybody else, seasons, night, winds, and sleep do not yield to their superiors but to their equals, in a cycle of a mutual show of respect.44 Similarly, the unreliability of friendship (and transience of hostility), which Ajax mentions as the basis of his conversion (678–83), may hardly be viewed as examples of the law of universal alternation. The observed and, in contexts of adversity, desired mutability of human fortunes and affairs, a common motif in Greek literature,45 is sometimes illustrated by an appeal to alternation in nature, as here. The illustration is inexact, because, unlike e.g. seasons, human emotions and fortunes, especially misfortunes, may very well never change. What is more, unlike natural phenomena, human affairs show no regularity, and that is the root of their unpredictability, which is also regularly acknowledged in literature, often side by side with mutability. When referring to change in human affairs and fortunes, Sophocles repeatedly stresses the length of time that eventually brings about the change in question (Aj. 646–47, Ph. 305–6, and OC 607–23; cf. O T 1213), which lacks the regularity that characterizes natural phenomena. (The chorus of Ajax are pessimistic and do not

44 τὰ δεινὰ καὶ τὰ καρτερώτατα/ τιμαῖς ὑπείκει (669–70) does not mean that the most powerful forces bow to the office of their superiors, or “to what is held in honor,” as Garvie (1998) ad loc. suggests. The dat. τιμαῖς may be of respect = “[the most powerful forces yield] with regard to office,” i.e. they reign successively, or, more probably, it complements the verb = “[the most powerful forces yield] to the prerogative [of their fellows].” Ajax thinks of himself as irreparably dishonored by the Atreids and the army, who failed to acknowledge his prerogative as the best fighter. He would thus be unwilling to show any respect to the office of the Atreids, not to mention bow to them as superiors. Natural alternation is often related to the concepts of justice, equality, and measure; see e.g. Anaximander DK 12 B 1, and cf. Heraclitus DK 22 B 31a–b, Diogenes of Apollonia DK 64 B 3, and Eur. Ph. 540–45. Heath (1987) 187–88 and Finglass (forthcoming) on 646–92 think that Ajax hints at his wish to die because in the natural alternation he evokes what gives way is extinguished. This is difficult to accept: unlike a man who dies, no party in the natural alternation is permanently extinguished or obliterated; they just succeed each other perpetually on equal terms. 45 See n. 7 above.

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expect that the endless, as they view it, succession of years that the campaign lasts will bring respite from their toil [600–8, 1185–91].) In any case, as his previous and future statements make clear, Ajax does not think that hostility can or should be transient. Concerning friendship, his view is more difficult to gauge. He has few friends and scarcely addresses friendship at all, but he does not doubt the sincerity of the chorus’ loyalty (348–49, 356–61). He also believes that Achilles would have recognized his worth and honored him justly with the award of his arms (441–44).

Ajax means to lull the suspicions and alleviate the anxiety of his addressees. He therefore chooses an inexact analogy that may be convincing rhetorically because it involves natural phenomena, which admit of no exception or qualification, and subsumes his alleged new understanding of human relations under norms of nature, which actually have nothing to do with them. This is probably the reason why such beautiful language is used in the context of a deceptive or at least misleading speech. Jebb and Garvie think that the evocation of natural laws would be exaggerated and distasteful, if Ajax only meant to deceive his audience with it,46 but it is certainly the rhetorical high point of his speech. The chorus finish the second stasimon with amazed and relieved echoes of the speech; note especially the reference to light following the night (708–10), the power of time to wither all things (714), and Ajax’ unhoped-for reconciliation with the Atreids (715–18). The evocation of natural laws is a relatively small price to pay for such a rhetorical success, and one should probably not forget that, beautiful and powerful though its language is, the parallel extends to little more than six lines.

If anyone in the play would be likely to take his cue from natural alternation, this would be Agamemnon, and indeed Odysseus advises him to yield to friendly counsel and not persist in his impious hatred of the dead Ajax (1328–29, 1332–45). One should not hate when it is not good to hate, and a ruler should not demand universal obedience to his every whim but should be graciously ready to take advice from his friends and grant honors where honors are due (1349, 1351, 1353). Ajax himself would never bow to any leader or relent in his enmity toward anybody, least of all the Atreids and Odysseus. Concerning the appreciation of temperance,

46 Jebb (1896) xxxvi; Garvie (1998) 186.

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some scholars suggest that Ajax is converted to it in principle but fails to practice it because his emotions take the better of him.47 I find this view very unprofitable and virtually impossible to substantiate based on the evidence of Sophocles’ or any other tragedian’s plays. A clear distinction between intellect and emotions is nowhere apparent in tragedy and certainly not in the character of the Sophoclean Ajax. As suggested at the beginning of my discussion of the speech, I consider its first part up to 683 as deceptive and meant to be so by the hero.48

5. Past, present, and future: Ajax and Tecmessa Returning now to my argument concerning the feelings of Ajax about the sword of Hector, it is obvious that, on my reading, Ajax can hardly view the sword as his bane. His last speech indicates that he considers it very amenable to his suicide. The sword’s lethal function is perhaps an unusual but not totally unexpected result of the peculiar gift exchange that brought it to his possession. This function is certainly welcome to Ajax. Nevertheless, despite the kindly and valuable service that the sword will perform for him, and despite his salute to the Trojan springs, rivers and plains (862–63), Ajax nowhere modifies his view of Hector but instead reaffirms his hatred of his enemy. The sword is “hidden” in the enemy Trojan soil (819–20) not in order to bury the past, as Ajax had claimed in the deception speech (657–68), but in order to secure a future that perpetuates an immutable past. As Ajax dies loathing his Greek enemies (835–44), he also dies reaffirming forcefully, and more emphatically than in the deception speech, his hatred of Hector, even his aversion for the sight of his foe (817–18). The gift exchange did not erase his animosity toward Hector, and the latter’s “help” in his suicide similarly does not change his view of the past.

47 See Stanford (1963) 282–83, and cf. Garvie (1998) on 646–92. Euripides’ Phaedra (Hi. 375–87) and Medea (Md. 1040–80) seem to be the two tragic characters most likely to acknowledge the competing claims of intellect and emotions or irrational drives. See, though, the discussion of Mastronarde (2002) on Md. 1079. 48 The deceptive and perfunctory character of the speech is perhaps indicated by the fact that Ajax does not entertain the possibility that the Atreids would not care for his alleged conversion and does not consider any way of placating them. In the second stasimon, the chorus also take for granted that his change of heart is enough to end the present troubles, a very naïve assumption in view of the behavior of the Atreids after his suicide.

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It is certainly not accidental that, despite his dire predicament, nowhere in the play does Ajax wish that he had died in battle, for instance while defending the body of Achilles, or by the hand of Hector, or any other valiant enemy. This is a common type of wish for heroes who perished or ran the risk of perishing in undignified ways from Homer onwards. When in danger of drowning in the swollen Scamander, Achilles wishes that Hector, the best of the Trojans, had killed him in battle, a noble killer despoiling a noble victim (Il. 21.279–83)–and this after the death of Patroclus and not long before he proclaims his perennial hatred of Hector (Il. 22.261–67). Similarly, when Odysseus fears drowning, he expresses his envy for his comrades who died at Troy and wishes that he himself had perished while defending the body of Achilles (Od. 5.306–12). Cf. Od. 1.237–41, 24.24–34, 93–97, A. Ch. 345–62, Eum. 625–28. In Ajax not even the hero’s friends ever wish that he had died in battle, only that he had not died alone (908–12; cf. 1006–7).

Ajax does not wish that anything in his glorious past before his fit of madness were different. He does not even acknowledge Hector’s nobility and/ or prowess, and he certainly does not consider his suicide shamefully unworthy of his or his father’s great past. Ajax dies alone, wishing for the return of his brother, who will defend his body from future outrages by his enemies (826–30). Unrelenting in his hatred and supremely selfconfident, he rejects all (attempts for) reconciliation and contact.49 Harsh and virtually impossible to reach, he is “not thinking as a human should” (760–61, 777), because of his fixation with his idea of himself, which is largely determined by the past. It is both ironic and indicative of Greek attitudes that the primary concern of his friends is the potential casting out of his body without burial. The spirit of an unburied dead could never properly enter Hades (cf. H. Il. 23.71–74, Od. 11.52–54, 72–78), but the friends worry more about the definitive act of rejection by the community. Despite his differences with the army and his isolation from the community, his friends believe that his

49 Nevertheless, he dies vowing “to tell the rest,” presumably his story, to those in Hades (864–65). Perhaps an oblique allusion to his refusal to talk to Odysseus in Odyssey 11, the vow is more likely to allude to his keeping company with Achilles and his friends in Hades (cf. Od. 11.467–70; cf. also 24.15–19). Disappointed by his living comrades, Ajax seeks solace in those worthier ones in the underworld.

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death should bring about some sort of reconciliation: the dead man should be buried and so accepted back in a community that treated the living Ajax as the worst kind of outcast. Later, Teucer will also lament his own future casting out from Salamis by the aggrieved Telamon (1019–20). Tecmessa complains that she has been deceived and cast out from her former favor (807–8). This is a distraught echo of the importance of reciprocal favor in her speech to Ajax in the first episode (520–24) and a clear indication that she still does not understand that Ajax never shared her priorities: his attitude toward her has not changed, but his favor was not enough to thwart his suicide.50

The confidence of Ajax about his view of the past also eliminates all potential for doubt or reexamination and even the potential for entertaining any kind of change. To take the issue of the fateful arms as an indicative example, Ajax is certain that Achilles would have awarded him the arms, and Telamon will repudiate him for returning home without them. This inability to entertain any change in his view of the past and future and his concomitant extreme inflexibility with regard to present action mark out Ajax as different from the other characters in the play, although Tecmessa, Teucer and Odysseus also turn to the past to argue their cases and/or to make decisions.51 Tecmessa’s failure in dissuading Ajax from committing suicide conspicuously indicates where his priorities lie because her closeness to him, especially in her capacity as Eurysaces’ mother, seems, in principle at least, likely to move him.52 The most plausible answer to the question why her plea does not touch her lord is that her perspective is alien and irrelevant

50 φωτὸς ἠπατημένη (807) may mean “deceived by the man,” with genitive of agent, or “cheated of the man,” with genitive of separation. The syntactical ambiguity probably serves to suggest Tecmessa’s realization both of her deception and her loss. For the failure of her plea to Ajax see the discussion below. 51 For the chorus’ relationship to the past see the discussion in the next section. The unlikable Atreids also claim that their decision is a just, posthumous punishment not only for Ajax’ attempt to kill the leaders he hated but also for his past disobedience toward his superiors and lack of respect for communal institutions such as courts (1067–88, 1229–54). This is a biased, self-serving and self-aggrandizing view of the past. See the discussion in 8 below. 52 Because of her sex and status Tecmessa does not openly acknowledge her feelings for Ajax. Her dependence on him and her concern for their child lend a practical aura to her urgency. Contrast Teucer’s expressions of affection for his brother (cf. n. 11 above).

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to him, her references to the past notwithstanding. Her emphasis on necessity, in the form of divinely ordained misfortunes, and especially her acceptance of change, her reconciliation with the enemy Ajax who conquered her country and enslaved her (485–91), and the tactfully implicit but obvious admonition to Ajax to yield to his changing circumstances are bound to fall on deaf ears. Tecmessa does manage to press some arguments likely to sway Ajax such as his enemies’ gloating over the misfortune of his concubine (494–505), a noble man’s duty to protect his dependents (506–19), and his obligation to reciprocate kindnesses he has received, in this case sexual favors (520–24). Tecmessa does not imply that a captive slave-woman could refuse her favors to her lord, or that Ajax should be grateful because he enjoyed himself more with a willing partner.53 Tecmessa’s point is that a sexual relationship, even one between slave and master, obliges the man, the assumed beneficiary, to reciprocate the favor offered by the woman, the assumed “benefactor.” Her earlier declaration of goodwill toward Ajax following the establishment of their intimacy (490–91) also obliges Ajax to reciprocate. His failure to mention Tecmessa and to answer her argument about her future abuse by his enemies may be explained by her servile status.54

Despite their correctness, Tecmessa’ arguments cannot persuade Ajax because he will see to the protection of his dependents and the chorus by relegating them to Teucer’s care. Ajax and the chorus (621–45) also do not believe that the news of his death will aggrieve his parents more than the news of his bout of madness and his failure to restore his reputation. Tecmessa’s principal mistake, though, does not seem to consist in her prioritization of tender emotions and family bonds, which contrasts with his fixation on his hatred of his enemies and his shameful failure to punish them. What seems to doom her attempt above all else is the combination of these factors with her concentration on the future, which is completely out of tune with his obsession with the past, especially the paternal glories of the past.55 Most tellingly, perhaps, Tecmessa fails to address the major

53 Cf. Lysistrate’s advice to her friends (Ar. Lys. 159–66; cf. 223–28). 54 For a more charitable view of his silence see n. 39 above. 55 In contrast to Ajax (462–65) and Teucer (1008–20), who sketch an image of a formidable old Telamon and predict his violent reaction to their perceived failures, Tecmessa implies that Telamon is a helpless old man in need of Ajax’ protection (506–7). The male characters never mention or allude to pathetic reactions on the

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crisis generated by the judgment of arms and the hero’s failure to take revenge for the great insult and injustice he suffered. For Ajax, (his view of ) the past, i.e. his hierarchization of past events and relations, determines his view of the present and future. For Tecmessa, (her view of ) the present and future determine(s) her view of the past.

6. The chorus Even more than Tecmessa’s, the chorus’ view of the past is determined by the present and their projections of the future. The men refer to the past often, and their closeness to Ajax makes them a priori likely to hold a view of the past similar to his (and Teucer’s). To an extent they do, at least as far as their leader’s past is concerned. They acknowledge his services to the campaign and the Atreids, his enemies’ dishonorable behavior toward the great man, and their readiness to gloat, or worse, in his and his friends’ misfortunes. Nevertheless, their view of their own past and the behavior it fosters are ultimately very different from those of Ajax. This is not surprising. Despite their affiliation and long association with Ajax,56 the men obviously do not resemble their leader in courage or might. Their loyalty to Ajax, their sympathy for the plight of his family, and even their readiness to assist Tecmessa and Teucer in their attempt to save the hero’s life do not alter the fact that they are timorous and much concerned with their own safety and wellbeing. In the parodos they declare immediately their dependence upon Ajax, likening themselves to doves and declaring that they feel fear when Ajax is afflicted with divine or human hostility (137–40). They also expand on their inability to deal with malicious rumors without his assistance (164–71, 187–99).57 A little later on, they express their grave fear

part of Telamon. Tecmessa herself depicts much more graphically the emotional distress of Ajax’ mother (507–9), presumably as likelier to move Ajax. Cf. 621–34, 849–51, and n. 59 below. 56 They came to Troy with him, manning his ship (201, 357–58, 872), but also as fighters (565). There can be little doubt that they are Salaminians. For their and Ajax’ connection with Athens see the discussion in the next section. 57 If their statement at 190–95 is to be taken at face value, Ajax has withdrawn from the fighting, presumably after the award of Achilles’ arms to Odysseus. This is reminiscent of Achilles’ retirement in Iliad, but the similarity is not significant. The retirement of Ajax is not thematically important in the play, as it preceded the hero’s crucial attempt to take revenge and his fit of madness. It is not mentioned

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for their safety and the consequences that their leader’s madness will have on them (245–56). In the first antistrophe of the first stasimon, they voice their helpless dismay at his disease (609–15). They say that Ajax is their companion, sitting as ἔφεδρος (610), and cohabiting with a divinely sent madness (θείᾳ μανίᾳ ξύναυλος, 611). The predicate ἔφεδρος is usually interpreted as a metaphor from sports, referring to an athlete who had received a bye and would fight the winner in a competition between two other athletes. On this reading, the chorus envisage Ajax, or at any rate his disease, as a fresh toil upon their war-service toils. The problem with this interpretation is not only that the chorus would view themselves as competitors to the diseased Ajax but especially that they would envisage themselves as winning the fight against their other troubles. This is very hard to accept when the chorus have just made clear that they envisage no respite from, and, naturally, no conquering of, their toils (600–8; cf. 1185–91). The idea of a match between the men and their toils seems out of place in the context and out of character for this chorus. However, if the idea is not ruled out, another possibility is that the chorus view themselves as the losers in the match and Ajax as an ἔφεδρος rendered inadequate to attack the winner because of his disease. This is likelier than the other interpretation but still probably unsatisfactory. Even in the present state of Ajax, his men are unlikely to think of him as a mere ἔφεδρος in the athletic sense of the term. The predicate probably means just “sitting by.” It is possibly a distraught echo of the end of the parodos, which mentions their champion’s withdrawal from the fighting and stay in his tent, allowing his enemies to spread malicious rumors unchecked (190– 200). Now the rumors have turned out to be all too true, the chorus lament their endless toils, and they cannot tend the ailing Ajax, who continues sitting by in his tent. There is no doubt of course that his disease is a fresh and terrible trouble facing the unfortunate men.

Although in the parodos the chorus stress the interdependence of leaders and followers (158–61), after the suicide of Ajax they take no forceful stand in the debate over his burial, expecting Teucer (and later Odysseus,

again and it certainly does not seem to have been a cause for concern to the army or to have generated any conciliatory overtures on the part of Agamemnon. Achilles’ retirement from the battle is also never mentioned. Cf. n. 21 above.

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1316–17) to resolve the dispute and take care of the matter.58 They provide no answer to Teucer’s admonition to defend manfully the body of Ajax (1182–84), and the subsequent third stasimon (1185–1222) is a lament for their long-lasting toils, to which I will return. Their most active moment in the play is their search for Ajax, but it is fruitless, and they stress the endless toils it generates (866–71). Although this indicates the eager thoroughness of their search (cf. 813–14), coming from a group of men frantically trying to find their leader in order to save him from imminent suicide, it is, to say the least, a peculiar and revealing view of their efforts. The chorus’ view of the past is encapsulated in their repeated references to Salamis and their long war-service at hateful Troy. Salamis and Troy are also the two spatial foci in the life of Ajax and both are viewed by him as his nurturers (859–63). He voices no particular longing for his home and, surprisingly, given his aversion toward all his enemies, no particular hostility toward Troy. He never wishes that the Trojan war had not taken place. Even after he has been wronged and insulted by his comrades, as he believes, he expresses no desire to abandon Troy and return to Salamis. The chorus view Salamis and Athens almost as a paradise, so blessedly remote that it seems virtually inaccessible to them. They contrast the situation of Salamis with their own (596–608), although long-absent soldiers and their homelands are associated in hardships and misery from Homer onwards, and it is unlikely that Salamis would be so happy after the dreadful illness and resulting disgrace of Ajax.59 It is obvious that they do not expect to return to their homeland: apart from the address to Salamis at the

58 Barker (2004), who attempts to highlight the crucial role of the spectator in the play, reads the chorus’ role in the debate metatheatrically. He argues that, as an internal audience of the debate, the chorus fail to endorse the position of the dueling participants and draw the external audience into reassessing the dissent of Ajax; at the end, the chorus enter the debate and find security in the ritual for which the last scene prepares; their address to Odysseus (1316–17) initiates the last movement of the play and breaks the impasse of the debate. This reading is extremely tendentious: the chorus are resolutely on the side of Teucer in the debate, their passive role never changes, their address to Odysseus does not affect his actions, and it is unclear in what their finding security in the ritual consists. 59 A small detail is probably telling in this connection. Both the chorus and Ajax in his last speech contemplate Eriboea’s lament when she will hear of her son’s misfortune. Although his reference is much briefer and more restrained, Ajax brings in the town in his mother’s lament (850–51; cf. n. 39 above). In the chorus’ song, the old lady laments alone like a nightingale (621–34), and Salamis seems to remain untouched by her ruling family’s (and her soldiers’) plight.

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beginning of the first stasimon, the reference to Athens at the end of the third stasimon (1217–22), their last lyric utterance in the play before the end, is an escape wish of a type frequently found in contexts of hardship and despair.60 On the other hand, the men are very easy to take heart, as is obvious from their reactions to Tecmessa’s report of their leader’s recovery (263–64) and especially from the second stasimon (693–718) and their reception of the messenger (735–36, 743–44). Their failure to suspect the identity of the divinity involved in the downfall of Ajax (172–81) also suggests that they are not very perspicacious, as they themselves admit in their selfreproach at 908–12. They do not mention his imminent suicide in the first stasimon, although they do state that it is better for a nobleman such as Ajax to die than to live with his terrible disease (635–40). It is thus not certain that the chorus do not understand the hero’s plan to kill himself, especially since he has made it quite clear in the previous episode. It is not obvious why they do not contemplate his suicide but it is also not obvious that they would or, much less, should if they grasped his plan. The poet may have wished to portray them as still too overwhelmed by their leader’s disease to turn their attention to anything else. They still consider him sick or at least seriously affected by his disease (611, 639–40). In any case, there is no reason why the chorus’ acuity should be assessed on the basis of frustrated expectations for a mention of the hero’s suicide. Be that as it may, the long years of war have worn down these simple men to the point that they expect finishing their military service only in Hades (600–8).61 Unlike their leader, though, the chorus do not welcome death, not even as a release from their toils. As soon as a crisis faces Ajax, he thinks of Telamon and his potential return home (434–40, 460–66), and mulls a plan to deal with the problem at hand (470–72). Similarly, Teucer, after his lament in which he also contemplates his return to Salamis and Telamon’s angry reactions (1008–20), is ready and willing to defend his brother’s body and his son. The chorus do nothing of the sort. To

60 For such wishes see Kyriakou (2006) 366. The chorus also express a counterfactual wish that the inventor of war had disappeared or died (1192–96). For this topos see Barrett (1964) 234, and Hutchinson (2001) 444–45. 61 The adjective they use for their long years of service (πολυπλάγκτων, 1186) perhaps indicates psychological dilation of time: the campaign lasts for a very long time, but the years also seem to wander and thus last longer than usual, as if the sun followed a longer or circuitous route that delayed the completion of its annual revolution.

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them the war is an endless succession of days, months, and years of distress, drudgery and discomfort, without prospect of release. The chorus certainly do not contemplate any prospect of winning glory or any other reward. In the parodos, they suggest that the great clamors about their leader’s aberrant behavior in the previous night bring discredit (ἐπὶ δυσκλείᾳ, 143), probably or primarily to Ajax but also to them. A little below, they call this great rumor “the mother of their shame” (174). It is obvious that Ajax is the one that suffers loss of kleos and disgrace while they do so only through their association with their leader. As suggested above, they are primarily concerned with their safety and not any injury to their reputation that they may sustain. In the third stasimon, the war is called “a wretched shame of the Greeks” (1191), although they believe that people will remember Ajax forever (1166–67), presumably his glorious deeds in the war.62

Early on, at the end of the parodos, they declare that their distress stands firm (200). Their next utterance, and first reaction to Tecmessa’s announcement of the troubles of Ajax, is the question: “And what burden has this night received in exchange for [the burden of] the day?” (208–9). Even in the joyous second stasimon, a so-called calm-before-the-storm song, the men appeal to musical gods to come to them for a celebration (694–705) but do not contemplate the end of the war or celebrations that might take place upon their return home. Most remarkably, they fail to mention anywhere any feats of their own, and their participation in the fighting is referred to only once, as part of their endless toils (1187–89). They only stress twice their uncomfortable bivouacking on the dewy grass of the Trojan meadows (601–5, 1207–10).63 The thick dews are called “reminders of hateful Troy” (1210). The men seem to wish to just lie on their makeshift beds and forget about everything, but nature keeps reminding them of their wretched condition at Troy.64 They even wistfully

62 Cf. the discussion with n. 78 below. 63 The physical discomforts of a military campaign are a common motif in Greek literature from Homer onwards. In extant tragedy, the herald in Aeschylus’ Agamemnon elaborates on them (555–66), but his distress is mitigated by the relief of final release and unhoped-for return home as well as by the glory victory brings with it (567–82). 64 Hutchinson (2001) 449–50 thinks that the men themselves, as they lie there, are a monument to the fighting at Troy, an image connected with their earlier prediction that they would die there. This is very imaginative but probably too bold.

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claim that Ajax was their protector from night terrors (1211–13), presumably in the manner of a mother or nurse that comforts an excitable child. With no sense of control over their fate and no clear insight into, or hope for, the future, the men sound profoundly depressed and helpless in their inability to look anywhere for support or comfort. Their last words in the play are: “Mortals are able to know many things when they have seen them; but before seeing, no one can predict how one will fare in the future” (1418–20). This gnome captures most explicitly not only their inability to make any predictions but also their difference from Ajax and, to a lesser extent, from most characters in the play. After his recovery and even during his fit of madness, Ajax never falters or harbors any doubts about his actions or his future. In virtually all his utterances, he stresses his firm knowledge and clear insights, rejecting the possibility of change – he espouses it only in the deception speech. The chorus never express confidence, and they are always on the receiving end of news, instructions, or assistance from other characters. Their only use of any form of a verb of knowing comes in the final gnome quoted above,65 when they assert that knowledge can only come from experience and that the future is unknowable. Generic conventions dictate the namelessness and undifferentiated collectivity of tragic choruses.66 The most striking case in surviving tragedy is probably the chorus of Euripides’ Supplices, which is made up of the mothers of the seven Argive champions who fell at Thebes. Apart from the fact that they are only seven while tragic choruses had fifteen members, they are never named or in any other way differentiated among themselves. One of them has to be the mother of the fallen Eteoclus and of Euadne, the widow of Capaneus,

The idea that living men would be a memorial to a war that has not even been concluded is difficult to accept. The men of course have not forgotten that they are at Troy but they apparently would very much like to. 65 Cf. 270. They do not even bring in the gods, as happens often at the end of plays (cf. e.g. Ph. 1469–71), especially when the subject is the unpredictability of the future and the presence of the divine behind it; see Tr. 1266–78, fr. 590 Radt, and cf. Ant. 1348–53. Their position may be thought more prudent than, for instance, Hyllus’ accusations against Zeus at the end of Trachiniae. Nevertheless, in view of their presentation in the play, the failure of these men at the end to state more than the obvious, or more than is relevant to them, avoiding any kind of judgment, is a final hint at their limitations. 66 Cf. Kyriakou (2006) 196 and 344.

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who was another of the seven. Euadne arrives at Eleusis and falls into the funeral pyre of her husband, performing a kind of suttee. Her father Iphis also arrives, looking for her, just in time to witness his daughter’s suicide and to lament his misery. Neither he nor Euadne interacts with or mentions her mother. Similarly, neither she nor Capaneus’ mother addresses Euadne (or Iphis), tries to stop her, or laments her death.

No convention, though, prohibits references to families, homelands, landmarks, local divinities, festivals, or customs. The chorus of Ajax do not mention their homes, families, loved ones, or anything specifically Salaminian in their songs, not even gods or cults. It is also noteworthy that, apart from the enmity of Ajax with the other leaders, the Trojan war is a rather impersonal affair to the chorus. No specifics of any sort are provided, and even the number of years the campaign has lasted so far is left vague. Despite their insistence on their toils and the debate between the Atreids and Teucer, the men never blame the generals or Helen for their troubles. Of the choruses in surviving plays that deal with the Trojan saga, only the choruses of Ajax and Philoctetes fail to criticize Helen, Menelaus, Agamemnon, or all of them, for initiating the terrible war. In the later play, Neoptolemus, who is a very recent recruit anyway, calls Troy πολύστονον (1346), the source of many sorrows, but the length and troubles of the war are not thematically important, except indirectly, in connection with the need to secure the cooperation of Philoctetes and the use of his bow. The origin of the war is even less important, especially since no Atreid is a character in the play. This makes the chorus of Ajax virtually unique in their indifference to the origin and length of the war. Helen’s name does not even occur in the play. Teucer briefly and sardonically refers to her and his brother’s oath (1111–14), which obliged him to participate in the war, but the beginnings of the conflict seem to have become quite irrelevant to Ajax and his fellow leaders, as well as their men, absorbed, as they were, in conflicts generated during the long war, and the struggle to survive it, respectively.67

The men blame the inventor of warfare who deprived them of a life of pleasures such as music and banquets, sleeping in peace, and lovemaking

67 For Teucer’s reference to Agamemnon’s wife (1311–12) see the discussion in 8 with n. 87 below.

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(1192–1205).68 They have an undifferentiated view of the past, which does not call for sharp distinctions and does not generate a confrontational attitude toward human or divine agents. Besides, although Ajax was obviously important to them, his presence or his memory does not motivate them to action. Their gloom is not alleviated, let alone dissipated, by anything or anyone, not even a ray of hope for their return home. Most strikingly, past, present and future blend into a continuum and create a sense of permanent deprivation and unrelieved toils.69 From the beginning to the end of the play, the men lament their powerlessness in the face of adversity. They recognize shifts in their fortunes but no major differences. After the initial shock of the news of their leader’s madness and his suicide, the chorus refer to his disease and death as additions to their toils rather than major turning points. The past is important in the fashioning of one’s self-conception and attitude to present and future. The chorus’ statements, though, indicate that the past does not play this role eo ipso, merely by virtue of its distance from present and future. It also needs to be marked off from present and future by means of strong emotional or moral attachments and clear, long-term aspirations it has generated. These are prominent in the statements of Ajax about his inheritance from Telamon and his legacy to Eurysaces but are virtually absent from the pronouncements of his men. Gardiner takes a dim view of Ajax and emphasizes his change after his recovery. She thinks that the main function of the chorus is to point to the present and future dangers created by their leader’s suicide, and especially

68 Perhaps ἐρώτων (1205) does not refer to sex only but to all their beloved peaceful activities. Cf. Burton (1980) 36. 69 Kamerbeek (19632 ) on 1185–1222 comments that the third stasimon “reflects the desire of the common man for peace, return home, and the deliverance from the miseries of war.” In his comment on the same verses Garvie (1998) suggests that the song, the final development of the recurrent contrast between Troy and home, “provides a melancholy moment of equilibrium between the two passionate quarrel-scenes.” Hutchinson (2001) 440 calls it “a touching and emotional poem” and thinks that “it broadens the whole range of the thought, and it offers the fascination of a beguiling approach.” As I suggested above, the men express no hope of deliverance and return home. Their approach may be fascinating, but the expanded thought can encompass little more than ghosts of banquets, dewy desolation, and night terrors. The melancholy equilibrium of the song conveys a sense of depressed detachment. Finglass (forthcoming) on 1185–1222 observes that the length of the powerful curse on the inventor of war undercuts the respite from the antagonism over the body of Ajax that the song provides.

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to show his cruel, thoughtlessly selfish, and thus non-heroic, abandonment of his men and family. The chorus are simple men of deeds who express the Homeric heroic ideal that obliged a leader to care for his men and dependents. After the recovery of Ajax, the chorus repeatedly point out that he is a sick and changed man, and this insistence clearly indicates that he cannot fulfill the old heroic ideal. Ajax chose to mount a stealthy and dishonorable attack on his enemies, and harbors a selfishly obsessive preoccupation with his own pride and honor, which the Homeric Telamonian Ajax had berated in Achilles (Il. 9.628–42).70 I discussed earlier the difference between the situations of the Homeric Achilles and the Sophoclean Ajax.71 One should also take into account the fact that Agamemnon and the entire army sought reconciliation with Achilles, offering large gifts to placate him. As already mentioned, there was nothing comparable in the case of Ajax. On the contrary, the army would probably seek to execute him as a traitor. Far from abandoning his men and family, Ajax commits them to Teucer’s care (560–70, 687–89). His boy Eurysaces and presumably Tecmessa are to be taken to Salamis,72 where the boy will take his place as his parents’ caretaker in their old age. This is the best that Ajax can do for his men and family in the circumstances, and one has a very hard time imagining what good it would do them if he did not commit suicide but chose to be executed by the army. Even if there was a hope that he would escape execution, no hero ever takes a decision to shun death for the sake of his family, not to mention his men, and it is certainly too much to accuse Ajax of harming his adult brother Teucer by committing suicide. Neither the chorus nor Teucer accuses Ajax of abandoning or harming them. Instead, they both blame themselves for not being there to help him (908–12, 1007), and Teucer proclaims himself ready to fight and die to defend his brother’s body from desecration (1308–12).

70 Gardiner (1987) 71, 74–78. 71 See the discussion with nn. 28 and 29, and cf. n. 57 above. 72 Scholars stress the presentation of Tecmessa, a very sympathetic and dignified figure, as the wife rather than the concubine of Ajax, and the fact that Eurysaces is never said to be illegitimate. See e.g. Ormand (1996), and cf. Easterling (1997) 25–26. Nevertheless, Tecmessa is a war captive slave, as she herself stresses at the beginning of her speech to Ajax (485–90), and the original audience would probably not be surprised or bothered by his failure to provide specific instructions about her.

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Teucer has not been judged very favorably. Scodel suggests that Ajax overestimates Teucer’s capabilities because his burial is made possible by Odysseus; Garvie thinks that Teucer fails and disappoints his friends, including Ajax, who had placed all their hopes in him; Cairns claims that the protection of his dependents is also made possible by Odysseus’ intervention.73 But there is no indication that Teucer would not manage to bury Ajax, even if he would have to fight for that, or to protect his nephew. Although Teucer includes Tecmessa and Eurysaces in the number of willing victims (1309), there is no telling, and it is fruitless to speculate about, how things would have developed if Odysseus had not intervened. It is perhaps significant in this connection that cool-headed elders had earlier prevented a clash between Teucer and the army (731–32). Odysseus brings about a peaceful burial, not a burial tout court.74 In any case, Ajax cannot foresee the future anymore than, for instance, Achilles, who thought that Patroclus would survive to take Neoptolemus to Peleus (Il. 19.328–33), or Patroclus, who told Briseis that Achilles would marry her on his return home (Il. 19.297–99).

The Sophoclean Ajax is harsh and single-minded, perhaps obsessed with his inflexible views and values, but certainly not a diseased or compromised figure, and certainly not unworthy of his epic predecessors, including the Homeric Telamonian Ajax. His emotions and actions are largely determined by the past, his own and his father’s. He devotes his life to an attempt to perpetuate or recreate it, by performing specific actions, and taking measures to retaliate for, or otherwise eliminate, stains that might obscure its brilliance. A man should behave so as to win honors and glory similar to those of his forebears and prepare his son for a similar life of heroic deeds. On the contrary, as mentioned above, the men of Ajax view their present and future as an unceasing perpetuation of past misery, drudgery and toils. ὦ πόνοι πρόγονοι πόνων, they exclaim in the third stasimon (1197), where, as already suggested, they blame the inventor of warfare as the sacker of men and their own bane (1192–1205), and lament the loss of protection from nightly terrors and missiles that Ajax provided to them (1211–13).75

73 Scodel (1984) 18, 22; Garvie (1998) on 1223–1420; Cairns (2006) 115. For a more positive view of Teucer see Heath (1987) 201–2, and Hesk (2003). 74 For the rehabilitation of Ajax see the discussion in 7 and 8 below. 75 In the first episode Ajax reviles a man who desires a long life when he has no hope of relief from his woes. “What pleasure can day following day offer?” he asks disdainfully (475–76), before declaring his contempt for a man harboring idle hopes (477–78). In contrast to the rest of the speech, which focuses on glory, action, revenge and hatred, this is the only part that includes an image of complete

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7. Heroic past and audience present The question whether Ajax was a good leader and comrade, or, differently put, of the political dimensions of the play, continues to be a matter of scholarly debate, most recently in connection with the rehabilitation of Ajax, his Athenian hero-cult, and its uses in Athenian political disputes and foreign policy.76 I will discuss the issue only insofar as it touches on my argument, namely insofar as it hinges on the past of Ajax and, to a lesser extent, other characters. His leadership and his political position are not major motifs in the play, and I would suggest that they are barely important. His men have no complaint, and that is all that matters. He cannot be viewed as the champion of democracy versus tyranny, or the representative of a virtuous aristocracy in conflict with corrupt radical democracy,77 for such polarities are irrelevant to the play. The case for heroization rests on the chorus’ suggestion that the grave of Ajax will always be remembered by mortals (1166–67), but this suggestion is made as part of an admonition to Teucer to bury Ajax as soon as possible because fierce opposition to the burial will continue (1163–67). Budelmann thinks that the chorus’ reference to the grave includes “the army, Teucer, Menelaus and Agamemnon alike.”78 It defies belief that, in the face of the great impending struggle, which the chorus have just mentioned, they or the audience would think of Ajax as an object of universal veneration, revered even by the enemies who never forgive him. The tomb of great men is often viewed as a focus for the living memory of their achievements. The motif first appears in Hector’s reference to the future

passivity and surrender to foolish, contemptible emotions. This may be thought to have some connection with the chorus’ expression of distress, especially in the third stasimon, but it is characteristic that Ajax cannot imagine a man who goes on living without any hope. His men apparently expect nothing except death but never contemplate suicide. Even in their hopelessness, Ajax and his men are very different, although this gap does not make him a bad leader: it only underscores his remoteness even from those very close to him. 76 Recent proponents of the view that the play serves Athenian political/imperial goals are Scodel (2006) and Kowalzig (2006). For the hero-cult see Budelmann (2000) 232 n. 63, Barker (2004), and Cairns (2006), who argues that the rehabilitation of Ajax at the end of the play hinges on his Athenian heroic cult, although he does not believe that the play promotes political or “imperial” goals through this cult. Cf. n. 83 below. 77 For an overview of such suggestions see Barker (2004) 2 n. 8. 78 Budelmann (2000) 242.

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tomb of the excellent Achaean champion he will kill in the duel he proposes (Il. 7.89–90), perhaps a significant reminiscence. The play mentions no special ties of Ajax, his family and his men to Athens, in the past, present, or future. Tecmessa’s address to the chorus as “crew of the ship of Ajax, from the stem of the earth-born sons of Erechtheus” (202) and the men’s wish to sail to cape Sounion and greet Athens (1217–22) have been much discussed as evidence that Ajax and his men are presented simultaneously as Athenians and Salaminians. This ambiguity is thought to be part of Athenian attempts to naturalize the foreign hero and advance Athens’ hegemonical claims not only over Salamis but also throughout Greece.79 I find the evidence too tenuous to support such sweeping suggestions, and, in any case, it is obvious that the men of Ajax are not Athenians. The fact that they are presented as being related by descent to their Athenian neighbors, as is Ajax (861), may be significant in relation to Athenian claims over Salamis, but common descent does not make the chorus and Ajax Athenian any more than Danaus and his daughters’ descent from Io makes them Argive in Aeschylus’ Supplices.

Neither Athens’ patron goddess nor, for instance, the seer Calchas predicts or implies the heroization of Ajax. The emphasis on Athena’s wrath80 and the failure to mention any kind of special ties of Ajax to Athens would indeed be strange choices for a playwright wishing to stress the future integration of Ajax into the Athenian community. The prominent Philaid clan, to which Miltiades, the victor of Marathon, and his son Cimon, a friend and possible patron of Sophocles, belonged, traced their descent to Ajax through his son Philaeus.81 This is not necessarily relevant to the play. Had Sophocles wished to allude to Cimon’s Aeacid genealogy, he would probably not have presented a version of the myth that suppressed the clan’s eponymous ancestor and hence its connection with Ajax.82 Athens had a serious and long-standing interest in the control of Salamis and Ajax

79 80 81 82

Cf. n. 76 above. For the limited duration of Athena’s wrath see the discussion in 1 above. See Kearns (1989) 203, and March (1991–93) 33–34. According to Pausanias (1.35.2), Philaeus was Eurysaces’ son, but this is a much later tradition. Even if it existed in Sophocles’ time, the other version was certainly current too (Hdt. 6.35), and the play’s reticence about Philaeus would leave the Philaids’ Aeacid ancestry in doubt. On the other hand, Alcibiades’ family traced their descent to Ajax through Eurysaces (Plut. Alc. 1), and there is no reason why

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and his descendants were venerated by the Athenians, not least after their naval victory over the Persians at the island (cf. Hdt. 8.64, 121). Still, a play about the death of a beloved cultic hero does not automatically presuppose his association with the specific places of his veneration, especially since no mention of his heroization or cult is made. It has also been suggested that Teucer’s admonition to Eurysaces to sit as suppliant to his father’s corpse (1171–81) points to the future heroization of Ajax, who is already able to protect his dependents from harm. But as Garvie points out, the boy protects the corpse, not vice versa, by involving it in supplication.83 A dead body is not necessarily as holy and inviolable as an altar or a statue of a god or hero, but the boy’s position invokes the context of ritual supplication. Even if the body of Ajax may offer some protection to Eurysaces, it certainly and urgently needs protection itself. It is Teucer’s curse against the potential abusers of the body and removers of an unwilling Eurysaces (1175–79) that reinforces the inviolability of the body and the certainty of the punishment awaiting its abusers. Teucer’s admonition to the chorus (1182–84) indicates that supplication is not enough to protect the body. Equally significant, Teucer’s present concern is not the protection of the boy, because this has been taken care of earlier. Besides, the real danger to Eurysaces is not so much physical harm but lack of paternal care and resulting exposure to traumatic abuse and social denigration, as both his parents had earlier indicated (510–13, 560–64; cf. 988–89). Be that as it may, the question why, if he meant to portray the dead Ajax in the process of becoming a cultic hero, Sophocles would do so in an extremely succinct and allusive way cannot be convincingly answered by those who suggest that the hero-cult of Ajax is of paramount importance in the play. Since this cult is suppressed, with the possible exception of the unique and passing hint found in Teucer’s instructions to Eurysaces, the association of the cult with Athenian politics thus becomes at best a moot point, especially since there is no conceivable reason why the play could, or would, not include more specific references to it. The debate at the end of the play and its resolution are intimately connected with the

one should think that Sophocles had in mind the Philaids rather than the Eurysacids, whose eponymous ancestor is a silent but important presence in the play. 83 Garvie (1998) on 1172. For Ajax as a protecting and future cultic figure see Burian (1972) 154, March (1991–93) 33–34, Henrichs (1993), Miralles (1997), and Cairns (2006) 117–18.

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past of Ajax and other characters, but the opponents do not examine or reexamine his qualities as a leader and protector of his dependents, not to mention his future protection of them and the Athenians in his capacity as a cultic hero.

8. The dead and the past: cast away and gone? Rather than touching on civic identity and political/imperial ideology, or offering a view of any of the opponents as representatives of the Athenian democracy, the two-part debate following the suicide (1047–1162, 1226– 1315) and Odysseus’ intervention (1318–73) may much more plausibly be thought to have a narrower focus. The debate takes up, and indeed revolves around, issues that have already been touched upon in the play, such as vindictiveness, temperance, loyalty, and the honors that form part of an exceptional individual’s prerogative in the community. Most of them hinge to various degrees on the characters’ view of their own and Ajax’ past. His contributions to the campaign and his relationship to his fellow leaders, both before and after the judgment of arms, are discussed much more extensively than earlier. The opponents seek to bolster their arguments and claim the moral high ground by presenting their side as superior, whether hierarchically, militarily, or genealogically. As is common in tragic debates, many of the arguments advanced by the least sympathetic parties, in this play the Atreids, sound plausible. Nevertheless, the play, which does not eschew ambiguity,84 leaves little doubt that the Atreids’ arguments are unacceptable, given the condition of Ajax and the unjustified arrogance and excessive vindictiveness of his enemies. The main argument of the Atreids is that their prohibition of the burial cannot be challenged on either jurisdictional or moral grounds. Ajax had always been an unruly subordinate, who escaped punishment for his provocative behavior when alive but must now pay the penalty after his death. He rejected the verdict in the judgment of arms and, most seriously, turned against his comrades and tried to murder them. Permission for his burial will create a ruinous precedent, which will lead to the subversion of institutions that hold the community together (1073–88, 1246–50).

84 The most crucial matter left ambiguous is the justice of the judgment of arms, which forms the background to the play. On this thorny issue see the discussion below. For the so-called deception speech of Ajax see the discussion in 4 above.

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Paradigmatic punishment is the only antidote to arrogant insubordination, and prohibition of burial is the most appropriate punishment for an enemy. According to the Atreids, Ajax had an imposing physique but lacked good sense, and his fighting prowess was nothing exceptional (1077–78, 1236–38, 1250–54). Similarly, Teucer, a strapping but illegitimate son, born of a mother who was a foreign war captive, is now behaving outrageously because he fails to obey his superiors. Agamemnon implies that his insubordination is more revolting and worthy of punishment than his brother’s because Teucer is a barbarian slave, who is not in a position to argue his case himself but should do it through a free man (1226–31, 1235, 1259–61).85 At the end of his speech, Agamemnon stresses his opponent’s unworthiness by claiming that he would not understand a speech delivered by Teucer because he does not know the barbarian language (1262–63). There is no doubt that the normal functioning and, ultimately, the survival of any community require that all members obey their superiors and respect the rule of law and established institutions. This certainty notwithstanding, the Atreids’ arguments are at best shaky and at worst invalid. As in Homer’s Iliad, the Achaean army is not as hierarchically organized as the Atreids claim. They were apparently commanders-in-chief but as first among equals: Teucer rebuts Menelaus’ claims that Ajax was a subordinate (1098–1114), and Menelaus does not answer him. Thus it is far from clear that the other leaders answered to the Atreids in a chain of command. If they did not, the Atreids had no jurisdiction as leaders to issue orders to anyone or to prohibit the burial of Ajax.86 The insults against Teucer are even less justified. There is no indication in the epic tradition, in the play itself, or in other plays, that illegitimate sons, even those born of foreign or captive mothers, were viewed as slaves, although they had fewer privileges than their legitimate brothers. Certainly, Tecmessa’s status does not affect Eurysaces’ position in the eyes of his father or of any other character.

85 Athenian slaves could not appear in court but had to be represented by their patron (προστάτης). See Finglass (forthcoming) on 1259–61. Agamemnon’s insult thus amounts to an anachronism, which underscores the absurdity of his claims. 86 In the deception speech, Ajax claims that in the future he will know how to yield to the gods and reverence the Atreids, for they are rulers, so they should be obeyed (666–68). But the predicate “rulers” may apply to the gods more than the Atreids and, in any case, specious claims made in that speech are unlikely to describe accurately the situation in the Achaean camp.

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Apart from the impiety of denying burial to the dead (1091–92, 1129–31, 1154–55, 1343–44), whatever their crimes in life, the Atreids have a weak case because they take their decision and stand by it based on not only a fixed but also a distorted and self-serving view of the past. Like Ajax, they never let go of their enmity toward him but also deny the greatness of their enemy, present themselves as equal in prowess and superior in status to him (1069–83, 1231–38, 1250–58), and insult his brave, loyal and pious brother. Teucer himself, who fails to secure a peaceful burial for his brother, is as inflexible as his opponents and bears his share of responsibility for the impasse that the debate reaches. His sharp tone and lack of restraint, which the chorus castigate (1118–19, 1264–65), show his rhetorical weaknesses. The confrontation with Menelaus ends with a clumsy exchange of stories and riddles (1142–58). In his reply to Agamemnon’s speech, Teucer insults his opponent’s forebears (1290–98). Although this is only a reaction to Agamemnon’s insults, Teucer does not sidestep the personal trap. More tellingly, toward the end of his speech, he refers contemptuously to the wife of Agamemnon as the cause of the unworthy war (1311–12). Whether this implies that Helen was shared by the two brothers,87 or that Teucer did not care to differentiate between the wives of the Atreids, presenting them and their husbands as immoral non-entities, for whom worthy men such as Ajax and Teucer should not fight and die, the insult is groundless. Clytaemestra was morally blameless at the time, and no other character expresses distress about the cause of the war. The chorus say that the campaign was undertaken for the sake of Menelaus (1045), and Ajax himself considered it a field in which he could win glory similar to his father’s (421–27, 434–40).

87 See Garvie (1998) ad loc. Finglass (forthcoming) ad loc. thinks that Teucer refers loosely to Helen as Agamemnon’s wife because she belonged to his family by marriage and that it would be grotesque if Teucer leveled such a charge of infidelity even against Helen so casually, in contrast to the rest of his detailed accusations. But it is hard to believe that in a context of scornful insults, especially in connection with the cause of the Trojan war, one opponent would refer to the other’s sister-in-law, Helen, as his wife or woman, without any implications. Such a usage is hard to parallel anyway. Besides, this reference is the crowning insult of Teucer’s speech, which precedes the final threat, and may be thought to be delivered offhandedly for maximum effect: Teucer’s contempt is so deep that he does not even bother to elaborate.

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This weakness aside, Teucer has the moral advantage of being on the side of loyalty and piety, not to mention real prowess, and he provides a more accurate picture of his brother’s past. It is true that, in comparison with the Iliadic description of the defense of the ships by Ajax (Il. 15.674–746, 16.102–22), Teucer’s recollections, especially the claim that Ajax repulsed Hector from the ships (1273–82), flatter him. Sophocles, though, did not necessarily follow Homer, or any poetic predecessor. On the other hand, it is quite implausible that Teucer’s argument would not (be meant to) put the audience in mind of the Iliadic version of the event. If so, Teucer appears to rework the past, and this reworking is intriguing on more than one level. Not only does Ajax appear in a better light, Patroclus and Achilles are also completely eclipsed, and that in the context of a complaint over the ingratitude of the unworthy living toward their brave fallen comrades (1266–71). Be that as it may, the essence of Teucer’s review of the highlights of his brother’s career is not misleading. The narration of the second one, the duel of Ajax and Hector (1283–88), is much closer to the Iliadic account (Il. 7.181–312), although Teucer’s emphasis on his brother’s willingness to fight is perhaps excessive in view of Nestor’s rebuke of the champions (Il. 7.124–60). In any case, Teucer’s defense of his brother’s services and the moral victory he wins over petty-minded opponents can hardly count as convincing refutation of their most solid argument: Ajax was not only in contempt of court but also guilty of high treason. This charge, which may justify perennial enmity against the perpetrator and make even denial of burial less revolting, is cardinal in his opponents’ view of Ajax. Unfortunately, for modern critics at least, it hinges on the justice of the verdict in the judgment of arms. The play includes no impartial or authoritative account of the proceedings, or even of the criteria for the award of the arms. Ajax and his friends believe that the verdict was not impartial (445–46, 1135, 1137): although Ajax was the best warrior and should have been awarded the arms on account of his excellence (441–44, 934–36), the Atreids arranged for their delivery to their associate Odysseus, an inferior fighter but a master of wiles. If so, Ajax suffered a severe and unjust humiliation: he had no obligation to respect a fraudulent verdict and had every right to seek restitution and revenge. Teucer claims that Ajax became the enemy of the Atreids only after he had been treated unfairly by them (1133–37). Since they initiated the dispute, they should not perpetuate it after his death (1266–89, 1306–7), especially since his contributions to the campaign were so vital. The Atreids of course deny that they influenced the vote (1136, 1242–43) and insist that Ajax turned

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against his comrades in his criminal rage at an unfavorable verdict delivered with due process (1052–61, 1244–45). Neither Athena nor Calchas touches on the issue of the verdict, and this glossing over is probably not accidental. The delivery of the arms to Odysseus and the vehement reaction of Ajax to the verdict are never said or implied to be associated with Athena’s wish to punish Ajax for his earlier insulting disparagement of her help to mortal fighters (770–77; cf. 762–70). Nevertheless, his insulting behavior and Athena’s anger had certainly preceded the judgment of arms by several years. The failure of Ajax to win the arms may have been divine punishment for his impious arrogance. If so, no human intervention or rigging of the vote was necessary, as the verdict would be divinely inspired. In that case, the conviction of Ajax and his friends that he had been fraudulently cheated of a prize he fully and exclusively deserved and his decision to kill the fraudsters and their associates were not only misguided and doomed to backfire but also simply wrong, factually and morally. It is of course unlikely that the play would openly and unambiguously present a hero that wanted to kill his innocent comrades because he was ignorant of a basic truth, or too obtuse, prone to conspiracy theories, or arrogant to suspect it. Sophocles’ choice not to involve Athena (directly) in the judgment, and his presentation of the Atreids as both rhetorically and morally inadequate leave the judgment of arms and the reaction of Ajax to it resolutely in the realm of ambiguity.88 Since Athena and Calchas do not provide any insight into the verdict, the only character that might do so is Odysseus, the third major human enemy of Ajax, who appears at the end (1318ff.) and brings the play to a close in a sort of ring composition. Odysseus paradoxically provides a way out of the impasse of the debate by persuading Agamemnon to allow a peaceful burial, although not to forsake his enmity toward the deceased.89 Odysseus succeeds where Teucer failed primarily because he is friendly

88 In Philoctetes, a similar ambiguity saves Philoctetes from appearing to be selfish and ungrateful to the honorable Neoptolemus. See II 6 below. 89 Odysseus’ virtues are so numerous and impressive that many scholars consider him the real hero of the play; see e.g. Kitto (19613 ) 122, Fisher (1992) 328, and Lefèvre (2001) 66–68. This view is not particularly persuasive. WinningtonIngram (1980) 71–72 and Garvie (1998) 15–16 correctly stress that, for all Odysseus’ humane prudence, the play remains the tragedy of Ajax and ends with him and his friends, although the presentation and reception of Ajax was not unqualifyingly positive; see Finglass (forthcoming) Introduction 1 v(a).

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with Agamemnon (1328–29, 1351). Despite his flaws, the latter is willing to make a favor to a friend (1330–31, 1370–73), unlike Ajax, who disregarded the pleas of Tecmessa and the chorus. Upon entering, Odysseus refers to Ajax as “the corpse of this valiant man” and implies that the Atreids are responsible for the quarrel (1319, 1322–23). Apart from repeatedly extolling the bravery of Ajax (1338–45, 1355, 1357) and arguing that death should impose a limit to enmity, especially against a noble foe (1344–45, 1347), he declares that Ajax was the best warrior after Achilles (1338–41). This admission problematizes the verdict of the judges and especially the role of Odysseus himself and the Atreids in the judgment. If Ajax was the best, why and how did Odysseus win the arms? Does the admission of Ajax’ worth by his former rival and enemy, combined with the Atreids’ failure to provide any convincing refutation of Teucer’s charges, prove that Ajax and his friends were right about the verdict and that Ajax’ reaction to it was justified? The recognition of his worth by his enemy has been viewed as resounding proof of his rehabilitation. Machin, for instance, suggests that Odysseus’ remark, which is not absolutely necessary in the context of his exchange with Agamemnon, serves to clinch the rehabilitation of Ajax, who starts out as a culpable criminal in the play but ends up being recognized as an innocent hero.90 It is undeniable that Odysseus’ claim raises questions about the judgment, but it is highly doubtful that it may lead to any conclusions about it. The crucial information that would allow the audience to form a reasonably confident opinion is still lacking: did the judges rule on the basis of fighting excellence, or solely on this basis? The play simply, and presumably not accidentally, does not provide any relevant clue. The tradition included versions that exonerated Ajax, Odysseus and the Atreids, and even the army judges. The latter appear first in Pindar (N. 8.26) but are said to have been persuaded by the rhetorical prowess of the envious Odysseus and his self-serving misrepresentation of the facts (8.21–27), namely of the indisputable fighting superiority of Ajax, both in the defense of Achilles’ body and in other battles (8.28–32). Pindar of course says that the Danaans voted secretly in favor of Odysseus (8.26), which may, but does not necessarily, imply cheating on their part, and laments the bane of hateful deception, the perpetrator of guile and a criminal disgrace

90 See n. 6 above.

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(8.32–34).91 But if blame attaches to anybody, it is mainly to the envious Odysseus and his wily tongue. The judges were deceived or, at the very least, ruled on the basis of deceptive speech.92 In another poem (N. 7.23–30), Pindar deplores the blindness of the majority, who failed to grasp that Ajax was inferior only to Achilles, and thus led him to suicide. Aeschylus also seems to have included a debate between the two contestants (fr. 175 Radt), in which Odysseus presumably outdid Ajax, although not necessarily because he was a better speaker. But as pointed out earlier, Sophocles fails to provide any account of the proceedings and even any reference to the defense of Achilles’ body. A possible advantage of Odysseus over Ajax would be strategic thinking or intelligence that might be more important in battle than sheer fighting prowess, for instance in planning the defense of Achilles’ body. But neither in Iliad nor in Ajax does Ajax lack in efficient thinking or even rhetorical prowess. His speech in the embassy to Achilles is the only one recognized by Achilles as effective (Il. 9.644–45). After this speech, Achilles declares that he will not sail home (Il. 9.650–55). In the prologue of Ajax Athena recognizes, and Odysseus admits, the forethought and timely acting of Ajax (119–21; cf. 82). If

91 Hubbard (2000) thinks that Pindar follows Aeschylus in suggesting that the arms were awarded by rigged voting. There is no information on Aeschylus’ treatment of the story, and Burnett (2005) 174 n. 35 correctly points out that fraudulent ballots would be called “stolen” (cf. Aj. 1135) rather than “secret.” According to Burnett, the reference to hidden or secret ballots suggests that the judges relegated Ajax’ worth to obscurity and forgetfulness. Cf. next n. 92 Most (1985) 152–53 argues that the army were envious of the superiority of Ajax but did not begrudge the success of the lesser Odysseus because no one is said to be inferior to Odysseus. But Odysseus cannot be exonerated completely: if the rest of the army were jealous of Ajax, it is improbable that Odysseus himself was not. Since the judges were Danaan leaders, and the poem emphasizes Ajax’ fatal lack of verbal skill, the deleterious role of deception, and the power of wily speech, it is implausible that Odysseus himself was not the fabricator of the crucial lies and the narrator of slanderous tales, even if these fell on willing ears. The focus of the introductory gnome (8.21–22) is on envy that always attaches to noble men: the mention of the safety of inferiors is simply the correlate of the first statement and does not indicate that the story exemplifying it would include a man inferior to Ajax who did not become a target of envy. If the army envied Ajax and ruled against him on account of their envy, the much-emphasized pernicious tales could only refer to fraudulent rulings of the judges, but the judges, who cast secret ballots, would surely not have to justify their vote through such rulings. Cf. previous n. For a good discussion of Odysseus’ role in the judgment and the judges’ acceptance of his envy-motivated slander see Burnett (2005) 171–76.

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anything, Odysseus’ explicit recognition of his enemy’s superiority demonstrates the foolish pettiness of Agamemnon, who had boasted that Ajax was in no way superior to him (1236–37) and claimed that the army had many worthy men beside Ajax (1238). It also, and more tellingly, puts into relief the extreme and distorting self-confidence of Ajax, who had boasted that no Greek leader had been superior to him (418–26). The recognition of his worth, which confirms a view of the hero already established in earlier poetic tradition, is not a new piece of information for the audience, and thus does not change their view of Ajax or Odysseus. Already in the prologue Odysseus had recognized the excellence of Ajax before the fit of madness, had pitied his enemy’s plight, and had pointed out that his pity stemmed from the dreadful realization that he himself, a fellow mortal, could suffer the same fate (121–26). His intervention fits in well with his previous behavior and has nothing to do with self-interest93 or even the rehabilitation of Ajax. It is important that no character, not even Teucer or the chorus, mentions rehabilitation or reintegration of Ajax in the community. His friends only hoped for a decent burial, and this is what Odysseus helps to bring about. Ajax and the Atreids remain perennial enemies (1372–73), and Teucer reasonably believes that Ajax has not forgiven Odysseus (1393–95). The attitude of the rest of the army toward Ajax is not made clear, but there is no reason to assume that they have forgiven him. The dead man of course, who died praying that the Erinyes destroy the Atreids and the entire army (843–44), will presumably never forgive his enemies. The play ends with a mixture of perpetuation and cessation or limitation of enmity. It is impossible to say, and quite fruitless to speculate about, how ancient audiences perceived the end of the play, but modern audiences feel that Ajax has been vindicated or rehabilitated, at least to some extent. This impression certainly stems in part from the recognition of his excellence by his former enemy but is primarily due to the fact that the worst is over for Ajax. His suffering and punishment have been completed, he has

93 Machin (1981) 391–93 suggests that Odysseus, who had cheated the better man of the prize he deserved, as he himself now admits, wishes to placate the dead Ajax by helping to secure a proper funeral, because he is afraid that the wrath of the dead will pursue him if he does not. Apart from the arbitrariness of the suggestion, a curse cannot be undone, and everybody knows that Ajax is implacable. Odysseus hopes that, if he ever finds himself in the position of Ajax, another man will stand up for his rights, not that Ajax will forgive him.

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remained true to his principles, his brother has come back to take care of his affairs, and his funeral is about to take place. Odysseus’ statement and behavior contribute to the vindication of his life before the terrible crisis that led to his death but do not restore his morality, innocence, or even excellence. The play never focused on an exploration of such matters and certainly never steered the audience from an initial condemnation to a final absolution of Ajax. There was never any unambiguous indication that Ajax had been guilty or immoral and any serious doubt that he had been excellent, although not perfect or blameless: the play deals with a crisis in the life of an excellent but fallible man and with how he, his friends and enemies handle it. The final vindication of his earlier life does not amount to, or guarantee, his (re)integration, as a hero or otherwise, in any community, present or future, Athenian or other, except perhaps in the community of his ancestors and dead comrades. No new civic, democratic, or cooperative values are advocated by Odysseus and/or the Atreids, or admiringly upheld by the play and meant to be espoused by the audience in contrast to Ajax’ (self-)destructive, archaic or aristocratic, individuality.94 Political or cultic concerns are secondary, if present at all. Sophocles composed a play about a hero well established in the poetic tradition and venerated in Athens and other cities. The play highlights the strengths and weaknesses of Ajax, and of his comrades and family, against the ever-present background of divine implacability and human vulnerability as well as pettiness. It dramatizes the virtually inevitable downfall of a great but flawed man and his rationalization of the decision to take his own life through his belief that a noble man should remain true to his and his ancestors’ past by not tolerating a life tainted by humiliation. His intransigence and fixity on the past brought great grief upon his family and friends but formed an integral part of his greatness. Similarly, in making the case for his burial, Teucer and Odysseus emphasize his incomparable contributions to the campaign before his madness, justifying or glossing over his attempt to kill his comrades. On the contrary, the Atreids focus on this attempt and denigrate his previous excellence, trying to portray him as a mere unruly subordinate.

94 For such readings of the play see e.g. Sorum (1985–86) 362–63, 374–76, Gardiner (1987) 50, Golder (1990) 14–18, 28–29, Meier (1993) 167–87, Segal (1995) 6, 17, and Konstan (1998) 297. For contrary views see Griffin (1999) 83–89, Cairns (2006) 115–17, and Finglass (forthcoming) Introduction 1 v(b).

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The play does not clarify whether his attempt against his comrades was justified, if perhaps excessive, or totally wrong, because it does not dramatize the proceedings of a court, as it were, in which Ajax would appeal the verdict of the judges on the arms, or his enemies would sue him for damages. For the audience, a crucial part of the characters’ past remains ambiguous: they cannot acquire an informed idea of the justice of the characters’ actions and thus cannot modify or clarify their perspective in the course, or at the end, of the play. But this is a feature they share with the characters, whose worldview hardly changes at all, the many references to change in the play notwithstanding. Ajax, his friends, and even Odysseus look back on, and past the latest crisis, to the hero’s earlier glory, as they did from the beginning. His enemies the Atreids, presumably voicing the opinion of the majority of the army, view, insult and try to punish him as a murderous traitor, just as Ajax and his friends had predicted. Whatever the opinion of the audience about the justice of the verdict in the judgment of arms and the characters’ reactions to it, and however formed, they would have to retain it to the end, and presumably beyond. For both characters and audience of Ajax, time does not bring forth all things that are obscure, or wither everything, and the past, fixed in its opaqueness, is never really past.

II. Philoctetes 1. Ajax, Philoctetes, and Neoptolemus Philoctetes has close ties to Ajax. The dramatic time of the two plays is nearly the same, set shortly before the fall of Troy, and the eponymous heroes have several similarities, although their situation is very different. Ajax has already contributed much to the campaign while Philoctetes’ vital contributions lie in the near future. As mentioned in the previous chapter, Ajax and his friends lament the swift oblivion into which his services are already sinking (Aj. 405–9, 616–20, 1266–71), and no character except Tecmessa (961–65) suggests that his death will be a great loss to, and regretted by, his comrades.1 On the contrary, Philoctetes and his bow are vital to the final success of the expedition and they have to be brought to Troy at all costs. Already the Iliadic Catalogue of Ships (Il. 2.716–25) mentions Philoctetes’ misfortune and the fact that the army would have occasion to remember the leader left at Lemnos. The silence of the epic narrator concerning the occasion lends an aura of ominous solemnity to the comment, which apparently hints at a well-known story. In Cypria Philoctetes was said to have been bitten by a water snake and left at Lemnos because of the odor of the wound (PEG 41). In Sophocles’ play, Odysseus in the prologue speaks only about the ill-omened cries of the ailing Philoctetes, which prevented the army from offering ritually correct libations and sacrifices (7–11). The victim himself, who often points out the physically disturbing aspects of his ailment (473–74, 482–83, 875–76, 890–92; cf. 519–21, 900–1), later taunts Odysseus with the accusation that the odor of the wound was one of the alleged reasons for casting him out (1031–33). The story of the prophecy delivered by the captive Trojan prince Helenus,

1

Cf. B I 3 above. In response to Neoptolemus’ alleged ignorance of him (250, 253), Philoctetes also expresses his heroically motivated surprise that the young man has not heard his name and story (251–52), and deplores the fact that reports of his misfortunes have not reached his home or any part of Greece (254–56). Cf. n. 86 below.

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which said that Troy would be captured by the arrows of Heracles, was told in Little Iliad (PEG 74).2 Philoctetes is as intransigent as Ajax, and his hatred of his enemies is equally unrelenting. He espouses the same warrior ethic as Ajax and considers himself the victim of divine hostility but primarily of human baseness and trickery. Divine weapons, Achilles’ arms and Heracles’ bow, feature prominently in the life of both heroes. The service Philoctetes rendered to Heracles in his youth, for which he won the invincible bow, and his noble ancestry make him confident of his status. He also refers frequently to his father Poeas, as Ajax does to Telamon, although Poeas is not known in the tradition or said in the play to have performed any heroic deeds.3 Heracles is Philoctetes’ heroic mentor, but neither he nor Poeas is invoked or serves as his model in the decision he has to make in the play until Heracles’ appearance at the end (1409ff.). What guides Philoctetes up to that point is his own past, which, as he himself says, is a sure guide to the future (1358–61). In contrast to Ajax, Philoctetes deals much with the future, with promises and prophecies of future healing and eternal kleos, which will accrue from the glorious achievement of capturing Troy and winning the best prizes for prowess.4 This is precisely the kind of reward Heracles and Telamon won, and the hero of Ajax aspires to. Despite its thematic importance, it features mainly as a missed opportunity, for the loss of which Ajax has to devise a worthy substitute. Consumed with the idea of his slighted prowess and missed kleos, Ajax decides to commit suicide in order to please his glorious father, and to die on a remote spot of the Trojan shore in order not to please his hated enemies. Mutatis mutandis, Philoctetes makes a similar decision, although only with a view to harming his enemies. He prefers to remain an ailing invalid instead of taking up Neoptolemus’ divinely backed promise and seek treatment for his wound and glory at Troy (1329–47) because his return and cooperation with his enemies would benefit them and mortify him (1348–61). At the end of the play (1409–33), his mentor Heracles explains to him that his sufferings will be rewarded

2

3 4

The army dispatched Diomedes to bring Philoctetes to Troy. There is no indication that Philoctetes showed unyielding recalcitrance, or that he had to be brought back by ruse or force, as in Philoctetes. In some versions, Poeas kindled Heracles’ pyre and inherited the bow, which he bequeathed to his son, but this is not the version adopted in the play. This emphasis sets Philoctetes apart from most plays, for martial kleos is not a particularly important theme in extant Greek tragedy; see Kyriakou (2008) 241.

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with glory, as were his own. Before Heracles’ epiphany, Philoctetes never seriously considered martial glory but only his sufferings. Philoctetes is naturally very proud of his possession of Heracles’ bow and his association with the supreme hero. He thinks that the opportunity to touch the bow will be a source of great pride to the noble Neoptolemus (667–70), but when he hands over the weapon to the young man, he urges him to beware of envy lest the bow become a source of woes to him, as it became to Philoctetes and its previous owner (776–78). Apart from the acquisition of the bow, Philoctetes has achieved nothing else in his life so far because of his illness, but the bow was not involved in his misfortune and it certainly gave much glory to Heracles and even to Philoctetes himself. The underlying assumption in Philoctetes’ statement may be thought to be that he and Heracles suffered because of divine envy motivated by their possession of divine weapons, but Hera’s hostility toward Heracles had other motives, and there is no indication in the play or the tradition that Philoctetes suffered because he inherited Heracles’ bow. I will return to Philoctetes’ concept of glory and enmity below. For now, let it suffice to say that his indifference toward future martial glory and his fixation on his past grievances enmesh the young Neoptolemus in a web of intransigent hatred and conflicting duties from which he cannot extricate himself without Heracles’ intervention. Neoptolemus has no counterpart in Ajax. In contrast to Philoctetes, he is much concerned with securing a glorious future by taking up the promise of winning martial kleos at Troy.5 He is the personification of the future, as it were, embodying the promise of the long-awaited capture of Troy. He has neither past achievements to boast of nor past demons to fight. Thus his decisions cannot be facilitated or complicated by his past, and are taken with a view to his future kleos. On the other hand, Neoptolemus does have to negotiate as best he can the legacy of his father Achilles, the supreme hero of the Trojan campaign. It is important that both his father’s past and his own future kleos are only kleos to him in the literal sense of the term, namely reports he hears from his father’s comrades,6 who try to secure his

5

6

Odysseus of course is also almost exclusively oriented toward the glorious future but he has a fraught past, which is bound to cast its shadow over his present mission, especially as presented by Philoctetes and the false merchant. Realistically, Neoptolemus must also have heard stories about his father from other people who had met him such as his mother and her relatives, especially her father Lycomedes, the king of Skyros, but for all intents and purposes of the play, the

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cooperation in pursuit of their own ends. Neoptolemus has never met his father, and perhaps not even his grandfather Peleus, and has never received any instructions from them.7 His longing for his father is obvious in the play. In his deceptive account of his quarrel with the Atreids and Odysseus, Neoptolemus explains to Philoctetes why he sailed to Troy. The glory promised by the army’s envoys Odysseus and Phoenix is mentioned as his second motive (352–53), but the first and foremost was the desire to see his father’s body before the burial “because I had not seen him” (351).8 The moral education of young Neoptolemus is one of the play’s major themes (cf. 971–73, 1007–15; cf. 1362–72), and he is praised for honoring (874–75, 1310–13) his nature ( physis), i.e. his father’s legacy to him. physis and the cognate verb phyomai, usually in the aorist and perfect, often indicate one’s birth and innate, i.e. inherited by birth, characteristics. In the play there is hardly any physis of Neoptolemus other than that bequeathed to him by Achilles (79–80, 88–89, 874–75, 902–3, 1310–13; cf. 904–5, 1014). It has been suggested that the play raises the issue of Neoptolemus’ illegitimate birth and his ambiguous social position as well as his insecurity about his status, which results from his illegitimacy. His father behaved cowardly and violently, just as Odysseus does on Lemnos. Achilles hid in Skyros in order to avoid taking part in the Trojan expedition and violated the hospitality of his host Lycomedes by conducting a secret affair with his daughter and begetting Neoptolemus. This background is evoked in the play through the references to Skyros, which is presented as the un-heroic opposite of Troy. This dubious part of Achilles’ history serves to highlight and explain the presentation of Neoptolemus as an ambiguous figure in the play. Neoptolemus, ready to use violence in the prologue, is similar to both the controversial Odysseus and his father.9 Apart from the fact that, according to the tradition, his divine mother took Achilles to Skyros, the story of Achilles and Deidameia is never mentioned in the play and cannot be used in its interpretation. Besides, it is very clear that neither

7 8

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formative narratives for the young warrior come from his father’s old, and his own current, comrades. Contrast the advice and instructions that even the toddler Eurysaces receives from his father (550–77) and uncle (1171–81; cf. 1409–13) in Ajax. There is no reason for the audience to doubt the sincerity, or not to be (meant to be) moved by the pathos, of this claim, since most of Neoptolemus’ account is true. The only exceptions are his abandonment of the expedition on account of his father’s arms and his failure to mention Philoctetes’ role in the imminent capture of Troy. For the fate of the arms see the discussion in 6 below. See Belfiore (2000) 73–76, 79.

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Neoptolemus nor anybody else is concerned with his illegitimacy, and no one suggests that Achilles ever behaved compromisingly. At any rate, unlike many a mythological father, Lycomedes seems to have been perfectly willing to raise his daughter’s illegitimate child. Odysseus’ behavior is not cowardly, and there is nothing else for Neoptolemus to use but force, if he wants to seize a man against his will and wishes to avoid deception.

Beside his physis, Neoptolemus’ future acquisition of a certain reputation, whether glorious and becoming his nature (477–79; cf. 1308–13) or dishonorable and alien to it (967–68; cf. 1371–72), is also stressed by Philoctetes, while Odysseus promises a fine reputation (119), if Neoptolemus abandons his inborn honesty for a brief part of a day (79–85).10 The play is one of the most conspicuous examples of Sophocles’ apparent fondness for dramatizing the way young people deal with the first major moral challenge of their lives, and in particular the arduous education they receive at the hands of their elders. The majority of the extant plays (Ajax, Trachiniae, Philoctetes, OC) deal with the last crises facing senior heroes of old, and the rest include major characters in a similar position. The majority of the plays (Electra, Antigone, Trachiniae, Philoctetes) also feature young characters undergoing an ordeal. The clearest exception is Ajax, but the important presence of the silent Eurysaces mitigates the difference from the other plays. The crisis comes too early in the boy’s life for him to have any part in, or even be directly affected by, it, and his father’s entrusting Teucer with his care shields Eurysaces from future mistreatment (560–70). OT also does not deal directly with young people in trouble. Nevertheless, Oedipus’ young daughters appear as silent characters at the end of the play (1471ff.), and their father commits them to Creon’s care (1462–66, 1503–10). He also says that his sons will be able to look after themselves (1459–61). It is generally true that the rest of a saga should not be thought to be self-evidently implied in any given play, but the emphasis on the future of Oedipus’ children, combined with the open-ended arrangement for Oedipus’ own future, does seem to invite the audience to reflect on the family’s future misfortunes, not least those associated with the daughters’ guardian Creon.11 In OC the daughters are major speaking characters and, although they do not deal with the first crisis of their lives, they are still young and unmarried. Their

10 It is perhaps ironic that Philoctetes also tries to convince Neoptolemus to take him to Malis by claiming that the inconvenience of his transport will last less than a day (480). 11 Cf. V n. 56 below.

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father’s passing is a crucial turning point in their lives, and their shameful treatment by their uncle Creon as well as their brothers’ self-destructing feud underscore their terrible situation. To gain some perspective on Sophocles’ apparent fascination with the theme of youth in crisis, one may easily observe that Aeschylus and Euripides deal much less with it. Such speculations and comparisons are hampered by the accidents of transmission and cannot be an accurate assessment of the tragedians’ thematic choices, but as things stand, the only Aeschylean play that presents the first trial in the life of a young person is Choephori. Supplices perhaps also belongs to the same category. However, the lack of secure evidence concerning the structure of the Danaid trilogy and the emphasis on the unshakeable, almost obsessive aversion of the women for their cousins do not permit definitive categorization. In Persae emphasis is laid on Xerxes’ youth and senselessness. Still, apart from the fact that the subject matter of the play is not mythological, the play does not dramatize his decision-making but the terrible consequences of his decision to attack Greece. Even if one is willing to take those two plays into account, the total does not add up to Sophocles’.12 Of Euripides’ seventeen surviving tragedies, only six feature young people in crisis (Hippolytus, Electra, Ion, Phoenissae, and the two plays presented posthumously, Bacchae and IA). In Phoenissae, Eteocles and Polyneices are certainly not youths facing the first crisis of their lives, but Menoeceus and Antigone have to make crucial decisions. Pentheus in Bacchae is also already the king of the city, but his youth is stressed, and his helplessness vis-à-vis Dionysus is a major theme in the play. There are also Heracles’ daughter in Heraclidae and Polyxena in Hecuba, but the latter only embraces the inevitable with admirable dignity, and the two girls make their decision with no serious opposition from, or conflict with, their elders. Hyllus in Heraclidae does not appear to face his first ordeal, and he certainly faces no dilemma, although he shows courage in battle and loyalty to Athens. Cassandra in Troades has already been molested by the lesser Ajax. Like her sister Polyxena, she is a powerless war captive but she is immersed in illusions of grandeur. In Orestes the young Hermione, an innocent victim of her relatives’ baseness, makes no decision, and her role is in any case minor.

Philoctetes is unique among plays that dramatize the troubles of youths because Neoptolemus has to choose between two irreconcilable visions of his (and his comrades’) future, propounded by Odysseus and Philoctetes.

12 I agree with those who consider the end of Septem spurious. See A II n. 23 above.

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The young man left his island home with romantic, as he soon discovers, ideas of going to Troy and being the reincarnation of his father, fostered by his father’s fellow leaders and the entire army (343–58). The two pillars of Neoptolemus’ self-conception were a rather vague notion of Achilles’ moral integrity (88–89) and his martial kleos. Before his landing on Lemnos, it never crossed Neoptolemus’ mind, and he had indeed no reason to imagine, that the two parts of his father’s legacy would clash, or that he would have to privilege one at the expense of the other, or that the pursuit of the second would entail the abandonment of the first. Soon, things will become so difficult that Neoptolemus will exclaim (969–70): “Alas, what am I to do? I wish I had never left Skyros! Such is my distress at the present events.”13 His mentor is neither his father nor even his father’s tutor Phoenix, but first Odysseus, the associate of the Atreids, and then Philoctetes, the bitter enemy of the Atreids and of their associate Odysseus. This change of mentors is not a morally obvious correction of an initial wrong choice because the two senior men are morally quite similar, at least in their association with Neoptolemus. I will return to this similarity, and to Neoptolemus’ shifts of allegiance, below. For now, it is beyond doubt that Neoptolemus wishes to imitate his father and prove himself a worthy son as much as Ajax, for instance, does. What is different is that he has no firm idea of what this striving after the paternal excellence should and could involve. He cannot easily decide what limits his paternal legacy should set on the conflicting demands placed upon him on Lemnos. Since he has no clear idea how he should behave, he fails to show constancy and consistency in his choices, or, remarkably for a tragic character, a fixity of purpose that would shelter him from prevarication and failure. The list of his failures is embarrassingly long and virtually allinclusive. He fails to abide by the principle of honest exchange or confrontation, which he upholds at the beginning (90–95, 100, 108, 110), and to which he returns repeatedly (906, 908–9, 1224, 1228, 1234; cf. 1246, 1270). It is true that absolute rejection of deception in war is a problematic position for any fighter to adopt.14 Although Philoctetes is not an

13 This is probably an ironic echo of his earlier declaration to Philoctetes (671): “I am not distressed to have met and befriended you.” 14 Achilles himself considers ambush a normal part of warfare (Il. 1.226–28) and agrees without hesitation to cooperate in the deception of the Trojans by allowing Patroclus to wear his armor (Il. 16.40–42; cf. 11.798–801). Cf. B I n. 29 above.

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enemy like the Trojans, he is hostile to the army. Irrespective of such considerations, rejection of deception is Neoptolemus’ stated position, backed up by a reference to his father’s legacy (89), and never disputed or refuted by any character in the play.15 Neoptolemus also fails to abide by the principle he espouses on the advice of Odysseus, victory by any means, including deceit (79–85, 116, 120). On the point of success, he reveals the deception to Philoctetes (915–16) but fails to make full restitution immediately, by returning the bow (925–26). He fails to persuade Philoctetes to follow him to Troy, both before and even after he returns the bow. He fails to accomplish his present mission and is poised not only to forego his promised kleos but also to wreck the entire expedition and commit impiety by disregarding the divine plan revealed in Helenus’ prophecy.16 Neoptolemus’ youth is certainly a factor in this uncertainty but not the only or even the most crucial one. His respect for the nobility of the suffering senior man is beyond doubt. Pity for Philoctetes, especially in connection with the paroxysm of the disease that he suffers, may be thought to motivate Neoptolemus’ return of the bow,17 although hardly his revelation of the plot, which would not comfort the victim, or his decision to abandon the expedition. On the other hand, it is certainly significant that neither Neoptolemus nor anyone else mentions pity in connection with his decision to reveal the ploy and later to return the bow.

15 Cf. Heath (1999) 144, who plausibly suggests that, irrespective of Sophocles’ reasons for presenting Neoptolemus as an adherent of an extreme, over-simplified position, once Neoptolemus has adopted and defended it, it is wrong for him to change it. 16 Heracles’ final admonition to Philoctetes and Neoptolemus, and, by extension, the entire army, not to mention all future conquering armies, to observe piety when they sack the land (1440–41), is perhaps a forward-looking allusion to Neoptolemus’ (and other comrades’) outrages committed during the sack, although the reply of the addressees (1445–48) may be meant to forestall such associations. According to the tradition, Neoptolemus impiously murdered Priam, who had taken refuge at an altar. The allusion, if such it is, brings to the fore the precariousness of the youth’s ability to abide by principles he seems to have accepted, and the fragility of the moral education he receives on Lemnos. This is a plausible suggestion because the version of the tradition that the poet possibly alludes to seems to have a bearing on the play’s presentation of a major character. It should also be pointed out, though, that Heracles’ admonition is not unrelated to the cavalier attitude both Philoctetes and Neoptolemus have displayed so far toward divine will, especially as revealed in the prophecy. 17 For Neoptolemus’ motives see Konstan (2006) 109, 212. Cf. Blundell (1989) 206–7, and Schein (2006) 136.

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Neoptolemus’ two declarations of pity are elicited by Philoctetes’ emotive appeals, the first (965–66) by his lament over the prospect of imminent starvation and devouring by wild beasts (952–60) and the second (1074–75) by his appeal to the chorus to have pity on him (1070–71). At 966 Neoptolemus points out that his pity for Philoctetes is of long standing, but the only reasons he invokes for his decisions are his shame and distress at using deception. He stresses them especially in connection with his decision to return the bow (1228, 1234, 1246, 1248–49, 1251), which Philoctetes praises as a manifestation of Neoptolemus’ Achillean nature, which is the opposite of Odysseus’ Sisyphean heritage (1310–13). Schein suggests that Philoctetes’ praise recalls the attempt of the Homeric Odysseus to console the ghost of Achilles in Hades (Od. 11.482–86): Achilles is the most blessed among all men because his comrades honored him as a god when he was alive, and now he is the ruler of the dead. Achilles famously replies that he would prefer to be the poorest hired laborer and alive rather than the ruler of all the dead (Od. 11.488–91). According to Schein, the goal of the Homeric Odysseus is to present himself, the heroic survivor, as superior to the dead hero, and thus the Homeric echo in the play undercuts Philoctetes’ praise by recalling the supremacy of Odysseus in the epic and undermining Neoptolemus’ apparent return to his father’s values.18 A number of objections may be raised to this argument. First of all, it is not clear at all that Philoctetes’ praise is meant to echo the Odyssey passage. If it does, its difference from the “model” is more significant than the similarity. Sophocles focuses on Achilles’ fame in life and death, an indisputable fact, which is bound to strike a mighty chord with a son keen on emulating his father’s glory and acquiring a good reputation. Achilles’ status as a ruler of the dead is glossed over, and the emphasis on his posthumous fame is likely to recall Agamemnon’s praise of the hero’s undying fame in the second Nekyia (Od. 24.93–94). Even if Philoctetes’ praise is meant to recall Odyssey 11 and Odysseus’ heroic superiority, the echo would certainly not undermine Neoptolemus’ return to the Achillean standard. The difference between Achilles and Odysseus is obvious in both the epic and the play, and if Neoptolemus returns to an inferior standard, it is certainly his noble father’s standard. (It should also be kept in mind that Achilles goes on to ask Odysseus about the prowess of his son [Od. 11.492–93]. Odysseus provides a fulsome description of Neoptolemus’ achievements [Od. 11.506–37], and Achilles’ ghost departs in joy

18 Schein (2006) 137.

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[Od. 11.538–40].) From the point of view of posterity, Odysseus’ heroism is not superior to Achilles’. At most, the two heroes enjoy a similar status.

2. Neoptolemus: past and present There can be little doubt that the revelation of the plot and the return of the bow are indicative of Neoptolemus’ attempt to be true to his father’s legacy. His idea of Achilles’ behavioral standard is rather vague but still quite powerful, although not as firmly grounded in factual knowledge as that of Ajax, for instance. The play leaves open the possibility that Neoptolemus’ lack of constancy and consistency is to be attributed to his shaky grasp of past events in the Greek camp, mainly of those involving his father. Since Achilles’ past choices could guide his son in the moral dilemma he is currently facing, Neoptolemus’ possible ignorance compromises his view of his father’s behavior and renders him incapable of making correct choices, adhering to his decisions and succeeding in implementing them. A major event in the life of Neoptolemus’ father was the quarrel with Agamemnon and its terrible consequences, narrated in Homer’s Iliad. Enraged at an unprovoked insult he received from Agamemnon, Achilles withdrew from the battle (Il. 1.225–43), asked his mother to arrange with Zeus a heavy punishment for the Achaean army (1.393–412), and refused to yield to the entreaties of an embassy dispatched by Agamemnon and the army (9.308ff.). He even announced that he would sail home the next day (9.356–63, 427–29), although that would mean that he would live long but die without kleos (9.408–16). He did not make good on his threat to sail home (cf. 9.618–19) but vowed that he would fight only if Hector reached his own tent and ships (9.650–55). He finally rejoined the fighting only when his dear friend Patroclus, who had asked for and been granted permission to fight in Achilles’ armor to help the desperate comrades (16.38–100), was killed by Hector (16.818–54). Achilles entered the fray to avenge the death of his friend, in full knowledge that he had not long to live thereafter, although his glory would be imperishable (18.95–126). Nothing of this story is told in Philoctetes. At first sight, this may not seem to be noteworthy or surprising. Why, indeed, would or should one expect Sophocles to incorporate Homeric material in a play that dramatizes a non-Homeric story? Many scholars suggest that the attempt of the army to secure the cooperation of Philoctetes is patterned on, and recalls, the

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embassy to Achilles in Iliad 9.19 Both heroes had been wronged by the leadership, had become enraged and bitter, and at first passionately denied their cooperation, despite their friends’ promises of personal benefits and glory. The similarities, though, are quite superficial. Achilles and Philoctetes are very different figures, as is the nature of the wrongs they suffered. The embassy to Achilles and the mission to Lemnos are also radically different, as is their outcome. The participation and role of the young Neoptolemus in the mission distances the play from its supposed epic model even more. On the other hand, it is precisely the figure of Neoptolemus that brings the play closer to the Homeric Iliad. Not only is Neoptolemus the son of Achilles but as Sophocles has conceived the play, Odysseus, the senior envoy of the army, also needs to secure the cooperation of his junior partner in order to accomplish the mission, the deception of Philoctetes. In a way, Odysseus, one of the Iliadic envoys to Achilles and the Sophoclean envoys to Philoctetes, is now in charge of two missions, or two “embassies,” one to Philoctetes and one to Neoptolemus.20 More significantly, the young man has to negotiate a choice similar to the one his father had to make in Iliad 9. Achilles could relent, forget the gross insult he received, reenter the battle, save his comrades, and win imperishable kleos as well as great gifts. Alternatively, he could remain steadfast, abandon the expedition, and lose his kleos as well as the promised gifts. At first sight, Philoctetes rather than Neoptolemus seems to be called upon to make a decision similar to Achilles’ in the play. As suggested above, though, Philoctetes is not concerned with his martial kleos, and the fate of the expedition, or of the comrades fighting at Troy, is totally indifferent to him. When Neoptolemus has returned the bow and tries to persuade Philoctetes to follow him to Troy (1329–47), heeding the advice of a well-meaning and honest friend (cf. 1350–51), Philoctetes

19 See Schlesinger (1968), and Beye (1970). Further bibliography in Schein (2006) 129 n. 3. 20 The Iliadic Odysseus participated in the embassy to Achilles along with Phoenix and Ajax, and in Odyssey Odysseus tells Achilles’ shade that he was sent to Skyros to bring Neoptolemus to Troy (11.508–9)–in Philoctetes, Phoenix is said to have accompanied Odysseus to Skyros (343–44). The association between the Iliadic Achilles and the Sophoclean Neoptolemus, and, by extension, between the embassy to Achilles and the “embassy” to his son on Lemnos, is reinforced by the allusion to Achilles’ reply to Odysseus’ speech (Il. 9.312–13) in Neoptolemus’ reply to Odysseus’ suggestion (Phil. 86–87). The allusion was already noted by the scholiast.

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deflects the burden of his obligation to Neoptolemus by arguing that it is disgraceful for Neoptolemus himself to wish to return to Troy (1362–72). Thus Philoctetes manages to argue his way out of the dilemma that the return of the bow seems to create for him, as will be argued in 6 below. On the contrary, Neoptolemus has obligations both toward the army and toward Philoctetes, and his choice bears upon his continued participation in the expedition and upon his martial kleos, with which he is, initially at least, much concerned. It is, then, noteworthy that the quarrel of Achilles with Agamemnon and the choices Neoptolemus’ role-model father contemplated or made are never mentioned in the play or considered by the young man, or e.g. Odysseus, as possible precedents for his own situation. The quarrel of Achilles and Agamemnon is suppressed in Ajax too, despite the similarities between Ajax and Achilles, but the omission is not as striking in that play. For Ajax, Achilles was merely an honest fellowfighter, and the play would have little to gain from references to past cooperation of Ajax with Odysseus such as in the embassy to Achilles.21 Neoptolemus and his situation are very different. Moreover, Neoptolemus had opportunity and reason to mention his father’s quarrel with Agamemnon, as well as the quarrel of Ajax with the Atreids and Odysseus over Achilles’ arms, not only in connection with his own dilemma but also in the context of his deception of Philoctetes. A report of the insults offered to Achilles and Ajax, and the terrible consequences of the aggrieved heroes’ reaction to them, would most probably be received by Philoctetes as further proofs of the baseness of his enemies, and would consolidate his goodwill toward Neoptolemus. Even so, the deception of Philoctetes certainly cannot be thought to depend on, or suffer from the lack of references to, the report of the quarrels of other comrades with the hated trio. Nevertheless, the play does include a part that does not seem to have a direct bearing on the deception of Philoctetes. This is his questioning of Neoptolemus concerning the reaction of honest comrades to the delivery of Achilles’ arms to Odysseus and not the rightful owner (410–37), and concerning the fate of Thersites (438–46). I will argue below that this part is important in the presentation of Philoctetes’ view of his past and his problematic assignment of responsibility for his predicament. The same part may also be thought to cast some light, or some doubt, on Neoptolemus’ knowledge of past events, primarily in view of his failure to provide any details on the circumstances of the deaths he mentions.

21 Cf. B I n. 21 above.

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He says that he has not seen Thersites but has heard that he is alive (445). According to a version of the tradition found in Aethiopis, Thersites was killed by Achilles because he had mocked the champion’s love for the Amazon Penthesileia. Odysseus then purified Achilles of the murder (PEG 68). Neoptolemus has not personally witnessed any of the events he reports, but the stress on hearsay in connection with Thersites’ survival, which diverges from the tradition, contributes to the creation of uncertainty concerning the young man’s knowledge of past events at Troy.22 In his replies to Philoctetes, he volunteers only two comments, one at the beginning and one at the end of his report on the fate of the honest comrades. First, he says that he would never have been robbed of his father’s arms, had Ajax been alive (412–13). This comment contributes nothing to Philoctetes’ deception or view of Ajax and seems to be not only gratuitously made but also gratuitously optimistic, especially given the outcome of the judgment of arms. Perhaps one might assume that this judgment is irrelevant because one should not bring to bear on the interpretation of a play traditional material that the poet has suppressed.23 Still, the optimism of Neoptolemus cannot be accounted for on the basis of the representation of Odysseus and the power dynamics of the Greek camp in the play. Odysseus’ seamless cooperation with the Atreids, his cunning, and his ruthless pursuit of victory as well as the failure of the other leaders to contest the decision to abandon Philoctetes on Lemnos leave very little room for anybody to believe that Ajax would have prevented the award of the arms to Odysseus, had the latter set his sights on them. Neoptolemus’ comment, then, indicates either lack of knowledge, or some naiveté and immature judgment on his part, or both.24

22 Major mythical innovations and explicit rejection of well-known versions of the tradition are rare in the extant work of Sophocles, who seems to have favored open-endedness in the handling of traditional material, such as the delivery of Achilles’ arms to Neoptolemus. For this delivery see the discussion in 6 below. Earlier, Neoptolemus had reported, also from hearsay, that Achilles had been shot by no mortal man but by Apollo (334–35)–according to Aethiopis, he had been killed by Paris and Apollo (PEG 69). 23 Still, one should perhaps be particularly cautious in disregarding material that the poet has handled in other plays such as the judgment of arms in Ajax. 24 If the arms were never delivered to Neoptolemus, the comment may also point to some hidden regret for the absence of strong and loyal comrades who would have championed his cause. His comment on the loss of decent men in war (435–37) may be deemed to be sincere, or at least sincerely motivated, and may also indicate

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The second comment, on the frequent loss of good men in war (435–37), also hardly makes any significant contribution to the deception of Philoctetes and reflects rather vaguely the circumstances of the death of Ajax and Patroclus. The former did not die in battle, and the latter fell because of Achilles’ wrath. As for Antilochus (424–25), he was killed when his father Nestor, pressed by Memnon, shouted to him for help (Pi. P. 6.28–42). This is certainly a noble death in battle, but no mention of Nestor’s need is made in the play, and war at least spared Nestor on this occasion. It should be noted that no mention of the circumstances of Antilochus’ death is made in Odyssey (3.111–12, 4.187–89), and Sophocles may follow this tradition rather than Pindar’s presumed source, Aethiopis (PEG 68), which recounted the death of Antilochus, although the two are not incompatible.

Overall, Neoptolemus’ part in this brief but important exchange does not indicate whether he has clear knowledge of significant events that preceded his arrival at Troy.25 Irrespective of the state of his knowledge of past events, it is probably also telling that he does not assign responsibility to the gods or fate for the loss of good men in war but thinks that war, i.e. the unpredictable meeting of opponents on the battlefield, habitually culls the decent men and only unwillingly, as it were, the worthless. Philoctetes rounds off the exchange with a similar but more extensive gnome on the fate of the two categories of fighters (446–52). Although the essence of the two gnomic statements is the same, Philoctetes protests bitterly against the apparent injustice of the gods, who take habitual delight in preserving the bad and killing the good men. Like Neoptolemus’ first comment, the second one too seems to point to poor judgment, or lack of knowledge, or both: no gods are implicated in the death of good men, and it is not associated with plans or mistakes of other mortals.

his personal distress at the losses that preceded his recruitment. For a suggestion that Neoptolemus’ replies to Philoctetes’ questions serve to enhance the latter’s aversion of going to Troy because all the good men are dead and the bad thrive cf. the discussion with n. 61 below. 25 If one assumes that Neoptolemus knows at least the story of the quarrel of Achilles and Agamemnon and Achilles’ reaction to the insult, the fact that the son does not turn to his father’s example, either to follow or reject it, indicates that his knowledge cannot guide him in making crucial decisions and is practically tantamount to ignorance.

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3. Neoptolemus: divine will and prophecy The young man’s view of divine will, which could serve to compensate for his possibly defective knowledge of past events and guide him in his dilemma, appears to be at best quite fuzzy and at worst seriously misguided. Before Philoctetes’ arrival and the discussion of Achaean losses in war, Neoptolemus already expresses a peculiar view of divine dealings. At 191– 200, he responds to the chorus’ expression of sympathy for Philoctetes’ terrible plight by suggesting that neither the original wounding of the afflicted man nor his present predicament amazes him. With remarkable self-assurance, Neoptolemus claims that, if he judges correctly, the gods were responsible for the wound Chryse inflicted on Philoctetes; his miseries on Lemnos are also to be attributed to divine care so that his divine arrows would not be directed against Troy before the appointed time when, it is said, Troy is fated to fall by them. This is quite an extraordinary assessment of Philoctetes’ stay on Lemnos. No character disputes, and thus there can be little doubt, that Philoctetes was bitten by the snake because he approached the inviolable sanctuary of Chryse. It may also plausibly be suggested that his abandonment was willed, or at least tolerated, by the gods as part of his punishment, although not even Odysseus makes such a boldly direct claim. This reticence notwithstanding, all human misfortunes are the work of gods, and Philoctetes himself attributes his misery, the prosperity of his enemies, and their liberty to mock him to divine will (254–59, 1019–24). But it is a great and illconsidered leap from these uncontroversial, universally accepted beliefs to a conviction that the gods sickened Philoctetes and brought about his confinement to an uninhabited island for ten years in order to prevent a premature fall of Troy. Neither Odysseus’ remarks in the prologue nor even sheer plausibility can account for Neoptolemus’ belief, and there is no indication that it reflected some version of the tradition. It is not surprising that no character repeats or corroborates the claim in any way. The chorus do not respond to it but turn their attention to the urgent matter of Philoctetes’ imminent arrival, signaled by his distant cries.26 Heracles at the end does not

26 The cries must have been audible to the audience, but the chorus’ bidding to Neoptolemus to “be silent” (εὔστομ’ ἔχε, παῖ, 201), instead of an unambiguous command to “listen,” is perhaps not randomly chosen. With its cultic connotations, the call for silence may have momentarily been interpreted as an admonition to Neoptolemus to refrain from inappropriate speculations about the gods. The

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broach the issue at all. Even Neoptolemus himself does not repeat his assumption in his attempt to persuade Philoctetes to go to Troy, although that does not necessarily show that he has repudiated his former claim. Neoptolemus’ claim about Philoctetes’ stay on Lemnos cannot be viewed as an example of the way Sophocles usually deals with oracles, prophesies, or divine commands that feature in his plays. Different, to various degrees ambiguous or inconsistent, reports of oracles and prophecies are given in different parts of plays, and characters sometimes display knowledge that cannot be logically accounted for.27 Since Neoptolemus’ view of Philoctetes’ situation in the parodos cannot be traced to the information he received from Odysseus in the prologue, it might be a new piece of information about the divine background of the play or represent a new insight into divine behavior. This could be associated with Neoptolemus’ later authoritative dismissal of the chorus’ suggestion that they should all abandon Philoctetes and leave with the bow (839–42; cf. 865):28 Neoptolemus’ invocation of the prophecy of Helenus and the necessity of bringing Philoctetes to Troy has been considered a new insight, for which the prologue had not prepared the audience, since Odysseus stressed mainly the necessity of capturing the bow (68–69, 77–78, 113, 115), although he never said or implied that Philoctetes was useless or that he should, or could, be left behind. A brief discussion of the vexed question of the play’s handling of this prophecy, primarily with regard to Neoptolemus’ knowledge of and Odysseus’ dealing with it, is now necessary: it will make clear that Neoptolemus does not appear to receive new information about the prophecy in the course of the play or to possess information about the gods that is ignored by Odysseus. If so, his claim about Philoctetes’ stay on Lemnos in the parodos should also probably be viewed as his own assumption, unsubstantiated by other evidence, and as a sign of his defective view of divine will, which is unlikely to offer him reliable guidance in his dilemma.

audience would not necessarily expect the chorus to turn their attention to the cries immediately, without commenting on Neoptolemus’ odd speculations. 27 The most prominent example are the oracles in Trachiniae; see IV n. 67 below. See also the discussion of Calchas’ prophecy in B I 1 above. 28 The reaction of Neoptolemus to this callous suggestion of his men, expressed in solemn dactylic lines (839–42), is likely indicative of a growth in his moral stature and his ability to live up to his father’s epic example. See Gardiner (1987) 38, and Blundell (1989) 205, with references to earlier critics who discuss Neoptolemus’ new insight. For the chorus’ attitude see the discussion in 8 below.

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The fullest report of the prophecy is provided by Neoptolemus himself in his attempt to persuade Philoctetes to sail with him to Troy after he has returned the bow. According to this report, Philoctetes has to go to Troy willingly (1332; cf. 1343). He is destined to be cured of his disease there by the sons of Asclepius (1333–34) and to capture Troy with his bow and the cooperation of Neoptolemus (1334–35) before the end of the summer (1340–41), winning the greatest glory (1346–47). The necessity of bringing Philoctetes to Troy by persuasion is first mentioned in the false merchant’s report of the prophecy (610–13), but this is not necessarily the source of Neoptolemus’ attitude toward Philoctetes at 839–42, or in the exodus. It is unlikely that Neoptolemus would believe the false merchant’s report, unless he had independent confirmation of it. He is aware of the essentials of Helenus’ prophecy, or, at the very least, of some authoritative prediction of the sack of Troy, from the beginning. In the prologue, Odysseus says clearly that Neoptolemus cannot sack Troy if the bow is not captured (68–69; cf. 77–78). Neoptolemus finally accepts that deception is necessary for the capture of the bow, which will be instrumental in the capture of Troy, at 112–16 (cf. 199–200, 345–47). The crucial contribution of Philoctetes and the bow to the capture of the city may have even been communicated to Neoptolemus by Odysseus and Phoenix on Skyros. It is plausible that, in case it was, the envoys had either downplayed it, or the young man had not taken it seriously into account, presumably dazzled by the prospect of his own glory. Such speculative assumptions are not necessary or particularly profitable, but it certainly cannot be taken for granted that Odysseus and Phoenix had misled, or withheld information from, Neoptolemus. Much has been made of his two questions to Odysseus (112, 114), which seem to indicate ignorance of Philoctetes’ role in the capture of Troy, and thus of the prophecy. Concerning the first question, I have just pointed out that at 68–69 (cf. 77–78) Odysseus made clear that failure to capture the bow would entail Neoptolemus’ failure to capture Troy. So, even if Neoptolemus is thought to ignore the prophecy, 112 cannot be explained. At 113, Odysseus unsurprisingly repeats the essence of 68–69, although with added emphasis on the importance of the bow for the capture of Troy. Since 113 is a reply to 112, Odysseus cannot really be blamed for obscurity, but the emphasis on the bow may account for Neoptolemus’ surprised request for a confirmation of his role in the capture of Troy at 114. It is more plausible, though, that both 112 and 114 are not questions posed by someone ignorant of crucial information but the last thrashings of a man desperately struggling against a force that is exhausting his

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defenses. There is no compelling reason to assume that Sophocles presented Neoptolemus, who subsequently shows detailed knowledge of the prophecy (1329–47; cf. 839–42), as ignorant of it in the prologue. 114 cannot bear the weight of such an assumption, which solves no problem, creates others of its own, and offers no compensatory advantage. Neoptolemus’ willingness to use violence to capture Philoctetes (90–92) is not a proof that he has no idea of the prophecy.29 Apart from his statement at 839–42, Neoptolemus never says or indicates that the prophecy limits his choices or decisions, especially in the exodus. In the prologue, he responds to the suggestion of Odysseus, who stressed from the beginning that Philoctetes had to be captured by guile (12–14; cf. 54–55, 101, 107). Neoptolemus reacts by invoking his noble nature and declaring his readiness to employ the method he thinks this nature dictates, open confrontation instead of deception. His reaction is presented as the instinctive aversion of a young nobleman to guile and his equally instinctive preference for fighting. In another desperate attempt to prevail on Odysseus, he will later mention persuasion too (102). No previous account of the prophecy, or any part of Odysseus’ deceit, conflicts with Neoptolemus’ version (1329–47). The authoritative account of Heracles at the end differs only on two minor points, which have no bearing on the characters’ knowledge of the contents of the prophecy. Heracles says that Philoctetes will kill Paris with his arrows before the fall of the city (1425–28) and promises to send Asclepius to Troy to cure Philoctetes (1437–38). It is not specified whether the killing of Paris was included in Helenus’ prophecy, but whether included or not, it does not conflict with the rest of the prophecy. It also does not seem probable that this particular prediction would have contributed significantly to the success of Neoptolemus’ (or Odysseus’) attempts to persuade Philoctetes, especially since the killing of Paris would have pleased his enemy Menelaus. At any rate, it may easily be taken as a new prediction. Asclepius’ dispatch to Troy is a promise of a divine mentor to a human protégé and hardly contradicts Neoptolemus’ mention of the sons of Asclepius as Philoctetes’ healers (1333–34). The healing power of the sons stems from their father, and his presence at Troy will facilitate their work

29 Pace Kirkwood (1958) 81, who claims that Neoptolemus first hears the clause of the prophecy on the persuasion of Philoctetes from the false merchant. For other instances in tragedy where characters repeat material, or ask for information they have already received, see Finglass (forthcoming) on Aj. 68–70.

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as a favor to Philoctetes. Even if there is a contradiction, this has no bearing on the plot or the dramatic development of the play.30

For obvious reasons, the false merchant reveals only the part of the prophecy relevant to Philoctetes. As already pointed out, according to this report, Helenus said that the Achaeans could never capture Troy unless they persuaded Philoctetes with (suitable) words and fetched him from the island on which he was living (610–13). Odysseus insists in the prologue, and it becomes obvious from Philoctetes’ intransigence throughout the play, that the envoys could only persuade Philoctetes by deceit. It is perhaps significant that the false merchant does not explicitly say that the Achaeans had to talk Philoctetes into sailing to Troy but into leaving Lemnos. If this reproduces the words of Helenus, his prophecy left open a window for the use of deception. In any case, it is beyond doubt that honesty would never work with Philoctetes. The reported confident assertion of Odysseus that he would probably take Philoctetes of his own free will (617; cf. 593–94) is most likely based on his belief that his ruse would work. The use of violence would be a last resort (618; cf. 594). It contradicts the prophecy and would only be possible if Philoctetes lost control of his bow. Odysseus himself does not entertain this possibility in the prologue, and Philoctetes naturally does not mention it in his indignant response to the false merchant’s account (622–25; cf. 628–34).31 In the prologue, Odysseus tells Neoptolemus that his task is to “take” or “capture” Philoctetes by deceit (101, 107; cf. 54–55). Nowhere does he say that the objective of the mission is the capture of the bow only. Indeed the whole stratagem makes sense only if the capture of Philoctetes is at stake, as the very first mention of the ploy unambiguously shows (13–14). Odysseus’ references to the bow in the prologue (68–69, 77–78, 105, 113, 115) do not indicate the irrelevance of Philoctetes but explain to Neoptolemus why an abandoned invalid cannot be approached or overpowered and is worth such troubles as are now being demanded of the young man. Odysseus underscores the importance of the weapon for the capture of Troy by Neoptolemus, and Heracles will confirm at the end that Troy is fated to fall to his bow for a second time (1439–40). In this light,

30 For the reference to Paris cf. the discussion in 7 below. For the contents of the prophecy see Ussher (2001) 14 n. 11. 31 For Odysseus’ threat to use violence against Philoctetes (982–83; cf. 1003) and to take only the bow to Troy (1054–62) see the discussion below.

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Neoptolemus’ declaration that the prophecy mentioned Philoctetes (841) is not a new insight provided by the account of the false merchant but a factual statement of what Neoptolemus has known all along, at the very least since the prologue. After Neoptolemus has revealed the ruse and while he is pondering whether to return the bow to Philoctetes, Odysseus intervenes to prohibit the return and to take Philoctetes to Troy, by force if necessary (982–83). He first orders his attendants to seize the recalcitrant man when he threatens to commit suicide (1003) but then changes tack, following Philoctetes’ harangue (1004–44). Odysseus instructs his men to allow Philoctetes to stay, claiming that there is no need for him: as long as the bow goes to Troy, other able archers such as Teucer or Odysseus himself can wield it; Philoctetes’ prize will indeed bring Odysseus honor, which Philoctetes should have (1054–62). The same epic word, “prize” (γέρας, 1061), had been used by Philoctetes to designate the honor that will accrue to Neoptolemus from taking him home (478) and will be used again by him for the arms of Achilles Neoptolemus was robbed of (1365). Odysseus’ choice of word is not random but calculated to appeal to Philoctetes’ sense of heroic pride and honor.

This is the most obvious, and a double, deviation from the prophecy: Odysseus threatens to use violence instead of persuasion,32 and Philoctetes is to remain on Lemnos. It has plausibly been suggested that this is a bluff, a

32 Schein (2006) 132–34 thinks that the play emphasizes Odysseus’ readiness to use physical and rhetorical violence, and thus presents him as a fifth century politician rather than an epic figure of many wiles, through the references to coercion and especially the repeated use of the formula “the mighty Odysseus” ( Ὀδυσσέως βία, 314, 321, 592). It should be kept in mind that violence is hardly ever used, and Philoctetes stresses repeatedly Odysseus’ treachery, not his use of violence. If the naming periphrasis is significant, it may be used to associate Odysseus with epic heroes of the previous generation such as the Homeric Heracles. Odysseus also uses threats of violence in his attempt to dissuade Neoptolemus from returning the bow to Philoctetes (1241, 1250, 1253–55, 1257–58). Apart from the fact that these threats too are never carried out, they do not reflect badly on Odysseus’ character, since Neoptolemus’ disobedience to Odysseus and the army is bound to be answered with hostile action, as Neoptolemus himself realizes (1403, 1405). For Odysseus’ presentation as a liar and deceiver in Odyssey and the presentation of this side of the hero in tragedy see Goldhill (1986) 159. For his association with the sophists and contemporary politicians in Philoctetes see n. 39 below.

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last attempt to lure the intransigent invalid to Troy.33 On the other hand, it is true that, although Odysseus does not use force to transport Philoctetes to Troy, the proposed abandonment of the man without the bow is tantamount to murder, an act of extreme violence, and reenacts his original abandonment.34 But the threat is not carried out immediately. Odysseus’ failure to object to Neoptolemus’ instruction to his sailors to stay with Philoctetes until the ship has been made ready for departure (1075–80) is possibly another sign that he shares the young man’s hope that Philoctetes will change his mind in the meantime. More important, Odysseus does not mention the danger of starvation facing Philoctetes but emphasizes the benefit that he himself, Philoctetes’ bitterest enemy, will gain from Philoctetes’ prized weapon. In a confrontation with his nemesis Odysseus, this seems to be meant to be a powerful stimulus to Philoctetes, even stronger than sheer survival, and it almost succeeds (cf. 1063–64). Even if it is not a bluff, the progress of Odysseus’ reactions shows how unwilling he is to deviate from the prophecy. In response to the grave complication created by the initiative of Neoptolemus to reveal the plot to Philoctetes, and especially by his later apparent readiness to return the bow, Odysseus’ most urgent concern is naturally to prevent the return of the valuable weapon. Not only does the capture of Troy depend on it but its possession is also the only means of pressuring Philoctetes to go to Troy. Persuasion is clearly the favorite method of Odysseus. He only uses coercion to stop Philoctetes from committing suicide. His bluff or last resort solution of taking only the bow to Troy is undoubtedly a result of unforeseen complications. It has nothing to do with the content of the prophecy or his understanding of it. His last, desperate threat of coercion after Neoptolemus has returned the bow (1297–98) is totally ineffectual and obviously the product of the immense frustration of a man whose clever plans have been thwarted repeatedly.35 Even at this desperate moment, Odysseus wishes to take Philoctetes too and not only

33 See Hinds (1967) 177–78, Blundell (1989) 208 n. 89, and Ussher (2001) 148. For a contrary view see Knox (1964) 134, and Robinson (1969) 45–51. 34 See Blundell (1989) 208. 35 Cf. Neoptolemus’ prescient response (431–32), which reveals a cool and telling failure to be impressed by Odysseus’ cleverness, to Philoctetes’ indignant exclamation (429–30). It is abundantly clear, and had been stressed by Odysseus himself in the prologue, that it is absolutely impossible to force Philoctetes to sail when he is in possession of the bow.

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the bow to Troy, apparently loath to disregard the dictates of the prophecy completely. Although this does not make him a paragon of virtue or piety, it at least suggests that he is not necessarily or glaringly worse than Neoptolemus and Philoctetes, whose attitude toward the prophecy may be described as cavalier at best and impious at worst. Philoctetes of course does not believe Odysseus when he claims to be the servant of the will of Zeus (989–90). After the return of the bow, however, he has no reason to distrust Neoptolemus. He also never disputes Helenus’ mantic authority, the existence of the prophecy, or its truth. Philoctetes certainly believes that there was a divine stimulus that led his enemies to Lemnos (1037–9). He does not think that this decrees his own departure for Troy but views it as divine punishment for the crime of his enemies. Even if the stimulus is taken to be his enemies’ failure to capture Troy, it is rather far-fetched to assume that they would have thought of Philoctetes as their savior by themselves, without any divine guidance, although admittedly Philoctetes may be assumed to reason along such lines. But these are unnecessarily complicated assumptions, given the prominence of the prophecy in the play, and especially Philoctetes’ failure to question it in the exodus.36

In this light, the objective of the mission and the content of the prophecy are fairly clear from their first mention in the play. They are also never at odds with each other, although the characters’ initiatives and reactions

36 Pucci (2003) 280 suggests that Philoctetes may view the prophecy as an adynaton: the gods connected Troy’s capture with Philoctetes’ presence because they knew that Philoctetes would never go to Troy and thus the city would never fall to the Achaeans. Apart from the improbability of a prophetic adynaton and the puzzle of the gods’ reasons for enunciating it, Philoctetes mentions the divine stimulus while being constrained by Odysseus’ men and about to be taken to Troy by force. He cannot believe that the gods know that he will never go to Troy, especially since they have just allowed Odysseus and his men to thwart his suicide (1003). Philoctetes apparently believes that the gods punished his enemies by (humiliatingly?) sending them to Lemnos, or instigating them, to look for the wretch they abandoned years ago. This humiliation, if such it is, is only the beginning of their demise, for which he prays repeatedly. But this punishment is not mutually exclusive with his going to Troy or even with the capture of the city. Whatever Philoctetes thinks of the prophecy before the return of the bow, his failure to take it into account in the exodus cannot be explained away. Undeniably, neither Philoctetes nor Neoptolemus ever considers the possibility that their decision to sail to Greece may not be welcome to the gods.

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complicate matters, and different aspects of the prophecy are emphasized as the unfolding of the plot, both Sophocles’ and Odysseus’, demands. Neoptolemus, then, seems to know at least the essence of the prophecy and to be aware of Philoctetes’ condition from the beginning of the play,37 and neither the false merchant’s story nor any other development changes his view of either. Even if he did not know that the prophecy mentioned persuasion and heard it first from the false merchant, Odysseus’ assertions in the prologue and especially Philoctetes’ attitude toward his enemies would be enough to convince him that Philoctetes could not be persuaded to go to Troy. Neoptolemus’ initial reluctance to relinquish the bow after the revelation of the ruse (925–26) also suggests that he does not trust in persuasion. There is then no indication in the play that Neoptolemus possesses or receives special information about divine mandates, or even that he worries much about the mandates of Helenus’ prophecy, especially when he makes the decision to abandon the Trojan expedition. If so, his assumption about divine dealings in the parodos (191–200) too cannot plausibly be considered as a revelation of information or special insights he possesses. It should rather be viewed as his own unfounded hypothesis and a sign of his lack of insight into (past) divine behavior.

4. Philoctetes and Odysseus: two narratives of kleos Thus Neoptolemus has no secure guiding principles on which to base his decision concerning Philoctetes and his own future. As argued above, part of his problem may be ignorance of his father’s behavior in a situation similar to his own. Achilles quarreled with Agamemnon when the latter

37 In response to the chorus’ inquiry as to the whereabouts of Philoctetes in the parodos (161), he repeats Odysseus’ suggestion that Philoctetes is probably nearby looking for food (162–63; cf. 43), although not the possibility that he may have gone out to look for some medicinal herb (44). He then adds that people say that Philoctetes survives by shooting game and has no one to assist him in his troubles (164–68). Odysseus had said nothing about Philoctetes’ mode of subsistence in the prologue, and it would indeed not be difficult for anyone to imagine. Be that as it may, beside belying Neoptolemus’ later claim that he knows nothing of Philoctetes’ troubles (253), 164–68 indicate that the information Odysseus provided in the prologue is not the only source of Neoptolemus’ knowledge. This, though, does not indicate that Neoptolemus knows anything about divine plans or the oracle that Odysseus does not, or that he has withheld from the young man.

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insulted him by taking away his prize, but did not abandon the expedition, and did not forsake his fated kleos. Neoptolemus never broke with the generals and the army, even when, and if, they failed to deliver his father’s arms to him. Nevertheless, he decides to abandon the expedition and forsake his promised kleos, although he received no insult, or did not consider it grave enough when he received it, and although the entire army would turn against him, a danger that his father never faced. Neoptolemus also arrived at Troy as the fated reincarnation of his dead father, poised to capture the famed city, a task his father, the best of the Achaeans, would have fulfilled, had he remained alive. By abandoning the expedition, Neoptolemus not only betrays the army but is also in danger of violating divine will as revealed in Helenus’ prophecy and of betraying his father’s legacy. Whether Neoptolemus has knowledge of past events that might help him with his decision or not, he has a fluid concept of honor, which is being (re)shaped by the senior men who exploit his limitations and try to manipulate him for their own ends. Scholars have claimed that Neoptolemus switches allegiance and role models or father figures.38 This is quite misleading. It is certain that Neoptolemus has to make important choices and decisions, which are morally formative for him, but it is also beyond doubt that his only role model, or figure of authority and allegiance, is his father Achilles. As already suggested, Neoptolemus’ problem is that, in contrast to Ajax, he has no clear idea as to what this model dictates and how he should imitate it. Neoptolemus cannot competently navigate the uncharted waters of the dilemma he is facing because his future (kleos) is inextricably bound with his comrades’ past, and especially with past entanglements, feuds and rivalries. The two senior men offer conflicting narratives of kleos and honor, i.e. of his father’s legacy, and Neoptolemus is not able to rely on divine guidance for the much-needed compass. Since he lacks, or is unable to use his, independent knowledge of his father’s past behavior, and has poor insight into the divine will, he lacks a reliable yardstick by which to measure the demands placed upon him and the goals they serve. The ultimate winner in the fight for Neoptolemus’ soul is bound to be the man best able to present a narrative that emphasizes Neoptolemus’ connection with his father and convincingly reconciles both parts of

38 See e.g. Blundell (1989) 184, 211, and Clarke Kosak (2006) 51. Cf. Schein (2006) 130, with previous bibliography.

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Achilles’ legacy, integrity and (a version of ) kleos. This man turns out to be Philoctetes, but this outcome is not self-evident, or evident either from the beginning or from the presentation of the two senior men up to the point of Neoptolemus’ decision to abandon the Trojan expedition. The crucial factor in the dealings of Philoctetes and Odysseus with Neoptolemus is not so much a difference of ethical code, of old, aristocratic, individualistic vs. more recent, democratic, mercenary, sophistic values,39 as a difference in rhetorical competence. Remarkably, and detrimentally for his ca(u)se, Odysseus fails to appeal to Achilles in his validation of one sort of kleos, while Philoctetes constantly refers to Neoptolemus’ father (874–76, 904–5, 940, 1283–84, 1310–13; cf. 242, 260, 1066–67) in his promise of a different sort of kleos. Otherwise, the two senior men are very similar. In contrast to Neoptolemus, they never waver in the pursuit of their goal and go about fulfilling it in very similar manner, by exploiting Neoptolemus’ flexible concept of honor, justice, and reciprocal obligation. Odysseus and Philoctetes change their mind only through threats of physical violence or through divine intervention. Philoctetes’ resolve seems to waver on two occasions, when Odysseus announces that Philoctetes’ bow will bring him, Odysseus, honor at Troy (1063–64), and primarily when Neoptolemus has returned the bow and appeals to Philoctetes to go to Troy (1348–51; cf. 1388). As already suggested, Odysseus wavers even less, and quite likely never. Both men pressure Neoptolemus to comply with their wishes by urging him to forgo previous commitments (79–85, 1368–69, 1400–1) and assuring him that his behavior will be brave/noble and will bring him good repute (117–20, 477–79, 1370–72). When he balks, they try to shame him with appeals to honor and justice. As the wronged party, Philoctetes uses such appeals much more extensively (927–51, 967–68, 971–73; cf. 960, 1281–86),40 but Odysseus, the deviser of the ruse, also tries, in vain, to appeal to justice. He argues that Neoptolemus has no right to return what has been acquired by his own planning (1247–48), and that the return of the bow will amount to an actionable

39 For Odysseus’ association with the sophists and contemporary politicians see Knox (1964) 124–25, Rose (1976) 81, 90, Craik (1980), Gardiner (1987) 48–49, and Blundell (1989) 321, 329. 40 Even before the revelation of the ploy, Philoctetes assures Neoptolemus that it is lawful for the young man to hold Heracles’ bow and “give it back to the giver” (668). There is no implication that Philoctetes suspects Neoptolemus as a potential usurper or thief of the bow, but the statement points to the cardinal place of justice and reciprocity in elite interaction.

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crime (1250–58; cf. 1404–5). On the other hand, even the noble Philoctetes crosses a line of rhetorical legitimacy or frank argumentation when he insists that Neoptolemus swore to take him home (941, 1367). Neoptolemus never did anything of the sort. He only pledged, by giving his right hand to Philoctetes, to safeguard the bow and not to abandon Philoctetes during the paroxysm of the disease that prohibited Philoctetes’ departure (810–13; cf. 763–81). Philoctetes of course had supplicated Neoptolemus earlier (468ff.), and the young man had promised to take him home (527). The supplication put Neoptolemus under heavy and unshakeable obligation and would be an adequate means of pressuring him to comply with Philoctetes’ wish. Nevertheless, Philoctetes actually mentions his suppliant status only twice after the supplication, once before he hands over the bow to Neoptolemus (773), and once in his first attempt to shame the young man into returning it (929–30). Invoked in the crucial debate in the exodus, the oath becomes a more important bargaining token, and it is usually suggested that Neoptolemus’ promise is equivalent to an oath. This is an unacceptably casual view of the ritual background of the interaction of Philoctetes and Neoptolemus. After the return of the bow, the outcome of the meeting of the two men and of the mission depends entirely on Philoctetes’ ability to win Neoptolemus over to his side, and shifts of position are not to be taken lightly. Having supplicated him, and later declared that he did not wish to put Neoptolemus under oath (811), Philoctetes invokes an oath that has not been sworn and a pledge (1398; cf. 942) that had a different content and has already been fulfilled anyway. Philoctetes appears to be ready to distort facts, and even to court impiety, in order to force Neoptolemus to comply with his wish. This is a trait that the much-maligned Odysseus never displays. It is true that Odysseus’ stature is not particularly impressive. Apart from his dispatch to Lemnos, no other contribution of his to the capture of Troy is mentioned or alluded to in the play, although his reference to a group of champions with whom Philoctetes is destined to sack Troy (997–98) may be taken as an attempt to imply that he himself will belong to the company of the champions, which in this play includes only Neoptolemus and Philoctetes. The absence of focus on Odysseus’ future achievements is not surprising, given the dramatic time and the subject matter of the play. Nevertheless, the combination of the ultimate failure of his stratagem to convey Philoctetes to Troy and the play’s silence on his future glory contributes to the diminution of his stature, in comparison to

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Philoctetes and Neoptolemus, the fated sackers of Troy. Odysseus cuts a controversial and ambiguous figure from the beginning of the play. It is sometimes suggested that he shifts his position, is not consistent in his claims, or confuses Neoptolemus as to the meaning of moral terms, because he first admits that deception is evil and shameless (79–85), and then, under pressure from, or in order to trick, Neoptolemus, he claims that he does not consider lying shameful if it brings salvation and profit (109, 111).41 He fails even in his famed ability as a master of persuasion, undermining his own, reasonably solid, case.42 But no contradiction is evident, or, at most, only a surface contradiction. As argued above, and as he himself says very early on, Odysseus is not a man prone to wasting words (11–12; cf. 1047–48) or pretending more than is absolutely necessary for his purposes (cf. 57). When he reveals the plan to Neoptolemus, he seeks to preempt the youth’s objections by conceding as many points as he can and acknowledging his addressee’s perspective. He knows that Neoptolemus, proud of his parentage and more than eager to emulate his great father, will view the plan as a shameless trick, and will object to it. There is no indication that Odysseus himself does not view it as a bold and even shameless stratagem. His difference from Neoptolemus (and Philoctetes) consists in his lack of reservations in employing such methods to achieve his goals. This lack is obvious from the beginning and remains so throughout the prologue and the play. Doing something shameful and feeling shame are not, and should not be viewed as standing, always in a direct relation of cause and effect. Odysseus first admits that deception is evil and shameless and then declares that he feels no shame in telling lies. The second claim does not annul the first, it only shows Odysseus’ moral mettle, as does his later description of his morality to Philoctetes (1049–53). It could plausibly be argued that feeling no shame in the performance of shameless deeds or the employment of shameless methods is the defining characteristic of the shameless, or pragmatic, as the case may be, person. To be sure, one’s shameless behavior may be defended through an argument to the effect that the behavior in question is not really shameless, or is wrongly regarded as shameless, and thus one should feel no shame in adopting it, but Odysseus does not employ such an argument. He simply admits that he does not find it shameless to tell lies, in other words, doing

41 See Scodel (1984) 92, and Gibert (1995) 67. 42 See Heath (1999) 145–47.

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a shameless thing causes him no shame if the shamelessness brings benefits. It is probably true that the Sophoclean Odysseus does not measure up to his epic persona: the Homeric Odysseus, particularly the hero of Odyssey, is indeed a master of persuasion. On the other hand, it should also be pointed out that Sophocles is consistent in the presentation of this versatile, and indeed Protean, figure hailing from the epic tradition. Although Odysseus is an accomplished speaker, Sophocles nowhere presents him as a master of persuasion, and it is not self-evident that the epic background would influence the reception of the tragic character. The hero’s success in Ajax hinges much more on Agamemnon’s friendship or obligations toward him than on his eloquence. In Philoctetes Odysseus does not mince words and seems to lose patience rather more often than one would expect him to on the basis of his behavior in epic. Such a character would not be unlikely to call a spade a spade, especially when the mission is both very crucial and very difficult, time is of the essence, and, as suggested above, he knows well that Neoptolemus would initially object to the deception, no matter what gloss one tried to put on it. Nevertheless, despite his limited rhetorical effectiveness and ability to manipulate Neoptolemus, to which I will return, Odysseus is not only the representative of the army and the man in charge of the success of the Trojan expedition but also, and more significantly, the executioner of Zeus’ will (cf. 989–90). Even if his methods are dubious or ambivalent, he pursues no personal or base profit, at least nothing more controversial than kleos, and works for the common good. His opponent, the honorable Philoctetes, not only uses dubious means of pressuring Neoptolemus but also has a skewed idea of his own past, which problematizes the version of kleos he suggests to Neoptolemus. Yet he succeeds in persuading the young man. Philoctetes hears the whole truth after the return of the bow, eventually even receiving divinely guaranteed assurances that he is destined to be healed and excel in the capture of Troy. Everybody, including Neoptolemus, urges him to go to Troy, and Philoctetes himself admits that he should not disregard the benevolent advice Neoptolemus gives him. Still, he cannot bring himself to concede to the wishes of his enemies, the Atreids and Odysseus. Philoctetes’ objections are similar to Neoptolemus’ in the prologue. After his appeal to his inherited honesty (86–89) and Odysseus’ rejection of the possibility of using force or persuasion to bring Philoctetes to Troy (103), Neoptolemus focuses on the social opprobrium attached to lying: he calls lies shameful (108) and declares himself incapable of deceiving

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with a straight face (110). Philoctetes says that that he cannot show his face to the world and that no one will speak to him if he gives in to Neoptolemus (1352–53). Neither Neoptolemus nor Philoctetes identifies the men who will blame them, although Neoptolemus probably has Philoctetes in mind. Philoctetes cannot mean the Atreids, Odysseus, the army, the Trojans, or Neoptolemus. Unlike Ajax, Philoctetes does not mention his father, and does not even entertain the possibility that his acceptance of the proposal to go to Troy will make him the laughing-stock of his enemies. The mockery of enemies is a major concern of many a Greek hero, not least the Sophoclean Ajax.43 Philoctetes only regrets that his enemies had been laughing (257–58, 1023–24) and are again laughing at him (1123–27) because they have tricked him twice, once when they abandoned him on Lemnos and now that they have gotten a hold of his bow. He never says that they will mock him, not to mention despise him, if he agrees (or is forced) to go to Troy. It is then plausible that he and Neoptolemus envisage a community of noble men who will look down upon their behavior even if this is prescribed by the prophecy and perfectly acceptable to, or desired by, their comrades.44 Irrespective of the prophecy, the necessity of deceiving Philoctetes, and the goodwill between him and Neoptolemus, the two men still believe that their consent is, and will be viewed as, shameful. Philoctetes, though, is not thinking only of the community of honorable people but also, and mainly, of himself, namely of the woes he suffered during the ten years he lived all alone on the uninhabited island. With an unusual address to his own eyes, who have seen all that happened around him, he asks how they will bear to witness his renewed association with his destroyers, the Atreids and the accursed son of Laertius (1354–57). Philoctetes has made it clear from the beginning that his grievances include his abandonment and the miseries it entailed. He had joined the expedition willingly, with a considerable contingent of seven ships, but the generals dishonored him, collaborating with a man eager to take part in all their nefarious designs, although he had tried to avoid joining the army and had to be tricked and forced to join (1025–28). The conspirators left him on a desolate island. This would be terrible for anyone but has been most devastating for a sick man with a festering wound and prone to painful,

43 Cf. B I n. 24 above. 44 Cf. Philoctetes’ admonition at 967–68 and 1371–72.

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debilitating seizures (cf. 279–84). Nevertheless, he managed to survive, sustained by the game he hunted with his bow, his only lifeline (cf. 285–92), and he believes that his heroic endurance exceeds the powers of other men (533–38; cf. 292–99). Although Philoctetes does not call it a source of kleos, he is clearly proud of, or at the very least pleased with, his power to endure. His touching attempt to hide the oncoming paroxysm of the disease from Neoptolemus and his men (730–39) is perhaps an indicator of his unwillingness to admit to his weakness. Clarke Kosak has argued that the diseased Philoctetes is the chief representative of otherness, a position tragedy frequently assigns to women. The physically challenged hero asserts and maintains his inner moral soundness and aristocratic integrity throughout the play, constructing a parallel narrative of worthy manhood, which validates endurance over military conquests and aims at persuading Neoptolemus to reject Odysseus’ version of manhood.45 I find Philoctetes’ association with women and otherness least convincing, primarily because his “otherness” is accidental and no character disputes his excellence. Besides, sick men are not associated with women as a matter of course,46 and Sophocles avoids suggestions that Philoctetes has become feminized or in any way compromised. On the contrary, he is a courageous and resourceful man, able to cope with a very challenging situation and with a new attempt at tricking him. Philoctetes’ strength and leadership qualities are apparent from the fact that he is not cowed, thrown into confusion, or defeated by Odysseus. At the end he manages to persuade Neoptolemus to abandon the expedition, forsake his promised glory, and become an enemy of the entire army,

45 Clarke Kosak (2006). She also examines medical terminology, which reflects the culturally shaped view of women’s bodies as softer, more porous, and generally more permeable and prone to disorders and illness than men’s. A chronically ill man may thus be viewed as feminized or at least sharing female characteristics. Cf. next n. and the discussion below. 46 The chorus liken Philoctetes to a child without his nurse (703). Loraux (1995) 34–41 and Clarke Kosak (2006) 56 suggest that Heracles at the end of Trachiniae is feminized by the disease, but it should not be disregarded that his condition is not a chronic ailment and that his distress is intensified by what he views as an unbearable humiliation, his defeat by a treacherous woman. There are no incurable chronic ailments in archaic and classical poetry, with the exception of blindness. Blind men such as Oedipus and Teiresias need guides and caretakers like children, not women; see e.g. S. OC 21, 347–52, Eur. Ph. 834–37. Weak old people are also associated with children; see e.g. A. Ag. 72–82, S. fr. 487 Radt, Eur. Bacch. 193.

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in order to take his friend home. Philoctetes’ power and self-confidence shine through even when he is worst off in the play. After Neoptolemus has revealed the deception, Philoctetes appeals to the landmarks of Lemnos and the wild beasts, his only and usual companions (936–39). He laments loudly that no other than the son of Achilles has violated the oath to take him home and is in fact about to take him to Troy (940–41). Neoptolemus gave his right hand as pledge of honesty, but then went on to steal the sacred bow of Heracles, and plans to display his catch to the Argives (942–44),47 using force to take Philoctetes away (945):48 as if he had captured a strong man, Neoptolemus does not realize that he is killing a corpse, the shadow of smoke, a mere phantom (946–47). Philoctetes naturally finds this behavior most inappropriate because of the willingness of Neoptolemus to use deception against a trusting man and force against a forsaken man.49 Given the situation of Philoctetes, this lament is understandable, but the powerless phantom does not proceed to wallow in self-pity. Instead, he points out that Neoptolemus would have never caught him if he had had his full strength. What is more, he would have never been caught even in his debilitated state if Neoptolemus had not used deception (947–48). These are not exaggerated claims – Odysseus had made it clear in the prologue that no one could approach Philoctetes if not by trickery. Still, it is indicative that, even in the depths of his distress and helplessness, immediately following a lament over his present wretchedness, Philoctetes recalls his former strength and advantages over his enemies.50 Nevertheless, despite his confidence in his fighting superiority, in his interaction with

47 The object of the infinitive “to display” (φήνασθαι) at 944 is either the bow or Philoctetes. It makes little difference, since it is clear that Neoptolemus will display both to the army if he does not change his mind in time, but Jebb (18982 ) ad loc. is perhaps right in suggesting that only the bow is the object because the display of Philoctetes is dealt with in the next lines, which amplify 941. 48 Neoptolemus has never mentioned, and will never threaten, force, but Philoctetes speaks with his own position in mind. He will never go to Troy willingly, and the only way for his enemies to make him to is the use of force. Odysseus will make this very clear when he appears. 49 Jebb (18982 ) 153 and Ussher (2001) 143 think that Philoctetes wavers between hatred of Neoptolemus and pity for his lack of understanding. I find it more plausible that Philoctetes stigmatizes the arrogance of the cheat, which completely blinds him and perverts his judgment. 50 He says something very similar in his tirade against Odysseus. He asks why they are taking him away since he has long been dead to them (1029–30), but then he

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Neoptolemus Philoctetes validates different aspects of the heroic code and thus offers the young man a different vision of heroic behavior than that of Odysseus. Philoctetes does not advocate the excellence of endurance versus that of heroic achievement: endurance, even the hardships of disease, cannot count as alien to heroic or noble natures in Greek literature or culture, and, more significantly, they cannot constitute a model for a young warrior in his robust prime to emulate. Philoctetes certainly boosts his noble and admirable credentials by stressing his ability to survive alone and handicapped on a deserted island. Notwithstanding this piece of selfpromotion, his most serious claim to Neoptolemus’ allegiance is mediated through his repeated appeals to the heroic, elite code of reciprocity, which promotes the values of honesty, fairness, generosity, and euergesia, the ability and willingness to do good, especially to fellow-members of the elite. Philoctetes of course also supplicates Neoptolemus (468–72, 484–86), and thus exerts further pressure on the youth to help him, but it is noteworthy that he does not stress Neoptolemus’ obligation toward him as a suppliant. He rather appeals to Neoptolemus’ descent from noble Achilles and the youth’s obligations toward his friend, incurred by Neoptolemus’ ancestry and the code of reciprocity between fellow members of the elite in good standing,51 as well to the oath Neoptolemus allegedly swore. Virtually as soon as Philoctetes supplicates Neoptolemus to take him home, he points out that he is fully aware of the unpleasantness of the task (473–74; cf. 482–83) but Neoptolemus should not avoid it. For noble men, shameful conduct is hateful while right conduct is glorious (475–76). If Neoptolemus forsakes this task, he will acquire a bad reputation, but if he performs it, he will win a major prize of good reputation/glory (477–79).52 This is the alternate vision of glory that

recalls that the gods must care for him too, since otherwise the Greeks would have never sought him out (1037–39). 51 Belfiore (2000) 63–80 argues that the relationship of Philoctetes and Neoptolemus is also based on guest-friendship, another cornerstone of Greek elite ethics. 52 It is certainly not accidental that the attempts of both Odysseus in the prologue and Philoctetes here to persuade Neoptolemus to do something that he is likely to find unpalatable proceed along very similar lines. The two men state their request and readily own up to its unpleasantness. Note their use of the verb ἔξοιδα (79 and 474), an apparent favorite of Sophocles’, denoting full knowledge, based on personal experience or otherwise indisputable evidence. The two senior men then proceed to cajole the youth by stating what he stands to gain from his labors, good reputation/glory.

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Neoptolemus is invited to consider and seek, the willingness to do good to fellow worthy men, disregarding the hardships it involves.

5. Philoctetes’ friends As already indicated, Philoctetes manages to win over Neoptolemus with his narrative not so much because he appeals to noble values as because he backs up his claims with several references to Neoptolemus’ father (874–76, 904–5, 940, 1283–84, 1310–13; cf. 242, 260, 1066–67), who is said to have honored the principles advocated by Philoctetes. Odysseus’ narrative does not lack appeals to noble values and rewards such as loyalty to comrades and a fine reputation but fails to provide the crucial connection with Achilles’ legacy. Philoctetes also invokes his own relationship with Heracles (670, 801–3; cf. 776–78). The noble heroic models of Neoptolemus and Philoctetes, Achilles and Heracles respectively, are thus associated with the formation of the new noble friendship. For Philoctetes, Odysseus and the Atreids do not share the same moral code. This is obvious throughout the play but most explicitly in Philoctetes’ comparisons of Neoptolemus’ nobility with the baseness of Philoctetes’ enemies (872–76, 1310–13). Earlier, the list of unworthy comrades had included Diomedes (416–18) and, a rather unexpected addition, Thersites (438–52).53 Since his enemies have betrayed and cast him out, the only natural reaction for Philoctetes, the adherent of the noble code, is to hate them and be intent on punishing them for the insult and damages he has suffered. This is hardly surprising: most aggrieved heroes, from the Iliadic Achilles down to the Sophoclean Ajax and the Euripidean Medea, display the same attitude.54

53 For Philoctetes’ view of his friends and enemies in the army see the discussion below. 54 Lefèvre (2001) 199–203 follows earlier scholars who suggest that Philoctetes’ attitude is savage and uncivilized, and thus the audience is bound to find it unacceptable. It is true that Philoctetes faces, for a while at least, a serious dilemma because his hatred of his enemies is bound to make him disregard his obligations to his new friend Neoptolemus. If he abandons his hatred, he benefits his enemies, but if he perseveres in it, he harms his friend. Philoctetes manages to obviate this dilemma; see the discussion in the next section. Irrespective of that, it is unlikely that a Greek would automatically castigate one’s refusal to reconcile oneself with bitter enemies, even if this reconciliation would benefit one’s friends.

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What may give one pause is not Philoctetes’ view of his unworthy enemies but of his honorable friends among his old comrades. The crucial event in Philoctetes’ past, which shapes his present reactions and seems likely to thwart the fulfillment of his and Neoptolemus’ fated future, is his abandonment on Lemnos. This was the work of the Atreids and Odysseus, as the latter admits already in the prologue (4–6), and the victim never tires of pointing out throughout the play. Philoctetes apparently also hates the whole army along with his archenemies.55 The decision to bring Neoptolemus along to Lemnos and involve him in the deception was dictated not by Helenus’ prophecy but primarily by the fact that the youth was a new recruit to the army (70–78; cf. 106–7, 1008): he and his men could present themselves to Philoctetes without running the risk of being shot with his invincible arrows before striking up conversation with the outcast.56 Since Odysseus tells Neoptolemus to reveal his identity to Philoctetes (56–57), the major advantage of the young man over the rest of his comrades is that he had not been involved in the abandonment of Philoctetes and can win the trust of the aggrieved man, especially if he pretends that he also has been wronged by Philoctetes’ enemies (58–69). The explanations of Odysseus in the prologue should leave little doubt that he (and virtually any other leader) could pretend that he had been wronged by the generals and was on his way to Greece. Even so, he would still not be able to befriend Philoctetes: the embittered man would shoot him on sight because of the old nasty affair (75–76).57

55 See especially 1200–2, 1216–17. Cf. 944, and Odysseus’ claim that Philoctetes would rather catch him than all the other Greeks together (46–47). Unlike Ajax, Philoctetes may be thought to hate his own men, too. Since there is nothing explicit to that effect in the play, the assumption does not affect its interpretation and is perhaps illegitimate. Philoctetes never accuses or curses his men, but does not ask about, or express any wish to be reunited with, them. No other character mentions them, either. Cf. n. 132 below. 56 From a realistic point of view, it is unlikely that Philoctetes would have known and/or recognized members of the contingent of Achilles, Odysseus, or any other leader of the original expedition. The choice of Neoptolemus’ men eliminates all potential for ambiguity and uncertainty, but has also other important advantages, and was apparently made primarily on those grounds. See the discussion in 8 below. There is no indication that the chorus were Achilles’ veterans, as Ussher (2001) 117 suggests, astonishingly also pointing out (2) that these veterans would not have seen Philoctetes but only heard of him. 57 For Odysseus’ version of the reasons why he cannot approach Philoctetes and for Tyndareus’ oath cf. the discussion with n. 72 below. In Euripides’ Philoctetes

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Philoctetes, then, hates the whole army and can only be approached and tricked by a man who was not part of the original force that sailed to Troy. This hatred notwithstanding, when Neoptolemus mentions his father’s name, Philoctetes calls Achilles “dearest” (242) and, as pointed out above, he considers the champion a paragon of heroic probity. Moreover, he expresses great trust in the integrity of other comrades, both alive (Nestor [421–23]) and dead (Ajax [410–11], Nestor’s son Antilochus [426–27], and Achilles’ friend Patroclus [433–34]). He mourns the loss of so many worthy men, expressing his distress at the apparent delight of the gods in habitually dispatching the good while allowing scoundrels such as Odysseus, Diomedes and Thersites to survive and flourish (446–52). Why does Philoctetes appear not to harbor the slightest grudge against some comrades, although elsewhere he spares no one and curses all of them? The decision to cast him out certainly belonged to the generals and was executed by Odysseus, but why does Philoctetes never accuse any other leaders, especially the worthy, in his view, comrades he asks Neoptolemus about? Why does he not so much as qualify his appreciative statements with any complaint, or even hint, that the noble comrades did not take up his cause or try to help him in any way? Before attempting to answer this question, one should first address the crucial issue of its legitimacy. It is indeed far from self-evident that the question is legitimate. Philoctetes is not only a work of fiction but also a dramatic play. Neither its author nor its audience was obliged or likely to scrutinize every inconsistency and loose end successive generations of spectators and scholars might detect and wish to explain (away). The casting out of Philoctetes is not the subject matter of the play, and his attitude toward comrades other than Odysseus and the Atreids should not necessarily concern modern audiences and scholars. Besides, his esteem for some leaders may be thought to serve the dramatic goal of highlighting the

Athena disguised Odysseus, but Philoctetes still at first wished to shoot him in order to take revenge on him for his abandonment by the army. Aeschylus in his Philoctetes just presented the ailing hero as incapable of recognizing his old foe. For the three tragedians’ handling of the myth of Philoctetes see Dio Chrysostom 52 and 59, Mueller (1997), and Podlecki (2009) 340–43. The inclusion of the character of Neoptolemus in the cast of Sophocles’ play, which opened up a whole range of new dramatic possibilities, also eliminated the need for Odysseus’ disguise. Sophocles made use of a version of the motif of disguise in the character of the false merchant.

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baseness of his enemies and the depth of his animosity against them as well as the acuteness of Neoptolemus’ moral dilemma. And yet . . . Philoctetes has arguably fewer ambiguities and inconsistencies than other plays,58 and those that appear were probably not eliminated on purpose, as will be suggested below. More important, it is difficult to accept that the relationship of the play’s hero to his old comrades, especially to the father of his new friend, is really extraneous to it. The critic who would be willing to make such an assumption may hardly disregard the following indisputable fact. Philoctetes’ view of Neoptolemus and the bond between the two men cannot be dissociated from Philoctetes’ respect for Achilles and his belief that the champion’s young son shares the values of his worthy elders such as his father and Philoctetes himself. It is also on the basis of these shared moral principles that Philoctetes finally manages to persuade Neoptolemus to abandon the expedition. If so, then Philoctetes’ view of his comrades is particularly germane to the play, and its investigation requires a satisfactory answer to the initial question. The only detectable reason for Philoctetes’ respect for, and lack of animosity toward, some leaders is his all-consuming, distorting hatred for those he considers responsible for his plight, the Atreids and Odysseus. The play leaves no doubt as to their responsibility, but also leaves little doubt that they did not cast Philoctetes out without the army’s consent or, much less, in the face of the army’s opposition. Moreover, Philoctetes seems to believe that, had his friends been alive and well, they could have opposed or restrained the shameful conduct of the Atreids in the case of the award of Achilles’ arms. It is not illegitimate to ask why he seems to have never troubled himself with the question concerning their behavior in his own case. How and why did those excellent men, the incomparable Achilles, the great Ajax, the noble Antilochus, the loyal Patroclus, and the wise, cool-headed Nestor, put up with the cruel and duplicitous abandonment of a noble comrade who had suffered an accident?59 Their

58 The content of Helenus’ prophecy, which is most commonly mentioned in this connection, involves no intractable puzzles; see the discussion in 3 above. The last stanza of the stasimon (718–29) has also generated discussion, but is not necessarily ambiguous; see the discussion in 8 with n. 101 below. 59 Philoctetes says that Nestor might have restrained their evil-doings (κείνων κάκ’, 423). Odysseus and Diomedes are the last men mentioned before the question about Nestor (416–20), but it is unlikely that κείνων refers to them. Diomedes had nothing to do with the judgment of arms, and Philoctetes would not have excluded the evil Atreids from the company of evildoers. Be that as it may, Nestor

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association with the ailing Philoctetes would apparently involve no greater hardships than those he will later urge Neoptolemus to bear as a nobleman should, promising him a reward of fine repute.60 More intriguingly, why did Sophocles put the questions about the attitude of Ajax and the others in Philoctetes’ mouth, if he did not wish the audience to wonder about Philoctetes’ view of their behavior ten years earlier? It should be kept firmly in mind that the purpose of the playwright can hardly have been to show that Neoptolemus’ task of deceiving Philoctetes was facilitated by Philoctetes’ serendipitous and natural interest in his friends’ attitude in a sordid recent affair. The deception of Philoctetes, which depends on the establishment of trust between him and Neoptolemus, is complete before he goes on to make the inquiries under discussion. They contribute nothing to the task at hand but do, and are probably intended to, highlight Philoctetes’ view of the role of his comrades in his plight. The inquiries may be thought to serve other functions, too. They fix beyond doubt the mythical background of the play and may also be meant to negate the tradition that Achilles murdered Thersites and was expiated by, and thus associated with, Odysseus, as was mentioned in Aethiopis (PEG 68). Even if these functions are there, they are at best secondary. They could have been served easily and just as well in a different manner, without implicating Philoctetes’ view of his past. If one is willing to believe that Sophocles included a virtual digression of more than forty lines for such trivial purposes, and that he did not detect, or care about, the problem it created, one has to saddle him with dramatic negligence, incompetence, and lack of imagination. I also indicated above that Neoptolemus’ answers may show that he had only a general idea of the events at the Greek camp before his arrival. The information provided by Neoptolemus certainly

is nowhere said to have tried (or at least wished) to restrain the Atreids or Odysseus in connection with Philoctetes’ abandonment, and, if Philoctetes has other occasions in mind, the question why he disregards Nestor’s behavior in his own case naturally suggests itself. 60 Odysseus mentions only the problem with Philoctetes’ inauspicious cries in the prologue (8–11), but it is known from the tradition (PEG 41), and indignantly pointed out by Philoctetes himself (872–76, 1031–33), that the odor of his wound was also a major motive for his abandonment. At 869–76 Philoctetes contrasts Neoptolemus’ noble behavior during his paroxysm with that of the “noble” generals, who cast him out because of the discomfort he caused them. Cf. n. 63 below.

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does not contribute to Philoctetes’ aversion to going to Troy because all the good men are dead and the bad thrive.61 Philoctetes’ decision to return home has been taken long ago and has nothing to do with the identity of the Achaean casualties. If so, then this part of the play is probably designed to suggest that Philoctetes’ idea of his past is not only fixed but also skewed by bias. Some bias is to be taken for granted, and understandable, in a man who has been suffering for so long and in such an extraordinary manner. Philoctetes does not believe, and never considers the possibility, that his disease was a just, or at least expected, punishment for his unwitting transgression and especially that it created a serious ritual problem for his comrades. His implacable hatred of the Atreids and especially Odysseus is a much more complex issue. In Philoctetes the commanding position of the Atreids seems to be more firmly established than in the Homeric epics or Sophocles’ own Ajax, for instance, and thus responsibility for all important decisions would rest with the commanders.62 The existence of a clearly articulated chain of command makes it unlikely that the army, or any individual leader, including, crucially, Odysseus, could have opposed the decision of the Atreids to cast out a comrade in trouble. If the Atreids are all-powerful commanders, whose decisions are final and binding, Philoctetes’ failure to acknowledge this simple fact and direct his hatred against them rather than Odysseus becomes problematic. But Philoctetes’ personal view of the army hierarchy seems to be different. As already suggested, he believes that honorable senior leaders could have intervened and resisted or overturned the decision of the Atreids in the judgment of arms. Besides, the play does not include indisputable references to binding orders delivered by the Atreids to anybody. In a moment of distress, Neoptolemus refers to “those in command” (925) but most likely means primarily Odysseus, who in the prologue tried to

61 Cf. Winnington-Ingram (1980) 340–41, and Roberts (1989) 169–70. 62 In Philoctetes Agamemnon and Menelaus seem to share the leadership on equal terms. They are never differentiated and are always referred to as a pair. At 369 Neoptolemus appears to quote his reply to Agamemnon, but the latter clearly spoke on behalf of his brother too, and Neoptolemus’ accusation is directed against both commanders (369–70). At 1376–77 Philoctetes refers to “the most hateful son of Atreus,” probably, although not certainly, Agamemnon. The deletion of 385–88 does not affect the point, but if the lines are genuine, which I find implausible (cf. n. 121 below), then they strengthen the leading position of the Atreids, at least in the eyes of Neoptolemus.

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represent himself as superior and Neoptolemus as subordinate (15, 53), for obvious reasons. There is no indication that Neoptolemus has received direct orders from the Atreids, but it is quite clear that the entire army entrusted him and Odysseus with the mission (cf. 93–94, 1226, 1243, 1250, 1294, 1404). Odysseus also claims in the prologue that he had cast out Philoctetes on the orders of the commanders (4–6). This is not confirmed by any other character. Since it suits Odysseus’ purpose of winning the trust of Neoptolemus, the claim is doubtful. The doubt is corroborated much later, when Philoctetes claims that the Atreids and Odysseus blame each other for his abandonment (1028)–the questions how the isolated Philoctetes could know that and whether it conflicts with his claim at 257–58 are irrelevant and illegitimate in the context of a Greek dramatic poem. In any case, Philoctetes never indicates that Odysseus was forced to execute the order of the Atreids because of his position in the chain of command, and he never allots greater blame to them, although he does say that Odysseus serves them in the present mission (1024). The point of the suggestion, though, is not to exonerate Odysseus but to show that he eagerly volunteers to collaborate again with his old associates. These corrupt generals conspired with him, a forced recruit, in order to cast out, dishonor and condemn to cruel suffering a noble and eager soldier (1025–28). If, in Philoctetes’ view, the army hierarchy is not rigid, his friends could and should have resisted his abandonment.63 Since they apparently have not

63 Whether the comrades were really forced to abandon Philoctetes primarily on religious grounds, as Odysseus claims (8–11), or primarily because of the intense discomfort his proximity caused, as Philoctetes himself seems to believe (872–76, 1031–33; cf. 473–74, 482–83, 890–92), is never made clear in the play. Cf. n. 60 above. An outright exoneration of the Atreids would diminish the moral stature of Philoctetes, which would probably be an undesirable dramatic choice, but the play raises the possibility that religious considerations may have played at least some role in the decision of the Atreids. In any case, the solution to this problem does not bear on the issue under discussion. Even if Philoctetes actually hindered the performance of religious rites, and the comrades had little choice but to cast him out, he does not believe so and is convinced that the ritual problem was used as a pretext to cover up the outrageous mistreatment of a comrade-in-arms. The issue at hand is not the likelihood that ritual considerations eliminated the expected opposition by the honorable comrades to the abandonment of Philoctetes but the question why, given Philoctetes’ view of the power dynamics of the army, he never considers the possibility that the men he esteems shared responsibility for his plight.

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done so, his respect and appreciation for them become difficult to explain. The unresolved contradiction casts a shadow on Philoctetes’ grievances and undermines his belief that he and his friends possess the moral high ground, at least as far as Odysseus is concerned. This problematizes his offer of an alternative form of glory to Neoptolemus, based on the elite code of noble generosity and reciprocity espoused by blameless men.64 After his rejection of Neoptolemus’ admonition to go to Troy voluntarily, Philoctetes urges the young man to repudiate his association with the villainous Atreids and Odysseus and forsake his Trojan glory (1365–72, 1398–1401). In view of Philoctetes’ reworking of the past, these choices turn out to be less clear than he tries to make them appear to Neoptolemus. Nevertheless, Sophocles does not allow Philoctetes to be in a major argumentative and moral disadvantage.

6. The arms of Achilles: another judgment Paradoxically, and most remarkably, the strengthening of Philoctetes’ position results from an unresolved ambiguity, perhaps the play’s major one. After the return of the bow, Neoptolemus urges Philoctetes to agree to go to Troy and reveals to him Helenus’ prophecy, which predicted great rewards for Philoctetes (1326–47). As already suggested, in view of the full restitution Neoptolemus has offered and his reconciliation with the victim of the deception, Philoctetes’ grudge against his enemies and even his pact with Neoptolemus do not suffice to convince the young man to abandon the expedition and the promise of great glory it involves. Neoptolemus’ latest narrative entails no moral problem for him. Philoctetes cannot continue arguing only from his own past grievances because the prophecy and Neoptolemus’ nobility make his continued refusal to let go of the past problematic. What is more, Philoctetes faces a moral dilemma: he does not want to reconcile himself with his enemies, but his intransigence forces him to

64 The realization of the problems involved would be likely to also undermine Neoptolemus’ conviction about his father’s integrity, but a young man that knows his father primarily through his comrades’ narratives is unlikely to come to such a realization, and can hardly be blamed for this failure, especially in the context of challenging and dramatic developments.

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reject the plea and thus harm the prospects of a friend who has benefited him. Philoctetes manages to find an argument that does not involve himself and frees him from the accusation of ingratitude. To solve his dilemma and persuade Neoptolemus to honor his alleged oath to him and abandon the expedition, Philoctetes needs to argue convincingly to the effect that the glory of conquering Troy is, in essence, a source of shame to the young man. It presupposes an alliance with the unworthy Atreids and Odysseus, which will make Neoptolemus an evil man. Philoctetes can present the Atreids and Odysseus as ignoble enemies of Neoptolemus only if he can argue that their dealings with the youth involve some moral outrage. According to the code espoused by Philoctetes, an honorable man never disregards an insult to his honor, never forgives his enemies, and never has anything to do with unworthy men. The return of the bow has convinced Philoctetes that Neoptolemus espouses the same code. Unsurprisingly for a man so preoccupied with the past, Philoctetes turns to it in order to find an argument apt to persuade Neoptolemus that his adherence to the noble code dictates abandonment of the expedition. He points out that Neoptolemus should never want to go to Troy himself and should also restrain Philoctetes from going (1362–64). “These men have outraged you by robbing you of your father’s prized possession” (1364–65), he says. He means the award of Achilles’ arms to Odysseus, the reason for Neoptolemus’ alleged quarrel with the commanders and abandonment of the expedition in disgust. According to the tradition found in Little Iliad (PEG 68), the arms were delivered to Neoptolemus on his arrival at Troy. Virtually all critics suggest that Philoctetes still believes Neoptolemus’ earlier deceptive story, and that the young man does not attempt to explain the truth, perhaps embarrassed at the extent of his lies, or in order not to alienate Philoctetes further by revealing that the Atreids had never been his enemies. Apart from being based on e silentio assumptions, such suggestions are unconvincing on other grounds too. Philoctetes knows well that Neoptolemus cooperated with the Atreids and Odysseus, and a revelation that the trio behaved decently toward Neoptolemus would weaken his case without necessarily alienating him further. His bond with Neoptolemus stopped being based on common enmity long ago, and further alienation, even if likely, would not change the outcome of the debate. Dramatically, it would even offer a plausible reason for Philoctetes’ continued intransigence. Be that as it may, if the arms were delivered to Neoptolemus, Philoctetes does not have a case and stands little chance of convincing his

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friend through this argument.65 If so, the claims of his enemies to Neoptolemus’ allegiance, or the vision of glory they offer, become much more powerful and alluring to the youth. It is then quite surprising that Neoptolemus calls Philoctetes’ speech “reasonable” (εἰκότ’, 1373) and soon relents to his pressure (1402). He agrees to abandon the expedition and take Philoctetes home, fully realizing that the army is likely to stage a retaliatory attack against Skyros (1405). It is not absolutely clear that Neoptolemus relents because Philoctetes invokes the non-delivery of the paternal arms, and he certainly does not agree to abandon the expedition immediately after Philoctetes reminds him of them. However, the ensuing conversation, which precedes his agreement to take Philoctetes home, revolves around the issue of friendship and one’s appropriate behavior toward friends and enemies (1373–92). Philoctetes wants to make sure that Neoptolemus is his friend and wishes to benefit him rather than the Atreids. Philoctetes’ final admonition is for Neoptolemus to honor his pledge forthwith and not to think again of Troy (1398–1401). This is a reiteration of his previous admonition (1367–72), which hinged on the belief that the abandonment of the expedition is honorable and the alliance with the Atreids and Odysseus, the robbers of Neoptolemus’ paternal prize, disgraceful. Neoptolemus, then, seems to accept Philoctetes’ argument that the Atreids are dishonorable, presumably because they insulted him. If so, the arms were awarded to Odysseus and never delivered to Neoptolemus. This is not self-evident. Apart from the tradition, which is a rather poor guide as to an author’s choices, the failure to deliver the arms is mentioned on two occasions before Philoctetes’ speech, both in the context of Neoptolemus’ deception of Philoctetes. Odysseus instructs Neoptolemus to tell Philoctetes that he has abandoned the expedition because he quarreled with the Atreids and Odysseus himself on account of Achilles’ arms (58–64), and Neoptolemus narrates the story to Philoctetes (359–84). This may imply that the arms were promptly delivered to their rightful owner. Neoptolemus never says that they were not, and does not appear to harbor any grudge against Odysseus or the Atreids. On the other hand, the delivery of the arms to Neoptolemus is not self-evident, either. It is never

65 Philoctetes’ difficulty even after he comes up with the arms argument is suggested by his use of the conative ἀναγκάζεις _ ‘try to compel’ at 1366. Although the enemies are dishonorable, and Neoptolemus should have nothing to do with them, his strong plea is meant to work like compulsion on Philoctetes.

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mentioned in the play, and Neoptolemus narrates his quarrel with the Atreids and Odysseus in a very vivid manner. This may be a sign of Neoptolemus’ natural aptitude for deception, or of his ability to learn very quickly the lessons of evil men (cf. 971–72, 1013–15), but it may also suggest that he reports an actual event, although of course not its real outcome.66 The only certainly fictitious element in the story told to Philoctetes is Neoptolemus’ abandonment of the expedition. Nothing in the play rules out that a dispute or some tension occurred between Neoptolemus and the Atreids but that Odysseus managed to silence the youth, persuade him of the justice of the award decision, or prevail on him to collaborate despite his failure to receive his father’s arms. The uncertainty concerning the delivery of the arms to Neoptolemus is probably intentional on the part of the poet. Since the success of Philoctetes’ case hinges on the insult to Neoptolemus, a declaration that Odysseus and the Atreids had promptly delivered the arms to their rightful owner would have given the claim of Odysseus to the allegiance of Neoptolemus a clear and indisputable advantage over the claim of Philoctetes. The ambiguity eliminates this possibility, and also the likelihood that the audience would view Philoctetes as an intransigent hater, whose ignorance of crucial facts makes his case virtually irrelevant. After the return of the bow and the demonstration of loyalty to his father’s example that it signifies, Neoptolemus unsurprisingly seems to lose the compass provided by (his idea of ) his father’s behavior. Unfortunately for Neoptolemus, the return of the bow is not the end of the story, and the most important decision still remains to be made. Since Philoctetes refuses to go to Troy and insists that the youth should take him home instead,

66 Budelmann (2000) 100–6 discusses Neoptolemus’ deceptive speech and his answers to Philoctetes’ questions, comparing them with Odysseus’ utterances in the prologue and the speech of the false merchant. He reaches the conclusion that Neoptolemus is a much smoother performer because he speaks about himself. Odysseus, though, does too, and it is much more plausible to suggest that Neoptolemus’ ease is due to the fact that he narrates a part of his own true story. Pucci (2003) 200–1, who believes that the arms were delivered to Neoptolemus, points out that, in contrast to the possibly true elements in the tale, the false story has the syntactical and rhetorical markers of sincerity, the use of direct discourse and historical present. But the use of these markers could certainly indicate that the story was actually sincere. The vividness they confer may be due to the greater emotional tension caused by the recollection of the quarrel than, for instance, by the narration of the envoys’ visit to Skyros.

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Neoptolemus needs to decide whether to abandon him on Lemnos and return to Troy without him or abandon the expedition and return to Greece with him. Both alternatives entail grievous consequences for him, and an example from the past would certainly be most welcome in guiding him out of his dilemma. Without such guidance, Neoptolemus wavers and cannot easily make a decision to follow either course. The absence of this all-important guiding principle is not unexpected. As argued earlier, the play leaves open the possibility that Neoptolemus may not know, among other things, that Achilles faced a difficult situation similar to the present predicament of his son and how he handled it. The much-needed help, in the form of the decisive argument based on the past, is provided by Philoctetes, who urges the youth to abandon the expedition and have nothing more to do with the Atreids and Odysseus because these men robbed him of his father’s arms. Philoctetes cannot argue from Achilles’ Trojan career because he knows nothing of it, since Neoptolemus (and, presumably, earlier visitors to the island) knew and/or told him nothing of it. The crucial argument that seems to sway Neoptolemus involves his past and is directly related to his father’s inheritance.67 The oath that Neoptolemus supposedly swore to Philoctetes is also rhetorically important, but its invocation is a dubious argument and apparently not enough to convince Neoptolemus by itself. When the young man seems to be on the verge of abandoning Philoctetes (1393–96), the latter urges him again to honor his pledge and take him home but also not to think of Troy again (1398–1401). I argued above how this relates to Philoctetes’ earlier admonition: if Neoptolemus returns to Troy, he will be an ally of evil men who dishonor the worthy for their selfish purposes. What is more, he will betray his father’s noble legacy through perceived assimilation to dishonorable men and the acquisition of a terrible reputation. Repudiation of the association with the Atreids and

67 As indicated above, this also absolves Philoctetes of his obligation to listen to the advice of his benefactor Neoptolemus, who urges him to go to Troy. In Philoctetes’ view, Neoptolemus is wrong to cooperate with men who insulted him, and so Philoctetes has no obligation to support him in this folly. Instead, he feels justified in dissuading Neoptolemus from following this dishonorable course of action by urging him to sever all ties with unworthy scoundrels. The association with the paternal legacy is corroborated by the reference to the father who will owe double gratitude to Neoptolemus for his help to Philoctetes (1371). The speaker may refer to his own father, Poeas, or to his addressee’s father, Achilles. The ambiguity is possibly intentional and serves to reinforce Philoctetes’ argument.

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abandonment of the expedition will be rewarded with gratitude and an alliance with a noble man and his family, and the glory it brings (1368–72; cf. 475–79).68 It is hardly surprising that Neoptolemus yields to this powerful argument. Given his youth, his eagerness to win glory, and his reverence for what he believes to be his father’s moral example, it is rather noteworthy that it takes him so long to decide to comply with Philoctetes’ wish. The delay is apparently due to the strong pull exerted by the promise of martial kleos, which Helenus’ prophecy carries, and Odysseus advances forcefully in the prologue. At the end of the play, before Heracles’ appearance, this promise and Odysseus’ case finally turn out to be deficient. What gives Philoctetes the crucial advantage over Odysseus is his insistence on Neoptolemus’ bond with his father and the suggestion of a compelling, although not necessarily the only, or the truest to Achilles’ past, way of honoring it. For his part, Odysseus fails to stress the fact that Neoptolemus cannot be a second Achilles unless he follows his instructions. In the prologue, Odysseus points out that the capture of Troy requires the cooperation of Philoctetes and that this can only be brought about through deceit. There is no mention of Achilles, though, and his career at Troy, only a brief mention of Odysseus’ role in the casting out of Philoctetes (4–7),69 and a claim that, when he was young, Odysseus himself was like Neoptolemus (96–97). Moreover, when the youth changes his mind and disobeys the instructions, Odysseus resorts to threats and abuse, again conspicuously failing to

68 Note also that, after Neoptolemus has decided to take Philoctetes to Malis, he expresses concern that the army will consider him a traitor (1404) and likely attack Skyros to punish him for his desertion (1405). Philoctetes reassures him that he will be at hand to thwart the attack with the “arrows of Heracles” (1406). The choice of phrase is certainly not gratuitous. Philoctetes had earlier stressed the reciprocity that bound him to Heracles and now binds him to Neoptolemus (662–70; cf. 799–803). He promises to return the favor Neoptolemus is doing him with the invincible weapon he received in gratitude for a favor he had done. The weapon is a token of the reciprocity that extends in time and binds heroes to mortals. The promise also implies that Heracles and the gods will be on the side of the noble friends, who plan their defense against the attack of unworthy enemies. Heracles’ immediate epiphany (1409ff.) will demolish this unwarranted belief. For the hero’s appearance and his references to the past see the next section. For the attitude of Philoctetes and Neoptolemus toward Helenus’ prophecy in connection with their decision to return to Greece see n. 70 below. 69 For Odysseus’ failure to attempt to justify the abandonment, or at least his role in it, see the discussion below.

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mention Achilles or to indicate how the son betrays his father’s legacy by cooperating with Philoctetes. Odysseus’ references and addresses to the youth are indicative of his handling of the legacy of Achilles. After the first honorific address in the prologue (3–4), Odysseus addresses the young man again as “Achilles’ son” (50) at the beginning of the speech in which he reveals his plan, presumably putting the youth before his new responsibilities. When Neoptolemus voices his aversion to the plan (86–95), Odysseus calls him “son of a noble father” (96), acknowledging his claims to his father’s noble legacy before he tries to answer his objections (cf. 79–80). At 1237, the address “Achilles’ son” seems to have a reprobatory tone, and at 1298 the reference to “the son of Achilles” is dismissively defiant – “I will take you to Troy by force, whether the [prissy] son of Achilles likes it or not.” The moral scruples of the son of Achilles have by now become irrelevant to Odysseus, who tries to assert his power over Philoctetes. He is of course in a desperate situation, blustering, frustrated, and powerless: Neoptolemus has returned the bow to Philoctetes (1291–92), and the latter aims his arrow at him (1299); he flees and does not reappear in the play. Crucially, Odysseus makes no attempt to coax Neoptolemus back into cooperation by reminding him of his father’s example. Already much earlier, when Neoptolemus was debating whether to return the bow or not, Odysseus entered suddenly and addressed him as “most evil of men” (974). This points to an abrupt and radical change in the relationship between the two men. The choice of word is not accidental, either, as it probably echoes Philoctetes’ judgment of Neoptolemus two lines above: “You are not an evil man, but you seem to have arrived after learning shameful lessons from evil men” (971–72).

In contrast to Odysseus, Philoctetes constantly hammers home Neoptolemus’ similarities to, or differences from, Achilles. Ultimately, Odysseus does not fail because he asks Neoptolemus to behave in a way unbecoming the son of Achilles but because he fails to construct a narrative that would present this behavior as becoming the son of Achilles. The prophecy is not enough to secure Neoptolemus’ loyalty, and Odysseus never invokes it anyway.70 Philoctetes interprets its promise as

70 Odysseus refers once to the will of Zeus in his confrontation with Philoctetes (989–90) but never tells Neoptolemus that his disobedience may well offend the gods. As indicated above (nn. 16 and 36), neither Philoctetes nor Neoptolemus expresses any concern that their departure for Greece may be offensive to and/or

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tainted, since its fulfillment requires that he and Neoptolemus cooperate with debased men. Shame and moral compromises cannot procure glory. It is much preferable for the youth to seek the glamour of an alliance with noble men, as Achilles would do and Neoptolemus’ inherited nobility dictates. Even if his father’s arms have been delivered to Neoptolemus, this act of justice is now not sufficient to cover the moral deficit that has become apparent in his interaction with Odysseus and Philoctetes on Lemnos. Despite its divine credentials, the promise of martial kleos offered by Odysseus and his comrades is undermined by the outrageous abuse these very same men inflicted on Philoctetes. If the Atreids and Odysseus gave Neoptolemus his father’s arms, they cannot undo the damage done to Philoctetes, or take back their shameful behavior toward a noble erstwhile comrade. “See if those who cast you out will not now save you” (1391), says Neoptolemus. “Never,” replies Philoctetes, “if I must first see Troy of my own free will” (1392). The exchange reaches an impasse: one cannot cooperate with the enemies, even if it is for one’s own benefit and indeed deliverance from a terrible ailment and cruel isolation. Just before this point, there had appeared a glimmer of hope that Philoctetes would be persuaded, very reluctantly, to go to Troy. The youth had urged him to learn not to be arrogant in his misfortunes (1387), and Philoctetes replied that Neoptolemus would be his ruin with these words (1388), apparently because they would make him go to Troy. Neoptolemus of course denies any ruining potential and he suggests that Philoctetes does not understand (1389), presumably that he should go to Troy because his (former) enemies will now save him. This reference to deficient understanding ruins his case. Philoctetes knows what the Atreids did to him in the past (1390) and has already indicated his conviction that they would behave in a similar manner in the future (1358–61). The Atreids remain and will remain evil because of what they did, and are thus bound to do again, to Philoctetes, and possibly also to Neoptolemus. The understanding of the past provides the only secure

opposed by the gods. Their only desire is to be true to their nature by upholding commitments shaped by their past. Philoctetes wishes to persevere in his hatred for his enemies and harm them if he can; Neoptolemus comes (or is coaxed) to believe that he can only win distinction and follow in his father’s footsteps if he eschews all association with worthless men. The prophecy or divine will is never even mentioned in their discussion of their future in Greece.

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window to the future: in the view of Philoctetes, and eventually of Neoptolemus, this is an insight superior even to prophecy. Philoctetes’ mode of thinking and arguing is guaranteed to appeal to a young man who yearns to shape his future on the model of the past, as represented in a vague idea of the father he never met and only saw dead, and the narratives of those who knew his hero. On Lemnos, he meets such an old comrade of his father, a noble man who claims to share Achilles’ values and, because of his past woes, to have a most firm notion of whom one should trust and how one should go about winning a glorious reputation. The other comrade of Neoptolemus’ father present on Lemnos is the representative of the army, the executioner of Zeus’ will, and the proponent of another kind of glory, also espoused and won by Achilles. Despite these advantages, Odysseus fails most conspicuously to offer a compelling narrative of the past, in connection not only with Achilles but also with the abandonment of Philoctetes, which is repeatedly elaborated on by the victim himself. Odysseus deals with the old affair twice, once very early on in the play and then in his reply to Philoctetes’ accusations. On the first occasion, he claims that he followed the orders of the rulers and left Philoctetes on the shore of Lemnos because his cries of pain would not allow the army to pour libations and offer sacrifices (1–11). He cuts the narrative short with a break-off formula worthy of the Pindaric narrator (11–12),71 by pointing out that there is no need for many words but for concentration on the stratagem to capture Philoctetes (13–14). A little later on, he lists the reasons why, unlike Neoptolemus, he cannot approach Philoctetes without raising mistrust or running any risk: “You have sailed under no oath or constraint and you have not been part of the original expedition. I cannot deny any of these things” (70–74). What is the point of bringing up Tyndareus’ oath and Odysseus’ own attempt to avoid recruitment by feigning madness (cf. 1025–26)? Would Philoctetes distrust and shoot Odysseus because he was one of Helen’s suitors and had to take the oath,72 or because he feigned madness to avoid

71 Apart from indicating Odysseus’ narrative skills and his suitability as leader of the mission, the use of the formula ironically calls attention to the suppressed part of the narrative. 72 Webster (1970) and Kamerbeek (1980) on 72 suggest that Odysseus’ oath would make his abandonment of the expedition implausible, but the play leaves no doubt that Philoctetes would kill Odysseus on sight. Cf. the discussion with n. 57 above. It is unlikely that the aggrieved comrade would hear his archenemy out and reflect on the implausibility of his story. Besides, the oath did not necessarily bind

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joining the expedition? As already pointed out, the advantage that Neoptolemus has is implied in the last reason: he was not part of the original expeditionary force, had no part in Philoctetes’ abandonment, and is unknown to the victim (cf. 1008). Instead of providing a convincing narrative of his role in the casting out of Philoctetes, Odysseus brings in other events from the past, perhaps in order to divert Neoptolemus’ attention from the controversial affair.73 When Odysseus reveals himself to Philoctetes, one may plausibly expect an angry debate between the two former comrades and current lethal enemies, who have finally come face to face to deal with the terrible event that took place ten long years ago. Odysseus, though, says absolutely nothing to defend himself, claiming that he would provide a lengthy reply if he had leisure (1047–48). He only points out the obvious, declaring that it is his nature to always seek victory and to shape his morality according to the circumstances (1049–53). He breathes no word about the past, his reluctance to participate in the expedition, his subsequent cooperation with the Atreids, the supposed need and the army’s consensus to abandon Philoctetes, or whether he or the Atreids carried the chief responsibility for the abandonment. Instead, Odysseus comes up with the idea to abandon Philoctetes again, this time to starve, and to use the bow to usurp the honor that would rightfully be his (1054–62). It is then hardly surprising that Neoptolemus soon decides that he wants to have nothing to do with men such as Odysseus. Faced with brazen indifference in justifying past wrongs and ruthless willingness to commit similar and worse outrages in the future, he eventually yields to Philoctetes’ argument that “when a man’s mind becomes the mother of evil, there is no end to evil” (1360–61).74 The delivery of

the erstwhile suitors not to abandon the expedition under any circumstances: it only certainly obliged them to join the expedition. Neither Ajax nor any other character in Sophocles’ Ajax, for instance, suggests that the aggrieved hero cannot abandon the expedition because of his oath. 73 The reference to constraint, and possibly to the oath, may also be thought to betray some repressed discomfort over an unflattering part of his history. After all, in both cases Odysseus was outwitted by others and forced to act according to their wishes. Philoctetes will later insult Odysseus as a forced and outwitted recruit (1025–26). 74 The text of the main clause of this gnome may be corrupt, but there is no doubt about the sense. For the emendations proposed see Lloyd-Jones and Wilson (1997) 112–13.

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Achilles’ arms to Neoptolemus, even if it took place without incident, is simply not enough to carry the day.

7. Heracles: a divine model from the past Throughout the play, and most poignantly after Neoptolemus’ decision to return Philoctetes’ bow, Odysseus fails to argue convincingly, that is for all intents and purposes to argue from the past, in order to secure the future he covets. By contrast, Philoctetes succeeds impressively in persuading Neoptolemus to abandon the expedition and take him home: although his view of the past is skewed, the power of his emotional and rhetorical appeals to it does not suffer as a consequence. Unexpectedly, in view of the turn the play has taken because of these differences, Heracles appears ex machina to inform the mortals of Zeus’ will (1409–44), which Odysseus had earlier announced and claimed to serve (989–90). The deified hero thereby stops Philoctetes and Neoptolemus from sailing to Greece and sends them to fulfill their destiny in Troy instead. This is famously the only such appearance in extant Sophoclean work and has been associated with the practice of late Euripides, especially Apollo’s appearance in Orestes (1625ff.). The mortal characters have reached a decision that violates a prophecy but stems from their perception of justice. The immortalized Heracles appears in order to redirect the action toward a goal prescribed by tradition and enforced by indifferent, amoral gods.75 There has naturally been opposition to this view of the honorable socalled first ending of the play and of the ambivalent epiphany, with several critics pointing out the dramatic advantages the latter offers.76 To be sure, there can be little doubt that Sophocles could have ended the play with no divine intervention, but the epiphany authoritatively justifies Odysseus’ goal,77 although not necessarily his methods. It also

75 See e.g. Linforth (1956) 150–1, Waldock (1966) 206, Craik (1979) 19, 21, and Ringer (1998) 121–24. 76 For the function of Heracles’ appearance see Parker (1999) 22–23 and Pucci (2003) 320–22, who discuss previous important contributions to the interpretation of the scene. Cf. Tessitore (2003) 85–88. 77 The beginning of the speech of Heracles to Philoctetes (1418–22) has some similarities with the great hero’s speech to Odysseus in Odyssey (11.617–26). This would ironically bring Odysseus and Philoctetes closer together, especially with a view to Odysseus’ future misfortunes and glory. The two speeches, though,

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indicates, if not that everything happens according to the will of the gods, at least that the gods care for justice and recompense, meting out honors to the worthy, as long as these observe piety. Nevertheless, it seems quite improbable that Sophocles’ primary motive for finishing the play with the epiphany was a wish to highlight these rather trivial conclusions, which could certainly have been inferred from the prophecy. Besides, as is fairly common for tragic divinities, Heracles does not offer a general theodicy or extensive information, and, most irritatingly to modern critics, no clue to the divine background of Philoctetes’ abandonment. The hero appears as Philoctetes’ mentor, offering knowledgeable advice. The only completely new piece of information he brings is the rather inconsequential prediction that Philoctetes will kill Paris (1426–27).78 The advantage of Heracles and his predictions over Helenus and his prophecy appears to present an interpretive problem. Only a close reading of Heracles’ speech is likely to offer hints toward its possible solution. Unlike most Euripidean dei ex machina, Heracles focuses on predictions rather than the delivery of orders.79 After his self-identification

differ significantly. The Homeric Heracles stresses the toils he and Odysseus had to suffer. He does not mention glory or rewards, although these are listed by the narrator Odysseus in the introduction to the speech he quotes (11.601–4). In a manner that prefigures the Euripidean Heracles (cf. Her. 1263–78), the Homeric hero complains that, although he was the son of Zeus, he had to submit to the will of a much inferior man, who ordered him to perform all kinds of grievous labors (11.620–26). The Sophoclean Heracles focuses exclusively on the glory and rewards that crown a laborious life. He does not mention lesser mortals who impose their will on better men, although Philoctetes would presumably share such a point. Erbse (1966) 200 thinks that this is the analogy Heracles actually draws. 78 Philoctetes also learns that his father is alive (1430), but Neoptolemus, Odysseus, or even the chorus could have informed him of Poeas’ fate. Philoctetes is also instructed to make offerings to Heracles’ pyre (1431–33), but the mortal could have undoubtedly thought of making the offerings himself: he welcomes the epiphany (1445–46), and the offerings would perpetuate the noble reciprocity between him and Heracles already established in the past and highly valued by him. For the reciprocity between mortals and immortals cf. n. 85 below. 79 Of Euripidean epiphanies, Thetis’ speech to Peleus at the end of Andromache (1231–72) is closest to Heracles’ speech in Philoctetes. The epiphany of the Dioscuri in Electra (1238ff.) and their address to their sister in Helen (1663–75) are also similar. This is not surprising, because the divinities in these plays have a close relationship to the mortal addressees. Dionysus’ speech in Bacchae (1330–43) is fragmentary. He is also a relative of his addressees but he has punished them for their impiety. For Heracles’ relation to Philoctetes see the discussion below.

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(1411–12) and the initial admonition to Philoctetes to listen to his words (1417), Heracles uses a single imperative form (1433) to instruct Philoctetes to make offerings to him when he returns home in health and glory.80 Before he predicts the future of Philoctetes and, more succinctly, of Neoptolemus, Heracles strikes a personal note. “I will tell you first of my fortunes” (1418), he tells Philoctetes. The first part of his speech is taken up by a comparison between his own toils and the immortal excellence he has come to enjoy because of them with Philoctetes’ sufferings and the glory he is destined to win at Troy (1419–22). This invocation of similar experience and the tone of persuasion rather than command adopted virtually throughout the speech are uncommon in epiphanies and likely meant to be viewed as significant. Heracles’ reference to his past and present turns out to be the main addition that the speech makes to the arguments already, repeatedly but unsuccessfully, pressed on Philoctetes by the other characters. The tone of Heracles hinges on his self-presentation as an example for Philoctetes and is thus subordinate to it. Why does Philoctetes listen to Heracles? It has been suggested that Heracles appears as a friend whose divine status enhances his authority. He had no connection with the abandonment of Philoctetes and nothing to gain from Philoctetes’ going to Troy. Philoctetes, then, has no reason to distrust a friend who appears only in order to do him a favor. Heracles’ appearance also guarantees the altruism of Neoptolemus’ decision to return the bow.81 It is undeniable that Heracles is benevolently disposed toward Philoctetes and that the latter values supremely his relationship to the hero. But Neoptolemus, although a mere mortal, is now a similar kind of friend, who also had no involvement in Philoctetes’ misfortune – that was the main reason why Odysseus chose him as a comrade in the mission to Lemnos. There is also no indication that Philoctetes suspects him of having ulterior motives. The return of the bow expunges all rancor he harbored against Neoptolemus, whom he now views as a true son of Achilles and beyond all moral reproach. At the beginning of his reply to the young man’s speech after the return of the bow, he exclaims: “Cruel life, why do you still keep me alive and have not let me go to Hades? Alas, what shall I

80 He uses one more imperative in his final admonition to Philoctetes and Neoptolemus to show piety when they capture Troy (1440), and perhaps another one when he mentions their friendly interdependence (1437). 81 See Blundell (1989) 220–25, and Rabel (1997) 300–1, with previous bibliography.

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do? How can I disregard the words of this man, who has admonished me benevolently?” (1348–51). It is also inaccurate that Heracles has nothing to gain from a second capture of Troy. Beside the fact that it is fated and Heracles appears as an emissary of his father’s will, the capture of Troy with his bow enhances his glory. Moreover, Heracles orders Philoctetes to make offerings of the war spoils to him. This of course perpetuates the reciprocity between the two but also shows clearly that Heracles expects, and indeed demands, a favor in return for his benevolent persuasion of Philoctetes. The divinity of Heracles is certainly important but as part of the example rather than as a means of persuasion. Helenus is a seer and, as already suggested, Philoctetes never expresses doubts about the existence and truth of the prophecy or Helenus’ mantic authority. Nevertheless, the invocations of his prophecy fail to persuade Philoctetes to go to Troy, but he refuses solely because his participation in the expedition will benefit his (and, in his view, Neoptolemus’) base enemies. It is probably not accidental that Heracles says nothing about this obstacle that has thwarted all previous attempts at persuasion, and succeeds effortlessly. Why does he? The only plausible answer is that, in contrast to the other characters, and in addition to his being Philoctetes’ revered friend from the past, Heracles makes Philoctetes an offer he cannot refuse. He offers an example from the (honorable) past, which is clearly all-important to Philoctetes,82 and guarantees the (glorious) future. As argued above, Odysseus fails to refer to the past, and Neoptolemus, not to mention the chorus, is less suitable for the role of the advocate of the past. The audience need to wait for Heracles’ appearance to hear an explicit declaration to the effect that Heracles is not only Philoctetes’ friend but also a role model.83 Crucially, the fact that Troy is fated to be captured again by his

82 Heracles’ speech is designated as mythoi (1410, 1417, 1447), an authoritative discourse, which may be meant to contrast with the logoi used by the other characters. See Rabel (1997) and Hawthorne (2006), who quote the discussion of mythos in Martin (1989), esp. 1–42. The emphasis on the past is crucial, but it is not true that no other character, primarily Odysseus, could have made such an appeal. Cf. next n. 83 During the paroxysm of the disease Philoctetes urges Neoptolemus, who is holding the bow, to burn him with the Lemnian fire, as Philoctetes himself had kindled the pyre of Heracles in exchange for the bow (799–803). Earlier, he had eagerly consented to allow Neoptolemus to hold the bow as a reciprocal favor for the youth’s noble kindness, pointing out that he himself had acquired the bow by

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bow is brought up only by Heracles at the end of his speech (1439–40), before the final admonition to Philoctetes and Neoptolemus (1440–44). The reports of Helenus’ prophecy did not include this association between the first and the imminent second capture of Troy, but it would not be impossible for the mortal characters to make the connection themselves, even if they could not be sure that it was actually fated for Troy to fall again by the hero’s arrows. Throughout the play, Odysseus and Neoptolemus refer to the bow and arrows as belonging to Philoctetes rather than Heracles. Neoptolemus mentions “the invincible arrows of the gods” in his exchange with the chorus in the parodos (198) but without further specification. Heracles’ earlier ownership of the bow is mentioned first by Philoctetes as he introduces himself to Neoptolemus (262). Philoctetes also laments that Neoptolemus stole the bow of Heracles (942–43) and assures Neoptolemus that he will defend his city with Heracles’ arrows (1406–7). The only reference to Heracles’ apotheosis on Oeta is made by the chorus at the end of their only stasimon in the play (727–29), before the revelation of the plot to Philoctetes, and thus in a context that has no connection with the attempts to persuade him to go to Troy.84

An argument to the effect that, by capturing Troy, Philoctetes would follow in the footsteps of his heroic mentor could easily have been brought forth. Similarly, Odysseus, or even Neoptolemus, could have argued that Heracles wished for Troy to be captured again by his bow and Philoctetes should not frustrate the hero’s desire. It does not seem very likely that such arguments would have worked, but they would have been plausible and would have forced Philoctetes to confront his obligation to Heracles. Absolutely nothing of the sort is mentioned, and Sophocles probably meant for the omission to be significant. In addition to his other advantages, Heracles is thus given the rhetorical resources necessary to convince Philoctetes. It is also noteworthy that, apart from his emphasis on kleos and spoils, Heracles stresses that Zeus values piety above all other mortal virtues and that piety is imperishable in

doing a kindness (662–70). The focus of these utterances is on the similarity between Philoctetes and Neoptolemus, but the bond between Heracles and Philoctetes is obvious and could have been stressed by Neoptolemus and/or Odysseus in order to persuade Philoctetes to sail to Troy. 84 For the end of the stasimon see the discussion in 8 with n. 101 below.

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life and death (1442–44). He thus promises an additional reward, which is worthier than glory. Supremely valued by the supreme god himself, it transcends, as it were, the world of archaic kleos and elite reciprocity that has dominated the play so far85 but is couched in the language of immortality familiar from the heroic past. In this light, Heracles, the immortalized supreme hero of old and the son of Zeus, becomes the most suitable agent for mediating the end of the play. Heracles’ virtues and advantages make him a pivotal character. Primarily, he functions as a role model for Philoctetes hailing from an “innocent” past, when the acquisition of the bow, the event that largely defined Philoctetes’ self-worth and status in society, took place.86 On the other hand, Heracles’ assets easily mask the quite puzzling nature of his review of the past. Despite the rhetorical importance of this review, which I outlined above, it is remarkable, and apt to give one pause, that its sum total is a mere five lines (1418–22). The promise of future glory to Philoctetes also includes the parenthetical phrase “know for certain” (σάφ’ ἴσθι, 1421), which had been used by Odysseus repeatedly in his exchanges with Philoctetes (977, 980, 1296).87 This may or may not be significant, but there can be little doubt that Heracles’ view of the past is at best perfunctory and at worst obfuscating. What, precisely, are the similarities between Heracles’ labors and Philoctetes’ stay on Lemnos? Commentators correctly point

85 According to Greek belief, the relationship of mortals and gods too is reciprocal, although the deep asymmetry between the parties inevitably makes it very different from reciprocal relationships between mortals; see Parker (1998), esp. 113–14. 86 When Neoptolemus falsely claims that he does not know Philoctetes’ name or the story of his plight (250, 253), Philoctetes laments the oblivion he has sunk in through divine hostility and by the agency of his hated enemies (254–59). He proceeds to identify himself as “he whom you may have heard of as master of Heracles’ weapon, the son of Poeas, Philoctetes” (261–63). His regret over his alleged disappearance from Greek discourse notwithstanding, Philoctetes still cannot bring himself to imagine (or to believe) that the young visitor would not know the story of his favor to Heracles and his glorious mastery of the divine bow. (Cf. Neoptolemus’ courteous acknowledgment of, or nod to, Philoctetes’ self-perception at 575 and 654.) Philoctetes’ capacity as proprietor of the bow takes precedence over his father’s and his personal name, presumably as token of his worth and his pride in it. This is the first time that Heracles’ name and his relationship to Philoctetes (and the bow) are mentioned in the play. 87 The phrase is first used by Neoptolemus at 122 in his response to Odysseus’ inquiry whether he remembers his instructions on how to deceive Philoctetes. Odysseus uses the mannerism when he owns up to his tricks.

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out that the word πόνοι (1419, 1422) is chosen because of its semantic breadth, which covers both ‘labors’ and ‘sufferings,’ but one cannot, and should not, gloss over the fact that it is a choice that highlights similarities and obscures differences. According to the common version of his myth, which is not modified in the play and should thus be assumed to stand, Heracles was forced to perform the labors by no fault of his own but because of Hera’s hostility.88 Besides, his labors did great service to mankind. Philoctetes’ sufferings and even the capture of Troy certainly cannot compare with Heracles’ labors. Philoctetes offended Chryse, and she sickened him. Will he be rewarded with glory for the suffering he had to endure as punishment for an unwitting offense to a divinity? If his misfortunes were the result of immortal and/or mortal envy, which the gods will now compensate him for, why does Heracles not draw this parallel between Philoctetes’ sufferings and his own labors in a part of the speech especially design(at)ed for such a purpose, or does not associate the Atreids with Eurystheus?89 And, a question usually not addressed in discussions of the play, can Paris seriously be considered (the only one) “responsible for these evils” (ὃς τῶνδ’ αἴτιος κακῶν ἔφυ, 1426)? What, precisely, are the evils referred to? They can hardly be the war and qualified by the demonstrative pronoun. Even if Heracles means the war, Paris’ sole responsibility for it is far from self-evident. The evils are more likely to be Philoctetes’ sufferings, but the casual attribution of responsibility for them to Paris, without any explanation or elaboration, is uncomfortably reminiscent of the mode of argumentation used by the disreputable Helen in Euripides’ Troades (919–22, 940–44), for instance. Paris is casually presented as the consummate villain, the archenemy, the source of evils, destined to be punished with death: Philoctetes, the soon-to-be-cured glorious champion, will exterminate him with “radical surgery,” as it were, proving to be the best of the army. Philoctetes’ former enemies, the Atreids and Odysseus, are not mentioned at all, and

88 Heracles’ career included outrages such as the murder of Iphitus, or the sack of Oechalia and the rape of Iole, which brought about the atrocious suffering before his death. His impiety is irrelevant in Philoctetes, and Heracles himself mentions only his labors, not the agony of his last moments. He certainly was not rewarded with immortality because of his outrages. 89 Cf. n. 77 above.

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they are included by implication in the army that will reward the champion with spoils for the killing of Paris and the capture of Troy. Throughout the play, the three mortal principals are shown to be virtually incapable of constructing and presenting an adequate narrative of the past. Philoctetes has a hardened view of his enemies and lacks a considered view of his supposed friends. These distorted views make him unwilling or unable to take the prophecy seriously, and quite willing to manipulate Neoptolemus for his ends. Odysseus displays an astonishing failure to offer any narrative of the past that might answer Philoctetes’ accusations, although his purpose is also to use Neoptolemus to achieve his end. Neoptolemus has a vague idea of his father’s legacy and how he should be true to it, as well as possibly deficient knowledge of crucial past events. The audience’s difficulty in (re)constructing and assessing the characters’ past and their view of it is compounded by the multiplicity of deceptive narratives in the play, which meld truth and lies in a fine, inextricable web.90 The absence of an authoritative, verbatim quoted version of Helenus’ prophecy enhances the uncertainty concerning the characters’ access to, and understanding of, the divine will, as well as their ability to interpret it consistently and act accordingly. The characters have even seemed ready to bend the demands of piety to their own desires and obsessions. On the other hand, the gods have been criticized by Philoctetes for their apparent favoritism toward unworthy men (446–52), and their role in his casting out is never illuminated in the play. Such gray areas may be detected in most tragic plays and most of Greek serious literature. It is thus unlikely that the audience of Philoctetes would have any truly compelling reason for doubting the existence of a determining divine will or even of divine justice, and for finding the socalled first ending of the play particularly honorable. Philoctetes became an invalid and a nuisance, although not necessarily an unbearable one, because he offended Chryse. Achilles died because he was fated to do so, and he gained imperishable glory in return. The suicide of Ajax is not mentioned in the play, but neither the tradition nor Sophocles’ Ajax indicates that the gods cruelly killed an innocent hero: Ajax became mad because he could not cope with the loss of a coveted prize or was punished for offending Athena. The unworthy Thersites may be dead. The valiant,

90 Almost two thirds of the play go by before Neoptolemus declares that he will reveal the whole truth to Philoctetes (915).

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long-suffering Heracles has become immortalized, and the noble Philoctetes won the divine bow in exchange for his help to the dying hero. Philoctetes and Neoptolemus are now destined to win great glory from their capture of Troy. Heracles appears to seal and clarify their bond and to send them on their fated way by ascertaining the will of his father Zeus. Despite the failings, ambiguities, uncertainties, prevarications, shifts of allegiance, and changes of plan, which have marked the behavior of the mortal characters throughout, everything seems to fall into place with the epiphany. The future seems to be full of deserved rewards and glory. Nevertheless, although Heracles erases his mortal addressees’ view of an honorable future, he paradoxically reproduces, and thus in a way validates, their skewed view of the past by breezily drawing dubious connections and casually assigning blame for evils past. At the moment of long-awaited illumination and hoped-for attainment of cathartic certainty, the audience are thrown back into doubts and confusion concerning the past, and now by a divine character, a son and spokesman of Zeus himself. As suggested above, divine epiphanies in tragedy almost never include detailed explanations or a serious theodicy. Loose ends are as common as predictions and aitia, and closely related to them. The past features much less prominently than the future, and references to it are much less detailed. Heracles’ epiphany is thus not unusual in most respects and seems unlikely to be meant to generate criticism of the divine, at least not more severe than may have been prompted already. Heracles’ narrative of the connection between his and Philoctetes’ past may be viewed as a benevolent choice, made in order to persuade the recalcitrant hero instead of forcing him by other means to submit to the divine will. Still, one cannot disregard the crucial and doubly unsettling similarity between the mortal characters and their divine mentor. Not only do mortals and gods take a perfunctory and utilitarian view of the cardinal factor of the past but mortals also seem to have little chance of gaining adequate insight into it, even when face to face with a god and listening to his instructions. Like Philoctetes’ appeal to Neoptolemus’ past, Heracles’ epiphany responds to Philoctetes’ need for guidance,91 and to his attachment to the past, or at least to a view of it that corresponds to his self-conception and ambitions determined by it. It is then unsurprising that Philoctetes

91 Note the address to Heracles in his reply to the hero’s speech: “O you who speak with a voice I have longed for and have appeared at last, I will not disobey your instructions” (1445–47).

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assents to an admonition, the content of which is virtually identical to those offered repeatedly by Odysseus and especially by Neoptolemus.92

8. The chorus: a few bad men? Irrespective of their age, experiences, goals, or personalities, the mortal principals act and interact based on principles. These are determined by their view of the past and/or their belief that they serve justice, according to the “help friends/harm enemies” code, and thus piety. Their view of the past may be skewed, and their decisions the result of dubious choices, shaped by disadvantages such as ignorance and obsessions. Nonetheless, the past and the principles the characters often associate with it are an ever-present moral compass, which never points to downright dishonorable behavior. Remarkably, and surprisingly in the context of both the play and the genre, the only characters that show themselves ready and willing to engage in dishonorable behavior are the members of the chorus. Most tragic choruses habitually display caution and are often portrayed as quite timid or even cowardly, although they hardly ever display immorality or impiety, as this chorus does. Besides, this chorus consists of serving soldier sailors, who might easily have been cast as relatively unburdened by excessive caution and flawed morals. Of Sophocles’ surviving plays, only Ajax and Philoctetes feature choruses of men of fighting age, and indeed comrades-in-arms of the principals. In both plays, their identity was an obvious choice, but the playwright also chose to stress their limitations. In Ajax the setting of the play probably narrowed the options down to men of Ajax and possibly fellow slaves of Tecmessa. In Philoctetes the innovation of making Lemnos an uninhabited island eliminated the option of a chorus of locals. The chorus had to consist of soldier sailors. These could not be Philoctetes’ old comrades without major alteration of the plot, and they should rather not be Odysseus’ or Achilles’ men, whom Philoctetes might recognize.93 The choice of Neoptolemus’ sailors also, and perhaps primarily, ensures that the members of the chorus are not morally or emotionally encumbered by events that took place in the remoter past, above all Philoctetes’ abandonment, or by the long, eventful siege of Troy.94

92 For a metatheatrical reading of Heracles’ speech see Kyriakou (forthcoming). 93 Cf. n. 56 above. 94 They are thus not physically worn down by the hardships of the long war as the men of Ajax are. Cf. the discussion below.

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The men are obedient to Neoptolemus and eager to help him.95 They are presumably Skyrians, but nothing is said of their origin, or their trip to Troy, for instance. They never mention their home or Neoptolemus’ ancestry – only at the end of their only stasimon, a passage that presents interpretive problems, they call him “the son of noble men” (718–19).96 They are older than their leader, as is shown by the way they address him (201, 210, 833, 843, 845, 863; cf. 1072). Not belonging to his age group, they offer advice but cannot be his companions in the difficult journey to moral education. In any case, they depend on him for guidance (135–43, 150–58, 963–64, 1072–73) and only voice objections to his decision on a single occasion (833–38, 843–64), which will be discussed below. Despite their dependence on Neoptolemus, these men are not mere observers of the action but participate from the very beginning in the deception of Philoctetes. In response to his supplication of Neoptolemus, they urge their leader to take pity on the suppliant and take him home, pointing out their common hatred of the Atreids (507–18). The men’s pity for Philoctetes may be considered genuine, as they voice it already in the parodos (169–90), and later ask Neoptolemus whether they should sail with the bow or heed Philoctetes’ pleas (963–64). It is also true, though, that this pity never reaches the level of a strong motive for action. In their first address to Philoctetes, they claim that they pity him as much as earlier visitors to the island (317–18). As has often been observed, this is a doubleedged comment because Philoctetes has just stated that the pity of the visitors never made them take him home and did not extend beyond the offer of sympathetic words and some meager supplies (307–13). After Neoptolemus has told Philoctetes the truth, the men never urge their leader to take Philoctetes home, and in the kommos they shift all

95 It is often claimed that they are loyal to Neoptolemus, or dedicated to his interests, but this is not an accurate description of their position. The men never display altruism or go out of their way to help Neoptolemus. Although this does not indicate that they are disloyal to their leader, they obey him out of self-interest rather than pure devotion. They try to persuade him to undertake a very controversial action, to abandon Philoctetes and abscond with the bow (833–38, 843–64), and it is clear that they are uncomfortable with his order to them to stay with Philoctetes until the ship is prepared for departure (1075–80; 1178–80). 96 Except for this song (676–729), the rest of their contributions in the play are in lyric exchanges with the principals. After the kommos with Philoctetes (1081– 1217), they only speak the very last lines of the exodus (1469–71). For an overview of the chorus’ part see Paulsen (1989) 70–72

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blame on the deceived and bereft man (1095–1100), claiming that they had no part in his deception (1116–22). This is of course blatantly false, and jarringly so, as it follows the revelation of the ploy. The chorus also seem to court impiety, although they never make any openly impious claim. In their invocation of Cybele, they mention a previous occasion on which they had invoked her, when the Atreids were grievously insulting Neoptolemus by delivering, i.e. standing by their earlier decision to deliver, the arms of Achilles to Odysseus (391–402). This is ambiguous, as is the entire story of the fate of Achilles’ arms.97 If the arms were given to Neoptolemus upon his arrival at Troy, the chorus’ claim is false and may be perceived as impious, indicating their unscrupulous employment of all means to help Neoptolemus in deceiving Philoctetes.98 If a quarrel of sorts took place, but Odysseus retained the arms, and Neoptolemus somehow came to accept the decision, then the chorus may have invoked Cybele before the resolution of the dispute. Gardiner, who believes that the arms were delivered to Neoptolemus, suggests that the chorus’ choice of a foreign deity not officially venerated in Athens and the skillful phrasing of their claim inhibit the perception of impiety.99 Absence of local worship does not equal non-existence of the deity invoked. The goddess was recognizable to the Greek audience, was a local divinity at Troy, and there is no indication that the Greeks thought nothing of insulting foreign gods. The uncertainty over the delivery of Achilles’ arms to Neoptolemus rather than the foreignness of Cybele shields the chorus from the perception of impiety. But their phrasing may be significant in another instance. Their deceptive appeal to Neoptolemus to pity Philoctetes and take him home finishes with a reference to avoidance of divine nemesis (517–18). This too may be viewed as an example of the men’s impious readiness to implicate the gods in their deception. The appeal is launched on the assumption that Neoptolemus hates the odious Atreids, which is couched in a conditional form (510–11). If

97 For this ambiguity see the discussion in 6 above. 98 This is the view of Paulsen (1989) 81–82, who follows several earlier critics in detecting a ruthless streak in the chorus’ references to the divine. Cf. n. 107 below. Kitzinger (2008) 90–91 suggests that, despite the ambiguity surrounding the delivery of the arms, the chorus reveal their falsehood by claiming that they were present when the Atreids originally delivered the arms to Odysseus. No such presence is claimed or implied, and Neoptolemus’ previous account of the dispute eliminates the possibility of ambiguity. 99 Gardiner (1987) 24–25.

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Neoptolemus does not hate the Atreids, there is no reason for him to take Philoctetes home. On the other hand, and irrespective of Neoptolemus’ attitude toward the Atreids, Philoctetes’ supplication (468–72, 484–86) exposes the young man to the anger of the gods, in case he fails to honor the supplication, and the chorus’ reference to this danger is not necessarily impious. When Neoptolemus and Philoctetes go inside the cave, the men sing their only stasimon in the play, lamenting the terrible misfortunes of Philoctetes (676–717), as in the parodos (169–90), and claiming at the end that he will now be saved by the scion of a noble family (718–29). This suggestion has exercised interpreters because, conventionally in Greek drama, characters do not (normally) overhear what is said during their absence offstage, and characters onstage do not (normally) continue to pretend during the absence of the victims of deception.100 Thus, if Philoctetes cannot hear the chorus, and generic convention does not dictate dissimulation, there is no reason for the men to pretend that Neoptolemus will take Philoctetes to Malis. This passage has been, and will probably remain, one of those that defy definitive treatment. Gardiner follows earlier scholars in suggesting that Neoptolemus and Philoctetes reenter before the last antistrophe, and their entrance prompts the chorus to take up the thread of the deception.101 This is plausible and presents a solution to the problem, if a problem it actually is, although at the expense of postulating an arrangement unique in tragic drama. There is no parallel for an unannounced entry of principals during a choral song, combined with their subsequent failure to address the chorus. Some characters seem to have overheard a song, or part of a song, but it is not clear that they were offstage or, if they were, that they came onstage before the end of the song. Oedipus may be present during the parodos of O T (151–215),102 and Creon during the kommos of Antigone (806–82). Eurydice in Antigone says that she overheard the news of Haemon’s death (1175) on her way out of the house (1183–91). In Euripides’ Medea the

100 See e.g. A. Ch. 719–29, 783–837, S. El. 1384–97, Eur. Hec. 1023–34, El. 1147–64, Her. 734–47, Hl. 1451–1511. 101 Gardiner (1987) 30–36. She correctly rejects the improbable assumption that the two principals remain onstage during the stasimon. For other unconvincing suggestions on the end of the stasimon see also Appendix B II. 102 Tarrant (1986) 133 n. 31 suggests that Oedipus may have inferred the chorus’ petition from their position and attitude (216–18).

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children of the heroine are about to be killed by their mother offstage. The chorus hear their cries and wonder whether they should go into the house to help them (1273–74, 1275–76). The victims overhear the women and urge them to hurry (1277–78). This shows that there was no absolutely inviolable hearing barrier between orchestra and stage building.103 The tutor in Sophocles’ Electra also overhears the siblings’ emotional exchanges but he says that he had kept watch near the door (1326–34). Characters who enter during a song unannounced, such as Clytaemestra in Aeschylus’ Agamemnon,104 or, possibly, Oedipus in Sophocles’ O T and Creon in Antigone, address the chorus and/or comment on their statements (Ag. 264–66, OT 216–18, Ant. 883–84). Nothing of the sort happens in Philoctetes.

In view of these considerations, it is probable that Philoctetes and Neoptolemus reenter after the song, and the chorus keep up the deceit, presumably in case Philoctetes overhears them. As suggested above, several choruses who are aware of deception ploys do not voice or show concern that they may be overheard when the ploys are unfolding. In most of these cases, though, the ploys are already far advanced, and their victims are for all intents and purposes doomed. What is more, the victims are not armed with invincible weapons, nor do they go inside a cave, with no (solid) doors.105 Philoctetes could easily overhear the chorus, certainly on his way out of the cave. Last but not least, it should be kept in mind that we do not know whether choruses were always ready to be frank about ongoing deception plots as soon as principals left the stage. The fact that a couple of plays in which they do have survived is an indication but not a proof that the audience expected choruses alone onstage to speak truthfully as a matter of course. As Medea is the sole surviving example of an offstage response to a choral statement, Philoctetes may be the sole surviving example of a chorus’ keeping up a deceit out of presumed concern of being overheard by a character offstage. In any case, whether the principals enter before the last antistrophe and do not address the chorus, or the chorus continue to

103 This is also obvious from the fact that several entrances from the stage building are prompted by calls from outside it, sometimes issued by the chorus; see Taplin (1977) 220. But such conventional, although realistically motivated, entries are made in response to shrill calls or loud noises, which have nothing to do with the volume of a normal song or speech. 104 See Appendix A III.4. 105 Cf. Schmidt (1973) 133, and Tarrant (1986) 128.

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pretend in Philoctetes’ absence, Philoctetes is unique among surviving plays. Irrespective of the view one adopts, the end of the stasimon does not indicate ruthlessness or impiety but consistent dedication to the success of the mission, or heightened anxiety, or both. The chorus are, then, fairly intelligent, very cautious men, who can be relied upon to participate competently in the deception, do not openly offend the gods, and have a healthy notion of equality and justice in the relations of honest, worthy men. This is shown not only by their eagerness to serve the common purpose of the mission but also by their reference to Philoctetes’ undeserved misfortune in the stasimon: “[A man] who harmed no one by violence or fraud, who was fair-dealing among fair-dealing men, was perishing so undeservedly” (684–85).106 They are capable of feeling pity, even if not acting altruistically, and sing a beautiful invocation to Sleep to come and cure the ailing Philoctetes (827–32).107 So it comes as a stark surprise when, immediately following this prayer, and after Odysseus’ plan seems to have worked very well, the chorus suddenly come up with the suggestion, their only one in the play, that they and Neoptolemus seize the opportunity and decamp with the bow (833–38, 843–64). This shows gross indifference for the hapless man who lies completely helpless before them, as they callously stress themselves (855–61). If they leave now, he will not only be abandoned for a second time but he will also be condemned to starve to death. It is true that they do not point out this grave probability, and neither does Neoptolemus, but the audience have no reason to imagine that the chorus simply do not think of it, because the bow’s

106 As has often been pointed out, this does not imply that Philoctetes dealt unfairly among dishonorable men. Such implication would contradict the chorus’ point about his moral integrity, and Philoctetes certainly had no dealings with unjust men anyway, at least not before his comrades wronged him. Nevertheless, he views, and behaves toward, them as one would expect an honorable man to do. In the parodos, the chorus had made a similar point: Philoctetes was likely as noble a man as any member of the noblest houses but he has been suffering the cruelest toils in savage isolation (180–90). 107 Paulsen (1989) 95–97 thinks that this prayer is part of the deceit because the chorus do not care for Philoctetes’ wellbeing but for their own benefit. This may be true, but the prayer per se is not impious, since the chorus never ask the god to keep Philoctetes asleep for their own good, and they address Sleep as Healer. Even if they wish to profit from Philoctetes’ state by cruelly and impiously abandoning him while he is asleep, Sleep will cure the ailing man, and that is all the chorus ask for in their prayer.

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importance in the survival of Philoctetes has been stressed repeatedly so far, including by the chorus themselves (707–11). What is equally grave, the men are ready to commit impiety and urge Neoptolemus to do so by disregarding the precepts of the prophecy and his pledge to Philoctetes to stay while the coma lasts (810–13). They dismiss their leader’s objection that the prophecy dictated for Philoctetes to go to Troy (841) by outrageously suggesting that the god will see to the fulfillment of his own prophecy (843). They could, for instance, urge him to try to hold on to the bow, or attempt to convince him that Philoctetes’ dispatch to Troy was not really dictated by the prophecy. They do not do so and, just as disturbingly, they apparently urge him to disobey Odysseus. If the text of 852–53 is sound, they probably refer to Odysseus rather than Philoctetes. “You know whom I am talking about” (852) indicates much more naturally someone absent but very much on the speakers’ mind rather than someone who lies asleep in front of the interlocutors. The chorus’ point is that grave troubles will ensue (854) if Neoptolemus is of the same mind as Odysseus (853), i.e. if he persists in the plan to take Philoctetes along with the bow to Troy.108 Where do this callousness, ruthlessness, and potential recklessness come from? Neoptolemus understandably thinks that his men have taken leave of their senses (865), and Philoctetes’ reference to “the unhoped-for watch of these strangers” (867–68) when he wakes up becomes tinged with tragic irony.109 Nothing in the remote or recent past, no divine mandate, no instructions from Odysseus, the chorus’ attitude to Philoctetes so far, and not even their wish to serve Neoptolemus (cf. 150–51) may justify or explain their suggestion. Jebb points out with his customary humanity

108 This seems to be the view of the scholiast too. If I understand their comment correctly, Lloyd-Jones and Wilson (1990) 200–1 suggest that the chorus urge Neoptolemus to take the bow now if he is of the same mind as Odysseus, i.e. if he wants the plan to succeed as expeditiously as possible. If Philoctetes learns that the two are allies, he will kill them both. But the bow is now in Neoptolemus’ hands anyway, and Philoctetes can kill nobody. When he wakes up, he does not even ask for his bow back. Besides, Odysseus never said anything about taking only the bow without Philoctetes to Troy. Neoptolemus cannot be of the same mind as Odysseus and choose to decamp with the bow. 109 Neoptolemus then assures Philoctetes that the men will carry him if he prefers “because they will not shrink from this toil since you and I have so decided to act” (886–88). This may be taken as an oblique way of again chastising his men for their previous audacity and further asserting his authority.

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that this is at least the only jarring note that they strike in the play.110 Their assertion that fate and the gods were responsible for Philoctetes’ loss of his means of sustenance and that they had no part in the deception (1116–22) is certainly another one, although at that point they may take cover behind the prophecy and the ruse that Odysseus considered necessary for its fulfillment. Scholars also suggest that the chorus’ proposal to Neoptolemus and his rejection of it serve the dramatic purpose of highlighting the increasing assertion of his authority and his moral superiority over his men.111 This is plausible, but it is more plausible that the dramatic purpose is twofold: the nobility of Neoptolemus also underscores the baseness of the chorus. Principals have greater dramatic weight than choruses or minor characters, but this does not self-evidently entail that choruses, especially those such as Neoptolemus’ men, speak and act only for the sake of highlighting the behavior of their lords or masters, as if the characteristics assigned to them were of no importance for their own portrayal. The chorus’ suggestion is outrageous and would remain so even if Neoptolemus accepted it, although then the chorus would operate in a system that would suit them better. On the other hand, Neoptolemus’ nobility has been made obvious since the beginning of the play. His rejection of the chorus’ suggestion contributes little to his portrayal, but the suggestion adds much to theirs. The presentation of a virtual mob, whose dominant characteristic is a disturbingly shortsighted, warped and impious view of opportunity, raises plausible questions about the possible political significance of Sophocles’ choice. The issue becomes more compelling if one takes into account that the play was produced in 409 BC, at a time when recent military setbacks and political upheavals had been creating much turbulence in Athens, and the city’s situation was to remain fluid and precarious for several years to come. In extant tragedy, it is hard to find a chorus more compromised morally than this group of men, who are usually described in critical discussions as simple, or as pragmatic survivors.112 It is true that their obedience to Neoptolemus after the unsettling suggestion and especially their complete silence during the exodus of the play (1218–1468) work as a sort

110 Jebb (18982 ) xxix. 111 See n. 28 above. 112 See e.g. Winnington-Ingram (1980) 287 (who, amazingly, thinks that the men are interested in learning whether Philoctetes is really asleep), Gardiner (1987) 44, 46, Vickers (1987) 175, and Paulsen (1989) 106.

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of damage control. We forget about them, especially since they seem to have relegated their fate entirely to their leader, whose judgment they never question again. At any rate, they always obey when he orders them. They are not rebellious or even presumptuous men, and do not entertain ideas that they are actually better than their betters. As will be argued below, the unsettling nature of their suggestion to Neoptolemus to abandon Philoctetes notwithstanding, the suggestion may be plausibly viewed as a result of their fear and discomfort in the proximity of Philoctetes. Their deference to Neoptolemus would please the Iliadic Odysseus, who rebuked the common soldiers, reminding them of their inferiority to the leaders and of the supreme authority of the commander on whom the great Zeus has bestowed the kingly staff and the power to judge (Il. 2.200–6). With their first words in the play (135–43), the men ask for their orders and explain their trust in the young leader by repeating in essence Odysseus’ praise of kingly staff and authority bestowed by Zeus in Iliad.113 Nevertheless, despite their obedience and deference to the leaders as well as their silence in the last part of the play, the men remain onstage throughout, and their previous, disturbing behavior cannot be erased. As mentioned above, these men are not mere sympathetic but uninvolved onlookers. For almost two thirds of the play, they participate actively in the action. Although they are new recruits, they are soldier-sailors and may be viewed as representatives of their colleagues at Troy, the great mass of anonymous men who, for many years, have been suffering the hardships of the campaign and the consequences of the quarrels of their leaders.114 Despite the paucity of the lyric contributions of the chorus and their limited participation in the dialogue,115 their status and role in the intrigue attract greater attention than those of other choruses. Gardiner points out disapprovingly the readiness of critics to ignore the presence of fifteen

113 Cf. also the chorus’ deference to Neoptolemus at 963–64 (their first utterance after his rebuke at 865–66), and 1072–73. 114 The Homeric narrator does not focus much on the actions or reactions of the common soldiers, but their bill is not unqualifyingly clean, either. Immediately after Hector’s fall and before Achilles’ abuse of the body, anonymous fighters flock around it to stab it and gloat, as Achilles is stripping off the armor (Il. 22.369–75). However, the men’s long troubles may be thought to afford them some excuse for their follies, and nothing they do or say compares with the suggestion of Neoptolemus’ men. For the long-serving and war-weary chorus of Ajax see B I 6 above. 115 See n. 96 above.

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men because they fall silent. She suggests that their presence and silence highlight the contrast between the greater and lesser men, “the honorable and the politic, the leaders and the followers, the understanding and the uncomprehending.”116 There are of course much more obvious (and audible) ways of making the chorus (or any other character) function as a foil to the action, or of problematizing the decisions and behavior of the principals. The poet’s choice cannot be accounted for by means of such a suggestion, while critical neglect of the chorus in the last part of the play is not surprising. At the end of her discussion, Gardiner suggests that the chorus are very different from Philoctetes and Neoptolemus but have many similarities to Odysseus, who represents the familiar type of the fifth century demagogue. Such men as the chorus, who value expediency and short-term benefit over noble concepts, are the typical followers of demagogues such as the tragic Odysseus, who can control them for their own ends.117 This would be a plausible picture if its components represented the dynamics of the play. None of them does. First of all, Odysseus is hardly a persona of the Athenian demagogue of classical times. He has no narrow self-interest to serve, no strictly personal profit to secure. Volunteering to go on dangerous missions, victory, glory, or even war spoils may hardly count as politically corrupt ends, and they are endorsed by all leaders from Homer onwards. Besides, as pointed out above, Odysseus in this play does not unqualifyingly share the defining characteristic of the demagogue, the unique ability to use his rhetorical power to promote his ends. Most important in the present context, the chorus do not follow Odysseus and do not imitate him. They only address him once (1045–46), refer to him once (1143–45),118 and never urge Neoptolemus to obey him. If anything, they may even urge disobedience to Odysseus (852–54), as already suggested.119

116 Gardiner (1987) 44–45 (the quotation is from p. 45). 117 Gardiner (1987) 48–49. 118 The text of their reply to Philoctetes’ invective against Odysseus has been variously emended. Most critics believe that they refer only to Odysseus, but Kamerbeek (1980) 157 and Lloyd-Jones and Wilson (1990) 207 think that they try to defend Neoptolemus, arguing that he followed the orders of Odysseus in order to render a service to all their friends. 119 Cf. n. 108 above.

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Other scholars such as Greenwood associate the chorus with the Athenian fleet, which had opposed the oligarchic coup of 411.120 Less controversially, as pointed out above, the chorus represent their colleagues at Troy, the silent majority of the army. This army cannot self-evidently be considered the literary analogue of the Athenian citizenry or the crews of the Athenian fleet, and no Athenian-style democratic regime is represented in any tragic play. Nevertheless, the army is mentioned several times in Philoctetes as the body with the authority to dispatch the mission to Lemnos and to punish the envoys for misconduct. Although Philoctetes hates and vilifies the Atreids and Odysseus, he never exonerates the rest of the army from responsibility for his abandonment.121 The concentration of the chorus on the task at hand, their lukewarm attitude toward Philoctetes, and their reckless suggestion to Neoptolemus may be viewed as reflections of the narrow-mindedness and dangerous fickleness of such bodies as the fleet or the Athenian assembly. It is likely no coincidence that, a year after the production of Philoctetes, Euripides in Orestes presented a dark picture of the Argive assembly manipulated by self-serving leaders.122 In this light, the chorus’ suggestion to Neoptolemus may be viewed as an attempt at political or even class self-assertion.123 There is no denying that such speculations have a fair degree of plausibility. Since in 409 BC Athens faced, mildly put, serious dangers, no citizen was likely to remain indifferent to recent developments, primarily the oligarchic coup, the restoration of democracy, and the issue of Alcibiades’ return from exile. Sophocles and Euripides, who belonged to the higher classes, were aged men at the time, and Sophocles had been a member of the probouloi commission. The poets had seen the fortunes of the city rise and fall several times through their long lifespan, both because of the

120 Greenwood (2006) 98–108. 121 See n. 55 above. In his report of his quarrel with the Atreids and Odysseus, Neoptolemus puts most of the blame for the insult he received on the leaders, partially exonerating Odysseus, “for the whole city and the army belong to the rulers, and those who misbehave become evil through the words of their instructors” (385–88). Lloyd-Jones and Wilson follow earlier scholars in deleting these inept lines, which do not fit in with the characters’ view of Odysseus in the play. 122 For other similarities between the two plays see Garner (1990) 145–51. 123 See e.g. Biancalana (2005), who also focuses on persuasion and the quest for the proper concept of justice in the play. Tessitore (2003) too discusses the opposition between justice and politics.

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initiatives of political leaders and the decisions of the assembly. Having spent much of their life dramatizing individual and collective follies and misfortunes, they are unlikely to have had a rosy view of personal ambition, oligarchic aspirations, or radical democracy. On the other hand, a thoroughly political interpretation of tragic plays remains problematic. Especially the kind of political allegory detected, for instance, in Michael Vickers’ fantastically far-fetched reading of Philoctetes,124 is unlikely to find much favor. As Griffin has pointed out, there is no universally agreed upon criterion for deciding what the political aspirations of a tragic play were or would be.125 Without such a criterion, and with a bewildering multitude of conflicting readings, the safest critical stance is withholding of judgment. If the plays alluded to no specific historical events and preached no specific political line, it is difficult to believe that they merely offered different ways of viewing contemporary events, as Bowie, for instance, suggests.126 Even if the playwrights wished to offer different views for the audience to consider, what lesson(s) were the spectators supposed to draw from this multiplicity of perspectives? More puzzlingly, how can one even be reasonably confident that the audience would detect the political ramifications of the plays? Such confidence can only stem from the belief that the plays had a standard, universally recognized, political function. But if this political function can be deduced (mainly) from the refractions of political events through the plays, then one is faced with a case of vicious circle. A play such as Philoctetes does not easily lend itself to political readings: it presents no political or civic savior, model, or solution, such as one would expect from a work prominently engaged with contemporary politics. There is no convincing indication that Sophocles wished to promote a model of enlightened aristocratic, let alone oligarchic, leadership, admonishing his fellow citizens to follow Pericles-like worthy leaders.127 Nor may he be deemed a precursor of the view that every people have the leaders they deserve. If anything, leaders and followers have their separate defects, and neither group is intimately associated with the other.

124 Vickers (1987) and (2008). 125 Griffin (1999) 89–92. For a cautious approach to the political interpretation of plays see also Heath (2006), and cf. Garvie (2009) xvi–xviii. 126 Bowie (1997) 58–62. 127 This is the view of Hawthorne (2006).

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It is thus more profitable to concentrate mainly on literary or intertextual refractions in a play, not because historical filters were fairly certainly absent but because literary filters were fairly certainly present. Sophocles inserted a black spot, or at least a black dot, in a play in which shades of gray are virtually ubiquitous, although its plot was based on an epic story that probably had no such background. Unburdened by the past and by spurious commitments, unconstrained by the pressure of tyrants, unencumbered by a conspicuously flawed morality, Neoptolemus’ men may be expected to behave with integrity. Free, decent, intelligent, cautious, in the service of an honorable young man, and about to become conquerors of famed Troy: what force or power can make such men indifferent to the plight of a fellow man and eager to condemn him to miserable death, with no regard for the mandates of god and leader? A rush of fear, or heightened anxiety, such as the men seem to experience during Philoctetes’ sleep, is certainly a potent motivator. That the chorus are afraid of Philoctetes is obvious from their anxious injunctions to Neoptolemus to lower his voice (844–47), although he is now holding the bow, and Philoctetes is fast asleep, as Neoptolemus himself indicates (839) at the beginning of his reply to the men’s first admonition to seize the opportunity (837–38).128 It is also true that, realistically, one may easily picture terrible troubles arising from Philoctetes’ realizing the truth when onboard Neoptolemus’ ship and, possibly, in possession of his bow (cf. 853–54), although neither Odysseus nor Neoptolemus ever entertains such thoughts, and they should probably be taken as a sign of the chorus’ excessive anxiety. But uncontrolled fear, which leads older serving soldiers to behave recklessly and impiously, cannot be considered as a mitigating factor in the assessment of their character. Still, the chorus’ inability to control their emotions is not their main disadvantage, and it is not even a rare trait in tragedy. The main problem with this chorus and the crucial factor in their suggestion seem to be the absence of any restraining inhibition or moral consideration, which might counterbalance the adrenaline rush. The men are not only dependent on the leaders but also completely absorbed in the present, in the contingencies of the moment. Neither past nor future seems to concern

128 Note also their final injunction before Philoctetes wakes up, which motivates Neoptolemus’ sharp rebuke (865–66): “My mind grasps this, my child: a labor that involves no fear is the best strategy” (862–64).

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them. They enter with a request for instructions (135–43)129 and exit with a prayer for assistance concerning the task at hand (1469–71). They mention the recent past only once, in their perfunctory attempt to defend Odysseus against Philoctetes’ invective (1143–45),130 and the future virtually never. Although the success of the present mission guarantees the capture of Troy and thus a glorious future, it is probably not accidental that this chorus of soldier sailors never mention this prospect. They never so much as allude to the capture of Troy, Philoctetes’ curing, Neoptolemus’ glory, or even their own return home. Only their voyage back to Troy concerns them. Victory (κράτος) and opportunity (καιρός) are the two most prominent concepts in their utterances, and the former depends clearly on the latter (837–38; cf. 862–64, 142, 150–51, 155).131 This chorus never profess belief or confidence in anything, with the possible exception of their statement that they reckon best (κράτιστον) for Philoctetes to go to Troy (1176). Of their two most detailed and horrified descriptions of Philoctetes’ disease and sufferings on Lemnos, which involve past and present, the

129 Neoptolemus fittingly answers this request: “Always proceeding as I guide you, try to serve the purpose of the moment” (148–49). The chorus reply that they have always been vigilant to offer help at the appropriate time for Neoptolemus (150–51). Commentators usually suggest that Neoptolemus would signal to the chorus with his hand from time to time, and the men should intervene upon receiving the signal. Jebb (18982 ) on 148 also suggests that the chorus would advance a step or two when responding to the signals with their comments. I believe that such explanations are unnecessarily literal and even fantastic. It is most unlikely that Neoptolemus would gesture to the chorus, and the significance of his gestures would be obscure. Eager to help Neoptolemus, the men ask what they should say or suppress when Philoctetes appears. Their master replies that they should take their cue from him and offer help by trying to follow wherever he leads. The instruction is probably similar to that given to Neoptolemus himself by Odysseus (130–31). 130 See n. 118 above. 131 Kitzinger (2008) 115–22 thinks that the choral performance of song and dance intensifies the power of the moment in its ritual context and insulates the moment from the moral decisions associated with it. The chorus’ view of the power of the moment is indisputable, but they stress it from the very beginning, when they clearly associate it with the decisions to be taken and instructions to be delivered concerning the deception of Philoctetes and the success of the mission. The suggestion of a disjunction between moment and morality by means of ritual is highly unconvincing and finds no support in the play.

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parodos focuses almost exclusively on the present (169–90). The stasimon seems to deal more with the past (676–717), but its deceptive end (718–29) undermines the impression that Philoctetes’ sufferings belong to the past. The men repeatedly stress their amazement at his power of endurance but they allude very briefly to the fact that he has done nothing to deserve his cruel fate. Chryse, the Atreids, Odysseus, Achilles, Neoptolemus, Skyros, Helenus, and Troy are completely absent from their deliberations. Despite their concentration on opportunity and victory, their unconsidered suggestion to Neoptolemus jeopardizes instead of promoting the prospect of Troy’s capture. The absence of moorings in the past, or even in the fear of offending a god, frees men from burdens that might distort their view and harm them but it is a mixed blessing because it might set them adrift in uncharted waters. The chorus have nothing to fall back on, no principle and no goal. They can make no decisions and, when they make a suggestion, it is disturbing. Only Neoptolemus’ leadership saves them from moral outrage, but since their leaders are hardly beyond moral reproach or doubt, the specter of moral compromise continues to haunt the play. Although the men have no connection with the original expedition and never mention it, they are currently soldiers on active duty at Troy and, as mentioned earlier, they represent the silent majority of their colleagues. The behavior of these representatives of sorts and the play’s silence about the way Philoctetes’ contingent reacted to the abandonment of their leader132 put a question mark over the morality of the men whose self-professed primary care is to serve the needs of their leaders. In Philoctetes there is no absolutely good man. Goodness, even if not unqualified, is likely to stem from a man’s ability to distance himself from present contingencies by taking a longer view, into the past and the future. Although one’s view of the past is almost inevitably limited and often distorted, or a construct shaped by one’s limitations and emotions, it may at least offer a window into some kind of future. The present, on which the chorus of Philoctetes concentrate exclusively, is cognitively, emotionally, and morally suffocating. The men of Ajax seem to be in a similar

132 This silence becomes more poignant if one takes into account the Homeric mention of the reaction of Philoctetes’ comrades (Il. 2.726): although the account of Philoctetes’ abandonment is short (2.721–25), the epic narrator does take care to mention the comrades, albeit in a conventional line (cf. 2.703, 709, 778). In a play dramatizing the mission to fetch Philoctetes to Troy, Sophocles says nothing about the hero’s men, probably intentionally. Cf. n. 55 above.

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disadvantage, but the poet’s view is more somber in Philoctetes, perhaps having becoming so with time, or with the deterioration of the city’s situation, or both. The chorus of the earlier drama consists of men who, like the Homeric soldiers, have suffered for long years, and are also experiencing the loss of their leader and face possible ostracism, or worse, from the army. The chorus of Philoctetes have nothing that might dim the harsh light falling on them, not even physical weariness or war trauma. In recompense, Sophocles presented at the end of the play a vision of a rewarding, even if not necessarily wonderful, future. For all their flaws, the chorus and their colleagues as well as the Atreids and Odysseus are fated to capture Troy by means of the synergy of Neoptolemus and Philoctetes. For this vision to materialize, the shackles of both a distorting attachment to the past, such as Philoctetes’, and a myopic attachment to the present, such as the chorus’, need to be shaken off. If individuals and groups can be freed from such impediments, then they may quite soberly grasp opportunities and pursue victory with a fair chance of success. But this a big if, and Philoctetes is a somber play.

III. Electra 1. A family torn apart About one third longer than Aeschylus’ Choephori, Electra is more complex than its surviving tragic predecessor and dissimilar on other counts. Sophocles presents a different picture of the crimes perpetrated by the siblings’ parents, Iphigeneia’s sacrifice and Agamemnon’s murder. According to Electra, the sacrifice was not an arbitrary or selfish decision taken by Agamemnon but the consequence of an insult he had offered to Artemis (566–73): as commander of the fleet, he was bound by duty to perform the sacrifice because otherwise the fleet could neither sail to Troy nor home (573–76). Although Electra is biased in favor of her father, and her statement is not to be taken at face value, as I will argue in 4 below, the traditional element of Agamemnon’s insult to Artemis is indisputably there. The murder of Agamemnon took place during a banquet in his own house, was committed with an ax, and Aegisthus had in role in it equal to Clytaemestra’s (97–99, 193–206).1 Cassandra is not mentioned,2 while the adulterous relationship of Clytaemestra and Aegisthus receives much emphasis. The differences have sometimes been attributed to the influence of Euripides’ Electra. Unfortunately but unsurprisingly, the dates of both Sophocles’ and Euripides’ Electra plays are uncertain. March argues cautiously for Euripides’ priority but she naturally points out that certainty is impossible. Finglass also thinks that the quest for the establishment of priority is fruitless.3 I share this point of view and do not count Euripides’ Electra among Sophocles’ possible influences (and would not count the Sophoclean Electra among Euripides’ influences). Even if Euripides’ Electra preceded the Sophoclean play, this would not alter the fact that the much

1

2 3

This version falls back on, and slightly modifies, the account in Odyssey (11.409–34). For further similarities with the epic see Finglass (2007b) 7–8, with previous bibliography. Cf. also n. 43 below. Jebb (1894) on 193–96, though, suggests that she is alluded to at 193. March (2001) 20–22; Finglass (2007b) 1–4.

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earlier Choephori was quite likely one of Sophocles’ models, irrespective of Euripides’ “mediation.” This of course does not automatically entail that Sophocles fashioned his play as a response to Aeschylus’ Oresteia, or that the latter should be considered of cardinal importance in the interpretation of the Sophoclean play.4

Since there is no indication that Sophocles’ Electra was part of a thematic trilogy, a quite extensive background had to be provided. On the other hand, the play focuses on the figure and suffering of the eponymous character, highlighted through her opposition to her sympathetic sister Chrysothemis and her unloving mother Clytaemestra. There are references to Apollo’s oracle to Orestes (32–37, 1424–25; cf. 1264–70), prayers for and projections of divinely sponsored punishment of the guilty couple (110–20, 162–63, 173–84, 209–12, 411, 472–504, 1374–97), and a brief mention of Myrtilus’ murder and its consequences for the family (504–15). Yet divine or supernatural agency and family crimes other than Agamemnon’s murder and Orestes’ revenge remain out of focus, in contrast to the relationship of the characters to friends and enemies (who are also φίλοι in the sense ‘relatives’). The play touches but does not dwell on issues dominant in Aeschylus’ Oresteia. Apart from talio, Orestes’ wish to recover his patrimony and restore his house is mentioned briefly (67–72). Sophocles, then, chose to present a disturbingly vivid image of the deeply corrosive effects of internecine crime. The surviving members of the family are divided into mutually loathing factions, but still living under the same roof, with new relatives, even children (589; cf. 653–54), and forced to interact on a daily basis. Mundane details appear in all their sordidness: Electra’s lying in bed at night weeping (86–95); her virtual slavery (189–90, 814–16, 1192),5 with bullying confinement in the house (312–13, 516–20, 911–12; cf. 378–84, 626–27); her unkempt appearance (190–91, 1181); her association with her father’s murderers (262–64, 1190); the mother’s shouting at her daughter (287–99; cf. 596–97); the stepfather’s sitting on the father’s chair, wearing the father’s clothes and pouring

4

5

Cf. nn. 23 and 123 below. In contrast to Aeschylus’ trilogy, Electra notoriously glosses over the moral problem posed by the matricide and the eventual punishment of the perpetrator(s) of the crime. For alleged hints at these issues see 8 below. Electra in Choephori also laments her virtual servitude in the house and the indignities she has had to suffer (135, 445–50; cf. 418–22). See, though, the discussion below. For the heroine in Euripides’ Electra see n. 16 below.

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libations by the hearth where he killed him (267–70); his going to the father’s bed with the mother (271–76); the daughter’s forced witnessing of the monstrous festival instituted by the mother to celebrate the father’s murder (277–86); the grudging (in the daughter’s eyes at least) provision of life necessities such as (little) food and (shabby) clothes for her hateful sustenance (191, 264–65, 359–64). The festering of the feud, with its constant, vocal repetition of accusations and trading of insults, also puts the horribly dysfunctional family in danger of losing face in the community (518, 520–22; cf. 328, 640–42). The feuding members try to recruit allies to their side by publicly accusing their enemies. Electra laments her father and curses his killers outside the house, and Clytaemestra and Chrysothemis also try to involve third parties in their disputes with Electra. Instead of responding to Electra’s charges, they turn to the chorus (372–75, 612–15, 992–94), and Clytaemestra even to the messenger (797–98, 802–3), a foreign man who cannot know what she is talking about. It is telling for the portrayal of Electra that, although she remains onstage with the chorus for most of the play, and the chorus are friendly and supportive toward her, she neither addresses them nor responds to their entreaties when other characters are present. Electra speaks to the women only when she is alone with them in the two amoibaia (121–250, 823–70), in which she mainly rejects their admonitions for restraint. (She also addresses her supposedly dead brother in pathetic tones aimed at bringing out their mother’s criminal heartlessness [808–14, 1153–59].) This is likely meant to suggest that Electra is more self-assured than her mother and sister, not caring to involve even well-meaning strangers in the altercations, and more focused on her attacks, not wishing to take oblique shots at her opponents by turning to bystanders. The addresses of Clytaemestra and Chrysothemis to third parties do not indicate inability to respond to Electra’s arguments.6 No such inability appears in the play, and both mother and sister have much more effective means of snubbing Electra. Her failure to respond to the chorus’ admonitions may also indicate some rudeness, a result of the passion that dominates her conflict with her relatives.

Particularly disturbing is the constant bickering between the members of the weaker, victimized faction, Electra and Chrysothemis (and presumably Iphianassa; cf. 153–57). The disagreement between the sisters is shown

6

Pace Finglass (2007b) 204.

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onstage, but its prolonged duration and lack of resolution is suggested by each sister’s indicative claim that she knew what her sister would say or do before the latter spoke (372–75, 1017–18; cf. 408, 992–94). Both sisters hate their mother and stepfather and hope that Orestes will arrive to punish the guilty and deliver the innocent from their suffering. The great difference and source of their quarrel lies in the opposing ways they have adopted of coping with the terrible situation at home in the meantime. The split undermines the sisters’ affection and support for each other as well as their cooperation. Each sister has to defend her position in the face of the other’s accusations, and the mutual attacks harden feelings.7 As soon as she enters, Chrysothemis accuses her sister of indulging in idle emotional outbursts, which do no harm to the killers but aggravate Electra’s situation by provoking them to punish her harshly; Chrysothemis prefers to keep a low profile in adversity, biding her time until the opportunity arises for her to declare her true feelings (328–40; cf. 394, 396). Electra responds with a longer and more passionate speech, in which she accuses her sister of cooperating with the killers, especially the monstrous mother, for the sake of material benefits, and defends her own position as the only honorable course of action for a loyal and courageous daughter of the slain man (341–68, 395, 397, 399). In response to Electra’s defiant declarations of loyalty, Chrysothemis claims the dead father’s approval for her stance (400).8 As already indicated, despite their irreconcilable views of the proper behavior in calamity, the sisters manage to find some common ground with regard to the funeral libations their mother dispatched to

7

8

The sisters are certainly not mortal enemies or completely alienated. Chrysothemis warns her sister of the hated couple’s plan to imprison her (378–84), and claims that she does not hate her and will not betray her plan to kill Aegisthus to the couple (1034; cf. 1011–12). More tellingly, Electra abandons her accusatory tone and entreats Chrysothemis warmly, addressing her in terms of deep and apparently genuine sororal affection, not to make Clytaemestra’s offerings to Agamemnon’s tomb but to substitute the sisters’ own offerings and prayers for them (431–63). Chrysothemis agrees without hesitation (466–67) and returns from her errand very excited to bring the good news of Orestes’ apparent return (871–74, 892–919). When Electra informs her of the brother’s supposed death and asks for her help in dealing with the present predicament (924–25, 943), Chrysothemis promises to do as much as she can (944, 946), although in the end she refuses to cooperate with Electra (995–1014). Similarly, Clytaemestra claims that her dead daughter would share her view of Agamemnon’s poor judgment and lack of paternal consideration (548), implying that the daughter would also approve of the mother’s revenge.

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their father’s tomb (431–63, 466–67). It is their second and final meeting in the play, when Electra tries to co-opt her sister in an attempt on Aegisthus’ life (947–89), which brings out most clearly their opposition to, and alienation from, each other. The similar disagreement of Antigone and Ismene in Antigone (21–99) shows how the long years of suffering, abuse and conflict have distanced the sisters in Electra. Both Ismene and Chrysothemis try to dissuade their sisters from committing an act that will lead to the perpetrators’ death, the burial of Polyneices and the murder of Aegisthus respectively. They remind their headstrong sisters of their female inferiority (Ant. 61–62, El. 997–98) and urge submission to the powerful (Ant. 63–64; cf. 67–68, 78–79, 92, El. 1001–2, 1013–14), pointing out that the sisters’ ignominious death will destroy their family completely (Ant. 58–60, El. 1009–11; cf. 1005–6) but assuring them of their loyalty (Ant. 82, El. 1034, 1036) and their willingness to keep the foolhardy plan secret (Ant. 85, El. 1011–12, 1034). The similarities notwithstanding, Antigone and Ismene reach an agreement of sorts before they separate, and Ismene praises her sister’s loyalty to the family (Ant. 98–99). She later tries to mollify Creon (Ant. 568–74) and volunteers to die with Antigone, claiming that she has changed her mind and wishes to share her sister’s punishment because her life is worthless without her (Ant. 536–58). Chrysothemis also admits, as she had done in the earlier conversation with her sister (338–39), that Electra’s behavior is just (1042) but stresses her sister’s mindlessness much more forcefully than Ismene, and leaves, never to reappear, with no word of sympathy. She is also completely forgotten after her exit. Greek playwrights did not hesitate to ignore characters when they no longer had a role in the actionthe most prominent example is Electra in Choephori, but little is also said of Deianeira in Trachiniae in the last part of the play. The failure of her siblings to mention Chrysothemis, let alone the shadowy Iphianassa, after their recognition may be meant to underscore the closeness of Electra and Orestes but may also be viewed as a sign of emotional alienation, especially on Electra’s part.9

The emphasis on the domestic quarrels and especially on the corrosive and explosive cohabitation of Agamemnon’s daughters with their criminal

9

Contrast, for instance, her siblings’ warm interest in the absent Electra in Euripides’ IT (706–7, 912–14), and Polyxena’s farewell to her absent siblings (Hec. 426, 428).

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mother and stepfather belongs to Sophocles’ most significant innovations in comparison with Aeschylus’ treatment of the story of Orestes’ revenge in Choephori.10 Although Electra has a prominent part in the first half of that play, her life with the enemies after her father’s murder and disgraceful funeral is nowhere described in any detail. Her situation at home is actually encapsulated in the unique and striking single word ἀντίδουλος (135), ‘as good as a slave’.11 Except for her laments during Agamemnon’s dishonorable funeral, Electra mentions no other laments for her father, although the reference to secret laments at the end of the parodos (81–83) may suggest that she was then, and had been all along, weeping, at least secretly. In the excitement of the kommos and the imminence of Orestes’ revenge, Electra recalls her confinement in the innermost part of the house during her father’s funeral (445–50) and her enmity toward her mother (418–22). There is, though, no confrontation and no exchange of insults and accusations, either onstage or reported, between mother and daughter. Indeed, when she first appears, the Aeschylean Electra has greater similarities to the Sophoclean Chrysothemis than to Electra.12 Sophocles chose to downplay the political dimension of Agamemnon’s murder and Orestes’ revenge and to focus on Electra’s present and continuous sufferings, which include constant altercations with her mother and even her sister. Nevertheless, the attachment of Electra and, to a lesser extent, Orestes to the past is relatively deeper than that of their Aeschylean counterparts. According to MacLeod, the virtually obsessive behavior of Electra and the transgressive behavior of both siblings are part of the play’s presentation of the revenge as both shameful and just. Orestes uses treachery, and Electra

10 The only mundane details in Aeschylus’ play are provided by Orestes’ nurse but they concern a time long before Agamemnon’s death, when Orestes was an infant in swaddling clothes needing feeding and cleaning (Ch. 749–62). These homely recollections of the sympathetic figure have no parallel in Electra’s ranting against her mother and Aegisthus. For her brief recollection of Orestes’ infancy in her lament over his supposed urn see the discussion with n. 119 below. 11 The theme of slavery, in particular of Clytaemestra’s “selling” her children as slaves in exchange for Aegisthus’ bed, is fairly prominent: Orestes uses the metaphor to maximum effect in his confrontation with his mother (Ch. 915–17; cf. 132–34). The slave-women of the chorus regret their and the city’s submission to the tyrants, wishing for and celebrating their liberation with the help of Orestes (Ch. 55–58, 75–83, 386–93, 855–68, 1046–47). 12 For the Aeschylean Electra’s timidity, lack of initiative, and dependence on the advice of the chorus see Appendix A IV.2.

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oversteps the limits of propriety, but both do so in the pursuit of a just cause, and the depiction of this tension is the play’s major contribution to the treatment of the myth.13 There is no doubt that Sophocles emphasizes the unsettling nature of an irreconcilable split and deep-seated hatred between mother and children, which motivate insults and eventually murder, but the matricide is presented as both shameful and just in all surviving dramas. Divine endorsement of treachery is also present in Aeschylus’ Choephori (555–59), although the theme receives lesser emphasis than in Electra. It is thus quite improbable that the tension between shame and justice was Sophocles’ chosen means of introducing a major innovation. If it were, he certainly miscalculated, but there is no reason to saddle him with a dramatic gaucheness of such magnitude. MacLeod also stresses the importance of the community in the play, arguing that civic ethical values are espoused by the siblings, especially Electra, and the revenge restores order and freedom to family and community alike.14 Indeed, Sophocles did not ignore the community entirely: given the status of his characters, he could not “easily have eliminated the πόλις from his play altogether,” as Finglass suggests.15 It would have been really remarkable and absolutely extraordinary if he had, nor is it easy to fathom why he would have wanted to take such a radical step, since the very few references to the community certainly do not divert attention from the troubles of the family in general and Electra in particular. My problem with the scholarly arguments in question is the attempt to turn the paucity of references to the community into a means of laying emphasis on the community. It is, to put it mildly, improbable, and strange to argue to the effect, that both several and less than half a dozen references, even placed at points of significance in the play such as the recognition of the siblings (1227) and the matricide (1413), produce the exact same effect.

2. The vengeful laments of Electra: the duty of revenge After her father’s murder, Electra devoted her life to the self-appointed mission of vexing her enemies. She eagerly made this choice, which severely aggravates her situation at home, in order to demonstrate her loyalty to and honor her dead father. In the long years of Orestes’ growing up

13 MacLeod (2001). Cf. n. 55 below. 14 Cf. Budelmann (2000) 251–64, who also advocates the importance of the community, although in less emphatic terms. For another political reading of the play see Konstan (2008). 15 Finglass (2007b) 11.

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away from home and preparing for taking the long-awaited revenge on the father’s murderers, Electra took it upon herself to ruin the murderers’ remaining time on earth by constantly lamenting their victim and blaming them in their face, and in the hearing of anybody who would listen (289–92, 336, 355–56, 520–24, 638–42, 783–87, 797–98; cf. 802–3). In contrast to the Euripidean Electra, for instance, the Sophoclean heroine does not so much lament her own miserable lot as exults in it.16 She even accuses her siblings of deficient loyalty to their father and herself: apart from Chrysothemis and, implicitly, Iphianassa, who fail to lament their father’s pitiable death and honor him (100–2, 119–20; cf. 365–68, 395), she also blames Orestes for his delay and presumed reluctance to do his duty (164–72, 303–6, 319, 321). Electra does realize that her behavior is extreme and oversteps the limits of propriety for a woman of her status and even in her situation (221–22, 254–57, 307–9, 616–18). She also offers that her unbridled tongue is a feature she has inherited from her mother (605–9) and that her lack of restraint in constantly harping on the misfortunes and disgrace of the house is motivated by, and matches, Clytaemestra’s hostility and shameless actions (619–21, 624–25). Nevertheless, Electra rejects both the chorus’ and her sister’s admonitions to show moderation, in the belief that this would be tantamount to forgetting and dishonoring the dead father. When the false news of Orestes’ death arrives, Electra decides to push things to the limit: no longer content with verbal and emotional confrontation, which she saw as her duty until Orestes’ arrival, she decides to act, and asks for Chrysothemis’ cooperation in killing Aegisthus (947–89).17 Electra’s narrative in general and her proposition to her sister in particular combine two moral discourses pertaining to elite individuals: that of revenge, the obligation of surviving relatives to avenge the murder of a kinsman, which, in the case of Agamemnon’s children, involves recovery of their patrimony and restoration of their house, and that of courage in

16 Although she no longer lives in her father’s house, the hardships of Electra in Euripides’ play of the same name are partly of her own making too but she focuses obsessively on her own misfortunes, especially her material deprivations and compromised appearance (El. 54–63, 175–89, 207–12, 239–41, 304–13, 332–35, 1004–6, 1008–10, 1092–93, 1120; cf. 1139–40), rather than on her father’s doom. 17 She does not mention Clytaemestra, but it is unlikely that the mother would be spared. For Electra’s failure to mention matricide see n. 32 and the discussion in 7 below.

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confronting enemies, which translates into praise and honors in life, and eternal kleos after death. Electra promises to Chrysothemis that these rewards will accrue to the sisters if they show the bravery that is part of their noble ancestry.18 Foley has associated Electra’s laments in this play and other female laments in plays dramatizing the myth of Orestes with female participation in vendetta in modern societies that practice it, especially with the cultural milieu of Mani.19 There are undoubtedly some similarities. From Homeric down to modern times, Greek women are charged with the care, including lament, of the dead, and serve as conduits between the world of the living and that of the dead. Thus in heroic Greek and other vendetta-practicing societies women in their laments construct a narrative that urgently incites men to avenge the death of a kinsman.20 However, the myth of Orestes in general and the play of Sophocles in particular are unlikely illustrations of such cultural practices. The laments of Orestes’ sister(s) are not mentioned in Odyssey. In Aeschylus’ Agamemnon Orestes was sent to Strophius before Agamemnon’s return (877–86). In the Electra plays of both Sophocles (11–14, 1130–35, 1348–50) and Euripides (16–18, 286–87), the boy was rescued and sent away immediately after his father’s murder. In the Sophoclean play, brother and sister are said to have communicated before Orestes’ return, but only Orestes’ messages to Electra are mentioned (169–72, 319, 1154–56). It is conceivable that Electra responded, but it is hardly plausible or fruitful to assume that her messages conveyed lengthy emotional laments, although she may have informed her brother about them. What is more important, Orestes was raised in the house of Strophius, under the tutelage of the tutor,21 for the purpose of avenging Agamemnon (1–14). Since the boy grew up away from his kinswomen and their problems,22 no female influence seems to have been involved in his decision to act or his plan to execute the revenge. At the end of the first scene in the prologue, Orestes expresses a desire to stay and listen to his sister’s laments (80–81), a possible indication of youthful emotionality but also of

18 For the manly stance advocated by Electra cf. n. 31 below. 19 Foley (2001) 151–71. Cf. Wheeler (2003) 379. 20 In cases in which no male relatives are available, women are known to take the requisite revenge; see Foley (2001) 162–63. 21 As in the case of the nurse in Trachiniae, this old slave is never called παιδαγωγός or anything similar in the play, but I retain the customary designation. 22 After his sister’s lament over the urn, he says that he knew very few of his own misfortunes (1185).

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the fact that he has had no experience of such laments in the past.23 Electra’s heartbreaking lament over the supposed funeral urn (1126–70) and her pitiable appearance (1181) move him greatly but do not instigate him to act. Instead, they induce him to digress from his plan, delay its execution, and reveal his identity to Electra (1203ff.). The dangers created by the reunion and the lengthy, vocal exchanges (1224–1321) it generates are castigated by the tutor, who intervenes to recall the siblings to action (1326–38; cf. 1364–71). Orestes needs no female instigation in order to act, and Electra nowhere suggests that her laments are likely to motivate him to do his duty. It is also implausible that Electra’s laments serve to create shared memory of Agamemnon and to strengthen the communal wish for revenge. As suggested above, the community’s hostility to the usurpers is not a prominent theme in the play but it is there and is not related to Electra’s laments. The chorus, who for all intents and purposes may be viewed as representatives of the community,24 try to restrain her and encourage her to tone down her laments (121–26, 137–44, 153–63, 176–79, 213–20). They wish for the destruction of Agamemnon’s murderer (127–28), but there is no indication that they are motivated or encouraged by Electra’s attitude and behavior. The masculine singular used for the perpetrator at 126 may be generalizing and include both murderers. Alternatively, it may point to the importance of Aegisthus in the play and the revenge plot, as March suggests, especially as it follows the chorus’ condemning reference to Clytaemestra (121–26).25 Sommerstein thinks that it is part of the alternative scenarios about the matricide that Sophocles hints at,26 but it is hard to believe that the chorus’ wish for punishment should, or would, be

23 The tutor thwarts the possibility that Orestes and his friends will meet, or at least see, Electra and listen to her laments (82–85). This has been viewed as Sophocles’ nod to the beginning of Aeschylus’ Choephori and the younger poet’s programmatic, as it were, statement of difference from his predecessor. The crucial difference, though, if such it is, appears earlier in the prologue, when Orestes states that he is about to make the offerings to his father’s tomb (51–53), which have already been made in Choephori (7–9; cf. Euripides’ Electra, 90–93), eventually leading characters to realize that he has returned. 24 Cf. especially 1227, Electra’s address to them not only as friends but also as citizens (πολίτιδες). Cf. also their invocation of the community at 1413. For the choice of chorus in the play see the discussion in 5 below. 25 March (2001) ad loc. 26 Sommerstein (1997) 200–1.

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thought to exclude Clytaemestra. The chorus’ expression of caution following their wish may be motivated by Clytaemestra’s (and perhaps Aegisthus’) relation to Electra rather than Aegisthus’ office as ruler.

Electra is unwilling to follow their advice and, as mentioned above, repeatedly acknowledges the inappropriate, transgressive nature of her laments and curses. She attributes it to the anomalous situation of her family and never claims that her transgression is, or should be viewed as, part of a communally accepted mode of resistance. As Electra explains to Chrysothemis, her laments enable her to distress the killers by harping on the ignominy of their crime and thus honoring her dead father (355–56). This substitute for revenge is an expression of loyalty to the beloved parent and hostility to the hated one.27 Electra’s laments are a form of personal resistance to her enemies. They demonstrate a consciously chosen and virtually selfconscious fixation on the past and its indelible memory in the present and future.28 They are not a way of bringing about the future by contributing to the revenge killings and do not illustrate the vendetta ethic.29

3. Glimpses of the glorious past, and the glorious future revenge In contrast to the discourse of revenge, the discourse of bravery and kleos cannot be directly related to the personal past of the characters, since the Trojan war and Agamemnon’s victory at Troy are virtually never mentioned by Electra. Although she prompts Chrysothemis to change her behavior and even to undertake manly action, she never brings up the father’s achievements as a precedent for the sisters to emulate. More tellingly

27 The Sophoclean Electra is one of the few surviving plays in which a character’s claims concerning his or her attitude and relationship to other characters are independently corroborated. Electra’s view of her laments and accusations is backed up by Clytaemestra’s quoted invective against the daughter (289–92) and by her statements in the agon (518–24) and in her response to the messenger speech (783–87, 797–98; cf. 802–3). Cf. also Aegisthus’ insinuation at 1445–46 and 1456. 28 Note especially 1245–50 and 1253–55. 29 The only extant Atreid play that mentions Electra’s vital role in instigating Orestes to take revenge during his exile is Euripides’ Orestes (615–21). The claim is made by Tyndareus, a highly biased and utterly hostile character, in the agon with Orestes and is not corroborated by any other character in the play. Even if the claim is taken at face value, Electra’s missives to Orestes did not include laments.

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perhaps, she never brings them up in connection with Orestes’ revenge, and neither does Orestes.30 Electra says that Agamemnon was not hosted by lethal Ares in a foreign land (95–96), i.e. that he was not killed at Troy, and the chorus call him once “leader of the Greeks” (483). The many toils and spoils of the long and difficult war, its great losses and glory are never mentioned. Even Helen, Menelaus and the Aulis sacrifice are brought up only by Clytaemestra in the agon (530–46). Electra responds to her mother’s invective (563–79) but she never refers to her sister Iphigeneia again. It is perhaps not accidental that no character refers to Iphigeneia by name: she is merely “the daughter” (542, 572, 582, 584) and “the sister” (531, 555). As will be argued in the next section, she was killed too long ago to really matter to the living any more.

The rewards of excellence and especially the prominence of kleos are staple themes in both archaic epic and lyric. Moreover, tyrannicide, as exemplified in the murder of the tyrant Hipparchus by the pair of brave friends Harmodius and Aristogeiton, featured as one of the most glorious and celebrated achievements in Athenian civic and historical narratives. Nevertheless, although Electra’s discourse evokes a value system deeply rooted in the communal past of the external audience, her fantasy of success does not include any mention of, or allusion to, a communal, political or familial past of the characters. Even if the external audience may be assumed to perceive Electra’s projections as a fantasy straight out of the old heroic/ civic mold,31 it is significant that Sophocles fails to foster such associations by any reference to either Troy or the liberation of Argos from the criminal couple. Electra, especially after the announcement of her brother’s death, is a character in whose mouth an association between the father’s glory and his daughters’ revenge as well as a projection of the two sisters as tyrannicides would not be out of place. Electra, though, mentions only demonstration of loyalty to father and brother, restoration of the house, recovery of the patrimony, universal honors and eternal kleos on account

30 Contrast, for instance, A. Ch. 302–3 (cf. Eum. 455–58), Eur. El. 335–38, 681, 880–81, and Or. 1060–64, 1167–71. For the tutor’s references to Agamemnon’s office (1, 694–95) see the discussion below. 31 For the association of Electra’s narrative with glory and especially tyrannicidal praise see March (2001) 198–99, and Finglass (2007b) 404. Cf. Juffras (1991), Wheeler (2003) 384, and Goldhill (2006) 153–56.

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of these worthy acts, and the prospect of (a good) marriage. Sophocles’ decision to gloss over the political aspect of the revenge, and especially the association with tyrannicide, is a problem for those who suggest that Electra’s promises to Chrysothemis shed light on precisely this aspect of her plan.32 Despite Electra’s attachment to the past in general and to her father in particular, it is the tutor who brings up in passing Agamemnon’s achievements at Troy and their reflection on Orestes. These brief but significant references are indicative of the play’s handling of the war, the gender division in the narrative of the past, and the appropriation of kleos. The first instance occurs in the very first line of the play, which has been considered spurious and bracketed by some recent editors (Dawe, Finglass).33 Finglass suggests that, in contrast to the beginning of Antigone and Philoctetes, the honorific address to Orestes does not add anything to the prologue and does not present a glorious Agamemnon as a model to be emulated by Orestes in his imminent revenge.34 It is difficult to make a convincing case for deletion along such lines. Of the extant Sophoclean plays, Ajax and OC begin with the speaker addressing the interlocutor simply as “child of X.”35 The goddess Athena addresses Odysseus and Oedipus his daughter Antigone respectively. Athena has no reason to exalt Odysseus, and it would certainly be out of place for Oedipus to refer in honorific terms to his daughter’s ancestry.36 The tutor is very different from these speakers, and a brief reference to the office of his addressee’s father is both apposite and in character for

32 See previous n. Juffras also thinks that the political coloring of Electra’s speech explains the focus on Aegisthus and the neglect of Clytaemestra. Cf. n. 17 above. 33 Haslam (1975) made the case for deletion on the basis of the scholia on Eur. Ph. 1–2 and later anecdotes, which quote the second but not the first line of Electra. Lloyd-Jones and Wilson (1990) 42 and (1997) 30 dispute the solidity of this evidence. March (2001) retains the line. 34 Finglass (2007b) ad loc. 35 OT begins with the plain address “children,” but this is followed by an apposition indicating the age and provenance of the addressees. The speaker identifies himself a little later as the glorious Oedipus (8), the king of Thebes (14): the suppliants are his young subjects. 36 A more emotional address, similar to that of Antigone to Ismene (Ant. 1), would be possible, but there is no dramatic need for it as in Antigone. Oedipus’ reference to his blindness (OC 1) and Antigone’s mention of his wretchedness in the opening of her response (OC 14) provide the first glimpses of the relationship and troubles of the two speakers; cf. 20–22.

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this loyal and pragmatic old attendant. The glory of Agamemnon is not mentioned, although it may be implied, but the tutor’s choice to refer to Agamemnon’s capacity as general ties in well with his admonition to Orestes (and Pylades) to take counsel and appropriate action speedily (15–22). As a general is responsible for planning and executing a campaign against the enemies, so Orestes is responsible for devising and executing a plan of action against his father’s killers. Besides, the simple address “child of Agamemnon” at the beginning of a speech occurs only twice in extant tragic plays (Eur. El. 1238 and IA 1404). The gods Dioscuri address their matricide nephew before expressing their objections to the oracle of Apollo that led Orestes to commit his terrible crime (El. 1238–46). Achilles tries to persuade Iphigeneia to accept his help and spare her life (IA 1412–15; cf. 1424–32), just before her imminent sacrifice by her father. Neither context warrants any favorable reference to Agamemnon. None of the above suggestions constitutes a definite proof that the first line of Electra is genuine, but all indicate that the case for deletion is weak and may to an extent undermine the prologue’s dramatic effect. Be that as it may, the tutor’s second reference to Agamemnon’s office (694–95) is much more intriguing. It occurs in the famous false messenger speech (680–763), which announces the supposed death of Orestes in the Pythian games. The length and elaborateness of the speech, which come as a surprise after Orestes’ brief instructions in the prologue (47–50), have generated critical debate concerning its dramatic function. The suggestions range from its being a mere show of virtuosity on Sophocles’ part to its being intimately related to the matricide, either as a sign of Clytaemestra’s imminent downfall or a problematization of Orestes’ use of deception in a family context, which contrasts with his alleged glorious and publicly acclaimed achievements at the games.37 The factual details in the speech and the verisimilitude they lend to it certainly contribute to its impact on the external audience. They allow the spectators to picture clearly Orestes’ alleged demise38 and heighten their anticipation of the reactions of the internal audience, especially of Electra, although it also seems unlikely that a shorter speech would seriously affect this anticipation. The

37 For references and discussion of previous views see MacLeod (2001) 107–10, and Marshall (2006). 38 They do not of course forget that the speech is false, as Tycho von Wilamowitz (1917) 188–91, for instance, suggested.

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internal audience have no reason to doubt the truth of the report, and they never actually do. The imminent arrival of the emissaries with the supposed funerary urn of Orestes, announced in the prologue (53–58) and the speech itself (757–60), would be enough to convince even the most suspicious recipient of the news. Still, the tutor may be thought to overplay his hand, motivated by his wish to convince the enemy beyond any doubt. It is also unlikely that a briefer or less elaborate speech would diminish the intense emotional response of the internal audience, since this obviously results from the news of Orestes’ death rather than the manner and circumstances of his death. The question why Sophocles chose a chariot race is moot.39 If reasons need to be adduced, the death of a prince at an athletic event of this sort and prestige would not affect his image and reputation. A Greek athlete certainly ran the risk of perishing in other events such as boxing or pancration, but a chariot accident involved no potential inferiority or defeat. Sophocles (or Orestes) had no reason to invent a contest in which the young prince died of wounds inflicted by an unscrupulously formidable opponent, whom he failed to overcome. It has been suggested that Orestes is presented in terms of young Athenian aspirants for high office, especially generalship.40 This may be so, although the effect of this contribution to his presentation would be limited: the political aspirations of the exiled prince and grown scion of the legitimate ruling family are a given, and it is unclear why Sophocles would relegate them primarily to the false speech.

The messenger reports the reactions of the spectators to the announcement of Orestes’ multiple and brilliant victories, which he calls unparalleled (689–93). Proclaimed a native of Argos, Orestes by name, the son of Agamemnon, who had once raised the famed army of Greece, the multiple victor was hailed as a fortunate man (693–95; cf. 685). The messenger speech combines epic description and language with epinician motifs.41 Orestes is presented as an epinician laudandus, a Pindaric or Bacchylidean victor: he is a supremely gifted young man in the finest hour of his youthful splendor, a worthy scion of his family, and a credit to his city. His father gathered a glorious army, and the son gathers splendid prizes. The ancient glory of the father is reflected on, and worthily perpetuated in, the unique

39 For the suggested association between this race and the race of Pelops and Myrtilus’ death, mentioned in the first stasimon (504–15), see n. 63 below. 40 See OKell (2004). 41 See Finglass (2007b) 301–2, and Marshall (2006) 213–14.

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achievements of the son. There is no allusion to the troubles of the family, Agamemnon’s murder, or the plain fact that he is dead, although it is true that neither internal nor external audience would be likely to disregard their impact, especially as Agamemnon’s fate was likely to be taken by the internal audience as a harbinger of the son’s doom. What is noteworthy in the reference to the father is that it fuses the announcement of the victories by the herald with the admiring reactions of the spectators to it. The announcement of victors at the Panhellenic games included only the victor’s name, patronymic, and homeland.42 Since the father’s illustrious office and achievements would not be accommodated in the announcement, they are clearly part of the spectators’ comments. If the real Orestes participated and won in any games, the spectators might hail him the way the messenger suggests, although not necessarily only in this way. This praise certainly captures the tutor’s view of the boy he saved and raised, or at least a view he pointedly presents to Clytaemestra (and only incidentally to Electra and the chorus, since the speech was meant for the ears of Clytaemestra and Aegisthus). The glad tidings he promised to the couple upon his arrival (666–67; cf. 56–57) include a potentially vexing reference to their victim’s undiminished status throughout the Greek world. Given Orestes’ supposed death, this cannot really upset Clytaemestra and can provide little comfort to the devastated Electra, but offers a glimpse of Orestes’ position and his relationship to his father(’s past). These hints may nuance the way the external audience judge Orestes and his mission, especially in connection with the play’s reworking of previous treatments of the story.43 The spectators are aware that the speech is false, but the lie concerns Orestes’ death. There is no indication that Orestes had never participated in athletic contests44 and that their spectators had not, or would not have, hailed the announcement of his victory. But irrespective of such possibilities, the reference to Agamemnon’s glory suggests that a favorable

42 For the form of the announcement and several examples from literature and inscriptions see Kurke (1993). 43 The glory of Orestes is a major theme in Odyssey (1.298–300, 3.193–204), which glosses over the matricide. Cf. Sommerstein (1997) 193–94. The theme is programmatically, as it were, touched upon by Orestes in the prologue of Sophocles’ play (59–66). 44 For the possible participation of the mythical Orestes in athletic events see Egan (1983), and for the possible allusions of the speech to a historical chariot race at the Pythia of 462 BC see Crowther (1994) 121.

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opinion of the general and his son was widespread among their contemporaries, and the audience had no reason, provided by tradition or the play itself, to doubt its genuineness. Apart from the tutor, and the glory he suggests, a positive view of Agamemnon and Orestes is held by the chorus. As already pointed out, at least a portion of the Argive population seem to hate the killers (127–28) and to eagerly await Orestes’ return and the restoration of the legitimate line. Although the women do not mention Agamemnon’s glory, another sign of their closeness to Electra and their sharing of her concerns, they call Agamemnon “the king of the Greeks” (483) and lament his death at the hands of his unfaithful and duplicitous wife and her paramour (193– 200; cf. 121–26). More significantly, perhaps, Orestes is a youth “blessed” (ὄλβιος, 160) in his removal from sorrows.45 He is destined to be welcomed back by the glorious land of Mycenae46 as born of noble blood when he arrives, dispatched benevolently by Zeus (160–63). This is apparently the common view of Orestes in Argos: he is the thoughtful son of Agamemnon (182), growing up safely away from his wretched family, and about to return to his glorious country to avenge his father with the aid of Zeus and the chthonic powers; he will restore his house, deliver his family, liberate his city, and reclaim his inheritance. Aegisthus exults in the news of Orestes’ supposed death, gloating that no citizen can now pin his hopes on Orestes but everybody should bow to his, Aegisthus’, power (1458–63). This is an indication that the rulers were aware of the hostility toward them, conceivably through declarations of defiance.47 The chorus are cautious and far from defiant but they are

45 Cf. A. Ch. 696–97. In the false messenger speech, the tutor uses a verb from the same root for the description of the spectators’ reaction to Orestes’ supposed multiple victories (ὠλβίζετ’, 693). 46 Even Orestes in Euripides’ IT (508, 510), a highly reluctant interlocutor and a man resolved to die in dignified silence, mentions the glory of Argos and the former happiness of Mycenae when he finally reveals his hometown to Iphigeneia before the recognition. The glory of Mycenae, or indeed any city in Greek literature, may be a stock motif, but should not be self-evidently decoupled from the achievements of its rulers and people. Be that as it may, the glory of Mycenae is never associated with Agamemnon and the capture of Troy, or even with the punishment of Agamemnon’s killers, in Sophocles’ play. 47 Cf. Electra’s complaint that her mother rages and changes her mode of abuse when she hears from someone that Orestes will come (293–95). The identity of the person making the announcement is not clear nor is his or her intention. Jebb (1894) ad loc. suggests people friendly to Clytaemestra and Aegisthus such as

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clearly on the side of Electra and Orestes. The women of course admonish Electra not to aggravate her situation through excessive sorrow and laments and they even suggest that she should heed Chrysothemis’ words (1015–16; cf. 990–91). Nevertheless, they admit that Electra is right and very noble in her willingness to die attempting to punish her father’s murderers (1078–97). They adopt Electra’s view of kleos and never dispute the truth of her claims that she is the only one who cares for her father’s memory (100–2). They also call her not only loyal and noble but also wise (1089), an echo of Electra’s view of her own attitude (cf. 145–46). I will return to their view of Electra’s decision below.

4. The remoteness of the criminal past For now, it is important to focus on the fact that not only glory and past happiness but also past crimes receive little attention in the play. Given the abundance and intergenerational spread of these crimes, this extraordinary feature is apparently a concomitant of the play’s emphasis on Electra’s attachment to her father and on her grievances. Only two crimes preceding Agamemnon’s murder are mentioned, the old murder of Myrtilus in the first stasimon (504–15), and the more recent sacrifice of Iphigeneia in the agon between Clytaemestra and Electra in the second episode (530–48, 563–94). I will begin with the latter, which is intimately connected with Agamemnon’s responsibility, and is much more extensively dealt with than the former. Clytaemestra claims that her mariticide was just (526–29; cf. 549–51) because Agamemnon had no right to sacrifice her girl, either for the sake of the Argive army or Menelaus (530–45): his terrible action revealed beyond doubt that he was a thoughtless and worthless father (546–48). Electra’s reply (558–609) is the only defense of Agamemnon in the play, and Sophocles’ only extant contribution to the mythological web woven around the cause of the sacrifice and Agamemnon’s role in it. As already pointed out at the beginning of this chapter, Electra claims that Agamemnon insulted Artemis by boasting about killing one of her stags, which he surprised in her grove (566–69). In retaliation, Artemis detained

Phanoteus, their Phocian guest-friend, who would communicate Orestes’ plans of revenge to the murderers, but it is possible that citizens or even household servants hostile to the rulers spread such rumors.

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the fleet at Aulis: she stopped all winds and asked for Iphigeneia’s sacrifice in recompense for the stag (570–73). Since the army could not sail to Troy or back home, Agamemnon was forced to comply with the divine demand, much against his will (573–76). The alleged impasse is viewed by Electra and several modern scholars as adequate justification for the sacrifice and thus as deft demolition of Clytaemestra’s case.48 Others have suggested that Electra’s appeal to hearsay (566) weakens her claims, and thus her version of the story is not to be taken at face value.49 The crucial question is whether Agamemnon really had no choice but to sacrifice Iphigeneia. The problem with Electra’s claim is not the accuracy of the fact that lack of winds prohibited the army’s return home. It is obvious that complete calm would prohibit all sailing, including the fleet’s potential sailing home. It is far from obvious that this trouble would rob Agamemnon of his freedom of choice with regard to his daughter’s sacrifice and would thus free him of punishable guilt. The supposed duress under which he acted is not a piece of factual information. Thus no audience would or should necessarily refrain from pondering the merits of Electra’s defense of her father on the basis of any alleged rule of thumb concerning the believability of a character’s claims. It is not clear at all that a man who wishes to spare his daughter’s life would care for the army’s being marooned at Aulis. Electra does not even suggest that the army would have killed him and Iphigeneia anyway, as Agamemnon does in Euripides’ IA (531–33). Besides, lack of winds was the problem faced by the fleet also in IA, but in that play the option of aborting the expedition, and presumably of the fleet’s returning home, remained open (94–96), although no difference in the situation of the army or Agamemnon suggests itself. It is not even clear that adverse winds prohibiting sailing to Troy would allow the fleet, or all of the contingents, primarily the northern ones such as those of Eumelus and Achilles, to sail home. In Aeschylus’ Agamemnon, for instance, in which adverse winds are

48 See March (2001) 176–77, and Finglass (2007b) 268. 49 See e.g. Kells (1973) on 573, Winnington-Ingram (1980) 220, Segal (1981) 271, and Ringer (1998) 160. This is never the case in tragedy; see Kyriakou (2006) 75. Van Erp Taalman Kip (1996) argues that a character’s words should be believed if they are not contradicted by other information in the text. Though plausible, the rule is too general to be of much use, and Van Erp Taalman Kip’s discussion of several Sophoclean examples, especially the judgment of arms in Ajax and Electra’s claim, is unconvincing. For Ajax see B I 8 above. For Electra see the discussion below.

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said to have detained the fleet at Aulis, Agamemnon did have the option of aborting the expedition, although he considered it a shameful and unbecoming thing for the commander to do (212–17).50 It is true that comparison with other plays is not a priori legitimate in, and cannot self-evidently be brought to bear on, the interpretation of a tragic character’s statements. That said, it should at least be acknowledged that, irrespective of the version of events found in other plays, Electra’s claim does not automatically absolve her father of responsibility for her sister’s sacrifice.51 In final analysis, Aulis was not an island port: if Agamemnon was adamantly determined not to sacrifice his daughter and the calm persisted, the army could walk home. Electra’s account does not suggest that Artemis would not allow anyone to leave Aulis by land unless Iphigeneia had been sacrificed. Even if this were the implication of her account, again Agamemnon could choose to ignore the army’s plight. Clytaemestra does not point out anything to that effect, and it is likely that the poet did not take these problems into account or that he did not want the audience to ponder them. On the other hand, it is not selfevident that Clytaemestra’s failure to respond to the claim about the calm at Aulis would (be meant to) lead the audience to accept its validity at face value, especially since Clytaemestra does not respond to any of Electra’s claims. First speakers in tragic debates commonly do not answer their opponents, but the case of second speakers is rarely unassailable, either logically or rhetorically, and audiences were presumably alert to these weaknesses. In any case, Electra admits that Agamemnon sacrificed his daughter for the sake of the army. But this was precisely Clytaemestra’s first

50 Cf. Appendix A III.2. 51 Irrespective of the alleged necessity Agamemnon faced at Aulis, his boasting is certainly an impious offense, although some scholars such as Finglass (2007b) 268 consider it trivial. Electra downplays the severity of her father’s impiety, but her view is biased and cannot be used as proof of the triviality of the offense. Still, the question remains whether Agamemnon’s murder may be traced back to Artemis’ anger. It has been argued that this is the case in Aeschylus’ Agamemnon, although no boasting or other offense is involved in that play; see A IV 4 above. It cannot be ruled out that Sophocles presents such a version of causality in Electra. But the fact that neither Clytaemestra, the most interested party, nor any other character makes such a claim cannot be disregarded. It is thus preferable not to connect Agamemnon’s death with his boasting: as in Aeschylus’ Agamemnon, Artemis is unlikely to punish the guilty party twice, and Sophocles in Electra is unlikely to imply that Clytaemestra and Aegisthus were the instruments of divine wrath.

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suggestion in her speech (534–35), and thus Electra does what her mother suggested she would do, namely argue that Agamemnon acted for the sake of the army. Although Electra does claim that Artemis was the agent responsible for the sacrifice, there can remain little doubt that the final decision belonged to Agamemnon. It is also difficult to consider implausible that he took it, also or primarily, because he wished to help Menelaus. That was Clytaemestra’s second claim (537–38) and, although Electra denies it (576), she does not consider this motive unworthy of her father and punishable by death (577–79). Generally, from the point of view of the play’s handling of the past, the sacrifice of Iphigeneia is treated rather perfunctorily. Clytaemestra, who invokes it to justify her murder of Agamemnon, does not present it as a link in the chain of intergenerational crimes in the family but as a theft: Agamemnon took something that belonged to her and destroyed it, so she feels that her revenge was just (528; cf. 538). Unlike the Aeschylean Clytaemestra (Ag. 1433, 1497–1504), she does not appeal to any infernal powers in charge of punishing internecine crimes. The girl belonged to her because of the bond created through gestation and parturition (533): neither the father (532–33) nor the army (536) had any claim on her daughter. This crude suggestion, the reverse of the specious claim of Orestes and especially Apollo that the mother is no blood-relative of her children (A. Eum. 606, 657–66), is not argued at any reasonable length.52 Her view of the alleged injustice and the violation of her rights is too idiosyncratic to warrant serious consideration as a justification for her crime.53 Similarly, as argued above, Electra’s attempt to exonerate Agamemnon from the charge of having killed his daughter for inexcusable reasons falls rather flat, and this failure undermines her ultimate goal of demolishing her mother’s claim to justice.

52 In Euripides’ Electra Clytaemestra takes a similar line of defense (note especially “my daughter” at 1020 and “when he killed what was mine” at 1045) but she tries to argue her case in legal terms, by presenting Agamemnon as violator of the terms of the marriage contract he had made with Tyndareus (1018–19). She also invokes the presence of Cassandra as the final straw that led her to kill her husband (1030–40). More important, she is conciliatory toward her daughter (1102–5) and declares that she has come to regret her actions (1105–6, 1109–10). The Sophoclean Clytaemestra is utterly unrepentant (549–50) and shows no sympathy to Electra. 53 Cf. Blundell (1989) 162–63.

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Some scholars suggest that Electra’s response to her mother’s speech also protects herself and Orestes from condemnation of the potential matricide as an act of talio: the matricide is presented as a just punishment for a crime, while Clytaemestra’s murder of Agamemnon has no similar justification since, according to Electra, it was the consequence of evil persuasion (561–62) and blind revenge (cf. 577–84). If, as my discussion above indicates, Electra does not effectively demolish her mother’s invocation of her father’s guilt, she cannot clearly differentiate the potential matricide from her father’s murder.54 No act can lay a serious claim to justice in this debate, but Orestes at least has been grievously wronged through his mother’s attempt on his life and his disfranchisement (cf. 601–2).55 What is noteworthy is the failure of both mother and daughter to make any serious appeal to divine law or protection in support of their claims. Although Electra prayed to chthonic powers in the prologue (110–20), and there are references to talio and the Erinyes in the play (472–94, 1080, 1391–92, 1417–21), the debate of mother and daughter takes place on the human level and quickly retakes the form of yet another report of mutual grievances and exchange of insults. It is ironic, then, that only two divinities, Artemis and Apollo, are invoked in the debate (626, 637–59), both by Clytaemestra at the end: they are precisely the gods involved in the Aulis sacrifice and the imminent matricide respectively. Still, the similarities between Electra and Clytaemestra and the ironies involved in their debate notwithstanding, Electra’s lack of (undisputed) success in the debate does not diminish the force of the other accusations she levels against her mother, although they are idiosyncratically colored by her virtual obsession with her father’s murder. According to her, one of

54 Cf. Burnett (1998) 137 n. 57, and MacLeod (2001) 87–89. Cf. also next n. 55 Finglass (2007b) 271–72, who also believes that Electra refutes her mother’s appeal to justice, correctly points out that Electra falls back on shame rather than talio, and that this problematizes the imminent matricide. In his view, just killings are not that different from talio killings because all are retaliatory, and talio is a form of justice. Contra earlier critics such as Winnington-Ingram (1980) 220–21, and following others (e.g. Friis Johansen [1964], McDevitt [1983], Stinton [1986] 77–78 = [1990] 468–69, MacLeod [2001]), who have pointed out the tension between justice and nobility in the play, Finglass claims that the matricide cannot be equated with Agamemnon’s murder, despite the reference to the law of reciprocal killings, because the matricides will have justice on their side, although their action will be shameful, like Clytaemestra’s. There is no doubt that the matricide is presented as shameful (cf. n. 13 above), but Electra’s claims in the debate cannot make up for the play’s failure to dwell on the morality of the matricide.

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Clytaemestra’s gravest offenses is her union with Aegisthus. Electra views him primarily as her father’s killer and the worst enemy of the family, in which, paradoxically, she appears to include her mother, since she accuses her of sleeping with and having children by the enemy, the polluted killer of Agamemnon (585–94; cf. 271–76). Given that the murder was perpetrated by the couple in cooperation and not by Aegisthus alone (587–88), the accusation of pollution is rather hollow. A murderer who sleeps with his victim’s wife commits a further outrage punishable by the Erinyes, but a woman who killed her husband is beyond redemption, even if she did not sleep with her lover and fellow criminal. The adultery of Clytaemestra and Aegisthus is mentioned several times in the play but always from the point of view of Agamemnon’s murder. Unlike Electra in Euripides’ Electra and even Aeschylus’ Choephori, the heroine in Sophocles’ play does not accuse her mother of having a predisposition to adultery, or of having bought an accomplice and husband with Agamemnon’s (and his children’s) possessions. The background of the adultery is never addressed in the play, and even Aegisthus is not portrayed as equally weak and worthless as in the other revenge plays. Electra once calls him “an utter coward . . . a man who fights with the help of women” (301–2; perhaps at 1241–42 she includes Aegisthus in “the useless burden of women living within,” although he is absent at the moment), but she attributes Clytaemestra’s murder of Agamemnon to the influence of her wicked lover (561–62). Aegisthus is never given the opportunity, and is at the end denied license, to argue his case (1483–92).56 Up to his demise, though, he rules both house and city with an iron hand: he is the only one who can restrain Electra by force (312–13, 516–20, 626–27), and all characters consider him a dangerous foe (310–11, 314–16, 1001–2, 1367–71, 1402–3, 1438–41). The debate, then, may be thought to end with a slight advantage, on points, as it were, in favor of Electra, but with no real review of the past: no new insight into the decisions that led to the terrible crimes emerges, and the balance of guilt does not really shift. The chorus’ only comment

56 This contrasts with the end of Aeschylus’ Agamemnon, in which Aegisthus threatens the citizens (1639–42; cf. 1619–24, 1628–32, 1666, 1670), as he does in Electra (1460–63), but he also has the opportunity to attempt to present his participation in the killing of Agamemnon as an act of justice (1577–1611). In Choephori, he does not argue his case, but Clytaemestra, who is the second victim as he is in Electra, is allowed an attempt to do so (908–20).

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in the debate (ὁρῶ μένος πνέουσαν· εἰ δὲ σὺν δίκῃ / ξύνεστι, τοῦδε φροντίδ’ οὐκέτ’ εἰσορῶ, 610–11) seems to underline this lack of progress. They probably suggest that Electra’s speech shows her vehemence but claim that they have no way of knowing whether she is right. It is not immediately clear whether the chorus refer to Electra’s or Clytaemestra’s anger, and Lloyd-Jones and Wilson think that there is a lacuna of one line before 610, which would make clear that the women address Clytaemestra.57 Although somewhat abrupt, the beginning of 610 (ὁρῶ μένος πνέουσαν) can stand by itself, and thus no lacuna needs to be postulated. It is simpler to assume that it refers to Electra, since she has spoken last, and her speech is longer and more emotionally charged than her mother’s. The rest of the comment (εἰ δὲ σὺν δίκῃ / ξύνεστι, τοῦδε φροντίδ’ οὐκέτ’ εἰσορῶ, 610–11) is more puzzling. Electra is preeminently concerned with the justice of her case throughout, and there is no reason to think that the chorus would claim that her attitude has changed now. The last part of her speech (597–602) reiterates her constant complaints about the abuse she and Orestes have been suffering at the hands of Clytaemestra and her mate. This focus does not undermine her concern with justice, and the speech ends with a defiant declaration of her wish to have Orestes punish Clytaemestra (603–5). As to her, whether she became angry or not, there is no indication, and it would be puzzling for the chorus to suggest, that she would not care whether she has justice on her side. Irrespective of her anger, Clytaemestra is certain, and has already argued to the effect, that her daughter is in the wrong (529, 550–51; cf. 547). The chorus would hardly expect or indirectly admonish Clytaemestra to condemn herself by considering the possible justice of Electra’s claims. The chorus’ statement at 610–11, then, probably refers to their inability to judge the merits of Electra’s claims to justice. Nevertheless, the mention of care may point also to Clytaemestra, whether intentionally or not, since she so interprets it, picking up the word (612) and defending her neglect of her shameless daughter (613–15). The chorus’ own failure to mention the Aulis sacrifice points more clearly to their (and the play’s) concerns with regard to the past, especially the events preceding Agamemnon’s murder. This failure dims considerably the importance of a cardinal event in the family past. To be sure, the sacrifice is also glossed over in the other extant plays dramatizing Orestes’

57 Lloyd-Jones and Wilson (1990) 53–54.

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revenge, Aeschylus’ Choephori and Euripides’ Electra.58 The sacrifice belongs to a fairly remote past, and the principals have done and/or suffered much following it. The more recent past is naturally a much more decisive factor in determining their present actions and their supporters’ attitude. Nevertheless, Choephori is part of a trilogy, the first part of which deals extensively with the sacrifice. The chorus in Euripides’ Electra deal with the family past in greater detail, devoting an entire stasimon, though with a heavily ironic end, to the quarrel of Atreus and Thyestes and its consequences (699–746). Sophocles suppresses the remoter family past much more energetically – even Agamemnon’s murder is less prominently recalled, at least in the second part of the play, than in Euripides’ play.

5. The chorus As already suggested, Sophocles includes only one reference to the remote past of the family in the play: in the epode of the first stasimon, the chorus recall the killing of Myrtilus by Pelops and its consequences for the Pelopid house (504–15). The connection of the epode to the rest of the stasimon has given rise to scholarly debate.59 In the strophe and antistrophe (472–503), the women echo the end of the previous episode and express their hope that the dream of Clytaemestra predicts the downfall of the guilty couple by the agency of avenging supernatural forces. The epode seems to mark a change of tone: the women lament the troubles of the family through the generations, locate their beginnings in the killing of Myrtilus, and seem to foresee no end of grief. The shift in tone seems so abrupt that Clytaemestra’s entrance has been invoked to account for it. There is of course no cogent reason to assume such an entrance. The shift is noteworthy, but the optimism of the strophic pair is not incompatible with a realization that the troubles of the house have been of long standing. Nor is there necessarily

58 In Euripides’ IT, in which the sacrifice is important for thematic reasons, the chorus also never refer to it, except at 446, an echo of a wish that Iphigeneia had expressed earlier (354–58). Events that preceded and followed Iphigeneia’s sacrifice receive little emphasis in the play, and the background of Clytaemestra’s crime and Orestes’ matricide are completely glossed over. See Kyriakou (2006) 11–13, and cf. n. 66 below. In Orestes, the remoter past of the family features quite prominently, but Iphigeneia’s sacrifice is mentioned only once by Orestes (658). 59 For an overview see Finglass (2007b) 236–38.

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any implication that they will continue after the punishment of Agamemnon’s murderers. It should not be forgotten that the audience are aware of Orestes’ return and the (probable) imminence of his revenge, but the women of the chorus can only hope that Justice will triumph soon. Until the Erinys arrives to punish the guilty, and it is far from clear that she will do so forthwith, the house will continue to suffer. When she does, new murders will take place, and one of them will be a matricide. Even assuming that it will entail no punishment, it will be another grievous outrage. The silence about the motive for the murder of Myrtilus and the lack of any mention of curses and inherited guilt soften the harshness of the shift of tone in the epode and to a great extent insulate the coming vengeance from the specter of talio.60

The story of Myrtilus is not related in the stasimon. According to a scholion (127.6–11 Papageorgius) going back to the version found in Pherecydes (FGrHist 3 F 37b = fr. 37b EGM), he tried to rape Hippodameia.61 If this version is thought to be implied, then the story featured punishment for illicit lust, a recurrent source of trouble in the Pelopid family. But there is no guarantee that this was the version Sophocles meant to suggest. On the contrary, Pelops seems to be presented as the guilty party: the murder he committed may not be as horrible as Clytaemestra’s but it did initiate the intergenerational troubles of his house, although it did not necessarily cause them. Nothing is said in the song about Oenomaus and the victory of Pelops over him. Still, some version of the traditional story should be assumed to be implied, especially since Myrtilus is mentioned, and Pelops apparently won by deceit and violence. However, this is unlikely to be the chief referent of the chorus,62 as Oenomaus was the instigator of violence, and Pelops is never accused of having killed him. If Pelops is thought to have killed Myrtilus in order to eliminate an annoying rival, to whom he had earlier promised a reward that involved access to Hippodameia, then the position of Pelops is certainly much more precarious morally and his legacy to the family much more problematic. The chorus, though, do not elaborate on

60 Cf. Stinton (1986) 79 = (1990) 471, Parker (1999) 18, and Sewell-Rutter (2007) 102–3. For ancestral curses and inherited guilt in Sophocles’ work cf. also West (1999). 61 Other versions suggested that Pelops had promised Myrtilus Hippodameia’s hand or the first night with her; for the various versions of the myth see O’Brien (1988), and Finglass (2007b) 247–48. 62 Pace Gardiner (1987) 148–49.

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the background of his guilt and do not suggest that the family was burdened by inherited guilt, especially since they fail to mention the curse of Myrtilus.63 The most intriguing feature of the epode of the stasimon is the chorus’ failure to mention the troubles of the generation of Atreus and Thyestes, the fathers of Agamemnon and Aegisthus respectively. Of course, the horrible deeds of Atreus and Thyestes are inscribed in “the many painful troubles” (515) that have plagued the Pelopid house “since Myrtilus went to sleep” (509).64 Nevertheless, it cannot be accidental and overlooked that the deeds of the two brothers are never mentioned in the play.65 Their strife unfolded against a background of greed, deception, adultery, and internecine slaughter that irrevocably blighted the family’s fortunes. Since Clytaemestra’s adultery and deception are so prominent in the play, and since she condemns Agamemnon as a wicked child-murderer, it is remarkable that the crimes of the previous generation are never so much as alluded to. Coupled with the opaque background of the crime of Pelops and the perfunctory treatment of the sacrifice of Iphigeneia, the suppression of the crimes of the generation of Atreus and Thyestes focuses the spotlight on the murder of Agamemnon and its consequences. No other extant Atreid play, and certainly none of the other revenge plays, fails to mention at least

63 Cf. n. 60 above. Critics have seen a connection between the chariot race of Pelops and the chariot race in which Orestes supposedly perished. See Blundell (1989) 174 and MacLeod (2001) 109 n. 10, who suggest that the association between a morally compromised Pelops and Orestes colors the presentation of the latter and implies the continuation of family troubles after the matricide. But Orestes specifies the athletic event in the prologue (49–50), long before any mention of Myrtilus has been made, and the appropriate mode of a fictitious death as continuation of family troubles, or the “echo” of a stasimon in a false speech, stretches the limits of critical flexibility. Besides, the punishment of Orestes may be suggested by the reference to the ongoing misfortunes initiated by the killing of Myrtilus. 64 In the prologue, the tutor also calls the Pelopid house πολύφθορον (10), and Aegisthus at the end will ask whether the house is meant to witness all the present and future misfortunes of the Pelopids (1497–98). For the latter passage see the discussion in 8 below. 65 Even the designation “Atreid” is extremely rare and never used for Agamemnon (or Menelaus) alone. At 1069 the chorus apparently refer not only to Agamemnon but also to the supposedly dead Orestes. Clytaemestra also refers to the house of the Atreids (651). Only at the very end do the chorus mention the line of Atreus (1508).

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the crime of Atreus, and most include Thyestes. Euripides’ IA, which of course mentions Atreus and even Tantalus (504) in a possibly ironic passage, also omits reference to the strife, but in that play Agamemnon has not killed his daughter yet and possibly never does: the end is spurious, but Iphigeneia was apparently spirited away by Artemis.66 Remarkably, Sophocles allows the women of the chorus, and only them and only once, to grope for a causal perspective that goes back in time farther than the generation and murder of Agamemnon. Still, he does not allow them to hit any nail of the past in the head, not even the obvious one of Iphigeneia’s sacrifice, which will be debated in the next episode. Instead, they offer a hazy glimpse of an event so far back in the past and so ill-defined as to seem causally remote or even irrelevant. The repetition of “outrage” (αἰκεία 486, 511, 515), which many scholars unsurprisingly saw as a thematic link between the strophic pair and the epode, also underlines the chorus’ lack of insight into the intergenerational troubles of the house and their failure to draw potentially crucial distinctions. They keep hammering on the concept, as if it explained everything, and as if its repetition would suffice for their purpose. Repetitions over short intervals are not unknown in Greek poetry in general and in tragedy in particular.67 Sophocles is also more tolerant of repetition in the same or adjacent lines than the other tragedians.68 However, a triple repetition within a relatively short song is unlikely to be accidental, especially since it is coupled with the repetition of πολύπονος in the isosyllabic and homoioteleutic cola that frame the epode (πολύπονος ἱππεία at 505 and πολύπονος αἰκεία at 515). It is also noteworthy that words related to αἰκεία have already been used by Electra in her lament for her father’s manner of death (102, 206) and echoed by the chorus in their reference to the self-inflicted misfortunes Electra suffers (216).

The chorus’ view of the past is selective to the point of partiality, and their attitude cannot be dissociated from their fairly close relationship to Electra. One of the most distinctive features of this chorus, and possibly the

66 See Kyriakou (2006) 21–22. Even I T mentions the strife of Atreus and Thyestes (812–17), although it suppresses references to Aegisthus, Clytaemestra’s adultery, and the dark past of the family; see n. 58 above. 67 See e.g. Jackson (1955) 17, 220–22, Sier (1988) 122 n. 12, Pickering (2000) and (2003). 68 See Pickering (2000) 89, 99.

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most distinctive, is their consistent focus on the shameful behavior of Agamemnon’s murderers, their lethal and adulterous intrigue and their mistreatment of Orestes and Electra. Although the women are not related to Electra or her family in any formal capacity, they are emotionally closer to her than, for instance, the chorus of Ajax to the eponymous hero, of Philoctetes to Neoptolemus, or of Trachiniae to Deianeira. Argive noble women are indeed quite likely to share Electra’s beliefs and feelings. The women are also likely to focus on personal and domestic issues rather than the political background of Orestes’ revenge. Nevertheless, it should be firmly kept in mind that the choice of the particular chorus does not automatically downgrade the potential for a civic or communal perspective, as Aeschylus’ presentation of the Choephori chorus indicates.69 Similarly, a choice of a male chorus would not automatically entail substantially greater emphasis on the political background of Orestes’ revenge70 and, what is more important in the present context, would not a priori enhance Electra’s isolation. The sex and age of the chorus of Antigone are often juxtaposed to those of the chorus of Electra as choices meant to highlight Antigone’s isolation from, and Electra’s integration in, the civic group.71 It is plausible that playwrights decided on features of choruses such as sex, age and social status with a view to representing a specific relationship between the choruses and the principals. On the other hand, these features do not function as signposts to the audience. Although they are women, the chorus of Choephori, for instance, are not closer to Electra than to Orestes, and do not focus on domestic issues. The Theban elders of Antigone could have supported the heroine despite their sex and age, and in Electra an aged male chorus could have shared Electra’s laments. The choice of a female chorus for the play is unsurprising but not to be taken for granted as determined by the play’s principal focus. Although a female chorus is likely to be sympathetic to a female protagonist, the audience certainly could not deduce how the poet would portray the chorus or their relationship to Electra on the basis of the chorus’ sex, age, or social status.

69 For the extraordinary representation of a chorus of female slaves as prominent agents in Orestes’ revenge and representatives of the civic community see A V n. 46 above. 70 See Gardiner (1987) 163. 71 See e.g. MacLeod (2001) 42–43, and cf. Budelmann (2000) 245–46.

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The women do not shift from a benevolent but critical stance toward Electra to an unqualified adoption of her views and praise for her most extreme plan, to murder Aegisthus single-handedly (1019–20).72 There may be some differences in the various utterances of the chorus but they are small and do not indicate clearly articulated development or marked change in their views. The women try to restrain or comfort Electra (121–26, 137–44, 153–63, 176–79, 213–20) but never disagree with her, as they declare at the beginning of the first episode (252–53). They assume the role that her mother has abdicated (cf. 233–35), standing loyally by her always. They admonish her in the manner of Chrysothemis (330–31; cf. 383–84, 396, 1013–14), before she distances herself from Electra completely (1055–57), although admittedly the chorus’ attitude is warmer, presumably because they are not worn down by constant bickering. The discrepancy between their admonition to Electra to heed the advice of Chrysothemis (1015–16; cf. 990–91) and their subsequent praise of the rebellious sister in the second stasimon (1074–97) has caused puzzlement because the two statements occur within a short interval, and the change has no detectable cause. If viewed as contradictory, the chorus’ two pronouncements are certainly difficult to account for, but there is no reason to view them so. As already indicated, the women are sympathetic to Electra and praise her loyalty to her dead father throughout the play. They also express confidence in, and hope for, Orestes’ return (160–63, 180–82, 322; cf. 472–94) and success (1384–97). Nevertheless, they urge both sisters and primarily Electra to show good judgment, caution and restraint.73 When Chrysothemis argues against Electra’s plan for revenge (992–1014), the women acknowledge the soundness of her arguments and the virtual impossibility of success. When Chrysothemis exits, the women regret the strife of the two sisters (1058–73) and express admiration for Electra’s attitude (1074–97). There is no doubt that they have deep respect for her steadfastness and determination. Certain now that she will not reconsider, they do not urge her to be cautious anymore, accepting her as they did at 252–53.

72 This is the view of Ierulli (1993), who argues that Electra converts the community of women, represented by the chorus, from their female and mother-oriented point of view to her devotion to the interests of the father. No such clear-cut distinction or shift finds support in the text. 73 See especially their admonition to the sisters to put aside their anger and heed each other’s arguments (369–71). For their neutral comment in the agon between Electra and Clytaemestra (610–11) see the discussion in the previous section.

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When they thought that there was a possibility for Electra to change her mind and eschew death, they tried to persuade her to show foresight and wise thoughtfulness. When all attempts at persuasion fail, and the sisters quarrel before they part, the chorus praise Electra’s determination. One may plausibly assume, without falling into irreconcilable contradictions, that the women recognized Electra’s piety during the agon with Chrysothemis but ranked safety and life, or at least caution and patience, higher than noble but rash actions. When Electra fails to reconsider, they give her due praise for her stance.74 It is significant, though, that, despite their great sympathy, admiration and good wishes for her, they nowhere foresee success or even divine help for her plan. They acknowledge that it is a product of her noble nature (1081), which predisposes her toward commendable filial loyalty (1075–80) and exceptional piety (1095–97). Her desire for the preservation of a fine reputation is also attributed to her nobility, and her excellent behavior guarantees her the highest prize, praise for it (1081–89). Electra herself had tried to secure Chrysothemis’ cooperation by promising universal fame and praise for the bold sisters who would have avenged their father and restored their house (973–85). The women of the chorus do not speak about success but about noble resolve and unflagging piety. They wish that Electra may succeed and survive (1090–95) but do not claim that she will. Instead, they assure her that her decision is noble, although probably doomed. The chorus’ view of Electra is thus quite similar to that of Chrysothemis: she acknowledges that her sister’s attitude is just and pious (338–39; cf. 466–67) but insists that it does no real harm to the enemies (336) and especially that it will destroy Electra (374–75, 383–84, 398) and herself, if she follows the incautious sister (1003–14). The chorus never state that Electra’s laments harm the enemies and they seem to recognize that her attitude, especially her decision to kill Aegisthus single-handedly, is very likely to destroy her. Nevertheless, unlike Chrysothemis, the chorus lavishly praise Electra’s stance. The women also lament the strife between the sisters. This theme is usually left out of consideration in scholarly

74 Finglass (2007b) 427 thinks that the shift prepares the audience to receive sympathetically Electra’s lament over the urn. But even if one admits that such preparation is dramatically useful, no shift in the chorus’ attitude is needed for such a purpose. On the contrary, the chorus could have shown support to Electra, and disposed the audience positively toward her, both in the confrontation with Chrysothemis and in the second stasimon.

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discussions, but this neglect does not do justice to a song which expresses the wish that the dead relatives of the sisters learn of their disgraceful and lamentable strife (1066–73), conceivably in order to help them resolve it and return to the former harmony of a loving life. Still, since the women praise Electra, they must implicitly reject Chrysothemis’ stance. It is important, though, that they never openly chastise or blame her and wish for the reconciliation of the sisters, although presumably this should occur through Chrysothemis’ adoption of Electra’s plan. The question why we humans do not adopt the stance of the very wise birds and the assertion that we will suffer the implacable punishment of Zeus as a consequence (1058–65) has been viewed as criticism of, and prediction for, the dire consequences of Chrysothemis’ stance. WinningtonIngram is right that the prudent and commonsensical Chrysothemis is an unlikely target for such weighty pronouncements.75 What is more important, not only have Agamemnon and especially Orestes died but the loyal Electra will also probably perish, albeit gloriously, while Chrysothemis is bound to at least survive. Electra, a member of a criminal, unfortunate and divided family, has been suffering and will likely perish despite her loyalty to her father and her pious respect for the highest laws of Zeus. Some scholars have suggested that the song contains an implicit criticism of the planned matricide.76 The reference to the birds at the beginning of the song (1058–65) has been interpreted as a praise of filial piety, but this reading is not the only one possible. The wisdom of the birds consists in taking care of the necessities of life (τροφή, 1059–60) and helping those who help them (1060–62). There may even be three objects of the birds’ care, their nourishment, their parents, and perhaps their children, or any other bird that benefits them. (There is also a remoter but not self-evidently dismissable possibility that the pronouns in the secondary clauses at 1060–62 are not masculine but neutral. If so, the birds are said to take care of their sustenance, of the things that contribute to their development and prosperity.) Be that as it may, the reference then is not (only) to filial piety as exemplified by birds but (also) to the natural and commendable behavior of the birds, which promotes their survival and prosperity. This contrasts with the unnatural pursuits and criminal behavior of humans, which grievously harms and eventually

75 Winnington-Ingram (1980) 243; cf. next n. 76 See e.g. Winnington-Ingram (1980) 245–46, Ringer (1998) 184–85, and MacLeod (2001) 149–52.

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destroys them and their families through strife and divine punishment. Although the chorus’ praise of avian wisdom has been motivated by each sister’s attempt to lay claim to virtue in the quarrel, the women’s castigation of humans includes not only Chrysothemis (and perhaps Electra) but also Clytaemestra and Aegisthus and perhaps the perpetrators of crimes further back in the past such as Agamemnon and Pelops.

The fulsomeness with which the chorus praise Electra makes criticism of matricide very unlikely, as does her failure to mention the crime in the previous episode. Like Electra, the women look neither to the near future nor to the distant past. They lament the latest adverse developments, Orestes’ death and especially the irreconcilable, shameful split between the sisters, which have left Electra without any support and the house without any credible prospect of a “cure.” Electra’s lot will be glorious and lamentable because she will probably die in her attempt to avenge her father. Chrysothemis’ life will be shameful and lamentable because she will not attempt to avenge her father.

6. Orestes: heartlessly cold? The chorus’ view of Agamemnon’s murder as well as Electra’s nobility and penchant for dangerous excess are shared not only by Chrysothemis but also, and much more significantly, by Orestes.77 He is responsible for the revenge and thus most actively associated with the family’s internecine past, as the latest member in charge of the perpetuation of the blight, or of the breaking of the bloody chain, as the case may be. The chorus’ most direct link with Orestes, though, is not their esteem for him or their attitude toward his passionate sister. What mainly links the women to Orestes, and of course to Electra, is the shared focus on Agamemnon’s murder, or a narrowly selective view of the past. Orestes has a relatively small role in Electra, especially in comparison with the other revenge plays. His determination never falters, and the play’s failure to address the moral problem of the matricide and his

77 After the recognition, he will repeatedly admonish Electra to moderate her reaction to his arrival, which he deems excessive and potentially dangerous (1236, 1238, 1251–52, 1257, 1259, 1271, 1288–1300). For his part, the tutor will scold both siblings for their dangerous lack of good judgment in indulging their joy and neglecting the task at hand (1326–38; cf. 1364–71).

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eventual punishment for the crime, which are prominent in the other tragic treatments of the myth, facilitates the presentation of a character with relatively few complexities.78 As mentioned earlier, there is one intriguing glimpse of what may be taken as youthful emotionality, his desire to listen to his sister’s lament in the prologue (80–81). He is also overwhelmed by Electra’s lament over the urn (1126–70) and moved to reveal his identity to her and the chorus (1174–75, 1203ff.). For the rest, he is completely dedicated to his task, and he has devised a clever, elaborate ruse to trick his enemies and execute his revenge (38–58). His concentration is fostered by the presence, support and admonitions of the tutor, who declares very early on in the prologue that he has reared Orestes for the task of avenging his father Agamemnon (13–14). Although the initiative and intrigue belong to Orestes, the youthful leader of the mission freely acknowledges his old servant’s laudable qualities (23–28), defers to his judgment (31), and counts on his help (39–41). Supported by this excellent elder, his sister’s passion for revenge, the silent presence of his companion Pylades and, most of all, by Apollo’s oracle, the Sophoclean Orestes is portrayed as the paradigmatic youthful avenger of his father.79 Nevertheless, apart from his concentration on the task at hand, Orestes is not associated with his father’s glorious achievements, which receive little emphasis in the play, or with his father’s royal office in any prominent or sustained manner. Equally significantly, and more controversially, Orestes does not emerge as a “worthy” son of his ruthlessly duplicitous and murderous mother, despite his treachery, as I will argue next. Largely

78 The formulation of his reference to the wisdom of Apollo’s oracle at 1425 (“if Apollo prophesied well”) does not indicate doubt or reservations, as several commentators ( Jebb, March, Finglass) ad loc. point out. Although it is conceivable, and perhaps likely, that at least some members of the audience would take Orestes’ statement as a turning point in the play, which would initiate a shift in his attitude toward the matricide, such shift never materializes. If Sophocles meant the audience to take Orestes’ statement as a possible expression of doubt, he intended it as a teasing blind end, which would not bring the play closer to other revenge plays. 79 For Orestes’ communication with Electra during his stay at Phocis (169–72, 319, 1154–56) see 2 above. Even if Electra did not send messages to him, which is rather improbable, her wish for his return and for revenge is obvious from the tutor’s declaration that he received the boy from Electra’s hands and raised him to avenge his father (11–14). There is no reason to suppose that Electra would not have communicated her desire for revenge to the loyal servant, or that her brother would have been unaware of her view of the murderers, although, before the recognition, he does claim that he was unaware of the extent of her plight (1185).

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managing to avoid extremes and retain control of the situation, he is not sidetracked from his purpose or entrapped by the past in a vortex of emotional excess, as exemplified by his mother and his sister Electra. In the prologue, Orestes expresses confidence that he will win glory from his victory over his enemies (59–66) but nowhere draws any association with Agamemnon’s Trojan victory and kleos. If the first line of the play is genuine,80 the tutor’s reference to Agamemnon’s generalship at Troy may imply his glory, but this makes for a rather oblique allusion and is certainly not explicitly brought to bear on Orestes’ imminent revenge. In contrast, the Aeschylean Orestes emphasizes his wish to rid the most glorious citizens of Argos, the high-minded sackers of Troy, of the rule of two women (Ch. 302–5). This concern, which combines admiration for the glory of old with contempt for Aegisthus’ effeminacy in a political framework, is indicative of the gap that separates the Aeschylean from the Sophoclean Orestes. The latter stresses the power of women to do harm (1243–44). Most striking in Orestes’ presentation, primarily from the point of view of the tragic tradition represented by Aeschylus’ Choephori, is a feature usually overlooked in discussions of the character, namely his virtually total failure to refer to the political aspect of his revenge. Orestes in Euripides’ Electra is also quite reticent concerning the restoration of the legitimate line, but at least the chorus of the play explicitly celebrate the replacement of the usurpers by the lawful heir (876–79).81 Toward the end of his speech in the prologue, the Sophoclean Orestes prays to regain his ancestral wealth as well as purify and restore his house with the help of the land, the local gods, and the house itself (67–72; cf. 32–37). When he reveals his identity to Electra, he again mentions only their mother’s wickedness and Aegisthus’ squandering of their father’s wealth (1288–1300). When he enters the house to kill his mother (1372–75), when he exits after the murder (1425–27), and especially in his significantly and perhaps disquietingly short exchange with Aegisthus, he never says that the legitimate dynasty will be restored, or the city freed from the usurping tyrants. His wish is to kill Aegisthus at the exact same

80 See the discussion in 3 with nn. 33–34 above. 81 The flashback to the family history in the second stasimon (699–746) is also couched in political terms since the conflict of Atreus and Thyestes takes place in the assembly of the Myceneans. The criminal, adulterous and internecine, past of the royal dynasty is intimately connected with their rule over their people. Cf. next n.

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spot in the house where Aegisthus had killed his father (1495–96). As already suggested, this is a view of things and the past similar to that of virtually all other characters in the play. The tutor, the first speaker in the play, and a crucial figure in the life of Orestes, his rescue, raising, preparation for and execution of his great mission, does not refer to Agamemnon’s royal capacity in his first speech or anywhere else in the play.82 He mentions the legendary richness of Mycenae (9), and the terrible crimes afflicting the Pelopid house (10), from which he rescued the boy:83 he took Orestes from the scene of his father’s murder by the agency of Electra, and raised him to be the avenger of this murder (11–14), obviously by committing new ones in the house. In her attempt to persuade Chrysothemis to collaborate in the killing of Aegisthus, Electra also speaks of glory (973–85) but primarily in connection with loyalty to kin (968–69, 986–89) and the restoration of the house (977–80), pressing on her sister the deplorable loss of paternal wealth (959–60) and the prospect of a good marriage (970–72). There is nothing particularly surprising in this female view of the situation, except its virtual identification with the view of Orestes, who returns to his beloved homeland and braces himself for his mission by projecting the crushing of his enemies and the glory he will win thereby. As indicated above, the chorus also fail to focus on the political significance of Orestes’ revenge. Instead, when they contemplate his imminent return in the first stasimon, they mention the ancestral troubles of the house (504–15). As they wait during Clytaemestra’s killing, they sing the third stasimon, which projects the image of a determined, god-sent avenger, a champion of the dead entering stealthily to recover the ancient wealth of his paternal house (1384–97). There is no doubt that wealth and

82 Contrast the speech of the farmer in the prologue of Euripides’ Electra, with its emphasis on Agamemnon’s ancient royal office and Aegisthus’ usurpation (1–13). The prologue of Aeschylus’ Choephori is unfortunately defective, but Orestes’ reference to his return from exile (3) may have included some political allusion. At any rate, Orestes stresses the restoration of the legitimate dynasty both before and especially after the killings. In Odyssey this theme receives no emphasis but is likely implied in Zeus’ reference to the young man’s longing for his homeland (1.40–41) and perhaps in Nestor’s account of his revenge (3.309–10). 83 It is perhaps not accidental that the troubled Pelopid house is also mentioned by Aegisthus about ten lines before the play’s end (1497–98), in a remarkable ringcomposition. For Aegisthus’ reference to the future troubles of the house see 8 below.

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inheritance are crucial to the self-definition of a Greek man, especially of the heroic age, and thus the focus on them is not materialistic or mercenary, as several instances in poetry and especially Aeschylus’ Choephori also suggest.84 What differentiates Sophocles’ play from other treatments of the same myth is the virtually exclusive concentration of Agamemnon’s children, and of people sympathetic to them such as the tutor and the chorus, on the king’s murder. This crime virtually obliterates everything else, including the remoter past of the house as well as the present and future in connection with the usurpation and the restoration of the legitimate dynasty.85 Since Orestes has been raised with a single narrative and for a single purpose, to avenge his father’s murder and recover his ancestral wealth, his attitude holds no major surprises for the audience, especially as his part is relatively limited. Considerable critical attention has concentrated on his instruction to the tutor to take an oath to convince his enemies that the false message of his death is true (47–50). This has been viewed as a sign of Orestes’ impious ruthlessness and an immorality that seriously problematizes his claim to the moral high ground by associating him with his prospective victims, especially his ruthless mother.86 There may be something to this view, primarily because the instruction comes so early on in a play that the audience may well have expected to address the moral problem of the matricide. Nevertheless, not only does the play completely frustrate such expectations, it also fails to dwell on Orestes’ affiliations with Clytaemestra. Instead, it is Electra, the eponymous character, who admits to, and demonstrates, unsettling similarities with her mother.87 It would then be an exaggeration to suggest that Orestes’ brief instruction in the prologue carries the weight of guiding the audience’s response to his matricide, which will take place much later in the play, and the moral background and consequences of which are not addressed. On the other hand, one can hardly disregard the serious implications of the instruction. Even if the play does not capitalize on the presentation

84 Cf. March (2001) on 72, with previous literature. 85 For the crimes of the previous generations see 4 and 5 above. Even the tutor’s reference to Agamemnon’s glory in the false speech (694–95) may be thought to paradoxically underline Orestes’ apparent failure to associate his revenge with his father’s success. 86 See MacLeod (2001) 35 n. 33. 87 See the discussion of their debate in 4 above, and cf. Winnington-Ingram (1980) 246, Blundell (1989) 172, Cairns (1993) 246, and Wright (2005).

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of Orestes as a genuine son of his mother, his incitement to perjury, delivered in a remarkably off-hand manner,88 casts a shadow on his integrity and, indirectly at least, on the moral foundations of his mission. Perjury cannot self-evidently be subsumed under Apollo’s mandate for the use of deceit (36–37), as Finglass, for instance, suggests: in Greek eyes, lying and deception are one thing, perjury quite another.89 If Orestes interprets the god’s oracle as justification for an impious act, this is a serious indication that the needle of his moral compass is dangerously wobbly. The issue becomes more perplexing because his instruction seems gratuitous, although admittedly only in view of the tutor’s subsequent ability to convince Clytaemestra easily, without taking the oath suggested by his master. Orestes cannot know in advance how Clytaemestra and/or Aegisthus will react to the tutor’s story, and an oath may seem to him a necessary means of convincing a potentially suspicious audience. Still, this seems to be on the excessive side, as the tutor’s silent failure to follow the instruction indicates. The audience too are likely to view it as excessive, not only because of the problematic involvement of perjury but also, and perhaps more importantly, because of the usual presentation of messengers and their reports in tragedy. The audience cannot really be more certain than Orestes as to the enemies’ reception of the news, and they may well reserve judgment as to the tutor’s ability to perform the appointed task. On the other hand, no messenger in extant Greek drama, whether reporting onstage or offstage, and whether bringing true or false news, is ever disbelieved, or has trouble convincing his audience, although this may have happened in some lost drama(s). MacLeod brings in Aristotle’s distinction between rhetoric and sophistry and argues that the tutor refuses to use a sophistic and illegitimate means of persuasion, the false oath, and opts for a legitimate means, a rhetorically persuasive speech, which is meant to bring out Clytaemestra’s lack of maternal feelings and inability to see her coming downfall.90 Aristotelian or other distinctions between rhetoric and sophistry are irrelevant, but even if such a choice obtained, and the tutor opted for the false oath (and a brief report), Clytaemestra’s lack of pity and foresight would become just as apparent: it is the announcement of her son’s death rather than

88 This contrasts markedly with his unease over the fabrication of the inauspicious story of his death (59–66). For his dealing with this potentially bad omen see the discussion below. 89 Finglass (2007b) 107; for the gravity of perjury see Kyriakou (2006) 255. 90 MacLeod (2001) 112–26.

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anything else that would be expected to activate them. The tutor is a determined and loyal man, careful, if anything, to avoid impiety rather than sophistry.

The tutor’s failure to take an oath, especially when considered in conjunction with Orestes’ encouragement to the old servant to correct his decisions if he misses the mark in anything (31), is probably the audience’s safest guide in interpreting Orestes’ problematic instruction. The young man has a good plan, but this particular instruction is off the mark and a sign of his youthful eagerness, which borders on moral/religious recklessness, to accomplish his mission at all costs. The use of deceit per se, especially Orestes’ insistence on his willingness to send a false message of his own death for the purpose of gain (59–61), has also been seen as problematic. κέρδος (61) has been thought to associate him with his mother, who refers to it in her reaction to the news of her son’s death (767).91 Orestes, though, arrives at Mycenae as the agent of divinely backed revenge and as the head of the small team that will execute the covert operation. The use of deceit has been mandated by Apollo’s oracle, presumably as an appropriate mode of revenge for the deceitful killing of Agamemnon.92 Deceit, then, does not associate Orestes with his prospective victims because their crime had no such backing or excuse.93 κέρδος is a concept and word that may, but is not bound to, set off some alarm bells in the audience of Greek tragedy. Orestes would obviously prefer not to use a highly inauspicious tale but reassures himself that success in his life-or-death struggle to punish his enemies and regain his patrimony is worth the risk (59–66). Since a bad omen is very likely to come true, especially when one faces a lethal danger,94 the young man

91 See Blundell (1989) 173–74, and MacLeod (2001) 34–37; cf. Winnington-Ingram (1980) 236. 92 Cf. A. Ch. 273–74, 555–59, 888. In Agamemnon (1521–29) Clytaemestra may also claim that her deceit was an appropriate retaliation for Agamemnon’s deceitful killing of Iphigeneia, but the text is very uncertain. 93 See MacLeod (2001) 33–34. Clytaemestra cannot even claim that she used deception to retaliate for Agamemnon’s luring of Iphigeneia to Aulis on the pretext of a marriage to Achilles. The marriage intrigue, first found in Cypria (PEG 41) and prominent in Euripides’ Iphigeneia plays (but not mentioned in his Electra or Orestes), does not appear in this play and is perhaps only very shortly alluded to in Aeschylus’ Agamemnon; see previous n. 94 The most conspicuous parallel is Menelaus’ reluctance to accept Helen’s plan to report him dead (Eur. Hl. 1051). In several other tragic passages the mention of a

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naturally wishes to reassure himself. He apparently cannot do so by falling back on the oracle, and thus invokes wise men of the past, who were reported to have died but eventually returned home alive to great fame and honors. Commentators have suggested both heroic (Heracles, Theseus, Odysseus) and shamanic (Aristeas, Salmoxis, Epimenides, Pythagoras) precedents to explain Orestes’ meaning.95 The heroes did not fabricate stories of their own death, and thus this association has generally been considered less likely. But the shamans did not literally fabricate stories, either, they just disappeared or concealed themselves somewhere for long periods of time, causing people to think and say that they were dead. Besides, Orestes does not say that the wise men fabricated the stories of their death, only that they were inaccurately (literally “rashly”) reported to be dead ( λόγῳ μάτην θνῄσκοντας, 63).96 It may then be more likely that Orestes should be thought to have in mind heroes such as Odysseus, the arch-fabricator of stories, who returned unexpectedly to restore their ailing houses and win fame, rather than shamans, whose objectives were quite different. The stories of Agamemnon and Odysseus (and of Orestes and Telemachus) are closely and repeatedly connected in Odyssey, and Sophocles and/or his audience likely drew an easy connection between Odysseus and Orestes at this point.

The passage does not indicate that the mission of Orestes is fraught with moral problems. If it shows anything beyond what he suggests, this would more plausibly be a young man’s determination, ambition, lack of undue concern with superstition, and familiarity with a tradition he views as bolstering his laudable goal. Generally, though, Sophocles’ Orestes has been viewed as an unlikable character, not only similar to his mother but also different from his father. His use of cunning and deception has been thought to make his task unheroic or non-Iliadic, and him a son entirely different from, and unworthy of, the great Agamemnon.97 The number of factors, both from without and within the play, which needs to be overlooked so that such a

living person’s death is considered inauspicious and advised against; see e.g. A. Ag. 1247, S. Aj. 362, Eur. IT 687. 95 See Finglass (2007b) 111. 96 For μάτην and μάταιος see the discussion in IV with n. 37 below. 97 See Reinhardt (1979) 137, Seale (1982) 55–58, 64–66, and Blundell (1989) 173–74.

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conclusion may be reached, is remarkably long. Even if Orestes is a nonIliadic hero, he is certainly Odyssean. His father, the killer of his sister, was certainly duped by his wife and her lover on his return. Orestes is superior not only to Aegisthus and Clytaemestra but also to his father, as Aegisthus’ jeer (1500), which Orestes fails to cap, suggests. Apollo directed Orestes to use cunning and not arms (36–37). Heroically enough, Orestes is preoccupied with victory and glory. The tutor’s false tale does not suggest a sobering clash between an heroically innocent Orestes and the unheroic figure of the prologue, the executioner of a dubious revenge, but the two sides of a man who straddles the worlds of both Homeric epics. Scholars have also taken the temperature of Orestes’ behavior toward his sister Electra, at least up until her lament over the urn (1126–70), and pronounced it from pragmatically cool to callously cold.98 He devises a plan that plunges his sister(s) into despair and, when finally, after much delay, he reveals his identity to Electra, he tries repeatedly to dampen her joy and restrain her celebrations (1236, 1238, 1251–52, 1257, 1259, 1271, 1288–1300). It is true that Orestes delays his revelation. Most scholars assume that he realizes Electra’s identity only through her statements in the lament and the chorus’ subsequent attempt to console her (1171–73). It is plausible that the recognition, or at the very least the realization that the woman was one of his sisters, occurred earlier, possibly as soon as the chorus designated her as “the nearest of kin” (1105), and certainly after she expressed her distress over the news of his death (1108–9, 1112, 1115, 1119–22).99 The woman was certainly not a slave, and the nearest of kin can hardly be a relation of Aegisthus only. His daughter, if he had one, would be a child at the time of Orestes’ return. The closest relative can only be one of Aegisthus’ nieces and stepdaughters. Realistically, Orestes would probably recognize Electra on sight. He was about ten when he was taken to Phocis, and Electra certainly older. Despite her shabby appearance, it is unlikely that she would have become unrecognizable to a brother in seven or eight years. (Electra, who believes that her brother is dead, would not recognize the stranger, especially since a child may change much in a period of eight years.) Besides, if Orestes recognized his sister’s voice heard from within the house in the prologue (80–81), he would also recognize it when they met face to face. It is likely,

98 See Woodard (1964) 165–66, Ronnet (1969) 208–9, Winnington-Ingram (1980) 229–30, Schein (1982) 77, Seale (1982) 69–71, 79–80, and Blundell (1989) 174. 99 See especially 1125.

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though, that he only guesses correctly in the prologue. Of course, realistic considerations do not determine a playwright’s choices. The Aeschylean Orestes recognizes his sister on sight (Ch. 16–18), but the Euripidean one totally misidentifies her (El. 107–11). Sophocles’ Orestes is probably closer to the former than the latter, although in Euripides’ Electra Orestes hears immediately who the woman is (115–19).

Since the audience know of Orestes’ intrigue, the conversation that precedes the revelation (1174–1221) exemplifies Sophocles’ use of dramatic irony but is probably not meant to bring out Orestes’ emotional awkwardness. His plan involved general deception and, in contrast to Euripides’ Orestes (El. 100–1, 278), he hardly ever mentions the cooperation of his sister (cf. 1293–95) or anybody else in the house except the tutor. The avenger had no plan and no reason to reveal his identity to his sister, especially in the presence of the women of the chorus (cf. 1203). He is focused on his plan, and Electra’s mere presence would not detract him from it. Orestes’ delay in breaking the news to Electra has also been viewed quite differently, as a sign of his delicacy of feeling and his wish to protect his sister from a potentially detrimental sudden revelation. It has been associated with the gentle breaking of the terrible news to Heracles and Agaue in Euripides’ Heracles (1113–45) and Bacchae (1263–1307) respectively.100 But the afflicted characters in those plays have barely recovered from devastating and murderous fits of madness, and their fathers, especially Heracles’, have every reason to be cautious, as they need to make sure that the patients have regained their sanity. Electra had not gone mad, and sudden, even overwhelming, joy never leads to madness or apoplexy in Greek literature.101 Orestes’ revelation takes several lines (1205–23), but they are prompted by Electra’s staunch refusal to acquiesce to his simple request and relinquish the urn,102 a sign of her attachment to her dead brother. Orestes is neither particularly sensitive nor particularly cold or

100 See e.g. March (2001) 205, MacLeod (2001) 158–59, and Finglass (2007b) 456–57. For this interpretation cf. the discussion with n. 114 below. For further references to discussions of Orestes’ reaction to his sister’s lament see MacLeod (2001) 157 n. 9. 101 Laertes faints (H. Od. 24.345–48) but he is old, and Odysseus had treated him strangely at best and savagely at worst. Orestes also urges Electra to keep her head in Aeschylus’ Choephori (233) but he certainly did not break the news slowly to her. 102 For the metatheatrical significance of this cardinal object see e.g. Segal (1966) 514–15, Rehm (1996) 55, and Ringer (1998) 188–89; cf. Burnett (1998) 128.

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heartless: the coolness of modern audiences toward him stems probably from his being first a future and then an actual matricide, who is not tortured by (the prospect of ) his terrible act. This lack of sympathy is fostered by the character’s failure to say much rather than by any particularly unappealing feature that his statements and behavior exhibit. In Greek tragedy only minor characters such as the watchman in Aeschylus’ Agamemnon, the nurse in his Choephori, or the farmer in Euripides’ Electra become appealing to the audience despite the brevity of their spoken parts. A character such as Orestes, who is cardinal to the action of the play, would need to say much more to win the unqualified sympathy of an audience, certainly of a modern one. Several choices that Sophocles made accommodated, although they did not necessitate, brief parts for Orestes: Electra is the central figure of the play, the problems involved in the matricide are glossed over,103 and the intrigue, once underway, is executed in a manner that would make long exchanges rather surprising. At any rate, the relative brevity of Orestes’ part does not indicate that Sophocles meant to present him as an unsympathetic character. On the contrary, as pointed out earlier, Orestes has many positive attributes. Among these, his laudable dedication to his mission is crucial to the success of the enterprise. It leads him to deceive his loving sister(s) along with his enemies but does not make him incapable of showing pity to Electra when he realizes her plight and even of sharing her joy in the recognition duet. His concentration on the crucial past event, the murder of his father, associates him closely with his sister and the women of the chorus. Nevertheless, Orestes is the only major character that can contemplate the future but also be presented as reasonably and realistically ready to conquer it by fulfilling his glorious aspirations. Although he has as narrow a view of the past as Electra does, he comes from afar and he has not personally witnessed the troubles of the house. He is thus in a position to contemplate, if not to consider guaranteed, a life of rejoicing and laughter in freedom (1299–1300) rather than a life of tears, even tears of joy (1312–13), as his sister does.104

103 For this important feature of the play see the discussion in the next section. 104 The tutor also defers explanations to Electra to the future (1364–66), after the killings of Aegisthus and Clytaemestra, and Chrysothemis suggests that the length of future time will decide whether she is to be praised for her behavior (1030), in contrast to her sister’s view of it (1029).

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7. Electra: hopelessly mad? Electra, a more complex and indeed an intriguing character, has been viewed with even greater hostility by twentieth century critics. They have suggested that she is damaged beyond repair, at least half-crazed (cf. 1316–17), harboring incestuous fantasies for her father and brother, and even hallucinations that the tutor is her father (cf. 1361).105 Her merciless response to Clytaemestra’s cries (1415), her urgency for Aegisthus’ death (1483–84) and her wish for the exposure of his body (1487–89) have been considered as signs of incurable psychosis. Although the two most recent commentaries on the play have taken a more positive view of Electra (and the play),106 a fairly recent article by Wheeler takes up again the old charges against the character and repackages them in the form of an argument to the effect that the original male chauvinistic audience would receive her negatively or ambivalently.107 According to Wheeler, Electra, although appealing and sympathetic, would be perceived as mad and dangerous. Her lack of restraint and control would activate male fears of female transgressiveness, mediated through the audience’s horror of incest and dislike for maddened virgins. Electra’s prolonged virginity and its detrimental impact on her mental health would be viewed as a just punishment for her transgression and her projected appropriation of exclusively male prerogatives such as kleos-generating action. Her behavior is problematized by its links to her father, but the incurable Electra acquires her just deserts at the end. Psychoanalytic discussions of tragic characters and plays are seldom entirely convincing. None of Electra’s statements may plausibly be called sexual or sensual, in any exclusive or non-trivial sense. Electra sees herself as the servant keeper of her father’s halls (189–92), not the consort of his bedchamber and the mother of Orestes. She has a motherly attitude to her little brother but she is his older sister and says that she had always cared for him as a mother, even long before Agamemnon’s murder (1143–48). Unless one assumes that Electra had always had incestuous inclinations, her attitude to Orestes in the play does not provide insights into such fantasies. But if one makes the requisite wild assumption, then Agamemnon’s

105 See Kells (1973) on 1357–63. 106 See March (2001) 19–20, and Finglass (2007b) 9–10. The former takes a much more positive view than the latter. 107 Wheeler (2003).

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murder and its consequences can have had little effect on Electra’s attitude and her supposed punishment for it. More important, even if one accepts all the psychoanalytic suggestions about Electra’s sexual longings and incestuous desires, Electra receives no punishment at the end of the play. If she is portrayed as mad, the play depicts no steady and punishable deterioration of her condition, no collapse in an avalanche of galloping instability and obsessive vindictiveness, as Wheeler suggests. One can hardly think of a tragic play and especially a Sophoclean play in which a major character undergoes major changes or development. Certainly in Electra all characters, primarily Electra herself, exhibit the same characteristics from beginning to end. Besides, if she is mad, her transgressiveness is the result or manifestation of her madness and not vice versa. Tragic characters fail to show restraint when they become mad, they are not punished with madness because they fail to show restraint. Only offenses against the gods such as Agaue’s against Dionysus in Euripides’ Bacchae may be punished with mental derangement, but Agamemnon’s daughter does not belong to this category of offenders. Electra is long-suffering and deeply attached to the past. The murder of her father has been the defining event in her life, but not because of sexual fantasies that distort her view of her relationship to her relatives.108 As mentioned above, and as indicated in virtually every discussion of the play, Electra is particularly self-conscious and keenly aware of the transgressive nature of her behavior. If she is disturbed, a big if, she has not lost sight of, or severed all bridges to, normalcy. Moreover, it is far from clear that Electra’s future will be as dismal as her past, tormented by dark demons of psychotic delusions. The happiness or positive changes that the future will bring are certainly not emphasized in the play. On the other hand, there is no indication that future and past are virtually identical, let alone that Electra’s future will be worse than her past. Before Orestes’ return, Electra declares that she will never cease lamenting Agamemnon and accusing his murderers (100–4, 132–33, 221–32, 236–50, 352–56; cf. 291–92, 379, 530). When Orestes appears, she still claims that the siblings’

108 Wheeler (2003) 381 suggests that she focuses on Agamemnon’s murder much to the expense of the revenge, but this is inaccurate. Electra is wholeheartedly committed to the revenge for her father’s murder. She does her best to take an interim, as it were, revenge through her laments and her vocal denigration of the murderers until Orestes arrives to take care of the actual business. When she learns of his supposed death, she decides to kill Aegisthus and tries to convince her sister to collaborate with her.

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misfortune will never be undone or forgotten (1245–50; cf. 1253–55) but she also assures him that she will never stop shedding tears of joy over his return (1312–13). Electra also speaks of the old hatred of her mother frozen in her (1311), and it is difficult to imagine that she will acquire a sunny attitude as soon as Aegisthus will have received his punishment. There is also no mention of her marriage to Pylades or any marriage for her (or the other sisters). However, Electra rejoices in the punishment of her mother and Aegisthus. With her last words in the play she claims that the murder of Aegisthus and the exposure of his body will bring her release from the old woes (1489–90). The statement may be interpreted as ironic, misguided, or selfdelusional, but the entire play, which dramatizes a virtually unique version of a very popular myth, contains no other hint that might point in the direction of irony.109 Thus the danger of circularity hovers over suggestions to the effect that Electra’s presentation in the play in general and her situation at the end in particular justify a negative reading. Electra’s dedication to the past, her constancy and strength of character as well as her loyalty to her father and brother are never in doubt in the play.110 Similarly, her hatred of her mother and desire for revenge are obvious and memorably encapsulated in her infamous cry to Orestes during the matricide to “strike, if you can, twice as hard” (1415). Still, when she

109 A comparison with Euripides’ Heracles, a play possibly near contemporary with the Sophoclean Electra, shows easily that irony was not an important component in Sophocles’ treatment of the myth. In both plays, there is a reference to divine justice just before the punishment of a transgressor is executed (El. 1382–83, Her. 813–14). Electra’s prayer to Apollo is soon followed by Clytaemestra’s murder, but the Theban elders’ celebration of Lycus’ punishment is immediately followed by the appearance of Hera’s minions and the downfall of Heracles, the rightful avenger. 110 The close association in her mind between father and brother becomes particularly obvious in her lament over the urn, in which she wishes not only that her brother had died at home (1136–42) but also that he had died on the same day as his father and shared his tomb (1134–35). Her partiality to her brother is also clear from her use of the predicate λαμπρόν for Orestes’ condition when he was evacuated from the house (1130). Finglass (2007b) ad loc. observes that children and youths are often called so and compared to stars in Greek literature. The predicate may also be an echo of the tutor’s false speech (685). If so, it is probably meant to underscore the imminence of Orestes’ triumph over his enemies: still disguised, claimed and believed to be dead and “hidden” in the urn, he will soon blaze as a star upon his enemies (cf. 66). Such associations, though, are quite far-fetched and probably unlikely to have been intentional, or perceived by the original audience.

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had heard of Orestes’ death and decided to take action beyond laments, she declared her readiness even to die in order to take revenge on Aegisthus (955–57, 989; cf. 1320–21) but never considered killing her mother (or, at the end of the play, leaving her unburied111). Although her present is a lament for the past, and her future will not be spent in merriment and laughter, although she plots and abets killings and promotes mistreatment of the dead, although mourning indeed becomes Electra, a true daughter of both her ruthless and wretched parents, she neither commits nor considers any internecine murder similar to Agamemnon’s sacrifice of Iphigeneia and Clytaemestra’s attempt to kill the boy Orestes. Electra certainly does not shun matricide, as is obvious from several statements she makes, both before and after Orestes’ arrival.112 Thus her failure to mention matricide in her attempt to persuade Chrysothemis to help her avenge the murder of their father has puzzled critics. It should be pointed out that it is not self-evidently legitimate to ask, or worth speculating about, why Electra does not mention matricide. Since the poet says nothing about the matter, he may have wished audiences (including critics, if he gave them any thought) to leave it alone and not ponder the silences of Electra’s speech. It is common for modern audiences to wish to know more about characters and stories than authors are often willing to communicate. In the case of Electra, for instance, one would like to know whether Electra will marry Pylades and follow him to Phocis, and what happens to the children of Clytaemestra and Aegisthus after the death of their parents. Concerning the matricide, or a punishment such as imprisonment or exile for the spared Clytaemestra after Aegisthus’ murder, it would certainly be unprofitable for Sophocles to enter into details of a plan that would not materialize and is presented as quite desperate to begin with. But it is very hard to shake off the belief that matricide is just too weighty a theme to be treated in this manner by poet and/or audience. The myth dramatized revolves around matricide. In the play, it is carefully planned from the beginning and eventually executed as planned. Electra

111 Clytaemestra’s burial is not mentioned in the play, and thus the audience may think that she will share Aegisthus’ fate, but at least her children, especially Electra, are not portrayed as desiring and contemplating the ultimate desecration of their mother’s body. 112 The most explicit is found at 603–5. Cf. 110–16, 582–83, 1153–57, 1376–83. Cf. also Clytaemestra’s gleeful reference to the supposed end of Electra’s threats (783–87).

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hates deeply the mother to whom she attributes all the misfortunes of her life and neither she nor anybody else ever indicates that Aegisthus bore greater responsibility and deserved more severe punishment than Clytaemestra for the murder of Agamemnon. Yet when Electra communicates her plan for taking the long-awaited revenge, her only target is Aegisthus. The other member of the inseparable, wicked couple is not mentioned at all. It is difficult to believe that the audience would not wonder about this omission, or that the poet would expect or hope that they would not, although he probably did not reckon that their worry warranted inclusion of a discussion of matricide in the scene. Electra’s failure to plan or even mention matricide has been variously explained. Some critics view it as self-deluding evasion of the terrible but necessary act. Others think that Electra focuses on the most challenging part of the enterprise, the killing of Aegisthus, and ignores the easier component, the murder of Clytaemestra. Finally, others take the glossing over of matricide as a strategy designed to preempt the objections of Chrysothemis by concentrating on a murder that is not morally objectionable.113 None of these suggestions about Electra’s suppression of matricide may be rejected out of hand, especially on the basis of the principle that psychologising interpretations are unacceptable when they find no support in the text. According to this principle, fictional characters are not real persons with hidden emotions, motives and beliefs. Greek playwrights always make clear what their characters feel and think: audiences are not allowed, or meant, to play guessing games. If poets eschew clarity and opt for silence or ambiguity, audiences, including scholarly critics, are not supposed to attribute hidden inner life to characters and base their interpretation of fictional works on it. Prima facie, this caveat seems straightforwardly self-evident and enlightened but it involves assumptions on authorial behavior that cannot be substantiated any better than those it seeks to eliminate. Besides, if fictional characters are not (meant to be) viewed as real people by audiences, then the whole enterprise of fiction and its reception would have to be radically revised. Last but not least, and even leaving aside the fact that no critical discussion can dispense with assumptions and implicit associations altogether, scholars follow their own advice about eschewing psychologising readings very selectively at best. To take just one example from the work of the two most recent commentators on the play under discussion, both

113 For doxography see Sommerstein (1997) 210, and MacLeod (2001) 141 n. 7.

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March and Finglass reject the view of those who suggest that Electra is thinking of matricide but does not reveal her thought to her sister and to herself because such psychologising finds no support in the text. Later, though, they both offer precisely such a psychologising explanation of Orestes’ delay to reveal himself to his sister, claiming that he wishes to break the news of his return gently, so that she does not lose her mind by the suddenness of the revelation.114 Certainly, such an interpretation finds no support in the text or, as indicated above, parallels in other texts. Nevertheless, there are indeed problems with the view of those who suggest that Electra plans to commit, but intentionally suppresses the mention of, matricide. As mentioned above, the Sophoclean Aegisthus is indeed a powerful and feared enemy, while Clytaemestra alone can apparently neither restrain Electra nor defend herself, and she dies crying out for her “friend” to come and help her (1405, 1409).115 Although the killing of Aegisthus is crucial and probably more difficult and dangerous, this does not explain adequately why Electra would not so much as mention in passing or allude to her mother’s situation after Aegisthus’ murder. Besides, even if Aegisthus is the more violent figure, Clytaemestra is certainly no weakling or a meek housewife: his death would not necessarily and of itself make her irrelevant, or eliminate the threat she would pose to her daughters, and the audience would not easily reach, or be meant to reach, such a conclusion. If Electra is assumed to believe that Clytaemestra will become a non-entity after Aegisthus’ death, this assumption attributes to her a belief that may not be easily substantiated, and the play does not suggest that Electra harbors fantastical beliefs, especially concerning her mother. In the excitement of the recognition, she refers contemptuously to her mother (and probably Aegisthus, 1241–42), but Orestes’ response (1243–44) immediately reminds her of the true situation (1245–50). More significantly, tragic characters do not, as a matter of course, spare the life of powerless people, as, for instance, the killing of Cassandra in

114 March (2001) 198, 205; Finglass (2007b) 399, 456–57. For the alleged motive of Orestes’ delay to reveal his identity to Electra see the discussion in 6 above. 115 Although in Choephori Clytaemestra does not have the opportunity to actually fight for her life with a weapon, she famously asks for a man-slaughtering ax to defend herself (889–90) before Orestes appears and kills her; cf. A V n. 7 above. In the prologue of Eumenides her ghost memorably goads the Erinyes into hounding her matricide son (103–16, 124–25, 131–39).

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Aeschylus’ Agamemnon indicates.116 It is very difficult to assume that Electra would be lenient or indifferent toward one of her two worst enemies, one of the killers of her father and destroyers of her life and family, even if and when Clytaemestra would have become powerless. The audience would probably not view such leniency or indifference as plausible, especially on the part of an aggrieved and grieving party such as Agamemnon’s daughter. Electra may indeed not wish to alienate Chrysothemis by mentioning the matricide. The killing of Aegisthus may be more difficult, but matricide is morally so abhorrent that Chrysothemis might object to it. This is fairly unlikely, too. First, Electra declares that she will not hide anything from her sister anymore (957), and there is no reason to think that she is lying.117 Second, there is no compelling reason to assume that Chrysothemis would recoil in horror from matricide, if Electra has no problem with it, as Orestes apparently does not. Throughout the play, the two sisters share the same values, principles and attitude toward friends and enemies but disagree on their implementation and manifestation, as they now do on the feasibility of Electra’s plan. Third, it would be pointless and potentially detrimental for Electra to hide from Chrysothemis the second part of her plan and, again, there is no reason to assume that Electra is so shortsighted. Her stance may be considered as Sophocles’ way of avoiding tackling a complicated issue and sidetracking the audience’s attention before Orestes enters the house to commit the deed. But the murder of Clytaemestra by her children would not be far from any (Greek) audience’s mind, especially of a play such as Electra, which deals with the execution of Orestes’ revenge plan from beginning to end. Besides, a mention of, or allusion to, matricide would not automatically involve a (lengthy) debate about it, given that Sophocles does not problematize it in the play at all. Finally, and crucially, it is unprofitable to assume that an author makes a choice that is only or primarily meant to serve (supposed) dramatic needs but does not fit in well in its context or in the presentation of the character(s) involved. The answer that requires the fewest assumptions to

116 In Euripides’ Heracles too Lycus plans to kill not only Heracles’ children, his future lethal enemies, but also his wife and old father (38–43; cf. 492, 545). 117 There is no indication that she hid things from Chrysothemis, or from anybody for that matter, in the past. The temporal specification probably refers to the plan she apparently conceived after Chrysothemis’ report of the joyful news of Orestes’ return.

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the question why Electra does not mention matricide is that, despite the past and her hatred of her mother, she is unwilling or unable to cross the ultimate boundary and kill her. Although she aspires to be her father’s glorious avenger and her brother’s substitute, she does not turn into a matricide-to-be.

8. The matricide(s) Like the rest of the suggested answers to the question under discussion, this one leaves some issues unexplained. The main crux is why Electra endorses matricide enthusiastically, if Orestes perpetrates it, but does not envisage committing it herself. What would such a stance imply about her view of her brother and the revenge? Should Sophocles be thought to wish to preserve the audience’s sympathy toward Electra, as Jebb suggests,118 or perhaps to present a female character that would not alienate a misogynistic audience by her readiness to cross a severely compromising line? If so, is Electra paradoxically presented as a rather timid person, or at least as a woman ultimately unable to stand in for a man, even in her boldest hour, and is the matricide problematized through her female unwillingness to commit it? There is no easy way out of these complications, and it is a plausible assumption that several considerations determined Sophocles’ choice of pregnant silence over explicit endorsement of any of the various possibilities. Despite Electra’s attachment to her father, her suffering after his murder, which she attributes to Clytaemestra, and her visceral hatred of her mother, she seems to be able to look beyond Agamemnon’s murder. This ability, which may explain, partially at least, the absence of matricide from her plan of revenge, is shown by a small but significant detail in her lament over the urn after Chrysothemis’ exit. At a moment when her despair and her hatred of her gloating mother are at their deepest, Electra recalls the time before her father’s murder, when Orestes was a small boy, and elaborates on her loving care for him and his attachment to her (1143–48). This strong, affectionate bond is expressed in a way that includes the siblings’ mother (1145–46), who later became their hated enemy (1153–56). The recollections of Orestes’ childhood at home offer a glimpse of familial tenderness and harmony, of a household in which a mother looks after her children in her husband’s absence, and the youngest child, an only boy, is

118 Jebb (1894) on 957.

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doted upon equally by both mother and older sister. Electra quickly returns to the present and laments the frenzied gloating of a mother who is no mother, but even in the depths of her grief she can provide a glimpse of a past when the mother was a mother.119 On the contrary, Clytaemestra does not recall any familial moment with her children: in the agon with Electra, she only mentions the acuity of her labor pains in giving birth to Iphigeneia, contrasting it with the ease of Agamemnon’s ejaculation in the act of begetting the girl (532–33).120 Of the three surviving matricide plays, Clytaemestra’s portrayal in Sophocles’ play is easily the least favorable. It is true that she literally faces a rabidly relentless accuser in Electra. Her hostility to her daughter and Orestes is exacerbated by Electra’s very vocal hatred121 and Orestes’ reported threats (778–79). Most gravely, Clytaemestra meant to kill Orestes (601–2) and regrets her son’s survival, blaming and threatening Electra for his salvation (295–98, 603–4; cf. 791, 793, 795). Even her sorrow for his death (766–68) is hardly the emotional reaction of a mother who regrets the loss of an estranged son. Her comment just describes her situation, and it is probably significant that it follows the chorus’ expression of regret for the extinction of Agamemnon’s line (764–65). She is not a deranged mother who wishes for her children’s death: Orestes’ survival would not vex her if he stopped threatening her, but under the circumstances, she chooses the lesser of two evils. Even if her momentary grief at Orestes’ reported death is genuine, the renewed accusations against Electra that follow and her gloating over her children’s misfortune are repugnant. There is no question of her lamenting for Orestes or showing any sympathy to Electra.

119 Budelmann (2000) 249–50 views Electra’s reference to Orestes’ childhood at home as excluding Clytaemestra from a group that includes Electra and Orestes (and their father). On the contrary, Electra includes herself in a group that naturally included only mother and child, bound together by the most basic and intimate bond of φιλία. Cf. next n. 120 Nevertheless, Clytaemestra also acknowledges the irrevocable potency of the mother-child bond generated by the act of giving birth. Not only does she call Iphigeneia “her own” (536, 538), she also later claims that mothers can never hate the children they bore, even when these children treat them badly (770–71). Her treatment of Orestes and Electra does not bear this out, but there is no reason to doubt that she believes what she professes, even if she does not behave accordingly. 121 Clytaemestra seems to adopt a less negative stance when Electra asks for permission to speak and air her grievances (554–57), but the truce is short-lived (cf. 628–29).

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As has been often suggested, this negative portrayal of Clytaemestra facilitates the presentation of the matricide as an uncomplicated act of justice. Nevertheless, the total suppression of the grave moral issue it poses and of the consequences that face its perpetrators, especially in view of Electra’s failure to include matricide in her plan for revenge, remains a thorny interpretive problem that is unlikely to ever receive a fully satisfactory, or universally accepted, solution. Depending on one’s view of this issue, which involves the morality of the matricides, primarily Electra, the play has been read along radically different lines.122 Audiences harboring a cultural abhorrence of internecine crimes and, to a more limited extent, self-help are bound to find a play that absolves Orestes of all responsibility superficial and unsettling, or fascinatingly innovative, as the case may be. The prominence of the Erinyes and the consequences of talio dramatized in Aeschylus’ Oresteia are also likely to make audiences who consider Aeschylus’ trilogy of cardinal importance for Sophocles’ fashioning of the play expect and look for hints at Orestes’ guilt and future punishment. But it is very unclear whether Sophocles composed the play with the Oresteia in mind, or how he (and the original audience) viewed the Oresteia.123 Nobody has managed to point out clear and meaningful allusions to troubles to come in Electra. Even if Orestes is an unattractive character, this would hardly imply that he will suffer. Euripidean drama at least features unattractive characters such as Menelaus in Andromache and Helen in

122 For a review of the “optimist” and “pessimist” camps see MacLeod (2001) 4–20, and Finglass (2007b) 8–10. To my knowledge, the most recent adherents of the two camps are March (2001) 15–20 and Wright (2005) respectively. Cf. Konstan (2008), who also favors an optimist reading. MacLeod and Finglass opt for a middle course, although the former seems, to me at least, to lean toward optimism and the latter toward pessimism, since he believes that the presentation of matricide and the end of the play are unsettling. 123 The scholarly consensus is that the Electra plays of Sophocles and Euripides have various connections with Aeschylus’ trilogy. It falls outside the scope and aims of the present study to enter this discussion in detail, beyond pointing out that very few, if any, of the alleged connections are beyond reasonable doubt. Cf. e.g. n. 23 above. Most can be attributed to thematic similarities, and there is nothing comparable with the allusion of the Sophoclean Ajax to Hector’s speech to his son in Homer’s Iliad, for instance. The massive loss of pre-Aeschylean works such as Stesichorus’ Oresteia and dramas written between Aeschylus’ Oresteia and Sophocles’ Electra, possibly a late play, makes claims about similarities and innovations very speculative. Intertextuality almost always ignores interim texts at its own peril.

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Troades that are not punished. Orestes’ answer to Electra’s question at 1424–25 (“In the house all is well, if Apollo prophesied well”) is probably an expression of confidence in the god’s oracle rather than of doubt.124 Even if the latter, it is not much more significant than Electra’s reservation about the pleasure the dead derive from honors paid to them by the living (355–56). More often mentioned as more significant is Aegisthus’ reference to the present and future troubles of the Pelopids (1497–98). Apart from the possibility that this reference is a polar expression like Electra’s reference to her present and absent hopes at 305–6, and that only the first part is significant, it is far from self-evident that it points to Orestes’ punishment for the matricide. It is more plausible that Aegisthus points to future killings of Pelopids such as his children or descendants. In any case, it is difficult to believe that the key to a crucial theme in the play would be provided only by two words of Aegisthus. Clytaemestra, the victim of the matricide, is a much more articulate(d) character, appears onstage for much longer, and her dying cries are heard from within the house. Nevertheless, Sophocles does not have her mention the Erinyes of an abused mother, either in the agon with Electra or in her supplication of Orestes. Besides, it is rather implausible that Aegisthus would consider Orestes’ punishment an evil, and the persecution of the Erinyes is notorious for driving Orestes away from home. In final analysis, even if one would be ready to disregard all these objections and insist on intuiting an allusion to Clytaemestra’s Erinyes in Aegisthus’ question, one could hardly suggest with any degree of plausibility that this passing allusion is sufficient to subvert the action of the play and throw in wretched doubt the morality and future of the avengers. Concerning the glossing over of the problems of matricide, one may seek refuge to various suggestions that are not inaccurate but are also not sufficient to dissolve critical amêchania: the play is not called Orestes but Electra: the matricide is committed by the brother, and Sophocles did not have to deal with the moral/religious problems it entailed; the matricide is not the key event in the play, and Sophocles follows the Homeric version of the story, which glorifies Orestes’ revenge. The fact that Orestes is the perpetrator of the matricide does not explain the total suppression of the crime’s consequences. Although, in

124 Cf. the prayer of Euripides’ Electra (“grant us victory if our request is just,” El. 675), which certainly does not express any doubt.

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contrast to the other matricide plays, Clytaemestra’s killing precedes Aegisthus’ murder and is not committed with the active cooperation of Electra, the matricide is unlikely to be presented and perceived as a secondary event. What is more, Homer had glossed over the matricide, and Sophocles cannot have followed him. By not dealing with the consequences of the matricide Sophocles either wished to present it as morally/religiously unproblematic or as unproblematic in the view of the perpetrators and their friends, which is potentially but not obviously misguided. To be sure, the suppression of Orestes’ pursuit by the Erinyes does not prevent audiences from assuming that the characters’ confidence in deliverance and salvation is misguided and that a reversal will soon follow. Since, though, no character, not even Clytaemestra, mentions the Erinyes, the view of the play cannot be thought to be uniformly somber and threatening.125 The possibility or plausibility of a negative reading notwithstanding, the presentation of the matricide as an act of justice, which would not necessarily instigate another cycle of blood, is facilitated by the poet’s two defining choices, already discussed earlier in some detail: the emphasis on the misfortunes of Electra and the other victimized daughters, largely attributed to the cruelty of their mother, and the focus on Agamemnon’s murder, with the parallel downplaying or suppressing of the other internecine crimes, especially the sacrifice of Iphigeneia, which had plagued the family for generations. Agamemnon’s children and their friends believe, and the play includes no explicit rejection or undermining of their belief, that the murder of Agamemnon and the revenge for it are not links in a long chain of internecine crimes. Thus insulated as much as possible both from what had come before and what was likely to come after, the murder and the revenge for it are presented as crimes motivated by wickedness and retaliatory justice respectively. The murder was not committed as a punishment for past crimes, and the matricide would not engender future troubles and would not perpetuate the cycle of blood. Even if it is likely or implied that misfortunes will afflict the Pelopids in the future, the latest evil has been vanquished and extinguished, and Electra will enjoy freedom, although not necessarily happiness or at least mental tranquility and serene equanimity. She may not laugh or enjoy her

125 Both the murderers of Agamemnon (1080; contrast 276) and his avengers (112–20, 489–91, 1386–94) are associated with the Erinyes in the play, but this does not necessarily imply an ironic view of the avengers. Cf. also 275–76 and 603–4.

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freedom in carefree fashion but has turned from victimized mourner to conspirator and agent of retaliatory death.126 The play does not necessarily offer healing closure or closural healing but does present the closing of a (deliberately small) cycle. Electra may be emotionally scarred for life, and she may continue to mourn Agamemnon, but at least, she will be able to do it to her heart’s content and offer him rich funerary gifts (cf. 457–58). Her obsessive attachment to the past and her lament over it will no longer (be meant to) mar the present of the hated and thriving murderers, even if they may mar the future of Electra herself.

126 Several scholars have seen her behavior during the matricide as especially disturbing, revealing the shameful nature of the just act. See e.g. Stinton (1986) 82–84 = (1990) 475–78, and Finglass (2007b) 9–10.

IV. Trachiniae 1. Married with children “Without Zeus, and Oeta, and the oracles, and the coming exaltation, this is only a sad and ironic story about a housewife who accidentally killed her great warrior husband; it is not a story fit for the Dionysia, as Sophocles conceived it. The sense of a larger dimension is precisely what makes the ending both mysterious and powerful.” This is the verdict of a reputable critic on the tragic effect of Trachiniae.1 The play’s unity and Heracles’ part in it have been extensively discussed in scholarly literature, as has the import of the final, implied apotheosis of the hero, mainly in connection with the religious background of the play.2 Later on, I will go over some of the implications of these issues. Here I wish to draw attention to the danger of schematization and oversimplification with regard to a play that, paradoxically, critics view as interpretively challenging.3 Although we cannot hope to know with certainty how Sophocles conceived of the Dionysia, there is little indication that he, or anyone else in fifth century BC Athens, would find a story about a noble lady who unintentionally kills a close relative a sad and ironic tale unworthy of a great festival. ‘Housewife’ is a doubly inappropriate designation for Deianeira because it implies a lack of professional affiliation and a resulting fairly low personal, and possibly social, status. Deianeira, though, was the daughter of Pleuron’s king Oeneus and the wife of Zeus’ son Heracles, a supreme hero. She, and all aristocratic or wealthy women, before, in, and for a

1 2

3

Fowler (1999) 174. Cf. Carawan (2000) 189. For the unity of the play and the late appearance of Heracles see Scodel (1984) 32–34, and Davies (1991a) xvii–xviii; Kane (1988) proposes a tripartite instead of the commoner, so-called diptych, structure for the plot. For the apotheosis see the discussion in 6 with nn. 72–75 below. Cf. Segal (2000) 151. The play also has a more pronounced exotic character than the rest of Sophocles’ extant work. Apart from reports of Heracles’ wanderings and especially his yearlong expiatory enslavement to the Lydian queen Omphale, the play includes several references, and indeed accords much importance, to monstrous figures and magical elements.

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couple of millennia after Sophocles’ time, would not be able to pursue any kind of career other than that of wife and mother. Moreover, Heracles is not a great warrior but a lone, almost supernatural, fighter, mainly of monstrous opponents: his appetites are excessive, and he is prone to all manner of aggression, even against guest-friends and family members. Murder among friends, ignorance, delusion, and belated enlightenment are staple themes in Greek tragedy. So is divine involvement in human affairs, often in the form of ambiguous oracles, but a religious theme, especially a suppressed one such as the immortalization of Heracles, should not be elevated to the status of a key that unlocks the reservoir of a play’s power. Trachiniae is an intriguing play, both in its characters and the presentation of the legend it dramatizes. When the play begins, Heracles’ career as a performer of challenging labors is over, according to oracles delivered to the hero years earlier.4 It will turn out that his tumultuous life is also nearing its end and the two ends are identical. The play focuses on the process of Deianeira’s becoming the instrument of the pathetic and terrifying demise of her husband, and on the trauma this life-transforming disaster causes to their eldest son Hyllus, and by implication the rest of their family. The past is consistently and constantly relevant, as the characters cause, or attempt and fail to thwart in time, misfortunes which are traced back to ancient events, relationships, and predictions. The first part of the play, before the appearance of the old messenger (180ff.), is devoted to the reaction of Deianeira to the crisis brought about by the latest long absence of her husband. Before he left, Heracles gave her an ancient tablet and instructed her what to do in case he died after fifteen months, when he was fated to die or live undisturbed ever after, according to an oracle he had received at Dodona (155–74; cf. 76–81, 821–30, 1164–73). Since fifteen months have now elapsed, Deianeira fears the worst (43–48). On the advice of her nurse5 (49–60), she sends Hyllus, who

4 5

For these oracles see the discussion in 6 with n. 67 below. This character is never called so by Deianeira or anyone else in the play. It is also not clear that she is the same character as the one who reports Deianeira’s suicide to the chorus (871ff.). The appellation goes back to the list of dramatis personae in L (δούλη τροφός) and has been adopted by all critics, who also identify the character in the prologue with the old lady in the fourth episode. I will retain the traditional appellation and identification because they do not affect my discussion, but it should be kept in mind that they may well be figments of scholarly imagination, ancient and modern.

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says that he has heard rumors about his father’s adventures in the time of his absence (67–75), to find out how his father is faring.6 The significance of the past becomes apparent even before this point, in the speech with which the play opens. This speech is delivered by Deianeira, who remains the center of dramatic attention until her suicide much later. Her life has been a long procession of fears and sorrows, initiated as soon as she reached marriageable age and extending into the present, her middle life. Apart from the name of her father and home-country (6–7), her past as a maiden hardly features in the prologue or the play at all.7 As is common for married women in tragedy, she focuses mainly on her husband and children, although she remarkably fails to mention the names or even the number of the latter. Heracles, the mighty hero and

6

7

At first sight, Hyllus’ trip appears to be reminiscent of Telemachus’ quest for his father in Homer’s Odyssey. Nevertheless, Deianeira’s role in dispatching Hyllus on the advice of a trusted servant, the son’s reunion with his father and its outcome are different from the epic. In a similar vein, Fowler (1999) 161–65 takes up a frequently quoted observation of Taplin (1977) 124–25 to the effect that Trachiniae is a nostos-play like Aeschylus’ Agamemnon and Persae and Euripides’ Heracles. Fowler suggests that Sophocles’ play is modeled upon Odyssey and discusses the similarities and differences between the two, except for those pertaining to Hyllus’ journey. Although the comparison seems plausible, and the audience may have thought of the epic, at least initially, the similarities do not extend much further than the folktale motifs of the hero’s instructions to his wife and his return in the nick of a time, after a prolonged absence. On the other hand, the differences are so numerous and essential, with respect to the attitude, behavior and relationships of the characters as well as the outcome of the story, that they seriously undermine the idea of an epic model for the play and its designation as a nostos-play, except from a purely formal perspective. For Aeschylus’ Persae see A I 1 above. The chorus refer to, but do not name, her mother in a brief yet powerful image at the end of the first stasimon (529–30). Since Deianeira’s mother was Althaea, who killed her son Meleager in anger over his (accidental) killing of her brothers, Sophocles probably wished to avoid allusions to this part of Deianeira’s family history, especially since he presents Deianeira as very different from her mother, although they both kill a close relative. The exclusive focus on the father, the only member of Deianeira’s family mentioned by her and other characters (405–6, 598, 665, 1050; cf. 792), and the absence of any sign of Deianeira’s emotional attachment to him highlight her isolation and subordination to males and their relations. Deianeira = ‘Slayer of Men’ is the daughter of Oeneus and the wife of Heracles, given in marriage by the former to the latter. Cf. Ormand (1999) 37–38, 48, 51, 54–56. Iole is also referred to as the daughter of Eurytus (380–81, 420, 1219), although her brothers (266) and especially Iphitus (38, 270, 357) are also mentioned. For Deianeira’s isolation in the play cf. the discussion in 3 with nn. 23–25 below.

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overwhelming husband, looms large in Deianeira’s conscience. He has apparently done so ever since he fought with and defeated her monstrous first suitor, the river Achelous. Her maiden life came to an end, and her adult life began, in this unusual and terrifyingly spectacular way. While she watched in mind-numbing terror, Heracles saved her from the dreadful bed of the river (9–25; cf. 503–30). She will later reveal that, soon afterwards, as a new bride following her husband to his home, she became the object of lust of another monstrous being, the centaur Nessus. Heracles saved her again, by shooting and killing the would-be rapist (555–88). From then on, she led a lonely life of childbearing and childrearing (25–35). The unrelenting hardships and displacements imposed by Heracles’ career placed great demands on her patience and resolve. She shouldered the responsibility of raising the children and keeping the family together, constantly fearing for her husband’s safety, perpetually hoping for his return home and final delivery from the labors (25–51; cf. 103–40, 153–77, 540–42), and even tolerating his many infidelities, as she will later indicate (459–62).

2. A large train from Oechalia For more than one third of the play, up to 530, the picture sketched above remains largely, although not completely, unchanged. Sooner than expected, the arrival of the old messenger (180ff.), and, shortly afterwards, Lichas (229ff.), briefly delivers Deianeira from her latest fear. She learns that her husband is safe, victorious, nearby, and about to return home. The arrival of Lichas is the first turning point in the play, although the sinister potential of the news he brings emerges only gradually. First of all, as Deianeira later says, he “arrived with a large train” (496; cf. 226), bringing with him several newly captured women slaves from Oechalia. More important, he lied, as is soon revealed by the messenger, who enlightens Deianeira when Lichas and the captives go into the house (346–48): he suppressed a crucial part of the story, namely that one of the captives is the Oechalian princess Iole, for whose sake Heracles had sacked her city, and whom he is now sending home as his concubine (351–74, 380–82). On cross-examination by the messenger, and after receiving assurances from Deianeira that she harbors no ill feelings against Heracles or Iole (445–48, 459–67), Lichas confirms the messenger’s account (472–78). He also reveals that Heracles had not instructed him to lie: he decided to conceal the truth about Iole and give a false account of Heracles’ motive

2. A large train from Oechalia

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for sacking Oechalia because he wished to spare Deianeira’s feelings (479–83). Deianeira then goes into the house to prepare gifts for Lichas to take to her husband (490–96). The chorus, left alone onstage, sing the first stasimon, which exalts the power of Aphrodite (497–502) and includes an imaginative recreation, in almost cosmic terms, of the struggle of Heracles with Achelous (503–22). The beautiful girl Deianeira is presented as the piteous spectator of the struggle, the end of which brings about her separation from her mother (523–30). Apart from the striking and potentially unsettling effect of the silent cortege of the captives, especially the mute Iole, and from Lichas’ lies, nothing out of the ordinary seems to have occurred so far. In light of Deianeira’s account of her life with Heracles (cf. 49–51), and of Hyllus’ remark on the “accustomed fate” (ὁ ξυνήθης πότμος, 88) of his father, one may plausibly imagine that the scenario had been repeated several times in the past, with minor variations: Deianeira used to fear for the safety of her long-absent husband, but he always returned safe and victorious. This time, he had spent the first twelve of the previous fifteen months in a rather compromising situation as a punishment for lethal treachery (69–70, 248–53, 274–80) but in the last three he was his usual self, having conceived a mighty passion for a young woman and sacked a city, Oechalia (74–75, 244–45, 258–60, 281–85). Moreover, the sack of Oechalia has been predicted to be his last labor (79–85), and he and his family might now look forward to a peaceful life. Deianeira, who claims that she only wishes to learn the truth about what happened during her husband’s absence (457–59), is eager to welcome him home, declaring her magnanimous understanding for his weakness for the fair sex and her respect for the invincible power of Eros (441–48). The main, at first sight not particularly weighty, difference between the present situation and the past seems to be the dispatch of Iole as Heracles’ live-in concubine. Quite suddenly, though, it becomes clear that Deianeira’s attitude to her latest rival is actually very different from, and much less accommodating than, her reaction to Heracles’ previous infidelities (531–51). Given Deianeira’s past attitude and her declarations in the speech to Lichas, one would hardly expect her to take action in order to deal with the new situation that Iole’s arrival establishes (553–83), at least not immediately after she has learnt the truth. Deianeira had never taken action before and, as recently as the prologue, she needed the nurse’s advice even to send her son to search for his father (cf. 385–86). Nevertheless, already her speech to Lichas may be thought to contain indications that the new development causes her to suffer emotional

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turmoil. Her first reference to the invincible power of Eros over humans includes herself and Iole (444), not Heracles.8 At 447–48 she rejects the possibility that Iole is accessory (μεταιτία)9 to any shameful deed or wrong done to her because she is just subject to Eros,10 as Heracles and everybody else, including Deianeira herself, is. This association of the actors in the triangle possibly indicates that she views Iole as suffering from the same unconquerable and divinely sent passion as everybody else in the universe. Toward the end of her speech, she mentions again the possibility that Iole may be consumed with passion for Heracles (ἥδε τ’ οὐδ’ ἂν εἰ/ κάρτ’ ἐντακείη τῷ φιλεῖν, 462–63).11 Much more explicit and unambiguous than these hints at Iole’s passion for Heracles are the afflicted wife’s revelations to the chorus in the second episode. Deianeira declares that she cannot stand the presence of her young rival in her house but does not wish to rail in anger against her husband’s foible (543–44; cf. 459–62) or to do anything rash (552–53, 586–87).12 As a prudent woman, she has weighed her options and found

8 It is possible, though, that this reference does not involve desire, or only desire, but primarily the power of Eros to bring harm to those affected by a lover’s (fickle) desire: Deianeira suffers because Heracles took a concubine, and Iole suffers because Heracles conceived a mighty desire for her. In any case, there is nothing a sensible person, aware of the mutability of the human condition (439–40; on this statement cf. n. 29 below), can and should do because Eros is invincible. The theme of a beautiful and desirable woman’s suffering runs through the play and will be touched upon by Deianeira shortly (464–67). Cf. n. 10 below. Winnington-Ingram (1980) 77 n. 17 points to the accumulation of dental consonants at 445–47 as a possible sign of Deianeira’s emotional strain. 9 On μεταίτιος cf. the discussion in 7 with nn. 78–83 below. 10 What Deianeira certainly declares is that she would be completely crazy to blame her infatuated husband (445–46) or the unoffending Iole (447–48): it is not clear that the girl has succumbed to the same “illness” as Heracles. Cf. n. 8 above and the discussion below. 11 It is true that the subject of the verb may be Heracles, as Lloyd-Jones and Wilson (1990) 160 think. Cf. Longo (1968) ad loc. Certainly, Deianeira cares about Heracles’ feelings for Iole. If, though, she views him as desired even by his young captive, whose city, family and whole life have been destroyed by the man who wanted her as his concubine, this shows that Deianeira’s emotional turmoil has started addling her judgment. 12 Konstan (2006) 59–61 suggests that, unlike the Euripidean Medea, the passive Deianeira does not become angry at Heracles because she is much weaker than her husband. Unable and unwilling to take revenge, she is not outraged by his infidelities. It is more plausible that Deianeira, who values Heracles as husband and lover, genuinely believes that desire is omnipotent and Heracles suffers from a disease

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that she may have a way of winning back Heracles’ affections (553–54, 584–86). She has for years possessed a love-charm, which none other than her onetime would-be ravisher Nessus had given her before he died. He had urged her to collect the congealed blood around his wound, which contained Hydra’s poison from Heracles’ arrow, and use it as a potent love-charm to secure her husband’s devotion to her (555–77). She has now anointed a ceremonial robe with the charm and intends to send it to Heracles as a gift (578–91). She asks for the chorus’ opinion (586–87) and, encouraged by them (588–89, 592–93), she gives the casket with the robe to Lichas with instructions on how Heracles should use the gift (600–15). Several scholars believe that the chorus do not encourage Deianeira to make use of the charm.13 The argument hinges mainly on the present participle at 592 (ἀλλ’ εἰδέναι χρὴ δρῶσαν), which may be conditional. It is, though, more plausible to follow Jebb, who suggests that the participle expresses the main idea of the sentence, adding that the chorus do not encourage Deianeira to make the experiment; they merely say that knowledge can come only from experience.14 However, Deianeira’s only chance of gaining knowledge is by sending the cloak to Heracles, that is, by making the experiment,15 or at least a similar experiment. It is indeed rather difficult to believe that the women stress the importance of experience but discourage Deianeira from securing it. If she is to refrain from using the charm now, why should she do, or have done so, at another time? And how could she obtain proof of the efficacy of the charm unless she used it on Heracles? I will briefly discuss issues concerning the safe dosage and toxicity of the charm in 5 below. For now, outright discouragement on the part of the chorus is improbable and makes little sense in the context. The women do raise the issue whether the charm has been used before with proven results (588–89). They would apparently prefer, as

sent by the gods. Besides, the situation of Medea and Deianeira is very different to begin with. Although both women stand to lose their previous position, Medea is about to become an outcast without a city while Deianeira fears that her status will be compromised. In this light, revenge is likelier in Medea’s than in Deianeira’s case, irrespective of the strengths or weaknesses of the heroines. 13 See Solmsen (1985), and Kraus (1986) 99–100. Cf. Heiden (1989) 91–92, Carawan (2000), and Lefèvre (2001) 16–17. 14 Jebb (1892) ad loc. 15 Cf. Rodighiero (2004) 192–93.

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would Deianeira herself, to have a proof based on experience. As things stand now, they stress the importance of finding out through action. It is very important to keep in mind that, in their first reaction to Deianeira’s plan, the women do not ask whether there is any proof that the charm is harmless but whether there are any grounds for confidence (πίστις) that it works (588). The concern with the safety of the drug is not explicitly mentioned: it may only be inferred, as Carawan, for instance, infers it, through an association of the passage with fifth century evidence on the harmful effects of erotic charms. Some spectators may have made the association, but the most one can say is that the first part of 592 (ἀλλ’ εἰδέναι χρὴ δρῶσαν) may have been meant to be ambiguous. The rest of 592–93 stresses the importance of taking action instead of relying on belief. At any rate, the chorus never say clearly that Deianeira should refrain from using the charm without previous test. Their desire for a πίστις is not explained: if, as is probable, they are not concerned with the drug’s safety, its potential ineffectiveness can present no practical problem – Deianeira apparently has no other means of dealing with the situation, and the girls offer no alternative. Nevertheless, since Deianeira asks their opinion concerning the propriety of her act (586–87), the chorus’ caution is presumably motivated by a shared belief that one should rather not become involved in vain with something that may be thought to stretch the limits of propriety such as erotic magic (cf. 582–83). This, though, is not tantamount to discouragement because the girls tell Deianeira that her plan is good, if she has any proof of the drug’s effectiveness (588–89), and then urge her to prefer proof to belief. Besides, and for what this observation is worth, they never raise concerns over, or point out, her recklessness in acting against their advice. Deianeira herself suggests later that she would never advise anyone to eagerly undertake action when there is no certainty (669–70) but neither she nor the chorus indicates that she has acted against previously given advice.16

16 At 841 the chorus suggest that Deianeira was unflinching or bold (ἄοκνος) but do not explain the reason for her lack of hesitation. Carawan (2000) 217 n. 69 thinks that the reason is her resolve to proceed despite the chorus’ discouragement, but it is at least equally plausible that she proceeds because of the success of Nessus’ deception. Easterling (1982) ad loc. points out that the reference to Deianeira’s lack of hesitation is ironic in view of her habitual ὄκνος in the play. Cf. n. 45 below. For Carawan’s view of Deianeira’s guilt see also the discussion in 5 below.

3. The blossom of youth and the trophy wife

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3. The blossom of youth and the trophy wife Irrespective of the importance of the chorus’ encouragement, and despite Deianeira’s previous passivity, her decision to take the unusual step of sending the robe now, after many years during which she had never thought of using the charm,17 is not wholly inexplicable and surprising. Heracles himself has done something unprecedented: he has sent home a young woman, a beautiful captive princess, as his live-in concubine. Deianeira points out bitterly that this is how he has reciprocated for her long watch over the house (540–42). Her distress is natural enough for a tragic woman and wife, being an affront to her dignity (545–46).18 What complicates matters and increases her anxious concern is the harshly plain fact that Iole is at the peak of her youthful bloom while Deianeira herself is past her prime (547–51). She has already sketched a graphic image of her plight by saying that the two women will now expect the embraces of Heracles under the same blanket (539–40). She finishes the introduction to her speech with the epigrammatic “this is why I fear that Heracles will be called my husband but the younger woman’s man” (550–51). There is no indication, and no reason to imagine, that Deianeira would find the presence of an older live-in concubine less offensive, but the blossoming youth of Iole is an urgent and painful reminder of Deianeira’s diminishing erotic appeal.19 Yet bitterness or sheer sexual jealousy does not appear to be her only or even her main motive for taking action. Although Heracles had had several extramarital affairs in the past (459–62), and it is plausible that some of them were with women younger than his wife, Deianeira’s universally recognized status as his trophy wife, the institutionally validated object of his sexual passion, had never been challenged before. Consequently, Deianeira had never taken, or considered taking, action before. Iole’s arrival upsets the status quo: it signifies the devastating loss of Deianeira’s identity, which, as her prologue speech already indicates, had been determined by

17 Seale (1982) 197 observes that Deianeira’s first departure from the scene coincides with her decision to act. For the movement of Deianeira from passive to active reception of knowledge see also Lawrence (1978). 18 For the position of concubines in tragedy and classical Athens see the discussion of Foley (2001) 87–90 with previous bibliography. 19 For Deianeira’s preoccupation with sexual matters see Winnington-Ingram (1980) 78–81, and Heiden (1989) 83–84. Conacher (1997) 29–30 correctly points out the differences between the desire of Deianeira and Heracles (and Nessus).

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her beauty and the sexual desire it aroused in various suitors, primarily of course Heracles, who fought for and married her. It is noteworthy and telling that Deianeira never shows any anxiety of being displaced or replaced by Iole as mistress of the house and Heracles’ legitimate wife.20 She does not entertain any thought that Heracles may, for instance, divorce her, or that her children’s position may be usurped by the children the new favorite may bear.21 On the other hand, it is clear that she is not distraught merely by the presence of another or a younger woman in Heracles’ bed, a common occurrence anyway,22 and that she wishes to preserve her wifely virtue by continuing to behave prudently, as she has done all her married life. There is also no sign that her humane attitude toward Iole changes substantially after she learns the truth, as she never expresses any wish to harm Iole or to punish Heracles. Thus Deianeira decides to take action because she wishes to avert the loss of her status as Heracles’ trophy consort. In her opening statement in the prologue she had claimed that, contrary to the common maxim, she knows her fate before her death (1–5). Her lot has been miserable, full of fearful expectation and anxious waiting ever since she came of age (6–48). Nevertheless, in the two great crises of her young life, her wooing by Achelous and the attempted rape by Nessus, Heracles was there for her, ready to use his brawn and bow in order to save her from her terrifying suitors, his rivals for her bed. For the rest of her life, she managed alone, putting up with constant anxiety, raising the family, and adopting the role of the good wife who tolerates even her husband’s infidelities. Now it

20 Pace Segal (1981) 75–76, who thinks that Iole’s ambiguous status represents a threat to Deianeira. But Iole’s status is as clear as any woman’s in her position in Greek tragedy: she is a spear-won captive, chosen by her master to be his live-in concubine; she is technically a slave, and any children she may bear will be illegitimate, but she will apparently not do slave chores (cf. 366–67), or suffer physical hardship. Cf. next n. 21 Levett (2004) 50–52, who also thinks that Iole’s position in the house is ambiguous and threatens Deianeira’s place within the family (cf. previous n.), suggests that Iole’s noble ancestry enhances Deianeira’s anxiety because Iole could produce noble children and replace Deianeira as Heracles’ wife. There is no such indication, or any reference or allusion to Iole’s future children in the play. 22 The statement at 543–44 (ἐγὼ δὲ θυμοῦσθαι μὲν οὐκ ἐπίσταμαι/ νοσοῦντι κείνῳ πολλὰ τῇδε τῇ νόσῳ) probably refers to the present situation but it is formulated so as to allude also to Heracles’ past extramarital peccadilloes and Deianeira’s tolerance of them (cf. 459–62).

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appears that her misery will certainly increase and become unbearable not because Heracles has died, as she feared, but because he has taken a new concubine and brought her home. Deianeira cannot appeal to Heracles for help with her predicament because, in a way, he is the cause of the predicament. She tries to preserve the balance that had been established for a long time, difficult and imperfect though it had been. Her loneliness, anxious weeping at night, and even Heracles’ passing affairs are one thing, the loss of Heracles, both his death and especially his permanent attachment to a live-in concubine, quite another. Despite his constant and prolonged absences, Heracles always used to come back to his wife. Deianeira now feels that she absolutely needs to do something to preserve the past, and she has nothing to turn to for help but the past itself. Such a wish or attempt is not surprising for a Sophoclean hero. Ajax, Philoctetes, and even the young Neoptolemus deal with their predicaments by turning to the past and trying as best they can to be true to it. Oedipus in OT retains or recovers some measure of the powers that determined his past greatness. In OC he remains attached to his past and, with divine and human assistance, recreates some form of his excellence. Deianeira, though, is very different from these heroes, not so much because she is a woman as because there is really nothing left of the past for her to (re)turn to or recreate. In a similar vein, and equally detrimentally, she has no role model to imitate and no mentor, friend, or ally to advise her. Although she has a family, does not live in wilderness like Philoctetes, and is not a barbarian like the Euripidean Medea, she may count as the loneliest, most isolated person in extant Greek tragedy. Uprooted from her hometown and natal family, she spent most of her married life without her husband. She is currently living in exile, in the house of a foreign host (38–39), and has no close friends, either among her servants or the Trachinian women.23 Even her mother-in-law has left (1151–52),

23 The nurse is not shown to have any particular attachment to Deianeira, and the latter certainly shows no attachment to, and seeks no advice or comfort from, the old servant. The nurse does not talk or even present herself to Deianeira in the house before the suicide but keeps watch secretly (914–15), and in vain (927–31). Throughout the play, Deianeira also stresses her differences from the chorus, who are young maidens sympathetic to her but cannot be called her friends, although she calls them so a couple of times (225, 298, 531). She says that she has come out of the house partly to lament her sufferings with them (535) but she never does so and concentrates only on the business of the charm. Her consultation with the chorus has disastrous consequences, whether she takes their advice or disregards

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and her children are dispersed (1153–54). Her only child present is a son, and he soon curses her to die for what she did to his father (807–12, 819–20). Deianeira’s isolation becomes pathetically and starkly apparent from the nurse’s description of her suicide (899–946). Tragic women about to commit suicide or die almost always mention family members, usually to lament their loss or their fate (A. Ag. 1156–61, 1305; cf. 1167–72, S. Ant. 863–71, 898–915, 1302–4, Eur. An. 399–420, 523–25; cf. Hec. 409–31, Suppl. 1012–30, 1070–71), or to register their hatred of them (A. Ch. 928–29; cf. 912, 924, S. Ant. 1304–5, 1312–13). Deianeira’s actions before her suicide (900–22) are reminiscent of the behavior of Jocasta in O T (1241–50) and especially of Alcestis in the homonymous Euripidean play (175–95): all three women focus, and indeed throw themselves, on their marital bed, but there are telling differences among them. Jocasta invokes Laius and her wretched progeny by him and by their son; Alcestis prays for her children (163–69), embraces them (190–91), and says farewell to her servants (193–95). Deianeira says a very brief farewell only to her bed (920–22) and does not mention her natal family, Heracles, her children,24 or anybody else. She does not even mention Hades, or any member of her family she will meet there.25 Before her lament on the bed, she goes around the house and weeps, lamenting her fate (910). She falls upon the altars and cries out that they are becoming desolate (904–5). She touches only inanimate objects such as the things she used (905–6). She sees her servants and weeps (908–9) but does not say anything to them.

it, and it certainly affords her no comfort. Cf. her dismissal of their attempt to encourage her after the incident with the tuft of wool (729–30). 24 911 (καὶ τὰς ἄπαιδας ἐς τὸ λοιπὸν οὐσίας) is likely an interpolation; even if only οὐσίας = ‘property’ or it and ἄπαιδας have become corrupted, again Deianeira would refer to the house or the hearth (with Reiske’s ἑστίας) rather than her children. At any rate, Hyllus’ rejection of his mother cannot make the house or the hearth “childless.” The most recent discussion of the comparable scenes of the heroine’s farewell in Trachiniae and Alcestis is found in Rodighiero (2004) 214–15, who lists previous contributions. He attributes Deianeira’s failure to express gnomes or offer a prayer for the prosperity of the children to the rapidity and impetus of the scene, but these may also be viewed as effect rather than cause of Deianeira’s choices. 25 Even Heracles, who is a man, and about to die in the company of Hyllus anyway, mentions his parents (1105–6) and calls for his family (1147–50), although not in order to say farewell or to offer and receive emotional support.

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Even if 903 (κρύψασ’ ἑαυτὴν ἔνθα μή τις εἰσίδοι) is spurious because Deianeira roams the house, sees her servants and is clearly seen by them, she does die alone, without addressing or mentioning anyone. Easterling suggests that the nurse indicates the women’s quarters rather than a hiding place for the reasons just mentioned.26 This may be so, and the nurse’s specification may suggest that Deianeira did not wish to be seen by anybody else but the servants. She presumably wished to avoid an encounter mainly with Hyllus but perhaps also with Heracles, if he arrived in time. The fact that Hyllus entered the house after Deianeira does not contradict the beginning of the nurse’s account (900–2) because Hyllus entered very shortly after her, after he had pronounced six lines (815–20), and there is no reason to assume that Deianeira started her preparations for the suicide the second she entered the house, without taking notice of Hyllus’ whereabouts.

Deianeira’s reticence may be attributed to her shame and extreme distress, her feelings of worthlessness as wife and mother, pitilessly stoked by Hyllus earlier (734–37, 807–12; cf. 815–20), but her terrible situation is unlikely to have eliminated reminiscences of her natal family. At the end of her life, Deianeira is still weeping on Heracles’ bed, as she has been doing all her married life (103–11; cf. 49–51, 650–52), but her narratives are over: in contrast to the prologue, there is no speech for the watchful nurse to hear and no advice for her to offer. Deianeira dies alone and in silence: in contrast to the chorus, Hyllus will hear the story of Nessus’ drug from others (934–35).

4. Hard-won insights and invincible blows As already suggested, Deianeira was alone not only in her suicide but also in her attempt to win back Heracles’ affections. She had only herself and her past to rely upon, since she could no longer turn to Heracles, her only protector in the past, for help. Unfortunately for her, what she wanted and attempted to preserve was no longer there and could not be recreated or repeated by normal means of sexual attraction. Deianeira used to be a beautiful young princess, who feared coming to grief because of her beauty (24–25). Various males desired her, and were willing to risk life and limb in order to have her. Heracles won, and she became his trophy wife

26 Easterling (1982) ad loc.

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(26–28). Iole is a beautiful young former princess, whose beauty destroyed her life (464–65), and whom Heracles is sending home as his new trophy consort and not as a mere spear-won concubine (365–67, 427–28). She is thus bound to take Deianeira’s place as the main object of Heracles’ desire and his prize in his latest struggle, the war against Iole’s male relatives and city.27 The mature Deianeira needs a marvel or a magical instrument in order to excite again Heracles’ passion for her and thus preserve her exclusivity as his trophy consort. Unfortunately, in order to procure the requisite magical means and resurrect the otherwise irretrievable past, she has none other to turn to but a helper from the past, one of the actors in the dramas of her youth. Unsurprisingly, given her isolation, she appeals to no member of her family, no female friend or confidante, not even any Tirynthian, Theban, or Trachinian individual.28 “You were my last passenger,” had said Nessus, and promised that she would profit from this distinction by obtaining the charm, which would make her the last woman in Heracles’ life (569–77). After many years Deianeira uses the “gift” of her would-be ravisher, Heracles’ rival, to solve her marital problem. This is a major mistake, as she herself realizes very soon, because it was impossible that a victim of Heracles’ arrow, which was shot for her sake, would be her friend: Nessus’ only desire was to deceive her in order to punish his killer (707–11). In Deianeira’s case much more than in that of Ajax (Aj. 665), an enemy’s gifts are no gifts and can bring no benefit. The root of Deianeira‘s mistake is her failure to abide by her own principles of female virtue and to resign herself to the realization she proclaims at the beginning of her first speech in the play, that her life’s lot is unfortunate and heavy (4–5). As she says later, she wishes to be a good woman and wife, sensible, prudent and restrained (552–53, 582–83), able to control her anger against a wayward husband (445–46, 543–44) and an innocent concubine (447–49,

27 Beside their beauty and the suffering it generated, the connection between Deianeira and Iole is also underscored by the use of the predicate κριτόν (27 and 245) in references to both. Iole is a member of the group of captive Oechalian women that Heracles has chosen out for himself and the gods. It is conceivable that Heracles chose out only Iole for himself and meant to offer the rest to temples. Deianeira of course was not a prisoner of war, but Heracles chose her as his bride-to-be and won her in a lethal struggle, exactly as he did Iole. 28 Ironically, when Heracles first hears from Hyllus that his late wife applied the potent love charm to the cloak, he asks: “And who is such a formidable sorcerer among the Trachinians?” (1140).

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462–67; cf. 627–28). She believes that her difficult life has given her insights into the weaknesses of human nature and the vagaries of human fortune,29 and she values her reputation above everything else, even above her life (719–22). Nevertheless, her insights, humane attitude, self-control and concern with reputation are no match for her passion for Heracles and her desire to be (desired by him as) his only trophy consort. Her judgment is addled, and she fails to realize that a good woman should not only not rail but also not do anything against the inevitable disappearance of past certainties, advantages and privileges. “Whoever punches against Eros like a boxer is mad,” she had said to Lichas (441–42), who finishes his confession by saying that Heracles “unconquerable in all contests with his hands, has been utterly vanquished by his eros for her [i.e. Iole]” (488–89; cf. 431–33). Deianeira’s answer is: “I will not bring on myself a disease by fighting a losing fight against the gods” (491–92). These declarations notwithstanding, she finishes her speech to the chorus in the second episode by revealing her intention of overcoming the girl by means of the charm (584–86). Astonishingly for a thoughtful woman, she also thinks against her better judgment that the use of the charm falls within the limits of virtuous wifely behavior. To be sure, she does have reservations about her act: she realizes that an honorable woman like her should not engage in rash or wicked acts of daring (582–83) and that the use of the charm may be such an act (586–87). She asks for the girls’ opinion and promises to stop if they discourage her (587) but she rushes headlong into sending the robe as soon as Lichas appears at the door (594–95). Her last injunction to the chorus to keep her secret because in darkness one may commit shameful deeds without incurring shame (596–97) has

29 Apart from her own lot (4–5) and that of wives and mothers (148–52), Deianeira suggests that she knows the human condition: human desires are ever-shifting, and people do not always rejoice in the same things (οὐδ’ ἥτις οὐ κάτοιδε τἀνθρώπων, ὅτι/ χαίρειν πέφυκεν οὐχὶ τοῖς αὐτοῖς ἀεί, 439–40). (The statement is crafted so that it may also mean that joy is not permanent in the same people, echoing the parodos [126–35], although the articular infinitive would be more natural in this case.) Deianeira also elaborates on the happy privacy and sheltered invulnerability of young women (144–48). This remarkable passage captures succinctly the extraordinary nature, happiness, and transience of youth but it also indirectly provides a picture of Deianeira’s young life, of the years preceding her wooing by Achelous, which are not dealt with in the play. For her, wooing meant woes, and they never abandoned her since it started.

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been viewed as a sign of her guilty nervousness in the face of an act she knows to be wrong and as a proof that she has abandoned her principles of noble behavior.30 This may be so, but it may more likely be an indication that her judgment has become impaired. She can no longer distinguish confidently between shameful and noble deeds, because, if the charm works, and if its use falls within the limits of proper behavior, as she hopes, shame hardly comes into question. Heracles of course would never condone her action and, if Lichas knew of the charm, he would probably refuse to deliver the robe without telling his master the truth. Nevertheless, Hyllus’ description of her initiative to his father, in the last reference to Deianeira in the play, may be thought to better represent the public view of this initiative: her intent was good but she erred in its implementation (1136), not because it was shameful to use love charms (cf. 1138–39), or potentially catastrophic to use previously untested love charms, but because Nessus tricked her into using the specific lethal charm to achieve her innocent goal (1141–42; cf. 727–28, 935). Deianeira realizes that her life has been unfortunate, that Eros is invincible, that she is getting older and less desirable, and that Heracles, who was never a faithful husband to begin with, is rewarding her labors at home with the dispatch of a young, live-in concubine. Despite all these sensible and hard-won insights, she fails to act accordingly because she is blinded by her passion. This is her hamartia, for which she will pay dearly, and does not involve so much erotic desire for Heracles or sexual jealousy as a passion to preserve her position as Heracles’ institutionalized, publicly recognized, and, in this sense, main object of erotic desire. It is also obvious that Deianeira’s potentially lethal confusion has been of long standing. Otherwise, she would not have accepted and kept the gift of Nessus for several years, failing to realize or even to suspect that the dying monster may have set her and his killer a lethal trap. Deianeira says that she had memorized exactly Nessus’ instructions concerning the charm and that she has now followed them with absolute precision (680–88). It is also a plausible assumption, based on Deianeira’s statements in her speech to the chorus in the second episode, that her failure to use Nessus’ charm earlier was not due to her prudent and humane submission to the power of Eros, manifest in Heracles’ multiple affairs, but rather to her youthful desirability, which stopped Heracles from taking a live-in

30 See e.g. Winnington-Ingram (1980) 78–79, and Foley (2001) 96–97. Cf. n. 35 below.

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concubine. When, with the passage of time, he did so, and things came to a head, Deianeira used the charm with little thought of the danger involved. As she says, she knew that the poison of Heracles’ arrows was deadly to everyone and that even gods like Chiron suffered terribly because of it (714–16). She or the play leaves no doubt that she has known these things all along. (I will return to her knowledge and the play’s means of emphasizing it below.) Yet, by her own admission, she could not put two and two together before it was too late (710–13, 716–18). This failure is her, and Heracles’, undoing. In this light, her situation becomes more profoundly tragic. There is no indication that the statements about her insights into the power of gods and the sorrows of the human condition are mere pretexts or rhetorical ploys used to deceive her listeners. In contrast to other Sophoclean heroes such as Ajax and Agamemnon in Ajax, who never show awareness of their precarious position vis-à-vis the divine, Deianeira seems to be aware of the limitations of humanity and the power of gods. Moreover, as just pointed out, her knowledge of the lethality of the poison is also of long standing. Yet, although, by virtue of the information she possesses and the insights she has gained, she seems to be in a position to avoid it, she commits a terrible act and destroys herself and her family in the process.

5. The poison from the past Carawan has argued that, from an Athenian legal perspective, Deianeira would be considered guilty. She did not act with forethought and the intention of killing Heracles but she used a drug, which she knew to be dangerous, without testing for possible toxicity before she applied it. Against the common scholarly assumption, and using evidence from vasepainting, he argues that previous fifth-century authors, most importantly Bacchylides in 16, had abandoned earlier tradition and presented an innocent Deianeira.31 The cloak had become smeared with Nessus’ blood in the river, and the Bacchylidean Deianeira sent it to Heracles in ignorance,

31 See Carawan (2000) 191–95. In archaic literature and vase-painting of the seventh and sixth centuries, Deianeira appears as a vigorous woman, apt to fight and defend herself before Heracles arrived to kill Nessus at close quarters. Cf. next n. Deianeira also knowingly fashioned and sent a poisoned robe to Heracles to punish him.

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deceived by the centaur.32 Sophocles, far from making the heroine innocent, presents her as an active agent, who smears the deadly charm herself without prior test. It is not clear at all that Bacchylides presented an innocent Deianeira, or at least a figure more innocent than her Sophoclean counterpart. One should probably not gloss over or disregard the fact that the dithyramb nowhere states explicitly that Nessus deceived Deianeira. Apart from the evidence provided by Sophocles’ play, which cannot be used as a guide to the interpretation of the dithyramb because of the unsolvable issue of priority,33 the only possible indication that the Bacchylidean Deianeira had been deceived is the reference to the “dusky cloak of things to come” (16.32–33). This does not necessarily mean that Deianeira did not know what she was doing when she sent the cloak,34 if indeed a cloak it was and not another poisoned item or substance. It means that she did not know how things would turn out when she received Nessus’ gift (16.34–35), namely that it would bring about the destruction of her husband and herself. In any case, even if one accepts that the Bacchylidean Nessus had deceived Deianeira, the heroine conceived the plan of sending the cloak

32 Carawan (2000) 199 suggests that the cloak was likely Deianeira’s own, which had become steeped in the bloodstained water of the river, because Nessus would probably not wear anything at all. This would be plausible but for the last sentence of Bacchylides’ poem (16.34–35), which makes it very unlikely. One cannot accept one’s own garment as a fateful and portentous gift (δαιμόνιον τέρ[ας], 16.35). To take the meaning of the sentence to be that Deianeira received Nessus’ instructions concerning the fateful garment involves impossible straining of the Greek. What is important is that the connection between Nessus’ killing by Heracles’ poisoned arrow and the death of Heracles by the robe smeared with the centaur’s poisoned blood seems to have originated, or to have become popularized, in the fifth century. In earlier accounts and representations, Heracles kills Nessus at close quarters, with his sword or club, or Deianeira escapes Nessus’ clutches before Heracles shoots him. In such versions of the story, Nessus would have no opportunity to give Deianeira anything and/or to converse with her. Cf. Riemer (2000) 171–72. For the relationship between Sophocles’ and Bacchylides’ versions see below. 33 For the relative chronology of the two poems see Appendix B I.1. 34 The role of δαίμων, who wove for her the shrewd device that brought many tears (16.23–25), is not incompatible with the action of a knowing Deianeira. If δαίμων is fate or one’s personal fate, it materializes through one’s actions, whether one is aware of their consequences or not. Riemer (2000) argues that the dithyramb highlights Deianeira’s active agency, which, in his view, supports Sophocles’ priority.

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(or another sort of poisoned gift) to Heracles and, by Carawan’s lights, she could and should have tested its toxicity before she sent it. Nessus may not have mentioned the poison, but there is no reason why she would not have known, or could not have thought, of it herself, as the Sophoclean Deianeira could. In the absence of an explicit relevant indication in the text, the fact that the cloak was ready, steeped in the centaur’s blood, does not exonerate the Bacchylidean Deianeira. It is really irrelevant whether a woman smears poisoned blood on a robe she sends to her husband or sends him a robe already smeared with poisoned blood. Given the present state of our knowledge, both Bacchylides and Sophocles presented a woman who was in a position to know, but failed to consider the effect, of the presence of lethal poison in the charm she used after she had learned that her husband was sending home a concubine. In contrast to previous versions of the story, the Sophoclean and perhaps the Bacchylidean Deianeira did not act in order to punish her husband. To return to the audience’s perception of Deianeira’s guilt in Trachiniae, there is no reason to doubt that the Athenians of the classical age considered a person who used a poison or potentially harmful charm guilty of involuntary manslaughter, if the person used the substance without prior test of its toxicity. Deianeira, though, knew that the poison of Hydra was highly toxic and lethal to all victims, and thus there was no reason for her to test it: she just failed to take her knowledge into account before it was too late. If the issue of the charm’s harmfulness had worried her, she would have reached the correct conclusion without a test because she was clearly, and by her own later admission (706–18), in a position to do so.35 On the other hand, if, unmindful of the known and repeatedly proven lethality of the poison, she attempted to test the toxicity of the charm, there would hardly be another way for her to do so but to smear it on something Heracles would come in contact with. If she did, the result would certainly be Heracles’ death.

35 Her exorcism of “acts of wicked daring” (κακὰς .N.N. τόλμας, 582) may, but need not, be a sign of anxiety about the effect of the charm on Heracles: as appears soon (596–97, 721–22), Deianeira’s concern, both before and after the dispatch of the robe, is to avoid harm to her reputation, not harm to Heracles. The acts in question may then be such as may harm a noble lady’s reputation. Even if they involve harm to the recipient, she does fail to take the danger she briefly considers into account, reassuring herself that her act falls within the boundaries of acceptable behavior. Cf. next n.

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Because of the overwhelming potency of the poison, even a small amount such as that used to smear an arrow point with would be enough to cause the death of the victim. In the case of Hydra’s poison, there was no safe dosage: its potency would not allow for a second test or use.36 Of course, one may suggest that Deianeira could and should have smeared some of the charm on a piece of clothing, exposed it to a source of heat, and observed the outcome, as happened later by chance: when exposed to the warmth of the sun’s rays, the tuft of sheep’s hair she had used to anoint the robe with shriveled away and became like sawdust (695–700). Nevertheless, and putting aside the liberties of poetic license, it is a fair assumption that no one, no matter how careful, would think of testing (the toxicity of ) a love-charm on a mere piece of clothing, and also that no one would consider anyone guilty for not having done so. Deianeira is not guilty because she committed an act punishable by classical Athenian homicide law. Her guilt hinges on her temporary inability to make a sound decision. Led astray by her wish to preserve the position she held in Heracles’ life in the past, Deianeira disregarded facts she had known all along, her insights in her own and the human condition, and her principles of prudent and noble behavior. Her act is not criminal but μάταιος, as she herself seems to fear at the end of her speech to the chorus (586–87). μάταιος does not so much indicate someone or something that is rash, reckless, or futile as someone or something that transgresses boundaries, often those of established values and powers, and takes or constitutes ill-considered action. Such action is often rash and perceived as futile, a secondary meaning of μάταιος and especially the adverb μάτην, but it invariably has dire consequences because imprudent defiance of established powers never brings the intended fruit and never goes unpunished. It is probably not accidental that the synonym μῶρος, which indicates one’s inability, often in connection with sexual matters and strong

36 Faraone (1994) suggests that Deianeira allowed herself to be persuaded by Nessus that a small dose of the poisonous drug would not be lethal but would act as an aphrodisiac. The play does not seem to support this prima facie plausible view: issues such as the toxicity, lethality, or dosage of the drug never even come into question, although the overwhelming potency of the poison is never in doubt. Deianeira simply failed to consider the lethal danger involved in her use of the drug: her reservations do not show that she worried about harming Heracles, and the chorus never point out the danger, at least not in any unambiguous way.

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emotions, to think with a clear head and make sound decisions, does not occur in a play so preoccupied with sexual passion.37 Deianeira does not believe, and thus does not fear, that she operates under the influence of inordinate sexual passion, μωρία, which would lead her to take foolish action. She fears that she may engage in illconsidered (μάταιος) action,38 not that she may do something futile and thus fail.39 All instances of μάταιος in the play occur in connection with ill-considered decisions and actions. Lichas uses the word at 407 for his correct visual identification of Deianeira. μάταιος also occurs in Deianeira’s reference to Nessus’ attempt to molest her; the centaur laid wanton hands on her (ψαύει ματαίαις χερσίν, 565). The qualification suggests that Nessus did something outrageously transgressive but it also probably highlights the subject’s failure to make the right calculations, i.e. to take into account Heracles’ presence. He did not of course succeed in raping Deianeira, but this is not the primary meaning of the word. The scholiast (310.17–18 Papageorgius) thinks that it refers to the fact that Nessus failed because Heracles intervened. This gloss is probably influenced by the meaning that became standard in later and Modern Greek. Still, the association with Heracles seems to be on the right track. Nessus’ hands were μάταιαι not because they failed but primarily because they were bound to fail: Heracles was bound to kill the aggressor at once. The word also occurs several times in the context of Deianeira’s suicide. First, the chorus, upon overhearing the nurse’s offstage lamentation, wonder whether they are deluded (μάταιος), i.e. failing to consider things properly and reach a correct conclusion, or they hear a cry of grief just arising in the house (863–64). At 888 the chorus ask the nurse whether she witnessed Deianeira’s suicide. There is a textual problem in the passage. The women may address the nurse as ματαία, a common form of address denoting a mixture of pity and reproach for the addressee’s lack of prudence. Alternatively, they may exclaim ὦ μάταια, in reference to Deianeira’s suicide. In that case, the idea of transgression or ill-considered action is evident, and there is no implication of futility. Similarly, at 940 the nurse reports that, following his mother’s suicide, Hyllus realized the truth and

37 For the meaning of μάταιος and μῶρος see the discussion of Kyriakou (2006) 118–19 and 169–70 respectively. 38 Cf. Lefèvre (2001) 15. 39 This is the view of Carawan (2000) 210.

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uttered many groans because he had slandered her ματαίως = ‘rashly,’ i.e. without examining the evidence carefully so as to reach the right verdict. Carawan claims that Hyllus “did not reckon with the outcome (now to be bereft of both parents, 941–42).”40 But Hyllus’ accusation did not result in the loss of his father, and he never accuses himself of having caused his mother’s death. “This deed” (τοὔργονN .N .N .N τόδε) at 933 is probably the sending of the robe and the destruction of Heracles, the same as τάδε at 935. Hyllus groans because he realizes that in his anger “he attached [ blame for] this deed to his mother.” Even if 933 means “he charged her with this crime in anger” or “drove her to do this deed in anger,” the next comment (934–35) focuses on Hyllus’ lack of information, which caused his anger and drove him to curse his mother. In his laments reported by the nurse, Hyllus mentions only his ill-considered accusation against his mother (ὥς νιν αἰτίᾳ βάλοι κακῇ, 940). When he uttered the curse, Hyllus very much reckoned with and wished for the outcome, his mother’s death. At 940 the nurse reports his regret for the accusation and at 941–42 his lament over his loss of both parents. Finally, at the end of her report, the nurse suggests that anyone that reckons ( λογίζεται, 944) on two days or more is μάταιος (945): there is no tomorrow, until one has passed the present day happily (945–46). This most clearly indicates that a μάταιος person fails to make the appropriate calculations and reach the correct conclusion.

Deianeira realizes that the use of magic may not become a sensible, honorable woman. She stresses that she abhors and wants nothing to do with “deeds of wicked daring” (582–83). She wishes to “overcome” the girl with charms, if she can, and that is why she has contrived her deed (584–86), unless she seems to be undertaking something μάταιον (586–87), i.e. potentially ill-considered because likely to violate inviolable moral limits (cf. 663–64). She introduced her report of the story of the charm, and her decision to use it in order to deal with her predicament, by calling it a λυτήριον λύπημα (554). This is an arresting and much discussed oxymoron. If there is no textual corruption, Stinton seems to have interpreted it adequately:41 Deianeira hopes that the use of the charm will release her from her troubles, but it vexes her that she needs to resort to magic and

40 Carawan (2000) 210 n. 53; cf. 223. 41 See Stinton (1976) 138–39 = (1990) 223–24. Cf. Davies (1991a) ad loc. If there is corruption, then any of the emendations listed by Davies, such as λώφημα ( Jebb), would be appropriate, and Deianeira would then refer only to her hopes of remedying the situation. Davies thinks that it is a metaphor from surgery, but it is not clear whether he thinks that the pain will be experienced by Heracles or Deianeira (another oxymoron). Cf. n. 43 below.

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deception in order to deal with her predicament.42 λυτήριον captures her hope and λύπημα her distress.43 As argued above, Deianeira’s tragedy is not her use of an untested love charm, which might prove harmful or lethal, but her failure to realize in time that she should never use as a love charm a substance that contained the lethal poison of a monster on the basis of the claims of another monster and enemy. After the dispatch of the fateful robe, Sophocles has Deianeira herself confirm the plausible assumption that such realization was well within her powers and could have occurred before she had taken the fatal step, if her judgment had not been clouded (706–18). The incident with the tuft of wool and Deianeira’s report of it to the chorus (672–722) certainly do not advance the plot and contribute little to the preparation for the death of Deianeira or Heracles. Deianeira could have announced to the chorus that she planned to commit suicide, if things went wrong with the charm, before the appearance of Lichas, but the absence of any such explicit announcement would not have harmed the play anyway.44

42 For Deianeira, deception was probably the most distressing aspect of the enterprise. In contrast to black magic and later perceptions of magical practices in general, the use of love potions did not involve dark supernatural powers, and was not meant to harm the object of the user’s desire. Nevertheless, the alienated spouse or lover was unlikely to take kindly to the effect of the charm, not only because the charm was administered stealthily but also, and especially, because it involved the surrender of self-control and a renewed attachment to a person no longer considered desirable under normal conditions. The use of deception, and one’s control over a lover or spouse, especially a man, were frowned upon, and their revelation would compromise a lady’s reputation. 43 It is implausible that the distress indicates the anguish of the wounded centaur, as older scholars and Stinton himself (n. 41 above) had originally suggested, since this is irrelevant to Deianeira and has hardly anything to do with the charm as such. Heiden (1989) 86 thinks that it is Deianeira’s pain at recalling the incident with Nessus, but the main source of her pain at present must be her plan to use the charm she acquired during the incident. Carawan (2000) 207–20 argues at length that Deianeira expects her charm to cause pain and suffering to Heracles, as was common in love magic, although not to kill him. The single word λύπημα, which may be corrupt and is certainly ambiguous, cannot support the weight of such an argument. Even if love charms in general were believed or known to be dangerous, which is not necessarily the case for the society depicted in tragedy, and despite the fact that Deianeira is aware of the existence of poison in the charm, she and the chorus never mention, and do not seem to suspect, any potential harm to Heracles. 44 Neither Jocasta in OT nor Eurydice in Antigone, not to mention Antigone herself, announces her imminent suicide, but the effect of the deaths is no less striking for that.

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Besides, an attendant could have come out of the house to report the incident with the tuft of wool and Deianeira’s distress on account of it. Alternatively, if Hyllus had appeared after the second stasimon to deliver his report and condemn his mother, the play would have proceeded without change or problem. Sophocles, though, has Deianeira herself come out and talk to the chorus after the stasimon. She relays not only the terrifying event and her fears45 but also, and most significantly, her clear, although belated, understanding of the reasons why the charm is bound to kill Heracles. Furthermore, she assumes full responsibility for the act and announces her decision to die because of it. It is indeed incredible that Deianeira’s confrontation with the first proof of the charm’s toxicity provides her with knowledge she could not have possessed otherwise. She never says or implies anything to that effect, and does not charge Nessus, the gods, or fate with responsibility for the crime. She merely says that she understands now, when it is too late. The shriveled tuft of wool shook her out of her disastrous, trance-like denial, and reduced her delusions to smithereens. Now her γνώμη (713) and δόξα (718) indicate that she is the sole person responsible for the imminent killing of her husband and declares that she has decided (δέδοκται) to die along with him (719–20). As Heracles’ release from labors will be his death, Deianeira’s only remaining means of avoiding living in disrepute is death (721–22). Everything has come full circle for Deianeira. Her problems started with the dreaded bed of a river (15–17), which she wished to die before sharing, and continued in a river (562–65). She passed from her initial horror of sharing the bed of Achelous to the fear of sharing the bed of Heracles with Iole (539–40). She dies alone on the bed she will never again share with her husband (920–22), and which he will never share with Iole, after her own son has cursed her to reap the pleasure she has given to his father (819–20). The last union of the spouses, the longawaited pleasure, the culmination of reciprocity, and the final release have been achieved in a manner both pathetic and monstrous. Heracles will soon appear suffering and about to die on a litter, even if his actual death

45 The constant fear of Deianeira, even when she thinks that the worst for her and her family is likely over, is a motif that runs through the play up to Hyllus’ arrival from Euboea, and the scene in question is its final and climactic articulation. Lefèvre (2001) 20–24 (cf. Winnington-Ingram [1980] 75–81) provides a helpful overview of the motif, but it is important to observe that Deianeira’s previous fear of losing Heracles resulted only in passive laments, while her latest fear of losing her status led her to take swift and disastrous action.

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takes place elsewhere. He will expose his body (1078–80), just as the nurse said Deianeira did (925–26). Despite the gap that separates the spouses, who famously never meet in the play, Sophocles has also remarkably presented them as very similar to each other.46 There are obvious parallels in the proximate cause of their death, and even the laments before it.47 Deianeira and Heracles die without enjoying the object of their desire at home. Their son Hyllus is near, informs each parent of the other’s situation, and is a conspicuous victim of their terrible fate. Crucially, both spouses share a similar view of their life and its final crisis. Both believed that their life had been difficult but hoped that they would soon be released from their troubles. When this hope is cruelly and unexpectedly dashed, they resolve to deal with their terrible situation by dying in a particular, significant way. Although Heracles spent his life without any lament for his labors and Deianeira hers in perpetual lament for Heracles, both spouses commit suicide heroically.48 Deianeira, who, according to Heracles, has done something outside mortal and female nature (1048–52, 1062–63), chooses a masculine mode of suicide. Although Heracles claims to have been feminized by his unprecedented suffering (1070–75), he prohibits laments at his immolation and threatens Hyllus with posthumous curses if he fails to obey (1199–1202). At the end, he urges his soul to suppress cries and endure death with equanimity (1259–63). The final wish of both spouses is to preserve their honor and their past as much as their circumstances allow, and despite the obvious and appalling diminution of their status. Heracles, though, involves Hyllus in the realization of his wish.

6. Heracles’ last labor and his son Heracles’ preoccupation with his image and the way it may affect his reputation becomes apparent before his appearance, from his reported request

46 Segal (1981) 62–63 locates the similarity in the recourse of both spouses to savagery: Deianeira uses the beast’s blood and destroys the house she meant to protect, while Heracles, the protector of civilization, destroys Eurytus’ house to possess Iole. This, though, is a secondary similarity at best; for more significant ones see the discussion below. 47 The same rather unusual verb, βρυχῶμαι, is used of the lamentations of both Deianeira (904) and Heracles (1072; cf. 805). Heracles’ likening himself to a young girl (1071) perhaps serves to associate him also with Iole, who, according to Lichas, had been weeping ever since she left Oechalia (325–27). 48 See Hutchinson (1999) 51.

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that Hyllus lift and take him where no one would see him (799–800). Understanding that the boy would not be willing to do that, a fairly early indication that the father knows his son well, he asks to be ferried away from the land of Euboea (801–2), presumably to Trachis. These are not unusual requests for a tragic hero suffering disgrace and about to die.49 The scholiast (324.10–12 Papageorgius) suggests that Heracles is ashamed to die in Euboea because the Oechalians may mock his death. This is probably over-specific: the Oechalian captive women had already been dispatched to Trachis, and it is not clear that there were any Oechalians left or present to disparage gleefully their conqueror’s ignominious death.50 Be that as it may, the request for a private death is not only forgotten when Heracles appears onstage but the hero is also willing to throw off the covers and display his wounds to the girls of the chorus (1078–80) and perhaps the escorts, if they had not exited silently after 1020.51 Scholars have discussed the emphasis on vision and Heracles’ reputation in the exodus.52 As already suggested, Heracles wishes to preserve his reputation as the supreme hero. For this purpose he stresses his previous feats of strength and displays the effects of the monstrously unjust plot, which has reduced him to the status of a sniveling girl. He also decides to take the matter of his death into his own hands, by merging it with his funeral. He will thus perform a final labor worthy of his superhuman heroic powers and deprive his destroyer of the glory, or at least the notoriety, of actually killing him.53

49 Cf., for instance, OT 1340–46, 1410–12, 1436–37, and Ant. 1321–25, 1339. A salient parallel is Deianeira’s private suicide; cf. the discussion with n. 26 above. Davies (1991a) on 802 suggests that Heracles’ wish for a private death foreshadows this suicide, but see the discussion below. 50 Easterling (1982) on 802 is perhaps right to suggest that Heracles does not wish to die at the scene of his triumph. 51 This display has been associated with the ritual of ἀνακαλυπτήρια, the lifting of the bride’s veil; see e.g. Seaford (1986) 56–57, Segal (1993) 238, Pozzi (1999) 38, and Carawan (2000) 199 n. 34 and 225 n. 86. If the association is valid and indicates anything, this would be the reversal of the union hailed by the chorus after the messenger speech (205–7). The long-awaited bridegroom has arrived in a mangled state and is in no position to enjoy his union with any bride, Deianeira, Iole, or both. He can only lift the covers and reveal his wretchedness. 52 See Seale (1982) 205–6, and Heiden (1989) 140–41. 53 His last word in the play is ergon (1263; cf. 1157) and occurs in the context of an address to his soul to endure it in silence (1259–63). The performance of this labor does not so much require physical prowess as the emotional strength to reject laments on his and Hyllus’ part (1199–1201).

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Heracles’ imminent appearance has been anticipated since the very beginning of the play and announced three times, by the old messenger (185–86), Lichas (287–90), and Hyllus (805–6; cf. 959–61). When he finally arrives, he is being carried on a litter by strangers, completely incapacitated (984–86). The terrible fits of the disease were described earlier (767–88, 831–40), and it is now not even clear to the chorus whether he is alive or dead (969–70). The discrepancy between his appearance, including the display of his physical misery (1078–80), and the picture of his achievements and glory that had been sketched before his reception of Deianeira’s gift is particularly striking.54 Heracles is first mentioned by Deianeira in the prologue as the glorious son of Zeus and Alcmena (19; cf. 644, 1105–6). This is the canonical, as it were, identification of the hero in the play. Heracles’ parentage receives emphasis throughout, and he is always said to be the son of Alcmena (97–98, 181; cf. 1148) and especially Zeus (139–40, 288, 513, 753, 826, 956, 1185; cf. 1088, 1148–49, 1168, 1268–69)–Amphitryon is never mentioned. Unfazed by his labors and invincible (112–21; cf. 36, 88–89, 488, 645), Heracles liberated mankind from various scourges (1011–13, 1060–61, 1089–1102). This traditional portrait is complemented by references to the bizarre story of his bondage to Omphale (69–70, 248–53, 356–57, 431–32) and to numerous sexual liaisons (459–60), which are important for thematic reasons. On the other hand, his repeated vanquishing of monstrous opponents points to his darker side, which appears more clearly in the exodus of the play.55 Among his most controversial features are the savage aggression with which he pursues his passions, and the use of treachery, which was exemplified in the killing of Iphitus, one of Eurytus’ sons and Iole’s brothers (269–80). After Eurytus had refused to give him

54 Shortly before his arrival, the women of the chorus express their fear that the spectacle of the dying Heracles will kill them (955–61). 55 The imaginative description of Heracles’ struggle with Achelous for the bed of Deianeira in the first stasimon (503–30) brings out fairly early on the bestial, elemental nature of the hero. In Heracles’ own quite exhaustive catalogue of his exploits (1089–1102; cf. 1058–61), preceded by onslaughts of pain, which are also described in bestial terms (987, 1026–30, 1088–89; cf. 1053–57), the hero lists an impressive array of monsters he vanquished. His references to human foes are very brief and lack specifics (1058, 1060). The only adversary he has not been able to vanquish is a mere woman, his treacherous wife (1048–52, 1062–63), but he hopes to take an appropriate revenge on her too (1107–11). For references to scholarly discussions of Heracles’ bestial aspect see Liapis (2006) 59 n. 38.

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Iole as a concubine,56 Heracles sacked the city, killed the girl’s family, enslaved her fellow citizens and took her captive to be his concubine (351–54, 359–65, 476–78; cf. 281–83). He meets his end because of his immoderate lust for women and by the treacherous agency of Nessus, a rival who had died at his hands, attempting to satisfy his own lust. In the framework of the dramatic time of the play, Heracles’ violent nature becomes apparent from the killing of Lichas (777–82) but most conspicuously from his treatment of his son Hyllus. The boy himself reports the first words of his father to him, an order to approach and help his father even if he is to die for his pains (797–98). In the same vein, when Heracles appears onstage, he constantly bullies the distraught boy, issuing orders (1023–25, 1032–36, 1064, 1066, 1070, 1076–78, 1120, 1129, 1135, 1147–48, 1157, 1175–78, 1181, 1183, 1185, 1189, 1211, 1216–17, 1224, 1227–29) and challenging him to prove that he is his true son (1064, 1157–58, 1200–1, 1204–5) and that he does not value his murderous mother more than his father (1065–69). If Hyllus does not obey him instantly and completely, his father threatens to disavow, and place heavy curses on, him (1201–2, 1239–40). Even after Hyllus grants his father’s final dying wish (1249–51), there are only two words of praise (καλῶς τελευτᾷς, 1252), if they can be called that, followed immediately by another order to hasten to perform the previously appointed task of preparing his pyre (1252–54). Nowhere in the exchange between father and son does Heracles show any sympathy for his son’s scruples to help him commit suicide on a funeral pyre and for the boy’s (or the family’s) predicament. There are no parting words of advice to the boy, farewell, or message to the rest of the family. Heracles’ death will occur on Oeta and, technically, he still has a chance to say his farewell to Hyllus and perhaps deliver instructions there. Nevertheless, Heracles’ parting words (1259–63) seem to suggest that he will not say anything else. In any case, it is indicative that nothing but orders and threats are delivered to Hyllus within the play. In the last words Hyllus addresses to Heracles, the pressure his father puts on him to ensure the fulfillment of his wishes becomes apparent: “Nothing then hinders the accomplishment of these things for you, since you urge and compel me, father” (ἀλλ’ οὐδὲν εἴργει σοὶ τελειοῦσθαι τάδε,/ ἐπεὶ κελεύεις κἀξαναγκάζεις, πάτερ, 1257–58). As already mentioned, Heracles exits by addressing his own soul and urging it to be brave (1259–63).

56 For Heracles’ proposal to Eurytus see Appendix B I.2.

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It is true that, irrespective of his long-standing lack of involvement with his children and family, Heracles’ situation is dire. Physically incapacitated, he is in agonizing pain and likely to suffer another fit of the disease at any moment. He is thus eager to finish his life as soon as possible, in a manner he deems dignified and appropriate to his past glories. Still, both Heracles’ situation after the last onslaught of the disease and the conventions of Greek poetry do not hinder the hero from delivering a parting speech to his son. Physical pain and distress hardly render any dying characters, from wounded Homeric warriors (e.g. Il. 16.844–54, 22.338–43, 356–60) down to the Euripidean Hippolytus (Hi. 1347ff.) and Polyneices (Ph. 1444–53), inarticulate or silent. The Sophoclean Ajax is also eager to die but he had delivered instructions to his dependents (Aj. 550–82, 684–89) and, in his last monologue, he even asks the Sun to deliver the news of his death to his parents and lingers for a moment on his mother’s distress (845–51). Heracles himself in Trachiniae says much that one would not realistically expect from a man in the throes of painful and deadly poisoning. There is little doubt that Heracles thinks only of himself, his past, present, and imminent end on the pyre, and pities only himself. He asks the Greeks (1010–14),57 Hyllus (1034–35), Hades (1040–43; cf. 1085), and Zeus (1086–88) to kill and deliver him from his plight but has no word of kindness for anybody, friend, foe, or family member. He does not forgive or show any understanding for Deianeira, even after he hears the truth and

57 Heracles bitterly wonders why the completely unrighteous Greeks (Ἕλλανες πάντων ἀδικώτατοι ἀνέρες, 1011), who benefited from his unceasing labors on sea and land, will not bring fire or weapon to deliver him from his pains. If the reading Ἑλλάνων (πάντων Ἑλλάνων ἀδικώτατοι ἀνέρες) is correct, then Heracles addresses a sort of rhetorical question to the men of Trachis or the escorts; see Mastronarde (1979) 16. Even if the question is not a real request for information but an expression of disbelief and a bitter complaint (apistetic-epiplectic in Mastronarde’s terminology), it is improbable that it would be addressed to a specific subgroup of the Greeks. The men who carried him home are most unlikely to be the addressees, and the Trachinians are virtually irrelevant in the play. On the contrary, the fact that Heracles benefited the Greeks (and all humanity) is a standard motif in literature and, most importantly, stressed by Heracles himself in his question. Koechly’s emendation Ἕλλανες, adopted by Lloyd-Jones and Wilson, is virtually palmary. If, improbably, Heracles addresses the escorts, as the only Greeks present who have an opportunity to show their gratitude for his services (Easterling [1982] ad loc.), the complaint is still clearly directed against all Greeks. Cf. Eur. Her. 222–26.

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realizes that she was merely the instrument of his death (1138–42). By contrast, the Euripidean Hippolytus, for instance, acknowledges Phaedra’s divinely motivated plight (Hi. 1403) and forgives Theseus (1449). The dying Polyneices, who expresses pity for his mother and sister (Ph. 1444–45), confirms his bond with his brother (1445–46). Sophoclean heroes are generally less forgiving: the eponymous hero in Ajax, Antigone and Haemon in Antigone, and Oedipus in OC die without exonerating their foes or their offending relatives, but none of them is in a situation similar to that of Heracles. Antigone at least claims that she does not begrudge her sister’s survival (Ant. 553), and Ajax praises Tecmessa’s forethought and obedience (Aj. 536; cf. 527–28). Carawan claims that Heracles does not forgive Deianeira because heroic nature abhors erotic pharmaka and their known effects; the hero believes that he has been emasculated by the drug, which is working exactly as Deianeira or her pharmakeutria (sic) had planned, by rendering the man weak and unmanly.58 This view imputes serious lack of acuity on Heracles, who has few redeeming traits in the play but is certainly not presented as obtuse. Upon learning of Nessus’ trick and realizing the meaning of the oracles, can Heracles, or anybody, still care about erotic poisoning and experience the revulsion it allegedly causes to heroes? The drug is either a potent poison plain and simple or an erotic charm laced with poison. Nessus’ role renders the second possibility irrelevant. When Heracles learns the truth, he does not forgive Deianeira because he is not magnanimous. Inconsiderate and self-centered, he has little concern for other people’s intentions, weaknesses, or sufferings.

Realizing that his fated end is imminent, Heracles asks Hyllus to summon Alcmena and his siblings (1143–50). Commentators suggest that Heracles wishes to gather his family for the final farewell and delivery of instructions, a practice common in life and art.59 Heracles, though, only wishes to reveal the oracles he had received (1149–50) and to secure his family’s crucial cooperation in his suicide. He does not give any other instructions, not even for practical affairs such as e.g. the division of the inheritance,60

58 Carawan (2000) 224–25. 59 See Jebb (1892) on 1147ff., and Easterling (1982) on 1147–56. 60 Before his last departure he had given relevant instructions to Deianeira in case he did not return (161–65), but it is not clear that Hyllus knew of them. The dying Heracles does not even dismiss the need for such instructions.

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and, as already mentioned, there is certainly no farewell or expression of affection.61 I suggested earlier that, like Deianeira, Heracles is chiefly, indeed exclusively, concerned with the preservation or rather the restoration of his past. This includes his unrivalled might, excellence and glory but also the satisfaction of his past appetites, which has no parallel in Deianeira’s wishes. Also unlike Deianeira, who dies alone by her own hand, Heracles needs help to fulfill his wishes, even to immolate himself. Before he finds out about Deianeira’s death, he intersperses his laments over his ignominious vanquishing by her, a mere unarmed but monstrously devious woman, with a passionate wish to punish his killer “so that she may be taught to proclaim to all that both in life and death I have punished evildoers” (1110–11).62 This sounds heroically determined and noble, if somewhat self-righteous. Yet, the threats and proclamations notwithstanding, it is actually little more than bravado. Heracles, who cannot stand or even lift himself up off the litter, is utterly unable to approach his intended victim. He first asks Hyllus to deliver Deianeira to him (1066–69) and then wishes that she come near (1109) to receive her lesson. When he learns the origin of the charm and realizes that various oracles he had received have come true, he makes Hyllus swear to take him up to Mt Oeta and place him on a funeral pyre (1181–1215). He then forces Hyllus to agree to marry Iole so that no man unrelated to Heracles would possess his former lover (1216–51). It is possible that Heracles asks Hyllus to take Iole as his concubine (1221–27). The most fervent proponent of this view is Mackinnon, who argues for it on social, generic and linguistic grounds.63 The last are not as

61 Cf. n. 25 above. The only family member for whom Heracles may be thought to show some affection is his mother Alcmena. Heracles mentions her appreciatively twice (1105, 1148–49), but it is her connection with him rather than her suffering that he invokes. She was his excellent mother and the consort of the supreme god in vain, presumably because her son by him suffers such a cruel fate, and she must be devastated by it. Only the single word τάλαιναν (1148) conveys some pity, although this is also, and perhaps primarily, self-pity. It is probably significant that Heracles calls only his own arms “dear” (φίλοι, 1090). 62 Easterling (1982) on 1110 points out the irony of this wish: Deianeira is no longer in a position to learn anything but ironically, Heracles is about to learn “a momentous truth about himself.” His concern with his reputation is obvious even in this context. 63 Mackinnon (1971).

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strong as sometimes suggested. First of all, they are difficult to evaluate because they involve only two very short orders: “take her as your wife” (ταύτηνN.N.N.Nπροσθοῦ δάμαρτα, 1221–24), and “but you, son, make this marriage” (ἀλλ’ αὐτός, ὦ παῖ, τοῦτο κήδευσον λέχος, 1227). The crucial word λέχος indicates a legitimate union, unless some specification that modifies the meaning is added, or the context makes clear that the union is not legitimate.64 δάμαρ (1224) is also regularly used of a legitimate wife (cf. 406).65 Even granted that none of the words points exclusively to marriage, if the formulation of the request was as ambiguous to the native audience as it is to modern scholars, a point that cannot be decided, then the ambiguity was probably intentional and marriage at least suggested, especially since mythology backed the possibility. Socio-cultural and generic conventions such as Iole’s servile status could be flouted to good effect, if Sophocles wished to stress the outrageousness of Heracles’ request, a plausible assumption in the context of Heracles’ presentation in the play in general and the exodus in particular. In any case, concubinage does not alter the brutal nature of Heracles’ demand and certainly does not lessen the anguish it causes to Hyllus (1230–31, 1233–37, 1243, 1245), as MacKinnon himself admits.66 In what follows I will refer to the union of Hyllus and Iole as marriage.

Both of Heracles’ orders to Hyllus are issued in the context of the final, solemn revelations that mark the end of the characters’ turbulent journey toward acquisition of knowledge and provide the play with a larger temporal and divine perspective. Nevertheless, neither the manner of Heracles’ death nor the union of Hyllus with Iole seems to have its origin in any oracular mandate. On the contrary, they seem to spring from Heracles’ desire for the preservation of his previous status, both with regard to his image and his appetites.

64 See Davies (1991a) 122, who comments on the reference to Iole as a κρύφιον λέχος at 360 but later (260) strangely adopts MacKinnon’s view of the union of Hyllus and Iole. At Ajax 211, a passage often cited as a parallel, the qualification “spearwon” (δουριάλωτον) makes all the difference. 65 Its use at 428–29 and Eur. Tr. 659–60 for concubines is not decisive. For the use of the word at 429 see Davies (1991a) ad loc., who suggests that it likely has a special point. Andromache in Troades may use a word that elevates her own position or indicates that, despite her misery, she can envisage her sexuality only in the context of aristocratic unions (cf. 778–79). 66 MacKinnon (1971) 41. Cf. Lefèvre (2001) 30–31. For objections to MacKinnon’s view see also Segal (1994).

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As is quite common in Sophoclean drama, the formulation of the oracles received by the hero is never made absolutely clear in the play.67 Heracles himself mentions an older oracle that predicted his demise at the hands of “a dead inhabitant of Hades” (1159–61) and a more recent one that predicted his release from labors at the present time (1164–73). He had received the latter from Zeus’ sacred oak at Dodona in the grove of the Selli and had made a written record of it (1166–68): he now realizes that the oracle predicted his release from labors in death (1172–73), brought about by the dead Nessus. Similarly, the chorus, who provide the information that the Dodona oracle had been delivered twelve years ago, or at least twelve years ago, since they apparently suggest that it specified a twelve-year span for the labors, mention only the release from labors, which turns out to be death (821–30). Much earlier, Deianeira had said that Heracles had bequeathed to her an inscribed tablet, presumably the record of the Dodona oracle, before he left to perform his last labor (155–58; cf. 41–48). According to her, he specified that after fifteen months he would be released from his labors or dead, since the oracle prescribed that he would either die or succeed in the performance of his last labor, the capture of Oechalia, and live in peace ever after (164–74, 76–81). The various references to the oracle seem to be difficult to coordinate. Only Deianeira suggests that it mentioned the capture of Oechalia and the alternative between release from labors and death. Heracles and the chorus say that the oracle foretold a release from labors. There is no major, irreconcilable discrepancy in the various reports of the crucial oracle, although it is obvious that Sophocles chose to stress different aspects of it at different points of the play.68 The most serious hurdle concerns Deianeira’s reaction to the news, obtained and reported from hearsay by Hyllus, that Heracles had been busy with the capture of Oechalia. If the transmitted reading χώρας at 77 is correct, then Deianeira clearly says that the oracle

67 For the oracles and their ambiguities see Machin (1981) 151–62, and Heiden (1989) 145–48. For the non-deterministic character of the oracles see the discussion of freedom of choice in the Introduction. Segal (2000) 163–71 argues that the relation of the oracle mentioned in the third stasimon to the other oracles remains vague, and this ambiguity prepares the ground for Heracles’ final understanding and apotheosis. The latter is suggested on the basis of an association of the oracle in the third stasimon with one preserved in Apollodorus (2.4.12), which predicted the labors and Heracles’ immortality. But cf. the discussion below. 68 Cf. Davies (1991a) 268–69, and Rodighiero (2004) on 821–26.

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specified the capture of Oechalia as Heracles’ last labor (79–81). If Hense’s emendation χρείας is adopted, then she may surmise, based on her knowledge of the oracle’s temporal specifications, that this campaign must be her husband’s last labor. There is no compelling need to emend, since the oracle may be thought to have contained specifications about the labors not indicated anywhere (else) in the play. It is neither impossible nor implausible that the oracle provided a chronological list of (twelve?) labors, since it seems to have specified that the labors would last twelve years. The failure of the chorus and Heracles to indicate that the oracle predicted release or death does not suggest that Deianeira’s version is wrong. She was scrupulous, constantly preoccupied with Heracles, and did have a record of the oracle. It is thus quite implausible that the alternative outcome is her own interpretation, as the connection with Oechalia may be. The chorus and Heracles focus on their realization that the alternatives, which they considered mutually exclusive, are actually one and the same thing. Heracles’ focus on the happy outcome and his deluded belief that he would live to enjoy the release from his labors (1169–71) also point to his misguided self-confidence and perhaps his trust in Zeus’ paternal benevolence toward him. Despite the ambiguities found in the references to the oracle, there is no suggestion or hint to the effect that Heracles had received divine instructions concerning his death on a pyre. Neither of the oracles Heracles had received is likely to have accommodated explicit instructions or predictions concerning the pyre. An oracle can hardly predict release from labors or death and then prescribe a form of suicide. The earlier oracle about Heracles’ dead killer (1159–61) also seems a least plausible candidate for the instructions in question. Be that as it may, the crucial indication of the silence of the oracles about the funeral on Oeta is Heracles’ failure to attribute his wish to divine mandates. There is no conceivable reason why Heracles would hide such an important part of an oracle from Hyllus, especially since the latter is at first reluctant to obey his father’s order (1203, 1206–7). A most convenient and uncontroversial way to overcome such scruples would be a reference to Zeus’ oracular authority.69 Heracles, though,

69 Heiden (1989) 150 suggests that, even if Heracles had received relevant oracular instructions, the signifiers of these would have been as fluid as those of the rest. Thus the command would have been Heracles’ personal interpretation, and the choice of death essentially his own. This is true, but still the absence of any hint to Heracles’ final understanding of a relevant oracle’s true meaning suggests that

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appeals only to his own paternal authority and to Hyllus’ obligation to obey him (1174–78). For security, he also makes his son take an oath (1181–90) and threatens to curse him posthumously in case of disobedience (1201–2). Since, then, not prescribed in the oracles, the extraordinary form of suicide chosen by the hero has given rise to a fair amount of scholarly speculation. This has been channeled in two convergent directions, the restoration of Heracles’ masculine/heroic status, which had been shredded by his wife’s use of the terrible poison,70 and the apotheosis of the hero, which was believed to have occurred on Mt Oeta, the site of an ancient Heracles cult active also in the classical age.71 There is no doubt that Heracles wishes to take control of his situation and reassert his masculinity. Instead of accepting to perish in a manner he deems undignified, he chooses to die in a manner that would demonstrate to all his undiminished courage and powers of endurance, also connecting him with his father Zeus, the god venerated on Oeta’s summit. Nevertheless, one should not disregard the plain fact that a more conventional form of suicide or death was not open to Heracles. Sophocles has presented the effect of the poison so as to preclude the possibility that Heracles could take his own life. In the paroxysm of his sufferings Heracles asks Hyllus “to draw a blameless sword” and mercifully kill him (1034–35). Conceivably, he could later take up, and insist on the fulfillment of, this request, claiming that Hyllus would not thereby incur the miasma or charge of parricide. But Sophocles did not apparently wish, or deem it acceptable, even for a man as ruthless as his Heracles to go that far.

no such oracle had been delivered. Easterling (1982) 9 thinks that it is natural to attribute the confident authority with which Heracles speaks to recollection of Zeus’ commands. Apart from the fact that Heracles is about to die, a situation often believed to confer oracular insights and authority in Greek literature from Homer onwards, reassertion of his status and authority is precisely what Heracles is after at this point (cf. next n.), and confidence has been one of his trademark traits all along. Since the style of his delivery of the commands is not unusual, there is no compelling reason to attribute it to divine sources. Most important, since his explicit intention has been to reveal the oracles to his family (1149–50), it is very unlikely that he would suppress ( part of ) an oracle that prescribed his death on the pyre. 70 See Heiden (1989) 151–52. Cf. Carawan (n. 58 above). 71 Before the middle of the fifth century, Heracles’ death on the pyre and his apotheosis were not necessarily associated or both placed on Oeta. See Easterling (1982) 17–18, Holt (1989), and Davies (1991a) xx n. 11.

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The dying father cannot ask his son for a coup de grace because the pollution incurred would be so intolerably grave as to eliminate all credible hope of compliance with, or enforcement of, his request. This becomes obvious from Hyllus’ reaction to the demand that he burn his father on a pyre (1203, 1206–7) and especially from Heracles’ acceptance of his son’s refusal to do so (1211, 1216). Mercy killings are unheard of in Greek literature anyway, although, like Heracles, tragic heroes in distress often wish for a friendly killer that would release them from their misery (Aj. 361, Ant. 1308–9, Phil. 747–49, 799–801, Eur. Hi. 1374–77). Lighting a pyre with a still living man on top of it is also tantamount to killing, but the merging of murder with funeral rites could presumably be thought to mitigate the horror of the act and, conceivably, the pollution incurred, especially since the agent would be unrelated to Heracles. At any rate, in his circumstances, Heracles had no other way of dying as he wished. Although it cannot be ruled out that Heracles’ choice of death points to the hero’s apotheosis beyond the confines of the play, I side with those who attach much greater and indeed sole importance to the fact that the play neither mentions nor explicitly alludes to such apotheosis.72 An allusion to it has been detected in Hyllus’ statement “nobody foresees the future” (τὰ μὲν οὖν μέλλοντ’ οὐδεὶς ἐφορᾷ, 1270).73 Apart from its virtual ubiquity in Greek tragedy and poetry in general, the gnome is extremely oblique in comparison with allusions to the future at the end of other plays. As suggested in B III 8 above, Aegisthus’ reference to future Pelopid troubles (El. 1498) may point to his own death but also to the troubles of his children at the hands of Orestes. In either case, he is certainly in a position to predict such troubles. His prediction does not qualify the plot of the play, and probably does not include Orestes’ pursuit by the Erinyes. In OT Teiresias’ early and unambiguous prophecy virtually eliminates the possibility that Oedipus will not be exiled, as I will argue at the end of

72 See Stinton (1986) 84ff. = (1990) 479ff. Cf. Seale (1982) 208, and Conacher (1997) 33 n. 26. For further references see Liapis (2006) 56 n. 23, who argues that the end of the play is ambiguous in the model of Odyssey 11, its subtext, which presents two versions of Heracles’ posthumous fate. For a recent review of the apotheosis debate see also Levett (2004) 108–13. Easterling (1982) 11 notes that Sophocles seems to have favored allusions to a future beyond the plays at their end. Cf. Winnington-Ingram (1980) 205–6. 73 See e.g. Kane (1988) 208–11, Holt (1989) 70–76, Kraus (1991) 97 n. 67, and cf. Jouanna (2007) 416. For 1264–78 see also the discussion in 8 below.

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V 4 below. Antigone’s request to Theseus to be allowed to return with Ismene to Thebes so that they may try to intervene in their brothers’ quarrel (OC 1769–72) adumbrates future troubles, although it is not an allusion to the plot of Antigone. From among the extant plays, it may point to the plot of Euripides’ Phoenissae; an allusion to Antigone occurs much earlier and much more clearly in Polyneices’ appeal to his sisters to bury him if they manage to return to Thebes (OC 1405–13; cf. 1435). In any case, at least some members of the audience of Trachiniae possibly thought of Heracles’ apotheosis and may even have interpreted the play in this light.74 On the other hand, most tragic plays dramatized myths for which alternative versions existed. If such versions were of paramount importance for the interpretation of plays, then virtually every play would be ambiguous, qualified, or undermined. There is no evidence that this was the case. On the contrary, alternative mythical versions suppressed or even downplayed by the poets were presumably ignored by the audience, unless there was a compelling reason to the contrary. No such reason is forthcoming in Trachiniae, a play in which divine predictions have a prominent place. If some members of the audience thought of the apotheosis, it is at the very least unlikely that they ignored, or that the poet would wish for them to ignore, the play’s failure to mention it. Even if views or statements of the characters conform with alternative traditions, this does not alter the play’s data, and does not warrant the assumption of (significant) allusions to such traditions.75 What is most important in Trachiniae is that Heracles is eminently preoccupied with his position and reputation, much as Deianeira was, and takes extreme measures to safeguard it.

74 Cf. Hoey (1977), Roberts (1988) 191, Davies (1991a) xxi–xxii, Levett (2004) 108–13, and Jouanna (2007) 415–16. 75 Fowler (1999) 167–74 argues that Heracles’ command to Hyllus to refrain from mourning (1199–1202) and his failure to provide instructions for the building of a tomb suggest that no funeral will take place and that there will be no tomb for him; laments would disturb the transition to heroic/divine state. Cf. Roberts (1993) 588–89. Heracles’ prohibition of lamentations is perfectly understandable without recourse to allusions. The reason for the alleged allusiveness is obscure, and the audience would be unlikely to grasp the point, virtually rejecting an explicit meaning in favor of an implicit one. Heracles does not care about his mortal remains as he does not care about the fate of his family after his final transition. His only concerns are to salvage his reputation and to perpetuate his control over Iole. For the second wish see the discussion in the next section. If one omission is significant at the end of the play, this is probably the silence about the fate of Deianeira’s body.

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7. Heracles, Hyllus, and Iole: past and future Even more certainly than the command for the preparation of the funeral pyre, Heracles’ second command to Hyllus, to marry Iole, was not dictated by the oracles because none of them is likely to have accommodated it. As in the case of the first command, Heracles needs his son’s cooperation to fulfill his second wish, the continued possession of Iole. The wish also, and just as tellingly, indicates his complete disregard for the emotions of others, even his family members. As he had not considered the feelings of Deianeira when he sent Iole home as his live-in concubine, he does not consider, and does not utter even one compassionate or understanding word about, the plight into which he plunges his son. It has often been suggested that the identification of Hyllus with his father and the concomitant rejection of his mother is a major theme in the second part of the play.76 The identification process, though, is far from straightforward, and its outcome, shaped by successive revelations and especially by Heracles’ violent intervention, is also fairly unusual. At first, before Hyllus learns the truth, he rejects Deianeira as mother and wishes for her death (815–20; cf. 734–37, 807–12) because he identifies motherhood with wifehood and thinks that a wife who harms her husband cannot be a mother worthy of the name to her children. His revulsion is exacerbated by the hideousness of Deianeira’s supposed plot and his natural admiration for his glorious father. In the view of Hyllus (811), and everybody else in the play (177, 488, 1101–6; cf. 19, 645, 852–55), Heracles is the best man upon the earth.77 When he learns the truth, Hyllus tries to defend his mother against Heracles’ accusations (1122–23, 1134, 1136, 1138–39, 1141–42). He fails to gain posthumous forgiveness or understanding for her from her

76 See Seale (1982) 207–8, Heiden (1989) 141–42, Pozzi (1999), and Carawan (2000) 220–26. Hyllus’ search for Heracles, his (traumatic) coming of age, and the (forced) identification of father and son have been viewed as an ephebic rite of passage. 77 In the prologue, though, Deianeira refers to his labors as servitude to an unnamed man (35), obviously Eurystheus. Cf. 829–30, and perhaps 267–68. The theme of servitude becomes particularly prominent in the story of Omphale (70, 248–50, 356–57). There is no indication that Deianeira, who recognizes her husband’s excellence, takes a dim view of his labors: her reference to his servitude is probably an emotionally telling choice, which reveals, and is determined by, the onerous impact of the labors on the worrying wife and the neglected household.

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merciless husband but is also forced to carry out his father’s wishes, primarily to marry Iole. Hyllus vigorously rejects the request, suggesting that the disease has affected Heracles’ sanity (1230–31). He argues passionately that the act of consorting with Iole involves impiety (1245) and that the prospect of spending his life with his most hateful enemy is worse than death (1236–37). He accounts for his distress and explains Iole’s extreme unsuitability as his bride by invoking the young woman’s complicity in his mother’s death and his father’s terrible situation (1233–36). The predicate he uses, μεταίτιος (1234), qualified by μόνη (1233), has been much discussed. It is beyond doubt that μεταίτιος cannot simply mean ‘agent responsible for’. The force of the first component is still strong, unlike in later Greek, and the meaning of the word is clearly ‘accessory’. The word has been used in the play before, by Lichas (260), and Deianeira (447). The former claims that Heracles considered Eurytus as the only mortal μεταίτιος to his crime of killing Iphitus and his subsequent humiliating servitude to Omphale. The other responsible party is Zeus, as the comment that introduces the account of Heracles’ capture of Oechalia clearly indicates (250–51; cf. 274–79). Deianeira claims that Iole is no partner (μεταιτία) to any disgrace or harm to her. The other partner is obviously Heracles, whom Deianeira also absolves of responsibility and blame (445–46), as a victim of the all-powerful, unconquerable Eros (441–44). The statement at 447–48 does not indicate that “Deianeira understands that Iole cannot be blamed for Heracles’ passion.”78 No one, certainly no mortal, can be blamed for anyone’s passion, not even for one’s own, since, in Deianeira’s view, Eros is the ruler of all, and the cause of all passion. Deianeira, though, may believe that Iole shares Heracles’ passion, as suggested earlier. Hyllus believes that Deianeira killed Heracles in ignorance and committed suicide because of Iole, who shares in the deeds, although she had no knowledge of, and naturally no active part in, them.79 Holt argues that μεταίτιος can only mean ‘agent jointly responsible for’ and explains the use of μόνη psychologically: Hyllus meant to say that Iole was the sole agent responsible for his parents’ situation but then thinks the better of it and checks himself at the end of 1233.80 This is plausible psychologically, but

78 Easterling (1982) on 447–48. 79 Cf. Fraenkel (1950) 371. 80 Holt (1995).

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there is no real need for such an explanation: Hyllus may believe that there were one or more agents that carried the main responsibility for the disaster, but Iole was also involved in it, although unwittingly, as the only one who carried a lesser part of the responsibility. This mental process could well be expressed in the way Hyllus is expressing it, especially if he thinks that the agent solely or mainly responsible was his mother.81 Heiden claims that Hyllus does not name the other party responsible for his parents’ demise and thus shifts all blame to the party he names, Iole. What is more, he cannot do that in earnest because he knows very well that, whoever the other party was (Nessus, Eros, Zeus, the gods, Heracles, or Deianeira), he/ she/they held a much greater share of responsibility than the unknowing Iole. According to Heiden, Hyllus uses Iole’s guilt as a rhetorical ploy to conceal his real concern, the fear that sharing his father’s concubine is a prohibited act punishable by the gods as impious.82 Concerning Iole’s guilt, Hyllus does not need to mention the other party responsible, Deianeira, because her deed and her intentions have been recently and abundantly discussed – Hyllus’ main purpose in the scene has been to explain to his father the situation of his mother. Thus shifting of blame does not really come into question. Besides, Hyllus is not arguing in a court of law where the precise apportionment of blame and the intentions of the agents would be crucial factors in shaping the verdict of the judges. His awareness of Iole’s (and Deianeira’s) innocence does not alter the fact that Deianeira unintentionally killed his father, and then committed suicide, when she found out the truth about Iole. It is natural for Hyllus to abhor a union with the woman who, even without conscious involvement or intention, triggered the destruction of his parents. Finally, unlike Phoenix who seduced his father’s concubine (H. Il. 9.447–57), Hyllus would not share Iole with Heracles while the latter would still be alive. Thus it is not clear that Hyllus fears the consequences of marrying his father’s concubine, nor, if he did, why he would be reluctant to reveal his scruples to his father. If Hyllus may be thought to fear punishment for sharing Iole’s bed, this would be the punishment for sharing the bed of the accessory to his parents’ death. Marriage to Iole would make him the most intimate friend

81 Carawan (2000) 225–26 thinks that Iole shares the guilt for Deianeira’s death with Hyllus himself, but there is no indication that Hyllus considers himself responsible for the death of Deianeira; see the discussion with n. 40 above. 82 Heiden (1989) 153–54.

7. Heracles, Hyllus, and Iole: past and future

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of his worst enemy,83 a monstrous reversal of order that can only be motivated by alastores eager to cause their victim’s ruin by maddening him (1235–36). If Hyllus really abhors the union with Iole for the reason he gives, then his final consent to carry out his father’s wish (1249–51) may be viewed as the sealing of his separation from his mother. This, though, would be a mechanistic way of viewing separation and identification. First, in the exodus Hyllus never rejects his mother or adopts his father’s viewpoint. Second, and more significant, his agreement to marry Iole, apart from being brought about by Heracles’ threats and assurances that he assumes full responsibility for it, involves consorting with the accessory in his parents’ demise and thus separation from the father, at least to the same extent as separation from the mother. Segal suggests that Heracles asks Hyllus to make an endogamous and virtually incestuous marriage.84 Wohl argues that Hyllus makes an Oedipal selfsacrifice in agreeing to marry Iole.85 Such readings of the play are probably extreme. Heracles’ request may be insensitive but is not incestuous. Deianeira’s death makes Oedipal themes irrelevant, especially since Hyllus wished fervently for his mother’s death before he learnt the truth and never for his father’s death or harm, before or after he learnt the truth. Hyllus and Heracles are not related to Iole, and, even if she were already

83 A person consorting with enemies who had killed his or her relatives was considered impious; see e.g. El. 585–94, and cf. Eur. An. 170–74, 654–59. The fact that the arguments of the speakers in those plays are compromised by their biases and dubious morality (see Blundell [1989] 168–69 and Allan [2000] 103) does not invalidate the moral/religious force of the arguments per se. Parker (1983) 122, who does not discuss Trachiniae but cites many other relevant passages, observes that “. . . numerous texts speak of voluntary association with a kinsman’s killer as the worst of crimes, compulsory association as the bitterest of degradations.” Hyllus rejects the former but is certainly subject to the latter. Since Heracles had killed Iole’s father and brothers, Iole also had an authentês relationship with the killer and his family already before the dramatic time of the play. Parker points out that this relationship was believed to be created between two families by the shedding of blood, or even between the killer and his surviving relatives in case of internecine murders. One may imagine that forced association with the son of her relatives’ killer would not be more odious to Iole than forced association with the killer himself, but continuation of association with the authentês family would certainly not be appealing. In any case, Iole’s emotions are never mentioned in the conversation of father and son. 84 Segal (1993) 241. Cf. Foley (2001) 97. 85 Wohl (1998) 4–15 and 38.

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pregnant by Heracles, Hyllus and her future child(ren) by him would not be incestuously related to Heracles’ offspring. It may not be accidental, though, that Iole’s progeny is never mentioned in the play (cf. n. 21 above), except for the chorus’ claim that she bore a mighty Erinys in the house (893–95). Deianeira also asks her whether she is single or has children when she first sees her but goes on to say that the young woman seems to have no experience of such things (308–9), i.e. marriage and childbirth. In this play, Iole carries no child in her womb, and future children are irrelevant and ignored anyway. I will return to the reasons for Heracles’ second request below.

Hyllus’ marriage to Iole would not separate or alienate him from his mother since she never blamed Iole or anyone but herself for her misfortune. The son’s obedience to Heracles is not different from his obedience to his mother at the beginning of the play and is to an extent motivated by similar appeals to a son’s supreme moral obligation toward his father, to offer assistance in any way he can. Deianeira, though, equated the assistance of Hyllus and the safety of Heracles with the wellbeing of the family (82–85) while, as already suggested, Heracles thinks only of himself and never considers the needs or emotions of any other member of the family. When Deianeira first mentions the children she and Heracles produced, she says that the father only saw them when he sowed and when he reaped, like a farmer who has taken over a distant piece of land (31–33). She wishes to stress the frequency of her husband’s absences from home and does not seem to be bitter about his lack of involvement with the raising of the family. Since she attributes it to his “way of life” or fortune in life (αἰών, 34), she does not seem to accuse Heracles of willful neglect. Nevertheless, the context of her pronouncements, her constant fears and unrelieved troubles caused by Heracles’ career, provides a bitter undertone to the reference to the children. A farmer who only sows and reaps a distant field extends no other care to it: he does not even watch it to see when and how the crop develops. Moreover, her implicit likening of herself to the distant field may betray at least some regret that her married life has not been more fortunate. Be that as it may, some commentators have plausibly suggested that, in contrast to sowing (σπείρω), which may be used literally of a farmer and metaphorically of a father, reaping has no literal application to Heracles.86

86 See Jebb (1892), Kamerbeek (1959), and Easterling (1982) ad loc. Another obvious, and perhaps more glaring, inconcinnity in the simile is the one between Heracles

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It is true that it may not in the prologue, but the simile’s disquieting implications become much more apparent and relevant later, during Heracles’ encounter with Hyllus. As pointed out above, Heracles’ first reported words to Hyllus were an order to approach him even at the cost of the boy’s dying along with him (797–98). Similarly, and much more extensively, in the exodus Heracles ruthlessly asks Hyllus to do things the boy finds abhorrent. The audience witness Heracles’ “reaping” of Hyllus, the father’s reaping the profit he believes his paternity fully and unquestionably entitles him to. I indicated above that Heracles’ dire physical condition both at cape Cenaeum and in Trachis might mitigate the audience’s negative view of his behavior toward his son. Besides, relatives were believed to be morally obliged to assist each other, and Hyllus is the only relative present and able to help his father. On the other hand, Heracles’ manner of asking for the help he needs, the second demand he makes of Hyllus, and especially his method of enforcing his will on his son are extraordinary and extraordinarily harsh. Although he repeatedly invokes Hyllus’ obligations toward him, he never appeals to the bond between father and son. On the contrary, he constantly challenges the boy to prove his legitimacy by obeying

seeing the children at conception and the farmer seeing the seed at seed-time. Heracles could not see his literal seed, and thus he practically saw the children only when he “reaped” them, although it is true that the plough-land also comes into the simile, and seeing is applicable to it, and to Deianeira. Heiden (1989) 29–30 (cf. Dumanoir [1996]) thinks that “reaping” alludes to killing, via the image of the farmer cutting the crop with a blade. He associates it with Deianeira’s prayer to Zeus that her children never meet with the fate of the Oechalian captives, at least not while she lives (303–5), and suggests that the two passages may offer misleading hints to a possible murder of the children by Heracles. This would be similar to the outrage he committed against his children by Megara, an act never mentioned or alluded to in the play, pace Kraus (1991) 97–98. Against this view, one may argue that Heracles or any criminal father would never enslave his own children. More significant than this rather pedantic objection is the fact that the primary connotations of “reaping” a crop are positive. The harvest, often viewed as rich and a gift of nature or the gods, is the farmer’s bounty; see Fraenkel (1950) on A. Ag. 1655. In negative contexts such as the Agamemnon passage just cited and Persae 822 the reversal involves the abundance of woes that replaces the abundance of a normal harvest. Heracles posed no threat to his seed but stood to benefit from the children; see below. Deianeira’s prayer to Zeus, though, may be viewed as an oblique allusion to the future misfortunes of the children, dramatized e.g. in Euripides’ Heraclidae, after her (and Heracles’) death, although these misfortunes are never predicted in the play either.

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him, threatening to disown and curse his son if he disobeys. Heracles seems neither to trust nor to cherish the son he knows very well how to manipulate. The only Sophoclean character that treats a son more ruthlessly is Oedipus in OC, but Polyneices (and Eteocles) is utterly different from the adolescent and entirely blameless Hyllus.87 Heracles’ ruthless dealing with his son results in his snatching of heroic strength from the jaws of debilitating disease, or of past glory from the jaws of present ignominy. This is a noble achievement, even if Heracles’ method of securing it is harsh and insensitive. But the dying hero is not ready to ride into the fiery sunset before he ensures that no man other than his son will ever enjoy Iole. Heracles’ understandable, uncontroversial concern with the restoration of his status and with his (posthumous) reputation can hardly be thought to motivate this most unexpected and quite unsettling request. As a consequence, it has often been viewed as a reflection of the tradition, meant to accommodate an open-ended exploration of the inscrutable ways of the all-pervasive power of the gods/fate, and/or as an indication of the resurgence of life and glory from the ruins of death and disaster: the traumatized youths Hyllus and Iole will become the progenitors of a glorious race that will perpetuate the glory of Heracles.88 This may be so, but there is certainly no mention of this race, or of the future of Hyllus with Iole in the play, and Heracles’ demand has to be examined first in its immediate context. As suggested above, the marriage cannot be thought to have been prescribed by the oracles Heracles had received. Moreover, this marriage is not necessary for the fulfillment of a wish to retain control over his concubine. Iole is his slave, and Hyllus

87 Not even Teucer in Ajax expresses fear that the intractable Telamon will curse him (1008–20). Creon in Antigone abuses Haemon but does not curse him. The offending father also eventually tries to repair the damage he caused, and is shattered by his misfortunes. Even the Aeschylean Clytaemestra (Ch. 924; cf. 912), about to be murdered by her son, hardly threatens him in as harsh and insistent a manner as Heracles. Neither in Sophocles’ nor in Euripides’ Electra does the supplicating mother resort to threats and curses. In Hippolytus Theseus invokes a curse upon his son but he believes that Hippolytus had raped Phaedra and led her to commit suicide. Medea also curses her sons and the whole house to perish at the beginning of the play (Md. 112–14) and later kills the boys. In contrast to Trachiniae, though, in both Euripidean plays the offending parents also express their tenderness and attachment to their children (Md. 899–905, 930–31, 1021–48, 1069–80, 1243–50, 1397; Hi. 1408, 1410, 1412, 1446, 1452, 1454, 1459–61). 88 See e.g. Easterling (1982) 11, Conacher (1997) 32 n. 25, and Jouanna (2007) 415.

7. Heracles, Hyllus, and Iole: past and future

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would normally inherit her as chattel. Heracles could have requested that no man lie with or marry her. His wish, though, is different: he does not merely want Iole to have no sexual partner after him but he wants to continue being Iole’s partner himself. Since this is obviously impossible, he chooses the next best thing. As in the matter of his suicide-funeral, Heracles needs help from his son in order to fulfill this wish. He could allow Hyllus to refrain from lighting the pyre (1211) but not from lying with Iole.89 The identification of father and son, the replacement of the former by the latter, the passage of Hyllus into adulthood by means of an imminent marriage arranged by his father, and the continuation of the lineage may, at most, be secondary themes informing the end of the play but they were neither Heracles’ nor Sophocles’ main concerns. To claim that they were, one must produce a plausible explanation why no mention of or allusion to these themes is made by Heracles or anyone else in the play. Pozzi, for instance, claims that “Heracles . . . enjoins Hyllus . . . to prove himself worthy of being his successor (1158) by being his ally [symmakhos]”; at

89 MacKinnon (1971) 38–39 acknowledges that Hyllus would inherit his father’s possessions but thinks that the son would be likely to eject from the house the woman he sees as the cause of his parents’ death. Heracles understands his son’s intention and ensures that Iole is kept in the house by asking Hyllus to take her as his concubine (for this view of the union of Hyllus and Iole see the discussion with nn. 63–66 above). Granting that this kind of speculation is legitimate, it does require a great leap of the imagination for a father to exhort his son to enter into an intimate and hateful relationship merely so that a slave would be retained. If Heracles wished to keep Iole in the family without controlling her sexuality, there is no conceivable reason why he would not merely make Hyllus promise that he would not sell or give her away. Mackinnon (41) correctly claims that Heracles’ request is not motivated by love for Iole (cf. Sorum [1978] 70 n. 22) but he goes on to identify Heracles’ motive as the heroic warrior’s wish to preserve his property, which was an integral and necessary part of his honorable status (cf. Easterling [1982] 10–11, and Jouanna [2007] 414). He draws a parallel between Heracles’ proprietary attitude toward Iole and Achilles’ anger at Agamemnon’s snatching of Briseis in Homer’s Iliad: to mollify the slighted Achilles Agamemnon is ready to swear that he has never slept with the woman (Il. 9.132–34). But Achilles was enraged because Agamemnon insulted him by taking away his prize, not because Agamemnon meant to make Briseis his concubine. The commander wishes to undo the damage, virtually to erase the episode of Briseis completely, by returning her to Achilles and assuring him that he returns her exactly as he took her: when he actually swears the oath before Achilles, he says that he never touched Briseis, whether for sexual or other reasons (Il. 19.261–63).

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1225–27 Hyllus is to replace his father “for the most noble of purposes, the continuation of the lineage.”90 There is no request of the suggested kind at 1158, and no reference to succession in the play. The continuation of the lineage is not Heracles’ concern: it would certainly be bizarre for a father with living children and especially sons to worry about, and make absolutely peculiar arrangements for, the continuation of his line. Heiden makes a fairly elaborate case to the effect that Heracles wishes to control Iole’s womb because his seed has already been placed in it. Two men who have inseminated the same woman are believed to forge a close bond via their children by her, as Oedipus’ claim in OT (260–62) indicates. Thus Heracles is concerned that Iole’s child by a future lover, obviously an inferior man, could be mistaken for Heracles’ issue, compromising the perception of his seed’s purity. Heracles thwarts this danger by appointing Hyllus, his own offspring sharing his superior nature, as Iole’s future husband and father of her children.91 Heracles, though, does not care about inferior men usurping his place and passing off their children as his. Children are irrelevant to him. All he cares about is his “side” (1225–26) and his pleasure (1246): Iole lay by his side, and no other man should enjoy her but himself, vicariously, via his substitute, Hyllus. This is the moira that the dying Heracles considers his due (1238–39): if Hyllus does not deliver it, he will be cursed by the gods for disobeying his father’s orders (1239–40), namely to see to (the perpetuation of ) his father’s pleasure. Heracles is a man who wishes that everything remain unchanged. This is not particularly uncommon or surprising for a tragic hero, but Heracles’ inability to accept any change, even in the face of death, is certainly extraordinary. “Even your heart would be turned if you learned everything,” says Hyllus (1134), but this never happens. Heracles does not forgive his wife, warm to his son, relinquish his slave concubine, or ask for and express understanding. Brutal and violent to the end, he is carried to his death and the release from his labors performing unflinchingly, as if with joy, a final feat of endurance, a self-imposed labor that requires all his emotional stamina. Past, present and future coalesce in a series of labors as well as in acts of aggression, against enemies but also friends, and even death, the ultimate change, seems a continuation of the violent feats and aggressive pleasures of life.

90 Pozzi (1999) 36. Cf. Rodighiero (2004) 240. 91 Heiden (1989) 152–53.

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8. Nobody sees the future: no lesson for the young? The play begins and ends with characters who assert that they know their own and others’ situation irrespective of what the unknown or unknowable future has in store. Deianeira’s statement (1–5) is forceful and confident, a distillation, as she herself explains, of her years of continuous anxiety and never-ending troubles (6–48). At the end, Hyllus’ gnome on the unknowability of the future (τὰ μὲν οὖν μέλλοντ’ οὐδεὶς ἐφορᾷ, 1270) is coupled with emphatic references to the wretchedness of the present (1264–69, 1271–74, 1276–77). The gnome has been viewed as a pointer to the alleged allusive treatment of Heracles’ apotheosis in the play.92 Although, as argued in 6 above, I do not share this view, Hyllus’ statement may point to possible positive developments but certainly not only to good things. The very last statement in the play, the memorable and epigrammatic “and none of these things is not Zeus” (κοὐδὲν τούτων ὅ τι μὴ Ζεύς, 1278), may also leave open a window of hope: since terrible misfortunes are the manifestation of divine will, it is possible that divine justice, or at least a divinely guaranteed order, underpins them.93 If Hyllus makes the pronouncement, it cannot be dissociated from his complaint against Zeus’ lack of paternal care for his son Heracles (1266–69; cf. 1272). The last statement does not contradict Hyllus’ reproach of the gods.94 Even if the gods passively watch over misfortunes, the last statement suggests also that divine passivity may be considered, if not the cause of events, at least the cause of their specific realization. Whether Zeus planned Heracles’ demise or not, he certainly did not save his son or alleviate his pain. If the last words of the play (1275–78) belong to the chorus,95

92 93 94 95

See n. 73 above. For the role of Zeus see the discussion with the last four nn. in this section. Pace Heiden (1989) 160. Whether ascribed to Hyllus or the chorus, they are almost certainly addressed to the chorus. Iole is too important a character to make a silent, unannounced entrance at any point during the exodus. Her entrance and presence would be not only unmotivated but also highly disruptive, and there is no reason to foist such a choice upon Sophocles for no compelling reason. Cf., though, n. 98 below. Iole cannot be in the house and summoned out by Hyllus or the chorus by the mere address “maiden.” See the discussion of Easterling (1982) on 1275, who cogently argues that Iole and the women of the household cannot be the addressees – the latter have been mentioned only at 202, but there is no indication that they were maidens. All in all, it is better to ascribe the last four lines of the play to Hyllus: it is stranger for a chorus to address themselves than for a

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1278 harks back to the end of the parodos, where the girls declared that Zeus has never been observed to neglect his children (139–40). In any case, in the light of these final statements, Deianeira’s opening assertion may appear to be tragically deluded. Some scholars think that it had already been undermined earlier by the gnome of the nurse at the end of her report of Deianeira’s suicide, which closes in ring-composition the part of the play devoted to Deianeira: a single day may bring disaster, and one should not reckon with more than one day (943–46).96 I do not agree with this reading but I will return to Deianeira’s initial statement and its association with the nurse’s gnome in a moment. For now, it is important to repeat what has been stressed by virtually all critics of the play, namely that the theme of learning and more specifically late learning is cardinal in the play.97 All characters, irrespective of their situation or views about their state of knowledge, undergo the learning process, mostly at terrible cost to themselves and others. Deianeira and Heracles realize the true meaning of oracles and promises received in the past, although this realization comes too late for them: Deianeira’s passionate attachment to the past has already destroyed her life and family, and Heracles operates under the apparent belief that fundamental change is to be avoided at all costs. The play, though, features other characters, both less knowledgeable than the couple at the beginning and perhaps in a position to benefit more from the fruits of the learning process at the end, Hyllus and the girls of the chorus.98 In the prologue, Deianeira claims that failure to inquire about and learn the whereabouts of his father brings shame on Hyllus (65–66), and he promises to remedy his deficiency at once (86–91). The chorus arrive in

character to address them in the singular. Cf. Rodighiero (2004) 243. It is also more natural for Hyllus to invite the chorus to his father’s funeral than for the girls to invite themselves to such an extraordinary ritual. The chorus have not speculated on Zeus’ agency in the last stasimon or the exodus, and 1278 may be viewed as a summation of Hyllus’ address to the attendants (1264–74) and the chorus (1275–77). 96 Cf. Easterling (1982) on 943–46. 97 See e.g. Segal (2000) 164 n. 26. 98 The young Iole, one of the most important silent characters in Greek drama, may also be included in the group of young “learners,” especially if, despite the plausible arguments expounded above (n. 95), she is addressed at the end (1275–78) by Hyllus (or the chorus), and although the lessons she may be thought to draw do not overlap entirely with those learnt by Hyllus and the chorus.

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the knowledge that Deianeira is suffering (103–11), but she wishes that they never acquire experience of misfortunes similar to hers through suffering (141–43). There may be a gender factor underlying the references to the different effects and the desirability of knowledge in men and women. The knowledge of the former is the result of action and leads to noble action while the latter are traditionally perceived as passive and, in Deianeira’s view, subject to suffering on account of their family (148–50). For both men and women, though, true (and painful) knowledge is believed to come only from first-hand experience, not from secondhand accounts, a theme that becomes prominent with regard to the charm. When they first appear, both Hyllus and the chorus are optimistic about Heracles’ prospects and eager to comfort or assist Deianeira. They admire, and fear for, Heracles, and later lament bitterly for the demise of both spouses. After witnessing many terrible and bizarre misfortunes (cf. 1277), they move from reasonable certainty to confusion and deep distress. They lose their optimism for the future and reach the conclusion that the gods are responsible for human sufferings. At the end of the play, the young survivors, the only characters who contemplate the future (1112–13, 1270; cf. 950–52), do not seem to have become illuminated by, or to be poised to benefit from, their newly and painfully acquired knowledge by using it more constructively than Deianeira and Heracles. The chorus of course are not as directly affected by the misfortunes of the house as Hyllus. Nevertheless, they are onstage throughout, and their pronouncements shed some light on the learning process undergone by all characters. It is indicative of the attitude of these young girls that they enter proclaiming their ignorance of Heracles’ current whereabouts and asking the Sun to enlighten them (94–102). They continue, though, by admonishing Deianeira not to despair (122–26, 136–38), as they have heard that she is doing (103–11): Heracles’ life is full of troubles (112–19), but he always wins and returns home at the end since he enjoys divine assistance (119–21) and is cared for by his father Zeus (139–40). Deianeira should not complain excessively about the lot of Heracles and her own because joy and sorrow come in cycles to mortals like natural phenomena: the alternation of sorrow and joy is fixed like the revolving path of the Bear; night gives way to day, misfortunes and wealth are transient (126–35). Since Deianeira has lately experienced distress, she should be reasonably confident that joy would come her way sooner or later.

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The position of the chorus is not implausible, and their claims associate them to an extent with both Deianeira and Hyllus.99 Like the former, the chorus do not know where Heracles is, and acknowledge the turbulence of his lot and his wife’s distress at his long and danger-filled absences. Like the latter (88–89), they are not overly anxious because, based on past experience, they are confident that Heracles’ luck will hold. Unlike Deianeira and Hyllus, though, the girls have not yet heard anything about the oracle concerning the end of Heracles’ labors, or about the hero’s present whereabouts. Past experience and greater knowledge foster Deianeira’s present heightened anxiety, but the chorus’ (and, indirectly, Hyllus’) optimism about Heracles’ fate seems to be justified by the appearance of the messenger bringing news of Heracles’ imminent return (178ff.). The sheltered young women, whom Deianeira gently dismissed as ignorant and inexperienced, and whose advice she refused to follow, prove prescient, aware of the human, if not the female, condition. The messenger’s revelations of the lies of Lichas and the truth about Iole (351–74) seem to undermine the chorus’ encouragement and their optimism. However, the revelations also indicate that the principle of alternation espoused by the chorus is valid: Deianeira’s joy proves shortlived, and an acute sorrow replaces it very quickly. Her decision to send the charmed gift to Heracles gives the girls renewed hope that things will after

99 Winnington-Ingram (1980) 330–31 suggests that, despite the emphasis on the alternation of joy and sorrow, the parodos dwells on night and loss, and therefore Deianeira is right not to be consoled by the chorus: if night is dominant, then the dawn of Deianeira’s joy is bound to be short-lived, as it actually turns out to be. I am not convinced about the dominance of night, and the fact that wealth is lost by one person and gained by another (133–34) does not affect the persuasiveness of the chorus’ argument. Besides, if the loss of wealth is important, then the transience of calamities is important too. The main objection to Winnington-Ingram’s argument is that the girls do not set out to present the principle of alternation out of context but in order to encourage Deianeira, immersed in the gloom of despair, to preserve hope that the light of salvation and joy will soon shine on Heracles and her. It is thus contextually natural and rhetorically expedient for them to begin and end with references to night. Last but not least, the girls never suggest that the joy Deianeira will experience will be permanent or even long-lasting: what they care to impress on her is the hope that her present sorrow will not be permanent, as she fears and seems to believe. The parodos contains no tragic irony, and Deianeira remains unconvinced not because of the song’s inappropriate imagery and resulting irony but because she is convinced that her fortunes are an exception to the rule of alternation.

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all turn out well for the spouses: in the second stasimon they wish for Heracles’ speedy return (655–59), apparently believing that the joy celebrated in their astrophic song (205–24) will finally materialize. That song was intoned in response to Deianeira’s appeal for celebrations in view of her husband’s imminent return. She had admitted that unhoped-for joy has come to her at last (203–4) by the agency of Oetaean Zeus (200–1) and invited the chorus and the women of the household to send up a cry of joy for the dawning of the radiant news (202–4). This was a clear nod to the chorus’ consolation in the parodos, with acknowledgment of the correctness of their view concerning the alternation of joy and sorrow, which echoed the invocation of the regularity of natural phenomena and even the prominence of the Sun in the song. Nevertheless, in view of Iole’s imminent arrival, the astrophic celebration included a note of tragic irony, if it began with an invitation to the house ready for the marriage (δόμοςN .N .N .N ὁ μελλόνυμφος, 205–7) to send up the cry of celebration. This is the text accepted by most scholars. Others, most recently Davies,100 find the reference to the reunion of Heracles and Deianeira strained: they prefer to retain the transmitted dat. δόμοις and adopt Erfurdt’s emendation ἁ μελλόνυμφος, a collective self-reference to the chorus. It seems unlikely that the chorus would refer to their future nuptials. Besides, along with the majority, I find it difficult to believe that, after the emphasis on Deianeira’s long and anxious waiting for Heracles and the chorus’ references to her tearful and fearful longing for him in her lonely bed (103–11), the girls would use such a loaded word to refer to themselves and not to Deianeira. Even if the use of the word is strained, Sophocles may have taken this risk because of its suggestiveness, in view not so much of the reunion of Heracles and Deianeira as of the union of Heracles and Iole, who is about to appear in the cortege of the Oechalian captive women brought along by Lichas. In an article that makes a case for the perversion of wedding ritual in the play, Seaford suggests that the song announces the delayed completion of the marriage of Heracles and Deianeira. The transition to permanent happiness celebrated in the ritual of μακαρισμός has not been completed in the case of Deianeira because of Heracles’ labors and absences and the anxiety they caused to his wife. Now Deianeira can look forward to a happy married life, which will not materialize because of Iole.101 It is very

100 Davies (1991a) on 205–6. 101 Seaford (1986) 54–56.

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doubtful that the ritual of wedding μακαρισμός is relevant in the context. The only word that associates the song with wedding or marriage is μελλόνυμφος, and no further reference to any relevant ritual is made. The song, explicitly called a paean (210), is much more a cry of thanks addressed to deities unrelated to marriage (Apollo, Artemis the huntress and her companions, Dionysus) than a wedding song. At any rate, even if it is a wedding song of blessings, Deianeira certainly will not enjoy fully the happy life predicted in such songs because a substantial portion of her married life has already been spent in fear and distress. Marriage is undeniably an important motif in the play, and hints at its perversion are likely to contribute to the overall effect of the undoing of the unions presented in it, but it is easy to overdo the search for parallels and reversals. The importance of wedding ritual is a scholarly invention. Segal argues that Heracles plays all the roles in a wedding (father of the bride [Iole], the groom [Hyllus], bride [because he arrives in a procession, 964–67, and reveals himself, 1078–80, like a bride whose veil is lifted], and groom). He suggests that the vehicle in the procession (πομπή) of Deianeira to Heracles’ house was Nessus, on the basis of the claim that the centaur ferried his clients neither by plying oars (οὔτε πομπίμοις/ κώπαις, 560–61) nor by the sails of a ship (561).102 Apart from the implausibility of this argument, Deianeira was already married to Heracles when she followed him home while the procession precedes the marriage. Similarly, the fact that Heracles arrives carried by men on a litter can hardly be thought of as a perverted wedding procession, and even the association of his throwing off the covers to the ritual of the bride’s ἀνακαλυπτήρια (cf. n. 51 above) requires much special pleading. Heracles and Deianeira had been married for many years, and gone through several separations and reunions, before the completion of his labors. If he now came back as expected after the capture of Oechalia, the couple’s reunion would be joyful and sexually charged but not another wedding and not a new marriage. Even the union of Heracles and Iole had been consummated before the girl’s arrival at Heracles’ house (1225–26; cf. 536), and the wedding ritual is irrelevant.

Following the second stasimon (633–62), Deianeira’s report of the destruction of the tuft of wool with which she had anointed the ceremonial robe she sent to Heracles (672–704) is another speedy and radical reversal. The chorus, though, still try to encourage her by admonishing her to retain hope until she finds out how things stand with Heracles (723–24) or at least to hope for leniency since she acted unwittingly (727–28). After

102 Segal (1993) 240.

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the arrival of Hyllus with the news of Heracles’ imminent death from the poison of the charm (749–812), in the third stasimon (821–61) the chorus do seem to abandon their cherished themes of regularity and alternation but they still focus on unexpected and devastating change. Revelations and understanding now do not involve the universal rhythm that governs all things and beings but old sayings, especially the oracle predicting that Heracles would be released from his labors at the end of a twelve-year span (821–26). In a swift reversal of their expectations (cf. 666–67), the oracle has been revealed to predict Heracles’ imminent demise (827–40). Echoing the theme that informed the first stasimon (497–530), the violence and pain of sexual conquest, at the end of the third song (860–61) the girls also lament another devastating reversal and divine revelation: the mighty and victorious Cypris (cf. 497–98), the umpire of the contest between Heracles and Achelous (cf. 515–16), has now been revealed as the doer of all these things, the female counterpart of Zeus (cf. 251), or the silent attendant who mediated the fulfillment of his oracles. Only in the fourth stasimon (947–70), do the chorus definitely abandon all expectation not only of alternation but also of any kind of change. They make no mention of joy or amelioration following disaster, and do not even seem to expect deterioration. Significantly, present and future are now said to be one and the same (950–52). Sight itself brings no illumination, and the song begins and ends with expressions of the girls’ inability to judge (947–49, 969–70), even when they see Heracles.103 The last song, in a way the darkest, paradoxically recalls the fairly optimistic parodos, which introduces many of the themes that remain prominent throughout the play. Although all may not necessarily be considered deliberate echoes, the cumulative effect underscores the movement from certainty and optimism to befuddlement and despair. Before both songs, the girls have been informed of disasters, feared or real. In both, the arrival of Heracles is expected, and the theme of sight is dominant. In both, females lament like birds for the misfortunes they fear or know Heracles is suffering (105, 963). The parodos ends with a rhetorical question about

103 Contrast the end of their astrophic song (222–24), with the exulting admonition to Deianeira to watch the approaching Lichas and, presumably, the train of the captive Oechalian slave-women as clear proof of the imminent happiness anticipated in the song. Initial hesitation and questions (cf. 947–49) are topical in laments; see Alexiou (20022 ) 161–62. This, though, does not undermine the emphasis on the deep distress and profound amêchania of the chorus in the fourth stasimon, primarily their professed failure to distinguish present woes from imminent calamities.

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Zeus’ care for his children (139–40). The ultimate reversal of this certainty is expressed by Hyllus at the end of the play (1266–69), but the reference to Heracles as “the mighty son of Zeus” in the fourth stasimon (956) may be thought to evoke the parodos (140), especially since expectations are mentioned in both songs shortly before the reference to Zeus as the father of Heracles.104 Although not put in so many words by the chorus, the cycles of joy and sorrow cannot continue forever. Human life is not a regular revolution but a one-way, if often tumultuous, journey. Its linearity and brevity naturally set a limit to the cycles of joy and sorrow, but this self-evident truth is not what the chorus have come to realize. Rather, they seem to have understood that a limit is likely to be set by extraordinary and devastating misfortunes such as those experienced by Heracles and his family. Since the alternation of joy and sorrow is transient, and disaster may strike unexpectedly and violently, one reaches a point where even hope has to be given up. Human fortunes are not like constellations or natural phenomena that revolve and alternate perennially, in fixed orbits and with fixed periods (cf. 129–33). At most, they can be like successive waves buffeting a shore or a swimmer. In the parodos Heracles’ laborious life was likened to a rough sea such as the Cretan with its turbulent waves (112–19). This extended simile has generated much discussion. The main textual problem is whether one should retain τρέφει (= “sustain”) or adopt Reiske’s στρέφει (= “tosses”) as the first verb expressing Heracles’ faring in the sea (117). The chorus may wish to express the idea of alternation in Heracles’ life, but the emendation does not necessarily express it better than the transmitted reading. LloydJones and Wilson are probably right in suggesting that alternation is not the point of the simile. Heracles is always tossed in a sea of troubles, which make him great, but divine protection keeps him away from the halls of Hades (119–21).105

A god may protect a land or a person for some time but not necessarily forever. Patterns may emerge for a while, but human life is not a regular repetition of fixed events or even a roundtrip: one can never return to, or resurrect, the past and live in it until one dies.

104 136–38 (ἃ καὶ σὲ τὰν ἄνασσαν ἐλπίσιν λέγω/ τάδ’ αἰὲν ἴσχειν·) ~ 950–52 (τάδε μὲν ἔχομεν ὁρᾶν δόμοις,/ τάδε δὲ μένομεν ἐν ἐλπίσιν·/ κοινὰ δ’ ἔχειν τε καὶ μέλλειν). 105 Lloyd-Jones and Wilson (1990) 154 and (1997) 88–89.

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The lesson learnt by the chorus through the many and novel sufferings they have witnessed is encapsulated in the epigrammatic and distraught statement already quoted above: “experience and expectation are the same” (κοινὰ δ’ ἔχειν τε καὶ μέλλειν, 952), i.e. both involve woes. This harks back to the very beginning of the play (1–5), Deianeira’s claim that, contrary to the old proverbial saying, she knows that her lot is unhappy even before she has gone to Hades. This has been variously but equally criticized by characters in the play106 and modern scholars as misplaced, hubristic, ominous and deluded. Her gift to Heracles and her suicide are thought to prove her error: people cannot know their lot before they die, and the old saying turns out to be true, even in the case of Deianeira. “This is the lot that Zeus delivers” (1022), “and none of these things is not Zeus” (1278). Deianeira’s error, though, is not so much her original belief that her life has been, and will continue to be, unfortunate as her subsequent deluded expectation that she can intervene to disrupt this progression of woes, in a way to freeze the passage of time. In the prologue, she described her life as a succession of troubles but after she learned the truth about Iole, she tried to stop this fated process. As it happens, Deianeira’s lot does not so much illustrate the truth of the saying attributed to Solon (Hdt. 1.32), who also mentioned happiness anyway, as of another old saying about divine gifts to mortals. In his reply to the old suppliant Priam, who begged him for his son Hector’s body, Achilles suggests that there are two jars, one of good and one of bad things, in the floor of Zeus’ house, and the supreme god gives to some people only bad and to others a mixture of good and bad things (H. Il. 24.527–33).107 Although this does not undermine the saying that one can be called happy (or unhappy) only at the

106 The main doubters are the chorus in the parodos: they had not heard Deianeira’s speech but had heard of her distress and arrived to comfort her by arguing against despair (103ff.). The nurse and Hyllus also indicate that they do not share her attitude. The former advises against passive waiting for (the dreaded) news (54–60); the latter, who also did not hear Deianeira’s claim, casually indicates that he is already better informed than his mother (67), and says that he has not worried much about the latest absence because of the usual lot of his father (88–89). 107 The interpretation of the passage is disputed, and some people already in antiquity thought that Achilles mentions three jars, two of bad and one of good things. Irrespective of that, most people get a mixture of joys and sorrows, but some people get only bad things, a supreme expression of Greek pessimism about the lot of humanity, although there are some, quite few, individuals that experience only good fortune. Cf. Kyriakou (2006) 244–45, 360.

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moment of death, it does cast serious doubt on the universality of the principle of alternation propounded by the chorus. Deianeira apparently belongs to the first category,108 and she seems to be aware of that at the beginning of the play. This awareness is soon obfuscated by her passionate wish to preserve her exclusive place of honor in Heracles’ house and life. Utter disaster comes upon her and Heracles swiftly, in the course of a single day. The potential of a single day to effect radical change is emphatically stressed by the nurse at the end of her report of Deianeira’s suicide (943–46). It is a common motif in Greek literature, and Sophocles takes it up in several plays.109 Although, in the case of Deianeira, the gnome of the nurse should perhaps be paradoxically modified to “there is no tomorrow unless one has gotten through the present day in suffering,” the emphasis on the day harks back to the chorus’ attempt to console Deianeira in the parodos (129–35). The Bear completes its revolution around the north pole of the celestial sphere in a period of twenty-four hours. Night and day succeed each other at regular intervals, like joy and sorrow in human life. The girls are unlikely to suggest that strict regularity governs the alternation that, in their view, dominates human life: obviously one state, usually, and in the case of Heracles and Deianeira certainly, sorrow, may last much longer than the other, and there is no indication that the girls ignore or disregard this fact. Still, the belief in an unceasing alternation of two states in human life turns out to be seriously misguided. As already suggested, natural phenomena and especially the motion of heavenly bodies are characterized by regularity and unchangeability. By contrast, the paramount characteristic of human life is constant and, much more importantly, irreversible flux.

108 The objection that Deianeira enjoyed many advantages in life such as her lineage, health, material comforts, marriage to the great man Heracles, and a large family does not carry much weight. Apart from the indisputable fact that literally unmixed misfortune is rarely, if ever, observed because most unfortunate people can be said to have some comforts or advantages, the decisive factor in Deianeira’s life has been her marriage. Like several other tragic heroines, she defines herself as the object of male desire and competition, first as nubile girl and then as (young) married woman. By her own account, this career has been miserable, and ends in horror and misery. But if, for the sake of the argument, one grants that Deianeira also has a mixed fortune, alternation is not guaranteed even for that category of people. See the discussion below. 109 See esp. Aj. 131–33, 749–57, 778–79, 801–2, and OT 438; cf. El. 918–19, 1149–50, 1362–63, Ant. 11–17, and OC 567–68.

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Not only, and often not primarily, do their fortunes change, but people themselves also and irreversibly change. As indicated earlier, Heracles should not have brought another woman into his household. Deianeira should not have tried, through magical means and following the instructions of a lustful, hostile monster against her better judgment, to retain her institutionally sanctioned and publicly admired position in Heracles’ life. Subject to irreversible change, both spouses wrongly counted on the repeatability of the past, or the perpetuation of past certainties. The first stasimon (497–530), the only song that does not touch on the future and/or the motif of alternation and other change in human fortunes,110 may be thought to suggest that the chorus share the misguided attitude of Deianeira and, indirectly, Heracles. Sung at a crucial juncture in the play, immediately after the revelation of Iole’s story and Deianeira’s assurances to Lichas that she harbors no grudges against the girl and Heracles, the song suggests that Deianeira was once like Iole, the object of Heracles’ passion and the coveted prize in a laborious struggle. Although the chorus begin with the incontestable power of Cypris over gods and men (497–98), a theme prominent in the previous episode, they do not mention Heracles’ capture of Oechalia or Iole but turn to a story exemplifying the power of the goddess in the remoter past, the struggle of Heracles with Achelous for the bed of Deianeira. The choice of theme may be plausibly considered as a respectful and admiring tribute to the noble lady who had once, and by her own account, watched the struggle in numbing fear (24–25). She then spent long years waiting in fear for her husband’s return, and she finally showed gracious restraint in the face of the new adverse development. The chorus elaborate and imaginatively expand Deianeira’s account of the struggle of Heracles and Achelous in the prologue, ostensibly bringing to a close the part of the play dealing with Deianeira’s anxious waiting for the end of Heracles’ labors. The emphasis on Cypris, though, highlights the chorus’ misguided certainty that Heracles will continue his career as victor, lover and husband, as vanquisher of his rivals and victim of the goddess. For their part, Deianeira and Iole, the former and current objects of his passion, will

110 This failure would certainly not prohibit an audience familiar with the myth from imagining that sorrow would almost certainly follow joy, certainly for Heracles. For Deianeira, joy and relief had always been short-lived, and misery was also virtually bound to follow.

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continue submitting to the power of the goddess as rewards for Heracles’ struggles. The contest for Deianeira (503ff.) prefigured the contest for Iole. The image of the anxious gaze of the beautiful young Deianeira, who waits far away for the outcome of the struggle (523–28; cf. 21–25) and is taken away from her mother by the victor (529–30), evokes the references to the beauty and distress of Iole (325–27, 379, 464–67). But the years that separated Heracles’ winning of the two women brought along many changes, and Deianeira’s gift will stop him from enjoying any woman, and Iole from becoming another partner like Deianeira – Hyllus will soon curse his mother to die struck by the avenging justice and Erinys (808–9), and the chorus will lament that Iole has given birth to a mighty Erinys in the house (893–95). The passive and terrified girl Deianeira has become a mature woman who acts in order to preserve her privileges, and Heracles has killed one opponent too many before he even sacked Oechalia and took Iole as his lover. Deianeira, the former girl and bride, who left her mother (βέβαχ’, 529) like a lonely calf that has wandered, eventually leaves for her ultimate journey (βέβηκε, 874) without moving and by the point of a two-edged sword (930) because a bride was brought home swiftly by the black point of a spear (856–59). Despite the clear similarities, past and present can never be the same. The past cannot be repeated in the present and can most certainly not be undone. “Who can cause a thing that has appeared clearly never to have happened?” (742–43), asks Hyllus, referring to his father’s imminent demise. The younger characters, the unfortunate son of the ill-fated couple and the girls of the chorus, draw (the) obvious conclusions from their experience of the tragedy of the couple. “Present and future are the same” (952), lament the girls, while Hyllus focuses on the present with an agnostic stance with regard to the future (1270–74): “No one can see the future, but the present is pitiful for us, shameful for them [sc. the gods], but harder than on any man upon him who is the victim of such disaster.” If Hyllus is supposed to ever repudiate his mother and associate himself with his father in the play, this is the statement that captures this shifting or narrowing of loyalties. The son who mourned his mother and was bullied into hateful obedience by an uncaring and self-centered father now voices pity for this father and never refers openly to his mother.111

111 The only allusion to Deianeira in the last lines of the play is found in the reference to the “dreadful recent deaths” (μεγάλουςN .N .N .N νέους θανάτους, 1276),

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What is more noteworthy, though, is the young people’s failure to consider the past in relation to present and future, and Hyllus’ relegation of all responsibility for the present misfortunes to the gods, primarily Zeus, the father of his father (1264–69). Although the last line and reference to Zeus in the play (1278) may belong to he chorus, they had earlier lamented the role of Cypris as the evident agent responsible for the troubles of the house (860–61). Taking into account the fact that, after realizing how things stood with them, Deianeira and Heracles do not accuse any god of destroying them but instead make sense of their demise by turning to their past mistakes and faulty understanding, it is remarkable that the survivors do not follow their lead. Although they have become wiser and realized that no “usual fate” or fixed alternation determine human life, the survivors fail to soberly contemplate present and future by judiciously falling back on the past for clues to the origins of the recent and imminent disasters. There is no doubt that the gods, Cypris and Zeus in the case of Deianeira and Heracles, are involved in human affairs but not because they are malevolent or have a wicked plan to destroy the innocent and worthy. By their nature, mortals, who nobly strive after honor and good repute, are also subject to dangerous sexual passions. Cypris presides over and fosters these passions without caring for their consequences. Humans also apparently wish and try to undo the effects of the passage of time. They expect help and favorable treatment from the gods, especially if they feel entitled to some kind of reciprocity or privilege by virtue of their descent, achievements or generosity. Zeus is Heracles’ father and has delivered to the hero oracles that predicted his fate, but there is no reason to expect that the supreme god would either wish or be able to alter fate for the sake of a violent, brutal and hubristic son.112 As Lefèvre points out, there is no plan of Zeus, only the justice of the cosmic order represented by Zeus,113 al-

but this may belong to the chorus (cf. n. 95 above). Hyllus’ words may be an acknowledgment of the plain fact that his father’s situation is terrible. Besides, the son’s failure to refer to his mother may be viewed as a last courtesy to his father, who earlier harshly rebuked the youth for mentioning her to his hearing (1124–25) and who clearly did not forgive his wife even after he had realized the truth. 112 Ironically, Hyllus’ accusation against the gods (“those who begat and are hailed as fathers watch over such miseries,” 1268–69) applies to his own father’s behavior toward him. 113 Lefèvre (2001) 37–39.

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though this order may hardly be thought to involve any kind of justice, unless in a very loose sense which would capture the inevitability of its realization. Amoral or fateful would probably be a more apt characterization of a power that shows no regard for extraordinary virtues or, arguably, vices. Zeus had punished Heracles for the treacherous murder of Iphitus, but this murder was not the cause of Heracles’ end. Winnington-Ingram thinks that the justice of Zeus operates through the Erinyes, mentioned thrice in the last part of the play (808–9, 893–95, 1050–52). On this reading, Heracles, the violent exterminator of harmful monsters, is himself killed by them through the agency of Deianeira and because of Iole, two of the objects of his sexual passion.114 This is plausible, but Heracles is not necessarily punished or expected to be punished for his killing of the monsters. Heracles, after all, did not kill Nessus unprovoked. It is true, though, that retaliation seems to be a universal principle, and Hyllus should not have ignored it in his assessment of his father’s sufferings at the end. Heiden suggests that Zeus of Dodona, the god who had delivered the oracles that predicted Heracles’ end, was a god of flowing streams and fertility, a representation of the principle of cosmic instability. This life force of constant movement and change renders knowledge impossible.115 Lefèvre thinks that only the minor characters such as the nurse, the messengers and the chorus are able to recognize what is right.116 The previous discussion has shown that I do not share these views. To take just one indicative example, both the nurse (934–35) and Hyllus (1141–42) suggest that Nessus had deceived Deianeira. As the tragedy unfolds, several characters seem to acquire a better grasp of the situation at hand, and even of the lot of humanity in general, but none attains knowledge or understanding sufficiently early on and to a degree that might enable them to thwart imminent, and perhaps future, disasters. The reason is not a life force that dominates the universe but the human condition itself. In a play so preoccupied with the past, in which two principal characters not only constantly look back to but also reflect on it, retain perfect memories of old encounters and instructions, and even keep written records of old oracles in order to steer their life according to them, one would expect that memory or past experience would provide a much safer guide than it actually does. Paradoxically, though, or, from another

114 Winnington-Ingram (1980) 212–15. 115 Heiden (1989) 160–61. 116 Lefèvre (2001) 39.

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perspective, naturally, the attachment of Deianeira and Heracles to the past results only in violent and disastrous attempts to recreate it. For their part, the young survivors become shocked and desperate, failing to consider the past (mistakes) of the couple and contemplate the future properly. The understanding and benefits that may result from the consideration of the past are hindered by the characters’ very limited ability to gain timely and helpful insights into the relationship of the past to present and future. Their emotions and desires, primarily their wish to annul the effects of the changes that time inexorably brings with it, vitiate their potential to gain understanding and show prudent restraint, or at least an ability to move beyond laments and accusations. If this myopia is part of the human condition and thus of the world order the play reflects, then knowledge, or at least timely knowledge, is virtually unattainable.

V. Oedipus Tyrannus 1. Famous Oedipus: savior of the city and alleged metic OT is the first extant crime thriller, and the first in which one search, for the perpetrator of an old murder that ritually pollutes the characters’ city, becomes intertwined with another, the main character’s quest for his biological parents, leading to shattering revelations. Paradoxically, the truth about the past crimes and present predicament of Oedipus is revealed very early on, admittedly in a cryptic form, by the seer Teiresias (350ff.), but no one is able to comprehend it. In his ignorance, Oedipus has already pronounced terrible curses against himself (224ff.), which he cannot later repeal. Concerning the past, then, OT is quite similar to other plays in being prominently preoccupied with its examination but has the distinction of featuring no character with knowledge of all the facts relevant to the case(s) under investigation, except the seer. All characters except Teiresias also receive information and witness revelations about their own and/ or other characters’ past. The pieces of the puzzle fall slowly and painfully into place, in an awesome combination of divine necessity, human actions, and (seemingly) accidental occurrences. The horrible image of the remote past becomes progressively clearer, until in the end Jocasta kills herself and Oedipus blinds himself (and wishes that he could also deafen himself, 1386–89) so that they may not have to face the consequences of their unwitting actions. The chorus also wish that they had never set eyes on the son of Laius (1216–18; cf. 1347–48) and declare that they cannot look upon him in their horror of his misery (1303–6). Amid ever more harrowing revelations and deepening despair, all characters, with the exception of the chorus in the second stasimon and Creon, which will be discussed later on, deal with the quest for truth and its consequences by relying on evidence, conclusions, and attitudes obtained or formed in the past. In this light, the past determines the present and, to a lesser extent, the future in two ways, through the ordinances of the gods/fate, and the experiences and actions of humans, who try to deal intelligently with unsolved crimes and obscure oracles or prophecies in order to avoid their worst consequences.

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Beside the early and puzzling revelations of Teiresias, Oedipus receives two crucial pieces of information about his past and identity. He first learns for certain that he is not the biological son of the Corinthian ruling couple Polybus and Merope (1016ff.), rumors of which he had also heard in the past (779–80). He later finds out that he is the son of his victim Laius and of Jocasta (1171–81), his own wife and mother of his children, and realizes that he has committed parricide and incest as well as regicide: he is an abominably polluted man and the source of the city’s pollution. In a tragic nutshell, Oedipus was first a happy, or at least a much admired, man but then became the most wretched of mortals.1 The question whether the hero’s fall in OT is due to some character flaw or moral lapse of his has been much discussed. Answers have most often been sought in his overly self-confident rashness, as exemplified in the murder of Laius and his party, and in the unjust accusations Oedipus angrily levels against the seer and Creon in the first and second episodes (345–49, 380–403, 532ff.).2 The play leaves no doubt that two important events in Oedipus’ past triggered the chain reaction that eventually leads to the great explosion of the truth about his identity. Those events were his first, unsuccessful attempt to learn the truth about his parentage from the Delphic oracle, which drove him to self-imposed exile from Corinth (787–97), and his brilliant solving of the riddle of the Sphinx (35–39), for which he was rewarded with the Theban kingship (383–84). They manifest two of his major characteristics in the play, his persistent inquisitiveness and superior intelligence. Although his fall should probably not be viewed as self-inflicted, his past certainly determines Oedipus’ present, and not only because his intelligence and inquisitiveness have not diminished over the years.

1

2

See the opening of Euripides’ Antigone (fr. 157 and 158 Kannicht), preserved in Aristophanes (R. 1182 and 1187). Cf. A. S. 772–77, and the chorus’ lament in the fourth stasimon of OT (1197–1206). The trochaic tetrameters in the exodus (1524–30) also deal with the same radical reversal, but their authenticity has been doubted; cf. the discussion at the end of this chapter. Winnington-Ingram (1980) 201–4 discusses the possible hubris of Oedipus and considers it, if anything, intellectual rather than moral. Segal (20012 ) 54–55 also argues against suggestions that Oedipus suffers because of some moral flaw and thinks that they are the result of a misunderstanding of the Aristotelian discussion of hamartia (Poet. 1453a8ff.). Menke (2009) proposes that the ironic crux of the play and Oedipus’ fall lies in his pronouncing an excessive curse while he attempts to be rational and fair.

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In OT Oedipus is a self-made man. Within a very short period of time, his life changed radically twice. He first turned from prince of Corinth into an exile. He then turned from distraught recipient of a frightening oracle, from lone traveler in the Phocian countryside, probably mistaken for a bandit by other travelers, and from a party in a lethal fight with strangers,3 to king of powerful Thebes. He became a highly respected ruler, not only admired for his past service to the city but also looked upon as the only plausible savior from the latest scourge afflicting it, the plague (31–57; cf. 694–97). Oedipus is understandably self-satisfied, although far from complacent or corrupted by his royal power. This is shown by his untyrannical relative openness to good counsel, such as Creon’s advice to consult Teiresias (288–89), and especially by his final failure to punish Creon (669–72). He is a devoted ruler, who enjoys the trust of his subjects (31–34) and has their best interests in mind (58–64, 253–54). His main ticket to popular support is his solution of the riddle of the Sphinx (31–57, 504–12, 694–95, 1196–1203, 1220–22), the paramount proof of his unmatched intelligence and sign of divine benevolence toward him. He has much confidence in his intelligence, especially in his ability to investigate obscure rumors and events and to solve any kind of riddle, no matter how puzzling or troubling. He believes that he can find the best solution to all problems, even if the attempt or the success puts him in severe disadvantage.4

3

4

For reasons that never become clear in the play, Laius’ one-time shepherd and sole survivor of the clash with Oedipus returned to Thebes with the false story that Laius had been attacked by several robbers (122–23, 292, 715–16). What is equally perplexing, the time of his return to Thebes is left vague, and two contradictory indications are provided (before the solution of the riddle [130–31], and after Oedipus had become king [758–59]). For an extensive, though not exhaustive, list of logical inconsistencies in the play see Dawe (20062 ) 8–22. (A major unrealistic element, Oedipus’ apparent ignorance of the circumstances of Laius’ death, was already pointed out by Aristotle [Poet. 1460a30; cf. 1454b1]. Cf. Peradotto [1992] 13–14.) Several of these inconsistencies involve Laius’ slave shepherd: despite his anonymity and brief appearance, he, or at least his crucial role in the survival of Oedipus, is likely Sophocles’ own invention. Remarkably, king Laius seems to have had only one shepherd at the time of his son’s birth since the chorus immediately infer the identify of the local man who had given the infant Oedipus to his Corinthian colleague (1051–52). The elders also quite illogically suggest that Jocasta might inform Oedipus better as to the man’s identity and past actions (1052–53). See especially 441–43, and the discussion below.

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This confident attitude is manifested and stressed time and again, in his answer to the appeal of the priest in the prologue (58–77), in which he highlights his focused attempts to deal with the problem of the plague, his pledge to find the killer of Laius by investigating every clue or tip, however vague or remote (132–46, 264–68, 291), his reaction to the accusations of Teiresias, and, most explicitly, his reply to the admonition of the chorus not to rush to judgment (618–21; cf. 538–42). As already suggested, the first manifestation of this attitude occurred long before the dramatic time of the play, when Oedipus refused to forget a drunken taunt despite the assurances of his parents (779–86) and proceeded to investigate it to his eventual detriment (787ff.). The last will occur when he declares his readiness to hear the end of the story of his salvation as an infant (1170). The beginning of his realization of the truth and of his downfall is triggered by the attention he pays to a detail in Jocasta’s account of Laius’ murder (716, 729–30). Nevertheless, for all his intelligence, diligence, altruism and strong position in the city, Oedipus is always keenly aware of his foreign origin, a source of extended and searing irony in the play. This awareness may plausibly be viewed as the reason why Oedipus proceeds to justify his committed involvement in the search for the killer of Laius (137–41, 258–68). Various tragic characters are often asked, or feel obliged, to explain why they are concerned with affairs that do not involve them or their families,5 but Oedipus is the king of a city facing the real and present danger of annihilation. His citizens have implored him to use all resources available to him to avert the imminent disaster (40–57), and the Delphic oracle has prescribed that the killer of Laius, the source of the city’s lethal pollution, should be discovered and punished (95–110). It is virtually out of the question that in such circumstances any Theban would wonder why the foreign-born king is showing eagerness and taking measures to discover the killer. Oedipus’ constant awareness of his foreignness and especially of the extraordinary manner in which he acquired the kingship also apparently lies at the root of his conviction that envious native noblemen are conspiring to undermine him, or worse. This unreasonable belief motivates his excessive and unfair reactions and swiftly leads to his downfall. Although the downfall is divinely ordained, its impact is aggravated by Oedipus’ public proclamations, which make his punishment self-imposed.

5

See Kyriakou (2006) 188–89.

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In his struggle to make sense of the terrifying revelations of Teiresias, Oedipus reaches the unjustified conclusion that Creon conspires with the seer to steal the kingship (378, 380–403, 532–42, 555–73, 700–6), the award handed to the ingenious foreigner who saved Thebes when the native dignitaries dismally failed to assist the city in its hour of greatest need.6 It is quite clear that Oedipus does not suspect or fear a general movement of political opposition to his rule or decisions, as, for instance, the king in Aeschylus’ Supplices (365–69, 398–401, 480–85), Creon in Sophocles’ Antigone (289–303), or Agamemnon in Euripides’ Hecuba (854–63) does. Oedipus specifically suspects limited opposition stemming from envy in connection with his high office and, primarily, with his manner of acquiring the kingship, i.e. with his identity as a newcomer with no ties to the local nobility or resources other than his intelligence.7 To be sure, when he first hears that Laius was killed by robbers (122–23), Oedipus immediately suspects that the killer was an assassin hired by the late king’s Theban opponent(s) (124–25) and imagines that he may become the next target of the same opposition (139–41). He uses the singular λῃστής at 124, immediately after Creon has told him that the survivor mentioned several robbers (λῃστάς, 122). This discrepancy may be viewed as subconsciously motivated in a Freudian sense, or as an obliquely ironic choice (cf. the use of “punish” [τιμωρεῖν] at 140). In any case, the shift is not inexplicable in the context: even if there were several robbers, Oedipus may assume that they had a leader, and the fatal blow is likely to have been struck by one person anyway.

6

7

For obvious reasons, the main accusations of negligence and incompetence are directed against Teiresias: he failed to solve the riddle of the Sphinx (390–98) and to name Oedipus as the killer of Laius at the time of the murder (564, 568). Oedipus, though, also voices surprise, perhaps disapproving, that the murder had not been adequately investigated by the community (128–29, 255–58, 566), presumably by prominent citizens such as Creon who would naturally take charge of this sort of investigation (cf. 126–27). Oedipus’ conviction that Creon and Teiresias are currently collaborating undermines any distinction between the two alleged conspirators. The art (τέχνη, 380), which motivates much envy (φθόνος, 382), may be the art of ruling, but it is more likely Oedipus’ art of solving riddles, especially in view of his subsequent tirade. Envy (τὸ φθονεῖν) is mentioned also at 624 in the confrontation of Creon and Oedipus. Although the line is preceded and followed by lacunas, it is probable that Oedipus took up the issue of envy before 624 and Creon tries to answer it by suggesting that he has no reason to harbor the kind of negative emotion that Oedipus has in mind.

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Similarly, the reference to one opponent eager to kill the new king, as he did his predecessor (139–41), does not preclude a conspiracy, of which Oedipus subsequently accuses Teiresias and Creon.

Despite the plausibility of this suspicion, he never reiterates the connection in his public proclamations (224–75). Even more remarkably, when Teiresias angrily reveals that Oedipus is the killer (350–53), the king, who comes to the conclusion that Creon is trying to expel him from the land, forgets his previous accusations and never so much as implies that Creon and Teiresias killed Laius,8 although such an accusation would certainly bolster the case against Creon. Oedipus never claims that the supposed current plot of Creon and Teiresias is a continuation of their conspiracy against Laius. Instead, he assumes that the root-cause of the current plot is the hostility of the native noblemen toward the foreign arrival, who achieved what they could not and acquired the highest prize as a result. His view of his difference from native Thebans and especially Theban nobility is also manifested much later, when he taunts what he perceives as Jocasta’s pride in her noble lineage (1070, 1078–79). His last reply to her desperate attempt to hinder the revelation of the truth (τὰ λῷστα τοίνυν ταῦτά μ’ ἀλγύνει πάλαι, 1067) seems to point to his distress at her discomfort (but also perhaps at the obstructionism of Polybus and Merope [783–86] and possibly also Apollo [788–89], who did not help him in his initial quest for his real parents). Finally, his casual remark that he was brought up as the greatest of the citizens in his native town (775–76) is a peculiar specification in the mouth of a former prince: it suggests a nostalgic view of his privileged and untroubled youth, before a disturbing rumor and an even more disturbing oracle sent him away from home into self-imposed exile.

The recent naturalization of Oedipus as a Theban citizen has been invoked to explain the meaning of the puzzling σύμβολον at 221, which the king mentions in the introduction to his proclamations (219–23). It is more probable that this introduction, quoted below, and the proclamation itself (224–75) point to Oedipus’ confidence in his intelligence. Nevertheless,

8

In his attempt to make sense of Teiresias’ initial stubborn refusal to reveal the killer of Laius, Oedipus implausibly imagines that the seer was the instigator of the murder (346–49) and now does not wish to incriminate himself by revealing the truth. This wild guess is also never repeated in the play.

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his foreign origin is a fact that features prominently in his speech, and, as mentioned above, it will soon lead to his clash with the native Theban noblemen. 220

ἁγὼ ξένος μὲν τοῦ λόγου τοῦδ’ ἐξερῶ, ξένος δὲ τοῦ πραχθέντος· οὐ γὰρ ἂν μακρὰν ἴχνευον αὐτό, μὴ οὐκ ἔχων τι σύμβολον· νῦν δ’, ὕστερος γὰρ ἀστὸς εἰς ἀστοὺς τελῶ, ὑμῖν προφωνῶ πᾶσι Καδμείοις τάδε·

Lloyd-Jones and Wilson suggest that σύμβολον is used metaphorically but with its original meaning here, indicating a tally. This was a mutually agreed upon token that was divided in half, and each half was kept by one party; when the need for a proof of identity or guarantee of reliability arose, friends, relatives, allies or business partners produced their respective halves as tokens of recognition. In Oedipus’ case, the link with the Thebans is his fairly recent enrollment in the citizen lists.9 Lloyd-Jones and Wilson reject previous views such as those of Wunder and Jebb, although the latter, who follows Goodwin, hit upon something important, especially if αὐτός is the correct reading at 221:10 Oedipus is not tracking alone because he takes all conscientious, god-fearing Thebans with him as fellow-trackers. This collaboration was suggested by the oracle, which said that the polluting killer was in Thebes. All Thebans, then, can be involved in the investigation, primarily since it is quite probable that a native citizen may be, or know, the killer. As mentioned earlier, the responsibility for dealing with the crisis of the plague falls squarely on Oedipus’ shoulders on several important counts: his royal office and paternal concern for his subjects, the petition of the citizens in the prologue, the mandates of the oracle, and the king’s

9 Lloyd-Jones and Wilson (1990) 84–85. Kovacs (2007) suggests that Oedipus’ connection with the Thebans is the plague that resulted from the murder of Laius and emends ξένος (220) to ξυν(ε)ών to acquire the requisite meaning. But τὸ πραχθέν can hardly be the plague, as it plainly designates the murder of Laius, and the equation of a deed with its much later consequences is improbable. Also, the resulting meaning is not particularly suitable: even if Oedipus is currently afflicted by the plague as much as the next Theban, in the statement under discussion he clearly emphasizes his earlier lack of association with Thebes. As he became a citizen of late (222), he has nothing to do not only with the deed but also with the story about it. 10 Jebb (18933) on 220f.; Goodwin (18892 ) 194.

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association with Laius as his successor (and second husband to Jocasta).11 It is virtually out of the question that Oedipus invokes his late enrollment in the citizen lists as his only or main link to his subjects and as his reason for his present thorough investigation into Laius’ murder, or even for his proclamation. His several reasons for investigating the murder do not even include his acquisition of the Theban citizenship. Oedipus’ foreign origin and his naturalization after Laius’ murder are the reasons why he has nothing to do with the murder and of course the story about it. His naturalization after the murder also explains why, in contrast to him, only the citizens of old can provide clues about the perpetrators of the crime, for which he appeals in his proclamation. The σύμβολον is the token with which Oedipus is now able to undertake a thorough investigation, leaving no stone unturned, as it were.12 Because of this token, his investigation will take the particular form that will be announced in the proclamation (224–75). More specifically, Oedipus explains why his words will be salutary to the city (cf. 216–18), although he is a stranger to the report and the deed (219–20): he could not have undertaken a thorough investigation of the deed if he had not had a token (220–1). Now that he does, and since he has been lately naturalized, he is making his proclamation to all Theban citizens (222–23). The reference to his recent naturalization (222) looks back to his lack of any association with the report and the deed, and especially forward to his appeal to the citizens of old: he needs those citizens to provide the other half of the tally so that purification and healing can proceed through the identification of the murderer. To this end, the entire city should be mobilized in the search for the killer, a matter of the highest national importance. All citizens are being urged to provide relevant information under the aegis of the king (224–43). For his part, he promises to

11 Oedipus mentions only the last two reasons in the speech (258–68), although he plainly also cares to serve the god and to alleviate the troubles of the land (252–54; cf. 132–36, 244–45, 310–15). It has been suggested, most recently by Carawan (1999), that Oedipus is assuming the role of the victim’s kinsman and plaintiff in a murder trial. For Carawan’s view of Oedipus’ proclamations see n. 13 below. 12 Mathewson (1968) 2–3, who interprets Oedipus’ introduction to his proclamations along similar lines, explains σύμβολον as ‘clue’ and thinks that the spatial specification μακράν (220) indicates metaphorically the temporal remoteness of the origin of the plague: Oedipus says that he would not have been able to trace this origin so far back in time if he had not had a clue from the oracle. This is unlikely because Oedipus would hardly provide such a specification before he even mentioned the murder of Laius as the cause of the plague. He announces the thoroughness of his investigation rather than its temporal depth.

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refrain from inflicting the capital punishment on the guilty party (228–29) and to reward the informer (231–32), and pronounces punishments and public curses against those who fail to collaborate (236–43, 269–72). In this light, the σύμβολον is the token provided by the oracle, namely that the plague is due to the presence of the killer of Laius in Thebes, on which Oedipus’ view of the probable identity of the murderer(s) is based. As already suggested, when Creon first reports that robbers killed Laius, Oedipus immediately suspects that they were assassins paid by the opposition (124–25). Creon confirms that the city had also suspected as much but failed to investigate the murder because of the troubles caused by the Sphinx (126–27, 130–31). Oedipus then promises to take up the investigation and asks for the citizens to gather (132–46). According to the king’s apparent interpretation of the oracle, information about the murderer is bound to come from a Theban source: Thebans are virtually certain to have been involved in the murder, as instigators and possibly as perpetrators, and some of their relatives or friends are bound to be able to provide clues. Oedipus mentions the possibility that the killer may be a foreigner (230–31). Later, Jocasta says that foreign robbers killed Laius (715–16), and this was likely the common assumption at the time of the murder. Oedipus, though, believes that the instigator was a Theban, and the chorus assume that the killer and/or his friends will immediately hear and fear the curses of Oedipus (294–95). In his proclamation, the king does not draw a sharp or consistent distinction between instigator and perpetrator, or between the killer and his uncooperative protector(s).13 Nevertheless, since he assumes that the instigator is Theban, he also apparently thinks that, if he or his protector comes forward,

13 Carawan (1999) argues that Oedipus’ announcement at 224–43 targets only the concealer of the murderer, who is guilty by association and subject to the same punishments as the murderer himself. The mention of exile at 228–29 certainly applies to the killer, and it is implausible that the reward promised to the informant who will reveal the culprit (231–32) will be followed by the informant’s exile, as Carawan suggests. Most damningly, the targeted person is emphatically called “our miasma, as the Pythian oracle of the god has just revealed to me” (241–43): this can only be the murderer, whether 236–41 mean that he is to be excommunicated or to shun all public contact himself. Lloyd-Jones and Wilson (1990) 86 and (1997) 50–51 think that, in view of the punishment announced at 236–41, the curse against the murderer at 246–48 is feeble and probably the result of an interpolation. But the first announcement involves the civic and religious excommunication of the culprit while the curse makes sure that the murderer will spend and end his life in misery. There is thus no absolutely cogent reason to excise 246–48 and/ or 249–51, and no reason to follow Carawan in order to save them.

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he will certainly provide information on the killer. Oedipus’ reasoning also explains why he does not ask immediately for the sole survivor of Laius’ escort, despite his professed eagerness to investigate every clue, however slight (120–21; cf. 291). Dawe stresses the paradox of a conspicuous lack of acuity on the part of a most intelligent man. He explains it by suggesting that the play has two strands, Laius’ murder and Oedipus’ parentage, and Sophocles saves the appearance of this crucial character for later, for the investigation of the second mystery. If the escort appeared immediately and told the truth about Laius’ murder, the play would finish early with the discovery of Laius’ killer.14 Apart from the possibility that the sole surviving eyewitness would not necessarily reveal the truth, even if he appeared early on, Oedipus is apparently certain that he has nothing to learn from the man, since Creon asserted that the survivor could only provide a single piece of information (118–19), which he communicated to the king (122–23). Oedipus has no reason to doubt the accuracy of Creon’s report, which will be confirmed later by the chorus (292) and Jocasta (715–16). Based on the available evidence, the foreign-born king, a man of diligence and proven intelligence, proceeds to make a plausible inference about those responsible for the murder and base his subsequent strategy on it. In his very first appearance onstage Oedipus calls himself “renowned to all” (ὁ πᾶσι κλεινός, 8) and, as already pointed out, he takes pride in his intelligence and quick wit throughout the play. Despite his confidence in his ability to solve problems, he does not become arrogant: he prudently takes Creon’s advice to ask for Teiresias’ help and recognizes that his proclamations will not necessarily scare the killer and/or his protectors (296). The seer’s terrible revelations make the accused man lose his sober restraint and lash out against both him and the unoffending Creon. Oedipus’ anger, which may be thought to confuse his judgment and aggravate his downfall, stems, partly at least, from his keen awareness of his foreignness and his self-perceived failure to be accepted by the local nobles: he accuses them of envying his past achievement and the reward that his intelligence procured to the foreign-born savior of the city. The anger also intensifies his pride in his intelligence, as is obvious from his taunting Creon for believing that he would not realize that a plot against him was underway (538–39). “I will never turn out a different man so as not to learn who were my parents” (1084–85), he declares

14 Dawe (20062 ) 9–10.

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defiantly and proudly before the final crushing revelation. He insists that his greatness was the gift of his benevolent mother, Fortune (1080–82), ironically against his real mother’s benevolent wish that he may never find out who he is (1060–61, 1064, 1068). Even when the shepherd appears, Oedipus makes a point to list the evidence on the basis of which he identifies the man (1110–15). Finally, when he has blinded himself and comes out of the house, he points out that he recognizes the chorus from their voice (1325–26). The only major difference in the self-perception and self-presentation of Oedipus after the revelation of his identity is his failure to consider and mention the solving of the riddle of the Sphinx and his service to Thebes. At the end of the play, his failure to preserve the benefits of his brilliant success is pointed out by Creon (1522–23),15 a man grievously attacked by Oedipus earlier and now saddled with the management of a most troubling private and public situation. The months, Oedipus’ kinsmen, are now again marking him as small after having elevated him (cf. 1082–83). For the rest, Oedipus remains a man of reason and intelligence, who can see the best course of action even in the midst of the most wrenching predicament, as he always did in his glorious past. I will return to the role of this past in shaping Oedipus’ decisions and requests in the exodus. For now, let it suffice to point out that the messenger reports that Oedipus repeatedly uttered imprecations against the eyes he was in the very process of blinding (1270–76), and then loudly asked for the immediate fulfillment of his self-incriminating decree (1287–91; cf. 1340–43, 1409–15, 1436–37, 1449–54, 1518). When he appears after his self-inflicted blinding, the lament for his downfall lasts quite briefly (1308–66), less than, for instance, the lament of Ajax for his disaster (Aj. 348–424), and is immediately followed by reflections on his misery, acceptance of his fate, and contemplation of the future (1369–1415, 1436–67, 1478–1514). Oedipus is the only Sophoclean hero whose reversal of fortune is both complete and dramatized almost entirely onstage. His passionate involvement in the search first for the killer of Laius and then for his own parents deepen the dramatic impact of the reversal, which appears to be selfinflicted, at least as far as his punishment is concerned: Oedipus’ excellence

15 For this statement and the final meeting of Creon and Oedipus see the discussion in 4 and 5 below.

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turns out to be self-destructive.16 Despite his long-lasting, fervent, and relentlessly pursued desire to uncover the secret of his birth, its revelation leads him to wish that he had died when exposed as an infant and never revealed his identity (1391–93). On the other hand, like most Sophoclean characters, Oedipus wishes to recreate his past, no longer his glorious recent past, as he had done in his attempt to find the killer of Laius, but his earliest past, his infancy, by returning to Cithaeron and dying there, as his parents had meant for him to do (1449–54). Although he regrets his past bitterly and cannot retain anything of his former glory, not even the company of his young daughters (1521–23), although he cannot even return to Cithaeron on his own, he remains the same insofar as he manifests the same abilities that made him famous in the past. He retains to the end his certainty about his ability to draw the right conclusions and make predictions on the basis of available evidence.17 As already pointed out, he insists on immediate expulsion from the city. He also does not share the caution of Creon (1438–45, 1518) and, to an extent, the chorus (1416–18) concerning the action to be taken in view of the new revelations. What is perhaps more important, he concludes that no disease or physical hardship will kill him: he will survive all assaults of such hardship to go through terrible sufferings, as he survived as an exposed and abused infant (1455–57). Incidentally, and although not proven true, this is Oedipus’ only prediction that is not revealed as wrong or partially wrong in the play.18 Oedipus continues to assess present and future

16 Ironically, the other great man who experiences a similarly devastating and selfinflicted reversal of fortune is Creon in Antigone but he is not presented as particularly intelligent, and his fall is largely due to his disregard for sacred laws and his misconceived wish to preserve total control over the city. The thoughtful Deianeira in Trachiniae also brings about her own demise but she seems, or allows herself, to fall victim to Nessus’ deception in what amounts to a quixotic quest for suspension of time; see B IV 3–5 above. 17 Taplin (1983) 172 suggests that Oedipus’ wish to leave Thebes and go to Cithaeron is thwarted, as all his attempts to escape have been, and he is forced to return to his earliest past, the place of his conception. But this return is probably temporary; see the discussion at the end of 4 with nn. 50 and 51 below. 18 Several scholars bring in OC here, but this kind of association should be resisted. Cf. Davies (1991b) 3 n. 9. Even if Sophocles had already conceived the plot of the later play, the eponymous character of the earlier one cannot meaningfully allude to it. Oedipus in OT can foresee terrible future sufferings based on past experience and not least on Teiresias’ prophecy. For the future of the family cf. nn. 56 and 59 below.

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based on the past, but now this past has morphed into goads of wrenching memory (1317–18).19

2. Divine Jocasta: remembering the past Devastatingly, memory, the fruit of, or reward for, all the attempts to see, find out, and understand clearly, which may be viewed as the dominant theme of OT, brings only emotional pain and misery. In another striking manifestation of memory’s terrible potential, Jocasta, like Oedipus, finds out that the attempt to deal with present contingencies by investigating the fairly recent past only leads to worse troubles associated with the more distant past. When she realizes who Oedipus is and unsuccessfully urges him not to take any stalk of idle talk (μάτην/ ῥηθέντα βούλου μηδὲ μεμνῆσθαι τάδε, 1056–57), she rushes into her bedroom, tearing her hair with both hands, and slams the door shut behind her (1241–44). She then invokes her dead husband Laius (1245), remembering intercourses of long ago (μνήμην παλαιῶν σπερμάτων ἔχουσα, 1246), and laments her two marriages. In a wrenching variation of a typical lament trope, she accuses Laius of having died (by the hand of his offspring) and left her all alone to bear accursed children to his child: on the same bed, she bore a husband by her husband and children by her child (1246–50).20 It is ironic that Jocasta values the past most highly as the standard by which to judge, indeed to discover, the truth about the present (and presumably the future). She is actually the one who states explicitly the principle by which she and Oedipus as well as, to a more limited extent, the

19 Cf. 1398–1403, a remarkable apostrophe: addressing the landmarks of the place where he killed his father, Oedipus asks whether they remember his crimes they witnessed and those he committed afterwards. 20 Her last words and death in her chamber are reported by the messenger from the house. He did not actually see her commit suicide (1237–38) and says that he will report her sufferings to the extent that his memory allows (1239–40). Dawe (20062 ) ad loc. suggests that the messenger cannot have already forgotten the terrible events he is about to report, and thus μνήμη (1239) must refer to the speaker’s power of representation, as if he were a rhapsode about to begin his epic narrative. But memory is very elusive, and even eyewitness accounts, especially of troubling events, are not necessarily accurate. The messenger’s stricture points to the emotional turmoil the latest events caused him, which is likely to influence the accuracy of his report.

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other characters operate, that the present ought to be judged in the light of the past. Jocasta declares that this is a characteristic of sensible men and regrets that Oedipus has ceased operating by this rule, disturbed and swayed by any scary tale he hears (914–17). She apparently means Teiresias’ accusations, but her own tale about the old oracle given to Laius and the exposure of their infant son (711–25) is also relevant, although she does not realize or imply that. Instead, she apparently refers implicitly to her argument (707–25) that the failure of Laius’ oracle to come true is a strong indication that Teiresias’ claims too are invalid. Dawe argues that the meaning of Jocasta’s statement cannot be that Oedipus is not comparing the present with the past because Oedipus has been doing just that and has become disturbed as a consequence. According to Dawe, Jocasta means that Oedipus does not make the comparison in the manner of sensible men.21 This is certainly Jocasta’s view of Oedipus’ behavior. The king, though, has not been drawing any conclusions about the present from the past. Fearing that, in the light of new evidence, a past event may prove disastrous, i.e. suspecting and attempting to discover the connections between past and present events, is not tantamount to judging the present in the light of the past: this judgment involves tracing the similarities between two or more events and inferring a generalizing conclusion about their outcomes. Jocasta says that Oedipus does not judge the present on the basis of past, and, in her view, indisputable evidence. Apart from the supposed invalidity of Laius’ oracle, another development will soon strengthen her, and eventually Oedipus’, mistrust of oracles and prophecies: the Corinthian messenger’s report of the death of Polybus by natural causes (942; cf. 949, 960–63) will be viewed by the royal couple as proof that the oracle which predicted that Oedipus would kill his father (793) has not come true (945–49, 952–53, 955–56, 964–72). Like Oedipus, Jocasta has confidence in her ability to deal with disturbing tales, oracles, and prophecies. On the other hand, her considered manner of dealing with such predictions is different from that of Oedipus: it does not consist in thorough investigation and the undertaking of action based on the results but in unqualified rejection of their trustworthiness and in failure of undertaking any action (707–9, 723–25, 977–83). The difference may plausibly be attributed to the traumatic events in Jocasta’s past: Laius exposed their infant son, fearful that the boy would eventually kill him, as the oracle had predicted (711–14), but the oracle proved false

21 Dawe (20062 ) on 915.

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because the boy died in the wilderness of Cithaeron and his father was killed by robbers (715–22). These horrors taught Jocasta two related things, that religious functionaries are untrustworthy, and that men should not fear and try to thwart the realization of their predictions. Fear leads mortals astray, into doing terrible things such as abusing and exposing infants, or going into selfimposed exile and spending their life in terror and misery. Mortals cannot know the future and cannot learn it from prophecies, which are no more worthy of attention than disturbing dreams (980–82). Since human life is unpredictable and governed by chance (τύχη), men should not be afraid of terrifying prophecies but live as best they can (977–79, 982–83). Jocasta’s claims, loaded with irony, highlight the pervasive tragic theme of the limitations of human knowledge and intelligence. More particularly, they indicate the fixation of Sophoclean characters on a personal, undifferentiated, and inflexible view of themselves, and especially their past. Jocasta’s belief in the governing role of chance in human affairs and the opaqueness of human fortunes could have made her suspect that no fixed conclusion is warranted, including of course her own about the fate of her first child and husband as well as the unreliability of prophetic utterances. Most indicative of her fixity on a single view of the past and on the value of the past as the only reliable means of interpreting the present is her extraordinary response to Oedipus’ only remaining hope that the shepherd will stand by his original claim that Laius was killed by several men (836–47). Even if he changes his story, suggests Jocasta, and says that a single man killed Laius, prophecies such as Teiresias’ (cf. 747) are not worthy of attention because the oracle given to Laius claimed that he would be killed by his son (851–58).22 In other words, even if the shepherd confirms Teiresias’ prophecy by revealing that a single man, who would without doubt be Oedipus, killed Laius (cf. 813–33, 842–47), again Teiresias’ prophecy cannot be true because an old oracle has not come true. Apart from the blatant absurdity of urging someone to ignore the validity of a

22 It may or may not be significant that the oracle is now said to be by Loxias (853–54): Jocasta may have discarded the distinction between the god and his ministers, which she had drawn earlier (711–12), or she may take it for granted and refer to the god, who was the official dispenser of the oracles, but mean the ministers. The former interpretation is perhaps more likely. In any case, the arrival of the Corinthian messenger and the announcement of the news of Polybus’ death will make both Jocasta and Oedipus gleefully drop the distinction between gods and their servants.

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prophecy that will have come true on the basis of another one that has not, the shepherd’s testimony will make Teiresias’ prophecy irrelevant: Oedipus’ problem is not the validity of that prophecy but whether he is the killer of Laius or not. Besides, even from Jocasta’s point of view, if the latest prophecy is confirmed by the shepherd’s testimony, the old prophecy could turn out to be true too. For obvious dramatic reasons, neither Jocasta nor Oedipus or any other character is allowed to have any intimation of Oedipus’ true parentage before its revelation, despite their intelligence and Teiresias’ fairly detailed accusations, which could certainly have been interpreted in the light of the disturbing oracle Oedipus had received in his youth. A baby that had been exposed so that he may not eventually kill his father, a prince rumored in Corinth to be an adoptee and told by the Delphic oracle that he was destined to kill his father and marry his mother, a king accused by a revered seer of being a polluted killer and of having shameful relationships with his family: some suspicion could certainly have crossed the mind of Oedipus and/or Jocasta that things are much darker than they seem. Nevertheless, Sophocles chose to present the royal couple as totally unsuspecting of the truth until the end. This advantageous dramatic choice was complicated somewhat by the emphasis on Oedipus’ intellectual power and, to a lesser extent, Jocasta’s skepticism.23 On the other hand, it was also much facilitated by the general certainty that the exposed infant had died on Cithaeron,24 and especially by the magnitude of the crimes attributed to Oedipus and the mind-numbing array of apparent coincidences that made them possible. No person, no matter how intelligent, could easily have grasped the terrible truth, although a deeply pious person might have 23 Moreau (1993) argues that the violent and erratic behavior of Teiresias discredited him in the eyes of Oedipus and the chorus. This may be a plausible reading of the first episode, although there is no indication that a seer’s behavior impacts the reception of his prophecies. Besides, the prophecies of Teiresias continue to be discussed after his departure, and Jocasta at least, who had not witnessed his emotional reaction to the accusations of Oedipus, could have suspected the truth before the revelations of the Corinthian messenger. Cf., though, next n. 24 Jocasta does not harbor any doubt about his fate (717–22, 856). The shepherd certainly did not reveal to his masters that he had saved the infant, and they apparently believed, as presumably did everybody else in Thebes, that his mission had been accomplished. There is no indication in OT that Laius visited the Delphic oracle in order to confirm that the exposed child had perished, the version of the story found in Euripides’ Phoenissae.

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been disturbed.25 In any case, one may plausibly assume that Jocasta’s last claim about the invalidity of Teiresias’ accusations is prompted by her wish to comfort Oedipus at all costs, even at the cost of making irrational or absurd suggestions. Still, her attachment to the past and her failure to consider disquieting possibilities cannot be glossed over. Her claims have a harsh edge, since she vehemently denies the existence of mantic wisdom, not even acknowledging the possibility that the prophecy of Teiresias may come true. As already suggested, the emotional trauma she suffered in the past seems to condition her response to the seer’s revelations. Whether Sophocles also meant to present her as overconfident in her intellectual prowess or not, her primary wish seems to be to protect her second family from the consequences of a bizarre prophecy that threatens to destroy it, as an earlier oracle had destroyed the first.26

3. The chorus: men of good judgment? The royal couple’s attachment to the past, to a large extent motivated by their personal histories and traumas, comes more sharply into focus if one considers the reactions of the chorus to the unsettling revelations of Teiresias and the story of Jocasta. Although the elders are not instrumental in the unraveling of the two riddles, the murder of Laius and the parentage of Oedipus, they are prominent, respected citizens. They share these features with the chorus of OC and Antigone, although Creon in that play intimidates the Theban elders. Loyal to Oedipus and highly appreciative of his service to the city, the chorus of OT are also much concerned with the fate of the city, keeping a wary distance from dynastic feuds, rumored intrigues and conspiracy theories (cf. 404–7, 527, 530). Oedipus’ attempts to deal with the crisis of the plague are complicated by the opaqueness of the latest Delphic oracle and the puzzling revelations that keep trickling out until the final apocalypse. The chorus are involved in the ongoing quest for truth and salvation, contributing their share in the search for evidence (282, 284–86, 290, 292) and probing the past for clues 25 Cf. Winnington-Ingram (1980) 183–84. 26 Ironically, her failure to encourage Oedipus by her arguments and her fear that her second husband is falling victim to irrational and dangerous fear, as the first did, motivate Jocasta to supplicate Apollo (911–23), the provider of disturbing oracles and prophecies to both men.

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to the dark secrets that haunt the present (487–97). They also share the distress and puzzlement of the accused party, first Oedipus (483–86, 499– 503) and then Creon. They advise caution (616–17), plead Creon’s cause (649–50, 652–53, 656–57), and assure Oedipus of their loyalty (660–64, 690–96). They repeat, though, that their primary concern is the salvation of the city from the plague (665–68) and urge Jocasta not to delve further into an unconsidered dispute, which threatens to distract attention from the attempt to cure the city (678–79, 685–86).27 In the first part of the play, two statements of the chorus, which show clearly their closeness to Oedipus and Jocasta, also underscore their difference from the royal couple. In the first stasimon, the chorus recall with admiration the service of Oedipus to the city, declaring their loyalty to him and reluctance to believe the accusations of Teiresias until the guilt of the king is proven beyond doubt (504–12; cf. 690–96, 1220–22). Nevertheless, despite the presumption of innocence, based on Oedipus’ past service to the city, the accusations of Teiresias cannot be ignored or dismissed lightheartedly. The elders declare their perplexity (486–88) but unlike Oedipus and Jocasta, they do not reject the validity of the accusations. Instead, they reserve final judgment as to the reliability of the seer and the guilt of Oedipus (483–85, 489–512). Similarly, when Oedipus realizes that he may after all be the killer of Laius, the chorus share his fear but encourage him to retain hope until he hears the testimony of the eyewitness (834–35), unlike Jocasta, who urges him to disregard the claims of both Teiresias and, in essence, the shepherd (848–58). The elders had also declared their trust in Zeus and Apollo quite forcefully (498–99) and, although their suspension of judgment about mantic reliability may be thought to foreshadow the queen’s attitude, skepticism and rejection are certainly not equivalent or identical. As already pointed out, the chorus also rely on the past as a safe guide in the present predicaments, as Oedipus and Jocasta do. Although the elders declare their inability to point to the killer of Laius, they turn to the past and search for a quarrel between the Theban and Corinthian royal houses that might explain why Oedipus would kill the Theban king or be charged with his murder (487–97). The remote past offers no clue, so present and future are ultimately undecidable (cf. 487–88), especially in view of the dreadful claims of the seer. The more recent past, though,

27 Oedipus’ accusations against Creon are not mentioned by the chorus after Creon’s departure. For the second stasimon see below.

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offers a provisional anchor of trust. The chorus know that Oedipus saved the city from a lethal danger: they have no complaint against him and they refrain from tarnishing his glorious reputation in the city until clear proof that his earlier career had been criminal emerges. The only substantial part of their utterances that does not include a reference or allusion to the vanquishing of the Sphinx is the second stasimon (863–910).28 This captures the lowest point in the mood of the elders before the revelation of Oedipus’ identity. Its declarations of confidence in the eternity and unshakability of divine laws (865–72) notwithstanding, the song seems to be mainly an expression of dismay in the face of dangers threatening the worship of the gods, the foundation of pious life. The failure of the chorus to look to the past for clues that may be relevant to the current, unpleasant state of affairs throws in sharp relief their usual practice in the play, primarily their repeated falling back on Oedipus’ service to the city as their most reliable means of judging the present. The exclusion of Oedipus’ past from consideration becomes particularly noticeable because the situation the chorus deal with in the second stasimon is not markedly different from the situation addressed in their first song. In the first episode, Teiresias had revealed terrible things about Oedipus. Despite Oedipus’ indignant and vehement denials of any wrongdoing, in the first stasimon the chorus did think that the obscure prophecy targeting the king might come true but they reserved judgment. The second episode included the king’s incipient and horrendous realization that the prophecy might after all prove true. It is plausible to ask why the elders turn much more pessimistic in the second song and do not seem to retain hope, or reserve judgment, at least until the examination of the shepherd, as they had advised Oedipus to do (834–35). Since Jocasta argued that priests and prophets are completely unreliable because the oracle given to Laius failed to come true, it is likely that the contradictory views of the royal couple about prophetic reliability plunge the chorus into confusion

28 In the parodos, the vanquishing of the Sphinx is implied in the invocation to the gods for help with the present calamity (165–66), although it is likely, especially in view of the supplication addressed to Oedipus in the prologue, that only the elimination of the Sphinx is suggested. The third stasimon (1086–1109), a so-called calm-before-the-storm song, does not mention the Sphinx but it is very short and topical, celebrating only the possibility that Oedipus was of divine stock. The contributions of the chorus in the second kommos (1297–1366) are also short, and neither they nor Oedipus refer to the Sphinx; cf. the discussion at the end of 1 above.

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and despair: despite Jocasta’s distinction between Apollo and his ministers (711–12; cf. 498–503), the gods, whom the elders view as their protectors (882), may deliver false oracles (cf. 897–902). Moreover, Oedipus’ dejection deprives the chorus of their only human source of hope and stability (cf. 922–23). The second song has been, and will doubtlessly continue to be, much debated.29 The position of the chorus is quite elusive, cast in an enigmatic mixture of imagistic religious maxims and pessimism. The paratactic style, which privileges abrupt transitions and obscures connections between parts, exacerbates critical uncertainty. This much, though, seems to be reasonably clear: the chorus pray for purity, which is sanctioned by eternal divine laws (863–72), and distinguish themselves from hubrists such as rulers (873–79), who care nothing for these laws (883–94). The most popular emendation of the famous maxim ὕβρις φυτεύει τύραννον (873) “hubris begets a king (or a tyrant)” is Blaydes’ ὕβριν φυτεύει τυραννίς “kingship (or tyranny) begets hubris,” adopted by several editors. Lloyd-Jones and Wilson, who do not accept it, suggest that the maxim refers to the generation of hubris by previous hubris, an instantiation of a fairly common lyric motif. They argue that, even if the chorus attribute hubris to Oedipus, “this can have nothing to do with his being or becoming a king”; Dawe advances a similar argument.30 It would indeed be convenient to eliminate the abrupt and problematic reference to a human king or tyrant, but the suggestion of Lloyd-Jones and Wilson is not particularly convincing. Apart from the civic context of the song, the passages they cite as parallels are very different because they contain no ambiguity concerning parentage. The continuity of hubris seems to be out of place in the song under discussion. Besides, to call the “child” of hubris a king (or tyrant) or tyrannical is unparalleled and very obscure. If such offspring is indeed called so, then at least an oblique reference to human kings (or tyrants) must have been intended by the poet. If hubris may be said to beget an imperious child, namely further hubris, as Lloyd-Jones and Wilson think, then one cannot see why hubris could not be said to “beget” a hubristic king. It is true that Oedipus did not become a king because of hubris, but the chorus do not draw, or necessarily imply, a connection between their song and Oedipus’ story.

29 For an overview of opinions see Sidwell (1992) 106. 30 Lloyd-Jones and Wilson (1990) 100; Dawe (20062 ) on 872. Cf. n. 32 below.

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The elders pray to the god to preserve the struggles that benefit the city (879–81) and declare their devotion to him (882). Nevertheless, they realize with deep anxiety that their piety may prove misplaced: impiety may spread in a world where it would not be readily punished, and especially where oracles such as the one given to Laius would not be fulfilled, rendering divine worship all but worthless (895–910). The earlier emphasis on kingship and the impiety it is associated with has seemed to many modern interpreters to point to Oedipus and/or Jocasta.31 The former insulted Teiresias and attacked the innocent Creon, and the latter argued that seers and priests are not reliable mediators between mortals and gods. Jocasta would be a more likely target because all songs in the play, and indeed in all Sophoclean plays, are integrated in their immediate context, and there is no reason to assume that this stasimon is an exception. Jocasta’s dismissive attitude toward seers would thus be more likely than Oedipus’ earlier behavior to cause the reaction of the chorus. However, apart from the fact that Jocasta may hardly be called a ruler, the elders themselves had earlier doubted, although not dismissed outright, the reliability of Teiresias’ prophecy. It is true that his claims are now likely to prove true, but the chorus never say so in the song. Recollection of Oedipus’ attack on the seer, which took place a while ago anyway, is also unlikely because Oedipus himself has acknowledged that Teiresias was probably right. Besides, and perhaps more significantly, the chorus support Oedipus throughout the play: a vehement attack on the king at this point is quite implausible. Last but not least, there is little dramatic point in recalling the baseless and untimely feud with Creon, which the chorus urgently wished for all parties to resolve and forget, and which has been diffused as well as possible in the circumstances. Rulers are obviously prone to surfeit and self-destructive impiety. For a civic-minded group of eminent citizens such as the chorus, facing a national calamity and closely associated with their king, the focus on rulers is not surprising.32 In the second strophe (883–96), the scope of the song will widen to include all transgressors. No one will be able to protect

31 See Bollack (1990) 554–55. Cf. Lefèvre (2001) 131–33. 32 Many scholars now think that no particular character is targeted in the first antistrophe (873–82). See Rosenmeyer (1993) 565–70, who favors a broader reading and associates the song with grievance poems of archaic lyric such as Solon’s elegy to the Muses (fr. 13 W2 ). Cf. Segal (20012 ) 92.

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themselves from harm in such an environment.33 This alarming development will lead to the failure of oracle visitations, perhaps the most severe blow to the worship of the gods, presumably because men will cease to rely on, and regulate their lives according to, divine instructions. This will result in the utter disintegration of society and the destruction of pious men such as the chorus, who will go down along with their hubristic and impious fellows. Rather than targeting anyone specifically, the elders are apparently taking stock of everything that has occurred so far. Terrible afflictions, crimes and accusations have created an atmosphere of bafflement and anxiety. Creon is innocent, but pollution as well as excess and guilt seem to be widespread. Apart from the unresolved and miasmatic murder of Laius, words have been spoken and acts committed beyond due measure. Already in the remote past, Laius abused and exposed his infant son. Oedipus committed murder, although not necessarily Laius’ and apparently in self-defense, and he vilified Teiresias and Creon. For his part, Teiresias appeared to be particularly uncooperative and harsh. Finally, Jocasta threw scorn on prophets and prophecies. There is little doubt that the chorus support Oedipus but they cannot disregard the fact that he is currently under a cloud. Their support, though, and the hope that the king is innocent of Laius’ murder and pollution, does not lead them to take up the theory of Oedipus that there was a conspiracy against him, spearheaded by Creon and supported by Teiresias. Sidwell argues that, if Oedipus is not the killer of Laius, as the chorus believe, then Teiresias lied in order to help his accomplice, who was not, though, Creon. The song is an attack on the criminal ambition of this would-be tyrant, and the chorus hope and pray that the gods will see to his destruction, preserving order and justice.34 The plot theory has long been discarded by now, and the chorus nowhere seemed to find it plausible in the first place. Given the new evidence that has come to light, the elders can hardly be said to believe that Oedipus did not kill Laius. Even if they do, this would not make them view the prophecy of Teiresias as a lie pronounced for the purposes of a conspiracy – they would more likely consider 33 The dire situation of all mortals, and especially the pious people who will suffer punishment along with the transgressors, is probably described in the rhetorical question at 892–94. The text is problematic, and no emendation has found widespread acceptance, but the sense is likely that no one, whether moral or immoral, will be able to preserve their life from harm. 34 Sidwell (1992).

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it the result of prophetic incompetence. Since Teiresias’ prophecy is now likely to prove true anyway, the plot theory and the interpretation based on it become particularly tenuous. The ode speaks of actual rather than aspiring tyrants. If a shadowy miscreant had been so prominently on the minds of the elders, there is no conceivable reason why they would have refrained from clearly pointing to him. In their frustration and distress, the chorus can only turn to the gods for resolution and comfort, but the gods do not seem to act as decisively and promptly as hoped. The song does not express anxiety that the gods might cease punishing wicked deeds altogether.35 The elders have just sketched the image of the hubristic ruler who reaches the pinnacle of his ascent and has nowhere to tread next but is forced to leap down into sheer constraint (873–79). They have also prayed for the preservation of the struggles for the benefit of the city (879–81), and declared that they would never cease looking to the god for protection (882). Throughout the play, they rely on divine help and protection: prayers, sacrifices, offerings to the gods, and consultation of oracles are their only means of dealing with the predicaments they face. They nowhere accuse the gods or express doubts about their power and willingness to punish wickedness. The first two stanzas of the second stasimon end with an affirmation of the power of divine laws and a declaration of trust in divine protection respectively (872, 882). The next two stanzas end with expressions of anxiety concerning the waning of worship (895–96, 908–10). The line separating religion and worship is undoubtedly rather thin, but the chorus express no fear that the gods will neglect their duties, at least not in the long run. What they fear is that they will presently allow impiety to spread and pious worship to wane. Some hubristic people such as those in high office will become impious, motivated by their arrogant folly. Pious people such as the chorus, unable to sustain the fight against the onslaught of high-flying impiety and to refute the troubling indications of oracular falsity, feel that their worship of the gods would become irrelevant and might as well be discontinued altogether. There is no doubt, though, that such a situation cannot continue for ever, since the eternal laws are immovable. Unfortunately, the eventual reversal will have dire consequences for all, wicked and innocent alike. If impiety and its impact on worship are allowed to proceed unchecked, the fabric of society will be torn, as men will no longer be able to look to the oracles of the gods for help.

35 See Gardiner (1987) 104–5.

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Very notable in the context of this pessimistic song, which, as noted at the beginning of the discussion, marks the lowest point in the mood of the chorus so far, is the failure of the elders to use the highly disturbing oracle given to Laius, the only past and concrete event they mention, as a touchstone for the present. Not only do they not fall back on the past service of Oedipus to the city in order to assess the current situation, but they also fail to reach any conclusion concerning the old oracle. They neither endorse nor reject Jocasta’s claim about the invalidity of the oracle, limiting themselves to expressions of devotion to the god and anxiety about the waning of worship. They wish for oracles to come conspicuously true (901–2) but do not pray that Laius’ oracle might do so. This would probably incriminate Oedipus but might exonerate him if, for instance, one of the robbers were the exposed child. The elders also do not pray that Delphic priests stop delivering false oracles, although such a wish may be implied in their appeal to Zeus to take care of the troubling current situation (903–5). People are excluding Laius’ fading oracle from consideration (906–7), they say. It is obvious that the elders themselves are not doing that, but they do not state what they think of the oracle. They do not seem to consider it false because they do not say that oracle visitations are pointless now that the old oracle has proven false. They cannot really consider it true, either, because their anxiety and appeal to Zeus would then be pointless or at least different. Even more strikingly, perhaps, especially in comparison with the end of the first stasimon (504–12), they do not say that they reserve judgment until clear proof emerges of the validity or invalidity of the oracle. In the second part of the first song, first person singular verbs are frequent (486–88, 491–97, 504–6; cf. 511–12), and the focus is on making sense, reaching conclusions, and apportioning praise and blame. In the second stasimon, no judgment is passed or contemplated, and the only first person singular verbs are used in connection with the chorus’ piety (863, 881, 882) and anxiety (896, 897). For the elders, the only clear signs and evident proof on the basis of which they may judge the present are the past service of Oedipus to the city and the immovable divine laws. All the rest is “faint and old rumors” (κωφὰ καὶ παλαί’ ἔπη, 290; cf. 505 and 852–53). In the fourth stasimon (1186–1222), the other sad song in the play, the grieving chorus stress the service of Oedipus to the city and their continuing loyalty to their afflicted leader, as they did in the first stasimon. Although both strophic pairs of the last song start with laments over the misfortunes of Oedipus and the stunning reversal of his fortune, they continue and end with references to his past glory and the honor he deservedly won in the city, in his capacity as a bulwark against destruction. It is

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true that the first antistrophe (1196–1203) is much less gloomy than the second (1213–22), as if the disaster had not yet fully sunk in, and the chorus turned instinctively to the glorious past of the sufferer.36 Even the second antistrophe, though, in which the chorus express the striking wish that they had never met Oedipus (1216–18), ends with what they call “telling the truth” (τὸ δ’ ὀρθὸν εἰ-/πεῖν, 1220–21): they drew breath and slept in peace because of Oedipus (ἀνέπνευσά τ’ ἐκ σέθεν/ καὶ κατεκοίμησα τοὐμὸν ὄμμα, 1221–22). κατεκοίμησα τοὐμὸν ὄμμα is often explained as “I closed my eyes in death,” or “darkness fell upon my eyes,” or similar. Bollack, who provides an overview of previous suggestions, thinks that the sleep was the reassured lulling of the eyes of the chorus, i.e. their inability to detect the identity of Oedipus, which the respite brought about by the vanquishing of the Sphinx caused.37 The language does not warrant such fanciful interpretations, and the context does not justify the assumption that there is a reference to darkness, much less the darkness of death. Of all extant instances of the compound κατακοιμῶ, hardly does any refer to death. The simple verb does so rarely, and in unambiguous contexts. The chorus simply say: “because of you I put my eyes to sleep,” i.e. the elders were finally able to sleep in peace after Oedipus had saved them from the Sphinx, who has been mentioned earlier in the song (1199–1201) and is anyway paramount in the chorus’ references to Oedipus. Fear that prohibits peaceful sleep is a common motif; see e.g. 586, A. Ag. 14–15, 891–94, S. El. 780–82. It is extremely unlikely that the chorus would consider the vanquishing of the Sphinx by Oedipus as the reason why they did not realize his identity and the terrible troubles it entailed for his family and city. There was no way anyone would have guessed these things, and the past service of Oedipus to the city has nothing to do with them or the insights of the chorus. What is equally and perhaps more important, the chorus nowhere suggest or imply that the downfall of Oedipus is their own too, in the manner, for instance, of the chorus of Ajax (900–3). Although the Theban elders wholeheartedly sympathize with their afflicted king and the misfortunes of the royal family, they never declare that they or all Thebans are ruined, or wish for death, because of these misfortunes. The contrast the priest draws between the earlier salvation of the citizens from the Sphinx and

36 In the second strophe also, after the elders have declared that Oedipus is the most wretched of mortals on account of the terrible reversal of fortune he has suffered, they affectionately and reverentially address him as “famous Oedipus” in their lament (ἰὼ κλεινὸν Οἰδίπου κάρα, 1207). 37 Bollack (1990) 816–18.

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their imminent destruction by the plague (50), an often-cited association, has no parallel with the situation after the revelation of Oedipus’ identity. Although the focus of attention has shifted from the plague, there is no doubt that the killer of Laius has been found, and that the city is safe. The chorus lament for Oedipus but never identify with him. After stating their wish never to have come across him so that they would never have to lament so grievously, they check themselves and point out that their meeting with him brought them the great benefit and comfort of salvation.

In the second stasimon, however, neither the service of Oedipus to the city nor the divine laws seem to offer hope or help in the present predicament, and thus the pious elders can do no more than worry and pray to Zeus. The failure to consider the past as a basis for the attainment of any conclusion, even for suspension of judgment, is crippling. In the case of the chorus, this failure may be attributed to emotional upheaval, but certainly entails virtual deliberative paralysis, and confusing dejection, as is obvious from the final, exaggerated claims to the effect that “Apollo is nowhere manifest in his honors (or prerogatives)” (908–9) and “religion is perishing” (910). The past is not an unfailingly reliable basis on which to judge the present and foresee the future, especially when one’s view of the past is distorted for various reasons. Still, failure to consider the past is virtually always unproductive.

4. Sensible Creon: neglecting the past The only character in the play who consistently eschews (references to) the past, even when faced with a major crisis and having to make a crucial decision, is Creon. This remarkable trait is unusual in a main Sophoclean character. It should probably be viewed in connection with the failure of Creon to prove a worthy substitute for Oedipus in the exodus, despite the many and impressive virtues he has displayed throughout. Creon is sensible and perceptive, advising Oedipus to fetch Teiresias for consultation (288–89; cf. 555–57) and making a plausible comment concerning Oedipus’ psychology (673–75). He is also cool, restrained, and a good debater. His pronounced sense of honor leads him to prefer death to disgrace (515–22), and he is certainly well liked and respected in the city (596; cf. 652). Loyal to Oedipus, he harbors no royal ambitions (587–93) and, more important, no bitterness toward his former accuser after the king’s downfall (1422–23). He even sensitively brings Oedipus’ daughters along to comfort their father in his misery (1476–77; cf. 1473–75).

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If Creon explains his gesture by claiming to know that Oedipus is now experiencing the pleasure he used to draw from the company of the girls in the past (γνοὺς τὴν παροῦσαν τέρψιν ἥ σ’ εἶχεν πάλαι, 1477), this is virtually the only occasion on which he takes a decision based on past experience. But the text of the line is not secure: with the reading ἔχει (Zg) for εἶχεν, Creon’s statement may mean “realizing [i.e. foreseeing] your present pleasure, which has come over you a while ago [i.e. just now].”38 The matter hinges on the meaning of πάλαι, which may refer to the distant as well as to the recent, even very recent, past. The latter, a Sophoclean idiom, is found at 289, 449, 1161, and El. 676. There is no doubt that the same emotion may hold someone for a long time,39 or repeatedly, whenever similar occasions arise, in the present case whenever Oedipus is near his daughters. Creon is more likely to speak of the present situation than refer to the past, both because of his general attitude and especially because Oedipus had never been in a similar situation in the past from which Creon could infer his present pleasure.

As already implied, Creon ventures no speculations concerning past events or motives of others. In response to Oedipus’ question why Teiresias had not revealed the murderer of Laius before (568),40 Creon declares that he has no idea, and that it is his habit to say nothing about matters of which he is ignorant (569), a declaration he repeats at the end of the play (1520). He does not even offer a supposition to the effect that the god(s) perhaps did not allow Teiresias to speak, or that seers are not always reliably helpful. The former would be more plausible, since Creon apparently does not question the reliability of Teiresias.41 Such restraint is a sign of great caution, which may or may not be deemed extraordinary.42 On the other hand, the virtually total failure of

38 See Dawe (20062 ) ad loc. 39 Cf. Lloyd-Jones and Wilson (1990) 113. 40 It is not entirely clear whether Oedipus is asking why Teiresias had not revealed the murderer, or had not revealed that the king was the murderer, in other words whether Oedipus is asking a new question or repeating his previous one about the failure of Teiresias to implicate him in the murder (564). In either case, the import of the question is the same because Oedipus is concerned primarily with the failure of Teiresias to reveal him as the murderer. 41 526 does not indicate that he considers Teiresias’ account false: he only inquires about the accusations made by Oedipus. 42 Note the answer of Creon (565) to the question of Oedipus whether Teiresias ever mentioned him as the murderer of Laius immediately after the event (564). The answer is of course negative, but the choice of formulation is indicative of

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Creon to fall back on his past in his defense speech, or anywhere in the confrontation with Oedipus in the second episode, is striking. Creon never refers to his behavior toward Oedipus or Laius, or to his regency after Laius’ death. This regency is never mentioned but may be assumed on the basis of Creon’s position after Oedipus’ downfall. Even if Creon did not formally become regent after Laius’ death, he certainly was one of the most prominent citizens in Thebes, better placed than anybody else to seek the throne if he so wished. Apart from Oedipus’ accusations in the second episode (cf. 380–89), the only mention of Creon’s past behavior is made by the chorus, who also stress his good sense (652). Creon asserts his innocence (603–8; cf. 644–45) but he constructs his defense almost entirely on the basis of a general paradigm. “That is where you have been revealed to be a bad friend” (582), says Oedipus, referring to his supposed unmasking of Creon’s ungrateful betrayal of his royal relatives (cf. 577–81, 546). “Not so, if you give an account to yourself the way I do” (583), replies Creon, before going on to expand on the behavior of sensible and moderately ambitious men. At the beginning (587–88) and end (601–2) of the first part of his speech, he stresses that by nature he is not the sort of man Oedipus accuses him of being: he belongs to the category of sensible men who do not wish to face the perils and unpleasant compromises of royal rule if they can enjoy the privileges of a high position in the city without the troubles of ruling (584–86, 589). He certainly implies that he has always behaved sensibly in the past but chooses to argue his case by describing his present situation, which exemplifies a timeless, as it were, pattern of behavior.43

Creon’s attitude: despite the certainty that Teiresias never mentioned Oedipus, he still leaves open the hypothetical possibility that Teiresias did mention Oedipus when Creon was not nearby. 43 Budelmann (2000) 71–74 suggests that the spectators are invited to assess Creon’s claims about the choices of sensible people without being given the wherewithal to judge them satisfactorily. But the audience, who at least know that Creon is innocent, are not invited to judge his innocence on the basis of the generic argument. On the other hand, Oedipus is convinced that Creon is guilty, and the argument does not persuade him to the contrary, not so much because it is generic and ill-defined as because no argument might do so in his state of anger-fuelled certainty. Still, what might be of interest to Oedipus, and especially to the spectators as judges of the persuasiveness of Creon’s speech, irrespective of his innocence, would be specific references to Creon’s past behavior, which the speaker fails entirely to make.

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The only extant tragic parallel is the speech of the Euripidean Hippolytus, with which he tries to defend himself against his father’s accusations and thwart the punishment he is about to suffer. The young man stresses, and takes oaths to convince Theseus of, his innocence (1025–31). Like Creon, he also refers to his preference for the second position in the city, which is the choice of all sensible men (Hi. 1013–20). This similarity notwithstanding, Hippolytus refers constantly to his past behavior (986– 1006), although his oath to the nurse prohibits him from explaining the present situation to his father and exonerating himself (1060–63; cf. 1021, 1033). The speech of Histiaeus to king Darius (Hdt. 5.106) also touches on the motif of the unpleasantness of ruling but it is very short and, contrary to Creon’s speech, focuses almost exclusively on the situation at hand and its background. The speech of Creon is unique in extant Greek literature, not least because he takes the oath of innocence only later (644–45), when he has apparently despaired that his arguments will sway Oedipus. Creon’s failure to fall back on the past for clues or to venture assumptions that might shed light on current contingencies is underscored by his emphasis and reliance on unexamined hearsay, and his great concern over accusations, rumors, and his reputation in the community. On the contrary, Oedipus concentrates almost exclusively on searching, seeing, and understanding. The contrast is obvious throughout the play. Creon reports that Laius left Thebes to visit Delphi, “as he said” (ὡς ἔφασκεν, 114). Even if the specification does not indicate doubt,44 and the emendation “as people said” (ὡς ἔφασκον), printed by Dawe, is not adopted, Creon does indicate Laius’ claim as his source of knowledge. “No one sees the culprit,” says Oedipus (293).45 “We heard nothing,” says Creon (567). The damage to his reputation in the city is unbearable to Creon (515–22) and he returns to Oedipus’ accusations throughout his confrontation with the king. In the exodus, when Creon appears, Oedipus first wonders in distress what he can say to him (1419), but then immediately reverts to the vocabulary of revelation: “What just claim of credence will there appear for me? For in all my past dealings with him I have been revealed wholly false” (1420–21; cf. 1437). Creon eschews all reference to revelation and appearance and limits himself to verbal blame and reproach: he declares that he has not come to mock Oedipus or to blame him for any past wrong (1422–23). Finally, the 44 Cf. Lloyd-Jones and Wilson (1990) 83. 45 The MSS reading is ἰδόντ(α) = “the eyewitness,” but the conjecture δρῶντα is probably superior. See Lloyd-Jones and Wilson (1990) 86.

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two speakers differ prominently in their references to the oracle. “His [i.e. the god’s] pronouncement was fully revealed” (1440), protests Oedipus, using a verb denoting clear declaration/revelation (ἐδηλώθη). “So these things were said” (1442), replies Creon, again limiting himself to a mere verb of saying (ἐλέχθη).

Creon’s attitude would be little more than a foil to the formidable intelligence and quick temper of Oedipus if it were not for his appearance in the exodus (1422ff.). In complete contrast with the first and second episodes, Oedipus is a fallen man, a proven criminal, a source of pollution, and a helpless invalid, virtually at the mercy of his former enemy. Creon has assumed de facto regency and is in charge of family and city.46 These momentous changes notwithstanding, even as a polluted and polluting criminal and helpless suppliant, Oedipus remains passionate, eloquent, and even authoritatively assertive, able to exercise subtle but barely concealed pressure over Creon.47 Virtually all critics have observed and discussed the obvious difference between the two men and the moral/political superiority of Oedipus in comparison with the over-cautious Creon. Oedipus, the fallen king, tries to bring about closure and salvation through the fulfillment of Apollo’s most recent oracle (1436–37, 1440–41, 1449–54, 1518, 1519), while Creon, the reluctant regent, wishes to send for another oracle (1438–39, 1442–43, 1518). His decision has been viewed as the trigger for the play’s apparent lack of resolution: the polluting criminal remains in the polluted, plagueridden city, with only a promise of, or a pledge for, resolution, which will hopefully come from the oracle.48 To quote just one critic: The last moment of the play continues the struggle between Oedipus and Creon for control over what the end shall be. Finally, however, Creon . . . acts, 46 Cf. the chorus’ announcement of the last entry of Creon (1416–18), an echo and reversal of the comment of Oedipus on the prayer he had overheard (216–18). Cf. also his description of his anguished care for the afflicted city in the prologue (58–69). 47 Fairly early on, a detail highlights the attitude of Oedipus throughout the exchange: he enjoins Creon to bury Jocasta as he pleases but adds that it is right for Creon to care for his own (1447–48). The helpless, polluted suppliant, whose fate is in the hands of the gods and the brother-in-law he had savagely abused, not only voices requests but also casually, perhaps patronizingly, points out why Creon should comply with them. 48 No one mentions Teiresias, perhaps in tacit acknowledgment of his previous unhelpfulness and/or a lingering suspicion that seers are less reliable than the oracle (cf. 498–503, 707–14, 723–25). For Teiresias’ prophecy cf. n. 51 below.

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counter to every expectation that the audience has been given. The end he creates by this action is, however, a refusal to move into the future . . . The audience is left with an end fully imagined and articulated by Oedipus, which is not enacted, and an end enacted by Creon, which fails to lead anywhere.49

There is much of value in such discussions, which highlight, beside Oedipus’ continued assertiveness and leadership, his (passionate wish for) isolation from all human contact as well as his inalienable ties to his daughters and, through them, to the entire human community. Creon’s decision to postpone Oedipus’ exile and consult the oracle again seems not only excessively scrupulous but also potentially harmful to the city, although the progressive suppression of the plague theme following the first episode blunts the urgency for the expulsion of Oedipus from Thebes. Creon’s decision is not unexpected, given his previous behavior, his deference to superior authorities, be they gods, seers, or kings, and especially his total failure to use the past as a guide to the present and future. Creon hardly makes mistakes but also hardly makes decisions. The fact that Oedipus turned out to be the killer of Laius and the polluter of the city is not as important to him as “the present contingency” (ἵν’ ἕσταμεν/ χρείας, 1442–43). There is no doubt that the new revelations were totally unforeseeable and overwhelming. Nevertheless, with the exception of Creon, no one would find it likely that Apollo would substantially change his oracle. In view of Teiresias’ prophecy (412–28, 449–62), the audience would be particularly unlikely to share Creon’s reservations. Recently, Burian took up the argument put forth from different angles by various scholars to the effect that the ending of Sophoclean plays in general and OT in particular points to a number of future possibilities.50 He argues that in OT the final reversal is denied: the transformation of Oedipus from a god-like ruler and savior of the city to a god-hated scapegoat exiled for the benefit of the city is not completed. This is a crucial factor in the play’s lack of resolution, which primarily involves a narrowing of focus from the political or communal sphere, dominated by the theme of the plague and the attempts to deal with the affliction, to the

49 Kitzinger (1993) 554. Cf. Winnington-Ingram (1980) 204, Foley (1993) 532–38, and next n. 50 Burian (2009). Cf. Easterling (1978), Roberts (1988), Kitzinger (previous n.), and Budelmann (2006). For the open-endedness of Sophoclean plays cf. the discussion in B IV with nn. 72–75 above.

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personal and familial, dominated by Oedipus’ downfall and the crimes in his family. As I have already suggested, the plague theme does become progressively less important in the play, but this development does not contribute to the open-endedness of the play. If the expectations of the audience and the resolution of the play are very narrowly defined as the expulsion of Oedipus from the city, then these expectations are disappointed, and resolution does not occur. On the other hand, since there is minimal doubt that Oedipus will have to leave Thebes sooner or later, this lack of resolution is at best secondary. Burian fails to take into account the prophecy of Teiresias, articulated forcefully, authoritatively and repeatedly in the first episode, and stating explicitly that Oedipus would become a blind beggar feeling his way with his staff in a foreign land (454–56; cf. 418–28). Earlier, the seer asserted that Apollo had a mind to bring about the downfall of Oedipus (376–77). More significantly with regard to the play’s ending, the seer predicted that it would be the curse of Oedipus’ parents that would one day drive him out of the land (417–19), not the city or the concern with the plague. In other words, Oedipus’ exile and its grounding in his crimes has been prophesied quite early and unambiguously in the play. Creon’s decision delays Oedipus’ authoritatively predicted exile. Despite this delay, the play eminently dramatizes the unfailing fulfillment of oracles and prophecies, and the theme is prominent throughout tragedy. It would, then, be a very forgetful, peculiar or disengaged spectator or audience who would fail to remember the prophecy of Teiresias and consider it virtually bound to be fulfilled.51

5. Famous Oedipus: looking to the past A much more significant lack of resolution at the end involves the failure of the characters to learn from the mistakes of their past and thus break 51 Davies (1991b) 17–18 associates the prophecy with the oracles of Trachiniae and Philoctetes, but there is little room for such associations. In those plays, the oracles are never quoted verbatim, and no authoritative figure reports them. In OT, there is no ambiguity or uncertainty, and Teiresias is onstage. Creon’s decision highlights the diminished power of Oedipus, as Davies suggests, but this does not affect the trustworthiness of the prophecy and the virtual certainty that it will be fulfilled. Kitzinger (1993) 544 n. 18 claims that Teiresias misleadingly predicts the blinding and exile of Oedipus by the end of the day (and the play). The seer, though, does not do so: he foretells that the present day will destroy Oedipus (438) but does not provide a temporal framework for the exile.

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free from the constraints of their world-view and the mode of behavior it has shaped. This is famously one of the core themes of Greek, and especially Sophoclean, tragedy. The physical, personal, familial, or political circumstances of the characters may change, but their view of themselves or others, including the gods, hardly ever does. At best, they obey divine mandates. At worst, they become completely shattered, as Creon does in Antigone, commit suicide, or envisage a life of laments and misery. Despite the prominence of the πάθει μάθος motif, no character seems to have a chance to enjoy the fruits of their hard-won wisdom, and certainly no one claims or otherwise indicates that they have changed. The story of the Sophoclean Oedipus contains extremes of suffering and reversals of fortune. This feature of the play has led many critics to view the main character as a changed man at the end, and the ending of the play as open, ambiguous, or even unsatisfactory. But the play in a way comes full-circle, with Oedipus unwilling to enter the house and caring for his own (cf. 93–94), and Creon on a mission of sorts to Delphi and preferring “to go inside” (cf. 91–92). Creon’s failure to change has been discussed in the previous section. The chorus do not take part in the dialogue between Oedipus and Creon. As suggested earlier, after the revelation of Oedipus’ identity, they retain one of their main features, their loyalty to Oedipus and undiminished appreciation for his past service to the city.52 Unsurprisingly, Oedipus is the most conspicuous example of a man who remains unchanged, when his whole life up to the present has collapsed horribly around him. The earlier savior and caring ruler of Thebes discovers that he is the polluting criminal whose presence is destroying his beloved people. Unexpectedly and devastatingly, Oedipus, the devoted son, husband and father, learns that he has been destined from birth to be wretched,53 as both Jocasta (1068; cf. 1071–72) and even the shepherd (1180–81) tell him when they realize his identity. He has unwittingly committed the fated crimes of parricide and incest with his mother. Although his knowledge has increased considerably since the beginning of the play, it is unclear that he has gained much wisdom. “This very day will both create and destroy 52 In the exodus, their only feeble attempt to differentiate themselves from their leader is their comment that it would have been better for him to die than to live in blindness (1367–68). Oedipus’ vehement defense of his decision (1369–90) effectively silences them, although he does not explain why blindness is preferable to suicide; see below. 53 Cf. Kitto (1966) 221–22, and Davies (1982) 276–77.

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you” (438), had famously declared Teiresias, but Oedipus does not unbecome what he is, although he loses most of what he had, even his sight. Strangely, and in contrast to Euripides’ Heracles (Her. 1347–57), for instance, Oedipus does not attempt to justify his decision not to kill himself, despite the expressed disagreement of the chorus with this decision (1367–68). He only repeatedly explains why blindness is more appropriate for him than sight but not why it is preferable to suicide. Perhaps at 1374 he implies that surviving as an invalid is a more fitting punishment for his crimes against his parents: he describes the crimes as “too great for hanging” (κρείσσον’ ἀγχόνης). The phrase, apparently of colloquial origin, is probably idiomatic for terrible deeds: on the surface, it refers neither to the unsuitability of hanging as a fitting punishment for him nor to the suicide of Jocasta.54 Besides, Oedipus, a male hero, would be unlikely to choose hanging as a method of suicide, and he asked for a sword (1255) when he entered the house after the revelation of his identity. Still, the phrase may have been chosen because it may also suggest an unsuitable punishment for him. Be that as it may, Oedipus emphasizes the relief of sorts that his impairment affords him. A more promising answer to the question why he chose to blind himself instead of committing suicide is perhaps to be found in the messenger’s report, which includes Oedipus’ repeated imprecations against his eyes at the moment of blinding himself (cf. 1275–77). Perhaps somewhat surprisingly, the afflicted man does not mention his reluctance to look upon his parents in the underworld (cf. 1371–74). He does not even mention his children (cf. 1375–77), Thebes, or the curses he had unwittingly pronounced against himself (cf. 1378–83). All these come later: after he has blinded himself in the confines of the house, that is after he has inflicted upon himself his private, as it were, punishment, he seeks his public humiliation and the expulsion fitting for the accursed criminal that he has turned out to be. When he strikes his eyes, he tells them that they would not see his misery and his crimes (1271–72). This may be taken as a summation of his later explanations to the chorus, but Oedipus does not stop there. More intriguingly, he goes on to explain that his eyes will henceforth see in darkness, i.e. not see, those they never should have seen and will fail, i.e. continue to fail, to recognize those he needed to know (1273–74). The eyes failed to function properly in the past, i.e. they failed to perceive and recognize the right objects. Blinding is their punishment for failing to

54 See Dawe (20062) ad loc. Cf. Stevens (1976) 10, and Wilkins (1995) on Eur. Hcld. 246.

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perform their function competently or intelligently. Suicide would not be a punishment specifically directed at the offending eyes because, according to Greek belief, they would retain their (useless) function in Hades. A man formerly proud of, and confident in, his insights, Oedipus was bound to select a punishment that afflicted the organ responsible for his supposed excellence.55 He later says that he would have also liked to deafen himself in order to shut off his wretched self (1386–89). In this light, Oedipus’ relation to the past is inextinguishable. As indicated earlier, the memory of his ills will remain with him forever. Apart from this pain, it is also obvious that Oedipus can only face his future by looking over his shoulder, as it were, in the mirror of his own image of his self-created past, and it is this past which he projects onto the present and future. Apollo’s oracle prescribed exile or death for the polluting criminal (100–1), but Oedipus over-interprets it and claims that it called for the destruction of the impious parricide (1440–41). He also rashly suggests a punishment not mentioned in the oracle (1411–12). There is certainly no indication that the city or Creon wishes to exterminate him. What is more important perhaps, the arrangements Oedipus makes for his children, especially his sons, underscore his attachment to his worthy past.56 Unlike his daughters, the boys do not appear onstage, and only three lines are devoted exclusively to them in the play (1459–61). Their father never asks for them, and they receive no word of sympathy, or even an explicit acknowledgment of the potentially disastrous impact that their incestuous birth and the dire situation of their family are bound to have on their lives. Instead, their father self-evidently imagines that they will be like 55 Strictly speaking, Oedipus’ excellence and glory was not due to his (acuity of) vision but to his intelligence; cf. especially his boast to Teiresias at 396–98. However, injury to any organ traditionally believed to contain the seat of intelligence such as the heart, diaphragm or lungs would cause death. Oedipus wishes to eschew suicide and sight. Thus the eyes, intimately involved in understanding and knowing in both Greek thought in general and the play in particular, are the natural targets for a self-punishing man, whose intelligence was central to his self-perception and his standing in society. 56 The instructions concerning his daughters (1462–66, 1503–10) usually receive much greater critical attention, and the consensus is that Oedipus’ “script” does not include the troubles dramatized in Sophocles’ Antigone. Oedipus, though, does foresee grave misery for his daughters (1486–1502), and his supplication of Creon on their behalf hardly erases the ominous future. It is perhaps not insignificant that Creon does not respond to Oedipus’ request to acquiesce to his pleas with the pledge of his hand (1510), although it is likely that the gesture was made in silence. Cf. n. 59 below.

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him, strangely not doomed from birth but, or despite everything, independent and self-reliant, fully equipped to provide adequately for themselves and make their own future, whether in Thebes or elsewhere.57 The exodus obviously echoes the prologue, which featured silent and afflicted young people, the supplication of the king, and his promise that he would abide by Apollo’s oracle. Oedipus’ confrontation with Creon in the second episode had also ended with appeals to the gods and supplication of the king. The prominence of Apollo in the exodus annuls the possibility that either Oedipus or Creon triumphs over his interlocutor. Creon does not grant Oedipus’ last request and underscores his loss of control (1522–23). This is the last word in the exchange, but what has preceded casts at least some doubt on its validity. Already much earlier in the play, the exchange of taunts between Oedipus and Teiresias shortly before the seer’s departure encapsulates the predicament not only of Oedipus but also, mutatis mutandis, of all tragic heroes who wish to remain true to their exceptional nature and past greatness (435–44). 435

440

ΤΕ. ἡμεῖς τοιοίδ’ ἔφυμεν, ὡς μὲν σοὶ δοκεῖ, μῶροι, γονεῦσι δ’ οἵ σ’ ἔφυσαν, ἔμφρονες. ΟΙ. ποίοισι; μεῖνον· τίς δέ μ’ ἐκφύει βροτῶν; ΤΕ. ἥδ’ ἡμέρα φύσει σε καὶ διαφθερεῖ. ΟΙ. ὡς πάντ’ ἄγαν αἰνικτὰ κἀσαφῆ λέγεις. ΤΕ. οὔκουν σὺ ταῦτ’ ἄριστος εὑρίσκειν ἔφυς; ΟΙ. τοιαῦτ’ ὀνείδιζ’ οἷς ἔμ’ εὑρήσεις μέγαν. ΤΕ. αὕτη γε μέντοι σ’ ἡ τύχη διώλεσεν. ΟΙ. ἀλλ’ εἰ πόλιν τήνδ’ ἐξέσωσ’, οὔ μοι μέλει. ΤΕ. ἄπειμι τοίνυν· καὶ σύ, παῖ, κόμιζέ με.

At 435–36 Teiresias alludes darkly to the fact that Oedipus’ (real) parents understand what the seer is talking about.58 This insinuation gives Oedipus 57 The question why Oedipus does not envisage the prospect that his sons will protect and provide for their sisters, eventually at least, is probably illegitimate, but it is possible that his sons will (have to) emigrate and will not (be willing or allowed to) rule in Thebes. If so, their father plausibly entrusts the care of the girls to Creon. On the other hand, if 1513 refers to the girls and not to Oedipus himself, he apparently also envisages the possibility that the girls may not (be allowed to) spend their whole lives in Thebes. 58 The distinction between the perception of Oedipus and his parents is not necessarily valid for the moment at which it is being made, especially in connection with Jocasta. Teiresias, though, who speaks from his own knowledgeable perspective, does not care to specify the state of knowledge of Oedipus’ parents.

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his only pause in the quarrel (437), but Teiresias refuses to answer clearly the crucial question about the king’s parentage (438). Oedipus complains about the obscurity of the seer’s answers (439), and Teiresias mocks his riddle-solving ability (440), presumably an oblique reference to Oedipus’ earlier boasting and his deprecation of Teiresias’ mantic prowess (390–98). When Oedipus reaffirms his pride in his skill (441), Teiresias does not dispute it but comments: “It is precisely this fortune that has destroyed you” (442). “But if I saved this city, I do not care” (443), replies Oedipus earnestly. It is the only statement in the quarrel that receives no capping reply by Teiresias, who then reiterates his intention to depart and instructs his helper to lead him away (444). In a pointed reversal, Creon’s last statement in the play (1522–23) receives no reply from Oedipus, who certainly does not consent willingly to Creon’s instructions.59 Oedipus is no longer in a position to return jibes. Not only is his power gone, he can hardly take pride in his skill, and especially in his past service to the city. Nevertheless, as 444 is not Teiresias’ last word in the quarrel, Creon’s jibe is probably not the last word in the play, perhaps literally and certainly metaphorically. Even if the last lines (1524–30) as transmitted are spurious, the chorus are unlikely to have left the stage in complete silence. If the end of the play is given to them and not to Oedipus, it is probable that it included some reference to the amazing events of the play and/or a contrast between Oedipus’ former glory and his current misfortune, as the transmitted end does. Despite Creon’s jibe, Oedipus’ former glory is not dead,

59 Creon’s statement betrays some impatience and probably some hostility toward the insistent former king. Although the regent has shown magnanimity and restraint toward Oedipus, the latter kept objecting to Creon’s arrangements, submitting requests and reiterating his wishes. Oedipus even set conditions before he agreed to enter the house. Creon patiently complied with Oedipus’ wishes and even accepted his conditions, although he obviously nowhere shared his concerns. Eventually, though, Creon reaches a point where his patience is starting to wear thin. This is an understandable reaction on the part of a lesser man who has suddenly assumed high office in extraordinary circumstances and has to deal with an imposing predecessor still wishing to exercise at least some control over the new situation, primarily to negotiate his position and that of his family with the new ruler. Nevertheless, there is probably a trace of Schadenfreude in the reference to Oedipus’ losses, especially since they involved the power which Oedipus had flaunted and abused in his confrontation with Creon. The obvious fact that the two men fail to be eye to eye, as it were, despite their reconciliation of sorts, may also point beyond the play, to future strained relationships and continued troubles within the family. Cf. n. 56 above.

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although his happiness is. The chorus, who nowhere wish for Oedipus’ expulsion from the city, probably remain loyal to him and still recall his past greatness. Although Oedipus goes into the house and remains in the city, his future has already been determined by his past, both by the oracles of Apollo, delivered in the past and fulfilled in the play, and by the hero’s own choices and attitude. A similar constellation of factors determines the dramatized events in OC, as, to an extent at least, in most extant Sophoclean plays. It is interesting to observe how in OC the different associations of these factors result in a quite different, perhaps bolder than in the other plays, final product.

VI. Oedipus Coloneus 1. A powerless suppliant and a powerful exile Like in most of Sophocles’ extant work, the past is thematically paramount in OC, but its exploration is set against a complex, probably innovative, mythical background, and the play focuses on the relatively recent history of the long-suffering main character. Its main difference from other plays in the handling of the past is its focalization almost exclusively through Oedipus. The aged hero offers successive installments of a powerful and, as will be shown, highly personal narrative of his history, on the basis of which he makes crucial decisions concerning present and future, both his own and those of other people.1 The investment of the main character with narratorial authority is accentuated by means of a related dramatic choice, the failure of the chorus to touch on his past in any of their songs. The only small exception is the end of the third stasimon (1239–48), in which the Colonan elders associate themselves with Oedipus, but without mentioning any specific event or misfortune of his life (cf. 1565–67). This reticence is quite unexpected, given the prominence of the chorus and their involvement in the action, as well as their interest in obtaining a first-hand account of Oedipus’ notorious crimes (517–18).2 The elders are not his fellow citizens, or otherwise closely associated with him, and he is onstage for most of the play. These, though, cannot be the main reasons why the chorus do not deal with his past. The chorus of Trachiniae, and especially Philoctetes, are also unrelated to Deianeira, Heracles, and Philoctetes, but

1

2

Although all main tragic characters have considerable control over narratives of the past, especially their own, Deianeira in Trachiniae comes closest to Oedipus in OC in being virtually the sole narrator of her past. However, she has no mantic or divine corroboration for her decisions and actions, and they affect only herself and her immediate family. For her attempt to perpetuate the past see B IV 1–5 above. They sing four songs (668–719, 1044–95, 1211–48, 1556–78) and participate in several kommoi (117–253 [kommatic parodos], 510–48, 876–86, 1447–99, 1670– 1750). They have an important role in the reception of Oedipus, the propitiation of the Eumenides, and even the confrontation with Creon. See Paulsen (1989) 108–48.

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address their past, and Oedipus is not onstage when the Colonan elders sing the fourth stasimon (1556–78). Besides, after their initial shock at hearing who he is (220–36), they sympathize with Oedipus (254–55, 461–62, 726–27, 1014–15) and could have advanced a favorable view of his past in his presence. In this light, their failure to deal with his past may plausibly be attributed to Sophocles’ choice to relegate the handling of this major theme almost exclusively to Oedipus. The presentation of a main character about to embark on the last and most significant transition of his life, aware of his situation because of old and new oracles, also naturally orients OC much more (consistently) toward the future, to Oedipus’ passing and his heroization, than other plays. The hero’s role in the shaping of this future, which is, in part at least, intertwined with his past, is intriguingly active, and will be discussed at the end. In its essentials, the future is revealed very early on (84–95), in the beautiful prayer Oedipus addresses to the dread goddesses Eumenides, daughters of Earth and Darkness (39–40), in their grove at Colonus near Athens. The old man prays that the goddesses grant him a conclusion to his life in accordance with an oracle of Apollo he had received in his youth. The god had revealed to him that his life, which would be marred by many misfortunes, would turn the post at a grove of dread goddesses in a land that would be his final destination, after he would have received a divine sign. His settlement was fated to benefit his hosts and ruin his banishers.3 In the prologue, then, the play seems slated to be a suppliant drama. The seeds of a tragic conflict are in place. Oedipus has violated the sanctity of the grove of the Eumenides (36–43) and refuses to retreat, sitting in supplication (44–46). He asks for the Athenian king Theseus and promises great rewards in return for a small service (66–74). His interlocutor, the Stranger,4 decides to notify the local community first, so that they may decide whether the new arrival should stay or leave (75–80). Potentially, a

3 4

For the prophecy and its vagueness about details see Markantonatos (2002) 118–19. Cf. also the discussion below. This is how scholars usually call this character, a passerby who informed the blind wanderer and Antigone, his daughter and companion, that they had reached Colonus and the local inviolable grove of the Eumenides (29ff.). I am adopting the conventional designation, but it should be kept in mind that the man is apparently a resident of Colonus. He has intimate knowledge of the locale and its religious geography (53–63) and defers to the authority of the Colonan community (77–80; cf. 47).

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dispute over the acceptance or rejection of Oedipus’ supplication might arise, in the manner of other suppliant dramas such as Aeschylus’ or Euripides’ Supplices, and finally be resolved in the suppliant’s favor, primarily in view of the benefits that would accrue to his hosts. In this vein, Oedipus’ reception at Colonus and Athens and his passing seem likely to be coupled with ( predictions of ) enemy defeat(s) on Attic soil. Such a plot would naturally include a fairly extensive review of Oedipus’ past, with its crimes and sufferings, and probably substantial emphasis on the future. Sophocles did not quite opt for such a plot. He did present the chorus as initially unwilling to host the polluted stranger (226–36), and did emphasize the future rewards that Athens would gain from accepting the suppliant.5 Oedipus and Antigone manage to persuade the Colonan elders not to expel them from the land immediately (237–91). The elders finally defer the matter to king Theseus, the ultimate Athenian authority (292–95). When he arrives, he does not mention any difficulties or hesitate at all in making his decision. Benevolently disposed toward the suppliant, he promises to shelter and protect him from the attempts of his Theban kinsmen and compatriots to lure him back to Thebes (551–667). An indication of the crucial role of the past in this connection is that Oedipus finds shelter in Athens to a considerable extent because of the king’s own past. Theseus says that his life has had many similarities to Oedipus’: both had been reared, and suffered much, in foreign lands (562–66). There are of course several other reasons why Oedipus finds refuge in Athens, primarily his aforementioned promise of a future boon to his hosts but also Theseus’ humanity (566–68), his alliance with Thebes (632–33) as well as the customary protection of suppliants in Athens (258– 62).6 Nevertheless, the personal past and humanity of Theseus are mentioned first, as the primary motives for his pledge to assist Oedipus. The suppliant’s past unwitting crimes of parricide and incest, not to mention his glorious solution of the riddle of the Sphinx, remain relatively out of focus in the play in general and the supplication in particular. As already pointed out, the play is concerned primarily with the hero’s more recent past. It highlights the events following the revelation of the identity of

5

6

He also included a confrontation between the Athenian hosts of the suppliant and the Thebans (897ff.), which ended with the victory of the former. For this confrontation cf. n. 8 below. For an overview of the similarities between OC and earlier suppliant dramas see Ringer (1998) 94; cf. Markantonatos (2007) 125–26. Cf. n. 44 below.

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Oedipus in Thebes, especially the failure of his male kinsmen to offer him any support: although some details remain ambiguous, Oedipus, as sole authoritative narrator, repeatedly, passionately and compellingly presents his strongly held view of this portion of his past. The connection between the past events in question and the dramatic present of the play is first dealt with before the arrival of Theseus. While the Colonans, Oedipus, and Antigone are waiting for the king, Ismene arrives from Thebes to inform her father of the current situation at home (311ff.). She reveals that her brothers have quarreled over the throne, and that Polyneices, exiled by the younger Eteocles, is launching an expedition against Thebes at the head of an Argive force (365–84). Apparently earlier (cf. 416–20, 448–49), although the timing is not specified, the Thebans had received a Delphic oracle, which would eventually turn the residence of Oedipus, and especially his tomb, into a matter of interstate interest. Apollo prophesied that the safety of Thebes lay with Oedipus, the wretched long-suffering exile, alive and dead (389–90). As Ismene explains, the Thebans are not willing to allow Oedipus back in the city (399–400) or bury him in Thebes because of his parricide (406–7). Nevertheless, they are sending Creon on a mission to secure control over him and enjoy the benefit of his support by settling, and eventually burying, him outside the city but in Theban territory (396–405; cf. 408–15). The envoy will try in vain to accomplish his mission through deceit and violence (728ff.), and Oedipus will eventually also be accosted by his son Polyneices, who will attempt to secure his father’s alliance in his expedition against his brother Eteocles (1254ff.). There is some vagueness as to whether the oracle received by the Thebans is the same as the one mentioned later by Polyneices (1331–32), but the two oracles seem to be identical, or at least to have very similar content. Although the oracle delivered to the Thebans does not seem to have included temporal specifications, Ismene’s report seems to imply that power over Oedipus, whether alive or dead, is crucial to the safety of Thebes in both the near and the more distant future. If so, Creon’s mission must be motivated by the imminent danger facing the city (cf. 455–56) but also aim at securing its victory in future wars, the outcome of which will depend on the location of Oedipus’ tomb and the benevolence of its heroic occupant toward the city that will have control over it (cf. 457–60). For obvious reasons, Creon does not reveal any of the Theban motives for inviting Oedipus to return home. Polyneices naturally focuses exclusively on the imminent war with his brother and the importance of Oedipus’ alliance with either of his sons (1291–1345).

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More problematic in this connection are the pronouncements made by Oedipus himself, in his first encounter with Theseus (605, 621–23) and in his reply to Creon’s duplicitous attempt to lure him back to Thebes (784–86). Oedipus mentions only the future defeat(s) of Thebes by Athens, his host country, seemingly ignoring the imminent war between Thebes and Argos.7 Nevertheless, there are indications that his sons and their quarrel are crucial in Oedipus’ decision, which determines imminent events. Oedipus tells Theseus that his sons will try to force him to return to Thebes (589; cf. 653–57). At the end of his rejection of Creon’s proposals, he adds that his sons will inherit only a portion of his land enough for their burial (789–90), a probable reference to their fall in the imminent war between Thebes and Argos. Still, it is clear that, with the exception of Polyneices, all other characters are much more concerned with Oedipus’ tomb and the distant future of Thebes than with his residence and the impending attack of the Argives on the city. Although prima facie this may seem surprising, it becomes much less so if one takes into account the import of the oracles, the proximity of Oedipus’ death, and his decision to reject the Theban overtures. After Oedipus has heard that the Thebans and his sons have not mended their ways (399–400, 407, 418–19), he makes his decision not to return to Thebes and to stay in Athens as a benefactor if the Athenians grant him protection (450–60; cf. 408). Since he is fairly sure, on the authority of the old oracle (87–105), that his death is near, it is natural for him to focus on his tomb and the distant future of Thebes rather than his place of residence and the imminent war of Thebes and Argos. The outcome of Polyneices’ expedition and the fate of Thebes in the war with Argos are determined by the heavy curses Oedipus places on his sons (1370–96; cf. 421–27, 450–54): since Polyneices will die and his expedition will fail, Thebes will not fall to the Argives, although Eteocles will die too. Whether his death will have

7

Ismene also seems to lay emphasis on her father’s tomb and the distant future (402, 411) but certainly does not mention only those (cf. 389–90, 396–97, 399–400, 404–5). She has come to warn her father of Creon’s mission and has to explain its long-term consequences. For the possibility that her arrival was also motivated by her desire for a resolution of her brothers’ conflict cf. the discussion with n. 30 below. Oedipus will not be tricked by Creon and return to Thebes to be buried in Theban territory (408). However, the outcome of the imminent war between Thebes and Argos will not hinge on his presence or the location of his tomb but will be determined by the curses he pronounces on his sons; see the discussion below.

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adverse consequences for Thebes, which may be traced back to Oedipus’ hostility, is not a matter that the play addresses. Similarly, although the violent behavior of Creon toward his nieces and the plea of Polyneices to his sisters to see to his burial at Thebes (1405–13, 1435) do raise the specter of future troubles in the royal family, which are likely to impact the city, such troubles are never contemplated. What matters to Oedipus and Theseus much more, and is also a matter of concern to the Thebans, is that Oedipus’ tomb will dispense future misery to Thebes and benefits to Athens. In his first encounter with Theseus, Oedipus mentions his sons, the proximate cause of the arrival of the emissaries that will try to lure him back to Thebes, but elides the Argive expedition, conflating the present Theban need and the motives of his sons with the future consequences of the location of his tomb (589 and 605). Given his decision, based on old and new oracles as well as on the reactions of his male relatives and his city to the oracles, he emphasizes the distant future.8 His failure to mention the imminent war between Thebes and Argos as a motive for Creon’s mission may be attributed to his own view of things, and does not necessarily reflect all the Theban concerns. As already suggested, Ismene’s unexpected arrival, the first reversal in the play, and her report bring out clearly the connection between Oedipus’ fairly recent past and the present: they motivate Oedipus to launch on the first review of his past, which highlights his resentment against his sons. Suddenly, from a helpless suppliant awaiting the arrival of the local king and the verdict on his petition Oedipus turns into a man to whom the gods have given the power to determine, in life and death, the fate of individuals and states. At the end of his life, this enigmatic elder, a mere ghost of his old self (cf. 109–10), is totally debilitated but awarded awesome powers. Although the information Ismene brings is crucial to his decision not to return home, it is also obvious that the earlier failure of his male relatives to support him in his misfortunes is a source of burning resentment to him: he castigates it repeatedly (427–49, 591, 599–600, 765–71, 1354–69), vehemently rejecting the entreaties of his relatives and hurling bitter curses against Creon (864–70) and especially his sons (1370–96; cf. 421–27,

8

The cavalry fight between Thebans and Athenians that will be occasioned by the abduction of Ismene and Antigone is not a first installment of the future wars between the two cities because its outcome has nothing to do with the allegiance of Oedipus or his tomb.

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450–54). This resentment determines his attitude toward them, and provides a background to his momentous decision. On the point of being delivered from his misfortunes by the gods and elevated to the state of a powerful hero, Oedipus is constantly looking back to his past and passing scathing judgment on his enemies, who are his male kin and compatriots, with a powerful narrative. Wilson has argued that Oedipus had been aware of all the prophecies that concerned him before Ismene’s arrival and was ready, following his long-lasting troubles, to align himself with the will of Apollo, who had predicted that the old man would die at Colonus: the information Ismene imparts is provided for the sake of the audience rather than Oedipus, who already knows what is fated to happen.9 It is very problematic to attribute to a playwright significant choices that do not fit the situation of the characters and their state of knowledge but are made solely for the supposed needs of the audience, especially when a scholar believes, and attacks worthy predecessors for their failure to grasp, that a poet had virtually complete freedom over the handling of the mythical material. Only a very clumsy playwright would be willing to illuminate the audience about the background of a play at the price of confusing them, or leaving them in doubt, about the state of knowledge of the main character. Even if one disregards this problem of interpretive principle, the case about Oedipus’ prior and complete knowledge is constructed mainly on the basis of a misinterpretation and a biased conviction that Oedipus always refers to his tomb and his heroic status in Athens. Wilson claims that Oedipus knows beforehand that additional oracles concerning him were forthcoming because he tells Ismene so (353–55). In the translation he provides, though, he omits the crucial word “before” (πρόσθεν, 353): Oedipus simply refers to oracles that Ismene had reported to her father in the past, not to the oracle she will report shortly. Her present news is designated as mythos (357), an authoritative statement. Since Ismene’s earlier visits had been motivated by her wish to inform her father about oracles, it would be plausible for Oedipus to assume that his daughter’s latest visit was also occasioned by an oracle, but he does not do so, and it is impossible to conclude that he has prior knowledge of the oracle Ismene will report. Besides, Oedipus’ references to his situation at 393 and 401 do not imply that he has his death and tomb in mind.

9

Wilson (1997) 132–45. For Oedipus’ reference to the fated feud between his sons at 421–22 see Appendix B III.

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Oedipus of course knows that he is bound to die in the last land he visits (ἐλθόντι χώραν τερμίαν, 89), but Apollo had not provided specifications about this land, or the time of Oedipus’ demise. He would be a source of blessings to his hosts and ruin to his banishers, but the oracle did not identify these groups. Although the Thebans had banished Oedipus, if they now accepted him back, Thebes would be the last land he would visit, and the prophesied sanctuary would be on Theban soil. If so, the Thebans would be his last hosts and enjoy his blessings, while the Athenians, if they expelled him from their land, would be his last banishers and have to suffer the consequences of his ( posthumous) wrath. Oedipus says explicitly that his certainty about the fate of his sons comes from associating the new oracle reported by Ismene and the old oracle he had received in his youth (452–54). His decision is announced after he has heard Ismene’s full report, and there is no indication that it had already been made, in awareness of the new oracle. Like his kinsmen and compatriots as well as the Athenians, Oedipus does have and make choices, to return to Thebes or not, and to align himself with the Thebans and Eteocles or with the Argives and Polyneices. As already suggested, his choice is based on recent decisions of his compatriots and kinsmen in connection with the new oracle, i.e. to prohibit his burial in Thebes and not to support his restoration respectively, but also on the disloyalty they showed after the revelation of his identity, even before his banishment. This will become clear much later, when he will reject the promise of Polyneices to restore him to Thebes in return for his help against Eteocles, but the father’s lengthy castigation of the despicable behavior of his sons already in the first episode is indicative of his attitude. Oedipus does resent bitterly the failure of his sons to support him in his wanderings, contrasting it repeatedly and caustically with the devotion of his daughters, but there is little doubt that he views his misfortunes as the result of the decision of his native city to exile him for his crimes. It is this decision which he accuses his kinsmen of being responsible for or of failing to oppose, deploring it most vocally and consistently.

2. The defense of the criminal Oedipus’ deep resentment against his male relatives is not unrelated to his view of his crimes. As already indicated, these crimes are not the focus of the play. Nevertheless, Oedipus presents a defense of his moral innocence,

2. The defense of the criminal

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addressed first to the chorus before Theseus’ arrival (258–74, 521–48), and then to Creon in the presence of Theseus (860–1002). Oedipus’ view of his moral innocence is instrumental in the construction of the narrative of his more recent past. In his first address to the chorus, Oedipus presents briefly the core arguments for his defense: he acted in selfdefense, and, especially, in ignorance of the identity of those he harmed, while they mistreated him knowingly (266–74). He does not elaborate but seems to take his cue from the stance of the elders and Antigone. Before learning his name, the elders had promised that no one would remove the suppliant from his resting place against his will (176–77). When Oedipus identifies himself (220–24), they urge him and Antigone to leave immediately (226), fearing that the gods would punish the protectors of a grievously polluted criminal (233–36, 256–57). He invokes their earlier promise (228), but they claim that reneging on it cannot bring them harm because it is their justified reaction to his treachery, his securing a promise of asylum without revealing his pollution, which could infect his hosts (229–33). As a consequence, he should rightly be deprived of his sanctuary. Antigone intervenes and supplicates the elders to relent and show respect. She appeals to their humanity and sense of pity (241–51) but also points out the crucial fact that her father had acted unwittingly (238–40) and implies that the gods were responsible for his misfortunes (252–53). Oedipus does not focus on divine agency, limiting himself to a mention of divine rewards and punishments for pious and impious mortals respectively (278–81). Instead, he stresses the fact that he took justified action against those who meant to harm him. It is clear that he refers primarily to the actions of his father, who had exposed him to die as an infant, and to the circumstances of his parricide. This crime is addressed first because of the interest of the elders in the identity of his father, the fact that he was exiled on account of his parricide, and, primarily perhaps, its greater amenability to a legally framed defense. Later, he stresses that he is pure before the law: 547–48 are textually difficult, but the essence of the defense is not in doubt. Since his father had tried to harm him knowingly in the remote past, Oedipus would have been justified even if he had retaliated knowingly. As the elders consider themselves justified in punishing Oedipus for having harmed them, Oedipus would not have been to blame for having harmed his offending father. As things stand, Oedipus, who acted in self-defense anyway, also killed his father unwittingly, so no blame should attach to him, and he should not be chased out of his sanctuary as a polluted criminal.

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Oedipus takes a similar approach to the incest, the crime that dominates, although it does not monopolize, the kommos that precedes the arrival of Theseus. The chorus insist on learning specifics about Oedipus’ crimes (510–19), and he cannot avoid complying with their wish, especially since they appeal to their own compliance with his desires (520). He not only confirms that he married his mother but also informs the elders that his daughters there present are the accursed offspring of his incestuous marriage (529–35).10 His main defense, which is repeated in virtually every relevant utterance in the kommos and will also be taken up in his response to Creon’s accusations, is again that he acted in ignorance (521–23, 525, 538, 539, 547–48). At 521 (ἤνεγκον κακότατ’, ὦ ξένοι, ἤνεγκον ἑκὼν μέν) ἤνεγκον ἑκών is Bothe’s emendation for the transmitted ἤνεγκον ἄκων, which needs to be emended to ἤνεγκ’ ἀέκων (Martin) for the sake of responsion. ( With this choice, the first ἤνεγκον is usually emended to ἤνεγκ’ οὖν for the sake of conformity.) But ἑκών can hardly refer to Oedipus’ self-blinding since the chorus do not seem to be interested in that but in his crimes. Besides, the following appeal to the divine (θεὸς ἴστω, 522) speaks against an admission of intentionality. No Greek would dispute that god-given misfortunes afflict mortals through their own actions, and it would be pointless for Oedipus to lay such emphasis on an undisputed fact by invoking god as his witness. If ἑκών is adopted, the juxtaposition between the voluntary sufferings and the involuntary misfortunes would be obscure and inappropriate in the context. The misfortunes Oedipus suffered are the same as the misfortunes he did not choose (τούτων δ’ αὐθαίρετον οὐδέν, 523), and ἤνεγκ’ ἀέκων is probably the best reading.11

Although this claim should be sufficient for his purposes, Oedipus also stresses that his marriage was a present, a reward he received for services rendered to Thebes. He claims that he accepted a choice gift offered to

10 His suppression of the birth of his worthless sons is probably not due to the fact that they are not present. He considers them his bane and has already repudiated and condemned them because of their disgraceful behavior. He will eventually tell Polyneices that he and Eteocles have been fathered by someone else, not by him (1369). His daughters are his guardians and caregivers, his only source of assistance and consolation in his misfortunes: their inclusion in his account and designation as curses underline his readiness to gloss over nothing, however painful, and thus to stress the enormity of the evil he suffered unwittingly. 11 Cf. 963–64, and Markantonatos (2002) 41 n. 17.

2. The defense of the criminal

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him (539–41), as if he were a warrior who received the best of the spoils.12 This suggests that he was bound and justified to accept the gift, as he was bound and justified to strike back at his attackers near Delphi. He does not elaborate on his service to Thebes, whether because he considers it known or irrelevant, but he apparently implies that the normal code of behavior of a worthy man such as a benefactor of a city prescribed his acceptance of his reward, in his case Jocasta’s hand. Just as a worthy man is bound to defend himself against aggressors, he is also bound to accept the rewards of the services he renders. On the other hand, his first reference to his marriage not only indicates its calamitous nature but also implies that the ignorant Oedipus was tricked or coerced by the city of Thebes into entering an evil relationship (525–26). Just as Laius tried to harm him, both when Oedipus was born and when he met his father’s party near Delphi, so the city is implied to have tried to harm him by offering him Jocasta’s hand as his reward. To be sure, the Thebans, like everybody else, had no knowledge of the kinship of Oedipus and Jocasta. Nevertheless, Oedipus’ emotional and associative narrative of this part of his past serves to bolster his claim of innocence by presenting the gift as simultaneously honorable and ruinous, and himself as bound to accept and unable to reject it. Wilson argues that Oedipus’ defense against the charge of incest is much less convincing than the defense against the charge of parricide, which he finds much easier to address. Shorter and more perfunctory, the defense against the incest charge is also inconsistent: Oedipus, who claims compulsion in the kommos, invokes only his ignorance in his response to Creon’s accusations (982–90), knowing that, unlike the Colonans, Creon would detect the lie told in the first defense. Since marriage is not, or should not be, an impulsive act like self-defense, it involves calculation and should have been avoided by a man who had received a prophecy that predicted an incestuous union with his mother, i.e. an older woman such as Jocasta.13 Several objections may be raised against this reading. Although Creon is the most challenging of Oedipus’ opponents, as will be argued in the next section, the length and recurrence of his defense against the parricide charge are unlikely to point to the levity of this charge. On the contrary, they indicate that it is the graver one, and the harder to address, especially

12 For the use of the active ἐξαιρεῖν and the middle ἐξαιρεῖσθαι (540) in such contexts see the note of Jebb (19003 ) on 541; cf. Kyriakou (2006) 255. 13 Wilson (1997) 150–52.

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since Oedipus had been banished for life on account of it, and people may not be easily convinced of the moral innocence of a killer. Unwitting incest is easier to address, and ignorance is a sufficient excuse for it.14 Besides, the invocation of compulsion cannot be taken literally, and there is no indication that the chorus took it so, or that Oedipus meant for them to do so. It cannot be judged as a lie, or on the same merits as the defense from ignorance. Oedipus was not literally forced to accept the reward, and his reference to the responsibility of the city is part of his own emotive narrative of the terrible concurrence of events that led to his downfall. Under the circumstances, he was bound, although not literally forced by the city or compelled by any instinct such as that of self-preservation, to accept the fateful reward. Another particularly weak point in Wilson’s argument is the claim that Oedipus should have been more careful in his selection of a bride because of the oracle he had received. This oracle is never quoted or discussed in the play, but there can be little doubt that it predicted parricide and incest. There is, though, no sign that, when he left Delphi, Oedipus had realized that his parents were not Polybus and Merope. If he had, he should have avoided contact with all men and women old enough to be his parents, but this is out of the question, and would at any rate have also weakened his defense against the parricide charge, which Wilson finds perfectly adequate. Oedipus could not have guessed at the truth, and no Greek would accuse a man of not having been a seer and correctly interpreted an oracle bound to be fulfilled anyway. Ignorance does not eliminate guilt but guarantees moral purity, in Oedipus’ view at least. His failure to mention the gift of the city in his response to Creon’s accusations does not have to be attributed to the putative fear that Creon would unmask his lie because, as already suggested, there is no lie or anything else to unmask. Oedipus stresses divine hostility toward the family (964–65) and the appropriate behavior of kinsmen toward each other (960–61, 978–81, 985–86). Significantly, he attacks Creon for shamelessly and impiously defaming his own sister Jocasta and undertakes to defend her rather than himself. Jocasta, who certainly had no knowledge of any

14 Contrast Oedipus’ responses to the chorus’ references to his agency in the two crimes. He denies that he was at all responsible for the incest (ἔρεξας – οὐκ ἔρεξα, 539), the result of the gift he accepted (539–41). He admits, though, that he killed Laius (ἔκανες – ἔκανον, 545), but claims that he was justified (546) and innocent before the law because he acted in ignorance (547–48).

3. Soft words and fraudulent mouth: Creon

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incest oracle, had no reason to be suspicious of the bridegroom, and presumably no say in the matter of the gift anyway. Oedipus’ choice of arguments in his defense is indicative of the handling of the past in the play. Despite Antigone’s hint in her appeal to the chorus (252–53), Oedipus does not invoke the gods in his first defense. As already suggested, he focuses almost exclusively on human agency and responsibility. In a similar vein, the first kommos includes no mention of divine responsibility for his misfortunes, although it brings out a new important point, the ruinous offer of Jocasta’s hand as a gift. For reasons that will be discussed below, Oedipus first invokes divine agency in his response to Creon’s accusations (964–65). These significant choices, coupled with the length of the defense Oedipus launches in the presence of all parties involved in the dispute, Creon, Theseus and the Colonan elders of the chorus, highlight his portrayal as the only character with virtually full control over the presentation of his past in extant Sophoclean work. Oedipus varies his account of this past, apparently according to his assessment of the addressee(s) and the occasion. On the other hand, his view of his moral innocence and his kinsmen’s failure to support him remains consistent throughout and forms the basis for his decisions concerning the present and future, both his own and especially that of others. Thus his authority, bolstered by Delphic oracles and the proximity of his end, which eliminates the possibility of major reversals, knows little limit. Still, I will argue below that his claims about the events that followed the revelation of his identity are not absolutely consistent or always easy to reconcile with information provided by other characters, not only by biased or self-interested parties such as Polyneices but also selfless and friendly ones such as Ismene.

3. Soft words and fraudulent mouth: Creon The character best qualified to challenge Oedipus’ narrative is Creon, but he is not given the opportunity to construct any counter-narrative. Not only have his motives and mission been revealed as spurious early on by Ismene, he also fails to corroborate his claims with any plausible-sounding account of the past and present, his and/or the Thebans’ past behavior and alleged present change of heart. The two old men quarrel bitterly, each trying to secure future benefits for himself and, especially, the people he cares about. It is no small contest, as Oedipus had earlier warned Theseus

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(587). It involves different Delphic oracles and a foreign power, Athens, future wars between Athens and Thebes, the impending war between Argos and Thebes, which was sparked by a quarrel between the Theban princes, and finally a future heroic cult centered on the tomb of Oedipus that will bestow benefits and inflict harm on different peoples for ages to come. The importance of these factors notwithstanding, the most crucial element in the encounter of Oedipus and Creon is their blood relation, their being members of the same horribly dysfunctional family. Their relationship spans several troubled decades, full of terrible internecine conflicts. Their encounter at Colonus is their last meeting, and its development and outcome are determined almost exclusively by the past. Both elders are in full control of their impressive mental powers, eloquent and determined to outdo their interlocutor. Creon is haughty,15 ruthlessly deceitful and violent, but he is on a state mission that he needs to accomplish as best he can. His success hinges on the collaboration of the Athenians and Theseus, the arbiters, as it were, of his and Oedipus’ fate. Nevertheless, the crucial significance of the blood ties between the two opponents becomes clear from their exchange of personal insults, their constant references to the past and to the appropriate behavior toward one’s kinsmen.16 Most tellingly, Creon’s speech to Theseus (939–59) is answered by Oedipus (960–1013), who does not ask for Theseus’ permission, apologize for interfering, or at least acknowledge his rashness, but launches right away his final and most extensive attack on Creon. As already indicated, this is also his most extensive defense against the charges of parricide and incest. Creon leveled them against Oedipus in his response to Theseus’ accusations that his impious aggression toward the suppliants had insulted Athens (911–31). Creon claimed that he had never expected Athens, home of the august Areopagus, to protect a man severely polluted by parricide and incest as well as his offspring against the wishes of the criminal’s family (939–50).

15 He calls himself “ruler” (τύραννος, 852), although Ismene indicated earlier that her brothers had taken the throne from him and quarreled over it (367–73). 16 Creon stresses his relation to Oedipus in his first, mollifying address to the chorus (738–39) and ( pretends that he) laments Antigone’s travails (746–52), which he calls a common disgrace to himself, Oedipus, and the entire family (753–54). Halliwell (1997) 138–39 correctly suggests that, despite Creon’s disingenuousness and ultimate failure, this particular plea is not necessarily dishonest, and is certainly a very good rhetorical choice.

3. Soft words and fraudulent mouth: Creon

485

Oedipus is outraged:17 coming from Creon and meant to persuade Theseus and the Athenians to deliver Oedipus and his daughters to the Thebans, the charges hurt much more than, for instance, the initial refusal of the chorus to receive the polluted suppliant in their land (226–36).18 Not only does Creon aim to undermine the all-important bond that Oedipus has established with the Athenians, he is also the brother of Jocasta, and his accusations violate ruthlessly the bonds of the most intimate philia. This is presumably the reason why Oedipus stresses the role of divine hostility against the family only in this speech and castigates Creon for not taking it into account. No other new factor is mentioned, and his defense ends with the bravura claim that not even a resurrected Laius would have blamed his criminal son (998–99).19 The emotive power and rhetorical force of Oedipus’ defense notwithstanding, the response to Creon has little impact on how Theseus and the chorus view the situation. Already much earlier, Theseus had promised to protect Oedipus (631–41, 649, 656–67). Upon his arrival and learning of Creon’s outrageous behavior, he had announced that he would dispatch men to recover the abducted girls (897–903, 932–36; cf. 1019–41). Much more intriguing dramatically is the response of Oedipus to the duplicitous attempt of Creon to persuade him to return to Thebes: Oedipus airs his grievances against the inappropriate behavior of Creon after the revelation of his identity and crimes (761–99). The story of this part of Oedipus’ past is told no less than four times in the play and, as already pointed out, always by Oedipus (427–49, 599–600 [cf. 591], 765–71, 1354–69), who emphasizes different aspects to his various addressees, Ismene, Theseus, Creon, and Polyneices. Despite some ambiguities, the story is always essentially the same and highlights Oedipus’ misfortunes in

17 He addresses Creon as “shameless insolence” ( λῆμ’ ἀναιδές, 960); cf. his previous address “shameless voice” (φθέγμ’ ἀναιδές, 863). Cf. also 794, 981. 18 Note especially the indignant distress apparent in the complaint of Oedipus over Creon’s repeated and bitter reproaching of his parricide (989–90). Cf. Creon’s own reference to the “bitter curses” (πικρὰς .N.N. ἀράς, 951–52) of Oedipus, and the abundance of other emotive terms for pleasure such as ἡδονή, τέρψις, γλυκύ, and their derivatives (766, 769, 775, 780, 799, 802). Indicative of the closeness between the two men and their similar reactions is the question they ask in response to the accusations voiced by their opponent, whether the accusations hurt the target rather than the accuser himself (800–1, 960–61). 19 For Oedipus’ focus on the parricide and his failure to mention the gift of Jocasta’s hand see the discussion in the previous section. For his temper see 5 below.

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this period of his tumultuous life as well as their relevance to his present decisions. According to Oedipus, the revelation of his identity and crimes caused him such terrible distress that he not only blinded himself but also wished to be banished from Thebes, or even to be killed by stoning. No one helped him to satisfy his wishes, and he was left to stay at home for quite some time. During this period, his emotional turmoil subsided, and he came to realize that he had been too harsh on himself. Unfortunately for him, when he had accepted his situation and become eager to end his days in the comfort of his home, the city decided to banish him for life. This was the development that condemned the invalid Oedipus to a life of wandering in penury and determined his present attitude toward his male relatives and his city. Most devastatingly, his kinsmen did not object to his banishment, and his sons failed to support him, both in Thebes and during his exile, in which he has been assisted only by his daughters. As suggested earlier, these are the charges that Oedipus consistently levels against his male relatives. Although he seems to rage primarily against his sons, his relationship to Creon is much older, more complex, and apparently more egalitarian, with traces of an appreciation for Creon’s skills, now grudging and full of regret but, conceivably, once less hateful. He accuses Creon of having failed to help him satisfy his initial craving for self-annihilation (765–67). He never makes a similar accusation against his sons, presumably because they were too young and/or powerless at the time.20 On the other hand, despite his old grudges against Creon, the exiled man does not seem to abhor him as much as his sons, at least not before Creon turns to violence. More important, if not for Ismene’s warnings, Oedipus might have become swayed by Creon’s duplicitous appeal: unlike Polyneices, who is on a personal quest for internecine profit, Creon is on a state mission and stresses his capacity as a representative of the Theban people, although he of course deliberately misrepresents it. His eloquence, repeatedly mentioned by Oedipus (761–64, 774, 781–82, 794–95, 806–7, 1000–2), also apparently ranks above that of Polyneices. In any case, Oedipus’ replies to

20 In the first account of his banishment, his sons may be included in the number of those who failed to grant his wish to perish, immediately following the revelation of his identity and crimes (433–36). It is more probable, however, that this is not so because next Oedipus explicitly accuses his sons of having failed to stand up for their father when the city decided to banish him after the passage of some considerable time (437–44). Cf. 1354–64.

4. Most hateful to the father

487

Creon’s appeal demonstrate his readiness to present an account of the past that corresponds loosely to accounts he provides elsewhere. Apart from the attribution of family misfortunes to divine hostility toward the family, Oedipus accuses Creon of sending him into exile (770), a charge he had earlier leveled against Thebes (440–41) and his sons (599–600; cf. 429–30, 441–43, 591), and will later level against Polyneices (1354–66). He is apparently more interested in castigating the disloyal failure of his relatives to support him than in specifying the agent responsible, or in apportioning blame, for his exile.

4. Most hateful to the father Oedipus’ hatred of his sons is deep-seated, absolutely implacable, and full of contempt. It is with difficulty that Theseus and, especially, Antigone prevail on him to see, and speak to, Polyneices. I will return to Antigone’s plea (1181–1203) in the next section. For now, Oedipus’ aversion toward his sons becomes apparent even before he hears Ismene’s report of their quarrel and makes his terrible pronouncements about their future. The arrival of Ismene, who is his only link to his alienated city and family, and the pains the trip cost her (324–28; cf. 361–64) prompt Oedipus to inquire about the whereabouts of his sons and their failure to shoulder the family burdens, which should be theirs alone by virtue of their age, sex, and physical strength (335; cf. 342–43). This is the first explicit indication in the play that Oedipus’ sons are behaving disgracefully toward their father. Ismene has just told him that she has come with news for him (333–34), but her father ignores the announcement and asks about her brothers, although it is already obvious, and will soon become clearer, that they have not changed their past shameful behavior. Ismene’s weary answer (336) makes Oedipus launch into the first lengthy and emotional comparison between his sons’ unfilial behavior and his daughters’ selfless devotion to, and care for, their father (337–56). The girls have gone well beyond the call of duty while their brothers have disgracefully and disloyally adopted the Egyptian custom of male domesticity, as their father scathingly points out (337–43). Nevertheless, as already suggested, for all his distress at their failure to assist him during his wanderings, the main complaint of Oedipus against his sons is motivated by their other disgraceful failures. When the Thebans decided first to exile him and then not to accept him back after their reception of the latest oracle, which seems to indicate divine

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benevolence toward the old outcast (394), the sons did not support the case of their father. He views his wretched life in exile as the consequence of their unwillingness to oppose the city’s decision to banish him. Every time he narrates the story of his banishment from Thebes he castigates the despicable behavior of his sons in connection with this terrible event: he claims that they did not utter one little word in support of their father but left him to be driven into shameful and miserable exile (427–44; cf. 595, 599–600), in which he could only depend on the devotion of his loyal daughters (445–47; cf. 344–56, 1365–69, 1379). Even in his reply to Creon’s appeal, in which he blames Creon as the agent responsible for his exile, he makes sure to state in no uncertain terms that his sons will inherit only as much of his land as a dead man can use (789–90). His hostility toward his sons comes gushing out when Ismene reveals that, despite their full awareness of the new oracle, her brothers did nothing to bring about an end to their father’s exile, instead devoting their energy to their internecine struggle for royal power. As Oedipus puts it, the worthless sons put royal power above the desire for (being with) their father (418–19). If the gods grant him to become the arbiter of their fate, as the oracles indicate, they will fail utterly in their quest for power and supremacy (421–27, 450–54), although he does not spell out yet how their quest will end, with their (mutual) killing. The first prediction of the fate of his sons is not unambiguously cast in the form of curses. It is based on his association of old and new oracles (452–54), which will soon come true, if the Athenians and the Eumenides help him (457–60). Curses are explicitly pronounced only once, in his vehement rejection of the appeal of Polyneices (1370–96). Nevertheless, at 1375–76 Oedipus says that he is now calling upon such curses (i.e. as the ones he has just pronounced against his sons at 1370–74), which he had sent forth in the past, to come and assist him. He probably refers to his tirade after Ismene’s report. Otherwise, one would have to make the rather gratuitous assumption that he had cursed his sons to slay each other in the fight over the Theban throne before the dramatic time of the play and before he had heard of their quarrel.21 If he calls his early pronouncements curses, then they are curses, even if they were not cast in the form of curses. In any case, the important and obvious thing is that the essence of

21 For such views see Lloyd-Jones and Wilson (1997) 132, and cf. Blundell (1989) 258 n. 116. For the fated dispute of his sons see Appendix B III.

4. Most hateful to the father

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all his pronouncements concerning the future of his sons is invariably the same: since he has the power to be the arbiter of their (and the Thebans’) fate, his enemies will suffer, and his friends will prosper. He dispenses doom and blessings at his discretion, whether in the form of curses or authoritative predictions.

It is obvious, then, that, apart from, and perhaps more than, assistance during his exile, Oedipus expected help from his sons, and to a smaller extent Creon, in order to avoid exile in the first place.22 When Polyneices appears and laments his father’s situation (1254ff.), Oedipus, who again fulsomely praises his daughters for their devotion (1365–69, 1379), claims that his sons dishonored him on account of his blindness (1378–79). He rages, though, especially against Polyneices, who was the king when his father was being driven into exile (1354–66). The elder son and young king failed to support his father: he thus bears full responsibility for his father’s present misery. Oedipus even calls Polyneices his murderer (1361), a parricide. These accusations are not easy to accept at face value, although, like Creon, Polyneices is not given the opportunity to answer his father’s claims and try to defend himself. Beside the suggestion that his sons dishonored their father because of his infirmity,23 the claim that Polyneices was king at the time of his father’s expulsion seems to contradict the account of the Theban royal succession and the feud of the brothers provided by both Ismene and Polyneices. The report of Ismene is impartial and more detailed. She tells her father that at first, apparently for a time after his expulsion, her brothers were content to let Creon rule, considering that they should not burden the city with the pollution of having a king from the horribly tainted house of Oedipus (367–70). Now, though, she continues, motivated by some god and their wayward mind, they are vying for power and the throne (371–73).

22 The resentful complaint about the failure of his sons to make the case for his restoration in view of the new oracle delivered to the Thebans (418–19) is not repeated in the play. Apparently, Oedipus mainly feels betrayed by his male relatives because he attributes to them responsibility for his plight in connection with the city’s original decision to banish him. The latest manifestation of filial disloyalty is the last straw. 23 This is presumably an outburst of bitterness because it is not found elsewhere in the play. However, his blindness and the resulting physical deformity are a source of distress and anxiety to Oedipus, especially since the blindness was self-inflicted as punishment for, and constant reminder of, his pollution. See 285–86, 299–300, 576–78. Cf. 144–49, and Bernidaki-Aldous (1990) 137–45.

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She then informs her father of the exile of Polyneices and his imminent attack on Thebes with his Argive allies (374–81). For his part, Polyneices, who has everything to gain from presenting himself as a victim, skips Creon’s regency and mentions only the feud of the brothers over the throne. He claims that the younger Eteocles usurped the throne that belonged to the elder brother as his birthright by persuading the city to exile him (1292–98). The only mention of the reign of Polyneices at the time of his father’s exile is found in the tirade of Oedipus against his son. The political arrangements following the blinding of Oedipus until his exile are never explained in the play, and the use of OT to fill the gaps is hardly legitimate. Thus one cannot rule out that Polyneices assumed the throne after the downfall of his father, or after a brief period of regency by Creon, until Oedipus’ exile, then abdicated in favor of Creon (with Eteocles’ agreement), and finally quarreled with Eteocles, when the brothers had decided to seek the throne for themselves. But this scenario is unnecessarily complicated and thus probably quite unlikely. Apart from the question whether Polyneices would have been old enough to assume the throne at the time of, or soon after, his father’s blinding, the accounts of Polyneices and especially of Ismene indicate that the first claim of the princes to the throne was a fairly recent affair, which brought about the disastrous feud. Polyneices does not accuse his brother of lately raising claims to the throne that he himself once occupied as his birthright, which Eteocles initially did not dispute. Instead, Polyneices complains that Eteocles persuaded the city to exile him when he claimed the throne as his birthright. The most natural interpretation of this complaint is that Eteocles acted when Polyneices claimed the throne for the first time. In the first three accounts of his exile, Oedipus himself never so much as implies that Polyneices held a more powerful position than his brother in the city and that he carried, by virtue of it, greater responsibility for his father’s exile. Besides, the first part of his reply to the appeal of Polyneices (1354–64) reproduces fairly closely the tirade against both sons in the first episode (427–30, 440–44). The main difference is, that instead of both sons, Polyneices is now the principal target of his accusations of filial disloyalty and inadequacy. Eteocles is barely mentioned, once in a fairly neutral context (1355), and otherwise in the curse, which is pronounced against both sons (1372–96; cf. 1369). The only explicit accusation against Eteocles is that he and Polyneices have dishonored their blind father (1378–79).

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This selectivity and apparent lack of concern with accuracy cast a shadow over the earlier claim of Oedipus that a few words from his sons would have averted his exile (443–44). His sons probably held no office at the time, and the pollution of their family was likely to compromise their public standing and interventions. Thus their father’s claim may more plausibly be viewed as stemming from wishful thinking and an emotive reworking of the past rather than Theban political reality at the time of his exile. Similarly, it is doubtful that Oedipus’ sons could have persuaded the city to restore their father in view of the new oracle, which elevated him and connected the city’s welfare with him. The most telling piece of evidence is the city’s refusal to allow Oedipus even to be buried in it. It is not clear, to modern audiences at least, why the Thebans hoped to reap the benefit mentioned in the oracle despite their deception of Oedipus. Even if he had not been forewarned, and Creon had managed to trick him into returning with false promises of restitution, would a living or heroized Oedipus take kindly to such dealings, when he would have realized their deception? Would he not pronounce curses that would blight Thebes immediately and for ages to come? Would the grave of the wronged and dishonored man be a source of blessings, even if it were in Theban territory? Despite the illogicality, at least from a modern perspective, of such an eventuality, Ismene, Creon, and Oedipus himself seem to think that his return, even by means of deception or force, would benefit the Thebans. Oedipus never claims that he could harm them, or help their enemies, from his grave in Theban territory: although he says that his avenging spirit will forever dwell in the Theban land (787–88), he refers to future military setbacks, which will take place in Athenian territory and will be mediated by his grave there. The oracle prescribed that the welfare of Thebes depended on Oedipus, alive and dead, and so the Thebans had to lure him back, as Ismene explains. It did not specify whether he would bestow his blessings only if he came back voluntarily, or whether deception was an acceptable means of persuading him to return home. The belief that his residence and burial in Theban territory would be enough for their purposes reflects the interpretation of the oracle by the Thebans, including, apparently, Oedipus. However, this interpretation, which is not validated by any authority, is not necessarily the correct one. The success of Creon’s mission would not automatically guarantee the fulfillment of the oracle in favor of the Thebans. Since the audience receive limited information about the oracle, it should not be viewed as postulating an illogicality.

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The decisions to exile Oedipus and not to accept him back were taken by the whole city: his bitter complaints notwithstanding, there is no indication that his sons and/or Creon were in a position to foster, make, or enforce these decisions. The constitution of Thebes is presented as more democratic, and closer to that of Argos in Aeschylus’ Supplices, for instance, than the Athenian constitution in OC. Of course, it is clear that, irrespective of their public office and chances of success, Oedipus’ kinsmen, and especially his sons, should have tried to prevent his exile and, failing that, assisted him in his wanderings. When the new oracle arrived, his sons should have put aside their ambitions and tried to arrange for their father’s recall. Their total lack of filial devotion understandably angers their father and motivates him to curse them. It is important, though, that Oedipus does not accuse his sons of not having tried to prevent his exile, or to bring him back, but of not having saved him from exile. He curses them and especially Polyneices for sending him into it because he and Eteocles were ashamed of his infirmity. At least to an extent, then, Oedipus engages in a reworking of the past, viewing it through a passionately emotional lens, and his wrathful curses on his sons are partly the result of this reshaping. Oedipus’ wrath, which brings about the downfall of his sons, is justified and understandable, but not necessarily or primarily for the reasons Oedipus stresses and considers most aggravating. Irrespective of its background, his implacable wrath is mentioned by all characters except Ismene and the chorus.24 The first to mention it is Theseus (592), but he never inquires into the specifics of Oedipus’ exile and readily grants him asylum (631–37). The reference of Creon to Oedipus’ anger (854–55; cf. 804–5, 810) cannot be taken at face value: Creon is on a mission of deceit, and is soon revealed to have behaved as badly in the past as he is behaving at present. Polyneices is one of the main victims of his father’s wrath, which he mentions repeatedly (1274, 1328, 1334; cf. 1277). Nevertheless, since there is not much that any audience may find trustworthy or sympathize with in Polyneices’ emotional claims, at least before the pronouncement of Oedipus’ curses, his view of his father’s wrath is hardly illuminating. On the whole, Polyneices is naturally presented in a negative light. His early admission that he has been unfilial (1265–66) sounds empty, although not certainly insincere. The audience have reason to doubt whether he would

24 Ismene, though, is included in Antigone’s appeal to her father to receive Polyneices (1181–1203). The chorus are old men like Oedipus, who sympathize with his troubles, as appears especially in the third stasimon (1235–48).

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ever fulfill his promise to restore his father (1342), not only because the latter is unlikely to consent to his son’s plea but also because nothing corroborates Polyneices’ pledge to behave better in the future than he has so far. Besides, he comes out as inferior to all previous pleaders in the play. Although it is improbable that the rhetorical skill of his hated son would have swayed Oedipus, the poet never gives this son’s plea a rhetorical chance. Polyneices invokes all the arguments brought up by previous speakers – αἰδώς (1267–70), family relationships (1275–79), supplication (1285–90, 1309–12, 1326–30), exile (1292–98, 1330, 1334–39), and restitution (1307, 1340–43)–but employs them in a perfunctory and unconvincing manner. The catalogue of his Argive allies (1313–25) is also pathetic in revealing his delusions of grandeur and a presumption to impress his father, who is far removed from such concerns. His main rhetorical ploy may be that he glosses over the possibility of, let alone his desire for, his brother’s death and mentions only exile as Eteocles’ punishment (1307, 1343). This circumspection may be attributed to an attempt not to alienate a father that may not wish to fatally endanger one son by helping the other, but it is unclear whether this is a conscious choice on Polyneices’ part or not. His gravest shortcoming is his failure to address his father’s complaints, beyond his early attempt to placate him: Polyneices focuses on his own grievances against Eteocles and fails completely to offer any counter-narrative to challenge his father’s view of the past.25 Polyneices is obviously a desperate man, and quite insecure. He only recovers some measure of dignified restraint when his father’s curses have virtually eliminated all his hopes of, and ambition for, success. Before, already upon entering, he voiced perplexity (1254–56), and depended on his sisters for guidance and access to their father (1275–79, 1284). It is remarkable that, in his contrite lament for the father’s miserable hardships, Polyneices did not devote one single word to his sisters’ labors except the colorless “(I have found him [sc. my aged father] in a foreign land) with you” (σὺν σφῷν, 1257). Even if the lament may be thought to include his sisters, a comparison with Creon’s focus on Antigone (746–54), for all its hypocritical motivation, throws into sharp relief the delinquent brother’s lack of concern for, and courtesy toward, the dutiful girls.

25 This emotional reaction to perceived injustices he has suffered is reminiscent of the focus of Oedipus on his recent past, but the grievances of the father have nothing to do with the fratricidal ambitions of his sons and their pursuit of personal gains. Cf. next n.

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His silence is revealing in connection with Antigone’s recent plea to their father to receive him (1181–1203) and Oedipus’ earlier castigation of the despicable failure of his sons to shoulder the family burdens. What is more, after Polyneices will have failed to persuade his father with his appeal to their name (1326), he will plead with the girls to see to his burial at home (1405–10, 1435). Only then will he grant them some praise for, and recognition of, their excellence (1411–13, 1444–46). To an audience knowledgeable of the Labdacid saga, his plea has the potential of destroying at least Antigone. I will return to her fate in 6 below. For now, let it suffice to repeat that the references of this deeply flawed son (and callous brother) to the wrath of his father shed no light on it, or on the attitude of Oedipus toward his sons, although Polyneices is similar to his father in his refusal to relent.26

5. A paraenesis from the young The most intriguing insights into the wrath of Oedipus, both in its past manifestations and its present destructive potential, are provided by Antigone’s (and the silent Ismene’s) earlier appeal to him to receive Polyneices (1181–1203). Antigone evokes her father’s past in order not only to persuade him to relent but also, hopefully, to make him dissuade her brother from pursuing his evil designs. It cannot be a priori excluded that Polyneices has had a change of heart, or would address an unexpected plea to his father, and Antigone may hope for such a welcome development. However,

26 Consider especially the reference of Antigone to the recurrent anger of her brother (1420) and cf. the discussion below. One may easily assume that Eteocles was of the same passionate disposition. For the similarities of Polyneices to Oedipus, especially as far as their suppliant status is concerned, see Burian (1974) 422–23; cf. Winnington-Ingram (1980) 277, and Blundell (1989) 240–42. But similarities of both sons to their father have been adumbrated long before the appearance of Polyneices. His sons seem to have engaged in a review of the past similar to his own: as Oedipus eventually decided that he carried no moral guilt for the crimes he had committed against his parents, his sons decided that they did not share their father’s pollution and could seek the Theban throne (367–73). Nevertheless, this revision also reveals their profound difference from their father. Oedipus did not engage in any self-serving quest, and his reflection was the product of deep suffering and emotional maturing. The oracles of Apollo and the end of Oedipus confirm the soundness of his revision of his criminal past. On the contrary, the doomed quest of his sons is utterly selfish and fratricidally ruthless (374–83).

5. A paraenesis from the young

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her brother’s wish is more than likely to be to win his father’s alliance in the imminent war against Eteocles and Thebes. Ismene’s report, Creon’s mission and behavior, and Oedipus’ own predictions, all have foreshadowed such a goal. Antigone certainly does not mention any possibility that her brother may have something good on his mind. On the contrary, she suggests that evil actions (such as, implicitly, those of Polyneices) are exposed by speech (1187–88) and indicates that her brother is an unfilial, impious son (1189–90). Despite these certainties, she apparently hopes that the meeting of father and son may have a positive outcome, or her plea lacks satisfactory motivation. The speech of Antigone is a masterpiece of rhetorical skill and familial discretion. It is also the only successful appeal to Oedipus to relent in the play, although its success is limited in that the encounter of father and son does not have the outcome that Antigone tries to mediate. The scholiast correctly observes that Theseus could have persuaded Oedipus to receive his suppliant son (449.19–21 Papageorgius); Oedipus himself also mentions Theseus’ mediation (1348–51), admittedly in his reply to the chorus’ reference to the king (1346–47). It is not clear, though, that Antigone’s intervention should be attributed only to Sophocles’ desire for auxêsis, as the scholiast suggests (449.21–22 Papageorgius). Her appeal to the remote past, virtually the only one made by a selfless character, and among the relatively few in the play anyway, offers a view of that past different from Oedipus’ and a perspective on his passion-fuelled attachment to his more recent past. The appeal of Antigone begins and ends in ring composition, with references to Theseus, at the beginning an explicit and at the end an implicit one (1182–83, 1202–3).27 It takes up the previous attempt of the king to persuade Oedipus to receive Polyneices by invoking the respect owed to him as a suppliant of Poseidon (1179–80). Primarily, it stresses what Theseus had failed to suggest, or graciously refrained from suggesting, the obligation of Oedipus to grant the pious and just wish of his benefactor. Antigone herself magnanimously refrains from spelling out the obligation of Oedipus to his loyal daughters for the services they have rendered him over the years, although she and Ismene may be thought to be included in the number of the benefactors to whom Oedipus has an obligation to reciprocate in kind (1201–3). Antigone proceeds to amplify

27 There is also a homocentric ring formed by the appeal to Oedipus to acquiesce to his daughters’ wish (1184, 1201).

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Theseus’ suggestion that there is no harm in listening to Polyneices because Oedipus naturally has the option of rejecting unwelcome requests (1175–76). She assures her father that, if her brother’s appeal is not to the father’s advantage, it will not influence his judgment by force (1185–88). The core of Antigone’s entreaty consists in her invocation of the appropriate code of behavior among family members, especially of parents toward their children, and of the ruinous consequences of wrath that vitiate the blood-relationship (1189–94). In the face of her brother’s unfilial conduct and her father’s terrible anger over it, Antigone unexpectedly argues that it is unlawful for Oedipus as a father to retaliate against his son under any circumstances, no matter how maltreated by the son. She appeals to αἰδώς (1192)28 and suggests that Oedipus will immediately realize the disastrous consequences of passion if he thinks of his past, his misfortunes connected with his parents (1195–98). He has very stark reminders of the effects of evil passion in his self-inflicted blindness (1199–1200). As already the scholiast observes (450.2–4 Papageorgius), Antigone does not reproach her father for being quick to kill his father at the crossroads and then marry his mother. Apart from the emotional inappropriateness and rhetorical clumsiness of such a reproach, Oedipus has argued repeatedly and at length that his parricide was the fully justified reaction to an act of aggression.29 There is no doubt that Antigone urges her father not to give in to his temper, as he did when he blinded himself. Earlier, Oedipus himself had acknowledged that his reaction to the revelation of his crimes had been extreme (438–39; cf. 768). It is also likely that there is another, less explicit, layer of meaning in Antigone’s plea. Two important points should be considered. First, and as already indicated above, Antigone’s objective can hardly exhaust itself in persuading her father to receive Polyneices and listen to his plea. Her hope must be

28 αἰδοῦ νιν is Jebb’s emendation of the highly problematic MSS reading ἀλλ’ αὐτόν (vel αὑτόν), emended to ἀλλ’ ἔασον in the London edition of 1722. Campbell (18792 ) ad loc. interprets it as an aposiopesis, but such an interpretation is difficult to accept, especially in a carefully crafted speech. The variant ἀλλ’ αὑτόν, even if one accepts that it is possible Greek, makes little sense. It would be quite lame on Antigone’s part to argue that her father’s retaliation against her unworthy brother would cause the father harm. Since Theseus has offered Oedipus asylum and restored his daughters to him, and since his death is near, and he has already condemned his delinquent sons (421–27, 448–54), it is very hard to imagine what harm could come to Oedipus from his refusal to receive Polyneices. 29 For the incest see the discussion in 2 above.

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that, hateful as Polyneices and his concerns are to his father, the encounter will benefit Polyneices (and, presumably, Eteocles), or at least not harm him. It should also be taken into account that Ismene arrived to inform her father of the quarrel between her brothers (365–66). The report of the latest oracle and Creon’s mission is given afterwards, in response to Oedipus’ inquiries. Thus Ismene may also be thought to have been motivated, primarily or at least partly, by a similar desire for a resolution of the conflict, although she expresses dismay (336, 420) and confusion (383–84). Antigone tries to do more than her sister, not only hoping that Oedipus will be willing and able to talk some sense into Polyneices but also subtly encouraging him to do so.30 Second, and intimately related to the first, Antigone’s emphasis on the persuasion of friends that charms swift-tempered people to relent (1192– 94)31 points to her hope that not only Oedipus but also Polyneices will listen to the voice of reason and will not suffer the terrible consequences of his evil passion, as his father did in the past. To persuade her father to listen to, and hopefully reason with, his unworthy son, Antigone needs to make a plausible case that parental, especially paternal, harshness has detrimental consequences for one’s children. The language of her flashback to her father’s misfortunes in the remote past is studiedly vague and ambiguous. The crucial word “misfortunes” (πήμαθ’, 1196) may cover not only Oedipus’ reaction to the revelation of his identity and crimes but also the cause of his misfortunes, which he himself earlier associated with the attempt of his parents to harm him (273–74), apparently by exposing him to die as a baby. Furthermore, Laius’ swift temper was apparently responsible for the unprovoked attack on Oedipus at the crossroads and the disastrous chain of events it unleashed, although of course both father and son were ignorant of each other’s identity at that time. The proximate cause of

30 Cf. her advice to her brother at 1280–83: she urges him to explain why he has come (1280) but does not justify her encouragement with the suggestion that speech reveals the speaker’s wishes to his addressee(s), as is common on such occasions. Instead, she mentions the emotions generated by, or manifested in, speeches (1281–83). τέρψαντα (1281) apparently refers to the former kind, δυσχεράναντ(α) and κατοικτίσαντα (1282) to the latter, since δυσχεραίνω and κατοικτίζω are not causative in classical Greek. Nevertheless, Antigone’s point must be that the addressee will sympathize with the speaker’s emotions. 31 Creon’s earlier reference to Oedipus’ penchant for giving in to his anger against the wishes of his relatives (854–55) is ironically similar to Antigone’s present appeal.

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Oedipus’ blinding were his own excessive emotions, but the first cause was Laius’ evil passion. Antigone, then, tries to redirect her father’s inner gaze from the recent to the remote past, from his victimization by his sons to his victimization by his parents, primarily his father. This earlier abuse enables her to shift the focus of her appeal from what Polyneices (and Eteocles) did to his father (and plans to do to his brother and country) because of his evil passion to what he may suffer from his father because of the father’s evil passion. Antigone’s skill and delicacy in handling an admittedly enormous task is remarkable. She can neither argue directly for reconciliation or clemency nor invoke the family curse or even divine hostility toward the family: such a claim is bound to fall on deaf ears and probably further infuriate her father.32 She also needs to acknowledge the evil nature of her brother’s plea and his utterly impious maltreatment of his father. It cannot be accidental that she does not dwell on her brother’s despicable behavior. In order to disarm her father’s hatred, she first appeals to fatherhood (1189–91). She formulates her plea in such a way as to gloss over the reciprocity inherent in the relationship of father and children and to privilege the natural benevolence of the father toward his offspring by presenting it as a sacred law that rules out retaliation. She realizes, though, that this normally powerful appeal, even in the special form she is presenting it, has little chance of guaranteeing her success: Oedipus is unlikely to share her view of paternal obligation and forgiveness, since he has made it abundantly clear that he rightfully expected a very different treatment from his sons and preserves no trace of affection for them. Antigone proceeds to reinforce her previous invocation of the bond of fatherhood by the short but crucial appeal to αἰδώς (1192).33 This is backed up by the claim that the persuasion of friends overcomes the immoderation of swift temper (θυμὸς ὀξύς, 1193), obviously an impediment to the demonstration of αἰδώς that should regulate family relationships, even vexed ones such as those of parents to their evil children (γοναὶ κακαί, 1192). The claim bridges over the shift to the second part of this portion

32 Oedipus does not believe that there was a family curse passed down the generations and acknowledges divine hostility only toward himself and his parents (964–68); see Appendix B III. 33 For the text see n. 28 above. This appeal also comes in asyndeton, as the appeal to fatherhood did (1189). The asyndeta in the speech (cf. 1182) highlight the pathos of the paraenesis but also the projected stark simplicity and rightfulness of the request, which Antigone will stress at the end (1201–2).

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of the paraenesis, the flashback to Oedipus’ misfortunes connected with his parents and their evil consequences (1195–1200). As already suggested, this is meant to alert her father to the possibility that his evil passion may now harm his son, as he himself had been harmed by his parents. The casting of Polyneices in the role of the young Oedipus begins with the transitional claim, which is formulated in terms that apply to the father but may also be taken to apply to the son. The two share emotions of acute wrath and intransigence.34 Since Oedipus’ curses have probably not been pronounced yet and cannot be considered the cause of the quarrel between his sons, as in other versions of the myth, the intransigence of Polyneices is a sign of disastrous constancy and passionate obsession. Antigone’s maxim “the outcome of evil passion is evil” (1197–98) applies to all her male relatives. Although her brothers did not quarrel because of a paternal curse, no fraternal quarrel pursued with passion can have a good outcome. γοναί (1192), the term chosen to designate children, also means ‘family’ or ‘descent’. Oedipus has evil sons and swift temper, but the impious and swift-tempered Polyneices also comes from a blighted family: the words of his relatives, if these relatives show magnanimous αἰδώς toward the offender, can charm him and remedy his moral disadvantages. Otherwise, if they fail to show respect for the blood relationship and persist in their desire of retaliating against the offender, they will harm him grievously with their passion, as Oedipus’ parents have. Of course, unlike Polyneices (and Eteocles), Oedipus had not harmed or mistreated his parents, but Antigone glosses over this difference. As she earlier failed to mention the services of his daughters to their father and to dwell on his outrageous treatment by Polyneices, she now fails to point out the distinction between undeserved suffering and just retaliation. The long-suffering Antigone, gentle, loving, and devoted to her demanding duties, tries as best she can to defuse the terrible family quarrels that followed her father’s exile. Like her brother and father, she turns to the past. Unlike them, though, she does not focus on her own or the recent past. Her objective is obviously to preserve the bonds of the family in the face of threatened complete disintegration. Although certainly not all-inclusive, her view is much broader than that of her father or brother: it encompasses past, present and future in the framework of the generational continuum, the memory of past woes, and associations between them, present predicaments, and (hopes of averting) future

34 Cf. n. 26 above.

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afflictions in the family.35 Despite her good intentions and impressive skills, Antigone fails completely to alter her kinsmen’s view of the past, and of themselves as victims entitled to take revenge on the fellow kinsmen who acted as aggressors. Already at the beginning of the play, Oedipus proclaimed himself the student of time (7–8) and later surveyed its effects (607–23). He changed his mind about his guilt and self-inflicted punishment (437–39, 768–69) and knows that he is about to be delivered from his sufferings. Nevertheless, he cannot let go of his view of his recent past until he takes his terrible revenge for the humiliations he has suffered. Not even his beloved daughters can prevail on him to take a broader view.

6. The power and the glory The only noticeable change in Oedipus’ stance takes place after the condemnation of his sons, and is a matter of focus rather than substantial reversal: Oedipus does not mention his terrible past again, neither his parents nor his sons or Thebes – except to repeat what he has been declaring ever since he arrived, that his grave will protect Athens by ensuring the failure of future Theban incursions (1518–34; cf. 1489–90, 1508–9, 1764–65). He only looks back to his loving relationship with his daughters and their devotion to him. The declaration that his love for the girls dissolves all the hardships they have suffered for his sake, as no one ever loved them more than he did (1613–18), is remarkable and has given pause to several critics. Some have considered it as an indication that this harsh and unforgiving old man is also capable of most tender feelings.36 Others have found it selfishly inadequate and, ultimately, harsh toward the girls.37

35 Although much more emotional and less coherent, the unfortunately fragmentary kommos at the end of the play is also informed by the same attitude. The emphasis naturally falls on the miserable present and future of the bereaved sisters, but the lament begins with a reference to the accursed blood of their father (1670–72), and includes recollections of their care for him (1673–74, 1697–99). Antigone finally asks for safe passage to Thebes for Ismene and herself so that they try to prevent their brothers from slaying each other (1769–72). 36 See Winnington-Ingram (1980) 274, 277, and Blundell (1989) 228–29. Cf. Edmunds (1996) 122–27, and Easterling (2006) 135. 37 See Wilson (1997) 165–66, and cf. Rodighiero (1998) 232.

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It certainly projects a highly personal view of affection within his family, stretching back over several years and excluding even Jocasta from the small cycle of family members united by the strongest emotional bond. Jocasta is apparently long dead, and her emotional attachment to the girls, or any of her children, is never mentioned in the play. Thus the assertion by the surviving parent, whose troubles have united him inseparably with his caring daughters, is not unnatural or outrageous. Nonetheless, the stress on the intensity of his love and the seeming exclusivity of his bond to the girls may be deemed unfair to Jocasta. Be that as it may, Oedipus entrusts his daughters to the care of Theseus (1630–35), who pledges to do all that will be good for the girls (1636–37), as he had earlier pledged to protect their father. Ironically, the king of Athens will soon fulfill his promise (1773–76) by consenting to Antigone’s plea that he send her and Ismene back to Thebes (1769–72). The question whether Oedipus provided adequately for his loving and beloved daughters readily suggests itself, and not only because, presumably, the audience would be reasonably confident that the passage to Thebes would mean death for Antigone and terrible misfortune for Ismene. Why does Oedipus at least not take care to prohibit the girls from returning to Thebes, and probably to the jurisdiction of the hated Creon?38 Such questions may be illegitimate. Oedipus has reached the end of his life and, with it, the end of his paternal authority over the girls. He is neither a god nor a man like Heracles in Trachiniae, who wishes to control his loyal son and continue enjoying Iole vicariously even after his death. Oedipus’ lack of concern with the future of his children is strikingly apparent from his failure to take any part in the moving dialogue between Antigone (and, by extension, the silent Ismene) and Polyneices, which follows the pronouncement of the father’s terrible curses upon his sons.

38 The parallelism with the end of O T, where Oedipus entrusts his daughters to the care of Creon (1462–66, 1503–10), is ironic on several levels. In the earlier play, in which Oedipus does mention Jocasta in connection with the girls (1504–5), he worries about them but is confident that his sons will cope (1459–61; see the discussion in B V with nn. 56 and 57 above); in OC, he has determined the fate of his sons but not that of the girls. The latter will be returned to the jurisdiction of Creon, their earlier guardian, who has become the enemy of their father and their present guardian Theseus. In O T, Creon separates the girls from Oedipus, who is led back into the house to expect the confirmation of his exile (1522–23), while in OC Oedipus himself sends them away, and proceeds with Theseus to his fated place of death in exile (1640–44).

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After the damning reply of Oedipus to the appeal of his son, Antigone tries to persuade her brother to abort his disastrous expedition and to thwart the fulfillment of the father’s curses (1414–17, 1420–21, 1424–25, 1441). Polyneices refuses (1418–19, 1422–23, 1432–34) and exhorts his sisters to see to his burial (1435), as he had done earlier (1405–10), when he also assured them that they would win great praise for their service to him, as they had won for their services to their father (1411–13; cf. 1444–46). Antigone, and presumably Ismene, lament, and are reluctant to let go of him (1437–43). During this emotional scene, the father remains completely silent, neither rebuking the son nor advising the daughters against granting his wish in the future. As indicated above, he does not mention his sons, the curses, or their consequences again. Still, the condemnation of his hated and unfilial sons is final and irrevocable, although he at least refrains from enjoining the impious prohibition of Polyneices’ burial. Ultimately, Oedipus is willing to let go, on the basis of a trusted pledge, but only of the persons he loves, his supporters, nurturers, and guardians. Ironically and paradoxically, his attachment to the past, in the form of his grievances against his sons, grieves, endangers, and may ultimately destroy the daughters he cherishes and seeks to protect.39 The family remains blighted, and the children are about to suffer as terribly as their parents (and grandparents) have.40 This continuity may be viewed as a family curse, but the younger generation is condemned by Oedipus’ curse on his sons. Neither the family curse nor Apollo’s oracles necessarily entailed the fratricide of Oedipus’ sons and its impact on his daughters. Oedipus’ curse is an integral part of the play’s dramatization of the effect the latest vicissitudes have on his family and city, first his native and then his adopted one. His old crimes carry no weight anymore, except in the eyes of the shortsighted Thebans who still, despite the latest oracle, refuse to accept Oedipus back.41 They

39 Oedipus of course has no knowledge of this disastrous potential or way of imagining it. For the limitations of his knowledge cf. Easterling (2006) 140. For the plea of Polyneices to his sisters see section 4 above. 40 In OC, as in most surviving Labdacid plays, Oedipus’ children are the last generation of the family, as there is no mention of any children fathered by Polyneices or Eteocles. 41 As already pointed out, although the Colonan elders of the chorus also initially meant to expel Oedipus because of his pollution (226–36, 254–57), they soon deferred the matter to their king (292–95) and never reiterated their initial decision or expressed any doubt about his judgment. Theseus himself never inquires

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thus become fully responsible for their city’s future woes. Nevertheless, despite the repeated references to future Theban losses and Athenian gains, the play focuses more on Oedipus’ family, especially his devastating reaction to the disgraceful failure of his male relatives to offer him any support after the revelation of his identity. There are two noteworthy aspects in the play’s overall treatment of the past in connection with Oedipus’ acceptance in Athens, his abrogation of his sons and native city, and his passing. The first, the virtually total suppression of Oedipus’ greatness and fame before his downfall,42 is not surprising, given the play’s failure to dwell on his remoter past. The second is more intriguing. The notoriety of his name and sufferings is emphasized, up until and including the arrival of Theseus and his pledge to grant Oedipus’ request. The suppliant complains that the chorus fear mightily his notorious name only and not his person or his deeds because the latter were misfortunes that he suffered rather than crimes he committed (265–67). The elders assure him that Theseus will hurry to meet him as soon as he hears his name known to all (301–7).43 In a similar vein, before his first exit, Theseus claims that his name will protect Oedipus from harm even when he is not present (666–67). Astonishingly, these claims, which may be taken as meta-poetic pointers to heroic fame/notoriety, come to nothing. The fame of Theseus and Athens does not stop Creon from pursuing his mission, abducting Ismene and Antigone, and trying to abduct Oedipus in the face of opposition by the chorus.44 Not even Oedipus’ name and his notorious crimes of unwitting parricide and incest influence the decision about his petition for asylum in Athens.

into Oedipus’ crimes. When he enters, he eschews any reference to them, and graciously mentions only the many reports he has heard about Oedipus’ blinding (551–53). He only once refers euphemistically to the ancient ruin of Oedipus’ house (596; cf. 369). 42 The only mention of his service to Thebes is made with a single word (ἐπωφελήσας, 541) in the context of his reference to the gift he received as a reward for this service (539–41). In contrast to O T, in which the reward for the service is the kingship (383–84), the gift in OC is said to be Jocasta’s hand, although of course no ambiguity results, and the disparity is to be attributed mainly to the different context of the two references. 43 The notoriety of Oedipus’ misfortunes is mentioned again by Theseus (551–53; cf. n. 41 above) and Oedipus himself (597). 44 In his appeal to the chorus in the first episode, Oedipus complains that the fame of Athens as a most pious city, offering protection and help to distraught strangers, accords him no benefit (258–65).

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Although the hero’s remote past, his old body (τό γ’ ἀρχαῖον δέμας, 110), as he memorably puts it, is largely irrelevant to humans and gods in the play, the new oracle seems to elevate him (387–92, 394), even if primarily when he will have died rather than while he is still alive. Despite his piety, Oedipus does not believe from the beginning that the gods care about him (385–86): when Ismene has revealed the latest oracle to him, he claims that it is a poor thing to elevate an old man who fell when young (395). He also indignantly wonders whether his compatriots may now consider him a man when he exists no longer (393), presumably and primarily as far as they are concerned,45 and had earlier called himself “this miserable ghost of the man Oedipus” (ἀνδρὸς Οἰδίπου τόδ’ ἄθλιον/ εἴδωλον, 109–10). Still, his present and future, as well as of his family and cities, are determined by his (view of his) more recent past. On the other hand, despite the glossing over of his past greatness, Oedipus paradoxically engages in the creation of a new greatness. He never recovers his royal office, or even returns home, and he does not solve riddles anymore, although he stresses that he has better insight in the future than his enemies (791–93; cf. 452–54). With divine favor and human pious help, he will rise to future greatness from his present humble position. This is the core of the intriguing and fascinating power of Oedipus in OC: he is the only Sophoclean, and indeed tragic, hero in surviving drama, who manages to recapture or recreate a form of his past greatness. He does not resort to deception, magical means, or surrogates, like Deianeira and Heracles, and he does not commit suicide, like Ajax. Instead, he uses his present resources in order to take a devastating revenge, which extends to present and future, for the insults he received in the relatively recent past. He also seeks to regain what was best in his remoter past. An early, passing, and, more Sophocleo, ambiguous remark by Oedipus is indicative of his view of himself. He answers the chorus’ first question concerning his identity (143) by claiming that he is obviously an unfortunate

45 Cf. also Theseus’ indignant protest against Creon’s insult to Athens and her king (917–18). Philoctetes reacts similarly to Odysseus’ attempts to take him to Troy (Phil. 1030), and asserts that he counts for nothing anymore (951, 1217). Cf. the similar expressions of distress by Ajax and Teucer in Ajax (398–409, 418–27, 440, 1266–71), and the lament of the desperate Creon at the end of Antigone (1325). It is probably a significant dramatic choice, meant to bring out how some heroes conceive of their self-worth, that in OT Oedipus never claims that he is nothing, and in Trachiniae Heracles threatens Deianeira with destruction even if he is nothing and cannot walk (1107–9).

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man because otherwise he would not have needed another person’s eyes in order to move around and would not have been anchored, great as he is, upon weakness (κἀπὶ σμικροῖς μέγας ὥρμουν, 148). The surface meaning of the remark is that Oedipus, an aged man of imposing physique, is forced to rely on the small resources of the girl Antigone. The less obvious meaning is that the fortunes of the great Oedipus are currently lowly. In this case, σμικροῖς would have to be neuter, but there is no reason why the generalized masculine should be preferred. Jebb suggests that in such contexts σμικρά means ‘lowly fortunes,’ and implies that it does not suit the present passage.46 It is not clear why not: although it is somewhat paradoxical for someone to say that he is anchored upon lowly fortunes, the paradox is probably intentional and is not surprising in the mouth of Oedipus, who proclaims himself resigned to his plight (7–8, 1360–61; cf. 798–99) and has valid hopes of imminent release from his troubles. One should also perhaps not disregard completely the correction ὥρμων in L, which is also found supra lineam in t: if this variant is accepted, then Oedipus would be saying that he set out to be great from a lowly basis. But it makes for Greek too bold for comfort, and it is unlikely that Oedipus would be so explicit about the greatness he is pursuing at this point.

The antithesis great/small appears already in the prologue: in his first speech in the play, Oedipus dwells on the scarcity of the alms he receives, pointing out that, although he gets less than the little he begs for (5–6), his great and prolonged sufferings and his nobility have taught him to be content with very little (7–8). He then announces confidently to the Stranger that Theseus will win a great boon in exchange for a small service (72–74). Oedipus also prays to the Eumenides to grant him a closure in accordance with Apollo’s oracles (101–3) if he does not seem to be too low (εἰ μὴ δοκῶ τι μειόνως ἔχειν), being ever a slave to the worst sufferings of any mortal (104–5).47

46 Jebb (19003 ) ad loc. 47 The scholiast offers another interpretation of 104 (404.22–23 Papageorgius): “If I do not seem to have suffered less [sc. than you, goddesses, deem I deserve], and additional misfortunes are in order.” Campbell (18792 ) and Kamerbeek (1984) ad loc. accept the scholiast’s view. I agree with the interpretation of Jebb (19003) and Lloyd-Jones and Wilson (1990) 218–19, especially since Oedipus seems to compare himself with the rest of mortals. In any case, even with the scholiast’s interpretation, the antithesis great/small is not eliminated.

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Later, Theseus confirms that the favor Oedipus is requesting is small (586), but the old man cautions him that it will generate a great struggle (587). Theseus then asks Oedipus whether his sufferings exceed mortal limits (598), and includes the great importance of the gift Oedipus promises among his reasons for welcoming the long-suffering suppliant to Athens (634–35). As already pointed out, Oedipus knows that, with divine favor and human assistance, he will become great, at least a great benefactor to his hosts, as he had once become a great benefactor to the Thebans. He is not the man he used to be but still has powers, and is about to become a dispenser of boons and curses, a hero, θαυμαστός (1665). With strong views of his recent past, Oedipus sees to the making of his future greatness, which may be viewed as a recreation of his earlier glory. The past is consistently adhered to, passionately upheld, and perpetuated: rather than a mold that generates identical copies of itself, though, it is a womb that brings forth creations that resemble it, as an image resembles its original, or a ghost its living form.

Conclusions Spectators and even casual readers of the plays of Aeschylus and Sophocles are unlikely to disregard the decisive role of the past in them. The beliefs, values, and emotions of the characters, especially of principals, bear on their view of the past. In a kind of vicious, or virtuous, circle, this view reinforces their system of beliefs and their conception of themselves and others as responsible agents with free will and (un)worthy members of a family and/or community, who (need to) take crucial, often fatal, decisions and action. The aim of the present study has been to examine as closely as possible the characters’ (ab)use of the past, or the very occasional failure thereof, and the process of integrating it with their present, as they seek to mold a future, sometimes posthumous, they perceive as morally just for themselves and others. This process, which hardly ever succeeds completely, is elaborate and demanding, requiring and testing the characters’ intellectual and emotional stamina. The two playwrights explore the full spectrum of the options at their disposal in capturing its complexity, ranging from the depiction of intense commitment to, or obsession with, the past to lackluster engagement with, or neglect of, it. Overall, the close examination of the plays in this study has revealed that principals very often harbor an idea of the past that is for all intents and purposes fixed. On the other hand, the impact of the past is not fixed: characters consider, review, and, on occasion, consciously manipulate it, on intellectual, emotional and rhetorical levels. Virtually all tragic appeals to the past, especially those of principals, are selective and point up certain parts or aspects of it, for the sake of the pursuit of a specific goal and/or because of long-standing biases. For instance, in Aeschylus’ Agamemnon Clytaemestra focuses on Iphigeneia’s sacrifice and mentions Thyestes’ banquet only once; Sophocles’ Philoctetes seems never to have examined or questioned the part of Achilles and other honorable comrades in the army’s decision to abandon him at Lemnos. Not only are the contours of events rounded but facts and events are also glossed over or mentioned very vaguely, to the point of misrepresentation. The defeat of Darius at Marathon is never accorded anything like a reasonably full treatment in Aeschylus’ Persae, and the ghost of Darius himself never mentions or alludes to it. In Sophocles’ Ajax, the hero never acknowledges

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the fighting superiority of Achilles among the Achaean leaders at Troy. Oedipus in Sophocles’ OC claims that his son Polyneices was king at the time of his exile from Thebes, but his account does not seem to represent the past accurately. Almost certainly on purpose, the poets fail to provide specifics on the prehistory of their plots and to tie up various loose ends. Divine mandates and oracles are rarely quoted or adequately explained. Artemis’ demand for Iphigeneia’s sacrifice in Agamemnon and Helenus’ prophecy in Philoctetes are prime examples of this type of flexibility. Other issues of varying significance, which exemplify the scant provision of information and the resulting vagueness in question, are the judgment of arms in Ajax, the inability of the Greek fleet to sail home from Aulis in Electra, the progress of the plague after the revelation of Oedipus’ identity in O T, and the delivery of Achilles’ arms to Neoptolemus as well as the accuracy of the youth’s knowledge of events preceding his recruitment in Philoctetes. Such dramatically fruitful ambiguities contribute to the representation of the past as conceptually malleable, in large part a construct of the characters: it is shaped by their commitments, resulting obsessions, distortions, and, more broadly, their intellectual and emotional strengths and limitations. As already suggested, despite or because of these commitments and limitations, the characters’ narratives of the past, whether personal/ familial or communal, underlie their sense of self-esteem, aspirations, relationships with others, and place in the community. These narratives are closely associated with the insights of the characters into present and future, which shape their decisions and selected course of action. Although these insights are almost invariably limited, they are occasionally trenchant, and certainly the only kind available to the characters. Their securing of sympathy and support also hinges on the success or wider appeal of their narratives of the past and the projections of the future associated with such narratives. These parallels in the work of the two playwrights notwithstanding, Sophoclean principal characters appear to have a stronger attachment to (their view of ) the past than their Aeschylean counterparts. Occasionally verging on obsession, and thus inevitably distorted and distorting to varying degrees, the view of the past of the Sophoclean principals may easily be considered as either the paramount or a crucial factor in their decisions and (re)actions. Apart from Ajax and Philoctetes, who operate almost exclusively under the sign of the past in their dedication to enmity and a system of inflexible values, Electra, Deianeira, Heracles and Oedipus, especially in OC, also never lose sight of the past. They strive passionately to

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restore justice by taking revenge for past wrongs and to preserve or recreate the aspects of their past they deem as noble, glorious, or desirable. This struggle is often marred by cognitive and emotional myopia, but the imposing greatness, or, at the very least, the overwhelming intellectual and/or moral strength of the heroes is never in doubt. It is probably no coincidence that the two principal characters who almost entirely fail to consider, and argue from, the past are also Sophoclean. Creon in OT and Odysseus in Philoctetes prove incapable of measuring up to the moral stature of Oedipus and Philoctetes respectively. Creon possesses moral integrity and a host of other virtues such as piety, caution, and restraint. Yet in his debate with Oedipus he fails to argue from the past and thus possibly to convince his accuser, who is perpetually probing the past for clues. At the end, when Creon has become a regent enjoying universal acceptance and is trustingly looked upon as the only one qualified to succor his family and community, he cannot bring himself to follow the mandates of the oracle and make a crucial but relatively simple decision concerning Oedipus’ future. Odysseus is cunningly intelligent, determined, and eager to serve the common good. Nevertheless, he fails miserably to put his tongue where his money is and achieve the common goal by presenting a narrative of the past that might convince Neoptolemus. Only divine assistance can extricate these two lesser men and their communities from the predicament their shortcomings put them in. Although Oedipus and Philoctetes have many flaws, not least a conspicuous inability to put the past in proper perspective, their ability to lead and their sheer greatness, demonstrated in the past and remaining intact throughout their predicaments, are never in doubt. Crucially, these advantages are fostered by their attachment to (their view of ) the past, and their ability to construct and present a passionate narrative of it. The relationship of Aeschylean main characters to the past is comparatively looser and less straightforward. This cannot be attributed, exclusively or primarily, to the fact that Aeschylus composed thematically connected trilogies. Of the surviving works, Persae was not part of such a trilogy, and Supplices was probably the first play of its trilogy. Only Septem is the third play of a thematic trilogy. As such, it might be thought to deal with the past of the unfortunate Labdacid family more succinctly than its predecessors. The loss of the companion plays makes certainty impossible, but at least it is fairly clear that Septem includes no credible indication that the import, and possibly the treatment, of the past in it are substantially different from those in other extant plays.

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To be sure, the dominance and reviews of the past are ubiquitous and wide-ranging in Agamemnon but they are not comprehensive and certainly do not offer illumination or insights to either chorus or principals. The awesomely intelligent Clytaemestra and even the villainous Aegisthus view and present the murder Agamemnon as retaliation for past crimes but they also stand to profit materially from their crime, especially Aegisthus. The adulterous couple, the agents of internecine talio, also fail to realize and contemplate the virtual certainty of their punishment, guaranteed by the unbreakable sequence of talio in general and Orestes’ survival in particular, which the chorus stress repeatedly in the exodus. For their part, the elders of this chorus probe the past extensively, have thoughtful insights into human failings and divine retribution, and have heard Cassandra’s prophecies. Still, they fail completely to acknowledge or perhaps to realize what is happening under their noses and to at least try to take some action. Sophoclean characters who steer their lives with the compass of (their narratives of ) the past such as Ajax, Philoctetes, and Oedipus in OT also fail to have a realistic view of their predicament, and the guilt, or indeed identity, of their (supposed) enemies. On the other hand, they are not subject to the workings of inexorable talio, and their goal is not (only) to take revenge on enemies but (also) to preserve or recreate defining aspects of their past. Most indicatively for Sophocles’ treatment of the past in connection with the present and especially the future, the perpetuation of talio is not broached in Electra, and the characters’ failure to ponder the punishment of the matricides does not appear to be misguided: even if the play includes hints at future punishment, and this is certainly a big if, they amount to nothing like the certainty of the continuation of past and present troubles that informs the end of Choephori or Euripides’ Electra. Deianeira in Trachiniae, perhaps the Sophoclean character best placed to foresee, or at least suspect and contemplate, the deleterious consequences of her action by taking proper stock of the past, also does not do so. However, she realizes her mistake very soon after she commits it, and attributes it to her blind thoughtlessness. She then proceeds to commit suicide immediately after Hyllus’ report of the disaster she has caused. By contrast, Clytaemestra in Agamemnon hopes to avoid punishment for her crime, and in Choephori she tries her best to do so. What is more, in Agamemnon, arguably the extant play most extensively devoted to the exploration of the complex and inextricable relationship of the past to present and future, not even the wise seer Calchas and especially the pathetic and sympathetic Cassandra offer a comprehensive survey of the

Conclusions

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past. The impact of the past, mainly the remoter past, becomes less ponderous and thus less determining in the last two plays of Oresteia, especially in Eumenides. In Orestes’ trial, the defendant and his divine champion Apollo fail to mention or even allude to a crucial part of the fairly recent past, Clytaemestra’s adultery and the killers’ usurpation of the Argive throne, which was Orestes’ birthright. This is conspicuously telling as far as Aeschylus’ overall treatment of the past is concerned. The failure in question is absolutely remarkable because of its inexplicability in the context of the trial and above all its potential to undermine Orestes’ case. This argumentative ineptitude and manifest inability to engage with the past in an adequate manner do not in the end prove to be damning. Nevertheless, they enhance the impression that the verdict might have been different without Athena’s intervention and the sweetening of the Athenian jury with the defendant’s venal promise of an alliance with Argos. The treatment of the past in the earlier plays also, and perhaps more clearly, indicates that the Aeschylean characters do not operate in the grip of a fixed version of the past as firmly as the characters of Sophocles. In Persae the Queen says that her son Xerxes had wished to take revenge for the Persian defeat at Marathon. Later, she claims that he had been stung by the taunts of evil companions, who had been mocking his cowardly inertia in comparison with his father’s great conquests. The ghost of Darius, the revered previous ruler, reviews the history of Medo-Persian kings but does not even allude to his failure at Marathon or any other setback. The relatively limited role of the past is demonstrated more dramatically in Septem and Supplices, whose characters take decisions and action onstage. Eteocles and Polyneices decide to confront each other and thus fulfill their father’s curse on the battlefield, intent on responding to fraternal challenges and preserving their status and warrior honor. There is no way for the brothers to shake off the burden of the past, of the family crimes and especially their father’s curse. There is also no indication that at this point they hope, or would even particularly wish, to escape the will of the gods, who are bent on destroying their family. But the focal point of the play is not the brothers’ attitude toward the paternal curse or the fated annihilation of their family. Aeschylus concentrates on Eteocles’ decision to become a fratricide at the specific place, time and circumstances determined by Polyneices’ prior decision to issue a challenge to him: in Eteocles’ view, his failure to respond to this challenge would have fatally compromised his honor as warrior and royal leader. Fated to fight, and probably die at each other’s hands, the brothers choose to face each other

512

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as warrior leaders. Neither fratricide nor desertion can be morally justified, but in the case of Eteocles (and Polyneices), only the latter is a matter of personal choice, and this is what the play dramatizes. Oedipus’ curse is accepted as a given and never elaborated upon by Eteocles: he acknowledges it but focuses on, and is judged by, the morality of his confrontation with his brother on the battlefield. Polyneices is not even reported to mention, let alone ponder, the paternal curse, and he apparently concentrates only on his claims and goals. Although there are various uncertainties concerning the background of the brothers’ feud and their father’s curse, the moral outlook of the play and its treatment of the past seem to be fairly unambiguous. The curse, or the family’s history, determines fratricide but not the specific circumstances under which fratricide would occur. Only in Sophocles’ OC does the curse of Oedipus, which is pronounced while Polyneices’ expedition against Thebes has begun, determine or ratify the outcome of his sons’ conflict. Finally, Aeschylus’ Supplices deals extensively with the past, but the position of the Danaids and the association of their passionate commitment to celibacy with their personal and/or familial history remain enigmatic throughout the play. The choral reviews of the past are less reflective and even less informative than in other plays, a choice possibly made less extraordinary because of the protagonistic role of the chorus: they focus almost exclusively on the story of Io’s persecution by Hera and her salvation by Zeus. The Danaids base their all-important petition for asylum at Argos on their status as suppliants. Their connection to Io, presented repeatedly in an idiosyncratic lyrical narrative, contributes little to their cause. Instead, it appears to be intimately associated with their self-perception as their main means of self-justification and -exaltation. Overall, Aeschylean choruses invoke, probe and lament the past much more often, and more extensively, than the choruses of Sophocles. Generally, choruses are not compelled to make decisions and undertake action as often or urgently as principals, but the import of the past is quite obvious in their presentation too, as those who keep considering the past are much better placed to enjoy insights into the positions of the principals, the action of the play and its consequences. The choruses of Choephori and Philoctetes, who are different in obvious respects such as gender and status, occupy extremes in the spectrum of choral scrutiny of the past. Although the ruthlessness of the women’s masters in Choephori is likely to hinder their championing of Agamemnon’s children and the plans for revenge, the women are as determined and qualified as Neoptolemus’ men to assist the principals. Moreover, they offer important advice and feedback to the siblings

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and take the initiative of urging the nurse to modify Clytaemestra’s message to Aegisthus in order to facilitate the execution of Orestes’ plan. By contrast, the chorus of Philoctetes are always on the receiving end of orders and advice. Although they sing of, and sympathize with, the plight of Philoctetes, their pity is undermined by the insincerity of the end of their only stasimon and especially their unique suggestion to Neoptolemus to decamp with Philoctetes’ bow, which is absolutely outrageous and potentially ruinous. Initially, their concentration on the exigencies of the present moment seems to be an advantageous trait that promotes the success of the deception plan. Later, though, and when combined with a rush of anxiety, their single-mindedness distorts their view of suitable opportunity and sets them on the slippery slope to impious immorality. The engaged chorus of Choephori, who focus almost exclusively on the ignominious murder of Agamemnon and its fated punishment virtually in their every utterance, also have a limited perspective. This becomes obvious from even a perfunctory comparison with the chorus of Agamemnon and especially from the women’s failure to contemplate the attack of the Erinyes on the matricide Orestes before the demons appear to him at the end of the play. Only then do the chorus also mention Thyestes’ banquet but no other crime in the family’s internecine history, not even the sacrifice of Iphigeneia. It would certainly be difficult to suggest with confidence that the women’s strong and proactive persona is due to, or at least fostered by, their concentration on a horrendous past event, its aftermath, and its consequences. However, this concentration highlights the inexorability of the sequence of crime and punishment, and mediates its latest manifestation, even though the women fail to demonstrate a timely insight into its future perpetuation, as do the principals. The chorus of Agamemnon constantly probe the past, and the inexorable certainty of punishment for past crimes is one of the main themes in their pronouncements from beginning to end. The elders are not bold, decisive, or particularly perspicacious, although this effect may be mostly due to their, and virtually every other character’s, failure to match the brilliance and power of Clytaemestra. Still, the chorus’ authoritative and insightful reviews of the past enhance their venerable status, and they are the only ones whom Clytaemestra explains herself to, finds quite difficult to silence, and ultimately finds some common ground with. Of the rest of Aeschylean choruses, that of Eumenides, comprising divinities with a protagonistic role, barely deal with the specifics of the crime they prosecute. Similarly, as already indicated, the protagonistic chorus of

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Conclusions

Supplices fail to devote much lyrical energy to meditative and informative accounts of the past but they idolize and rhapsodize Io, whom they view as their role model. The remaining two plays are closer to Agamemnon and Choephori than to Supplices and Eumenides. In Persae the glorious might of the Persian empire, exemplified and amplified by Darius’ conquests and wise rule, is a main theme of the chorus’ songs before Xerxes’ return, although it becomes more prominent after the appearance of Darius’ ghost. The chorus in Septem significantly concentrate on the present and near future in the parodos and the first stasimon but review the history of the Labdacid family and lament the imminent fratricide, the latest crime, in the elaborate second song. They also repeatedly invoke the terrible curse of Oedipus in their lament over the fratricides. In clear contrast, Sophoclean choruses are not only less expansive but also less emotionally engaged and thus engaging in their contemplation of the past. To start with Electra, which dramatizes the same myth as Choephori and features a similarly supportive female chorus, the women recall Agamemnon’s murder and are given the only reference to the origin of the family’s troubles, the murder of Myrtilus by Pelops. They also harbor no doubts that Orestes will return to avenge his father’s murder and that he will succeed. Nevertheless, the voice of the chorus never reaches the pathetic intensity and urgency of Electra’s, and their utterances mostly lack details and thus emotional edge. The lament for her father, brother and herself is relegated to Electra throughout, as is the depiction of the survivors’ loathing for the killers of Agamemnon. The chorus of Trachiniae provide a memorable lyrical recreation of the struggle of Heracles and Achelous in the first stasimon, but it is a development of Deianeira’s narrative in the prologue. They never provide any significant piece of information or reach any insight that would not be available without their songs. The sailors of Ajax, quite similar to Neoptolemus’ men in terms of status and dependence on their leader, turn to the past much more often than the chorus of Philoctetes but are even less active. The effect of this seeming contradiction is extenuated if the failure of the men of Ajax to distinguish present from past and future is taken into account. They highlight the plight of long-suffering soldiers and lesser fighters, which reaches the point of depression and war trauma. The drudgery of the long and arduous campaign blurs the distinction between past, present and future, rendering the men unable and unwilling to take any part in the disputes of the leaders, the consequences of which only exacerbate their troubles. Given their immersion in their own misfortunes and perceived impasse, their songs unsurprisingly do not shed light on the predicament and nobility of Ajax,

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or on the history of his clash with the Atreids and Odysseus. The chorus of OT remain appreciative of Oedipus’ past service to the city until the end, but their primary focus is on present miseries and human misfortunes in general. It is not accidental that two of Sophocles’ calm-before-the-storm songs belong to these choruses, and the chorus of Ajax is even deceived by the hero. Finally, the Colonan elders of OC virtually never recall the plight of Oedipus and his family and they even ask the hero for details of his terrible history. Although they praise their land and Theseus, they also never recount any part of their history. The consistency of the two poets’ choices with respect to choral engagement with the past may be thought to enhance their divergence. Alternatively, and equally plausibly, it may be thought to go some way toward diminishing it, by contributing to the creation of a similar overall effect of balance in the treatment of the past. Aeschylean heroes do not direct their lives solely with the compass of the past, but the choruses never allow them and primarily the audiences to make light of its gravity. Sophoclean heroes heed the call of their past much more keenly. This is not unexpected, since this past is to a greater and more conspicuous extent self-fashioned, in the mold of their beliefs, emotions and passions. As a consequence, the remit of Sophoclean choruses is not limited, solely or primarily, to the review of the past, and they are freer to perform other functions, most often to point up the excellence of the principals and, ultimately, their isolation. Nevertheless, and despite both their more limited choral contributions and their greater contemplative limitations, at least with regard to the impact of the past, Sophoclean choruses are closer to the principals than their Aeschylean counterparts. With the partial exception of Persae, the choruses in the extant Aeschylean plays are not coeval with the principals. Moreover, Choephori has a chorus of slave-women, and the martial Septem a chorus of maidens. Apart from Choephori, the extant Aeschylean plays feature choruses openly hostile, or very skeptical, toward the principals, and ready to clash with them. Sophoclean choruses are much more positively disposed, or at least restrained, in their dealings with the principals. The choruses try to reason with the principals by means of cautioning advice and occasionally distance themselves from them. However, they are always on the side of the main hero(es) and share their beliefs and illusions. They view the past in a similar manner, although with very different degrees of intensity and commitment. The lack of rapport between Aeschylean choruses and principals serves to (further) insulate the past, with which Aeschylean choruses are much concerned, from the pressing issues that inform the dramatized events.

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Even the fascination of the Danaids with Io has little impact on the fate of their petition for asylum at Argos. The chorus of Persian elders lionize Persian glory in general and the rule of Darius in particular. This places in a grimmer light the folly of Xerxes and the resulting suffering of his people, but does not foster healing. The long and elaborate second stasimon of Septem highlights the fatality of the fratricide and its place in the internecine family history. Nevertheless, it adds little to the play’s presentation, and the audience’s view, of the decision of the brothers to face each other at the walls of Thebes. In Agamemnon, the eponymous hero is burdened by guilt and punished for a host of reasons. Still, the thoughtful and knowledgeable chorus of Argive elders, who are sympathetic toward him but recall the prophecy of Calchas and receive the mantic insights of Cassandra, are unable to reach any definite, unchallengeable conclusion about the origin of his guilt, the imminence or agents of his punishment, and the competing claims to justice advanced by the principals. The past in Aeschylus, lyrically reviewed in greater detail than in Sophocles, often remains at one remove from the principals, and the choruses fail to draw the connections that might illuminate its association with present and future. In Sophocles, the past is much closer to the hearts and constantly on the minds of the heroes, but they survey only the part of it they have constructed and thus cherish. The choruses focus, if at all, on the same part of the past, although they may stress different aspects of it, as, for instance, the chorus of Ajax do. In a schematic nutshell, the past appears to be too distant from present concerns for most Aeschylean characters to have a clear picture of it or its association with present and future. Sophoclean characters fail to take the necessary step back from their present concerns and contemplate the past from a distance that might furnish a clear picture of it and its distinction from present and future. Ultimately, for Aeschylean characters, the past may be said to be a foreign country where they do things differently. For Sophoclean heroes, the past is not even past. In this light, no character of either dramatist may be thought to possess a reasonably clear or comprehensive view of the past. Despite its weight or burden, as the case may be, no character is able to deal with it adequately. Constantly turning to the past and claiming it as their unfailing or cherished guide, the characters may be viewed as its creatures. Still, the past is accessible only in part: it cannot be (re)visited and can ultimately only remain as elusive and deceptively familiar as a foreign country.

Appendices A. Aeschylus I. Septem 1. Septem 5–8 The exact meaning of the phrase “accusatory ( lit. loud-swelling) preludes” (φροιμίοις πολυρρόθοις) at 7 is difficult to determine. Many scholars suggest that the preludes are laments that would precede the advent of further troubles such as the overthrow of Eteocles.1 Hutchinson thinks that the phrase does not indicate a prelude to a hymn or mutterings that precede a revolt but those preceding the capture of the city, vaguely referred to as “misfortune” (συμφορά) at 5.2 But it is hard to believe that Eteocles would mention the capture of the city and then revert, virtually in the same breath, to preludes to it. More important, the formulation of 6–8 does not preclude any of the possibilities rejected by Hutchinson. Hubbard proposes more plausibly that the preludes are curses hurled at Eteocles, which precede the lamentations of the citizens for their dead.3 Eteocles, though, may envisage a situation, probably a siege, that lasts for some time. If things went badly for the Thebans, they would start muttering and lamenting their misfortunes. This would form a prelude to their uttering curses against Eteocles. The discontent and maledictions might also lead to the overthrow of the king, in the final, desperate attempt of the citizens to prevent the capture of the city. Foley suggests that the terms used in 5–8 combine elements of praise (the verb, the [implied] etymology of the name) and lament (the wailings), which prefigure the similar mixture of praise and lament the corpse of Eteocles will receive later in the play.4 This may be so, although there is

1 2 3 4

For a review of such suggestions see Hubbard (1992) 299 n. 2. Hutchinson (1985) on 7. Cf. Winnington-Ingram (1983) 26 n. 24. Foley (2001) 49.

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very little praise in the chorus’ lament for the brothers.5 Eteocles’ choice of terms probably serves to highlight his view of his public image, whether this is the result of performance anxiety, bitterness, resignation, or a mixture of these: despite the etymology of his name (“the man of true kleos”), he will never enjoy public praise; the only “hymns” he may expect are the noise of accusations and laments coming in waves that precede disaster. Much later (683–85), he will voice his only expectation of fame: eukleia will accrue from his courageous, imminent death in (fratricidal) battle and will of course be posthumous. There is no mention of his fellow citizens in this connection: although Eteocles may be thought to hope or believe that they too will recognize his good repute, despite the fratricide, the chorus’ dismay over the latter may be viewed as an indication to the contrary.

2. Oedipus’ curse It is likelier that the curse was due to Oedipus’ anger because of his mistreatment by his sons, or some kind of outrageous behavior on their part, than to his resentment for their incestuous origin, or at least to resentment for their origin only.6 Hutchinson argues that the curse was motivated by Oedipus’ outrage at the incest which produced his sons.7 Lawrence recently took up, without acknowledgment, a strange suggestion by Manton and Thalmann, among others, to the effect that Oedipus cursed his sons because he raised products of an incestuous union and did not expose them at birth.8 A serious problem with such suggestions is that a man devastated by the realization of his unwitting incest is likely and indeed bound to curse his entire progeny. In the two other instances of angry parents cursing their progeny that Hutchinson cites (A. Ag. 1602, Eur. Md. 112–14), the imprecation condemns all the children – in the first instance the entire Pleisthenid line. But Oedipus’ curse is such that it cannot have included the daughters. Perhaps Aeschylus simply ignored the father’s potential wrath against the daughters. Other possibilities are that Oedipus

5 6 7 8

Cf. Hutchinson (1985) on 922–25. For the mistreatment interpretation see e.g. Gantz (1982) 20–21, and Berman (2007) 162. Hutchinson (1985) xxv. Cf. Roisman (1988) 82 ( but Oedipus’ curse does not prevent the perpetuation of his line, as she claims). Lawrence (2007) 336; Manton (1961) 82; Thalmann (1978) 20.

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had lost his mind, that the trilogy mentioned no daughters,9 or that the father pronounced a different, unreported, curse on them. The chorus emphasize the mental distortion and frenzy of Oedipus in the second stasimon, but this involves the outrage of a father cursing his sons, not the bizarre impulse of a father to curse only some of his incestuously born children. It is easier to accept that a Greek poet ignored a part of the myth that did not affect his drama, or that he followed a different version of the story, in the present case a version according to which Oedipus and Jocasta had only sons. But there is no reason to attribute extraordinary choices to Aeschylus, especially since the scholiast on S. OC 1375 suggests that Septem follows the epic Thebais (453.20–454.4 Papageorgius), in which Oedipus cursed his sons for their failure to obey or honor him (PEG 2 and 3). It is true that the second stasimon seems to present Oedipus’ self-blinding and the curse on his sons as virtually concurrent events following the revelation of his identity (778–90). It is equally true, though, that impressions created by lyric accounts of past events cannot serve as secure basis for the timing of the events in question, and the insult of his sons may have occurred fairly soon after the blinding, as they may have been young men rather than children at the time. Föllinger, who wishes to corroborate her argument that the curse links three generations of Labdacids instead of two, claims that Oedipus may have cursed the children because of his own impious birth.10 This is very improbable: if Oedipus had resented his birth, he would surely have resented the birth of his children too. Besides, Föllinger too fails to address the problem why Oedipus cursed his sons only, and her view contributes nothing to its solution.

3. The timing of the allocation of champions at the gates The timing of Eteocles’ allocation of the Theban champions, including himself, at the gates presents a thorny problem. Since it affects one’s view of the freedom of Eteocles’ choice to confront his brother, its solution is not a mere matter of scholastic detail. If Eteocles had decided to stand at the seventh gate before the arrival of the messenger, then the confrontation of the brothers is the result of chance or divine motivation. Notoriously,

9 The end of Septem is probably spurious; see A II n. 23 above. 10 Föllinger (2003) 156–57.

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Eteocles announces at the end of the first episode that he is going to appoint the champions before the messenger returns with his urgent intelligence (282–86). In his responses to the messenger’s report of each Argive posting, he uses different tenses to describe the placement of the Theban champions: three futures (408, 621, 672), two perfects (448, 473), one aorist (505), and one present (553). He also seems to choose each champion so as to match most effectively the challenge presented by each Argive opponent. All possible views have been proposed to explain the discrepancies: Eteocles had made all the postings before the arrival of the messenger;11 he had made none;12 he had made some;13 there is no way of resolving the poet’s deliberate ambiguity.14 Hutchinson believes that the future tenses, selected for the beginning and end of the scene, are meant to create an effect of recurring urgency and suggest that the postings in question, especially that at the seventh gate, have yet to be made.15 He does not indicate his view about the actual timing of the postings but he may think that only some have been made, or that the really important thing is the presentation of the postings. The less extreme views are more attractive in that they may account reasonably well for the difference in the use of tenses and do not over- or undervalue the impact of Eteocles’ statement at 282–86.16 Unfortunately, there is no indication in the text that Eteocles has been interrupted at his strategic work by the arrival of the messenger, as the proponents of the third view would have it, although (some members of ) the audience may have thought so. Nor is there any reason to suppose that Aeschylus would have left the audience guessing in a simple but important matter. It would be better to be able to surmise that Eteocles had chosen the champions but

11 Wolff (1958), Patzer (1958), Burnett (1973) 346–47. 12 Von Fritz (1962) 199–205, Lloyd-Jones (1962) 740–41 = (1990) 196–97, Kirkwood (1969) 12–13, Johnson (1992), and Lawrence (2007) 343 n. 20. 13 Wilamowitz (1914) 61–62, Winnington-Ingram (1983) 23–24, and Conacher (1996) 65–68. 14 Lesky (1983) 20–21, and Lloyd (2007) 10. 15 Hutchinson (1985) 104–5. 16 My firm belief is that tragic characters are not made to say or do anything solely for the sake of foreshadowing future developments such as the messenger’s arrival, or for the sake of serving other dramatic purposes, and I have yet to find a passage that would undermine this belief. Eteocles could exit saying something to the effect that he has to take care of the business of defense rather than stressing specifically his imminent posting of the champions before the messenger’s arrival. Cf. Taplin (1977) 144.

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had not assigned each to a specific gate before the arrival of the messenger. This is, though, impossible to support in the text, pace Johnson.17 In final analysis, a modern critic can and may focus only on the indisputable fact that some postings seem to have been made in the past and some seem to be made onstage, for largely unclear reasons, because the dramatic benefit of the alleged fluctuation between urgency and calm is dubious, and it is not particularly likely that the composed and efficient Eteocles would be the vehicle for such an effect. Still, even if the most extreme view is adopted, and Eteocles, motivated by the gods or the curse, is assumed to have posted himself at the seventh gate before the messenger’s arrival, again the decision to fight his brother remains his: he could have posted someone else in his place when he would have found out that Polyneices would attack the seventh gate.18 I find it implausible that Eteocles had decided to defend the seventh gate before the arrival of the scout, although it is conceivable, even if dramatically irrelevant and undecidable, that he had decided to confront Polyneices himself, since the latter was virtually bound to seek him out in combat.

II. Supplices The end of the Danaid trilogy I am not absolutely convinced that the trilogy ended auspiciously for the Danaids who had killed their bridegrooms. The story of their perpetual and futile water-carrying in Hades may be a later accretion to their myth,19 but it is certainly possible that Aeschylus incorporated or invented another punishment, either on earth or in Hades, for the killers. In Aeschylean drama, no killing, especially an internecine one such as the murder of the Aegyptiads, is likely to remain unpunished, or to receive a light punishment, even if the guilt of the victims is irrefutable and severe. Given the lack of contemporary literary and iconographic evidence about a punishment of the Danaids, and the great uncertainty concerning the contents of the trilogy, it is perhaps more prudent to assume that the Danaids fared relatively well at the end. But it should also be kept firmly in mind that

17 Johnson (1992). 18 Cf. Winnington-Ingram (1983) 25. 19 See Friis Johansen and Whittle (1980) 50.

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there are no signs of reconciliation in Supplices:20 the references of the secondary chorus to Zeus, Hera, and Aphrodite ironically foreshadow the marriage of the Danaids to the Aegyptiads, at least primarily, or much more obviously than marriage to other men. The famous Danaides fragment (44 Radt), in which Aphrodite praises the life-giving, cosmic power of Eros, may also come from a part of the play that has nothing to do with a happy ending for the killers. Belfiore constructs her discussion of the play around the concept of guest-friendship and reconciliation. She argues that Supplices opposes two kinds of marriage, forced, associated with the Argive Hera, and respectful, associated with Aphrodite, Zeus Hikesios, and Themis, in which the bride is treated as guest-friend and suppliant of her husband’s hearth. According to Belfiore, the story of Io provides a mythical paradigm of the second kind: this is exemplified eventually in the union of Hypermestra and Lynceus, and possibly in the second union of her sisters, which implies also the reconciliation of Zeus and Hera, the divine wife who had quarreled with her husband over Io and had pursued Io’s female descendants.21 Apart from the lack of any clear indication of reconciliation mentioned above, Belfiore also glosses over the irreconcilable difference between Io and the Danaids. She appears to assume that the Danaids advocate and aspire to the second kind of marriage, which is far from certain. The association of bride and suppliant in the context of Greek wedding, even if valid, has little to do with Io, who had been already united with Zeus in Argos, and much less with the Danaids. The equation of Pelasgus with Zeus, and especially that of Hera, the goddess of marriage, with the Aegyptiads and the alleged barbarian kind of marriage, is implausible and finds no support in the play.

III. Agamemnon 1. Agamemnon 1458–61 The reference to Strife (ἥτις ἦν τότ’ ἐν δόμοις/ Ἔρις ἐρίδματος ἀνδρὸς οἰζύς, 1460–61) and the attribution of responsibility for it to Helen are not easy to understand: ἥτις may be corrupt, and its connection with the

20 Pace Friis Johansen and Whittle (1980) 33, 51–52. 21 Belfiore (2000) 39–62.

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preceding clause (νῦν τελέαν πολύμναστον ἐπηνθίσω/ δι’ αἷμ’ ἄνιπτον, 1458–59) is unclear, as are the time frame of τότ(ε) and even the meaning of ἐρίδματος. Some scholars think that the chorus imply the sacrifice of Iphigeneia and the slaughter of Thyestes’ children: the ancient, unshakeable or built-in strife in the house was manifested again through Helen’s agency in the murder of Agamemnon, perpetrated for the sake of indelible blood (1459), i.e. as a punishment for Iphigeneia’s sacrifice.22 The view of Fraenkel is more convincing. Following Wellauer and others, he cuts out ΔΙ as dittography for ΑΙ and suggests that the indelible blood points to Agamemnon’s murder and that the whole ephymnium refers to Helen: the strife is most probably that caused by her flight, as suggested in the second stasimon.23 Fraenkel also puts a stop after ἄνιπτον and adopts Schütz’ ἦ τις for ἥτις. These interventions render a reference to Thyestes’ children virtually out of the question since the children have nothing to do with Helen, and it is unlikely that they would already be introduced at this point in such an obscure way. There is no reason to bring in events unrelated to Helen: the chorus do not yet look beyond the war in their attempt to understand the present misfortune. Concerning the suggested association of Iphigeneia’s sacrifice with Helen, Clytaemestra’s answer (1464–67) is the surest guide to the meaning of the chorus. It is quite implausible that the chorus would allude to Iphigeneia’s sacrifice and that Clytaemestra, whose only goal throughout the exchange is to convince the chorus that this sacrifice was all-important, would fail to say anything in response. Failure to pick up an allusion is hardly an interpretive option in the case of the Aeschylean Clytaemestra,24 and would be dramatically very lame in this particular context anyway. Clytaemestra’s response indicates that Helen, the killer of men, was the sole target of the chorus’ accusations. Even if the “indelible blood” is not Agamemnon’s (and Fraenkel’s readings are ignored), it is much more plausible that the chorus refer to the war casualties just mentioned than to Iphigeneia’s sacrifice or Thyestes’ banquet. The text of 1458 (νῦν τελέαν πολύμναστον ἐπηνθίσω) may not be sound, as Denniston-Page observe,25 but if it is, it may introduce an oxymoron: Helen’s final, crowning, unforgettable adornment of her “achievement,” the destruction of many lives, is the death of

22 23 24 25

See Denniston-Page (1957) 205; cf. Conacher (1987) 51. Fraenkel (1950) 691; cf. Gruber (2009) 377. Cf. Foley (2001) 213–14. Denniston-Page (1957) 204–5.

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Agamemnon. Instead of being an expiation for the war casualties, as would be normal, this murder is another terrible crime.

2. Agamemnon’s freedom of choice The difficult and much-debated issue of Agamemnon’s freedom of choice exceeds the boundaries of the present study and will not be discussed in detail.26 Nevertheless, since the issue bears on any comprehensive treatment of the play, I will indicate my position, for reasons of clarity. I agree with those who argue that Agamemnon had a choice at Aulis, even if this choice was between two evils, or a matter of over-determination, although I am inclined to believe that this was not the case. The play leaves no doubt that the punishment of Paris and the destruction of Troy was part of the plan of Zeus Xenios, but there is no indication that the execution of this plan included the sacrifice of Iphigeneia or eliminated her father’s freedom of choice in performing it.27 I do not think that the references to the notorious “harness of necessity” (ἀνάγκαςN .N .N .N λέπαδνον, 218) and to “wretched infatuation, the beginning of doom” (τάλαινα παρακοπὰ πρωτοπήμων, 223) imply inescapable necessity and divinely sent insanity respectively. Before, and especially after, Agamemnon made his decision to sacrifice his daughter, he certainly considered it a product of necessity, which resulted from factors he viewed as cogent, whatever they might be: the launching of the punitive expedition against Troy in order to redress an insult and restore injured family honor, loyalty to his brother and the army, sense of duty as commander, or even pursuit of martial honor and glory. Agamemnon’s view, though, is not necessarily justified or endorsed in the play. The clouding of one’s judgment may be attributed to divine intervention but mostly in a rather trivial sense: everything that happens in the world is willed by the gods, who use different methods to accomplish their will. This belief does not rule out freedom of choice and personal responsibility, at least not in Greek literature. Certainly, no Aeschylean play forswears freedom of choice, although it may be argued that such freedom does not

26 For comprehensive surveys of the views about Agamemnon’s freedom of choice see Peradotto (1969), Conacher (1987) 12–16, and Käppel (1998) 99–137. Cf. the discussion of freedom of choice in the Introduction. 27 See recently Parker (2009) 132–33.

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belong to Aeschylus’ main concerns. In any case, it is remarkable that some scholars chose to argue that the Aeschylean Agamemnon had no choice at Aulis in the face of Aeschylus’ choice to go to considerable lengths in order to stress the gravity of Agamemnon’s decision and its consequences.28 Käppel espouses the view of Williams, who thinks that Agamemnon had a choice but was motivated by a supernatural necessity that put him in a hopeless situation and was part of a pattern of factors converging to his and others’ ruin.29 This is an interesting formulation of Agamemnon’s (and many a tragic character’s) plight, but I cannot agree with Käppel’s idea that Agamemnon chose the lesser of two evils because his decision to spare Iphigeneia would lead to greater suffering, namely the starvation of the army and perhaps a mutiny. The text certainly does not point to such possibilities: Artemis prohibited the fleet from sailing to Troy, and the army suffered as long as they remained at Aulis. There is no indication that the goddess meant to destroy the army. Since Aulis was not an island port, the army, or the contingents affected by the adverse winds, could return home by land.30 They would not have liked that, but Agamemnon did not choose to sacrifice his daughter because he wished to save his men from starvation at Aulis.

3. Agamemnon 1224 The text of 1224 “a cowardly lion, wallowing in bed” (λέοντ’ ἄναλκιν ἐν λέχει στρωφώμενον) is not above suspicion, especially in view of 1258–59 in which Aegisthus is a wolf and Agamemnon the noble lion. It is impossible to find a(nother) reference to a cowardly lion in Greek literature, and it is very difficult to imagine why Aegisthus would be called a lion, even a cowardly one.31 The most radical solution has been proposed by Wilamowitz, who excises the line. This opens up the possibility that the two consecutive lines 1223 and 1225 would refer to Clytaemestra, whom the rest of Cassandra’s prophecies, both before and after the lines in question, target almost exclusively. If so, the revenge for the slaughter of Thyestes’ children would be associated with Clytaemestra, which would underscore

28 For the alleged association between Iphigeneia’s sacrifice and Thyestes’ banquet see A IV 4 above. 29 Käppel (1998) 99–137; Williams (1993) 135 ff. 30 See the discussion of the same issue in Sophocles’ Electra (B II 4) above. 31 See Fraenkel (1950), and cf. Denniston-Page (1957) ad loc.

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most vividly Cassandra’s suppression of Iphigeneia’s sacrifice. Alternatively, the remaining lines would be ambiguous, indicating either the stay-athome Aegisthus (cf. 1626) or Clytaemestra, the terrible guardian of the house (cf. 606–8, Eur. Hec. 1277). It is perhaps more prudent to retain 1224, which might have suffered some corruption but does not seem to be an interpolation. Still, even if Aegisthus retains his only claim to familial piety and internecine revenge pronounced by someone other than himself in the play, the emphasis on the treacherous and adulterous Clytaemestra in the prophecies immediately following the reference to Aegisthus undermines his role as Agamemnon’s killer. Fraenkel objects to the common interpretation of the reference to the bed at 1224 as a pointer to the adultery of Aegisthus and Clytaemestra, and it is probably correct that the primary reference of the participial phrase ἐν λέχει στρωφώμενον is to Aegisthus’ own bed and the indolence of its occupier. But I find it hard to believe that any audience would fail to associate Aegisthus’ wallowing in his bed with his activities in the bed of Clytaemestra and his enemy Agamemnon.

4. The arrival of the chorus of Agamemnon It matters little to the interpretation of the play whether Clytaemestra has sent for the elders or they appear of their own accord. It would certainly be normal for the queen to gather representatives of the people in order to announce to them the most important state news in ten years, but if she had, it is strange that the chorus would not have said so. It is thus simpler to suppose that the chorus arrive of their own accord, as Taplin argues.32 His objection to the suggestion that some time must be imagined to have elapsed between the exit of the watchman and the entrance of the chorus, during which the sacrifices were being performed, is unwarranted. If curiosity is the motive of the chorus, then something must have piqued it, although of course there is no reason to imagine that the stage remained empty for any considerable period of time and that the sacrifices were being performed onstage by attendants or, much less, by a silent Clytaemestra, as Denniston-Page, for instance, think.33

32 Taplin (1977) 279. 33 Denniston-Page (1957) 75–76.

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I agree with those who suggest that Clytaemestra enters at the end of the parodos and is not present for the chorus’ questioning at 83–103.34 Conacher correctly points out that it is unparalleled for questions of such extent and urgency to be addressed to a character offstage.35 Nevertheless, his solution to the problem, that the queen “bides her time until she is ready to speak – and until the dramatist finds it appropriate, for the parodos must be sung in ignorance of the victory at Troy,” is neither illuminating nor convincing. The reason(s) for Clytaemestra’s, or any silent character’s, unpreparedness to speak cannot be imagined, and the dramatist could easily not put questions in the mouth of his characters until he found it appropriate to do so. Although the chorus’ questions at 83–103 do seem to be addressed to a character onstage, it is the lesser evil to postulate that Clytaemestra was not present than to assume that she failed to answer the elders for unclear reasons.

5. Agamemnon 475–88 A popular explanation of the chorus’ turnaround is that the renewed expression of disbelief creates tension and provides a foil for the speech of the herald. Gruber, who argues that a major function of the Aeschylean chorus is to focalize and direct the response of the audience, takes a similar view. He suggests that the end of the stasimon leads the audience back to the great uncertainty that prevailed at the end of the parodos and to the mistrust of Clytaemestra.36 The parodos, though, ended in somber anticipation of future disaster rather than uncertainty, and any negative view of Clytaemestra on the part of the audience would not lead them to distrust the news of the capture of Troy. In the dramatic time of the play, ten years after the launching of the expedition, and following the report of Calchas’ prophecy, the news of the capture was virtually bound to be true. More generally, there is no reason to assume that the wish to create an effect of mild suspense, which lasts briefly and has very limited dramatic impact, would lead an author to attribute to his characters a complete turnaround.

34 See Fraenkel (1950) 51–52, Taplin (1977) 280–81, and Mastronarde (1979) 101–3. 35 Conacher (1987) 97 n. 1. Cf. Denniston-Page (1957) 57. 36 Gruber (2009) 326–27.

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Fraenkel thinks that there is a certain psychological looseness in the depiction of the chorus. This provides the poet with the opportunity to have them express views that are psychologically plausible, such as the disbelief that follows an initial onrush of joy caused by the reception of longawaited good news, without presenting them with the consistency which he would take care to attribute to principals.37 Similarly, Conacher claims that the psychological reasons for the chorus’ moods are not important in comparison with the influence of these moods on the audience.38 But as Denniston-Page object, such speculations do not explain why Aeschylus would make the statements even of a chorus so jarringly inconsistent.39 Fletcher argues that the chorus is sometimes the mouthpiece of the authoritative narrative voice in the play and sometimes a unified character. She thinks that the stasimon moves from initial authoritative, aristocratic or epic, confidence to personal and realistic disbelief, mediated through the inclusion of other voices in the song, which the chorus at the end, recoiling before the prospect of Agamemnon’s punishment, tries to shut out.40 I do not share the view of the chorus as mouthpiece of the narrative authority: the chorus do not differ substantially from other characters in this respect, although they may engage more frequently in generalizing reflections. In any case, the multiplicity of voices in the stasimon cannot explain adequately the disbelief expressed at the end. Ever since Calchas spoke in Aulis, the elders know and trust that Troy will fall: it is difficult to believe that they would wish for the war to go on, and for the Greek army and civilians, especially the citizens of Argos, to continue suffering, so that Agamemnon’s punishment might be deferred. The end of their announcement of the herald’s arrival indicates that they wish for the good news to be true (498–502).

6. Suggested allusions to Iphigeneia’s sacrifice in the meeting of Clytaemestra and Agamemnon Conacher and Käppel suggest that Clytaemestra alludes to the Aulis sacrifice (933), as does Agamemnon (934), and sarcastically urges her husband

37 38 39 40

Fraenkel (1950) 246–49. Conacher (1987) 23–24. Denniston-Page (1957) 114. Fletcher (1999). Winnington-Ingram (1983) 210–12 also suggests that the chorus now wish for the news to be false.

A. Aeschylus

529

not to hesitate to commit another hubris on top of his other impious offenses, which include a bloody and destructive war undertaken for the sake of Helen.41 According to Käppel, Agamemnon yields because he cannot refute Clytaemestra’s arguments and does not put an end to the dangerous dispute. Since such readings are not based on any verbal or other evidence, there is nothing to say against them except to point out their extreme tendentiousness. In my view, the text cannot support such a burden of associations, and Clytaemestra is perfectly able to best Agamemnon without an unbelievably obscure and compressed summary of the parodos and the two previous stasima. Her argument from a hypothetical vow of Agamemnon in a situation of danger and fear (933) has no association with the Aulis story. His predicament at Aulis did not cause him to be afraid of anything – he did not make a vow, and Calchas did not prescribe one: Iphigeneia’s sacrifice was not a thanks-giving offering for the fulfillment of a prayer or vow but a means of appeasing Artemis. No mention of, or credible allusion to, the Aulis sacrifice is made between the parodos and Clytaemestra’s speech after the murders. Scholars believe that the sacrifice should be mentioned, or at least insinuated, in the meeting of the spouses, but the play does not support such views. It is more striking that Electra never appears and is not even mentioned in Agamemnon. It is true that the play would not easily accommodate her character and may not have benefited from her inclusion. Aeschylus may also have wished to create an effect of surprise with her appearance in the second play of the trilogy. But irrespective of the rationale, if any, of her suppression in Agamemnon, it is important that at least some modern readers often expect what ancient authors simply did not judge necessary to provide or at least to mention in passing.

IV. Choephori 1. The sincerity of Clytaemestra’s lament for the supposed death of Orestes The most recent contribution to the discussion of the sincerity of Clytaemestra’s lament is by Pontani, who provides a review of previous suggestions and argues that she is insincere. He believes that Orestes’ false tale of

41 Conacher (1987) 37–39; Käppel (1998) 155–58.

530

Appendices

death was probably invented and presented as a deliberate test (πεῖρα), meant to lead to the revelation of Clytaemestra’s feelings toward her son, in the model of other lying tales of homecomers such as the stories Odysseus narrates to Eumaeus and Laertes in Odyssey.42 But Pontani himself admits the validity of several obvious objections to his thesis. Apart from our ignorance of the treatment of Orestes’ story in the work of Aeschylus’ predecessors, especially Stesichorus, Orestes must have decided on his tale before Clytaemestra appeared at the door, as the reference to “novel tales” (καινοὺς λόγους, 659) he is bringing indicates. If so, he could not have prepared it with his mother in mind because he had no idea whether he would have an opportunity to observe, or hear about, her reactions to it. Orestes had to gain access to the house, and weighty news rather than a simple request for accommodation was much likelier to facilitate his purpose by establishing a closer, trusting relationship with the hosts.43 In any case, his mother’s reaction to the news, whether jubilant or distraught, would not change his attitude toward her, mainly his decision to kill her. In light of these objections, the association between the tales of Orestes and other homecomers is of little interpretive value. It is plausible, though, that the inspiration for Orestes’ tale may be traced back to Homer, although Aeschylus changed both the addressee and the purpose of the tale. According to Pontani, Clytaemestra is insincere because she does not mention her maternal bond with Orestes, later defers to Aegisthus for the decision about her son’s ashes and generally behaves very differently from characters receiving similar news in other poems, especially Odyssey.44 Clytaemestra’s reaction, though, does not include anything conspicuously false or misleading, and neither Choephori nor Agamemnon indicates that she wished for Orestes’ death. The sincerely devastated Electra in Sophocles’ homonymous play, for instance, also does not mention her relationship to Orestes, but this does not make her grief less genuine. Clytaemestra’s

42 Pontani (2007). 43 The mention of Orestes on the day after Clytaemestra’s dream was not dangerous or suspicious, as Jebb (1894) xxix, xxxix suggests. If anything, the tale of the strangers would “prove” that the dream would not come true. The fact that Clytaemestra’s message to Aegisthus did not include a suggestion for him to come without his bodyguards does not indicate that she did not trust the tale: an armed escort was normal for a ruler, and there was no reason for Clytaemestra to suggest a modification. 44 Pontani (2007) 220–22.

A. Aeschylus

531

reference to the availability of friends (717) does not contradict her complaint that the curse of the house is stripping her of friends/loved ones (695), at least not irreconcilably so: the curse is killing her friends but has not finished its work yet. More significantly, the nurse later claims that Clytaemestra is pretending to be sorry in front of the servants, hiding her pleasure at the news of Orestes’ death (737–41). The audience have no reason to disbelieve the nurse but no reason to believe her, either: she does not claim that she witnessed any action or statement betraying Clytaemestra’s true feelings. A comparison with Clytaemestra’s reaction in Sophocles’ Electra (675, 766–68, 770–71, 773–83, 791, 793, 795, 802–3) shows clearly that the lack of explicitness in Choephori prevents certainty. Goldhill, quoting Barthes, suggests that Clytaemestra’s speech and its sincerity in Choephori cannot be read separately from the context: Clytaemestra reacts to a false speech, with no referentiality, and the nurse’s “reading” of Clytaemestra’s behavior foregrounds the difficulty of the act of interpretation.45 There is no doubt that the scene may be thought to touch on issues of referentiality, interpretation, or truth in language, but the falsity of Orestes’ speech is irrelevant to any attempt at interpreting Clytaemestra’s reaction. Even if the news announced were genuine, the characters and external audience would be in no better position to judge the sincerity of Clytaemestra’s reaction.

2. The function of the kommos Hame thinks that the kommos is a lament, a part of normal funeral rites, which shows the public reemergence of Agamemnon’s household.46 It is clear that the children and servants of Agamemnon wish to, and to an extent do, make up for the terrible treatment of his body with the kommos (cf. 510–11), but this rite is not public. The mourners have to take care to protect themselves from the murderers of Agamemnon and usurpers of his household and office (264–68). As argued in A V 6 above, the chorus function as representatives of the Argive people, but this aspect of their persona comes into focus after Orestes’ revenge. The public honors to Agamemnon will be offered after the victory of Orestes (483–88). This will come with the help of the dead man, whose anger the kommos is

45 Goldhill (1984) 167–68. 46 Hame (2004) 533–34.

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primarily meant to rouse (315–18, 332–36; cf. 382–85, 394–404, 456–60, 476–78, 495, 508–9). More recently, Auer argues that Electra is a much more forceful character than generally assumed: far from being indecisive in the first episode, she establishes a community with the chorus through her leading questions about the proper manner of offering the libations to Agamemnon (84–123); she also has a cardinal role in guiding Orestes toward the realization of the full extent of his mission, i.e. of the matricide, in the kommos.47 There is, though, no linguistic, dramatic, or other indication that Electra knows exactly what to do in the first episode and that her questions are leading or manipulative. Her show of greater forcefulness in the kommos (e.g. 418–22) may more plausibly be viewed as a result of Orestes’ return and the emotional impact of the kommos itself than as a manifestation of previous determination and planning.

3. The Lemnian crime (Ch. 631–38) The Lemnian women killed their husbands and sons because they were jealous of the men’s Thracian concubines.48 Garvie suggests that the Lemnian crime was twofold.49 According to Herodotus (4.145, 6.138), the Pelasgian men, who went to Lemnos after their expulsion from Attica and drove away the descendants of the murderesses and the Argonauts, stole Attic women and took them as concubines, eventually killing them and the children they had raised as Athenians. There is no credible reason why one should assume that the Pelasgian crime is alluded to. It is more difficult to reach a conclusion about the references to the evil lamented (632–34) and the race vanished (635–37). West plausibly suggests that τὸ δεινόν (634) is probably the murder of Agamemnon and not any evil in general,50 although it does not seem impossible that a definitive article would indicate a generic evil in a lyric context. But the switch to any family’s demise and especially the interpretation of βροτῶν γένος (636) as “family of men” are implausible. Without any other specification, βροτῶν γένος signifies the entire human race, which is obviously impossible.

47 48 49 50

Auer (2006). For references to accounts of the story in ancient sources see Sier (1988) 219. Garvie (1986) 217–19. West (1990) 250.

A. Aeschylus

533

If so, then βροτοῖς, the emendation of Wilamowitz, is necessary, and the reference must be to the Lemnian race. But the reference to mortal dishonor is strange – Garvie thinks that it refers to the expulsion of the Lemnians by the Pelasgians and the later troubles of the Pelasgians (Hdt. 5.26, 6.140), which may be considered as punishment for their massacre of the Athenian women and their children.51 It is quite implausible, though, that Aeschylus would imply that the Lemnians were punished for their mothers’ crime that took place before their birth. Besides, enemy attacks on cities and peoples such as those suffered by the Pelasgians can hardly be described as signs of mortal dishonor. There is probably no specific reference to historical events, but the lines indicate dishonor by men following upon divine hatred, which eventually leads to the utter obliteration of a race. This race must be that of the Lemnian women, and Aeschylus must have invented or followed an otherwise unattested version of the tradition, according to which they perished childless after their crime.52

V. Eumenides 1. The end of Orestes’ speech (Eum. 775–77) Most argues that the last three lines of Orestes’ speech should be attributed to Apollo: it is unlikely that the god stays on until the end of the play, and it is equally or more unlikely and dramatically implausible that he exits silently at some point after the announcement of the verdict; it is also illogical that Orestes would wish that Athens may enjoy what he just promised and guaranteed in the previous section of his speech, victory over her enemies through the alliance with Argos.53 Certainly, the silent exit of Apollo presents a difficult staging problem, as does his silent entrance.54 But Most’s solution to the problem of the god’s exit presents other equally or more serious problems. It is very improbable that in his speech of farewell Apollo would not name Athena, or use any form of address such as “queen,” “goddess” or “daughter of Zeus,” and that he would not say anything about the trial:

51 52 53 54

Garvie (1986) 219. See Sier (1988) 222–23. Most (2006). See the extensive discussion of Taplin (1977) 395–407.

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such succinctness is unusual and curt to the point of rudeness. The particle καί at the beginning of 775 is also impossible to explain if Apollo is the speaker. Moreover, there is no conceivable or plausible reason why Orestes would stop speaking at 774 without bidding farewell to Athena and Athens, or why Apollo would virtually interrupt him to bid the requisite farewell himself. 775–77 cannot be attributed to Apollo without the postulation of a lacuna of at least one line before 775 or, more likely, 776, as 775 could be the farewell of Orestes and the end of his speech. Since this would be a bold assumption, it is better not to change the attribution of the last three or two lines. It is also inaccurate that Orestes had promised to Athena in the preceding section of his speech what he wishes to her and the Athenians in his farewell, namely that the alliance with Argos would make Athens invincible in war. Orestes guaranteed the alliance of Argos and Athens, but no military alliance can guarantee complete invincibility, and nowhere does Orestes make or imply such an absurd claim. It is quite arbitrary to assume that the inescapable wrestling grip or trick (πάλαισμ’ ἄφυκτον) at 776 refers to the alliance with Argos. Orestes (or Apollo, if one is willing to accept that the last two lines are part of his farewell speech) exits with a wish that Athens may always have a way of outwrestling her enemies and remaining safe in victory. The preceding section of Orestes’ speech furnished assurances that the alliance with Argos, which had been promised before, would remain valid for all time to come, suggesting that it would provide very effective help in, but naturally no guarantee of, the achievement of Athenian military goals.

2. Orestes’ purity Athena refers to Orestes’ purity at 474. This is a description of his state and not an acknowledgment of special relief on her part. There is no doubt that a purified suppliant places less of a burden on the supplicated than a polluted one, but Athena’s statement does not indicate that she would have rejected a still polluted suppliant. West suggests that there is an inconsistency between Athena’s reference to Orestes’ similarity to Ixion and the addressee’s insistence on his purity, and thus on his difference from the mythical prototype of the polluted suppliant, whose mention he takes as proof of Athena’s anxiety over his defilement. Since Orestes points out that it is customary for the polluted murderer to remain silent (448–50), the goddess cannot have claimed that Orestes is

B. Sophocles

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similar to Ixion and asked him to speak (436–42). West resolves this difficulty and explains Orestes’ reference to the anxiety of the goddess by suggesting an emendation that turns Athena’s association of Orestes and Ixion into a statement of difference between the two suppliants.55 Athena, though, presumes to hear the defense of the matricide Orestes before she hears that, and without inquiring whether, he has been purified and is free to speak. It is true that she had heard, and may have accepted, Orestes’ claims to have been purified (235–39; cf. 280–89) before her arrival, but his reply to her injunction to speak (443–53) indicates that his earlier reassurances have not been sufficient. Athena is ignorant of the identity and situation of the new arrivals before they answer her questions, and Orestes’ appeals seem to have only motivated the goddess to come. Silence before purification is an obligation for the killer but it is not strictly enforced:56 not even the Erinyes, who reject Orestes’ claim to purity (316–17), object that he is not allowed to speak.

B. Sophocles I. Trachiniae 1. Trachiniae and Bacchylides 16 The relative chronology of the two poems has been discussed extensively, and no consensus has been reached.57 Scholars are divided in three camps, those who support the priority of one of the two authors, and those who claim that the two authors worked independently, perhaps drawing on a common source. To mention just some representative examples of recent discussions, Maehler believes in the priority of Sophocles. He claims that the fateful portent (δαιμόνιον τέρ[ας], 16.35), which the Bacchylidean Deianeira received from Nessus, would have been unintelligible to the

55 West (1990) 280–81. 56 Cf. Parker (1983) 371 n. 6. For the complex problem of Orestes’ purification see Parker (1983) 386–88, and Court (1994) 278–89. Käppel (1998) 246–49 follows earlier scholars in suggesting that the purification of Orestes took place at Delphi before the opening of the play, which is why the Erinyes fell asleep. In any case, the purification was not enough to free Orestes from the pursuit of the Erinyes (cf. 174–78, 225, 230–31). 57 See Riemer (2000).

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audience, and Bacchylides would have elaborated on it, if Sophocles’ play had not preceded the dithyramb.58 Pfeijffer also argues for Sophocles’ priority on the same grounds. He locates the crucial point of contact between the two poems in the choice of the fateful moment of Heracles’ sacrifice at Cenaeum, which is described in similar terms. He also thinks that the ignorance of the characters has thematic significance in the dithyramb, and that the privileged knowledge of the audience, provided by the intertextual allusions, generates empathy with the ignorance of the characters.59 Carawan, who supports Bacchylides’ priority, thinks that Bacchylides would not have disregarded Deianeira’s meeting with Iole if Sophocles’ play, in which the meeting is of paramount importance, had preceded the dithyramb.60 These views are very tendentious, and the similarities and differences between the two poems may certainly be accounted for in other ways. There is precious little evidence about the content of early treatments of the myth such as a poem by Archilochus (286–88 W2 ), the epic Heracles of Pisander of Rhodes, or Heraclea of Panyassis. If a version of the story of Nessus’ charm appeared in one of these early sources, Bacchylides’ audience would not need Sophocles’ play to understand the dithyramb. Even if Nessus’ “gift” appears first in Bacchylides 16,61 already the Hesiodic Catalogue of Women (25.20–25 Merkelbach-West) mentions the robe Deianeira poisoned and gave to Lichas to deliver to Heracles. It would thus not be impossible for the audience of the dithyramb to figure out that Nessus gave her something that she used later with nefarious results. Pfeijffer admits that Bacchylides’ use of the play is certainly the only known example of a lyric poet’s recycling of tragic material. Since he claims that the audience of the dithyramb would not have been able to understand it without knowledge of the play, he needs to prove that Bacchylides was reasonably sure that all, or at least a majority of, audience members at Delphi were familiar with the play. There is no evidence that non-Athenian audiences of the middle of the fifth century had such familiarity, especially in the case of a play performed not long before the dithyramb. Thus Pfeijffer corroborates the point he wants to prove, namely Sophocles’ priority, by taking for granted something that also needs proof.

58 59 60 61

Maehler (1997) 151–56. Pfeijffer (1999) 51–55. Carawan (2000) 198. Cf. B IV n. 32 above.

B. Sophocles

537

Maehler suggests that the geographical proximity of Delphi to Athens facilitates the familiarity in question, presumably with regard to Delphians and other central Greek populations. But these are assumptions that cannot be corroborated and used as evidence in a question of priority, and the distance of Delphi to Athens is almost two hundred kilometers anyway.62 Concerning Carawan’s claims, the meeting with Iole was not necessarily cardinal in the view of Bacchylides, and its absence from the dithyramb does not prove his priority. Riemer cautiously and correctly points out that the similarities between the two poems do not prove influence because themes that appear in both seem to have been popular in the middle of the fifth century. Nevertheless, he argues that Sophocles’ priority is indicated by the presence of verbal echoes of the play in the dithyramb such as the exclamation ἆ δύσμορος and the verb ἐμήσατο (16.30). δύσμορος is not attributed to Deianeira in Trachiniae (cf. 466, 775, 1005) but is a common word in Sophocles and rare in the rest of extant tragedy. The verb indicates an active Deianeira. On the model of Sophocles, Bacchylides also adopted a diptych structure, devoting one part to Heracles and the other to Deianeira but reversing their order and highlighting the drama of his heroine. Apart from the sheer implausibility of building any argument on two single, unmarked words, it is immediately obvious that the use of a Sophoclean favorite word by a poet older than Sophocles and in a poem likely earlier than the play cannot be used as evidence for the play’s priority. In the same vein, an active Deianeira, who, although subject to the influence of δαίμων (16.23), devises a plan that kills both her husband and herself, cannot be thought to be a Sophoclean invention. The same applies to the division of the play and the dithyramb in two parts, which deal with each main character consecutively. Deianeira is an active agent in all versions of the story, whether she intends to harm or charm her husband. Even if not adopted independently by both poets, the diptych structure and the sympathetic focus on Deianeira can point as much to the priority of Sophocles as to that of Bacchylides.

62 The problem of the non-Athenian audience at Delphi is solved if one postulates that the dithyramb was performed at Athens; cf. March (1987) 63 n. 65, and Maehler (2004) 165. This too is an assumption, and not particularly plausible. The important thing is that familiarity with the play is not necessary for the comprehension of the dithyramb.

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Since I do not believe that the dithyramb is impossible to understand without the play, or that there are any striking and/or meaningful verbal and structural similarities that prove Sophocles’ priority beyond reasonable doubt, I cannot share the views of those who argue for this priority. If priority is to be established, I would rather not argue for a case that involves several assumptions: an early date for the play, a late date for the dithyramb, and the very rare, if not unique, use of a play in a lyric poem directed probably to a largely non-Athenian audience. I would certainly be more comfortable with the priority of the older lyric poet Bacchylides but would not dismiss the possibility that the poems may have been virtually contemporary and echoed a common source or sources. All in all, given the difficulty of solving the problem of priority without the help of external evidence, the safest strategy is not to put too much weight on any piece of dubious internal evidence and not to base interpretive arguments on any of the suggested solutions.

2. Heracles’ proposal to Eurytus It is not clear when Heracles asked for Iole as a concubine, and especially if and how his proposal was linked to the quarrel that took place during the visit to Oechalia related by Lichas (262–69), the hero’s subsequent killing of Iphitus (269–80), and the sack of Eurytus’ city. Heracles asked for Iole either during the visit related by Lichas or after he had been released from his bondage to Omphale. The latter is rather unlikely because it seems that the attack on Oechalia took place immediately after his release (254–61). More important, during the visit related by Lichas, Heracles had quarreled with his host, had been thrown out of the house drunk, and had subsequently killed one of the host’s sons treacherously. This background makes it very difficult to assume, for no compelling reason, that he would later return and be received in the host’s house, where he would have the opportunity to meet the host’s beautiful young daughter and ask for her as a concubine. It is then much likelier that the proposal had been made during the visit that ended in the quarrel, perhaps in a state of intoxicated lustiness, and may have contributed to Heracles’ expulsion from Eurytus’ house. One may also assume that the visit of Iphitus gave Heracles a first opportunity to take revenge on Eurytus and his sons. His passion for Iole and his distress at the bondage he had to suffer as purification for his treacherous murder of Iphitus led him to sack Oechalia, a plan he had possibly conceived before the killing of Iphitus. This is a plausible sequence of events, but we cannot know whether or how Eurytus’ insults in relation to

B. Sophocles

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Heracles’ archery are associated with Iole’s concubinage and the sack of Oechalia.63 These insults are mentioned by Lichas in a passage that contains an intractable corruption obscuring understanding (265–68). Lichas’ lie to Deianeira necessitates the glossing over of Heracles’ passion, his proposal to Eurytus, and its rejection, but there is no reason to suppose that the account of the quarrel, which is not contradicted by the messenger and is supported by the tradition, was an invention.64 If Eurytus and his sons had indeed denigrated Heracles’ prowess in archery, then they had been as hubristic as Nessus and Heracles’ other foes, although this does not justify either the hero’s treacherous murder of Iphitus or his subsequent use of ruthless violence, which certainly makes him liable to suffer punishment in his own turn.

II. Philoctetes The end of the stasimon (718–29) Recently, Instone surprisingly claimed without any argumentation that the chorus believe that Neoptolemus will take Philoctetes to Malis.65 Gardiner lists and reasonably dismisses implausible earlier suggestions, such as the chorus’ abandonment of its dramatic persona, which originated with the influential discussion of Tycho von Wilamowitz-Moellendorff.66 Paulsen follows Müller, who suggested that the chorus have been misled by the rapport between Neoptolemus and Philoctetes. They actually believe that a compromise is possible and that Neoptolemus will be able to take Philoctetes to Malis, but by way of Troy.67 Many people, including myself, find this view unconvincing. The claim is serious and entails an interpretation of the chorus’ position for which there is no supporting evidence whatsoever. On the contrary, there is plentiful evidence, in sections both preceding and following the stasimon, that the chorus do not operate under mistaken assumptions. Furthermore, the dramatic import of such an

63 Cf. Winnington-Ingram (1980) 333. 64 For this tradition, which probably goes back to the epic Sack of Oechalia, see Davies (1991a) xxii–xxx. 65 Instone (2007) 235. Webster (1970) 110, 114 is an earlier proponent of this view. 66 Gardiner (1987) 33; Tycho von Wilamowitz-Moellendorff (1917) 285–87. Cf. the overview of such positions in Paulsen (1989) 86–87, and n. 68 below. 67 Paulsen (1989) 90–94; Müller (1967). Cf. Schlesinger (1968) 137–38, and Kamerbeek (1980) 104.

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error is dubious at best, and, if the chorus envisage Philoctetes’ return to Malis after the capture of Troy, there is no reason why they would stress that Philoctetes would return home on Neoptolemus’ ship. Tarrant, who also rejects the views of Tycho and his followers as well as various “Tychoist” positions, refines the suggestion of Schmidt, arguing that the chorus pretend in Philoctetes’ absence. Tarrant thinks that the stasimon and especially the last antistrophe ironically, and unbeknownst to the chorus, prepares for the outcome of the play, Philoctetes’ glorious rehabilitation through his connection with Neoptolemus.68 This is probably an over-interpretation. It is unlikely that any spectator or even first-time reader would recall the stasimon at the end of the play. Moreover, one cannot disregard the crucial fact that the last antistrophe deals with Philoctetes’ escape from exile through his meeting with Neoptolemus and his return to Malis on Neoptolemus’ ship. These alleged imminent events have nothing to do with Philoctetes’ eventual healing, glory, and homecoming. Equally unconvincingly, Kitzinger argues that the last part of the song is disengaged from the dramatic moment, the context of Philoctetes’ deception, and Neoptolemus’ options; instead, it fits in with the universal rhythm of suffering and restitution, which the chorus detect in Philoctetes’ case and express through the order of their song and dance.69 The song, though, stresses most emphatically that Philoctetes’ suffering is unique: there is no mention of the universal pattern of the alleged sort. Even if the chorus have in mind Philoctetes’ restitution, their emphasis on his imminent return home on Neoptolemus’ ship cannot be a reflection of, or explained through an appeal to, a larger order of things within which Philoctetes’ case is inscribed.

III. Oedipus Coloneus The fated feud of Oedipus’ sons (421–22) and his curse Polyneices does not attribute responsibility for the feud to his and Eteocles’ lust for power but to their father’s Erinys (1298–99). This is not the curse pronounced earlier in the play (421–27; cf. 450–54 and 789–90), not only because, as Jebb points out,70 Polyneices knows nothing about it yet but

68 Tarrant (1986); Schmidt (1973). 69 Kitzinger (2008) 104–12. 70 Jebb (19003) on 1298 ff.

B. Sophocles

541

also and primarily because probably no curse had been pronounced at the time the quarrel erupted. Polyneices refers to the family curse, which Ismene had called “the ancient ruin of the family that engulfed your miserable house” (369–70; cf. 596). He calls it his father’s curse because it afflicted the father before his sons, who “inherited” it from him. Unlike his children, Oedipus never acknowledges a family curse passed down the generations, only divine hostility toward the family, and only toward his parents and himself (964–68). Unsurprisingly, Oedipus attributes his sons’ behavior toward him and their feud to their evil character. As is obvious from his reply to Polyneices’ appeal, he views his curse against his sons as the sole agent that determines their miserable but fully deserved end. An admission on Oedipus’ part that his sons operated under a family curse would to an extent alleviate their guilt, although not eliminate it, because, unlike their father, his sons did not act in ignorance and could at least have assisted their father in his exile, as their sisters have. The reference to the fated feud (τὴν πεπρωμένην/ ἔριν) at 421–22 is thus probably not an allusion to the family curse, or to a curse by Oedipus preceding the dramatic time of the play, or even a hint that Apollo had revealed the quarrel of his sons and its bloody end in the oracle he had given Oedipus in his youth. To be sure, it is plausible to assume that during the long and hard years of his exile, or even before he left Thebes, Oedipus had occasion to castigate the unfilial behavior of his sons and, conceivably, to curse them for it. But it is too much to assume also, in the face of a total absence of relevant evidence in the play, that Oedipus had specifically cursed his sons to die by mutual fratricide. The lethal curse of mutual fratricide that led to the demise of his sons, the only one mentioned in the play and relevant to its interpretation, is dictated by the latest developments, which Ismene reports. “Fated” means simply “determined by fate”: at this point of his life, Oedipus apparently thinks that no event is motivated or determined by any other agent.71 After Polyneices’ exit, the chorus first attribute the terrible imminent events, the destruction of his sons, to Oedipus (1447–49) but then immediately wonder whether fate and the gods are responsible for it (1450–52). This is not necessarily a reference to a family curse: the chorus view Oedipus as the instrument of an inexorable fate, not as its creator.

71 Cf. Winnington-Ingram (1980) 266 n. 50.

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Index of passages I. Aeschylus and Sophocles Aeschylus Agamemnon 10 – 11: 142 14 – 15: 457 16 – 19: 126, 129 18 – 19: 130 20 – 24: 146 25 – 30: 146 36 – 39: 126 37 – 38: 126, 129 40 – 46: 128 72 – 82: 270 n. 46 83 – 103: 527 87 – 96: 146 126 – 55: 90 147 – 55: 105 – 12 198 – 247: 129, 137 202 – 4: 116 212 – 17: 334 218: 524 223: 524 243 – 47: 94 n. 12 248: 110, 112 249: 110 252 – 54: 128 n. 65 258 – 60: 126 264 – 66: 303 275: 182 281 – 316: 91, 130 320 – 50: 91 326 – 29: 135 338 – 50: 114, 130, 137 355 – 487: 130 – 34

429 – 74: 124 n. 59 432 – 74: 114 475 – 88: 134, 527 – 28 498 – 502: 528 525 – 28: 114 531 – 32: 156 n. 24 548 – 50: 126 555 – 74: 130 587 – 614: 137 n. 78 587 – 97: 146 606 – 8: 526 615 – 16: 126, 135 648 – 73: 130 674 – 79: 116 n. 45 681 – 782: 134 – 38 799 – 809: 117 807 – 9: 126 810 – 29: 125, 135, 138 810 – 957: 91 832 – 44: 138 n. 79 838 – 44: 155 844 – 50: 125 858 – 76: 135, 138 n. 79 887 – 94: 135, 138 n. 79 891 – 94: 457 905 – 57: 91 n. 4, 138 914: 138 n. 80 933: 528 – 29 934: 528 954 – 55: 92 975 – 1034: 138 – 41 1106: 130 1156 – 61: 382 1167 – 72: 382

560

Index of passages

1186 – 93: 144 n. 3 1191 – 93: 122 n. 56 1207 – 12: 119 1223: 525 1223 – 25: 112 – 13 1224: 525 – 26 1225: 525 1235: 113 n. 41 1247: 353 n. 94 1258 – 63: 123 1258 – 59: 525 1259: 112 – 13 1261: 123 1262: 124 1263: 124 1279 – 84: 123 1287 – 88: 117, 127 1305: 382 1313 – 14: 92 n. 7 1318 – 19: 123 1319: 112 – 13 1322 – 30: 92 n. 7 1331 – 42: 127 1366 – 71: 141 n. 85 1372 – 98: 94 1372 – 76: 91 1377 – 78: 93, 123 1386 – 87: 94 n. 12 1394: 91 1401 – 6: 94 1412 – 21: 92, 94, 99 1421 – 25: 92, 102 n. 22 1433: 335 1434 – 37: 92, 93, 97, 141, 146 1438 – 47: 92 1440 – 43: 92 1446 – 47: 93, 123 1448 – 52: 97 1453 – 54: 93 n. 10, 97 1455 – 61: 98, 117

1458 – 61: 522 – 24 1462 – 67: 94, 98 1464 – 67: 523 1468 – 74: 94, 95, 97, 98 1468 – 71: 93 n. 10 1475 – 80: 94, 95, 99, 101 1475 – 77: 97 1481 – 84: 95, 99, 100 1485 – 88: 99 1489 – 96: 96, 99 1497 – 1504: 93, 94, 95, 99, 143, 149 n. 12, 335 1505 – 6: 99, 100 1507 – 12: 100 1521 – 29: 96, 100, 172, 353 n. 92 1525 – 29: 91 1530 – 36: 126 1541 – 50: 152 1545 – 46: 117 1548: 117 1555 – 59: 94 – 95, 100, 172 1560 – 66: 94 – 95, 97, 183 1567: 94, 97 1567 – 76: 96, 100, 142, 143, 149 n. 12 1577 – 1611: 90, 101 1598 – 1602: 120 n. 53 1602: 518 1605 – 9: 153 n. 16 1610 – 11: 153 n. 16 1615 – 16: 92 1617 – 24: 101, 102 1625 – 27: 93 n. 10, 101, 126 1626: 526 1628 – 32: 337 n. 56 1634 – 35: 101 1638 – 39: 101 1639 – 42: 337 n. 56 1643 – 46: 101 1646 – 48: 102, 137, 153 n. 16

Index of passages

1649 – 53: 101 1654 – 61: 96, 101, 143 1655: 412 n. 86 1659–60: 97 n. 17, 143, 149 n. 12 1667: 102, 137, 153 n. 16 1672 – 73: 103 – 104, 142, 143 Choephori 7 – 9: 152, 324 n. 23 16 – 18: 356 32 – 41: 145, 182 46: 145 55 – 58: 320 n. 11 71 – 74: 163 n. 39 75 – 83: 320 n. 11 81 – 83: 320 84 – 123: 165, 532 122: 157 132 – 37: 154, 172 135: 316 n. 5, 320 190 – 91: 172 233: 356 n. 101 240 – 41: 148 242: 70 n. 13, 148 264 – 68: 531 271 – 96: 156, 157, 180 273 – 74: 353 n. 92 299 – 304: 156 300: 156 n. 23, 157 302: 156 n. 24 302 – 5: 349 302 – 3: 326 n. 30 303: 155, 156 n. 24 304 – 5: 149 315 – 18: 532 332 – 36: 532 345 – 62: 215 345 – 53: 155 363 – 71: 155 382 – 85: 532 386 – 93: 320 n. 11

561

394 – 404: 532 418 – 22: 172, 316 n. 5, 320, 532 429 – 49: 152 434 – 38: 153 n. 16 445 – 50: 316 n. 5, 320 450 – 55: 158 456 – 60: 532 476 – 78: 532 483 – 88: 531 495: 532 508 – 9: 532 510 – 11: 531 523 – 33: 145 531: 151 535 – 39: 145 540 – 50: 146 543 – 46: 151 555 – 59: 321, 353 n. 92 560: 164 571 – 76: 145 577 – 78: 149 n. 12 584: 164 585 – 652: 163 – 65 631 – 38: 532 – 33 649 – 52: 163 n. 39, 165 659: 530 668 – 718: 143, 158 672 – 73: 144 674 – 90: 144 675: 164 691 – 99: 143 694 – 95: 147 695: 531 696 – 97: 331 n. 45 717: 531 734 – 65: 158 737 – 41: 531 744 – 46: 148 n. 9, 149 n. 12 749 – 62: 320 n. 10 766 – 73: 158

562

Index of passages

750 – 60: 151 770 – 73: 166 800 – 6: 163 n. 39 838 – 54: 144 – 45 841 – 43: 144, 145, 149 n. 12 855 – 68: 320 n. 11 875 – 77: 147 n. 8 881 – 82: 146 n. 6 882: 176 n. 59 883 – 84: 147 n. 8 886: 146 n. 6 887: 144, 146 888: 142, 353 n. 92 889: 147 n. 7, 363 n. 115 892 – 930: 143, 152 893: 146, 147 894 – 95: 147, 152 896 – 98: 143, 150 897 – 98: 151 899: 151, 152. 157 900 – 2: 147, 151 904: 146 n. 6 905 – 7: 152 908: 143, 151 909: 152 910: 151 912: 151, 382, 414 n. 87 913: 152 913 – 21: 154 915: 152 915 – 17: 320 n. 11 918: 123, 143, 147, 152 919: 152 920: 143, 147 924: 151, 382, 414 n. 87 925: 152, 180 927: 152 928 – 29: 382 928: 146 929: 146, 182

930: 152 935 – 36: 155 n. 18 989 – 90: 149 991 – 1006: 172 1009: 161 n. 36 1014 – 15: 152 1016 – 17: 161 n. 36 1018 – 20: 161 n. 36 1029 – 32: 168 1046 – 47: 320 n. 11 1059 – 60: 168 1073 – 76: 161 1074 – 76: 183 Danaides fr. 44 Radt: 522 Eumenides 1 – 19: 171 n. 54, 172 24 – 26: 171 n. 54 67 – 73: 173, 182 94 – 139: 182 103 – 16: 363 n. 115 116: 176 n. 59 124 – 25: 363 n. 115 131 – 39: 363 n. 115 162 – 73: 171 174 – 78: 535 n. 56 179 – 97: 173 204: 171 209: 173 211: 179 n. 63 213 – 23: 179 n. 63 225: 535 n. 56 228: 173 230 – 31: 535 n. 56 235 – 39: 181, 535 245 – 53: 150 n. 15 258 – 75: 173 280 – 89: 181, 535 289 – 91: 174, 180 299 – 305: 173

Index of passages

316 – 17: 535 368 – 77: 183 n. 67 397 – 402: 180 n. 64 413 – 14: 175 418: 175 426: 175 427: 173 436 – 42: 175, 535 441: 171 n. 55, 180 443 – 53: 181, 535 448 – 50: 534 455 – 58: 156 n. 24, 180, 326 n. 30 456: 176 n. 59 458 – 61: 181 462: 178 n. 61 462 – 64: 153 n. 16 465 – 67: 180, 184 470 – 81: 183 473 – 74: 184 474: 534 476 – 79: 174 576 – 78: 181 600: 179 602: 179 604: 179 n. 63 606: 335 614 – 21: 173 616 – 18: 171 619 – 21: 174 625 – 28: 215 625 – 26: 176 629 – 37: 174 631 – 39: 181 631 – 32: 175 636 – 37: 176 638 – 39: 174 640 – 43: 171 644: 173 645 – 51: 173

657 – 66: 174, 335 667 – 73: 174 708 – 10: 172 711 – 14: 172 715 – 16: 171 717 – 18: 171, 172, 181 719 – 20: 172, 174 721 – 22: 172, 173 723 – 24: 171 727 – 28: 171 729 – 30: 172, 173 733: 174 736: 175 737 – 38: 175 739 – 40: 176 754 – 61: 178 762 – 77: 178 774: 534 775 – 77: 533 – 34 760 – 61: 176 797 – 99: 168 826 – 29: 175 930 – 37: 183 n. 67 Persae 6: 24 144 – 45: 24 n. 18 244: 29 245: 29 472 – 73: 29 473 – 77: 29 739 – 42: 70 753 – 58: 29 762 – 64: 23 822: 412 n. 86 Proteus 110 – 11, 114 – 15 Septem 1 – 9: 39 5 – 8: 517 – 18 69 – 77: 41 – 43

563

564

Index of passages

182 – 281: 41 – 44 271 – 78: 51 282 – 86: 520 375 – 676: 38 408: 520 448: 520 473: 520 505: 520 545 – 48: 69 553: 520 621: 520 657: 55 662 – 71: 49 n. 27, 50, 60 n. 45 672: 520 672 – 75: 60 n. 45 678: 40 n. 8 683 – 85: 54 n. 35, 518 695 – 97: 54 n. 35 710 – 11: 51 n. 30 715: 60 – 61 742 – 44: 46 745 – 49: 45 – 48 750: 45, 46 764 – 65: 58 772 – 77: 434 n. 1 778 – 90: 519 840 – 47: 58 n. 43 910: 63 944 – 46: 63 959 – 60: 48 1005 – 78: 38, 47 Supplices 9 – 10: 69 37 – 39: 67 – 68 109: 69 154 – 61: 79 n. 31 168 – 74: 79 n. 31 194 – 203: 69 223 – 27: 69 365 – 69: 437

387 – 91: 86 398 – 401: 437 449: 79 – 80 455 – 67: 79 474: 79 – 80 478 – 79: 78, 79 480 – 89: 79 480 – 85: 437 500 – 3: 79 516 – 23: 79 535: 87 615 – 24: 79 750 – 63: 69 911 – 15: 86 918: 86 932 – 33: 86 940 – 45: 79 950 – 51: 85 973 – 76: 69 978 – 79: 74 – 75 993 – 1009: 69 1006 – 9: 75 1035 – 51: 85 1048 – 49: 86 1050 – 51: 86 1057 – 58: 86 1059: 86 1061: 85, 86 1062 – 67: 86 1068 – 69: 85 Fragments 175 Radt: 237 [Aeschylus] Prometheus Vinctus 865 – 69: 61 Sophocles Ajax 1: 327 66 – 67: 191

Index of passages

100: 187 n. 2 111 – 13: 190 119 – 21: 237 121 – 26: 238 131 – 33: 426 n. 109 131 – 32: 190 132 – 33: 191 137 – 40: 218 143: 222 160 – 61: 195 n. 15 164 – 71: 218 172 – 81: 221 174: 222 187 – 99: 218 189: 194 190 – 99: 195 n. 15 200: 222 202: 229 207: 195 n. 15 208 – 9: 222 211: 402 n. 64 230 – 32: 201 240 – 50: 201 245 – 56: 219 251 – 56: 201 285 – 87: 204 309: 195 n. 15 317 – 20: 209 323 – 25: 195 n. 15 339: 194, 195 340 – 41: 195 342: 194, 195 342 – 43: 195, 196 n. 16, 202 n. 25 348 – 53: 195 356 – 61: 213 359 – 60: 196 361: 406 362: 353 n. 94 398 – 409: 504 n. 45

565

401 – 3: 211 405 – 6: 204 408 – 9: 200, 202, 211 n. 42 418 – 26: 195, 197, 238 420: 205 n. 30 424 – 27: 193 426 – 27: 197 434 – 40: 233 435: 194 440: 504 n. 45 441 – 44: 187 n. 2, 193, 197, 213, 234 445 – 46: 202 458: 202, 211 460 – 66: 198, 221 466 – 68: 201 469: 201 470 – 80: 187 n. 3, 197 470 – 72: 221 475 – 76: 227 n. 75 476: 199 477 – 78: 227 n. 75 485 – 91: 217 485 – 90: 226 n. 72 494 – 505: 217 506 – 19: 217 510 – 13: 230 520 – 24: 216, 217 550 – 82: 399 550 – 77: 193, 244 n. 7 560 – 70: 226, 245 560 – 64: 209, 230 565 – 77: 208 581 – 82: 206 n. 32 589 – 90: 190, 211 596 – 608: 220 600 – 8: 213, 219, 221 601 – 5: 205 n. 30, 222 609 – 15: 219 616 – 20: 204, 241

566

Index of passages

621 – 34: 210 n. 39, 217 n. 55, 220 n. 59 635 – 40: 221 646 – 92: 208 – 14 646 – 47: 212 651 – 52: 208 652 – 53: 210 661 – 65: 193, 206 – 7 666 – 68: 209, 232 n. 86 669 – 76: 212 678 – 80: 203 680 – 83: 203 684 – 92: 208 684 – 89: 399 687 – 89: 226 693 – 718: 221 694 – 705: 222 708 – 10: 213 714: 213 715 – 18: 213 745 – 57: 70 756 – 57: 188, 190 760 – 61: 189, 215 762 – 70: 235 764 – 65: 200 770 – 77: 235 776 – 77: 189 778 – 79: 188, 190, 426 n. 109 801 – 2: 188, 190, 426 n. 109 807 – 8: 216 813 – 14: 220 815: 206 n. 32 817 – 22: 204 817 – 18: 193, 214 819 – 22: 206 826 – 30: 215 835 – 44: 211, 214 843 – 44: 187 n. 2, 238 845 – 51: 399 849: 210 n. 39

850: 210 n. 39, 220 n. 59 851: 210 n. 39, 220 n. 59 853 – 54: 210 n. 39 859 – 63: 205, 220 864 – 65: 215 n. 49 866 – 71: 220 900 – 3: 457 908 – 12: 215, 221, 226 952 – 53: 188 n. 4 961 – 65: 203, 241 981: 207 988 – 89: 230 1006 – 7: 215 1008 – 20: 194, 199 n. 22, 202, 217 n. 55, 221, 414 n. 87 1025 – 27: 207 1028 – 39: 207 1069 – 83: 233 1077 – 78: 232 1091 – 92: 233 1098 – 1114: 232 1111 – 14: 224 1118 – 19: 233 1129 – 31: 233 1133 – 37: 234 1154 – 55: 233 1165: 207 1166 – 67: 222, 228 1171 – 81: 230, 244 n. 7 1182 – 84: 209, 220, 230 1185 – 91: 213, 219 1186: 221 n. 61 1187 – 89: 222 1191: 222 1192 – 1205: 225, 227 1192 – 96: 221 n. 60 1197: 227 1207 – 10: 205 n. 30, 222 1211 – 13: 223, 227 1217 – 22: 221, 229

Index of passages

1226 – 31: 232 1231 – 38: 233 1235: 232 1236 – 38: 232 1242 – 43: 234 1250 – 58: 233 1250 – 54: 232 1259 – 61: 232 1262 – 63: 232 1264 – 65: 233 1266–71: 204, 234, 241, 504 n. 45 1273 – 82: 234 1283 – 88: 234 1299 – 1303: 194, 199 n. 22 1304 – 5: 78 n. 30 1306 – 7: 234 1308 – 12: 226 1311 – 12: 233 1316 – 17: 220 1319: 236 1322 – 23: 236 1328 – 29: 213, 236 1330 – 31: 236 1336 – 57: 203 1338 – 41: 197 n. 19, 236 1343 – 44: 233 1344 – 45: 236 1349: 194 n. 12, 213 1351: 213, 236 1353: 213 1359: 203 1370 – 73: 236 1378 – 80: 203 1393 – 99: 203 1396 – 97: 203 1400 – 1: 203 1418 – 20: 223 Antigone 11 – 17: 426 n. 109 21 – 99: 319

289 – 303: 437 460 – 68: 199 502 – 4: 199 536 – 38: 319 568 – 74: 319 639 – 47: 78 n. 30 806 – 82: 302 863 – 71: 382 883 – 84: 303 898 – 915: 382 1175: 302 1183 – 91: 302 1302 – 4: 382 1304 – 5: 382 1308 – 9: 406 1312 – 13: 382 1321 – 25: 396 n. 49 1325: 504 n. 45 1339: 396 n. 49 1348 – 53: 223 n. 65 Electra 1: 327 – 28, 349 9: 350 10: 341 n. 64, 350 11 – 14: 348 n. 79, 350 15 – 22: 328 23 – 28: 348 31: 348, 353 32 – 37: 316, 349 36 – 37: 352, 355 39 – 41: 348 47 – 50: 328, 351 49 – 50: 341 n. 63 51 – 53: 324 n. 23 53 – 58: 329 54 – 55: 164 56 – 57: 330 59 – 66: 330 n. 43, 349, 353 61: 353 66: 360 n. 110

567

568

Index of passages

67 – 72: 316, 349 80 – 81: 323, 348, 355 82 – 85: 324 n. 23 86 – 95: 316 95 – 96: 326 97 – 99: 315 100 – 2: 322, 332 102: 342 110 – 20: 316, 336 121 – 26: 324, 331, 344 127 – 28: 324, 331 132 – 33: 359 137 – 44: 324, 344 145 – 46: 332 153 – 63: 324, 344 160 – 63: 331, 344 162 – 63: 316 164 – 72: 322 169 – 72: 323 176 – 79: 324, 344 182: 331 189 – 92: 358 189 – 90: 316 190 – 91: 316 193 – 206: 315 206: 342 209 – 12: 316 213 – 20: 324, 344 216: 342 221 – 22: 322 233 – 35: 344 236 – 50: 359 252 – 53: 344 254 – 57: 322 262 – 64: 316 264 – 65: 317 271 – 76: 337 276: 369 n. 125 289 – 92: 322, 325 n. 27 291 – 92: 359

293 – 95: 331 n. 47 295 – 98: 366 301 – 2: 337 303 – 6: 322 305 – 6: 368 307 – 9: 322 310 – 11: 337 312 – 13: 316, 337 314 – 16: 337 319: 322, 323 321: 322 322: 344 330 – 31: 344 336: 345 338 – 39: 319, 345 352 – 56: 359 355 – 56: 322, 325, 368 359 – 64: 317 369 – 71: 344 n. 73 372 – 75: 317, 318 374 – 75: 345 378 – 84: 318 n. 7 383 – 84: 345 396: 344 398: 345 400: 318 408: 318 431 – 63: 318 n. 7, 319 457 – 58: 370 466 – 67: 318 n. 7, 319, 345 472 – 503: 339 483: 326, 331 486: 342 489 – 91: 369 n. 125 504 – 15: 316, 332, 339 – 42, 350 516 – 20: 316, 337 520 – 22: 317 526 – 29: 332 528: 335 529: 338

Index of passages

530 – 45: 332 532 – 33: 335, 366 534 – 35: 335 536: 366 n. 120 537 – 45: 116 538: 335, 366 n. 120 546 – 48: 332 547: 338 548: 318 n. 8 549 – 50: 335 n. 52 550 – 51: 338 554 – 57: 366 n. 121 561 – 62: 336, 337 566 – 73: 315 570 – 73: 333 573 – 76: 315, 333 577 – 79: 335 582 – 83: 361 n. 112 585 – 94: 337, 411 n. 83 597 – 602: 338 601 – 2: 366 603 – 5: 338, 361 n. 112 610 – 11: 338 612 – 15: 317 613 – 15: 338 616 – 18: 322 619 – 21: 322 624 – 25: 322 626: 336 628 – 29: 366 n. 121 637 – 59: 336 638 – 42: 322 651: 341 n. 65 666 – 67: 330 675: 531 676: 459 680 – 763: 328 – 29 685: 329, 360 n. 110 689 – 93: 329 693 – 95: 329 – 31

569

694 – 95: 351 n. 85 757 – 60: 329 764 – 65: 366 766 – 68: 366, 531 767: 353 770 – 71: 366 n. 120, 531 773 – 83: 531 778 – 79: 366 780 – 82: 457 783 – 87: 190 n. 7, 322, 325 n. 27, 361 n. 112 791: 366, 531 793: 366, 531 795: 366, 531 798 – 99: 317, 322, 325 n. 27 802 – 3: 317, 322, 325 n. 27, 531 814 – 16: 316 911 – 12: 316 918 – 19: 426 n. 109 943: 318 n. 7 944: 318 n. 7 946: 318 n. 7 947 – 89: 319, 322 955 – 57: 361 957: 364 959 – 60: 350 968 – 69: 350 970 – 72: 350 973 – 85: 345, 350 986 – 89: 350 989: 361 990 – 91: 332, 344 992 – 94: 317, 318 997 – 98: 319 1001 – 2: 319, 337 1009 – 11: 319 1011 – 12: 318 n. 7, 319 1013 – 14: 319, 344 1015 – 16: 332, 344 1017 – 18: 318

570

Index of passages

1019 – 20: 344 1029: 357 n. 104 1030: 357 n. 104 1034: 318 n. 7, 319 1036: 319 1042: 319 1055 – 57: 344 1058 – 73: 344 1058 – 65: 346 1066 – 73: 346 1069: 341 n. 65 1074 – 97: 344 1075 – 80: 345 1078 – 97: 332 1080: 369 n. 125 1081 – 89: 345 1090 – 95: 345 1095 – 97: 345 1105: 355 1108 – 9: 355 1112: 355 1115: 355 1119 – 22: 355 1125: 355 n. 99 1126 – 70: 348, 355 1130: 360 n. 110 1134 – 35: 360 n. 110 1136 – 42: 360 n. 110 1143 – 48: 358, 365 – 66 1149 – 50: 426 n. 109 1153 – 56: 365 – 66 1154 – 56: 323 1171 – 73: 355 1174 – 75: 348 1181: 316 1185: 323 n. 22, 348 n. 79 1190: 316 1192: 316 1203: 356 1205 – 23: 356

1227: 321, 324 n. 24 1236: 347 n. 77, 355 1238: 347 n. 77, 355 1241 – 42: 337, 363 1243 – 44: 349, 363 1245 – 50: 325 n. 28, 360, 363 1251 – 52: 347 n. 77, 355 1253 – 55: 325 n. 28, 360 1257: 347 n. 77, 355 1259: 347 n. 77, 355 1271: 347 n. 77, 355 1288 – 1300: 347 n. 77, 349, 355 1293 – 95: 356 1299 – 1300: 357 1311: 360 1312 – 13: 357, 360 1316 – 17: 358 1320 – 21: 361 1326 – 34: 303 1361: 358 1362 – 63: 426 n. 109 1364 – 71: 324, 347 n. 77 1367 – 71: 337 1372 – 75: 349 1376 – 83: 361 n. 112 1382 – 83: 360 n. 109 1384 – 97: 344, 350 1391 – 92: 336 1402 – 3: 337 1405: 363 1409: 363 1413: 321, 324 n. 24 1415: 358, 360 1417 – 21: 336 1424 – 25: 316, 368 1425: 348 n. 78 1425 – 27: 349 1438 – 41: 337 1445 – 46: 325 n. 27 1456: 325 n. 27

Index of passages

1458 – 63: 331 1479: 144 1483 – 92: 337 1487 – 89: 358 1489 – 90: 360 1495 – 96: 350 1497 – 98: 341 n. 64, 350 n. 83, 368 1498: 406 1500: 355 1508: 341 n. 65 Oedipus Coloneus 1: 327 5 – 6: 505 7 – 8: 500, 505 14: 327 n. 36 21: 270 n. 46 36 – 43: 472 44 – 46: 472 53 – 63: 472 n. 4 66 – 74: 472 72 – 74: 505 75 – 80: 472 84 – 95: 472 89: 478 101 – 3: 505 104 – 5: 505 109 – 10: 476, 504 117 – 253: 471 n. 2 143: 504 144 – 49: 489 n. 23 148: 505 171 – 72: 69 176 – 77: 479 220 – 24: 479 226 – 36: 473, 485, 502 n. 41 228: 479 229 – 33: 479 233 – 36: 479 238 – 40: 479

241 – 51: 479 252 – 53: 479, 483 254 – 55: 472 256 – 57: 479 258 – 65: 503 n. 44 258 – 62: 473 265 – 67: 503 266 – 74: 479 273 – 74: 497 278 – 81: 479 285 – 86: 489 n. 23 292 – 95: 473, 502 n. 41 299 – 300: 489 n. 23 301 – 7: 503 324 – 28: 487 333 – 34: 487 335: 487 336: 487, 497 337 – 43: 487 344 – 56: 488 347 – 52: 270 n. 46 353 – 55: 477 357: 477 361 – 64: 487 365 – 84: 474 367 – 73: 484 n. 15, 494 n. 26 369: 502 n. 41 369 – 70: 541 371 – 73: 489 374 – 81: 490 383 – 84: 497 385 – 86: 504 387 – 92: 504 389 – 90: 474, 475 n. 7 393: 477, 504 394: 488, 504 395: 504 396 – 405: 474 399 – 400: 474, 475 401: 477

571

572

Index of passages

404 – 5: 475 n. 7 406 – 7: 474 408 – 15: 474 416 – 20: 474 418 – 19: 488, 489 n. 22 420: 497 421 – 27: 475, 488 421 – 22: 540 – 41 427 – 49: 476, 485 429 – 30: 487 438 – 39: 496 440 – 44: 490 441 – 43: 487 443 – 44: 491 445 – 47: 488 448 – 49: 474 450 – 54: 475, 488, 540 452 – 54: 478, 504 455 – 56: 474 457 – 60: 474, 488 461 – 62: 472 510 – 48: 471 n. 2 510 – 19: 480 517 – 18: 471 520: 480 521 – 23: 480 525: 480, 481 529 – 35: 480 538: 480 539 – 41: 480 – 81, 482 n. 14, 503 n. 42 545: 482 n. 14 546: 482 n. 14 547 – 48: 479, 480, 482 n. 14 551 – 53: 502 n. 41 562 – 66: 473 566 – 68: 473 567 – 68: 426 n. 109 576 – 78: 489 n. 23 586: 506

587: 483 – 84, 506 589: 475, 476 591: 476, 485, 487 592: 492 596: 502 n. 41, 541 597: 503 n. 42 598: 506 599 – 600: 476, 485, 487, 488 605: 475, 476 607 – 23: 212, 500 621 – 23: 475 631 – 41: 485 632 – 33: 473 634 – 35: 506 649: 485 653 – 67: 485 653 – 57: 475 666 – 67: 503 668 – 719: 471 n. 2 726 – 27: 472 738 – 39: 484 n. 16 746 – 52: 484 n. 16 753 – 54: 484 n. 16 761 – 64: 486 765 – 71: 476, 485 766: 485 n. 18 768: 496 769: 485 n. 18 770: 487 774: 486 775: 485 n. 18 780: 485 n. 18 781 – 82: 486 784 – 86: 475 787 – 88: 491 789 – 90: 475, 488, 540 791 – 93: 504 794 – 95: 486 794: 485 n. 17 798 – 99: 505

Index of passages

799: 485 n. 18 802: 485 n. 18 804 – 5: 492 806 – 7: 486 810: 492 852: 484 n. 15 854 – 55: 492, 497 n. 31 863: 485 n. 17 864 – 70: 476 876 – 86: 471 n. 2 897 – 903: 485 904 – 36: 85 911 – 31: 484 917 – 18: 504 n. 45 932 – 36: 485 939 – 59: 484 951 – 52: 485 n. 18 960: 485 n. 17 960 – 1013: 484 960 – 61: 482 963 – 64: 480 n. 11 964 – 68: 498 n. 32, 541 964 – 65: 482, 483 978 – 81: 482 981: 485 n. 17 982 – 90: 481 985 – 86: 482 989 – 90: 485 n. 18 998 – 99: 485 1000 – 2: 486 1014 – 15: 472 1044 – 95: 471 n. 2 1175 – 76: 496 1179 – 80: 495 1181 – 1203: 494 – 500 1211 – 48: 471 n. 2 1239 – 48: 471 1254 – 56: 493 1257: 493 1265 – 66: 492

1267 – 70: 493 1274: 492 1275 – 79: 493 1277: 492 1280 – 83: 497 n. 30 1284: 493 1285 – 90: 493 1292 – 98: 490, 493 1298 – 99: 540 1307: 493 1309 – 12: 493 1313 – 25: 493 1326 – 30: 493 1328: 492 1330: 493 1331 – 32: 474 1334: 492 1334 – 39: 493 1340 – 43: 493 1346 – 47: 495 1348 – 51: 495 1354 – 69: 476, 485 1354 – 66: 487, 489 1360 – 61: 505 1365 – 69: 488, 489 1370 – 96: 475, 476, 488 1378 – 79: 489, 490 1405 – 13: 407, 476 1405 – 10: 494, 502 1411 – 13: 494, 502 1414 – 17: 502 1418 – 19: 502 1420: 195, 494 n. 26 1420 – 21: 502 1422 – 23: 502 1424 – 25: 502 1431: 195 1432 – 34: 502 1435: 407, 476, 494, 502 1437 – 43: 502

573

574

Index of passages

1444 – 46: 494, 502 1447 – 99: 471 n. 2 1447 – 49: 541 1450 – 52: 541 1489 – 90: 500 1508 – 9: 500 1518 – 34: 500 1556 – 78: 471 n. 2, 472 1565 – 67: 471 1613 – 18: 500 1630 – 35: 501 1636 – 37: 501 1640 – 44: 501 n. 38 1665: 506 1670 – 1750: 471 n. 2 1670 – 72: 500 n. 35 1673 – 74: 500 n. 35 1697 – 99: 500 n. 35 1764 – 65: 500 1769 – 72: 407, 500 n. 35, 501 1773 – 76: 501 Oedipus Tyrannus 1: 327 n. 35 8: 327 n. 35, 442 14: 327 n. 35 31 – 57: 435 35 – 39: 434 50: 457 58 – 69: 462 n. 46 58 – 64: 435 91 – 92: 465 93 – 94: 465 95 – 100: 436 100 – 1: 467 114: 461 118 – 19: 442 120 – 21: 442 122 – 23: 435 n. 3, 437, 442 124 – 25: 437, 441 126 – 27: 437 n. 6, 441

128 – 29: 437 n. 6 130 – 31: 435 n. 3, 441 132 – 36: 440 n. 11 137 – 41: 436 139 – 41: 437 – 38 151 – 215: 302 165 – 66: 451 n. 28 216 – 18: 303, 440, 462 n. 46 219 – 23: 438 – 41 224 – 75: 438, 440 228 – 29: 441 n. 13 230 – 31: 441 231 – 32: 441 n. 13 236 – 41: 441 n. 13 241 – 43: 441 n. 13 244 – 45: 440 n. 11 246 – 48: 441 n. 13 249 – 51: 441 n. 13 252 – 54: 440 n. 11 253 – 54: 435 255 – 58: 437 n. 6 258 – 68: 436, 440 n. 11 260 – 62: 416 282: 449 284 – 86: 449 288 – 89: 435, 458 289: 459 290: 449, 456 291: 436, 442 292: 435 n. 3, 442, 449 293: 461 294 – 95: 441 296: 442 310 – 15: 440 n. 11 345 – 49: 434 346 – 49: 438 n. 8 350 – 53: 438 376 – 77: 464 378: 437 380 – 403: 434, 437

Index of passages

380 – 89: 460 383 – 84: 434, 503 n. 42 390 – 98: 469 396 – 98: 467 n. 55 404 – 7: 449 412 – 28: 463 417 – 19: 464 435 – 44: 468 – 69 438: 190 n. 7, 426 n. 109, 464 n. 51, 466 441 – 43: 435 n. 4 449: 459 449 – 62: 463 454 – 56: 464 483 – 86: 450 487 – 97: 450 498 – 503: 462 n. 48 499 – 503: 450 504 – 12: 435, 450, 456 515 – 22: 458, 461 526: 459 n. 41 527: 449 530: 449 532 – 42: 437 538 – 42: 436 538 – 39: 442 546: 460 555 – 73: 437 555 – 57: 458 564: 459 n. 40 and 42 565: 459 n. 42 567: 461 568: 459 569: 459 577 – 81: 460 582: 460 583: 460 584 – 86: 460 586: 457 587 – 93: 458

587 – 88: 460 589: 460 596: 458 601 – 2: 460 603 – 8: 460 616 – 17: 450 618 – 21: 436 624: 437 n. 7 644 – 45: 460, 461 649 – 50: 450 652: 458, 460 652 – 53: 450 656 – 57: 450 660 – 64: 450 665 – 68: 450 669 – 72: 435 673 – 75: 458 678 – 79: 450 685 – 86: 450 694 – 97: 435 700 – 6: 437 707 – 25: 446 707 – 14: 462 n. 48 711 – 12: 447 n. 22, 452 715 – 16: 435 n. 3, 441, 442 716: 436 717 – 22: 448 n. 24 723 – 25: 462 n. 48 729 – 30: 436 747: 447 758 – 59: 435 n. 3 775 – 76: 438 779 – 80: 434 783 – 86: 438 787 – 97: 434 787 – 93: 70 788 – 89: 438 813 – 33: 447 834 – 35: 450, 451 836 – 47: 447

575

576

Index of passages

848 – 58: 450 851 – 58: 447 856: 448 n. 24 863 – 910: 451 – 58 873: 452 911 – 23: 449 n. 26 914 – 17: 446 922 – 23: 452 942: 446 945 – 49: 446 952 – 53: 446 955 – 56: 446 960 – 63: 446 964 – 72: 446 977 – 83: 446 – 47 1051 – 52: 435 n. 3 1052 – 53: 435 n. 3 1056 – 57: 445 1060 – 61: 443 1064: 443 1067: 438 1068: 443, 465 1070: 438 1071 – 72: 465 1078 – 79: 438 1080 – 82: 443 1082 – 83: 443 1084 – 85: 442 1086 – 1109: 451 n. 28 1110 – 15: 443 1161: 459 1170: 436 1171 – 81: 434 1180 – 81: 465 1186 – 1222: 456 – 57 1196 – 1203: 435 1213: 212 1216 – 18: 433, 457 1220 – 22: 435, 450, 457 1237 – 38: 445 n. 20

1239 – 40: 445 n. 20 1241 – 50: 382 1241 – 44: 445 1245: 445 1246: 445 1246 – 50: 445 1255: 466 1270 – 76: 443 1271 – 72: 466 1273 – 74: 466 1275 – 77: 466 1287 – 91: 443 1297 – 1366: 451 n. 28 1303 – 6: 433 1308 – 66: 443 1317 – 18: 445 1325 – 26: 443 1340 – 46: 396 n. 49 1340 – 43: 443 1347 – 48: 433 1367 – 68: 465 n. 52, 466 1369 – 90: 465 n. 52 1371 – 74: 466 1375 – 77: 466 1378 – 83: 466 1386 – 89: 433, 467 1391 – 93: 444 1398 – 1403: 445 n. 19 1409 – 15: 443 1410 – 12: 396 n. 49 1411 – 12: 467 1416 – 18: 444, 462 n. 46 1419: 461 1420 – 21: 461 1422 – 23: 458, 461 1436 – 37: 396 n. 49, 443, 462 1437: 461 1438 – 45: 444 1438 – 39: 462 1440 – 41: 462, 467

Index of passages

1442 – 43: 462, 463 1447 – 48: 462 n. 47 1449 – 54: 443, 444, 462 1455 – 57: 444 1459 – 61: 245, 467 – 68, 501 n. 38 1462 – 66: 245, 467 n. 56, 501 n. 38 1473 – 75: 458 1476 – 77: 458 1477: 459 1486 – 1502: 467 n. 56 1503 – 10: 245, 467 n. 56, 501 n. 38 1513: 468 n. 57 1518: 443, 444, 462 1519: 462 1520: 459 1522 – 23: 443, 468, 469, 501 n. 38 1524 – 30: 434 n. 1, 469 Philoctetes 3 – 4: 286 4 – 6: 274, 279 7 – 11: 241 11 – 12: 267, 288 12 – 14: 258 15: 279 43: 263 n. 37 44: 263 n. 37 46 – 47: 274 n. 55 50: 286 53: 279 54 – 55: 258, 259 57: 267, 274 58 – 69: 274 58 – 64: 282 68 – 69: 256, 257, 259 70 – 78: 274 70 – 74: 288

77 – 78: 256, 257, 259 79 – 85: 245, 248, 265, 267 79 – 80: 244 86 – 89: 268 86 – 87: 251 n. 20 88 – 89: 244, 247 93 – 94: 279 96 – 97: 285 101: 258, 259 102: 258 103: 268 105: 259 106 – 7: 274 107: 258, 259 108: 268 109: 267 110: 269 111: 267 112: 257 113: 257, 259 114: 257, 258 115: 259 117 – 20: 265 119: 245 122: 295 n. 87 130 – 31: 312 n. 129 135 – 43: 307, 312 148 – 49: 312 n. 129 150 – 51: 305, 312 161: 263 n. 37 162 – 63: 263 n. 37 164 – 68: 263 n. 37 169 – 90: 300, 302, 313 180 – 90: 304 n. 106 191 – 200: 255, 263 198: 294 201: 255 n. 26 242: 275 250: 241 n. 1, 295 n. 86 251 – 52: 241 n. 1

577

578

Index of passages

253: 241 n. 1, 263 n. 37, 295 n. 86 254 – 59: 255, 295 n. 86 254 – 56: 241 n. 1 257 – 58: 269, 279 261 – 63: 295 n. 86 262: 294 279 – 84: 270 285 – 92: 270 292 – 99: 270 305 – 6: 212 307 – 13: 300 314: 260 n. 32 317 – 18: 300 321: 260 n. 32 334 – 35: 253 n. 22 343 – 44: 251 n. 20 351: 244 352 – 53: 244 359 – 84: 282 369 – 70: 278 n. 62 385 – 88: 278 n. 62, 309 n. 121 391 – 402: 301 410 – 11: 275 412 – 13: 253 416 – 18: 273 421 – 23: 275 423: 276 n. 59 424 – 25: 254 426 – 27: 275 429 – 30: 261 n. 35 431 – 32: 261 n. 35 433 – 34: 275 435 – 37: 253 n. 24, 254 438 – 52: 273 445: 253 446 – 52: 254, 275, 297 468 – 72: 272, 302 473 – 74: 241, 272 475 – 79: 285

475 – 76: 272 477 – 79: 245, 265, 272 480: 245 n. 10 482 – 83: 241, 272 484 – 86: 272, 302 507 – 18: 300 510 – 11: 301 517 – 18: 301 527: 266 533 – 38: 270 575: 295 n. 86 592: 260 n. 32 610 – 13: 257, 259 617: 259 618: 259 622 – 25: 259 654: 295 n. 86 662 – 70: 285 n. 68, 293 n. 83 667 – 70: 243 668: 265 n. 40 671: 247 n. 13 684 – 85: 304 703: 270 n. 46 707 – 11: 305 718 – 29: 276 n. 58, 300, 302 – 4, 313, 539 – 40 727 – 29: 294 730 – 39: 270 747 – 49: 406 773: 266 776 – 78: 243, 273 799 – 803: 285 n. 68, 293 n. 83 799 – 801: 406 801 – 3: 273 810 – 13: 266, 305 827 – 32: 304 833 – 38: 300, 304 – 14 837 – 38: 311, 312 839: 311 839 – 42: 256, 257, 258

Index of passages

841: 305 843: 305 843 – 64: 300, 304 – 14 844 – 47: 311 852 – 54: 308 852 – 53: 305 854: 305 855 – 61: 304 862 – 64: 311 n. 128, 312 865: 305 865 – 66: 311 n. 128 867 – 68: 305 869 – 76: 277 n. 60 874 – 76: 265, 273 874 – 75: 244 875 – 76: 241 886 – 88: 305 n. 109 890 – 92: 241 902 – 3: 244 904 – 5: 265, 273 915: 297 n. 90 915 – 16: 248 925 – 26: 248, 263 927 – 51: 265 929 – 30: 266 936 – 39: 271 941: 266, 271 942: 266, 271 942 – 43: 294 944: 271 n. 47, 274 n. 55 945: 271 946 – 47: 271 947 – 48: 271 951: 504 n. 45 952 – 60: 249 963 – 54: 300, 307 n. 113 965 – 66: 249 967 – 68: 245, 265, 269 n. 44 969 – 70: 247 971 – 73: 244, 265

579

974: 286 977: 295 980: 295 982 – 83: 260 989 – 90: 262, 268, 286 n. 70, 290 997 – 98: 266 1003: 260, 262 n. 36 1007 – 15: 244 1013 – 15: 283 1019 – 24: 255 1023 – 24: 269 1024: 279 1025 – 28: 269, 279 1025 – 26: 288, 289 n. 73 1028: 279 1029 – 30: 271 n. 50 1031 – 33: 241, 277 n. 60 1037 – 39: 262, 271 n. 50 1045 – 46: 308 1047 – 48: 267, 289 1049 – 53: 267, 289 1054 – 62: 260, 289 1063 – 64: 261, 265 1070 – 71: 249 1072 – 73: 307 n. 113 1074 – 75: 249 1075 – 80: 261, 300 n. 95 1095 – 1100: 301 1116 – 22: 301, 306 1123 – 27: 269 1143 – 45: 308, 312 1176: 312 1178 – 80: 300 n. 95 1200 – 2: 274 n. 55 1216 – 17: 274 n. 55 1217: 504 n. 45 1226: 279 1228: 249 1234: 249

580

Index of passages

1237: 286 1241: 260 n. 32 1243: 279 1246: 249 1247 – 48: 265 1248 – 49: 249 1250 – 58: 266 1250: 260 n. 32, 279 1251: 249 1253 – 55: 260 n. 32 1257 – 58: 260 n. 32 1283 – 84: 265, 273 1294: 279 1296: 295 1297 – 98: 261 1298: 286 1310 – 13: 244, 249, 265, 273 1326 – 47: 280 1332: 257 1333 – 34: 257, 258 1334 – 35: 257 1346: 224, 257 1348 – 51: 265, 293 1352 – 53: 269 1354 – 57: 269 1358 – 61: 242, 287 1360 – 61: 289 1362 – 72: 252 1362 – 64: 281 1364 – 65: 281 1365 – 72: 280 1366: 282 n. 65 1367: 266 1367 – 72: 282 1368 – 69: 265 1370 – 72: 265 1371: 284 n. 67 1371 – 72: 269 n. 44 1373: 282 1373 – 92: 282

1376 – 77: 278 n. 62 1387: 287 1388: 287 1389: 287 1390: 287 1391: 287 1392: 287 1393 – 96: 284 1398: 266 1398 – 1401: 280, 282, 284 1400 – 1: 265 1402: 282 1403: 260 n. 32 1404: 279, 285 n. 68 1405: 260 n. 32, 282, 285 n. 68 1406: 285 n. 68 1406 – 7: 294 1410: 293 n. 82 1417: 293 n. 82 1418: 292 1418 – 22: 290 n. 77 1419: 296 1419 – 22: 292 1421: 295 1422: 296 1425 – 28: 258 1426: 296 1426 – 27: 291 1430: 291 n. 78 1431 – 33: 291 n. 78 1437 – 38: 258 1439 – 40: 259, 294 1440 – 44: 294 1440 – 41: 248 n. 16 1442 – 44: 295 1445 – 47: 298 n. 91 1445 – 46: 291 n. 78 1447: 293 n. 82 1469 – 71: 223 n. 65, 300 n. 96, 312

Index of passages

Trachiniae 1 – 5: 380, 417, 425 4 – 5: 384, 385 n. 29 6 – 48: 380, 417 9 – 25: 374 15 – 17: 394 19: 397, 408 24 – 25: 383, 427 25 – 51: 374 26 – 28: 384 31 – 33: 412 34: 412 35: 408 n. 77 36: 397 38 – 39: 381 41 – 48: 403 43 – 48: 372 49 – 51: 375, 383 54 – 60: 425 n. 106 65 – 66: 418 67: 425 n. 106 67 – 75: 373 69 – 70: 397 70: 408 n. 77 76 – 81: 372, 403 82 – 85: 412 86 – 91: 418 88: 375 88 – 89: 397, 420, 425 n. 106 94 – 102: 419 97 – 98: 397 103 – 40: 374 103 – 11: 383, 419, 421 105: 423 112 – 21: 397 112 – 19: 424 119 – 21: 424 122 – 26: 419 126 – 35: 385 n. 29, 419 129 – 35: 426

136 – 38: 419, 424 n. 104 139 – 40: 397, 418, 419, 424 141 – 43: 419 144 – 48: 385 n. 29 148 – 52: 385 n. 29 153 – 77: 374 155 – 74: 372 155 – 58: 403 161 – 65: 400 n. 60 177: 408 181: 397 185 – 86: 397 200 – 1: 421 202: 417 n. 95 202 – 4: 421 205 – 24: 421 205 – 7: 396 n. 51, 421 210: 422 222 – 24: 423 n. 103 225: 381 n. 23 245: 384 n. 27 248 – 53: 397 248 – 50: 408 n. 77 250 – 51: 409 251: 423 254 – 61: 538 260: 409 262 – 69: 538 – 39 267 – 68: 408 n. 77 269 – 80: 397, 538 – 39 274 – 79: 409 281 – 83: 398 287 – 90: 397 298: 381 n. 23 303 – 5: 412 n. 86 308 – 9: 412 325 – 27: 395 n. 47, 428 346 – 48: 374 351 – 74: 374, 420 351 – 54: 398

581

582

Index of passages

356 – 57: 397, 408 n. 77 359 – 65: 398 360: 402 n. 64 365 – 67: 384 366 – 67: 380 n. 20 379: 428 380 – 82: 374 385 – 86: 375 406: 402 407: 391 427 – 28: 384 428 – 29: 402 n. 65 431 – 33: 385 431 – 32: 397 439 – 40: 376 n. 8, 385 n. 29 441 – 42: 385 444: 376 445 – 48: 374 445 – 46: 376 n. 10, 384, 409 447 – 48: 376, 384, 409 459 – 67: 374 459 – 62: 376, 379, 380 n. 22 459 – 60: 397 462 – 63: 376 464 – 67: 376 n. 8, 428 464 – 65: 384 472 – 78: 374 476 – 78: 398 479 – 83: 375 488: 397, 408 488 – 89: 385 490 – 96: 375 491 – 92: 385 496: 374 497 – 530: 427 497 – 502: 375 497 – 98: 423, 427 503 – 30: 374, 397 n. 55 503 – 22: 375

513: 397 515 – 16: 423 523 – 30: 375 523 – 28: 428 529 – 30: 373 n. 7, 428 531: 381 n. 23 535: 381 n. 23 536: 422 539 – 40: 379, 394 540 – 42: 374, 379 543 – 44: 376, 380 n. 22, 384 545 – 46: 379 547 – 51: 379 552 – 53: 376, 384 553 – 54: 377 554: 392 – 93 555 – 88: 374 555 – 77: 377 560 – 61: 422 562 – 65: 394 565: 391 569 – 77: 384 578 – 91: 377 582 – 83: 378, 384, 385, 392 584 – 86: 377, 385, 392 586 – 87: 376, 377, 378, 385, 390, 392 588 – 89: 377 – 78 592 – 93: 377 – 78 594 – 95: 385 596 – 97: 385 – 86, 389 n. 35 600 – 15: 377 644: 397 645: 397, 408 650 – 52: 383 655 – 59: 421 663 – 64: 392 666 – 67: 423 669 – 70: 378

Index of passages

672 – 704: 422 680 – 88: 386 695 – 700: 388 707 – 11: 384 710 – 13: 387 714 – 16: 387 716 – 18: 387 719 – 22: 385 719 – 20: 394 721 – 22: 389 n. 35, 394 723 – 24: 422 727 – 28: 386, 422 729 – 30: 381 n. 23 734 – 37: 383, 408 742 – 43: 428 753: 397 767 – 88: 397 777 – 82: 398 797 – 98: 398, 413 799 – 800: 396 801 – 2: 396 805 – 6: 397 807 – 12: 382, 383, 408 808 – 9: 428, 430 815 – 20: 408 819 – 20: 382, 394 821 – 30: 372, 403 821 – 26: 423 826: 397 827 – 40: 423 829 – 30: 408 n. 77 831 – 40: 397 841: 378 n. 16 852 – 55: 408 856 – 59: 428 860 – 61: 423, 429 863 – 64: 391 874: 428 888: 391

583

893 – 95: 412, 428, 430 900 – 22: 382 903: 383 904: 395 n. 47 911: 382 n. 24 914 – 15: 381 n. 23 920 – 22: 394 925 – 26: 395 927 – 31: 381 n. 23 930: 428 933: 392 934 – 35: 383, 392, 430 935: 386 940: 391, 392 941 – 42: 392 943 – 46: 418, 426 944: 392 945 – 46: 392 947 – 70: 423 947 – 49: 423 950 – 52: 419, 423, 424 n. 104 952: 425, 428 956: 397, 424 959 – 61: 397 963: 423 964 – 67: 422 969 – 70: 397, 423 984 – 86: 397 987: 397 n. 55 1101 – 6: 408 1010 – 14: 399 1011 – 13: 397 1022: 425 1023 – 25: 398 1026 – 30: 397 n. 55 1032 – 36: 398 1034 – 35: 399, 405 1040 – 43: 399 1048 – 52: 395, 397 n. 55

584

Index of passages

1050 – 52: 430 1058: 397 n. 55 1060: 397 n. 55 1060 – 61: 397 1062 – 63: 395, 397 n. 55 1064: 398 1065 – 69: 398 1066 – 69: 401 1070: 398 1070 – 75: 395 1076 – 78: 398 1078 – 80: 395, 396, 422 1085: 399 1086 – 88: 399 1088: 397 1089 – 1102: 397 1090: 401 n. 61 1105: 401 n. 61 1105 – 6: 382 n. 25, 397 1107 – 11: 397 n. 55 1107 – 9: 504 n. 45 1109: 401 1110 – 11: 401 1112 – 13: 419 1120: 398 1122 – 23: 408 1124 – 25: 428 n. 111 1129: 398 1134: 408, 416 1135: 398 1136: 386, 408 1138 – 39: 386, 408 1140: 384 n. 28 1141 – 42: 386, 408, 430 1143 – 50: 400 1147 – 50: 382 n. 25 1147 – 48: 398 1148 – 49: 397, 401 n. 61 1149 – 50: 404 n. 69

1151 – 52: 381 1153 – 54: 382 1157 – 58: 398 1158: 415 – 16 1159 – 73: 70 1159 – 61: 403, 404 1164 – 73: 372, 403 1166 – 68: 403 1168: 397 1169 – 71: 404 1172 – 73: 403 1174 – 78: 405 1175 – 78: 398 1181 – 90: 405 1181: 398 1183: 398 1185: 397, 398 1189: 398 1199 – 1202: 395, 407 n. 75 1200 – 1: 398 1201 – 2: 398, 405 1203: 404, 406 1204 – 5: 398 1206 – 7: 404, 406 1211: 398, 406, 415 1216: 406 1216 – 17: 398 1221 – 27: 401 – 2 1224: 398 1225 – 27: 416 1225 – 26: 422 1227 – 29: 398 1230 – 31: 402, 409 1233 – 36: 409 1236 – 37: 409 1238 – 39: 416 1239 – 40: 398, 416 1243: 402 1245: 402, 409

Index of passages

1246: 416 1249 – 51: 398, 411 1252 – 54: 398 1257 – 58: 398 1259 – 63: 395, 396 n. 53, 398 1264 – 69: 417, 429 1266 – 78: 223 n. 65 1266 – 69: 424 1268 – 69: 397, 429 n. 112 1270: 406, 417, 419 1270 – 74: 428 1271 – 74: 417 1276: 428 n. 111 1276 – 77: 417 1278: 417, 418, 425, 429 Fragments 487 Radt: 270 n. 46 590 Radt: 223 n. 65 II. Other authors Anaximander DK 12 B 1: 212 n. 44 Archilochus 286 – 88 W2: 536 Aristophanes Lysistrata 159 – 66: 217 n. 53 223 – 28: 217 n. 53 Ranae 1021 – 22: 37 n. 1 1182: 434 n. 1 1187: 434 n. 1 Aristotle Poetics 1454b1: 435 n. 3 1460a30: 435 n. 3 Bacchylides 16: 387 – 89, 535 – 38

585

Callinus 1.12 – 17 W2: 199 Dio Chrysostom 52 and 59: 274 n. 57 Diodorus Siculus 4.69.3 – 4: 172 Diogenes of Apollonia DK 64 B 3: 212 n. 44 Euripides Alcestis 163 – 69: 382 175 – 95: 382 Andromache 170 – 74: 411 n. 83 399 – 420: 382 523 – 25: 382 654 – 59: 411 n. 83 1231 – 72: 291 n. 79 Antigone fr. 157 and 158 Kannicht: 434 n. 1 Bacchae 193: 270 n. 46 1263 – 1307: 356 1330 – 43: 291 n. 79 Electra 1 – 13: 350 n. 82 54 – 63: 322 n. 16 90 – 93: 324 n. 23 100 – 1: 356 107 – 11: 356 115 – 19: 356 175 – 89: 322 n. 16 207 – 12: 322 n. 16 239 – 41: 322 n. 16 278: 356 304 – 13: 322 n. 16 332 – 35: 322 n. 16

586

Index of passages

335 – 38: 326 n. 30 675: 368 n. 124 681: 326 n. 30 699 – 746: 339, 349 n. 81 876 – 79: 349 880 – 81: 326 n. 30 1004 – 6: 322 n. 16 1008 – 10: 322 n. 16 1018 – 19: 335 n. 52 1020: 335 n. 52 1027 – 29: 116 1030 – 40: 93 n. 9, 335 n. 52 1041 – 44: 116 1045: 335 n. 52 1046 – 48: 93 n. 9 1092 – 93: 322 n. 16 1102 – 5: 335 n. 52 1105 – 6: 335 n. 52 1109 – 10: 335 n. 52 1120: 322 n. 16 1238: 328 Hecuba 409 – 31: 382 426: 319 n. 9 428: 319 n. 9 854 – 63: 437 1277: 526 Helen 1051: 353 n. 94 1663 – 75: 291 n. 79 Heracles 38 – 43: 364 n. 116 222 – 26: 399 n. 57 492: 364 n. 116 545: 364 n. 116 813 – 14: 360 n. 109 1113 – 45: 356 1263 – 78: 290 n. 77 1347 – 57: 466

Heraclidae 26 – 30: 78 n. 30 130 – 33: 85 139 – 43: 86 175: 86 184 – 98: 86 n. 43 207 – 13: 78 238 – 39: 78 267: 86 270 – 73: 85 Hippolytus 375 – 87: 214 n. 47 986 – 1006: 461 1013 – 20: 461 1021: 461 1025 – 31: 461 1033: 461 1060 – 63: 461 1374 – 77: 406 1408: 414 n. 87 1410: 414 n. 87 1412: 414 n. 87 1446: 414 n. 87 1452: 414 n. 87 1454: 414 n. 87 1459 – 61: 414 n. 87 Iphigenia Aulidensis 94 – 96: 333 318 – 414: 78 504: 342 531 – 33: 333 1404: 328 Iphigenia in Tauris 354 – 58: 339 n. 58 446: 339 n. 58 508: 331 n. 46 510: 331 n. 46 687: 353 n. 94 706 – 7: 319 n. 9

Index of passages

812 – 17: 342 n. 66 912 – 14: 319 n. 9 927: 111 1361 – 63: 86 n. 43 1364: 86 n. 43 Medea 112 – 14: 414 n. 87, 518 222: 69 899 – 905: 414 n. 87 930 – 31: 414 n. 87 1021 – 48: 414 n. 87 1040 – 80: 214 n. 47 1069 – 80: 414 n. 87 1243 – 50: 414 n. 87 1273 – 74: 302 – 3 1275 – 76: 195, 302 – 3 1277 – 78: 195, 303 1397: 414 n. 87 Orestes 580 – 84: 180 615 – 21: 325 n. 29 642 – 79: 78 658: 339 n. 58 682 – 86: 78 n. 30 717 – 21: 78 n. 30 736: 78 n. 30 740: 78 n. 30 748 – 52: 78 n. 30 769: 78 n. 30 1056 – 59: 78 n. 30 1060 – 64: 326 n. 30 1167 – 71: 326 n. 30 1615 – 17: 78 n. 30 Phoenissae 388 – 95: 69 540 – 45: 212 n. 44 784 – 91: 54 n. 33 834 – 37: 270 n. 46 1444 – 53: 399

Supplices 263 – 66: 78 892 – 95: 69 1012 – 30: 382 1070 – 71: 382 Troades 356 – 66: 124 n. 58 370 – 72: 124 n. 58 404 – 5: 124 n. 58 444 – 61: 124 n. 58 647 – 49: 75 659 – 60: 402 n. 65 778 – 79: 402 n. 65 919 – 22: 296 940 – 44: 296 Gorgias DK 82 B 24: 37 n. 1 Heraclitus DK 22 B 31a-b: 212 n. 44 Herodotus 1.32: 425 2.98: 73 4.87 – 89: 32 4.145: 532 5.26: 533 5.106: 461 6.35: 229 n. 82 6.138: 532 6.140: 533 8.64, 121: 230 8.76, 95: 27 n. 24 Hesiod Catalogue of Women 25.20 – 25: 536 Homer Iliad 1.169 – 71: 198 1.188 – 94: 205

587

588

Index of passages

1.194 – 221: 192 n. 9 1.207 – 14: 187 n. 2 1.225 – 43: 250 1.226 – 28: 205, 247 n. 14 1.409 – 10: 187 n. 2 2.200 – 6: 307 2.716 – 25: 241 2.726: 313 n. 132 6.476 – 81: 193 7.89 – 90: 229 7.124 – 60: 234 7.181 – 312: 204, 234 9.132 – 34: 415 n. 88 9.312 – 13: 251 n. 20 9.356 – 63: 198, 250 9.392 – 400: 198 9.408 – 16: 250 9.427 – 29: 250 9.447 – 57: 410 9.628 – 42: 226 9.644 – 45: 237 9.650 – 55: 237, 250 12.322 – 28: 199 13.277: 205 15.674 – 746: 234 16.38 – 100: 250 16.40 – 42: 205, 247 n. 14 16.102 – 22: 234 16.844 – 54: 399 18.95 – 126: 250 18.105 – 6: 193 18.115 – 26: 199 19.261 – 63: 415 n. 88 21.279 – 83: 215 22.82 – 85: 150 – 51 22.93 – 96: 150 n. 15 22.99 – 110: 198 22.188 – 93: 150 n. 15 22.261 – 67: 215 22.338 – 43: 399

22.356 – 60: 399 22.369 – 75: 307 n. 114 24.527 – 33: 425 24.797: 208 Odyssey 1.40 – 41: 350 n. 82 1.298 – 300: 330 n. 43 3.193 – 204: 330 n. 43 3.309 – 10: 350 n. 82 5.306 – 12: 215 9.507 – 12: 70 10.330 – 32: 70 11.409 – 34: 315 n. 1 11.467 – 70: 215 n. 49 11.482 – 86: 249 11.488 – 91: 249 11.492 – 93: 249 11.508 – 9: 251 n. 20 11.523 – 32: 205 11.538 – 40: 250 11.543 – 65: 204 11.601 – 4: 290 n. 77 11.617 – 26: 290 n. 77 19.525 – 26: 138 n. 80 24.93 – 94: 249 24.345 – 48: 356 n. 101 Pausanias 1.35.2: 229 n. 82 7.16: 73 Pherecydes FGrHist 3 F 37b = fr. 37b EGM: 340 Pindar Nemean 7.23 – 30: 237 8.21 – 27: 236 8.28 – 32: 236 8.32 – 34: 237

Index of passages

Olympian 1.81 – 84: 199 Pythian 2.40: 172 6.28 – 42: 254 9.112 – 16: 73 11.22 – 23: 111

Solon fr. 13 W2: 453 n. 32 Stesichorus S13 PMGF: 151 Thucydides 1.24: 78

589

Index of names and subjects Achelous 374, 375, 380, 385 n. 29, 394, 397 n. 55, 423, 427, 514 Aegisthus in Agamemnon: 101 – 4, 112 – 13, 160 in Choephori: 144 – 45, 146 in Electra: 336 – 37 not mentioned in Eumenides: 70 n. 13, 174 – 75 Aegyptiads 77, 78, 84 – 86 Aeschylus Danaid trilogy, end: 87, 521 – 22 hubris of Xerxes: 22 – 24 Odysseus trilogy: 73 order of plays: 66 – 67, 73 portrayal of barbarians: 84 – 85 portrayal of the Persians: 33 – 35 Proteus: 110 – 11 Supplices, secondary chorus: 84 – 86 youth in crisis: 246 Agamemnon in Agamemnon closeness to Menelaus: 115 punishment for Iphigeneia’s sacrifice and Thyestes’ banquet: 105 – 13, 120 – 21 punishment for Trojan war casualties and outrages: 113 – 14, 116 – 18, 120 – 21, 132 – 33

See also freedom of choice in Ajax 224, 232, 235 – 36, 238 in Electra 332 – 35 Ajax and Achilles: 193, 197, 198 and Philoctetes: 241 – 42 attitude to Teucer: 193, 202 n. 25 guest-friendship with Hector: 206 heroization: 228 – 31 hubris: 188 – 89, 192 – 93 rehabilitation: 189 n. 6, 228 temper: 199 trickery: 204 – 5 alternation 212, 419, 420 n. 99, 421, 423, 424, 426, 427 Althaea 373 n. 7 Amphiaraus 39, 40, 57, 63 Antigone 12, 246, 319, 327, 343, 393 n. 44, 400

Antigone 12, 245, 327, 343, 393 n, 44, 400, 407, 414 n. 87, 444 n. 16, 449, 465, 467 n. 56

592

Index of names and subjects

Antilochus 254, 275, 276

characterization in tragedy: 50

Aphrodite 192 n. 10 see also Cypris

chorus and the past in Aeschylus and Sophocles: 512 – 16 choice of: 343 of Philoctetes and Ajax: 299, 313 – 14 referring openly to unfolding deception ploys when alone onstage: 302 – 3

Ares 37, 62 – 64 Argos 331 Aristeides 27 n. 24 Aristogeiton 326 Artemis 105 – 11, 116 n. 46, 117, 192 n. 10 Asclepius 140 asylum 77 Atossa: see Queen in Persae Calchas omen of the eagles and its interpretation in Agamemnon: 90, 105 – 112, 116, 117 Capaneus 223 – 24 Cassandra not mentioned in Sophocles’ Electra: 315 pronouncements in Agamemnon: 90, 112 – 13, 117, 118 – 24, 135 n. 75 role in Agamemnon’s murder: 93

Chrysippus, son of Pelops 46 Cimon 229 Clytaemestra in Agamemnon confrontation with the chorus: 91 – 101 invocation of Atreus’ alastôr: 95 – 100 resentment against Cassandra: 92 – 94 revenge for Iphigeneia’s murder: 94 – 101 use of language and rhetoric: 91, 102, 104. 139 n. 82, 149 in Choephori failure to mention Iphigeneia’s sacrifice: 147 – 50 fear: 145 – 46 imposing and dominant: 142 – 45 mistress of the house: 143 – 44 sincerity of lament for Orestes’ supposed death: 144 n. 2, 529 – 31 in Eumenides

Index of names and subjects

adultery not mentioned: 174 – 75 ghost: 182 Cronus 170 n. 52, 171, 172 Cybele 301 Cypris 423, 427, 429, daemon 7, 29, 48, 93 – 103, 120 n. 53, 144, 149 n. 12 Danaid trilogy: see Aeschylus Danaids narrative of Io’s story: 80 – 87 rejection of marriage: 74 – 76 threat of polluting suicide: 79, 84 n. 39 Danaus 66 – 76, 78, 82 – 85, 229 Darius 18 – 19, 23 – 33 Deidameia 244

deus ex nachina 290 – 91, 298 – 99 Diomedes 273, 275, 276 n. 59

Electra of Sophocles and Euripides: 315 – 16, 323 entry of characters during a song unannounced: 303

593

of characters overhearing song or news: 302 Epaphus 76 epiphany: see deus ex machina Erinyes in Eumenides association with Semnai Theai/ Eumenides: 173 n. 56 change at the end of the play: 173 n. 56 disrespect by the younger gods: 170, 173 prerogative: 170 – 71, 173, 179 n. 63, 180, 182 Eteocles in Septem alleged enforcer of the paternal curse: 56 – 58 alleged fratricidal lust: 58 – 62 alleged harshness and misogyny: 42 n. 10, 44 – 45 characterization: 50 n. 29 Opfertod-theory: 44 n. 14 timing of allocation of Theban champions: 519 – 21 see also freedom of choice, kleos Eteoclus 223 Euadne 223 – 24 Eumenides: see Erinyes Euripides youth in crisis: 246 Eurystheus 296

594

Index of names and subjects

Eurytus 373 n. 7, 395 n. 46, 397, 398, 409, 538, 539 freedom of choice of Agamemnon in Iphigeneia’s sacrifice: 524 – 25 of Eteocles and Polyneices in Septem: 48 – 55 of tragic characters: 2 – 8 fullness: see over-determination Haemon 12, 302, 400, 414 n. 87 Harmodius 326 Helen 93 n. 10, 94, 97 – 98, 110, 116, 117, 119, 130 – 31, 132 n. 72, 133, 134, 135, 137, 155, 224, 522 – 23, 529 Hera 76 – 77, 81, 522 Herodotus 17, 22, 27 n. 24, 29 n. 28 Hippodameia 340 Hippolytus 192 n. 10, 399, 400, 414 n. 87, 461 Histiaeus 461 Hydra 377, 389, 390 Hypermestra 61, 73 – 74, 84, 522

Io 76 – 87, 522 Iphis 224 Iphitus 296 n. 88, 373 n. 7, 397, 409, 430, 538, 539 Ismene 319 Ixion 171, 172, 181, 535

kleos in Philoctetes: 242 in tragedy: 242 n. 4 of Eteocles in Septem: 50, 55, 518 kommos function in Choephori: 158, 531 – 32 Laius his crimes and Apollo’s oracle to him mentioned in Septem: 45 – 48 lament 323 Lycomedes 243 n. 6, 244, 245 Lynceus 73, 84, 522 Marathon 27 – 31 Menelaus in Agamemnon fate: 114 – 16 see also Agamemnon

Index of names and subjects

in Ajax 224, 232 Menoeceus 58, 246 Miltiades 229 Mycenae 331, 350 Myrtilus 316, 339 – 41 Nestor 234, 254, 275, 276, 350 n. 82 Oedipus curse on his sons mentioned in Septem: 42, 518 – 19 Oeneus 371, 373 n. 7 Oenomaus 340 Oeta 294, 371, 398, 401, 404, 405 omen of the eagles and its interpretation in Agamemnon: see Calchas Omphale 538 oracles oracle to Danaus in the Danaid trilogy: 66 – 76 post-eventum mention: 70

595

paean 422 Paris 6, 98 n. 19, 115 – 16, 119, 126, 128, 130, 131, 132, 136, 137, 258 – 59, 291, 296 – 97 Patroclus 193, 205, 227, 234, 247, 250, 254, 275, 276 Peisander scholium 46 Pelasgians 532 – 33 Pelasgus 32 n. 31, 35, 71, 73, 76, 78, 79, 80, 84, 85, 86, 522 Pelops 339 – 41 Phanoteus 331 n. 47 Philaeus 229 Poeas 242 politics: see tragic plays

over-determination 192 n. 9

Polyneices in Euripides’ Phoenissae (784 – 91): 54 n. 33 representation in Septem: 49 n. 27, 54 n. 34 see also freedom of choice

overhearing of song or speech: 302 – 3

Priam 115 n. 44, 128, 248, 425

596

Index of names and subjects

Pythia 167, 171 n. 54

Thebais 519

Queen in Persae 21 – 22, 29 – 31

Themistocles 27 n. 24, 35

repetition 342

Thersites 252, 253, 275, 277, 297

Sack of Oechalia 539 n. 64

Thucydides 22

scholia 46, 67 – 68, 172, 327 n. 33, 340, 391, 396, 495, 496, 505 n. 47, 519

Thyestes adultery: 122 n. 56, 341 banquet: 89, 90, 105 – 12, 148, 149, 150, 341

Semnai Theai: see Erinyes

tragic plays political interpretation: 309 – 10

Solon 425 Sophocles oracles: 256 youth in crisis: 245 – 46 Sphinx 47, 434, 435, 437 n. 6, 441, 443, 451, 457, 473 Telemachus 354, 373 n. 6 Teucer love for Ajax: 193, 202 n. 25, 216 n. 52, 232

tyrannicide 326 – 27 wealth 136, 350 – 51 Xerxes 18 – 33, 89, 246 Zeus Oetaean: 421 protector of suppliants: 77 relationship with Io: 80 – 87, 522 Xenios: 6, 116, 129, 130, 136, 524