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 FOUR PLAYS OF EURIPIDES
 
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 Edition: FETTER LANE, E.G. 
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 ESSAYS ON 
 FOUR PLAYS OF EURIPIDES 
 
 ANDROMACHE HELEN HERACLES 
 ORESTES 
 
 by 
 A. W. VERRALL, Litt.D. 
 
 Fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge 
 
 CAMBRIDGE : 
 
 at the University Press 
 
 1905
 
 Camtmtigc : 
 
 PRINTED BY JOHN CLAY, M.A. 
 AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS.
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 ""I ^HE texts of Euripides to which I refer in this volume 
 are the following. For the Andromache and the Heracles, 
 the only two of the four plays which are included in the 
 published volumes of Professor Gilbert Murray, I have used 
 his edition. For the Helen I use the text of W. Dindorf in 
 the 1869 edition (with apparatus criticus} of the Poetae ScenicL 
 For the Orestes I refer to the edition (and commentary) of 
 Mr Wedd. I have used also the commentary of Mr Hyslop 
 on the Andromache, those of Professor von Wilamowitz- 
 Mollendorff and Mr Blakeney on the Heracles, those of 
 Paley on all the four plays, and others. To the commentary 
 of Mr Wedd I am largely indebted. 
 
 It has been my intention to notice doubts, whether of 
 text or interpretation, which seem material to the purpose of 
 my citation ; if in any case I have not done so, it is by 
 inadvertence. But doubts of either kind, when they are not 
 for my purpose material, I do not notice. 
 
 I cite frequently the translation of Euripides in verse by 
 Mr A. S. Way, and appreciate highly the advantage of being 
 able to adduce a version so faithful. It will naturally be 
 understood, that by those citations I do not pledge myself to
 
 vi PREFACE 
 
 agreement with the translator in all details. Differences or 
 questions not material to the immediate purpose, I pass here, 
 as in the original text, without remark. 
 
 In correcting the book for the press, I have received great 
 help from my friend and colleague Mr J. D. Duff, for whose 
 pains I cannot be too grateful. And I have also to acknow- 
 ledge, with the special thanks due from an unskilful corrector, 
 the excellent services of the University Press. 
 
 A. W. V. 
 
 TRINITY COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE. 
 September 20, 1905.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 INTRODUCTION ix 
 
 A GREEK BORGIA. Andromache i 
 
 EURIPIDES' APOLOGY. Helen 43 
 
 A SOUL'S TRAGEDY. Heracles 134 
 
 A FIRE FROM HELL. Orestes 199 
 
 APPENDIX 267 
 
 INDEX 289
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Four plays of Euripides are discussed in this volume, 
 which may be regarded as a sequel to that entitled Euripides 
 tJte Rationalist, though the topics are for the most part 
 different. 
 
 Of the four plays three, the Andromache, Helen, and 
 Heracles, have been selected, because the present state of 
 study and criticism suggests that a fresh discussion of them 
 is warranted and perhaps necessary. The Andromache is 
 little read for pleasure ; and it is generally agreed that the 
 play, as now understood, is bad. The Helen, as a whole, is 
 not much esteemed ; those who pronounce any positive 
 opinion upon it, agree generally in thinking it weak. In 
 the Heracles, common opinion awards high praise to a 
 portion, which portion however is so interpreted as to 
 require the supposition that the rest of the drama is worse 
 than irrelevant ; and the whole has accordingly been dis- 
 missed by some, not without reason, as inconsistent and 
 inexplicable. 
 
 Now doubtless Euripides had faults. He had difficulties, and 
 therefore faults, peculiar to himself. The proposition that 
 ' the genius of Euripides was at discord with the form in 
 which he worked 1 ,' must be the basis of any reasonable 
 criticism upon his work. It will be seen from some parts 
 of these Essays, that, far from disputing that proposition, I 
 conceive it to have some applications, which are not at present 
 commonly recognized. 
 
 1 Sir R. C. Jebb; Article on 'Literature' in A Companion to Greek Studies, 
 p. 115.
 
 x INTRODUCTION 
 
 But when we consider in what an age, and under what 
 judgments, his plays attained celebrity, and when we consider 
 the sifting process, by which they were reduced to the extant 
 number, we may modestly and properly doubt whether any 
 of the remnant can really deserve a general blame. In 
 these cases at any rate there is room for the suggestion, that 
 we do not yet see to the bottom of the matter. And indeed 
 at the present time I hope and believe that such suggestions, 
 offered with respect, will be received with pleasure. 
 
 My belief is that, with regard to each of the three plays 
 above named, judgment is at present embarrassed by a 
 fundamental misconception. 
 
 The Andromache is criticized as if it were an independent 
 work, a complete story. So regarded, it appears to me, and 
 has long appeared, neither bad nor good, but simply unin- 
 telligible. But what if it is part of a story, a sequel ? Then 
 to treat it as an independent whole is as if we were to expound 
 and estimate the Catriona of R. L. Stevenson, without 
 knowing or suspecting that there had ever been such a story 
 as Kidnapped. 
 
 The Helen is estimated as a melodrama, and, so estimated, 
 is pronounced, as well it may be, weak. But what if it were 
 a playful imitation of melodrama, in which the vagaries 
 of Greek tragedy are deliberately exaggerated ? What if 
 the circumstances of the production were such, that only a 
 humorous theme and playful treatment were suitable, or even 
 admissible ? 
 
 In the Heracles the poet was in earnest, profoundly in 
 earnest, with his purpose, whatever that was. This is evident, 
 but beyond this we cannot go without encountering doubt. 
 Starting with any presumption, with any whatever, respecting 
 the purpose of the dramatist, the reader will soon find reason. 
 I do not say to abandon that presumption, but to question it, 
 to suspend his judgment. And certainly it does not become 
 an interpreter to be trenchant, when his author is ambiguous, 
 and appears prima facie to offer simply contradictions. In 
 this case, as in the Ion, the main thing superficially visible is 
 that, whatever Euripides meant, he did not mean to be plain. 
 But in such a case, the first condition of an acceptable reading 
 is that it should account for the ambiguity and the obscurity,
 
 INTR OD UCTION xi 
 
 A man, or at all events a dramatist, who conceals his meaning, 
 must have a reason for concealment. Now the current 
 reading of the Heracles, which presumes the religious legend 
 of the hero to be the basis of the story, is open, I think, 
 to this universal and sufficient objection, that it does not 
 account for the ambiguity and the obscurity. A drama about 
 the passage of the Red Sea, which was meant simply to 
 illustrate the account in Exodus, might have many different 
 qualities ; but one it would certainly not have : in its general 
 purpose it would not be obscure. But suppose that a man 
 of some sagacity and originality, after much reading in the 
 learned and ingenious speculations of sceptical commentators 
 on the Pentateuch, after sadly digesting many conjectures 
 about the possible effect of winds and tides in producing an 
 uncommon state of the waters, were to arrive (as he might) at 
 the conclusion, that, when all in this way had been said, the 
 description in Exodus cannot really be accounted for as 
 merely a loose version of a natural incident : that we must 
 necessarily suppose either miracle or else imagination, and 
 indeed a singularly powerful imagination, a wild and lawless 
 imagination. Suppose this man to speculate gravely or 
 humorously in his own mind upon the possibility that the 
 wild imagination concerned in the product was that of him 
 who ' slew the Egyptian,' and that the leader and historian of 
 the Israelites, having the strongest mind and strongest char- 
 acter of his age, had also a touch of insanity. Suppose the 
 man so speculating to be a poet, and to conceive (as he 
 might) that such a hero, such a Moses, would be no mean 
 subject for a tragedy. Suppose the poet so placed, that his 
 tragedy, if presented to the public at all, must be exhibited on 
 Easter Monday, in the Albert Hall, under the patronage of the 
 State, and before an audience comprising not merely ministers 
 of all kinds and degrees, but students from the Universities and 
 pupils from the Schools. Would you expect the play to be 
 transparent ? 
 
 The Orestes, the fourth play on our list, stands in a very 
 different position from the other three. The general opinion 
 of readers has placed it, as a whole and under some important 
 reservations, very high. Under all criticisms and reservations, 
 it is constantly read ; and this is the real test of appreciation.
 
 xii INTRODUCTION 
 
 And therefore an expositor, who professed to modify funda- 
 mentally the current conception of the Orestes, would and 
 should be received with distrust. I have no such pretension. 
 As to the general line and character of the play, I differ 
 not at all from what is laid down, for example, in the 
 edition of Mr Wedd ; or so little, that I have doubted whether 
 I had material and grounds enough for publication. But on 
 certain points, especially in the latter part of the play, there 
 is, I think, something of general importance to be said. And 
 I have thought it most convenient to place these points in a 
 connected view of the whole. 
 
 The appendix of notes on the four plays has, much of it, 
 no special connexion with the Essays ; and I would ask for it 
 a different consideration. In studying the plays, I have 
 naturally had occasion to consider points of detail, which 
 are notoriously difficult or obscure ; and on some of these 
 suggestions have occurred to me which seemed worth noting 
 for consideration. But the questions raised in the appendix, 
 those of them which do not relate to the Essays, are mostly 
 such as do not, in my judgment, admit a positive answer ; 
 and in the appendix, so far as it does not affect the Essays, 
 a general perhaps, whether expressed or not, is to be under- 
 stood.
 
 A GREEK BORGIA. 
 
 (ANDROMACHE.} 
 
 Phoebus delights to view his laurel-tree. The Oracle. 
 
 I myself have seen the ungodly in great power, and flourishing like 
 a green bay-tree. The Psalmist. 
 
 THE purpose of this essay, as foreshevvn in the Introduction, 
 is to prove that the Andromache, a play notorious in the 
 current criticism of Euripides for its formless and unintelligible 
 construction, owes this undeserved reproach to the fact that it 
 is not and does not pretend to be a story complete in itself. 
 It is a sequel, a second part. The first part was probably also 
 dramatized by Euripides. But whether this was so or not, the 
 first part, as a story, certainly pre-existed. The Andromache 
 takes it as known, and without it is no more comprehensible 
 than the second volume of a novel to a reader ignorant of the 
 first. 
 
 The simplest way of presenting the matter will be first to 
 give the preceding story, so far as it can be ascertained, and 
 the sequel, the extant part of the story, so far as is necessary 
 to show the connexion. The reader will then be in a posi- 
 tion to estimate the evidence alleged, from the extant play 
 and from criticisms upon it, that the play is not intelligible 
 per se, but requires for its explanation some such a preface as 
 we have constructed. 
 
 Menelaus, king of Sparta, at the time when with his 
 brother Agamemnon he made the famous expedition against 
 Troy for the recovery of Helen, left at home an only child, an 
 
 v. i
 
 2 A GREEK BORGIA 
 
 infant daughter, Hermione. By a family arrangement this 
 heiress was promised in marriage to an heir even more 
 important, her cousin Orestes, only son of Agamemnon, king 
 of Argos ; and the children were bred in this expectation. 
 But towards the end of the Trojan war, by the death of 
 Achilles the success of the Greeks came to depend upon the 
 assistance of his son Neoptolemus. To obtain this, Menelaus, 
 a politic, selfish,and unscrupulous man, promised his daughter to 
 that prince also. She was still far from marriageable age, and 
 the conflict of engagements did not arise till some years later. 
 Meanwhile Troy fell, and Agamemnon returning to Argos 
 was murdered by his wife Clytaemnestra ; Orestes was from 
 this time brought up in Phocis, where he formed a close con- 
 nexion with the administrators of the oracle of Delphi ; a 
 vigorous youth, but of a singularly inhuman disposition, at 
 once cold and ferocious, he not only set himself on reaching 
 manhood to avenge his father and recover his right, but, 
 encouraged by the oracle, actually slew his mother with his 
 own hand. The deed excited general horror, and Orestes became 
 an exile once more. About this time Hermione came of age, 
 and Menelaus, whose absence had been prolonged for some 
 years after the fall of Troy, returned to Greece. Both Orestes 
 and Neoptolemus claimed his promise, and there ensued a 
 contest, in which Orestes was completely worsted. He 
 besought his cousin to fly with him, but she refused. He 
 tried to work upon the generosity of his rival by pleading ' the 
 hardship of his position' (v. 974) but was haughtily repulsed. 
 He urged the father to respect the prior engagement ; but 
 Menelaus, whose object now and throughout was to sell his 
 daughter to the best advantage, preferred in the circumstances 
 the alliance of Neoptolemus. 
 
 But though the emissary of Delphi was thus signally 
 defeated, 'Apollo' could foresee and promise an equally perfect 
 revenge. With Neoptolemus, a gallant man but impetuous 
 and imprudent, Delphi had already a personal quarrel ; he 
 had had the audacity to demand of 'Apollo' satisfaction for the 
 death of his father Achilles. By another error (which Greek 
 sentiment would probably not have much reprehended,
 
 ANDROMACHE 3 
 
 though Euripides thought otherwise) he had laid his domestic 
 position open to attack. Cohabiting with his Trojan captive 
 Andromache, formerly wife of Hector, he had become by her 
 the father of a boy, and upon his marriage, though he quitted 
 his connexion with the mother, he retained in his household 
 both her and her son. The jealousy of his young wife, who 
 loved him passionately, rose almost to madness when after 
 some time she herself was without a child ; and the same 
 circumstances convinced Menelaus that he had chosen the 
 worse bargain, and that his nephew, who, apart from his 
 temporary disgrace, was by far the more important personage of 
 the two, would after all be the better ally. But to repair the 
 mistake was not easy. To remove the unguarded Neoptolemus 
 was indeed a simple matter; and Orestes, aided by the fanatics 
 of Delphi, undertook to do this, upon the occasion of a visit 
 paid by his rival to the oracle for the purpose of appeasing 
 the offended god. But there remained the apparently 
 insoluble problem, how in any tolerable and not too scandalous 
 manner Hermione, loving Neoptolemus to distraction, could 
 be forced to accept for her second husband the assassin of 
 the first. The Andromache shows with what cold-blooded 
 and truly Spartan ingenuity Menelaus achieves this purpose, so 
 using the circumstances of the family and the characters of the 
 persons composing it that his daughter is actually compelled by 
 conjugal passion to put herself, while yet ignorant of her 
 husband's fate and her own position, into the power of the 
 destined successor. The action takes place at the house of 
 Neoptolemus near Pharsalus in Phthia, and commences at the 
 time when Orestes, having killed Neoptolemus at Delphi, has 
 brought the news of his death to Menelaus, who has come to 
 Phthia from Sparta for the purpose of preparing and executing 
 at the proper moment his part of the plot. 
 
 The story, in dexterous combination and moral interest 
 one of the best among the extant remains of Attic tragedy, is 
 manifestly such that, like many other stories excellently fitted 
 for dramatic purposes, it could not possibly be exhibited 
 entirely within a single play of the Greek form. If, as seems 
 most probable, it is essentially the invention of Euripides, then 
 
 i 2
 
 4 A GREEK BORGIA 
 
 we must necessarily suppose that the earlier part, the prelimin- 
 aries to the Andromache, was the subject of a preceding play, 
 which turned upon the contest of the rivals for the hand of 
 Hermione, and the determination of that contest in favour of 
 Neoptolemus. We shall see that for the existence of this 
 play there is some positive evidence. But I would clearly 
 repeat that this, the embodiment of the former part 
 in the shape of a drama, cannot be fully proved. It is 
 in my opinion probable, perhaps something more, but it is 
 not certain. What is certain and demonstrable is that the 
 Andromache assumes for known, in some form and by some 
 means, a preceding story having the general outline which 
 we have drawn, and starts from the situation which we have 
 indicated, a plot between Menelaus and his nephew to transfer 
 the possession of Hermione, after the assassination of 
 Neoptolemus, to Orestes. 
 
 In colour, circumstances, and characters the story, like others 
 of Euripides, the Orestes for instance and the Ion, is essentially 
 'modern,' of his own time, and takes from heroic antiquity 
 really nothing but the names. The general foundation of it, 
 down to the return of Menelaus to Greece, follows common 
 legend, and requires no special exposition. The central 
 portion, from this point to the opening of the Andromache, is 
 evidenced for us by the statements and implications of the 
 Andromache itself. In the extant part, the existing play, the 
 principal interest lies in the exhibition of the refined depravity, 
 probably drawn from life, which noble Greek politicians could 
 display in dealing with a domestic embarrassment. The 
 methods of Menelaus remind one strongly of those which 
 are attributed, I profess not to say with what justice, to the 
 nobility of the Italian Renaissance, and the title of this essay 
 has been chosen from that point of view. 
 
 Without the facts presupposed the Andromache is not 
 merely formless, but unintelligible. It falls into a series of 
 actions not only disconnected, but each of them separately 
 inexplicable. In particular the proceedings of Menelaus, 
 which occupy most of the piece, have as a whole no conceiv- 
 able purpose, no end, adequate or inadequate, to which as a
 
 ANDROMACHE 5 
 
 whole they possibly can be directed. The performance of 
 Orestes becomes so casual in the occurrence, and so obscure 
 in aim and result, that it does not and cannot command any 
 interest. And the death of Neoptolemus, appended as another 
 occurrence to these occurrences, without connexion prior or 
 posterior, and even without any definite relation in time, would 
 seem to fill up a congeries for which it would be difficult, and 
 is not necessary, to find any suitable name. It is certainly 
 neither story nor play, as these words are commonly under- 
 stood. Nor is it any paradox to say this ; the same thing in 
 substance has been said repeatedly, under the form of criti- 
 cisms ex Jiypothesi upon the dramatist. However, it matters 
 not how reasonable, or how absurd, the Andromache would be, 
 if it were an independent work ; because we are in a position 
 to prove that it is not such a work. To approach the subject 
 properly, I will ask leave now to state separately, though at 
 the expense of some repetition, those facts which are actually 
 narrated or performed in the extant drama itself. 
 
 A summary of the play will run as follows. 
 
 Menelaus, king of Sparta, married his daughter Hermione 
 to Neoptolemus of Phthia, son of Achilles, and himself one of 
 the principal actors in the taking of Troy. Neoptolemus, at 
 the time of the marriage, had already a son by a slave-woman, 
 Andromache, formerly wife of Hector. Though this connexion 
 was then broken off, the slave and her child have remained in 
 the household, where the little boy in particular is the object 
 of much affection. The wife, who is passionately attached to 
 her husband, detests them both, and her jealousy, rising to 
 fury when after some time she herself remains barren, has 
 made the situation intolerable. Neoptolemus, having reason 
 to suspect the enmity of Apollo, has gone to Delphi to obtain 
 reconciliation with the god. During his absence, Menelaus 
 has come from Sparta to his daughter's home, which is 
 situated near Pharsalus, the capital and residence of the aged 
 Peleus, grandfather of Neoptolemus and still sovereign. These 
 facts are narrated in a semi-dramatic prologue spoken by 
 Andromache, who further informs us that, believing herself 
 and her son to be in danger from Menelaus, she has sent the
 
 6 A GREEK BORGIA 
 
 boy to a neighbour, and has taken refuge at an altar, which 
 lies before the entrance of the house and composes with it the 
 scene of the play. At this point the action commences. 
 Andromache, learning from a Trojan woman, now her fellow- 
 slave, that Menelaus has discovered the boy, persuades the 
 informant to summon Peleus, whom previous messengers have 
 apparently failed to reach. Hermione visits her rival and 
 commands her to quit sanctuary, but makes no impression 
 and returns to the house. Menelaus however by producing 
 his young captive, and threatening to take his life, is more 
 successful ; to save the boy, Andromache surrenders at 
 discretion, whereupon Menelaus declares that the life of the 
 child, though spared by him, is still liable to the sentence of 
 Hermione, and conducts both his victims within to receive 
 her judgment. Presently he brings them out again ; both are 
 to die ; and the execution appears to be imminent, when 
 Peleus arrives. On learning the situation, the aged prince 
 violently upbraids the invader of his family, who, he says, will 
 do well to depart, and take his ' barren daughter ' along with 
 him. Menelaus professes himself unable to comprehend this 
 indignation ; if his friendly intentions are so received, he will 
 not contest the matter, which can be decided at leisure here- 
 after ; for the present he has business at Sparta. And 
 hereupon, without communicating with his daughter or even 
 re-entering the house, he departs as for Sparta forthwith, while 
 the rescued pair, Andromache and the boy, go away under the 
 protection of Peleus. After a while, an uproar in the house 
 apprises us that Hermione has become aware of her father's 
 departure, and promptly she herself appears, frantic with terror 
 at the idea of meeting her husband, without any support, 
 after what has passed, and eager for instant flight. At this 
 moment enters Orestes, nephew of Menelaus and cousin to 
 the princess. The accident of a journey has brought him, as 
 he explains, to her neighbourhood, and he has taken the 
 opportunity to enquire after her health. Hermione, in a 
 transport of relief, explains the position of affairs, and be- 
 seeches him to place her in safety, to conduct her to her 
 father. This, after some demur, he consents to do for the
 
 ANDROMACHE 7 
 
 sake of old times, reminding her that, though bestowed on a 
 more fortunate pretender, she had once been promised to 
 himself. This reminiscence she waives as inopportune, and 
 hurries him off, referring all questions to the decision of her 
 father. The news of her flight recalls Peleus, who, learning 
 that Orestes in the moment of departure has threatened 
 machinations against Neoptolemus, is about to send warning 
 to Delphi, when the companions of Neoptolemus arrive. 
 They bring from Delphi the body of their master, murdered 
 there by Orestes and others. With the narrative of the 
 murder and the lamentations of Peleus the action ends. 
 The prophecies of Thetis, mother of Achilles, who concludes 
 the piece, after the Euripidean manner, with an apparition 
 ex macliina, portend to Peleus consolation in another world, 
 and to the son of Andromache (Molossus) a kingdom (Molossia) 
 in this. 
 
 Such is the action presented. Is it then this is our first 
 question is it, as a fact, self-explanatory? Do we com- 
 prehend it as a whole ? Do the incidents proceed one from 
 the other, account for one another, exhibit, in the motives of 
 the actors, a mutual relation of cause and effect ? The answer 
 appears to be unanimous. The whole, as a whole, is nothing. 
 The play, as a whole, is worthless. A recent editor, reflect- 
 ing the common opinion, expressly directs notice to consider- 
 ations which 'redeem the AndroinacJie from worthlessness,' 
 considerations which deal with parts only, with single 
 elements or separate scenes. Considerations of this kind we 
 may find in abundance; there is scarcely any portion of 
 the play, perhaps not one important speech, which does not 
 exhibit proofs of great literary and artistic skill. But nothing 
 of this kind affects the unanimous judgment pronounced 
 (ex hypotJiesi) upon the futility of the whole as a whole, the 
 lack of a story. It is agreed that the play so conceived is (to 
 use the very inadequate term usually applied to the case) 
 ' wanting in unity.' 
 
 The use of so mild a term is unfortunate, and though 
 prompted doubtless by respect for Euripides, tends really to do 
 him a monstrous injustice, by concealing the enormity, and
 
 8 A GREEK BORGIA 
 
 therefore the improbability, of the charge thereby alleged 
 against him. A play is properly said to 'want unity' when 
 there is not any one common interest, in which all the parts 
 converge, and which combines them into a whole. Such 
 a defect may be exhibited in plays in which the mechanical 
 connexion and sequence of the incidents is perfectly clear, in 
 plays which have a story, a story plain and simple. It is 
 sometimes found in the work of the most skilful and ex- 
 perienced playwrights, and may be alleged without improba- 
 bility against any one. It is alleged for example against the 
 Ajax of Sophocles, where the interest turns first upon the 
 suicide of the hero, and then upon the question whether he 
 shall be duly buried. These, it is said, are separate interests, 
 and do not properly compose a single theme. Such a charge, 
 whether justified or not I agree with those who think it in 
 this case not substantial is properly signified by the term 
 ' want of unity.' 
 
 It is not meant, and of course could not be alleged without 
 absurdity, that the death and burial of Ajax do not 
 make a story, that there is not between the incidents any- 
 natural sequence or necessary connexion whatever. So again 
 a certain ' want of unity ' may be attributed to The Merchant 
 of Venice, because the marriage of Portia and the persecution 
 of Antonio, though the mechanical link between them is plain 
 and solid enough, are topics not very harmonious in interest, 
 and because each topic is pursued into some developments 
 which have little, if any, bearing upon the other. But they 
 compose a story. The play does not leave us ignorant of any 
 relation between the scene of the caskets and the scene of the 
 trial, at what interval and after what incidents the one scene 
 followed upon the other, and why Portia should be present at 
 both. The ' want of unity ' does not mean this. But this, 
 and nothing less, must be the want of unity which shall cover 
 the case of the Andromache, if we are to presume nothing 
 which is not stated in the drama. It presents three incidents, 
 (i) the visit of Menelaus to Phthia, (2) the visit of Orestes, 
 (3) the murder of Neoptolemus at Delphi, not one of which is 
 connected as cause or effect with another. The coincidence
 
 ANDROMACHE 9 
 
 of the first two is (we are to suppose) fortuitous, while the 
 third is so totally independent, that we need not and cannot 
 determine (so we are told 1 ) when and by what intermediary 
 process it comes to pass. This is to ' want unity ' with 
 a vengeance ! But what hypothesis could be less probable 
 than that so insane a method of composition was practised 
 and accepted by the rival and the audience of Sophocles ? 
 
 Nor are these independent portions even intelligible 
 separately. During the first half of the play the principal 
 agent is Menelaus, whose action, so far as appears upon the 
 statements of the play, is from first to last unintelligible and 
 absurd. A man of mature years and experience takes a long 
 journey and undergoes much trouble, that he may instigate 
 and encourage a young wife to secure her hold upon the home 
 and heart of a husband, whom she passionately loves, by 
 openly murdering that husband's only and beloved child ! A 
 prince, coming privately into the territory and almost into the 
 residence of an ally, proceeds to seize and execute there the 
 sovereign's sole descendant, and when caught in the act, is 
 surprised that his friendly proceeding should move the 
 ancestor to resentment ! A politician and soldier lays a 
 design which can hardly be concealed from those who will 
 certainly arrest it, yet allows the discovery to be made in the 
 most obvious and preventable way, and at the first opposition 
 postpones the affair sine die \ A father, having deliberately 
 involved his married daughter, acting under his authority, in 
 a domestic situation of extreme delicacy and peril, withdraws, 
 escapes, and disappears without bestowing upon her so much 
 as a farewell ! There is no end to the extravagances and 
 contradictions of a portraiture in which no one, so far as I am 
 aware, professes to find any interest. Incredulns odi; it is 
 incredible and disgusting. Part of this incredibility the 
 dramatist is actually at the pains to prove. That the murder 
 of Andromache must disgrace both the princess and the king, 
 and that the murder of the young Molossus 2 means ruin to 
 
 1 See hereafter, and refer to commentaries upon Andromache 1115. 
 
 2 It is convenient to use this name, though it is not given, and scarcely so much as 
 implied, in the play. See v. 1248, and the dramatis personae in Prof. Murray's text.
 
 io A GREEK BORGIA 
 
 the wife and endless embarrassments to her father, is not only 
 obvious but is explained to the conqueror of Troy by the 
 Trojan captive, Andromache : 
 
 And the child's death 
 
 Think ye his sire shall hold it a little thing? 
 So void of manhood Troy proclaims him not. 
 Nay, he shall follow duty's call, be proved, 
 By deeds, of Peleus worthy and Achilles. 
 He shall thrust forth thy child. What plea wilt find 
 For a new spouse? This lie 'the saintly soul 
 Of this pure thing shrank from her wicked Lord'? 
 Who shall wed such ? Wilt keep her in thine halls 
 Spouseless, a grey-haired widow ? O thou wretch, 
 Seest not the floods of evil bursting o'er thee 1 ? 
 
 She expresses amazement and almost commiseration that 
 these and other such considerations should escape the in- 
 telligence of such. a personage. How is it possible for us to 
 suppose that they do escape him, or that he is pursuing 
 what he really believes to be the interest of his daughter 
 as wife to Neoptolemus ? Or how can we imagine that, if 
 really possessed by such a delusion, he, the mighty king of 
 Sparta, will quit the pursuit of his purpose, and this with 
 apparent indifference, for a few high words from such an 
 opposer as Peleus ? But the acme of the incomprehensible is 
 reached in his departure, when, pleading a vague business at 
 home, he quits the scene and is heard of no more. For this 
 proceeding we are shown no motive whatever. He is in no 
 danger, and what is more, he shows no alarm. His bearing 
 towards Peleus is cool, contemptuous, and provocative. Nor 
 is it even suggested to him how could such a suggestion be 
 made without absurdfty? that he should leave Hermione, 
 and leave her without notice of his intention. The old king, 
 in the violence of his indignation, bids him ' take his daughter 
 away-'; but that even this is not seriously meant, and that 
 
 1 Andr. 339 foil. (Way). The play everywhere assumes that Neoptolemus is 
 not an unfaithful husband (even if this accusation were to the purpose) and that 
 his fidelity could be established. In 346 TreiWrai, he will inform himself of 
 the facts (Kiehl, Murray) seems a better reading than e^ewrerat, and puts the 
 point more clearly. 
 
 2 v. 639, v. 708.
 
 ANDROMACHE n 
 
 Peleus expects, no effect from it, appears from his own 
 behaviour both immediately afterwards 1 , and again a little 
 later, upon hearing of Hermione's flight 2 . More than this, 
 it is something like a physical impossibility, that such a 
 personage as the King of Sparta should vanish at a moment's 
 notice and without any preparation, commencing a journey of 
 many days in such a manner that his departure is not 
 discovered till he is beyond reach of recall. In every aspect 
 the thing is purposeless, incredible, and silly. 
 
 And to increase our perplexity, it appears that the por- 
 traiture of Menelaus is supposed by the author to have, at 
 least indirectly, a political application, gratifying to Athenian 
 prejudices against the Spartan character. The speech of 
 Andromache, beginning 
 
 O ye in all folk's eyes most loathed of men, 
 Dwellers in Sparta, senates of treachery, 
 Princes of lies, weavers of webs of guile, 
 Thoughts crooked, wholesome never, devious all 
 A crime is your supremacy in Greece 3 ! 
 
 is always and necessarily so understood. But if the Menelaus 
 of the play is such as he is now made out to be, stupid and 
 cowardly, without foresight, sense, or firmness, a sort of 
 imbecile or idiot, where is the point of the satire? If the 
 kings of Sparta or the Spartans generally had resembled this, 
 their power and policy would not have excited in their 
 adversaries those feelings of detestation and fear to which 
 Euripides appeals. 
 
 The visit of Menelaus occupies more than half the play. 
 The visit of Orestes, filling one scene, though more intelligible, 
 is scarcely more satisfactory. The gist of it is that Hermione, 
 by the arrival of her cousin, is enabled to obey the prompting 
 of her terror and to follow her fugitive father. The obvious 
 objection here is the extravagant employment of the fortuitous. 
 In the conduct of a story, coincidences, within reasonable 
 limits, may no doubt and must be supposed, and will readily be 
 
 1 vv. 747 foil. - vv. 1047-1069; see especially v. 1060. 
 
 3 vv. 445 foil. (Way).
 
 12 A GREEK BORGIA 
 
 accepted if a sufficient interest depends upon them. In the 
 Oedipus Tyrannus, it is a coincidence that the death of the 
 king's supposed father is announced to him while he is 
 investigating that of his real father ; and since this is necessary 
 to the development of a most admirable and exciting intrigue, 
 it is very well. It is a coincidence, but an admissible coin- 
 cidence, that Medea, having one day in which to find a 
 friend who will give her refuge, is visited by such a friend 
 upon that day. But the visit of Orestes goes plainly beyond 
 belief. He is the one man in the world who could be 
 supposed likely to assist Hermione in leaving her husband's 
 house. He is journeying (so he tells us 1 ) to Dodona, at the 
 end of Greece, and finding himself by this accident in Phthia, 
 pays a call, as we should say, of enquiry. And he meets 
 Hermione, eager for flight, at the very door ! Whether the 
 scene redeems, by its interest and truth to nature, this draft 
 upon our credulity, I shall not discuss. The movement of it 
 is precipitate, and the motives, on the side of Orestes, obscure. 
 We should doubt to what it will lead, which would be a very 
 proper effect, if we had the means of divining, or were after- 
 wards told. But as we never are told, and Hermione after 
 this episode is not heard of again, the scene remains hung 
 up as it were, without development as without preparation, a 
 fragment. 
 
 The third portion of the play, a powerful narrative of the 
 murder of Neoptolemus, with a slight dramatic framework, is 
 without fault, if considered apart, but to the story, as a whole, 
 it contributes nothing. At what interval of time, and after 
 what intermediate events, the murder follows (if it does follow) 
 upon the proceedings at Phthia, is actually supposed by critics, 
 as we remarked before, to be an open question ; and of inter- 
 dependency, upon this hypothesis, it is needless to speak. 
 
 Such is the construction, if the word is applicable, now 
 attributed to the Andromache of Euripides. Upon the ex- 
 ternal evidence against such an assumption I shall not insist, 
 though I consider it prohibitory. ' Of all plots and actions 
 the epeisodic,' says Aristotle, ' are the worst. I call a plot
 
 ANDROMACHE 13 
 
 " epeisodic " in which the episodes or acts succeed one another 
 without probable or necessary sequence. Bad poets compose 
 such pieces by their own fault, good poets, to please the 
 players ; for, as they write show pieces for competition, they 
 stretch the plot beyond its capacity, and are often forced to 
 break the natural continuity 1 .' For an extant example of 
 this just and exact remark we may cite the Suppliants of 
 Euripides. The subject of that play is the generosity of 
 Athens in rescuing the corpses of certain Argives, to which 
 the victorious Thebans have refused burial, and which receive 
 a solemn funeral at Eleusis. During this rite Evadne, wife to 
 one of the dead, having escaped in distraction of mind from 
 the care of her relatives at Argos, comes wandering to the 
 place and throws herself upon the pyre of her husband. Now 
 in this occurrence there is nothing obscure or unnatural : 
 the when and why of it are perfectly clear. But since it is 
 ' neither necessary nor probable ' that such a fact should arise 
 out of the circumstances of this particular funeral, since the 
 fact is merely possible and has no relation to the general 
 subject of the play, the enterprise of Athens, the occurrence 
 is an ' episode ' in the bad sense, which breaks the plot and 
 ' stretches it beyond its capacity.' This example illustrates 
 also the temptation, alleged by Aristotle, to please the actors 
 and to enrich the show by introducing an effective part, the 
 part of the suttee. A narrative episode, where the connexion 
 required is of course that of the events narrated as well as of 
 the narration itself regarded as an event, may exhibit the 
 same fault. ' Epeisodic ' in this sense has been supposed to be 
 the description of the beacons in the Agamemnon of Aeschylus, 
 and indeed all the first half of that tragedy, consisting of facts 
 which, as preliminaries to the murder of the king, are possible 
 merely but ' neither necessary nor probable.' This supposition 
 is, I think, mistaken, and proceeds from misconception of the 
 story, but it is none the less available as an illustration of 
 Aristotle. Now the fault so defined is noted by Aristotle, 
 not without reason, as 'the worst' which a plot can have. 
 But it is not the worst, it is far from the worst, if we are to 
 
 1 Poetics ix. 10 (Butcher).
 
 14 A GREEK BORGIA 
 
 include such a 'plot' as is attributed to the Andromache, 
 comprising events between which no connexion and no 
 sequence is even alleged, an event A and another event A 1 
 (we must not call it B, for this at least suggests sequence), 
 which are set down separately, side by side, without so much 
 as a given order in time, and which the reader may arrange 
 or not arrange as he pleases. To say of such a plot, that the 
 sequence of its episodes is ' neither necessary nor probable,' or 
 that it is ' stretched beyond its capacity,' would be criticism 
 futile and short of the mark. But Aristotle ignores and by 
 implication excludes such a case, not imagining, as we may 
 naturally suppose, that it could ever occur. Nor does it nor 
 could it occur ; it is an offence to which there is no temptation. 
 A similar inference, perhaps even stronger in its bearing upon 
 Euripides, might be drawn from the silence of Aristophanes. 
 
 But such a priori considerations, however cogent, are of 
 little importance in view of the fact, which I now propose to 
 prove, that the plot or story of the Andromache is not that 
 which has been supposed. And in particular, as a first step 
 in the argument, I shall prove that the play does not profess 
 to contain the story entire, but presumes the story, whatever 
 it was, as known beforehand to the spectator or reader. As 
 this point is of the utmost importance, both for this play and 
 for the general history of Athenian drama, I ask leave to 
 explain formally the nature of the proof. 
 
 The proof does not depend upon any subjective judgment 
 respecting the sufficiency or insufficiency for artistic purposes 
 of the facts given in the play, respecting the goodness or 
 badness, in short, of a story supposed to contain those facts 
 and those only. If the facts given in the Andromache com- 
 posed in themselves an excellent story, it would still be certain 
 and demonstrable, that not the play, but something external 
 and prior to the play, is supposed to put us partly in 
 possession of those facts. And for this reason. The facts 
 actually given are not disclosed either (i) in such an order, or 
 (2) in such a manner, that their relations can be understood. 
 The last scene, and the last scene only, reveals certain facts 
 as having pre-existed from a time before the beginning of tJie
 
 ANDROMACHE 15 
 
 play. They are even then revealed in such a manner that 
 their pre-existence, before the beginning of the play, cannot 
 be ascertained without reviewing the whole, without a retro- 
 spect which a reader (as experience has amply proved) is not 
 likely to pursue, and a spectator could not pursue. Yet one 
 at least of the preceding scenes is of such a character, that a 
 reader or spectator of it, if not then acquainted with the pre- 
 existing facts, must (and actually does) totally and irretrievably 
 misconceive and misunderstand it. These phenomena compel 
 us to the inference that sometliing, these pre-existing facts at 
 least, is assumed by the dramatist as already given to the 
 spectator from some source external to the drama. 
 
 The facts revealed in the final scene, or rather upon a 
 comparison of the final scene with the whole drama, are 
 these : 
 
 (1) that some time, some days, before the beginning of the 
 play Neoptolemus has been murdered at Delphi ; 
 
 (2) that Orestes was then at Delphi, assisting in the 
 murder. 
 
 We will take them in order. 
 
 (i) The corpse of Neoptolemus, carried by his attendants 
 from Delphi, arrives at his home, the place of action, simul- 
 taneously with the second entrance of Peleus 1 . The whole 
 time from the beginning of the play to this point is covered 
 by two summonings and two comings of Peleus, phis the time 
 (say, twenty minutes) which may elapse after the disappear- 
 ance of Menelaus before Hermione learns that he is gone. 
 Neglecting this addition, and confining our attention to 
 Peleus, in the first scene we see a messenger despatched to 
 summon him from his house in the town of Pharsalus 2 . In 
 the fourth scene he arrives, and departs again to return home :i . 
 He is recalled by some person, or persons, who tell him that 
 Hermione has fled, but tell him nothing, and therefore know 
 nothing, about Orestes, and nothing distinct about Menelaus 4 ; 
 slaves (we may suppose) belonging to the household of 
 Neoptolemus, who go instantly for the old king, as they 
 
 1 w. 1047-1069. 2 v. 16, V. 11, -v. 83. 
 
 3 w. 547-765. 4 z'. 1060.
 
 1 6 A GREEK BORGIA 
 
 naturally would, when first she attempts to run away 1 . 
 The place where they find him, and from which he returns, 
 cannot be more distant, and is probably nearer, than Pharsalus. 
 Now Pharsalus is close by. The town and the residence of 
 Neoptolemus have 'common pastures'; a slave-woman may 
 and does get to the town and back before her absence is 
 discovered by a watchful mistress ; Peleus, a great-grandfather 
 and shaken with age, passes and repasses without difficulty, 
 and is apparently supposed to walk 2 . No exact distance is 
 prescribed, but Pharsalus is close by. If we put it an hour 
 off (which is too much), three or four hours will cover the 
 action up to the second entrance of Peleus ; and almost at 
 the same moment comes the party from Delphi. Now the 
 play assumes as an essential condition, what Euripides and 
 every one else knew for a fact, that Delphi is far away, a long 
 journey. Neoptolemus there is utterly out of reach. The 
 visitors from Pharsalus, on arriving there, spend three days 3 , 
 before approaching their business, in indulging their curiosity 
 with a view of the strange place. The journey was in truth 
 about sixty miles, most of it through mountain ranges ; and 
 such a conception, not precise but approximate, would be 
 conveyed by the mere names of the places to a public who, 
 as we may see from the history of Herodotus and other 
 evidence, knew well enough the general features of their little 
 country. The companions of Neoptolemus, mere personal 
 attendants, are few, perhaps not more than the necessary 
 five 4 , so few at any rate that they do not even detach a 
 messenger, but all return together, bringing the corpse. That 
 such a journey must have occupied not three hours, but 
 something nearer three days, is no matter of calculation, but 
 obvious, a conception arising necessarily \vith the picture of 
 the facts. It is therefore a datum of the play, that the 
 murder precedes the beginning of the action by a period 
 indefinite but certainly counted in days. 
 
 It may be worth while to point out, in view of the way in 
 
 1 v. 823. 
 
 - See preceding references. 3 v. 1086. 
 
 4 The narrator of the murder and the bearers of the corpse.
 
 ANDROMACHE 17 
 
 which the drama and its story have been treated, that the 
 question of the foregoing paragraph, the question when the 
 murder happened, has nothing to do with the movements of 
 Orestes. The prevalent assumption to the contrary, and the 
 notes which it is the custom to write upon w. 1115 1116, 
 betray upon this point a confusion surprising, though, as we 
 shall see, not inexplicable. 
 
 But secondly, we learn in the final scene that at the time 
 of the murder Orestes was at Delphi and took part in it. 
 The first half of the narrative is chiefly occupied with 
 exhibiting his presence and activity as leader. 
 
 Thy son's son, ancient Peleus, is no more, 
 Such dagger-thrusts hath he received of men 
 Of Delphi and that stranger 1 of Mycenae. 
 
 ...While Agamemnon's son passed through the town 
 
 And whispered deadly hints in each man's ear. 
 
 ...Then was Orestes' slander proved of might 
 
 In the hoarse murmur from the throng, 'He lies! 
 
 He hath come for felony.' On he passed, within 
 
 The temple-fence, before the oracle 
 
 To pray, and was in act to sacrifice : 
 
 Then rose with swords from ambush screened by bays 
 
 A troop against him : Klytemnestra's son 
 
 Was of them, weaver of this treason-web 2 . 
 
 By this troop, with the favour and assistance of the 
 Delphian mob, Neoptolemus is slain. 
 
 It is therefore a fact of the story, and we by the last scene 
 are informed, that Orestes, when he appears in the play, at 
 the time when he consents to conduct Hermione to Menelaus, 
 has actually come from the place of the murder, and knows 
 that her husband is dead. But and here is the vital point 
 
 1 'Their ally' would be nearer the sense. 
 
 2 w. 1073-1116 (Way). Here again it matters not whether we render the 
 idly debated w. 1115-1116, uv KXirrat^u'TjcrTpay ri/tos | eis rjv airavruv rwvSe 
 An7x< u/< Wa<os ) as above, or make them (with some) mean merely that Orestes was 
 'the contriver of all this.' His presence is shown by the whole narrative, and his 
 actual part in the act by vv. 1074-1075, and v. 1242 (xfpfc)- See Mr Hyslop's 
 note (edition of Macmillan, 1900). Nor are the debated verses really ambiguous; 
 the natural meaning of uv efs TJV (cf. v. 614) cannot be affected by what follows. 
 
 V. 2
 
 1 8 A GREEK BORGIA 
 
 the dialogue and relations between Orestes and Hermione are 
 such, that the dramatist, since he intends Orestes to have this 
 knowledge, must also intend that the real situation of Orestes, 
 his part in the murder and knowledge of the murder as an 
 accomplished fact, shall be known to the audience when they 
 witness the scene of the abduction. The contrary is incon- 
 ceivable, never has been suggested, and never will be by any 
 one. What is now supposed by critics is that, at the time of 
 the abduction, the murder is really future. This, as we have 
 seen, is impossible ; and if the murder is then past, the 
 audience must be supposed then to know it. Otherwise not 
 only must they mistake the whole spirit of the scene, but they 
 must be irretrievably deceived as to the facts. 
 
 Agamemnon's son and Klytemnestra's I, 
 My name Orestes : to Zeus' oracle 
 Bound, at Dodona. Seeing I am come 
 To Phthia, good it seems that I enquire 
 Of my kinswoman, if she lives and thrives, 
 Hermione of Sparta. Though she dwell 
 In a far land from us, she is all as dear 1 . 
 
 These are lies, the journey to Dodona and all the rest. 
 But the audience, if not previously informed of the murder, 
 must take them, as readers now do, for truth, and similarly 
 throughout the scene must altogether misconceive the bearing 
 of everything which Orestes says or does. For such a 
 deception of the audience there is no conceivable motive ; it 
 is not a case in which Euripides can have meant his purpose 
 to be and remain, so far as concerns the theatre, ambiguous. 
 Even if the audience were afterwards, in the last scene, 
 effectually enlightened and undeceived, they could only say 
 ' Then please let us have the abduction over again, now that 
 we are in a position to understand it.' 
 
 But in truth the result would be different and far worse ; 
 for as the play stands, spectators of it never would apprehend 
 the true facts at all, and even readers have but a poor chance. 
 The final scene does, it is true, disclose the facts, and makes 
 them certain, but only upon a retrospect of the whole play, 
 
 1 w. 884 foil. (Way).
 
 ANDROMACHE 19 
 
 a comparison of what we are finally told with what we have 
 seen all along. But there is a particular circumstance, which 
 does now actually prevent readers, and even students, from 
 grasping the significance of the final disclosure and its relation 
 to what precedes, does actually prevent them, even with the 
 book in hand, from making the necessary retrospect and thus 
 arriving at the truth. At the end of the abduction-scene, and 
 when Hermione has left the stage (we will consider this 
 point hereafter), Orestes actually describes the plot against 
 Neoptolemus, but speaks of the murder as future : 
 
 Such toils of doom by this hand woven for him 
 With murder-meshes round him steadfast-staked 
 Are drawn : thereof I speak not ere the time ; 
 But, when I strike, the Delphian rock shall know 1 , 
 
 with more to the same effect. Now when we have once 
 perceived and learned that the murder, when these words are 
 spoken, is in fact done, we also instantly perceive, that these 
 words give us no reason for thinking otherwise. Being where 
 he is, at the house of Neoptolemus, Orestes could not possibly 
 describe the murder as done, and done by him. He must 
 refer to it, if at all, as future. Nay more, it is only the past 
 fact which (as we shall see) makes credible, in the circum- 
 stances, such a revelation of what is said to be future. If the 
 murder were still to be accomplished, would Orestes give 
 this warning of it in Phthia ? As to the futurity he lies of 
 course, as throughout the scene he lies. But if, not being 
 otherwise informed, we take this speech, when we hear it, for 
 truth, the subsequent disclosure, made as it is, produces no 
 enlightenment, but only a sense of confusion. We feel 
 indeed, every one feels, a difficulty. But even students have 
 not been able to set themselves right ; and instead of 
 correcting by the disclosure their interpretation of the ab- 
 duction-scene, have either abandoned the story as unintelligible, 
 or wandered off into unavailing attempts to make the final 
 scene square with the abduction-scene as misread, to make 
 the final scene also mean that the murder, at the time of the 
 
 1 w. 995 foil. (Way). 
 
 2 2
 
 20 A GREEK BORGIA 
 
 abduction, was future. When students do this, what would an 
 ordinary reader do, and what could a spectator ? 
 
 Once more therefore, it is certain that from some external 
 source the spectator or reader of the play is supposed to learn 
 beforehand this much at least, that, before the action opens, 
 Neoptolemus has been murdered by Orestes at Delphi. 
 
 But we cannot reasonably stop at this point, or suppose 
 that the external source gave just this fact and no more. It 
 is but rational, it is necessary, to suppose that the information 
 given by the external source (since there was one) was 
 sufficient to make the whole play intelligible. We know now 
 why Orestes comes to Pharsalus, and why he is ready to take 
 away Hermione. But how happens it that, at the very 
 instant when he presents himself, Hermione, the passionate 
 lover of Neoptolemus, is ready to be taken away ? How can 
 Orestes anticipate this ? Why does Menelaus pursue a course 
 of conduct which has and must have this result, which can 
 have no other, and which, apart from the result, is without 
 sense or purpose? These things also the external source 
 must have explained, by informing us from the first that 
 Menelaus is co-operating with Orestes. 
 
 What is the motive of this alliance the play itself explains 1 . 
 Hermione, only child of the king of Sparta, was originally 
 promised, we are told, to Orestes, only son of her uncle 
 Agamemnon, king of Argos a family arrangement almost 
 dictated by the circumstances. To buy the necessary help of 
 Neoptolemus, as representative of Achilles, at Troy, Menelaus 
 contracted his daughter also to him, and notwithstanding the 
 inferiority of the match 2 preferred the later engagement to 
 the earlier, because Orestes, before the return from Troy, 
 made himself for the time impossible by murdering his mother 
 Clytaemnestra. The marriage, though the husband loved the 
 wife and she adored her husband, was from a worldly point 
 of view a failure, partly from domestic embarrassments, but 
 chiefly because it was barren. With time, and the persistent 
 support of the oracle at Delphi, the heir of Agamemnon had 
 
 1 See the prologue, the abduction-scene, and the murder. 
 
 2 See w. 147-154, 209-210, and the behaviour of Menelaus passim.
 
 ANDROMACHE 21 
 
 become again a person of consequence, and was perfectly 
 ready to repair by a second murder the disastrous effects of 
 his first. Uncle and nephew came to terms. The visit of 
 Neoptolemus to Delphi made part of the plan easy, and it 
 remained only to overcome an obstacle which in ordinary 
 circumstances would have been invincible. That Hermione, 
 such as she is, should be induced to wed willingly with 
 the murderer of Neoptolemus, was a plain impossibility 1 . She 
 must be made to put herself, while yet unconscious of her 
 loss, in the power of the assassin, and to do it, if that might 
 be managed, so as to incur the suspicion of complicity. The 
 play shows how, by the abominable cunning of Menelaus, 
 abusing for his purpose the confidence of his daughter, her 
 love for her husband and fear of his displeasure, and 
 playing upon the weak points of the family, the ambiguous, 
 position of Andromache and her child, and the inconsiderate 
 impetuosity of the old Peleus, the obstacle is triumphantly 
 turned. 
 
 But now, as to the 'external source,' how, it will naturally 
 be asked, are we to conceive that ? So imperfect, so very 
 small, is our knowledge of literary and theatrical conditions 
 at the time and place, that any answer to such a question 
 must be given with reserve. Subject to this I will say, in this 
 particular case I can imagine nothing which would completely 
 meet the requirements except a preceding play, a 'First Part,' 
 to which our Andromache was the sequel. A sequence of 
 plays was a thing familiar to the Athenians, and composition 
 in this form was not abandoned, as we know, when, for the 
 purpose of competition at the festivals, the practice was intro- 
 duced of ' contending with play against play ' and not ' by 
 trilogies.' For many excellent stories, and this is one of them, 
 a single play of the Athenian type is an impossible form. 
 There are in the Andromaclie indications of the preceding 
 play, and traces perhaps, but dubious, in the fragments of 
 ancient commentary. Of the two Greek 'arguments' prefixed 
 
 1 See w. 170-176 and Hermione passim. Also m>. 37, 403, etc.
 
 22 A GREEK BORGIA 
 
 to our play the first is worthless, an abstract, not even correct 1 , 
 of the existing drama. But the second, supposed (but this is 
 uncertain) to represent in some way that of the Alexandrian 
 scholar Aristophanes, contains one sentence which looks ancient 
 and possibly interesting, because in itself it has no clear mean- 
 ing : TO Se SpafjLa rv Bevrepcav, ' the play (A ndromacJie] is one 
 of the second plays.' This has been taken to signify that it is 
 second-rate, one of a class inferior in artistic merit. Since the 
 writer of the argument, as it now stands, proceeds to praise 
 certain details (6 TrpoXoyo? cra^xw? KOI ev\6^w^ elprnievos K.T.\.), 
 it is probable, perhaps certain, that he understood the preceding 
 words as depreciatory 2 . But then they cannot be his words, for 
 he takes them unnaturally. A 'second play' is not the same 
 thing as a ' second-rate,' and no one surely would of his own 
 motion put so simple a meaning in such inappropriate and 
 unintelligible terms. Nor can we accept another suggested 
 interpretation, that the play was second in the competition. 
 That, if it was so, would be expressed in the regular and 
 natural form, by saying that 'Euripides was second with the 
 play.' Now these ancient prefaces, as they come to us, not 
 unfrequently contain notes (which are indeed the best part of 
 them) older than our copies, older even than the bulk of the 
 prefaces, notes not intelligible except by reference to notes 
 which have perished ; such for instance is the Trap' ovSerepw 
 tcelrai 77 fjuvdoTroiia in the preface to the Eumenides of Aeschylus, 
 signifying ' the story of this drama is not found in either 
 (Sophocles or Euripides).' 'This play is a second play ' or 'one 
 of the second plays' has the appearance of such a note. What 
 are ' second plays ' ? What can they be, except plays which 
 are sequels, plays preceded by a ' first'? The note may refer 
 to a list, distinguishing those of the plays contained in some 
 collection which were known or conjectured to be sequels; 
 and it may possibly signify that the Andromache is one of them. 
 
 1 r) jSacriXts f/3ov\eveTO Kara (TJJS 'AvSpofidxr)^) Odvarov, /J.(r ax efj.\fafj.^ft] TOV 
 MepAaop. For the last statement there is no evidence, and it is inconsistent with 
 the story. Andromache in the play attributes to Hermione (w. 39-42) apart from 
 Menelaus only the ' desire ' to kill her. Even e/SouAero Kraveiv, as we shall see, would 
 not be completely true. The plan and the original action belong wholly to Menelaus. 
 
 - Cf. Plippolyti hypothesis s.f.
 
 ANDROMACHE 23 
 
 From the same hand comes, we may guess, also the next 
 clause of the argument. ' The prologue is clear and appropriate 
 in statement,' 6 TrpoXoyos <ra<co< KOI ev\nya)<; elprjftevos *. The 
 person, who actually wrote or framed the argument as we 
 have it, took this to refer to the ' prologue ' spoken by 
 Andromache in our play ; for he adds, 'Also the elegiacs 2 in 
 the lament of Andromache (are good),' and then notes other 
 points as good or ' not bad.' But that any man, not copying 
 another but expressing naturally his own opinion, selected 
 the Euripidean prologue (so called) for exceptional praise, is 
 a thing hard to believe or understand. The speech of 
 Andromache is certainly neither obscure nor, so far as it goes, 
 inappropriate ; it gives the necessary facts, so far as they are 
 known to Andromache. But it scarcely pretends to dramatic 
 merit, or any merit other than mechanical, and to note it for 
 one of the better parts, a thing exceptionally commendable in 
 Euripides, is irrational. The ' prologue ' commended, in the 
 first instance, as 'clear and appropriate in statement' must 
 surely have been the work of some one in whom such an 
 achievement was commendable. Now if the play was really a 
 sequel, we can understand this. Divorced by accident, or the 
 needs of representation, from its predecessor, it wants a 'pro- 
 logue' properly so called, a literary introduction in verse, like 
 those of Roman and modern times. Somebody wrote one, and 
 it is to this that the note really referred, recommending it as 
 useful and giving it the only praise that it could deserve. 
 Unluckily, not being by Euripides, it was not always copied 
 with the play, and we have now to make it, in verse or in 
 prose, for ourselves. Similarly, prologues were written to the 
 Rhesus*. 
 
 Further there is reason to think that we know the name 
 of the prologue-writer Democrates. At least this would 
 explain what has not been explained, the extraordinary state- 
 ment, rightly or wrongly attributed to Callimachus, that our 
 
 1 Note the absence of a conjunction, indicating that this clause was not 
 originally meant to qualify the preceding clause rb 5pa/ua rav dfVT^puv. If it 
 were, we should expect a 'but,' 5t, dXXcl, or /j.tvroi. In fact, there is or was no 
 connexion between the two remarks, as the asyndeton properly indicates. 
 
 2 (TI 5e Kol TO. eXeyeia K.T.\. rt Hermann, &rrt codd. 3 Hyp. Rhesi.
 
 24 A GREEK BORGIA 
 
 play 'was superscribed Democrates v \ Assuredly there is 
 misunderstanding here, if it is implied that the 'superscription' 
 signified either the title of the play or the name of the 
 dramatist. But if ' Democrates ' was author of a prologue 
 sometimes prefixed, the superscription of his name was in such 
 copies proper and necessary, and may easily have crept 
 without right into others. 
 
 But stronger and steadier than these broken lights from 
 without is the evidence in the play itself, the allusive 
 retrospect in which Orestes describes to Hermione the 
 circumstances of her marriage to Neoptolemus'-. Not only 
 is the narrative so summary that a theatrical audience, 
 unacquainted with the facts, could scarcely follow it with 
 interest, but upon examination more than one point will be 
 found unintelligible. 'I came to Phthia,' says Orestes, 'though 
 disobedient in this to thy injunction, with the purpose of 
 assisting thee to escape 3 .' When did Hermione forbid Orestes 
 to come? Against any communication between them since 
 her marriage we have presumptive and even conclusive evidence 
 in the whole play and particularly in this scene. Does Orestes 
 only pretend the prohibition ? If so, what is his motive, how 
 
 1 Scholium to Andr. 445 6 5e Ka\\i/J.axos firiypa<f>fjval <f>rjffi r 
 &r)(j.oKpdTi]v. It will further explain why this remark now appears in connexion 
 with a subject to which it is not apparently relevant, the date at which the play 
 was written. The observation that 'the times of the play cannot be simply 
 grasped' (elXtupivus dt TOVS TOV 8pd/j.a.Tos xpb vov * ol ' K ^crn Xapeiv schol. ib.) 
 referred, when it was originally made, to the limes of the action, the interior 
 times (not the date of composition), which in the play itself are not easy to be 
 grasped, as modern scholars have too much reason to know. It was in connexion 
 with this that 'Democrates' was originally mentioned, because his prologue of 
 course made the times, the succession of events, clear. The scholium implies a 
 misunderstanding. The conjectural substitution of TtfjLOKpaTrjv for &T)/j.oKpa.Trjv in 
 this scholium, and the dependent conjectures cited, but not affirmed, by Prof. 
 Murray (in his note on the dramatis per sonac] seem more than hazardous. 
 - w. 964-984. 
 
 ri\6ov Sf <raj fj.fv ov <re/3wc eV7ro\os, 
 
 ef 8' if8i8oirjs, uffTTtp tvSiSus, \oyov, 
 
 vtfJLlfsUV ff' ttTT* otKWV TWvSe. 
 
 By the order of the words the negative ov falls upon ffffiuv, disregarding, and the 
 iiriffToXds (which may or may not mean a 'message') must be a command not to 
 come; and el 8' (vdidoiys \6yov implies the same.
 
 ANDROMACHE 25 
 
 could an audience comprehend it, and how is it that a plain 
 falsehood, relating to herself, does not surprise Hermione nor 
 awake in her any suspicion ? 
 
 Presently we are told that, when Orestes humbly besought 
 Neoptolemus to resign his claim upon Hermione, c he not only 
 was insolent about the slaying of my mother, but made the 
 gory-visaged fiends a reproach against me l \' Why 'against 
 me'? To whom else but the murderer should the Furies 
 of Clytaemnestra be a reproach ? The expression implies a 
 conception of Orestes and of the Furies different from any of 
 the various views which Euripides presents elsewhere, in the 
 Orestes for example and the Iphigenia in Taurica 2 . In both 
 those plays the Furies are indeed an illusion, in the one an 
 illusion of fever and in the other of mania ; but it is the 
 murderer who imagines and 'sees' them. Imaginary, unreal, 
 they must always have been in Euripides ; but it was a good 
 variation of the well-worn theme to attribute the superstitious 
 imagination to others, who fancied or ' saw ' the matricide so 
 pursued, while he, impervious to vulgar beliefs as to common 
 feelings, confronted the general horror with genuine contempt. 
 Such an Orestes, and only such an one, could repudiate ' the 
 reproach of the Furies ' in the language of our play ; and the 
 trait is in keeping with his character in this story. As we 
 shall see, the Orestes of the Andromache can scarcely be 
 supposed to have known either fancy or fear. But then, if the 
 audience are to understand the tone of his allusion, they must 
 know his mind, and must have seen how he bore himself in 
 the scenes to which he refers. 
 
 These and other like touches confirm us in the conclusion 
 that the audience, as well as Hermione, must be acquainted 
 with the subject of these reminiscences, and that what we have 
 here is a summary, from one aspect, of a foregoing play 3 . It 
 represented the contest for the hand of Hermione, and the 
 
 6 5' rfv vftpiffTrjs ets r' 4/J.rjs /w/rpos <t>bvov 
 ray 6' a.ifj,a.Tii}irovs 6eas ovei&ifav /j,oi. 
 The form /JLOL (not /not) is necessarily emphatic. 
 
 2 Of the Electro, we can hardly speak in this connexion, since in that play the 
 action of the Furies is only predicted in the finale, and any conception of it is 
 admissible. 3 See also Appendix, notes on v. 1032, v. 1151.
 
 26 A GREEK BORGIA 
 
 triumph of Neoptolemus over his opponent, of which triumph, 
 as Orestes here repeatedly reminds us, the Andromache 
 exhibits 'the reverse 1 .' 
 
 Soon as to Greece returned Achilles' son, 
 Thy father I forgave ; thy lord I prayed 
 To set thee free. I pleaded mine hard lot, 
 
 ...that I might wed 
 
 From friends indeed, but scarce of stranger folk, 
 Banished as I am banished from mine home 2 . 
 
 In the hesitation or decision of Menelaus 3 , in the relations 
 of the rivals to each other and to the bride, we see, partially 
 but sufficiently, very apt material for a Euripidean drama. 
 The interview, in which Hermione forbade Orestes ever to 
 visit her future home, must have been a scene in that drama ; 
 and since, in now consenting to be her conductor, he tells 
 her that ' her situation is reversed*] it would seem that on the 
 former occasion it was he who besought her, but vainly, to cut 
 the knot of his distresses by an elopement. The Hermione 
 of the second part would certainly have refused such a petition, 
 and that with no little asperity. At the close of such a play, 
 the discomfited matricide, in cursing the oracle which had 
 encouraged and betrayed him (as he does always on the 
 Euripidean stage but not always exactly in the same vein 5 ) 
 would be consoled as in the Electra and the Orestes, by a 
 dens ex macJiina, probably Apollo himself. This personage, a 
 mere piece of theatre-machinery, would play the regular part 
 of his kind by sketching the future. But whereas more 
 commonly, as in the Orestes and the Iphigenia, the deity of 
 the machine offers only a legendary sequel, indifferent or 
 even contrary to the Euripidean story with which it is 
 
 1 w. 982, 1007 etc. 
 
 2 w. 971 foil. (Way). The words omitted 'The fate that Aa/to/me...' are a 
 modification of the original (rbv irapovra Sai^oi/a.) and scarcely in character. 
 
 3 That Menelaus returned to Greece before the marriage of Hermione is not 
 stated in the Andromache, but that was the commonly received chronology (see 
 Euripides' Orestes), and it gives a situation for the story of the choice between his 
 two promises so much better dramatically that we may fairly presume it. 
 
 5 Orestes 285 etc., Iph. T. 77, 570 etc., Electro. 1190.
 
 ANDROMACHE 27 
 
 formally connected, here he would promise the sequel ex- 
 hibited in the second play. Orestes should yet have his 
 revenge. Delphi would itself provide him with place, time, 
 and opportunity for making away with one who had insulted 
 both her obedient servant and her patron-god. And Menelaus, 
 repenting of his treachery, should himself devise and achieve 
 the means whereby the discarded nephew should recapture 
 ' his lawful bride 1 ,' herself helping, for his better satisfaction, 
 and praying to be taken. With this, or something like this, 
 we are ready to follow the Andromache. 
 
 When we learn, in the Euripidean prologue, that Neop- 
 tolemus has gone to Delphi, and Menelaus arrived in Phthia, 
 we know that the revenge of Orestes has come ; when we 
 hear that Menelaus is already at strange work in the house, 
 we know that the revenge is partly executed, that Neoptolemus 
 is dead and Orestes has come for his bride. And our curiosity 
 is highly excited ; for so clever a villain is-Menelaus, that not 
 one spectator in ten thousand could divine his plan, or 
 perceive how the position of the slave could bear upon the 
 abduction of the mistress. And other points are mysterious. 
 Andromache has concealed her child and has taken sanctuary; 
 why have these things been permitted ? Menelaus is re- 
 specting the sanctuary, though even Andromache has doubts 
 about the sufficiency of its protection 2 ; is this his piety, or 
 what is it ? Peleus lives close by, yet he has not interfered. 
 Why ? 
 
 This last question indeed we are already better able to 
 answer than the innocent Andromache, who cannot under- 
 stand why, though she has sent several times for the head of 
 the family, there is no word of his coming 3 . She supposes 
 the messengers negligent of her interests. Since the concern 
 is that of Peleus and Neoptolemus and the whole house, her 
 explanation will not hold, as she herself afterwards recognises, 
 returning to the even less tenable supposition of neglect in 
 Peleus 4 . However she has now the chance to send another 
 summoner, who, as we guess, is likely to be more successful. 
 
 1 Andr. 1001. 2 w. 42-46. 
 
 3 v. 79 foil. 4 v. 560 foil.
 
 28 A GREEK BORGIA 
 
 Peleus will of course be summoned if and when the con- 
 spirators choose, and not before ; but we are given reason to 
 suppose that they desire it now. For Menelaus, who knows 
 where the young boy is and has gone to seize him, has 
 announced the intention of putting him to death in the 
 hearing of a Trojan woman devoted to Andromache 1 . -To 
 Andromache she of course reports it, and conquering a terror 
 not the less pathetic because we can perceive it to be mis- 
 taken, undertakes also to report it to Peleus. Our interest in 
 the victims of these machinations is heightened by the ex- 
 quisite song with which Andromache consoles her loneliness 
 (the elegiacs admired by the author of the Greek argument), 
 and by the dread which the mighty Lacedaemonians are seen 
 to inspire, even in the Phthiote women (the Chorus), who now 
 bring her their sympathy and advise her to submit. In the 
 moment of expressing their fear of Hermione, they are 
 surprised by Hermione herself, between whom and Andromache 
 passes a scene full of interest. 
 
 It is pitiable that creatures so incapable of defence, and so 
 unhappy, should be counters in so deadly a game. The past 
 and present sufferings of the one, the horrible shock which 
 awaits the other, their torturing relation to one another, and 
 complete mutual misunderstanding, unite to move our com- 
 passion. Hermione, a dependent being, is dominated by two 
 feelings, confidence in her father and passion for her husband. 
 Her pride in Menelaus, her sense of importance as his heiress, 
 her conviction that all the world is or should be obedient to 
 him and her, are displayed in her first words, when she silences, 
 to her own destruction, any possible remonstrance from the 
 women of Phthia: 
 
 With bravery of gold about mine head 
 
 And on my form this pomp of broidered robes, 
 
 Hither I come : no gifts be these I wear 
 
 Or from Achilles' or from Peleus' house ; 
 
 But from the Land Laconian Sparta-crowned 
 
 My father Menelaus with rich dower 
 
 Gave these, that so my tongue should not be tied. 
 
 To you I render answer in these words 2 . 
 
 1 v. 68, v. 11. - 77-. '147 foil. (Way).
 
 ANDROMACHE 29 
 
 Here the ' irony of the situation,' in which no play, not even 
 the Oedipus Tyrannus, is stronger than the Andromache, is 
 already seen. It is because the princess of Sparta is indeed 
 no less important than she thinks herself, that her life in a few 
 hours will be shattered for ever. Sharper still is her un- 
 conscious satire when, in the blindness of her jealousy, she 
 reproaches Andromache for her obedience to Neoptolemus ; 
 
 With this son of him who slew thy lord 
 Thou dar'st to lie, and to the slayer bear 
 Sons ! Suchlike is the whole barbaric race : 
 
 ...Kin the nearest wade 
 
 Through blood ; no whit hereof doth law forbid. 
 Bring not such things midst us 1 . 
 
 One wonders, not without a shiver, whether the wife of 
 Orestes remembered these words of nights. That her two 
 dominant sentiments are in deadly opposition, that the hour 
 is now past when she can be at once daughter to Menelaus 
 and wife, or even widow, to Neoptolemus, she has not a 
 suspicion. But she does see and for consistency in the 
 character and truth to nature this must not be overlooked 
 frantic as she is, she does see, that Menelaus is going farther 
 than she can safely desire. Her very presence at the sanctuary 
 is proof that her fear of her husband, the obverse and the 
 necessary complement of her love, is uneasy. She comes, as 
 at last we discover when the explosions of mutual hatred 
 permit, to persuade Andromache, if possible, into leaving her 
 refuge 2 . She knows 3 , as already we know 4 , that she will soon 
 have, in the person of the boy, an irresistible means of com- 
 pulsion. If then she tries to forestall this method, it is because 
 she is unwilling, as well she may be, that the child should be 
 attacked. Nor does she really intend or deliberately desire, 
 however Menelaus may talk or tempt her, that even Andro- 
 mache shall be put to death. 
 
 This the Nereid's fane shall help thee nought, 
 Altar nor temple ; thou shalt die, shalt die ! 
 Yea, though one stoop to save thee, man or God, 
 Yet must thou for thy haughty spirit of old 
 
 1 w. 170 foil. (Way). 2 w. 251-253. 3 v. 262. 4 v. 70.
 
 30 A GREEK BORGIA 
 
 Crouch low abased, and grovel at my knee 
 And sweep mine house, and sprinkle water dews 
 There from the golden ewers with thine hand, 
 And where thou art, know 1 . 
 
 Here, in her first speech, before the heat of conflict has made 
 her quite mad, is her real mind. What she expects is, if we 
 may use a plain term, to bully her rival, to abase her, for the 
 time, into the mere slave, which as yet she has never been. 
 Kill her she dare not ; she cannot even threaten it without 
 unsaying her words ; and the child she would fain not molest, 
 if she could find any other way to her will. Here, in her fear 
 of her husband, is the assailable point for Andromache, and 
 the one way in which the scheme of Menelaus, though un- 
 suspected, might have been crossed. If Andromache would 
 have calmly pressed upon the daughter but a little of the 
 plain truth about Neoptolemus which she afterwards expounds, 
 as vainly as complacently, to the father 2 , Hermione might 
 have been scared into opposing her father, or at least (which 
 would have been enough) into manifesting her reluctance. 
 But Andromache never once touches upon this visible and 
 vibrating chord. Nor must we miss the fact that this is due, 
 if we may not say to a fault in Andromache, yet to a dulness, 
 or a lack of sensibility. Euripides almost never takes sides, 
 never presents that mere opposition of good and bad which 
 nature eschews. Andromache no more understands Hermione 
 than Hermione her, and is, so far as she can be, not less unjust. 
 Andromache is a woman (there doubtless are such) who does 
 not know what love is, who has never felt it, and perhaps 
 never could. In the lecture upon conjugal jealousy, sensible 
 enough in part but totally inopportune, which she reads to the 
 young queen, she makes capital of the fact that her affection 
 for Hector had been wholly free from jealousy : 
 
 Ah dear, dear Hector, I would take to my heart 
 Even thy leman, if Love tripped thy feet. 
 Yea, often to thy bastards would I hold 
 My breast, that I might give thee none offence 3 . 
 
 This may or may not be an adorable sentiment, and 
 1 vv. 161 foil. (Way). 2 w. 319 foil.. 3 w. 222 foil.
 
 ANDROMACHE 31 
 
 Euripides may or may not have approved it ; but it is neither 
 connected nor compatible with the passion of love. And 
 accordingly Andromache is so far from conceiving what the 
 feeling of Hermione for Neoptolemus really is, that she 
 describes it, in words which one dares not translate, as 
 aTr\r)(TTLa Xe'^ou?, and likens Hermione to her mother Helen ! 
 That Hermione receives the admonition, terminating as it 
 does in this stupid insult, with a protest more of grief than of 
 anger ' Why take so proud a tone ? ' is an astonishing 
 proof of her singular and fatal openness to every kind of 
 influence. And when Andromache a second time, and with 
 even less relevance 1 , cites the paramour of Paris as a reproach 
 against the wife of Neoptolemus, we cannot be surprised that 
 the outraged girl furiously closes the interview, and goes, 
 beyond salvation, to her fate 2 . 
 
 Menelaus soon comes with the boy Molossus it is con- 
 venient to use this name, though there is no clear authority 
 for it in the play 3 and is the principal figure of the next two 
 scenes, in which he executes his design. The performance, 
 as well as the conception, justifies the terror, no less than the 
 detestation, which he and the name of Sparta are said to 
 inspire. The urgency of the occasion, the improbability 
 and indignity 4 of the part which he has to play, never disturb 
 for an instant his progress to the mark. We soon understand 
 now why Andromache has been suffered to take sanctuary. 
 It gives Menelaus not only a presentable pretext, which other- 
 wise might have been hard to find, for proceeding against 
 Molossus, but also the opportunity of making Hermione, 
 to all appearance, specially responsible for condemning the 
 boy to death. The king promises to spare him, if the 
 mother surrenders herself; and he keeps his promise, in the 
 
 1 -v. 249, where KO! Trpjerw means 'at the farthest distance,' i.e. 'however little 
 to the purpose.' 
 
 2 The words at the end of the scene (v. 272) ovSeis yvvaiKbs <f>a.pfj.a.K f^vprjKe 
 irta | KdKTJs' TOffovr&v ecr/j.fi> dvOpwirois KO.KOV are commonly mistranslated. The last 
 verse means 'when she is evil; so far (and so far only) are we an evil to mankind.' 
 To make Andromache say that women as such are evil would be contrary to her 
 feelings and character, v. 353 is ironical. 
 
 3 See w. 1243-1249, which suggest it. 4 v. 366.
 
 32 A GREEK BORGIA 
 
 treacherous fashion to which the Greeks had been but too 
 well accustomed, by referring the fate of Molossus to the sepa- 
 rate decision of the princess. Since the Spartans were 
 sticklers for the forms of religion, and had recently (but, as 
 the Athenians held, dishonestly) urged against Athens the guilt 
 of violating sanctuary 1 , it is possible to think that Menelaus 
 really feels the scruple which he formally satisfies. But this 
 is not my impression ; the scruple, like everything in Menelaus, 
 is a trick, bearing upon his true purpose and successful in its 
 object. All through the scene the irony of the situation 
 continues to work, notably when Andromache, in the speech 
 already often mentioned, explains to the short-sighted father 
 how he is ruining all chance for his daughter of happiness 
 with Neoptolemus 2 , and the other women point out to him 
 how much better he might use his influence in appeasing his 
 daughter's unfortunate jealousy 3 ! His plausibility, considering 
 the nature of his pretences, is admirable. 
 
 Woman, these are but trifles, all unworthy 
 
 Of my state royal thou say'st it and of Greece. 
 
 Yet know, when one hath set his heart on aught, 
 
 More than to take a Troy is this to him. 
 
 I stand my daughter's champion, for I count 
 
 No trifle robbery of marriage-right. 
 
 Nought else a wife may suffer matcheth this. 
 
 Losing her husband, she doth lose her life. 
 
 Over my thralls her lord hath claim to rule, 
 
 And over his like rights have I and mine. 
 
 ...Waiting the absent if I order not 
 
 Mine own things well, weak am I, and not wise 4 . 
 
 It is all sheer nonsense, as an explanation of his supposed 
 desire to take the lives of Andromache and Molossus, and 
 even the sneers in it (such as waiting tJie absent} are trans- 
 parent to the spectator. Yet it sounds like self-deception, 
 and could not raise any suspicion of the true facts and the 
 real intent. The pathos of the mother's self-surrender is 
 obvious, being indeed one of the few points in the play 
 which the current interpretation leaves intelligible ; and 
 
 1 Thucydides I. 126-127. 2 v - 3'9- 3 v - 4 2I> 4 vv - 3^6 foil. (Way).
 
 ANDROMACHE 33 
 
 though of subordinate interest, it serves to feed the emotions 
 of fear and hatred against the deceiver. 
 
 It should be noticed in passing, however, that Andromache, 
 here as before, is scarcely less imprudent than unhappy, and 
 shows, good woman that she is, the same inexpugnable 
 conceit of her own wisdom, which appears in her treatment 
 of Hermione. The tone of superiority, in which she enlightens 
 the supposed blindness of Menelaus, would be dangerous 
 indeed if he were really blind ; and when she insults the 
 man, who, as she thinks, has her fate and that of her child in 
 his hands, with the foolish and pointless epigram that he may 
 perhaps prove as zealous for his daughter as formerly he was 
 for his wife 
 
 but one thing in thy nature 
 I fear 'twas in a woman's quarrel too 
 Thou didst destroy the hapless Phrygians' town 1 
 
 when one hears this, one can but say in excuse that she 
 seems, poor woman, to have Helen, as it were, on the brain. 
 
 At the close of the scene Menelaus takes his prisoners 
 into the house, ostensibly in order that the fate of Molossus 
 may be referred to the decision of Hermione. We say 
 ostensibly, because there is nothing, except the word of 
 Menelaus (which is nothing), to prove either the intention or 
 the fact. It is Menelaus who announces the project, and 
 afterwards declares the result 2 ; we notice that neither Andro- 
 mache nor Hermione ever refers to a scene which, if it had 
 really occurred, was not likely to be forgotten by either ; and 
 we may therefore assume with confidence that Menelaus, in 
 this matter, does not give his daughter fair play. From what 
 we know of her mind it is most improbable that, if really 
 consulted, she would have taken upon herself any part of 
 the crime, or even have allowed the king to proceed further 
 without a protest. She has not the courage for it, nor, to do 
 her justice, the cruelty. He on the other hand says and does 
 enough to make her seem guilty in the first degree both to 
 others 3 and, as we shall see, to herself. To give her at this 
 
 1 v. 361. * w. 431-444, v. 518. 3 -v. 489. 
 
 v. 3
 
 34 A GREEK BORGIA 
 
 moment the chance of interference would be an error of 
 which he is certainly to be acquitted. 
 
 When after an interval he leads out the miserable pair as 
 for death, their appearance is almost immediately followed by 
 that of Peleus, a coincidence which could scarcely surprise 
 the spectator, even at first sight. It is certain that Menelaus 
 does not intend execution, and will not approach it until he is 
 sure of being stopped. To cut the throats of the woman and 
 the boy would doubtless have been indifferent to him, perhaps 
 rather agreeable, in itself; but it could not be done without 
 compromising the freedom of Hermione, which is essential to 
 his purpose ; and as he truly says, ' what a man wants at the 
 moment is more important to him than the capture of Troy 1 .' 
 His part in the plot now runs smoothly to the final stroke. 
 Peleus, an honourable and noble man, but of violent temper 
 in his best days 2 , and now long past the age of self-control 3 , 
 has no chance at all, and simply plays into his adversary's 
 hand, unpacking his heart in extravagant insults 4 , which he 
 himself disproves 5 , and futile threats, which give Menelaus 
 exactly the lead which he expects. Menelaus is all himself, 
 provocative and plausible, resigning the slaves with indignant 
 acquiescence, and maintaining without embarrassment the 
 preposterous doctrines of domestic law, upon which he pre- 
 tends to have proceeded 6 . If he boggles a moment over 
 explaining the necessity of his instant departure for Sparta 7 
 (here to the spectator his plan becomes finally clear), he 
 promptly recovers himself, and actually disappears with some 
 dignity. The figure of the old, old man, utterly unconscious 
 of the stroke which has orphaned him, and of the sport which 
 he is affording, but pursuing with pride his imaginary triumph, 
 has in the highest degree that stinging pathos, not tragic, not 
 tearful, but cruel, which Euripides wields supremely. One 
 touch of irony may be quoted as giving the innuendo of the 
 
 1 v. 368. 2 v. 687. 
 
 3 w. 642, 678, 728, etc. 4 vv. 590 foil. 
 
 8 w. 703-705. See also v. 678. 6 v. 585 and passim. 
 
 7 v ' 733 ffTl y&P rl * v Tp6<r<d \ 2?rd/)TT;s...7r(4Xts T /c.r.X. Prof. Murray 
 rightly marks the hesitation.
 
 ANDROMACHE 35 
 
 whole. Peleus, like Andromache, has his word to say about 
 Helen : 
 
 Helen... who forsook 
 
 Thy love, and from thine halls went revelling forth 
 
 With a young gallant to an alien land. 
 
 Yet for her sake thou gatheredst that huge host 
 
 Of Greeks, and leddest them to Ilium. 
 
 Thou shouldst have spued her forth, have stirred no spear, 
 
 Who hadst found her vile, but let her there abide, 
 
 Yea, paid a price to take her never back. 
 
 But no wise thus the wind of thine heart blew. 
 
 Nay, many a gallant life hast thou destroyed, 
 
 And childless made grey mothers in their halls, 
 
 And white-haired sires hast robbed of noble sons ; 
 
 My wretched self am one, who see in thee, 
 
 Like some foul fiend, Achilles' murderer 1 . 
 
 So speaks the grandsire of Neoptolemus to the accomplice 
 of Orestes. And the Chorus celebrate his victory : he too, as 
 they remember with pride, had been in his youthful days a 
 conqueror of Troy 8 . 
 
 The scene which shows the distraction of the deserted 
 Hermione, though full of nature, and in the ' spoken ' parts 
 unimpeachable, is open in the lyric part to an objection 
 touching not so much the dramatist as the limitations of 
 Attic form as fixed by Aeschylus. Shakespeare, though he 
 could not have bettered the conception, would have been 
 better served in the presentation of it. The musical, sym- 
 metrical, operatic mould, for Euripides inevitable, suits well 
 enough with a high passion, such as that of Andromache and 
 Molossus in face of death 3 , but not with a passion like that 
 of Hermione. A naughty, conscience-stricken child (and 
 Hermione at the moment is very near this) is not a con- 
 venient subject for stanzas. But the substance of the scene 
 is admirable. It is a merit, not a defect, that the young wife 
 exaggerates both her offence and her danger. In vain does 
 her waiting-woman assure her that Neoptolemus will forgive 4 , 
 and that mere prudence will restrain him from punishing 5 . 
 Conscience cannot so argue, and the conscience of Hermione 
 
 1 w. 602 foil. (Way). 2 w. 775-801, especially 789 foil. 
 
 3 w. 501-544. * v. 840. 5 w. 869-875. 
 
 32
 
 36 A GREEK BORGIA 
 
 is in the imagined frown of the man that she loves. Abandoned 
 by her guide and encourager, she knows that her heart is 
 guilty of all that he did, and of more ; and she is in no mood 
 for favourable distinctions. She ' devised,' she ' plotted ' those 
 deaths which she did undoubtedly desire 1 , and if her husband 
 kills her, it will be no more than she deserves 2 . Even her 
 father she will not accuse of anything but the desertion, and 
 she makes the best of that 3 ; for he is still her one conceivable 
 refuge from the anger of Neoptolemus. And in this mood 
 Orestes takes her. 
 
 The interview between them is the acme of the drama. 
 Orestes, who, as we have inferred, is already known to the 
 audience from the preceding part, surpasses even Menelaus in 
 the qualities which make villainy formidable. His nerve is 
 astonishing. He is in extreme danger. Menelaus has of course 
 guards 4 , and can protect himself otherwise against surprise. 
 But Orestes must come alone to the house of his victim : he 
 is a ' pilgrim to Dodona,' and the least appearance of distrust 
 would destroy his assumed character. How much time he 
 has before him for the achievement of his purpose, we do not 
 exactly know, nor probably does he ; but we can guess, as 
 proves to be the case, that it is not more than enough. The 
 uncle and nephew had, for their whole operation, whatever 
 time the unburdened assassin might gain upon the bearers of 
 Neoptolemus in the journey from Delphi ; but how little was 
 this, and how much of it is gone ! Nor does the eagerness 
 of Herrru'one make the part of the abductor easy; because 
 they are under hostile observation, and he, on pain of detec- 
 tion, must appear considerate. Though he himself prompts 
 her confession 5 , he must seem to pause upon it 6 ; and when 
 she thereupon breaks into a long rambling plea of 'evil influ- 
 ence,' he must hear it out, and pretend to be convinced 7 , 
 and morally justify his consent to be her guide, not forgetting 
 to note (since in his future account of the business she is to 
 
 1 w. 806, 912 and passim. 2 w. 920, 927. 3 v. 918. 
 
 4 A tragedy-king always has. The 5/uDes of v. 715 are probably Helots in his, 
 service ; note also the plural aide in v. 753. 
 
 5 v, 906, virrjydyov, 'you give me a lead.' See w. 911, 913 etc. 
 ' w. 919, 961. r v. 957.
 
 ANDROMACHE 37 
 
 figure as a confederate) that he once had claims upon her 
 claims which she, poor soul, refers to the decision of her father! 
 Even when in agony ' lest my husband should arrive,' she 
 actually hurries away 1 , he will stay yet a minute to tell her 
 when she cannot hear him and others do that he, the 
 companion of her flight, has ' projected ' a sure plot against 
 her husband's life. When it is considered that within an hour 
 of this time the body of Neoptolemus is laid where Orestes 
 stands, one cannot but allow that the devil has at all events 
 the courage of his part. 
 
 Here ends the action, properly so called. The story 
 brought from Delphi, though necessary as a conclusion and 
 brilliantly told, has perhaps, even when its relation to the play 
 is understood, a somewhat detached effect, now that we read it 
 with this play only. The acts and fate of a person, whom we 
 do not know and have never seen, cannot well be conceived 
 dramatically. Those who had seen Neoptolemus in the 
 preceding play 2 could doubtless annotate the narrative of his 
 death with recollections which would make it almost as visible 
 as if enacted before them. From a moral point of view the 
 story is designed to associate the fanaticism of Delphi with 
 the militarism of Sparta, as joint contributors to the triumph 
 of wickedness. 
 
 To this triumph there is no drawback. The ' Thetis ' of 
 the epilogue, though she is not, like some of these machine- 
 gods, self-satiric, but paints the miraculous after-life of Peleus 
 in verses of singular beauty 3 , is still, like almost all of them, 
 unreal and irrelevant. The drama itself is purely realistic, all 
 the more so because one incident at Delphi is invested in the 
 narrative with a supernatural colour plainly attributable to the 
 imagination of the narrator 4 . However much the sea-bride of 
 Peleus may have affected a solitary place of residence 5 , and 
 however the family may choose, by sanctuary and posthumous 
 worship, to 'interpret 6 ' her singular quality, no intelligent 
 
 1 v. 992 : see note in Appendix. 2 w. 971 foil, and supra p. 24. 
 
 3 w. 1253-1269. 4 The 'voice' from the temple, v. 1147. 5 v. 18. 
 
 6 ep/j.rivevfjM (v. 46); to mistranslate it 'witness' spoils the point, which (as is 
 permissible in the 'prologue') belongs not to Andromache but to Euripides.
 
 38 A GREEK BORGIA 
 
 spectator of the play could suppose that the Peleus whom we 
 see and hear did, in the world where the scene passes, really 
 marry a mermaiden ; and his future as a merman, however 
 consoling to the sentiments of a vulgar audience, has nothing 
 to do with the future of Menelaus and Orestes. 
 
 This at least is unclouded. We see well enough, and the 
 epilogue indicates 1 , that upon Delphi would fall whatever 
 scandal personages so powerful, in an intrigue outwardly so 
 obscure, might not be able to prevent. How Hermione took 
 her destiny we do not know ; but this is certain, that neither 
 her father nor her husband would be troubled about her. 
 They at least, we may assume, lived happily ever afterwards, 
 and remembered the day of her abduction as one of the 
 pleasantest that ever they spent. 'AS/&><? evTv-^elre, In 
 wickedness ye prosper, says Andromache at the height of her 
 passion 2 , and sums the impression of the play. It is part of 
 their plan and of their triumph (for their villainy is a delicate 
 villainy, the product of an age not less refined than corrupt), to 
 escape not only responsibility but even censure. Orestes 
 himself sounds the expected note 3 ; already we hear it said 
 that Neoptolemus, who dared to demand satisfaction of Apollo 
 for the death of Achilles, received but his due from the of- 
 fended god and from the Delphian people, and that Hermione 
 fled with good cause from her unfaithful husband, nay, that 
 Peleus turned her out of doors 4 . If the Phthiotes, enlightened 
 by suffering, make a stride towards a bolder theology, and 
 complain that the Judge of human virtue has shown himself 
 implacable as the basest of men 5 , not every one even in Athens 
 was ready for so modern a view ; and at the anger of Phthia 
 Lacedaemon could afford to laugh. 
 
 The emotion provoked by such an issue is certainly not the 
 tragic emotion, but it is none the less wholesome or less 
 powerful for that. Nothing is more superfluous than to complain 
 that this or that element in the play is not tragic. Nothing 
 in it is tragic, nor ought to be. The current commentaries, 
 finding in it nothing really intelligible except the pathos of 
 
 1 V. 124!. Z V. 449. * W. 999, IOO2. 
 
 W. 709, 962, 993. 6 v. 1161.
 
 ANDROMACHE 39 
 
 Andromache, exaggerate that element, and dispraise all that 
 does not contribute to it, that is to say, nine-tenths of the 
 piece. Even Andromache is not, properly speaking, a tragic 
 figure. A pathetic figure she is : her past is pathetic, her 
 mortal and maternal fears are pathetic ; but it is a necessity of 
 the situation that she shall not now and actually suffer any 
 injury at all; and this, with the limitations, not to say the 
 littleness, of her character and temperament, excludes the 
 portraiture, and properly, from the sphere of tragedy. Nor is 
 Peleus, though in his present sufferings more pathetic than 
 Andromache, a tragic figure. Both personages, in their relation 
 to the essence of the story, are after all mere puppets in the 
 successful game of the Spartans ; both, and Peleus especially, 
 are necessarily spotted with ridicule ; and their woes, under 
 this colouring, excite no sentiment more profound than may 
 be soothed away by the fairy-tale of the theatrical goddess, 
 and discharged with an easy tear. 
 
 But for all this, the play is not inferior in species to tragedy, 
 nor shallower. It might as well be called deeper, if either 
 comparative had meaning. It would be surely a childish view 
 of the world and of art, which would exclude from repre- 
 sentation TO aS//eo><? evrvxeiv, the prosperity of the wicked, in 
 all the unrelieved incisiveness of its formidable truth. The 
 thing is a fact, and to consider its causes for a while is a mental 
 and moral exercise not less profitable than fascinating. First 
 among these causes Euripides places, and with reason, the 
 possibility of such characters as those of Menelaus and Orestes, 
 in which the extreme degree of unscrupulous selfishness is 
 united not only with intellectual power but with qualities 
 which must be called moral self-command, self-control, the 
 accurate subordination of means and faculties to the desired 
 end. To see this possibility we have but to look about us, and 
 the AndromacJie powerfully incites us to the observation. As 
 a secondary cause we have the fault or the imprudence of the 
 adversary, against whom villainy has to operate. It is the 
 false position of Andromache in the house of Neoptolemus, 
 created by Neoptolemus himself, which alone lays him open 
 to the design of his enemies ; for which reason the slave-
 
 40 A GREEK BORGIA 
 
 mistress, though in no sense the principal figure of the group, 
 not improperly gives the title to the piece, because she is the 
 mechanical fulcrum of the intrigue. The obvious moral, now 
 happily out of date among ourselves but vital to a society of 
 slave-holders, is sharply enforced by the Chorus 1 . 
 
 Not out of date, and not less interesting because open to 
 controversy, are the assaults which the poet directs against 
 two species of social institution, which are always with us 
 and which he evidently detested, the military and the religious, 
 or rather, if we may be allowed an anachronism more apparent 
 than real, the ecclesiastical. These, says Euripides in this play, 
 are mighty assistants in the prosperity of the wicked : military 
 institutions, because it is of their essence to put power in a 
 single hand 2 , which may (and this is a mere truth) be in some 
 respects most unworthy of the trust ; religious institutions, 
 because their power, though founded upon a moral superiority, 
 survives corruption, and generates the virulent poison of 
 fanaticism 3 . Both these elements of society Euripides saw in 
 a peculiar form and in a disadvantageous light. Sparta, the 
 military state, and Delphi, the nearest approximation in Hellas 
 to an ecclesiastical state, composed together the core of the 
 mighty power banded against Athens, or rather, Euripides 
 would have said, against humanity. Now Menelaus would be 
 nothing without Sparta, nor Orestes without Delphi. It does 
 not therefore follow, and the contrary might be shown, that 
 the dramatist was blind to the virtues either of military or of 
 religious devotion. But these are not here his theme. To 
 discuss the charges which he makes or insinuates would take 
 us beyond the bounds of literary or artistic criticism. I will 
 only say for myself that I find in them a portion of truth 
 which, however it should be qualified by other considerations, 
 cannot be disallowed but by prejudice. 
 
 Highly significant, from a historical point of view, is the 
 connexion which Euripides traces between the conquest of 
 
 1 zrv. 464-493. 2 w. 693 foil, and the references to Sparta passim. 
 
 3 See the whole narrative vv. 1085 foil., a horrible picture of Delphi on its 
 worst side, probably not untrue so far as it goes ; and compare the similar picture 
 in the Ion, passim.
 
 ANDROMACHE 41 
 
 Troy and the corruptions of Hellas. The impressive ode 
 which follows the abduction of Hermione 1 , associates closely 
 with the Greek victory both the alliance between 'Apollo' and 
 such a villain as Orestes, and the general triumph of mischief 
 and violence, which the play presents to us. The Chorus speak 
 more truly and pertinently than they yet know, when they say 
 that from conquered Troy ' wailing for children ' and ' rape of 
 wives ' have come to the conquerors also. ' Not on thee alone, 
 O Troy, not on thine alone have lighted cruel pains : Hellas 
 hath taken the plague ; and from the fields of Phrygia the blood- 
 raining bolt of Death has passed to fields which war wasted 
 not ' a transparent parable of the poet's own times, when the 
 victory over Persia, and the consequent expansion of Greek 
 politics, had led from stage to stage of restlessness up to the 
 devastating struggle of the Peloponnesian war. Menelaus 
 contends for the opposite view of the contemporary evolution 2 , 
 which also had something to say for itself, as Euripides is 
 careful to show. For a mighty agitator of mankind, which 
 he was, he was strangely little of a partizan. 
 
 As in these opposed reflexions, so in the whole story, it is 
 the fifth century that we have before us. The kingship of 
 Menelaus is indeed rather that of heroic than of historical 
 Sparta ; but this is an inoffensive anachronism. Neither plot 
 nor characters have any tincture of antiquity, and when 
 Hermione in her passion of flight cries out for the wings of Argo, 
 ' first passenger between the Cyanean shores 3 ,' the theatrical 
 convention might well provoke an involuntary smile. The main 
 intrigue produces so vivid an impression of reality, that one 
 cannot but wonder whether it had not some basis of con- 
 temporary fact. Though the death of Neoptolemus at Delphi 
 seems to have rested in some way upon ancient tradition 4 , 
 the colouring and connexion here given to it are specifically 
 Euripidean. The frame of the play, whatever materials may 
 be used, must be substantially the poet's own work. 
 
 1 w. 1009 foil.; especially the conclusion of the ode. 2 w. 681-684. 
 
 3 v. 865. 
 
 4 This point is obscure, and for the purpose of the Andromache not worth 
 investigation.
 
 42 A GREEK BORGIA 
 
 Of the characters Menelaus is the most elaborate and 
 interesting, though that of Orestes offers tantalizing glimpses, 
 which in the foregoing part had probably been more fully 
 developed. Menelaus is a sinister personage and not easily 
 to be forgotten. The declamations of Peleus about his 
 cowardice are extravagance, self-refuted, refuted by his history 
 and by what we ourselves see of the man. That in the 
 Trojan field he did not often sully his magnificent arms 1 is 
 likely enough ; fighting is not commonly the business of a 
 commander in chief, and certainly Menelaus was not the man 
 to risk himself without necessity. But like Scott's Louis XI, 
 he is 'brave enough for every useful and political purpose.' 
 The essence of him is an intense, cold, reasonable egoism. 
 'What a man wants' to quote once more his illuminating 
 words ' is more to him than the capture of any Troy.' He is 
 one to whom supreme gifts of birth, place, mind, and fortune 
 are simply means for calmly gratifying his desires. He plunged 
 the world into ten years of war simply because, having married 
 the most beautiful of women, he did not choose to be robbed 
 of her. In the same spirit he treads into dust the life of his 
 son-in-law and the heart of his daughter, simply because he 
 does not choose to sit down with the loss of a matrimonial 
 speculation which has gone wrong. He sees the way to his 
 will with unerring judgment, and pursues it without a qualm. 
 Such is 6 d&iKax; evrv^dov, and he is worth consideration. 
 
 Upon the merits of the piece, as a work of literary and 
 dramatic art, it would be impertinent to enlarge. There are 
 things which must not be praised. Acted with any reasonable 
 skill, it would rivet attention throughout ; nor is there a page 
 which does not deserve and repay minute study. Whether 
 the sensations to be derived from it are conveniently 
 described as 'pleasure,' is a possible but not a profitable 
 question. They are sensations of which almost all mankind 
 are capable, and which all that are so will desire to repeat and 
 to encourage. 
 
 1 vv. 616 foil.
 
 EURIPIDES' APOLOGY. 
 
 (HELEN.} 
 
 If we shadows have offended, 
 Think but this, and all is mended. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 RICH but weak, brilliant and yet baffling these and such 
 like are the epithets which have recently been applied by 
 sympathetic readers to the strange piece in which Euripides 
 celebrates, or professes to celebrate, the virtue of Helen. 
 Here we have a problem (let it be said at once) differing 
 altogether in the nature of the difficulty from that which 
 arises in the Andromache, or again from that which meets 
 us in the Ion or Heracles. The Ion is on the face of it 
 ambiguous, and any acceptable explanation must account, 
 among other things, for the ambiguity. The current exposi- 
 tion of the Andromache is not defective but null. What it 
 leaves unexplained is just everything, the story, the meaning, 
 the main lines of the piece. In the story of Helen all is at 
 least superficially clear ; and though we must not therefore 
 assert that no doubt should be raised, yet neither do I intend 
 to raise any. What baffles us here is the singular quality 
 of the play, the fact that in spirit and tone it is unique in 
 the drama of Euripides (and indeed of Athens, so far as 
 known to us) and the question why this difference should be. 
 If this question may be answered, we shall be so far the 
 better off, even though we should conclude that a complete 
 understanding of details is in this case not to be expected. 
 We shall at least see more when we know what to look for.
 
 44 EURIPIDES' APOLOGY 
 
 Let us first ascertain where the singularity lies. Even 
 Paley, who evidently enjoyed the play, and comments in the 
 right spirit upon many parts of it, does not perhaps sufficiently 
 mark its peculiarity as a whole. Euripides here takes, in the 
 choice and treatment of material, precisely the course which 
 everywhere else he carefully and even painfully avoids. 
 Instead of the familiar realities of common experience, ' the 
 things we handle and with which we live/ he suddenly gives 
 us, for the foundation and essence of his story, the utmost 
 extravagance of imagination, and introduces into the very 
 heart of the action a stupendous miracle, which takes place 
 almost before our eyes. Habitually he eliminates whatever in 
 tradition was marvellous, or at all events reduces it to a mere 
 formal supposition, which we are at liberty to vary without 
 affecting the substance of his theme. Thus he permits his 
 Medea to say, in accordance with the Argonautic legend, 
 that she delivered Jason from fire-breathing bulls and other 
 supernatural monsters ; but he uses this supposition, for the 
 purpose of his drama, only so far as it signifies that she 
 saved her lover from terrible dangers. Ordinary and not 
 miraculous dangers would serve equally well to produce the 
 Euripidean situation ; and the bulls are preferred or admitted 
 only in order to spare both dramatist and reader the trouble 
 of an unfamiliar invention. Iphigenia came to Taurica (so 
 she supposes) by divine conveyance ; but so far as the play 
 of Euripides is concerned, any conveyance would do, and 
 a non-miraculous conveyance would be manifestly preferable. 
 Similarly the gods of the popular religion, as a general rule, 
 either do not act upon the story at all, or act only as con- 
 ventional suppositions, accounting for effects which are in 
 themselves open to other explanation. The debate between 
 a Poseidon and an Athena at the opening of the Troades 
 is a possible, but not an indispensable, foundation or pre- 
 liminary for the mundane facts which that play presents or 
 anticipates, facts equally real and equally acceptable to the 
 imagination whether the existence of Poseidon and Athena 
 be supposed or not supposed. But in Helen the astonished 
 reader is introduced by Euripides to a world of which
 
 HELEN 45 
 
 Olympus (and such an Olympus) is an indispensable part, 
 to a train of events and actions no more conceivable apart 
 from the jealousies and mutual malice of Zeus and Hera and 
 Aphrodite than the story of the Oedipus Tyrannus is con- 
 ceivable without the deity of Delphi, or that of the Trachiniae 
 without the deity of Dodona, or the Eumenides itself without 
 any Furies at all. 
 
 The allegations propounded are these. When Aphrodite 
 had purchased the judgment of Paris by promising him the 
 possession of Helen, Hera defeated the performance of the 
 bargain, by bestowing upon the seducer a ' living image ' 
 of the lady, composed of air. Zeus, not negligent of his 
 daughter, the true Helen, conveyed her by the agency of 
 Hermes to Egypt, and placed her in the care of the virtuous 
 king Proteus, with promise to be restored hereafter to her 
 home, her husband, and the enjoyment of an unblemished 
 character. Menelaus, her husband, has spent ten years in 
 recovering the supposed Helen, the phantom, by the conquest 
 of Troy, and seven years more in vain attempts to convey 
 the phantom to Greece. Storm and shipwreck then bring 
 him and his companion to Egypt. Here, since the death 
 (apparently recent) of King Proteus, the true Helen has been 
 exposed to the unwelcome courtship of his son Theoclymenus, 
 and to escape this solicitation has taken up her abode in the 
 late king's mausoleum. There Menelaus finds her; and his 
 doubts of her identity and story are removed by the oppor- 
 tune declaration and retirement of the phantom, which 
 vanishes into the sky with a suitable speech. Theonoe, the 
 pious and ' all-wise ' daughter of the deceased king, is aware 
 of these events by her supernatural power, but favours the 
 performance of her father's pledge. With her permission 
 and connivence, the re-united spouses deceive Theoclymenus 
 into furnishing them with a ship, in which they and the 
 shipwrecked crew of Menelaus depart triumphantly for 
 Greece. 
 
 Now the first impression suggested by this story, an 
 impression which further reflexion only confirms, is that it 
 could not possibly be made the basis of a drama seriously
 
 46 EURIPIDES' 1 APOLOGY 
 
 appealing either to the imagination or to the feelings. The 
 works which the Greeks classed as tragedies have in general 
 the common character, that they do make such an appeal. 
 Here Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides are at one. 
 Differing as to the kind of suppositions which they ask us 
 to make, and the kind of feelings which they endeavour to 
 excite, they agree in this, that something is to be supposed, 
 and to be grasped by the imagination as firmly as possible, 
 something is to be felt, as fully and profoundly as the 
 dramatist can make us feel it. But this story is in the first 
 place too fantastic to be seriously supposable, and if it be 
 supposed, is intrinsically incapable of exciting any serious 
 emotion. It is in these respects on a par with the story of 
 A Midsummer Nights Dream (a comparison which for more 
 reasons than one we may conveniently bear in mind), a story 
 acceptable only upon the understanding, declared beforehand 
 in the case of A Midsummer Night's Dream by the very title, 
 that nothing solid or substantial is to be expected. 
 
 Whether the cardinal miracle of the phantom Helen and 
 its astounding disappearance could by any treatment be 
 made credible to the imagination, we need not speculatively 
 enquire. What is certain is, that Euripides does not so treat 
 it. Never for an instant do the personages of the drama 
 exhibit the sort of emotion which such an event must be 
 expected to excite. They neither speak nor behave as if it 
 were real. A single quotation will settle the point. Where 
 then is the evil thing which was sent to Troy instead of you ? 
 asks Theoclymenus of Helen when he has been informed 
 that Menelaus has died at sea. The cloud-image, you mean, 
 she answers ; it vanished into air. Ah Priam /, sighs the 
 amiable prince, and ah Troy town, destroyed for nought! 
 and then without another word on the subject they settle 
 the details of a funeral ceremony for Menelaus 1 . We do no 
 disrespect to the author of such a dialogue, but conceive on 
 the contrary that we are following his clear direction, when 
 we say that it recalls not even the midsummer night's dream, 
 but another famous dream, which I need not specify, in 
 
 1 v. 1218.
 
 HELEN 47 
 
 which the cat asks what became of the baby. ' It turned 
 into a pig.' ' I thought it would,' says the cat, and closes 
 the incident by vanishing. Or again we may find a standard 
 for comparison in Euripides himself. Very much in the same 
 tone and with the same persuasive terseness does Heracles, 
 in a play which we are to discuss hereafter, narrate to 
 Amphitryon his experiences in Hades 1 . In that case and 
 in this, the manner of narration, coupled with the quality 
 of the thing narrated, impose upon the reader, if he has 
 any respect for the author, a plain dilemma. Either the 
 dramatic speaker is to be supposed insane, or else the whole 
 presentation is to be taken as insane, in the sense that it is 
 purely fantastic. In the case of Heracles we shall conclude 
 for the first alternative ; in that of Helen and Theoclymenus, 
 who are certainly no more insane than any body else, we are 
 driven to the second. Not a bit more conceivably real, in 
 relation to the miracle, is the behaviour of the old man- 
 servant by whom the disappearance of the phantom is 
 reported to Menelaus. No sooner does he grasp the fact 
 that his master has simultaneously discovered the genuine 
 wife, than the whole tremendous and world-shattering event, 
 all the seventeen years of futile bloodshed and misery, pass 
 away into the background of his contemplation, and he falls 
 to pleasing meditations on the domestic prospect ; it will be 
 like having the mistress's wedding-day over again ; he 
 remembers running beside the carriage 2 ; and this although 
 master and mistress and servant and all, if the situation as 
 given is to be taken seriously, are at this moment in instant 
 danger of death. Upon one condition only could such a 
 picture give pleasure, and that is that it shall be first agreed 
 between us and the painter, as it is agreed when we are 
 promised a ' Midsummer Night's Dream,' that the whole thing 
 shall be capricious and nonsensical. But the question to 
 which we are then brought, and to which every path in 
 Euripides' play will lead us back, is this. How in his case 
 was it fore-known to his audience that this particular tragedy 
 
 1 Heracles 607-621. 2 Hel. 711-733, 744~757-
 
 48 EURIPIDES' APOLOGY 
 
 was to be a jest ? Where does the jest lie, and what is the 
 nature of it ? 
 
 The allegations of the story, even if accepted as fact, 
 could not be the instrument of evoking emotion or sympathy, 
 otherwise than in a sort of humorous and satirical pretence. 
 Inner contradictions and moral incompatibilities meet us 
 everywhere, the moment we take the author at his word. 
 The manoeuvres of Zeus, Hera, and Aphrodite are here as 
 petty as those of Oberon and Titania; and the tremendous 
 consequences, exceeding the worst which mankind is said to 
 have suffered from the quarrels of the Shakespearean fairies, 
 would be hideous, if we faced them as an imaginary fact. 
 Doubtless it is possible, only too possible, to conceive with 
 force, or even actually to believe, that 
 
 As flies to boys, so we are to the gods ; 
 They kill us for their sport. 
 
 But upon such a basis the only type of drama which can 
 be tolerably built is a drama like King Lear, gloomy, terrible, 
 and bitter. It would be a blunder monstrous, disgraceful, 
 and suicidal, to found upon it a drama like this Helen, where 
 the action proceeds to a happy and foreseen conclusion with 
 scarcely a hitch, and certainly without ever arousing a grave 
 apprehension, where we are constantly invited to smile and 
 not once compelled to weep. Against Oberon and Titania 
 we do not revolt, not even when they tell us that blight and 
 famine are the fruit of their little intrigues, because Oberon 
 and Titania by their very names proclaim themselves nought: 
 they are symbols to which no one does or ever did attach any 
 serious meaning. But Aphrodite and Hera were in the days 
 of Euripides symbols of awful significance, to which Euripides 
 himself elsewhere pays the homage of a sincere and persistent 
 hostility. If the Aphrodite of Helen is to be identified with 
 that Aphrodite whom he paints and condemns in Hippolytus, 
 or the Hera of Helen with that Hera whom he derides and 
 decomposes in Heracles, then his Helen offends grossly against 
 art, sense, and manners. How did his audience know, what 
 from the very beginning he seems to assume them to know,
 
 HELEN 49 
 
 though he does not say it and in the theatre had no means of 
 saying it, that for the nonce the symbols are void and the 
 story phantasmal, that he, the tragedian, is for this time 
 just playing at tragedy, and is entitled to all the privileges of 
 parody and the comic Muse? 
 
 And if the theology, so to call it, of the play is baffling, 
 still more disconcerting and paradoxical is the morality. 
 Our sympathy is asked for a faithful and virtuous wife, 
 re-united to her husband after long separation and unmerited 
 disgrace ; yet a story is chosen, in which the alleged facts 
 destroy the whole moral foundation upon which such a 
 sentiment must repose. Fidelity in a spouse is admired 
 and valued because it is precious to the other spouse. If 
 faithful wives and unfaithful were equal, caeteris paribus, in 
 the estimation of husbands, they would be equal for all 
 purposes ; the conjugal bond would not be a respectable 
 thing, and would not in fact exist. And the same is true for 
 a particular case. Why should we rejoice, and how can we, 
 because a virtuous woman is given back to a man, who liked 
 her as well without the virtue ? Yet such in this story is the 
 absurd position of Menelaus and Helen. Ten years Menelaus 
 fought to possess, and seven years he has possessed, a Helen 
 differing from his true wife in this, and in this only, that she 
 was the paramour of Paris. For seventeen years he has 
 ignored this circumstance, and behaved as if his natural, 
 proper, and only desire was to get the false Helen back to 
 Sparta. He never even says, what his acts emphatically 
 deny, that the moral defect of the imitation has given him 
 any concern. When the discovery of the real woman opens 
 the prospect of exchange, does he grasp at it? Of course 
 not. He treats the real story, the story of the substitution, as 
 simply disproved by the existence of the false woman, refuses 
 any further investigation, and is actually returning to the 
 beloved phantom, when he is arrested by the news that it has 
 gone 1 . The obvious fact, that to such a husband, to such 
 a Menelaus, nothing but a corporal distinction between the 
 two Helens would be significant, and that no such distinction 
 
 1 w. 546 foil. 
 V. 4
 
 50 EURIPIDES' APOLOGY 
 
 exists, is actually brought out with ludicrous completeness 
 and emphasis. In an earlier scene the true Helen has 
 observed that, if she could but meet her husband, she could 
 prove her identity by 'signs which they only knew 1 .' Con- 
 sidering that her double is a creation of Hera, this confidence 
 seems questionable, and it proves fallacious. In vain does 
 she exhibit to Menelaus a private mark (something, it would 
 seem, like the mole of Imogen), and remind him that in the 
 requisite knowledge of her person ' no one, no one is his 
 superior 2 .' The divine imitation, as might be expected, is 
 not without the mole ; and Menelaus, who cannot be the 
 husband of two, continues to shake his head ; ' she is like, 
 oh certainly like, but the difficulty is, that he has another'! 
 And so to the other he goes. After this, how is it possible to 
 take seriously the rapture with which, when no choice is left 
 to him, he salutes the recovery of the original bride ? The 
 sentiment of such a scene is unreal, 'and if taken for real, 
 would be disgusting. It is possible only if proffered and 
 received as a humorous mockery; and of this Euripides, 
 whose mastery of sentiment is supreme, must have been 
 perfectly aware. He is playing with his subject, exactly 
 as if that were what his audience would expect from him. 
 But how should they expect it, and, not expecting, how were 
 they to understand ? 
 
 It was said above that Euripides claims in this play the 
 liberty of parody; and this is true not loosely but literally. 
 For the play is a cento of parodies, and the chief object of 
 parody is Euripides himself. The Helen consists of a situation 
 and a movement, both depending upon the supposed per- 
 secution of the heroine by the tyrant Theoclymenus. During 
 the first part she is, or rather is supposed to be, in sanctuary, 
 
 1 v. 290. 
 
 2 v. 578 ffK^or rls, oO del, ris tri <rov <ro<t>urepos ; i.e. ris ixeivov, ov Set, 
 (rocfiuTepos fffTiv TJ <ri) el; where o-o<f>os TWOS (neuter) signifies acqtiainted with (a 
 matter). So read, for ri trov 5et ris effri <rov cro0wre/)os; The action explains. 
 That ffKtyai, look (cf. Aesch. Cho. 230), refers to something particular, is shown by 
 the context; the general resemblance Menelaus has already admitted (v. 577) ; and 
 note also the appeal to his special knowledge. Wyttenbach's correction TO d' 
 ovSeis earn <rov <ro<j>vrepos gives the same sense, but not so well.
 
 HELEN 51 
 
 having put herself under the protection of the deceased 
 Proteus, by taking up her abode in his tomb or chapel before 
 the palace gate. In the second part, she, with Menelaus, 
 deceives Theoclymenus into abetting her escape. The sanc- 
 tuary recalls the Andromache, the escape has a close parallel 
 in the Iphigcnia in Taurica, with this difference in each case, 
 that whereas the rival scenes are pathetic, and exhibit real 
 distresses and terrors, these exhibit nothing but the pretence. 
 That a voluminous writer should repeat himself is not sur- 
 prising, but surely it is odd that he should repeat himself in 
 this way. Of the escape particularly we may say that, if this 
 part of Helen had survived as an anonymous fragment, and no 
 external information about it had existed, the Euripidean 
 authorship would certainly have been disputed, and with 
 reason, on the ground that Euripides could have no motive 
 for producing so weak a copy of his Iphigenia. In both, 
 a Greek woman escapes by sea from a barbarian master, 
 carrying off with her in one play her husband, and in one her 
 brother. Both, in order to reach the sea, pretend that this is 
 necessary for the performance of a religious rite. Both also 
 pretend affection for the tyrant. Both are supported by 
 a Chorus of fellow-captives. In both cases there is eventually 
 a fight, in which the barbarians are beaten, Orestes in the 
 one case, Menelaus in the other, having first proclaimed his 
 identity. In IpJiigenia, Orestes surprises the barbarians by 
 his athletic vigour in carrying his sister on board ; in Helen, 
 the Greeks in a body produce a similar effect by carrying 
 a bull ; and so on. There are even verbal parallels 1 , and a 
 resemblance throughout of language and thought more obvious 
 to perception than to analysis. In short, the episodes are in 
 external features as like as they well could be. 
 
 But in spirit and emotional effect one is real, the other 
 a semblance. The peril of Iphigenia and her companions 
 is certain, hideous, and desperate. The king of Taurica 
 practises human sacrifice and punishes with impalement. 
 Orestes and his friend are actually under sentence of death. 
 
 1 e.g. Iph. Taur. 1386 c3 777$ 'EXXdSos (vavrai), ffel. 1593 c3 777$ 'EXXd5os 
 (\UTi<r/jLa.Ta), to the respective crews. 
 
 42
 
 52 EURIPIDES' APOLOGY 
 
 Even if the Greeks should get to sea, the circumstances are 
 such that they must almost certainly be caught ; and above 
 all, they do not get to sea. They fail ; they are driven on 
 shore ; and the appalling catastrophe is evaded only by 
 a theatrical miracle in no way affecting the tragic excitement 
 of the story. Theoclymenus, the king of Egypt, is such 
 a 'tyrant' as we might expect on the stage of Mr Gilbert. 
 He has a profound respect for the memory of his virtuous 
 father, and an aversion (for which he blames himself) to 
 capital punishment 1 . His whole crime, so far as appears, 
 is that he is paying unwelcome addresses to a married 
 woman, formerly entrusted to the protection of his father, 
 who has heard nothing of her husband for seventeen years ; 
 that he has supported his suit (so she says) with 'insolence 2 '; 
 and that he has prohibited visitors from her country (from 
 which practically it seems no visitor ever comes) under the 
 threat of death. Unchivalrous conduct this is, not in good 
 taste, and in a pious man highly blameable ; but where is the 
 tragedy? His behaviour to Helen, what we see of it, is 
 decorous and even gentle ; he is even polite and sensible 
 enough to express regret for the alleged death of Menelaus 
 though in a way fortunate, he says, for his own wishes 3 . He 
 supposes, and surely well might suppose in the circumstances, 
 that she may prove not inconsolable ; but his only present 
 suggestion is that she should now cease to make an apartment 
 of the mausoleum 4 , a reference to her seclusion which, be it 
 observed, she herself complains of as ' a jest.' It is she, and 
 not he, who, treacherously of course, proposes that he should 
 wed her in her tears 5 ; and the fact that he accepts this 
 proposal, as a knight of Provence would doubtless not have 
 done, is really the sole visible fault in act of which the tyrant 
 is guilty. No violence is even imputed to him, and indeed he 
 makes it clear that he seeks the heart as well as the hand, and 
 
 1 w. 1165, 1171. - v. 785. 
 
 3 v. 1197, ovSfr Ti %ai/)w <rols X6*yois, ra. 5' ei)ri/xw, omitted by some because it 
 'breaks the stichomythia.' But this is right. After this verse there is a decent 
 pause; then Theoclymenus resumes. 
 
 4 v. 1228, TTWS oZv; r6t>5' tr' otV?7<reij rd(f>ov ; 8 v, 1231.
 
 HELEN 53 
 
 that it is the conjugal piety of Helen, as displayed in her 
 fidelity to Menelaus, which is so irresistibly attractive to his 
 pious disposition 1 . Of her beauty (I think) he never speaks, 
 and indeed this may be supposed to be a little overblown. 
 The effect of this scene, and of the whole play, if it were 
 possible to take the situation seriously, would be to make us 
 wonder, why Theoclymenus must be deceived at all, why he 
 should not be called upon to fulfil the pledge given by his 
 revered father to the gods, now that the legitimate claimant 
 has so strangely appeared. Nothing is less probable, upon 
 the facts exhibited, than that in that case the pious son and 
 suitor would have chosen the part of a traitor, a ravisher, and a 
 murderer. If the Greeks, and his own still more pious sister 
 (of whom more anon), deceive him, that is not because they 
 manifestly must. He might have willed right ; and what is 
 more, he could not have done wrong if he would. For if 
 anything is plain in the whole proceedings, it is that under 
 this remarkable ' despotism ' the despot is powerless. In 
 spite of his present order that Greeks (on pain of death) 
 shall have no access to his palace or his domain, Greeks on 
 this day (though not before apparently for seventeen years) 
 keep arriving all the time first Teucer, then Menelaus, then 
 another, and are not once molested by his 'watchers 2 / or by 
 any one else ; walk up ' openly,' as he complains, to his door, 
 and parley with his servants ; and when told that ' they come 
 at an inconvenient time,' that ' the family is in disorder,' and 
 that ' if they are in distress they had better go elsewhere 3 ,' 
 they continue for hours to carry on their concerns, including 
 conspiracies against his peace and person, in his own front- 
 yard and beneath his battlements, without the least caution, 
 interruption, or even embarrassment of any kind ! The king 
 himself has gone hunting 4 , and it seems to be correctly 
 assumed that, beyond the actual range of his eye, he does 
 not count. The Portress at his gate is so afraid of him (she 
 
 1 v. 1278 rrpos i]fj.(ai> d\oxov evffefi-rj Tpe<pfw, 
 
 2 w. 1171 foil. 
 
 3 See the whole scene between Teucer and Helen (v. 68 foil.) and between 
 Menelaus and the Portress (v. 437 foil.) especially w. 450, 477-482. 
 
 4 w. 153, 1169.
 
 54 EURIPIDES' APOLOGY 
 
 says) that, though she likes Greeks herself, she actually 
 shakes her fist in the face of a Greek beggar (Menelaus) and 
 warns him that he will be in danger of his life if he hangs 
 about. Truly does the tyrant observe that his people presume 
 upon his lenity. Not a prince in all the realm of opera could 
 have better reason to say so. We hear from Helen herself 
 that Theoclymenus, in his offensive proposals, has not a single 
 supporter ; all the palace, except the king, are ' friends to 
 her 1 .' And verily so it proves. With the permission of the 
 king's sister, and with the practical connivence of his subjects 
 generally, the escape is so arranged as to sacrifice the lives of 
 some fifty innocent and helpless Egyptians 2 , another feature 
 of the story, be it noticed in passing, which would be repulsive 
 if it were not too silly. However so it is, and the massacre is 
 duly reported by a survivor. The tyrant is really furious, 
 draws his sword, and threatens to kill his treacherous sister 
 with his own hand. But not even now will the guardians 
 of his virtue permit him to do any such 'injustice.' The 
 bystanders 3 throw themselves in his path, ready to die in 
 the cause of right, an act of heroism which, as the despot 
 neither receives nor even calls for any assistance, and as we 
 happen to know that he would call in vain, does not somehow 
 seem so perilous as to require the divine intervention by which 
 it is promptly rewarded. From first to last 'justice' has all 
 the cards in her hand ; and one can only wonder, as we said 
 before, why she condescends to cheat. 
 
 As for the deception itself, the merit of which, as a stroke 
 of wit and courage, is supposed to supply the main interest of 
 about 600 verses, a hollower business can hardly be imagined. 
 Regarding it as serious melodrama, all find it, with Hermann, 
 languid ; and Euripides is good enough to let us see why this 
 is. ' Nothing,' says the conclusion 4 , ' is more useful to man- 
 
 1 w. 313-314. 2 W. 1022, 1069 foil., 1267, 1380, 1412, 1526 foil. 
 
 3 vv. 1627 foil. Who the speaker is, whether the leader of the Chorus, or (as 
 Clark suggested, and Paley agrees) a man-servant of the king, makes no difference, 
 though I think Clark right. Note the masculine singular SoOXos <3v, v. 1630, and 
 &pxt>fJ.fff6' &p', ov Kparovnev, v. 1638, a protest scarcely applicable to actual slaves. 
 The SoOXoi of v. 1641 may well mean only 'subjects of a queen.' 
 
 4 v. 1617.
 
 HELEN 55 
 
 kind than a reasonable distrust.' And nothing therefore, we 
 might add, less exciting to mankind than the deception of a 
 dolt. In the deception of the king of Taurica by Iphigenia, 
 though the trick as a trick is nothing very clever and the 
 interest is amply secured otherwise, still the Greek woman is 
 inventive, and the savage is no fool. Thoas has no reason to 
 suppose that his new captives are interested in Iphigenia, or 
 she in them ; he does not know that they have a ship ; he 
 assumes (and the event justifies him) that escape is in any 
 case impossible ; and he allows them, upon a pretext not 
 implausible, to go down to the beach. But Theoclymenus 
 starts with the suspicion that the visitor comes to carry off 
 Helen 1 . He is actually told that the visitor is 'a companion' 
 of Menelaus, a survivor of the shipwreck in which he perished, 
 whom some sailors ' accidentally picked up 2 , and this he 
 accepts without enquiry. He is asked to furnish the pair 
 with a ship, because Greek religion (so they say) requires 
 a funeral ceremony to be performed, for the benefit of 
 Menelaus, at a considerable distance from the /and 3 . He 
 consents, and (that Helen may return the sooner) he promises, 
 unasked, that the ship shall be swift*. He is told that ship and 
 crew must be under the command of the stranger who is to 
 ' celebrate the funeral,' and that he must make this perfectly 
 clear. He gives the order cheerfully 'once, twice, and again 5 .' 
 And with all this we are to admire (it is supposed) the 
 cleverness of the Greeks in outwitting him and effecting 
 an escape. 
 
 The sense of futility in these scenes is strengthened by the 
 misapplication of a conventional form, the dialogue in alternate 
 verses (stichomythia), and by the abuse of 'dramatic irony.' 
 The dialogue in alternate verses, an artificial but useful type, 
 is manifestly more or less serviceable according as the situation 
 requires development, a progression from stage to stage and 
 from point to point. For scenes of discovery, as in the 
 Oedipus Tyrannus 6 , where the truth emerges bit by bit, 
 it is admirable. The scene in which Ion examines Creusa 
 
 1 v. 1175. 2 W. 1207-1217. 3 w. 1266 foil. 
 
 * v. 1272. 5 w. 1414 foil. 6 O.T. 1007 foil., 1149 foil.
 
 56 EURIPIDES' APOLOGY 
 
 upon her knowledge of the supposed tokens of his birth, 
 could not be better shaped than in the terse symmetrical 
 question and answer, each marking a new turn in the investi- 
 gation 1 . Even in circumstances not so specially favourable, 
 it has advantages, in fixing and guiding the attention, so long 
 as there is something to look for, something to come out. 
 The long and desultory conversation, in which Ion and 
 Creusa, the orphan boy and the sonless mother, become 
 gradually interested in each other 2 , or that in which Menelaus 
 ascertains the whole desperate situation of his nephew 
 Orestes 3 , these strain the instrument, but a sympathetic 
 spectator would hardly have them recast. But in the 
 'deception' of Theoclymenus this treatment approaches the 
 grotesque. We know exactly what is going to happen. The 
 artless scheme of the mock funeral has been evolved before 
 (in alternate couplets) between Helen and Menelaus 4 . Before 
 it can even be propounded to Theoclymenus, he, oddly enough, 
 plays up to the adversary's game, by raising the question, 
 which interests his piety, whether Menelaus has had any 
 funeral 5 ; and his desire that the rites shall be of the proper 
 'Greek' sort proves scarcely less keen than that of Helen 
 herself. The thing is thus given away ; yet we have 50 more 
 lines in altercation, the whole of which come to this, that 
 Theoclymenus will do whatever he is asked. And to make 
 things more natural, the part of Helen is filled with ponderous 
 ambiguities, in which the audience, but not Theoclymenus, 
 are to perceive the meaning, that Menelaus is not really dead. 
 We all know that the Athenians loved this sort of irony, and 
 telling it often is ; but it was a hazardous business, easily 
 overdone. And here it is turned, so to speak, clean inside out. 
 
 TTOV irdpeaTiv eicf3o\a; 
 EA. OTTOV KctKtos 6'Xotro, Mei>e\eo>9 Be fj,ij 6 . 
 
 T/ieody menus. ' And where did the man leave the wreck of 
 his ship ? ' Helen. ' There where I hope it may perish, and 
 
 1 Ion 14.06 foil. 2 Ion 264 foil. 
 
 3 Orestes 385 foil. 4 w. 1032 foil. 
 
 5 V. 1121. 6 V. 1214.
 
 HELEN 57 
 
 Menelaus not ! ' What can Theoclymenus say to this cryptic 
 exclamation but ' Menelaus... has perished' (oX&>V e'/cetvo?) ? 
 And what is the use of thus rubbing in, what we perceive only 
 too well, that Helen's tale and behaviour are not natural, and 
 that the blindness of Theoclymenus must be wilful ? 
 
 From the king's order, obtained in this highly probable 
 manner, that the disguised Menelaus shall be put in command 
 of a ship, flow consequences momentous to the topsy-turvy 
 kingdom. The tyrant, never obeyed before or afterwards, is, 
 in this business obeyed to perfection. He has ordered 
 ' a swift ' ship, and his agents launch ' the best sailer ' of his 
 fleet 1 . He has directed them to take orders from Menelaus ; 
 and accordingly, when other shipwrecked Greeks appear, 
 sufficient in number to man the vessel, and when Menelaus 
 invites all these strangers to 'take part in the funeral,' the 
 Egyptians, though ' suspicious,' decide after deliberation that 
 they cannot object, since the royal command was absolute, 
 and clearly covers the case. ' It was that command of yours,' 
 says the reporter to the monarch, ' which caused the whole 
 mischief 2 .' One can only say that, if the Egyptian language 
 had a word for Pinafore, this surely must have been the name 
 of the ship. 
 
 We said of the deception that a hollower business can 
 hardly be imagined. If any can, it is that of the sanctuary, 
 the hardship of Helen in being forced to inhabit the tomb or 
 chapel of king Proteus. This is the main factor in the first 
 part of the action, as the ' deception ' is in the latter part. 
 Here again we have in appearance a variation upon a common 
 theme of Greek drama. For obvious reasons an altar was 
 a favourite property of tragedy, and the situation of 
 suppliants and fugitives a favourite opening, from the 
 Danaids of Aeschylus all down to the Thebans of Sophocles, 
 and the Argives, Heracleids, Andromache, Amphitryon etc., of 
 Euripides himself 3 . Nearest to Helen is Andromache, where 
 the solitary woman, an oppressed foreigner, the nature and 
 position of the sanctuary, a mausoleum before a mansion, 
 
 1 w. 1272, 1413, 1531. 2 w. 1537-1553- 
 
 3 Aesch. Sufpl., Soph. Oed. 7!, Eur. Suppl,, Heradeidae, Andr., Heracles.
 
 58 EURIPIDES' APOLOGY 
 
 the Chorus of friendly women-visitors, and other traits, offer 
 a parallel which no one could miss. But here again, if we 
 attend to the action presented, we see that the interest is 
 given away, is treated in such a fashion that it dissolves into 
 a mockery. The suppliant in sanctuary must be ipso nomine 
 a prisoner : the distresses of the position, the exposure, 
 loneliness, risk of starvation, and the rest, all depend upon 
 the essential point, that the fugitive is confined to the 
 protecting place. The AndromacJte or the Heracles will supply 
 illustrations passim, if wanted. Now consider the confinement 
 of Helen. For a few scenes, the hunted hare abides in her 
 form, while visitors, one of them a Greek voyager, supposed 
 upon the allegations to be strictly excluded from the country, 
 repair to her, converse with her freely, and depart un- 
 challenged. The conversation raises doubts and anxieties 
 about the fate of her husband ; and it is suggested to her 
 that there is a person in the house (Theonoe, the king's sister) 
 who may or must be able to relieve them. And thereupon 
 not only her friends in a body, but she herself, the fugitive in 
 sanctuary, go peacefully indoors to enquire^ a movement 
 especially conspicuous in a Greek tragedy, because the 
 withdrawal of the Chorus, and an empty scene, is a thing not 
 common. In their absence comes Menelaus, who, recognizing 
 Helen when she re-enters, tries to prevent her return to the 
 chapel. She, for the moment, actually supposes that the 
 ' impious ' Theoclymenus has set a spy upon her ! ' What ! 
 An ambush ! ,' she exclaims in indignant horror. However, 
 she struggles back to her seat of safety, and having ' reached 
 that ground,' surveys her adversary and discovers her mistake; 
 and the business of the recognition proceeds accordingly 2 . 
 When, after long and leisurely episodes, it becomes necessary 
 to the Greeks' plot that Helen should go indoors again, in 
 order to make up as a mourner, she goes unharmed ; while 
 Menelaus, who asks whether he shall go with her or ' sit quiet 
 here at the tomb 3 ,' is told to remain, for 'the tomb and his 
 sword will protect him.' As a situation for tragedy, this 
 could hardly be surpassed by Mr Puff. Whatever the 
 
 1 w. 306-385. 2 w. 541, 550, 556. 3 v. 1083.
 
 HELEN 59 
 
 suppliant may say, the fact, the staring fact is, that her 
 ' inhabitation ' of the mausoleum is voluntary and fictitious ; 
 the ' mattress,' which (alas !) she keeps there 1 , is an empty 
 symbol ; and the so-called sanctuary, which she quits and 
 enters whenever she chooses, is a retreat about as painful as 
 a summer-house. 
 
 And so it is with all parts of the machinery. Wherever 
 we look, we seem to find dummy levers, springs of plaster, 
 and wheels that cannot revolve. Take yet one more leading 
 theme, the omniscience of Theonoe. This personage, the 
 king's maiden sister, is the good fairy, we may almost say the 
 goddess, of the story. Her superhuman intelligence, her 
 universal knowledge of ' all things that are and are to be ' is 
 asserted in terms that might have contented Apollo or 
 Ammon. She is a living oracle. The world consults her, 
 like Apollo, about the foundation of colonies. Nothing can 
 possibly be hidden from her 2 . She foretells the approach of 
 Menelaus and knows when he comes. Her solemn consent 
 has to be obtained before anything can be attempted against 
 Theoclymenus ; and he, in his one instant of puzzle, rather 
 than suspicion, about the manoeuvres of Helen, is promptly 
 reassured by the suggestion that Theonoe must know 3 . In 
 short, her omniscience is the key-stone of the arch. And yet 
 it is ignored, as well as assumed, with the most impudent 
 caprice. With Theonoe for a companion and friend, Helen is 
 nevertheless ignorant, speaking broadly, of everything that 
 has befallen the Greeks since she was removed from them, 
 and now, seven years after the taking of Troy, learns this and 
 the intermediate history, in the play, from a Greek voyager 4 . 
 Nor is the strangeness, or rather the absurdity, of this 
 situation allowed to escape our notice. Teucer, the informant, 
 cannot say what has become of Menelaus ; he has not 
 reached home and is supposed to be lost 5 . Presently Helen 
 bewails this uncertainty to her female friends. ' But why be 
 uncertain ? ' is their very natural observation. * Why not 
 
 1 w. 797-799- 
 
 2 w. 13, 144 foil., 317 foil., 530, 818 foil., 922, 1198, 1227 and. passim. 
 
 3 v. 1227 (\adflv Jacobs, for 6a.veiv). 4 w. 107 foil. * vv. 123 foil.
 
 60 EURIPIDES' APOLOGY 
 
 consult Theonoe ? From her you will know everything. With 
 such an informant at home, why look elsewhere 1 ? ' And to 
 Theonoe, as we have already seen, they accordingly go. We 
 might follow this matter further, but for the immediate 
 purpose need not. We have already enough to explain the 
 fact, that a play, which is treated like this, somehow fails to 
 arouse interest. It is now seldom edited, and hardly ever 
 read (I speak from observation) except in fragments or for 
 strictly philological purposes ; and we can only wonder, first, 
 how the poet himself, with the literary power which he 
 exhibits, not only before and afterwards but in bits of this 
 very work, can have been blind to the suicidal faults of the 
 conception and, still more, of the execution ; and secondly, 
 how a piece, which impresses us mainly as ' an unsuccessful 
 attempt to triumph again with a plot like that of the Tauric 
 Iphigenia' the summary of a recent critic should ever 
 have had sufficient celebrity to find its way, along with that 
 very Iphigenia, into the comparatively small selection of 
 Euripides which has been preserved. 
 
 But it is time to show, what is to be the outcome of these 
 criticisms. ' What escape,' my reader will ask of me, as 
 Menelaus asks of Helen in the play, when she proposes that 
 he shall pretend to bring the news of his own death 2 , ' what 
 escape or remedy does this promise to you and me ? For the 
 notion, as such, is somewhat stale.' 
 
 8e TOUT' e^et ri vwv a/to? ; 
 yap T&> \6ja) y' evecrrl rt?. 
 
 In a tragedy such candour seems rather crude ; but this study 
 would already be too long, if it were to end in merely 
 sharpening and accenting a little the common opinion, as 
 represented by Hermann, that the Helen on the whole is 
 tame. 
 
 The traits above indicated, and others of the same kind, 
 
 would have a different complexion, if we could suppose, as 
 
 I have suggested in the Introduction, that the 'tragedy' was 
 
 a jest, a refined and delicate mockery of serious drama, 
 
 1 w. 306-329. a v. 1055.
 
 HELEN 6 1 
 
 differing widely indeed in method, but not differing essentially 
 in spirit and purpose, from such caricatures as Canning's 
 imitation of German romance, or Chrononhotonthologos , or the 
 tragedy in the Critic. 
 
 But it will of course be objected, that such a play, 
 produced along with other and regular tragedies at the 
 Athenian Dionysia, must have been unintelligible. ' Is this 
 meant for a joke?' is a question deadly to leave open. 
 Now Helen is most certainly not a burlesque. There are 
 indeed touches in it, such as the comment upon Helen's 
 invention, just cited, which seem so comical that it has been 
 thought necessary to remove them by emendation 1 , touches 
 of burlesque, fit only, one would suppose, for Aristophanes. 
 But these are rare. What appears everywhere is only an 
 exaggeration, mild but deleterious, of maladies natural to 
 drama, and seldom or never avoided altogether even in the 
 most strenuous work. It is as if the Muse were poisoned, 
 or permeated by some parasitic enfeeblement. A reader or 
 student, when he has collected all the symptoms, may, or 
 perhaps must, begin to suspect, that the dramatist was not 
 unaware of them. But not so an unprepared audience. The 
 most acute spectator must spend some time in mere dissatis- 
 faction, and an average person could perceive only flatness to 
 the end. Euripides would have merely courted the criticism 
 
 addressed by a certain humorist to a tragic actor, ' Mr , 
 
 I must see your " Hamlet." I hear that it is really funny, 
 without being in the least vulgar.' Such must have been 
 the certain consequence of exhibiting a drama, which was 
 not serious, on an occasion presupposing the contrary. 
 
 But our Helen was not originally composed for the theatre, 
 nor at the theatre was it first heard. I speak positively, and 
 will justify the assertion. There is ample evidence, internal 
 and external, that it was composed for a private recitation, 
 contemporaneous and in some way connected with the festival 
 of Thesmophoria, the festival kept by women in honour of 
 Demeter and Kore", the Mother and the Maid. The place 
 of the recitation was not Athens, but a private residence in 
 
 1 &irai6\ri for TraXatirTjs, Hermann.
 
 62 EURIPIDES' APOLOGY 
 
 a remote island. The play was originally addressed, as the 
 connexion with the Thesmophoria would imply and the text 
 shows, especially to women. The purport of it is a playful 
 apology on the part of Euripides to the female sex, for the 
 alleged offence that he 'never exhibited a woman of virtue.' 
 This time at least, as he points out to them, this cannot be 
 said, since he has proved and praised the virtue, not merely 
 of a woman, but of the most notorious scandal to her sex : 
 he has rehabilitated Helen. 
 
 The poet Stesichorus had long before apologised, not to 
 the sex but to Helen herself, as a personage by some supposed 
 immortal and divine, for the popular libels upon her character, 
 and had formally contradicted them in a famous poem. That 
 Euripides followed this lead, and borrowed from Stesichorus 
 some part of his idea (we know not how much nor does it 
 matter), is universally and rightly supposed. His reason for 
 doing so was, that he also, in his own humorous way, was 
 making an apology. 
 
 The evidence, I have said, is both external and internal. 
 As the internal evidence is of a kind which, so far as I know, 
 has not been observed, and which very likely does not occur, 
 in any other work of Hellenic antiquity, it may be con- 
 veniently introduced by a parallel example from our own 
 literature ; where the facts, which might have been inferred, 
 in the absence of other evidence, from the original document, 
 happen to be also given by tradition and notorious. Milton's 
 Comus was composed, we know, to be performed by the 
 family of the Earl of Bridgewater, President of Wales, at 
 his residence, Ludlow Castle. Its merit and celebrity have 
 caused and permitted it to be occasionally performed by 
 ordinary companies, in public theatres, and to common 
 audiences ; but it is from the circumstances of the original 
 representation that the piece derives its plan and character. 
 Now those circumstances happen to be recorded for us in 
 extraneous and authentic documents. They are also indicated, 
 though imperfectly, by what we may call the semi-extraneous 
 evidence of the stage-directions. But suppose that we had 
 nothing but a bare text of the spoken parts, such as our
 
 HELEN 63 
 
 actual text of Euripides ; and suppose, as in that case we 
 may well suppose, that we not only had no record of the 
 first performance, but did not even know by extraneous 
 evidence that such a manner of performance was possible. 
 Should we be condemned to ignorance of the fact that the 
 original circumstances of production were peculiar, and im- 
 portant to the design ? Certainly not. From the bare 
 text we might have proved this ; because the piece contains 
 things whicli are irrelevant to the dramatic story. These 
 things, in common fairness to the author, must have been 
 supposed relevant in some way to the purpose of his work, 
 and explicable by something ; which something, since it is 
 not the dramatic story, must, from the nature of the case, 
 have been sought in the circumstances of the production. 
 For example, the prologue informs us that 
 
 Neptune, besides the sway 
 Of every salt flood and each ebbing stream, 
 Took in by lot 'twixt high and nether Jove 
 Imperial rule of all the sea-girt iles;,.. 
 
 ...but this He 
 
 The greatest and the best of all the main, 
 He quarters to his blue-hair 3 d deities j 
 And all this tract that fronts the falling sun, 
 A noble peer of mickle trust and power 
 Has in his charge, with tempered awe to guide 
 An old and haughty nation, proud in arms: 
 Where his fair off-spring nurst in princely lore 
 Are coming to attend their father's state 
 And new-entrusted sceptre ; but their way 
 Lies through the perplext paths of this drear wood,... 
 And here their tender age might suffer peril 
 But that by quick command from sovran Jove 
 I was dispatcht for their defence and guard ; 
 And listen why.... 
 
 which brings us to the true matter of the story, to Comus and 
 his enchantments, the Lady, and so on. Now to this story 
 all the statements here distinguished by italics are irrelevant. 
 It is nothing to the story that the home of the wanderers 
 is on an island: the scene might be laid, as far as the story 
 is concerned, in the middle of Asia ; it is nothing, that the
 
 64 EURIPIDES' APOLOGY 
 
 place is situated towards the west of that island ; or that the 
 master of the house is a noble peer, and governs with entrusted 
 sceptre an old nation. All this is concerned with Ludlow 
 Castle, the Earl of Bridgewater, and the Presidency of Wales, 
 with none of which conceptions the dramatic story, as such, 
 has any concern whatever. And from this and other like 
 phenomena a careful student of the bare text might have 
 inferred in substance everything about the original production 
 which is significant for the proper appreciation of the work 
 as a whole. 
 
 The Helen is a parallel case, where the external evidence 
 is equally strong (for Aristophanes is a witness not less 
 authentic than Lawes) and the internal evidence, if not 
 stronger, is much more salient and striking. 
 
 First then, the original production of the play was asso- 
 ciated not with the theatrical contest at all, but with the 
 Thesmophoria, the festival of the Mother and the Maid 
 (Demeter and Kore) celebrated by women in the autumn, 
 about the end of October. There are in the play many 
 minor indications of this circumstance, to which we will return 
 hereafter ; but the principal mark is this. One of the choric 
 odes 1 , one only, instead of treating, like the odes in tragedies 
 generally and like all the other odes in this, topics arising 
 out of the story and the dramatic situation, is occupied 
 entirely with narrating the legend of the Mother and the 
 Maid, and commending the religious performances based 
 upon that legend. It is an exquisite poem, the literary gem 
 of the piece ; but it makes no pretence of arising out of the 
 dramatic situation, and is, at least in prima facie appearance, 
 so absolutely irrelevant to the story, that some readers have 
 actually supposed it to be an interpolation, a piece from 
 elsewhere, imported by some accident into the text. Not an 
 incident of the story is mentioned in it, nor (by name at least 
 and in an intelligible way) any one of the dramatic person- 
 ages. .It appears in short to be frankly extraneous. The 
 attempt has of course been made to trace a connexion 2 ; but 
 if this attempt were more successful than is commonly 
 1 w. 1301 foil. 2 See the note on this ode in the Appendix.
 
 HELEN 65 
 
 thought, it would be nothing to the present argument ; it 
 would prove at most that the poet has found a pretext for 
 importing into his play a topic which no one could expect. 
 Pretext or no pretext, the thing is a manifest importation. 
 It surprises and perplexes all readers, and must a fortiori have 
 surprised and bewildered an audience, unless they were in 
 some way provided with a reason for it. 
 
 Now this phenomenon is without a parallel, so far as 
 I am aware, in extant Greek drama. But, wherever it may 
 occur, there is but one way of accounting for it. The topic 
 of the ode, since it is not naturally suggested by the story, 
 must have been suggested, and imperatively required, by the 
 only other condition with which the author could have any 
 concern, that is to say, the circumstances of the representa- 
 tion. It must have been necessary, for some plain reason 
 which every spectator could instantly understand, that Eurip- 
 ides on this occasion should pay homage to the legend and 
 worship of the Mother and Maid. Let us only imagine what 
 we should feel, as spectators, if, when we were expecting the 
 usual dramatic or semi-dramatic ode, the Chorus went off 
 upon an elaborate narrative for which we had no conceivable 
 cue! 
 
 We should perhaps note, since the relation between 
 chorus and drama is sometimes discussed rather loosely, 
 that we have here no concern with the question, how much 
 part and what kind of part the Chorus as actors should have 
 in the action. The Chorus in Helen has at least as much 
 part in the action as usual, perhaps not less than in any extant 
 drama, except of course those of Aeschylus. Nor are we 
 concerned with the use of irrelevant interludes as a system. 
 This, which has been practised, would be a defensible and 
 perhaps inevitable expedient, if we were to suppose that 
 interludes of some sort were a permanent necessity of the 
 dramatic form. But the question is, whether, in a system 
 of relevant interludes, a playwright would abruptly introduce 
 one not relevant. Why should he ? And how, if he did, 
 could he expect the comprehension of his audience ? 
 
 We should assume then, prima facie, in fairness to
 
 66 EURIPIDES' APOLOGY 
 
 Euripides, that his play, as a performance, had some close 
 and obvious connexion with the worship of Demeter and 
 Kore. The season of the Thesmophoria, the great Athenian 
 festival of these deities, would suggest itself, I think, as the 
 most probable occasion, though of course without external 
 testimony we should not be justified in fixing on this 
 particular feast. 
 
 We may note however at once, that the purport of the 
 play, in its largest aspect, is very well suited to a festival of 
 women, an occasion specially devoted to the honour of that 
 sex ; and further, that the dramatist makes a point of this. 
 In bidding farewell to his audience, he takes credit with them, 
 and especially with tJie women, for the benefit conferred upon 
 them by his defence of Helen. Helen was the notorious 
 ' scandal of her sex 1 ' ; but Euripides, developing the paradoxical 
 hints of the poet Stesichorus, here presents her as a supreme 
 example of conjugal fidelity. And he claims credit for this 
 with the women. 'May ye be happy/ says the last speaker, 
 addressing the women of the Chorus and the company 
 generally, 'May ye be happy in the excellent discretion of 
 Helen, a thing which for many women is not possible^V Impos- 
 sible it is, as the humorous modesty of the expression signifies, 
 for most women, indeed for all, and for all men too, for 
 everybody except the spectators, as such, of this particular 
 play. To find happiness in the virtue of Helen is a pleasure 
 reserved for those who will accept the paradox which the 
 dramatist here defends. For these indeed, the pleasure would 
 be common to all ; and since the dramatist lays stress upon 
 the happiness and advantage accruing to women, and indeed, 
 if we take him strictly, would appear to speak of this only, 
 
 1 Eur. Orest. 1153, Andr. 218, 229, etc. 
 
 2 Hel. 1686 KOA. x&lpe0' 'EX^s OVVCK' evyevea-TdT-qs \ yvu/jL-qs, 8 TroXXais eV 
 ywai^lv OVK tvi. That the address is general, not restricted, like what precedes, 
 to the Twin Brethren, appears by the abrupt change of number: the Twins are 
 addressed (1684) in the dual. And indeed, as addressed to them, the reference to 
 women would be pointless ; it points to the sex of the Chorus. There is no excuse 
 for translating 8...?vt as if the neuter 6 referred to yvtc/j.r)s : the proper and necessary 
 antecedent is rt> x a ^P elv 'EX^js otiveica yvunrjs. To the choric 'tag' which 
 follows, and to the connexion of the passage generally, we shall return hereafter.
 
 HELEN 67 
 
 we must naturally suppose that he had reason for this, and 
 that his business on this occasion lay, for some plain cause, 
 with the interests of the female sex in particular. Such 
 a cause is provided by the association, indicated by the ode, 
 between the play and the worship of the two goddesses, and 
 would be specially obvious if the performance was connected 
 with the festival of which women were the only proper and 
 official celebrants, the festival of the Thesmophoria. 
 
 And now comes in Aristophanes. Whenever and where- 
 ever Helen may have been first recited, it came, we know, 
 eventually to be exhibited publicly, in the theatre, and 
 at the Dionysia. 
 
 Now in the year next after that in which Helen was so 
 exhibited to the public, Aristophanes brought out the Thesmo- 
 pJwriazusae, the Celebrants of the Thesmophoria, which refers to 
 Helen as recent, and contains two scenes of burlesque, one based 
 upon Helen and the other on Andromeda, also a Euripidean play 
 of the year before. The subject of the comedy is a profanation 
 of the Thesmophoria by Euripides. Hearing that the women, 
 at their private mystery, intend to devise some punishment for 
 his persistent defamation of the sex by the exhibition of bad 
 women only, Euripides resolves to defend himself against this 
 charge, and, being unfitted for a feminine disguise, employs 
 a kinsman as his advocate. The advocate, whose apology 
 is of course satirical, is detected, and the situation is developed 
 with gusto. That this plot had some basis in fact, we might 
 almost infer from Aristophanes himself; for his Euripides 
 is assisted in the business by the tragedian Agathon, who 
 furnishes advice and properties for the make-up ; and this 
 conjunction of the poets savours strongly of some literary 
 enterprise, in which Euripides had been principal and 
 Agathon in some way participant. 
 
 How then stands the matter as between the Helen and the 
 Thesmoplwriazusael On the one hand we have a play of 
 Euripides, which, on the face of it, is associated by some 
 external circumstance with the worship of Demeter and Kore, 
 and which, on the face of it, claims, in a humorous manner, 
 the approval and gratitude of women for the defence (under
 
 68 EURIPIDES' APOLOGY 
 
 difficulties) of the female sex, and for the presentation, in a 
 somewhat surprising form, of a singularly virtuous woman. 
 No sooner does this play, by exhibition in the theatre, become 
 generally known, and suitable as a subject for theatric 
 allusion, than Aristophanes, at the first opportunity, produces 
 a burlesque, in which Euripides is represented as misusing the 
 Thesmophoria, the great festival of Demeter and Kore, for 
 the purpose of defending himself against the charge of never 
 exhibiting a virtuous woman ; and in this burlesque he takes 
 conspicuous notice of the Helen. Surely, if our observations 
 could be carried no further than this, we should already have 
 reason to suspect that these facts have a connexion, and that 
 the external circumstance, which originally dictated these 
 peculiarities of the Helen, was an association with the festival 
 of the Thesmophoria. There are, as we shall see hereafter, 
 other conspiring indications of this in the Euripidean play 
 itself; but we will proceed for the present to a second 
 external circumstance, for which also we have the confirmation 
 of Aristophanes. 
 
 If the play was originally designed for recitation at the 
 season of the Thesmophoria, it would follow, I think, that the 
 recitation was a private affair. So far as I am aware, there 
 is no reason whatever to suppose that the civic theatre, the 
 only theatre, was used at that festival ; or that dramatic 
 performances such as the Helen, or indeed of any kind, formed 
 part of the Thesmophoria proper, the mysteries officially 
 then celebrated by women as part of the civic religion. The 
 recitation of Helen, if designed to take place at the season 
 and in honour of the Thesmophoria, must have been a 
 domestic recitation, given under private patronage and at 
 a private residence. There is nothing in this to surprise us ; 
 on the contrary it would be, as we shall see hereafter, extra- 
 ordinary and scarcely credible, in the circumstances of the 
 time, that dramatic pieces should not have been often 
 circulated and tried in this way. The best, but only the very 
 best, eventually reached the theatre. In the theatrical form 
 of course they were preserved ; and of the private origin little 
 or nothing can be seen in them, or could be, unless there were
 
 HELEN 69 
 
 a case in which the private circumstances were so essential 
 a part of the work, that it would not bear transformation, but, 
 if the theatre called for it, must go to the theatre essentially 
 as it was first framed. Precisely such a case is the Helen, our 
 only extant proof of a process infinitely important to the 
 development of Athenian drama, and without which the line 
 which that process took would not be wholly comprehensible. 
 
 Our internal test must still follow the principle which we 
 saw to be valid in the case of Comus, and have already applied 
 to the Thesmophorian ode : the principle or axiom that 
 a dramatist, like anyone else, will keep to his subject, and 
 will not put forward things of no conceivable interest either to 
 himself, as narrator of the story, or to those who are to hear 
 it. Anything conspicuous in the piece, which is not accounted 
 for by the story, must have been accounted for by the 
 circumstances of the representation. What else of this kind, 
 besides the ode, is conspicuous in Helen ? One other thing 
 at least : I mean the contrivance, extravagant and irrational to 
 the highest degree, by which the poet forces into his epilogue 
 a complimentary allusion to the island of Helene. 
 
 Along a portion of the east coast of Attica, at a short 
 distance off, extends a ridge of rock or hill, narrow but 
 eight miles long. It has pastures, and is now inhabited, 
 in the summer only, by the herdsmen ; the same condition is 
 indicated by geographers and topographers of the Roman 
 empire. Wells however are found in it. The geographers 
 and topographers are apparently the only original authors of 
 antiquity, except Euripides, who ever mention the island 1 . 
 
 It was called Macris (since Makronisi), and also Helene. 
 The latter name was variously connected with the voyages of 
 the famous heroine to or from Troy : it was said, for instance, 
 that Paris and his paramour (hugging the coast apparently, 
 like the fleet of Xerxes, and making for the* Euripus) had 
 rested in Helene for a night 2 . The extant notices of these 
 derivations are much later than Euripides, and the production 
 
 1 See Smith's Diet, of Geography s. v. Helena, and Pausanias i. 35. i with 
 Dr Frazer's note. 
 
 2 It was identified by some with the 'Kranae' of Horn. //. 3. 445.
 
 70 EURIPIDES' APOLOGY 
 
 of them may have been stimulated by his successful example; 
 but perhaps, if a Strabo, a Mela, or a Pausanias had written in 
 the fifth century B.C., his notice of the island would have 
 comprised some such note on the name. It did not, so far as 
 we know, give rise to any cult or legend commonly accepted. 
 The stories are mentioned by those, and those only, who are 
 compelled to mention the island. 
 
 Now the plot of Helen, so far from requiring a reference to 
 this illustrious locality, would naturally and almost necessarily 
 exclude it. According to this play, the Helen who sailed to 
 Troy, the only Helen who could be brought, by any plausible 
 licence of supposition, to Macris, was merely a ' double ' of the 
 heroine, a phantasmal imitation, whose separate wanderings, 
 up to the day upon which she arrives in Egypt and vanishes, 
 are, as Euripides himself indicates 1 , a topic which his theme 
 does not include. And if it were necessary (but how should 
 it be ?) to mention the island and account for its alternative 
 name, the obvious thing was to follow the usual derivation 
 mutatis mutandis, and to say that the phantom Helen, with 
 Paris, rested there. But why notice the island at all ? 
 Neither the place nor its associations were generally in- 
 teresting, or commonly noticed. Why not let it alone ? 
 
 And now let us see what Euripides actually does. In the 
 general blessing, bestowed at the close by the Twin Brethren, 
 Helen receives the promise of divine honours ; and then we 
 read this 2 : 
 
 'The place to which Hermes removed thee first from 
 Sparta... when he stole thy person to preserve thee from Paris, 
 the long 3 sentinel-isle that flanks the Attic shore, shall hence- 
 forth bear among men the name of Helen^ because it received 
 thee when from thy home so stolen.' 
 
 ov -S' wpicrev cr irp^ra MataSo? TO/CO? 
 
 TO \OITTOV eV /3/30T019 
 
 That is to say, Hermes, when he conveyed the real Helen 
 through the air from Sparta to Egypt, did not make one 
 
 1 W. 765-771. 2 v. 16/0. 3 TfTa.fj.tvrjv , alluding to Macris.
 
 HELEN 71 
 
 flight of it, but lighted with her first upon Maoris alias 
 Helene. 
 
 To clear the substance, I have omitted in the translation 
 a detail of which the sense is disputed. Completed, it would 
 run thus : ' The place to which Hermes removed thee first 
 from Sparta (his journey began from the mansions of the 
 sky 1 ), when he stole thy person ' etc. The parenthesis explains, 
 I take it, what (heaven knows) requires an explanation, why 
 the god did not fly straight on from Sparta to Egypt, why 
 there was any ' first stage ' in the journey at all. He had 
 already flown (we are reminded) from the top of heaven to 
 Sparta, before he picked up Helen, so that the flight thence 
 to the island, with the woman, made altogether enough for one 
 stretch ; to Egypt direct would have been too far ! The 
 extravagance of such an explanation, and the light tone of it, 
 are quite in keeping with the rest, and suitable, as we shall 
 see hereafter, to the general purpose. But the parenthesis is 
 at all events a detail ; let us consider the substance of the 
 story. 
 
 And first, the statement comes as an utter surprise. The 
 journey from Sparta to Egypt has been already described by 
 Helen in the prologue, without hint of divergence or pause : 
 ' Hermes took me, hidden in ethereal folds of cloud, and set 
 me here in the house of Proteus 2 .' Next, the story is 
 nonsense, not coherent or acceptable even as a fable : the 
 island is not on the way to Egypt, not nearer than Sparta 
 itself. Thirdly, between the heroine and the island it makes 
 no appreciable link : Helen was once in it for a few minutes ; 
 therefore it (rather than Pharos, say, where she lived, 
 according to the play, seventeen years) shall henceforth bear 
 her name ! 
 
 To account for this fantastic excursion there is but one 
 fair way. It must have been necessary, for some plain, broad, 
 imperative reason which all the audience would comprehend, 
 that Euripides on this occasion should do or pretend to do, 
 what in general no one did, that is, pay some regard to the 
 insignificant island and its apocryphal story. The island 
 
 1 atrdpas rCiv KO.T ovpavov 6 / uw'. 2 v. 44. See also w. 241 foil.
 
 72 EURIPIDES' APOLOGY 
 
 must have been a datum, as Ludlow Castle was for Milton 
 when he composed Comus, though of course not necessarily 
 for the same reason. The island, and a special interest of the 
 audience in the island, must have been an axis, as the season 
 of the Thesmophoria was another, by which the lines of his 
 composition were regulated. Upon that supposition we can 
 understand him. The conjunction of ideas was not promising. 
 The island bore a name infamous to womankind, and was 
 thought of, when thought of at all, as the scene of the most 
 notorious of adulteries. The festival was sacred to the sex 
 and to marriage. To exhibit the historic Helen at such 
 a time would have been to commit really the offence of which 
 Euripides was falsely accused, a preference for the portraiture 
 of feminine vice. The dilemma prompted the happy and 
 witty expedient of improving on the apology of Stesichorus. 
 The real Helen was not vicious, but a paragon of wifely virtue. 
 The vicious woman was no woman, but a mere phantom. 
 But only the vicious phantom then can have visited the island ? 
 Not at all, says the dramatist cheerfully. A poet is no more 
 bound by logic, than miracles by reason. The true Helen 
 did come to Helene, was brought there by Hermes ; one 
 scarcely knows why, but so it was. 
 
 Why the island, though not in the least interesting, so far 
 as appears, to people in general, should have been interesting 
 to the special audience of Helen, this allusion would not tell 
 us. Many causes of such interest would be conceivable. 
 It would be enough, for example, if the patron or patrons of 
 the occasion were proprietors of the island. But an obvious 
 hypothesis, and one which we should properly test before 
 seeking any other, is that the island, a house on the island, 
 was the place of the original recitation. The season of the 
 Thesmophoria, about the end of October, the perfection of 
 the southern autumn, when worshippers in the open air could 
 keep up their ceremonies through the day-bright hours of 
 the full-moon 1 , was a time when a house in the island might 
 well be occupied. We should enquire then next, whether the 
 
 1 Hel. 1365 foil., with note in the Appendix. For the official ceremonies see 
 Miss Harrison, Prolegomena to Greek Religion, pp.' 120 foil.
 
 HELEN 73 
 
 play exhibits any evidence that an island, and a house on 
 an island, was specially concerned in the composition and 
 production of it. 
 
 We shall not have to look far. The prologue, spoken by 
 Helen, opens thus : ' This place is Nile, river of fair maidens, 
 which, instead of heaven's rain, moistens, when the white snow 
 melts, the soil and fields of Egypt. Proteus, while he lived, 
 was king of this land, having his dwelling in the island of 
 Pharos, though lord of Egypt 1 . He married one of the sea- 
 maidens, Psamathe, when she quitted the couch of Aeacus, and 
 begat two children to this house, a boy, whom he (because 
 he 2 had lived piously all his days) named (but in vain) 
 " Theoclymenus," and a happily-born maiden, named Eido 
 (Beauty) 3 , as her mother's jewel, when she was a babe ; but 
 since she came to age mature for marriage, they have called 
 her Theonoe, because she had the divine knowledge of all 
 things that are and that are to be, having received this 
 privilege from her grandsire Nereus. And I myself come of 
 a country not without fame, Sparta,...' and so we proceed to 
 the history of the heroine and the foundation of the play. 
 
 Now this passage, like that which was cited above from 
 the prologue to Comus, bristles with points and statements 
 for which the dramatic story furnishes no reason or expla- 
 nation whatever. We will take here only two of them. Why 
 does the dramatist suggest that the house of Proteus, the 
 house of his play, lies in the island of Pharos 4 ? And why 
 does he choose for his king of Egypt the name of Proteus ? 
 Let us not only ask these questions, but insist on finding 
 plain and satisfactory answers. The scenes of the drama do 
 
 1 v. 5 $dpov fj.fi> oiK&v vfjcrov, Aiytiirrov 5' &.va. 
 
 2 v. 9 QeoK\v/j.evov &p<rev', OTI Srj Oeovs (rtpwv 
 
 PIOV Si-fjvejKf. 
 
 The subject of Sir/veyKe is the father, Proteus : the conduct of the boy could not be 
 yet known. 5^ signifies that, according to Helen, the hopes of the pious father 
 were disappointed. 6'n, because, is explained by QeoicXvfjievov, which is to be read 
 as in inverted commas, and construed as equivalent to f>v d)v6/j.a<re QeoK\<jfivov. 
 The metre of z>. 9 is rough, but should not be suspected. See notes on the play 
 in the Appendix. 
 
 3 Or Eidos, as the MS. : Et'5u>, Matthiae. 
 
 4 v. 5, compared with vv. 8, 46, 68, 460. See also the Appendix.
 
 74 EURIPIDES' APOLOGY 
 
 not take place on the island-rock of Pharos, nor in any island 
 at all. The scene is laid and the king's house stands, as the 
 first line of the play implies, by the Nile, that is to say, on the 
 mainland of Egypt, miles away from Pharos. The single 
 line of the prologue which says that the deceased monarch, 
 ' though lord of Egypt, dwelt in the island of Pharos,' is, 
 I believe, the sole reference to ' Pharos ' or ' island ' which the 
 play contains. That a king of Egypt should live on Pharos, 
 would be, as the turn of the phrase suggests, sufficiently 
 surprising, even if we suppose, which we shall hardly do, 
 that Euripides foresaw and anticipated the foundation of 
 Alexandria. That the palace of this play is not there, is 
 abundantly and consistently proved. One visitor arrives at 
 ' the fields of Nile 1 ' ; others, before they arrive, have wan- 
 dered 'all about the country 2 ,' without suspecting that the sea 
 surrounds them, or that they have landed on a mere rock. 
 The royal docks of Egypt are close to the palace 3 , as 
 assuredly (unless Euripides anticipated Alexander) they were 
 not to Pharos. The cave, it is true, in which a whole ship's 
 company of more than fifty persons find perfect concealment so 
 long as they choose 4 , would scarcely be found, we may doubt, 
 in Egypt proper ; but neither would it be found in Pharos 
 or any where else. It is a mere freak of imagination, but 
 indispensable to the story, and needing no other excuse. 
 The circumstances generally agree with the opening in laying 
 the scene in Egypt, by the Nile ; and the island, as such, has no 
 more to do with the story than England, qua island, with the 
 story of Comus. Only the inconsistency of Euripides is far 
 greater than that of Milton ; for in Comus, though to the story 
 it makes no difference that the enchanter's wood is on an 
 island, at least there is no reason why it should not be ; 
 whereas in Helen, if we really try to place ourselves on 
 Pharos, the story becomes unworkable. Why then, when 
 Euripides has first placed his scene where it really lies, on 
 the mainland of Egypt and beside the Nile, does he not leave 
 
 1 V. 89 NefXov Tofadf 7<;as. 2 vv. 597 598, 408 432. 
 
 3 vv. 1526 foil. 4 w. 424, 1532, 1537 foil.
 
 HELEN 75 
 
 it there ? Why insert a verse by which, for the first and last 
 time, it is suggested that the house of Proteus, the house 
 of the drama, is on the rock or island of Pharos? 
 
 If we say that Pharos is wanted because in the Odyssey it 
 is the home of Proteus, we only go from ignotum to ignotius. 
 For why again, in the name of common sense, should 
 Euripides pretend that the personage of his story is a Proteus? 
 The Proteus of Homer, and of other poets, is a miraculous or 
 divine personage, a wizard of the sea, who pastures a flock of 
 seals, and transforms himself at pleasure. Menelaus in the 
 Odyssey consults him as a wizard ; and the marvellous en- 
 counter is laid in Pharos because, as the epic story notes 1 , it 
 was a day's sail away from ' Egypt ' ; and probably it had 
 little traffic, until it was transformed by the Macedonian 
 engineers. All which are excellent reasons why Euripides 
 should name his personage not Proteus, but anything rather. 
 Neither in the person, nor the place, nor the incidents of the 
 story, is there the least resemblance. The Proteus of 
 Euripides, the late king, was apparently not a prophet, even 
 when he lived ; for we are expressly told, as if to prohibit 
 any such notion, that the supernatural wisdom of his daughter 
 Theonoe came not from her father but from her maternal 
 grandfather 2 . Menelaus in Euripides does not come to Egypt 
 for the purpose of consulting Proteus, or of consulting any- 
 body. The whole scenery, circumstances, and facts of the 
 Homeric episode are not merely irrelevant to the drama of 
 Euripides, but incompatible. Apart from the name Proteus, 
 the play makes no allusion to the epic ; and should we import 
 into it reminiscences of Homer, we should make nonsense. 
 Why then did not Euripides call the king by some other 
 name, any other, and dismiss both the Homeric wizard and 
 the Homeric island from a work which has nothing to do 
 with them ? 
 
 The truth is that this prologue betrays, like the prologue 
 to Comus, but much more manifestly, the influence of incon- 
 sistent requirements. The dramatist, for some reason or 
 
 1 Od. 4. 354 foil., where 'Egypt' apparently means the Nile (Diet. Geog., s. v. 
 Pharos). 2 vv. 7, 15, 1003.
 
 76 EURIPIDES' APOLOGY 
 
 other, is not free to consult only the requirements of his 
 story. Milton was bound to place his enchanted wood near 
 the seat of an English nobleman and vice-gerent, near 
 Ludlow Castle, though in truth it is not there and nothing in 
 the story would lead us to suppose so. Euripides, though his 
 scene is not laid on an island, must hint, at all events once, 
 that it is, and though his king of Egypt is not Proteus, must 
 give him that name. In the case of Milton we know the 
 reason ; in that of Euripides, if we would understand him, we 
 must find it out. Why he must have a Proteus, we shall see 
 hereafter ; why an island, we may already guess. If his play 
 was designed for recitation in Macris, at a particular house in 
 Macris, if it not only contains domestic allusions, but in two 
 most important personages represents the successive house- 
 holders, if the whole work, in some of its most significant 
 aspects, is related not to Egypt at all but to Macris, and if it 
 requires that we figure ourselves to be, not only for some 
 purposes in Egypt and at the palace of the Egyptian king, 
 but also for other purposes in Macris and at the house of the 
 representation then we can understand why the prologue 
 should hover, as it does, between two incongruous conceptions, 
 and in particular why Pharos, here and here only, should 
 make its irrelevant appearance. The story takes place by the 
 banks of the Nile ; but no sooner has the author said so than 
 he retracts it, adding that nevertheless we are in an island, 
 the island of Pharos. Why? Because in an island somehow 
 we are to be ; and Pharos (besides opening the way to another 
 innuendo which we shall understand presently) was at least 
 an island, an Egyptian island, and offered, as such, a link 
 of translation between the two pictures of the place, which the 
 author must in some way combine. 
 
 And now comes in again Aristophanes. The Celebrants of 
 the ThesmopJioria not only bases its plot upon the original 
 occasion of Helen, but contains a scene of parody 1 , in which 
 the personages of the comedy temporarily assume the parts 
 and speak, in travesty, the language of the Euripidean play. 
 
 1 Tkesm. 855-919.
 
 HELEN 77 
 
 The scene opens thus 1 : 'This place is Nile, river of fair 
 maidens, which, instead of heaven's rain, gives moisture to 
 Egypt's white soil, a stone (people) 2 as black as a black dose.' 
 Now what is Aristophanes here about? What is his point, 
 and why, to make fun of the Helen, does he raise this pother 
 about the colour and consistency of the Egyptian soil ? Of 
 course it is neither white nor stony, but black and soft, nigra 
 harena, as the literature of antiquity frequently describes it. 
 But why insist upon the fact ? Who controverted it, and 
 what has it to do with the Euripidean play, which never once, 
 so far as I can discover, alludes to the subject ? Without the 
 Helen, we could not answer these questions fully ; but this we 
 could say, that in the play, and in the opening of the play, 
 Euripides must in some way have assumed an ' Egypt' which 
 had or should have a rocky and a light-coloured soil ; that he 
 must have identified Egypt with such a place ; that the 
 identification must have been necessary to him ; that it must 
 have embarrassed him ; and that he must have betrayed his 
 embarrassment in some conspicuous way. Unless all this 
 were true, the parody of Aristophanes would be pointless 
 and unintelligible. Given this, it is witty. Aristophanes, 
 by stopping his quotation at the right place, contrives to 
 construe Euripides as if, though he had not called the soil 
 of his Egypt stony, he actually had called it -white. He 
 pretends to think, though the contrary is obvious, that this is 
 
 1 NeiXou fiev al'Se Ka\\nra.p6evoi poai, 
 5s a.vrl 5ias if/atcdSos AlyijTrTov ireoov 
 \evK7Js forifet /j.f\avo<rvpnaioi> \euv 
 imitating Euripides, 
 
 H$ei\ov fiv aide Ka\\nrap6fvoi. poai, 
 8s avrl 5ioj ^axdSos Aiyvirrov irtoov 
 
 2 That \et!>v here means primarily stone, a by-form of XSs as in the adjective 
 KparalXeus, I infer from its apposition to irtSov (cf. K/xtrcuXewi' irioov in Eur. 
 El. 534), from the fact that it replaces the Euripidean ytias, and from the 
 antithesis of Xevx6s and yoAas. The translation people certainly does not give the 
 whole or the chief part of the sense ; there may be a pun on the proper sense of 
 Xecis ; but as this introduces both a puzzling idea and an odd construction, I am not 
 sure that we ought to suppose so. The ffvp^ala. was an Egyptian medicine. The 
 reason why it is mentioned will appear hereafter.
 
 78 EURIPIDES' APOLOGY 
 
 what Euripides meant. An excellent point, if there was reason 
 to ascribe the idea, though not the language, to Euripides, but 
 otherwise pointless and irrelevant. The Euripidean play and 
 prologue explain it. Euripides does, for his purpose, identify 
 the land of Nile with the island of Macris ; his scene is both 
 at once ; and therefore, says Aristophanes, he might as well 
 have told us that his 'Egypt' was composed of a not black 
 rock ; nay, may we not say that he actually has told us so ? 
 
 We turn then with interest to the plot and personages of 
 Euripides, to see whether and where they show trace of an 
 allusive purpose. Of the plot, the confiding of a wife to the 
 care of a pious householder, his long protection of her, the 
 wooing of her by his unworthy son, the defeat of his son and 
 restitution of the wife by the piety and fidelity of his daughter, 
 we may say with apparent certainty that it has no domestic 
 reference. Apart from the improbability of such a coincidence 
 between a story attributable to Helen and that of a house 
 where, as it happened, a Helen was to be represented, the 
 story is in some respects such, that the mere possibility of 
 a domestic reference would have been enough, one would 
 suppose, to forbid the choice of it. But we cannot say the 
 same of the persons, or not of all. 
 
 Theoclymenus indeed, the son, and Menelaus, and even 
 Helen, are no vehicles for compliment ; but Theonoe, the 
 prophetic daughter, seems made for it. Her ' divine in- 
 telligence' governs all the action, and yet she stands in a 
 manner outside of it. She appears once, in almost super- 
 human dignity 1 , to receive homage and dispense fates, and 
 then 'withdraws into silence 2 ,' while the rest continue, as 
 before, to work out their destiny within the limits of her 
 permission. She is the real queen of the place, the true 
 representative of her father, the mistress for whom her slaves 
 are ready to die 3 , and who overrules as she pleases the will of 
 the so-called master 4 . A woman of intellect, admired for her 
 virtue but specially for her wisdom, wealthy, unmarried, and 
 resolved to maintain her independence, in short, a 'Virgin- 
 
 1 v. 865. 2 v. 1023. 
 
 3 v. 1640. 4 w. 998 foil, 1627 foil.
 
 HELEN 79 
 
 Queen' such is Theonoe; and a more suitable president 
 for the performance of Helen one cannot imagine. Her 
 declaration that ' she will, if possible ' that is, of course, if 
 her besiegers will by any means let her 'keep her maiden 
 condition for ever 1 ,' has perplexed modern readers, who have 
 proposed to omit it, as indeed they have conveniently sig- 
 nalled, by similar proposals, several of the most significant, 
 because extra-dramatic, passages in the piece. Her resolve 
 not to wed has certainly nothing to do with the story ; but to 
 the authority of the real woman it was vital. Now it is just 
 Theonoe of whom the prologue speaks as if she were really 
 not the dramatic figure, but somebody else. We are told that 
 though ' they call her ' Theonoe for her wisdom, that was not 
 her name. Her name was Eidos (or Eidd}*, chosen because of 
 her infant beauty. Why are we told this ? Nothing comes 
 of it. It does not illustrate either the story or the alleged 
 relations of the dramatic family. So far as these are con- 
 cerned, it would have been natural to suppose that the 
 grand-daughter of a prophetic deity, the destined recipient 
 of his gift 3 , had the properest of names from the first. Yet 
 the statement must surely have some purpose. We must 
 accept it then, we cannot but accept it, in its plain meaning, 
 that Eido she was. That she had been a lovely baby was 
 doubtless certified by tradition ; and we are left to presume, 
 though her personal appearance is of no importance to the 
 play, that she had not, at any rate noticeably, belied her 
 infant promise. Her position as mistress of the house and 
 successor to her father is of first-rate importance to the play, 
 as we shall see. It is quite possible that the part of Theonoe 
 was recited by the mistress herself. 
 
 If 'Theonoe' has a personal application, so has 'Proteus.' 
 She is essentially his representative. The spirit of the dead 
 father, the domestic worship of him, his piety and loyalty, the 
 security of his promises, and his daughter's fidelity to their 
 utmost obligation 4 , are not important only to the plot, but 
 
 1 v. 1008 Trei/xtcro/ucu 5e wapOtvos fjAveiv aei, omitted by Dindorf and others. 
 
 2 v. 1 1 eI5os MSS., E/5w Matthiae and later texts. 3 v. 15. 
 
 4 See the part of Theonoe, especially w. 1003 1016, and the play passim.
 
 8o EURIPIDES' APOLOGY 
 
 are honoured by a notice which has received, like other extra- 
 dramatic touches, the significant stamp of critical excision 1 . 
 Helen has entreated Theonoe to honour her father's pledge, 
 by restoring the wife of Menelaus to the lawful claimant. 
 Helen has appealed to the father's grave. Theonoe confirms 
 this appeal ; her father in a sense is there, and the tomb would 
 be insulted, if she refused to do what he would have done. 
 Then, looking up, she adds with startling solemnity, 
 
 ' Ay indeed, payment of such a bond is possible for all of 
 mankind, both for those which are below and those which are 
 above. The mind of the dead, though it lives not, hath yet a 
 conscience immortal, when into immortal ether it hath passed.' 
 
 Ka jap Ticrt? rwf eo-rt rot? re veprepois 
 KOI rot<? avwdev iraa-iv dv6a>7roi<i' 6 vovs 
 
 TWV KcnavovTWv fj,ev ov, 
 aOdvarov, ei<? addvarov aiQzp 
 
 This ' very remarkable passage ' (Paley) arrests the attention 
 of every reader ; and ' why it should be considered an inter- 
 polation by Dindorf' is, with all respect to Paley, perfectly 
 clear. The thrilling note of genuine religious feeling is dis- 
 cordant with the tone of the drama, and specially with the 
 light, irreverent way in which the established deities, Aphro- 
 dite and Hera, are treated in this very scene and by the same 
 speaker 3 . If the Theonoe of the stage were alone concerned, 
 Dindorf would be right in his excision. But it is Eido who 
 here speaks, the friend of Euripides, who had indeed a religion, 
 not that of Hera and Aphrodite, but the cult of her father 
 ' Proteus ' and the belief in the immortal soul. 
 
 The father's name was Proteas, and with the Proteus of 
 the Odyssey, the sea-god, he had perhaps this slight but real 
 connexion, that the resemblance of the names may have led 
 him to take a name for his pretty daughter out of the same 
 epic chapter ; for the sea-god had a daughter called Eidothoe 4 , 
 of which ' Eidos ' was the applicable part. He had been a 
 practitioner in medicine, and a dealer in drugs, herbs, etc., in 
 
 1 w. 1013-1016. The digression is marked as such by us...fMucpd.v in v. 1017. 
 
 2 itrrl MS. 3 w. 878-891. 4 Od. 4. 366.
 
 HELEN 8 1 
 
 short an apothecary, and his wealth was probably acquired in 
 this way. This fact, about which Euripides is naturally 
 silent, is supplied by Aristophanes, whose parody of Helen in 
 the Thesmophoriazusae^ turns almost entirely on the name 
 and profession of ' Proteus.' Mnesilochus, the detected ad- 
 vocate of Euripides at the Thesmophoria, is a captive in the 
 hands of the women. Euripides attempts a rescue, to cover 
 which enterprise Mnesilochus assumes the part of Helen and 
 the poet that of Menelaus. Mnesilochus, as we have seen, 
 gives the opening of the Helen, but with a variant reading : 
 
 ' This place is Nile, river of fair maidens, which, instead 
 of heaven's rain, gives moisture to Egypt's white soil, a stone 
 as black as a black dose.' 
 
 The women are for the moment mystified. But presently 
 comes Menelaus, shipwrecked, as in the real play, but also 
 sea-sick, and with a headache : 
 
 ' A solid house ! Might the possessor of it be such a 
 one as should receive voyagers weak from the rocking of tJie 
 sea in storm and shipwreck 2 ? ' 
 
 'To Proteus it belongs,' replies Mnesilochus-Helen. 
 
 'Proteus'?' says Euripides-Menelaus with surprise. 
 
 ' Ah poor unhappy man,' puts in one of the women, ' he 
 is telling you false, that he is. Proteas has been dead these 
 ten years.' 
 
 Menelaus however persists ; he learns from Helen with 
 amazement, as in the play 3 , that he has reached Egypt, and 
 then asks whether Proteus (sic) is ' at home or abroad.' 
 
 ' The sickness,' says the interrupter of the dialogue, 
 ' must be still in your head ! You have been told that 
 Proteas (sic) is dead, and you ask whether he is "at home 
 or abroad" !' 
 
 All this fencing over Proteus and Proteas is warranted, as 
 indeed, to have any point, it must be, by the play itself 3 . 
 The doubt about the true appellation, which the Aristophanic 
 
 1 w. 850-924. See above, p. 77. 
 
 2 Cf. Hel. 68. It need scarcely be said that neither the Teucer nor the 
 Menelaus of Euripides offers a model for irovrlif crdXy K&HVOVTO.S. 
 
 3 Hel. 460-465. 
 
 v. 6
 
 82 EURIPIDES' APOLOGY 
 
 Menelaus expresses broadly and farcically, is hinted delicately 
 by his Euripidean prototype. ' Proteus it is that dwells here,' 
 says the keeper of the door. But presently Menelaus asks, 
 ' And this King... what yon call him, is he within the house ?', 
 e'crr' ovv ev OIKOIS...OVTII>' ovopd^eis ava ; (And it is worth 
 notice that, in the scene where ' Theonoe ' appears 1 , her father, 
 though mentioned incessantly, is not once named by any of 
 the interlocutors ; nor is she. The pseudonyms, common else- 
 where 2 , would there have been discordant with the respectful 
 allusions to the real man and the sentiments attributed to the 
 real daughter.) The reference to 'black doses,' and the 
 suggestion that Menelaus is seeking a doctor, reveal the 
 profession of the householder ; and it is noticed again, when 
 Menelaus and Helen recognize one another : ' One more like 
 Helen than you, lady, I never saw.' ' Nor I one more like 
 than you to Menelaus at least out of a herb-shop*' The 
 suggestion is (it is probably true and may have been known) 
 that the actors at the original performance of Helen, 
 dependants of 'Theonoe,' had some of them served in the 
 dispensary. They did very well, it seems, considering 4 . 
 
 The burlesque Helen tells the burlesque Menelaus, that 
 ' the old woman,' the celebrant of the official Thesmophoria, 
 who keeps interrupting, is ' Theonoe, daughter of Proteus.' 
 
 1 w. 865-1029. 
 
 2 iru. 152, 460, 542, 787, 1166, 1370; 859 and passim. 
 
 3 Thesm. 910 (Hel. 564) ^yw 5k MevAe^ <r" 6Va 7' K TUV {<pvu>v. The ttf>vov 
 was a herb : TO. t<j>va means the place where it is sold. 
 
 4 I cannot think that we should be content to see here an allusion to the fact 
 or allegation that the mother of Euripides, who is made by the comedian to 
 personate Menelaus, sold vegetables (schol. ad loc.). What has that to do with the 
 Helen! Unless Euripides really played Menelaus, a supposition forbidden (to say 
 nothing more) by his age, it is poor fun to suggest that he would not make a 
 good one. And why should a man make a worse Menelaus, because his mother 
 sold vegetables ? Besides ex hypothesi Aristophanes' actor is not here masked as 
 Euripides. He is got up to look like 'a Menelaus out of a herb-shop,' a chemist's 
 assistant with a taste for theatricals. The scholia (and we too) sometimes suppose 
 Aristophanes to be very dull. It should be observed that the authors of the 
 scholia had not here, and do not pretend to have, any tradition : ' Proteas was an 
 Athenian who had been dead a long time' is their note on TtQvt\K.t Ilpur^as
 
 HELEN 83 
 
 The anger with which the Athenian lady rejects this in- 
 sinuation, and proclaims her full title, including the deme, 
 ' Critylla, daughter of Antitheus, of Gargettus,' suggests, 
 what the silence of the prologue to Helen confirms, that 
 Proteas and his family had no pretensions to birth 1 . His pride, 
 and the pride of his daughter after him, was that his word was 
 his bond, that he ' paid his promise,' the pride of an honest 
 tradesman 2 . Hence the spirited encomium which Helen, 
 when she would move the daughter to keep the promise of 
 the father by restoring her to Menelaus, pronounces upon 
 honesty in the acquisition of wealth : ' For God hateth violence, 
 and biddeth all to take what may be taken lawfully, but not 
 in the way of plunder. Wealth not honest is not to be 
 touched. For as heaven is common to all mankind, so is 
 earth, wherein they should so fill their houses, as that they 
 neither keep nor seize what belongs to another.' 3 All this 
 obviously exceeds the dramatic situation, and has accordingly 
 been marked for excision. The truth is that, like the doctrine 
 of Theonoe on the obligations of the dead 4 , it properly refers 
 not to Proteus but to the real Proteas, the man of business. 
 He was a merchant of Athens, but we have no reason to 
 suppose him a citizen ; his art of medicine, both as science 
 and trade, he would have studied abroad, in Egypt probably 
 for one place. Aristophanes would have called the whole set 
 Egyptians, and tells us so : ' Are you a Greek, lady, or a 
 woman of this country (Egypt) ? ' ' A Greek. But I too 
 would ask, are you?' The lines are Euripides, word for word 5 , 
 but among the ' doses ' and ' herbs ' they have a different 
 effect. 
 
 About the mother of Eido the prologue says little ; but as 
 all that little is superfluous to the story, which has nothing to 
 do with her, we must suppose it to represent the true facts, 
 and to be inserted for the sake of the real woman. Her 
 
 1 The word eiryej/Tjs, as used in Hel. 10, has nothing to do with pedigree. It 
 denotes merely a satisfactory child. 
 
 2 Hel. 939 foil., 1009 foil., and the plot of the play passim. 
 
 3 w. 903-908, omitted by Dindorf. 4 w. 1013 foil. See above, p. 80. 
 5 Hel. 561-562. 
 
 62
 
 84 EURIPIDES' APOLOGY 
 
 name, Psamathe\ was inconvenient ; for the nymph of that 
 name, according to the grave testimony of Hesiod 1 , was 
 united not to Proteus but to Aeacus. Euripides explains pro 
 forma that she married ' Proteus ' afterwards 2 . The only 
 thing we hear about her but this is worth notice is that her 
 daughter's wisdom, that is to say, her intellectual gifts and 
 literary tastes, is expressly traced to the mother's side. She 
 was probably an accomplished hetaera, a word for which we 
 may be content to have no English equivalent, but which 
 described a condition perfectly honest according to the notions 
 of the fifth century B.C., the condition indeed of most women 
 who took part in what we call ' society.' Theoclymenus the 
 son, a ridiculous personage and indispensable to the story, is 
 presumably a mere fiction. 
 
 More about the real persons and external situation might 
 probably be seen in Aristophanes or in Euripides, if we knew 
 it, as the original audiences did, beforehand ; but we will not 
 now attempt anything beyond the outline. I will note only 
 one strangely perplexing place in Helen, where the possibility 
 of an extra-dramatic reference should be considered. When 
 the Egyptian oarsmen, who take the galley out to sea for the 
 pretended funeral of Menelaus, discover that he and his 
 companions are really bound for Argos, one of them exclaims: 
 ' The expedition is a trick ! Let us go back to Axia. You 
 (to the keleustes) call the directions, and you (to the helmsman) 
 turn the tiller.' 
 
 Kdi Tt9 roS' etTre, ' BoXtos rj vavrc\r)pia' 
 
 crv Se crrpecj)' oiaica 3 .' 
 
 Now about this Axia the puzzle is, not merely that the 
 particular word offers no meaning, but that apparently no 
 conceivable word would fit in. It cannot well form a clause 
 by itself 4 ; the following clause (tceXeve crv) refuses any 
 
 1 Theog. 1002, cited by Musgrave. 
 
 2 v. 7. AtaKOv Musgrave, al6\ov MS. 
 
 Ml 
 
 3 If el. 1590. a^iav is reported as the reading of the MS. 
 
 4 So Hermann, iraKiv TrXtunfv, di<3, but plainly this will not do.
 
 HELEN 85 
 
 addition ; the preceding words ' let us go back,' though they 
 might stand alone, will bear no natural addition except the 
 place whither, which should be ' Pharos.' Neither Axia nor 
 Naxia, the conjecture added by our copyist, seems to be 
 known in such a sense, nor indeed would they serve the purpose 
 if they were, since the introduction of an obscure synonym 
 at this point would be absurd. No interpretation even 
 plausible has been proposed, nor, so far as I see, can be 
 proposed, if we look only to the dramatic requirements. 
 We are compelled, it would seem, to look beyond. 
 
 Now it may be observed, that the dramatist, on the lines 
 that we have been following, has here reached the most 
 difficult point in his scheme. The tragedy, though it has 
 some serious parts or touches, is throughout essentially 
 playful. The apology of Euripides to women, if offered 
 gravely, would have been an act of gratuitous self-accusation. 
 This being so, it was a necessity, the bare requirement of 
 good taste, not to include in the story, and above all within 
 the limits of the action, anything horrible or distressing to 
 the imagination. Everywhere else but here, this requirement 
 is easily and scrupulously fulfilled. Nothing is done before 
 us, or even reported, which calls- for a painful compassion. 
 The imprisonment of Helen, the shipwreck of Menelaus, are 
 seen not to distress even the sufferers. Helen walks in and 
 out of her sanctuary ; Menelaus jests about his clothes. But 
 here we come inevitably to an incident which, if seriously 
 pictured, would be horrid. The Egyptian sailors are without 
 shadow of offence ; they are doing a work of charity and 
 piety. The sailors of Menelaus are posted over them, ' man 
 to man,' with concealed cutlasses ; and at the word of 
 command the poor fellows, defending themselves with 'bits 
 of wood,' are slaughtered or chased overboard. And this is 
 narrated by the sole survivor, so it would appear, of the fifty. 
 Euripides, and any audience fit for Euripides, would feel this 
 to be hideous, a thing intolerable, unless, in some extreme 
 circumstances, it might perhaps be presented as a stern 
 necessity. In the Iphigenia for instance it might conceivably 
 have figured, though in fact the incident there corresponding
 
 86 EURIPIDES' APOLOGY 
 
 is nothing like this in cold-blooded cruelty 1 . Yet no attempt 
 is made, nor on the lines of the Helen could be made, to 
 present it as such a necessity. The deceiving of Theo- 
 clymenus, sole cause of the massacre, is a mockery, and a 
 needless pretence. The sailor's own narrative, as we have 
 seen and shall see again, has traits, both preceding and 
 following the massacre, at which we are compelled to laugh. 
 But nevertheless, there stands the massacre itself, the violent 
 slaughter of fifty innocent men. And to carry out the notion 
 of an escape, to imitate in appearance the IpJiigenia in 
 Taurica, something of the kind must occur. 
 
 The dramatist had then, so it seems to me, the most 
 powerful motive conceivable for making us remember just 
 here, just when the massacre is to be related, that this, between 
 him and us, is like all the rest, not serious ; that we are not 
 really and truly to imagine any such thing. He owed this 
 absolutely to himself, his audience, and his art. 
 
 Yet how could it be done ? In one way only : by dropping 
 altogether for a moment the dramatic fiction, by inserting a 
 touch of pure burlesque. We expect ' to Pharos.' Now for the 
 extra-dramatic aspect of this play, ' Pharos ' is Helena ; it 
 signifies Helene, and nothing else, in the only place where 
 it occurs 2 , and the house on 'Pharos' is the house, not of 
 Theonoe, but of Eido. I believe that Euripides deliberately 
 put in here the name either of the house itself, or of the 
 place, some knot of cabins, where it lay ; and that therefore 
 we have no reason for rejecting ' Axia.' Of course the effect 
 would be purely comic, but nothing short of this would save 
 the situation, and justify the importation of such an incident 
 as the massacre. For this purpose the false, or rather true, 
 name would naturally be brought in with pause and emphasis ; 
 after which the massacre might proceed without danger of 
 offence to the most susceptible. 
 
 Let us now sum up briefly the principal facts in the 
 external circumstances of Helen. Among the women of the 
 Euripidean circle, the rare but not unknown votaresses of 
 literature who are marked in the Medea 3 , was a wealthy maiden 
 
 1 Iph. 71 1327-1378. 2 v. 5; see above, pp. 75-78. 3 Med. 1084.
 
 HELEN 87 
 
 lady, named Eido. Her father Proteas, a respectable and 
 successful man in a line which was then both profession and 
 trade, died in the early part of the decade 421 411 B.C. 1 , 
 and she inherited his fortune. She owned property and 
 had a residence, which she occupied at the favourable season, 
 in the island of Maoris or Helene ; and she was pleased to 
 discover, or to imagine, that her island had a romantic 
 association with Helen the heroine. Being, as a woman, 
 specially interested in the Thesmophoria, she proposed to 
 celebrate that festival by a dramatic performance or recita- 
 tion, to be then given at her island-home. Euripides was to 
 compose the play. He had the felicitous thought to combine 
 these data by adopting, from the apology of Stesichorus, the 
 paradox that Helen had been a model of chastity, and 
 presenting this picture, in a sort of mock-tragedy, half sport 
 and half earnest-, as a playful defence, addressed to the sex, 
 against the ridiculous charge of his detractors, that he ' never 
 exhibited a good woman.' A kinsman of his, Mnesilochus, 
 and the tragedian Agathon, aided, or were in some way 
 concerned, in the production. The date may be put between 
 420 and 415. The Iphigenia in Tanrica was already written, 
 and known in private circles ; and that play, with the 
 Andromache, supplied the chief features for imitation. When 
 the Ipliigenia had been produced publicly at the theatre, 
 the Helen, already notorious, though 'new' in the official sense, 
 followed it, probably in the year 412, accompanied by other 
 plays, presumably of the usual tragic stamp. In the next 
 year (411) Aristophanes burlesqued the whole proceeding in 
 the Celebrants of the Thesmophoria. 
 
 Originated thus, the Helen not only admitted a playful 
 treatment, but admitted no other. To the false and perverse 
 charge in question, Euripides would not have made any serious 
 answer, nor would his friends, women or others, have borne 
 that he should. The very title, when considered with refer- 
 ence to the occasion, carried with it the significance of a 
 paradoxical purpose ; and if any more preparation were 
 desirable, in a private circle it could be supplied. Before 
 
 1 Aristoph. Thesnt. 876. Of course we cannot press the 'ten years' exactly.
 
 88 EURIPIDES' APOLOGY 
 
 the piece reached the theatre, its literary character was for 
 literary people already fixed ; and the probable or certain 
 ignorance of the many, to whom all plays were merely shows, 
 was in this case, as in all cases, unimportant. 
 
 The conception of a drama serious in form, but in reality 
 delicately self-critical throughout, was one thoroughly con- 
 genial, if a proper occasion could be found, to Euripides' 
 natural bent. He occasionally succumbed, as we know, to 
 the temptation of putting criticism into grave works, the 
 Electra for instance and the Phoenissae, and shows every- 
 where a great interest in technique. The Helen, in point of 
 structure, is a subtle exhibition of bad technique, designed 
 to amuse a literary society familiar with a century of drama 
 and steeped in critical judgments, the same judgments of 
 common sense which were summed and formulated long 
 afterwards by Aristotle. Everything is irregular and just 
 wrong. The myth is extravagant ; the fabulous element is 
 made prominent, and put into the very heart of the action. 
 The sentiment is spurious, the moral is twisted. The pathos 
 smiles, the motives flag, the machinery halts, and the situa- 
 tions just never come off. It does not follow, and is not the 
 fact, that the play, which, like A Midsummer Night's Dreani^ 
 is full of loose and careless beauties, contains nothing grave. 
 The praise of conjugal fidelity, for example, is none the less 
 genuine because to take Helen as an illustration of it is 
 paradoxical and absurd. The denunciations of war 1 are 
 wholly without irony. But of solemnity there is nothing, 
 except a few touches visibly extra-dramatic and domestic 2 , 
 and of horror or tragic pity not the faintest trace whatever. 
 The whole piece imitates tragedy closely, but by compact 
 between author and audience never attains the line. 
 
 To understand or explain such a work completely is for 
 us now plainly impossible. Our materials and our faculties 
 must be insufficient. To take but one point : we have no 
 plays of Agathon. A special relation between this poet and 
 the apology of Euripides is indicated, though not explained, 
 
 1 e.g. w. 1151 foil. 
 
 2 Principally w. 903 foil., 1013 foil., as already noticed.
 
 HELEN 89 
 
 by Aristophanes 1 . We may take it as certain that the Helen 
 contains allusions, complimentary or critical, to his principles, 
 manner, and works ; but all are beyond our reach. And 
 other like helps we must want, without even knowing what 
 it is that we miss. And beyond all this lies the language, 
 in which the best modern scholar conceivable could not be 
 equipped as the case requires. A phrase too hackneyed, or 
 too artificial, or bringing the wrong instead of the right 
 associations from literary reminiscence such things are all- 
 important to the purpose. No one will pretend that he has 
 in these necessary matters a skill comparable to that of the 
 contemporary audience. None will have it again. 
 
 But it is still possible to discuss some of the interesting 
 questions, which the turns of the dialogue would naturally 
 suggest to the Euripidean circle. One, which goes to the 
 very heart of drama, we will here consider briefly. 
 
 Twice in the play it is debated whether Theoclymenus, 
 the so-called despot, may be attacked by Menelaus and put 
 to death ; once, when Helen first describes to her husband 
 her position in the house and her (alleged) danger from the 
 master's desire to marry her 2 ; and again when Theonoe has 
 given her consent to the escape, and the husband and wife are 
 left to devise the means. 'How would it be, if I were to hide 
 in the house, and give him the edge of the sword ? ' is one 
 of his simple and elegant suggestions 3 . It is explained to 
 him, on the first occasion, that surprise is impossible, that 
 nothing can be done but by permission of the all-seeing 
 sister 4 ; and permission to escape is solemnly obtained from 
 her accordingly, by the joint urgency, though in fact she 
 needs no urging, of Helen and of Menelaus himself 5 . His 
 recurrence in these circumstances to the proposal of a 
 treacherous murder is the very acme of brutality and 
 stupidity. It is of course pointed out to him by Helen that 
 the connivence of the sister would scarcely extend so far ; 
 if it came to killing her brother in the house, she would 
 certainly speak 6 ! 
 
 1 Thesm. 29-264. 2 w. 808 foil. At v. 808, I think, he draws his sword. 
 
 3 v. 1043. 4 w. 809-829. 5 w. 894-1023. 6 v. 1045.
 
 90 EURIPIDES' APOLOGY 
 
 Now why is this absurd passage introduced ? There is no 
 dramatic point in exhibiting Menelaus as a brute, nor is that 
 design pursued generally in the play : he is a mere stage- 
 puppet, without any definite character at all. Or why should 
 it be explained with such emphasis, that Theonoe will not 
 allow violence ? Of course she will not, but why bring 
 it out? 
 
 The passage reflects a criticism, a view which must have 
 been widely held, and supported by ' Theonoel respecting the 
 IpJiigenia in Taurica. All this part of Helen, including these 
 scenes, runs parallel with the IpJiigenia. It is IpJiigenia 
 repeated, with all sorts of amusing or suggestive differences. 
 Now the Iphigenia presents a problem of aesthetic not unlike 
 the familiar question about King Lear, 'whether Cordelia 
 might not have been suffered to escape death,' whether the 
 whole tragedy would not have been dreadful enough without 
 the cumulative accident by which she perishes. Sentiment 
 has often said yes ; sound judges, I believe, say no. The 
 Euripidean question was, and is, 'whether Iphigenia might not, 
 and should not, have been made to forbid tJte murder of Thoas! 
 
 The IpJiigenia 1 is perhaps the most ghastly story imaginable, 
 not so much for the facts, though these are hideous, as 
 because there is no one, no one at all among the principal 
 characters, with whom one can fully sympathize. Of the 
 three victims two, Orestes and Pylades, have been guilty of a 
 revolting and (as Euripides paints it) an inexcusable murder. 
 One is crazy, the other stupid and obstinate. Their enterprise 
 is an act of superstitious robbery, a sort of piratical pilgrimage; 
 and it is moreover, as they might have known it to be, hopeless 
 from the first. Each of them has fine qualities, but pity for 
 their fate is embittered by disgust and contempt. There 
 remains Iphigenia, a beautiful, most pitiable, and in many 
 respects loveable figure. But the business through which she 
 is dragged is so bad, that the loyalty of the spectator is sorely 
 tried. And she nearly kills it, as I have remarked elsewhere 2 , 
 when she has the chance to forbid the murder of Thoas, 
 
 J See Euripides the Rationalist, p. 166. * ib. p. 194.
 
 HELEN 91 
 
 and... pauses upon it, and... rejects it only as not practicable 1 . 
 Thoas is a savage, in every sense of the word. But the Greeks 
 of the play are savages too, and are the aggressors. To kill 
 Thoas could serve no purpose ; and the proposal to do it is 
 stupid, brutal, and only too like the puzzle-headed proposal 
 of Menelaus to kill Theoclymenus, saving that in the mad 
 and miserable Orestes we cannot laugh at it. To Iphigenia 
 the barbarian king has been much kinder than her own people ; 
 he regards her, and she professes to regard him, with some- 
 thing like affection. Merely as a woman, she might be 
 expected to abominate a futile assassination. But the tension 
 of her brother's peril, and all the appalling terrors of the 
 moment, mislead her heart and her judgment. Orestes asks 
 if the murder be practicable. And Iphigenia shudders, but 
 says only that it is too great a risk. It is, I think, natural ; 
 it is perhaps necessary to the truth of the picture. But it is 
 heart-rending, horrible ; and sentiment cries to the dramatist, 
 'For pity's sake, let her say that the thing must not be\ In 
 this welter of crime and folly, give us at least one glimpse 
 of sensibility and sense.' Now it may be assumed that 
 'Theonoe,' the real woman, held, as a woman, with this 
 sentiment ; and that is why Euripides insists on the point, 
 that in a plot controlled by Theonoe there cannot be a 
 murder of King Theoclymenus. About Iphigenia and King 
 Thoas he probably adhered to his own view. 
 
 Other such observations will occur upon a comparison 
 of the two plays, and may be followed up with profit. But 
 how uncertain must be our investigation, how many clues 
 we must miss, even with the help of the Iphigenia, and how 
 many more, because we have lost the indispensable apparatus! 
 And moreover, such things need to be comprehended instanter : 
 they are half-spoiled if they must be explained. A com- 
 mentary on Helen, such as could now be made, would be very 
 long, and I fear it might be very dull. But taken super- 
 ficially, the 'tragedy,' if we start on the right line, is even now 
 full of interest. We must be content here to note without 
 system some scattered points in the order of their occurrence. 
 
 For marking the connexion of the performance with the 
 
 1 Iph. T. 1020-1023.
 
 92 EURIPIDES' APOLOGY 
 
 Thesmophoria, the author relied chiefly on the independent 
 ode ; and indeed no other efficient way was open, the story 
 as such having not the remotest affinity to that festival. But 
 in the semi-dramatic parts of the work there are minor 
 allusions, especially in the prologue. Aristophanes, in the 
 prayer with which his Celebrants open their proceedings 1 , 
 names the deities of the festival as follows: 'Demeter and 
 the Maid, Plutus, Kalligeneia, Kourotrophos, Hermes, and 
 the Charites or Graces.' The five subordinate powers, as 
 here grouped, make a transparent allegory, comprising what 
 mothers would desire for happiness in their daughters, wealth, 
 happy birth, rearing, and education, and finally a fortunate 
 courtship, denoted probably by the conjunction of Hermes 
 and the Graces 2 . All of them are introduced by Euripides. 
 The play proper begins 3 with a comparison of the house of 
 King Proteus to that of 'Plutus,' a compliment to the actual 
 house of the recitation. The prologue begins with an allusion 
 to Kalligeneia, Fair-birth, an important Thesmophorian per- 
 sonage, a double, as it would seem, of Kore the Maid. This 
 word offered difficulties to a composer of iambics, but is 
 suggested by an ingenious turn. The Nile in the first verse 
 is described as kalliparthenos, river of fair maidens, an epithet 
 which has naturally provoked question 4 , being neither usual 
 nor significant to the story. The explanation, I think, is this. 
 All waters as such are Kovporpotyoi, breeders of the children 
 whom they feed. Euripides would, if he could, have called 
 his river tcaXh-tyevcov irapOevwv rpo<j>ov or the like. This being 
 inadmissible, he has put half the important epithet, kalligencs y 
 here, and completed it by eu-genes parthenos (v. 10), bringing 
 in another parthenos (v. 6) as a link to the ear. To a 
 Thesmophorian audience all would be perfectly clear. It is 
 of course arranged, in the circumstances of the house, that 
 the girl of the family, Eido, shall have all the compliment. 
 The son, Theoclymenus, having no real prototype, is disowned 
 as unsatisfactory. 
 
 1 Thesm. 295. 
 
 2 Cf. Plutarch, Coniugalia Praec., prooemium, cited by Orelli, on Horace, 
 Odes I. 30. 8. 
 
 3 V. 69 JlXotfrou yap ol^os o|tos irpoffeiKaffcu. 4 See Paley ad loc.
 
 HELEN 93 
 
 For the like reason, Eido being unmarried and averse to 
 marriage, we have no conjunction of Hermes and the Graces ; 
 but both are mentioned. Hermes (under Zeus) is the deity 
 who chose the house as the place where Helen should reside 
 for the preservation of her conjugal fidelity 1 . The Graces 
 (under Zeus) took the lead, as we hear in the Thesmophorian 
 ode 2 , in consoling the Mother for the carrying away of the 
 Maid on the original occasion of the Thesmophoria. 
 
 As to the secrets of the festival, the things which only 
 women might behold 3 , Euripides, if he knew anything, would 
 of course on such an occasion be scrupulously silent. But he 
 perhaps alludes, discreetly and with confession of ignorance, 
 to the existence of secrets. From our informants, all men, we 
 know that the ritual performances, or some of them, were 
 called pursuits (diogmata) 4 ; this much, and no more, seems 
 to have been public property. Now the prologue has a 
 passage 3 , superfluous to the story, in which the name Helen 
 is derived, ' if the account is true' from a pursuit or diogma 5 . 
 'There is a doubtful account, that Zeus visited my mother 
 Leda as a bird, in the form of a swan, which won to 
 her arms by pretending to fly the pursuit (if this account 
 is true) of an eagle ; and I received the name of Helene.' 
 The purpose of this may be to bring in with emphasis (note 
 the place in the verse) the mysterious word, and to give the 
 women of the audience the opportunity of remarking with 
 a smile, that the poet's notion of a diogma was, as he presumes 
 it may be, not true but utterly wrong 6 . 
 
 We may also note here in passing that Menelaus, at his 
 
 1 vv. 44-48. 2 w. 1339-1344. 
 
 3 Aristoph. Thesm. 626. 4 Hesychius and Suidas s.v. 
 
 5 v. 1 8 tffTiv 5e 5-i? 
 
 Ao-yos TIS, ws Zeiis furirtp' TTTO.T' els lp.rfv 
 AriSav, KIJKVOV /cio/x^wyaor' opviOos Aa/Sow, 
 5s 56\tov evvr)v i^irpa^ VTT' aierov 
 SlwyjjLa <f>evywv, ei ffa<t>i)s oCros \6yos' 
 
 'EX^T? 5' 4K\T)0J1V, 
 
 as if from Xe vySvv apparently. But the word SiVy/xa also occurs at &. 354 and 
 v. 1623, and not, it seems, with any special meaning. See note in Appendix, v. 22. 
 
 6 For a more probable account of these performances, which had analogies in 
 other rites, see Miss Harrison, Prolegomena to Greek Religion, Chap. iv.
 
 94 EURIPIDES' APOLOGY 
 
 first appearance, introduces himself with a superfluous 
 reference to the history of his grandfather Pelops, into which 
 is imported, still more artificially, an obscure legend which 
 seems to have been connected in some way with Deo or 
 Demeter 1 . The irrelevance is so manifest, that some have 
 proposed excision; but what was the motive of the interpola- 
 tion ? The passage indicates rather that the author had 
 reason for hitching his work, upon however slight a pretext, 
 on to the legend of the Earth-Mother. 
 
 In the prologue (v. 36) we are told that the Trojan war 
 was engrafted by Zeus on to the quarrel of Hera and 
 Aphrodite with a double purpose, to relieve ' mother earth ' of 
 excessive population, and to make known ' the mightiest in 
 Hellas.' The fables are commonplaces, but not relevant to 
 this drama ; and the fact is that both have a new turn here. 
 The first is thrown in for the sake of the Thesmophoria, to 
 which the prologue makes other allusions. The second 
 prepares us for an amusing twist later on. ' The mightiest in 
 Hellas,' whose fame the war was to serve, was, in common 
 acceptance, Achilles. But neither prologue nor play has 
 praise for this hero 2 ; and Helen here proceeds (v. 49) as if the 
 compliment were intended for her ' unfortunate husband/ 
 as general of the Hellenic host. Presently (v. 393) Menelaus 
 caps this, by appropriating, ' without boast,' all the glory 
 to himself and Agamemnon, especially himself, on the ground 
 that ' beyond question my force was the largest ' ! 
 
 The episode of Teucer (vv. 68 163), who arrives on this 
 particular day, but independently of Menelaus, to consult 
 Theonoe, as an oracle, on the project of founding the colony 
 of Salamis in Cyprus, is mainly a compliment to the wise 
 queen of the house, but also serves the mechanical function of 
 informing Helen upon Greek affairs, and thus providing topics 
 
 1 w. 386-389, with the remarks of Hermann, cited by Paley. Hermann 
 would correct the passage so as to name Demeter, but this is not clearly 
 necessary. As it stands, it imports that Pelops, not Tantalus, gave the famous 
 banquet to the gods, and was advised to do so by some one not named, whom we 
 should suspect, from other forms of the story, to be Demeter. The avoiding of 
 the name may be intentional, a mystic discretion. Nauck omits i]viKa...iiroifis. 
 
 2 And see the slighting reference in w. 9899-.
 
 HELEN 95 
 
 for the musical lamentations which follow, as well as an 
 occasion for the preposterous appeal of Helen to the lady 
 within for the completion of Teucer's report 1 . The impudent 
 carelessness of the incident as a dramatic device, its utter 
 unlikelihood and irrelevance, must be intentional, and is 
 pointed probably at something beyond our knowledge. But 
 we can appreciate the climax, when Teucer, having done 
 what he is wanted for, is told by Helen (v. 151) that, as for 
 getting to Cyprus, solvitur navigando (TT\OV<; CLVTOS atjfjiaveT) ; 
 and that he had best go at once, for the king of Egypt 
 is by way of putting all Greek visitors, when he catches them, 
 to death, for reasons 'which I do not explain, as it would 
 be of no service to you.' Teucer thanks her kindly (/caXco? 
 e'\ea?), gives her his blessing, and takes himself off. 
 
 At v. 255, we have an oration from Helen which must 
 perplex us, if we suppose that the audience were intended 
 to keep their gravity. ' Women my friends,' she begins, 
 ' what a fate has been mine ! Was I not from my mother's 
 womb a wonder to mankind ? Never did woman of Hellas, or 
 of the world, put forth her offspring in a white shell ; yet so, they 
 say, did Leda conceive me of Zeus. A wonder indeed is my 
 life, and such have my fortunes been.' We correct this (after 
 Badham) by omitting the sentence in italics, which goes 
 certainly to the very edge of burlesque. But that is the 
 purpose. Euripides does but exaggerate, delicately and 
 humorously, a flaw inherent in drama based, like the Greek, 
 upon myths. The matter will scarcely bear the strain of 
 exhibition to the eye. When Deianira in the prologue to 
 the TracJiiniae, as a visible woman, tells us how the river-god, 
 her suitor, beset her father's house in changing form of bull 
 and snake and man, we are already near to danger ; nearer 
 still, when Creon informs Oedipus that the Sphinx, with her 
 riddle and depredations, so absorbed the attention of Thebes, 
 that the murder of the king was disregarded 2 . Keep such 
 things in the background, says Aristotle, registering the 
 practice of common sense ; and Euripides, as well as 
 Sophocles, did so with rigour and vigour. But in Helen we 
 1 See above, p. 59. 2 Soph. O.T. 130.
 
 96 EURIPIDES' APOLOGY 
 
 have broken with common sense, and may enjoy the singular 
 spectacle of a woman deploring to her companions the 
 prodigious fatality that she was born in an egg ! 
 
 At the close of the same speech, tragedy demands another 
 correction 1 . To die well or nobly (/caXco? davelv) is a tragic 
 desire ; but not quite so to die like a beauty, the sense preferred 
 by Helen, who, as we noticed once before, is more conscious 
 of her charms than in this play any one else is. What suicide, 
 she asks, is most fit for her ? Hanging is ugly ; and then she 
 is (as she chooses to argue) ' a slave/ and for slaves to hang 
 themselves is thought not proper. She inclines to the sword, 
 and does nothing. 
 
 This speech contains the famous verse 2 ra ftapftdpwv <yap 
 Sov\a TrdvTa 7r\r)v evos, Outside of Hellas, all are slaves but the 
 one master. It is pointed here at the tyrannical power of 
 Theoclymenus, about which we know what to think ; and 
 I suspect that it is quoted from some other play, where it was 
 really appropriate. Helen's impossible wish, that her face 
 could be 'painted out like a picture, and drawn again less fair 3 ,' 
 should be compared with that of the calumniated Hippolytus 4 , 
 conscious of innocence but bound by his promise not to prove 
 it, that he could look into his own eyes. Nothing will better 
 show what sort of a 'tragedy' this is. Hippolytus touches 
 the very spring of tears ; but what man or woman, having any 
 sense of humour, could weep with such a Helen ? When she 
 laments 5 that her jewel, her infant Hermione, must be getting 
 to 'grey hairs, and still no husband' how are we to forget, 
 though she chooses to ignore, what sort of a marriage she has 
 found herself? If her story were real, and she had a real 
 sense of it, she ought to pray that her child might never 
 marry at all. The situation is a satire on the words, and 
 such is the intention. In the house of ' Theonoe,' grey hairs 
 and no husband would not pass for a description of misery 6 . 
 The whole speech is a thing to smile over, and doubtless has 
 
 1 w. 299-302 are omitted by Dindorf, after Hartung. 
 
 2 v. 276. 3 v. 262. 4 Hipp. 1077. 
 6 v. 282. 6 See v. 1008, and supra pp. 78-87.
 
 HELEN 97 
 
 many humorous points, in the way of parody, which we 
 cannot now perceive. 
 
 With the entrance of Menelaus we come to new and 
 broader effects of the same sort. Indeed there is little to be 
 said about the soliloquies of the great captain, or his interview 
 with the portress, which has not been said by followers of 
 Schlegel or, with much more insight into the nature of the 
 business, by Paley. These ridiculous things are not blunders, 
 nor even ' comic elements ' (whatever that may mean) in 
 a picture professedly serious. They are just parts, harmonious 
 parts, of the quasi-tragedy. The crown of the royal 
 wanderer's misfortunes, towering over the Trojan war and 
 other minor miseries, is that in the recent shipwreck he has 
 lost his wardrobe ; 
 
 as may well be guessed 
 From what I wear, this refuse of the ship. 
 My former robes, my gorgeous draperies, 
 My luxury, sea-swallowed 1 ! 
 
 Of course the poverty or even the discomfort of a prince may, 
 in a proper way and proper place, be treated as a theme for 
 compassion ; and we gather from Aristophanes that in the 
 Telephus and elsewhere it was so treated by Euripides. Here 
 he is serving a dish like that of Aristophanes, differently 
 flavoured indeed, but of the same meat ; and the burlesque 
 of this scene in the TJiesmophoriazusae, so far as concerns 
 the dramatic personages, is scarcely an exaggeration of the 
 original. It is out of the Euripidean company, the dramatist, 
 actors and audience as such, out of the celebrants of the 
 Thesmophoria, ' Theonoe,' her family, and her household, that 
 Aristophanes this time gets his fun ; and very good fun it is. 
 As for the dramatic picture, it hardly leaves caricature any 
 room. Here are some specimens : 
 
 ' In a deep cave I have hidden the woman who to me has 
 been the origin of all misfortune ; and the remnant of my 
 
 1 v. 421 avra d' etVdffat 
 
 irdpeffTi vabs &c/3oX' oh dfj.iriffxf- ai - 
 Tr^TrXous de TOUS irplv \afjiirpd r d/j,<pi[3\riii.a.Ta 
 xXiSas re Tr6i>Tos Tjpiraffe. 
 
 V. 7
 
 98 EURIPIDES' APOLOGY 
 
 companions are guarding, under compulsion, my marital 
 rights ' 
 
 ev vrpov 
 ryvvaltca TIJV Kaicwv trdvrwv fj,ol 
 re 
 
 The crew were apparently of opinion that the captain's 
 anxiety to keep his lady was a mistake, and that another 
 Paris would best put an end to their difficulties. 
 
 ' Ever since I took Troy Town, I have been wanting to 
 get home.... On the Libyan coast there is not a place so lonely 
 and unvisited, but my ship has been there. And every time I 
 approach home, I am blown off again, and not once have had 
 the wind that would bring me to Sparta 2 .' Such is the 
 simple explanation which accounts for seven years ! Tales of 
 adventure, really designed and fit to excite interest, do often 
 make demands upon our belief, which in the aggregate would 
 startle us ; but it is not usual for the narrator, in this candid 
 manner, to present the addition. 
 
 But the cream of the scene, from the contemporary point 
 of view, would be the passage 3 in which Menelaus, having 
 learned that there is in the house a Helen, daughter of Zeus, 
 formerly of Sparta, but resident here since the expedition to 
 Troy, puzzles over the possibility of reconciling these facts 
 with the existence of his phantom companion. ' Two Troys 
 and two Spartas perhaps ; two Helens very likely ; but 
 another Zeus? An Egyptian of that name?? Well, never 
 mind; there is surely but one Menelaus, and this name will be 
 a sure passport to charity.' It is the very image of that 
 mechanical rationalism, the translation of legend into 
 commonplace by supposed coincidences of name, through 
 which the better minds had passed and passed out : the 
 juggling with Kpio<>-K.pio<;, /3opea?-Bope'a?, ravpos-'favpos, 
 4 , men called Hermes, women called Sphinx, 
 
 1 v. 424. 2 v. 400. 
 
 3 w. 483 foil. Paley strikes the right note. 
 
 4 See Heracles 153, and the essay ori that play hereafter.
 
 HELEN 
 
 99 
 
 and ships called Pegasus. Euripides had made use of it him- 
 self for by-ends 1 ; but as a system, to one who had thought 
 out his Heracles, it was detestable in its irrational pedantry, 
 and he tramples cheerfully upon the fallacy of the whole 
 method. There are people still to be found who do not 
 understand the weight of cumulative coincidences, and who 
 might profitably meditate with Menelaus. 
 
 The re-entrance of the Chorus and Helen 2 takes us back 
 to the oracular function of Theonoe, whose response is reported. 
 Menelaus is not dead ; he is wandering still, but will arrive 
 'when he attains the end of his troubles 3 .' The oracle is 
 guarded, as an oracle should be. But certainly we need not 
 suppose in this case any defect of knowledge. The intelli- 
 gence of Theonoe, as a human intelligence, is sound, which is 
 necessary and sufficient for the complimentary purpose of the 
 character ; but her supernatural quality is, as for the same 
 purpose it ought to be, a pretence and a caricature. Up to 
 this point the drama, while assuming that she must have 
 known all the past, shows also that in fact she did not. She 
 now is found to know of the present exactly what any one 
 might know, who was not bound to respect the flimsy 
 hypotheses of the play. Menelaus is coming ; of course he 
 is. Nowhere else but in this Egypt could his presence, with 
 his remarkable wife and his fifty companions concealed in 
 a cave, be a secret. And what of the future? Will he get 
 safely out of Egypt ? Helen was ' so pleased to know him 
 safe at present that she abstained from pressing that point 4 .' 
 Most convenient for the oracle, and, strangely enough, exactly 
 how Xuthus behaves when consulting the Pythian oracle in 
 Ion. Having learned that he is father of a son, ' for the joy 
 of that, he did not ask who was the mother 5 .' He would have 
 posed the prophetess if he had, not (in that instance) because 
 she did not know, but because she did 6 . But in a general 
 way, such an emotional disturbance in the consultant, and 
 
 1 Hippol. 338. See Prof. Murray's text. 
 
 2 v. 528. s v. 534 TJ'lew 8rav di] try par uv \d^rj rAoj. 
 4 vy. 535-537. 5 Ion 541, T{p<t>0eis TOVTO Ktlv' OVK i)p6fj.i)i>. 
 
 6 See Euripides the Rationalist, and my edition of the play. 
 
 72
 
 ioo EURIPIDES APOLOGY 
 
 arrest of the enquiry at a suitable point, was useful to oracles, 
 especially so in stories and plays ; and we may assume that 
 the audience of Helen were not unfamiliar with the pheno- 
 menon. The supernatural powers of Theonoe receive one 
 other illustration, perhaps still more impressive. When the 
 mutual recognition of the spouses, with various loud and 
 long developments, has taken place in front of the house, and 
 when Menelaus has received a sketch of the family and its 
 infallible mistress, the door is at last opened 1 . ' Ah !,' shrieks 
 Helen, 'all is lost: Theonoe comes. ...Fly, Menelaus, fly but 
 what avail ? Present or not present, she knows that you have 
 arrived.' After all that has passed, if we may so say, on the 
 door-steps, this proof of supersensuous perception must con- 
 vince the most sceptical ! But the truth is, that, on the Attic 
 stage, the fore-court of a house does sometimes seem almost 
 sacred from human observation. In the Electra of Sophocles 2 , 
 the raptures of the recognition between Orestes and Electra, 
 passing as it does in full view of Clytaemnestra's palace, are 
 silenced, by 'sounds from the doorway,' certainly not too soon 
 for probability. Between this moderate and effective employ- 
 ment of the theatrical data, and the gross abuse of them in 
 Helen, lay doubtless, in the dramatic repertory, a many-shaded 
 scale of non-observation, quite sufficient to test and illustrate 
 the superhuman acuteness of Theonoe. Theoclymenus, when 
 undeceived at the last, sums up on this point very justly 3 : 
 ' She saw Menelaus in the house, and she never told me ! 
 Never again shall she impose on a man with her divination.' 
 
 With the entrance of Theonoe (v. 865), we strike into 
 a scene different from all that precede and follow it in this 
 respect, that the main sentiment of it is serious, but extra- 
 dramatic, pertinent not only, or principally, to the persons of 
 the drama, but to the real history and real feelings of the 
 mistress of the house, who is represented (or represents 
 herself) upon the stage. The respect of Proteus daughter 
 for the memory of Proteus, the fidelity of Proteus to his 
 
 1 v. 857. - w. 1322 foil. 
 
 3 v. 1625 ...^TU tv SouoiS opwffa Mej'Aewj' OVK flirt /JLOI. 
 
 roiyap OVTTOT' a\\oi> &v8pa T/setifffrai fj.
 
 HELEN lor 
 
 engagements, and the duty and desire of Theonoe to perform 
 those engagements no less strictly than her revered predecessor 
 would have done this is the motive to which Helen and 
 Menelaus appeal, and which Theonoe promptly obeys. The 
 key-notes of the scene, the most significant passages, are 
 precisely those which, as we noticed before, have been excised 
 by critics, endeavouring to bring the text into conformity with 
 the dramatic hypothesis, because both in substance and in 
 solemnity of tone they manifestly exceed the situation the 
 digression of Helen in praise of commercial probity 1 , and the 
 digression of Theonoe on the consciousness of the dead, as 
 importing the permanence of their obligations 2 . These, and 
 the whole scene so far as it is serious, were composed not 
 for the imaginary daughter of sea-gods, but for the real heiress 
 of Proteas, the faithful representative of a name honoured 
 in business. A ray of genuine feeling, not tragic but grave, 
 is shot here and there across the humorous phantasmagoria 
 of the story. 
 
 Apart from this, the scene sustains the dominant key of 
 graceful, quasi-tragic, pretence. The triumph of Theonoe in 
 the vindication of her supernatural powers 3 is the purest irony. 
 She knows what has been shouted in her hearing, that and no 
 more. Menelaus, she says, is so unhappy as not to know even 
 now whether he will get safe home. Nor, we are sure, does 
 she, except so far as the immediate future, the next step, 
 depends obviously upon her permission. This it does, without 
 reference to the question whether or not, as she lightly asserts, 
 the gods, such gods as Hera and Aphrodite, have brought 
 their trivial rivalry to an issue which ' rests with her 4 .' 
 
 In this matter of Menelaus' safe return, his impatience to 
 foresee the event, and the tacit, but unwarranted, assumption 
 that it is foreseen by the oracular virgin, we are again in the 
 track of the Iphigenia in Taurica. Euripides is treating with 
 a playful irony things which there are treated with irony fierce 
 and frightful. There Orestes, who has staked his life upon 
 the prescience of Delphi, and who has already proved (though 
 
 1 vv. 903-908. 2 vv. 1013-1016. 
 
 3 V. 873. 4 W. 877 foil.
 
 102 EURIPIDES' APOLOGY 
 
 he dares not admit it) that the oracle, which sent him to his 
 doom, was either ignorant or treacherously reticent, strives 
 with hollow fallacy to convince himself of what has become 
 his last hope, that it was his ' return ' to Hellas, and only that, 
 which was not expressly revealed to him, though the god (of 
 course) foresaw and implicitly promised it 1 . But the virgin of 
 Delphi, alas, foresaw nothing but what any one might have 
 foreseen, that she was sending her consultant to death. The 
 virgin of Pharos is differently minded, and her limitations are 
 matter only for smiles ; but her scope of vision is exactly 
 that of Apollo, neither more nor less. 
 
 When we come to the pleadings of Helen and Menelaus, 
 a certain distinction is, I think, to be observed in the tone of 
 the rhetoric. Unreal indeed the whole affair is in this way, 
 that the result is a foregone conclusion. Theonoe, by what 
 we have heard already, is committed to the support of Helen. 
 Her pretence of an opposite intention 2 gives a cue for entreaty, 
 but cannot beguile the spectator into anxiety. Nor has the 
 plea of Helen the note of genuine passion. When she 
 diverges into the topic of probity in the acquisition of wealth, 
 we feel indeed that she is going out of her dramatic brief; 
 but we do not feel, as we should if the like occurred in the 
 great speeches of Medea, Phaedra, Creusa, or Iphigenia, that 
 the digression is a bathos ; on the contrary it rises, and the 
 sudden sublimity of it 3 is the most impressive thing in the 
 declamation. The rest is just an imitation of tragedy, but, so 
 far as I see, it is a graceful imitation. Nothing in it is 
 apparently meant to be ridiculous, nor should we expect this. 
 The situation of Helen, as supposed in this play, has an 
 absurd side, when we think of her Menelaus, but has also 
 a serious side. Her sense of unmerited obloquy, as such, 
 is not ridiculous, nor even, as such, her conjugal affection ; 
 
 1 Iph. T. 1015 diravra yap 
 
 vvOfls rdd' et's Ic vvarov tXirifa XaOeiv. 
 
 See Euripides the Rationalist, p. 180, note. The parallel with Hel. 877, oi)5' 
 olffda vbarov ofooS' efr' avrov Bevels, is in favour of the variant \a6elv in Iph. T. 
 I. <-., though if \afieiv be read, the purport of that passage, and the relation of the 
 other to it, is still substantially the same. 
 
 2 v. 892. See Paley's note. 3 vv. 906-908.
 
 HELEN 103 
 
 and these topics, especially the first and the better, are here 
 handled with a pleasing but not agitating tenderness : 
 
 For there is none but hateth Helen now, 
 Through Hellas called forsaker of my lord 
 To dwell in gold-abounding Phrygian halls. 
 But if to Greece I come, in Sparta stand, 
 .Then hearing, seeing, that by heaven's device 
 They died, nor was I traitress to my friends, 
 They shall restore me unto virtue's ranks ; 
 I shall betroth the child none now will wed ; 
 And, leaving this my bitter homelessness, 
 Shall I enjoy the treasures in my home 1 . 
 
 Euripides is more musical than this, but such is the sub- 
 stance ; and manifestly it is not the genuine language of a 
 human creature ground between the millstones of a malicious 
 Fate. Indeed one must not affirm without reserve that it is 
 not ridiculous ; the end of our quotation is bathos, and can 
 hardly be meant for anything else. This much we may say : 
 Helen is gravity itself, if we compare her with Menelaus. 
 
 He rises to the occasion like a man and a soldier, and 
 delivers an exquisite tirade. To make the effect quite sure, 
 Theonoe (or the Chorus 2 ) is made to express curiosity as to 
 how he will come off; and he himself at the conclusion 
 appeals for applause, explaining the rhetorical principles of 
 his success : 
 
 How's that? With tears, taking the womanish line, 
 
 I had been piteous, but not vigorous. 
 
 Slay, if thou wilt ; I shall not die disgraced. 
 
 But rather let my speech persuade ; for so 
 
 Shalt thou be just and I shall get my wife 3 . 
 
 1 w. 926 foil. (Way). 
 
 2 w. 944-946 are given to the Chorus by the tradition, but Menelaus' opening 
 sounds like a reply to Theonoe herself. See note in the Appendix. 
 
 3 w. 991 foil. (A. W. V.) 
 
 rt ravra; Saicpi/ois es TO 6rj\v rpeTri/uei/oj 
 
 eXeti'dj rfv &v /JM\\OV rj Spaarripiot. 
 
 KTfiv , tl SoKel <TOI ' 5i'(7AcXeu;s yap ov Krevea ' 
 
 p.S.\\6v ye IJL^VTOI roit e/aots irtiOov \6yois, 
 
 1v jjs SiKaia KO.I SdfjMpr' tyta \df3u. 
 
 For ri raOro; What of that ? What do you think of that? c(. v. 873 ri rapd, ircSy 
 ?X, 0f<riri<Tna.Ta ; The rendering Why (say) this ? is admissible in itself, but does 
 not fit the context.
 
 104 EURIPIDES' APOLOGY 
 
 And the Chorus crown the effect by the appropriate remark 
 
 Thou, lady, art the umpire of the pleas, 
 And may thy sentence satisfy us all. 
 
 With such preface and comment, the most genuine eloquence 
 would not move us. As for that of Menelaus, it is an 
 admirable specimen of the oratory which is not tragic, but 
 has in all ages been proffered and taken for tragic by im- 
 perfect taste ; in short, it is a rant. This is the way in which 
 the orator raises, as he conceives, the dignity of his appeal to 
 the dead, that is, to the promise of the deceased Proteus : 
 
 Hades, on thy championship I call, 
 
 Who hast welcomed many dead, for Helen's sake 
 Slain by my sword : than hast them for thine hire. 
 Or give them back with life's breath filled again, 
 Or thou constrain this maid to show her worthy 
 Of a good sire, and render back my wife 1 . 
 
 Here is a grand bold handling of big ideas! Here is some- 
 thing to humble Aeschylus' Clytaemnestra and her cry to the 
 fiends of Hell, 
 
 Full many a sup, mine offering, have ye lapped 2 . 
 
 Death retained with a fee of corpses to plead the soldier's 
 cause ! Dryden, in his dramatic style, would have pounced 
 upon the conception with delight. No Elizabethan, not the 
 greatest, could have been trusted to reject it. There are 
 like things in Hugo. And doubtless there were many like 
 things in Carcinus and in the innumerable young tragedians 
 of whom we hear from Aristophanes 3 ; possibly some things 
 not unlike in works of the Three, to which time and chance 
 has been kind. But in Euripides, as we know him, this 
 is the style of a man who is going mad 4 . The big idea, 
 the big words, have no relation to the facts of the case 
 and the natural feelings of the persons concerned ; and this 
 might pass for a definition of rant. Even better, that is to 
 say, more delicately and exquisitely bad, is the exordium, 
 
 1 w. 969 foil. (Way). 2 Bum. 106. 
 
 3 Frogs 90. 4 'Heracles 565-573.
 
 HELEN 105 
 
 where the military orator is so anxious to be at once affecting 
 and manly, and considers so carefully the tone and limits of 
 such a part, that one wonders whether he will ever begin. 
 Translation is hopeless ; here is the thing itself: 
 
 eyo) crbv OVT <iv Trpocnrecreiv r\airjv yovv 
 ovr av 8a,Kpi)(Tai /3^e<f>apa' rrjv Tpoiav yap av 
 Sei\ol <yev6/j,evoi 7r\elarov altrjfvvotftev av. 
 tcairoi \eyovo-iv &><? Trpo? dvSpbs evyevovf 
 ev vfjL(f)opaicn, Sd/cpv' cnf o<f>6a\p.u>v 
 
 rovro rb Ka\6v el tca\bv 
 
 '70) Trpocrde TT}? eui/rin^ia?. 
 el nev avbpa croi Soicel crwcrat, f-evov, 
 
 9 re Kal 7T/3O9 aojcrov. el 8e pr) Sotcel 
 eya> pev ov vvv irpwrov d\\a 7ro\\d/ci<f l 
 d&\to<; av eirjv, trv 8e yvvr) icaicr) <f>avel. 
 
 Then comes another illustration of how not to do it. From 
 Theonoe he turns to her father in his grave, but not without 
 first telling her that ' now comes what will touch her most/ 
 So begins the invocation ; how it ends we have already seen. 
 Next he informs the lady of 'that which Helen has omitted 
 to mention/ the course which he will take, if she and her 
 brother persist in robbing him. First he will fight Theocly- 
 menus ; 'and either he or I must die, that is quite plain/ 
 Like Antony in Shakespeare, challenging high-battled Caesar, 
 he forgets that it takes two to make a fight ; only, unlike 
 Antony, he does not forget it, but explains what will happen 
 'if he refuse to meet me, foot to foot/ painting the conse- 
 quence, the determined slaughter of his wife and himself, in 
 what we may best describe as cold gore : 
 
 C/JLOV 
 
 r/jrap (a<rai SLCTTO/MOV 
 ov VI Kwrot? TOV&, iv* a^aTO? poal 
 
 1 v - 957 > omitted by Nauck and others as a tag from Medea 446. It is a tag, 
 and a bad one; but Menelaus is afraid that he is getting too humble. V. 960 
 (Med. 1360) is another tag. Probably the speech would be found to be pretty 
 well made of them, if we had a proper view of the materials.
 
 io6 EURIPIDES' APOLOGY 
 
 rd(f)ov KaracrTd^aHri' KetcrofjLecrda Se 
 
 dddvarov aXyos (rol, ^0709 Be cr<a Trarpi 
 
 where perhaps er}9, side by side, in a row, is the word that 
 moves us most. But as for ' Theonoe,' what one chiefly 
 divines is, that the setting of the Iphigenia in Taurica, with 
 its 'blood-stained mouldings' and 'frieze of skulls 1 ,' had 
 made her, as it might, a little sick. To the sublimities of 
 Menelaus, who is not in the least danger, she might listen 
 quite comfortably : 
 
 cv jap yafj-ei TijvB* ovre (rvyyovos credev 
 ovr aXXo? ouSet?' aXX' e<ya> cr<' a.Trdofj,ai, 
 el p,r) 7T/30? OIKOVS SvvafJ.0\ d\\a ?rpo9 
 TI ravra; 
 
 I, I will carry her away, 
 
 If to my home I cannot, then to the dead! 
 How's that?... 
 
 The brief and obvious decision pronounced by the lady 
 is noticeable only for the skilful introduction of the extra- 
 dramatic touches 2 , especially the grave and tender lines 
 before quoted, which, by reproving gently the soulless 
 philosophy of Menelaus, and reminding us that not all of 
 the dead, nor his true self, is in his grave, guard the 
 scene from the possibility of appearing to treat lightly the 
 relation between Proteas and Eido : 
 
 8' atTO<? nvdos. (iStKoirjv viv av 
 el fjir} diroSaicro)' tcai yap av tcelvos ySX 
 aTreScoKev av aoi rrjvB^ e^etv, Tavrrj Be ere. 
 Kal yap rt(Tt? TftifS' ecrri rot? re veprepois 
 tcai rots dvwOev Tracriv dv6 pwirois' o vovs 
 TWV KarOavovrwv %fj pkv ov , yva>/j,ijv 8' e^et 
 dOdvarov, et? dOdvarov aldep* efiTrecratv. 
 
 This scene, which concludes, after the departure of Theonoe, 
 with the arrangement of the escape, is separated from the 
 
 1 Ipk. T. 69-75. 2 W. 1008, 1013-10161
 
 HELEN 107 
 
 next by the 'nightingale' ode 1 , which may be so entitled 
 from the invocation of the musical bird with which it begins. 
 The three odes of the Helen present the same parallel to the 
 Iphigenia in Taurica, which governs all the latter and larger 
 part of the play. For the ' nightingale ' ode we have there 
 the 'halcyon' ode 2 , of which the opening uses similarly the 
 melancholy cry of the sea-bird. Another pair take their 
 subjects from two voyages, one 3 following the ship of Orestes 
 from Greece to Taurica, the other that of Menelaus from 
 Egypt to Greece 4 . The third and most remarkable pair are 
 the Pythian ode in the earlier play 5 , and the Thesmophorian 
 ode 6 in the later. In the arrangement of the three re- 
 spectively there is this difference, that the voyage-ode of 
 the Iphigenia refers to the past, and therefore comes first, 
 that of the Helen refers to the future and comes last. Other- 
 wise the relation of the parallel odes to the plot will be found 
 in all respects similar. So also the other lyrical portions of 
 the plays pair off, the lamentations of Helen (and Chorus) 
 with those of Iphigenia (and Chorus) 7 , and the recognition 
 of Menelaus with the recognition of Orestes 8 . This parallel- 
 ism grows naturally out of the relation between the works, 
 but has some interest for its bearing on a comparison between 
 the Pythian ode and the Thesmophorian. There are striking 
 resemblances. Both are purely narrative poems, lyric legends 
 complete in themselves and not necessarily dependent upon 
 the scenes among which they are placed. Even in point of 
 actual disconnexion from the drama, the Pythian ode (of 
 which I have given a full study elsewhere 9 ) has some analogy, 
 though but little, to the Thesmophorian. This may suggest 
 the question, whether there was in the circumstances of the 
 IpJdgenia anything to account for a digression into the legend 
 of Delphi. It may be so ; but at present I find no sufficient 
 reason for the supposition. The Pythian ode, though it can 
 be detached from its play, is by no means irrelevant to it. 
 
 1 v. 1107. 2 Iph. T. 1088. 3 Iph. T. 392. 
 
 4 Hel. 1451. 5 Iph. T. 1234. 6 Hel. 1301. 
 
 7 Hel. 164, Iph. T. 123. 8 Hel. 625, Iph. T. 827. 
 9 Euripides the Rationalist, p. 217.
 
 io8 EURIPIDES' APOLOGY 
 
 Demeter and Kore have no more to do with the Helen, in its 
 dramatic aspect, than with Julius Caesar. But Apollo and 
 Delphi are the theme of the Iphigenia ; and though the 
 Pythian ode is not exactly the sort of piece which in its place 
 we should expect, yet, without extra-dramatic help, we may 
 very well understand why it is what it is. Moreover (and 
 this is important) the Pythian ode is not related, at least 
 plainly, to any particular rite, festival, or season in the calendar. 
 It celebrates (in a fashion) the praise of Apollo as possessor 
 of the great oracle, but contains no apparent reference to any 
 particular ceremony. The Thesmophorian ode celebrates not 
 merely the goddesses but their worship, and concludes with a 
 description of rites. Further (and this is almost decisive) 
 Iphigenia is a work which could not, unless by way of 
 deliberate insult, have been associated specially with a Pythian 
 ceremony ; the story, as shaped and coloured by Euripides, 
 is disgraceful and derogatory to the oracle, more so than 
 enough (one would think) for prudence, without any such 
 exasperation as a Pythian festival would supply. Even the 
 Pythian ode itself, with all its grace, is in substance satirical, 
 and would have scandalized such a person as Aeschylus. 
 But the Helen, as a story, is in no way anti-thesmophorian ; 
 it is simply non-thesmophorian ; and the work is too light 
 and humorous to have, as a whole, any truly religious bearing 
 whatever. The Thesmophorian ode is exactly suitable to 
 such an occasion. There is no real religion in it, no gravity 
 or passion ; it is a poet's compliment to the poetry and 
 popular features of the legend and the celebration, that and 
 nothing more. But as such a compliment it is perfect and 
 without drawback, more beautiful even than the Pythian ode, 
 and free from the suspicion of a sneer. All these con- 
 siderations would yield at once to positive evidence, internal 
 or external, that the occasion of the Iphigenia was Pythian. 
 Hitherto I have found no evidence ; and I do not consider 
 that the relation of the Pythian ode to the play offers even a 
 prima facie ground for suspecting that such was the case. 
 
 The resemblance of the two poems is to be viewed 
 rather in this way. The choric ode or stasimon has always
 
 HELEN 109 
 
 a non-dramatic as well as a dramatic side, either of which 
 may be the more prominent according to the requirements 
 of the case. Thus in the Choephori the second stasimim* is 
 almost an integral part of the scenes with which it is con- 
 nected, while the first 2 is almost pure interlude, and the third 3 
 combines both characters. In composing the Iphigenia, the 
 poet was led, perhaps by nothing more than the desire to 
 place effectively a brilliant poem, to introduce one interlude 
 a little more independent than dramatic considerations might 
 have suggested. In the general imitation of Iphigenia which 
 rules the composition of Helen, this precedent proved highly 
 convenient, because the latter occasion required the use of 
 an interlude independent altogether. The two external data, 
 the island Helene and the Festival of the Two Goddesses, have 
 no connexion, except the artificial one created by the poet's 
 apology to the female sex, which itself extends only to the 
 celebrants of the festival, and not to the divinities. Thus, 
 since the island gets the honour of the story, the most and 
 least that could be done for the Mother and Maid was to 
 give them an ode to themselves, which however, since the 
 given ode is perhaps not inferior to any poem of the kind 
 which the world possesses, may be accepted as sufficient, 
 even now, when the Corn-Maiden has so many and such 
 devoted adherents. In performance, care would of course 
 be taken to mark off this interlude by suitable interruption ; 
 which, since the ode distracts us from nothing more serious 
 than the business of fooling the fool Theoclymenus, the 
 situation will very well bear. 
 
 In general, the musical parts of Helen have the usual tone 
 of choric poetry, but naturally without much elevation. Next 
 to the Thesmophorian ode, but far below, may be ranked 
 the voyage of Helen 4 , where again the comparison with the 
 parallel ode is significant, for that haunting poem includes 
 a curse upon the genuine Helen of legend 5 , of which the 
 remembrance adds piquancy to the paradoxical epithalamium 
 of its counterpart. Between the ' halcyon ' ode and the 
 
 1 Cho. 783 (Dindorf). 2 Cho. 585. 3 Cho. 935. 
 
 4 Hel. 1451. 5 Iph. 7:439.
 
 i io EURIPIDES' APOLOGY 
 
 4 nightingale ' ode there is just the external resemblance of 
 the openings, but no more. The piercing pathos of home- 
 sickness in the ' halcyon ' ode belongs naturally to the Chorus 
 of the Iphigcnia, Greek captives who really feel their exile, 
 and whose fate is not the least tragic part of that terrible 
 drama. The Chorus of Helen, though formally similar in 
 position, are of course. not allowed to feel anything in par- 
 ticular ; and the ' nightingale ' ode, a slight tissue of myths 
 and moralities, may be regarded as little more than a vehicle 
 for the music. One point in it may be noticed as a proof 
 of finish in workmanship. The singers relate, briefly but with 
 the assumption of full knowledge, the wrecking of the Greek 
 fleet on the way from Troy, by a false beacon malignantly 
 lighted on the rocks of the Capherides 1 . Now not only is it 
 impossible, according to the presuppositions of the play, that 
 they should know any incident of the Greeks' return, but we 
 have actually been reminded that they do not know this 
 particular incident ; for it is mentioned, but not related, by 
 Menelaus 2 , when he declines generally, and doubtless with 
 discretion, to relate to his wife his adventures during the 
 period when her place was supplied. ' Your answer,' says 
 Helen herself with opportune recollection, 'is better than my 
 question.' So it is ; but the effect is that neither she nor her 
 companions get information about ' the beacons of Euboea.' 
 In some writers this contradiction might pass for an oversight, 
 though the accident in that case would be odd. But Euri- 
 pides was, as the nature of his work required, punctilious 
 about such things 3 . If he had wanted his ode to agree with 
 the play, it would not have conspicuously disagreed. As a 
 fact, he wishes to detach it, and to show that the Chorus here 
 are mere singers, performers of an interlude, whose dramatic 
 personality, so far as they have any, is irrelevant. The de- 
 tachment is preparatory to their complete and necessary 
 independence in the next ode, the Thesmophorian. It is 
 however probable that the obvious device of an independent 
 stasimon had been used before, when the private recitation 
 
 1 Hel. 1126-1131. 2 Hel. 767. 
 
 3 See especially the Heracles, discussed hereafter.
 
 HELEN in 
 
 of plays was connected with some special occasion or circum- 
 stances ; and we shall presently notice a trace of this, which 
 survives in the public version of the Medea. 
 
 With the departure of Theonoe, and the commencement 
 of the plot for escape, the story loses all trace of gravity, 
 and proceeds with accumulating extravagance through the 
 'deception' of Theoclymenus to the foreseen end. The dis- 
 cussion of plans between Menelaus and Helen 1 is closely 
 similar to that between Orestes and Iphigenia 2 , with this 
 difference, that the one situation is desperate, the other 
 dangerous only in pretence. The very form betrays the 
 opposition, the sharp alternation of verse and verse being 
 exchanged for leisurely couplets. The wild and savage 
 proposals of Orestes, offspring of his crazy mind and tortured 
 nerves, make one shiver, but have, as we saw 3 , quite another 
 effect when propounded with calm stupidity by Menelaus. 
 We have noticed too before 4 , though it deserves to be noticed 
 again, the sheer farce of his contemptuous comment on the 
 originality of Helen's device, that he should pretend to be the 
 reporter of his own death. ' But will that bring us off? ' says 
 he. ' The story, as such, is somewhat stale 5 .' It was indeed, 
 having been classical in tragedy at least since the Choephori, 
 near fifty years, and we know not how long before, and 
 having been repeated doubtless dozens of times with less 
 excuse and skill than in the Electra of Sophocles. In the 
 Tauric drama this cliche" is carefully avoided. Iphigenia has, 
 or supposes herself to have, reasons for believing Orestes 
 dead, until she learns from himself that he is alive ; and it is 
 this true intelligence which, with some false addition, she 
 communicates in the deception to King Thoas 6 . But in 
 Helen, what we want and get is the most threadbare imposture 
 which the repertory supplied, resuscitated in circumstances 
 which make it positively ridiculous. All Helen's inventions, 
 with their assumption of limitless credulity in the deceived, 
 have the same transparent candour, and are accepted by 
 
 1 w. 1032 foil. 2 Iph. T. 1017 foil. 
 
 3 P. 89. P . 60. 
 
 5 v. 1055. Iph. T. 1183 foil.
 
 ii2 EURIPIDES' APOLOGY 
 
 Menelaus with the same sneering acquiescence 1 . She has 
 her revenge, however, when Menelaus carries his affectation 
 of dulness so far as to ask, who is to be the pretended reporter 
 of his death. ' You!' she replies-, with pardonable sharpness, 
 for this point, though not explicitly mentioned at the outset, 
 is plainly implied, and Menelaus has shown already that he 
 thinks it only too obvious 3 . ' You! And you must say, that 
 you were the only one of Menelaus' shipmates to escape, 
 and that you saw him die.' Though it is nevertheless 
 assumed 4 that the plot is to include somehow the whole of 
 his crew, and indeed it must do so in order to succeed. But 
 through this and through everything the gods of the topsy- 
 turvy pantheon are justly relied upon to pull the machine. 
 
 But the best point in the dialogue, the best which with 
 existing lights is appreciable, is the confidence of Menelaus in 
 the wind. Helen is naturally anxious about this : ' If only 
 we have a speeding wind to our sail, and the ship may run ! ' 
 '// will;' says he, 'for the Powers will end my troubles 5 '; 
 and doubtless he speaks with knowledge. The geography 
 of Greece and the framework of Greek legend were such, that 
 ' the speeding wind,' which announces that the Hecuba has 
 reached its close 6 , must often have favoured at the destined 
 hour the personages of tragedy, who, however their adventures 
 might be varied by the composer of the moment, had 
 generally an inexorable appointment with Fate for the 
 ultimate accomplishment of their traditional escapes, home- 
 comings, and so forth. We hardly dare conjecture how often 
 this dramatic gale must have blown to order, before, in the 
 Tauric enterprise of Orestes it failed. There, at the very 
 moment when according to religious expectation the Powers 
 
 1 f.g. V. 1067 TOUT" at Karopffots. 
 
 2 v, 1077 <roG ' KO.I ftbvos ye tjxiffice Sia(f>vyf1f p.6pov 
 
 'Arptus TrXtuv iV iraidi, KCLI 6av6v9' bpav. 
 
 3 v. 1051 (\tyuv), v. 1056. * v. 1069. 
 
 5 V. 1074 EA. Tr6fj.irif40i (j-ovov 
 
 \al(pfi irvoal ytvoivro /cat veus 5po/xos. 
 ME. HffTCti' ir6vovs yap daifioves Tratjaovffi (JLOV. 
 
 6 Hec. 1289; see also Soph. Phil. 1465 foil.
 
 HELEN 113 
 
 should declare for the devotee of Apollo in the natural way, 
 they declare against him, and blow him fiercely back to 
 death. It is the last stroke of the irony which in that tragedy 
 pursues the victims throughout 1 . But in general the Aeolus 
 of the theatre was doubtless more obedient ; and Menelaus 
 has reason to suppose that, however strong may be the 
 external resemblance of the Helen to the Iphigenia, he need 
 not fear disappointment in this respect. It is the just 
 expectation of a hero whose traditional time of wandering 
 is up. The breeze will come, says he; and so it does, 
 punctually 2 . 
 
 Of Theoclymenus, the pseudo-tyrant, perhaps enough was 
 said before. The whole conception of his part, a personage 
 supposed to be formidable in character and authority, but 
 in fact perpetually deluded and disobeyed, is a caricature of 
 dramatic inconsequence. He scarcely ever speaks or is spoken 
 to without exposing, sometimes crudely and sometimes deli- 
 cately, the futility of his function. As a tragic figure, he 
 disposes of himself at his very entrance. He comes in, like 
 Hippolytus 3 , from the chase, with huntsmen, dogs, and nets, 
 but not like Hippolytus with grateful salutations and offerings 
 to Artemis the patroness of the field. On the contrary he 
 is out of humour with his men, and in dismissing them blames 
 himself for excessive clemency in the article of punishment 4 , 
 in short, we divine, without being told, that he has had no 
 sport. His salutation is offered, as in all his comings and 
 goings (so he tells us) 5 , to the tomb of his sainted father, 
 a custom creditable doubtless to both parties, but in this 
 particular connexion not a little incongruous. And anything 
 less like a tyrant in love one cannot imagine. Helen is not 
 in his thoughts ; and the manner in which he recalls her is 
 laughable. His guards are no better than his huntsmen : 
 some Hellene or other, he says, has come openly into the 
 country... to spy of course, or perhaps intending to steal 
 
 1 Iph. T. 1394; see Euripides the Rationalist, p. 196. 
 
 2 v. 1612 ol 5' iar'C ypcv, o&piai 5' TJKOV irvoai, where rJKOf almost suggests the 
 keeping of an appointment. 
 
 3 Hipp. 58. 4 w. 1169-1172. 5 w. 1165-1168. 
 
 V. 8
 
 ii4 EURIPIDES' APOLOGY 
 
 * Helen!' he exclaims, with sudden recollection 1 , 'He shall 
 die!. ..that is, if he can but be caught.' He looks into the 
 sanctuary, which is apparently now closed, but proves to be 
 empty ! So the grooms are called out again for pursuit, and 
 there are a few minutes of confusion 2 , terminated by Helen 
 herself, walking quietly out of the house, but elaborately 
 got up, according to her agreement with Menelaus 3 , as a 
 mourner for Menelaus deceased. The whole business is 
 undignified and comical. 
 
 A propos of the comparison between the entrance of 
 Theoclymenus and that of Hippolytus, we should note that it 
 is actually indicated by a simple but significant feature in the 
 scene. As in the Hippolytus, so here, the two goddesses, upon 
 whose contention the plot turns or is supposed to turn, 
 are represented by images. There the opposition is between 
 Aphrodite and Artemis, here between Aphrodite and Hera, 
 the first opposing and the latter promoting the return of 
 Helen to Hellas. That Aphrodite and Hera are actually 
 represented, appears from the direction of Theonoe that the 
 escape shall commence with prayers addressed to them, and 
 the contrasted prayers which Helen addresses accordingly ; 
 in the words which precede her prayers she speaks of the 
 two opposed inclinations as visible 4 . Theonoe is made to 
 disparage Aphrodite, in comparison with Hera, in words 5 of 
 which the respectful irony strongly recalls that of Hippolytus 
 
 1 v. 1173 Kal vvv irtirva /ueu (fravepbv 'EXXijj'wi' Ttva 
 
 is yrjv d<f>ixOai Kal \e\rjdtvai a /COTTONS, ... 
 
 ijroi Kar6Trrt)v . . .$ /cXoTrats 6r)pw/j.evov . . . 
 
 'E\tvrjv. Oavelrai 5', fjv ye di) \i)<f>6rj /JLOVOV. 
 
 a- 
 
 dXX' WJ Howe, iravra SiairfwpayfJ.ti'a 
 
 efjprjKa. TV/A^OV yap Kevas XtTroOcr' ?5/>as K.T.\. 
 
 2 w. 1180-1183. 3 v. 1087. 
 
 4 w. 878 foil., 1024 foil., 1090-1106. The last passage, I think, makes the 
 point clear. Note TUV in v. 1024, and pxtiru in v. 1090. 
 
 5 Hel. 1006 T) KUTT/HS 5^ /iot 
 
 t'Xews M" e ^> a-vn/StfiijKe 5' ovSa^ov. 
 
 Compare the whole scene in Hippolytus w. 58-120, especially v. 113 -TT) V "V 5e 
 Ktfirpw ir6XX' tyu \alpfiv \tyw, noting that UXews etr) is, for a god, equivalent to
 
 HELEN 115 
 
 in comparing her with Artemis under similar circumstances. 
 The absence of Artemis therefore could not fail to strike 
 spectators familiar with the Hippolytus, and lends point to 
 the return of the unsuccessful sportsman. The two visible 
 goddesses, Aphrodite and Hera, are of course the chosen 
 patrons not of Theonoe but of Theoclymenus, the nominal 
 master of the house, who as a lover hopes for their support in 
 his wooing of Helen. 
 
 All this leads up excellently to the deception, with its 
 trailing facilities and transparent conundrums. Nothing in 
 the friendly satire, directed in this play upon the weaknesses 
 of Athenian tragedy, is better deserved. All Athenian com- 
 positions are penetrated by the Greek and specially Athenian 
 taste for dexterous verbal ambiguity. In tragedy the habit 
 of irony, of making points imperceptible (ex hypothest) to the 
 auditors on the stage but intelligible to the audience, was 
 fortified by the almost superhuman faculty of Aeschylus, not 
 only for managing ambiguous language, but for maintaining 
 that impression of solemnity, which prevents the spectator 
 from consulting his experience, and raising the question, 
 whether the dialogue would actually work as supposed. 
 Both his great successors, and doubtless others, profited by 
 the lesson in their own ways 1 . But such irony is a perilous 
 trick ; and all the Three, in my opinion and, I suppose, that of 
 most readers, sometimes run it fine. For instance, when 
 Amphitryon is directing the tyrant Lycus into the house 
 where Heracles, whom Lycus believes to be dead, is waiting 
 to slay him, the deceiver is made twice to insist ironically on 
 the certainty that Heracles cannot have come to life again 2 . 
 The audience are supposed to enjoy their superiority of know- 
 ledge, and perhaps they might ; but is it certain that none of 
 them would ask himself, why a deceiver should sound this 
 warning, and what would be its natural effect upon the 
 deceived ? What the thing came to in the hands of bunglers 
 we see in the deception of Theoclymenus. The situation 
 
 1 See e.g. the ambiguity of ^uxw ('their life,' 'my life') in Med. 968 ; but the 
 subject is too familiar for illustration. 
 
 2 H.F. 717-7*9- 
 
 82
 
 ii6 EURIPIDES' APOLOGY 
 
 is such that any ambiguity whatever in the behaviour of 
 Helen must betray the secret of her unnatural and fantastic 
 proposals. To preserve appearances absolutely would be her 
 only chance, if chance there were. And yet at every turn she 
 must be letting us see that Theoclymenus does not see that 
 she says that Menelaus ' has not perished,' ' has not been 
 buried,' ' is here present,' ' is to go where she would have him,' 
 'has the garb of her husband,' 'was the only Achaean among 
 the Greeks of her husband's ship 1 ' ! And when she has 
 invited Theoclymenus to ' make her his wife now and here,' 
 and when he, by an embrace, has in a manner done so, we 
 can work off a fresh set of ironies 2 about ' burying her husband,' 
 without the least apprehension of his doubting, any more than 
 we do, whether we mean the old husband or the new! The 
 high-water mark of this foolery is her mysterious declaration 
 about the ' dead ' Menelaus : 
 
 ynp ea-riv, o<? TTOT crrv, ev u>v. 
 
 To the audience this means what it says, that she loves him, 
 whoever he is, for being here. But what should it mean 
 to Theoclymenus ? One can strain out some other sense or 
 senses which a resolute commentator can put on it. She gives 
 it as a reply to the suggestion, that the loss of funeral rites to 
 her husband is no great matter for lamentation ; and it is 
 apparently to be accepted by Theoclymenus in the sense that 
 the dead ' be he what he may, is dear to her so long- as he is in 
 this world! Well, since the Greeks did use here and tliere for 
 this world and the other respectively, the interpretation is 
 possible. But what can be more absurd, as a device for 
 avoiding suspicion, than such a riddle ? Theoclymenus gives 
 it up, asking in bewilderment whether ' all is straight about 
 this mourning'; and though, being a fool, he is promptly 
 
 1 v. 1207 "EXXrjj/, 'Axaiuw eft ^/if> (fyt7rXoi/s 7r6<ret. 'Achaeans' here, if dis- 
 tinguished from 'Hellenes' as the emphasis suggests, denotes the ruling race, the 
 kingly families, and the verse may signify, with the usual cumbrous simplicity, 
 that the man present is Menelaus himself. But it need not. 
 
 2 w. 1231-1232, 1237, 1239, 1276-1278, 1285-1289, 1399-1409. 
 
 3 v. 1225.
 
 HELEN 117 
 
 reassured, that does not justify the puzzle, which only serves 
 to illustrate the clumsiness into which a composer may be led 
 by an intemperate taste for duplicity. We may suspect that 
 it is borrowed or adapted from some notorious failures in 
 this style. 
 
 The double meaning of the phrase 'dead husband,' signi- 
 fying Menelaus or Theoclymenus according to speaker and 
 context, after being worried to rags by Helen and the two 
 men, is perhaps used to supply evasions for Theonoe 1 . The 
 ambiguities in this scene are so many, and some of them so 
 extravagant, that it is difficult, especially for a foreign inter- 
 preter, to be certain, who is supposed to understand what. 
 And indeed it is probably the intention that the audience 
 shall be sometimes merely bewildered. The deception con- 
 cludes with some more verbal sparring between Helen and 
 Theoclymenus, each contending which can most plainly say 
 the thing which is not to be understood. The lady gives 
 us again her puzzle about here and there" 1 , in a form 
 more puzzling than ever ; and finally the lover, not to be 
 beaten, fires off three continuous verses of enigma 3 , signifying, 
 though of course the speaker is supposed to be not aware of 
 it, that Menelaus is to take back his wife, convey her home, 
 and live with her happily there henceforward. One can 
 imagine the rounds of applause which saluted his exit after 
 this natural and convincing performance. 
 
 The last scene introduces the Egyptian sailor with his 
 
 1 v. 1371 irbaw irap6vTa rbv ffjibv 
 
 OVK tlir' d5eX0Cf>, KaT0av6vra d' tv ~}(0ovl 
 
 o# <f>rjffLv avyas flffopdv /j.7]v "xa.pu>, 
 
 where note the emphasis on ir6<n.v. The corrupt verse which follows, Ka\\iaTa. 
 drjr' avfipwaffev tv TVXV Trbffis, referred, I think, originally to the felicity with which 
 Theonoe apprehended the precious ambiguity of ir6<ris ; but there is some con- 
 fusion in the text here. See note in the Appendix. 
 
 2 v. 1421 6E. TO. TU>V OavovTuv ovStv, dXX' #XXws tritvot. 
 
 EA. ZffTiv rt KaKi KavOdS' uv tyw \eyta. 
 
 3 Or perhaps five, w. 1436-1440. Note the use of the metaphorical term 
 sea-embrace (Tre\ayiovs dyxdXas) for waves (cf. v. 1062). Here it may be con- 
 strued with t\0d>v, and mean, to the audience, the embracing of Helen on the sea. 
 The word of/cows is ambiguous throughout, signifying either the home of Menelaus 
 or that of the speaker, at pleasure.
 
 ii8 EURIPIDES APOLOGY 
 
 sensational report. Here the text has sustained some injury, 
 the nature of which is worth consideration. The scene opens 
 abruptly with a couplet, 
 
 ava, TO, KaKwr* ev &6fj,ot<; 
 
 to? Kalv aKOvcrrj TT^/iar' e' e/ioO 
 
 of which the first verse is a false and very late insertion 2 . The 
 supposition 3 that it fills the place of a genuine passage omitted 
 by accident does not seem probable. How should such an 
 accident hit exactly the beginning of a scene, leaving intact 
 to the last verse the ode which precedes ? What is wanting 
 is not verses but stage-directions. The arrival of the sailor, 
 the emotion of the Chorus, the entrance and amazement of 
 the king, are all exhibited only by action or inarticulate 
 exclamations, from which fact we should infer that there 
 is something very startling about the man's appearance. And 
 this is likely. According to his story, he has barely escaped 
 first from the sword and then from the sea, and must be 
 in a most woeful plight. Now we have already remarked 
 that his story, so much of it as is horrible, would be incon- 
 gruous and offensive, unless the audience were sufficiently 
 assured that it is not seriously meant 4 . Nothing could serve 
 this purpose better than a touch of caricature in the make-up, 
 a thing the more easy because the Greek stage was not so 
 familiar as that of modern tragedy and melodrama with objects 
 visibly hideous. One such effect we have had already; for the 
 ghastly toilette of Helen the mourner, exhibited in the midst 
 of the king's hunt, could not fail to be grotesque 5 . Another, 
 I think, we have here. The sailor must be the grimmest 
 of figures, battered and bruised and livid. To make such 
 a figure pathetic would perhaps be not impossible, but easier, 
 and here more proper, to make it a little ridiculous. Let it 
 come on abruptly; let the women first and then the king 
 salute it in appropriate tones ; let it address the prince in the 
 true style of a tragic apparition, after a solemn pause but 
 
 1 v. 1512. 
 
 2 The false quantity betrays a writer accustomed to scan by accent. 
 
 3 Dinclorf. * p. 84. 5 w. 1087, 1184-1190.
 
 HELEN 119 
 
 without any invocation, ' How strange a tale of woe thou art 
 to hear!' and we shall have the best possible introduction 
 to the humours and horrors of the narrative. As usual, 
 comparison is challenged, and a standard for estimating the 
 effect is furnished, by the Iphigenia, where the corresponding 
 personage, the narrator of the parallel story, is marked with 
 ugly and formidable wounds, to which he calls attention 1 , 
 a circumstance which, however proper to that play, must have 
 provoked criticism in Athenian audiences. Here also the 
 Helen appears to have pursued its purpose, to convert into 
 extravagance, by exaggeration, whatever in the technique of 
 drama current opinion had noted for dangerous. Of the 
 narrative we have already said enough 2 . Every part of it is 
 humorous and absurd, except the massacre, which by its 
 nature does not admit such treatment. This, being neverthe- 
 less indispensable, is summarily reduced to the proper level 
 of unreality by the preliminary allusion to 'Axia.' 
 
 As for the Divine Twins, who appear at the close, they 
 have this disadvantage, as compared with the human per- 
 sonages, that the gods of the Euripidean finale are, as a rule, 
 beyond the reach of parody. To be more futile and unreal 
 than the Athena of the Iphigenia would be impossible. But 
 there is humour in the Twins nevertheless. Very candid and 
 satisfactory is their confession, that their promotion by Zeus 
 to the rank of gods has not enabled them to interfere with 
 fate, or with the superior deities who ' were pleased that the 
 thing should be as it was 3 .' Such was the simple philosophy 
 of the Greek pantheon. The peculiar occasion of Helen gives 
 to the epilogizing deities (who doubtless dispensed for the 
 nonce with a machine) the unusual opportunity of referring 
 to the external circumstances of the representation, as when 
 they explain the new name of the island Macris. The ' island 
 of the blest' singular not plural 4 which is promised as 
 a habitation to the ' travelled ' Menelaus, is Macris alias 
 Helene itself, to which ' Menelaus,' being one of the dependants 
 of ' Theonoe,' and having come, as Aristophanes says, out of 
 
 1 iph, T. 1366. 2 pp. 54, 57, 84, 113. 
 
 3 W. 1658-1661. 4 v. 1677 /Mucdpuv vrpov.
 
 120 EURIPIDES' APOLOGY 
 
 the herb-shop, had apparently then retired. He had probably 
 travelled, especially to Egypt, in his commercial as well as 
 in his heroic capacity. So also the libations and enter- 
 tainment, which Helen, having finished her (dramatic) life, 
 is to share with her divine brothers, are nothing else but the 
 festivity which followed the performance and included the 
 more dignified performers 1 . The less gifted members of the 
 company and household would wait upon the feasters as usual: 
 
 <yap ov 
 T<OV S' avapiQ^TWv p,a\\bv elcriv ol TTOVOI. 
 
 Great ones the gods mislike not ; toils belong, 
 As more appropriate, to the unreckoned throng. 
 
 But the best laugh is reserved for the end, when the 
 Chorus, left alone upon the scene, deliver, with a new and 
 witty application, the Euripidean play-end, or tag, 7roX\.al 
 jjLopfyal TOJV 8ai/j,ovL(i)v and so forth. ' Many a shape has 
 fate, and many a surprise the gods decree ; expectation 
 is not accomplished, and for the unexpected Heaven finds 
 a way. And so has this action ended !' The full history of 
 this formula, which occurs several times 2 in our collection, we 
 cannot trace ; but it surely refers, with a certain shameless 
 sarcasm, to the huddled expedients which in all ages have 
 been permitted or practised in the theatrical wind-up, and 
 specially to the peculiar treatment of a miraculous intervention, 
 which was required by the position and purposes of Euripides 3 . 
 In the Medea for instance, the tag anticipates the remark of 
 Aristotle, that nothing in the plot of that play justifies or 
 prepares us for the final rescue of the heroine by an aerial 
 chariot ; it is a ' divine surprise.' But in Helen, by the 
 peculiar character of the play, the poet is enabled to produce 
 a new kind of surprise, and one particularly adverse to certain 
 expectationswhich have been raised in the minds of the Chorus. 
 The play compares at all points, as we have seen, with the 
 Iphigenia in Tanrica, which also has its surprise, but one 
 different from that of the Medea. It consists 4 , as in the 
 
 1 Zeus (v. 1659 and v. 1669) is Euripides. 
 
 * Alcestis, Medea, Andromache, Helen, Bacchae, with slight variations. 
 
 3 See Euripides the Rationalist, p. 77. 4 ib. p. 168.
 
 HELEN 121 
 
 Orestes 1 , in a reversal, by the intervening deity, of the proper 
 and inevitable conclusion to which the story has actually been 
 carried. Iphigenia and her companions are saved from destruc- 
 tion by a simple order, given by Athena, without pretence of 
 reason, to the king of Taurica; and the deliverance is extended, 
 by a freak, the extravagance of which is expressly emphasized, 
 to the Greek slave-women who compose the Chorus 2 . They 
 also are to be sent back to their country. No reader of the 
 Iphigenia could forget either their heroism or their reward ; for 
 the one is the most beautiful thing in the story, the other the 
 wittiest thing in the epilogue. Now the Chorus of the Helen, 
 in sex, position, function, part, are precisely similar to that of 
 the Iphigenia ; and we have in the play an explicit promise 
 that the parallel shall extend to their ultimate fate. Helen, 
 like Iphigenia, requires their secrecy, and offers, in language 
 almost identical, the prospect of their escape 3 . Nothing 
 indeed can be less like than the effect of the two scenes and 
 the two offers, the one desperate, the other impudent; but the 
 formal resemblance is exact. We expect therefore, and the 
 Chorus expect, betraying doubtless their expectation by joyful 
 acquiescence, that their release and restoration to Hellas will 
 be ordered in due course by the intervening deity. But 
 Castor, alas, forgets this part of his duty. His speech, which 
 the handmaidens follow, we must presume, from point to point 
 with signs of eager anticipation, concludes without mention of 
 them, does not demand their enfranchisement, does not even 
 include them in the invitation to the banquet ; and his final 
 words (above cited 4 ) seem to refer them to their ordinary 
 tasks ! There is yet one chance ; for Theoclymenus has to 
 speak, and will surely repair the omission. But from him 
 also they get nothing, except their share, as women, in the 
 happiness of contemplating a virtuous Helen ! We can 
 
 1 See essay on that play hereafter. 
 
 " Iph. T, 1467, Euripides the Rationalist, I.e. 
 
 3 Iph. T. 1067 ffuOflffd 8', WS $LV KO.I CT1> KOl 
 
 cruxrw ff' es 'EXXciSo. 
 
 Hel. 1388 rp d 
 
 audfvTfs avrol /cai ere 
 
 4 v. 1679.
 
 122 EURIPIDES' APOLOGY 
 
 imagine therefore, when ' the great ones ' have passed into 
 the house, with what melancholy gestures, and amid what 
 merriment, their inferiors prepare to follow, intoning in 
 a minor key (or whatever was the Greek equivalent) the 
 familiar words, ' Many a surprise the gods decree ; expecta- 
 tion is not accomplished, and for the unexpected Heaven 
 finds a way. And so has this action ended!' 
 
 On the whole, and much as we inevitably miss, we can 
 perceive, in most of the play, a conformity to the humorous 
 purpose of the Euripidean apology. The portions least ap- 
 parently suitable are the musical, especially the commos, that 
 is to say the lyrical part of the mutual lamentations between 
 Helen and the handmaidens upon their first entrance 1 . At 
 least I do not here find in the words generally anything 
 inconsistent with gravity. But the spirit of the piece by no 
 means requires that the sorrows of the heroine should be 
 altogether ridiculous. Possibly there was a touch of parody in 
 the music. And even the words present at all events one 
 passage which is not offered for admiration. Here is a not 
 unfair translation of it. Helen sings: 
 
 Ah, maiden of Arcady, happy, Kallisto, art thou, 
 O fourfoot-pacing thing who wast Zeus's bride ! 
 Better by far than my mother's is thy lot now, 
 Who hast cast the burden of human sorrow aside, 
 And only now for the shaggy limb 
 Of the brute with tears are thy fierce eyes dim. 
 Yea, happier she whom Artemis drave from her choir, 
 
 A stag gold-antlered, Merops' Titanian daughter, 
 Because of her beauty, but mine with the brands of desire 
 Hath enkindled Dardanian Pergamus' ruin-pyre, 
 And hath given the Achaeans to slaughter 2 . 
 
 This is Alexandrian poetry, not Attic, learned, frigid, and 
 hollow at the heart. The priestess of Taurica in the parallel 
 passages does not thus illustrate her miseries by miscellaneous 
 mythology 3 . The appearance of such a passage, as a sequel 
 to the absurd conversation with Teucer, and a preliminary to 
 
 1 w. 179-251 and 330-385. 2 vv. 375-385 (Way). 
 
 3 iph. T. 143-235-
 
 HELEN 123 
 
 the preposterous consultation of Theonoe, signifies (and one 
 is glad to know it) that Euripides was alive to the peculiar 
 dangers besetting drama based upon minstrelsy. It was not 
 for every one, as he saw, to follow Aeschylus with success 
 in his 
 
 KM \iyetas popov 
 
 7repe/3a\ov yap ot irrepofybpov 
 
 Oeol J\VKVV T' dywva K\au/j,firo)v arep' 
 
 /J,ol 8e fii/jLvei tr^toyiov d/A^rf/cei Bo pi 1 . 
 
 This is perfect, but poised in its perfection upon a slippery 
 verge. Euripides may have thought that, even in some plays 
 of high note and passages of singular beauty, the alliance of 
 pathos with erudition had gone quite far enough 2 . 
 
 The private origin and private recitation of the Helen is 
 a fact which should not surprise us. It was probably not 
 even exceptional. It would have been strange, and scarcely 
 credible, in the circumstances of the age, that such recitations 
 should not have been common. The number of plays com- 
 posed about this time at Athens was enormous. Aristophanes 
 can scarcely find a figure sufficient : ' more than ten thousand,' 
 that is, than infinity, is his phrase for the tragedies which the 
 young men were at work upon 3 . The opportunities of public 
 exhibition were infinitesimal. What then became of these 
 fashionable compositions ? We can scarcely suppose that all 
 of them were written to be kept in the desk. Reading, silent 
 and solitary reading, was but a recent habit, and readers still 
 few. Recitation had been and was still the normal manner 
 in which literature circulated among all but professed students. 
 In these circumstances it would have been strange indeed, if 
 tragedies had not been privately performed or recited. Even 
 for the very few composers who could reach the theatre and 
 
 1 Again. 1146 (Dindorf). Cassandra speaks: 'Alas, for the fate of the 
 musical nightingale ! Her did the gods clothe in a winged form, and gave her a 
 sweet and a tearless passage of death. But I must be cleft in twain by the steel's 
 sharp edge.' 
 
 - See Soph. Ant. 823. 
 
 3 Frogs 89 fjLtipa.Kv\\ia 
 
 rpaytpSias TTOIOVVTO. ir\fiv 7)
 
 124 EURIPIDES' APOLOGY 
 
 theatrical festivals, private performance of some kind was an 
 obvious method of experiment; and one would suppose rather 
 that many or most tragedies passed through it. One tragedy 
 of the time we have (attributed, perhaps wrongly, to Euripides) 
 which cannot have been intended, one would suppose, for the 
 theatre I mean the Rhesus. The Greek preface to that play 
 speaks indeed of its being ' recorded as genuine in the didas- 
 caliae'\ but if this means (though perhaps it need not) that an 
 exhibition of it in the theatre was recorded, one would almost 
 doubt the fact. The action passes in the night; and that it 
 was performed in such circumstances as those of the civic 
 theatre and festival is scarcely believable ; at all events this 
 cannot have been the original intention. Nor is it likely, in 
 that age, that the composer thought only of readers. For 
 private recitation or performance a suitable time and 
 arrangement could be chosen ; and it would be interesting 
 as a variety. But apart from this exception there is much in 
 extant tragedy, especially that of Euripides, which suggests 
 the influence of domestic recitation. For many, perhaps 
 a majority, of his plays, the forecourt of a house, or the space 
 in front of it, would be a scene not merely as good as that of 
 the theatre, but in many ways better. Of course a play, which 
 'obtained a Chorus' and reached the dignity of exhibition, 
 would generally need some recasting or retouching to fit 
 it for the peculiar conditions of the Athenian theatre ; and in 
 this process those features, if any there were, which the piece 
 derived from the circumstances of its origin, would disappear; 
 as they seem to have disappeared for the most part, but, as we 
 shall presently see, not completely, from the public versions 
 preserved to us, in all cases except that of Helen. 
 
 But it is a fortunate or a judicious choice which has 
 preserved to us one play of Euripides which, by the nature of 
 the case, could not undergo any material change in being 
 transferred from private performance to the publicity of the 
 Dionysia. The Helen is so intimately connected with the 
 house of ' Theonoe,' that it could not be disengaged from its 
 origin, but, when demanded by the general curiosity, had to be 
 given as it was made. We are thus reminded of the important
 
 HELEN 125 
 
 aid which private performance must have rendered to the 
 general development of the Euripidean drama out of the 
 Aeschylean. It is not too much to say that, without the help 
 of some external frame more suitable than the theatre of 
 Dionysus, nothing less than a miracle could have created such 
 types of art as the Alcestis, the Phoenissae, the Hippolytus, 
 the Andromache, and above all the Medea. We naturally have 
 received these works, and are thankful so to have them, in 
 their public shape. But that is not the original nor the most 
 appropriate shape. One of them at least, the most celebrated 
 (which is not to say the best) of the poet's extant plays, has 
 been deplorably injured, as the poet himself indicates 1 , in the 
 vain, though doubtless inevitable, attempt to fit it for the 
 incongruous conditions of a civic spectacle, and retains in its 
 perversion many traces of the better mould. 
 
 The story of Medea, as treated by Euripides, though 
 admirably fitted for exposition by monologue and dialogue, 
 is one which, to a delicate taste, must lose on the whole rather 
 than gain by performance of any kind, and is painfully 
 unsuitable for presentation to a huge mass of people. The 
 finest parts of the play are thoughts, private thoughts, so secret 
 and so terrible that the thinking mind must struggle to 
 disguise them even from itself, and that even to write and 
 read them is already to do some violence to nature. All the 
 rest consists of colloquies essentially private and intimate. 
 For pomp there is neither need nor opportunity. Not a single 
 situation requires or even admits that sort of illustration 
 which a great stage and large company can supply. The 
 best acting and delivery would be the simplest. Indeed it is 
 not easy to imagine what skill in the enunciation of /ea/c<w5 
 Tre-Trpa/crai 2 or co re/ci/a re/ci/a 3 could perfectly compensate for 
 the impropriety of having such things spoken at all. Is it 
 likely that they were imagined and composed for the purpose 
 of being declaimed with professional effects to the assembled 
 population of a great city? Moreover the plot is such that 
 a Chorus, the necessary condition of public performance 
 
 1 See below, p. 127. 2 Mfd. 364 foil. * ib. i<m foil.
 
 126 EURIPIDES' APOLOGY 
 
 at Athens, is an exasperating absurdity. For a Medea, 
 murderess of her children' one single confidant would be 
 too much ; and the co-operation of fifteen casual visitors is 
 not a whit the less outrageous because, tempted or forced by 
 the conditions of his time, Euripides consented to authorize 
 it, and to introduce, for the sake of the theatre, other elements 
 not less unfortunate. 
 
 The play will bear no Chorus ; and for a domestic per- 
 formance none would be necessary. For this purpose, an 
 empty stage would be a sufficient separation between the 
 scenes ; or if an interlude were desired, it might be best 
 delivered by a single voice. One such interlude, unique in 
 the extant literature, actually survives 1 . Instead of an ode 
 bearing upon the action and designed for a band of per- 
 formers nominally engaged in the action, we have an un- 
 broken recitation, totally non-dramatic in theme and manner, 
 and, though connected remotely with the subject of the play, 
 not even affecting to have any relation to the plot. It was 
 not for fifteen voices, nor for the leader of fifteen, that the 
 poet wrote 
 
 Sia \tnorepti)v (Jtvff&v e 
 KOI 7T/009 ayu/XXa? rj\6ov fj,eiov<? 
 rj xpr) yeveav 0fj\w epevvav 
 d\\a yap eanv fMOixra KOI fjfjuv, 
 rj 7rpO(ro/j.i\ei cro<j)ia<; eveicev 
 irdcraKTi /nev ov, jravpov o~e 761/09, 
 jAiav ev 7roXXat9, evpoi? av icrci)<; 
 K.QVK airo/AQua-ov TO yvvatKwv. 
 L <f)ijfj,i ftpOTwv oirti/e? elcrtv 
 
 aTreipot //,r;S' e^vrevcrav 
 , 7rpo<f>eptv els 
 
 and the rest of this simple and tender meditation. Would 
 one desire to sit with twenty thousand strangers, while trained 
 and hired vocalists shouted this ? 
 
 1 Med. 1081 foil.
 
 HELEN 127 
 
 l Srj jap a\i<; fiiorbv ff rjvpov, 
 ' e? rjj3r)V rj\vBe reicvwv, 
 T' <yevovr ' el Be 
 #T6>9, <f>povSos e? " 
 ddvaros 7rpo<pepa>v aw/jiara TCKVWV 
 
 words made, one would think, to be written in a locked 
 volume, and shown, rather than read, to a dear companion. 
 To the twenty thousand the thing did come, as many things 
 have a strange fortune in the process of life; but never for 
 such a use was it planned. The odes of the Medea, the real 
 odes, are some of them admirable compositions; but the 
 consignment of them all to oblivion would have been a small 
 price to pay for the expulsion of the Chorus, and the 
 restoration of the drama to a cast and setting which would 
 make the story conceivable. 
 
 Equally unfortunate, though necessary, was the change 
 which, as the existing text betrays, was made, when the play 
 was prepared for the theatre, in the substance and form of the 
 finale. The denouement of the Medea, the aerial chariot in 
 which the murderess departs, has been a commonplace of 
 critical condemnation ever since Aristotle, and doubtless 
 before. The poet himself appends on this occasion his 
 critical tag, which confesses that ' the end is not what was 
 expected 1 '; and in truth it is utterly inappropriate. The 
 Medea of the play, the injured woman, is not and cannot be 
 conceived as a supernatural person, or the possessor of super- 
 natural powers. Nothing in the action requires the sup- 
 position 2 , and the tone and colouring exclude it. With the 
 miracles of Argonautic legend the story has no real connexion. 
 The play scarcely touches on them 3 , and to be consistent 
 should not touch at all. Again and again the forsaken 
 mistress is represented as helpless for every purpose but 
 
 1 Med. 1415; see above p. 120. 
 
 2 The deaths of the princess and her father assume nothing which may not be 
 conceived as the natural effect of an unknown poison. 
 
 3 Med. 478-482. Every reader feels these reminiscences to be out of keeping. 
 They, and some other slight touches, are probably interpolated, though doubtless 
 by Euripides.
 
 128 EURIPIDES' APOLOGY 
 
 revenge. So far is she from commanding the resources of 
 heaven, that she cannot even secure a refuge upon earth but 
 by negotiation with a scrupulous visitor, whose consent to 
 receive her is purchased by the promise of medicinal aid 
 to his virility 1 . This personage offers the protection of 
 Athens, on the condition that, without his aid, she can get 
 out of Corinth ; and it is necessary, for the proper defeat of 
 her betrayer, that she should get out. But that in these 
 circumstances she should fly away through the air, receiving, 
 as a thing of course, a yoke of serpents from her grandsire 
 the Sun, is a 'surprise' which the unanimous judgment of 
 cultivated persons has condemned, and which Euripides him- 
 self has condemned in advance. 
 
 To justify it is impossible ; but there is this excuse for it, 
 that the narrow and peculiar conditions of public performance 
 at Athens were not consistent with a proper conclusion, any 
 more than they were with the working of the plot as a whole. 
 The play had once a conclusion not inappropriate, and the 
 lines of it are visible in the altered form. In the final 
 dialogue with Jason, as we still read it, Medea proposes to 
 bargain with him : she asks how she is to purchase a 
 separation, whereupon he demands that the bodies of the 
 children should be given to him for burial 2 . Nothing comes 
 of this negotiation, nor could anything come of it as the 
 situation is now represented. Medea, speaking from the 
 security of her chariot, of course refuses the demand, and has 
 in fact no reason for inviting it. That she does invite it 
 is proof that, as the scene was originally conceived, she was in 
 a position not of absolute but of temporary safety, not yet 
 able to escape, but able either to grant or refuse decent 
 burial to the children of the traitor. That the father should 
 
 1 See the play passim, and specially the strange interview with Aegeus 
 (w. 662 foil.). 
 
 2 Med. 1373 
 
 MH. ori/yef iriKpav df ^d^iv (X&a-ipw crtdev. 
 
 IA. Ka.1 (Jii)v ^yw ff-fiv p<f.5ioi> 5' aTraXXcrya/. 
 
 MH. ircDs ovv ; ri. Spdffu; Kdpra yap Kayfe 6\u. 
 
 IA. dd^ai vtKpovs not rovffde KOI K\avffai wdpes. 
 
 MH. 01) ST/T', fircl ff<pas ryo' tyu 6a.\j/<>} ~xepl K.T.\.
 
 HELEN 129 
 
 concede anything, rather than forego the rite, would, I con- 
 ceive, be perfectly intelligible to the Hellenic mind. Moreover 
 Medea explains that the burial of the children is to be the 
 means or occasion of religious benefit to Corinth 1 . In the 
 present scene this is nothing to the purpose, since, with the 
 dragon-chariot, it matters not at all whether Corinth is 
 contented or not ; but it was important and necessary, when 
 the consent of the Corinthians was required to confirm the 
 transaction and permit the departure of the murderess. The 
 inconsistent conduct of the scene, as it stands, is just such a 
 flaw as is likely to appear in the most skilful patchwork, and 
 indicates that the play originally ended, as we should expect, 
 in a negotiation by Medea, completing her arrangement with 
 Aegeus, for leave to retire from Corinth. To the same con- 
 ception of the story belongs the notice in the prologue 2 , that 
 Medea was popular among the citizens in her place of exile. 
 That this notice now comes in oddly, is irrelevant, and is 
 awkwardly worded, is the universal opinion of readers. But 
 something of the kind, now represented by a remnant and a 
 patch, was indispensable for the original denouement by means 
 of a bargain. Such a bargain, grim and sordid, required no 
 miraculous intervention, and terminated the miserable story 
 in a manner not indeed pleasant (how should such a story 
 have a pleasant termination ?) but at all events consistent with 
 its colour and sentiment. Why then was it altered ? Because 
 a popular audience, eager to amuse their holiday with a 
 spectacle, would find such an ending flat, and for the pleasure 
 of admiring a mechanical surprise would cheerfully sacrifice 
 considerations of propriety and harmony, which the majority 
 would not even perceive. All this is no justification for the 
 scene as it is. But the mistake lay not in adopting this 
 particular method of fitting the Medea to be a civic spectacle, 
 but in attempting such a process at all. The temptation, in 
 
 1 Med. 1381-1383. 
 
 2 Med. 1 1 avSavovcra. pcv 
 
 O.VTTJ re irdvra ffVfj,<j>tpovff' 'Uffovi, 
 where see the commentaries. We should perhaps read avr<p (Earle) for afa 
 
 v.
 
 130 EURIPIDES' APOLOGY 
 
 the conditions of art at Athens, was naturally great ; and this 
 way of doing it was perhaps as good as another. But the 
 Medea could in no way be really adjusted to the conditions of 
 the Dionysia ; and if Euripides had known no other conditions 
 than those of the Dionysia, no Medea would ever have been 
 written. It is a picture conceived and fitted for private 
 exhibition, but distorted, as we have it, by violent extension 
 to the frame of the Aeschylean company and theatre. 
 
 No other extant tragedy (the Rhesus and of course the 
 Helen excepted) exhibits this quality of origin so strongly 
 as the Medea, though there is much in Euripidean drama 
 generally, for which the civic theatre does not account, and 
 the domestic theatre, if we may so call it, does. The passage 
 of plays through the preliminary period of private recitation 
 is generally important for the history and comprehension of 
 Euripides. It accounts for the existence of plays like the 
 Ion, the Alcestis, and the Heracles, plays which, in their 
 existing shape and as performed at the public festival, have 
 the air of a puzzle. Most readers experience the impression 
 that the Ion does not work itself out, and that the end of the 
 piece, with a great parade of elucidation, leaves us neverthe- 
 less discontented and doubtful. This phenomenon, when 
 examined, is seen to have a simple cause, in the fact that the 
 play propounds and presses an enquiry, which the conclusion 
 does not answer. The story turns upon a question deeply 
 affecting the honour and veracity of the oracle of Delphi. 
 The tone and the trend of events appear throughout to be 
 hostile to the oracle. But at the last moment a conclusion 
 favourable to the oracle is abruptly imposed, without, as it 
 would seem, any real explanation whatever 1 . Such a method 
 ceases to be mysterious, when we consider that we have 
 no reason to figure the Ion as composed with original and 
 exclusive regard to the Dionysia. It must have been easy 
 in that age and at Athens to collect private audiences, who 
 would listen with perfect composure and satisfaction, while 
 such a play as the Ion, a satire upon the pretensions of 
 Delphi, was played out to the end which is all but visible in 
 
 1 See my edition, and Eitripides the Rationalist, p. 129.
 
 HELEN 131 
 
 the extant form. Had this not been so, no play such as the 
 Ion now is could have been admitted to the civic theatre, and 
 no author, taking that line of hostility to the public religion, 
 which was openly attributed to Euripides, would have been 
 heard there. To such private audiences, the Ion, with its 
 proper ending, and without any ' Athena ' in the machine to 
 convert its natural import into nonsense, was first recited ; 
 and so it was probably recited for some time, before the 
 diffusion of curiosity, and the desire of the author for the only 
 existing method of wide advertisement, led to the production 
 of it before the civic assembly. Here it was necessarily pro- 
 duced with a slight disguise, just enough to avoid legal danger 
 and to content the uncritical masses. The few who looked 
 for more than a spectacle were already enlightened by report, 
 or, if they were not, could satisfy themselves by enquiry. 
 Some there doubtless were, intelligent enough to be dis- 
 satisfied, and yet not so situated as to command information. 
 For this reason the method, however necessary in the circum- 
 stances, was disadvantageous ; and the remains of Euripides 
 show, if we may suppose them to be representative, that it 
 was exceptional. To no other times, and to no other society, 
 would it have been applicable ; and this is one of the reasons 
 why the works of Euripides, which have been transmitted to 
 us by public authority and in their public form, present, 
 as attentive readers generally feel, certain difficulties of a 
 unique and peculiar type. 
 
 Even in plays which did not require disguise, we are 
 sometimes reminded that the author did not always or 
 habitually think, if we may so put it, in the forms established 
 by Aeschylus. The phenomenon is notorious, and so widely 
 diffused that its weight will be rather diminished than increased 
 by particular illustration. But let the reader turn to the scene 
 of the P/toenissae 1 , where Jocasta in maternal ecstasy caresses 
 and fondles and strokes and dances round her recovered 
 son ; and let him say whether it seems likely that such a 
 vision would have presented itself to a mind occupied by the 
 forms of Aeschylus and the setting of the Dionysia, the 
 
 1 w. 301-354, especially w. 312 foil. 
 
 92
 
 132 EURIPIDES' APOLOGY 
 
 cothurnus and mask, the stately robe, the enormous throng, 
 the political sentiment, all the things which made the only 
 proper atmosphere for the Orestea, and were congenial, though 
 not perhaps necessary, to the Antigone and the Oedipus 
 Tyrannus. 
 
 Even modern literature and society, though we have 
 nothing analogous to the theatre of Athens, offer examples 
 of the dangerous and sometimes disastrous pressure of cir- 
 cumstances upon the forms of artistic creation, by which we 
 may help ourselves to comprehend how the Ion or the Medea 
 came into the extant shape. Instances recent or contemporary 
 will occur to every reader, which prove that a work of 
 imagination may be deliberately perverted and mutilated by 
 the author, both before and after publication, in order to 
 catch the taste or command the attention of a wider and 
 a less competent audience. It was Scott himself who, mur- 
 muring and protesting, but yielding to his publisher and 
 the certain demand of the vulgar novel-reader, irreparably 
 damaged what should have been a figure not inferior in tragic 
 interest to the bride of Lammermoor, by recasting St Ronan's 
 Well so as to spare the honour of Clara Movvbray; and it 
 was not for want of urging that he refrained from crowning 
 the suicide by actually marrying the maniac, in a happy 
 conclusion, to her lover. It was not to please himself that 
 Mr Kipling patched on a bright ending to The Light TJiat 
 Failed. And it is still the miscellaneous mob of the public 
 theatre, which, with its stupid though inevitable demand for a 
 smart finish, produces the worst distortions. If the reader 
 was ever present at a performance of Mademoiselle de la 
 Seigliere, as converted from novel to drama, this recollection, 
 or if not this, some other like it, will suggest, with what 
 scarcely suppressed exclamations of displeasure and contempt 
 the chariot of Medea must have been received by the few, the 
 comparatively few, who are aware that not every story is 
 susceptible of a neat and satisfactory wind-up. And if we 
 had only one theatre, a national and official theatre, dedicated 
 (let us say) to St George, we should not be long without a 
 parallel to the Athena of the Ion, who bestows a pompous and
 
 HELEN 133 
 
 fatuous blessing upon the conclusion of a piece which, if it 
 means anything, means that Athena never existed. 
 
 It is to be regretted, that we do not possess more 
 information about such private performances or recitations 
 of dramatic works, as can be proved for the Helen, and 
 through the Helen for the Iphigenia in Taurica, without a 
 previous knowledge of which play the Helen would not be 
 intelligible. Doubtless they were in apparatus exceedingly 
 simple : no buskin and mask, no machinery, no scenery, or 
 scarcely any, but the yard, the house, and the door, nothing 
 much in the way of costume. The splendour of the Dionysia 
 has covered them with an obscurity all but complete. But 
 just by reason of their simplicity, and of the domestic 
 atmosphere, they must have been incomparably important to 
 the development of such a drama as that of Euripides out of 
 a drama like that of Phrynichus and Aeschylus. Plays of 
 Euripides there are, the Suppliants and the Children of 
 Heracles, which are designed, like the Eumenides or the 
 Antigone, as civic spectacles, and apart from the theatre could 
 scarcely exist; but these are not his best, nor his characteristic 
 work. Aristophanes testifies not only to the fact, but to the 
 interest, of the private representations. He criticizes the 
 private performers of Helen, and would appear to have 
 somewhere seen them. It is not impossible that he was 
 himself present, as a guest of ' Theonoe,' at the original 
 celebration in the island. It is worth notice (if, as I think, it 
 is true) that the Celebrants of the Thesmophoria, and particularly 
 the scene which burlesques Helen, contains nothing personally 
 unpleasant for the virgin-queen, no reference, for example, to 
 Tretpacro/iat 8e irapdevos peveiv (tei or other like points, out of 
 which the comedian might certainly have made capital, if 
 he had chosen. The treatment of the affair is such as, allowing 
 for the tone of the age, would give almost unqualified pleasure 
 to a woman of intelligence and humour; and the patroness of 
 Helen6 cannot have been without those qualities. She 
 deserves not to be altogether forgotten.
 
 A SOUL'S TRAGEDY. 
 (HERACLES) 
 
 Frantic, he as truth received 
 What of his birth the crowd believed. SCOTT. 
 
 My life has crept so long on a broken wing. 
 
 TENNYSON. 
 
 THE tragedy of Heracles or, as it is commonly and 
 conveniently called, The Madness of Heracles, presents with 
 singular sharpness the fundamental question, which more than 
 once confronts the student of Euripides : What are the 
 supposed facts of the drama ? In what sort of world and 
 amid what kind of experiences are the personages supposed 
 to have lived, and in particular how, if at all, do these 
 experiences differ from what Euripides himself, or the average 
 of his educated contemporaries, would have recognized as 
 normal or as possible ? What in the play is the part, if any, 
 of m iracle ? 
 
 It may be, and indeed is, a strange thing, that this point 
 should be open to doubt. With Heracles for the hero, we 
 might expect to find the miraculous facts of the story given 
 as plainly and unmistakeably as any other part of it, given as 
 they are in the Trachiniae of Sophocles. There we are 
 introduced at once to a woman, who has herself been wooed 
 by a river-god capable of miraculous transformation, who has 
 herself been carried over a ford by a Centaur 1 , who discoursed 
 with the Centaur while he died, who gathered the blood of his 
 death-wound, and narrates these experiences without the 
 
 1 Track. 555, and the prologue.
 
 HERACLES 135 
 
 least suggestion that they are surprising or abnormal. And 
 the whole story proceeds of course accordingly. We do not 
 find Deianira observing incidentally, that the notion of twy- 
 formed or multiform creatures, the belief that such exist or 
 ever have existed, has always appeared to her to be a 
 pernicious absurdity. What should we say if we did ? We 
 should of course eject the remark as the ill-placed jest of an 
 interpolator. We should not for an instant accept both the 
 criticism and the experience as conceivable parts of the same 
 dramatic character, and erect upon this unimaginable basis 
 a so-called interpretation of the so-called play. Nor should 
 we allow ourselves to be put off with the observation, though 
 it might well appear true, that the criticism represented the 
 opinion of Sophocles. The opinion of Sophocles, we should 
 say, has nothing to do with the question, which relates 
 wholly to the opinion of the imaginary Deianira. Given her 
 experiences as related by her, she did ex hypothesi know twy- 
 formed animals to exist ; and to suppose otherwise would 
 be to make the story and the drama a thing of naught, 
 inconceivable, unintelligible, and null. Yet it is precisely in 
 this fashion that we are told to interpret (if the word is 
 deserved) the Heracles of Euripides. 
 
 ' For my part,' says Heracles, the hero of this play, 
 
 For my part I do not hold that the gods know unlawful love ; and 
 that they should make prisoners one of another I never did think fit nor 
 will believe... For deity, if deity indeed, is without all needs whatsoever. 
 These things are poets' miserable tales 1 . 
 
 Nothing can be plainer. The speaker rejects absolutely, and 
 once for all, such man-like superhuman beings, such deities 
 with the passions of men, as the common legend of Heracles, 
 with its battles of giants and invasions of Hades, requires us 
 to assume as part of the world and of possible human 
 experience. The circumstances, in which he makes this 
 profession of faith, are such (we shall see) as to exclude the 
 possibility of self-deception, delusion, or pretence. We must 
 understand, and no one has ever attempted to prove the 
 
 1 v. 1341.
 
 136 A SOUL'S TRAGEDY 
 
 contrary, that it is given for the real opinion of the dramatic 
 character presented, a part and an essential part of his mind. 
 It follows therefore, if the story is to be a story, if the play is 
 a play, if it has, as a whole, any sense whatsoever, that the 
 experiences of the hero, as presented and supposed in it, are 
 and have been consistent with the belief which he professes, 
 that he has not had knowledge of any such creatures or 
 persons as Zeus and Typhoeus, as Pluto or Cerberus, that, in 
 short, the legend of Heracles, as commonly told, is not to be 
 supposed as part of the story, but replaced by some totally 
 different conception of Heracles, and of his mental and physical 
 history. 
 
 To refuse this inference, to evade this necessity, is to be 
 led straight to the conclusion formulated (by Mr Swinburne, 
 if I am not mistaken), with refreshing sincerity and clearness, 
 in the statement that this work, The Madness of Heracles, 
 is 'a grotesque abortion,' a monster, a chaos, in which 
 incommunicable parts are joined or mixed without disguise 
 and without attempt (for it need hardly be said that there is 
 no trace of such an attempt) at reconciliation. The statement 
 is bracing in its frankness, and I remember to have received 
 from it a salutary shock. But it would be the same thing in 
 substance, and in form, all things considered, not less decent, 
 to say that Euripides is here not comprehensible to us, and 
 to study the drama no more. Nor indeed do the modern 
 interpreters escape this practical result. It is usual to praise 
 the play ; but those who will examine the laudatory references 
 and allusions to it may satisfy themselves, that what is meant 
 by 'the play' is in reality a small part of it, less than a third 1 , 
 which can, without much violence, be read as consistent with 
 the legend of Heracles, the story of Zeus and Hera, the 
 giants, Hades, Cerberus and so forth, assumed as part of the 
 facts. All the rest of the play, the first half and the last 
 fourth or some such fractions, is ignored, is treated as non- 
 existent, and this without any attempt to show that those 
 portions are intended by the author to be separable and non- 
 dramatic, an attempt which, if it were made, would certainly 
 
 1 vv. 763-1162, and a few fragments elsewhere.
 
 HERACLES 137 
 
 be foredoomed to failure. Surely it would be simpler and 
 less invidious to say, that what the author meant we do not 
 understand. 
 
 To the same effect leads the remark, a commonplace 
 of modern criticism, that the play is 'deficient in unity.' 
 What is signified or covered by this polite expression, is the 
 undeniable truth, that if, as we commonly suppose, the action 
 of the play in its central part depends upon the superhuman 
 quality and history of Heracles, assumed for the purpose of 
 the story as matter of fact, there is irrelevance, and worse than 
 irrelevance, in an enormous prefatory act or scene, in which 
 that superhuman quality is debated, and not merely debated 
 but, to any common apprehension, discredited and disproved. 
 
 In these circumstances it would seem imperative, as the 
 next step, at least to attempt the interpretation of the play 
 upon the hypothesis that the hero is not a superhuman 
 personage, nor his story supernatural, but he a man, however 
 great, like other men, and the scene of his action, however 
 remote in time and different in circumstances from the age of 
 Euripides or from our own, nevertheless no other in its 
 physical laws than that same world which the Athenians knew 
 and we know. Not only is this the truth, but upon the 
 perception of it depends all the coherence of the play, all its 
 meaning to the intelligence, and the better part of its appeal 
 to the emotions. 
 
 It is no matter for surprise, that a play based upon this 
 supposition should have been presented on the tragic stage of 
 the fifth century, no more so than that the contrary supposition 
 should be the basis, for example, of the Trachiniae. Both 
 hypotheses were then familiar to the literary world. A legend 
 like that of Heracles, which allowed that the hero, whatever 
 more he was, was certainly a man, lay peculiarly open to 
 rationalistic treatment ; and though we have lost almost all 
 the controversial and popular literature of those days, we 
 happen still to have evidence that the legend of Heracles 
 actually was so treated. The early rationalists encountered 
 indeed in this case, as in others, an objection with which they 
 were ill prepared to deal. If Heracles, as they contended
 
 138 A SOUL'S TRAGEDY^ 
 
 was no more than a man, and his career nothing beyond the 
 limits of nature, how did the miraculous story come to exist? 
 And generally, how did any such stories come to exist ? This 
 was the embarrassing problem for such writers as Herodorus 1 ,. 
 and for all those whom we may call mechanical rationalists. 
 A legend, they said, is an exaggerated and mistaken version 
 of real but commonplace events, a falsehood evolved out of 
 true facts by rumour, credulity, and ignorance. Taken 
 generally, this theory had in it elements of truth, and probably 
 carried the assent of the better instructed in the fifth century. 
 But the rationalistic interpreters, as is the way of all theorists 
 in the first stage of a controversy, not only worked the method 
 to death, but applied it in detail with a poverty of imagination 
 and puerility of expedient, which became in the aggregate 
 self-refuting. People of common sense, however willing to 
 doubt whether the maiden Oreithyia had really been carried 
 off by a superhuman lover wielding the power of a Boreas 
 with capital B, became, after many repetitions of like devices, 
 as little inclined to believe that she had been blown over 
 a cliff by an ordinary boreas or north wind. The example is 
 cited as typical by Plato in the next generation, and is 
 dismissed with merited irony 2 . Nor was this type of 
 expedient the worst or the most abused. Equivocations, puns 
 upon words and especially upon names, were adopted, in 
 tracing the generation of the miraculous, with a wearisome 
 and incredible profusion. Heracles did not strangle the 
 Nemean lion in his arms (eV ftpaxioa-iv). No, but he did 
 actually capture it in a snare (eV ySpo^ot?). The legend arose 
 (as in the game of ' Russian scandal ') out of a mis-hearing. 
 The ram of Helle was a boatman called Krios, the bull of 
 Pasiphae a gallant called Tauros. A little of this sort would 
 be more than enough. The instance of the Nemean lion 
 is noted and stigmatized by Euripides himself, who attributes 
 it to the villain of our play 3 . 
 
 But however objectionable or excessive may have been 
 the methods of the rationalizers, it is certain that, at Athens 
 
 1 Murray, Hist, of Ancient Greek Literature, p. 127. 
 
 2 Phatdrus, p. 229. 3 Heracles 153.
 
 HERACLES 139 
 
 in the fifth century, educated opinion was with them on the 
 main issue. The historical reality indeed of Heracles, for 
 example, was for all Greeks of that age an axiom ; and for 
 the matter of that, it is still, I suppose, the better opinion, that 
 his legend, whatever other elements it may embody, is founded 
 in parts upon the career of an actual hero. But the reality of 
 the gigantic combat at Phlegra, or of the hell-hound Cerberus, 
 exhibited as a prisoner in broad daylight at the Argolic town 
 of Hermione, would hardly have found more defenders, in 
 the circles to whose suffrage Euripides appealed, than among 
 ourselves. This being so, the desire for variety, to say nothing 
 of other motives, would prompt a dramatic author to exhibit 
 the hero in a naturalistic guise. Nor could any valid objection 
 be made in the name of art ; unless it is held that fortitude 
 and beneficence, devoted to the service of man, are admirable 
 only if exercised upon a snake with a hundred necks, or that 
 unmerited agony ceases to be pathetic, when it is not inflicted 
 by the revenge of a man-headed horse. 
 
 Even the actual speculations of Herodorus and his kind 
 were not without value to a tragedian pursuing, in his own 
 way, essentially the same purpose. To trace pedantically the 
 development of a natural incident into a supernatural was 
 none of his business ; but it suited him well enough to present 
 such natural facts, as would suggest to prepared minds the 
 origin of the legendary translation ; or again, to touch upon 
 legendary and miraculous incidents, by way of allusion, in 
 such a manner as to suggest and leave room for the current 
 version of the rationalists. Euripides frequently does both. 
 Of the first we shall see an instance in the Orestes*, where 
 a miraculous anecdote from the Odyssey is retold and retouched 
 with persuasive dexterity; of the other we have many ex- 
 amples in the play before us. 
 
 But among the conceivable factors of legend, among the 
 many ways in which things might come to be believed, though 
 they never happened at all, or at any rate not as they were 
 related, there was one upon which Euripides, whether guided 
 or not by any predecessor, had meditated, as a tragedian, with 
 
 1 w. 360 foil. See also Euripides the Rationalist, pp. 182-188.
 
 140 A SOUL'S TRAGEDY 
 
 special and specially justifiable interest. That the topic of 
 madness and mental aberration was attractive to him, is noted 
 by ancient critics, and is indeed obvious. Primarily no doubt 
 he was drawn to it, like Aeschylus, Sophocles, and tragic 
 poets in general, as a means of pathos. But standing in such 
 relation as he did to the speculative and critical thought of 
 his time, he could not easily miss the reflexion, that the 
 imagination of insane and irregular minds, accepted by the 
 superstitious as a channel of inspired truth, had probably 
 been a fertile source of revered and accredited nonsense. 
 That he did not miss it we have abundant evidence. The 
 legend of the matricide Orestes, for example, is repeatedly so 
 handled in his extant works, as to convey the impression 
 that the miraculous parts of it originated in mere insanity. 
 In one place, the whole story of Aeschylus' Eumenides is 
 narrated, through the mouth of Orestes, in such a way and in 
 such circumstances as irresistibly to suggest a doubt, how 
 much, if any, of that Areopagitic tradition was founded on 
 fact, and not upon the invention of a diseased brain 1 . 
 Similarly even the minor degrees of abnormal and unhealthy 
 excitement, the fumes of intoxication 2 , the frenzy of pain 3 , 
 the transport of victory 4 , the shock of sudden grief 5 , the 
 confusion of sleep 6 , the wildness of terror 7 , are each in turn 
 presented as contributors to the stream of mythology, ima- 
 gining impossibilities, or investing actual facts with the colours 
 of superstitious deceit. 
 
 These however were but steps on the road. It is in the 
 Heracles that this conception is applied upon the largest 
 scale, with most skill, most insight, and most profoundly 
 tragic effect. For power, for truth, for poignancy, for depth of 
 penetration into the nature and history of man, this picture 
 of the Hellenic hero may be matched against anything in art. 
 
 Although both in fact and in fiction madness is most 
 commonly associated with crime, this conjunction is neither 
 the only one in which mental extravagance is actually found, 
 
 1 iph. T. 939 foil. 2 Ale. 837. 3 Hec. 1205. 
 
 4 Heradidae 847. B Hippol. 1198 foil.; see 1173-1184. 
 
 6 Hec. 92. 7 Androm. 1147.
 
 HERACLES 141 
 
 nor that in which it may with most profit be studied and de- 
 picted. Great hearts, as well as great wits, are to madness near 
 allied ; and among the consecrated benefactors of mankind 
 there are perhaps few, whose intellectual constitution appears 
 to have been conspicuously sane, while in many the vigour of 
 delusion has been proportional to the general strength of the 
 faculties and the character. Euripides needed not to look 
 beyond the market-place of Athens for a personality scarcely 
 more distinguished from the mass by acuteness and bene- 
 volence than by eccentricity of spiritual imagination. Nor 
 are these higher types of aberration exempt, any more than 
 the vulgar sort, from fluctuation and intermittence. The 
 madman of genius or virtue may swing, like another, between 
 sanity and insanity, and may be great in both. Now let us 
 suppose (and the supposition is surely entertainable) that in 
 the dark ages of superstition, in the very dawn of civilized life 
 and intelligent speculation, there arose a hero physically, 
 mentally, and morally far superior to his contemporaries, but 
 curst from his birth with a taint in his blood, a recurrent and 
 progressive malady of the brain. Let such an one, in ardent 
 and solitary meditation, have so far purged his notions of 
 man and God from the grossness and barbarity around him, 
 as to grasp at least in vision the hint of philosophies still 
 unbuilt, and the principles of creeds and religions long after 
 to be preached and established. All this has been achieved 
 by many a ' madman,' whose thoughts, by the favour of cir- 
 cumstances, have passed into circulation and are famous to 
 this day; and doubtless (as Euripides justly divined) it has 
 also been achieved by many and many another, whose voice 
 was not heard or not even raised, and whose meditation 
 effected nothing but the uplifting of his own heart and the 
 ennobling of his own life. Let our hero have done his duty 
 faithfully up to and beyond the demand and standard of the 
 time, loving his home and family, devoted in friendship, 
 fighting gallantly and victoriously for the little struggling 
 community to which he belonged. Let him have lent his 
 services without stint to the largest and most beneficial 
 enterprises which the state of things presented, to penetrate
 
 142 A SOUL'S TRAGEDY 
 
 as pioneer the uncleared and unknown waste, peopled in 
 reality by savage beasts and men, and supposed to be the 
 haunt of imaginary monsters yet more terrible. By the 
 vulgar herd, nay, even by his nearest and dearest, the source 
 and nature of his greatness will be ignorantly misconceived, 
 and most of all by those who admire most. On all sides he 
 will hear his praises translated into language which he loathes 
 and contemns. His superiority to others will be explained 
 by the fiction of a divine parentage, which to his better 
 thoughts will seem a revolting blasphemy. His genuine 
 achievements will be enlarged and travestied by a huge 
 appendix of incongruous falsehood. And worst of all, because 
 of that taint in his blood, because he is not only inspired, but 
 also, in the plain and gross sense of the word, mad, because 
 he has his hours of darkness as well as his hours of illumi- 
 nation, he himself will sometimes lend his authority to confirm 
 the tales which he abhors, will repeat the abominable nonsense 
 with which his ears are fed, proclaiming himself that which he 
 knows he is not, and painting the good deeds, of which he is 
 proud, with the crude, disgusting colours of folly and misbelief. 
 In process of time he will become aware that he does these 
 things. Long before any one else, he will know how it is with 
 him. Self-hatred and self-suspicion will aggravate the inner 
 mischief from which they spring. And at last, upon the 
 occasion of some special excitement, in a few moments and 
 without any effective warning, the thin partition of his brain 
 will break, and a burst of cruel fury will exhibit the benefactor 
 of humanity, for some horrible hours, in the secondary but not 
 less genuine character of a fiend. Such is the Heracles of 
 Euripides. 
 
 The scene, which is laid at Thebes, that is to say in the 
 territory so called and in the immediate neighbourhood of 
 the seven-gated fortress, shows a house with an altar before it, 
 the present home of Heracles and his family, which comprises 
 his father Amphitryon, his wife Megara, daughter of Creon 
 the late king of the country, and three sons of tender age. 
 The situation, which remains practically unaltered during a 
 third part of the play and until the arrival of Heracles him-
 
 HERACLES 143 
 
 self (v. 514), is designed to exhibit the wide and incom- 
 prehensible divergence of opinion, which divides the city and 
 even the family, respecting the personality, character, and 
 career of the absent hero. With this topic both dialogue and 
 chorus are almost exclusively occupied, the present and un- 
 disputed facts serving only to animate with urgency the 
 interest of the dramatic debate. The facts themselves are set 
 forth partly by Amphitryon in a semi-dramatic prologue of 
 the usual Euripidean type, and partly in the following scenes. 
 Amphitryon, for the murder of a near kinsman, was exiled with 
 his family from his native Argos. Both he and his son 
 Heracles have done good service to Thebes in the little 
 campaigns of a primitive city, now against the neighbouring 
 Minyans of Orchomenus, on another and famous occasion 
 against the island marauders of Aetolia 1 . The son moreover, 
 as warrior and hunter, functions not yet very clearly dis- 
 criminated, has followed the call of duty and adventure far 
 beyond these limits, beyond all limits of common knowledge or 
 report, and has won immense renown by achievements about 
 which, if we put all the contradictory assertions together, 
 we may say that they have been, at the lowest estimate, 
 uncommon and beneficial 2 . He was rewarded with the hand 
 of the King's daughter, and the wedding was celebrated by 
 Thebes with universal applause 3 . But this prosperity of the 
 house is past. The Argive exiles, Greek-like, still pined for 
 Argos ; and to purchase restoration Heracles offered his 
 services, in ' redeeming the earth from savagery,' to the Argive 
 king Eurystheus 4 . Of his past exploits in the Argolid and 
 Peloponnese, which to the Thebans of this play and the age 
 supposed are distant and partly untra veiled regions, his 
 fellow-citizens and others have the same vague, inconsistent 
 notions as of his former enterprises, some portentously ex- 
 tolling them, some reducing them to proportions moderate 
 or even low 2 . The latest report describes him as having 
 
 1 v. 60, etc., v. 50, v. 120, etc. 
 
 2 Compare the statements of Amphitryon, Megara, Lycus, and the Chorus, 
 passim. 
 
 3 v. 10. 4 w. 1720.
 
 144 A SOUL'S TRAGEDY 
 
 descended into the cave of Taenarum, in the extreme south, 
 the reputed entrance of the underworld, and not having 
 returned 1 . Meanwhile the fickle Thebans have risen against 
 Creon, have put him and his sons to death, and raised to the 
 tyranny one Lycus, a foreigner from Euboea, pretending an 
 antiquated claim to the throne. The family of Heracles have 
 taken refuge at a public altar in front of the house, where, 
 helpless and starving, they are beleaguered by their enemy 2 . 
 
 Under these circumstances Megara and Amphitryon, the 
 wife and the father, debate what is best to be done 3 . 
 Megara is for immediate surrender and the dignified ac- 
 ceptance of death ; Amphitryon is unwilling to resign hope. 
 We might suspect here 4 , and it soon after becomes evident, 
 that there is more in this than a mere difference of tempera- 
 ment. That which upholds Amphitryon is no common 
 calculation of chances. He entertains respecting his son, 
 with a faith pathetically human in its uncertainty 5 and in- 
 consistency, but strong enough on the whole to affect his 
 judgment, a belief, which the wife from first to last significantly 
 ignores, a belief sufficient, if well-founded, to justify even 
 limitless expectations. The career of Heracles, conceived as 
 not merely wonderful but miraculous, is explained by some 
 after a fashion natural to the popular Hellenic theology: he 
 is superhuman, the son of a god, the son of Zeus. This 
 notion, with certain parts of the miraculous biography from 
 which it arises, Amphitryon, while reserving, with strange and 
 characteristic confusion, an unimpaired assurance of his own 
 fatherhood 6 , nevertheless accepts, and in this desperate hour 
 tenaciously defends. And for this reason he persists in the 
 hope, that Heracles, wherever he has gone, may still return 7 , 
 or at all events that in some way Zeus, the ' part-father,' will 
 interfere on behalf of his progeny 8 . 
 
 Upon the same side of the question, or at least in the 
 same sphere of belief and sentiment, stand the company of 
 1 v. 23. 2 w. 26-59. 
 
 3 w. 60-106. 4 v. 92. 
 
 6 vv. 20-21, and. passim. 6 w. 3, 14, etc. 
 
 7 w. 25, 97, etc. 
 
 8 w. 170 (where note fjxpet), 339, 498, and Amphitryon passim.
 
 HERACLES 
 
 145 
 
 decrepit elders, loyal but alas, unserviceable friends of fallen 
 royalty, who compose the Chorus. Quitting 1 with unwonted 
 effort the sheltering roof and restful couch, which beseem 
 their years, they drag their wearied limbs to the place of 
 refuge, in order to testify their respect and sympathy. In 
 situation and character this Chorus recalls that of Aeschylus' 
 Agamemnon, and indeed the language in which they re- 
 spectively introduce themselves has a verbal resemblance 
 pointing to conscious or unconscious imitation 2 . In both 
 cases we have a state unsettled by faction, and a conse- 
 quent dethronement of legitimate princes and elevation of 
 usurpers. In the Heracles the revolution is accomplished 
 when the action begins, in the Agamemnon not accomplished, 
 though from the first foreboded, until the closing scene. 
 In both the Chorus represent, in mind and person, the 
 conquered minority, the discredited past, and are filled with 
 the sense that their day is over, that they walk in the new 
 world like dreams among actual things 2 . Each band dis- 
 plays its spirit and impotence by a vain appeal to arms 3 . 
 Each protests that in the decay of the body the mind retains 
 the faculty of art, that, though they cannot fight, they can 
 still sing 4 . In short the parallel is as close as may be, and 
 can hardly be supposed accidental. It deserves notice for an 
 interesting reason. In the Agamemnon the peculiar personality 
 of the Chorus, their decrepitude, feebleness, bewilderment, 
 and conscious inefficiency, are dramatically important: if 
 the king's friends had been other than they are, the plot by 
 which he perishes, however we conceive the details of it, 
 would certainly not have taken the course which it does. 
 When therefore we see that Euripides has borrowed the 
 conception for his Heracles, we may fairly suppose that he 
 also had a practical use for it, that something not in- 
 significant to the drama depends upon the extreme physical 
 
 1 If (with Scaliger) we insert Xiiruw in v. 107. The question is of no general 
 importance, and in the uncertainty of the strophic metre must remain doubtful. 
 
 2 Compare Ag. 82 (Dindorf) with Heracles 112. 
 
 3 Ag. 1618 foil., Her. 252 foil. 
 
 4 Ag. 104-107, Her. 637-641, 673-686. 
 
 V. 1
 
 I 4 6 A SOUL'S TRAGEDY 
 
 weakness of these ' mere voices and phantoms 1 ,' on whose 
 declining heads the burden of their antiquity lies like the 
 weight of Aetna on the giant compressed beneath 2 . We 
 shall see that something does indeed depend upon it, some- 
 thing without which the scheme of the play could not have 
 been carried out in its actual form, and cannot be properly 
 understood. 
 
 These, the old Amphitryon and the aged Chorus, are 
 the champions of the banished Heracles, both as man and as 
 demigod ; for the Chorus, although, like Amphitryon but with 
 a difference, they are ambiguous on the divine parentage, 
 leaving in the alternative 3 the doctrines which he contrives to 
 combine, are even more copious and stubborn than Am- 
 phitryon himself in maintaining the miraculous account of 
 the hero's career. 
 
 Upon the other side, and in the extreme, stands Lycus 
 the tyrant, a coarse, vulgar upstart. He comes 4 in insolent 
 triumph to demand surrender, and mocks the hopes of 
 Heracles' father and wife, not only by deriding the demigod 5 
 but by vilifying and depreciating the man 6 . Heracles, he 
 says, has gone to Hades, and of course will no more return 
 than any other man. Son of Zeus ! Absurd ! Why should 
 his family expect consideration? What was he? What did 
 he do ? He may have snared a lion or so asserting falsely 
 that he slew the beast with his hands ; but after all he was a 
 poor creature. A fellow that fought with bow and arrows, 
 the weapons of a coward ! 
 
 In such startling fashion is flung before us the question 
 and problem of the play. For, brute though Lycus is, and 
 plain as it is that his rudeness and cruelty are offered for our 
 reprobation, it is by no means plain, that everything about 
 Heracles, which Lycus would deny and his opponents assert, 
 is true. It is difficult, if not impossible, for us to suppose so. 
 
 1 Her. in. 2 v. 639. 
 
 3 w. 353-354- After the return of Heracles ''from Hades' they are positive for 
 the divinity (696) and adopt as now proved the harmonizing view of Amphitryon 
 w. 798-809. 
 
 4 v. 140. 5 v. 149. 6 w. 157-164.
 
 HERA CLES 147 
 
 In the first place, he is supported at the present time by a 
 victorious party, a dominant majority, in Thebes 1 , the place 
 where Heracles has long lived in the familiar aspect of a 
 denizen. We may indeed well suppose that the tone of 
 Lycus does not exactly represent his supporters generally ; 
 but we must still suppose, from their conduct, that they stand 
 in opinion much further from Amphitryon. They do not, 
 they cannot believe themselves to have risked the vengeance 
 of one who has aided, in battle against giants, the arms and 
 thunder of the supreme Deity 2 , and who, to say nothing more, 
 is not yet ascertained to be dead. And this, their practical 
 testimony to the infidel view, is so far from insignificant that 
 it is almost decisive. Rebels and ingrates they may be, 
 prodigals even some of them and beggars, and bent upon 
 robbery 3 ; but for all that they are 'many/ they must be 
 hundreds or thousands in number ; they have had every 
 natural opportunity of estimating the likelihood that Heracles 
 was or is capable of scattering armies, crushing giants, and 
 capturing dragons ; and, beyond all possibility of question, 
 they are not effectively convinced that he is. 
 
 And in the next place, upon what, for want of a better 
 term, we must call the theological aspect of the case, upon 
 the question of miracle, Lycus has an ally in the bosom of his 
 enemy. To this extent Megara herself is with him. Ad- 
 miring her husband to the very height of man, she plainly 
 does not hold him to be a supernatural person ; and what is 
 more, for some reason not apparent in the scene now before 
 us but provoking curiosity, she is plainly unwilling that his 
 pretensions to that character should be advanced or discussed. 
 The sharp and simple difference between Megara and Am- 
 phitryon is exactly noted by Lycus, upon his entrance, in 
 words which are a compendium of the ensuing dialogue and 
 a key to the position 4 : ' You father and you wife of Heracles, 
 
 1 w. 34, 543, 558-561, 588 foil., etc. 2 w. 177 foil. 
 
 3 w. 569, 588 foil., etc. w. 588-592 are suspected of interpolation, but 
 only because they emphasize a little that aspect of the situation which is 
 too much ignored. 
 
 4 w. 140 foil.
 
 148 A SOUL'S TRAGEDY 
 
 I would ask you, with leave supposed, a certain question... 
 To what hour do ye seek to prolong your lives ? What hope 
 or help against death have ye in view? Is it the father of 
 these boys, who lies with Hades, that will, you trust, return ? 
 How you do exaggerate the cause for lament in your ap- 
 proaching death, both you (to Amphitryon), who have spread 
 through Hellas the vain boast that Zeus had part in your couch 
 and a share in your child, and you (to Megara), who proclaimed 
 yourself wife to the noblest of mankind!' And accordingly 
 to the wife in particular 1 he proceeds to address his attack 
 upon the merits of Heracles as a man ' What is it to have 
 killed a lion or a water-snake?' and again, * What is the 
 dignity of an archer?' by which he reduces the rank of the 
 hero not merely to the level of natural power, but to a low 
 place in the human scale. All that is spoken by Megara, 
 and still more what is left unspoken, confirms and proves his 
 estimate of her sentiments. Without directly contradicting 
 or criticising, which neither kindness nor decency would per- 
 mit, the miraculous allegations of Amphitryon, she disowns 
 them for her part completely, not only by ignoring and 
 omitting (though this in itself would be enough), but positively. 
 'The gods shall be my witnesses!' says Amphitryon 2 , in 
 opening what he conceives to be the true and worthy defence 
 of his son. ' My husband/ says Megara to Amphitryon with 
 haughty modesty, ' is glorious without witnesses! And she 
 proceeds consistently to expostulate with the old man, in 
 terms scarcely distinguishable from those of Lycus himself, 
 upon the vanity of expecting ' a dead man ' to return from 
 the other world 3 . This she does without once deigning to- 
 notice the allegations which, if true, would obviously take 
 Heracles out of the common rule, without once considering 
 what might be expected from a journey to the other world, 
 if undertaken by such a voyager as ' the son of Zeus.' 
 
 Such are the parties to this staggering and enigmatical 
 controversy. The two most conspicuous features in it are 
 the tirade of Amphitryon 4 , and the encomium or creed 5 
 
 1 v. 151. * v. 176. 3 w. 290, 295 foil.; compare v. 145.. 
 
 4 w. 1 70 foil. B w. 348 foil.
 
 HERACLES 149 
 
 for it is something of both pronounced by the Chorus 
 upon the theme of Heracles and his exploits, when all appears 
 to be lost and while the victims, having quitted sanctuary, 
 are within the house, making their final preparations for 
 death. The speech and the ode together represent the kind 
 and measure of evidence which, according to the conception 
 of Euripides, we might obtain for such a legend as that of 
 Heracles, if we could reach those among whom it arose, 
 if we could hear what would have been said, in reply to a 
 scoffer, by the contemporary believer. Both are masterpieces 
 in their kind and deserve the most careful attention. 
 
 In the apology of the father we may notice first, as a point 
 significant though not principal, its excessive length and 
 verbosity. The satire of Lycus upon Heracles covers twenty 
 verses (145 164) ; Amphitryon, to the admiration of his old 
 acquaintance, who have never before known him so copious 1 , 
 contrives to extend his reply to sixty-six verses, of which 
 sixteen, a singularly inept and wordy defence of archery 2 , have 
 much exercised the critics and apologists of the poet. We 
 may spare ourselves the choice between various insufficient 
 excuses, if we observe that one purpose of the speaker, and 
 not the least operative, is to fill time, to speak as long as ever 
 he can. The key to this, as to his attitude throughout the 
 opening scenes, is his desperate expectation of aid from the 
 almighty partner of his couch and child. To Zeus, now 
 in hope, now in remonstrance, and finally in wrathful and 
 contemptuous reproach, he alludes and appeals repeatedly 3 . 
 ' For the part of Zeus in our son, let Zeus be his aid ' are the 
 first words of his answer to Lycus ; and if he makes that 
 answer long, if he seizes with ingenuity on every pretext for 
 a fresh topic which the loose tongue of Lycus has afforded, 
 diverging from giants to centaurs, from centaurs to archery, 
 from archery to the innocence of his grandchildren, and 
 thence, after a despairing pause, to the ingratitude of Thebes 
 (' Yes, Thebes too shall have its turn ') 4 , if he mixes his final 
 invective with fierce laments for the feeble succour of a ' noisy 
 
 1 zn>. 236-237. 2 w. 188-203. 
 
 3 vv. 170, 177, 212, 339, 498. 4 v. 217.
 
 150 A SOUL'S TRAGEDY 
 
 tongue,' which is all that he now can lend 1 , all is respective 
 to the part of Zeus, and prompted by the implied reflexion, 
 odd indeed but profoundly true to the working of a bold 
 yet superstitious mind, that every word which he can utter 
 gives another second of opportunity to the Almighty. 
 
 Such is the outward form of this strange, but strangely 
 natural oration. When we turn to its substance, and consider 
 it as an argument for the professed thesis, that Heracles is 
 notoriously and demonstrably superhuman, we cannot but 
 see already, what will appear again and more conspicuously 
 when the Chorus take up the tale, that the defenders of the 
 miraculous account have, in the way of evidence, nothing of 
 any value to adduce. They answer the infidel to their own 
 satisfaction, because they do not understand his demand. 
 Lycus has taxed the divinity of Heracles as an ' empty 
 boast 2 ,' a notion which, like the miraculous stories upon 
 which it is based, is believed and reported but not true. Now 
 if it were true, if such things as were rumoured of Heracles 
 had really occurred, how should such a challenge be answered 
 by such a person as Heracles' natural father ? How (if for 
 illustration we may suppose the case) would it have been 
 answered by Deianira, wife to Heracles in the Trachiniae 
 of Sophocles? Easily of course and conclusively, by the 
 testimony of her own experience. With her own eyes she had 
 seen Heracles wrestle down a horned and monstrous river- 
 god 3 . And so should Amphitryon answer, so inevitably 
 must he, if in fact he had any relevant experience ; and this 
 again he could not be without, if indeed the popular stories 
 had any foundation. One miraculous incident at least, both 
 famous and convincing, was supposed in after-times by 
 worshippers of Heracles to have taken place before Amphi- 
 tryon's eyes. The divine infant had strangled serpents in 
 his cradle ; so it was said in Thebes 4 . Why then do we not 
 now hear this, and other like facts, from a competent witness, 
 the father ? Because what other explanation is possible ? 
 no such things had he ever seen. What we do hear, what 
 
 1 v. 229. 2 v. 148. 
 
 3 Soph. Track, w. 10 foil., 523 foil. 4 Heracles 1266.
 
 HERACLES 151 
 
 Amphitryon, in his honest unsuspecting simplicity, does 
 actually allege as warrant for his boast, serves only to mark 
 the absence of genuine testimony and his incapacity to 
 comprehend that objection combats with ' outrageous four- 
 foot centaurs,' for warrant whereof the objector is referred 
 to the forests of Arcadia and bidden to ' go and enquire of 
 Pholoe 1 ,' awful contests with the gigantic offspring of earth, 
 battles of the gods, of which we are not told so much as the 
 locality, and which we are to verify by cross-examining such 
 witnesses as the thunderbolt and chariot of Zeus 2 . No 
 informants are specified, nor is it even indicated that any 
 accessible informants exist. Of miraculous events in the 
 speaker's home, in Thebes, in Boeotia, in any place, time, or 
 circumstances permitting his personal knowledge, we have 
 not one word. Yet of this defect he is himself so perfectly 
 unconscious, as to remark that for the true character of 
 Lycus one should go where ? Why, where else but to his 
 native Euboea 3 ? The simplicity is admirable and a proof 
 of good-faith, but sufficient also to show that for evidence, 
 for grounds, if there be any, to support the miraculous stories 
 about Heracles as matter of fact, we must go elsewhere than 
 to Amphitryon. 
 
 We go accordingly to the Chorus, who, as was said, console 
 themselves in the suspense of the supreme moment by a 
 mournful recital of the meritorious and splendid achievements 
 now to be so ill repaid, a lyrical canon, as it were, of the 
 labours of Heracles 4 . This ode is highly esteemed, and 
 deservedly, as a piece of graceful poetry. But if we take 
 it for nothing more, if we suppose that Aeschylus, Sophocles, 
 or any other known poet except Euripides, would have 
 composed it as it stands, or that it may, without loss of effect, 
 be detached as a mere hymn from the scenes to which it 
 relates, we are in error. Like the speech of Amphitryon, 
 it is not only an encomium but also a defence and a defiance. 
 Like Amphitryon, the old men are answering Lycus, and 
 with him all that younger generation 5 , who so perversely 
 
 1 w. 181-183. 
 
 2 vv. 174 foil, ovv fj.dpTvffiv deals Aios Kfpa.vv6v r Tjp6fj.t]v rtOpnnra. re. 
 
 3 v. 185. 4 w. 348 foil. 5 See /caKtoroj r(av vtwv in v. 257, v. 436, etc.
 
 152 A SOUL'S TRAGEDY 
 
 depreciate and so easily forget the services of the departed 
 hero. And the praise of the Chorus, like that of Amphi- 
 tryon, whatever truth it may contain, is yet, when considered 
 as an answer to Lycus, as evidence, and especially as 
 evidence for the miraculous, liable to the fatal objection that 
 they do not understand the requirement. They are indeed 
 resentfully conscious that their story in its details is disputed, 
 and they even go so far beyond Amphitryon as to produce, 
 for one part of it, evidence undoubtedly probative. ' Also,' 
 they say, ' the riding host of the Amazons, who dwelt about 
 the many rivers of Maeotis, he did assail, passing the In- 
 hospitable Sea, with company of comrades gathered (were they 
 not f) from all Hellenic lands, seeking a deadly prize, the golden 
 girdle that Ares' daughter wore ; which famous spoil of the 
 strange maiden Hellas received, and Mycenae hath it still 1 !' 
 A crowd of witnesses, a visible memorial, what more can the 
 sceptic ask ? Certainly nothing more upon this particular 
 count. The expedition against the Amazons is proved up to 
 the hilt saving indeed the detail, to which the evidence does 
 not go, that their queen was the daughter of Ares. But 
 Lycus would demur, and readers of Euripides in the fifth 
 century would demur, and we must demur, when the narrators 
 assume that, because one reported feat of Heracles is prov- 
 able, therefore all reported feats, of whatever kind, must be 
 taken without proof for true. The narrators prove what is 
 credible, and then, with a logic not unfamiliar to us, demand 
 credence for things which are not. That there have been 
 Amazons is a fact ; that Heracles invaded and defeated the 
 Amazons would have been granted as possible, perhaps even 
 probable, by Thucydides himself, and is, in a certain sense, 
 admitted by history still. But when the narrators assert 2 , 
 with the same confidence, that in 'Erytheia' (wherever that 
 was), in the dim and unknown west, Heracles slew a ' keeper 
 of kine with bodies three,' then a scoffer, a Lycus, or any of that 
 multitude who appear to share his opinions, would of course 
 observe that Amazons are one thing and a three-bodied 
 Geryon quite another ; and they will note it for unfortunate 
 
 1 w. 408 foil. 2 v. 423.
 
 HERACLES 153 
 
 (such is their malice) that here, where witnesses and memorial 
 are peculiarly desirable, no witnesses, no memorial, no evidence 
 of any kind is alleged, and that the same regrettable defect 
 prevails throughout, except, strangely enough, just in one 
 case where the thing alleged is natural and probable in itself. 
 They will even suggest an inference. 
 
 The elders therefore, however much we may sympathize 
 with their generous fidelity, leave the main question, the 
 speculative question, precisely where it was, and prove only 
 the facility with which, in the times represented, a marvellous 
 tale, once generated, would be accepted, expanded, and 
 diffused. Upon opponents or impartial judges their protest 
 could produce no effect whatever. The general purport of 
 their narrative, that Heracles has been a mighty conqueror of 
 men and slayer of savage beasts, is not in dispute. Even 
 Lycus grants lions to the hunter, and of the warrior has 
 nothing worse to say than that he preferred the bow to the 
 sword. What is in dispute is the miraculous detail, and this 
 remains, as before, unwarranted. Here again, as in the case 
 of Amphitryon, we observe, that of the supernatural en- 
 counters so proudly enumerated, not one has occurred within the 
 knowledge of the narrators. Thebes and Boeotia, Phocis even 
 and Attica, furnish not a giant, not a single gold-headed 
 deer or thousand- headed snake. The shore of Malis and 
 the river Anaurus supply an anecdote perfectly natural 1 ; but 
 when we go as far as the Hebrus, horses are fed upon human 
 flesh 2 . The mountains of Thessaly contain ' wild centaurs 3 .' 
 These, by the way, Amphitryon places in Arcadia 4 , and 
 doubtless they might be indigenous to both regions. But it 
 is a more significant discrepancy, that whereas the centaurs 
 of Amphitryon are ' four-footed,' that is to say semi-equine 
 and monstrous, those of the Chorus are a mere ' fierce tribe of 
 the hills,' who, arming their hands from the pine-forests of 
 Pelion and Homole, 'subdued with their ridings' 
 
 1 w. 389-393, accepting in v. 389, with Prof. Murray, &v re Mi/XietS' for rdv 
 re HrjXidS' from Musgrave and Hermann. The reading does not affect our point 
 but makes the geography consistent with itself. 
 
 2 w. 380-388. 3 w. 364 foil. 4 v. 182.
 
 154 A SOUL'S TRAGEDY 
 
 e'8ayu-abi/) the more fertile plain below. Readers in the fifth 
 century were familiar with both conceptions of the centaur, 
 and with the theory that the miraculous conception, that of 
 Amphitryon, was a figment, evolved by wonder-loving 
 ignorance out of the non-miraculous, that of the Chorus. 
 
 The ' golden apple-tree ' and ' guardian serpent ' are to be 
 sought near ' the dwelling-place of Atlas,' wherever that was 1 ; 
 but the doubters would scarcely accept an account of such 
 things from persons who do not even profess to have seen 
 them. Certainly they would not take it from those who, in 
 affirming that a certain mischievous deer, slain by the hero, 
 had ' a golden head/ note, as if it were a confirmation, that he 
 presented that trophy 'as an ornament' to the temple of 
 Artemis at Oenoe. Such decorations were commonly gilded ; 
 and, before believing that the reported marvel was anything 
 more than this, the sceptics would here also wait for the 
 testimony of some one, who had used his reason and his 
 eyes 2 . 
 
 But here another and an opposite thought occurs, a 
 thought for which, as we have seen, many minds in the fifth 
 century were prepared by the trend of speculation and 
 controversy. The more it appears that the story of Heracles, 
 as told by his contemporary admirers, contains a large 
 proportion of fantasy, exaggeration, and falsehood, the more 
 we wonder how such uncertainty could arise, how so enormous 
 a difference of opinion as that between Lycus and the Chorus 
 could possibly exist, while the hero of the story was living and 
 familiar. We ask who has seen these things. But there is 
 one person who must, it should seem, profess to have seen 
 them all : and that is Heracles himself. Here, in the inception 
 of a legend, was the very problem with which free enquirers 
 in the age of Euripides were gravely if not always wisely 
 
 1 vv- 394-407- 
 
 2 See W. 375 foil., noting that dydXXfi 6ea.v takes its meaning from &ya\fia in 
 the sense of ornament. It would appear that the skull was actually shown at 
 Oenoe, and that the decoration of it had suggested the explanation of the legend to 
 which Euripides points. Other such allusions would probably be apparent in 
 the ode, and elsewhere in the play, if we were sufficiently acquainted with con- 
 temporary facts and literature.
 
 HERACLES 155 
 
 busy. It was of course open to them to allege deliberate 
 deception, and they did ; but the colouring of the scene 
 forbids us easily to suppose that this is to be the solution 
 of the dramatist, that the son of Amphitryon and husband of 
 Megara will be proved a shameless liar. What then is he? 
 We eagerly expect his appearance, which occurs in the 
 following act. 
 
 Before we proceed to it, a word should be said about the 
 place of the action, the house of Heracles, which we described 
 above 1 as near but not within the city or fortress of Thebes. 
 The use of the word 7ro\49 (as in v. 593 e(T\0a>v TroXiv) might 
 mislead an English reader as to this, but the alternative ^dotv 
 (as in v. 598 eio-r/XOov ^96va) shows that TroXt? here, as often, 
 means the jfj, the state or territory of Thebes, not the city 
 in our sense. The distinction is trivial, but in this case 
 important. The circumstances attending the arrival of 
 Heracles and death of Lycus 2 , and still more the subsequent 
 arrival of Theseus 8 , are inconceivable, if the place of action 
 cannot be reached without passing the gates of a city agitated 
 by revolution. The house must be solitary, free from observa- 
 tion ; nor is there anything in the drama inconsistent with 
 this necessary supposition. 
 
 From this house then Megara, with Amphitryon and the 
 children, now re-enters 4 attired for death 5 . Lycus has been 
 absent during this preparation, and has not yet returned. The 
 pathos of the situation, hitherto almost neglected in the 
 dominant interest of Heracles, is emphasized by Megara in 
 a lament over the children, which however is itself so turned 
 as to keep the father and his enigmatic personality before our 
 attention 6 . We hear how the great exile would solace 
 himself by promising to his boys a magnificent future, when 
 one should have Argos and should 'dwell, sovereign of fair 
 Pelasgia, in the palace of Eurystheus,' the second should be 
 prince of Thebes, possessing the plains of his mother's 
 inheritance, while the youngest would coax from him the 
 promise of Oechalia, captured once on a time by his archery. 
 
 1 p. 142. See v. 543. s w. 514-762. 3 w. 1163 foil. 
 
 4 v. 451. 5 w. 327 foil., 525, 562. 6 w. 451-496.
 
 156 A SOUL'S TRAGEDY 
 
 The touching humanity of the picture pleases at once ; but 
 when we know the sequel and the connexion of the whole, we 
 shall remark that these parental imaginations are not more 
 tender than strange. If it be true, as a master has said 1 , that 
 the inmost of a man appears in his day-dreams, it is an 
 unquiet and a disquieting soul which this glimpse reveals. 
 To fancy impossibilities is sometimes a perilous pleasure; and 
 the fancies of Heracles are not altogether innocent. Oechalia 
 he might give, or harmlessly play at giving ; but Thebes was 
 'the inheritance' not of Megara but of her brothers 2 ; and as 
 for the realm of Argos, the family had no legitimate hope of it 
 whatever 3 . The trait would be insignificant, were it not for 
 the sequel, but we shall presently have reason to remember 
 with pity that Heracles, in his wilder fancies, loved to suppose 
 himself master of the palace of Eurystheus. 
 
 While Megara pursues these melancholy remembrances, 
 and Amphitryon yet once more and for the last time im- 
 portunes the expected Zeus, Heracles presents himself, safe 
 but unguarded. The scene which ensues 4 is the central 
 light of the play, illuminating past and future with the same 
 abrupt and menacing flash. For here we suddenly discover 
 (scarcely with more surprise than some of the actors, though 
 one, we notice, does not express any), that the hero is not 
 master of himself, that his reason is not proof against excite- 
 ment, that at this critical moment his brain is in a condition 
 of irritability which renders him almost incapable of action, 
 in short, that he is on the very verge of delirium. 
 
 He approaches, and his wife flings herself into his arms. 
 In a rapid colloquy she acquaints him with the situation, the 
 massacre of her family, the enemy in possession of the town, 
 the instant peril of herself and the rest. The wrath of 
 Heracles rises with every reply. And when all is told, he 
 bursts, in such a tone and with such looks and action as we 
 may imagine, into this : 
 
 1 Victor Hugo, Les Miserables. 2 v. 539. 
 
 3 See, for the relations of Heracles with Argos and Eurystheus, w. 13-21. 
 In the Heraclidae and elsewhere they are represented otherwise. 
 
 4 w. 523-636.
 
 HERACLES 157 
 
 Fling off your wreaths, your garniture of Death, 
 And upward looking hail the sweet exchange 
 Of sun and daylight for the darksome deep ! 
 For me, I will away (the hour demands 
 The arm of Heracles), to level first 
 The usurper's palace, lop the villain's head, 
 And fling for dogs to worry. Then the false 
 In Thebes, obliged to me and found ingrate, 
 All will I crush with this victorious mace, 
 Or with my wing-swift arrows sweep away, 
 Till the blood reddens D tree's water wan. 
 Who better claims my succour than a wife, 
 Children, and. ..aged man ? No more of feats 
 Abroad, preferred in vain to these at home ! 
 My life for their defence, who were to die 
 Because of me ! Else nothing were my praise, 
 Who on Eurystheus' errand fought the snake 
 And lion, if I could not wrest from death 
 Mine offspring. Then let Heracles renounce 
 His title, and be 'conqueror' no more 1 ! 
 
 But his hearers are not so confident ! Lycus or his 
 satellites 2 may re-appear at any moment. If he is allowed 
 to discover the return of his enemy and to rejoin his partizans, 
 all is lost. The best hope, slight at the best, of escaping from 
 the occupants of the town, is to surprise and destroy their 
 leader. This will at least gain time. And here is Heracles, 
 the expected saviour, wasting the moments in babble about 
 razing a fortified palace, and wreaking, single-handed, revenge 
 upon a whole population ! The hesitating comment of the 
 elders 3 is interrupted by Amphitryon, who, scarcely knowing 
 what to say, entreats his son to be prudent. The partizans of 
 the tyrant are many and unscrupulous,... Heracles may have 
 
 1 w. 562 foil. I give a version of my own, but Mr Way's, or any, would serve 
 the purpose. In v. 575 I keep, as suggested by Prof. Murray in his edition of the 
 text, the MSS. reading ytpovn : ' TK<Wt Wakefield : sed videtur iam delirans 
 Hercules mortalem abnuere patrem, turn monitu Chori se comprimere (583 sq.).' 
 The adoption of reic6vTi would not affect the character of the speech : see trdrep in 
 v. 619. What are the opinions of Heracles on the point in question we shall 
 learn as we proceed. 2 w. 240, 724. 
 
 3 W. 583-584, where the interruption should be indicated. ' The cause is 
 just,' they begin ; the ' but,' which this implies, is cut off by Amphitryon.
 
 158 A SOUL'S TRAGEDY 
 
 been seen,... if so, the enemy may assemble, and then... he 
 may be less safe than he thinks 1 . Heracles begins to rave 
 again 2 , but less violently, and his father insinuates, with 
 precaution 3 , the obvious counsel, that Lycus should be en- 
 trapped. The son consents to take the first step in this 
 direction by going into the house, but in a manner which 
 shows that he is still wandering and not awake to reality. 
 Lycus, Thebes, the present danger, have passed out of his 
 thoughts, which are occupied with an inopportune and a 
 startling scruple. He has been long in the under-world, 
 in ' the sunless deeps of Hades and Persephone ' ; he must 
 not neglect the immediate duty of saluting the domestic gods. 
 Amphitryon can scarcely believe his ears : ' You have been 
 there, son! Really and truly?' 'Ay, and brought up to 
 light the three-headed monster too!' ' Did you take him by 
 force, or did the goddess give him to you?' 'Seized him 
 victoriously ; I had seen the Holy Mysteries.' ' And he is 
 really now at the house of Erechtheus?' ' No, in the sanctuary 
 of Chthonia 4 at Hermione 5 .' ' And Eurystheus has not had 
 news of your coming up again ? ' ' No ; I came here first for 
 news of home.' 'But why were you down there so long?' 
 ' Theseus was in Hades, father, and I stayed to rescue him.' 
 'And where is he now? Gone off to his own country?' 
 ' Gone to Athens, and glad to be out from below.' During 
 these revelations, father and son, the former anxiously leading 
 the way and the rest of the group with backward glances 
 keeping step for step, have drawn near to the door. Having 
 finished the story Heracles now composedly enters, mocking 
 with fond rebukes the scared children and shaking woman 
 who clutch at his dress. Let them come along in with him ; 
 
 1 w. 588-592 should not be suspected. The lack of continuity between 592 
 and 593 is the result not of injury to the text, but of the speaker's agitation and the 
 hearer's obstinacy. 2 v. 595. 
 
 3 Note the irrelevance of w. 599-600, irp6(rei7r...l5eli', to what follows, and 
 also that it is to the irrelevant suggestion that Heracles attends, w. 607 foil. 
 Exactly what Amphitryon thinks of Heracles' behaviour, it is difficult to say. He 
 has scarcely time to form an opinion. But he is clearly both surprised and alarmed. 
 
 4 Demeter Chthonia, an equivalent or double of Persephone. 
 
 5 A town at the east end of Argolis. See hereafter.
 
 HERACLES 159 
 
 things are changed for the better (eh 1 ?) since they came out; 
 but why tears ? there is nothing to cry for now ; and why 
 cling so? he has no wings; he is not going to fly away. 
 What, they will not let go ; they hold tighter and tighter ! 
 It must have been a terrible scare, a very, very near thing 
 indeed. Well, he will be the big ship, and pull the little ships 
 after him. (As a fact, we must suppose that they are pulling 
 him, in an agony of impatient distress.) He is not ashamed 
 to mind his babes. All men (he stays at the last moment to 
 add this reflexion), all men are alike here : great and small, 
 rich and poor, in loving their children all mankind are kin. 
 
 In primary meaning and present effect, this scene, it 
 should seem, requires no commentary. It is evident that 
 any man, great or small, who in such circumstances can 
 so behave, is for the moment little short of mad ; evident 
 also, that for what is to come, immediately or eventually, the 
 state of such a man is dangerous in the extreme. And at 
 first sight, or first reading, this is perhaps all that we could 
 here distinctly perceive. But more dimly we might already 
 perceive the dawn of a new light upon the past, the first word 
 of a terrible answer to the problem before propounded to us. 
 Why are people found who entertain such extravagant beliefs 
 about Heracles, since from the preponderant disbelief, and the 
 futility of the professed evidence, we must suspect that those 
 beliefs are not justified ? We now begin to see why. To the 
 report of his recent adventures, which Heracles has here 
 made, plainly no faith is due or can be given. It cannot be 
 taken seriously. The very manner of it, the off-hand, trivial 
 tone (I have copied it to the best of my ability and invite 
 comparison with the original), so unworthy of the tremendous 
 theme, would justify us in supposing, if the author be pre- 
 sumed to have any sensibility, that the speaker is not fit to 
 be heard. And when we also remark, that this prodigious 
 version of the hero's descent into the cavern of Taenarum 
 is not revealed to us until his mind, whatever was its condition 
 before, has been manifestly disorganized by the shock of 
 astonishment and rage, and that the only allusion which 
 
 1 v. 623 apa.
 
 160 A SOUL'S TRAGEDY 
 
 precedes that shock 1 , has no such colour or suggestion of it, 
 but is perfectly compatible with such a conception of the 
 whole adventure as common experience would justify, when 
 we see this, we are forced to suppose, as rational and un- 
 prejudiced spectators, that, upon this occasion at all events, 
 the reminiscences of Heracles are clouded, fluctuating, and at 
 present altogether untrustworthy. But what then of those 
 other reminiscences and reports, with which in times past he 
 may be presumed to have occasionally nourished the faith of 
 favourable recipients, such as the doting father and the 
 venerable as well as venerating friends ? What was the 
 state of his mind, when he related, as sometimes he apparently 
 did, that the water-snakes of Lerna were all one snake, one 
 beast with ten thousand necks, that a Thracian chief kept 
 horses whose mangers were supplied with human flesh, that 
 there were horse-men in Arcadia, three-bodied men in 
 Erytheia, and beyond that, if you went far, far towards and 
 into the setting sun, there were what was there not ? What 
 part of these travels had he really made, and what things had 
 he truly found ? The doubt, the suspicion, which cover this 
 last voyage to Taenarum, are seen, when we reflect, to spread 
 backwards over everything which he may have been led to 
 say of himself, especially in the unguarded freedom of 
 intimacy and the domestic circle. How much was mockery, 
 how much self-delusion ? All is uncertain. Even if delusion 
 was never imputed to him before, and if his miracles have 
 passed at the worst, as with Lycus, for empty boasts, that 
 estimate, we see, will now have to be revised. Every one 
 knows that there is such a thing as latent insanity and a 
 mind volcanic, whose clouds and mutterings are unheeded or 
 misinterpreted until the fatal explosion. Is this the case of 
 Heracles? 
 
 Nor must we overlook, what, but for the pathos and tragedy 
 of the thing, would be ludicrous, the collapse, under a practical 
 test, of those high convictions, which the faithful so magnifi- 
 
 1 v. 524, if indeed we can say that this alludes to Taenarum at all. But for the 
 sequel, the expression ts tftdos poXuv might well be understood as merely meta- 
 phorical for 'a joyful return.' See Aesch. Agam. 504, 508, 522 (Dindorf).
 
 HERACLES 161 
 
 cently proclaimed. The Amphitryon of this play is a most 
 pathetic figure, but he has a touch, a captivating touch, of the 
 grotesque, and in the present situation this element is strongly 
 apparent. Even before this, from the very first, a judicious 
 observer might have suspected, that, for all his loudness and 
 persistence, his faith in the divinity of his son, perhaps in 
 divinity generally, is not very sound in quality. Men in whom 
 religion has any depth of root, even rude and ill-instructed 
 men, do not treat their deity like a gigantic but negligent 
 policeman, to be called for if things get bad enough, though 
 too probably he will be off duty and out of hearing. Amphi- 
 tryon is one of that multitude, permanent in all degrees of 
 barbarism and of civilization, whose religion is of this type ; 
 and in his profession of belief in the divine quality and 
 parentage of Heracles there was much more despair than 
 reliance, as is now simply and conclusively proved. Heracles 
 proposes to crush Thebes and its rebel garrison by the sole 
 might of his victorious mace and winged archery. And 
 why not ? Towns are not commonly taken with a bow and 
 arrows ; but Heracles so took one, or at least, so we were 
 told 1 . Alone he routed the whole people of Orchomenus, or 
 at least, so his father declared 2 ; then why not the people of 
 Thebes ? Nay, and these were but little things on the roll of 
 his achievements. What is Thebes or what are the Thebans, 
 against a champion formidable to the assailants, and valuable 
 to the defenders, of high Heaven itself 3 ? If he once fought 
 at the side of Zeus, why may it not be expected that, if wanted, 
 Zeus will now fight at his side ? The proposal of Heracles, 
 if Amphitryon really and effectively believes what he has been 
 telling us, should be accepted by him with complacent 
 confidence, as a matter of course. Is it so accepted ? It is 
 deprecated with alarm as lively as if Heracles were what 
 Amphitryon in his heart knows him to be a man and nothing 
 more. Nor does it make any difference, that Heracles 
 confirms the report, which arose upon his prolonged absence, 
 that he had descended ' into Hades.' Amphitryon was sure 
 
 1 v. 472. a v. 220. 3 v. 177. 
 
 V. II
 
 162 A SOUL'S TRAGEDY 
 
 of this before ; but is he sure of it now ? If so, what mean 
 his ' really ' and ' verily' ? l 
 
 Not less eloquent is the behaviour of Megara. She, who 
 in no extremity could fancy or pretend that her husband was 
 more than ' the greatest of men 2 ,' hails him indeed nevertheless, 
 in the natural extravagance of relief, as a saviour ' not less 
 than Zeus.' Her trust, her hopes, her speech run before Amphi- 
 tryon's, until the outbreak of her husband's passion reveals him 
 not himself 3 . And from that instant she utters not a word, 
 but aids in trembling silence to coax him within the covert of 
 the house 4 . Now as before, if the wife, in judgment of her 
 husband, is more reasonable, quicker, and more far-sighted 
 than the father, that may be partly because she knows more. 
 
 The coaxing is at last accomplished, and the Chorus remain 
 alone. They, overcome by unwonted efforts and excitement, 
 are unable to assist, scarcely able even to comprehend, and are 
 conscious chiefly of their own immense weariness. The burden 
 of age ! That is the subject of their thoughts. Anything 
 for youth ! Cursed, cursed be age ! A second youth if merit 
 could but have been rewarded with that ! To age, only one 
 thing is left memory, a recording voice. Sing then they 
 will, sing, if it were their swan-song, Heracles victorious, 
 Heracles ' son of Zeus,' deadly to monsters dread and 
 protector of human peace 8 . So they are singing, when 
 Lycus with his guards re-enters, and Amphitryon, watching 
 for him from within, issues to direct him into the trap. 
 
 In a few minutes 6 the usurper is trapped, and the Chorus 
 are hailing the Restoration. His armed guard 7 , the mark of 
 his function, follow him into the house and share his fate. 
 How many they are does not appear ; but since Heracles on 
 his side can command, if necessary, the slaves of the house 8 , 
 he may be supposed, with the advantage of surprise, to account 
 easily for as many as may be thought convenient. The scene 
 is brief, in due proportion to its momentary interest, and the 
 
 1 w. 6 1 o, 614. 2 v. 150, and Megara's part passim. 
 
 3 w. 514-561. 4 ^'v. 583-636, especially v. 626. 5 w. 637-700. 
 
 * w. 701-733. 7 v. 724. See also note on r. 729 in the Appendix. 
 8 w. 950 etc.
 
 HERACLES 163 
 
 hymns of the elders 1 bring us back at once to the religious 
 and speculative question which continues to hold our attention. 
 Needless to say, the death of the scoffer is for the Chorus a 
 divine judgment, a manifest intervention of the gods, especially 
 of Zeus, and proves the utmost of their imaginations 1 : the 
 visit of Heracles to the lower world, and his escape there- 
 from, is now an unquestionable fact (' aye, that did he ! ') 2 , and 
 the legend of the double paternity, in literal crudeness of 
 detail, rolls forth, with other picturesque and patriotic fictions, 
 in all the pomp of renewed and triumphant assurance 3 . But 
 alas, the true gods or true God, the Power of Nature and 
 fixed connexion of things 4 , is otherwise minded, and returns 
 to these premature jubilations a prompt and withering reply. 
 
 The scene which here opens demands the most careful 
 consideration. More than anything else in the play, it is now 
 liable to misunderstanding, not from obscurity in the presen- 
 tation designed by the dramatist, but from an undesigned and 
 unforeseen defect, with which, in studying ancient drama, we 
 must perpetually reckon, the loss of the action and (if such 
 ever existed) of the equivalent stage-directions. It is easy to 
 imagine what problems Shakespeare (let us say) would present, 
 if he were printed like the Poetae Scenici Graeci, but not 
 quite so easy to bear in mind, that such is actually the 
 condition of Euripides. The scene now before us must appear 
 to be nonsense, hopelessly inconsistent with all that precedes 
 and follows it, unless we figure it as accompanied by certain 
 action, which can indeed be ascertained, by examination 
 sufficiently careful and comprehensive, from the bare text, 
 although a modern reader, especially if preoccupied, as he 
 well may be, by difficulties of another order, will certainly not 
 divine it without such examination. 
 
 Let us first observe (there is no difficulty so far), that what 
 here passes within the house, the central incident of the play, 
 is conveyed to us, the audience, twice. First we learn it 
 in outline (vv. 875 908) by cries and other sounds from 
 within, with comments by the Chorus, or their leader, without. 
 
 1 w. 756-814. 2 w. 770 (-ye), 805 foil. 
 
 3 w. 794 foil., 798 foil. * Alcestis 962 foil. 
 
 II 2
 
 1 64 A SOUL'S TRAGEDY 
 
 This passage, half-ruined in the MSS. by non-distinction of 
 parts, was elucidated, I believe for the first time, in the edition 
 of Professor U. von Wilamowitz-Mollendorff, and little more, 
 if anything, remained to be suggested 1 . Next (vv. 922 1016) 
 it is related to us fully by an eye-witness. The thing itself, 
 in its main outline, though horrible and to the actors in it 
 astounding, should be no surprise to the attentive and un- 
 distracted observer of what has passed before. The insane 
 excitement of Heracles, naturally not assuaged but irritated 
 by the slaying of Lycus, breaks out afresh with increased 
 violence in a new direction. Even the direction has been 
 foreshadowed. We have seen that his mind, even in calmer 
 hours of the past, has been visited by the imagination of 
 dethroning and dispossessing the king of Argos 2 . We have 
 seen him, both long ago 3 and recently 4 , haunted by the vision 
 of impossible feats, performed or to be performed by his single 
 prowess fortresses captured by his arrows, and castles razed by 
 his hands. And now in a torrent of delirium these long-gather- 
 ing delusions unite. After casting the dead enemy out of doors 5 , 
 he assembles the household for a rite of purification, a 
 proceeding (be it noted) consistent indeed with his strange 
 obtrusion, when Lycus was still alive and at large, of his desire 
 to salute the domestic gods 6 , but proving in itself that he has 
 not come to his senses. The family are still in extreme peril : 
 they must be attacked soon and may be attacked instantly. 
 Even the Chorus realize that the battle of the good cause is 
 still to be fought 7 . To fly or to prepare for resistance is the 
 only alternative ; and the purification of the house is at such 
 a moment preposterous. But, as we have ourselves seen 8 , 
 Heracles is beyond control. However, it does cross his mind 
 (and this is perhaps the most subtle touch in the delineation), 
 it does occur to him, as he is about to commence the ceremony, 
 that the performance is premature, that something is to be 
 done and someone to be fought, before the purification can be 
 
 1 See the text of Prof. Murray. 2 v. 462. 
 
 3 v. 472. * vv. 565 foil. 5 See the narrative w. 922 foil. 
 
 6 v. 609. 7 w. 811-814. 8 w. 585-636.
 
 HERACLES 165 
 
 well done and once for all 1 . He pauses, and then his 
 countenance changes, his eyes start out, and crying with a 
 wild laugh ' The death of Eurystheus ! That should come 
 first,' he sets forth in fancy to breach the fortifications of 
 Mycenae, and to extirpate his imaginary rival. The ex- 
 pedition, conducted within four walls, ends not until his own 
 wife and three children lie dead by his hand. His father is 
 barely saved by a chance blow, received by the madman from 
 the falling ruins of the chamber, which he, by a turn in his 
 delusion, interprets fortunately 2 . He sinks exhausted, and 
 sleeps, and the survivors bind him to a pillar lying amid the 
 wreck. 
 
 Such, clear as terrible, is the report from within ; but a 
 new element, and a dubious, has been added to the story by 
 what has passed without while these things were being done. 
 Between the close of the triumphal ode and the outbreak of 
 the hero's delirium, the interval is filled as follows : 
 
 The forms of Iris and Madness appear above the palace. 
 
 Chorus. Ha see ! ha see ! 
 
 On you, on me, doth this same panic fall ? 
 
 Old friends, what phantom hovereth o'er the hall? 
 
 Ah flee ! ah flee 
 With haste of laggard feet ! speed thou away ! 
 
 Healer, to thee, 
 O King, to avert from me yon bane I pray ! 
 
 Iris. Fear not : this is the child of Night ye see, 
 
 Madness, grey sires : I, handmaid of the Gods, 
 Iris. We come not for your city's hurt. 
 Only on one man's house do we make war 
 His, whom Zeus' and Alcmena's son they call. 
 For, till he had ended all his bitter toils 
 Fate shielded him, and Father Zeus would not 
 That I, or Hera, wrought him ever harm. 
 But, now he hath toiled Eurystheus' labours through, 
 Hera will stain him with the blood of kin, 
 That he shall slay his sons : her will is mine. 
 On then, close up thine heart from touch of ruth, 
 O thou un wedded child of murky Night : 
 With madness thrill this man, with soul-turmoil 
 
 1 w. 928-938. 
 
 2 vv. 1001-1006, compared with w. 900-908; see Prof. Murray's text.
 
 1 66 A SOUL'S TRAGEDY 
 
 Child-murdering, with wild boundings of the feet : 
 Goad him ; the sheets of murder's sails let out, 
 That, when o'er Acheron's ferry his own hand 
 In blood hath sped his crown of goodly sons, 
 Then may he learn how dread is Hera's wrath, 
 And mine, against him : else the Gods must wane 
 And mortals wax, if he shall not be punished. 
 Madness. Of noble sire and mother was I born, 
 
 Even of the blood of Uranus and Night, 
 But not to do despite to friends I hold 
 My powers, nor love to haunt for murder's sake. 
 Fain would I plead with Hera and with thee, 
 E'er she have erred, if ye will heed my words. 
 This man, against whose house ye thrust me on, 
 Nor on the earth is fameless, nor in heaven. 
 The pathless land, the wild sea, hath he tamed, 
 And the Gods' honours hath alone restored, 
 When these by impious men were overthrown. 
 Therefore I plead, devise no monstrous wrong. 
 
 But the scruples of the pious fiend are peremptorily 
 silenced by the divine emissary : the fiend consents, under 
 protest, to compel Heracles to the slaughter of his family, and 
 the scene concludes thus : 
 
 Madness. ...See him lo, his head he tosses in the fearful race begun ! 
 See his gorgon-glaring eyeballs all in silence wildly rolled ! 
 Like a bull in act to charge, with fiery pantings uncontrolled 
 Awfully he bellows, howling to the fateful fiends of Hell ! 
 Wilder yet shall be thy dance, as peals my pipe's appalling 
 
 knell ! 
 
 Ay, unto Olympus soaring, Iris, tread thy path serene ! 
 Mine the task into the halls of Heracles to plunge unseen. 
 Iris ascends, and Madness enters the palace^. 
 
 Now what is the meaning of this apparition ? Of what 
 nature are these personages, the demon or personification of 
 Frenzy and the mythical maid-servant of Olympus, who 
 declare themselves to be the immediate authors, and Hera to 
 be the cause, of the hideous act which ensues? Upon the 
 answer to these questions depends the entire drama. The 
 answer currently accepted is, that these personages are real, 
 that is to say, real in the same sense in which any part of the 
 
 1 w. 815-873 (Way).
 
 HERACLES 167 
 
 representation is real, real as Heracles or Amphitryon, their 
 actions being really parts of what, for the purpose of the 
 drama, we are to suppose and believe to happen. If so, let us 
 agree (there is no help for it) that the play is 'a grotesque 
 abortion,' and have done with it. For the play (let us recall 
 once more) is to lead us presently to the proposition that 
 there is not and cannot be any such thing as deity having pas- 
 sions and desires^-. This proposition is to be put in the mouth 
 of a man who would have been able, according to Hellenic 
 belief, to disprove it by his own history and experiences. If 
 the dramatist does not mean us to take it as true for the 
 purpose of his story, then he means nothing, and his play is 
 nought. But how can we so take it, or suppose the author to 
 maintain it, if he exhibits, as assumptions essential to his 
 story, the personality of Iris and the existence of a jealous 
 Hera ? Are these then deities incapable of passion or desire ? 
 Here therefore, as in almost every case where superhuman 
 or supernatural persons are introduced into tragedy by 
 Euripides 2 , we are compelled to suppose them unreal. But the 
 present example differs in one most important respect from 
 those otherwise parallel. The supernatural figures of Euripides 
 are in general so introduced, so placed in the drama, that they 
 can, as the dramatist intends, be dropped off. The ghost of 
 Polydorus, who speaks the prologue of the Hecuba, the Apollo, 
 who pronounces the epilogue of the Orestes, are superfluous to 
 the real action, which in the Hecuba begins with the exit of 
 Polydorus, and in the Orestes ends with the entrance of Apollo. 
 In the case of the Heracles such treatment is impossible, from 
 the position, unique in the extant works of Euripides 3 , which 
 the apparition occupies in the play, imbedded in the centre, 
 and morticed, if the metaphor is permissible, into the action 
 which precedes and follows. The Apollo of the Orestes 
 is nothing at all, not even a fiction for dramatic purposes 4 . 
 Iris and Madness must be something ; and yet, if the play as 
 
 1 vv. 1341-1346. 
 
 2 The single certain exception is the phantom in Helen, which probat regulain. 
 Debateable exceptions are the Hippolytus and the Bacchae. 
 
 3 The Rhesus being doubtful. 4 See the essay on the Orestes, hereafter.
 
 168 A SOUL'S TRAGEDY 
 
 a whole is to have meaning, they cannot be real. What then 
 are they? 
 
 To shape the question is already to suggest the answer. 
 They are, they must be, a vision, the picture of some one's 
 imagination, presented externally for theatrical convenience, 
 but not supposed to have any reality other than that of the 
 imagining mind. The device is familiar enough, and occurs, 
 for instance, in Shakespeare's Richard III. That play is such, 
 in its historical foundation and colouring generally, that the 
 introduction into it of a personage like the Ghost in Hamlet, 
 conversing and interacting with the human actors, would be 
 felt as a dramatic solecism. But no such offence is caused, or 
 difficulty raised, when the guilty imaginations of the sleeping 
 Richard are presented by figures that move and speak. Their 
 motion, speech, and being are for the sleeper ; whether they 
 have any existence external to his dreams, whether he would 
 still see them if he woke, is a question which need not be 
 raised, but which, if it were raised, might be answered in the 
 negative without prejudice to the story and the action. 
 
 If then Iris and Madness be, as we are compelled to 
 suppose, a dream, by whom, so to put it, are they dreamed ? 
 By the Chorus. It is expressly indicated 1 (and the indication is 
 surely significant) that Madness is not perceived when she goes 
 within. Even Heracles in his frenzy never sees, or imagines 
 himself to see, the being by whose terrors, if the supernatural 
 actors are to be credited, that frenzy is actually produced 2 . 
 The question becomes then this : are the Chorus, during the 
 mythical scene, supposed to perceive the mythical personages 
 with the bodily senses, or with the mind and imagination-^to 
 see them, or to dream them ? How, in the absence of stage- 
 directions, is this question to be put to the test? There is at 
 least one test which, according to common sense and common 
 experience, will be decisive. That which we see, we can 
 
 1 v. 872-873 ; note &<J>O.VTOI. 
 
 2 Compare carefully vv. 858-873 with the subsequent narrative (w. 922 foil.), 
 and contrast the dramatic treatment in Sophocles Ajax 1-133. If Madness were 
 to be conceived as a reality, independent of a percipient or percipients, the very 
 nature of her function would require that she should at all events be perceived by 
 Heracles.
 
 HERACLES 169 
 
 remember, and, if it be impressive, must remember ; also we 
 believe it That which we dream, we often cannot remember at 
 all, and seldom with precision ; also we do not take it for fact, 
 none of us, not even, as a general rule, those who are called 
 believers in dreams. Now upon these familiar and obvious 
 premisses, it is certain that Euripides, if he had any care for truth 
 and probability, did not represent the Chorus as seeing tJie super- 
 natural apparition, because, when it is past, they do not believe 
 or even remember it. Of this fact we are assured in the only 
 possible way, that is, negatively, by their silence about the 
 apparition, by their not mentioning or alluding to it, and this 
 throughout a series of situations such that reticence, if the 
 thing were in their consciousness, would be inconceivable. 
 From the moment (v. 908) when Madness, if as a person she 
 exists, is supposed to have quitted the house, to the end of 
 the play, is one long scene of 500 verses, more than a third of 
 the whole. The Chorus are present throughout. The dialogue 
 turns wholly upon the recent delirium of Heracles ; and its 
 cause, its connexion in particular with the enmity of Hera, is 
 repeatedly mentioned as matter of inference and debate, 
 assumed by Amphitryon and Heracles, accepted by Theseus, 
 and again by Heracles contemptuously ignored 1 , when in the 
 passage before mentioned he denies the very existence of such 
 deities. All this the Chorus, though they speak often, allow 
 to pass without a hint that they were witnesses of the divine 
 action, seeing the emissaries of Hera with their eyes and 
 hearing them with their ears. They behave, in short, exactly 
 as if no such thing had occurred, behaviour inexplicable unless 
 we suppose the thing to have utterly passed out of their 
 consciousness, or, in other words, to have been not an ex- 
 perience but a dream. 
 
 We infer then necessarily that the theatrical performance, 
 during the supposed presence of the apparitions, must convey 
 this, must show that the Chorus are not, in the common sense 
 of the word, conscious of what passes before their minds. The 
 text confirms this. The entrance of the slave 2 , who narrates 
 
 1 See w. 1086, 1127, 1135, 1191, 1303-1310, 1311-1312, 1340-1346, 1393 
 
 and passim, w. 1311-1312 are probably spoken by the Chorus themselves. 
 
 2 v. 909.
 
 1 70 A SOUL'S TRAGEDY 
 
 the delirium, is the first point, after the apparition, at which the 
 elders take part in a dialogue, and thereby prove themselves 
 to be awake. And here it is plain that they are awakened : 
 
 Slave. O eld-white forms of men ! 
 
 An Elder. Thou call'st ! What is't, O what? 
 
 Slave {pointing). The horrors there within ! 
 
 An Elder. No prophet truer than I ! 
 
 Slave. Dead... the children... (The Elders shriek). Ah, cry, for there 
 is cause ! 
 
 An Elder. Murder... fell murder. ..the father's hands. ..Ah ! 
 
 Slave. No words can surpass the fact. 
 
 An Elder. How went this woeful deed, done, as thou revealest, by 
 the father on his sons? Tell the way of it. Recount this horror, 
 launched on the house by fate, the children's hapless end. 
 
 Every sentence here points to the same inference. The 
 very language of the address, O eld-white forms of men (w 
 Xef/m yrfpa aw^ara), suggests the situation, and the posture 
 of the Chorus at the moment. There is no reason to suppose 
 that this is, or could be, a mere equivalent for ryepovres, or that 
 old men, as such and in all circumstances, could be addressed 
 as ' age-whitened bodies.' But if they are found recumbent, 
 sitting or lying upon the palace-steps, in attitudes of uneasy 
 rest, which expose the feeble frames and the overflowing of 
 long white hair and long white beards, then the address is 
 natural. So also, but not otherwise, is the startled reply, 
 ' Thou call'st ! What is't ? ' (dvaicaXels pe riva (3odv ;). So, above 
 all, is the exclamation of one, that he foreboded some horrible 
 disclosure, was sure of it, sure as any prophet. If we suppose 
 that the action of Iris and Madness has been witnessed by the 
 elders in an ordinary manner, has been perceived by their 
 senses, and that they are, as then they must be, now conscious 
 of having witnessed it, this talk of foreboding, of anticipation, 
 is unintelligible. A foreboding ! What is left to forebode ? 
 A goddess, delegated by the Queen of Heaven, told them in 
 the plainest possible words, that Heracles was to be forthwith 
 driven mad, and compelled to murder his children. They 
 have seen the demon Frenzy enter the house, with the 
 declared purpose of executing this command. They have in- 
 terpreted the series of cries, voices, and other sounds by which,
 
 HERACLES 171 
 
 to persons so informed, the progress of the tragedy is signified 
 in outline without possibility of mistake 1 . And now, on 
 hearing of the horrors within, they are to talk of their 
 prophetic souls, and receive as a 'revelation' (a/z^ati/et?) the 
 news that the children are dead ! 
 
 Manifestly the elders here have no knowledge whatever, 
 no definite impression, of what has passed, except and until 
 they are told by the slave. Of what they may have 
 dreamed, or half-perceived, they retain no more, as commonly 
 is the case, than the vague sensation, familiar to dreamers, of 
 being sure that something has happened. In the fact that 
 one of them, without prompting, describes the involuntary 
 murder as ' fate-sent ' or ' heaven-sent,' we may perhaps see a 
 faint trace of the vanished vision, perhaps, but not necessarily, 
 the supposition of a compelling power being in such cases 
 commonplace and instinctive 2 . 
 
 From the awakening we turn to the falling asleep, but 
 without expectation of finding a note of it in the dialogue. 
 From the nature of the case there cannot be any such note, 
 for the slumber of the aged men is of course unprepared and 
 involuntary. Their extreme feebleness, marked and accented 
 throughout 3 for the purpose of this scene, and recently forced 
 upon our notice by the appropriation of a whole interlude to 
 the subject 4 , accounts naturally for the incident, which is 
 exhibited merely by their action. Accustomed to seclusion 
 and repose, and exhausted by strain of body and mind, upon 
 the first relaxation of the strain they just drop, as people 
 say, where they stand. The reaction is shown in the con- 
 cluding verses of the preceding ode, by abrupt changes of 
 thought, accompanied doubtless by corresponding changes in 
 
 1 w. 875-908. 
 
 2 According to the common distribution, assumed in the translation of v. 914, 
 the Chorus, after being told that the children are dead, do divine, as they very well 
 may, that they have been murdered, and by Heracles. But this distribution is not 
 certain. A possible division would be : XO. Sdioi <f>6voi. AF. Scuoi 5e TOK^UV 
 X^pes. XO. u. AF. O&K &v TIJ ctiroi K.T.\. I think this perhaps preferable, 
 but either way it is equally clear that now, and not till now, they come to the 
 knowledge of what has been done. 
 
 3 w. 107 foil., 268 foil., 637 foil, and passim. * w. 637 foil.
 
 i;2 A SOUL'S TRAGEDY 
 
 the music and action. To the proud hymn of praise and 
 thanksgiving succeeds the remark 1 , that Heracles is a better 
 lord for Thebes than a base-born ruler such as Lycus, a 
 comparison scarcely complimentary to the hero and strangely 
 deficient in enthusiasm, but explicable, if we allow for the 
 narrow intensity of Greek patriotism, and remember that 
 Heracles is no Theban, but is to rise upon the extinction of 
 the true line, the male heirs of the house of Creon. And will 
 he rise after all ? Suddenly and somewhat tardily the elders 
 reflect, that the battle with rebellion is yet to be fought : 
 ' That issue points our view to a contest of rival swords, which 
 shall prove whether the good cause hath still the blessing of 
 heaven 2 .' They cease ; but the music we may suppose 
 to continue, probably throughout the whole scene of the 
 apparition 3 , which is to be conceived as operatic, a passage 
 in recitative. Pondering their doubts, they group themselves 
 near and upon the broad steps which lead up to the house, 
 and sink down here and there in the sudden sleep of old age. 
 Then and not till then, their chief, who plays the dreamer, 
 betrays his inward agitation by a start and a cry, ' See, O see ! 
 This fear which throbs through me, do ye feel it too?... Above 
 the house I see. ..To fly, to fly !... Up, stiffened limbs, away ! 
 Apollo save us ! ' ; and overhead the forms of his day-dream 
 roll forth into the air. 
 
 That the vision, as acted, is common in its details to many 
 minds, is of course not to be supposed, and would not be sug- 
 gested by the performance. One alone 4 , the speaker just cited, 
 
 1 v. 809. 
 
 2 w. 811-814. The antecedent to the relative a (neuter plural, -which matter} 
 is the idea of alternative and choice Heracles or another Lycus suggested by the 
 preceding comparison. Whether we read <f>alvei (MSS.) here and t<t>6.vr) (Hermann) 
 in v. 794, or, with Prof. Murray, get exact syllabic responsion by retaining (t<t>a.ve 
 there and substituting it here, does not affect the sense. 
 
 3 w. 815-908. 
 
 4 This I think on the whole most probable, but the distribution of the passages 
 (w. 815-821, 874-908) is here, as always, conjectural. If several choreutae speak, 
 the total effect will be still the same. The action also is of course conjectural in 
 detail, depending on many theatrical arrangements which are open to different 
 supposition. But all this is of no importance to us now. The general nature of the 
 situation is the only thing significant to a reader, and that is ascertainable from 
 the text.
 
 HERACLES 173 
 
 reveals by voice and motions an answering impression, first in 
 full sleep 1 , and afterwards, during the enactment of the 
 tragedy within, between asleep and awake 2 ; and to his mind, 
 so far as to any, the pictured imagination is to be referred. 
 But in truth it is rather a symbol than an actual presentation, 
 showing, as in the similar example cited from Shakespeare, 
 the type and trend of the dreaming, translated into terms of 
 theatrical convention. By the fact that it figures a dream or 
 dreams we are to explain its fantastic wildness and incon- 
 sistency the goddess-messenger with the temper, as has been 
 truly said, of a dame de compagnie 3 , the so-called Frenzy, who 
 rationally expostulates with her employers upon the folly and 
 cruelty of her errand. Never did any one, with his full mind, 
 entertain conceptions so grotesquely horrible. But they are 
 proper enough to a phantasmagoria. Hera, Iris, and the like, 
 are phantoms (so the dramatist would suggest) such as, with 
 suitable occasion, might arise in feeble minds, unhappily 
 prepared by habit and beyond the control of reason. Nor has 
 he omitted to provide the suitable occasion. If we ask (it is 
 a fair question) why the old men should just now dream after 
 this fashion, the answer is obvious, that their dreams are a dis- 
 ordered reflexion or suggestion from their previous experience 
 when awake. That the mind of Heracles is in the most 
 perilous state, they have had opportunity to observe. Had 
 they been cool and vigorous, they would have observed this 
 fully and consciously, and would have deduced from it a lively 
 and rational apprehension of the consequences to be feared or 
 expected. Being what they are, and situated as they are, 
 they have still observed it in a vague half-conscious manner; 
 and out of their underlying suspicions arises, released by 
 sleep, the horrid travesty of the vision, not a fact, but a sort 
 of theological nightmare. 
 
 For in fact, let us finally remark, it is not by Hera, by Iris, 
 or by a demon-emissary, that Heracles is now driven mad, 
 because he is not now, and for the first time, maddened by any 
 agency whatever. He is mad before; we have been shown 
 that he is so, in a scene which never would have been intro- 
 
 1 w. 815-873. 2 w. 874-908. 8 von Wilamowitz-Mollendorff.
 
 174 A SOUL'S TRAGEDY 
 
 duced by the author, if he had really intended us to suppose, 
 that the second and fiercer fit of delirium is suddenly inflicted 
 by a supernatural interposition. The true cause of the 
 delirium lies deep in the past, in the inscrutable nature and 
 order of things. It is still to be traced for us a little further 
 than it has been traced as yet ; but one thing we know 
 already, that it is not attributable to the arbitrary and capricious 
 interference of divine jealousy, to the revenge of Hera. Hera 
 herself is nought, the dream of dotards, and " such things are 
 poets' miserable tales." 
 
 It was open however then, it is open still, to a spectator or 
 reader so minded, to put another value upon the dream, to 
 believe, with Clytaemnestra in Aeschylus 1 , that the darkening 
 of the eye is the enlightening of the soul, and that what the 
 elders so behold is indeed a glimpse of the spiritual world. 
 The question has been debated from antiquity to this day ; 
 the author of the Heracles had an opinion upon it, which among 
 other things is expressed in his play. Freedom to take the 
 Aeschylean view he was forced to leave, perhaps by the peril of 
 the law, certainly by the force of truth ; for that the gods may 
 be seen in dreams is a fact. What was required for his own 
 freedom, for the sense and possibility of his work, was that 
 the gods of popular imagination should be visible, if at all, by 
 that inner light and no other. And this he is careful to 
 secure. To the tragic effect of this particular scene, the choice 
 of mental interpretation is indifferent. That the best and 
 mightiest of us are liable to such an overthrow as here befalls 
 Heracles, is horrible if we attribute it to the jealousy of Hera, 
 but not less so, if with Euripides we refuse that explanation 
 and all explanations, and leave the first cause an inscrutable 
 mystery. But to this tragedy as a whole, and to the interests 
 of humanity, the choice is so far from indifferent that com- 
 paratively no other thing matters at all. To this hour it is 
 in controversy and seems likely so to remain. Euripides had 
 his opinion. 
 
 And now to proceed with the facts we are shown the 
 
 1 Eum. 104.
 
 HERACLES 175 
 
 interior of the house 1 , the madman asleep and bound, with 
 his dead lying around him. The miserable Amphitryon 
 enters, but dares not approach, until something is known of 
 his son's condition 2 . At length Heracles stirs and wakes, 
 but his senses and memory are still under a cloud. He sees 
 the dead, but without recognition. The sight only suggests 
 to him a passing suspicion that he has descended again into 
 Hades ' as I did erewhile ' ; for this impression persists. But 
 since there is 
 
 no rock of Sisyphus in view, 
 No Pluto, nor his queen, Demeter's Maid, 
 
 he concludes to the contrary 3 . The trivial tone and childish 
 reasoning jar painfully with the theme of these imaginary 
 remembrances, and most pathetically with the actual horrors 
 of the scene. At his cry for help, his father and one of the 
 elders 4 draw near and, finding him quiet, venture to release 
 him, and gradually open his eyes and his mind to the truth. 
 His first thought is of suicide ; but recognizing, in a figure 
 at this moment approaching, his friend and cousin Theseus, 
 he is diverted to the desire of hiding his shame, and flings 
 himself with covered face upon the ground. 
 
 The arrival of the king of Athens brings immediately 
 to a test the question, if it can be supposed to remain open, 
 whether there is any truth in the miraculous story which 
 Heracles has related during his insanity, whether he has or 
 has not recently descended into Hades. In this story 
 Theseus himself, we remember, played a remarkable part, 
 being found in Hades by Heracles, brought back to light, 
 and dismissed to Attica 5 . Here then is a decisive witness 
 for or against. The cause of his arrival is, as we divine even 
 before we are told, the news of the revolution in Thebes. 
 
 1 The brief recitative which precedes these changes of scene (vv. 1017-1028) is 
 a mere rest for the strained attention of the audience. For such a purpose the 
 mythological and allusive style is perfectly fit. One is scarcely expected even to 
 hear what is said. 
 
 2 vv. 1042-1086. 3 vv. 1089-1105. 
 
 4 v. \ 1 10. Here, as indeed throughout, it is apparent that for this play at all 
 events orchestra and scene were undivided. 
 
 5 w. 618-621.
 
 1 76 A SOUL'S TRAGEDY 
 
 He has brought to the assistance of his relatives an Athenian 
 army, now encamped in the neighbourhood 1 . This military 
 intervention, we may observe in passing, is for the course 
 of the action an ingenious, because simple and natural, device. 
 The Athenian forces are naturally supposed by the audience 
 to keep the Theban rebels, who hold the fortress but have 
 lost their leader, efficiently in check. The politics of Thebes, 
 no longer required as machinery, drop quietly into the back- 
 ground, and we can attend without distraction to the hero, 
 and to the question of the moment what, if anything, has 
 Theseus to tell us about the journey to Hades ? 
 
 And what is the answer ? Well, here is the strangest 
 thing in the play, a thing which, though some phenomena 
 more or less similar may be found in Euripides, will scarcely 
 be paralleled from any other author in the world. Here 
 is the thing, and the only thing, which justified us in classing 
 the Heracles with the Ion and Alcestis, as plays which have 
 the appearance of a puzzle. There is no answer to our 
 question, none positive and clear, none which could be ascer- 
 tained by a mere spectator, followirig the scene as it proceeds, 
 having no previous knowledge, and unable to revise his im- 
 pressions. The only thing obvious and superficially certain is, 
 that upon this vital question, the participation or non-partici- 
 pation of Theseus in the alleged experiences of Heracles in 
 Hades, the most attentive spectator could not, from the 
 spectacle merely, collect a sure opinion. The more attentive 
 he was, the more certainly would he conceive a doubt, and 
 retain that doubt to the end. 
 
 Broadly speaking indeed, all the evidence is on one side, 
 and that the side, which, when we have got and can review 
 the entire drama, when we have heard the final and conclusive 
 opinion of Heracles upon the gods of mythology, we know 
 to be supported by the dramatist. The whole personality 
 and character of Theseus is, as we shall presently see, such 
 as to make unentertainable the notion of his having passed a 
 time of sojourn in the fabled world of the dead. One might 
 as well suppose such a thing of one's next-door neighbour. 
 
 1 w. 1163-1168.
 
 HERACLES 177 
 
 Almost all that he says \sprimafacie inconsistent with any 
 such supposition, and many things which he says are abso- 
 lutely and finally irreconcilable with it. But nevertheless 
 in a few places he does allude to something, which might 
 be the recent rescue from the underworld, described by 
 Heracles in the first attack of his madness. And it is 
 manifest that, if a negative answer to our question were 
 meant to be obvious, these possible allusions to the miraculous 
 expedition would not have appeared in the dialogue. Such 
 is in brief the strange state of the case. The testimony 
 of Theseus respecting the journey to Hades is deliberately 
 and carefully left, for a spectator, uncertain. Several times 
 we seem to approach the subject, and never do we get any 
 decisive statement about it. 
 
 But in truth this very uncertainty is itself evidence, 
 and decisive evidence, for the same conclusion respecting the 
 purport of the entire play, to which everything, except these 
 disputable allusions, consistently points. For if Euripides 
 had meant to adopt the journey to Hades as part of 
 his story, why should there be, and how could there be, 
 any ambiguity about it? What conceivable motive could 
 an author have for throwing a shade of doubt upon a 
 point in his story, if what he meant to allege was a 
 thing generally received as an article of popular faith? 
 Concealment, ambiguity, evasion, about the facts alleged 
 and supposed in a drama, is a thing in itself inartistic, 
 injurious, and absurd. If a question of fact, vital to the 
 story, is left uncertain, that must be because the story really 
 requires, and is meant to signify, such an answer to the 
 question as the author dared not unequivocally express. 
 If Euripides had meant us to suppose that his Heracles 
 and his Theseus have been together in Hades, he would 
 have made them say so in plain terms, and not have allowed 
 them to suggest anything to the contrary. As a fact, they 
 talk and act the negative all the time; and when, once and 
 again, they seem to suggest an affirmative, it is never in 
 plain terms. When we have time to consider this treatment, 
 the conclusion is certain. The negative is the proposition 
 v. 12
 
 1 78 A SOUL'S TRAGEDY 
 
 of the drama, and the semblances of affirmation will assuredly, 
 if examined, be found susceptible of some explanation con- 
 sistent with the general sense. 
 
 Let us now look more closely at both sides of the question ; 
 and first let us consider the broad, and in truth irrefragable, 
 mass of evidence that the Heracles and Theseus of this play 
 have not been in Hades together, that neither of them has 
 been in Hades at all. 
 
 According to the story which we have heard from Heracles 1 , 
 he and Theseus, having emerged together from Hades, have 
 recently parted, at some place not specified but apparently 
 in the Peloponnese, to pursue each his journey home, Heracles 
 having for companion the captive Cerberus. As we saw, this 
 story was told in such circumstances as almost to disprove 
 itself, and in a manner which, to cool and fully competent 
 hearers, would certainly disprove it. We may not know much 
 about Hell ; but we do know or feel, all of us, that it is not, 
 in the profane phrase of Shelley, ' a city much like London.' 
 And in the Greek world, as in all ages, a man who professed 
 to have travelled beyond the mouth of Hades, and who 
 reported his travels exactly as if they had been made on this 
 side, would simply have proved, to cool and competent 
 hearers, that he had not been there. But suppose for a 
 moment that this monstrous story is fact, what should now be 
 the thought and language of Theseus ? What could it be but 
 enquiry about Heracles ? What has befallen him ? Has he 
 reached Thebes? Has he been heard of? The danger of the 
 family is but an additional reason for such enquiries as to the 
 fate and whereabouts of their natural protector. But what do 
 we find ? We find, without surprise, that Theseus knows 
 nothing whatever of his friend's recent absence, but assumes, 
 as a matter of course, that he is with the rest of the family at 
 Thebes. On hearing of the rebellion, ' I came in force,' says 
 he to Amphitryon, ' to the aid of your son 2 .' Not only so, but 
 from the manner in which he speaks of the rumour, about 
 Lycus and his enterprise, which ' came to Athens,' it is impossi- 
 ble to suppose that his own presence at Athens requires any 
 
 1 vv. 607-621. * v. 1165.
 
 HERACLES 179 
 
 explanation, impossible to suppose that he had arrived there, 
 recently and barely in time, from Hades or anywhere else. 
 In all that he says, it is manifest that he has made no recent 
 journey, and is unaware that Heracles has made any ; so that, 
 merely by his opening words, the miraculous narrative, given 
 by Heracles in his insanity, is instantly and finally exploded. 
 Not having heard it, and not hearing it now (since all are too 
 full of the present to investigate the past), he cannot contradict 
 it ; but he ignores it, here and everywhere, and his ignorance 
 is contradiction enough. 
 
 So also is his bearing and his whole personality. To 
 appreciate this fully, one must go to the original ; but as his 
 character is, from this point onwards, an important factor in 
 the effect, we must essay a summary description of it. Though 
 not an extraordinary person, but rather the contrary, he is for 
 this reason well adapted to his function in the drama. Kind, 
 loyal, generous, and chivalrous, he is, with all this and above 
 all, what no one else in the play can be called, emphatically a 
 man, a man in the full vigour of his manhood, but a normal 
 man, of the normal human pattern, neither above nor below. 
 His religion in particular, which the circumstances bring into 
 prominence, is, if one may so say, superlatively commonplace. 
 His conduct and counsels are in reality guided by motives 
 altogether mundane natural affection, natural sympathy, and 
 that desire of public approval and fear of general censure, 
 which were so strong in the Greeks, praeter latidem nullius 
 avaris. In speculation he takes, like the majority of men, little 
 interest, and is properly neither believer nor dissenter 1 . The 
 current notions about the gods he rather supposes to be true ; 
 and he warmly approves those semi-religious observances, 
 more important in the Greek world than they are now, which 
 offer to good men, that is, to men generally esteemed, the 
 prospect of posthumous remembrance. But a personal creed, 
 a passionate hope, a theory of life and death and the Powers 
 above, these things are beyond him. His calm acquiescence 
 in the popular conception of Olympus presents an equal 
 contrast to the wavering faith of Amphitryon on the one 
 
 1 See particularly w. 1313-1339- 
 
 12 2
 
 180 A SOUL'S TRAGEDY 
 
 hand, and on the other, to the furious irony and the lofty 
 speculation of Heracles. That such a person has been in 
 contact with the unseen world, or has lights from his own 
 experience upon the destiny of man and the problem of the 
 grave, is a notion not to be entertained with gravity ; and 
 as for his having been in Hades, and recently, and with 
 Heracles, his single reference to that abode, as the place where 
 his friend ' will go when he dies 1 / confirms the irresistible 
 inference from his silence. 
 
 No mortal hath escaped misfortune's taint, 
 Nor God if minstrel-legends be not false. 
 Have they not linked them in unlawful bonds 
 Of wedlock, and with chains, to win them thrones, 
 Outraged their fathers? In Olympus still 
 They dwell, by their transgressions unabashed. 
 What wilt thou plead, if, mortal as thou art, 
 Thou chafe against thy fate, and Gods do not ? 
 
 Nay then, leave Thebes, submissive to the law, 
 And unto Pallas' fortress come with me. 
 There will I cleanse thine hands from taint of blood, 
 Give thee a home, and of my substance half. 
 The gifts my people gave for children saved 
 Twice seven, when I slew the Knossian bull, 
 These will I give thee. All throughout the land 
 Have I demesnes assigned me : these shall bear 
 Thy name henceforth with men while thou shalt live. 
 And when in death thou goest to Hades' halls, 
 With sacrifice and monuments of stone 
 Shall all the Athenians' town exalt thy name : 
 For a fair crown to win from Greeks is this 
 For us, the glory of a hero helped 2 . 
 
 Is it necessary or possible to discuss, whether this speaker 
 is supposed by the dramatist to have sojourned, a living 
 prisoner, in the world of the dead, and to have escaped 
 therefrom, within the last few days, by the aid of the man to 
 whom he is speaking ? 
 
 But on the other hand, equally visible, in the speeches 
 of Theseus and in his conversation with Heracles, is the 
 occurrence from time to time of allusions which would be 
 
 1 v. 1331 ; and see Heracles, v. 1247. 2 w. 1314-1335 (Way).
 
 HERACLES 181 
 
 taken prima facie as referring to the deliverance of Theseus 
 by Heracles from the underworld, allusions which certainly 
 would not appear, in their actual form, unless the dramatist 
 had intended to leave on this question a shade of doubt 
 and a loophole of escape from the negative conclusion. There 
 are four such allusions, all very similar. ' I come here,' says 
 Theseus to Amphitryon, ' to requite Heracles for his good 
 deed in rescuing me from underground.' 
 
 rivcav 8' a/AOi/3a<? wv VTrrjpgev 'Hpa/cX.?}? 
 <T<wcra9 /ie vepOev fi\6ov l . 
 
 And again to Heracles himself: 'I reck not if with you 
 I suffer, as once with you I was fortunate. Let this day 
 be set off against that, when you brought me safe to light 
 from among the dead. For a gratitude that wanes with time 
 I detest,' and so on. 
 
 ovSev fjie\i /jioi crvv ye <rol Trpdcraeiv Katea)?' 
 Kal <ydp TTOT' evrv^rja- ' efcetcr' dvotareov, 
 6V e^ecrwcra? JM e? (/><zo<? ve/cptov Trdpa. 
 %dpiv 8e yrjpdcTKOvcrav e^daipco (friXcov' 2 ,... 
 
 And again, when he offers to Heracles a home in Athens : 
 ' I on my part will thus repay and requite you for my 
 rescue.' 
 
 ooi rrj<f 
 
 And again at the last, when he would make Heracles summon 
 his courage to part from the corpses of the wife and children : 
 ' If one should see you womanish, he would not praise ! ' 
 Heracles. 'Have I lived to be in your sight low? It was 
 not so once, methinks.' Theseus. ' Truly too low. In this 
 weakness, you are not the Heracles of your fame.' Heracles. 
 ' What were you like yourself in your trouble underground ? ' 
 Theseus. ' In point of courage, nothing could be less than 
 I was.' 
 
 H. ei <r o^re-rai Ti9 Off\vv OVT ', OVK alvetrei. 
 HP. &) croi rcnretvos ; d\\d TrpocrOev ov 8o/c<w. 
 
 1 v. 1169. 2 v. 1220. 3 v. 1336.
 
 1 82 A SOUL'S TRAGEDY 
 
 H. dyav <y'' o K\eivbs 'HpaK\ij<^ ov/c el vocrwv. 
 HP. (rv TTOto? rjcrOa vepdev ev KaKoicriv dov ; 
 H. &><? e? TO \rjfjia iravrbs r\v rjacrwv dvijp 1 . 
 
 With these four allusions we might join, as possibly 
 bearing on the topic, a reference by Heracles, addressing 
 Theseus, to the supposed Cerberus 2 . But as this does not 
 mention the rescue, and does not, on the face of it, presuppose 
 any connexion between the thing mentioned and Theseus, 
 it will be best considered separately. Let us confine our 
 attention for the present to the rescue. 
 
 As to this, we are presented with a plain alternative. 
 Either the import of the whole interview between Heracles 
 and Theseus, and of the whole play, is nonsense ; or these 
 allusions, however they may appear at first sight, do not 
 really, according to the intention of the dramatist, refer to 
 Hades or to the recent expedition of Heracles at all. And 
 it is visible in the allusions themselves, visible at a second 
 glance, that they do not. 
 
 The mere wording of them proves this. An author who 
 wrote of Hades, of the unseen world, the habitation of 
 departed souls, the abode of Sisyphus and Tantalus, the realm 
 of Pluto and Persephone an author who meant to indicate 
 that certain living men of flesh and blood had sojourned 
 or travelled in that world, who had in his thoughts things 
 so terribly distinct as these, could scarcely fail, even in a 
 single allusion, to use some term or turn of phrase which 
 clearly and indisputably meant what he meant. In the course 
 of repeated allusions, he could not possibly fail. Four times, 
 we should have to suppose, does Euripides say, or intend 
 to say, that his Theseus has been ' in Hades.' And yet not 
 once does he say it. Not once does he use a word or 
 expression which is applicable to a world of departed souls 
 and to nothing else. By mere accident, we should have to 
 suppose, all the references may, upon the face of them, be 
 referred to some totally different matter, some incident 
 mundane, familiar, and commonplace. Such a series of 
 improbable accidents is perfectly impossible. 
 
 1 w. 1412-1416. * v. 1386.
 
 HERACLES 183 
 
 We may prove this by a direct and simple test. Mr 
 Way's translation of Euripides is, as we have often seen, 
 remarkable for a close and almost verbal fidelity, seldom 
 achieved in the form of verse. Unquestionably he intends 
 and supposes himself to have represented Euripides, in these 
 four passages, as exactly as the English language permits. 
 But Mr Way comes to them with the thought, which he 
 attributes to Euripides, that they refer to Hades. Now of the 
 four, one 1 cannot be made explicit in this reference without 
 great and voluntary alteration. Three, though they are 
 not explicit, can be made so by slight and involuntary 
 alteration. What is the result ? That they are made explicit, 
 that two out of the three become, in Mr Way's version, 
 applicable to ' Hades ' and to nothing else. 
 
 And to requite the service done of him 
 
 Who out of Hades saved me, tame I, ancient, 
 
 If aught ye need mine hand or mine allies 2 . 
 
 Nought reck I of misfortune, shared with thee. 
 Fair lot hath found me I date it from that hour 
 When safe to-day thou brought'st me from the dead 3 . 
 
 Theseus. Who sees thee play the woman thus shall scorn. 
 
 Heracles. Live I, thy scorn ? Once was I not, I trow. 
 
 Theseus. Alas, yes ! Where is glorious Heracles ? 
 
 Heracles. What manner of man wast thou ''mid Hades' woes ? 
 
 Theseus. My strength of soul was utter weakness then 4 . 
 
 And similarly, in the supposed allusion to Cerberus 5 , which 
 we shall consider hereafter, Mr Way writes ' Cerberus,' as any 
 man, who meant Cerberus, instinctively would. But Euripides 
 speaks of ' a dog,' and, unless we correct him, of ' an unhappy 
 dog,' as no man, who thought of Cerberus, possibly could. 
 
 Equally decisive is the test by Euripides himself, by the 
 play itself. Amphitryon is meant by Euripides to assert that 
 Heracles has passed through Taenarum ' into Hades 6 ,' and he 
 
 1 At v. 1336 Mr Way gives 
 
 Yea, this requital will I render thee 
 For saving me. 
 This is exact and, like the Greek, does not suggest Hades even remotely. 
 
 2 v. 1169. 3 v. 1220. 4 v. 1412. 
 5 v. 1386. 6 v. 24.
 
 1 84 A SOUL'S TRAGEDY 
 
 says this, not that Heracles has gone among dead men. Lycus 
 thinks that Heracles, being dead, ' lies with Hades 1 ,' and says 
 it. Megara, who agrees with Lycus in thinking that her 
 husband, if he has gone to ' Hades,' has gone there as a dead 
 man and cannot return, expresses her meaning in the natural 
 language of mankind 2 . The Chorus speak of the hero's 
 voyage 'to Hades 3 ,' and of his return (when they are con- 
 vinced of it) from ' the mere of Acheron,' and ' the house of 
 Pluto 4 .' Heracles, when he means to describe himself as 
 having travelled in the underworld of popular religious belief, 
 uses, in almost every sentence, terms which cannot bear any 
 other sense 5 . All the personages of the play sometimes use 
 on this subject language which is applicable to this subject 
 only. And so would Theseus, and so would Heracles in con- 
 versation with Theseus, if the thought in Euripides' mind had 
 been, that these persons were speaking of experiences which 
 they had shared in Hades. But since, as a fact, the five 
 allusions (including the case of Cerberus) are all ambiguous, 
 since all speak in terms not of Hades, but only of ' dead men/ 
 'underground,' and the like, the inevitable inference is that 
 they are purposely ambiguous, and that, according to the 
 intention of the author, the speakers do not refer to Hades, 
 but to something totally different. 
 
 Nor should it be overlooked, that the incident which they 
 mention, the rescue of Theseus by Heracles, is apparently not 
 recent. For Theseus describes his motive for repaying it as 
 dislike of a gratitude that 'grows old' or 'wanes with time 6 .' 
 Now it is possible indeed, and the possibility is doubtless 
 provided intentionally by the composer, to interpret this as 
 meaning that Theseus loves to repay services promptly. 
 But this is not the only possible meaning, nor the most 
 natural. A hearer who depended only on the words, who 
 had no preconception about the matter, would suppose 
 Theseus to reprobate the forgetting of benefits, and therefore 
 to have in view a service, which might conceivably have been 
 
 1 v. 145. 2 vv. 297, 491. : * v. 427. 
 
 4 w. 770-808. 5 zz>. 607-621, 1101-1104, 1276-1278. 
 
 6 v. 1223 "xo-piv 5e yt]pdcrKovffav e'x#cUpu> tf>l\uv.
 
 HERACLES 185 
 
 forgotten 1 . Here then is a sixth ambiguity, multiplying 
 enormously the improbability that all six should be acci- 
 dental. And if they are calculated, the inference is inevitable, 
 that the popular interpretation, the interpretation which 
 would commend itself to the prepossessions of a Greek 
 populace, is not that which was intended by Euripides. 
 
 It remains then to ask it is the only question which 
 Euripides leaves open what was the incident, not connected 
 with Hades, to which the reminiscences of Theseus allude. 
 Since Euripides leaves the question open, it follows practically, 
 that we, at this time of day and with such illustration of the 
 subject as we command, are unable to answer it. But not so 
 his educated contemporaries. The rescue of Theseus from 
 Hades, as an article of popular belief, an incident in the 
 legend of Heracles, was, like the belief that he strangled 
 the Nemean lion with his arms, a thing for which the 
 rationalizers had to account. Herodorus and other such 
 writers, who preferred to think that the lion was strangled by 
 a noose or trap, were bound to transform on the same prin- 
 ciples the rescue of Theseus, by showing a natural and mundane 
 incident, out of which, by superstitious exaggeration and with 
 the aid of ambiguous language, the legendary version might be 
 evolved. They would have no difficulty. Euripides, without 
 committing himself to details, shows us what was the general 
 line of the explanation, and what were the ambiguities 
 utilized. What Euripides implies, and all that he implies, is 
 that Theseus was rescued by Heracles from ' underground ' 
 (vepOev), from a place where there were ' corpses ' or ' dead ' 
 (Trapa veicpwv). Various incidents may be imagined, possible 
 and not improbable in themselves, which would satisfy this 
 language. For example, the two friends might visit a mine 
 or cave together, and be imprisoned with the victims of a fatal 
 accident. Theseus, as he tells us, was utterly unmanned 2 ; 
 Heracles retained his courage and strength, and found an 
 escape for both. Euripides gives neither these details nor 
 
 1 See also irv. 1413-1415. Would any one naturally suppose here, that 
 Heracles' irp6ff6ei>, once, formerly, refers to the day before yesterday ? It is possible ; 
 but should we naturally suppose so ? 
 
 2 v. 1416.
 
 1 86 A SOUL'S TRAGEDY 
 
 any, hut indicates plainly, to educated spectators or readers of 
 his day, that it is some incident of this kind, some natural 
 incident, something like what was figured in this connexion 
 by rationalistic writers, that his Theseus and his Heracles 
 jointly remember. 
 
 When therefore Heracles in his madness declares that he 
 has delivered Theseus from Hades 1 , he is not merely inventing, 
 any more than when he says, in the same condition, that he 
 has captured Cerberus. The latter delusion is founded, as 
 we shall see, upon a real circumstance of his recent expedition 
 to Taenarum, the former upon a more ancient reminiscence, 
 of which his confused imagination disguises not only the 
 nature but the date. If the civic theatre of Athens had 
 permitted, in such a matter as this, the perfectly open 
 exhibition of infidel views, this particular trait in the divaga- 
 tions of Heracles would have been somehow brought to the 
 knowledge of Theseus himself: it might have been introduced, 
 for example, into the speech hovering between sanity and 
 insanity, which the hero addresses to his friend in the 
 drama 2 , and which we shall consider presently. And the 
 refutation of it must then have been explicit. To save 
 appearances, so plain a confrontation is avoided ; and the 
 facts, that Theseus is ignorant of the expedition to Taenarum, 
 and that the rescue, as supposed in this drama, took place at 
 another time and in other circumstances, though conspicuous 
 to instructed eyes, are conveyed in such a way that the 
 ignorant and the superstitious would overlook them, and that, 
 if the author should be molested (as once at least he was) by 
 a prosecution for impiety, there would be room for a formal 
 defence. 
 
 Beyond the incident of the rescue, we learn nothing about 
 the relations between Theseus and Heracles, except in general 
 this significant fact, that the admiration of the lesser man (for 
 Theseus, though he has exploits to boast 3 , is frankly the 
 inferior) is totally free from superstitious imagination, and 
 that his great friend, however glorious and beneficent his 
 career, is to him just a mortal man and nothing more 
 
 1 V. 619. 2 TJV. 1255 foil. 
 
 3 v. 1327. Note that the Minotaur is merely 'a bull.'
 
 HERACLES 187 
 
 Amphitryon continues, as before, to cite battles of gods and 
 giants 1 , Theseus never ; and his reticence admits but one 
 interpretation. That the gods are no better than others, he 
 thinks very possible as a general proposition ; and he charac- 
 teristically finds it a reflexion rather consoling than otherwise. 
 Their malice, and in particular the malice of Hera, is an idea 
 quite acceptable to his intelligence 2 : she is doubtless an 
 enemy of Heracles. But as to the part of Zeus in the parentage 
 of his friend he happens not to express an opinion 3 . And 
 this example is typical. What Theseus is concerned for is solely 
 the reputation of Heracles as a man, and his honour in the 
 eyes of the world, which will suffer, he says, by so weak and 
 ill-considered an act as suicide 4 . Most earnestly therefore 
 does he labour to dissuade him from it, and to prove by word 
 and deed that the friend of Theseus may still look forward to 
 a tolerable future. 
 
 Such are the materials provided for the last and noblest 
 scene of the play, one of the noblest in Greek drama or any 
 drama. With reverent curiosity, profound yet self-restrained, 
 Euripides, for the foundation of his tragedy, goes boldly down 
 into those dim regions where soul and body meet, yet so as 
 never to lose in vagueness and mysticism the difference 
 between that which is obscure and that which is simply 
 unknown. To the excited importunity of Amphitryon, 
 Heracles, prostrate and shrouded, offers a resistance silent 
 but furious 5 Theseus with a more calm, though tender, 
 authority forces him at last to look up and to speak 6 ; but for 
 some time it appears that even Theseus can effect no more. 
 Hard and untouched, Heracles parries his affectionate insis- 
 tence with curt replies, which cover rather than disclose the 
 state of his mind. Only it is evident that between the two 
 friends there is some spiritual barrier, some gulf of thought, 
 unveiled and veiled again in a glimpse : 
 
 Her. Ay, saw you ever misery that was more 7 ? 
 
 Thes. Nay, nay, from earth your sorrows reach to heaven. 
 
 1 w. 1192-1194. 2 w. 1191, 1314 foil., etc. 
 
 3 And note, in v. 1316, the word dXXiJXotfftJ'. 
 
 4 vv. 1246-1254 and passim. 8 w. 1203-1213. 
 
 6 vv. 1214-1228. 7 w. i239foll. (A. W. V.).
 
 1 88 A SOUL'S TRAGEDY 
 
 Her. And therefore is my mind resolved to die. 
 Thes. Think you your threatening touches Them above ? 
 Her. God hath his way ; I with the gods have mine 1 . 
 Thes. Refrain your lips, lest the big word invite 
 
 The heavier blow ! 
 Her. I am full, there is no place 
 
 For misery more. 
 
 But when this aimless fencing has beaten itself out in strokes 
 that do not meet 
 
 Her. Men help not : Hera wins ! 
 Thes. And you accept 
 
 A foolish death, by Hellas disallowed ! 
 
 Heracles, if not moved, is at last provoked to explain him- 
 self 2 . If Theseus will listen, he may have an answer, may 
 know that for Heracles to live is, as in the past it has been, a 
 thing unfit. His calamities began, not, as Theseus imagines, 
 to-day, but before he was born, when his mother Alcmena was 
 wedded to a homicide, the slayer of his own grandfather, one 
 who by breaking the sacred chain of life had proved himself 
 unworthy to continue it. How from such parentage should 
 aught proceed but a thing born to be miserable ? Thus, with 
 ghastly composure, he begins, and thus he would have pro- 
 ceeded, tracing his whole career, his false glories no less than 
 his latest exploit in the murder of his family 3 , to the same 
 source, the evil in the blood, revealed at last to all, but by 
 himself long known and abhorred. That is why he must 
 die. Thus he would have proceeded; but here the complicated 
 horror of the situation becomes too much for his self-mastery. 
 The father whom he denounces, the author of his being and 
 his misery, whom yet (this is the worst and also the best of 
 all) he tenderly loves, that father is present, though Heracles, 
 absorbed in his revelation, had for a moment forgotten him. 
 He sees Amphitryon's agony, and desires to console him, to 
 console him (how else?) by wounding him again in the very 
 heart of his fond and foolish pride, by acknowledging him as 
 
 1 v. 1243 avSadts 6 Oe6s- irpbs Se rovs Oeobs tyw. Note the change of number 
 and compare w. 1341, 1345. 
 s w. 1255 foil. 
 3 v. 1279.
 
 HERACLES 189 
 
 his father indeed, him, and not Zeus. And in this effort the 
 thread of his thought quivers and is snapped. The delusions, 
 which he set out to confess and expose, rush back and possess 
 him. He struggles, but is carried on; and the whole splendid 
 abomination of his legend rolls from his lips in a flood, blended 
 and inseparable, of sane irony and mad belief. ' As for Zeus, 
 why what is Zeus ? The father whose blood devolved upon 
 me the enmity of Hera \...and you, Sir, be you not wounded ; 
 you, and not He, are my father, the father in whom I believe. . . 
 
 and, She, ere I was weaned, laid open my infant cradle to 
 
 snakes, with shining eyes, ay She, the wife of Zeus, that I might 
 be s/am'...Then I came to the full muscles of a man, and 
 ever since I have had things to fight through... that I need 
 not tell. What is the shape of foe that I have not met? 
 Lions? Ay! Three-bodied Typhons... Giants. Centaurs, an 
 army of them ! and a hydra, many-headed, that grew and grew, 
 which I did to death,... and others, hordes of them,... through 
 which I fought my way, till I came... to the place of the dead 1 
 . . .to bring from Hades into day, as Eurystheus bade, the three- 
 headed Hound of the gate; and I crowned it all, ah me ! with 
 this final feat, that I slew... my progeny... fair pinnacle to the 
 building of my toil!' What is before him? Where shall he turn? 
 Thebes is closed, and Argos, and every place which witnessed 
 his triumph and now will cry scorn upon ' the son of Zeus, the 
 murderer of his wife and children.' Ay, the very elements, earth 
 and sea, will cry out against this second Ixion 2 . ' Let then,' he 
 concludes, still fighting, strangled and desperate, between the 
 two opposing thoughts which yet are in a manner united, the 
 hydra, veritably double-headed, of his sane and insane belief, 
 'let then Zeus' glorious Lady dance, and her sandalled footfall 
 ring upon Olympus' floor ! She hath wrought her will ! Him 
 who was first in Hellas, wholly and utterly hath she wrecked 
 and overthrown...' But no, not wholly nor utterly ! For here, 
 with a last convulsive effort, he suddenly lays hold of reason, 
 and turns defiantly upon the capering puppet of his phantasy. 
 ' A goddess ! That ! How should a man pray to that ? 
 
 1 See w. 1097, 1101, and also v. 1222 compared with v. 619. 
 
 2 The Greek Cain, the typical murderer.
 
 190 A SOUL'S TRAGEDY 
 
 Jealous [...jealous of her Zeus [...because of a woman. ..and 
 therefore pursuing to destruction... one that did good to all his 
 nation, ...and was innocent' and with this outcry, broken 
 yet triumphant, neither deity nor devil, but once again a 
 miserable, rational man, he bursts into saving tears 1 . 
 
 To us, who have followed the scenes of the morning, this 
 speech reveals not only the present storm, but all the life-long 
 labour of the mighty, misbegotten intellect. But Theseus 
 has neither witnessed the facts, nor received an account of 
 them, and is moreover not fitted to comprehend them fully if 
 he had. What Heracles means he does not understand, but 
 he sees and is deeply moved by his tears 2 . He perceives also 
 what is obvious, that the source of them is connected in some 
 way with his friend's theology, and he offers accordingly such 
 comfort as he can. Why be miserable because the gods are 
 wicked ? Theseus will show him a better way. Like men, 
 the gods are not above evil, not by any means, if those say 
 true who pretend to know. The disorders of Olympus, from 
 love, ambition, and what not, equal anything to be seen below. 
 Yet the inhabitants make the best of it, and are tolerant of 
 their imperfect condition. Surely then, surely men should be 
 not less patient, but should take things, and themselves, as 
 they are. Heracles, being a homicide, must doubtless depart 
 from Thebes, as custom prescribes ; but Athens is open. 
 Theseus is ready, and happily able, to endow him with all that 
 
 1 See vv. 1353-1357- That this weeping of one who never wept before occurs 
 first between the two great speeches of Heracles (w. 1310-1340), and accom- 
 panies the sudden change of his mind there exhibited, may be fairly inferred, 
 though it is not stated. What appears upon the text is that in the fitst 
 speech Heracles is beside himself, staggering on, or rather over, the brink of 
 insanity, but that in the second he has recovered, and is himself, completely and 
 finally. Also that this recovery is effected by his own body and mind, since it 
 will hardly be attributed to the observations of Theseus. The scene wants only 
 proper action to be perfectly intelligible and even simple. 
 
 2 W. 1311-1312 should probably be assigned to the Chorus (Camper, Murray, 
 and others). The following speech of Theseus begins in the middle of a sentence, 
 and the first words seem to be lost. But of this I am not quite sure. At v. r3io 
 Heracles, who must stand up for the preceding speech, flings himself again in a 
 passion of tears upon the ground (see v. 1394). Theseus kneels beside him, 
 consoling. In these circumstances we may be meant not to hear Theseus, till 
 he has been speaking, to the ear of Heracles, for some time.
 
 HERACLES 191 
 
 a man can desire for this world and the next wealth now, 
 chapels and memorial rites hereafter ; gladly will he thus 
 recompense his rescuer, now friendless. ' While the gods 
 favour, friends are superfluous, and the aid of the god 1 , so 
 long as he pleases, is enough.' 
 
 ' Here is the man for a friend ! ' as Heracles presently 
 exclaims 2 , with profound and merited gratitude. But as a 
 spiritual adviser in the case, Theseus imports only that touch 
 of the inadequate, the inappropriate, in short the absurd, 
 which is as seldom absent from the tragedies of life as frofn 
 those of Euripides, and is not the least poignant part of them. 
 The frailties of the Olympians are a strange comfort for 
 one to whom the Olympians are but a small and, as he says 3 , 
 a 'secondary' part of that miserable misconception, that huge 
 error, by which he himself, his life and work and very mind, 
 have been inextricably entangled and distorted ; one who 
 might perhaps have been happy as well as great, if men had 
 not believed in Zeus and Hera, and would have let him 
 deny such deities, as in his true mind he ever did and now 
 with all solemnity does. Now, for the first time since we 
 have seen him, he is truly Heracles, and his often quoted 
 profession of faith springs out, as the word for which we have 
 waited : 
 
 7r<ipepya fjLtv ra8' ecrr" efLwv tcaicwv, 
 8e TOI? 8eov<; ovre \eKTp a fir] $e/u<? 
 (rrepyeiv vofii^o), Seoy/,a T' e^cnneiv %epoiv 
 OVT r)%i(i)cra Trdovror' ovre Trelcro/Mii, 
 ou5' a\\ov a\\ov SecnroTtjv 7r 
 Selrat yap o Oe6$, e'iTrep ear 1 opOws 
 ovSevov doi$<av oiSe Sva-rrjvoi \6joi. 
 
 But this is no time for argument ; and upon the question 
 of the moment, the question of suicide, he has come, upon 
 better thought, to agree practically with Theseus. In refusing 
 his burden there might be cowardice; he will await death 
 patiently, and meanwhile will thankfully accept the offered 
 refuge 4 . The new strange tears, sign of a great and perhaps 
 
 1 The change of number means nothing to Theseus, to Heracles (v. 1345) it does. 
 
 2 v. 1404. 3 v. 1340. * w. 1347 foil.
 
 192 A SOUL'S TRAGEDY 
 
 a lasting change, continue to flow, while he bids farewell to 
 his father and the dead, and decides, after pathetic hesitation, 
 that his deadly weapons, his glorious weapons, shall go with 
 him still, and finally takes leave of Thebes, of her soil upon 
 which he still lies prostrate, and of her people, to whom he 
 commends the memory of his fate 1 . Here only, in his references 
 to Thebes, do we perceive a trace of the crisis through which 
 he has passed, a blank of thought persisting, and persistent to 
 the end. When he trustfully bids all the folk of Thebes, as 
 friends, to the funeral of his children, he shows that in his 
 memory there is an unrepaired and perhaps irreparable gap. 
 The story of Lycus, the fact that Heracles' enemies actually 
 hold the town, all this is gone from him. Since he came to 
 his senses, nothing has been said of it, and what was said 
 and done before, even the slaying of Lycus by his own hands, 
 he has forgotten. This natural touch, given without the least 
 emphasis, and left, as in real life, to be marked or neglected 
 as the observer shall please, is vividly characteristic of 
 Euripides. Not less so is the single and final touch of irony, 
 which warns us that the fierce feelings, and even the insane 
 beliefs, which fill the preceding speech 2 , may possibly still be 
 revived : 
 
 All ye of Thebes, together mourn us all, 
 My dead and me, together all destroyed... 
 By Hera,...a\\ and with a single stroke. 
 
 From the hero's profession of faith, as we have called it, 
 down to these closing words, all is valedictory, except a brief 
 parenthesis 3 , which refers to his recent expedition, the expedi- 
 tion to Taenarum, and is designed to satisfy, so far as is 
 necessary and suitable, the reader's possible curiosity upon 
 a point hitherto untouched. In the rumours at Thebes, which 
 are exhibited in the prologue by Amphitryon 4 , the purpose 
 
 > I3 8 9- X 393 : 2 >- 1255 foil. 
 
 3 w. 1386-1388 
 
 f-v fioi ri, Qrjffev, ffisyKa/j.' &0\tov xvvbs 
 
 K6/J.iffrp s "Apyos ffvyKaTaffT7)ffov p.o\uv, 
 
 \vifij n iraidwv /j.r) irddu /j.ovovfj.evos. 
 
 So MSS. and Prof. Murray, adding however ' d6\iov ex v. praecedente traiectum 
 videtur.' airfKa.fi d9\l<?- KVVOS Pierson and others. A'idov fj.oi KVVOS F. G. Schmidt. 
 
 4 23.
 
 HERACLES 193 
 
 of that expedition was said to be the capture of Cerberus for 
 King Eurystheus ; and in the report of Heracles, made in the 
 first access of his madness 1 , the capture is related with the 
 addition of a remarkable detail. The captor, anxious to be 
 at home, avoided the journey to Argos and the immediate 
 delivery of the monster, which was left, as it were till called 
 for, at the sanctuary of Demeter Chthonia in the town of 
 Hermione. A glance at the map will explain this. Heracles 
 went to Taenarum, and doubtless returned, by sea 2 the best 
 route for speed between Taenarum and Boeotia in an age 
 when there were Centaurs in Arcadia and lions about the 
 Isthmus. For a traveller proceeding by sea, Hermione, at the 
 eastern promontory of Argolis, was the obvious place to 
 leave anything destined for Argos. At Hermione therefore 
 Heracles put in with Cerberus tied to the mast, we should 
 have to suppose, if the creature had ever existed. But since he 
 is a myth, the product of superstitious or insane imagination, 
 the only question which can arise is whether his appearance 
 in the Theban rumours and in the report of Heracles had any 
 foundation in fact, whether in short the expedition to Taenarum 
 was connected at all with a dog. We are now informed, if 
 we care to know, that it was. ' There is one task,' says 
 Heracles to Theseus, ' which I must have your help to perform. 
 There is a miserable dog 3 , which by bargain I should convey 
 to Argos. Come with me to close the matter, lest in the 
 pain of my bereavement I... take some harm, if I be left alone/ 
 Words would be wasted in showing that the miserable 
 dog of this allusion is not the Hound of Hell ; and the attempts 
 to correct the text, so as to make the reference possible, have 
 had such success as should have been expected 4 . Palpably 
 the facts were natural, which for the intention of the drama is 
 necessary and also sufficient. That a dog which Heracles 
 was bringing from Laconia to Eurystheus (under what precise 
 
 1 vv. 607 foil. 2 v. 427 tir\evff' e$"Ai8av. 
 
 3 Or ' the miserable dog.' 
 
 4 Nothing is efficient short of a violent change in v. 1386, like "AtSov /M>I KW&S, 
 which makes the description of Cerberus explicit; and when we have done that, we 
 have only made it, in its trivial curtness, offensive. Contrast v. 1277. 
 
 v. 13
 
 194 A SOUL'S TRAGEDY 
 
 circumstances we are not told and have not the least interest 
 in knowing) would, if left on the road, be exceedingly un- 
 happy, is more than probable. But it is worth notice, as a 
 trait peculiarly Euripidean, that Heracles, restored to himself, 
 though he is still in such distress of mind that he asks for a 
 companion to protect him against suicide, has sympathy to 
 spare for a neglected animal. We are reminded of Hippolytus' 
 appeal to the gratitude of his horses 1 , and the tenderness of 
 Ion for the wild birds 2 . For all that is defenceless and liable 
 to suffer, women, children, slaves, Euripides has ever a word ; 
 and when, as in these cases, he will describe hearts more than 
 commonly noble and tender, he has a word for the dumb 
 creatures too. The honourable desire of Heracles to fulfil 
 an engagement, however justifiably suspended, is also an 
 appropriate, though more commonplace, trait. 
 
 About this dog, as about the rescue of Theseus, the Miss 
 Martha Buskbodies of the day, the consumers of fiction who 
 were not content without the sugar at the bottom of the cup 3 , 
 could probably learn more, however little to the purpose, by con- 
 sulting, as a Pattieson or Cleishbotham, one of those rational- 
 izing mythographers to whom we have before alluded. The 
 capture of Cerberus was the very subject for such handling as 
 that of Herodorus 4 . One circumstance, tempting to such an 
 interpreter, is indicated by the allusions of Euripides. The 
 legends were irreconcilable, or, as some would prefer to say, 
 demanded reconciliation. Not only Taenarum, but also the 
 cave of the Subterranean Demeter at Hermione, claimed to be 
 the place where the Hell-Hound was dragged into light 5 . To 
 bring him through Taenarum first, and leave him afterwards 
 at Hermione for a time, was an expedient as natural to the 
 reconciler as it was alien to the genuine spirit of legend ; and 
 it may well have been adopted by pious narrators, who had 
 no desire to eliminate the monster altogether. The effect 
 was none the less absurd, and the next step, that of the 
 rationalist, inevitable. Some such process may have pre- 
 ceded Euripides ; and the resulting version of the story might 
 
 1 Hipp. 1240, with ib. 110-112, 1219. 2 Ion 179. 
 
 3 See the epilogue to Old Mortality. 4 'See Appendix, Heracles 1386. 
 
 6 Pausanias 2. 35. 7.
 
 HERACLES 195 
 
 be read into his allusion, by those who chose, without much 
 profit indeed, but without offence. But what Euripides 
 actually gives us is sufficient (let us repeat) for his purpose, 
 and requires no further explanation but what any reader can 
 provide for himself. 
 
 And now, to return to the drama, all is said ; and nothing 
 remains but to withdraw the actors. The brief dialogue 
 in which this is accomplished offers nothing for remark, 
 except the parting for so Heracles conceives it between 
 the son and the father. In the preceding speech, Heracles 
 has assumed that, when he and Theseus have departed from 
 Thebes, Amphitryon will remain and reside there 1 . In fact, 
 in the actual state of Thebes 2 , this is impossible; and that 
 Heracles can think of it shows only, what was noticed before, 
 that about Thebes, and the present attitude of the Thebans 
 towards himself and his family, his memory is not yet 
 restored. So long as the Athenian army remains in its 
 camp, Amphitryon under their protection can remain, and 
 can perform, as requested by Heracles, the burial of the 
 dead. But whenever Theseus and his force withdraw, the 
 whole household, unless the king of Athens proposes to take 
 the town and expel the occupants, must depart also ; and we 
 may presume that the aged Theban friends of Amphitryon, 
 with their families if they have any, would not be forgotten ; 
 for they would certainly have a painful passage to Hades, 
 if left to the dominant faction. In short, the departure must 
 be an affair of negotiation ; and the notion of Heracles, that 
 his friend and he are to set off at once and at ease for Argos 3 , 
 is altogether illusory. Accordingly, when it comes to the 
 point and the group divides, we find that every one, except 
 Heracles, regards the separation as momentary ; for between 
 Theseus, Amphitryon, and the Theban elders, there passes 
 not so much as a good-bye. Heracles, pursuing his idea, 
 takes leave of his father passionately, and his father of course 
 responds, for an explanation is not to be risked 4 . The one 
 
 1 w. 1358-1366. 
 
 2 w. 26-43, 2 7 2 ~ 2 74> 54i-543> 588-592, 811-814, 1163-1165, and elsewhere. 
 
 3 v. 1387. 4 w. 1408-1409, 1418-1421. 
 
 132
 
 196 A SOUL'S TRAGEDY 
 
 thing pressing is to persuade the sufferer upon any terms to 
 quit the ghastly and beloved relics of his calamity 1 . Even 
 Heracles at the last is dimly conscious of his error, and knows, 
 in a confused way, that his father is not now to remain in 
 Thebes, that they are to meet again, and shortly, in fact 
 immediately : 
 
 Her. O sire, farewell! 
 
 Amph. And fare thou well, my son! 2 
 
 Her. Perform, as I bade thee, the burial of my little ones 3 . 
 
 Amph. And who, my son, will perform mine? 
 
 Her. That will //... 
 
 Amph. Thou wilt return. ..how soon? 
 
 Her. As soon as these are buried... 
 
 Amph. What then? 
 
 Her. I shall fetch thee from Thebes away to Athens. 
 
 The confusion of his thought is still manifest, and we may 
 conceive the sympathetic signs and motions of the others ; 
 but the last little cloud seems to be dissolving ; and thus, 
 broken but resigned, and murmuring his gratitude, he suffers 
 Theseus to draw him slowly away towards the Athenian 
 camp. The aged Thebans, bewailing themselves for the 
 fall of their mightiest friend, follow after, while, Amphitryon 
 having entered the house, the door closes upon the mourner 
 and the dead. 
 
 Whether this play deserves to be called an abortion, 
 whether it falls into parts which have little or no connexion, 
 whether, in fine, the usual treatment of it is founded upon a 
 
 1 w. 1406-1418. 
 
 2 We should remember that x a '/> e > as originally our 'good-bye,' is not in itself 
 a formula of leave-taking, but of blessing. The ambiguity is frequently utilized in 
 tragedy and is not without significance here. 
 
 8 Throughout this scene iraldes and TKVO., used by Heracles as terms of affec- 
 tion and pity, not merely of age or relationship, include the mother, who, if we 
 consider the career of Heracles and the fact that his three children are infants, 
 may or even must be supposed much younger than her husband. See especially 
 w. 13801381 ri/Mv TKV' efXes Kal 5d.fna.pO', ijfJMS ?xs ira.i5oKT6vovs ffotis, where in 
 the word irai5oKT6vov$ the inclusion is formally signified. After this, the wife is 
 not separately mentioned.
 
 HERACLES 197 
 
 true understanding, the reader will judge. To me it appears, 
 like most of the Euripidean plays, to have neither life, nor unity, 
 nor sense, if we suppose that, as in Aeschylus and Sophocles, 
 the story is a legend or legendary in character, and that the 
 theology and miracles of popular religion are part of the 
 assumptions, but to become luminous, profound, and intensely 
 interesting, so soon as we comprehend, and follow to the 
 consequences, the saying attributed with justice and probably 
 with truth to Euripides himself 1 , that the facts of his drama 
 are ' the familiar things we use and live among.' 
 
 Doubtless upon this understanding criticism may still find 
 something to say. The Heracles, being the work of a man, 
 is presumably not perfect. It may for example be fairly 
 asked, whether the theology of Heracles would be found, 
 even in a solitary and superior mind, among people materially 
 so rude and mentally so backward as the play depicts. It is 
 a fair and relevant question, because Euripides, like Shakes- 
 peare in a historical play and not like Shakespeare in The 
 Tempest or A Midsummer Night's Dream, pretends to show 
 us possibilities, to show what the life of Heracles, who 
 for Euripides as for all his contemporaries had been a 
 historical person, may really have been like, and also to 
 show incidentally how we may account for the distorted 
 reflexion of it in legend. If he assumes anything which is 
 not possible, that is in him a fault, as it would not be 
 necessarily, if chargeable (let us say) on the Agamemnon or 
 the Oedipus Tyrannus. I do not presume to answer the 
 question of possibility ; though this I will say, that an answer 
 unfavourable to the view of Euripides should not be given 
 in haste. The more we learn about primitive or uncultured 
 men, the less we shall be disposed to lay down, that they 
 are universally incapable of lofty and penetrating speculation 
 in the region of theology. Long before there was a clearing 
 in the forests of Thessaly and Arcadia, Thebes, or any other 
 township, may well have contained a man or two, who, 
 
 1 Aristophanes, Frogs 959, oiKela vpdjfj.ar' elffdywv, oh xpup-ef, oh ^vfffntv.
 
 1 98 A SOUL'S TRAGEDY 
 
 like the man in Voltaire, knew of these matters what has been 
 known in all times, that is to say, very little. 
 
 Given the possibility of such a Heracles, we may, I hope, 
 agree that Euripides has made him tragic, consistently tragic, 
 and tragic beyond description. Or if not, if, when all is 
 said, the play should be still a thing about which we differ, 
 the more truly then does it resemble the world. For the 
 world is another such thing.
 
 A FIRE FROM HELL. 
 
 (ORESTES.) 
 
 The most tremendous of all things is the magnanimity of a dunce. 
 
 SYDNEY SMITH. 
 
 IT would not be easy to imagine a greater contrast between 
 two plays, designed by the same hand for the same theatre, 
 and nominally included, as tragedies, in the same species of 
 drama, than is presented by the Heracles, from which we 
 pass, and the Orestes, upon which we are to enter. In par- 
 ticular, they exemplify a distinction which, though it is for 
 Euripides of much importance, is liable to be overlooked, 
 partly because obscured by the conventional necessities of 
 Athenian practice, partly because for Aeschylus and Sophocles 
 it can hardly be said to exist. This distinction is that of 
 time, of the epoch in the world's history and in its social, 
 political, religious development, at which the stories respec- 
 tively are placed. For the purpose of Aeschylus or Sophocles, 
 if we ask when the events are supposed to pass, it would 
 generally be sufficient to reply, ' In antiquity.' The time is 
 remote, so remote that without shock to the imagination 
 much may be accepted as possible, if the legend or the treat- 
 ment so requires, which could not have been attributed to the 
 fifth century. In the Persae of Aeschylus, though the events 
 are contemporary with the audience, remoteness of place, it 
 has been truly said, does the work of remoteness in time : at 
 Susa, in the unknown scene of a Persian palace, the apparition 
 of a dead king, visible and audible to his councillors, might 
 pass with the other strangeness of the situation. It would
 
 200 A FIRE FROM HELL 
 
 have been another thing to show on the stage how the con- 
 temporary Pheidippides encountered Pan in the pass of 
 Parthenium, or Demaratus beheld the supernatural procession 
 of the initiated moving across the plain of Eleusis. But in 
 general, remoteness of time is the condition, and in this 
 remoteness there is little discrimination. Slight differences 
 of colour there are : the world of the Trachiniae is somewhat 
 more fancifully depicted than that of the Philoctetes ; the 
 Argos of the Suppliants and the Argos of the Agamemnon 
 are societies not exactly alike. But there is no system in 
 these differences, and generally speaking all marks of date 
 are sunk in a haze of poetry. For the intended purpose, this 
 method, commonly distinguished by the name of the ideal, 
 was not only commendable but necessary : in no other way 
 could the hypotheses of legend have been made acceptable, 
 under the trying conditions of drama, to the given audience. 
 And it is perfectly legitimate, as a matter of taste, to prefer 
 such ideal drama to other species. Only let us not confuse 
 the species, or attribute to Euripides an obscurity and negli- 
 gence in the distinction of time and circumstance, which 
 would have been as inconsistent with his purpose, as it was 
 necessary to that of Aeschylus. 
 
 To borrow from antique legend the names and relation- 
 ships of the principal characters was, for the Attic tragedian, 
 generally necessary ; but we see from Euripides that this 
 requirement sometimes became, as was to be expected, purely 
 conventional and fictitious. The names tell us nothing, in 
 his case, about the conditions of the story, which can be 
 learnt only from the play itself. They may be antique, as 
 the legendary names suggest, or they may not. Heracles 
 and Orestes, according to legendary chronology, were persons 
 nearly contemporary ; but the Euripidean stories bearing 
 their names are as wide apart as Ivan/toe and Guy Mannering. 
 The social, political, and religious conditions of the two are 
 mutually exclusive, and the events of each story inconceivable 
 in the conditions of the other. The world of the Heracles, 
 though not, like that of Sophocles' TracJiiniae, miraculous, 
 is nevertheless far remote from the age of the dramatist, and
 
 ORESTES 201 
 
 utterly unlike it. The world of the Orestes is in all essentials 
 that of the fifth century, the state of society such as existed 
 then, and, in some most important particulars, such as 
 notoriously had not existed long. Nothing is antique, not 
 even possibly antique, except the names of the dramatis 
 personae, whose minds, conduct, and status are, like the 
 surrounding society, absolutely modern. They may call 
 themselves children of Agamemnon or Menelaus, and speak 
 of the Trojan war as a recent event. But the ' Argos,' in 
 which they reside, is a fully developed democracy, with a 
 popular assembly as completely sovereign as that of Athens 
 in the age of Pericles or of Cleon, and is assumed to have 
 been such in the past for so long a period as the story 
 takes into account. Agamemnon was ' not a king 1 / and his 
 ' almost superhuman power ' was exercised by appointment 
 and public choice, like the command of Cimon. The 
 house of Pelops, being ancient, illustrious, and formerly royal, 
 has the sort of dignity which in fact remained to many such 
 houses in Athens and other democratic communities, a dignity 
 which under favourable circumstances conferred influence. 
 But in a legal view the family has no advantage whatever, 
 no more than the Athenian Erechtheidae, Alcmaeonidae, or 
 Butadae of the fifth century ; and if for the time being the 
 family is for any reason unpopular (and at the time of the 
 drama it happens to be so to the highest degree), its chiefs 
 are so far from wielding authority, that their position is both 
 humiliating and perilous. The conception of equality before 
 the law is not merely prevalent in theory, but established 
 and applied in fact without possibility of protest. The state, 
 like many Greek states in the fifth century, including Athens 
 itself, and like modern France, retains from its past history 
 a nobility or the remains of one, but of political royalty or 
 political aristocracy nothing whatever. 
 
 Such, and so profoundly different from the heroic age, is 
 the political atmosphere of the play ; and in religion the stamp 
 of modern feeling is, if possible, sharper still. In the Heracles, 
 the conditions of belief, like those of the world and of society, 
 
 1 Or. 1 1 68.
 
 202 A FIRE FROM HELL 
 
 are primitive. Not only is the past conceived as miraculous, 
 but miraculous stories, related of a living and familiar person, 
 though they excite much jealousy and scepticism, as assuredly 
 they would have done in most Greek societies for many 
 generations before the time of Euripides, nevertheless obtain 
 a measure and kind of assent, which in most societies of the 
 fifth century would have been inconceivable. To find such 
 a class of persons as is represented by the Chorus of the 
 Heracles, to find even an individual Amphitryon, would then 
 have been scarcely possible in Athens, Corinth, or Syracuse, 
 probably not easy in Sparta, Thebes, or Tegea. At the date 
 of Heracles, the popular theology, whatever may have been 
 dared in speculation by a solitary thinker, is generally accepted 
 without question and has a universal influence over private 
 and public affairs. But in the ' Argos ' of Orestes, as at 
 Athens in the age of Euripides, that theology has not only 
 lost much of its hold upon individuals, but, what is of far 
 more importance, in matters of legal and political action it 
 receives not even the semblance of respect. When a deed, 
 done with the previous sanction of the oracle at Delphi, is 
 arraigned before the Argive assembly sitting as a criminal 
 court, the religious justification is not even pleaded. It is on 
 all sides simply ignored, and condemnation passes after a 
 debate in which, so far as appears, the name of Apollo has 
 never been mentioned 1 . And in the age of Euripides, such a 
 course, on the part of a defendant before an Athenian tribunal, 
 would have been both probable and prudent. Few dicasts 
 would have been propitiated, and not a few possibly exaspe- 
 rated, by an attempt to bolster up a case otherwise indefensible 
 with an alleged effusion of the Pythian prophetess. The 
 procedure is in perfect accord with the rest of the play, and 
 would have agreed with the Andromache or Ion, But it 
 would have been monstrous in the Oedipus Tyrannus, and 
 not less so in the Heracles, the Hippolytns, or even the 
 Iphigenia in Taitrica. 
 
 Into the midst of such conditions, political, social, and 
 religious, Euripides in this play, which differs widely even 
 
 1 w. 866 foil. .
 
 ORESTES 203 
 
 from others of his own upon the same theme, has transported 
 the ancient story, which told how a son, under the special 
 command of the Delphian god, avenged his murdered father 
 by slaying the murderess and adulteress, his mother. It was 
 a daring experiment. The conditions changed are precisely 
 those upon which the legend depends for its interest ; and to 
 find a new interest, compatible with the transference, might 
 well be thought impossible. Sympathy, general or at least 
 predominant, with the avenger, the final justification of the 
 avenger, these are the pillars of the legendary structure, and 
 must, we should suppose, be the support of any practicable 
 drama founded upon it. But by the change of conditions 
 this support is destroyed. The matricide is no longer de- 
 fensible, and scarcely pitiable. His act is a different thing ; 
 his guilt is multiplied tenfold, his pleas disappear ; and nothing 
 is left, out of the material presented by the original version, 
 which can suspend our judgment or divide our emotions. 
 The names of Agamemnon and Clytaemnestra, of Orestes and 
 Pylades, may remain ; but the moral interest, which they 
 represented, is destroyed. If it were now conventionally 
 necessary that the persons of all plays should be taken (let us 
 say) from the history of the seventeenth century, a playwright, 
 who chose nevertheless to exhibit the laws, beliefs, and 
 manners of the present day, could not, without inventing 
 some entirely new line of interest, take for his subject the 
 murder of the Archbishop of St Andrews. He might, without 
 exceeding the bounds of possibility, show a prelate put to 
 death by fanatics ; he might call the victim Sharpe, the 
 assassins Burley or Rathillet, and the place Magus Muir. But 
 if his Scotland was, in religion, morals, and politics, the Scot- 
 land of the twentieth century, then the balance of principles, 
 the conflict of rights, the division of sympathies, all which 
 makes the historical incident suitable for artistic treatment, 
 would in the transference vanish. So with Orestes. His 
 legend, as originally conceived and as handled by Aeschylus, 
 rests upon presumptions which, in the circumstances given 
 by Euripides, cease to be possible. It presumes, in the first 
 place, the general justice and normal toleration of private
 
 204 A FIRE FROM HELL 
 
 revenge. As the slayer of his mother, Orestes may be open 
 to condemnation, but he is praiseworthy as the avenger of his 
 father. For slaying Aegisthus, the accomplice of Clytaemnestra, 
 the Aeschylean Orestes will not even condescend to excuse 
 himself 1 , though Aegisthus too was a near kinsman ; nor has 
 that incident any effect upon his subsequent fate or the final 
 review of his conduct. So long as the story was left in the 
 original atmosphere of antiquity, this presumption was natural. 
 Such had in fact been the ethics of the past. It was easy 
 too, and Aeschylus does it, to strengthen the plea of private 
 wrong, in case any doubt should be entertained of its suffi- 
 ciency, by public motives of the most respectable kind to 
 insist on the fact that Agamemnon was a king, a lawful 
 governor, that Clytaemnestra was guilty of treason in killing 
 her husband, and of usurpation in taking his throne, and that 
 the man who pulled down her and her paramour, whatever 
 might be his position as a son, was a citizen of the highest 
 merit, the deliverer of his country from a detestable despotism 2 . 
 For the Argos of Euripides, a democratic state resting on fixed 
 laws, tribunals, and criminal procedure, none of these defences 
 or palliations are conceivable. Such a state could not exist, 
 unless private revenge were itself a crime, disallowed by 
 opinion, and normally visited with punishment as an insult 
 to public authority. The necessity of this doctrine, as an 
 elementary principle of common sense, a rudiment of tra- 
 ditional morality, familiar to every one who has any notion of 
 right and wrong, is explained, under contemptuous protest 
 against the explanation of a thing so obvious, by one of the 
 personages in the play 3 ; and the behaviour of the Argive 
 public is, as of course it must be, in accordance with that 
 exposition. Doubtless it was the duty of a son to prosecute 
 the enemies of his father, to prosecute them to the death, but 
 not to assassinate them. The law was ready to his hand, and 
 no other weapon permissible. So thought, so must think, 
 the Argives of such an Argos as is presented by Euripides. 
 Away then goes the foundation of Orestes' case, as con- 
 
 1 Choephori 989 (Dindorf). 2 Cho. 973, 1046, Eum. 631 etc. 
 
 3 w. 491 foil.
 
 ORESTES 205 
 
 ceived by the legend, and away go also the palliations 
 adopted by Aeschylus. There can be no tyrannicide, for there 
 is no tyrant. Clytaemnestra and Aegisthus are private persons ; 
 and the murder of them, though highly sensational, has no 
 political importance whatever. Nor had the murder of 
 Agamemnon. The legendary version conceived Agamemnon 
 as the lord of a strong castle and subject territory ; the 
 Aeschylean version invested him with political royalty and 
 a sort of empire. Either way, those who slew him could 
 maintain their usurpation by the very strength which it 
 brought, or with the aid which it enabled them to purchase. 
 Not so in our modern Argos. Here Aegisthus and Clytaem- 
 nestra could not, by suppressing their enemy, acquire the 
 means of protecting themselves against punishment for their 
 act. Their impunity of seven years or thereabouts, an element 
 in the story not open to modification, becomes now intelligible 
 only on the supposition, that the disappearance of Agamemnon 
 did not, for some reason, arouse any effective resentment, or 
 even excite remark. A reason is provided. Agamemnon, as 
 seen in the retrospective glimpses of this play, is a personage 
 of great but equivocal celebrity (/cXetvo?, el Brj xXeti/o? 1 ), who 
 by drawing his compatriots into a long and distant enterprise, 
 fatal to many families 2 though profitable and interesting to his 
 own, had made himself famous indeed, but to the last degree 
 unpopular, so that if many knew or suspected how he died, 
 few or none very much cared. His wife had wrongs; her own 
 infidelities were obscure and not scandalous 3 . His own 
 brother Menelaus, absent at the time of his death and for 
 years after, was, when he heard of that event, moved indeed, as 
 he tells us, to tears, ' many tears,' but was not the less anxious 
 to remain on good terms with the wife and family ; and he 
 regards the conduct of the son, his nephew, in disturbing 
 a situation not (all things considered) infelicitous, with horror 
 and disgust ! 4 The very daughter of Agamemnon, though a 
 principal in the scheme for avenging him, never speaks of the 
 father, whom she must have known, with any personal affection 5 . 
 
 1 v. 17. 2 w. 58, 102, 432, etc. 
 
 3 w. 27, 561, etc. 4 w. 360-374. 5 Electra passim.
 
 206 A FIRE FROM HELL 
 
 The father of Clytaemnestra, though detesting the crime of his 
 daughter, and more than willing to see her punished in a legal 
 way, has not a word of personal regret for Agamemnon 1 who, 
 in short, was not regretted, as it seems, by any who knew him, 
 except indeed in a military fashion by some of his noble 
 companions in arms 2 . All this is very well, very natural, very 
 consistent with the political and social frame of the picture ; 
 but it is a most unhappy and disastrous preparation for the 
 entrance upon the scene of a person claiming, for the sake of 
 Agamemnon, to defy law, morality, and nature, and pleading 
 a divine, command. 
 
 And the command itself, the sanction of Delphi, what 
 has become of that ? Here, in the traditional story, lay the 
 pith of the matter. Orestes is a man divinely commanded, 
 for special reasons, to do an act naturally abominable. The 
 oracular command, its reality and authority, make the corner- 
 stone of his case. Sophocles in his Electro, supposes this justi- 
 fication to be so clear as to lift Orestes himself above doubt 
 or scruple, and commend him to unqualified sympathy. 
 Aeschylus, more faithful apparently to tradition and history, 
 represents it as raising a painful question, a question, humanly 
 speaking, insoluble. The Areopagus of Athens is divided 
 upon it equally. For both Aeschylus and Sophocles, the 
 supernatural origin of the message is a certainty, and its 
 weight indisputable. In the Eumenides, Apollo himself proves 
 it as a witness in court ; in - the Choephori we learn that it 
 was given to Orestes repeatedly, by the mouth (so the 
 language suggests) of the God, and under appalling penalties 
 in case of disobedience. But in our play, in the modernized 
 Orestes, what becomes of all this ? How could it possibly 
 stand ? In such an Argos as Euripides depicts, what would 
 it matter that an act condemned by law and public opinion 
 had been sanctioned, or supposed to be sanctioned, by a 
 response from the woman of the tripod ? So much the 
 worse for Apollo. Some are scandalized 3 , the majority 
 simply indifferent 4 . It is as if now, in some state where 
 
 1 w. 496 foil., and Tyndareus passim. 2 w. 890-900. 
 
 3 w. 194, 807-843, etc. 4 See the trial (yv. 866 foil.) and passim.
 
 ORESTES 207 
 
 marriage with a deceased wife's sister is recognized by law, 
 a man so married were to commit bigamy, and were to 
 plead the opinion of his spiritual director, that his previous 
 contract was invalid. Even the sincerity of such a plea 
 would be questionable, and its weight nothing. So with 
 Orestes and his oracle. He, and he alone, is affected by it. 
 Pylades, his counsellor and in truth the author of his acts 1 , 
 never mentions the oracular command, and is, as we shall 
 see, a character not conceivably open to such influence. 
 Electra, his other instigator, mentions it only to complain 
 that it has not been followed by support' 2 . No one, whose 
 opinion carries weight, none but women 3 and rustics 4 , even 
 allows it for supernatural, and no one allows it for authori- 
 tative. Orestes" himself, though it seems to have quieted 
 his scruples for a time, finds it impotent against his remorse 
 and useless for his defence. He pleads it to his uncle, and 
 his uncle sneers 5 ; he pleads it to his grandfather, and his 
 grandfather ignores it 6 . At his trial he does not plead it 
 at all 7 . The high language, in which he extols the wisdom 
 of Delphi as universally acknowledged and obeyed 8 , is such 
 as in the fifth century might doubtless have been frequently 
 heard, and still represented something real. Delphi was 
 much consulted, had much influence on private affairs and 
 some on public. But it did not then command in Athens, 
 and it does not command in ' Argos,' that sort of authority 
 which could serve an Orestes. The compromise is familiar, 
 and analogies abundant both in other times and in our own. 
 It follows as a necessity from the time and circumstances 
 adopted for this play. But it destroys the interest of the 
 story, as that interest was conceived by tradition. 
 
 We may indeed doubt whether the part of Delphi is, 
 strictly speaking, possible in the altered circumstances, 
 whether in the sixth or fifth century an encouragement to 
 matricide could have been procured from the tripod at all. 
 
 1 w. 1090, 1158. 2 w. 162, 191, etc. 
 
 3 w. 191 foil., etc. 4 v. 955, see w. 866-870. 
 
 6 w. 416-417. 6 w. 591 foil., and Tyndareus/aw/'w. 
 
 T w. 932 foil. 8 w. 591 foil.
 
 208 A FIRE FROM HELL 
 
 But we do not know the contrary, and may be content 
 to suppose with the dramatist. Nor in any case is the 
 doubt important. Suppose a youth so wrong-headed and 
 weak as the Orestes of this play, and suppose him to be 
 guided by such a fool as Pylades and such a fiend as Electra, 
 and then the murder of Clytaemnestra is the natural con- 
 sequence of their characters and situation. The ' supernatural 
 command ' is an extra, and almost a superfluity. Apollo is 
 a fly on the wheel. 
 
 Other changes follow, minor but not insignificant. As 
 presented by tradition, the enterprise of Orestes excites a 
 certain sympathy by the mere peril of the execution. In 
 Aeschylus he must make his way into a guarded fortress ; both 
 in Aeschylus and in Sophocles he must sustain, by presence 
 of mind, the dangers of an impersonation. Something of 
 this remains even in the Electra of Euripides. But in our 
 play there is nothing to show, nor is it probable, that the 
 assassins had any difficulty at all. For anything that 
 appears, Pylades and Orestes may have given their names 
 at Clytaemnestra's door. In such an Argos as is here 
 represented, not even murderers would expect to be murdered, 
 or at any rate not by their sons. When Menelaus can 
 suppose that Orestes and his mother are living peacefully 
 together 1 , we cannot suppose that she would refuse to see 
 him ; nor would she dare to refuse, considering the legal 
 danger in which she stood, and his power to use it 2 . Again, 
 her relations with Aegisthus have not here, and could not 
 have, that cynical stamp, which in Aeschylus so powerfully 
 directs sympathy to the hand which punishes. The play 
 assumes that these relations were known 3 , but it also assumes, 
 as a necessary condition, that they had been so conducted as 
 to cause no open scandal. 
 
 Where then we come back to the question could lie 
 the interest of an Orestes so circumstanced ? Not in the 
 moral quality of his act. It is plainly indefensible and 
 inexcusable. Not in his fate. That is a foregone conclusion. 
 His life indeed, by Greek law as it mostly stood in the age 
 1 w. 371-373. 2 w. 500 foil. 3 w. 619-620, etc.
 
 ORESTES 209 
 
 of Euripides, and is supposed in Argos, is not absolutely 
 and certainly forfeited. Exile, still a very formidable penalty, 
 might be awarded by sentence 1 . In an ordinary case the 
 homicide might even be permitted to accept exile by leaving 
 the country before trial ; but in a grave case, this freedom of 
 choice might not be conceded, and it is not conceded to the 
 matricides, who up to the day of trial are prisoners in their 
 own house. There remains the possibility that they may 
 escape with their lives ; but this is no issue suitable for the 
 purpose of a dramatist, since neither decision could please. 
 The whole affair, so framed and circumstanced, becomes 
 simply revolting, and not susceptible, as it might seem, of 
 artistic treatment. 
 
 A line theoretically open, if the author were a religious 
 enthusiast and could expect sufficient support from his 
 audience, would be to make Orestes a martyr, sealing by 
 endurance to the death his faith in Delphi and his testimony 
 against the errors of an infidel world. Needless to say, 
 Euripides has not taken this line ; nor was it practically 
 open to an Athenian dramatist in the year 408 B.C. But if 
 not this, nothing seems to be left. 
 
 And yet the Orestes was one of the triumphs of the stage 2 , 
 and may still be described as supreme in its kind. A tragedy 
 in the strict sense it hardly is or could be. But for excite- 
 ment, for play of emotion, for progression and climax of horror, 
 achieved by natural means and without strain upon the realities 
 of life, it has few rivals in the repertory of the world. 
 
 The chief instrument of effect is the fury, the insanity, 
 of despair. Villains of some sort, and fools of the worst 
 sort, the assassins of Clytaemnestra must be. But for this 
 very reason they are hideously dangerous to themselves and 
 to others, moral explosives of enormous force and instability. 
 What hope they have they will throw away, pursuing their 
 
 1 See w. 898-900 and 441. The anticipations of Electra (vv. 49-51) and of 
 Orestes (v. 442) that the only alternative considered by the assembly will be 
 between execution (by stoning) and permitted suicide, are an illusion of their 
 terror, and are refuted, like their anticipations generally, by the actual pro- 
 ceedings. 
 
 2 rb dpa/j.a rCiv firl <SK.rfl>t]^ evSonifjiotivTwv, Orestes Hypothesis II. 
 
 V. 14
 
 210 A FIRE FROM HELL 
 
 fate as blindly as they have pursued their crime. And when 
 they are condemned, when nothing is before them but death, 
 if then they have the chance to die killing, to strike, wound, 
 slay some one, any one, to avenge themselves at the cost 
 of human creatures, however helpless, however innocent, is 
 there anything which they may not conceivably do, any 
 extremity to which, in the name of justice, they may not 
 go, any demoniac sacrifice which they may not rapturously 
 solemnize 1 ? Here is material not exactly for tragedy (it is 
 not deep enough), but for a highly spiritual sort of melo- 
 drama. 
 
 In one thing the traditional story was favourable to such 
 handling : the three conspirators can all be conceived as 
 grossly, totally inexperienced and ignorant of affairs. Orestes 
 is but a boy, about eighteen or nineteen years old 2 , Py lades, 
 his cousin and comrade, not older. Pylades has wild spirits, 
 no fear, no scruples, and no sense. Orestes, when the action 
 begins, is half insane with fever, and before it ends, a maniac. 
 Moreover he is governed by Pylades. They are united by 
 that boyish sort of romantic devotion, which for sheer 
 unreason surpasses perhaps even love itself, and attracts the 
 like unreasonable sympathy. Amid all the atrocities which 
 the pair perform, a certain pathos cleaves to the heroic 
 obstinacy of their folly. In Electra, a woman of middle 
 age 3 , perhaps thirty or something more, is concentrated what 
 little wisdom the party can boast. The most fatal blunder 
 of the two young men would have been prevented by her, 
 if she had had the chance 4 . But as a woman she is unable, 
 according to the notions of those times and of most times, 
 to measure public forces or estimate fairly the possibilities 
 of a political situation. Family pride too 5 , in her as in her 
 brother and cousin, forbids respect for a democratic govern- 
 
 1 See w. 1-3, which are more true, as a compendium of the sequel, than the 
 speaker intends. Her characteristic assumption that guilt is a <rvfj.<f>opa. de^Xaros 
 is also noticeable, and a key to the situation. 
 
 2 z;. 377. The time of the play, according to the received chronology of 
 Menelaus' return, is about seven or eight years after the fall of Troy. 
 
 8 w. 201 foil. * w. 846-850. See hereafter. 5 w. 960-1012.
 
 ORESTES 211 
 
 ment and equal law ; she regards the Argive assembly as 
 the natural enemies of her house 1 . Lastly, she is a fiend, 
 by her misfortune perhaps rather than by her fault, but a 
 fiend she is. The crowning horror of horrors is her particular 
 work 2 . 
 
 Such is the machinery of destruction, the spring of the 
 catapult. It remains to provide victims within range of the 
 bolt, and a turn of fate to produce the discharge. The 
 solution of this problem, by means of Menelaus and his 
 family, is the making of the play and a masterpiece of 
 dramatic ingenuity. Since the fall of Troy, some seven 
 years, Menelaus with his recovered Helen has been wandering, 
 not unprofitably, about the world. Loaded with wealth and 
 Oriental treasures, including a train of eunuchs for the service 
 of Helen, they reach the port of Nauplia on the day before 
 that which is to determine, as between death and banishment, 
 the fate of Orestes and Electra. Their entrance into Argos, 
 as here described, suggests that in truth they dared not return 
 sooner. The popular hatred of the Trojan war, its causes and 
 authors, as imagined and used by Aeschylus in the Agamem- 
 non, has in the Orestes a still wider and deeper effect. Even 
 so long after the war, Helen and her servants must be con- 
 veyed by night into the mansion of the family, now become 
 the prison of its inheritors ; and there she lies concealed 3 . 
 She shows some alarm, but not a trace of real remorse, laying 
 the responsibility of her conduct upon compelling Powers with 
 the same facility which we observe, modified by temperament, 
 in Electra 4 . She is indeed for the present perfectly comfortable, 
 agitated rather agreeably than otherwise by the emotions 
 of the hour, shedding easy tears for poor sister Clytaem- 
 nestra so terribly taken away, poor Electra 'still unmarried,' 
 poor Orestes, so ill, and both of them in such dreadful danger. 
 None of this distracts her from the usual cultivation of her 
 person, or from the important business of stitching a piece of 
 embroidery, to be offered in token of sisterly sorrow at poor 
 
 v. 974. 2 w. 1191 foil. See hereafter. 
 
 w. 57 foil., etc. 4 v. 79, compare v. i. 
 
 142
 
 212 A FIRE FROM HELL 
 
 Clytaemnestra's grave 1 . She has moreover ' a certain conso- 
 lation/ as her niece observes, in recovering her daughter 
 Hermione, abandoned in infancy, for the sake of Paris, 
 seventeen years ago, and tenderly reared by Clytaemnestra 2 . 
 This girl, a simple and beautiful figure, mourning with in- 
 nocent affection for her murdered foster-mother, yet unable to 
 wish the death of her cousins, the murderers 3 , shows in such 
 darkness like a diamond. She becomes at last the pivot 
 of the diabolic engineering. Electra hates her. 
 
 Menelaus, though in character vulgar and below vulgarity, 
 emphatically TTOI^O? as Aristotle calls him 4 , is the chief lever 
 in the mechanism of the plot ; and it is important to estimate 
 rightly not so much his acts and motives, which are simple, 
 as the disturbed reflexion of them in the minds of his nephews 
 and niece. This is a monstrosity, and yet a natural mon- 
 strosity. The contrast between the commonplace of his 
 behaviour, selfishly prudent, rationally mean, and the appalling 
 train of passion to which, without suspicion, he applies the 
 spark, is in the best vein of that natural supernatural which 
 Euripides loved to study. He is like a soldier who, watching 
 the couch of a wounded comrade, and choosing to let him die 
 in darkness rather than to burn his own fingers, should drop 
 a match, which, falling upon powder, hurls the whole place 
 into the air. A low-minded, sensual, prosperous man, he is 
 suddenly compelled to be either a little brave or a little 
 dishonourable. Bravery will be quixotic, for it can do no one 
 any good, and is certain to hurt him a little. The dishonour 
 is purely sentimental, and will have no consequences. Na- 
 turally he accepts the dishonour, and Hell opens under 
 his feet. 
 
 The children of Agamemnon see, and every one sees, that 
 Agamemnon's brother, the husband of Helen, is bound to 
 them by no common tie. Menelaus has drawn upon the 
 fraternal interest so largely, that scarcely any counter-claim 
 can be excessive 5 . He at least cannot with decency abandon 
 
 1 W. 122, 1431 foil. 2 W. 62-66, 1340. 
 
 3 v. 1323, v. 1345. 4 See note in Appendix on Or. 1554. 
 
 5 w. 244, 448 foil., and passim.
 
 ORESTES 213 
 
 the children and the avengers, however misguided, of his 
 benefactor. Insensitive as he is, he cannot without em- 
 barrassment withdraw from the house where his nephew and 
 niece are agonizing. But he does withdraw; and nothing is 
 seen or heard of him again until all is over. In particular, 
 after the trial and condemnation, he does not return to the 
 house with Orestes, unwilling, as he has every reason to be, 
 to embarrass his own very dubious relations to his country- 
 men with a fresh load of popular hatred. He allows Orestes 
 to be reconducted by others, an act or omission which is the 
 necessary condition and cause of the horrors which ensue. 
 
 All this, he thinks, is the reasonable course ; and so, in 
 a certain sense, it is. For any practical purpose he is 
 powerless. The danger of the criminals lies in the legitimate 
 animosity of the public. To turn this sentiment into the least 
 fatal channel is the only substantial service which can be 
 rendered to them ; and this should be the work of persons 
 acceptable to the people and influential in the assembly, 
 such persons as do in fact undertake it. Menelaus, himself 
 threatened with no small peril from the same quarter, 
 Menelaus, the obsequious husband who under cover of night 
 has smuggled into Argos a woman so odious that she dares 
 not be seen, is an orator who cannot even appear, and would 
 extinguish the last hope if he did. He cannot improve the 
 prospects of the culprits; but he may very easily injure his 
 own, as is made superfluously clear to him by an incident 
 which shortly follows his arrival 1 . He decides to keep out of 
 the way; and his action, though grossly indelicate, is innocuous 
 to the criminals and apparently prudent. He protests, quite 
 honestly, against the unreasonable clamour of Orestes 2 . 
 
 Unhappily for his calculations, Orestes is something more 
 than unreasonable. A week of fever 3 has brought him to the 
 verge of insanity ; and the other two criminals, whom Menelaus 
 does not meet, are in a condition more dangerous than 
 madness itself. All of them imagine that their wealthy 
 relative, arriving at this crisis, must be able in some way 
 to save them. They have no ground for so imagining ; they 
 
 1 w. 470 foil. 2 w. 682 foil. 3 w. 401 foil., 422-423.
 
 214 A FIRE FROM HELL 
 
 suggest no possible way, because there is none ; but with 
 their proper contempt for his disregard of dignity and 
 sentiment is mingled the conviction, that he could have done 
 something, and that by omitting this something he has done 
 them a cruel wrong. In a vague way they seem to expect 
 the use of force 1 , a notion as impracticable as outrageous. 
 And they are especially indignant that Menelaus did not 
 address the Argive assembly 2 , a view which does not surprise 
 us, when we see what is their knowledge of such an assembly, 
 and with what wisdom Pylades and Orestes essay to manage 
 it. Their expectation is a chimera, bred, like all their ideas, 
 of ignorance and truculence. 
 
 But it proves a Chimaera indeed, a monster breathing fire, 
 when, after the condemnation of Orestes and Electra, barely 
 graced so far that they may escape stoning by suicide, the 
 trio meets again at the house. The furious Pylades, whose 
 position, though different, is equally desperate 3 , suggests that 
 they may not only punish the treachery of Menelaus, but also 
 obliterate the reproach of murder (sic), by gloriously executing 
 the abominable Helen. Electra dexterously engrafts upon 
 this admirable plan the assassination, disguised as the capture, 
 of her innocent supplanter, Hermione. The scheme is to be 
 consummated, if necessary, by burning the house over their 
 heads. The objections of Orestes, last efforts of a conscience 
 vanishing in frenzy, are stifled or thrust aside. The frightful 
 programme, frightfully diversified by mismanagement and 
 misadventure, proceeds crescendo to its finale. And when that 
 is achieved, when nothing and nobody is left to be saved or 
 to be blessed, the real though unseen Furies of Arson, Murder, 
 and Madness resign stage, actors, and audience to the not 
 inappropriate benediction of Apollo. 
 
 As we have mentioned the house, which shares and partly 
 determines the fate of its inhabitants, we may call attention 
 here to the uncommon importance, for this play, of conceiving 
 rightly the place of action. It is the house-in-town of a noble 
 family, such as might perhaps oftener have been found in 
 
 1 w. 52, 243, 711, and the rest of that speech. 
 
 2 v. 1056. 3 w. 763 foil.
 
 ORESTES 215 
 
 Thebes, Argos, Sicyon, or other antique centre of city-life, 
 than in Athens, whose people remained principally rural in 
 habit until forced to congregate by the Peloponnesian war. 
 It is utterly unlike anything to be seen among ourselves, 
 though the cities of Italy and of some Roman provinces 
 present specimens distantly similar. Built for defence against 
 rivals or rebellions, its walls of stone, two stories high and 
 perhaps more, are unbroken except for one great gate, by 
 closing which it is instantly converted into a fortress. Unless 
 this arrangement is clearly grasped, the latter part of the play 
 will be unintelligible 1 . The interior structures, probably of 
 wood and, in the more sumptuous portions, of precious wood 2 , 
 surround and are lighted from a labyrinth of little courts. In 
 front, and probably elsewhere, the parapet of the outer wall is 
 accessible, for defence, from within. Being old and somewhat 
 out of date, the house shows touches of ruin. The parapet 
 is loose 3 , and half-way up the sheer front, where the stories 
 join, the line of metopa, or interspaces between the beam-ends, 
 shows at least one gap, from the loss of the closing stone. 
 This orifice, some twenty feet or more from the ground, is 
 accessible from the inside to a climber sufficiently desperate 4 . 
 Before the gate is a yard or forecourt, represented in the 
 theatre by the orchestra 5 . That Orestes in his fever should 
 lie and be nursed here, rather than within, may perhaps be a 
 theatrical fiction, but may also be copied from life. The 
 Athenians of that day knew nothing of domestic state and 
 little of domestic comfort; and living themselves chiefly in the 
 open air, would probably find it natural that such a patient 
 should prefer the aule. This yard is not defensible, but is of 
 course enclosed, though the boundaries are mostly outside the 
 scene; one passage, which seems to speak of looking 'through' 
 them, suggests that they may partly consist of a railing, grille, 
 
 1 The scheme of Electra, for securing a hostage and then making conditions 
 with Menelaus (and the government), assumes this as an essential condition. 
 
 2 v. 1371. 3 v. 1570. 4 w. 1369 foil. 
 
 5 The action shows no trace of a stage, and any such erection would have been 
 on this occasion highly inconvenient. There may, however, be steps to the house 
 and a space at the top of them.
 
 216 A FIRE FROM HELL 
 
 cheval-de-frise, or the like 1 , but the detail is of no moment. 
 The approaches to the orchestra (irapoSoi), one or both 2 , figure 
 entrances to the yard. The scenic apparatus, then, is nothing 
 but a back-wall, practicable from within, with a door in it and 
 also a hole; but not all the machinery of Bayreuth could 
 achieve a more heart-shaking series of effects than Euripides 
 has got out of this. 
 
 Of the Chorus we need say little, and would gladly say 
 nothing. The plot, like many or perhaps most of the plots 
 best suited for a drama, excludes, as matter of credible 
 reality, the presence throughout of a numerous body, the 
 Chorus of the Greek theatre. Like the counsels of Medea, 
 the counsels of Pylades and Electra could not conceivably be 
 executed, if known ; and the fifteen accessories, in these 
 plays and to some extent elsewhere, must be accepted as a 
 convention beyond criticism, an exhibit not offered for com- 
 petition 3 . Greek women of aristocratic caste, living under 
 a democratic government, would be as nearly capable of 
 acting insanely, in a matter touching their prejudices, as any 
 human beings, not insane, could be ; this much and no more 
 can be said for the Chorus of the Orestes. A touch of bitter 
 humour is given to their first appearance, in the fact that, by 
 an exception perhaps unique, they are as unwelcome to the 
 dramatis personae* as assuredly they were to the constructor 
 of the piece. In a single scene 5 their importunity is utilized 
 with some effect ; elsewhere, their presence being once for all 
 condoned, they serve to prompt and sustain the excitement 
 of the spectators 6 . But their real function is simply to fill 
 with their odes the necessary pauses in the action ; and this 
 is judiciously cut down to a minimum. 
 
 There are hardly any ' supers 7 .' The slaves of the house 
 
 1 v. 1267; see note in the Appendix. 
 
 2 More probably only one is used. 
 
 3 See p. 125, and the end of this essay. 4 vv. 131 foil. 
 
 6 w. 131-210. 6 Especially in w. 1246-1553. 
 
 7 The servants who lead Tyndareus (v. 474), and those of Helen, seem to be 
 all. Some of the latter, remaining for a moment behind their mistress, are 
 apparently addressed in v. 128 efSere ; but see the end of this essay.
 
 ORESTES 217 
 
 have fled or been withdrawn 1 , a grim circumstance which 
 Euripides after his fashion exhibits without comment ; and for 
 several days, from the funeral of Clytaemnestra to the arrival of 
 Helen and her suite, the brother and sister, with the waif 
 Hermione, have been alone in the desolate place. The public 
 order forbidding intercourse with the criminals to citizens 
 of Argos 2 does not apparently exclude the family (Menelaus), 
 and is relaxed in effect, but merely by way of theatrical 
 convention, in favour of the Chorus. All the approaches are 
 guarded, and escape is impossible 3 . 
 
 We will now survey the scenes in order, noting specially 
 such points as have not been anticipated. 
 
 A prologue, spoken by Electra, exposes the story down to 
 the arrival of Helen, and fixes the tone of the play. Dis- 
 belief in the miraculous 4 , reproach of the oracle 5 , which has 
 commanded but not helped, contribute with many other signs 
 to show how far we are from Aeschylus and the Orestea. In 
 view of this essential purpose, we may condone one allusion 
 dubious in literary taste, but characteristic and effective. 
 Orestes is described as the victim ' of frenzies ; for,' says 
 Electra, ' I scruple to give the name Eumenides to the powers 
 which terrorise him 6 .' The true and ancient name of these 
 mythical avengers was Erinyes. Superstition discouraged 
 the mention of them by name ; but Electra has no such qualms 
 (v. 238), nor will her scruple bear such an interpretation. 
 She avoids the name Eumenides because its signification, 
 Gracious Ones, is, to her thinking, so horribly inappropriate. 
 The sneer is in truth directed against Aeschylus, who, for a 
 special purpose, had cautiously promoted the identification of 
 the Erinyes with the Eumenides by the title of the last play 
 in the Orestea 1 . ' Eumenides ' became at last a literary 
 synonym of ' Erinyes ' ; but the transition was slow, and our 
 
 1 See especially v. 303, where Electra is told to get herself food, and 
 passim. 
 
 " w. 46, 428 etc. 3 w. 444, 760 etc. 4 w. 5, 8. 
 
 5 v. 28. 6 v. 37. 
 
 7 The name Eumenides is not found in the play as we have it, and according to 
 the better opinion never was.
 
 218 A FIRE FROM HELL 
 
 play, the Orestes, exhibits such uses of the newer title 
 (vv. 321, 836), as were apparently still not common. 
 The sarcasm of Electra accents this modernism, explaining 
 in what spirit the language of Aeschylus is adopted ; and 
 though it is scarcely within the rules of art, nothing could 
 better signify the atmosphere of the play. For Euripides, the 
 sick delusions of Orestes are of course merely natural (what- 
 ever that may mean), and the powers inflicting them need no 
 name but maniai, ' frenzies.' 
 
 The political notes in the prologue are simple, except 
 at one place, where a hint may be differently interpreted. 
 The adultery of Clytaemnestra, as motive for the murder of 
 her husband, is unfit, says Electra, for an unmarried woman 
 to relate, and is therefore ' left obscure, a point for common 
 consideration^! Her doubt is ironical, but not at all so the 
 suggestion that the matter is proper for enquiry. The 
 death of Agamemnon, and everything connected with it, 
 ought long ago to have been the subject of a public enquiry. 
 The inefficient provision for justice, where private initiative 
 failed, was a common defect of Greek states, and of modern 
 states also until recent times. It is the one excuse for 
 Orestes, which the circumstances of this play admit ; imperfect 
 as it is, it would, as we shall see, in all probability have 
 induced the assembly to spare his life, if he had not himself 
 been his own worst enemy. For this reason, it is properly 
 touched upon in the exposition. 
 
 It need hardly be added, that Electra is also ironical in 
 affecting, at her age and in her position, the delicacy of a girl. 
 The accusation, from which she thinks fit to avert her maiden 
 thoughts, she has in fact agitated with deadly persistency 2 . She 
 
 1 v. 27 iw TOUT' a<ra<f>fs tv Koivtf a-Kowelv. The rendering ' I will not consider 
 this in public' is incorrect, and would moreover imply a reference to the spectators 
 (since there are no other hearers of Electra's soliloquy) which Tragedy does not 
 permit. Nor does ' I leave... for whoso will to guess' (Way) quite represent the 
 words : iv KOivf, however meant by the speaker, directs our thoughts to the public 
 assembly, r6 Koivt>v. 
 
 2 v. 619. The impatient dismissal of this subject by Tyndareus, assuredly no 
 friend to Clytaemnestra, is a noticeable touch. We are clearly meant to understand
 
 ORESTES 219 
 
 is but emphasizing, as elsewhere 1 , the injury of her enforced 
 celibacy, a topic taken over into this play from previous 
 versions of the story by Euripides and others, but receiving 
 here, like most topics, a new colour. It is no longer merely 
 a wrong, but a physical and moral lesion, the source of her 
 peculiar wickedness, ola Srj ^wrf. Her hideous malice 
 against the young girl, her cousin, is at bottom nothing but 
 the familiar vice of an old maid, wrought up to the pitch of 
 devilry by circumstance and occasion. She is a tragic 
 ' cat.' 
 
 To her enters Helen, on whose character we have touched 
 before. A brief conversation of masterly skill reveals the 
 whole woman. It is enough to mention the main purpose of 
 her coming out. She proposes that, as she (by the ill-guiding 
 of the gods) will be in danger of her life, if she quits the house, 
 Electra shall be so kind as to leave her brother, sleeping for 
 the moment the sleep of exhaustion, and go, through the city 
 which has excommunicated her, to the grave of Clytaemnestra, 
 carrying gifts, which, to discharge the tender feelings of Helen, 
 some one, it is plain, must present at once ! And this she 
 proposes weeping, with absolute sincerity, over the distresses of 
 the family ! The indulgence of the world for a lovely woman 
 has destroyed in her the power to perceive anything but 
 what at the moment it suits her to perceive. Even Electra, 
 watching her tricks, is almost as much amused as indignant 3 . 
 The immediate question, who shall be Helen's choephoros, is 
 decided by a whimsical stroke. Electra after some fencing 
 suggests Hermione, to which Helen incautiously answers that 
 'the street is no place for maids.' Seeing that not only Electra 
 is a ' maid,' but Helen, wishing to command her services, has 
 been pleased to lay particular and repeated stress upon that 
 point 4 , the argument is double-edged ; and it is received with 
 a smile which cannot be misunderstood. Helen, in some 
 confusion, changes her tack, and withdraws without further 
 
 that there had been exaggeration, if not falsehood, about it; and the fact is that, 
 in the present setting of the story, it ceases to be important. 
 
 1 v. 205, and see v. 72. * v. 32. 
 
 3 w. 1 26 foil. 4 w- 7 2 > 9 2 -
 
 220 A FIRE FROM HELL 
 
 pressure her objection to sending her daughter, who is sum- 
 moned and sent accordingly 1 : 
 
 El. I cannot, will not see my mother's grave ! 
 
 Hel. But yet,. ..a servant? Surely such were no... 
 Fit bearer ! 
 
 El. Why not send Hermione, 
 
 Your daughter? 
 
 Hel. Crowded streets are not for maids ! 
 
 (Electro, is silent; they regard one another; then Helen 
 
 continues hastily) 
 
 Yet after all... my sister fostered her, 
 And has a claim... yes, your suggestion, girl, 
 Converts me quite,... my daughter... she shall go; 
 A good suggestion... (calls) Child, Hermione ! 
 
 The part of Hermione, although small, is theatrically 
 important, and even principal. Here, though silent, she is 
 kept before us long ; for Helen has not only to give direc- 
 tions, but to cut, as an offering to the grave, a piece (it should 
 be a lock) of her own hair, a matter for care and economy 2 . 
 We have thus time to take an impress of the pathetic figure 
 in her solitary black, stone-cold, rigid with the horror of her 
 bereavement, obeying without a word the unkind, though 
 welcome, commission of this idol-mother, all jewels and tears, 
 who has come out of night with the voice and the features 
 of the foster-mother lost 3 . The rite which she goes to per- 
 form, the c/toephoria or communion of the dead, was perhaps 
 the most tender of Greek offices, and moreover a point not 
 less relevant to the use eventually made of it in this play 
 had been staged by Aeschylus as the central solemnity of the 
 
 1 w. 105 foil. 
 
 107 HA. ri 5' 01)%' Bvyarpbs 'Ep/xiov^s Tr^itTreis S^/JMS; 
 EA. eis ox\ov %pireii> irapdevoiffiv ov Ka\6v. 
 Kai fjLjjv rivoi y' av Ty TfOvrjKviq. rpoc/xij ' 
 /caXws Xeas, TTfl0o/j.ai r4 ffoi, K6pr]- 
 Kal Trt/j.if/ofj.tv ye dvyartp' e5 ydp TOI \yfis. 
 
 The passage, for want of perceiving the double edge of v. 108, has been wrongly 
 distributed, and otherwise mistaken. It is possible that Electra was made 
 actually to repeat Helen's words (v. 108) with emphasis, but this would be no 
 improvement. That Helen sees the point and acknowledges defeat is shown by 
 the Koprj (maiden) ofv. no. 
 
 z w. 116 foil. 3 See w. 245' foil., as explained hereafter.
 
 ORESTES 221 
 
 Orestea. The purpose of it was, by prescribed offerings and 
 persistent prayer, to make temporary connexion with the 
 departed. It could not therefore be performed with haste ; 
 and though Helen comfortably tells her daughter to return 
 ' the very moment it is done,' she is absent, as was to be 
 expected 1 , for some hours. Electra, whose part of daughter 
 to Clytaemnestra she has filled from infancy with unconscious 
 usurpation 2 , watches her departure with feelings which can be 
 imagined. 
 
 Scarcely are the prisoners alone again when the Chorus, 
 the inevitable visitors, arrive, full of curiosity, and throwing 
 Electra into an agony lest her patient should lose his sleep. 
 With fifteen persons engaged in being quiet, there is no little 
 noise ; and at the first moment when Electra is not on guard, 
 one of the ladies gets to the bed of Orestes, and is remarking 
 that there is a slackness in his attitude which she does not 
 like, when the strange voice wakes him 3 . His sister, after 
 tenderly composing him, hastens to communicate, ' while he 
 can understand 4 ,' the arrival of Menelaus ; and the very shock 
 of hope exposes him to an access of delirium. Here occurs 
 a dramatic effect of great power and simplicity. The voice 
 of Orestes has aroused the curiosity of Helen, who, not 
 choosing to present herself to the visitors, goes up with some 
 of her attendants to survey the scene at ease from the 
 parapet. There she is espied by Electra, at the moment 
 when Orestes is asking excitedly, whether really, really his 
 uncle has come. ' He is here ' Electra answers, pointing up, 
 
 Arrived and there thou hast the proof of it 
 With Helen, whom he brings from taken Troy. 
 
 The effect is prompt, and astonishing. Orestes gazes fixedly 
 at the place where the figure of Helen is visible, replying 
 to Electra with increasing distraction, till he reveals with a 
 shriek that what his eyes see there is his mother, and that his 
 imagination has converted Electra and her companions into 
 fiends, whom the ghost is urging on. The natural resemblance 
 of two sisters, and the fact that Helen's presence really is 
 
 1 vv. 1211-1215. 2 v - r 34 o - S vu - 195-210. * v. 238.
 
 222 A FIRE FROM HELL 
 
 almost incredible, make the delusion as likely as it is startling, 
 while it serves the purpose of showing that the supernatural 
 perceptions of Orestes are but fancies, that we are not in the 
 world of the Eumenides, where ghosts and furies actually 
 walk. Here, as in the Ipliigenia in Tauricd*-, that there may 
 be no doubt of this, we are shown of what they are made. 
 'Happier were Menelaus,' says Orestes, gazing darkly at Helen, 
 More blest he were had he escaped alone : 
 Sore bane he bringeth, if he bring his wife. 
 EL As beacons of reproach and infamy 
 
 Through Hellas were the daughters Tyndareus gat. 
 Or. Be thou not like the vile ones ! this thou may'st 
 
 Not in word only, but in inmost thought! 
 EL Woe's me, my brother ! Wildly rolls thine eye : 
 Swift changest thou to madness, sane but now ! 
 Or. Mother ! beseech thee, hark not thou on me 
 Yon maidens gory-eyed and snaky-haired ! 
 Lo there ! lo there ! they are nigh they leap on me 2 ! 
 
 We see that Electra, not perceiving the rush of her brother's 
 thoughts from Helen to Clytaemnestra, innocently spurs it 
 by her allusion to the daughters of Tyndareus. After a 
 terrible struggle, he breaks from the women, and raves about, 
 repelling the fiends with an imaginary bow and arrows (in 
 the ancient legend real), which were ' given me by Apollo for 
 such defence.' The acme is reached when some of those 
 within, fascinated by excitement, are again seen on the 
 parapet. The maniac fancies that he is driving his Furies 
 into the air : 
 
 Do ye not hear? not see the feathered shafts 
 At point to leap from my far-smiting bow? 
 Ha ! ha ! 
 
 Why tarry ye? Soar to the welkin's height 
 On wings ! 
 
 They vanish, and he swoons 3 . 
 
 1 w. 281-294. 2 w. 247 foil. (Way). 
 
 3 irv. 273 foil. (Way). By want of stage-directions, this scene is made 
 incomprehensible. Electra (v. 245) proves the arrival of Menelaus by that of 
 Helen, a convincing proof if itself proved. But the only conceivable proof is 
 that Helen is seen. Moreover, without this outward occasion and the other 
 connected circumstances, the abrupt access and ending of Orestes' fit are inexplic- 
 able to the imagination. For the use of the roof and parapet compare v. 1567.
 
 ORESTES 223 
 
 Recovering, he is helped to his couch, and there bemoans 
 himself and his errors 1 . His saner thoughts are scarcely the 
 less distressing. Apollo has betrayed him ; Agamemnon 
 himself would not have counselled a deed which has proved 
 so fruitless; Electra, so faithful, must perish too. Viewing 
 these reflexions in the light of the whole play, we notice here, 
 as in all that he and his accomplices say, that of crime as 
 crime, as an offence against law, they seem not to have the 
 conception. Beyond himself and his family, Orestes sees 
 nothing. Argos is nothing but a menace. That murder is 
 an outrage against society, and matricide against humanity, 
 are thoughts which his mind does not form, and, as we are to 
 see, cannot grasp. So perfect an insensibility of the civic 
 nerves would scarcely now be possible, at least we may 
 hope so, in a youth neither dull nor unfeeling ; and it must 
 have been abnormal in the republic of Athens. But among 
 the young members of the aristocratic treason-clubs, something 
 like it may have been not uncommon: the Orestes and Pylades 
 of this play may help us to conceive such a hetaireia?, its 
 effect upon life and affairs. The mutual tenderness of Orestes 
 and his sister, the vividness of their feelings so far as they can 
 feel, while making more conspicuous the narrowness of the 
 range, sustain our interest. For the moment indeed we are 
 conscious mainly of their misery. 
 
 Electra having been with difficulty persuaded to go in and 
 take a rest, Menelaus, arriving shortly after from the port, 
 is received by Orestes (and the Chorus) alone. Not sus- 
 pecting the ghastly figure on the couch to be his nephew, with 
 whose features he is of course unacquainted, he explains his 
 disappointment and perplexities to the sympathetic ladies. 
 Of his character we have spoken already. He is vulgarity itself; 
 and his actions, apart from the incalculable effects which they 
 happen to produce, would call for no remark. A trait in him, 
 suiting the rest, is that, though without real religion, his 
 fancy is grossly superstitious, like a sailor's, as Euripides 
 
 1 w. 277 foil. 
 
 2 The point is actually indicated ; see z>. 804, as respective to the rest of that 
 scene.
 
 224 A FIRE FROM HELL 
 
 seems to suggest 1 . It is everywhere evident that in the 
 situation he is not likely, and indeed not able, to be of use. 
 He is however genuinely shocked at the condition of Orestes, 
 and the dangers which Orestes describes. The political part 
 of this description 2 should be read with scepticism. It is, as 
 we might suspect from the ignorance and isolation of Orestes, 
 and as we afterwards discover, a complete misrepresentation. 
 Placed as he is, Orestes plainly cannot have accurate informa- 
 tion on the state of affairs, nor is he qualified to estimate 
 rightly such information as he may have. The slayers of 
 Clytaemnestra are not the objects of any such general and 
 implacable persecution as he suggests ; nor (which is still more 
 important) is it in the least true, either that the friends of 
 Agamemnon are passive, or that their enemies, the friends 
 of Aegisthus, 'command the obedience of the city 3 .' All this, as 
 the proceedings of the assembly prove, is a wild exaggeration 
 of half-known and unfamiliar terrors, a travesty of the real 
 situation, which, though grave enough, is different, and not at 
 all desperate. For the present we will merely remark, that 
 the formidable Oiax, who, according to Orestes, is bent on 
 ' hunting him off the face of the earth/ is never heard of again, 
 and that neither Oiax, nor any ' friend of Aegisthus/ so much 
 as takes part in the debate. Oiax has nothing to do with 
 the present case ; and his enmity, if it exists, could not have 
 any influence on the assembly. In the statement about him 
 we have incidentally the device, beloved of all dramatists, by 
 which a speaker is made to criticize unconsciously his own 
 position. The motive for the supposed zeal of Oiax is 
 revenge for Palamedes, put to death by Agamemnon at Troy. 
 The brother of the slain, says Orestes indignantly, visits upon 
 him, the son of the slayer, the deed of his father, 
 
 a deed 
 
 Not mine at all ! And yet my life is sought 
 At three removes 4 ! 
 
 1 irv. 360-369, 409, with which contrast v. 417. The story about Glaucus, a 
 characteristic piece of Euripidean work, will be considered hereafter, in connexion 
 with the appearance of Apollo. 
 
 8 irv. 427 foil. 3 v. 436 ovrol /J,' vfipi^ovv' &v TroXts TO.VVV n\Aei. 
 
 * v. 433 ME. 1-wrJKa.' Ha\a./uiri5ovs <re Ti/jLupe? 06vos. 
 
 OP. ov y' ov fjLfTTJv /JLOI, Sia rpiCov 5' a.Tr6\\vfiat. 
 In Sia rpiGiv, three off, the preposition is used, as in di 6\tyov, at a little distance, etc.,
 
 ORESTES 225 
 
 The doctrine of the vendetta, or representative retaliation, by 
 which, if A has offended B, the representative of B has against 
 the representative of A as good a cause as principal against 
 principal this notion, when Orestes is to suffer by it, he can 
 perceive to be pernicious and unreasonable. Yet upon what 
 other ground is he standing himself? If, for the purpose of 
 slaying Aegisthus and even his own mother, Orestes may 
 claim the full immunity of Agamemnon, why is it unreasonable 
 that he should be saddled, in another case, with the full 
 responsibility of Agamemnon ? ' At three removes' a vendetta 
 is monstrous ; but at two (Orestes Agamemnon Aegisthus) 
 it is plain justice ! The plain fact is that the vendetta is 
 vicious in principle, the negation of all civilised morality ; 
 and Euripides makes occasion to expose this by the mouth of 
 the avenger himself. 
 
 At length Orestes brings the dialogue to the point at 
 which he aims, by flinging himself at his uncle's feet : 
 
 In thee mine hope hath refuge yet from ills. 
 Thou com'st to folk in misery, prosperous thou :... 
 Requite, to whom thou ow'st, my father's boon 1 . 
 
 And at this instant enters, led by his attendants, an aged 
 man in deep mourning. It is Tyndareus, king of Sparta, the 
 father of Clytaemnestra. This entrance is a turn of that sort 
 which, depending on surprise, is impaired by knowledge of 
 the whole work. We have been compelled to spoil it, by 
 noticing the grandfather, in the course of our observations, as 
 one of the dramatis personae. But in the drama nothing 
 could be less expected, or more interesting. Here, and not 
 too soon, we listen to a personage who claims pure com- 
 passion, one that has been wounded repeatedly in affection 
 and honour, wounded by the act of his grandson more deeply 
 than ever, and who is placed moreover in the cruellest of 
 
 to express interval. The point is that to connect Oiax with Orestes requires three 
 steps, Oiax Palamedes Agamemnon Orestes, and that Orestes is thus arti- 
 ficially fixed with a responsibility ' not his own.' Other versions, such as ' my life 
 is sought by three,' do not fit the context. 
 1 vv. 448 foil. (Way). 
 
 V- 15
 
 226 A FIRE FROM HELL 
 
 straits. And coming at this moment, he is more than this. 
 He is the answer to the blind cry of Orestes for help. Here, 
 if we pity Orestes, or if he pities himself, is where he should 
 have sought the key to the lock, the finger to the knot ; and 
 we wonder that we did not think of it sooner. For why has 
 this tottering man made the journey from Sparta to Argos ? 
 Why is he here this morning ? Why, of all places, in this 
 house ? Because it is obvious before he betrays it he has 
 been agitating, and has not solved, the dolorous problem pre- 
 sented to him by the coming trial. Even in modern life such 
 a position might be not only painful but difficult. When the 
 machinery of justice depended so much as it did in Greece 
 upon individual impulse, the perplexity was intense. Cly- 
 taemnestra was a dishonour to her father, a bitter disgrace ; 
 but after all she was his daughter, and she had such rights as 
 belong to a criminal. The law, most venerable of names to 
 the old Spartan 1 , is concerned in her rights. Of these rights he, 
 as society was then constituted, is a legal guardian and, in 
 the circumstances, the sole. It is his duty to pursue her 
 murderers, if it may be, to the death. And yet, who else is 
 the natural director of his misguided grandson? He has loved 
 the boy (it is Orestes who tells us so 2 ) like a child of his own. 
 And now, though abhorring, though furiously hating, he loves 
 him still, or he would not be here. And the boy is alive, and, 
 by grace of the law, may yet live. The king of Sparta could 
 not decently, or perhaps legally, address the Argive assembly 
 on such an occasion in person. But he could, and he does, 
 appear by a representative by counsel, as we should say, 
 though the analogy is not exact. Must he not so appear ? 
 And if he should, what are to be the instructions ? 
 
 The scene which follows is psychologically the best in the 
 piece, as it is also the turning point, though remote, of the 
 catastrophe. To appreciate it fully, we must know, that the 
 representative of Tyndareus is the only person, who in the 
 subsequent debate pleads against Orestes 3 . The grandfather, 
 as he tells us, had already once decided on this course, but 
 had revoked the decision. In consequence of what now 
 
 1 w. 487, 523, and Tyndareus passim. - 'w. 462 foil. 3 w. 902-916.
 
 ORESTES 227 
 
 passes, he returns to it 1 . But the old man meant, so far as in 
 the storm of his feelings he knew what he meant, he hoped, as 
 he proves by seeking this interview, that it would end other- 
 wise. Affection in him so struggles with anger, that in the 
 midst of expounding to Menelaus the enormity of Orestes' 
 crime, he bursts into tears, when he attempts to address the 
 boy himself 2 . He comes to make the offender suffer as he 
 ought, to confound him, crush him, and break him to pieces. 
 He is indignant and this feeling, like all else in the miserable 
 situation, is inevitable that he should have been forced to 
 seek, when his pardon and aid should have been sought. He 
 will not admit that he has taken the first step. He is in 
 Argos (so he says) for the purpose of ' causing offerings to be 
 made 3 ' at the grave of his daughter a thing which plainly 
 could not have been done without a journey ! He has come 
 to the house (so he says), because, after so long a separation, 
 he could not keep away from his son-in-law 4 with whom 
 nevertheless he instantly quarrels, and whom he presently 
 joins with Helen in a sentence of scathing contempt 5 . He is 
 astonished and shocked (so he says) to find Menelaus con- 
 versing with the matricide 6 than which indeed nothing, in that 
 house, could be more surprising ! Nevertheless he is there ; 
 and when all is said, he must have come there in order to be 
 asked, and to grant, forgiveness. But that forgiveness is never 
 asked. And yet Orestes knows that he needs it ; he can 
 admit to Menelaus, while the old man approaches, that here 
 indeed is one whom he has foully injured, whose love he has 
 cruelly repaid 7 . But his fate, that fate which consists in 
 a man's being what he is, refuses him the chance to save 
 himself by just saying that to his grandfather. Partly by ill 
 luck, but chiefly because he is perverse, conceited, and half- 
 crazy, he gets to argument with his grandfather, and fixes in 
 
 1 v. 609. Tyndareus to Orestes, fj.d\\6v p avd^eis eirl <rbv f$e\0eii> <f>&vov, 
 ' Instead of winning me (/j.a\\ov), thou wilt make me thy prosecutor again,' ' wilt 
 recall me to the seeking of thy life.' The change of aVd|eis to aVd^ets, ' thou wilt 
 kindle me more' (recentiores libri pauci), or a^d^eis (modern), is an error, and not 
 insignificant. 
 
 2 w. 526 foil. 3 xoas x e / aej ' os > v " 47 2 > an d see v - 6n. 4 W' 47 foil. 
 5 w. 518-522. 6 v. 481. 7 w. 459 foil. 
 
 152
 
 228 A FIRE FROM HELL 
 
 the mind of the one man, who can protect him, the conviction 
 that he is no fit object for mercy. 
 
 It is his ill luck that his uncle is there. As Tyndareus 
 comes near, he cowers down, abashed and conscience-stricken 1 . 
 If the grandfather could have found him so, and alone, pity 
 might have had the first word. As it is, the first movement 
 of Tyndareus is to defend his dignity by denouncing his 
 son-in-law (whom he despises, and suspects very justly of 
 regarding the young man's case in no proper spirit) for having 
 anything to do with such a villain. To Menelaus, the disgrace 
 of the criminal, from which the old king shrinks as from a fire, 
 is nothing ; and the imperious tone of the rebuke nettles his 
 self-complacency. Why should he not stand by his own 
 brother's son, and him so unfortunate ? Kin must have its 
 due. 'You have been too long abroad!' answers Tyndareus, 
 rigid with indignation ; ' In Greece, the first claim is that of 
 the law.' 'Anger and age,' retorts Menelaus, ' mislead your 
 wisdom.' 'Wisdom !', thunders the king, 
 
 Dispute of wisdom what is that to him! 
 
 If there's a common sense of right and wrong, 
 
 Here is the dullest fool that ever was ! 
 
 There is nothing to be argued. A man must no.t take the 
 law into his own hands. If the mother was a vile wretch, 
 as she was, the courts were open, and the old, the regular 
 way 2 . Any one can see, Menelaus must see, that otherwise 
 the series of murder must be perpetual. Wicked wives are as 
 hateful to Tyndareus as they should be to the husband of 
 Helen ! But one must support the law, or we go back to 
 savagery. So he runs fluently on. But when he turns to his 
 grandson, grief and sheer pain overwhelm him, and the oration 
 breaks down in sobs and wild lament : 
 
 1 v. 467. On the movements see note in Appendix. 
 
 a In v. 515 <f>vyaiffi 5' offtow a.vTa.iroKTdvtt.v dt fi-q the argument is not for 
 punishment always and only by exile. Tyndareus is at this very moment demanding 
 the penalty of ' a life for a life.' The point is that the murderer must be pursued 
 through (pvyal, that is, by making him a defendant (<f>ffrywv) and putting him to the 
 bar of the law, not by another murder. The question of death or exile is 
 secondary, and will depend on the case.
 
 ORESTES 229 
 
 What heart hadst thou, O miscreant, in that hour 
 When suppliant unto thee thy mother bared 
 Her breast? I, who saw not the horrors there, 
 Yet drown, ah me! mine aged eyes with tears... 
 
 One thing, in any wise, attests my words 
 Thou art loathed of Gods, punished for matricide 
 By terrors and mad ravings 1 . Where is need 
 For other witness of things plain to see? 
 Be warned then, Menelaus : strive not thou 
 Against the Gods, being fain to help this man. 
 Leave him to die by stoning of the folk, 
 Or never set thou foot on Spartan ground. 
 Dying, my daughter paid but justice' debt;... 
 Yet... it beseemed not him to deal her death. 
 I... in all else have been a happy man... 
 Save in my daughters : herein. ..most ill-starred 2 . 
 
 So he ends, and.../k? does not go away. He will cast off the 
 criminal ; everyone shall cast him off; but he does not go 3 . 
 Menelaus, who has had time to cool and to grasp the 
 situation, is silent ; and the way is open for Orestes. 
 
 It seems impossible that he should not take it, impossible 
 that, if he cannot understand, he should not now feel, what 
 is to be done. Whether the doctrine, which his grandfather 
 asserts to be the alphabet of morality, be true or false, 
 universal or peculiar and modesty might at least suggest 
 misgivings, the duty and interest of Orestes are the same. 
 His duty is to heal where he has hurt, his interest, to appease 
 the opponent. Whatever may be his rights, he is here and 
 now in the wrong, and it seems impossible that he should do 
 anything but confess and have done. But no ! His case, as 
 he sees it, possesses his brain ; he has the weak man's love of 
 dissertation for its own sake 4 ; and he insists on having his 
 turn. 
 
 1 This he has learnt at the grave of Clytaemnestra (v. 472) from Hermione 
 (v. 1 14). It is in fact her report of Orestes' miserable state, which has sent the 
 grandfather to see for himself; this is the real meaning of w. 532-533. 
 
 2 w. 526 foil. (Way) with some changes of punctuation. 
 
 3 The Chorus fill the pause with the usual distich. See Appendix, Helen 944. 
 
 4 This comes out again in the sequel (w. 640 foil.) ; where see the epigram of 
 Menelaus (v. 638) on the merits of speech and of silence. Menelaus is of course 
 well aware that Orestes has done his best to ruin himself.
 
 230 A FIRE FROM HELL 
 
 His speech is painfully interesting. With the natural 
 eloquence of sincerity and passion, it has that pathos which, 
 apart from judgment or in spite of it, must belong to an act 
 of unconscious suicide, committed by one young, inexperienced, 
 and distracted by physical and mental suffering. But, for all 
 this, it reveals a perverse and unkindly nature, an intelligence 
 defective and twisted, feelings blind and irresponsive to a plain 
 appeal. The legal conception of crime, the civic conception, 
 is so totally incomprehensible to him. that he fancies himself 
 to be refuting his elder's ' high-sounding' vindication of law 1 , 
 when he claims to be himself a reformer of the law ! After 
 his patriotic deed, wicked wives will no longer imagine that 
 maternity is to protect them against their sons ; that is 
 a ' law ' which, thanks to him, will be law no longer 2 . He 
 insists on the sacred duty of avenging his father, precisely as 
 if this, and not the way of doing it, were the essence of his 
 alleged offence 3 . But more unhappy and repulsive than these 
 intellectual errors is the perversion of his feelings, the insolence 
 and cruelty (no softer terms are adequate) with which he 
 handles the wounds inflicted by himself upon his progenitor. 
 He begins indeed not ill, requesting audience with respectful 
 humility 4 . But this modesty is discharged by the mere 
 profession. He instructs his ancestor in the important truth 
 (learnt apparently at Delphi 5 ) that the father, as ' sower of the 
 plant,' is the true parent of a child, the mother only the 
 ground in which it grows an inferior obligation 6 . He re- 
 minds the parent and king, that his daughter was not only 
 a murderess but an adulteress ; and enlarging upon this 
 opportune theme, he arrives at the conclusion that Tyndareus 
 himself is author of all the mischief! 
 
 Thou, ancient, in begetting a vile daughter 
 Didst ruin me ; for, through her recklessness 
 Unfathered, I became a matricide. 
 
 1 V. 571 WS ffV KO/J.1T(IS. 
 
 8 w. 564-578, especially v. 571 r6i>8' tiravaa. rbv 6/j,oi>, and v. 576 compared 
 with v. 500. 3 w. 546-563, 579-584. * w. 544-545- 
 
 5 Apollo, in the Eumenides of Aeschylus (v. 657), has recourse to it in a moment 
 of embarrassment. This would alone suffice to prove that Orestes, in the con- 
 ception of Euripides, here speaks as a fool. 6 w. 552-556.
 
 ORESTES 231 
 
 He might, he says 1 , have been virtuous as Telemachus, if he 
 had been given a mother like Penelope ! This strain of insult 
 runs through the whole, and reappears, with the improvement 
 of a sententious pity, in the conclusion : 
 
 Nay, say not thou that this was not well done, 
 Albeit untowardly for me the doer. 
 Happy the life of men whose marriages 
 Are blest: but they for -whom they ill betide, 
 At home, abroad, are they unfortunate. 
 
 But for the practical effect of the speech all these things 
 are indifferent. It is enough for Tyndareus that the murderer 
 justifies his act. No sooner does he catch a glimpse of 
 this intention than he turns away 2 . Every word serves to 
 bring him back to the resolution, which he now announces, 
 that he will prosecute to the death so hardened a villain, 
 him and his sister also, the worse of the pair. It should be 
 noted here that Electra has lived in Argos, at her home, 
 within reach of Tyndareus' observation, whereas Orestes has 
 been in Phocis for years. About the character and merits of 
 his granddaughter, it does not appear that the king ever 
 entertained any doubts 3 . With a threat flung at Menelaus 
 he goes ; and Orestes, after defying him, turns to the really 
 important business, as he conceives it, of securing the aid of 
 his uncle 4 . 
 
 That personage, now thoroughly and most reasonably 
 alarmed, is pacing to and fro, 
 
 Treading the mazes of perplexity, 
 
 and begs not to be interrupted in studying the difficulties of 
 the situation. His chief desire, beyond doubt, is to get 
 decently out of the house. But to do him justice, the 
 intentions which he finally announces 5 are the best possible : 
 
 1 vv. 585-590. 
 
 2 At v. 5^7, I think. A movement is implied in dweXfl^rw S-ij, ' Go away 
 then' (v. 548); Orestes' only feeling is relief, that the venerable appearance of 
 his grandfather no longer embarrasses his eloquence. 
 
 3 w. 615-621. The fine metaphor in v. 621, 2a v<f>rj^e Swfj.' avrj^lffrtf) irvpl, 
 is a compendium of the play, both in the moral aspect and in the scenic. I take 
 from it the title of this essay. 4 v. 630. B w. 682 foil.
 
 232 A FIRE FROM HELL 
 
 he will try to recover Tyndareus (this of course he perceives 
 to be vital), 'to persuade him and people generally to be 
 moderate in extremity 1 ' that is, in plain words, to be satisfied 
 with the penalty of exile. Whether this operation is to in- 
 clude an attempt by himself to address the civic assembly, 
 he does not decide, and really seems not to know. A popular 
 meeting, he shrewdly remarks, however hostile, will give 
 surprising chances to the wary: 
 
 When the storm is lulled, 
 Lightly a man may win his will of them. 
 
 Except as to the assembly (where, if present, he does not 
 speak, but on the other hand is not wanted and has no 
 opportunity), the play gives not the least evidence either that 
 his promises are performed or that they are not. Nor does 
 it matter. It is plain, on the one hand, that he can do little 
 or nothing, on the other, that if he could he would not, 
 at any considerable risk to himself. Tyndareus, the one man 
 whose character, dignity, and relation to the case, make even 
 his neutrality invaluable to the accused, and his least aid 
 almost decisive in their favour, Tyndareus, who loved Orestes, 
 the perverse and miserable youth has rejected, and sent to 
 the side of his enemies. Menelaus, who cannot save him, 
 and who, though not indifferent to his nephew, cares more 
 for his own little finger, Menelaus he very consistently pesters 
 with entreaty. 
 
 In spite of his uncle's evident and quite justifiable im- 
 patience, he insists that, before decision, his uncle's delibera- 
 tion shall have the benefit of his arguments. Menelaus, who 
 has heard him argue, ironically consents : 
 
 Speak ; thou hast spoken well. Silence than speech 
 Sometimes is better, and than silence speech 2 . 
 
 Thus encouraged, and opening with the remark that, for clear- 
 ness, it is best to be long, he delivers an address, which the 
 
 1 v. 704 Twddpewv rt trot TTfipdffOfiai \ ir6\u> re irelaai T< \iav 
 
 2 v. 638 My', & 7&p eliras. Icrn 5' o5 ff(.yr\ \6yov 
 
 ytvoir' dv, &rn 5' ov iriyijs \6yos.
 
 ORESTES 
 
 233 
 
 modern reader could well spare. The substance indeed is 
 not out of character; for it exhibits the same blindness to 
 fact, the same lack of grasp upon the realities of the situation, 
 which belong to the speaker everywhere. What is here 
 wanted, if anything, is practical suggestion. It is not the 
 fault of Orestes, that in that line he can contribute only 
 this: impossibility is friendship's true opportunity 1 . But 
 since that is all, this is another of those occasions where, 
 as Menelaus observes, it is better to say nothing. The 
 obligations of Menelaus to Agamemnon, which he proves 
 with pedantic formality, need no proving ; and adjurations 
 without counsel go wide of the mark. So far however, there 
 is nothing to surprise us ; what does surprise, and seems now 
 simply impossible, is the style. This utterly remote from 
 the natural force of the speech to Tyndareus, unlike any 
 other speaking in the play, and most unlike that common 
 element in it all, which comes from Euripides himself is 
 a rhetoric frigid and artificial beyond anything now con- 
 ceivable: 
 
 Grant I do wrong : I ought, for a wrong's sake, 
 To win of thee a wrong ; for Agamemnon 
 Wrongly to Ilium led the hosts of Greece: 
 Not that himself had sinned, but sought to heal 
 The sin and the wrong-doing of thy wife... 
 Aulis received my sister's blood 2 : I spare 
 Thee this : I bid not slay HermionQ. 
 Thou needst must, when I fare as now I fare, 
 Have vantage, and the debt I must forgive 3 . 
 
 This incomparable oratory, which (let it be repeated) is as un- 
 like what Euripides offers for real eloquence as anything can 
 possibly be, and which caricatures the worst features of a 
 school that was no longer in fashion, is apparently supposed 
 to represent what might be produced, if a young man of no 
 sound judgment, fresh from a rhetorical education, should 
 suppose himself called upon to apply his lessons to practice. 
 
 1 w. 665 foil. 2 See note in the Appendix, v. 658. 
 
 3 w. 646 foil., 658 foil. (Way). The translation does more than justice. Note 
 especially the artificial placing of aSt/rw...ddiKo'...<i5iAcws in the first passage.
 
 234 A FIRE FROM HELL 
 
 Happily modern education, whatever its defects, does not 
 err in this way or to this extent ; and we cannot but suspect 
 Euripides, perhaps unjustly, of over-painting. The orator's 
 unwilling appeal to the name of Helen is more naturally 
 turned, but becomes, for this reason, something very like an 
 insult to Helen's husband 1 . The peroration, after promising 
 better for a moment, is then marred by the conscious 
 formality of composition : 
 
 O brother of my father 2 , deem that he 
 
 Hears this, who lies 'neath earth, that over thee 
 
 His spirit hovers : what I say he saith. 
 
 This, urged with 3 tears, moans, pleas of misery, 
 
 Have I said, and have claimed my life of thee, 
 
 Seeking what all men seek, not I alone 4 . 
 
 Menelaus, whom we may suspect of not listening, replies, 
 as we have seen, by a profession of good will, which may 
 or may not be sincere, and by an explanation of what is prac- 
 ticable, which could not be improved 5 . He then hurries off, 
 pursued by the taunts, prayers, and curses of the unhappy 
 Orestes, who now gives himself for lost. With rapture 
 therefore he welcomes the sudden return of his comrade and 
 confidant, Pylades. 
 
 And if pluck, audacity, and devotion could save him, 
 he has found them indeed. Pylades is ready for anything, 
 
 1 w. 669-672. 
 
 2 u varpbs Snathe 0e?e. The flattering equivocation in Bete (adjective or 
 substantive) must not be missed. No native ear could miss it, and such a speech 
 as this would not be complete without one such demode decoration. 
 
 3 Rather 'in the way of,' 'in the pathetic line' (ts re ddicpva xai 76011$ nat 
 ffvfjufiopds) as contrasted with the practical application. But modern English 
 (fortunately) can scarcely give the effect. 
 
 4 How pathetic in the murderer of his mother ! We may take occasion to note 
 that this Orestes, among other winning traits, is a coward, contrasting in this 
 strikingly with Pylades, who is 'as brave as a weasel.' 
 
 6 w. 682 foil. The question, whether Menelaus has any armed force at his 
 disposal, is unanswerable and immaterial. It is inconceivable that he should be 
 in a position to control the state. He says that he has no force (v. 688), and, since 
 he has been travelling, not fighting, he probably speaks the truth the more 
 probably that he does not pretend any moral objection to violence. Electra 
 (v. 54) can know nothing exact about the matter, and what she says is on any 
 interpretation vague; see Mr Wedd's note.
 
 ORESTES 235 
 
 not less so because, as he presently relates 1 , he has found 
 no countenance in his native Phocis, has been turned out 
 of doors by his own father, and is actually, as we say, ' on the 
 street.' Unhappily, what Orestes wants is an intercessor, which 
 Pylades cannot be, and an adviser, which he can. 
 
 The report of the approaching assembly, and the sight of 
 the preparations, have made him almost as excited as Orestes 2 . 
 In a rapid dialogue (the rapidity is emphasized by a change 
 of metre) the two young men, having first inflamed each 
 other by recounting the behaviour of their unnatural kinsfolk, 
 deliberate (if the word is applicable) about the trial ; Orestes, 
 who apparently misapplies the remarks of his uncle 3 , proposes 
 that he should go to the assembly and speak for himself. 
 A modern reader may here be reminded that Orestes is 
 not in form a defendant, for the proceeding is not in form 
 judicial ; as an Argive by birth, he can attend the assembly 
 if he pleases. Pylades, upon the ground that, since the case 
 is otherwise desperate, to do something is at worst 'a finer 
 way to die 4 ,' decides that Orestes shall go, and which indeed 
 follows of itself, for the fevered prisoner is in no condition 
 to go alone that he himself will conduct him and appear at 
 his side. The supreme courage of this act, since Pylades, 
 once known to be in Argos, cannot hope to escape with 
 life 5 , and the sympathy for both lads, which their isolation 
 and attachment excite, makes pathetic their prodigious mis- 
 take. A spectator, who knew what an ecclesia was like and 
 few Athenians were without this knowledge must have been 
 almost intolerably agitated by the desire to stop them. What 
 Orestes is as an orator, we have seen ; we know his opinion 
 of his case ; we can anticipate the skill with which he will 
 adapt himself to his audience, and the sympathy with which 
 a sovereign assembly will receive his view of. law 6 . That 
 
 1 w. 763 foil. 2 w. 729-731. 
 
 3 w. 696 foil. * v. 782. 
 
 5 Whether he is or could be made amenable to the law of Argos, we are not 
 told, except by himself (v. 771), which is inconclusive. But he is beyond the 
 protection of that law, might well be lynched (v. 770), and will certainly be 
 assassinated. 
 
 6 Refer to w. 564-578, and that speech generally.
 
 236 A FIRE FROM HELL 
 
 they should not hear it, is the one thing now left to wish 
 for him. But neither to Pylades nor to Orestes does it 
 occur how should such a consideration, or any relevant 
 consideration, occur to two boys, frantic with haste and 
 despair, of whom neither, we may presume, has taken part 
 in a political meeting, much less addressed one, in his life ? 
 it does not strike them, that speech can exasperate as easily 
 as propitiate, and that to speak or not to speak, as a question 
 of policy for a given occasion, depends upon what you will 
 say, Jiow you will say it, and who are to hear ! 
 
 Or. Should I go and tell the people 
 
 Pyl. That thou wroughtest righteously? 
 
 Or. Taking vengeance for my father? 
 
 Pyl. Glad might they lay hold on thee. 
 
 The fear of violence, the possible imprudence of quitting 
 the house, is the only caution which crosses the counsellor's 
 mind ; and decision is taken upon the sentiment, that it is 
 'finer' to do something! Concerning the balance of public 
 opinion and the probable course of debate, Orestes has 
 nothing to tell, nor Pylades to ask. So utterly is all this 
 ignored, that in relating the visits of his grandfather and uncle, 
 Orestes does not even mention the debate, or the part which they 
 ^v^ll or may take in it. The determination of Tyndareus to 
 prosecute, the single thing of practical importance which has 
 come out, he does not notice. His one idea is that Menelaus, 
 who should have saved him from execution, has by Tyndareus 
 been frightened away 1 . Pylades on his side is equally blind 
 to the question, whether an Argive, on trial for a murder 
 committed in Argos, will be recommended to favour by the 
 companionship of his foreign accomplice ; although his own 
 language 2 must suggest that reflexion to any experienced 
 or reasonable person. His political wisdom exhausts itself 
 in the suggestion (such it seems to be) that a democracy, being 
 notoriously leadable, may be led by himself and his friend 3 ! 
 Nor should we quite pass over, though less pertinent to the 
 
 1 w. 736-754. 
 
 2 v. 771, with the inimitable vdvra ravr' ev 5fj.fj.a.<ru> (All this depends upon the 
 eye) of v. 785. 3 v. 773-
 
 ORESTES 237 
 
 business, the many revelations of the young men's moral 
 taste : 
 
 OP. euro? 77X0', o Trt<? d/ncTTas 0vjaTepa<f crTreipwv Trarijp. 
 TIT. TvvBdpewv \eyeis' t'cr&x? aoi dwyarepos 6vfj.ov/j.evo<; 1 . 
 
 All things considered, the persons, their relationship, the 
 situation, and everything, these two sentences would stand 
 well in a competition for the most revolting sentiment ever 
 attributed to a human being. One wonders again, whether 
 Euripides has over-painted ; but one may believe not. Among 
 the younger members of the oppressed nobility in the year 
 408 B.C., among the hetairoi' 2 of the hetaireiai, there may well 
 have been some moral jewels of the first water. 
 
 However, the resolve is taken, and Pylades completes his 
 work by forbidding, as a loss of time, disclosure to Electra. 
 A final incident illuminates grimly the difference between the 
 pair, and the sort of religion, devout but unenlightened, 
 by which the softer and more complicated spirit has been 
 driven into the same path as the more hard. 'Take me,' 
 says Orestes, ' to the grave of my father.' ' What for?' ' To 
 pray his aid.' ' Well, at least he owes it 3 .' And so, leaning 
 upon the heart ' by habit welded to my own,' upon the 
 comrade ' more precious than a thousand kin,' Orestes goes 
 forth to face the assembled citizens. 
 
 A choric ode carries us over the time occupied by the 
 trial. In the next scene Electra, almost at the same moment 
 when she first learns with dismay what her brother has done 
 ( Who was tJu adviser? is her significant exclamation 4 ), 
 receives tidings of the fatal result. The report of the debate 
 has a species of interest not common in the formal narratives 
 of Greek tragedy. Generally speaking, the narrators have no 
 special character ; they are merely competent observers of 
 the facts. But in this case, the reporter is a witness manifestly 
 and extremely incompetent ; and his mind is a medium of 
 intense refraction. A rustic thrall, attached to the family as 
 something between retainer and serf 5 , he has by accident 
 come into the city and witnessed the debate. His relation 
 1 v. 750. a v. 804. 3 w. 796-797. * v. 849. 5 w, 866 foil.
 
 238 A FIRE FROM HELL 
 
 of the unfamiliar proceedings has therefore, especially for 
 citizens of Athens, all the piquancy of prejudice, ignorance, 
 and misconception. The selection of such a narrator is in 
 my opinion alone sufficient to disprove the supposition (which 
 on other grounds also appears to me not entertainable) that 
 Euripides intended his picture as a satire on the proceedings, 
 reflecting indirectly upon the ecclesia of Athens. If he had 
 meant anything of the sort, surely he would have put the 
 description into the mouth of a person, whom an average 
 citizen of Athens, an average member of the ecclesia, would 
 recognize as at least competent to understand what he saw, 
 one fitted by experience to estimate fairly the bearings of 
 what was done and the intentions of the actors. A modern 
 dramatist, who desired to stigmatize some proceeding of 
 the House of Commons, would scarcely describe the debate 
 through the mouth of a gillie from Sutherland or a game- 
 keeper from Connemara, who had somehow got into the 
 Strangers' Gallery. The Euripidean narrator is a person 
 who, because of his breeding, regards it as monstrous that 
 the heir of Agamemnon should be tried for his life at all, 
 and who, by his manner of living, has been precluded from 
 learning how an arraignment is conducted, how such an 
 assembly should be managed, and how, if at all, such a 
 criminal may be saved or helped 1 . The only reason or excuse 
 for choosing such a narrator is that a better-informed audience 
 may appreciate his misconceptions, which are in fact as gross 
 and transparent as they possibly could be. 
 
 The facts, of course, the things actually done and said, 
 we must suppose him to state correctly ; he is our authority 
 for them. But his comments we shall of course not accept ; 
 on the contrary, we shall presume that they are absurd, and 
 that we are intended to correct them. The facts which he 
 reports are these. 
 
 The question ' whether Orestes, a matricide, should or 
 should not suffer death?' having been formally propounded 
 by an officer of the assembly, the lead is taken by the friends 
 
 1 See the narrative passim.
 
 ORESTES 239 
 
 of Agamemnon. Talthybius, his diplomatic agent 1 , speaks 
 ambiguously, extolling his late leader, but condemning the 
 offender's conception of filial duty. Talthybius is followed 
 by 'the lord Diomede,' whose proposal, to inflict instead of 
 death the ' more scrupulous ' penalty of exile 2 , is received with 
 clamours of approbation and also of dissent. Next a profes- 
 sional orator, employed by Tyndareus, argues for the heavier 
 penalty. The argument is not given, because we have heard 
 it already ; he is not only instructed but prompted by 
 Tyndareus, and his line therefore is that of the king of 
 Sparta : private vengeance cannot be tolerated, and severity 
 is necessary for the vindication of law 3 . But hereupon 'a 
 different person ' starts up : 
 
 No dainty presence, but a manful man 4 , 
 
 In town and market-circle seldom found, 
 
 A yeoman such as are the land's one stay, 
 
 Yet shrewd in grapple of words, when this he would ; 
 
 A stainless man, who lived a blameless life. 
 
 He moved that they should crown Agamemnon's son 
 
 Orestes, since he dared avenge his sire, 
 
 Slaying the wicked and the godless wife 
 
 Who sapped our strength : none would take shield on arm, 
 
 Or would forsake his home to march to war, 
 
 If men's house-warders be seduced the while 
 
 By stayers at home, and couches be denied. 
 
 To honest men he seemed to speak right well; 
 
 And none spake after. Then thy brother rose, 
 
 And said 
 
 what we know that he will say, a repetition, varied for the 
 audience, of what he said, with such happy effect, to his 
 grandfather 5 . He (so he says) is the deliverer of Argos ; he is 
 
 1 Kijpv, v. 896 ; we^ have no description exactly corresponding to this as used 
 in the fifth century; 'herald' is quite incongruous. A 'military secretary' and an 
 ' aide-de-camp ' have partial resemblances. We may note that the same name is 
 given to the ' clerk ' of the ecclesia (v. 885). 
 
 - v. 900. Note euo-e/Seic. 3 w. 491-525. 
 
 4 w. 917 foil. (Way). 
 
 5 Compare w. 932-942 with w. 564-571, and especially the reference to 
 'law' in v. 941 with that in v. 571.
 
 240 A FIRE FROM HELL 
 
 the champion of his fellow-citizens, as men, against the slavery 
 to which they must sink, ' if murder of the man be permitted 
 to woman 1 '. And therefore, 
 
 if ye shall indeed slay me, 
 Law is annulled. 
 
 Whereupon he is condemned to death, and this with such 
 animosity that he can scarcely obtain permission to escape 
 by suicide, within the day, the horrible Argive punishment 
 of stoning. 
 
 Upon the substance of this story, the course of the 
 proceedings, and the actual result, the comment of an average, 
 reasonable man in the Euripidean age, or any other civilized 
 age, would be, one would suppose, a shrug of the shoulders. 
 The whole thing is in essence and effect so obvious, so 
 predictable, that for this very reason (I presume) Euripides 
 selects an incompetent narrator, in order to animate, by 
 prejudiced and ignorant comments, what otherwise must have 
 fallen flat. In any age of law and civilized government, 
 and before any respectable tribunal that could exist, a de- 
 fendant, guilty of such a crime that the most he could hope 
 for was a mitigated punishment, would, and should, be held to 
 prove himself both incorrigible and dangerous, if he insulted 
 his judges by taking the tone of a public benefactor. The 
 attitude of Orestes is suicidal and, like all his proceedings, 
 scarcely compatible with sanity. The main point which the 
 report brings out, and throws into sharp relief, is that his 
 condemnation to death, the rejection of the mitigated penalty, 
 is his own work, the natural outcome of those wise prepara- 
 tions which we have witnessed in the course of the play. 
 
 Had he propitiated his grandfather, or even spared to defy 
 and insult him, had he stayed at home, as Electra or any 
 person of sense would have advised, his life (it is plain) 
 
 1 v - 935 el> y&P *fftnn > <f>ovoi 
 
 ftrrai yvvai^lv 6Vioj, ov <f>6dvotr' (r &v 
 
 dfr/ffKovTes, -fj ywcui-i SovXfVftv xpfwv. 
 
 The generality of apaijv and yvv-f) must not be limited to ' husband ' and ' wife.' 
 To defend the position of Orestes, that a son may avenge one of his two parents 
 upon the other, the claim of superiority in sex is essential.
 
 ORESTES 241 
 
 would have been scarcely in danger. The city was not, as 
 he wildly imagined 1 , bent upon destroying him, nor the friends 
 of Agamemnon negligent. It is the other side, the friends 
 of Aegisthus, who are unprepared and conscious of weakness : 
 they do not attack ; they forego the advantage of the lead ; 
 they do not even aid in resisting the defenders. Talthybius 
 and Diomede take the lead, and, acting manifestly in concert, 
 conduct their cause with skill. For the sake of the defendant, 
 they must of course not pretend to justify the murder, or 
 omit to express sympathy with innocent sufferers, such as 
 the family of Aegisthus. Their claim, their only possible 
 claim, is to moderate ; and to make this clear is the part 
 of Talthybius, who, because he balances, because he 
 
 was ever glancing still 
 With flattering eye upon Aegisthus' friends, 
 
 is absurdly accused by the ignorant rustic of treachery: 'it is 
 the way of his class, the diplomatists, always to be on the 
 prosperous side 2 .' Diomede, a person of the highest considera- 
 tion, follows with the moderating proposal, to inflict only the 
 minor and usual penalty of exile. Nothing could be better. 
 And but for Orestes, there might, so far as appears, have 
 been actually no opposition. He however, as we know, has 
 secured an opponent, and a formidable one, the spokesman of 
 his grandfather. This person is described by the narrator 
 as an impudent wind-bag, confident of applause, no genuine 
 citizen, a mere tool 3 , malicious, always able to mislead, 
 etc., etc. all which simply means that he is a professional 
 orator, raised by his talents, a sort of Lysias who has obtained 
 citizenship, but detestable to the boorish retainer of the 
 Pelopidae, both as a new man and as a man of the schools. 
 The grave argument of Tyndareus, presented with skill, must 
 of course produce upon the audience a weighty impression. 
 But again the situation is saved. A respectable, though 
 uneducated, yeoman, described with partiality but also with 
 
 1 W. 425 foil., 721. 2 v. 895 tiri rbv evrvx^j irijSwff' del icfipvKfS. 
 
 3 Or 'puppet' r)vayKa.<r/j.ti>os (904), acting by the motion of those who control 
 him (Wedd). 
 
 v. 1 6
 
 242 A FIRE FROM HELL 
 
 comprehension, gives vent to his rude but honest feelings, 
 and presents the excuse of Orestes, such as it is, to the 
 utmost advantage. Orestes, he says, has punished a sort of 
 wickedness, which ought, in the public interest, to receive the 
 severest punishment. This is true, and it goes home ; for no 
 one ventures to reply. The opposition, weak from the first, has 
 collapsed ; and the moderating proposal, if now put, is certain 
 of success. But the defendant, being present, must be heard 
 if he will. His interposition is at best mischievous ; for the 
 mere sight of the matricide must provoke a reaction. And 
 then, instead of making the humble apology which is expected, 
 he poses as a protector and superior, a restorer of manhood 
 and liberty, a defender of the law ! 
 
 And lest these missiles should not stick, he begins by 
 personally insulting the Argives as such. He begins by 
 reminding the arbiters of his fate, that, according to their 
 legendary history, they, as ' Danaidae/ are descended from 
 criminal women, the daughters of Danaus, who (like Clytaem- 
 nestra) slew their husbands, and were absolved in the very 
 place where the assembly is now sitting 1 . They are 
 
 ' Lords of the land of Inachus, 
 Pelasgians first, but Danaids afterwards.' 
 
 Orestes would recall them to the virtue, which they possessed 
 before that vicious blood had corrupted them ! The result 
 of this eloquence, though it surprises the rustic narrator 2 , 
 could surprise no one acquainted with affairs. The insulted 
 citizens are instantly convinced, as Tyndareus was convinced 
 before, that they have before them a dangerous, irreclaimable 
 miscreant. The extreme sentence follows of course, and 
 includes the sister. 
 
 The proceedings are meant to represent what would 
 happen, under the circumstances, in any ecclesia, including 
 
 1 v. 932 w yrjv 'Ivdxov 
 
 TrdXcit He\affyoi, Aavatdai. 5 dftirepov. 
 
 The point of the address is explained by the mention (v. 872) of the legend that 
 the Argive place of assembly was first chosen for the trial of the Danaids. The 
 legend is introduced for the purpose of the address, and neither must be struck out. 
 
 2 v>- 943-945-
 
 ORESTES 243 
 
 that of Athens, save that the mention of stoning as a legal 
 penalty would at Athens sound harshly 1 , and is probably 
 (but not certainly) an anachronism even for Argos. If we 
 must consider, though it scarcely belongs to literary and 
 dramatic criticism, how the Athenian ecclesia, as here repre- 
 sented, should be estimated by a historian of law and 
 civilization, we should say, I think, that, for judicial purposes, 
 it had the defects which are inherent in a popular assembly, 
 which would be displayed, for instance, by the House of 
 Commons, if it should unhappily revert to the practice of 
 attainder. It was, for judicial purposes, too much influenced 
 by feeling and incident. The resentment provoked by 
 Orestes, though just, is too violent ; and on the other hand, 
 the sensational explosion of the yeoman obtains for his 
 opinion more effect than judicial minds would allow. As 
 to the justice of the sentence, it is pure matter of opinion. 
 My own judgment, if one must be a judge in the court of 
 Argos as well as in that of drama, is that, in the given 
 circumstances, a truly judicial mind would have awarded 
 death ; but that most tribunals which have actually existed 
 in consideration of this and that, the youth and nobility of 
 the defendant 2 , and so forth would have awarded exile, as 
 a majority of the Argives would have done, if Orestes had 
 let them. The condemnation to death is, merely as justice, 
 defensible ; and if any spectator regrets it, Orestes and his 
 accomplices soon dissipate that feeling, and make us heartily 
 wish that all three, by stoning or any way whatsoever, had 
 been quickly enough expunged from the world. 
 
 One observation however will occur to a modern reader, 
 which more nearly concerns us as critics, because we cannot 
 be sure how Euripides would have received it. To be possible, 
 the story requires that general interdict, by which citizens of 
 Argos are prohibited from intercourse with the criminals 3 . 
 If, during the previous week, those friends of Agamemnon, 
 such as Talthybius or Diomede, who undertake the cause 
 of his children, had been in communication with them, the 
 
 1 v. 946 ; see Aesch. Euni. 1 89. 
 
 2 See v. 784. Pylades is right enough so far. 3 v. 47 etc. 
 
 1 6 2
 
 244 A FIRE FROM HELL 
 
 prognostications of Orestes must have been different, and his 
 behaviour might. And in this aspect, the interdict seems to 
 us unreasonable and cruel ; though it is not more so than 
 certain arrangements, such as the refusal of counsel to all 
 criminals or some criminals, which were maintained among 
 ourselves, with general approbation or indifference, down to 
 very recent times ; not more perhaps than the rejection of 
 a defendant's oath, which was modified, amid murmurs, only 
 yesterday ; not more than some other things, which it 
 is not our business to denounce. Euripides in this play 
 assumes the interdict, in an aggravated case of murder, as 
 an accepted thing. What he thought of it does not clearly 
 appear ; my own impression, from the course of the story, 
 would be, that he thought it dangerous, if not cruel. It is 
 not known, so far as I am aware, how the practice was 
 related to that of his own age, whether at Athens, at Argos, 
 or elsewhere. But let us proceed with the play. 
 
 The lyric lament of Electra, over the approaching end 
 of her glorious house 1 , has little dramatic import, and was 
 probably inserted for the benefit of a musical performer. 
 It does however illustrate the aristocratic sentiment of re- 
 bellion against a popular tribunal 2 , which is one element 
 in the scenes to follow ; and it also condemns in advance, 
 upon the mourner's own principles, the fury which leads her 
 to extinguish, in the person of Hermione, the other branch 
 of the family. About the return of Orestes, and the dramatic 
 arrangement of the scene, some remarks will be found in the 
 Appendix 3 . His new and apparently baseless fancy, that 
 Menelaus has purposely destroyed him and his sister -with 
 an eye to the sole succession 4 , is a significant supplement to 
 the partial lamentations of Electra. 
 
 But in Orestes, the most menacing symptoms are physical. 
 His feebleness, still visible at his approach 5 , is reinvigorated 
 by the fatal forces of fever and madness ; exhaustion is 
 replaced by activity, energy, violence, and finally by a strength 
 more than natural, while the organ of thought proportionally 
 fails, and at last is utterly overthrown. Very soon we perceive 
 1 vv. 960 foil. 2 v, 974. 3 On v. 950. 4 v. 1058. 5 v. 1015.
 
 ORESTES 245 
 
 the failure of his memory, when he adjures Pylades, a home- 
 less outcast, to refrain from suicide, in the name of his father 
 and of the city from which he has been ignominiously ex- 
 pelled 1 . Upon the absurd and atrocious proposal to murder 
 Helen, Orestes hesitates 2 : 'Can it be done with honour?' 
 And his scruples must be argued away. The still more 
 atrocious and, if possible, more absurd scheme, of which 
 Hermione is the victim, he embraces with admiration 3 . This 
 progression, upward in strength and downward in reason, is 
 visible throughout, and needs no further comment. 
 
 Of Pylades and Electra it is more difficult to say, whether 
 and how far they realize the true nature of their acts, or 
 believe the pretexts with which they disguise it. It is always 
 difficult, and in a moral view unnecessary, to determine 
 whether such fury as theirs inhibits only, or actually perverts, 
 the reason. The slaying of Helen, says Pylades 4 , is an act 
 of justice, the glory of which will cover all their previous 
 offences ! The seizure of Hermione, says Electra 5 , will enable 
 them to control Menelaus, and Menelaus must save their 
 lives ! Both notions are too monstrous for criticism, and 
 (this may perhaps be worth notice) they are also incom- 
 patible. The bargain to be driven with the government of 
 Argos 6 , if for a moment we take the conception seriously, 
 depends wholly upon the co-operation of Menelaus, for which 
 the price is to be the sparing of Hermione. What then can 
 be more preposterous than to destroy, before seizing his 
 daughter, the more precious hostage which the speculators 
 already hold, in the person of his adored wife? Yet such details 
 are scarcely perceptible in the wild and appalling enormity 
 of the speculation itself. The republic of Argos, having 
 deliberately sentenced certain persons to death for two 
 murders, will be convinced of their merits, when they have 
 committed another, or must at all events pardon them, if 
 they threaten to commit one more ! It is as needless as 
 
 1 v. 1075. In W. 765-767, Pylades, by evasion, confesses that Phocis approves. 
 
 ' 2 v. 1106 ft 7* iffrat /caXws (cf. KaXws f}ov\evofj.cu in v. 1131). Pylades, in 
 answering with <r<f>a.%a.i>Tes (v. 1 107), mistakes, but wilfully, the meaning of Orestes' 
 irtDs. The turn is borrowed from Aesch. Eum. 591-592 (Dindorf). 
 
 3 v. 1204. 4 w. 1131 foil. 5 w. 1191 foil. e w. 1611 foil.
 
 246 A FIRE FROM HELL 
 
 impossible to calculate, in what exact proportions ferocity 
 and frenzy, ignorance pure and ignorance wilful, are combined 
 in such imaginations as these. 
 
 Indeed, when they are stated coolly and in prose, they 
 seem things impossible even to be imagined or suggested. 
 Perhaps they are such ; and it is certainly a criticism to which 
 the scene is liable. When every allowance has been made 
 for the characters and circumstances, we may doubt whether 
 a real Pylades or Electra would have found these pretexts 
 entertainable ; and therefore, since, unscrupulous as they are, 
 they are not quite capable of murder without a pretext, we 
 may doubt whether their actions are adequately accounted for. 
 Almost any story, in which violent passions are made to 
 produce startling incidents, will be at some point open to 
 this doubt. The skill of the dramatist in such a case is 
 shown by holding the doubt in abeyance, by preventing 
 us from feeling it at the time ; and here Euripides is strong. 
 The qualities of the three persons are so adroitly adapted 
 for mutual impression, that the natural madness of Orestes, 
 as Euripides in an earlier scene bids us notice 1 , seems to 
 infect the others ; and their acts, though not those of sane 
 persons, do not at the time seem unnatural. A single 
 instance may be given. Pylades is an outcast from his family 
 and his native Phocis, is as completely ruined, he told us, 
 as Orestes himself 2 . In spite of this, Orestes, as we saw, 
 when his frenzy begins to work, bids Pylades return to his 
 ' paternal house and comfort of his home 3 .' This Orestes 
 does simply and naturally, because his brain is giving way ; 
 and to a cool observer such an incident would have given 
 pause. But because Pylades, though not insane, is a wild, 
 proud fool, full of hot and silly romance, he encounters or 
 evades the suggestion, not by recalling the facts, but with a 
 rodomontade about the impossibility of excusing himself to 
 the Phocians for such a crime as the abandonment of his 
 friend 4 . In this way, by mutual deceptions, the conspirators 
 seem gradually to lose, without becoming incredible, all touch 
 
 1 v. 793 Orestes to Pylades : evXafSov XtVo-Tjs /Mfraffxeiv rrjs tfj.rjs. 
 
 2 w. 763-767. 3 v. 1077. 4 w. 1085-1097.
 
 ORESTES 247 
 
 with the world of reality. And the terse, vigorous, impetuous 
 versification helps to sweep us along. Extravagant as the 
 actions are, few, while reading Euripides, will be conscious of 
 any strain upon belief. 
 
 Having thus agreed to murder their aunt and to 'capture' 
 their cousin, the malefactors appropriately seal the compact 
 by a conjuration, an invocation of Agamemnon, mimicking 
 with hideous fidelity that ritual of the dead, which Hermione 
 has been performing in pure affection at the grave of Cly- 
 taemnestra. 
 
 El. Come father, come, if thou in earth's embrace 1 
 Hearest thy children cry, who die for thee. 
 
 Pyl. My father's kinsman, to my prayers withal, 
 
 Agamemnon, hearken ; save thy children thou. 
 
 Or. I slew my mother 
 
 Pyl. But I grasped the sword ! 
 
 El. I cheered them 2 on, snapped trammels of delay! 
 
 Or. Sire, for thine help ! 
 
 El. Nor I abandoned thee! 
 
 Pyl. Wilt thou not hear this challenge save thine own ? 
 
 Or. I pour these tears for offerings 3 ! 
 
 El. Wailings I! 
 
 The structure and style of this passage are closely copied 
 from the invocation of Agamemnon performed by his children 
 in the Choephori*, when they are about to attack his adulterous 
 murderers at the risk of their lives. The effect of it in the 
 present circumstances is different. 
 
 This done, the two men go within, to interrupt the progress 
 of Helen's needle-work by cutting her throat. Electra and 
 the obedient Chorus keep watch, to signal the approach 
 of chance-comers, or of Hermione, who, we are told, should 
 by now be returning. From this point to the end of the 
 play the action is precipitately rapid, and the theatrical 
 incidents exciting to the highest degree. 
 
 Amid the agitation of the sentinels, we suddenly hear the 
 cry of Helen for help, followed by other noise within. She 
 
 1 irv. 1231 foil. (Way). 2 thee Mr Way. See also Appendix, v. 1236. 
 
 3 v. 1239 daicpvois KaraairMtj} ae, i.e. the adjuration is intended to have the 
 force, so far as it may, of the ritual \oal, which in Aeschylus are offered really. 
 * w. 315-509, especially w. 479 foil.
 
 248 A FIRE FROM HELL 
 
 cries again ; and almost at the same moment Hermione is 
 seen approaching. Her rite has found acceptance 1 , and she 
 returns somewhat consoled. But the noise from the house 
 has alarmed her, and still, though subdued, continues. 
 Electra explains that the young men are appealing to Helen 
 for intercession, and begs the support of her cousin. She, 
 with a touching expression of forgiveness ' I do not will 
 your death ' hastens to the door, where Orestes and Pylades, 
 visible for a moment, seize her, stifle her scream, and drag 
 her within. Electra follows ; the gate is shut, and locked 
 (as the sequel shows) from within. 
 
 The Chorus break into outcries, but a few moments later 
 relapse into silence 2 ; for their anxiety to know, what has 
 been done or is doing within, is raised to intensity by a fresh 
 incident. Some one Hermione ? Helen ? we know not who 
 is frantically pulling at the door. Other vague sounds follow ; 
 and then at the open metope 3 , high above the ground, half 
 naked, bleeding, and ghastly, appears one of the eunuchs, 
 the Trojan slaves of Helen. He flings himself down 4 , remains 
 for a while inanimate, and then crawls painfully to the centre 
 of the scene, where utterly exhausted he lies in a daze. The 
 women gather about him 5 . 
 
 1 v. 1323 AajSoOera Trpevfj.fvet.av, 2 v. 1365. 
 
 8 See vv. 1369 foil. 
 
 4 The abandoned couch of Orestes was probably used to make this practicable. 
 
 5 A scholium asserts, that the words of the Chorus which accompany the 
 entrance of the eunuch, w. 1366-1368 dXXA Krviret yap K\yOpa paffiXeiwv 86fiuv, \ 
 <riyf)<ra.T w ydp rts eK^aivei Qpvyuiv, [ o5 irevcr6/j,eff9a. rav 56/xois OTTWS ?x e '> have 
 been interpolated or altered by actors, who substituted for the climbing of the 
 metope, as supposed in ^n>. 1369 foil., an entrance by the door. That this latter 
 mode of performance was sometimes adopted, we can perhaps believe; for to the 
 perversions of actors in difficulty there is no limit. But such performance was 
 absurd, as contradicting the text and the situation. It is inconceivable that the 
 conspirators should leave the door in such condition that it could be opened 
 by any one, except themselves ; their whole scheme, and indeed their chance of 
 dying a tolerable death, now depends on the possession of it. 
 
 Whether, as the scholium suggests, the text has been altered in vv. 1366 foil., 
 is a question of little moment, but appears to me (as to Paley and others) doubtful. 
 The statement is apparently an inference from the assumption, that Krvirti n\r}6pa, 
 ' there is a noise of the bolts,' refers to actual opening. But it would be satisfied 
 by attempts to open, such as any fugitive must naturally make before thinking
 
 ORESTES 249 
 
 The scenes which follow, those in which the eunuch takes 
 part, are of that perilous kind the episode of the Porter in 
 Macbeth 1 is a famous example in which a dramatist, having, 
 as he thinks, brought the spectators to an excitement of the 
 graver feelings pity, horror, and above all suspense strong 
 enough to stand any strain whatever, deliberately strains it 
 for the purpose of strengthening, by showing them what in 
 ordinary circumstances would arouse inconsistent emotions, 
 such as contempt, ridicule, or disgust. The sense that we cannot 
 smile, that we do not, even though we perceive a call, is the 
 supreme test and confirmation of gravity ; and to excite this 
 sense by art, as is done in Macbeth, is a supreme, though 
 hazardous, resource. The success in a given case will be 
 variously estimated, and notoriously is so estimated in 
 English examples. As a general observation, we may note 
 that mere reading is no test at all. We must see, or imagine, 
 performance, the proposed effect being essentially spectacular. 
 To misconceive the scenic situation will be ruinous ; and in 
 the case of an ancient dramatist, such mistake, as we have just 
 seen, is easy. But under any conditions, judgments will 
 differ. I can but give my opinion, which is that Euripides here 
 is not less successful than bold. The scenes, in which the 
 eunuch figures, are the best in their kind which I know. 
 
 That the personage is revolting, his garb grotesque, his 
 cowardice, superstition, cunning such as would, in any common 
 
 of the climb, and which are essential to the effect of the scene. The phrase 
 Paffi\fiuv 56/j.wv, royal house, is exceptional, but not incompatible with the play. 
 By pedigree, though no longer in fact, the family had this pretension (v. 1248). 
 The word eV/3ak may perhaps be understood generally (is coming out) and not 
 imply walking. In any case, what the author meant to be done is certain, and 
 fortunately is indicated by himself. The example suggests both a warning as to 
 the condition of our MSS. in reference to stage-direction, and also a consolation ; 
 since the alleged actors, whatever they did, wrote, or said, did not deprive us of 
 the authentic indication in vv. 1369 foil. We should note that, to account for this 
 mention of the climb, it must be partly visible. If it occurred only somewhere 
 inside the house (and how should it?), the drama would have no concern with it. 
 And in short, the whole purpose of it, and of the passage generally, is to emphasise 
 the fact, that the house has become a prison as well as a fortress. All who cannot 
 find such an exit, Helen, Hermione, the rest of Helen's train, are doomed. 
 
 1 The question of its authenticity is happily here irrelevant. Its effect has 
 been abundantly proved.
 
 250 A FIRE FROM HELL 
 
 situation, be contemptible and comic, all this is certain ; 
 and also, that Euripides has exposed all this with unsparing 
 audacity. In the very first words of the creature 1 , his relief at 
 having escaped is mingled with astonishment that he should 
 have achieved the climb no mean feat, we may suppose, 
 even for a man properly trained and dressed in his Asiatic 
 costume ! When Orestes bursts out upon him sword in hand 2 , 
 his grovellings, flatteries, screams, writhing, shudders, and 
 propitiatory jests, differ scarcely at all from those with which 
 the slaves and valets of comedy excite roars of scornful 
 merriment. In the midst of a breathless recital, he must 
 needs mention with an air of importance, that, when the 
 assassins entered, he was engaged in performing upon Helen 
 what he calls the Phrygian custom of the fan 3 . Everything 
 about him is described so that readers will naturally laugh. But 
 did the spectators laugh ? That is the question. If they did, 
 the scene was a gross and offensive failure; for that Euripides 
 meant to raise a laugh over the fate of Hermione, Helen, 
 or even the murderers, is, to me at least, inconceivable. But 
 did the spectators laugh ? Before we fix our impressions, let 
 us remember that this play was 'famous upon the stage' 4 ; and 
 let us be quite sure that we realize the thing, and see it done, 
 as if we were there. So imagining, and speaking for myself, 
 I cannot conceive the possibility of a smile. 
 
 At first the suspense, anxiety, curiosity, the feeling that, 
 as the Chorus say, ' now we shall know what has passed 
 within,' avert and prohibit all emotions irrelevant to the fate 
 of the wretches imprisoned within the horrible wall. The 
 wanderings of the narrator merely irritate our intense desire 
 that he should go on 5 . And then his broken effeminacy, 
 his utter distraction, dislocation, dissolution of mind and body, 
 appearing as part of the horror, take the same colour. 
 
 Let us picture the thing. When the door is swung in 
 upon Hermione and her captors, every one feels that the human 
 creatures within and we know them to be not a few, though 
 all helpless are lost. In some way, the worse the more 
 
 1 v. 1369. 2 v. 1506. 3 v. 1426. 
 
 4 Hypothesis II. 5 w. 1394, 1451.
 
 ORESTES 251 
 
 likely, they must all perish, with the demons who are masters 
 of the house. Sooner or later these fiends, if it comes to the 
 worst, as it must, will burn down the house over their heads. 
 Pylades has warned us 1 . And their victims cannot get out. 
 This horrid sensation possesses us, and is burnt into our 
 consciousness by the vain attempt made upon the door. Then 
 one, just one, by a way for him miraculous, does get out; one 
 living creature has escaped, or may escape, the impending 
 agony of sword and fire. What, in God's name, does any one 
 care, what sort of dignity the wretched being has, or what 
 manner of dress it is, which hangs in rags upon his palpitating 
 body ? He is out! And what of those wit/tin ? What signifies 
 anything, except this ? There he lies, mingling, like a sort 
 of Madge Wildfire, bits of his story with scraps of native 
 song 2 , unintelligible and irrelevant. 'What are they doing?' 
 say the women, 'Tell us again. We cannot understand 3 .' Nor 
 can we ; and our baffled excitement becomes a positive pain. 
 
 Even when the narrator becomes more lucid, our chief 
 sensation is. still, that he cannot get to the point, nor make 
 things clear, when he does. At last this much comes out: 
 some of the slaves have been killed, more maimed, the rest 
 hunted into hiding-places 4 ; but Helen has not been killed, or 
 else, which the Phrygian seems to think equally probable, her 
 body has 'disappeared 5 .' The assassins, in the very act of 
 despatching her, were called to the door by the arrival of 
 Hermione ; and when they got back, 'O earth and air, O day 
 and night!', she was gone, 'vanished by magic clean away!' 
 Wounded then at most (we infer) she, like the other fugitives, 
 must be concealed somewhere in the building. The narrator, 
 favoured, so far as can be made out or as he understands, by 
 the fact that he happened to be in waiting on Helen at the 
 time, and was suffered to remain in the front part of the house 
 when his fellows were thrust out of the way, scrambled up to 
 the metope, Heaven knows how, and got out as we know 6 . 
 
 1 See w. 1149-1150. 2 w. 1385-1386, 1391-1392. 3 v. 1393. 
 
 4 w. 1445 foil., 1474 foil. 5 Compare w. 1470 foil, with w. 1490 foil. 
 
 6 The story is not meant to be exactly intelligible, but this seems to be the 
 upshot. The efjiinvoftev of v. 1475 is a confusion; the narrator, it seems, cannot 
 have been one of these fugitives. And the whole is in the same style.
 
 252 A FIRE FROM HELL 
 
 He has reached this point, when there occurs the one 
 thing perhaps which now we could not expect 1 . He is 
 pursued. The door is flung back, and Orestes, sword in hand, 
 rushes out, leaving the house open behind him. It needs not 
 his wild gestures and words to tell us, that he is now literally 
 and absolutely mad. His act is enough. And it also proves 
 that his accomplices, who after all are not, properly speaking, 
 insane, can no longer restrain him. Probably, when the door 
 is opened, they are just seen, vainly attempting to prevent his 
 exit 2 . Discovery from the town must be imminent ; it may 
 come at any moment, nor, so long as the house is closed, does 
 it matter when. To the prospects, real or imaginary, of the 
 assassins, the only thing material is to keep the door shut ; 
 and the escape of one victim is insignificant. Nor indeed is 
 it the purpose of Orestes to stop him : he says so, but he is 
 beyond the capacity of a purpose. In horrid play, like some 
 feline monster, he follows step by step over the scene his 
 crawling captive, the two together presenting humanity in 
 the utmost extreme of moral and physical degradation. 
 
 Orestes. Didst thou not to Menelaus shout the rescue-cry but 
 
 now ? 
 Phrygian. Nay, O nay, but for thine helping cried I : worthier 
 
 art thou. 
 Or. Answer did the child of Tyndareus by righteous 
 
 sentence fall ? 
 Phr. Righteous wholly righteous though she had three 
 
 throats to die withal. 
 Or. Dastard, 'tis thy tongue that truckles : in thy heart thou 
 
 think'st not so. 
 Phr. Should she not, who Hellas laid, and Phrygia's folk in 
 
 ruin low 3 ? 
 
 Such is the dialogue ; which, if we fully heard it, might make 
 us laugh, or, more likely, make us sick. But we scarcely 
 should hear it. The action would fascinate our senses. At 
 any moment Orestes may strike. But he has no purpose to 
 strike, he has no purpose at all ; and the slave, perceiving his 
 condition and catching a glimpse of hope, keeps up a run of 
 
 1 KO.IVOV K xaivvv, v. 1503. 
 
 2 There is not, and could not be, any sign of this in the text ; but it would 
 express the situation. It is what, I think, a stage-manager should order. 
 
 3 w. 1510 foil. (Way).
 
 ORESTES 2 S3 
 
 slavish quips 1 , which the madman answers with cruel zest, and 
 once 2 with a strange commiseration, the echo, as it seems, of 
 some inner self-pity. All this while, the cunning Phrygian is 
 edging and creeping towards the way of escape. Suddenly 
 Orestes changes his tone, bids him go within, and turns contemp- 
 tuously away. In an instant the wretch springs to the exit, 
 and disappears 3 . The maniac continues for a few moments to 
 rush about 4 , uttering boasts, threats, and defiances; and finally, 
 unconscious of what has passed behind his back, darts again 
 into the house. For the last time the door is swung to, and 
 the bolts are heard to go, as it is again locked 5 . At the same 
 instant the women break into cries of consternation, and 
 from within fillets of smoke begin to roll and to ascend. The 
 house is on fire ! 6 
 
 Nothing else could be expected. In the first propounding 
 of Pylades' plan 7 , he talks of burning down the house. That 
 this will be the end, we might guess from that moment ; and 
 the end must be now. The open door, which, even in this 
 extremity, Pylades and Electra cannot close upon their 
 accomplice, his madness, now beyond their control and 
 threatening them with nothing less than to be torn in pieces 
 by a raging mob, finish all hesitation. To do their worst, 
 to crown their glory with flames, and then to get rid of 
 their lives, while yet it may be done without torture, this is 
 all that remains. They fire the house ; and by the same 
 token we know, that in a few minutes they will have ceased 
 to live. 
 
 ] w. 1517, 1521, 15-23. 2 v. 1522. 
 
 3 Menelaus, approaching the house, meets him (v. 1558); but even without 
 this, we must have presumed that he gets away. It is the only tolerable end of 
 the scene, and the only possible one, unless he were killed on the stage. 
 
 4 w. 1527-1536. 
 
 5 See v. 1551, where 'the addition of bars to bolts' implies that we know the 
 door to be locked already. But in any case the fact, and the audible evidence of 
 it, might be assumed. 
 
 6 w. 1537-1544. The Chorus, sobered by the sight, and remembering (not 
 too soon) their responsibility (vv. 1539-1540), talk of 'torches,' with which the 
 house ' is to be fired'. But plainly no lighting of torches could produce what they 
 describe (vv. 1541-1542), nor account for their sudden terror. They lie to 
 themselves, because the truth appalls them, as well it may. But the thing is 
 visible, and is the natural sequel of what has just taken place. 7 v. 1150.
 
 254 A FIRE FROM HELL 
 
 But the maniac knows it not. He knows not even that 
 the house is burning. Alone he is left, the only fit actor, 
 to finish the insane programme of the conspiracy. Menelaus, 
 at last returning, has met the escaped eunuch, ' a wreck of 
 terror,' and learnt from him the awful news, that Helen has 
 ' vanished ' and Hermione is a prisoner. The 'vanishing' he 
 of course dismisses as an absurdity, an invention (as he sup- 
 poses) of the crazy matricide 1 . In this he is only so far wrong, 
 that the idea, suggested originally by the imagination of the 
 Oriental 2 , has now lodged itself, though with more difficulty, 
 in the burning brain of the Greek 3 . Menelaus however has 
 heard enough to convince him that his wife is beyond 
 rescue, and he hastens to save his daughter. The horror 
 of the real situation he has not time to see completely. 
 Scarcely has he entered, when Orestes appears at the para- 
 pet, with Hermione, a light burden to the strength of 
 madness, in his arms. The girl is unconscious, for throughout 
 the scene which follows she neither moves nor cries ; it may 
 be hoped, and is probable, that she is dead. Orestes flings 
 the body upon the parapet, and, standing as in act to 
 decapitate it, calls to Menelaus, who is beating at the door 
 below. Looking up, he perceives the figures, amid gleams of 
 fire and wisps of smoke. ' Torches ! And the murderers 
 upon the wall ! ' He starts back in a daze. Between uncle 
 and nephew, the one scarcely less frantic than the other, there 
 passes a wild parley, Menelaus begging now for the body of 
 Helen and now for the life of Hermione, Orestes answering 
 with furious mockery. The wicked mother should have died, 
 but has been spirited away ; the daughter shall die now ; 
 Clytaemnestra, Helen, Hermione, a fit succession ; for all 
 
 1 v. 1559 ToO /M7jrpoKT6vovTex''dff/j.aTa... /ecu TTO\VS 76X01?, where re'x'cio7/.a means, 
 not device, but invention, conception, as of an artist. 
 
 2 w. 1495 foil. 
 
 3 At w. 1533-1536 Orestes still assumes the plain truth, that Helen is either 
 dead or else alive and in his power. But in the last dialogue (zrv. 1580, 1586) he, 
 like the Phrygian (v. 1496) though more vaguely, seems to assume her miraculous 
 escape. This notion, so far as concerns the real play, is what Menelaus calls it, 
 ' sheer absurdity.' The epilogue (vv. 1629 foil.) develops it with ironical gravity.
 
 ORESTES 255 
 
 'wicked women ' the punishing sword shall be ready! 1 The 
 bewildered Menelaus, hoping to get something at least 
 intelligible from an interlocutor not out of his senses, appeals 
 in a louder voice to the invisible accomplice 2 : ' Sharest thou 
 too in this murder Pylades ? ' There is a pause ; but no 
 Pylades answers, because no Pylades hears. 'His silence saith 
 it!\ explains the maniac, and the dialogue rushes on, in 
 a hail of crossing invectives, until Menelaus exclaims 3 in 
 desperation ' What am I to do ? ' The chance word recalls 
 Orestes to the programme, which he abruptly propounds : 
 'Go, plead with Argos.' 'Plead! And for what?' 'For 
 our lives! Ask the city for that.' 'And that only will save 
 my child ! ' ' Even so.' Menelaus, though his reason totters, 
 has enough left to perceive by this that all is over. 
 Attempting no reply, he breaks into lamentations : ' Helen ! 
 Helen !...Thou !...Won only to be slain !...And all that I did 
 
 1 TJV. 1576-1596. In v. 1589 yotijrfyos, by the context, is ambiguous between 
 ' Clytaemnestra ' (mother of Orestes) and ' Helen ' (mother of Hermione). The 
 ambiguity is intentional, and should not be determined either way. 
 
 2 There is no suggestion in the text, either in this scene or in that which follows 
 the appearance of Apollo, that Pylades or Electra is standing with Orestes on 
 the parapet. After the appearance of Apollo, they may join him ; because then 
 anything, however impossible, may occur, the more impossible the better for the 
 effect ; but the evidence is against supposing so. Here, where we are still dealing 
 with realities, they cannot be there, for a reason which we already have divined 
 and which the unconscious madman grimly confirms. The notion that Pylades, 
 though actually standing by Orestes throughout, is made silent (v. 1592) because the 
 dramatist had not an actor to spare, implies in Euripides an ineptitude surely 
 inconceivable. If he was in such a difficulty, why expose it, by making Menelaus 
 address to Pylades a question on this hypothesis needless, since the complicity and 
 adhesion of Pylades would be proved by his presence? Nor could the difficulty 
 exist : small ' fourth parts ' were allowed ; and it would also have been easy, 
 if necessary, to use the tritagonist for Pylades at v. 1592, and then to replace him 
 by a mute, so that he might appear at v. 1625 as Apollo. It is possible that 
 Pylades appears for a moment between w. 1567 and 1574 (where see -rowrSe, 
 which, if we press it strictly, though that is not necessary, would imply as much). 
 He may appear for a moment, taking leave of his Orestes with a wild gesture, and 
 plunging again into the house. This would be effective. After this he is certainly 
 seen no more. That Orestes imagines both Pylades and Electra to hear him, 
 both here and at w. 1618-1620, is a natural trait of his insanity. Their actual 
 presence throughout is assumed by expositors only to make natural, what Euripides 
 means to be plainly impossible, the subsequent performances of Apollo. 
 
 3 v. 1610.
 
 256 A FIRE FROM HELL 
 
 for her... It is too much !... Helpless in thy hands!' which 
 Orestes punctuates with taunts. Then, suddenly impatient, 
 ' Fire the house, Electra !... There ! ' he screams, as the smoke 
 goes up thicker; 'Burn down these battlements,... Pylades, 
 dear Pylades... my surest friend ! Here, here ! ' ' A rescue ! ', 
 comes the answering scream of the maddened Menelaus ; 
 ' Sons of Danaus, chivalry of Argos, to arms ! A rescue, 
 a rescue ! Here is a matricide, foul with his mother's blood, 
 ...who would wrest his life from all the power of your state ! ' 
 
 Curtain quick. So would Euripides direct now. So 
 would he then have directed, if he could ; and such a termi- 
 nation, in such manner as the conditions of his theatre 
 permitted, he does actually express. Unfortunately for him, 
 he had no curtain ; and whatever might be the fate of his 
 personages, his actors, dead or alive, must walk off. Nor was 
 he free, as a matter of form, even to kill them. The murderers 
 of his story, the matricide and his sister and his friend, must 
 indeed certainly die. The story is so shaped, coloured, and 
 conducted, that no other ending is either conceivable or 
 desirable. But since, being compelled by convention to 
 borrow names from ancient history, he has for this occasion 
 borrowed those of Orestes and Electra, Pylades and Hermione, 
 history demands that her personages, when the dramatist has 
 done with them, shall be restored intact. According to Jier> 
 they were married, Orestes to Hermione, Pylades to Electra. 
 There were probably among the audience persons who claimed 
 descent from these unions, which had also some political 
 importance. Helen again, in association with her brothers 
 Castor and Pollux, was an object of worship. History then, 
 or legend, must at least in form be satisfied. 
 
 These practical demands, in part peculiar to the Orestes 
 among extant plays, but partly familiar to Euripides, he 
 meets, as elsewhere 1 , by the deus ex machina, that is to say, 
 by a final scene, transparently perfunctory and ironical, in 
 which a supernatural personage, whose very being is incom- 
 
 1 See for example the Ion and Iphigenia in Taurica.
 
 ORESTES 257 
 
 patible with the assumptions of the drama, arrests the 
 proceedings, commands the impossible, and dismisses the 
 personages, with suitable directions, to fulfil their legendary 
 destinies. 
 
 Apollo, with Helen as a goddess beside him, appears, by 
 operation of the crane, in the sky. The smoke ceases to 
 ascend from the roof, Hermione wakes up and rises, Menelaus 
 and Orestes become not only sane, but attentive. Apollo 
 explains the position of Helen, 'daughter of Zeus and there- 
 fore destined to immortality,' and sketches for the young men 
 and women a future which follows the legendary lines and 
 includes the legendary marriages. Menelaus, henceforward 
 a king of Sparta 1 , is endowed with his wife's heritage there, 
 and reminded, by way of further consolation, that she has 
 given him perpetual trouble 2 . The divine commands are 
 gratefully obeyed ; though Orestes, in spite of his restored 
 faith in the oracle (which, he says, he had suspected of 
 devilry), will not accept the hand of Hermione, even from 
 a god, without a polite deference to the decision of her 
 father ! 
 
 Lo, from the sword Hermione I release, 
 
 And pledge me, when her sire bestows, to wed. 
 
 Menelaus however is equally tractable, admires the good 
 fortune of his translated wife, and wishes all happiness to 
 his son-in-law. The god gives the word to depart ; and to 
 a march-tune, Apollo singing, the company make their 
 several exits. 
 
 It is, or should be, needless to expound the nature and 
 spirit of such a finale. Of all the like scenes in Euripides it 
 is perhaps the most prodigiously absurd, unreal, meaningless, 
 impossible. So far as the story is concerned, Apollo has 
 nothing to do. All is ended, ended as we expect. He may 
 tell us that Helen is now a goddess of the main, but cannot 
 make the Helen of the play the heartless beauty, a little 
 
 1 In this play, as in the Agamemnon of Aeschylus, he belongs to Argos, where 
 according to this play there is no king at all. 
 
 ' 2 v. 1662 (frepvas tx uv Sd/JLapros, rj ere fjivplois 
 
 TTOPOIS didoutra devp' del Si.-qvvffe. 
 
 v. 17
 
 258 A FIRE FROM HELL 
 
 , with her humours and her needle-work into a person 
 conceivable in her new situation. He may marry his Orestes 
 to his Hermione, but cannot make the imagination of such 
 an alliance between the persons so named in the play any- 
 thing else but revolting. He may marry Pylades to Electra. 
 But although we are told in the play 1 , that the two youths 
 in their wisdom, and after the fashion of their kind, had 
 proposed to cement their friendship by this connexion, we, 
 as spectators, do not want their design to be realized ; we 
 know it cannot, and the very thought would be revolting, if 
 it were not so impossible and so ridiculous. 
 
 Menelaus, forsooth, is to settle and reign in Sparta ! But 
 how would he be received there by the Tyndareus of the 
 play, and how are we to suppose, that an alleged fiat of 
 Apollo would be executed by Tyndareus, upon whom the 
 authority of Delphi, when cited in favour of what he condemns, 
 produced no impression whatever ? Or what of Argos and 
 her citizens, her laws, authorities, organs, and public opinion ? 
 Of all these 'Apollo', the actor suspended upon the crane, 
 can dispose no doubt, if words could do it, in two verses : 
 
 I will to Argos reconcile this man, 
 
 Whom I constrained to shed his mother's blood. 
 
 That is to say, he will assure the Argive assembly, as in 
 the Eumenides he assures the Areopagus, that he, Apollo, is 
 responsible for the matricide. But how are we to conceive 
 the appearance of such a god before the ecclesia depicted in 
 the play ? Or what could he there effect ? He might as well 
 have proposed to attend next day the Athenian ecclesia of 
 the year 408, and dictate some decision, morally and politically 
 detestable, about Samos or Alcibiades. The ecclesia of the 
 play consists of men like those of the fifth century. They do 
 not believe in a matricidal god, and would not receive as 
 Apollo a person professing that character. They would simply 
 order the impostor to be stript of his costume and scourged. 
 
 The plain fact is, that, in connexion with this play, an 
 epiphany such as that of Apollo and Helen is absurd, and 
 
 1 w. 1078, 1207.
 
 ORESTES 259 
 
 can serve only to announce, that we have done with serious 
 imagination. We may recur to our former illustration, a 
 supposed play turning on the fate of a man, who commits 
 bigamy in Melbourne upon the strength of his own conviction, 
 or that of his confessor, that marriage with a deceased wife's 
 sister is a nullity. When the hero had received the inevitable 
 condemnation, and had answered it by braining a warder 
 and firing the gaol, what would be the effect of introducing 
 some canonized Doctor of the Law, suspended in the air, to 
 declare from that elevation his agreement with the offender, 
 and to order that he be discharged and promoted to honour ? 
 What sort of epiphany could really be imagined in the 
 days of this play, by what sort of person, and in what cir- 
 cumstances, Euripides is careful to show. Menelaus and his 
 sailors have seen a supernatural person, or so they believe : 
 
 For touching Agamemnon's fate I knew, 
 
 And by what death at his wife's hands he died, 
 
 When my prow touched at Malea : from the waves 
 
 The shipman's seer, the unerring God, the son 
 
 Of Nereus, Glaucus, made it known to me. 
 
 For full in view he rose, and cried it to me 1 . 
 
 The story recalls, and professes to correct, that of the 
 Odyssey, in which the same disclosure is made to Menelaus 
 in Egypt by the sea-god Proteus. Let then the two 
 versions be compared, in reference to the question whether 
 the composers, the epic bard and Euripides respectively, 
 intend, for the purpose of their artistic work, to convey the 
 impression that something supernatural really occurred. In the 
 epic, needless to say, nothing else is for an instant supposable. 
 In Euripides the contrary is as plain. Sailors of Euripides' own 
 day and city might doubtless have been found to say, that on 
 some lonely shore they had seen and spoken with Glaucus. 
 But how many people, and what sort of people, would have 
 believed them ? They spoke with some wanderer of the 
 beach, transfigured by superstitious imagination. Like the 
 similar story in the Iphigenia in Taurica 1 *, where two common 
 mortals are falsely identified, by foolish rustics, as Castor and 
 
 1 w. 360 foil. (Way). 2 W. 260 foil. 
 
 172
 
 260 A FIRE FROM HELL 
 
 Pollux, the tale of Menelaus serves to show that, for the 
 purpose of the play, we are to place ourselves at an epoch 
 when, for sober judgments and under circumstances of proof, 
 epiphanies do not occur, and when the epiphany of Apollo 
 in a political assembly is a grotesque supposition, stamped by 
 the mere statement as not serious. 
 
 For these reasons and others 1 , the deus ex machina of the 
 Orestes can be no part of the serious drama, but is a pretence, 
 necessary to get off the actors and repair the breach with 
 legend. The scene is not a denouement. And indeed we 
 should remark, that though the use of supernatural personages 
 for the purpose of denouement, that is to say, to effect some- 
 thing required by the story but not easy to be worked out, is 
 commonly associated with the name of our author, he did in 
 fact, so far as we know, but rarely so employ them. The 
 Medea, the very example cited by Aristotle, is almost the only 
 one now extant, though we should perhaps add the Hippo- 
 lytus. In the Medea, a thing which t/ie author requires for his 
 story, the escape of the heroine, is achieved by a supernatural 
 device, the dragon-chariot, to which the story does not lead. 
 We have discussed the case in a previous essay 2 . But the 
 Apollo of the Orestes, like the Athena of the Iphigenia in 
 Taurica, has, for the story, nothing to do. We know that 
 really the house was burnt down, and the persons in it, those 
 who were not dead, perished ; we cannot even desire, and 
 we cannot suppose, that anything else should follow ; and 
 all the deities of the property-room could not affect our 
 imaginative belief. Apollo is merely for the theatre ; and as 
 readers, we have no concern with him at all. 
 
 Nor, in all probability, had the first and original spectators 
 of the play. Next to the Medea, the Orestes is, of all the ex- 
 tant plays, the one which offers the strongest internal evidence 
 that it was not originally conceived as having a Chorus, and 
 therefore was not first planned for the theatre of Dionysus. 
 The presence and co-operation of Electra's fifteen visitors, 
 
 1 On the histrionic allusion to the success of the play (w. 1650-1652) see 
 Euripides the Rationalist, p. 171. 
 
 2 p. 127.
 
 ORESTES 261 
 
 though not perhaps impossible, like that of Medea's, is utterly 
 improbable ; and it is proportionally improbable that the 
 story would have been conceived at all, unless the dramatist 
 had known conditions of performance, for which a Chorus 
 was not required. And the play, though essentially specta- 
 cular, does not in the least require the theatre. The front of 
 any Greek house, if it did not actually furnish everything 
 necessary, could be made to do so by slight modification and 
 a little make-believe. 
 
 And it is remarkable that, in the Greek introduction 
 attributed to the scholar Aristophanes 1 , we have what looks 
 like an actual reference to a ' recasting ' or ' alteration ' made 
 ' for the sake of the Chorus.' " The arrangement (Siaa-Kevij) 
 of the play is as follows. Against the palace of Agamemnon 
 is placed Orestes, sick, and prostrated by madness upon a 
 couch. Electra sits at his feet. The question is asked why 
 in the world (TL SiJTrore) she does not sit at his head ; seated 
 in this closer position, she would have appeared more attentive 
 to her brother. We may suppose then, that the dramatist 
 made the arrangement (Siaa-Keudaai) because of the Chorus. 
 Orestes would have been awaked, having but lately and with 
 difficulty got to sleep, if the women of the Chorus had come 
 up nearer to him. And this is suggested by what Electra says 
 to them : ' Hush, hush, tread lightly ' etc. 2 Probably then 
 this was the excuse for the position (BtdOeais) chosen." Now 
 this writer, it will be noted, does not pretend that the problem 
 and solution given are his own. ' The question is asked' 
 he says. And surely it is manifest that he misunderstands 
 the author of the question. He takes it as depending upon 
 the assumption, which he himself gratuitously makes, that 
 Electra actually sits ' at the feet ' of her patient. There is no 
 evidence of this detail. Nor does the explanation which 
 follows agree with such an understanding of the question. 
 If Electra is at the couch at all, the Chorus, fifteen persons, 
 when they approach her, are likely to disturb the patient ; 
 
 1 Hypothesis II. The others, I and III, are worthless. The author of III 
 actually introduces into the story the plot of Sophocles' Electro, \ 
 
 2 v. 140.
 
 262 A FIRE FROM HELL 
 
 and whether she sat at the head or the feet could make no 
 appreciable difference. The author of the question, ' why in 
 the world Electra does not sit at Orestes' head,' did not mean 
 to lay stress on the last words ; he meant simply ' why does 
 she not sit by her patient, in the place proper to a nurse.' 
 The traditional arrangement of the opening scene, an arrange- 
 ment quite consistent with the text, was evidently that Electra 
 from the first should be standing', and as far as possible from 
 Orestes. The author of the question, possibly Aristophanes, 
 thought this position not the most natural ; and it is not. 
 But he thought it might have been adopted, and it might, in 
 order not to bring the Chorus to the couch. The blunder of 
 our writer would not be worth notice, but for the doubt 
 which it opens, whether he rightly understands what his 
 author meant by the words eoiicev ovv &ia rov xopov 6 Tronjrrjs 
 Siaarcevda-ai. Our writer, our copyist, probably or certainly 
 took Biaa/cevda-ai in the sense ' arrange,' corresponding to his 
 own 97 8iao-Kvr) rov Bpd/j,aro<;, 'the arrangement of the play' ; 
 and I have translated it accordingly. But the question and 
 solution have more meaning, purpose, and point, if we take 
 Siao-Kevdvai in the literary sense, 'recast, retouch, alter.' 
 The author perceived what is the fact, that with a Chorus the 
 opening of the play cannot be quite naturally arranged. And 
 knowing, or believing himself entitled to assume, that the play 
 was originally designed without one, he suggests that the 
 arrangement actually adopted was a modification, introduced 
 for the sake of the Chorus. Euripides, he means, has framed 
 an opening, which seems unsuitable to theatrical conditions ; 
 it may be his ' excuse ', that originally he did not contemplate 
 those conditions. 
 
 This is the more probable, since we are also told (and on 
 very high authority) that our Medea was a 'revised' or 'recast' 
 version, the original being attributed to a certain Neophron 1 . 
 I think it not improbable that the transformation of our 
 Medea from a domestic to a theatrical play 2 had something 
 to do with the origin of this puzzling tradition. 
 
 1 TO Spa/j.a doKel virofiaXtoOai TO. Xei^povos Staovceudcrcuj, u>s AiKaiapxos K.T.\. 
 Hypothesis of the Medea. 2 See above, pp. 125 foil.
 
 ORESTES 263 
 
 However this may be, internal evidence in both cases 
 warrants, in my opinion, the assumption that neither the 
 Medea nor the Orestes was originally planned for a Chorus. 
 One or two friends, deeply attached and intimate friends of 
 Electra, would certainly be needed in the opening ; and there 
 is a trace of them in the text. When Electra says 1 ' Did you 
 see (e^Sexe), how Helen cut only just the tip of her hair?', 
 whom does she address ? The Chorus are not yet come ; 
 and according to the text as it stands, we should naturally 
 suppose Electra to be now alone, except for her sleeping 
 brother 2 . The audience are not to be thought of; it would 
 be comic. We can perhaps suppose what now seems necessary, 
 that some attendants of Helen remain for a moment when Helen 
 goes in, and receive Electra's remark. But the supposition is 
 strained ; and my belief is that this ' Did you see?' is simply 
 an oversight. It was originally addressed to confidants of 
 Electra, who, if they were not ' on ' from the first, came on 
 before this was said. The arrangement was altered, when 
 room had to be made somehow for the introduction of 
 the importunate fifteen ; but the ' Did you see ? ' was in- 
 advertently left. 
 
 Confidants, intimates, one or two, we can even conceive 
 without extravagance as present throughout, and as parties to 
 the horrors of the later scenes. Unless the recasting was in 
 this part very extensive, some such figures were always 
 required. The smaller the number, the more natural or 
 acceptable would be the assumption 3 , that their devotion to 
 Electra is proof against the strain which is put on it. But 
 this we cannot determine. Happily we need not at all 
 events suppose that Euripides, of his own will, assumed the 
 acquiescence and co-operation of fifteen. 
 
 From a domestic version of the play, Apollo, as well as 
 the Chorus, would of course disappear. The confidants, if 
 they had not gone before, would at all events fly, as naturally 
 they should and must, when they become aware that the 
 house is, or soon will be, on fire (vv. 1537-1539); and we 
 
 1 v. 128. 2 See the stage-directions of Mr Way. 
 
 3 vv. 1103-1 104.
 
 264 A FIRE FROM HELL 
 
 should be relieved of the preposterous assumption, necessarily 
 attributed to the actual Chorus (v. 1540), that they can do 
 nothing 'safer' for themselves than to remain where they are. 
 At v. 1624 Menelaus would rush off; Orestes, seizing the 
 body of Hermione, would leap back from the parapet into 
 the house ; and the piece would end formally where, for every 
 purpose of serious art, it now virtually does.
 
 APPENDIX.
 
 I. NOTES ON THE ANDROMACHE. 
 m>. 24 foil. 
 
 Ko.yw Sd/xois rotcrS' dpcrcv' eva TIKTU) /copov, 
 7r\aOei<r 'Ax^^-ews TraiSi, SCOTTOTT; y' e/xw. 
 KCU Trptv /xev ev Ka/coicri /cet/iev^v o/zo.>9 
 eATTi's yu, dei irpocrfj-ye crco^evros re/cvou 
 
 O.A/CT/V Tiv' CVpeiV KCLTTLKOVprjCriV So/AWV. 
 
 eTret Se TTJI' Aa/caivav 'EpyMiovTj 
 
 TOVJJ.OV Traptoaas SecrTror^s SovAoi' 
 
 Ka/cots Trpos avr^s (T^CTAtots eAavi'OjU.ai K.T.A.. 
 
 24. apo-eva TIKTW L, apcrev' IVTLKTID reliqui codd., apo-ei/' Iva 
 Barnes ; iStws eva ^>r;cri TratSa yevea-Oai. schol. 28. 8oju.a>v BO (yp. 
 ca3v B), KO.KWV rell. See Prof. Murray's apparatus, to which I 
 refer throughout. 
 
 ej'a and So'/xwv are probably right. The omission of Iva, the 
 conjecture KO.KOJV, and Elmsley's KaTriKov^uriv for KairLKovprjo-iv, assume 
 that the eAiris of v. 27 is Andromache's hope that Molossus might 
 live ; but if this were so, we should next hear of his present danger, 
 which is not mentioned until v. 47. Translate, ' There was a time 
 when, low though I had fallen, I was used as a wife, in the hope 
 that, by the preservation of a child, he might gain some support 
 and strengthening to his family. But since he married...' etc. With 
 (= errcAa^e) supply aurcu, TW Bea-irorr], and cf, 7rAa$eura. For 
 TCKVOV cf. Aesch. Eum. 660 (Dindorf) TIKTCI 8' 6 QpuHTKaiv, 
 77' 8* aVep tvw cvr] \ eo-wcrei/ epvos, otcri pr] f3\d\j/r) Oeos. Until 
 Neoptolemus married, the family was anxious that he, the only 
 child of an only child and having but one child himself, should have 
 more quasi-legitimate children, d\K^v nva, support of a kind, by a 
 woman who, if a slave, at least had been a princess. But after the 
 birth of Molossus (about 8 years old at the time of the action) there 
 were only disappointments. After his marriage (v. 29) her importance 
 and the connexion ceased.
 
 268 ANDROMACHE 
 
 The phrase apo-fva Kopov (a male boy?) requires explanation. It 
 suggests that TLKTHV Kopov does not here mean primarily and properly 
 parere filium, but parere fastum, parere iniuriam marts (from the 
 ancient and familiar equivocation of *opos, =iuo? or v/?pis), i.e. to 
 become a mother in the circumstances of Andromache. Virgil 
 apparently understood it so, and represents the sense, though 
 not the equivocation, in Aen. in. 320 foil. Andromache speaks : 
 
 O felix una ante alias Priameia virgo, 
 hostilem ad tumulum Troiae sub moenibus altis 
 iussa mori, quae sortitus non pertulit ullos 
 nee victoris eri tetigit captiva cubile. 
 nos patria incensa diversa per aequora vectae 
 stirpis Achilleae fastus iuvenetnque superbiim 
 servitio enixae ttilimus ; qui deinde secutus 
 Ledaeam Hermionen Lacedaemoniosque hymenaeos 
 me famulo famulamque Heleno transmisit habendam. 
 
 Here the very peculiar phrase enixae tulimus fastus iuvenemque, 
 which has raised difficulty, is dictated by TIKTW Kopov in the double 
 sense. In other points also the passage is influenced by that of 
 Euripides, and has been composed with the Andromache in mind. 
 
 v. 147. No lacuna here. Vv. 147 154 answer (154) the last 
 words of the Chorus, which Hermione, surprising them, hears. 
 They speak of her as a 'tyrant' (142) ; they are not slaves, nor is 
 she properly their mistress. She replies that the princess of Sparta 
 may say and do in Phthia whatever she pleases. 
 
 V. 169. Read ov Upta/ios, ouSe Xpvtras dAX' 'EAAas TrdAis. 
 Xpvtrb<; MSS. for which Prof. Murray refers (sed quaere] to Tro. 995. 
 Xpuo-a9, of Chrysa, the Homeric town, is an adjective formed to 
 balance 'EAAas. Chrysa was the seat of the Trojan Apollo, and 
 'EAAas TroAis, as opposed to X/Dvaas, signifies the people whose centre 
 and leader was Delphi a fact, but not fortunate for Hermione. 
 
 vv. 215231. Though suspicious of transpositions, I think the 
 seven lines 215 221 must follow the next seven, 222 228. Thus 
 ' if your husband had lived in Thrace, the drenched-wit/i-snow '- 
 \IOVL rrjv KardppvTov, where x i vl is emphatic by position is explained 
 by the words preceding, 'you would fain keep your husband from 
 a drop of rain.' As the snow to the rain-drop, so is the liberty of 
 Thracian husbands to that of others. Thus also the reminiscence 
 of Hector comes in naturally after ' even if she have a bad
 
 A NDR OMA CHE 269 
 
 husband' (213). And the admission that women are more licentious 
 than men (220) has the purpose of dragging in the mention of Helen 
 (229). In 221, aAAa Trpova-rrj/jifv KaXws is still obscure, corrupted 
 probably in consequence of the transposition. Perhaps Trpoo-Tw^ei', 
 let us stand up for them, is preferable to Trpoo-rai/xev (Hermann). 
 
 v. 344. The suggestion that Menelaus will have difficulty in 
 obtaining a second son-in-law is perhaps the acme of the irony in 
 this speech. Menelaus is not unprovided. 
 
 vv. 397 398. Genuine, though defective. All that follows 
 refers to TO. lv iro<r\v Ka/ca, the question whether Andromache shall 
 sacrifice her child or herself: 177-15 (399) has its antecedent in e/u.ot 
 (404). Punctuate 403 404 thus : vvp.(f>evo/j.cu | TL K.T.\. In 397 
 the error is rather in Aoyio/xai than in ei/c/u,aw (= wring out, from 
 t/c/ias). Andromache uses bitterly some very humble metaphors 
 from slave-work. 
 
 v. 462. et 8' eyo>...7rpaetas av is addressed not to Menelaus but 
 to Hermione within (cf. TrutSa o-^V 460), indicated by the gesture of 
 turning to the house. There would be no dramatic point in the 
 prophecy of retribution on Menelaus, which does not come. The 
 punishment of Hermione is already begun; cf. 492. 
 
 v. 480. Read K.O.KO. for /caret, construing as K.O.K.O. TTI : ' Two 
 minds to decide the steering are mischievous.' The plural KO.KO. 
 marks the point. 
 
 V. 483. For e^os a Suvacris read ev o<ra Swoxris, i.e. cv eort o<ra 
 Suvao-is eo-Ti, ' In private or in public (if success is desired) wherever 
 there is power, there is unity.' For the metre see 491. 
 
 v. 557. tnrapvos is a pun ; hence ns, in a manner. Primarily it 
 means ' as a sheep with your lamb,' but also, as from vTr-apvelvOai, 
 'one who protests' or 'may protest'; for the form cf. Kara/avos. The 
 VTTO- signifies objection. The second sense explains and is explained 
 by 558 : in the absence of the family and her master Neoptolemus, 
 Andromache can protest to the jurisdiction, as she has protested 
 (358 360). The pun has a dramatic purpose: Peleus' first 
 impression is, that the proceedings of Menelaus must be some 
 incomprehensible jest. 
 
 vv. 650 659. A hideous irony, considering the relations of the 
 speaker to Neoptolemus and Orestes, his murdered and murdering
 
 270 ANDROMACHE 
 
 sons-in-law. In this scene, almost every passage exhibits something 
 of this kind. 
 
 w. 668 677. Genuine, not interpolated. The consummate 
 impudence of cos 8" avrtos dvrjp \ ywaiKa pjapaivovcrav ev So/uois tx <av > 
 from the husband of Helen (!), must be Euripidean. The argument 
 is as inapplicable to the facts as all the rest, but not more ; and it 
 serves equally well the speaker's only real purpose, to provoke the 
 anger and contempt of Peleus. 
 
 W. 701 702. Much like the saying that 'any man could be a 
 Shakespeare if he had the mind.' The dislike of Euripides for 
 military power did not prevent him from perceiving the futility of 
 vulgar sarcasms on military talent. Common men could be com- 
 manders, if they had the daring and the will. 
 
 v. 709. ' Get away, with your barren daughter ! ' Certainly ; 
 that is why Menelaus has arranged to take her away. 
 
 v. 733. 7rdA.is TIS. No allusion to contemporary politics (Argos ?) 
 should be sought. The pretext is too flimsy to have meaning. 
 
 v. 745. o-Kta dvTiaroixos, 'the shadow which walks (o-Tei'xei) the 
 reverse way ' (to that of the sun), and ' can do nothing but speak ' 
 (tell the time) does not this allude to the principle of the sun- 
 dial? 
 
 w. 752 756. Dramatically significant. If Menelaus really 
 sought the life of Andromache, of course she would not be out of 
 danger. His easy surrender has alarmed her, as it would alarm any 
 reasoning person. But Peleus is past reasoning. 
 
 w. 766 foil. This ode, like the preceding and following scenes, 
 is full of irony, of points on which the circumstances furnish a com- 
 mentary not designed by the uninformed speakers. The advantage of 
 being well-born (vv. 766 771) is supposed to be exemplified by the 
 case of Andromache ; the feeling of the Chorus is that not so much 
 concern would have been felt about themselves. But this matter is 
 seen in a different light by us, who know now for certain, what sort of 
 advantage and protection is accruing, by virtue of her nobility, to 
 Hermione. Only a princess of the first importance would, or 
 perhaps could, be used and treated as she is by her father and her 
 cousin.
 
 ANDROMACHE 271 
 
 v. 891. At the approach of Orestes, the attendants and Chorus 
 arrange themselves so as to conceal from him, if possible, the 
 dishevelled Hermione ; see vv. 877 880, where op<ap.evr) indicates that 
 the speaker has observed a stranger. Hence he can pretend not to 
 be aware of her presence, until she rushes forward. 
 
 v. 900. This pious appeal to the god of Delphi is an admirable 
 touch. 
 
 v. 929. The optative eiTroi, without av, is a survival, in a fixed 
 colloquial formula, of the archaic optative for imperative, meaning 
 strictly, not as some one would say, but as let some one (be supposed to) 
 say. See Aesch. Ag. 945 (Dindorf), and the Indices to my editions 
 of the Agamemnon and the Choephori, s.v. Optative. 
 
 "V. 937. Surely genuine ; it is not intended, nor proper, that 
 Hermione should sustain the pitch of dignity. This whole speech, 
 with its general suggestion that somebody else (the Chorus, for 
 instance, as the nearest persons) is really responsible for Hermione's 
 errors, is merely an extravagance of fright. Vv. 943 foil, are senti- 
 ments which the dramatist would depreciate and ridicule. The 
 women receive her insinuations with a sort of pitying contempt 
 (954). 
 
 w. 964 992. Note that he actually drops here his pretence 
 about 'Dodona' (885). Being now quite sure of his prey, his sole 
 object from this point, and only reason for delay, is to preclude her 
 from future rebellion by laying as much foundation as possible for 
 the story which of course will be his version that she eloped with 
 him, and was in fact his accomplice. Hence the recital, worse 
 than useless so far as she is concerned, of his old claim on her hand; 
 it is for the benefit of the Chorus. She, whose one thought is to get 
 away 'before my husband arrives,' evades the suggestion very well, 
 as she thinks, by the reference to her father, but speaks ambiguously, 
 lest, as she fears, her cousin may still refuse his aid. The untoward 
 incident naturally increases her anxiety to end the scene; and at 
 v. 989 she actually begins to go, Orestes following. 
 
 m>. 995 1008. To suppose this intended for the hearing of 
 Hermione, or heard by her, is impossible. At the first hint of it, 
 she would have shrunk from Orestes in horror. Nor in fact would 
 she hear it. The movement is this. The exit begins at v. 989 (see
 
 272 A NDR OMA CHE 
 
 preceding note); at v. 992 Hermioneand her waiting-woman, hastily 
 preceding, pass out, w. 993 994 being spoken ' after ' her. In 
 the remaining fourteen verses she is not addressed, which alone would 
 show that the situation is changed. At v. 994 Orestes, slowly 
 following her, stops; and while she continues, as we presume, to 
 hurry forward, delivers the rest for the benefit of the other women 
 (the Chorus) and with the same purpose which prompts the 
 reminiscences of w. 964 foil., that is, to provide for the future 
 development of a suspicion that she shared his plot. That is what, 
 when all comes out, many in Phthia and elsewhere would certainly 
 believe. He runs no risk by the menace. Having delivered it, he 
 instantly goes ; and before it could even be comprehended, he is off, 
 in the carriage (see v. 992) which of course is ready. The duenna 
 (T/OO^OS, see 803 878), a slave devoted to the- personal service of 
 Hermione, naturally goes with her, a point not unimportant to the 
 effect of the scene. By permitting this, Orestes, in the real 
 circumstances, loses nothing whatever ; and he gains at the moment 
 the appearance of good faith. In the sequel there is necessarily 
 a flaw, but small and purely theatrical. The women, who hear the 
 menace, ought, as they admit (v. 1053), to report it in the house at 
 once, though it would make no practical difference if they did. But 
 in the theatre they cannot, because they are the Chorus and must here 
 sing an interlude. Flaws of this kind however are so common and 
 inevitable in choric drama, that Greek audiences must have become 
 indifferent to them. 
 
 vv. 1031 foil. Note the unusual and, I believe, elsewhere 
 unknown version of the murder of Clytaemnestra. 'Apyo'#ev Tropevfleis 
 is a detail not explained by other accounts, and aSvrwi/ e7ri/?as 
 KTcavcoj/, though apparently corrupt, points to some other divergence. 
 The story alluded to here must have been told somewhere, and was 
 probably told in the preceding play. The peculiarities were no 
 doubt designed to suit in some way the particular characterisation 
 of Orestes. 
 
 v. 1053. See on vv. 995 foil. 
 
 v. 1113- Tvy\iivL 8' lv e'/ATTvpots means, I think, 'he succeeded in 
 the sacrifice,' i.e. ' obtained favourable omens ' for his consultation 
 from the victim or from the ashes of the altar, an effective touch. 
 Not ' he was engaged in sacrifice,' as if with ellipse of wv.
 
 ANDROMACHE 273 
 
 V. 1 120. 
 
 ^copei Trpvfjivav ov yap eis Katpov TUTTCIS 
 eruyxaj/' fe^e'AKei 8ef KCU TrapaoraSos 
 /cpe/Aaora rev^rj TracrcraAtov Ka$ap7racras /c.T.A. 
 
 The interpretation ' drew (his sword) ' is not justifiable, e^'p/cet 
 'he bore up' (Kirchhoff, cited by Murray) is possible, but remote. Is 
 it possible that eeAfc is, or covers, an adverb of the type of 
 7ravorj/j.L, avrofiofi, and meaning externally, with an external wound 
 (A*cos)? We should then punctuate thus: ov yap eis Keupoi/ 
 i Se- Kai TrapacrraSos K.r.A. 
 
 z>. 1151. I see no reason to doubt that ocnrep avrov wAeo-e means 
 'the same who killed Achilles himself,' referring to 'AxiAAe'a>9...7rats 
 (note emphasis on irais) above. The purpose is to mark the respon- 
 sibility of Phoebus for both deaths ; cf. v. 1212 SiTrAwv TCKVUV /*.' 
 lo-Tfpr)o-' o <l>oi/3os. But who then is the AeA.<os avrip ? It points to 
 a variant version of the death of Achilles, according to which the 
 actual slayer was not Apollo but a Delphian, named or unnamed, 
 presumed to be the agent of Apollo. Such a version would be 
 natural to Euripides ; indeed some such version would be necessary 
 for the admission of the incident into his realistic story. But where 
 was it so related ? Probably by Neoptolemus in the preceding play, 
 in the scene suggested by v. 977 d &' r)v v(3pia-r]<i ____ See w. 51, 
 1002, 1194. 
 
 v. 1192. 'Epju.iovas 'AtSav. This strange expression for 'the 
 deadly Hermione' alludes, I think, to the associations of her name; 
 see o-wv AexeW TO Svo-cow/xov, v. 1189. Hermione or Hermion in 
 Argolis was one of the places supposed in legend to contain an 
 opening into the underworld (Hades). Hence its connexion with 
 the bringing up of Cerberus by Heracles; see Eur. Heracles 615. 
 This simplifies w. 1189 1193, though there is still some obscurity 
 and probably error. 
 
 v. HQ5- t TTOTc <I>oi/?oi/ /JpoTost K.T.A. Read perhaps TTOTI, 'and 
 that you had never laid upon Phoebus, a mortal upon a god, the 
 slaying of your Zeus-born father.' 
 
 v. 1223. Note the ambiguity of the phrase S KO.T' avrpa vv^ ta 
 opr), which may signify that Thetis was immortal and now 
 
 v. 18
 
 274 ANDROMACHE 
 
 inhabits a sea-cave, but may also refer only to the underground 
 chamber of the tomb-chapel represented on the scene, the Karao-Ka^s 
 OIKT/OHS of Soph. Ant. 891 etc. According to the epilogue, Thetis was 
 a goddess, but for the realistic story she must be supposed merely a 
 woman; see p. 37, note 6. The ambiguity is precisely of the same 
 kind as those respecting the rescue of Theseus in the Heracles ; see 
 pp. 176 foil.
 
 II. NOTES ON THE HELEN. 
 
 v. 5, in connexion with v. 8, must suggest prima facie that 'this 
 house,' the house of the drama, is in Pharos. For a precise 
 parallel see Andromache 21, 25. Taken by itself, v. 5 would merely 
 imply that Proteus had lived in Pharos, though Theoclymenus 
 lives on the mainland ; and if such a distinction between the 
 two houses were anywhere indicated, we might suppose that the 
 apparent bearing of v. 5 on v. 8 was an oversight. But when we find 
 that, throughout both prologue and play, the house is always that of 
 Proteus, and that no separate house of Theoclymenus is anywhere 
 mentioned or suggested, we' may be sure there is no oversight, and 
 that the audience are really meant to suppose, in some sense and 
 for some purposes, that the dramatic house is on the island. The 
 king of Egypt, who received there Paris and Helen, was also named 
 in legend Proteus (Herodotus 2. 112 foil.); but, with this conception 
 of the personage, there is no place in the story for the island 
 of Pharos. The incongruous and unnatural suggestion, that this 
 Proteus, the king, lived, like the sea-wizard of the Odyssey, in 
 Pharos, was, I believe, invented by Euripides simply to make a 
 sort of basis for his domestic allusions. 
 
 v. g. With the rough metre of this verse compare that of 
 V. 291 9 v/j./3o\' fXOovres a <avepa /AO'VOIS av Tfv, and of V. 700 
 Meve'Xae, Ka.fj.ol Trpoo-SoTe n rfjs ySovrjs. The similarity indicates 
 that all three are genuine, not corrupt. See also v. 86 drap TIS cl ; 
 iroOev ; TWOS eavSav ere x/ 31 ?', which is in the metre of comedy, and 
 v. 88 TcXa/xwv, 2aA.aju.is oe Trarpts tj 6ptya.cra. //.e, which goes beyond 
 the ordinary license of tragedy. In such a work as this, we may 
 well suppose either a certain negligence, or the deliberate and 
 critical imitation of faults. This should be considered throughout 
 in dealing with the text. 
 
 1 8 2
 
 276 HELEN 
 
 v. 21. Note that the emphatic suggestion of a doubt about 
 the legend of Leda is, for this play, irrelevant and absurd. The 
 play assumes the truth of it (w>. 214, 257, 616 619, 1144 1150, 
 especially the last verse). This strengthens somewhat the suppo- 
 sition, that the el o-a^s ovros Ao'yos is to be taken as applying, 
 partly at least, to the word Sooy/xa, the metrical stress on which, to 
 a native ear, would, I think, be obvious and significant. 
 
 v. 179. The epithet KuavottSe's, referring to the dark sediment 
 carried and deposited by the Nile, is the nearest approach I can 
 find in the play to a mention of the subject which Aristophanes 
 (Thesm. 856 857) nevertheless selects for his leading point of 
 attack. Manifestly it affords no explanation whatever of his gibe, 
 even if readers of Helen happened to remember the epithet. 
 
 w. 237 243. Here as elsewhere (p. 114) we should remember 
 that the opposed goddesses, Aphrodite and Hera, are apparently 
 represented by images on the scene. 
 
 v. 437. The old Portress, a purely comic figure, and utterly 
 inappropriate to her supposed situation in the palace of the king of 
 Egypt, may fairly be supposed to belong to the actual household of 
 Eido. Probably the real slave played the part. Any one could 
 play it; and the worse it were done, the better for the effect. 
 
 v. 513. The quotation of the ao<f><j)v ITTOS is a compliment to 
 some poet, like Shakespeare's quotation of Marlowe (As You Like 
 //, in. 5. 80); perhaps to Agathon. 
 
 w. 616 foil. Leda's chicken, he thinks, has suddenly found her 
 wings. 
 
 v. 756. This sentiment has no relevance to the dramatic 
 situation, but is very pertinent to 'Theonoe,' the intelligent and 
 enlightened heiress of wealth acquired by trade. 
 
 v. 771. Note the amusing ambiguity of Sis \virr)6fl/j.ev av. To 
 Menelaus, having before him the very same woman (to all 
 appearance) who was actually with him in his voyages, the ' repetition ' 
 must seem singularly awkward. Helen sees the innuendo and 
 retracts her question. 
 
 g23. Note that this ' mantic ' passage points not only 
 to the significance of the pseudonym Theonoe, but more directly to
 
 HELEN 277 
 
 the real name Eido and its possible connexion with eiScVat. In 
 both aspects it is a mere jest. Euripides, and presumably his 
 friend, had a poor opinion of the art. See vv. 744 foil, and note 
 on v. 756. 
 
 V. 936. Kt p.ev 6av(av 08' ev irvpa KaTecre^ay?; K.T.\. If we must 
 translate this by 'had been slain as victim to a grave,' it seems, 
 as commentators remark, so irrelevant as to be unintelligible. 
 Why should it be assumed that Menelaus, had he died, would 
 have perished in this way ? May it not conceivably be a bold and 
 loose passive, signifying ' had received <r<ayta offered to his pyre,' 
 that is to say simply, 'had been buried'? 
 
 w. 944 946. If these three verses are assigned to the Chorus- 
 leader, what point has the distinction and antithesis between 01 
 A.oyoi and Helen (o-v) ? I suspect that only v. 944 should be given 
 to the Chorus-leader, who commences the usual distich, but is 
 impatiently interrupted by Theonoe, 'eager to hear Menelaus.' 
 We must then take ot/crpa, pitiable, in a contemptuous sense. This 
 use is not apparently classical in literature, but may have existed 
 in conversation, or might be invented for the immediate purpose. 
 The implied sarcasm on the conventional distichs with which the 
 Chorus mark critical pauses perhaps the least happy feature in Attic 
 tragedy (Orestes 542, 605, Hel. 996) is in keeping with the play and 
 the situation. If Theonoe here speaks, it is natural that Menelaus 
 should reply to her invitation without any vocative (<3 TrapOeve or 
 the like) ; otherwise I think we should expect one. 
 
 v. 1085. Note that Menelaus, after all his brags, though here 
 left on the altar-tomb, is eventually found under it (v. 1203), having 
 taken this refuge on the approach of Theoclymenus, a suitable 
 incident in the comedy of the deception, and probably imitated 
 from some unlucky scene. 
 
 v. 1168. He makes a point on his name 'heard by the god,' i.e. 
 by his sainted father; cf. Alcestis 995 1005. The name was 
 originally given (v. 9), because the pious father had been 'heard,' 
 as he hoped, in his prayers for a satisfactory son. It is again 
 played upon in v. 1643, where his impious threats bring upon the 
 scene the intervening deities.
 
 278 HELEN 
 
 w. 1348 foil. The attempts to show that Euripides professes to 
 connect the subject of this ode with that of the play, depend on the 
 supposition that <3 Tral (v. 1356) is addressed to Helen. This seems 
 on the face of it improbable. A return to the theme of the play 
 would surely be marked by some expression not liable to be 
 misapplied. For reasons explained in the essay, we should not 
 seek any internal pretext for the ode, though, if one could be found, 
 it would make no difference to the general effect of it as an 
 arbitrary digression. 
 
 In the uncertainty of the text, the point of vv. 1353 1357 must 
 remain doubtful. But I think it almost certain (i) that eWpoxras 
 should be retained, (2) that <rucro-e/3iovo-a (Seidler for ou o-e/2t(wra) is 
 right, (3) that o> TTCU is addressed, with playful familiarity, to Aphro- 
 dite. The general sense, as many have supposed, is that Aphrodite, 
 though she had committed a grave offence in practising upon 
 Pluto (m/), nevertheless 'stayed the wrath' of the injured Mother by 
 the prominent part which she took in the powerful propitiation 
 (v. 1358) of the rites. 
 
 As I have said in the Essay, I do not find in Euripides any true 
 parallel to this ode, in its relation to the play. In considering this 
 question, we must distinguish, as not parallel, such examples as the 
 meditation on children in the Medea (1081 foil.), or the Pythian ode 
 in the Iphigenia in Taurica (1234 foil.). In these, though the 
 interludes are no part of the dramatic story, the themes are suggested 
 by the play, and harmonize with it. No one could feel it to be 
 surprising, that the topic of children should be thought of in con- 
 nexion with the story of Medea, or the topic of Delphi in connexion 
 with that of Iphigenia and Orestes. The link of thought is visible 
 and obvious. And generally in Euripides, the freedom of the inter- 
 lude seems to be limited by this natural and reasonable condition. 
 But in the Ifelen, as it seems to me and to others, there is hot 
 the least reason why the legend of Demeter and Kore should occur to 
 the mind at all. The topic is totally foreign. The narrative form 
 also, and the contrast between this and the preceding odes, increase 
 the abruptness of the effect. It must therefore (I think) surprise 
 and perplex the audience, unless they had an extraneous cue. 
 
 w. 1366 1368. 
 
 ev St viv 
 
 creAava 
 f/u.op<a p-ovo 
 Here v7re'p/JaA.e seems wrong (see v. 1351), but probably gives the
 
 HELEN 279 
 
 sense, !/3aAAe or something similar. 'The moon shed upon them 
 fair daylight,' that is, upon the gods, the performers of the rites 
 (v. 1357), the passage on the efficacy of the rites (w. 1358 1365) 
 being parenthetic. The final verse is with reason regarded as 
 gibberish. Even if the clause had sense in the context, it could 
 not be appended thus abruptly. What we want is apparently a 
 description of the moon; perhaps /xop^>a ftovov^ifs, 'floating' or 
 'swimming in lonely beauty,' like a swan, the stars being extinguished 
 by her brilliance. For the form see d 
 
 v. 1374. Read perhaps 
 
 TTOCTIS' 
 KaAAicrTa 8' O.UTOS lypTracrev TV^TJ TTOCTIS, 
 
 or something like this. For the bearing of the first line, ' she 
 (Theonoe) was indeed very happy in catching up the point of 77-00-19,' 
 see p. 117. The punning turn of the transition would fit the general 
 colour. But Dindorf's suggestion 'versus ab interpolatore fictus 
 lacunae explendae causa' is very probable. 
 
 v. 1627. May not the speaker (a man, see p. 54) be the sailor 
 himself? That he should interfere in the circumstances would be 
 the most effective of protests. The Chorus being, I think, excluded, 
 there is no one else, unless we suppose a fourth actor, since one is 
 required for the epilogue (v. 1642).
 
 III. NOTES ON THE HERACLES. 
 
 v, 4. The references, here and w. 252, 794, to the miraculous 
 Theban legend of the armed men who sprang from the dragon's 
 teeth, though not connected with Heracles, are very much to the 
 purpose of the play. Such traditions are a natural precedent for 
 fresh inventions in the same style. So also the 'offspring of Zeus' 
 in v. 30. In v. 164 a rank of hoplites is described by the abrupt 
 and obscure metaphor Sopos ra^eiav aXo/ca, comparing the sudden rise 
 of the spears to the growth of blades from a furrow. I suspect that 
 it alludes to a rationalistic interpretation of the 
 (v. 5), where note the last word. 
 
 w. 240. Helicon... Parnassus: apparently meant for bombast. 
 Parnassus is more than 30 miles away ; and neither hill can have been 
 supposed by Euripides to be as near Thebes as is here implied. 
 
 v. 257. Take KCIKIO-TOS TWV vfotv together : ' worst of the new 
 generation, because a foreigner.' ol ve'oi are the faction now tri- 
 umphant, those who have brought in Lycus (v. 37 etc.). The 
 expression is characteristic of the aged speakers, and should not be 
 changed. The object of apx ei > so far as it has any, is TWV Ka 
 
 v. 452 may perhaps be retained. 'Where is he that shall 
 slaughter these poor things, murdering, alas, the very life of me?' 
 Literally 'the slaughterer of them, or in other words slayer of me.' 
 See a similar expression in v. 537 TO./JL Wv-qaKf. TCKV, diruXXvfjLrjv 8' 
 eyw, 'when my children were to die, it was / that was to perish.' 
 Both mark the special relation of the mother. 
 
 v. 471. 8at8a\ov (i.e. AatSa'Xou) i^euS?/ 86<riv (MSS.) is probably 
 right. The mace, we are to understand, was said to be a miraculous
 
 HERACLES 281 
 
 weapon, a gift to Heracles, direct or indirect, from the magical 
 craftsman, Daedalus. Megara of course does not believe this. 
 
 v. 687. These 'nymphs of Delos,' who 'at Apollo's gate go 
 circling round and sing in his honour,' are, I think, simply the swans 
 of the famous ' round pond,' KVKAorepr/s Xt/xv^, before the temple at 
 Delos, the \L^vy\ A^Ams of Ion 167, which see also for the swans. 
 Hence the reference (v. 692) to the 'swan-song' of the old men 
 themselves. For the singing of swans to Apollo, cf. Aristoph. 
 Birds 769. Mr Blakeney suggests this. 
 
 v. 729. Read perhaps 
 
 S KdAoV 
 
 <TTi'xei j^po^puTL 8' apKvov yev?7crTai 
 L<f>rj<f>6poi<rL TOUS TreXas SOKWV KTZVCLV, 
 o TTayKa/acrros. 
 
 " He is going right, where his ' trap ' will find a ' snare,' a man who 
 thought to slay his neighbour with aid of sworders, the wretch ! " 
 The /?po'xoicri is a bitter allusion to Lycus' gibe (v. 153). The 
 instrumental t<?7<opo(.o-i refers to the armed guards, the hated symbol 
 of tyranny. This involves no change but that of apKuW to 
 apKvov, and remedies, among other things, the expression (3pox L 
 i<t>r)(f>6poi, not justified by Med. 1278 dp/cvW ^ovs, even if that is 
 certainly genuine and right. Note further that the sword is not 
 Heracles' weapon in this play. 
 
 v. 732. Euripides gives this for the sentiment of a savage. The 
 sequel makes it hideous. It would not have been put into the mouth 
 of Theseus, or of the sane Heracles. 
 
 V. 825. e^os 8' ITT avSpos o-ayiara orpaTeuo/xev (MSS.), ' Our war is 
 against the persons of one man only.' I believe this, strange though 
 it sounds to us, to be right. The crw/xara of Heracles are the 
 'persons' belonging to him, his wife and children. It might include 
 his slaves, but these are not considered. 
 
 v. 826. <ao-iv. That a goddess should treat this matter as 
 uncertain is surely, from every point of view, absurd. But it is 
 proper to the dream. Mr Blakeney calls attention to the irony. 
 
 v. 835. TratSoKTovov?, and v. 839 KoAAtTrcuSa, include Megara. 
 See p. 196, note 3.
 
 282 HERACLES 
 
 v. 845. Read perhaps ras for rao-8', and <tAois for <t'\ots, thus : 
 rivets r ^w, ras OUK ayacr^i/eu (friXoiS. 
 
 'And my office is such as one would not be apt to admire.' The 
 archaisms ras for as, $1X015 for ^tXot^Sj and optative without oV, all 
 characterize the expression as a fixed locution or proverb. For the 
 optative see on Andromache 929. The whole phrase perhaps comes 
 bodily from some old author. 
 
 v. 1170 (and 1415) vepOev. As these ambiguities are of cardinal 
 importance, I will repeat here the substance of what is said about 
 them in the text. The expression vepOev (or y^s vtpOev) regularly means 
 the underworld, Hades, and in tragedy almost always does. It is so 
 used, with intention of course, in this very play (w. 497, 621). The 
 context in these cases happens to show the meaning ; but even 
 without any "special indication, a reference to Hades would be 
 presumed, unless excluded. And it is intended by the dramatist, 
 that a reference to Hades shall be presumed (by the uninstructed and 
 unwary) in the allusions of Theseus and Heracles to the rescue. 
 But the term vepOev is nevertheless ambiguous. The word in itself 
 means only below or from below. And the fact, that the four 
 allusions are all ambiguous, is sufficient, when we contrast the 
 language of the play elsewhere, to prove that the ambiguity is 
 intentional. 
 
 These passages therefore, so far from impugning those con- 
 clusions, as to the purpose of the poet, which are required by the 
 whole play, are not only consistent with them, but positively support 
 them. 
 
 v. 1386. Cerberus. I have purposely abstained from discussing 
 in detail, what may have been the rationalistic version of this legend, 
 to which Euripides here alludes ; partly because, so far as I can 
 discover, we have not materials to determine it, but chiefly because 
 the details are for Euripides irrelevant and immaterial, as he shows 
 by not giving any. The various forms of the legend, in their 
 inconsistency and extravagance, invited the rationalists, and we 
 have evidence that it engaged them early. Pausanias, who himself 
 mentions as many as four places which claimed the honour (Troezen 
 2. 31. 2, Hermione 2. 35. 7, Taenarum 3. 25. 5, and the sanctuary of 
 Zeus Laphystius in Boeotia 9. 34. 4), frankly abandons the monster, 
 and favours the version of Hecataeus. According to this, 'the
 
 HERACLES 283 
 
 Hound of Hades' was not a dog at all; 'hound' was merely 
 poetical and signified ' attendant,' as when the Hydra is called KWO. 
 Aepj/as by Euripides himself (Heracles 420 and 1274); the creature 
 was really a deadly snake, which inhabited the cave of Taenarum, 
 and was brought to Eurystheus by Heracles. This early attempt, 
 however, cannot be much commended, if only because it takes 
 no account of the variations in place ; we can hardly suppose that 
 the king of Argos collected remarkable reptiles. We may fairly 
 assume, and Euripides indicates, that between Hecataeus and the 
 date of his play there had been improvements, particularly by 
 Herodorus, who treated the legend of Heracles. For one thing, the 
 rationalists had fairly faced the ' dog ' ; in the Taenarian case, 
 Euripides plainly supposes a dog, properly so called. Also, we may 
 assume, they had perceived the advantage thus obtained in embracing 
 rival localities ; if Eurystheus commanded the services of a great 
 hunter, nothing could be more reasonable than that he should collect 
 a pack. More dimly and uncertainly we may perhaps divine how 
 they dealt with the 'three heads.' Three places in the Peloponnese 
 seem to have contended for the animal, Taenarum, Hermione, and 
 Troezen. Two are upon ' headlands ' and the third near to a head- 
 land. What more easy, it might be said, than a confusion between 
 TpiKo.pa.voi. Kwes and rpiKapavos KDWV ? A similar twist, mutatis 
 mutandis, is indicated (Heracles ^\(^) for the legend of the Hydra, the 
 ' heads ' of which doubtless belonged to different snakes. Whether 
 it was supposed that the various dogs lived in, or were connected 
 with, caves, one cannot say ; but that would not be necessary. If 
 Heracles brought back a dog from an expedition to Taenarum, 
 somebody, Herodorus would say, was sure to pick up the notion 
 that it was ' the dog of Hades,' and was got from the lower world. 
 In reality, it was just a hound ' of the Spartan kind ' desired by 
 Eurystheus as a breeder. 
 
 But it is needless and useless to pursue with guesses speculations 
 which, as Euripides saw, had a fundamental vice. Whatever the 
 facts supposed, they would not fairly account for the rise of a legend 
 without the exercise of imagination ; and to make the process really 
 probable, the imagination, through which the facts were passed, 
 should be a wild, confused, and in short an insane imagination. 
 Given this, the transformation is possible and psychologically 
 interesting. Also, which is the main point, it becomes a possible 
 foundation for tragedy. And on the other hand, given this, to fix the
 
 284 HERACLES 
 
 facts in detail is superfluous. When we have been told that the 
 journey of Heracles to Taenarum had some connexion with the 
 bringing of a dog to Argos, and that the dog was left for a time at 
 Hermione, we have, with an insane Heracles, all that we want. We 
 have a sufficient origin for the miraculous account ; the development 
 we may suppose as we please.
 
 IV. NOTES ON THE ORESTES. 
 
 v. 349. TroXXfj a^poarvvy should (I think) be retained, with the 
 scansion -- | ^ ^ . The crasis, though peculiar, is not more so 
 than that, for example, of v. 599 d ^ 6 KeAew-a? puo-crai pe py 
 Oavelv, where the article is nevertheless indispensable. Absolute 
 regularity in such matters is not to be expected. 
 
 w. 409 410. ' I know whom you mean ; but I prefer not to 
 name them.' 'Because they are Setnnail But polite remarks may 
 be spared.' The reply of Orestes signifies his natural and irre- 
 pressible impatience of the vulgar scruple. A man, who for a week 
 past had been liable to fancy that he saw Erinyes, would be beyond 
 the fear of naming them, as Orestes in fact is; see v. 582. 
 
 vv. 421 422. (j.r)Tpo<; oL^ovrai TTVOO.L is difficult. The context, 
 especially vv. 400 405, indicates that v. 421 should mean 'How 
 long is it since the funeral?', since the commencement of the visions, 
 not ' since the death.' And indeed /xr/rpos ol^ovrai irvoai seems 
 hardly a possible phrase for 'your mother died.' Probably there- 
 fore the 7rvoai are the smoke of the pyre, which ' passed away ' ; see 
 Aesch. Ag. 820 (Dindorf), where burning Troy TrpoTre/ATm mova<; 
 TrAovrou irvoas. The Statement In Trvpa. Oepjj.}) ra^ov must in any 
 case be rhetorical and exaggerated. 
 
 v. 470. At the approach of Tyndareus, Orestes (v. 467) crouches 
 behind Menelaus. Tyndareus, entering so as to approach Menelaus 
 on the left, desires to put himself on his right (irpbs Seiav cmyvai 
 v. 474) for the purpose of a well-omened salutation. He therefore 
 crosses, and in this movement discovers Orestes, who is still kneeling. 
 Menelaus, who holds his hand, now bends down and whispers to him, 
 encouraging him, we may presume, to seize the chance of propitiating 
 his grandfather. This is the action which evokes the Trpoo-^eyyet 
 viv ; (v. 481) of Tyndareus. Menelaus has not ' spoken' to Orestes 
 aloud. Orestes probably does not rise until v. 542.
 
 286 ORESTES 
 
 v. 658. This reference to the sacrifice of Iphigenia is, so far as 
 I have noticed, the only anachronism in the play, the only incident 
 of the story which could not (one would say) be supposed in the 
 society described. Negligence on such a point is so unlike 
 Euripides, that we should suspect some explanation, probably 
 not now ascertainable. The legend of Aulis had received various 
 fantastic developments (such as the miraculous transformation or 
 translation of Iphigenia), which had no doubt produced in their turn 
 the usual crop of rationalistic equivalents. What Euripides here 
 assumes, I cannot say ; but he does not mean, in all probability, that 
 the niece of his Menelaus was actually and deliberately killed as a 
 victim. 
 
 v. 694. Punctuate thus : 
 
 trfJUKpoLcri yap TO. yaeyaXa TTWS eAot TIS av ; 
 
 TrovotiTiv ; d/t*a0S KOL TO /3ovAecr$ai raSe. 
 
 ' How can great (objects) be attained with small (means)? By effort? 
 A foolish hope!' When the power is inadequate, it is useless to 
 struggle ; you must use cunning and watch your opportunity. See the 
 whole context. If iro'vourtv is joined to the previous sentence, the 
 word is superfluous, and the metrical emphasis upon it not justifiable. 
 
 v. 950. Some of these ' friends ' probably appear with Orestes 
 (otherwise they would hardly be mentioned) and silently take 
 their leave, with embraces and the like, upon the stage. Hence 
 the fact, apparent in the text, that until v. 1020 he does not face 
 Electra. There he turns to her, and the despair ' in his eyes ' evokes 
 her ' second ' cry (o* 'yu> //.aA' avdis). A guard or guards also 
 probably appear, and then retire. In the preceding scene, just 
 before the trial, it is for the first time indicated (v. 760) that the 
 watchers of the house are visible. The dispositions proper to such 
 an occasion were of course familiar to the audience, and would be 
 represented as far as the conditions allowed. 
 
 v. 1182. Read perhaps riv -ijSovijv ; not nv rjSovijv 'To defer 
 (telling) good news is no pleasure,' a formula of impatience. The 
 other reading is interpreted thus : ' Speak, since the fact that thou 
 art about to speak consoling words has in itself a sort of pleasure.' 
 This seems rather odd and obscure. 
 
 v. 1236. Read perhaps 
 
 eyeo 8', eTret 'ySouAeucra /caWAuo-' OKVOV.
 
 ORESTES 287 
 
 'And I too (set hand to the sword), inasmuch as I counselled 
 
 and incited.' eyu> 8' tirtftovXevo-a MSS. 
 
 v. 1267. A curious question, but of no great importance, 
 
 arises here. Kopag StaSore Bial /3oa-Tpv\o)v TravTrf (/copatai Si'Sore MSS.) 
 
 is supposed to mean that the Chorus are to look 'through their 
 hair ' or ' their eyelashes.' Mr Wedd (ad loc.} is evidently dissatisfied 
 with this, and it seems absurd. Why should the hair of the women 
 be over their eyes? Or how should /fcxn-pux 01 mean 'eyelashes'? 
 If )8ocrTpu^oi is the right word, we should suppose some secondary 
 sense. Possibly iron-work, crowning a wall, decorative spikes or 
 a grille, may have been so called ; and the forecourts of great houses 
 may have been partly enclosed in this way. Nothing of the kind 
 need, or should, have been actually exhibited, the boundaries of the 
 aule being supposed outside the scene. The Chorus at this point go 
 to the parodoi, and some of them probably are at times heard only, 
 and not visible. 
 
 v. 1554. Aristotle (Poetics 25. 19) cites the character of 
 Menelaus in this play as an instance of what he calls ' depravity of 
 character without (inner) necessity,' that is, a degree of wickedness 
 not required for the working out of the plot. He classes this fault 
 with ' irrationality ' (aAoyta), by which is here meant the assumption 
 of an unlikely behaviour, where the practical result might have been 
 reached in a probable way and naturally accounted for. 
 
 As to ' irrationality,' it is a blemish, and should be avoided ; 
 though in truth few stories, and hardly any stories suitable for 
 dramatic treatment, are wholly free from it ; and an artist who was very 
 punctilious on this score would assuredly not earn, and possibly 
 not deserve, the gratitude of his audience. On many matters, we 
 would far sooner accept an unlikelihood than be troubled with an 
 explanation. In the very case cited by Aristotle, the 'Aegeus in 
 Euripides' (meaning probably the Aegeus of the Medea, whose 
 odd proceedings at Corinth are singularly opportune) we may doubt 
 whether one spectator in a thousand would care to be prepared for 
 the incident ; we have other things to think of. The principle 
 however is undoubtedly sound; incidents should be accounted for, 
 so far as they conveniently may. 
 
 But as to the 'unnecessary depravity,' even the principle is dubious. 
 As Professor Butcher observes (Aristotle's Theory of Poetry and fine 
 Art p. 224, and elsewhere), the rules about character laid down in
 
 288 ORESTES 
 
 the Poetics are 'too rigorous on their ethical side,' and cannot be 
 accepted without qualifications, which Aristotle himself does not 
 sufficiently indicate. It can by no means be admitted, that vice in 
 character should be limited to what is necessary for the mechanism 
 of the plot ; such a canon would condemn some of the best stories 
 in the world, the best in every possible sense. 
 
 This being so, we have the less interest in considering, whether 
 the principle, if conceded, would be applicable to the case cited, the 
 Menelaus of our play ; nor is it easy to do so, without a more 
 full explanation from the critic. The bad acts of Menelaus are 
 necessary to the plot ; so far we may go with Aristotle. Before the 
 trial, he leaves Orestes alone, and thus without an adviser ; after the 
 trial, he does not reconduct him to the house ; he keeps, for a time, 
 out of the way. Both actions are necessary to the plot. The first 
 leaves an opening for the counsel of Pylades, the second for the 
 atrocities of Pylades and Electra. Further, though the first action is, 
 in the circumstances and the hurry of the moment, excusable, the 
 second is inexcusable, grossly indelicate and unkind. And as a fact, 
 both actions proceed from the same vice of character. Menelaus 
 would not have done either if he had not been extremely defective 
 in sentiment, callous in feeling, a low, vulgar, ' practical ' man. 
 
 There Euripides leaves the matter. He does not provide any 
 reason, except the character of Menelaus and his actual relations 
 with the public of Argos, why Menelaus did not walk through the 
 streets, from the assembly to the house, by his nephew's side. The 
 criticism of Aristotle should mean (i) that a better Menelaus might 
 (for some reason) have been kept away, and therefore (but this is 
 questionable) a better Menelaus would have been more proper 
 to art; and (2) that, at all events, his going away and his staying 
 away should have been otherwise accounted for than they are. 
 To consider this view, we should like to hear from Aristotle, 
 what other way precisely he would have preferred. Pending this 
 explanation, it is not, I hope, impertinent to express a doubt, 
 whether one could improve upon Euripides. 
 
 It is of course true that, in some species of drama, there would 
 not be room for such a character as our Menelaus, nor for any of 
 the characters in the play, nor for the facts and the story generally. 
 An'd the principles of the Poetics, if taken rigorously, may point to 
 the conclusion that the species of drama, which does admit such 
 characters, facts, and story, is inferior, if not illegitimate. We will 
 not pursue further the various possible inferences.
 
 INDEX 
 
 The figures in black type refer to pages 
 
 AESCHYLUS 
 Ag. 82, 145; 504, 160; 508, 160; 
 
 522, 160 ; 820, 285 ; 945, 271 ; 
 
 104-7, 145 5 H4 6 ' 123 5 J 6i8, 145 
 Cho. 230, 50; 315-509, 247; 479 ff. , 
 
 247 ; 585, 109 ; 783, 109 ; 935, 109 ; 
 
 973, 204; 989, 204; 1046, 204 
 Eum. 104, 174; 106, 104; 189, 243; 
 
 591 f., 245 ; 631, 204 ; 657 ff., 230 
 ARISTOPHANES 
 Birds 769 ff. , 281 
 Frogs 89, 123 ; 90, 104 ; 959, 197 
 Thesin. 29-264, 89 ; 295, 92 ; 626, 
 
 93; 850-924, 81; 855-919, 76; 
 
 856 f., 276; 876, 87; 910, 82 
 ARISTOTLE 
 
 Poet. 9. 10, 13 ; 25. 19, 287 
 EURIPIDES 
 Alcestis 
 
 Ale. 837, 140 ; 962, 163 ; 995-1005, 
 
 278; ii ? 9, 120 
 Andromache 
 
 209-10,20; 215-31,268; 218, 66; 
 222, 30; 229, 66; 249, 31; 251- 
 53, 29 ; 262, 29 ; 272, 31 ; 319, 30, 
 32 ; 339, 10 ; 344, 269 ; 346, 10 ; 
 353, 31; 361, 33; 366, 31, 32; 
 368, 34 ; 397 ff., 269 ; 403, 21 ; 
 421, 32; 431-44, 33; 445, 11; 
 449, 38 ; 462 f., 269 ; 464-93, 40 ; 
 480, 269; 483, 269; 489, 33; 501- 
 
 823, 16; 840, 35; 865, 41; 869- 
 75, 35; 877-80, 271; 884, 18; 
 885, 12; 891, 271; 900, 271; 
 906-13, 36; 912, 36; 918, 36; 
 
 995) A 5 995-1000, xii ; 999, oo ; 
 
 1001, 27; 1002, 38; 1007, 26; 
 
 1009, 41; 1031 ff., 272; 1047-69, 
 
 11, 15 ; 1053, 272 ; 1060, 15 ; 
 
 1073-1116,17; 1074-75,17; 1085, 
 
 40; 1086, 16; 1113, 272; 1115,9; 
 
 Hi5-i6,17; II2O-22.273; 1147, 
 
 37, 140; 1151, 273; 1161, 38; 
 
 1192, 273; 1195, 273; 1223, 273; 
 
 1241, 38; 1242, 17; 1243-49, 31; 
 
 1248,9; 1253-69,37; 1284,120 
 Bacchae 
 
 1388, 120 
 Electra 
 
 El. 534, 77; 1190, 26 
 Hecuba 
 
 Hec. 92, 140; 1205, 140; 1289, 112 
 Helen 
 
 Hel. 
 
 *JU i^ij a%j , *g*j w*i j A ,^ ,)i w i 
 
 164,107; 179,276; 179-251,122; 
 214, 275; 237-43, 276; 241, 71; 
 246, 276 ; 255, 95 ; 257, 275 ; 262, 
 96; 276, 96; 282, 96; 290, 50; 
 291, 275; 299-302, 96; 306-29, 
 60; 306-85, 58; 313 f., 54; 317,
 
 290 
 
 INDEX 
 
 Helen (cont.) 
 
 59 ; 330-85, 122 ; 354, 93 ; 375-85, 
 122 ; 386-89, 94 ; 393, 94 ; 400, 98 ; 
 408-32, 74; 421, 97; 424, 74, 98; 
 437, 53; 437 ff., 276; 450, 53; 
 460, 82; 460-65, 81; 470, 73; 
 477-82, 53; 483, 98; 513 f., 276; 
 528,99; 530,59; 534,99; 535-37, 
 99; 541, 58; 542, 82; 546, 49; 
 550, 58 ; 556, 58 ; 561-62, 83 ; 564, 
 82; 578, 50; 597-98, 74; 616-19, 
 275, 276; 625, 107; 700, 275; 
 711-33,47; 744-57,47; 756,276; 
 765-71, 70; 767, 110; 771, 276; 
 785, 52 ; 787, 82 ; 797-99, 59 ; 
 808, 89; 809-29, 89; 818, 59; 
 857, 100; 859, 82; 865, 78, 100; 
 865-1029, 82 ; 873, 101, 103 ; 
 874 ff., 276; 877, 101, 102; 878, 
 114; 878-91, 80; 892, 102; 894- 
 1023, 89 ; 903, 88 ; 903-8, 83, 101 ; 
 906-8, 102 ; 919-23, 277 ; 922, 59 ; 
 926, 103 ; 936, 277 ; 939, 83 ; 944, 
 229; 944-46, 103, 277; 947, 277; 
 947-95, 104-6; 957, 105; 960, 
 105; 969, 104; 991, 103; 998, 78; 
 1003, 75, 79 ; 1006, 114 ; 1008, 79, 
 96, 106; 1009, 83 ; 1013-16, 80; 
 1013, 83, 88; 1013-16, 101, 106; 
 1017, 80; 1022, 54; 1023, 78; 
 1024,^114; 1032, 56, 111; 1043, 
 89; 1045, 89; 1051, 112; 1055, 
 60, 111; 1056, 112; 1062, 117; 
 1067, 112 ; 1069, 54, 112 ; 1074, 
 112; 1077, 112; 1083, 58; 108*, 
 277; 1087, 114, 118; 1090-1106, 
 114; 1107, 107; 1126-31, 110; 
 1144-50,275; 1151,88; 1165,52; 
 1165-68, 113; 1 1 66, 82; 1169, 53, 
 278; 1169-72, 113; 1171, 52, 53; 
 1173,114; 1175,55; 1180-83,114; 
 1184-90,118; 1197,52; 1198,59; 
 1203, 277; 1207, 116; 1207-17, 
 55; 1214,66; 1218, 46; 1222,56; 
 1225, 116; 1227, 59; 1228, 52; 
 1231, 52 ; I23r f., 116; 1237, 116 ; 
 1239, 116; 1266, 55; 1267, 54; 
 1272,55,57; 1276-78,116; 1278, 
 53; 1285 f., 278; 1285-89, 116; 
 1301, 64, 107; 1336-1440, 117; 
 1339-44. 93; 1348 'ff., 278; 1365, 
 72; 1^66-68,278; 1370,82; 1371, 
 117; '1374, 279; 1380, 54; 1388, 
 121; 1399-1409, 116; 1412, 54; 
 1413, 57; 1414, 55; 142 if., 117; 
 1451,107,109; 1512 f., 118; 1526, 
 54,74; 1531,5?; 1532,74; 1535, 
 279; 1537,74; 1537-53, 57 ; 1590, 
 84; 1.593, 51; 1612, 113, 279; 
 1617, 54; 1623, 93; 1625, 100; 
 
 Helen (cont.} 
 
 1627, 78; 1627 ff., 279; 1627-41, 
 54; 1640, 78; 1643, 278 ; 1658-61, 
 119; 1659,120; 1669,120; 1670, 
 70; 1677,119; 1 678 f., 120; 1679, 
 121; 1684-86, 66; 1688, 120 
 
 Heracles 
 
 Heracles 3, 144 ; 4, 280 ; 5, 280 ; 10, 
 143; 13-21, 156; 14, 144; 17-20, 
 143 ; 2 1 f., 144 ; 23, 144 ; 24, 183 ; 
 25,144; 26-43, 195 ; 26-59, 144; 
 30, 280 ; 34, 147 ; 50, 143 ; 60, 
 143; 60-106, 144; 92, 144; 97, 
 144; 107, 145, 171; in, 146; 
 112, 145 ; 140, 146, 147 ; 145, 148, 
 184; 145-64, 149; 148, 150; 149, 
 146; 150,162; 151, 148; 153, 98, 
 138, 281; 157-64, 146; 164, 280; 
 170, 144, 148, 149 ; 174, 151 ; 176, 
 148; 177, 147, 149, 161; 181-83, 
 151; 182, 153; 185, 151; 188-203, 
 149; 212, 149; 217, 149; 220, 
 143, 161; 229, 150; 236 f., 149; 
 240, 157, 280; 252, 145, 280; 257, 
 280; 268,171; 272-74, 195; 290, 
 148; 295, 148; 297, 184; 327, 
 155; 339, 144, 149; 348, 151, 
 148; 353 f., 146; 364, 153; 375, 
 154; 380-88, 153; 389-93, 153; 
 394-407, 154; 408, 152; 419, 
 283; 420, 283; 423, 152; 427, 
 184, 193; 436, 151; 451, 155; 
 451-96, 155; 452, 280; 462, 164; 
 471,280; 472,16!, 164; 491,184; 
 497, 282; 498, 144, 149; 514, 
 143; 514-61, 162; 514-762, 155; 
 523-636, 156 ; 524, 160 ; 525,156; 
 
 537, 28 ; 539, 156 5 541-43- "5; 
 543, 147, 155; 5*8-61, 147; 562, 
 155, 157, 164; 565-73, 104; 575, 
 157 ; 583 f., 157 ; 583-636, 162 ; 
 585-636, 164; 588-92, 147, 158, 
 195; 593, 155; 595, 158; 598, 
 155; 599 f., 158; 607, 158, 193; 
 607-21, 47, 178, 184, 193; 609, 
 164; 610, 162; 614, 162; 615, 
 273; 618-21, 175; 619, 186, 189; 
 621, 282; 623, 159; 626, 162; 
 637, 171; 637-41, 145; 637-700, 
 162; 639, 146; 67386, 145; 
 687 ff., 281; 696, 146; 701-33, 
 162; 717-19, 115; 724, 157, 162; 
 729 ff., 281; 732, 281; 756-814, 
 163; 763-1162, 136; 770, 163; 
 770-808, 184; 794, 163, 172, 280; 
 798, 163 ; 798-809, 146 ; 805, 163 ; 
 809, 172; 811-14, 164, 172, 195; 
 815-21, 172; 815-73, 166, 173; 
 815-908, 172; 825, 281 ; 826, 281; 
 835, 281; 839, 281; 846, 282;
 
 INDEX 
 
 291 
 
 Heracles (cont.) 
 
 858-73, 168 ; 872 f. , 168 ; 874-908, 
 172, i73 ; 876-908, 171 ; 900-8, 
 165; 908, 169; 909, 169; 914, 
 171; 922, 164, 168; 922-1016, 
 164; 928-38, 165; 950, 162; 
 1001-6, 165; 1017-28, 175; 
 1042-86, 175 ; 1055, 186 ; 1086, 
 169; 1089-1105, 175; 1097, 189; 
 TIOI, 189; r 101-4, 184; mo, 
 175; 1127,169; H3S, 169; 1163, 
 155; r 163-65, 195; 11 16^-68, 176 ; 
 1165, 178; 1169, 181, 183; 1173, 
 282; 1191, 169, 187; 1192-94, 
 187; 1203-13,187; 1214-28, 187; 
 1220, 181, 183; 1222, 189; 1223, 
 184; 1239,187; 1243,188; 1246- 
 54, 187; 1247, 180; 1255, 188, 
 192; 1255-1310, 188 f. ; 1266,150; 
 1274, 283; 1276-78, 184; 1277, 
 193; 1279, 188; 1303-10, 169; 
 1310, 190; 1310-40, 190; 131 if., 
 169, 190 ; 1313-39, 179, 190 ; 1314, 
 187; 1314-35, 180; 1316, 187; 
 1327, 186; 1331, 180; 1336, 181, 
 183 ; 1340-46. 169, 191 ; 1341, 135, 
 1388; 1341-46, 167; 1345, 188, 
 191; 1347, 191; 1353-5?, 190; 
 1353-85, 192; 1358-66, 195; 
 1380 f., 196; 1386, 182, 183; 
 1386-88, 192, 282: 1387, 195; 
 
 1 389-93, 192; 1393' 169 ; 1394, 
 190; 1404, 191; 1406-18, 196; 
 1408 f., 195; 1412, 181, 183; 
 1413-15, 185; 1415, 282 ; 1418-21, 
 195 
 
 Heraclidae 
 847, 140 
 
 Hippolytus 
 
 Hipp, hypoth. 22; 58, 113; 58-120, 
 114; 110-12, 194; 113, 114; 338, 
 99; 1077,96; 1173-84,14051198, 
 140; 1219, 194; 1240, 194 
 
 Ion 
 
 Ion 167,28!; 179,194; 264,66; 541, 
 99; 802, 277; 831, 277; 1406, 56 
 
 Iphigenia in Tatirica 
 
 /.r.77,26; 123,107; 143-235,122; 
 260 ff., 259; 281-94, 222; 392, 107; 
 439, 109; 570, 26; 69-75, 106; 827, 
 107; 939, 140; 1015, 102; 1017, 
 111; 1020-23, 91; 1067,121; 1088, 
 107; 1183, ill; 1234, 107; 1327- 
 78, 86; 1366, 119; 1386, 51; 1394, 
 113; 1467, 121 
 
 Medea 
 
 Med. hypoth . 262 ; 1 1 , 129 ; 364 , 125 ; 
 446, 105; 478-82, 127; 662, 128; 
 968, 115; 1021, 125; 1081, 126; 
 1084, 86; 1278, 281; 1360, 105; 
 
 Medea (cont.) 
 
 1373, 128; 1381-83, 129; 1415, 120, 
 127 
 
 Orestes 
 
 Orest. hypoth. 2, 261; 1-3, 210; 2, 
 211; 5, 217; 8, 217; 17, 205; 27, 
 218, 205; 28, 217; 32, 219; 37, 
 217; 46, 217; 47, 243; 49-51, 209; 
 52, 214; 54, 234; 57, 211; 58, 205; 
 63 f., 212; 72, 219; 79, 211; 92, 
 219; 102, 205; 105-11, 220; 114, 
 229; 122,212; 126,219,220; 128, 
 216, 263; 131-210, 216; 140, 261; 
 162, 207; 191, 207; 194, 206; 195- 
 210, 221; 201, 210; 205, 219; 238, 
 221; 243, 214; 244, 212; 245, 220, 
 222; 247, 222; 247-76, 222; 277ff., 
 223; 285, 26; 303, 217; 321,218; 
 349, 285; 360, 139; 360 ff., 259; 
 360-69, 224; 360-74, 205; 371-73, 
 208; 377, 210; 385, 56; 401, 213; 
 409 f., 285; 416 f., 207; 417, 224; 
 421 f., 285; 422,213; 427 ff., 224; 
 428, 217; 432, 205; 433 f., 224; 
 436, 224; 441, 209; 442, 209; 444, 
 217; 448, 212; 448 ff., 225; 459 ff., 
 227; 467, 228; 470, 213; 470 ff., 
 227; 470-81, 285; 472, 227, 229; 
 474, 216; 481, 227; 487, 226; 491, 
 204; 491-525, 239; 496, 206; 500, 
 208, 230: 515, 228; 518-22, 227; 
 523, 226; 526 ff., 227, 229; 532 f., 
 229; 542, 285; 542 f., 277; 544 f., 
 230; 546-63, 230; 547 f., 231; 552- 
 56, 230; 561, 205; 564-71, 239; 
 564-78, 230, 235; 571, 230; 579- 
 84, 230; 582, 285; 585-90, 230; 
 591, 207; 599, 285; 605 f., 277; 
 609, 227; 611, 227; 615-21, 231; 
 619, 218; 619 f., 208; 630, 231; 
 638, 229; 638 f., 232; 640 ff., 229; 
 646 ff., 233; 658ff., 233, 286; 665 f., 
 2385669-72, 2345674, 234; 677-79, 
 234; 682, 213; 682 ff., 231, 234; 
 694 f., 286; 696 ff., 235; 704 f., 232; 
 711, 214; 729-31, 235; 736-805, 
 236; 750, 237; 760, 217; 763, 214; 
 763 ff., 235, 246; 765-67, 245;77of., 
 235; 782, 235; 784, 243; 785, 236; 
 793, 246; 796 f., 237; 804, 223, 
 237; 807-43, 206; 846-50, 210; 
 849, 237; 866, 202, 206; 866-70, 
 207, 237; 872 f., 242; 885, 239; 
 890-900, 206; 895, 241; 896, 239; 
 898-900, 209; 900, 239; 904, 241; 
 9i7ff., 239; 932, 207; 932 f., 242; 
 932-42, 239; 935-37, 240; 943-45, 
 242; 946, 243; 950, 286; 955, 207; 
 960 ff., 244; 960-10 1 2, 2165974, 211; 
 1012-21, 286; 1015, 244; 1056, 214;
 
 292 
 
 INDEX 
 
 Orestes (cont.) 
 
 1058, 244; 1075 ff., 245; 1077, 246; 
 1078,258; 1085-97,246; 1090,20?; 
 ii03f., 263; 1106, 245; 1107, 245; 
 1131, 245; 1131 ff., 245; 1149^, 
 251; i i so, 253; 1153, 66; 1158, 
 207; 1182, 286; 1168, 201; 1191, 
 211; ngiff., 245; 1204, 245; 1207, 
 258; 1211-15,221; 12310., 247; 
 1236, 286; 1239, 247; 1246-1553, 
 216; 1248, 249; 1267, 216, 287; 
 1323, 212; 1323-45- 2*8; 1340, 
 212; 1345,212; 1365, 248; 1366-8, 
 248; 1369,216; 1 369 ff., 248; 1369- 
 1502, 250; 1371, 215; 1385 f., 251; 
 1391 ff., 251; 1394,250; 1431,212; 
 1445 ff., 251; 1451, 250; 1470 ff., 
 251; 1474 ff., 251; 1475, 251; 
 1490 ff., 251; 1495 ff., 254; 1496, 
 254; 1503-36, 252; 1506, 250; 
 1517, 253; 1521, 253; 1522, 253; 
 1523, 253; 1527-36,253; 1533-36, 
 
 254; 1537-44, 253 ; 1539 f " 253 ; 
 
 1541 f., 253; 1551, 253; 1558, 253; 
 1559, 254; 1567, 222; 1567-74, 
 255; 1567-1624, 255; 1570, 215; 
 1576-96, 255; 1580, 254; 1586, 
 254; 1589, 255; 1592, 255; i6nff., 
 245; 1618-20, 255; 1622, 257; 
 1624, 263; 1625, 255; 1625-90, 
 256; 1629 ff., 254; 16^0-53, 260; 
 1664 f., 258; 1671 f., 257 V 
 Phoenissae 
 301-54, 131 
 
 Rhesus, hypolh. 23 
 
 Troades 
 
 995, 268 
 HERODOTUS 
 
 2. 112 ff., 275 
 HESIOD 
 
 Theog. 1 002, 84 
 HOMER 
 
 //. 3. 445, 69 
 
 Od. 4 . 354, 75; 4 . 366, 80 
 HORACE 
 
 Odes i. 30. 8, 92 
 PAUSANIAS 
 
 i- 35- i, 69; 2. 31. 2, 282; 2. 35. 7, 
 194, 282; 3. 25. 5, 282; 9. 34. 4, 
 282 
 PLATO 
 
 Phaedr. p. 229, 138 
 PLUTARCH 
 
 Coniug. Praec., Prooem. 92 
 SOPHOCLES 
 
 Ajax 1-133, 168 
 
 Ant. 823, 123 
 
 El. 1322, 100 
 
 0. T. 130, 95; 1007, 55; 1149, 55 
 Phil. 1465, 112 
 
 Trach. prol., 134; i, 95; 10, 150; 
 
 523, 150; 555, 134 
 THUCYDIDES 
 
 1. 126-27, 32 
 VIRGIL 
 
 Aen. 3. 320 ff., 268 
 
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