The Sense of History in Greek and Shakespearean Drama 9780231897310

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THE SENSE OF HISTORY IN GREEK AND SHAKESPEAREAN DRAMA

By TOM F. D R I V E R

SE COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY PRESS NEW Y O R K A N D LONDON

T h i s book was originally published in book form in i960

Third printing and Columbia Paperback edition iy6y P r i n t e d in the I ' n i t e d S t a t e s of A m e r i c a

For Anne

What is the basis of dramatic art? "Historic art." Nothing can be more reasonable. Poetry has been compared with painting; very good, but a better comparison would be between poetry and history. DIDEROT

PREFACE

N o t only in literature, but also in virtually every other intellectual pursuit, our age is evincing its interest in problems of time. T h e subj e c t is so omnipresent, its ramifications so multifarious, that one can imagine our appearing to some distant observer very much like fish w h o have decided to solve the riddle of water. H o w e v e r futile the task, we have our reasons for attempting it. T h e r e are terrors in our day which blanket the future with uncertainty. T h e order of time in which our fathers believed—inevitable progress—has been destroyed, and it is incumbent upon us to discover another. Hence, the contemporary concern with the philosophy of history. In this atmosphere, it seemed likely that a study of cultural assumptions regarding history in Shakespeare and the G r e e k s would be valuable. Being a student of literature, I hoped such a study would throw light on the question of dramatic form, enlarging our understanding of dramatists w h o m we seem destined to love more than to comprehend. I f , at the same time, the study contributed to a more general understanding of man in his historical situation, so much the better. W h i l e writing on so grand and complex a subject, I have kept in mind the warning contained in the censure which Esteban pronounced in Fuente Ovejuna: " T h e y pretend to be as learned as theologians the way they mix up the past and the future—but if you ask them anything about the immediate present they are completely at a loss." It has been my trustful assumption that knowledge of what our greatest dramatists expressed about the past and the future would be of value in the present. T h e book is divided into three parts. T h e first begins bv sketching the background in terms of both drama and history, answering the question w h y one should consider drama and history together. F r o m there I turn to the separate understandings of time and history held by the classical G r e e k s and in the Judaeo-Christian stream. Although the scope of the work did not permit this part of the investigation to utilize

VI

PREFACE

original sources, I believe it affords sound conclusions based upon the research of others. T h e second part is an unavoidable digression made necessary by the lack of any widespread agreement about the meaning of the phrase "dramatic f o r m . " Since my purpose is to show that it is the form of the plays, more than their subject matter, which bears the mark of the presuppositions about time, it was obligatory to inform the reader of what I think is involved when one speaks of dramatic form. T h e third part is an examination, in some detail, of four G r e e k and four Shakespearean plays in the light of the material in Part I, using the method of comparison and contrast. I n every case but one I have tried to juxtapose plays which show some similarity in theme or subject matter, in order that the differences in form might be t h r o w n into higher relief. I n the case of Macbeth and the Oedipus Tyrannus I chose two very compact plays in which the question of structure is paramount. T h e Appendix gives further reasons for having selected the particular plays in question. T h e biblical quotations in my text are from the Revised Standard Version. As I was nowhere making a point of the influence of the language of the English Bible on Shakespeare, it seemed best to use the most accurate modern translation. T h e Shakespearean quotations are from The Complete Plays and Poems of William Shakespeare, ed. by William A. Neilson and Charles J . Hill (Cambridge, Mass., 1942). T h e text of The Persians used is edited by Gilbert M u r r a y , Asechyli, Sept em Quae Super sunt Tragoediae (Oxford, 1952). Elsewhere, quotations f r o m the G r e e k tragedians are from the Loeb Classical Library editions. Unless otherwise noted, the translations are my own. I n the preparation of this work I have been greatly assisted by Professors S. F. J o h n s o n , Oscar James Campbell, Moses Hadas, and James M u i l e n b u r g , for whose guidance and friendship I a m very grateful. I wish to acknowledge special indebtedness to Professors Hadas and J o h n s o n , and to M r . Gerritt Lansing and M r . Henry Wiggins of the Columbia University Press, w h o have been instrumental in bringing the book into print. T h e manuscript was faithfully edited by Miss A n i t a W e i n e r . M y obligation to other scholars and teachers is partly acknowledged in the footnotes; but the reader will perceive, better than I, my debt to many w h o remain unnamed. TOM

Union Theological Seminary Mew York, T959

F.

DRIVER

CONTENTS

PART I".

I.

INTRODUCTION

Drama and History

3

II.

Hellenic Historical Consciousness: T h e Equilibrium of Nature 19

III.

Judaeo-Christian Historical Consciousness: T h e Vocation of Israel 39 PART I I :

IV.

A NECESSARY

T h e Problem of Dramatic Form PART I N :

V. VI. VII. Vili. IX.

EXCURSUS

69

COMPARISONS

Nemesis and Judgment: The Persians and Richard 111

87

Synthesis and Providence: T h e Oresteia and Hamlet

116

T h e Uses of T i m e : T h e Oedipus Tyrannus and Macbeth

'43

Release and Reconciliation: T h e Alcestis and Winter's Tale

168

The

Conclusion

A P P E N D I X : ON T H E CHOICE OF T H E P L A Y S

199 213

The Persians and Richard III

213

T h e Oresteia and Hamlet

214

The Winter's Tale and the Alcestis. With a Note on the Alcestis as Tragi-comedy

215

BIBLIOGRAPHY

219

INDEX

227

PART I:

INTRODUCTION

I DRAMA

AND

HISTORY

It was Aristotle himself who first found it desirable to examine the relation between drama and history. What Aristotle—or, more correctly, dramatic practice before him—joined could not easily be put asunder. In 1 6 0 5 , Francis Bacon, eager to defend poetry against its critics, 1 could assert: "Poetry is . . . nothing else but FainedHistoric." Florio in 1 5 9 1 had complained that none of the plays of the English stage were "right comedies . . . nor right tragedies . . . [but] representations of histories without any decorum." 2 Sir Philip Sidney wrote ( 1 5 9 5 ) : " A n d even Historiographers, although their lippes sound of things done, and veritie be written in their foreheads, have been glad to borrow both fashion and perchance weight of the Poets." 3 As for more recent times, the comment of Eric Bentley on Friedrich Hebbel reveals a strong current in modern thought: Hebbel is the first great dramatic critic and practitioner to show the explicit influence of that historical imagination which is one of the great novelties of modern times. . . . Those who think of history and tragedy as necessarily antithetic would assert that Hebbel wrote dramatic histories and not tragedies. For history is his very mode of vision.1 T h a t playwrights have been attracted to history as subject matter for representation on the stage is well known. 6 Aeschylus has left us one 1 Of the Proficiencies and Advancement of Learnings Book I I , fols. 17 ind 18, quoted in Lily B. Campbell, Shakespeare 1 Histories p. 1 0 1 . For a full discussion, see chapter, "History Versus Poetry in Renaissance England", pp. 8 5 - 1 0 5 . 3 First Fruits, quoted bv Thomas R. Lounsbury in Shakespeare as a Dramatic Artist,

p. 1 2 .

* " T h e Defence of Poesie," in The Complete Works of Sir Philip Sidney, ed. by Albert Feuillerat, I I I , 5. 4 The Playwright as Thinker, pp. 28-29. ' Cf. Irving Ribner, The English History Play in tht Age of Shakespeart, Chap. I.

4

INTRODUCTION

out-and-out history play in The Persians, and there is evidence that others were written by his contemporaries. T h e Roman fabulae praetextae, although their number was small and only the Octavia survives, employed historical subjects. 6 T h e Renaissance was fascinated by the romance of representing past events on the stage, as Florio lamented. In the modern theater, history has appeared as an alluring subject wherever romanticism has been a strong force, in spite of the fact that romanticism in the long run tends to destroy historical thinking. When Dumas pere said in 1 8 3 1 that "life is not interesting, but history is," he was at the farthest pole from Diderot's assertion in 1 7 5 8 that history is the basis of dramatic art. T h e latter regarded history as an avenue of entrance into real human existence in time and social relationships: history embraced the present moment, its limits and possibilities. Diderot was interested in history because he was, or fancied himself to be, a realist. Dumas regarded history as an avenue of escape from the uninteresting reality of present life. "History," the then and there, the glorious, was interesting; life, the here and now, the evident, was not. Few better comparisons could be found to illustrate drama's continual interest in history, and also the highly equivocal character of "history" as a term. When the drama is related to history, what is it, in fact, related to ? And how deep does the concern of the dramatic for the historic go ? T h e connections between drama and history lie much deeper than might be thought from the mere observation that historical material frequently finds its way onto the stage. T h a t in itself would be natural enough; for what could be more obvious than that the playwright in search of material should turn to stories already set forth about things that have happened ? I f Bandello has written novelle that go well on the stage, why not have a look at Holinshed or Plutarch, who also have set down interesting narratives? Considered in this light, history is simply one of a number of possible sources for plot and character. However, if the inquiry be pushed further—if it be carried to the point where it becomes necessary for an Aristotle to distinguish between poetry and history, or for a Diderot to declare historic art to be • E. C. Chickering, An Introduction to Octavia Praetexta, p. 1 5 . Title« and/or fragment» of eleven fabulae praetextae remain in addition to the Octavia. See Frank J . Miller, The Tragedtet of Seneca, pp. 417—20, who points out that this is a very small number compared with the total number of title®, fragments, and plays known. He attributes the lack of quantity and significance in the genre not to Roman lack of patriotism or historical subjects, but to too great dependence upon the Greek dramat-sts.

DRAMA

AND

HISTORY

5

the very basis of dramatic art—then a more subtle problem presents itself. Here we have to look into the meaning of "history" and to inquire about the nature of the drama itself. T o the modern scientific mind the difference between history as documented fact and drama as fictional or semi-fictional tale makes their distinction necessary. Nevertheless, in older usage the language preserved the wisdom that any coherent history was a story, was (in the root meaning) a fabrication, something made. Narrative, taken alone, is certainly not a peculiar attribute of drama. It belongs equally to the romance, to the novel, or to narrative poetry. Drama, however, is distinguished from these literary forms by its special, complex relationship to the reality we call time. As a narrative art, along with the others just mentioned, it addresses itself to the telling of events which take place in the past, present, or future; and by its use of language it may refer consciously to the phenomenon of passing time. But as a performing art, along with music and the dance, it has its very existence in time. T h e fully realized drama is itself a temporal act. T h e latter point is one which has not often been stressed. As Eric Bentley has put it: Analyses of the structure of plays seldom fail to tell us where the climax lies, where the exposition is completed, and how the play ends, but they often omit a more obtrusive factor—the principle of motion, the way in which a play copes with its medium, with time-sequence.7 T h a t the drama is so closely bound up with time—not only dealing with it as idea, or presenting it as narrative, but also utilizing it as a constituent factor in its performance—means that the drama can never be a subject of purely literary study. It has to be known in relation to the stage, to the theater for which it was conceived. T h e notion of "theater," when carried to its fullest, corresponds to a more general notion of the total physical and temporal setting in which human action is conceived as taking place.8 T h e act of performing the play in the theater, therefore, becomes a miniature reflection of historical action generally, since it is a significant action taking place within the limits imposed by the conventions of the theater. This will be particularly true in those dramatic periods, such as the Greek and Elizabethan, where the theater was frankly accepted as the locus of the action and ' In Search of Theatre, p. 332. A general indebtedness to Francis Fergusson's The Idea of a Theatre, should be recognized here. Professor Fergusson has shown the importance of the notion of the cosmos as theater for the great periods of dramatic creativity. See especially pp. 1 2 8 - 3 0 . 9

6

INTRODUCTION

where there was not, as in recent times, an attempt to black out both audience and theater, leaving only the illusion-world brightly lit. (Even the latter practice has its ideational presuppositions, owing as it does so much to the spirit of the laboratory, invoked by Zola, and to an age which until quite recently has appeared determined to find truth in the detailed study of isolated phenomena, divorced from the configurations of historical events and from the social fabric.) T h e theater, then, tends to reflect the assumptions of its age regarding time and history because it is on the one hand a narrative of temporal events, and on the other hand an enactment taking place within a moment of time. Since events taking place inside an assumed frame of reference are its subject matter, and the temporal re-enactment of those events is its medium, it becomes a miniature history in itself. Recent philosophical attention to the nature and method of historical writing has brought to the fore certain aspects of the historical enterprise which show how clearly it belongs to the field of the humanities, in contrast to earlier, simpler understandings of history as purely an empirical science. T h e philosophical implications of the historical endeavor have been examined, as well as its kinship with literature; and these studies have shown that history, like literature and philosophy, is a construct of the mind, in addition to whatever may be said of it as scientific investigation. That is, as an investigation it may be, and should be, as scientific as possible—in the reliance upon documentary, archaeological, and other evidence—but as a reconstruction of the past it inevitably brings into play the imagination as a formative element. Although the Oxford English Dictionary lists nine different senses of the word "history," these may be reduced essentially to three. T h e root meaning in Greek, apparently, was investigation or inquiry. T h e term Icrropla, which has that meaning, is traced to the root 18, which means "to know." Therefore, ioropla. was a "finding out." • T h e earliest Greek history writing was characterized by the spirit of empirical investigation. Herodotus adopted as his explicit method the interrogation of eye witnesses to the events he wished to describe. 10 It is the scientific understanding of history which has reappeared as the * " t h e w o r d toropt-rj »hows its Ionian origin, i n d a l w a y s connoted physical research too, w h i c h was originally its true m e a n i n g . " W e r n e r J a e g e r , Paideia: The Ideali of Greek Culture, I, 3 7 9 . 13 R . G . C o l l i n g w o o d , The Idea of Hiitory, pp. 2 ^ . - 2 5 .

DRAMA AND

HISTORY

7

hallmark of modern historiography, taking its lead from the call for objectivity, accuracy, and unbiased investigation set forth in the nineteenth century by B. G. Niebuhr and Leopold von Ranke. By the time the Romans had borrowed the word from the Greeks and it had passed into Latin as historiay the primary meaning had changed to that of a narrative of past events, which in turn led to its being used to denote any narrative, so that it came to mean merely an account, a tale, or a story. T h e word "story" itself is, of course, derived from it. This change is extremely important. It represents a shift from emphasis upon the enterprise of discovering truth, in more or less pragmatic ways, to emphasis upon the accomplished result, the literary (or oral) form into which the inquiry is finally cast. Although this new emphasis strikes us as peculiarly Roman, rather than Greek, it had begun to appear before Rome's ascendancy. No doubt the conjunction of rhetoric with history, which began perhaps in Thucydides, was partly responsible. T h e ambiguity of the term passed over into English and became one of the reasons why "drama" and "history" are so often linked together. They are both narrative; and they may be true or fictional. Thus Shakespeare in the Induction to The Taming of the Shrew can have his characters say: Your honour's players . . . Are come to play a pleasant comedy; . . . It is a kind of history (ii. 131-44) without implying necessarily that the "history" is a true story. At the same time, the other connotation of the word means that the idea of factuality is never completely absent, so that the dramatist who calls his play a history is inviting his audience to make believe, to pretend that this is a story which happened "once upon a time." The use of the word "history" to refer primarily to a narrative or account of something led, in turn, to its third basic meaning. T h e shift from emphasis on inquiry to emphasis on narrative reflected an awareness that some form, some cohesive unity might be said to exist in the very events described. This awareness could not help but lead to the eventual application of the word, not to the enterprise of discovery, and not to the narrative of events, but to the very events themselves. Thus we get the word in its modern sense, as when we speak of "the study of history." T h e assumption here is that the history of a nation,

8

INTRODUCTION

a person, an idea, or a biological form, exists already, and that the scholar sets himself to discover what that history is. In this v i e w , the facts themselves are history. F r o m the original G r e e k meaning, through the later G r e e k and L a t i n , to the modern view of history as a subject of study, a course of development may be discerned. T h e r e is first a separation between the objects studied and the endeavor by means of which the study is carried on. " H i s t o r y " refers only to the latter. T h e n there is a concern for the form in which the telling of the inquiry is set out, parallel with a feeling that the object of study itself has a form and cohesiveness. T h e n there is an identification of form with the object studied. T h e third attitude may share with the first a scientific spirit of investigation, but there lies within it a deposit from the second which assumes a pattern and structure in events, and this assumed structure comes to be called history. T h e foregoing analysis of the term " h i s t o r y " should make it clear that a different conception regarding man's orientation in the world of time and events is presupposed in each of the three meanings w e have noted. T h e s e conceptions, which until recent times w e r e not often consciously reflected upon, represent what we may call the historical consciousness. It should be clear that where the term " h i s t o r y " refers to an inquiry or process of investigation rather than to the object of study there is no " h i s t o r y " in the modern sense. T h e r e is, therefore, a radically different historical consciousness. A man w h o lives where there is no organized history to be studied—but only various occurrences and a certain lore of the past—must have a quite different view of himself in relation to the flow of time from the man w h o lives where " h i s t o r y " is already conceived of as a reality, as having a certain f o r m , to which he may address himself. I f w e may distinguish between Icrropia as " i n q u i r y , " and historia as " a c c o u n t " or " t a l e , " then the change from one to the other reflects an awareness on the part of R o m e which the classical period in G r e e c e did not have—namely, that the events of time, past and present, could be thought of as possessing a form comparable to the form of a narrative. H o w e v e r slowly this awareness may have developed, it must be clear to anyone w h o compares the Aenetd with the Homeric epics that Vergil writes for people w h o are prepared to assume an identity between the story of R o m e and the history of the known w o r l d . 1 1 :>

See Chap. II, pp. 3 J—37 of thii book.

DRAMA

AND

HISTORY

9

It is this preconception of time and the content of time which informs the historical consciousness of a given age and the most representative of its writers, painters, and other artists. And it is this historical consciousness which, I suggest, bears a close relation to the art of the drama. It should be borne in mind, then, that when one speaks of the relation of drama to history he is referring not only to the idea of narrative, but also—and more importantly—to one or more of several conceptions of time. I f history is thought of as simply "everything that has happened"—which is more or less the encyclopedic idea, but essentially ail unhistorical view—then of course the drama, like everything else, is related to it, but in so general a way as to have no particular significance. I f , on the other hand, history is regarded as, say, a dialectical movement in the Hegelian sense, a specific and pregnant idea of time is manifest; and it is then possible to build a theory of dramatic structure upon it, as, for instance, Marian Galloway has done in a recent book on playwriting technique. 1 * One should be wary of making too much of a particular philosophical theory, and even more wary of applying that theory to dramatic works written in periods before the theory emerged. However, if it can be discovered that a certain general conception of history was assumed within a given age, then there is reason to suspect that the drama of that age will reflect that conception in its structure. T h a t variant structures are evident in the Greek and the Shakespearean drama, and that the assumptions regarding time and history in their respective ages go far to account for them is the thesis presented here. T h e modern philosopher of history rediscovers the two early meanings of history as "inquiry" and as "account" or "story." T h e result is that he sees historical thinking to be the perception of meanings and patterns in the flow of events. Inasmuch as these meanings and patterns are thought of as belonging to the world of time—in contrast to essentially timeless patterns such as those of mathematics or aesthetics —they may be said to partake of the dramatic. I have been helped to see the various components of what is here called "history" by R. G . Collingwood's influential work, The Idea of History. T h e essential problem which occupies Collingwood's attention 11 Constructing a Play. Sec pp. 20—25, where the reader it also referred to the »ource— Hegel, Tit Philosophy of Ftnt Art. Hegel'« own theory of tragedy retted aquarely upon hia understanding of time.

10

INTRODUCTION

in t h e b o o k is t h e relation of t h e historian to t h e evidence w i t h w h i c h he deals, and to t h e events w h i c h a r e revealed t o h i m t h r o u g h t h a t evidence. C o l l i n g w o o d perceives t h a t t h e relation o f t h e historian to evidence a n d events is n o t at all t h e same as t h a t o f t h e natural scientist to t h e p h e n o m e n a w h i c h t h e latter m u s t collect, classify, and p r o p o u n d hypotheses t o explain. T h e historian is always c o n f r o n t e d w i t h t h e p r o b l e m of a u t h e n t i c i t y if his evidence is d o c u m e n t a r y and w i t h t h e p r o b l e m o f relevance to his inquiry in any case. T h u s his e n d e a v o r f r o m t h e outset involves m a n y j u d g m e n t s and decisions o f a type n o t raised f o r t h e n a t u r a l scientist. Y e t t h e complexity regarding evidence is b u t a p r e l u d e to t h a t reg a r d i n g t h e historian's relation to t h e past event itself, and it is o n t h e latter p o i n t t h a t C o l l i n g w o o d m a k e s certain observations w h i c h a r e p e r t i n e n t t o o u r present analysis. His o w n w o r d s will be t h e most concise: T h e historian, investigating any event in the past, makes a distinction between what may be called the outside and the inside of an event. By the outside of the event I mean everything belonging to it which can be described in terms of bodies and their movements: the passage of Caesar, accompanied by certain men, across a river called the Rubicon at one date, or the spilling of his blood on the floor of the senate-house at another. By the inside of the event I mean that in it which can only be described in terms of thought: Caesar's defiance of Republican law, or the clash of constitutional policy between himself and his assassins. T h e historian is never concerned with either of these to the exclusion of the other. H e is investigating not mere events (where by a mere event I mean one which has only an outside and no inside) but actions, and an action is tie unity of the outside and inside of an event. H e is interested in the crossing of the Rubicon only in its relation to Republican law, and in the spilling of Caesar's blood only in its relation to a constitutional conflict. His work may begin by discovering the outside of an event, but it can never end there; he must always remember that the event was an action, and that his main task is to think himself into this action, to discern the thought of its agent. 1 3 F o r m y present purposes, t h e significant e l e m e n t lies in t h e w o r d s I have italicized. History is not simply " w h a t h a p p e n e d , " unless t h a t phrase be t a k e n to imply t h e total m e a n i n g of t h e e v e n t . 1 4 13

Idea of History, p. 21 j . Italics arc mine. U n f o r t u n a t e l y , Collingwood's love of t h o u g h t for its o w n sake leads h i m almost i m m e diately t c u p s e t t h e balance w h i c h he had expressed in t h e a s s e i t i o n t h a t t h e historian is never concerned w i t h either t h e outside or t h e inside of t h e e v e n t , t h e o n e t o t h e exclusion of t h e o t h e r . T w o pages later h e has become so carried away w i t h e m p h a s i z i n g t h e inside t h a t h e 14

DRAMA

AND

HISTORY

Collingwood comes even closer to dramatic thinking w h e n he c o n siders the historian's task of re-enacting past experience. I n line with his assertion that t h e historian is concerned with the inside as well as the outside of the occurrences he studies, Collingwood says that the historian must rethink, in order to rediscover, the thoughts of t h e past. T h a t is to say, he must re-enter by imaginative process the situation in which the original agent was compelled to act, and he must reproduce in his o w n mind the process of decision by which that agent came to his o w n specific resolutions and deeds . . But how does the historian discern the thoughts which he is trying to rediscover? T h e r e is only one way in which it can be done: by rethinking t h e m in his o w n m i n d . " 1 5 Having so stated the matter, Collingwood is then d r a w n almost involuntarily into the further observation that historical t h i n k ing involves re-enactment. T h e paragraph f r o m which w e have just quoted ends with this sentence: " T h e history of t h o u g h t , and therefore all history, is the re-enactment of past thought in t h e historian's o w n m i n d . " A subsequent section of the book (the arrangement is his editor's) is devoted to "History as R e - E n a c t m e n t of Past Experience." N o one will have difficulty in perceiving the close parallels to the drama which are here set up in Collingwood's "idea of history." T o be sure, his tendency to reduce history to the history of t h o u g h t goes too far. Y e t the stress is valuable because it prevents history being taken as merely a collection of "facts," and it establishes the possibility of entering again into the past (or drawing the past into the present), and so guarantees the organic, living character of w h a t w e call history. N o w if we hold that the historian is always concerned both with the inside and the outside of events, and if w e simultaneously broaden the idea of re-enactment to include not only imaginative rethinking but also t h e re-doing of the event, w e are in the realm of drama. For the task of the dramatist is to perceive not only the external event which he would narrate, but also its internal meaning, its appearance to those w h o participated in it; and he must re-create out of his imaginative sympathy the feelings, desires, and j u d g m e n t s of those w h o acted in the history which thus emerges under his pen. T h e actual theater performance, without which the drama is incomplete, is the

m a k e s his f a m o u s assertion, " A l l h i s t o r y is t h e h i s t o r y of t h o u g h t . " W e need n o t c o n c u r in t h e l a t t e r s t a t e m e n t t o be able t o appreciate t h e c o r r e c t n e s s in t h e f o r m e r perception of h i s t o r y as a discovery of inner m e a n i n g s c o n j o i n e d t o o u t e r c i r c u m s t a n c e s and o c c u r r e n c e s . 15

I j f J of History,

p.

215.

INTRODUCTION

extension of the dramatist's imagination, which is then shared by director, actor, and ultimately by the audience. I n these circumstances re-enactment is carried to the fullest, as the history is re-projected in physical terms in a social situation, carried beyond the historian's study to the communal arena once more. T h e reader may be inclined to grant the validity of these observations with regard to historical drama (he knows that Shakespeare tells us not only that Bolingbroke deposed Richard I I , but also what each of them may be imagined to have said and thought on that occasion); but he may feel that historical drama is after all only a small portion of dramatic literature, that therefore the history-drama analogies should not be pressed too far. I n that case, let me turn to Collingwood again: I f it is b y historical t h i n k i n g that w e rethink a n d so re-discover the thought o f H a m m u r a b i or S o l o n , it is in the s a m e w a y that w e d i s c o v e r the thought o f a f r i e n d w h o w r i t e s us a letter, or a stranger w h o crosses the street. . . . It is only b y historical thinking that I can d i s c o v e r w h a t I t h o u g h t ten years a g o . . . or w h a t I t h o u g h t five m i n u t e s a g o . . . . I n this sense all k n o w l e d g e o f m i n d is h i s t o r i c a l . 1 4

T h a t is to say, the historical idea is present wherever, be it past or present, an event is to be considered in both its subjective and objective aspects, wherever a willing agent is involved. T h e basic dichotomy thus established is not between history and literature (commonly separated because one is fact, the other fiction) but between history and n a t u r e — o r , thinking of the scholarly disciplines which study them, history and natural science. I n the case o f n a t u r e , this distinction b e t w e e n the outside a n d the inside o f an e v e n t does not arise. T h e e v e n t s o f n a t u r e are m e r e events, not the acts o f agents w h o s e t h o u g h t the scientist e n d e a v o u r s to trace. . . . W h e n a scientist asks, " W h y d i d that piece o f litmus p a p e r turn p i n k ? " he means, " O n w h a t occasions d o pieces o f litmus p a p e r turn pink ? " W h e n an historian asks, " W h y did B r u t u s stab C a e s a r ? " he m e a n s , " W h a t d i d B r u t u s think w h i c h m a d e him d e c i d e to stab C a e s a r ? " T h e cause of the e v e n t , for h i m , means the t h o u g h t in the m i n d o f the person b y w h o s e a g e n c y the e v e n t c a m e a b o u t : and this is not s o m e t h i n g other than the e v e n t , it is the inside o f the e v e n t itself. 1 7

T h e dramatist is thus allied with the historian, as over against the natural scientist in his intention to present human events in their dual aspects of objective occurrence and volitional action. W e r e history " Idea of Hiztary, p. 219.

u

Ibid., pp. 1 1 4 - 1 $ .

DRAMA

AND

HISTORY

13

regarded as a m e r e collection o f facts in s e q u e n c e , t h e relation to d r a m a w o u l d be o b s c u r e ; for t h e n d r a m a as history w o u l d have to be seen as n o t h i n g b u t t h e staged p r e s e n t a t i o n o f past h a p p e n i n g s , p r e s u m a b l y to i n f o r m o r refresh t h e m i n d as to w h a t w e n t o n . V e r y little d r a m a has d o n e t h a t , a n d n o i m p o r t a n t d r a m a has a t t e m p t e d it. All g r e a t d r a m a has been c o n c e r n e d to s h o w t h e feelings, desires, and j u d g m e n t s of m e n in t h e events of w h i c h t h e y t h e m s e l v e s f o r m a part. L a t e r in this w o r k I shall a t t e m p t t o s h o w t h a t t h e H e l l e n i c c u l t u r e w a s c o n c e r n e d w i t h n a t u r e far m o r e t h a n w i t h h i s t o r y — w i t h t h e w a y things universally o c c u r , w i t h t h e f o r m s a n d s t r u c t u r e s of reality, in contrast to t h e w a y in w h i c h m a n ' s u n i q u e decisions c r e a t e n e w situations in w h i c h o t h e r u n i q u e decisions a r e called for. N e v e r t h e l e s s , w e shall h a v e to point o u t t h a t in its d r a m a t i c c h a r a c t e r t h e G r e e k d r a m a ran c o u n t e r to t h e p r e v a i l i n g philosophical v i e w s ; f o r t o be d r a m a t i c it had t o e x a m i n e n o t o n l y t h e (xoipa, w h i c h d e t e r m i n e d t h e o u t s i d e of t h e e v e n t s , it had also to r e t h i n k and r e - e n a c t t h e t h o u g h t s and decisions of its heroes. T o t h e e x t e n t t h a t t h o s e decisions a p p e a r e d as real, t h e d r a m a p a r t o o k of t h e historic, in C o l l i n g w o o d ' s sense. M u c h of t h e greatness of t h e G r e e k d r a m a arises f r o m t h e tension t h u s resulting f r o m " h i s t o r i c a l " e l e m e n t s f o r c i n g t h e i r w a y into " n a t u r a l " presuppositions. W e h a v e been e x a m i n i n g o n e p o i n t o f affinity b e t w e e n historical t h i n k i n g a n d d r a m a t i c t h i n k i n g — n a m e l y , t h e c o n c e r n of b o t h f o r t h e i n n e r as well as t h e o u t e r side o f a c t i o n . A n o t h e r p o i n t of affinity lies in t h e necessity f o r b o t h t o perceive p a t t e r n s of significance a n d m e a n ing in a s e q u e n c e of events. T h e dramatist and t h e h i s t o r i a n , since b o t h a r e storytellers, m u s t choose f r o m t h e data a t t h e i r disposal t h e p a r t i c u l a r events w h i c h a r e significant f o r t h e total w o r k a n d m u s t k n o w , or at least feel, w h a t t h e principle of c o h e r e n c e a n d significance is. If t h e d r a m a t i s t begins w i t h a plot r e a d y - m a d e ( w h e t h e r of his o w n i n v e n t i o n o r a n o t h e r ' s ) , t h e question is already decided. B u t if h e begins w i t h m a t e r i a l that m u s t be reduced to d r a m a t i c f o r m o r altered to suit his p u r p o s e (novel, c h r o n i c l e , old play or w h a t - h a v e - y o u ) , his first task is to select and o r g a n i z e . I n order to fulfill t h a t task, h e m u s t h a v e in m i n d (or " i n his b o n e s " ) a principle w h i c h will i m p a r t m e a n i n g a n d f o r m to t h e w h o l e . T h i s p r o b l e m c o n f r o n t s t h e novelist, t h e s h o r t - s t o r y w r i t e r , and t h e p o e t ; b u t it is p a r t i c u l a r l y a c u t e f o r t h e d r a m a t i s t because a play's compactness a n d necessity f o r p r e s e n t a t i o n b e f o r e a n a u d i e n c e force

INTRODUCTION

14

its author to pay more attention to selection and structure. T h e audience must receive a dominant impression at one sitting and at first hearing. T h e drama cannot escape the requirement of making sense under the discipline of time. T h e historian, too, must select and organize from the material at his disposal. T o do so, he also must have a principle, something according to which his many events may be related. L i k e the dramatist, he most often does not invent such a principle or pattern himself, though occasionally a M a r x or a T o y n b e e will attempt to do so. T h e historian, like the dramatist, usually sets out to tell better a story which has first been told bv poet, tradition, or ancient record. Gustav Freytag, in Technique of the Drama (pp. I 5 - 1 6 ) , has a very explicit statement of the selecting and shaping activities of both the dramatist and the historian, similar to that presented here. He follows it with one equally explicit regarding the difference between poet and historian: B u t he [ t h e h i s t o r i a n ] is d i s t i n g u i s h e d f r o m the poet b y this, that he seeks c o n s c i e n t i o u s l y to u n d e r s t a n d w h a t has a c t u a l l y o c c u r r e d , e x a c t l y as it w a s p r e s e n t e d to v i e w , a n d that t h e i n n e r c o n n e c t i o n w h i c h he seeks is p r o d u c e d b y the l a w s o f n a t u r e w h i c h w e r e v e r e as d i v i n e , e t e r n a l , i n c o m p r e h e n s i b l e . T o the h i s t o r i a n , t h e e v e n t i t s e l f , w i t h its s i g n i f i c a n c e f o r the h u m a n

mind,

seems o f m o s t i m p o r t a n c e . T o the p o e t , the highest v a l u e lies in his o w n inv e n t i o n , a n d o u t o f f o n d n e s s f o r this, h e , at his c o n v e n i e n c e , c h a n g e s the a c t u a l incident [p.

16].

T h a t , of course, is true if taken as an expression of the poet's freedom; but it is necessary to say that the poet's own invention is not an ultimate value per se. Invention is the poetic means of achieving significance. T h e bulk of drama has not been given over to fantasy. It has striven to imitate action in a recognizable w o r l d ; and it is in the latter aim that the parallel between the dramatist and the historian is found. It does not particularly matter whether the historian or the dramatist is original in his selectivity and interpretation. W h a t is important is that the material with which each is concerned requires selection and interpretation at some point in its development. T h e historian may choose to elaborate a universal history, in which case he must omit vastly more from the record than he includes, adopting the most meaningful principle of inclusion and relevance. O r he may choose to write the history of one nation, one tribe, one period, or the like, in which case his initial problem is to determine what constitutes a proper

DRAMA

AND

HISTORY

15

unit of study, so that the limits of his inquiry are not merely arbitrary. In every case, he is faced with the necessity for perceiving some type of structural unity. T h i s unity is never objectively " t h e r e . " It is chosen by the historian, or assumed by his culture. Such choice or assumption I call the discovery of patterns and meanings in history. T h e s e patterns and meanings are not the same in every age and among all peoples. I n Chapters I I and I I I , I shall outline some of the major differences between the historical (or, as it happens, ahistorical) assumptions of classical G r e e k culture and those of the Hebraic-Christian tradition. L i k e the historian, the dramatist deals with events which have occurred, or arc assumed to have occurred, in time and space. H e must arrange those events into an order, involving emphasis and subordination. H e must decide upon or assume a certain role for time to play in the unfolding of his story—whether time is creative or destructive, objective or subjective, constant or fluid, important or only casual. And he must relate that understanding of time to the time of performance of the play. T h e relation of historical patterns and meanings to dramatic art becomes even clearer when w e remember that Christendom has spoken traditionally of history as a drama. It has sometimes referred to " t h e drama of history," sometimes to " t h e drama of salvation." I have not been able to discover w h e n such terminology came into use, but as w e know that at least as early as the fourth century certain Christians were either producing religious plays or w e r e drawing analogies between the liturgy and drama, I suspect it was very e a r l y . 1 8 T h e Christian patterning of history suggests the idea of a drama for many reasons, the most important of which are, on the one hand, the sense of role-playing involved in the idea of the Incarnation, as suggested by the debates over the terms VTTOOTCLOIS and persona in Christological discussion; and, on the other hand, the structuring of history around a center (Christ) which then becomes determinative for the beginning and end of history: " F o r Christian thought Christ is the 18 Sec Allardvce Nicoll, Masks, Mimes, and Miracles, p. 2 1 0 . T h e fact that the theatrical reference« of the f o u r t h century are primarily connected w i t h the A r i a n s points to the temptation of Christian drama toward the heretical reduction of the Incarnation to the level of theatrical illusion, thus to lose the full humanity of C h r i s t as well as the genuinely historical character of revelation. It is here, rather than in m a t t e r s of exhibitionism or morals, that the fundamental tension between the Church and drama lies, although the latter have at times occupied the f o r e f r o n t of the discussion. H o w e v e r , 1 would also maintain that the tendency to move f r o m the realm of historical tension into that of illusion is as dangerous a temptation for any type of drama as it is for the Christian.

i6

INTRODUCTION

ccnter of history in which the beginning and end, meaning and purpose of history are constituted." 1 9 T h i s Christian interpretation of history stands between t h e G r e e k tragedians and the drama of the Renaissance. It harmonizes more closely with the " C h r i s t i a n " drama of Shakespeare than it does with classical drama for the simple reason that the Shakespearean drama is to a large extent modeled upon it. Y e t the Christian interpretation of history could hardly have been envisioned at all had it not been for the Hellenic perception of form and structure in all things, of which the Aristotelian discussion of beginning, middle, and end in tragedy is a good example. Here the crossfertilization between dramatic and historical thinking is evident. T h e historical consciousness of Judaism (which, as I shall show in Chapter 111, already contains drama-ritual elements) is refined and shaped into the Christian drama of history as it comes into contact with Greek dramatic patterns. 2 0 Later, that "drama of history" in turn exerts a powerful influence on the dramatic literature which, after many centuries, arises in an essentially Christian culture. T h i s summary is enough to indicate that parallels, affinities, and mutual influences do exist between dramatic and historical thinking. Basically the connections are located in t w o areas. O n the one hand, both drama and history are concerned with events not only as objective phenomena, but also as part and parcel of human thought, feeling, and choice. O n the other hand, both drama and history are concerned to discover meanings and patterns in the flux of events. T h e one concern points to human freedom in a physical world; the other, to significance adhering to a total temporal process. T o g e t h e r , they point to an understanding of both drama and history as a "compound of meaning and action." 2 1 '* Paul J . T i l l i c h , Tkt Interpretation of History, p. 2 5 1 . 10 I have t w o things in mind h e r e : ( 1 ) the influence of G r e e k dramatic ceremonies, through the m y s t e r y cults, on Christian r i t u a l s ; and (2) Hellenic patterns in symbolic thinking such as are discernible in the F o u r t h G o s p e l . T h e latter w o r k has many quasi-dramatic elements, and they arise f r o m the a t t e m p t to achieve patterns and meanings in the life of J e s u s which are not nearly so m u c h in evidence in the Synoptics. Hellenistic influence on the F o u r t h G o s p e l is usuallv acknowledged. " T h i s interesting phrase, w h i c h seemt to e m b o d y both the dramatic and the historical idea, is found in H a r t l e y B. A l e x a n d e r , God and Mans Destiny, p. 5 1 . It occurs in Chap. I I , entitled " D r a m a as the C o s m i c T r u t h , " in w h i c h A l e x a n d e r holds that the compound of meaning and action represents a philosophical principle apart f r o m w h i c h the world is not intelligible. H i s t o r y , he says, is m e a n i n g f u l only as drama. H e then rightly observes that such understanding is essentially religious: " I t is the religious insight not that the w o r l d is artificially d u a l — s o that here is phenomenon and there reality, here k n o w l e d g e and there its o b j e c t — b u t that it is inherently dual, the A c t i o n of itself lifting into being a meaning, and the W o r l d arising as the compound of meaning and a c t i o n . "

DRAMA

AND

HISTORY

17

T h e connection between drama and history is further shown by the fact that time is a constituent element in dramatic structure. T h e drama is performed in a moment of time, in a social situation. It therefore exists in an historical moment quite as much as it reflects an historical view. It is related to time and historical occurrence not only as the latter are subject matter, but also—on a different plane—as they are concrete factors in its very existence. As the term "history" will recur with great frequency in this study, the reader is entitled to a word concerning its usage. I take the concept of history to involve three elements, two of which form a unit and have been discussed already. Those two are ( i ) a concern with the free and deliberative, the human side of events occurring in time; and (2) an understanding of patterns and meanings in the flow of events. History involves an assertion of man's freedom without finding the sole locus of meaning in that freedom. T h e third element I find in the concept of history may be described as the communal and cosmic setting of time. When one speaks of history one is assuming a time which is relevant to a certain community. There may, of course, exist a completely subjective "history" in which time is set in the context of purely individual psychological experience. So-called "stream of consciousness" writing suggests this. Or there may exist an ideational "history" where time is set in the context of the flow of ideas. Shaw's Don 'Juan in Hell sequence is a case in point; significantly, he has to remove the scene from earth in order to put time in such a setting, essentially to negate time. Such subjective and ideational "histories" I mean to eliminate by speaking of the "communal setting" of time. History thus points to what goes on, or is supposed as going on, in the objective world which the society shares together. T o escape the world or society is to escape history. It was with such an idea in mind that Diderot spoke of historic art as the basis of dramatic art. T o this social setting of time I have added "the cosmic setting of time" in order to point not only to the fact that history has usually been thought to involve more-than-human factors, but also that history must always be supposed to take place in some arena. T i m e and space are coordinates. For these reasons, I shall sometimes speak of an escape from history, meaning an escape from the world of social and cosmic events into a private, uncosmic, or timeless world. Such retreats are sometimes

18

INTRODUCTION

e x c i t i n g for d r a m a , but they a r e not natural to it. T h e v are blind alley off-shoots rather than avenues to n e w g r o w t h . T h e theater by its very constitution reflects the a r e n a of t i m e and the social setting of time. It stands in the present history of its c o m m u n i t y . From there it turns its attention to the m e a n i n g s w h i c h it sees in the actions of men.

II H E L L E N I C T H E

H I S T O R I C A L E Q U I L I B R I U M

CONSCIOUSNESS: OF

N A T U R E

T h e first thing to remember about the G r e e k historical consciousness is that it is, in essence, unhistorical. T h a t is to say, the G r e e k m i n d in its search for orientation in the world w a s not concerned with history as a m a j o r component o f the world picture. M o r e than that, it had no conception of history at all in the sense that word has c o m e to have in our culture, which owes so m u c h to its religious roots in H e b r a i s m . G e n e r a l i z a t i o n o f this kind needs preliminary defense at t w o points. First, is one entitled to m a k e such all-inclusive statements a b o u t any people, involving abstractions like " t h e G r e e k m i n d " ? S e c o n d , w h a t is m e a n t by history that its presence can be so emphatically denied in the Hellenic experience? T o the first question I would reply that my statements will be seen as an attempt to s h o w the drift, the tenor o f G r e e k thinking. " G r e e k m i n d " there m a y not be, but G r e e k literature, philosophy, and art do show a remarkable consistency in their attitude to t i m e ; and my attempt is to delineate some o f that consistency in order to show its effect upon the dramatists o f A t h e n s . T h i s persistent quality o f G r e e k thought will b e c o m e even m o r e clear and m o r e homogeneous in appearance w h e n it is contrasted with Hebraic modes o f thought set out in the following chapter. W i t h i n itself, the G r e e k world shows s o m e variety; but in contrast with a different view, it shows a distinctive solidarity. A s to the second question, regarding what is meant by historv, the reader will recall that, in C h a p t e r I , history w a s said to involve three elements: consideration o f the deliberative side o f events (what C o l lingwood calls the " i n s i d e " ) , discovery o f patterns and meanings in the flow o f events, and a picture o f the c o m m u n a l and cosmic setting o f time. History thus involves the actions o f h u m a n agents not entirely

20

INTRODUCTION

determined in their responses, plus an over-arching meaning and significance, and a reference more inclusive than the purely individual and merely human. Greek thought tends to slip through a net woven to catch this complex, not because any one element is lacking entirely, but because the components are not bound irto a single entity, not held together in dialectical tension. Where the Gretk was concerned with human freedom and choice, as in many of the Socratic dialogues for instance, he tended to forget patterns and meanings in temporal events. Likewise, where he was concerned with patterns and meanings in events he tended to lose the freedom of the individual. Moreover, the patterns and meanings he discovered were not so much in the flow of events as they were principles which controlled the flow of events, as by cause and effect. This outlook precluded his finding (or seeking) any one pattern or aim in the occurrences of time. Histories (illustrative stories) tended to replace history. 1 As for the communal and cosmic setting of time, it also was viewed in a different way. Time tended to be absorbed into the cosmos in such a way as to become a function of cosmic space, rather than a different order of reality. T h u s the mentality we may call historical was not coalesced in Greek thought. It was diffused, broken up into many parts, because another principle and way of approaching reality was, for Hellas, dominant and formative. T h e tenuous relation which Greek thought bore to historical modes of thinking—nay, the antipathy it had for such thinking— has been expressed by R. G. Collingwood in The Idea of History. Following a discussion of Herodotus' achievements in the realm of historiography, he feels it necessary to add a paragraph on the "antihistorical tendency of Greek thought," in which he points out how strange it was that Herodotus should have turned the scientific spirit toward historical inquiry, for he w a s an ancient G r e e k , and ancient G r e e k t h o u g h t as a w h o l e has a very d e f i n i t e prevailing t e n d e n c y not only uncongenial to the g r o w t h of historical t h o u g h t but a c t u a l l y based, one m i g h t say, on a rigorously anti-historical m e t a p h y s i c s . H i s t o r y is a science of h u m a n a c t i o n : w h a t the historian puts 1 " i n G r e e k thought there it no v i e w of the world as h i s t o r y , even though there is no lack of historiography as a report of the confusion of human m o v e m e n t s and as an example of p o l i t i c s . " T i l l i c h , History, p. 2 4 4 . C f . C o l l i n g w o o d , Idea c f History, p. 2 7 , w h o observes that Gree«c historical methodology prevented the construction of one all-embracing h i s t o r y , since it relied upon e v e - w i t n e i s accounts. T h e source* therefore perished with each generation, and each w o r k stood alone, self-sustaining.

HELLENIC

HISTORICAL

CONSCIOUSNESS

21

before himself is things that men have done in the past, and these belong to a world of change, a world where things come to be and cease to be. Such things, according to the prevalent Greek metaphysical view, ought not to be knowable and therefore history ought to be impossible.1 T h e difference between permanence and change, and t h e G r e e k passion for what is permanent, to which Collingwood here refers, lies at the base of the G r e e k attitude to history. F e w people lived in a milieu more subject to change than did the Greeks, and few strove harder than they to find a reality beyond it which was not subject to its ceaseless coming to be and passing away. T h e foremost changing element in the G r e e k environment was nature. T h e roots of G r e e k culture were agricultural. Her life was, in its earlier period, bound to the rhythm of the changing seasons, the planting and harvesting of crops; and even in the later periods, in the fifth century B.C., for instance, her festivals were still marked with the signs of an agricultural community. In this respect she was not different from most of the other peoples of the Eastern Mediterranean. Since the appearance of Sir James Frazer's The Golden Bough, there has emerged a continually growing body of literature devoted to exploring the roots of virtually all N e a r Eastern culture and mythology in the ritual observances of planting and harvesting, and the ceremonies of fertility. 3 T h e Hebrews appear to have been the one exception to the general pattern in that part of the world, adapting and changing the prevalent nature-orientation to an historical concern. T h e Greeks, however, fall into the majority group. Sustenance and the general well-being of the community depended upon the proper relation to the forces of nature, which were personified and deified as goddesses and gods. 4 W h e r e the primary attention is directed to the flux and change of things in nature, the desire of the community will be to understand and to control. Achievement of control is attempted through ritual, sympathetic magic, and the entire communal structure of required observances and taboos. T h i s , as the Cambridge school of a n t h r o pologists has insisted, has important consequences in the rise and J Idti of History, p. 20. ' See, for instance, works by T . H . Caster, Jane Harrison, S. H . Hooke, E. O. James, A. W . Pickard-Cambridge, and George Thomson, cited in the Bibliography. 4 For an excellent description of the type of relation thus established between man, the community, the crops, and nature, the reader may be referred to the first chapter of Theodor H. Caster's Thespis: Ritual, Myth and Drama in the Ancient Sear East.

22

INTRODUCTION

f o r m a t i o n of d r a m a . 5 T h e a t t e m p t to u n d e r s t a n d t h e consistencies behind t h e variations in n a t u r e , h o w e v e r , is m a d e t h r o u g h m y t h o l o g y , w h i c h led, a m o n g t h e G r e e k s , t o a c o n t i n u e d process of r e f i n e m e n t e v e n t u a t i n g in t h e rise of p h i l o s o p h y . 6 T h i s t y p e of u n d e r s t a n d i n g , I believe, is rooted in t h e desire t o perceive t h e u n d e r l y i n g forces and s t r u c t u r e s w h i c h m a k e t h e c h a n g e s in n a t u r e intelligible, a n approach w h i c h is characteristic n o t only of t h e G r e e k philosophers, b u t also of t h e e n t i r e c u l t u r e o u t of w h i c h t h e y e m e r g e d . I t is a c u l t u r e w h i c h is at first m y t h - m a k i n g ; later t h e m y t h s a r e s u b j e c t e d to critical analysis and revision, replaced by m o r e sophisticated m y t h s , until t h e s t r u c t u r e d outlines of philosophical t h o u g h t begin to appear. T h i s abstracting and universalizing t y p e of t h o u g h t does not a p p e a r in H e b r a i s m , w h e r e n a t u r e , a l t h o u g h an e v e r - p r e s e n t reality, is n o t a p r i m a r y problem. T h e O l d T e s t a m e n t is full of r e f e r e n c e s to n a t u r e ; b u t t h e u n d e r s t a n d i n g of n a t u r a l processes, t h e laws of t h e i r o p e r a t i o n , is never t h e object of c o n c e r n . R a t h e r , t h e f o c u s is on t h e C r e a t o r of n a t u r e and t h e m o r a l d e m a n d s w h i c h seem c o n s e q u e n t u p o n t h e fact of creation. I n G r e e c e , h o w e v e r , t h e desire to u n d e r s t a n d t h r o u g h t h e perception of eternal p a t t e r n s is c h a r a c t e r i s t i c o f t h e e n t i r e c u l t u r e . It was finally given its most overt and intellectualized f o r m in f o u r t h - c e n t u r y philosophy, but it was operative long before in o t h e r f o r m s . Professor W e r n e r J a e g e r , in his study of t h e ideals o f G ; e e k c u l t u r e (Paideia) puts t h e m a t t e r in these w o r d s , w o r t h q u o t i n g at l e n g t h : In philosophy the forcc which produced the forms of Greek art and thought is most vividly displayed. It is the clear perception of the permanent rules which underlie all events and changes in human nature and in human life. . . . T h e theoria of Greek philosophy was deeply and inherently connected with Greek art and Greek poetry; for it embodied not only rational thought, the element which we think of first, but also (as the name implies) vision, which apprehends every object as a whole, which sees the idea in everything— namely, the visible pattern. Even when we know the dangers of generalizing, and of interpreting the earlier stage by the later, we cannot help realizing that the Platonic idea—a unique and specifically Hellcnic intellectual product— is the clue to understanding the mentality of the Greeks in many other respects. In particular, the tendency to formalize which appears throughout Greek sculpture and painting sprang from the same source as the Platonic

in

S e c t h e w o r k s of J a n e H a r r i s o n , A . W . P i c k a r d - C a m b r i d g e , a n d F . M . C o r n f o r d c i t e d h e Bibliography. 4 S e e , f o r i n s t a n c e , H e n r i F r a n k f o r t , Bef'.re Phtl'j'.iph-*, e s p e c i a l l y pp. 2 4 S - 6 2 . f

HELLENIC

HISTORICAL

CONSCIOUSNESS

23

idea. . . . It was this tendency, too, to construct universal patterns, which distinguished Greek music and mathematics from those of earlier nations, so far as they are known today.7 It is significant that Professor Jaeger describes the Greek way of understanding as essentially visual. T h e eye perceives the form of objects. If the approach to reality is visual, we are led to expect a search for the structures of reality, the forms governing changing processes. T h i s is just what the Greek quest was. T h e Greek orientation in nature and the desire to see the structures in reality determined her attitude to time and history. T h e world of nature embodies a process of change and return. Crops emerge from the ground, flourish, cast off their seeds, and return to the earth. T h e year passes from the cold of winter through budding spring, warm summer, ripened autumn, and returns to winter's barrenness. M a n emerges at birth from an unknown existence and returns to another unknown at death. In the manner of all agricultural peoples, the Greeks were, to repeat, intimately joined to the cycles thus observable in nature—so much so that it has been said that the Greek understanding of time itself is cyclical. Greek "cyclical" understanding has been contrasted with a Hebraic "linear" conception. For instance, Oscar Cullmann, in his study of Christ and Time, has set up the antithesis in these words: ". . . we must start from this fundamental perception that the symbol of time for Primitive Christianity as well as for Biblical Judaism and the Iranian religion is the upward sloping line, while in Hellenism it is the circle" (p. 51). Erich Frank has described the Greek view in a similar way: " T h e Greeks thought that time was the time of this world since it was objectively determined by the revolution of the firmament. T i m e itself, in their opinion, was a circle—a periodical resuming of the same, a cycle in which even the life of the human soul was involved." 8 In an extended note to the passage just cited, Professor Frank amasses evidence which shows how deeply rooted and how persistently held was the Greek tendency to regard time as cyclical. 9 He begins with the oft-cited quotation from Aristotle: ". . . and so time is regarded as the rotation of the sphere . . . and this is the reason of our habitual way of speaking; for we say that human affairs and those of all 7 I, x x i - x x i i . * Vhkv.phtcal

VnJfr:t.¡-:,tt'i%

and Rtligious

Truths

p. 67.

9

Ibi.i., p. 82, n. 4 1 .

24

INTRODUCTION

other things . . . seem to be in a way circular, because all these things come to pass in time and have their beginning and end as it were 'periodically.'" (Physics iv. 14. 2 2 3 b 2 i . ) Professor Frank then shows that although the best-known forms of the cyclical idea are the Stoic doctrine of world periods and the Pythagorean-Platonic notion of the migration of souls, nevertheless the concept "occurs with most G r e e k philosophers, with Heraclitus and Empedocles no less than with Parmenides and even with Aristotle, as is evident from the above quoted passage." 1 0 Eudemus is quoted in these words: " B u t if one may believe the Pythagoreans . . . then some day I myself, with this staff in my hand, shall talk to you who will sit in front of me, just as you are sitting now, and the same will be true of everything else." (Eudemus, fr. 51, ed. by Spengel.) A similar judgment on the prevailing tenor of classical thought is rendered by Reinhold Niebuhr, who recognizes that the cyclical view is the response of rational intelligibility to the world of nature: " F o r a classical culture the world of change and becoming was intelligible and real in so far as it participated in the changeless world through a cycle of changeless recurrence. For it, time is the cycle of 'coming-to-be and falling away,' of birth and death, of growth and d e c a y . " 1 1 A subordinate theme in classical culture, says Professor Niebuhr, is that the world of change gradually falls into non-being, a picture of decline rather than repetition. " B u t the dominant conception of the classical world is the cyclical interpretation of time." 1 2 Paul Tillich also has remarked on the circular character of the Greek view of time in The Interpretation of History. His comments will suggest why I have called the G r e e k historical consciousness unhistorical and stated its ideal as "the equilibrium of nature": Where reality is viewed as Nature, it is governed by the symbol of a circle that returns in itself. This contains a double idea: first, of the inner dynamics, the tension of existence, which strives for development; then of the boundary of development, which by necessity is included in every factor of natural development: the urge to return into itself and to join the end to the beginning. Certainly by this symbol the being is not considered as simply resting. The circular motion can signify the deepest tension and unrest. But beyond all unrest and tension exists the state of rest, of ultimate equalization. The tension is 10 11

Philosophical Understanding and Religious Truth, p. 82, n. 4 1 . 11 Faith and History, p. 43. Ibid., p. 44.

HELLENIC

HISTORICAL

CONSCIOUSNESS

25

limited, the whole at last balanced. On this basis, true historical thinking is impossible. Thus throughout almost all Greek philosophy every deviation from the circular line is an expression of powerless being. Mundane things show their inferior character as contrasted with the heavenly in the very fact that they are not circular but move in centrifugal and intersecting lines. T h e deviation from the circular line involves a loss not an increase of power. . . . Even where the infinity of time threatens the picture of the circle, as illustrated in the idea of world-eras, the symbol of the circle is victorious in the idea of the "eternal recurrence of the same." 1 3 T h e reader will perceive that w h e n the cyclical view is linked to a nature-orientation, it is not meant merely that the Greeks possessed a naive image of time based on simple observation of the rotating seasons, the movement of the stars, and the like. All peoples see that. W h a t the G r e e k s did was to seek passionately after a rational understanding of these phenomena which would at the same time be true to their early religious experience of the sanctity and mystery of n a t u r e — an experience not divorced of course from an economic dependence upon nature. T h e early economic and religious affinity with nature was expressed in the mythology and rituals of the chthonic (earth) deities and the various fertility deities associated with them, the most important being that patron-god of the theater, Dionysus. L i k e w i s e , the longing for understanding, for seeing the eternally true beyond the changing, is symbolized for us in the Olympian deities. T h e conflict between these two sets of gods and goddesses is not an ultimate conflict like that in Palestine, for instance, between Y a h w e h and Baal. It is a conflict expressing the tension which exists within a circular view of time and reality, as Professor T i l l i c h has spoken of it; and it is capable of being resolved into that kind of sturdy unity which Aeschylus has so brilliantly celebrated in the last part of the Oresteia,14 F o r if it was the Olympians who spurred man to find rational intelligibility in a circle of ultimately changeless recurrence, it was the fertility daimons who had first taught man the perpetual cycles of birth, death, and rebirth. T h e r e f o r e , whoever would understand the essential qualities of the G r e e k world view must recognize first the cycles of change in nature, year to year, and second the ability of the rational mind to adopt the circle as a tool of understanding. T h e circle becomes a principle of B e i n g — a way of harmonizing the changing and the changeless. 11

History, pp. 2 4 3 - 4 4 .

14

S m Chap. V I in this book.

26

INTRODUCTION

W i t h i n such a system of intelligibility, time is necessarily subordinated to nature and to Being. Its function is to bring all things around again to their original state. ". . . . and so time is regarded as the rotation of the sphere." T h e j u d g m e n t that the G r e e k view of time was cyclical thus has much to recommend it. I n general terms it is correct. However, it needs to be modified and set in a larger context. G r e e k thought about time is not always cyclical. T h e r e are linear conceptions as well. T h e strongest indication of the linear element comes from the language. T h e tense-structure in G r e e k syntax is exceedingly precise. T h e tenses of the past are the imperfect, perfect, and pluperfect, in addition to the aorist. T h o s e of the f u t u r e are the simple future, the future perfect, as well as constructions k n o w n as future more vivid and future less vivid. O f course there is t h e present. T h e conception in such a system is that of a straight line stretching backward and forward from the present. T h e perfect tenses m a k e it possible to describe action as extending over any portion of the line and being completed at any point. T h e pluperfect excludes an action from the present, for instance, and confines it to some anterior portion of the line. T h e aorist serves to describe an action pin-pointed in a moment of t i m e — past or present—as if captured in a snapshot. T h e tenses of the G r e e k enable one to move in thought easily backward or forward along an imaginary time line, to divide the line into portions, and to stop at any particular point. Such a system, in the main, exists also in English. T h e W e s t e r n world is used to that type of precision and to such a linear way of imagining time. It is in sharp contrast, however, to Hebrew, where the only distinction in tense possible is between an action completed and one incomplete. 1 5 T h e fact that t h e G r e e k picture of time seems in philosophy and T h e a u t h o r d o c s n o t r e a d H e b r e w , b u t t h e p o i n t is m a d e in a p o p u l a r a r t i c l e by E d m u n d W i l s o n , " O n F i r s t R e a d i n g G e n e s i s . " U n f o r t u n a t e l y , M r . W i U o n d r a w s w h a t I believe to be e r r o n e o u s c o n c l u s i o n s f r o m h i s c o m p a r i s o n of t h e t w o l a n g u a g e s . H e b e l i e v e s t h a t H e b r a i c t h o u g h t is t i m e l e s s , e t e r n a l * a n d h e q u o t e s R e n a n : " I n s t e a d of n a r r a t i n g , I s r a e l p r e d i c t s , t h a t is t o s a v , s y s t e m a t i z e s . T h a t is w h y it h a s p r o p h e t s , n o t h i s t o r i a n s . " B u t a n y o n e w h o t h i n k s I s r a e l d o e s n o t h a v e n a r r a t i v e s h o u l d r e - r e a d t h e O l d T e s t a m e n t . M o r e o v e r , it is s u r e l y a s u p e r f i c i a l v i e w of a p r o p h e t t o t h i n k h i m p r i m a r i l y a p r e d i c t o r . H e is e s s e n t i a l l y an i n t e r p r e t e r of h i s t o r i c a l e v e n t s , w h i c h h e r e g a r d s as r e v e l a t o r y , a n d b e c a u s e of w h i c h h e i s s u e s a call t o r e p e n t a n c e a n d r i g h t e o u s n e s s . A s f o r s y s t e m a t i z i n g , t h a t is t h e G r e e k c h a r a c t e r i s t i c . G r e e k s v n t a x is t h e r e f l e c t i o n of a m e n t a l i t y w h i c h a p p r o a c h e s t i m e n o t as a m o d e of e x p e r i e n c e b u t as m a t e r i a l t o be m e a s u r e d , c u t , a r r a n g e d , a n d c l a s s i f i e d . Prophetic Hebraism did n o t t h u s s y s t e m a t i z e t i m e j it r e m e m b e r e d it, a c t e d ir. i t , a n d h o p e d f o r its f u t u r e .

HELLENIC

HISTORICAL

CONSCIOUSNESS

27

ritual to be that of a circle and in linguistic syntax to be that of a straight line leads us to look for another principle which shall be common to both conceptions. Such a principle has been pointed out recently by Thorlief Boman in a work entitled Das hebraische Denien im Vtrgleich mit dem griechischen. It does not greatly matter, says Boman, whether time is conceived of as a circle or as a straight line. T h e important point is that either the circle or the straight line is a line. It is not important, or at any rate is secondary, which form the line has. Both are conceptions drawn from space, and the distinctive feature of Hellenism is its tendency to translate time into spatial terms. 1 * Boman is not the first to see that space is the characteristic mode of thought in Hellenism, as time is in Hebraism. He refers to an essay by E. v. Dobschiitz, "Zeit und Raum im Denken des Urchristentums." 17 Dobschiitz had said that the Greeks thought only of space, the Hebrews of time. T h a t is, says Boman, an overstatement of the matter, since both Plato and Aristotle had pondered the problem of time very deeply (they had been led to ponder it because it presented such a problem to the spatially oriented consciousness). Hesiod is cited as a literary example of concern with time. His story of the five ages of man—gold, silver, copper, heroic, iron—suggests a picture of an original paradise and subsequent fall similar to that in Genesis, which would imply an explanation of man's lot in which time had played an important role. T h e r e is a profound difference, however, in that Hesiod's five ages are not connected by any continuous history. Each comes to an end, and the next is created anew by the gods. T h e r e is no historical development, and the changes come about not through the guilt of man but through the will of the gods. T h e five generations are thus five free standing pictures without inner connection. 18 T i m e is cut. Also, says Boman, typically Greek are those distant places where the blessedness of the golden age is found in the present: Elysium, Atlantis, and the garden of Alkinous. Therefore, while it is too much to say that the Greeks did not pay attention to time, as Dobschiitz had held, it is correct to see that their understanding of time is always brought back to subservience to a world-view which is dominated by space. T h e common denominator for the images of the circle and the 18 17

Boman, Dai hebraische Dtnken, p. 106. Journal of Biblical Literature, 1922, pp. 2 ! 2

ff.

11

pp. 1 0 4 - 5 .

28

INTRODUCTION

straight line, it appears, is that both are geometric conceptions. H e r e w e see again the i m p o r t a n c e of nature. T h e study of nature as objective p h e n o m e n o n means the study of f o r m s in space. T h e G r e e k s reduced e v e n time to such f o r m s . " O n e might s a y , " in the words of Professor T i l l i c h , " t h a t in this sort of thinking space holds time enclosed within itself. T o be sure, time is also there and removes f r o m space the image o f a rigid, dead simultaneity o f all things. B u t space does not permit time to g o beyond itself, j u s t as physics, ontologically based on this conception of the w o r l d , w a s able to consider time a dimension o f space."

19

T h e spatial orientation of G r e e k thought is symbolized in Aristotle's description of t i m e , not in terms of m e m o r y or purpose, as a historian w o u l d need to v i e w it, but in terms of m o v e m e n t : T i m e must either itself be movement, or if not, must pertain to movement and change. . . . Movement, then, is the objective seat of before- and afterness. so T h e G r e e k v i e w o f t i m e , t h e r e f o r e , m a y be seen as a v i e w w h i c h absorbs the c a t e g o r y o f time into that of space. T o regard G r e e k time as cyclical is not e r r o n e o u s ; but it needs to be s h o w n , as I have tried to s h o w , that the G r e e k s also thought of time as a straight line, and that both line and circle are attempts to bring time into intelligibility by m a k i n g it submit to a f o r m . 2 1 T h e result of the G r e e k v i e w of nature and time w h i c h I have been describing is that time inevitably takes on a negative character, i t was a problem to begin w i t h , and the solution of the problem in terms o f space left no positive role for time to play. 11

T i l l i c h , History, p. 2 4 4 . C f . T i l l i c h , Theology of Culture, pp. 3 0 - 3 9 . Physics i v . 1 1 . 2 1 9 a 8 . I a m indebted f o r the q u o t a t i o n to E r i c h F r a n k , Philosophical Understanding, p. 8 0 , w h o adds t h a t A r i s t o t l e is a f t e r w a r d s a bit amazed to realize that some t r a n s c e n d e n t soul w h i c h can c o n t e m p l a t e , c o u n t , and m e a s u r e such t i m e is a necessary c o n s e q u e n t of t h e c o n c e p t i o n . I f A r i s t o t l e had f o l l o w e d the c o n s e q u e n c e s of that f a c t , w h i c h s i g n i f i c a n t l y he did n o t , he w o u l d h a v e been led into that experiential understanding of t i m e w h i c h a c t u a l l y w a s left to A u g u s t i n e to expound. 11 A s all of these t e r m s are m e t a p h o r i c a l , it is useless to argue at l e n g t h , as m a n y have done, o v e r w h e t h e r G r e e k t i m e is or is not cyclical, biblical t i m e linear. T h e s t r e n g t h of O s c a r C u l l m a n n ' s b o o k , f o r i n s t a n c e , is in t h e broad d i c h o t o m y he makes b e t w e e n H e b r a i s m and H e l l e n i s m regarding t i m e . I t s w e a k n e s s lies in t h e f a c t that he does not perceive the m e t a phorical e l e m e n t in t h e B i b l e ' s p i c t u r e of t i m e as linear. H i s literalism at this point betravs him into a rigid s c h e m a t i z a t i o n w h i c h is, I f e e l , most unbiblical. ( F o r discussion of the latter point, see J o h n M a r s h , The Fullness of Time, pp. 1 7 4 - 8 2 . ) N o people thinks in purely cvclical or purely linear t e r m s . In C h a p . I l l w c shall h a v e to notice circular e l e m e n t s in H e b r e w t h o u g h t o n t h e s u b j e c t . I t is s i m p l v the d o m i n a n t tendency w h i c h is i m p o r t a n t , and that ¡4 v e r y m a r k e d l y d i f f e r e n t in H e l l a s and Israel. 10

HELLENIC

HISTORICAL

CONSCIOUSNESS

2()

For one thing, the Greek view of the future necessarily became closed. " T h e conception of time as a cycle of recurrence excludes the emergence of novelty in the world," as Professor Niebuhr has said, citing Epicurus: "Nothing new happens in the universe if you consider the infinite time past." 2 2 W h e n the future became closed, of course, the present lost its decisive character. T h a t is, it lost any claim to uniqueness, because nothing done in the present could possibly contribute to anything new in the future. 2 3 Therefore, although the present is important in philosophical ideas of eternity, 2 4 and although it is glorified in the Homeric epics in those vivid moments of the heroes' a p i o T e i a , it is not, and cannot be, in the final count, of any fundamental consequence. T h e result is that the past takes on a decisive and determinative character. " M a n , accordingly, had no definite aim, no real future. T i m e , to him, was essentially past." 2 S T h i s dominance of the past is true even though the Greek memory of the past is very short, in sharpest contrast to Hebraism and the modern world, which share long memories and great future expectations. For the Greeks the past was not long remembered, but it dominated the present and the future. T h i s is a fact which has the strongest implications for literature, especially the drama. T i m e for the Greeks not only was essentially past, it was also destructive. It did not create; it tore down. Professor Niebuhr regards this as a subordinate theme in Greek thought, 2 6 but it is in some ways a necessary corollary of the cyclical idea—at least psychologically, for the cyclical view is ultimately pessimistic. T h o r l i e f Boman has summarized the Greek attitude to time and space in this fashion: Die griechische Zeitauffassung kommt nicht am wenigsten darin z u m Ausdruck, dass die Zeit sowohl von Piaton als von Aristoteles als etwas viel Geringeres als der Raum gewertet wird, z . T . als ein Ü b e l . Aristoteles erklärt sich mit dem Sprichwort einverstanden, dass die Zeit verzehrt { K a T a r q K i i o 11

Faith and History, p. 45. " Let the reader not misunderstand. In a limited, cautionary way, present action could influence the immediate future. T h e Greeks were not insane. W e shall see that the historians' writings were advanced largely to induce prudent action. But their advice turned out to be mostly negative—how to avoid past mistakes, rather than how to help fulfill a creative potentiality of history. " Eternity could be described aa the "eternal n o w . " See Frank, Philosophical Understanding, p. 60, especially his note 1 6 . 11 Frank, Philosophical Understanding, p. 68. " Faith and History, pp. 4 5 - 4 6 .

INTRODUCTION

30 Xpovoz);

alles w i r d alt u n t e r d e m Z w a n g d e r Z e i t u n d w i r d vergessen im

L a u f e d e r Z e i t , a b e r nichts w i r d neu o d e r schön d u r c h d i e Z e i t ; d a h e r betrachten w i r d i e Z e i t an sich e h e r als zerstörend als a u f b a u e n d . D a s , w a s e w i g existiert, z . B . d i e g e o m e t r i s c h e n S a t z e , g e h ö r t d e s h a l b nicht in d i e Z e i t hinein (Phys. I V ,

12,22030

ff.)

D i e s e G e r i n g s c h ä t z u n g d e r Z e i t d u r c h einen so

klaren u n d n ü c h t e r n e n G e i s t w i e Aristoteles e r z ä h l t uns m e h r v o n d e m U n t e r schied z w i s c h e n g r i e c h i s c h e r u n d h e b r ä i s c h e r Z e i t a u f f f a s s u n g als alle V e r suche, d i e g r i e c h i s c h e Z e i t v o r s t e l l u n g p h i l o s o p h i s c h zu v e r s t e h e n . A u s diesem G r u n d e w i r d a u c h alles, w a s n u r d e m R ä u m e a n g e h ö r t , z . B . die G e o m e t r i e , so hoch g e s c h ä t z t , u n d d e s h a l b müssen sich d i e G r i e c h e n göttliche

Welt

als

aller

Zeit,

Vergänglichkeit

und

G o t t und

sogar

die

Veränderung

e n t h o b e n vorstellen, w e i l Z e i t , V e r ä n d e r u n g u n d V e r g ä n g l i c h k e i t s y n o n y m e Wörter sind.27 T i m e is a c u r s e . 2 8 I t f o l l o w s that the G r e e k idea o f salvation m u s t be that o f a n escape f r o m t h e w o r l d o f t i m e i n t o a w o r l d o r p l a c e w h e r e t i m e does not exist. F o r the G r e e k s , the idea that r e d e m p t i o n is to take place t h r o u g h d i v i n e action in the course o f events in t i m e is impossible. R e d e m p t i o n in H e l l e n i s m can consist o n l y in the f a c t that w e a r e t r a n s f e r r e d f r o m existence in this w o r l d , an e x i s t e n c e b o u n d to the c i r c u l a r course o f time, into that B e y o n d w h i c h is r e m o v e d f r o m t i m e and is a l r e a d y a n d a l w a y s a v a i l a b l e . T h e G r e e k c o n c e p t i o n of blessedness is thus s p a t i a l ; it is d e t e r m i n e d b y the contrast b e t w e e n this w o r l d a n d the timeless B e y o n d ; it is not a time c o n c e p t i o n d e t e r m i n e d by the opposition b e t w e e n N o w and T h e n . 2 9 W e m a v say that t h e G r e e k i m a g e o f t i m e as a repetitive c i r c l e , a n d the s u b o r d i n a t i o n o f t i m e to s p a c e , resulted in a n attitude w h i c h f o u n d the f u t u r e essentially closed, t h e present not u n i q u e , all t i m e essentially past. I f t i m e b r o u g h t a n y c h a n g e it w a s d e s t r u c t i v e , a n d o n e looked f o r s a l v a t i o n in b e i n g d e l i v e r e d f r o m its endless repetitions. S i n c e t h e p i c t u r e I h a v e described is c e r t a i n l y u n h i s t o r i c a l , in t h e J u d a i c o r t h e m o d e r n sense, t h e p r e s e n c e o f t w o g r e a t historians, i n cluding the " f a t h e r o f historv," a m o n g the G r e e k s might well

give

o n e pause. H e r o d o t u s a n d T h u c y d i d e s c e r t a i n l y s h o w that there w a s not l a c k i n g to the G r e e k s an interest in e v e n t s in t h e historical r e a l m . The

t w o also s h o w , h o w e v e r , that that interest w a s not a l l o w e d

to

d e v e l o p into a g e n u i n e l y historical o u t l o o k , b u t w a s held in t o w by t h e desire to see the p e r m a n e n t s t r u c t u r e s in t e m p o r a l e v e n t s . H e r o d o t u s ' j o u r n e y s o v e r the g r e a t e r p a r t o f the eastern 17

Dji

hrbräischf

Denken,

p. t o g .

M

C u t t m a n n , Christ

and

Time,

p. ; I .

Mediter: l

Void.

HELLENIC

HISTORICAL

CONSCIOUSNESS

31

ranean area are well k n o w n . T h e travels are not insignificant because they remind us of t h e investigative n a t u r e of m u c h of H e r o d o t u s ' w o r k . H i s aim was to tell of the conflict b e t w e e n East and W e s t , bet w e e n G r e e k s and barbarians; 8 0 and his approach to that subject i m pelled h i m to travel in those regions and a m o n g those peoples c o n c e r n e d in order to investigate w h o they w e r e , their c u s t o m s and b a c k g r o u n d . 3 1 H e r o d o t u s t h u s uses a n empirical m e t h o d of g a t h e r i n g material, and by virtue of that fact associates himself w i t h t h e I o n i a n tradition of investigation into n a t u r e , and with t h e early m e a n i n g of t h e word laropirjj w h i c h was, as w e have said above, t h a t of a n inquiry or research. 3 2 W e have already noticed C o l l i n g w o o d ' s a m a z e m e n t that such inquiry should be directed t o w a r d h u m a n events and activities, because of the fact that these, being transient, w o u l d seem impossible objects of k n o w l e d g e u n d e r t h e G r e e k doctrine that only the p e r m a n e n t l y real is k n o w a b l e . 3 3 C o l l i n g w o o d believes it was a g e n u i n e tour de force on H e r o d o t u s ' p a r t , the w o r k of a genius w h o could elevate the S o f a of his eye-witnesses to events into iiricrrrjfj.7/—true knowledge.34 Proof of the e x t r a o r d i n a r y c h a r a c t e r of that a c h i e v e m e n t lies in the fact that H e r o d o t u s had n o successors. H e founded n o school and w r o t e the first c h a p t e r in no c o n t i n u o u s history. T h u c y d i d e s ' kind of history is patently of a different o r d e r ; the most you could say was that T h u c y d i d e s set out to do w h a t H e r o d o t u s had not done. I t is equally remarkable that T h u c y d i d e s himself had n o successors. G r e e k historiography breaks off in the f o u r t h c e n t u r y , w h i l e philosophy rises to its h e i g h t — a philosophy, m o r e o v e r , w h i c h takes n o a c c o u n t of the w o r k of the historians. 3 5 F o u r t h - c e n t u r y - B . c . philosophy did n o t , in relation to the fifth-century historians, a t t e m p t to take their conclusions or methods into its t h o u g h t as has, for instance, twentieth-century-A.D. philosophy in relation to n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y historiography. T h e fact was, " t h e G r e e k mind tended to h a r d e n and n a r r o w itself in its antihistorical t e n d e n c y . " 3 6 Herodotus has very little of the m e n t a l i t y w h i c h I a m in this w o r k calling historical. T h e reason is that he is, or wishes to be, a scientific 30

Herodotus i . i . It may be t h a t t h e historv was w r i t t e n as a way of making use of t h e material collected in the travels, t h e t h e m e of conflict between East and W e s t being used as a principle of organization. At any rate, t h e m e t h o d of first hand investigation is very i m p o r t a n t . 31 33 See Chap. I, p. 6 cf this book. Cf. Jaeger, I, 379. See pp. 20—2 r of this book. 34 Collingwood, Idea of Hiitory, p. 25. " Ibid., pp. 2 8 - 2 9 . " Ib'd-t P- 2 931

32

INTRODUCTION

historian, with emphasis on the empirical, inquiring elements contained in that word. A s a result, and also because of the intellectual climate in which as a classical G r e e k he moved, he was led further and further away from the freedom and creativity of events into the attempt to see what were the eternal forces at work in human life, the recurrent patterns. T h e overarching principle which Herodotus saw more clearly than anything else was the fall which followed hybris. Whether the destruction which came on the heels of too great power and prosperity was to be interpreted as the result of the gods' jealousy or as the consequence of man's stepping into a sphere in which he did not belong, it was, nevertheless, a recurrent pattern, and could be observed over and over again in the affairs of men. 3 7 An example is the defeat of Xerxes, which will be of interest to us because it is also handled by Aeschylus. A . W . G o m m e points to the similarity of the interpretation put on this event by the poet and the historian. Both, he says, "have lifted it from the sphere of the local and the temporal, just the story of a Greek victory over barbarians, into that of the permanent, the record of the fate of a man and a people who have been guilty of just that kind of pride which is both wrong in itself and also leads to a fall." 3 8 T h e drift is toward the permanent principle governing the phenomena, which is the scientific way of understanding reality. In such a view human freedom either is destroyed completely—all behavior subordinated to l a w — o r it becomes narrowed to the very limited possibility of avoiding calamity by prudent moderation. T h i s tendency to limit human freedom drives Werner Jaeger to say that Herodotus "subordinated all that he had seen and heard to his description of the power of destiny over individuals and nations." 3 9 T h e full historical sense is therefore lacking in Herodotus—on the one hand because of his tendency to subordinate human behavior to destiny or to certain universal laws, and on the other hand because of his observing and describing the phenomena from the outside. T h e latter quality is partly due to a scientific type of concern; but also, as Werner Jaeger has pointed out, it is in line with the tradition of epic. 40 " A . W . G o m m e , The Greek Attitude to Poetry and History, pp. 8 1 - 8 2 . C f . S. H. Butcher, Some Aspects of the Greek Genius, p. 149. 11 G o m m e , Greek Attitude, pp. 8 2 - 8 3 . Cf. F . M . Cornford, Greek Religious Thought from Homer to the Age of Alexander, p. XX. " Paideia, I, 380. 40 Ibid. " H i s work was, $0 to apeak, a resurrection . . . of the epic tradition; . . . or rather it was a new growth from the old epic root."

HELLENIC

HISTORICAL

CONSCIOUSNESS

33

N o w , while the Greek epic is interested in the details of what happened, it is not interested in them as parts of any historical stream. Homer glorifies Achilles and Hector not because they represent a unique turning point in the history of mankind, but because they are especially noteworthy examples of the valor to which a man ideally may rise. One might argue that the Trojan W a r was remembered by the Greeks because of its historic significance in the life of their culture, but that element is not present in Homer. He sings their song because of what they embody of human arete, not because of what they accomplished. This is what Jaeger apparently sees also in Herodotus' possession of "the rhapsode's love of praising famous men." 4 1 T h e attitude is fundamentally unhistorical. Thucydides, as we noted, had different aims and methods from Herodotus. Y e t even more than Herodotus he seems to have been attempting to discover the universal and permanent in human affairs. 4 ' His point of departure was political rather than investigative as Herodotus' was, an approach which went hand in hand with the fact that his scope of reference was largely confined to Athens. Y e t granted the political concern and the focus on Athens, within that area he searched for the laws to be deduced, and the lessons to be learned, from human events. It is this concern, in fact, which Werner Jaeger avers turned him into an historian, contrary to the more conventional theory that he was first a historian concerned about historical methodology and only later a student of Athenian politics." Although Professor Jaeger says that in the days of the Peloponnesian War Athens' "serious political thinkers were compelled to develop a historical consciousness," 44 Thucydides being one of the most important of those thinkers, the main drift of his argument is that the historical mode of thought actually was foreign to them. T h e y were forced into historical thinking by the circumstances—the need to understand the crisis to which Athens had come—but they went no further into it than necessary. 41 Paideia, I, 380. " See F. M . Cornford, Thucydides Mytkistoricus, especially Chip. X I I I , " T h e Tragic Passions." Cornford believed that Thucydides was much influenced by Aeschylus in the interpretation of historical events. He "inevitably borrowed much of the structure of Aeschylean tragedy/' allowing its unhistoric principle of design to come in on top of his first, chronological plan (p. 250). Cornford believed that Thucydides' history of the wars is more tragedy than history. " Paideia, I, 3 8 1 - 8 2 . " Ibid., I, 3 8 1 .

34

INTRODUCTION

T h e test of that view, says Professor Jaeger, is in Thucydides' attitude to the past: . . . his occasional digressions on problems of early history . . . are either incidental or else written to explain the present by the past. . . . He believes that the past history of the Greek people was unimportant . . . because its life would not allow the creation of any political organization and the development of power on a large scale.48 Now the political and the historical are of course very closely allied, especially in that the political thinker is forced to regard the "inside" of events, the motivations and thought of those engaged in political struggle. Concern for the inside of the events may be seen, for instance, in Thucydides' speeches, imaginative reconstructions of the thoughts of historical agents. But the political is apt to miss the genuinely historical in failing to see a pattern of meaning and significance in the course of events. It is here that Thucydides reflects his Hellenic presuppositions. What he finds in history is not a significance inherent in historical development itself, or inseparable from it, but rather illustrations of permanently valid political wisdom. " I t will perhaps be found," said Thucydides, that the absence of mythology in my work makes it unattractive to listen to; but it will suffice if it is judged useful by all who wish to study the plain truth of the events which have happened, and which will according to human nature recur in much the same way.44 As Professor Jaeger has phrased it, "the true nature of history, he believed, was that it furnished political experience, not that it embodied any religious, ethical, or philosophical idea." 47 It matters not greatly whether the reader wishes to agree with me that such an outlook is unhistorical or prefers to say that it is merely a different kind of historical consciousness from the modern, the Hebraic, and the Christian. At any rate, its tendency—one might say its very necessity—is to abstract from history rather than to pursue reality in history. Though his work has the modern historical interest in separate events for their own sake, it tries to pass beyond them and to transcend what is strange and different so as to reach the universal and permanent law which they embody.48 45

P.iideia, I, 382. " Thucydides i. 22. 4. " Paideia, I, 387. Ibid., I, 386. Collingwood, Idea of History, p. 30, thinks that Thucydides is the father of "psychological history," which is not history at all but a kind of natural science. Even a 18

HELLENIC

HISTORICAL

CONSCIOUSNESS

35

T h e purpose in discussing Thucydides and Herodotus has been to show that while in some respects they provide exceptions to the picture of G r e e c e as unhistorical, they do not contradict that view. Herodotus bears some of the signs of historical thought in his objective interest in events, Thucydides in his concern for the " i n n e r " side of political w a r f a r e ; but both attempt to overleap the temporal in search of permanent laws—Herodotus looking for moral or natural laws, and T h u c y d i d e s for laws governing political behavior. O n e further note regarding historiography may be made. Collingwood points out that the G r e e k historical methodology prevented the construction of any one, all-embracing history. A s their history was based on eye-witness accounts, the evidence perished with each generation. T h e r e f o r e each "history" stood alone, a self-sustaining w o r k , hardly capable of substantiation or reinterpretation. 4 9 W h e t h e r such methodology is cause or effect I would not presume to know. W e have noticed how the G r e e k attitude to time involved a short v i e w , looking neither far ahead nor far back. T h e G r e e k saw what was immediately before him. He does not appear to have spent much time looking " b e f o r e and a f t e r . " Although the absence of an open, creative future tended to produce the belief that everything significant had already happened—still the G r e e k did not live in a historical memory. Perhaps just because the past, like that of Oedipus, was unk n o w n , it was also feared. It was never turned to as the source o f one's identity and function in life. Although the next chapter will show how radically different from the G r e e k was the thought of Hebraism and Christianity, the reader of classical literature will already be familiar with the contrast between the historical and the unhistorical through the contrast between Vergil and Homer. It is possible to argue, I think, that apart from matters of literary sophistication and the difference between oral and written epic, the greatest difference between the two great classical epic poets is their contrasting assumptions regarding time. In Homer,

writer w h o disagree« with Collingwood here, such as A . W . G o m m e , Greek Attitude, does not bring a very crushing argument to bear: " I cannot follow Collingwood . . . in his belief that Thucydides . . . was unhistorical. . . . In his Hiitory (which is all we have of him) Thucydides is more recorder than philosopher, even though w e may feel certain that he was always thinking of general laws—but thinking about them rather than formulating them and giving them to the world" (p. 1 3 8 ) . Even here, Thucydides' interest in general laws is acknowledged. 41 Idea of Hittory, p. 27.

36

INTRODUCTION

time figures only as a literary device. 5 0 I n the Aeneid, however, it becomes the very heart of the conception. T h e poem exists in the constant awareness of the difference between what was, what is, and what is yet to be. T h i s subject has been treated concisely by Professor C. S. Lewis in his Preface to Paradise Lost. O f the Aeneid, he writes: If I am not mistaken it is almost the first poem which carries a real sense of the "abysm of time." . . . I do not know a better example of imagination, in the highest sense, than when Charon wonders at the Golden Bough "so long unseen;" dark centuries of that un-historied lower world are conjured up in half a line (VI, 409). But Virgil uses something more subtle than mere length of time. Our life has bends as well as extension: moments at which we realize that we have just turned some great corner, and that everything, for better or worse, will always henceforth be different. In a sense, as we have already seen, the whole Aeneid is the story of just such a transition in the world-order, the shift of civilization from the East to the West, the transformation of the little remnant, the reJiquias, of the old, into the germ of the new [pp. 34-3 5]. Nothing of that sort is to be found in Homer. In him, however grand and noble the event, it leads from no past to no future. " N o t h i n g has a significance beyond the moment." 5 1 T h a t accounts, in part, for Homer's remarkable clarity. T h e present image is not beclouded by anv memory of a past moment, nor any dominant hope for the future. It stands absolutely free in itself, clear, distinct, immediate. N o t that Homer never predicts the future: the Iliad is full of foreshadowings of the fate of Achilles, as well as others. But that fate is simply the black curtain of death, when timeless oblivion shall overtake the hero. It serves only the more to make vivid the fleeting but all-absorbing present, to remind us of its sun and color before the oncoming night. H o w different are the predictions of the future in the Aeneid—those of the first book, for instance, where the future of Aeneas himself is not only predicted but also surpassed in expectation of the golden age, the age of Imperial Rome, for the creation of which Aeneas has been led out of T r o y , preserved through battle and storm, and repeatedly called to his mission. T i m e provides l o m t element of romance in the Iliad, in that the great deeds occurred long ago when men were different from what they are n o w ; and it adds some measure of suspense to the Odyt:ey, as Penelope weaves and reweaves the shroud; but that is all. 61 L e w i s , Preface, pp. 2 8 - 2 9 . Cfsimilar views on Homer in The Portable Greek Reader, ed. by \V. M. Auden, pp. 1 7 - 2 0 .

HELI.ENIC

HISTORICAL

CONSCIOUSNESS

37

In Homer, true to the G r e e k idea, and in anticipation of Aristotle's formulation, time is the measure of motion, of change from good fortune to bad and back to good again. I n Vergil, according to a pervading historical consciousness, time is the measure of purpose. In summary, four elements are found to make up the G r e e k historical consciousness, corollaries of the search for reality in the equilibrium of nature. T o begin with that quality most recently mentioned, there is an absence in G r e e c e of any controlling purpose in time, which is only another w a y of saying the absence of a continuous history. T h e Hellenic historical consciousness " w a s not a consciousness of agelong tradition; . . . it was a consciousness of violent TTfpnrtTiia, catastrophic changes from one state of things to its opposite, from smallness to greatness, from pride to abasement, f r o m happiness to misery." 5 2 Such alternation, seen in detachment, enables one to perceive an ultimate harmony in nature, a constant return to equilibrium. It is not an historical orientation, for, as Professor T i l l i c h has said, " t o see reality historically means to see it essentially out of balance." 5 3 Second, the G r e e k world-view was characterized by an absence of belief in the possibility of novelty or new creation. T h e cyclical understanding of time prevented any such belief. Characteristically, this attitude concerning the future was thrown also into the past in conjecture about the beginnings of things. G r e e k thought has no place for a doctrine ofcreatio ex nihilo, which means no doctrine of true creation at all. " N o t h i n g comes into being out of what is non-existent," said Aristotle; and the doctrine goes back to Parmenides. 5 4 W h a t e v e r exists, exists perpetually. T h e future is therefore closed. T h a t leads into the third aspect of the G r e e k w o r l d - v i e w — i t s understanding of time as essentially past. G r e e k thought is pervaded by a melancholy which arises out of the awareness that if the future is to be only the past over again, all that really matters is already done. T h i s accounts for much of the G r e e k love of physical beauty, of song, dance, and the evanescent pleasures of life. T h e y are a bulwark in the present, erected against the haunting fear that the significance of life has already been lived long ago. 5 5 T h e fourth, and most important, element in the G r e e k world-view 5a

C o l l m g w o o d , Idea of History, p. 2 2 . " History, p. 24.5. Physics i. 4 . 1 8 7 1 2 7 . S e e F r a n k , Philosophical Understanding, p. 7 3 . T h e reader is referred to S . H . B u t c h e r ' « c h a p t e r , " T h e M e l a n c h o l y of t h e G r e e k « " in Some Aspects of the Greek Centus, pp. 1 3 0 - 6 5 . 14

15

38

INTRODUCTION

is the concern with the permanent structures of reality. It was here that the Greek genius showed itself most clearly, here that the Greek legacy has been most valuable in philosophy and science, but also most at variance with the religious and historical genius of European culture, including the most significant dramatists. T h e Greek mind did not, in the end, know what to do with time. It therefore turned its attention in another direction, to the search for those forms and ideas which were beyond time, eternal, not subject to change. Whether those were the heroic virtues of Homer, the laws of nemesis seen by Herodotus, the laws of political behavior seen by Thucydides, the forms of geometry, or the eternal ideas of Plato, the quest was the same. T h e Greeks belonged to and loved nature. T h e y found her full of change, growth, and decay, but also subject to recurring cycles, her life constantly returning to itself. Behind the immediate phenomena of flux and unrest they perceived a basic cycle of recurrence, a fundamental equilibrium. Wisdom consisted of knowing that equilibrium, and of coming into harmony with it. Although the moderation of Apollo and the ecstasy of Dionysus might seem to be contradictory principles, both shared the ideal of being at one with nature—either to seek for her fundamental rest, or to move in her periodic cycles. In either case, the locus of the real and the significant was not in history. T h e dimension of the historical was not a constituent part of the Greek situation. Its place was taken by nature, which led to the timeless. Such was the Hellenic orientation in the cosmos. T h e following chapter will contrast it with the Hebraic and Christian, which had radically different presuppositions. Afterward, the way will be open to see how the anti-historical quality of Greek thought affected her drama—how, although the drama was sometimes in tension with the cultural presuppositions, it was fundamentally in harmony with them, searching deeply for an ultimate equilibrium of cosmic forces.

Ill JUDAEO-CHRISTIAN SCIOUSNESS:

T H E

HISTORICAL

VOCATION

OF

CONISRAEL

T o pass from the Greek world to the Hebraic is to move from an orientation in which time is regarded negatively as an attribute of finite, imperfect existence into one in which time is taken for granted as the mode o f existence proper to humanity responsible to a purposive God. T h e G r e e k genius was a particular outgrowth o f a natureorientation. Hers was a genius which flowered in philosophy, providing the Western world with its basic conceptual tools for rational understanding. T h e Hebrew genius, if one may call it that, was directed toward history. It emphasized the significance o f action taken in the historical present. 1 T h e concomitant of the Hebraic involvement in history was a sense of the religious, ethical, and personal importance o f time. It is essential to distinguish that "sense" o f time from a formal conceptualization. T h e Hebrews did not attempt to solve the problem o f time (as Plato and Aristotle did) because, given their concern over purpose, right conduct, and the sovereignty o f G o d , it was not a problem. T h e Old T e s t a m e n t has no abstract conception of time. Instead o f reflecting on " t i m e , " the Old T e s t a m e n t simply sets it forth, a concrete datum o f experience. 2 T h e historical emphasis in Hebrew religion and culture has been so thoroughly expounded in recent theological literature that no new case need be made for it here. I intend simply to call attention to it under four headings: the importance o f memory, the continued writing and rewriting of the religio-national history, the sense of temporal 1

Mircea

Eliade,

The

Mvth

of

the

Eternal

Return,

pp.

1 0 4 f f . , has p r o v i d e d an

d i s c u s s i o n o f t h e w a y in w h i c h , in I s r a e l , h i s t o r i c a l e v e n t s f o r t h e

first

value. 3

Werner

V o l l b o r n , Studien

zum

Zeitverstdndnii

del

AJtentestamentumi,

excellent

time gained a positive p.

137.

40

INTRODUCTION

perspective which informs virtually all Old T e s t a m e n t literature, and the H e b r e w assumption of the potentiality of the new. Having done that, I shall point out some of the unique complexities in Israel's thought regarding past, present and future in a w a y in which, so far as I k n o w , it has not been done before. T h a t will prepare us for the even greater complexity o f the historical consciousness in the N e w Israel. W h e n the ancient Israelite worshipper brought his basket of first fruits to the sanctuary, he recited a confession which was cast in terms of historical m e m o r y : A w a n d e r i n g A r a m e a n w a s m y f a t h e r ; and he w e n t d o w n into E g y p t and s o j o u r n e d t h e r e , f e w in n u m b e r ; a n d there he b e c a m e a n a t i o n , great, m i g h t y , a n d p o p u l o u s . A n d the E g y p t i a n s treated us h a r s h l y , a n d afflicted us, and laid u p o n us h a r d b o n d a g e . T h e n w e cried to the L o r d the G o d o f our fathers, and the L o r d h e a r d o u r v o i c e , and s a w o u r affliction, o u r toil, and our o p p r e s s i o n ; a n d the L o r d b r o u g h t us o u t of E g y p t w i t h a m i g h t y hand and an outstretched a r m , w i t h g r e a t terror, w i t h signs and w o n d e r s ; a n d he b r o u g h t us into this place a n d g a v e us this l a n d , a land flowing w i t h milk and h o n e y . A n d b e h o l d , n o w I b r i n g the first o f the f r u i t o f the g r o u n d , w h i c h thou, O L o r d , hast given me.®

Remembrance of past events was vital to Israel because she owed her national identity to certain historical occurrences. Her religious life was given its particular character through interpretation of those events. Foremost among them was the Exodus from E g y p t , in which Israel saw the preeminent example of the action of G o d in her past life. T h e deliverance from bondage was the first step in her coming to be a nation in her o w n land. It also led to the sojourn at Sinai where the covenant between Y a h w e h and his people was made. T h e covenant thereafter characterizes the faith of Israel and becomes the focal point o f her past memory. " I t is in the relation of the covenant G o d with a covenant history," says J a m e s Muilenburg, "that the Old Testament is to be understood." 4 T h e covenant was a name which expressed Israel's belief that the meaning of the wilderness events was Y a h w e h ' s historic election of Israel to be his particular people—for his o w n purposes—and his requirement of certain conduct from her. 5 Here is the first among many • Deut. 26 : 5-9. Cf. Deut. 6 : 2 0 - 2 4 ; J 0 »' 1 - H

: 2-1

3-

• " T h e H i s t o r y of t h e Religion of Israel," in Tkt Inttrpreter's

1, 293. 1

Biile, ed. by G . A. Buttrick,

H . W h e e l e r Robinson points out t h a t t h e earliest literature we have on t h e covenant is t o be dated t h r e e centuries a f t e r Sinai. H o w e v e r , he says t h a t t h e a t t i t u d e was "virtually

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examples w e shall find, in this type of historical thinking, of the tension between the event and the interpretation of the event. T h e characteristic Hebrew reaction was to interpret these events, and others like them, not in terms of the manifestation of universal l a w , but in terms of the unique vocation of Israel. T h a t vocation had a double focus. O n the one hand it referred to the ultimate purposes of G o d , w h o through Israel was bringing about his reign over the whole earth. 4 O n the other hand, it referred to Israel's obedience and fulfillment of the commandments of the law. T h e personal and the historic met in the idea of vocation. I n this connection it is significant that those who wished to exhort the Israelites to moral righteousness almost always did so by first reminding the people of their former history—the acts of G o d and the response of the people, never to be forgotten—which had brought them to their present situation. T h e reformers responsible for the book of Deuteronomy, for instance, saw fit to preface the b o o k — w h i c h is largely given over to exposition of the legal code—with a review of Israel's history from the sojourn at Sinai to the crossing of the R i v e r Jordan into C a n a a n . 7 T h e entire book is set in the framework of a summons to return to the original covenant at Sinai (and to later extensions of that covenant). Similarly, the book o f Nehemiah recounts how at the return of the exiles from the Babylonian captivity—when the temple worship was reinstituted and the laws once more enjoined on the people—a new covenant was made in remembrance of the one at Sinai, and at the same time the history of the Israelites was told, from the deliverance from E g y p t to the return from Babylonia. 8 T h e memory of the covenant history in which G o d has watched over the fortunes of his elect people also lies at the base of the messages of the prophets. Indeed, one might say that the prophets are the very embodiment of the Hebrew sense of historical m e m o r y ; for their message, from first to last, is a measurement of the present against the covenantal past. O u t of that judgment arises the prophetic interest in the future, either in terms of warnings of doom ( A m o s , Hosea,

covenantal" from the very time of Sinai on, and that Iirael't history is more intelligible if the national faith is regarded as then "formally ratified" and ceremonially established. Religious Ideas of the Old Testament, p. 189. • Such a universal expression of Yahweh's purpose was, of oourse, a late development. ' Deut. 1 - 4 . » Neh. 9 : 6 - 3 8 .

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Jeremiah), or in terms of a new covenant (Jeremiah and Ezekiel), or in terms of the fulfillment of the true vocation of Israel by a holy righteousness (Second Isaiah). T h u s Amos, who is shocked by the injustice of the cities of Israel, is animated by a dreadful awareness that a covenantal past has been violated: Hear this word that the Lord has spoken against you, O people of Israel, against the whole family which I brought up out of the land of Egypt: "You only have I known of all the families of the earth; therefore will I punish you for all your iniquities." (3 : 1 - 2 ) Hosea expresses the apostasy of Israel in terms of harlotry, the forsaking of the marriage vows, which is his vivid way of putting Israel's failure to remember her covenant with Y a h w e h . Hosea constantly uses images from the family. His specific mention of the deliverance from slavery is full of tenderness: When Israel was a child, I loved him, and out of Egypt I called my son. The more I called them the more they went from me . . . Yet it was I who taught Ephraim to walk. . . . ( 1 1 : 1 - 3 ) T h e same covenantal setting for the prophetic message—Yahweh's deliverance and adoption of the people—is expressed in Jeremiah 2:1-7. It was not only the reformers and the prophets who remembered certain definitive moments from Israel's past. Professor G . E. Wright, in God Who Acts, has pointed out how the entire religious life rested upon what he calls "recital" of the sacred history. T h e principal parts of that history are the election of the fathers in the Patriarchal period, the covenantal salvation at the Exodus, and the gift of a land in which to dwell.* " N o Israelite was allowed to forget the simple history of God's acts," says Professor Wright. " T h e worshipper listens to the recital, and by means of historical memory and identification he participates, so to speak, in the original events. T h e n facing his own situation he confesses his faith and his sin; he seeks God's forgiveness and direction; and he renews the vows of his covenant." 1 0 T h e pervasive importance of historical thinking for the national and religious life of Israel is strikingly evidenced in the way in which » Wright. God Wko Acti, p. 1 8 .

10

lb,.I

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Israel transformed the festivals of the seasons into ceremonies c o m memorating historical events. T h e feast of Unleavened Bread, Pentecost, and the feast of Tabernacles were all originally festivals of the agricultural seasons, and as such connected with the prevalent N e a r Eastern nature religions which sought to insure fertility by means of proper seasonal observances. T h e s e festivals w e r e of course attractive to the Israelites after they had settled in Canaan and adopted agriculture as a means of livelihood. Y e t gradually the nature festivals were changed into celebrations of historical events from Israel's past. 1 1 T h e feast of Unleavened Bread became connected with the E x o d u s , Pentecost with the giving of the law at Sinai, and the feast of Tabernacles with the sojourn in the wilderness. 1 2 T h e same historical concern transformed the sprinkling of blood on the lintel from an ancient rite warding off evil demons into the Passover celebration o f Israel's deliverance from E g y p t through the slaying of the E g y p t i a n

firstborn.13

Such mutation of the meaning of the nature festivals found in the environment highlights the radical difference between the Hebrews and the other N e a r Eastern peoples (including the G r e e k s ) . 1 4 11

See A r t u r Weiser, Glaube und Geschichte im a!ten Testament. See Adam C . Welch, Prophet and Priest in Old Israel, p. 1 2 2 . C f . Henri M . Y a k e r , " M o t i f s of the Biblical V i e w of T i m e , " pp. 3 2 3 - 2 9 . M r . Y a k e r think« it possible the postexilic historization of Exodus-Passover waa a return to an original historical root. 11 In Christianity the same historical orientation proved decisive in transforming the festival of the winter solstice into a celebration of the event of the birth of Christ. See Welch, Prophet and Priest, pp. 9 1 - 9 3 . 14 T h e subject of the importance of the vegetation rites in Hebraism has received much attention in recent years. T h e interested reader is invited to consult the works of S. H . Hooke, E. O. James, James Muilenburg, W . O. E. Oesterley and T . H. Robinson, J . Pederaen, and H. W . Robinson, cited in the bibliography. A recent literary study which has dealt with the subject is Herbert Weisinger, Tragedy and the Paradox of the Fortunate Fail; see especially Chap. V . Professor Weisinger's knowledge and handting of the sources is admirable. He sees clearly that " H e b r e w thought in the verv process of adopting the pattern fof birth, life, death, and rebirth] transformed it. . . . " (p. 1 89). He also sees that the major change which Hebrew thought made was that of breaking the cycle of nature's endless return to equilibrium: " t h e end of the cycle was not mere repetition but actual advance . . . " (p. 1 5 2 ) . Given such a beginning, it is therefore the more unfortunate that Professor Weisinger's point of view has obscured his perception of the full difference which Hebraism made concerning the myth and ritual pattern. He sees the difference primarily in terms of the pattern's being "spiritualized" (p. 1 52). " T h e H e b r e w s , " he says, "leaped out to a tremendous concept" (p. 1 52). T h e y took a "dialectical leap from out of the endless circle on to a different and higher stage of understanding" (p. 189). This understanding was that by an act of will they could come into a relation of trust in " a God of universal compassion and j u s t i c e ; " one could attain to a new life in which " h e is with his God eternally" (p. 189). Professor Weisinger departs radically from the Old Testament when he asserts that the Hebrews gave to the ritual pattern the one element it had iacked, "its permanent role as the means whereby man is enabled to live in an indifferent universe; they showed that man can, by himself, transcend that universe" (p. 189). 11

In this interpretation, God becomes entirely passive (the object, not the agent of the leap), and therefore the importance of history evaporates. Though he mentions Sinai several times. Professor Weisinger never mentions the covenant. For Hebrew religion, however, the Divine

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I n addition to the importance of the national religious m e m o r y — which w e have seen manifest in the idea of the covenant, in the covenantal framework of the reformers' and prophets' messages, in the " r e c i t a l " quality of various creedal confessions, and in the adapting of seasonal festivals to celebrations of past events—the historical orientation of the Hebrews is s h o w n in their production of what may be called "epic history." M o d e r n critical study of the origin and composition of the Old T e s t a m e n t has revealed a people continually concerned with the writing and rewriting of history. Beginning with oral traditions arranged into a story of Y a h w e h ' s summoning of the patriarchs, his deliverance from E g y p t , his covenant with the people, and his giving them a land over w h i c h , in David's time, they came to rule, they continually revised and adapted their historical narratives at each contemporary historical crisis and in line with developing religious beliefs. W h i l e the Hebrews had nothing of the modern scientific spirit of testing sources and looking for the original event wie ts eigentlich gewesen,15 they did have the typically Western concern to understand one's self in terms of one's past and to search continually for the most adequate interpretation of that past. T h a t they did not possess scientific criteria with regard to evidence did not mean they felt free to change the stories at will, far less to abandon them. T h e i r objective, rather, was to see the relationship of present to past, which means that their historical concern was not academic but existential. " I s r a e l , " says Professor M u i l e n b u r g , "sought in history an understanding of its existence and destiny." 1 6 T h e early historical narratives represent the nearest Israel comes to epic literature. 1 7 Professor E r i c h A u e r b a c h 1 8 has therefore illuinitiative, covenant election, creation, and history form one indissoluble complex, and it is this which transformed the birth, death and rebirth pattern by adapting its festivals to acts of historical remembrance. For Professor Weisinger, the cycle was broken by a new insight, which represents an advance in the development of man. F o r Hebraism, however, the cycle was broken by the creative activity of Y a h w e h , which replaced the meaning found in patterned repetition by a meaning dependent upon Divine activity in the realm of human events. Professor Weisinger is afraid that Providence negates history by taking away man's freedom (p. 193). On the contrary, in Hebraism and Christianity history was made possible by the awareness of a Divine purpose which placed the greatest burden of decision upon man's capacity for choice. 15 T h e phrase is from Leopold von Rankc's prefaces to his Histories of the Latin and Teuton Nations, quoted in Theodore H. Von Laue, Leopold Ranke, the Formatfve Tears, p. 25. " T h e Faith of Ancient Israel," in THe Vitality of the Christian Tradition, ed. by G . F. Thomas, p. 1. 17 I refer here to the so-called y and E writings, found in parts of the historical books of

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minated Hebraic and Hellenic differences by contrasting a passage from Homer with the story of the sacrifice of Isaac. I f an epic is a poem "which makes you feel the way you feel after reading the Iliad" then the stories of Genesis are not epic. T h e main reason is that while they emphasize the stature of the patriarchs and the leaders like Moses and Joshua, they are devoid of the kind of aptcrrda in which Homer abounds and which, indeed, are the characteristic feature of most epics. Standing above the human virtues of every hero in Israelite literature are both the purposive sovereignty of God and the historic destiny of the people of Israel. It is unity of purpose, implying the historic continuity of Israel, which separates Y a h w e h most clearly from Homer's Zeus. 1 * Professor Auerbach's analysis of the two selections shows clearly that their primary difference lies in the matter of historical time, which makes itself felt in every aspect of the literary intent, syntax, and style. His chapter 2 0 is so perceptive, from both a religious and a literary standpoint, that I cannot forbear devoting it some attention—the more so as it will serve to make clear the historical preoccupation of the Hebraic consciousness. Choosing from the Odyssey the passage in which Euryclea recognizes the returned Odysseus by the scar on his leg, 21 a passage interrupted by a long digression of seventy-five lines relating how Odysseus in his youth had received the scar, Professor Auerbach shows how the Homeric style consistently p o r f a y s all objects and scenes in a distinct, fully illuminated manner. It has a need, he says, "to leave nothing which it mentions half in darkness and unexternalized" (p. 5). T h a t means that Homer's focus is always directly on the subject immediately before him, without reference to perspective and without concern for past or future. Even when a "flashback" is used, as in the incident with the scar, the scene from the past quickly assumes the total interest of the reader, so that whatever Homer "narrates is for the time being the only present" (p. 4). Such exclusive focus on the immediate creates a the Old Testament. Discussion of them and critical problem* connected with their identification may be found in any good contemporary introduction to the Old Testament, for instance, R. H. Pfeiffcr, Introduction to the Old Testament; or The Interpreter's Bible, Vol. I. 18 Mimesis : The Representation of Reality in Western Literature, trans, bv Willard R. Trask. 19 It also gives him some resemblance to Vergil's Jupiter, except that the debt must be the other way around. For the suggestion that Vergil may have been influenced by the writings of the Hebrew prophets in translation, see Joseph Klausner, The Messianic Idea in Israel, trans, by W. F. Stinespring, p. 14. «• Mimesis, Chap I, pp. 3 - 2 } . Book X I X . 3 S 6 - 4 7 3 .

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high degree of clarity, expressed in Homer's never failing to use all necessary particles, adverbs, adjectives, and subordinating clauses to express the distinct relations existing between the various objects of his interest in a given scene. T h a t interest extends to the most minute details—clothing, physical appearances, sounds, smells, and the like. A l l phenomena are "completely fixed in their spatial and temporal relations" (p. 6). A t the same time, " a n y impression of perspective is avoided" (p. 7) because the past and present are not felt simultaneously, nor are foreground and background; but rather, first one and then the other is brought forward for immediate observation. E v e r y t h i n g in its turn becomes foreground. " L i k e the separate phenomena themselves, their relationships," he says, " a r e brought to light in perfect fullness; so that a continuous rhythmic procession of phenomena passes by, and never is there a form left fragmentary or half-illuminated, never a lacuna, never a gap, never a glimpse of unplumbed depths" (pp. 6—7). T h e story of the sacrifice of Isaac stands in the utmost contrast to the Homeric style. It is, says Professor Auerbach, " f r o m a different world of f o r m s " (p. 7). Here w e have " t h e externalization of only so much of the phenomena as is necessary for the purpose of the narrat i v e " (p. 1 1 ) . W h e n G o d speaks with the single word, " A b r a h a m ! " and the latter replies, " B e h o l d , here I a m , " we have no idea where the two speakers are. W h a t had they been doing just before? T h e G o d , called E l o h i m , is not described by any physical attributes, nor indeed is Abraham. Such meager physical descriptions as do find their way into this narrative are there because they serve to characterize the nature of the act which A b r a h a m is called upon to perform. T h e journey is begun "early in the m o r n i n g , " a detail mentioned not for the sake of temporal precision but because it expresses Abraham's resolution, promptness, and punctual obedience. T h e destination of the journey is " J e r u e l in the land of M o r i a h , " 2 2 significant for no other reason than that it has been selected for this j o u r n e y by God. Isaac is described as "thine only son, w h o m thou lovest," which again is not a description of the person himself, but of his importance to Abraham and therefore the severity of the sacrifice required. T h e scene is formed not by any description of its setting in which we might take delight, but instead by the imperative which comes to M So in A u e r b a c h , A//WIM, p. 1 0 , although neither the A . V . nor the R . S . V . has t h e word J e r u e l , only " t h e land of M o r i a h . "

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A b r a h a m and t h e n a t u r e of his response. T h e " p u r p o s e of t h e n a r r a t i v e " t h e r e f o r e entirely obliterates e v e r y c o n c e i v a b l e i n t e n t to e n j o y t h e n a t u r a l world for itself. W e a r e c o n f r o n t e d w i t h a literary f o r m based u p o n almost c o m p l e t e p r e o c c u p a t i o n w i t h a c t i o n s t a k i n g place in historical time. " T h e h u m a n beings in t h e Biblical stories," says Professor Auerbach, have greater depths of time, fate and consciousness than do the human beings in H o m e r ; although they are nearly always caught u p in an event engaging all their faculties, they are not so entirely immersed in its present that they do not remain continually conscious of what has happened to them earlier and elsewhere; their thoughts and feelings have more layers, are more entangled. Abraham's actions are explained not only by what is happening to him at the moment, nor yet only by his character . . . but by his previous history; he remembers, he is constantly conscious of, what G o d has promised him and what G o d has already accomplished for him—his soul is torn between desperate rebellion and hopeful expectation; his silent obedience is multilayered, has background [p. 12]. S u c h " m u l t i l a y e r e d n e s s , " he c o n t i n u e s , is hardly to be met with in H o m e r [in whom] the complexity of the psychological life is shown only in the succession and alternation of emotions; whereas the Jewish writers are able to express the simultaneous existence of various layers of consciousness and the conflict between them [p. 13]. T h e latter point is e x t r e m e l y i m p o r t a n t , a n d will r e c u r in m y e x a m i n a tion of S h a k e s p e a r e . T h e result of t h e c o m p l e x i t y , perspective, a n d u n i l l u m i n a t e d depths of t h e biblical stories is t h a t t h e y c o n s t a n t l y p u s h a t t h e limits o f finite experience. T h e y overleap t h e b o u n d s o f t h e literary s i t u a t i o n a n d m a k e claims u p o n t h e self in its historical e x i s t e n c e . 2 3 " T h e H o m e r i c p o e m s , " Professor A u e r b a c h says, " p r e s e n t a d e f i n i t e c o m p l e x of events w h o s e b o u n d a r i e s in t i m e and space a r e clearly delimited. . . . T h e O l d T e s t a m e n t , o n t h e o t h e r h a n d , presents universal h i s t o r y : it begins w i t h t h e b e g i n n i n g of t i m e , w i t h t h e c r e a t i o n of t h e w o r l d , and will end w i t h t h e L a s t D a y s , t h e f u l f i l l i n g o f t h e C o v e n a n t , w i t h w h i c h t h e w o r l d will c o m e t o a n e n d " (p. 16). T h e H e b r e w s took t h e n " T h e i r religious i n t e n t , " says P r o f e s s o r A u e r b a c h , " i n v o l v e s an a b s o l u t e claim to historical t r u t h . " E v e n t h e m o d e r n critical a p p r o a c h to t h e s e S c r i p t u r e s has n o t been able to f r e e itself f r o m t h e p r o b l e m of h i s t o r i c i t y w h i c h t h e n a r r a t i v e s i n v o l v e . N o r h a s it s o u g h t t o d o so w h e r e v e r i t s p r i m a r y a t t e n t i o n w a s c e n t e r e d o n t h e s i g n i f i c a n c e of t h e n a r r a t i v e s t h e m selves.

4

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INTRODUCTION

significance of historical action so seriously that they w e r e driven toward an absolute, all-embracing historical view of man and the world.14 T h e Old Testament defines man in terms of history. T h e great figures of the Old Testament, says Professor A u e r b a c h , " a r e so much more fully developed, so much more fraught with their o w n biographical past, so much more distinct as individuals, than are the Homcric heroes" (p. 17). It is the history of what has become of them as they played their elected part in the still larger history of Israel and the Divine purpose that occupies the O l d T e s t a m e n t writers. T i m e touches the Homeric figures " o n l y o u t w a r d l y , " whereas G o d continues to wörk on the biblical characters, "bends them and kneads them, and without destroying them in essence, produces f r o m them forms which their youth gave no grounds for anticipating" (p. 18). It is greatly to Professor Auerbach's credit that he has been able to elucidate so much of the persistent characteristic of the Old Testament in his exposition of the one story of A b r a h a m and Isaac. Prophets, psalmists, and apocalyptists never depart f r o m the fundamental historical orientation. A s vast reaches of time are implied in the very style of the A b r a h a m and Isaac narrative, so also the later editors wove the story skillfully into a cosmic history whereby G o d ' s promise to his chosen was faithfully kept from generation to generation, even though the threatened death of Isaac, as also other precarious events of history, seemed to place it in jeopardy. It was a later editor w h o added to the original story the postscript which reminds us of the historical continuity guaranteed by G o d : By myself I have sworn, saith the Lord, for because thou hast not withheld thy son, thine only son, that in blessing I will bless thee . . . and in thy seed shall all the nations of the earth be blessed; because thou hast obeyed my voice (Gen. 22 : 1 6 - 1 8 ) . Professor Auerbach states that the Old T e s t a m e n t figures become, under the hand of G o d , something "their youth gave no grounds for anticipating." T h e concomitant of an historical orientation is the M T h e J e w i s h propensity for thinking in infinite, limitless terms is described by Thorlief Boman in Dai hebräische Denken, pp. 1 3 9 - 4 0 : "ein religiöser M e n s c h nicht innerhalb leiner von ihm selbst oder anderen Menschen gesteckten Grenzen zur R u h e kommen wird. Der geborene religiöse Mensch lebt in der unendlichen und ewigen Welt wie in seiner wahren Heimat (Fil. 3, 20). Fs ist deshalb keine Z u f ä l l i g k e i t , dass die Semiten, die ohne Grenzen auskommen können, Schöpfcr von drei Weltreligionen geworden sind. F ü r sie ist Unendlichkeit oder Grenzenlosigkeit kein Problem."

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possibility of the new. T h i s fact is expressed in the Bible under the idea of creation. In Chapter I I it was noted that Hellenic thought had no room for a doctrine of creatio ex ttihilo. Wherever nature is the starting point in religion or philosophy, the doctrine will be absent, for creation demands acknowledgment of a completely sovereign, self-sufficient power supreme over nature. In fact, the doctrine of creation is but the corollary of belief in such a power. T h e Old Testament does not contain any specific enunciation of the principle of creatio ex nihilo.xi Nevertheless, the doctrine is true to the spirit of Hebraic thought about the transcendence and power of Y a h w e h . It is implicit in almost every page of the Old Testament, and later theology was correct in elaborating it. 28 In Hellas, the absence of a radical notion of creation went hand in hand with an understanding of time as essentially closed. T h e possibility of the new was excluded, for the reduction of time to the measure of change in a finite world meant that eventually all situations would recreate themselves. In Israel, the conception of Yahweh's creativity meant an understanding of time as potentially open. 27 As Yahweh in the beginning had created man, earth, heaven, and all the natural beings, so he had created the people Israel in their covenant relation with him, had created their law, made them a nation, and preserved them in adversity. All this implied a purpose which, obviously not fulfilled now, would be made perfect in the future. 28 T h u s the covenant was not simply made once, it is from time to time relived, and at each time the promises of Yahweh are renewed. Israel's history, as written and rewritten through successive historical crises, emerges with a long list of covenants made between Yahweh and the leaders of Israel. T h e r e is the covenant with Noah (Gen. 9 : 8 - 1 9 ) , with Abraham ( 1 5 : 1 - 2 1 ) , the covenant at 14 T h e creation story in Genesis i , having been in some measure derived from the Babylonian myth Emuna ehi, shows traces of the conception of primitive matter existing before the creative activity of C o d . See Cuthbert A . Simpson in Interpreter's Bible, I, 4 5 0 , 4 6 5 - 6 8 . " See Frank, Philosophical Understanding, pp. 7 4 - 7 5 . ,T It is important to stress " p o t e n t i a l l y . " Israel did not have the nineteenth-centurv view of necessary or inevitable progress. T h e new was not built into nature, from which it emerged devclopmcntally. On the contrary, it depended entirely on the inscrutable, although faithful, creative power of Y a h w e h . " Cf. Y a k e r , "Biblical V i e w of T i m e , " p. 1 6 2 . See also Mircea Eliade, Eternal Return, pp. 106 if., for a discussion of how the Israelites " s a v e d " time bv putting the primary reference to the future, changing the annual regeneration of nature by the king into an expectation of "a future and Messianic illud tempus."

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Sinai (Exodus 24 : 1 - 8 , renewed in 3 4 : 1 - 1 0 ) . I n Deuteronomy 29 there is a ceremony for the renewal of the covenant, another, as we have seen, in Nehemiah 9 and 1 0 , at the return f r o m E x i l e . Most important are the prophetic visions of a new covenant which G o d shall make with his people, one in which inner righteousness shall prevail over mere outward observance of the l a w , a covenant of perfect f u l fillment : "Behold, the days are coming," says the Lord, "when I will make a new covenant with the house of Israel and the house of Judah, not like the covenant which I made with their fathers when I took them by the hand to bring them out of the land of Egypt, my covenant which they broke, though I was their husband," says the Lord. "But this is the covenant which I will make with the house of Israel after those days," says the Lord: " I will put my law within them, and I will write it upon their hearts; and I will be their God, and they shall be my people. And no longer shall each man teach his neighbor and each his brother, saying, 'Know the Lord,' for they shall ail know me, from the least of them to the greatest," says the Lord; "for I will forgive their iniquity, and I will remember their sin no more." ** T h e theme of the new covenant is taken up by Second Isaiah (Isaiah 5 5 : 3~5)> w h o extends its promise to all the nations of the earth. It passed into the N e w T e s t a m e n t through the words of J e s u s , w h o m the gospels portray as identifying the new community centering in himself with the new covenant promised of old: Drink it, all of you; for this is my blood of the new covenant, which is poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins (Matt. 26 : 27-28). 4 0 T h a t the making of the covenant and the new covenant is dependent upon the G o d of creation is strikingly exemplified in J e r e m i a h , w h o , after the passage quoted above on the new covenant written in the heart, begins a new section in this m a n n e r : " Jer. 31 : 3 1 - 3 4 . Thi« vision i« similar in content to that of Hos. (2 : 1 9 - 1 0 ) and Ezek. (t 1 r 2 1 - 3 8 ) . M Professor E. O. James, Origins of Sacrifice, says that in Judaism, " t h e reason for the Kiddusk of every festival and Sabbath is its historical significance. On the Sabbath the remembrance of the creation and the Exodus both occur because of the differing reasons in the two recensions of the Fourth Commandment (Ex. 1 0 : i o ; Deut. 5 : 15). Jewish chronology is thus divided into two parts: from the creation to the Exodus, and the Exodus onwards. By identifying the cup with the blood of the covenant, Jesus made the Eucharist a new Kidduih introducing a new division of time" (pp. 1 7 1 — 7 1 ) .

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Thus says the Lord, who gives the sun for light by day and the fixed order of the moon and the stars for light by night, who stirs up the sea so that its waves roar— the Lord of hosts is his name: " I f this fixed order departs from before me, says the Lord, then shall the descendants of Israel cease from being a nation before me for ever." (Jer. 31 : 3 5 - 3 6 ) It is the G o d w h o creates w h o is able to bring his creation to fulfillment: For behold, I create new heavens an