Aeschylus (Copleston)/Chapter 3
CHAPTER III.
PROMETHEUS BOUND.
The "Prometheus Bound" is probably not the earliest even of the few remaining plays of Æschylus; and yet, for many reasons, it is the fittest of the seven[1] to begin with, for it is the easiest, the most typical, and the most interesting.
It is, in several respects, as simple as it could be. The interest is undivided, for the one hero is present throughout, and the other persons who appear from time to time are all introduced directly for the sake of their connection with him. The unity which all plays, and indeed all works of art, ought to possess, is generally attained, if at all, by less simple means. The main thread is often lost sight of for a time, and our interest is temporarily engaged in some side-plot, which is only afterwards and indirectly seen to bear upon the main issue; so that the poet's skill is shown in enlisting our sympathies in the separate aims of a number of persons, and yet making all those aims subservient, in one way or another, to the chief action of the piece. But in the "Prometheus" unity is directly secured by having only one person of predominant influence. There is not much elaborate art, certainly, in this course, nor is a result so attained ever quite as striking as that of the more complicated process, when that is used with great power and is completely successful; but such success is rare indeed. It is too often the case that the surrounding interests, instead of contributing their several currents to the main stream, are only so many drains detracting from it. And so it is that few plays of those written with most elaborate art produce anything like the imposing sense of unity which we gain from the "Prometheus."
In its plot, too, this play is exceedingly simple. If we consider the series of steps by which the catastrophe is brought about in a modern play, the great number of events which take place between the rising of the curtain and its fall, how many people pass through vicissitudes of hope and despair, are married and killed, what a long time often elapses, long enough even for changes to appear in the character of the persons;—if we consider this complexity, and then turn to the plot of the "Prometheus," we shall feel that we are dealing with quite a different kind of composition.
Prometheus is nailed to a rock, and refuses even under this torture to yield to the will of Jove. That is all. Other persons come and speak to him, urge or command him to relent, or threaten him with the result, but only to be repelled in turn. The attitude of the hero never alters, the issue is never doubtful. This naturally seems to us only a scene out of a longer play—and such, in a sense, it is. It is probably the second part in one of those series of three plays, or trilogies, of which we have one complete specimen in the "Story of Orestes." The first of the three would have exhibited the crime of Prometheus, his stealing the divine fire for men; then came the Prometheus Bound, his punishment; and lastly, Prometheus Freed, his restoration. There were, in that case, three complete pictures, together making one story. We have only one picture left, and it is perhaps the simplest, and certainly the most affecting, of the three.
Another respect in which the play is simple is its scene. From the nature of the story, this remains unchanged throughout, until it is lost in the final convulsion.
Now, to have the attention concentrated on one person, in one set of circumstances, in one place, would of course be most tedious, unless the play were short. And it is, like most of our author's plays, much shorter than even the average of Greek tragedies. It is little more than a tableau vivant, exhibiting the punishment and fortitude of Prometheus; a signal instance of that character by which the Attic tragedy is especially distinguished from the modern, of statuesque and colossal simplicity. It is a single statue, not even a group: it is less complicated than the Laocoon: though evidently one of a series, it is complete in itself.
There remains the most important reason why this play is a good one to begin with—it is much the most universally interesting of the surviving dramas of Æschylus. There is very little in it that is exclusively Greek or Athenian; no allusions, or very few, to historical events or national institutions, so that it is as suitable almost to one place and time as to another. The spectacle of a god suffering for the sake of men, so wonderful a prophecy as it is of the great fact of Christianity, has, for most minds, a strong fascination. Goethe, Shelley, and many others, have tried their hands upon the subject—not, it is true, following the plain story of Æschylus, but each adapting the materials to his own creed. Goethe's work is only a fragment. The "Prometheus Unbound" of Shelley, though it is a poem in many points painful and in many fantastic, yet has many passages which illustrate Æschylus with remarkable clearness. But one thing must always prevent any modern adaptation of the situation from being complete, if it is to avoid being blasphemous. In the Greek play Prometheus represents the cause of man against Zeus, and openly rebels against him. Now, so long as the supreme god is represented as wicked or unjust, such an attitude can be an object of sympathy; but to those who believe in the true God, a rebel against Him cannot be regarded as a friend to men, or be an object of anything but hatred. Hence it is that the nearest parallel to Prometheus which modern literature affords is Satan himself in "Paradise Lost." As a spectacle of indomitable will, not succumbing under torture, and raising to the last a voice of defiance to heaven, Satan is the very counterpart of Prometheus; but all that wins our sympathy for Prometheus,—his goodness, and gentleness, and love of men—is of course wanting in the character of Satan. Shelley has made his adaptation more complete, and it scarcely escapes the charge of blasphemy. The race of men are represented, in the person of his Prometheus, as always baffled in all desires and aims at good by the tyranny of some cruel power. In Byron's "Cain," this attitude is still more openly assumed, but the person of Cain is not represented as entirely deserving of our sympathy. However, these instances show how favourite a theme this, of mankind suffering in the person of one, has been with later poets.
But we will turn to a pleasanter comparison, and see mankind suffering, not in antagonism but in conscious submission to the will of God. In the oldest of all poems, it may be, in the Book of Job, the same great spectacle of heroic endurance is set before us, and there too the hero represents humanity. Prometheus, after his long suffering, is restored to happiness; humanity suffers and is restored in his person. So it is, in a much higher sense, with Job. Not only in his physical sufferings and restoration, but in the deeper agony of the moral problem which overpowers him, and the higher elevation of the future to which he looks. Job represents all mankind. In him are answered the angry questions which Shelley and Byron ask. "What means," say they, "this constant baffling of man's best efforts, this universal presence of pain and sin, this obscurity in the ways of God?" These are the questions of humanity in its sufferings, and in Job is found the answer. As he was restored, mankind will be freed from this pain; as he learned the explanation of God's ways, so will mankind be taught. The resurrection will come, and the latter end of the human race will be blessed abundantly; for, in a higher sense than Job could know of, its "Redeemer liveth, and will stand at the latter day upon the earth."
So Prometheus is the Job of the heathen—their prophecy of Christ; and this gives this drama an interest which no other can possess.
There is one other point which must be mentioned about this play, before we proceed to its actual description. It does not so much give us excitement or instruction, as imprint on our minds a figure. This is somewhat the case with "Hamlet;" it is the case with 'Don Quixote.' We rise from the perusal of such a work enriched with a constant companion: a strongly-marked character, almost a well-defined form, is stored up within our minds. So is it with the "Prometheus." Just as those who have been among the Alps may carry about with them the vivid presence of some solitary height which stands up alone and defiant in the face of heaven, its rough sides beaten by a thousand storms, and the great mountains sinking at its feet,—so those who have studied the "Prometheus" have always in their mind that exhibition of unapproachable greatness and indomitable will.
Now who was this Prometheus? He was one of the Titans of whom we spoke in the last chapter,—of the older race of gods who reigned in Olympus before Jove and his dynasty came to the throne of heaven. Jove was supposed to have obtained his position by conspiracy against his father Saturn—an impiety in some sort justifiable, because Saturn had dispossessed his father Uranus by means not less outrageous. It is a curious question, What could have led the Greeks to rest the claims of their gods on such foundations?—but we cannot enter upon it here. Jove was aided, of course, in his enterprise, by the gods who, when he had succeeded, found places by his side; and Prometheus, at the first, was one of these. He had always been a pitying friend to the human race, and his mother Themis, or Right, had encouraged him in the hope that the reign of Jove would be beneficial to mankind. His name, Prometheus, means "forethought," and in his love of men is implied the lesson that forethought is the source of all human happiness. Hoping, then, to confer a blessing on mankind, he had helped to raise Zeus to power, at the expense of the old gods, and the Titans, his kindred; but he was disappointed at the result. Zeus entirely neglected mankind, or even sought to depress them more and more, till he should have put an end to the race altogether. To remedy their sad state, Prometheus carried down from heaven by stealth some sparks of fire concealed in a stalk of fennel, that men might learn to forge tools and instruments, and so arts and wealth might arise upon the earth. But to use this element of fire had been the special prerogative of the gods, and they would not have an inferior race strengthened by it; fearing, perhaps, lest, so equipped, mankind might aspire to supplant them in the empire of heaven. So their wrath was great against Prometheus, and he was regarded as the foe of the gods and the friend of the upstart tribes of men, and Zeus condemned him to be bound upon a peak of Mount Caucasus, there to linger out the long years of eternity; and all the other gods, who enjoyed their prerogatives only through his aid, joined in rejoicing over his fall. Only a few who, like himself, were victims of the tyranny of the new Ruler, were found to sympathise with his troubles.
Supplied with this knowledge, which nearly every citizen of Athens possessed, we may now take our places in the theatre under the Acropolis, and watch the play.
When the great curtain has been removed which hung over the back wall of the stage, the wild scene in which all is to take place is opened to our view. Barren craggy cliffs rise up in front and on one side, while on the other we can see down a great precipice, over lower hills and slopes, marked with the course of mountain streams, to the sunny rippling sea. This spot is a peak of Caucasus, and before we can duly estimate the scene, we must just remember what it meant to an Athenian. To us, mountains are beautiful and picturesque. We see them only in our holidays, and have not to cross them in hardship and famine; but a Greek had no friendly feeling for them. A mountain was to him only a hard cruel place, barren and ugly.[2] And besides the horror that attached to mountain scenes in general, we must remember that Caucasus was the very type of all that was most remote, barbarous, inhospitable. It was a place to which no civilised man could ever bear to go; and the vivid representation of its crags must have struck horror into the minds of the spectators, and prepared them for what was to come.
The hero is led upon the scene. He is of more than human stature, and his mask represents a face of unusual dignity; while the calm resignation with which he walks to the scene of his torture contrasts strongly with the violence of those who are dragging him thither. These are two beings of superhuman strength and savage face, to whom Zeus has intrusted the execution of his decree. Their names are Strength and Force, but though their persons are two their office is the same, and one only speaks for both. With them comes the lame god Vulcan, the god of fire, for it is his office to forge the chains and bolts, and to bind the victim. Though it is his own special prerogative which Prometheus has injured, yet Vulcan is reluctant to bind a brother god, and to consign so noble a being to such a wretched fate. He walks somewhat behind the others, his heavy tramp echoing across the theatre.
When they reach the middle of the stage, Strength begins to urge Vulcan to the execution of his task. "We are come," he says, "to this desert spot of Scythia: bind the crafty trickster fast, as the Father bade thee, in adamantine bonds, that he may learn henceforth to submit to the will of Zeus, and cease from his philanthropy." Vulcan acknowledges the duty, and confesses that he durst not disobey the Father; but he cannot refrain from expressing his sympathy for Prometheus. "Against my will," he says,
"I fetter thee against thy will with bonds
Of bronze that none can loose, to this lone height,
Where thou shalt know nor voice nor face of man,
But scorching in the hot blaze of the sun
Shalt lose thy skin's fair beauty. Thou shalt long
For starry-mantled night to hide day's sheen,
For sun to melt the rime of early dawn;
And evermore the weight of present ill
Shall wear thee down. Unborn as yet is he
Who shall release thee: this the fate thou gain'st
As due reward for thy philanthropy.
For thou, a god not fearing power of gods,
In thy transgression gav'st their power to men;
And therefore on this rock of little ease
Thou still shalt keep thy watch, nor lying down,
Nor knowing sleep, nor ever bending knee;
And many groans and wailings pitiless
Thy lips shall utter; for the mind of Zeus
Remains inexorable. Who holds a power
But newly gained, is ever stern of mood."[3]
Strength despises this pitifulness, and suggests that Vulcan ought to hate one who had injured him so especially; and when the fire-god pleads the force of kindred and friendship, hints that no course is so painful as to encounter the wrath of Zeus. Vulcan bitterly regrets that his possession of the art of working in metals should have brought on him, instead of any other, so distasteful a task. This leads to a remark from Strength which, though not so intended, is quite in the spirit of that indignation against the tyranny of Zeus which runs through the whole play. "Every lot," he says, "has some trouble in it, except the throne of heaven; none is free but Zeus." Vulcan proceeds reluctantly to his task; and now the spectators are horrified by the actual sight of the impaling and enchaining of Prometheus; and the sound of the iron hammer rings through the theatre. Strength meantime urges on the work:—
"In thine hands take him. Then with all thy might
Strike with thine hammer; nail him to the rocks.
Vul. The work goes on, I ween, and not in vain.
Str. Strike harder, rivet, give no whit of ease:
A wondrous knack has he to find resource
Even where all might seem to baffle him.
Vul. Lo this his arm is fixed inextricably.
Str. Now rivet thou this other fast. . . . .
Now drive the stern jaw of the adamant wedge
Right through his chest with all the strength thou hast.
Vul. Ah me, Prometheus, for thy woes I groan!
Str. Again, thou'rt loath, and for the foes of Zeus
Thou groanest: take good heed to it, lest thou
Ere long with cause thyself commiserate."
Vulcan begs to be spared these constant exhortations, and is moved angrily to say that the cruel words of Strength are only what might be expected from his savage face. Strength answers,—
"Choose thou the melting mood; but chide not me
For my self-will and wrath and ruthlessness."
And now the work is done; but Strength cannot resist the temptation to stay behind and insult over his victim:—
"Here then wax proud, and stealing what belongs
To the gods, to mortals give it. What can they
Avail to rescue thee from these thy woes?
Falsely the gods have thee Prometheus called,
The god of Forethought: forethought dost thou need
To free thyself from this rare handiwork."
Then the torturers depart, and Prometheus is left alone. The ring of the hammer and the sound of Vulcan's heavy tread have ceased, and for a few moments there is an oppressive silence. While his executioners were at hand, he has not uttered even a groan; but now that they are gone, his grief breaks out, and he appeals to the only companions that are in sight,—the sun, and earth, and rivers, and distant sea. Few scenes are more striking than that of the solitary sufferer in a noble cause, left now to face alone the long years of misery that await him, with no sympathising ear to hear his lamentations. And no translation can do justice to the majestic lines in which his appeal is expressed:—
"Thou firmament of God, and swift-winged winds,
Ye springs of rivers, and of ocean-waves,
Thou smile innumerous![4] Mother of us all,
Earth, and Sun's all-seeing eye, behold,
I pray, what I, a god, from gods endure.
Behold in what foul case
I for ten thousand years
Shall struggle in my woe,
In these unseemly chains.
Such doom the new-made Monarch of the Blest
Hath now devised for me.
Woe, woe! the present and th' oncoming pang
I wail, as I search out
The place and hour when end of all these ills
Shall dawn on me at last.
What say I? All too clearly I foresee
The things that come, and nought of pain shall be
By me unlooked for; but I needs must bear
My destiny as best I may, knowing well
The might resistless of Necessity."
"This," he cries, "is all my reward for my goodness to mankind." Suddenly he stops and listens.—"What sound," he cries, "what fragrance is this that floats up to me? Is some one come to enjoy the spectacle of my woes?"
"Ah me! what rustling sounds
Hear I of birds not far?
With the light whirr of wings
The air re-echoeth:
All that draws near to me is cause of fear."
The preceding words had not been more remarkable for dignity than these are for their airy lightness, and for the sudden startled tone which they express. We seem in reading them to see, almost as clearly as the spectators saw upon the stage, the chorus of Ocean-nymphs who now enter, floating in the air, and hovering near the place where Prometheus is bound. Their leader tells him that they are come in friendship, to show their sympathy, borne by the breeze from their father Ocean's halls, overcoming their maiden modesty in their eagerness to condole with him. They are as indignant as Prometheus is at the tyranny of the new rulers of heaven, and, with the enthusiasm of their sex, are even more open in expressing their indignation; and when Prometheus feels as the bitterest pang the exultation which he knows his sufferings cause to the other gods, and cries that to be buried in the depths of Tartarus, out of sight, though bound in darkness for ever, would be better than their mockery, the Chorus scarcely can believe, they say, that any god but the relentless Zeus could rejoice at such a sight. "He," they say, "will grow more and more tyrannous, till some one overthrows his power at last.""Such a time," says the Titan, endowed as he is with a god's prophetic power, "will come, and Zeus himself will then need my help, for I only know how the plot will be laid, and how he can escape it."
"I know that Zeus is hard,
And keeps the right supremely to himself;
But then, I know, he'll be
Full pliant in his will
When he is thus crushed down.
Then calming down his mood
Of hard and bitter wrath,
He'll hasten unto me,
As I to him shall haste,
For friendship and for peace."
On this the Ocean-nymphs beg to hear the story of his offence, and, painful as it is to go over the sad tale again, Prometheus consents to tell it. He tells how war arose in heaven, how he had helped Zeus to the throne, and joined him in the overthrow of his own brother Titans. The ingratitude of Zeus suggests a remark which was welcome to Athenian ears—a remark in disparagement of despotism,—
"For somehow this disease in sovereignty
Inheres, of never trusting to one's friends."
For when Zeus set his kingdom in order he entirely neglected the wellbeing of mankind, and even designed utterly to obliterate the race. "And I only," says Prometheus, "dared to cross his will, and my present plight is the result." After a few words of sincere sympathy from the Chorus, Prometheus goes on to describe the steps by which he had improved the condition of mortals. Especially he gave them blind hopes, to keep them from dwelling on their fate, and Fire, the mother of all arts. This is his only sin; for this is laid on him a punishment which can have no end except by the will of Zeus. The Chorus would urge him to leave off regrets and seek some remedy for his trouble; but he tells them that the consequences of his act were all well known to him, and that he did it all advisedly. He begs them to descend from their airy place and listen to the rest of his story. So they quickly alight upon the stage, form into rank, and walk down to the orchestra, chanting as they go the words,—
"Not to unwilling hearers hast thou uttered,
Prometheus, thy request.
And now with nimble foot abandoning
My swiftly-rushing car,
And the pure æther, path of birds of heaven,
I will draw near this rough and rocky land,
For much do I desire
To hear the tale, full measure, of thy woes."
No sooner have these taken their places in the orchestra than another floating car appears, drawn by a winged gryphon; and in it is borne Oceanus, the father of the nymphs who form the Chorus. He is bound to Prometheus by ties of kindred as well as by respect for his character, and he has come a long journey—from the river which bears his name, the mighty river which encircles the earth—to offer his assistance. He professes earnest friendship, and his professions are sincere; but he is too confident in his advice, and has too little tolerance for what he thinks the folly of Prometheus, to be a much better comforter than the friends of Job. Like them, he reminds the sufferer that it is all his own fault; that the same overbearing pride which he now expresses brought on him originally the wrath of Zeus, and that even now Zeus may hear his words and lay on him far heavier tortures. Prometheus is inclined to suspect the friendship of his visitor, and bids him not endanger himself in his behalf, but take his own advice and keep clear of the wrath of Zeus. Oceanus persists in his offer of help, confident that he can persuade the king of heaven to relax his anger, but still mingles reproaches with his advice, and Prometheus sarcastically rejects it. "Take," he says,
"I pray, no trouble for me: all in vain
Thy trouble, nothing helping, e'en if thou
Shouldst care to take this trouble. Nay, be still;
Keep out of harm's way: sufferer though I be
I would not therefore wish to give my woes
A wider range o'er others. No, not so:
For lo! my mind is wearied with the grief
Of that my kinsman Atlas, who doth stand
In the far west, supporting on his shoulders
The pillars of the earth and heaven, a burden
His arms but ill can hold: I pity too
The giant dweller of Kilikian caves,
Dread portent, with his hundred hands, subdued
By force, the mighty Typhon, who arose
'Gainst all the gods, with sharp and dreadful jaws
Hissing out slaughter, and from out his eyes
There flashed the terrible brightness as of one
Who would make havoc of the might of Zeus.
But the unsleeping dart of Zeus came on him,
Down-swooping thunderbolt that breathes out flame,
Which from his lofty boastings startled him,
For he i' the heart was struck, to ashes burnt,
His strength all thunder-shattered; and he lies
A helpless, powerless carcass, near the strait
Of the great sea, fast pressed beneath the roots
Of ancient Etna, where on the highest peak
Hephæstos sits and smites his iron red-hot,
From whence hereafter streams of fire shall burst,[5]
Devouring with fierce jaws the golden plains
Of fruitful fair Sikelia. Such the wrath
That Typhon shall belch forth with bursts of storm,
Hot, breathing fire, and unapproachable,
Though burnt and charred by thunderbolts of Zeus.
Not inexperienced art thou, nor dost need
My teaching: save thyself, as thou know'st how;
And I will drink my fortune to the dregs,
Till from his wrath the mind of Zeus shall rest."
Warned by such examples, and finding it impossible to persuade Prometheus, the Ocean-god retires. His four-footed bird is eager, he says, to be in his stall at home, and he sets forth gladly on his return through the blue path of ether.
Prometheus is alone again with the Chorus, who now express their sympathy in a beautiful ode. Tears for his lot, they say, are flowing down their tender cheeks—tears of grief and of indignation at the tyranny of Zeus. All the neighbouring regions mourn for the fall of the stately power of ancient days; the dwellers in holy Asia, and the bold Amazons upon the Colchian coasts, and the savage Scythians, and the warlike natives of the Caucasus,—all mourn in universal sympathy. Then they speak again of the like fate of Atlas, ever groaning under the burden of the world, with whom all nature laments, as with Prometheus.
"And lo! the ocean-billows murmur loud
In one accord with him;
The sea-depths groan, and Hades' swarthy pit
Re-echoeth with the sound,
And fountains of the rivers, flowing clear,
Wail the sad tale of woe."
When the soft sweet accents of this graceful song have died away, there is silence for a space, while we wait anxiously for the next words of the hero. It is not pride, he says, that keeps him silent, but indignation. He had himself set these young gods on their thrones; that is his bitterest pain—that, and the cruelty shown to men, for whom he had laboured so much. His efforts in behalf of mortals he then describes in a speech as noble for its poetry as it is remarkable for its philosophy. "These woes of men," he begins,—
"List ye to these,—how them, before as babes,
I roused to reason, gave them power to think;
And this I say, not finding fault with men,
But showing my goodwill in all I gave.
But first, though seeing they did not perceive,
And hearing heard not rightly. But, like forms
Of phantom-dreams, throughout their life's whole length
They muddled all at random; did not know
Houses of brick that catch the sunlight's warmth,
Nor yet the work of carpentry. They dwelt
In hollowed holes like swarms of tiny ants
In sunless depths of caverns; and they had
No certain sign of winter, nor of spring
Flower-laden, nor of summer with her fruits.
But without counsel fared their whole life long.
Until I showed the risings of the stars,
And settings hard to recognise. And I
Found Number for them, chief of all the arts,
Groupings of letters. Memory, handmaid true
And mother of the Muses. And I first
Bound in the yoke wild steeds, submissive made
Or to the collar or men's limbs, that so
They might in men's place bear his greatest toils;
And horses, trained to love the rein, I yoked
To chariots, glory of wealth's pride of state;
Nor was it any one but I that found
Sea-crossing, canvas-winged cars of ships:
Such rare designs inventing (wretched me!)
For mortal men, I yet have no resource
By which to free myself from this my woe."
He had taught them, too, the arts of healing and of prophecy, and showed them many ways of augury; disclosed to them the earth's stores of metal, and taught them their use; in short, he says, from Forethought came all arts to mortals.
This speech has been closely imitated by Shelley, who has amplified it with many beautiful thoughts; but it has lost in the change its stern simplicity, and gained instead a wonderful richness and voluptuous splendour. Still it explains our author so well that it will not be out of place to subjoin the greater part of it:
"Prometheus saw, and waked the legioned hopes
Which sleep within folded Elysian flowers,
Nepenthe, Moly, Amaranth, fadeless blooms,
That they might hide with thin and rainbow wings
The shape of Death; and Love he sent to bind
The disunited tendrils of that vine
Which bears the wine of life, the human heart;
And he tamed fire, which, like some beast of prey,
Most terrible but lovely, played beneath
The frown of man; and tortured to his will
Iron and gold, the slaves and signs of power,
And gems and poisons, and all subtlest forms
Hidden beneath the mountains and the waves.
He gave man speech, and speech created thought,
Which is the measure of the universe;
And Science struck the thrones of earth and heaven,
Which shook, but fell not; and the harmonious mind
Poured itself forth in all-prophetic song;
And music lifted up the listening spirit
Until it walked, exempt from mortal care,
Godlike, o'er the clear billows of sweet sound;
And human hands first mimicked, and then mocked
With moulded limbs more lovely than its own
The human form, till marble grew divine,
And mothers, gazing, drank the love men see
Reflected in their race, behold and perish.
He told the hidden power of herbs and springs,
And Disease drank and slept. Death grew like sleep.
He taught the implicated orbits woven
Of the wide-wandering stars, and how the sun
Changes his lair, and by what secret spell
The pale moon is transformed, when her broad eye
Gazes not on the interlunar sea.
He taught to rule, as life directs the limbs,
The tempest-winged chariots of the ocean,
And the Celt knew the Indian. Cities then
Were built, and through their snow-like columns flowed
The warm winds, and the azure æther shone,
And the blue sea and shadowy hills were seen.
Such, the alleviations of his state,
Prometheus gave to man, for which he hangs
Withering in destined pain."
A remarkable dialogue ensues, in which Prometheus intimates that over Zeus himself the inevitable laws of necessity have power, but that in what way they will cross his path may not yet be told, for on the keeping of this secret depends the ultimate liberation of Prometheus himself.
In the beautiful little ode which follows—an ode which Mr Plumptre has translated admirably—the Chorus express a pious fear of the power of Zeus, and dread of the effects of such boldness in speech as Prometheus has displayed. Too great, too hopeless was his endeavour on behalf of men, and grievous is its consequence; an end so different from that happy day on which, as the Ocean-nymphs sadly remember, he led as a bride to his halls their own sister Hesione. Their gentle sympathy has reached its tenderest point, and the soft music, which has held those thirty thousand Athenians enthralled, dies quietly away.
And now a new person comes upon the scene; one who, like Prometheus, is a sufferer under the wrath of heaven, the maiden Io. She wears the form of a heifer, though her face is still a woman's, and in this shape she is driven up and down the world, by the jealousy of Juno, because her beauty, by no fault of hers, had attracted the love of the sovereign of Olympus. Behind her follows a spectral form, the ghost of Argus the many-eyed, who still, though dead, drives her before him through the earth, while a gadfly, with its constant stings, adds to her restlessness. She comes upon the scene lamenting her lot, and calling upon Zeus for an answer to her prayers. Prometheus recognises her at once. "Surely," he says,—
"Surely I hear the maid by gadfly driven,
Daughter of Inachos, who warmed the heart
Of Zeus with love, and now through Here's hate
Is tried, perforce, with wanderings over-long."
In answer to her surprised inquiries, the hero tells her his name and the cause of his sufferings; and she asks him, as a prophet, what the end of her own wanderings will be. He would at first conceal from her knowledge which could only give her pain, but he yields at last to her request; yet before he proceeds to the prophecy, Io herself, at the request of the Chorus, narrates the history of her past life. When a girl in her father's home, she was visited by frequent dreams which told her of the love of Zeus. Her father Inachus, on hearing of those portents, consulted many times the oracles of Delphi and Dodona, and at last was told to drive her from his doors. Reluctantly he did so; and straightway she became a horned heifer, and the gadfly came to madden her, and the giant herdsman Argus with his innumerable eyes to watch her, and even his death, by the hand of Apollo, failed to free her from his constant pursuit. And so she is driven from land to land. The Chorus bewail her incredible griefs, but Prometheus tells them that the worst is still to hear. She must yet go through the land of the nomad Scythians, and round the Black Sea's coast, to the dwellings of the Chalybes, the inhospitable race who work in iron; and thence, across the starry peaks of Caucasus to the country of the Amazons, and on through many wild regions, to the Bosporus, whose name, meaning Ox-ford, will be derived from her journey. And this is only the beginning of her troubles. Her sufferings are grievous indeed, but death will bring an end to them; for Prometheus there is no respite "till Zeus be hurled out from his sovereignty." The mention of this possible release occasions a dialogue in which the connection of Io's fate with that of Prometheus is gradually disclosed:—
"Io. What! shall Zeus e'er be hurled from his estate?
Prom. 'Twould give thee joy I trow to see that fall.
Io. How should it not, when Zeus so foully wrongs me?
Prom. That this is so thou now may'st hear from me.
Io. Who then shall strip him of his sovereign power?
Prom. Himself shall do it by his own rash plans.
Io. But how?—tell this, unless it bringeth harm.
Prom. He shall wed one for whom one day he'll grieve.
Io. Heaven-born or mortal? tell, if tell thou may'st.
Prom. Why ask'st thou who? I may not tell thee that.
Io. Shall his bride hurl him from his throne of might?
Prom. Yea; she shall bear child mightier than his sire.
Io. Has he no way to turn aside that doom?
Prom. No, none, unless I from my bonds be loosed.
Io. Who then shall loose thee 'gainst the will of Zeus?
Prom. It must be one of thy posterity.
Io. What! shall a child of mine free thee from ills?
Prom. Yea, the third generation after ten."
Thus mysteriously is it foretold how Hercules, the thirteenth from Io, should be the means of Prometheus's freedom. Prometheus goes on, at the earnest request of Io herself and of the Chorus, to tell the rest of her wanderings and the manner of his own release. Through many strange countries she is to pass, and see many monsters—the three Graiæ, with the shapes of swans, and only one eye and one tooth between them; the three Gorgons, their sisters; the one-eyed Arimaspians who dwell by the ford of Pluto; and at last, passing the Ethiopians, she is to come to the land of the Nile. There her descendants will found a colony. At this point Prometheus bitterly says: "If any of this is not clear, ask, and I will repeat it; I have far more leisure than I like." To confirm his prophecy he tells her what her past wanderings have been; how she visited Dodona, and how she gave a name to the Ionian Sea. Then, passing on to the prophecy of his own release, he tells her that in Canopus, at the mouth of the Nile, a child Epaphus shall be born to her; from him in the fifth generation shall spring those fifty maidens who, in flight from wedlock with their fifty cousins, are to seek the land of Argos, and there each bride slay her husband, except one, who shall "prefer to be known as weak rather than murderous," and shall save her husband alive. From them will spring Hercules, whose arrows will slay the eagle which devours Prometheus, and set him free. So much and no more he will tell.
Immediately his prophecies about lo begin to accomplish themselves. The frenzy which the gadfly's bite inspires seizes on her afresh, and in a wild agony she rushes forth to renew her wanderings through the earth. The music of the Chorus is now heard again, and dancing slowly and sadly round the altar, they chant their reflections on the fate of Io; deprecating for themselves any ill-matched love, such as Io received from Zeus; praising the propitious and temperate union, of equals, and condemning—this is quite Æschylean—any desire on the part of the working man for wedlock with the rich or the high-born. Such are the thoughts which Io's suffering suggests to these maidens; above all, they dread any collision with the will of Zeus.
All that has passed—the yielding of Vulcan, the caution of Oceanus, the misery of Io—has contributed to increase in our minds the estimate of the irresistible power of Zeus, and so prepare us to admire the more the heroic resistance of Prometheus. A stronger trial of his determination is still to come. In tremendous words he foretells the certain fall of Zeus; he defies his thunders, and thinks rather how a stronger weapon than the thunder will some day be found; more violently still he asserts his certain ruin, and even now exults in its anticipation. His words have been heard in heaven. Mercury, the messenger of the gods, approaches, and bears a solemn message to the haughty Titan. The father of heaven commands that Prometheus should disclose all the details of the danger which his words have threatened. At once, and without hesitation, the answer must be given. And the answer is this:—
"Stately of utterance, full of haughtiness
Thy speech, as fits a messenger of gods.
Ye yet are young in your new rule, and think
To dwell in painless towers. Have I not
Seen those two rulers driven forth from thence?
And now the third, who reigneth, shall I see
In basest quickest fall. Seem I to thee
To shrink and quail before these new-made gods?
Far, very far from that am I. But thou,
Track once again the path by which thou camest;
Thou shalt learn nought of what thou askest me."
Mercury threatens the extremest fury of heaven's wrath, and would persuade Prometheus not, by his stubbornness, to incur such tortures. Taunting him with his youth and his menial service as messenger of Zeus, Prometheus openly defies the king of heaven:—
"Let then the blazing levin-flash be hurled;
With white-winged snowstorm and with earth-born thunders
Let him disturb and trouble all that is;
Nought of these things shall force me to declare
Whose hand shall drive him from his sovereignty."
Warning the stubborn hero of the storm and earthquake which presently will crush and bury him, and of the eagle who will then be sent to feed constantly upon his living flesh. Mercury departs, assuring him that of this suffering there will be no end, until some god shall be willing to suffer for him and go for his sake to Hades and gloomy Tartarus. This was done, according to the legend, by Cheiron; a strange foreshadowing, as Mr Plumptre says, of the mystery of the Atonement. But of this restoration we see nothing in this play; the rest is all darkness, and terror, and storm, through which the grand figure of Prometheus stands out with a majesty which has certainly not been surpassed in poetry. The heroism of the Ocean-nymphs, who will not leave him in this terrible hour, is only what the neighbourhood of his own heroism required. In ordinary levels of daring their conduct would be very noble; here it attracts only a passing thought of pity: great tragic characters always carry others down in their fall. But the whole of this final passage is so inimitably sublime, even in a translation, that we cannot say another word which might mar its effect:—
"Prom. To me who knew it all
He hath this message borne;
And that a foe from foes
Should suffer is not strange.
Therefore on me be hurled
The sharp-edged wreath of fire;
And let heaven's vault be stirred
With thunder and the blasts
Of fiercest winds; and earth
From its foundations strong,
E'en to its deepest roots,
Let storm-winds make to rock;
And let them heap the waves
Of ocean's rugged surge
Up to the regions high,
Where move the stars of heaven;
And to dark Tartaros
Let him my carcass hurl,
With mighty blasts of force;
Yet me he shall not slay.
Merc. Such words and thoughts from one
Brain-stricken we may hear.
What space divides his state
From frenzy? what repose
Hath he from maddened rage?
But ye who pitying stand
And share his bitter griefs,
Quickly from hence depart,
Lest the relentless roar
Of thunder stun your soul.
Chorus. With other words attempt
To counsel and persuade,
And I will hear; for now
Thou hast this word thrust in
That we may never hear.
How dost thou bid me train
My soul to baseness vile?
With him I will endure
Whatever is decreed.
Traitors I've learnt to hate;
Nor is there any plague
That more than this I loathe.
Merc. Nay, then, remember ye
What now I say, nor blame
Your fortune; never say
That Zeus has cast you down
With evil not foreseen.
Not so; ye cast yourselves:
For now with open eyes,
Not taken unawares,
In Atè's endless net
Ye shall entangled be
By folly of your own.
[A pause, and then flashes of lightning and peals of thunder.
Prom. Yea, now in very deed,
No more in word alone,
The earth shakes to and fro,
And the loud thunder's voice
Bellows hard by, and blaze
The flashing levin fires;
And tempests whirl the dust,
And gusts of all wild winds
On one another leap
In wild conflicting blasts,
And sky with sea is blent:
Such is the storm from Zeus
That comes as working fear,
In utter chaos whirled
In terrors manifest.
O mother venerable!
O Æther! rolling round
The common light of all,
See ye what wrongs I bear?"
During all this the storm and the thunder have been increasing, till at last the earth is opened, and Prometheus, with the rock to which he is chained, sinks into the abyss.
Our first feeling is one of indignation against Zeus, but it is not altogether the right feeling. His triumph is, after all, in accordance with the great moral laws by which, according to Æschylus, the world is governed. We, with our better morality, cannot help sympathising with Prometheus more than perhaps the poet did: we love him for his love of men, and admire his courage and high spirit. But this is partly because we do not believe in Zeus. Æschylus called that high spirit arrogance; and arrogance or excess, wherever it is found, must always appear a crime to the Greek and the artist. When a good man is murdered in the midst of excessive prosperity, we must tremble, but we cannot complain; and the divine justice will assert itself in taking vengeance on his murderer. So we must feel here rather awe than indignation, and be confident in the ultimate restoration of Prometheus, and his reconciliation with the lord of heaven. Such, at least, is the Æschylean estimate of the hero's fate; and probably, if we could see it worked out in the preceding and following plays, which have unhappily been lost, we should find it not so altogether alien from our own.
- ↑ Æschylus is said to have written seventy or even a hundred plays, but we have only seven extant.
- ↑ See, on the Classical Landscape, Ruskin, Modern Painters, vol. iii.
- ↑ The translations throughout this play are by Professor Plumptre.
- ↑ The reader will be reminded of Keble's fine adaptation of the figure—"The many-twinkling smile of ocean."
- ↑ The words point probably to an eruption, then fresh in men's memories, which had happened B.C. 476.—(P.)