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Greek Tragedy’s Only Trilogy – The Oresteia

by February 26, 2022

by Sean Kelly, Managing Editor, Classical Wisdom
The Oresteia of Aeschylus is a truly remarkable work. It is the only surviving trilogy of plays from ancient Greece, and is amongst the earliest Greek tragedies that we still have – countless others were lost. Most importantly, it tells a compelling and powerful story with great artistry. Set between the events of the Iliad and the Odyssey, it revolves around the dark history of the mythical House of Atreus, and the establishment of the Greeks’ greatest legacy: democracy.
Agamemnon
At the beginning of the first play in the trilogy, titled Agamemnon, much action has already taken place. We are presented with a watchman on the rooftop of the palace of Mycenae, ruled over by the descendants of Atreus. The King, Agamemnon, has been absent for years, fighting at Troy. The watchman ominously tells us that since he has been away, the house is not well run the way it used to be. He can’t reveal the details, as ‘an ox is treading on my tongue.’ The watchman then bears witness to far away signals, informing him that the fall of Troy has taken place: the king will be returning soon.
We are then told the mythic backstory of the play through choral odes; at the outset of the expedition against Troy, the Achaeans faced unfavourable winds at Aulis. The expedition was led by Menelaus, the slighted husband of Helen of Troy, and his brother, Agamemnon. In order to appease the goddess Artemis, and therefore calm the winds, Agamemnon chose to sacrifice his daughter, Iphigeneia. There has been much debate over who precisely is to blame for her death. Is Agamemnon responsible for his actions? Or did the goddess force his hand?
To Agamemnon’s wife, Clytemnestra, there is no ambiguity. She blames her husband for her daughter’s death, and awaits the opportunity for vengeance. With Troy having now fallen, she knows it’s only a matter of time before her husband returns to the palace, after a decade  of absence. Making matters worse, when Agamemnon does arrive, he is not alone. He has brought the famed Trojan princess Cassandra to the palace as his concubine.
Cassandra, of course, famously has the gift of prophecy. This is most strikingly illustrated upon her arrival at the House of Atreus. She foresees her own imminent death, as well as the dark history of the family. Despite some slight reservations on the king’s part, Clytemnestra is able to manipulate Agamemnon into a sense of security. Along with her lover Aegisthus (the cousin of Agamemnon), Clytemnestra murders both Agamemnon and Cassandra. The play ends with Clytemnestra triumphant, but the tale is far from over…
Clytemnestra by John Collier, 1882
Clytemnestra by John Collier, 1882
Libation Bearers
In the second play in the trilogy, Libation Bearers, many years have passed since the events of the first play. Orestes, the son of Agamemnon and Clytemnestra, has grown to be a young man. Having been raised away from the palace, he must now seek out his mother, whom he has never known. Yet this is not to be a joyful reunion. He knows that she is responsible for his father’s death and is planning on murdering her in retribution. Orestes is trapped by the contradictory laws of his times: he is compelled to take vengeance on his father’s killer, yet he is naturally forbidden from murdering his own mother. The laws never anticipated family drama like this! 
Before any confrontation, however, he stops at the tomb of his father, and leaves a lock of his hair before departing. His sister Elektra, (in one of her many appearances in Greek tragedy) later arrives at the tomb. She sees the lock of hair, as well as a footprint, and from these deduces that her long-absent brother is alive. (Perhaps more plausibly, there is also a piece of clothing she made for her brother many years prior). This scene is somewhat infamous. Even to the ancients, it seemed like an improbable conclusion for someone to arrive at. The tragedian Euripides parodied the scene in his own version of the Libation Bearers story, simply titled Elektra.
Nevertheless, the two long-separated siblings eventually come to recognise each other in a moving scene, and plan to work together against Clytemnestra. They offer libations at their father’s tomb, and what follows seems to suggest that Agamemnon, although in Hades, still is able to exert some sort of will upon the mortal plane.
Soon after, Orestes is at last face-to-face with his mother. He is ready to strike, but hesitates at the crucial moment. His companion Pylades, however, spurs him on, (with his one speaking across the whole trilogy) and Orestes commits the deed. Upon killing Clytemnestra, however, something strange begins to happen to Orestes. He is assailed by the Furies, dark spirits of vengeance. He runs off in a frenzy.
Orestes pursued by the Furies, by William-Adolphe Bouguereau, 1862
Orestes pursued by the Furies, by William-Adolphe Bouguereau, 1862
Eumenides
Despite her death, Clytemnestra continues to influence the plot. She appears as a ghost near the opening of the Eumenides, the third and final play in the trilogy. She acts to rouse the sleeping Furies to action, demanding that they take vengeance for her death. The Furies initially seem reluctant to engage with her demands. This is, perhaps, Aeschylus’ way of characterising their age and long period of inactivity. Once awakened, however, they are hellbent on achieving their aims.
Meanwhile, Orestes has gone through a cleansing ritual with the god Apollo to expiate the spiritual uncleanliness (or miasma) that have infected him since killing his mother. Nevertheless, the Furies still torment him. The god Apollo takes Orestes’ side, and he and the Furies almost come to blows. The only way to resolve the competing claims over Orestes’ guilt is through what is essentially the world’s first courtroom drama. The goddess Athena acts as judge, and both sides make their case. It ultimately comes down to a vote. Orestes is narrowly exonerated: the votes come out equal, so to resolve the situation, Athena makes the final judgement. She rules in Orestes’ favour, and while the Furies initially resist the result, they are placated when they are promised a special role of honor in Athena’s new system of justice. The old system of vengeance and vendettas will be done away with, and instead decisions will be made through votes.
The subject of the Oresteia ultimately, then, is something much more than one family’s bloody history. It represents, in dramatic form, the birth of democracy. It is a profound and powerful set of plays that still resonates across the centuries.

Aristophanes and The Clouds

by February 11, 2022

by Ed Whelan, Contributing Writer, Classical Wisdom
He’s known as the ‘Father of Comedy.’ He is regarded as the greatest comedic dramatist of the ancient world, and his work is surprisingly interlinked with the history of philosophy. He even appears as a character in Plato’s Symposium, where he is shown as a genial figure who liked a good time. He is Aristophanes (c. 450-c. 388 BC), known for masterpieces such as the comic drama The Clouds. This was a satire on the morals, education, and philosophy of Athens in its Golden Age. In particular, it attacks the work of the Sophists and Socrates. Despite its levity, the play has a serious message about the dangers of speculative reasoning and challenging existing social norms.
Aristophanes was an Athenian citizen, and his family was quite affluent. We have few biographical sources for his life, yet we do know that he wrote approximately forty plays in verse. Only eleven of these have survived, such as Peace and Lysistrata. They are written in Attic Greek, and are the only surviving examples of what is known as ‘Old Comedy.’ He produced his plays at Dionysia and Lenasia, dramatic competitions held in honor of the god Dionysus. Aristophanes won the competitions several times, which were sponsored by the wealthy elite. His comedies are very episodic, and the humor is often crude yet satiric in nature. Aristophanes’ creative genius, however, is evident in his sparkling dialogue and his brilliant parodies.
Like many satirists, he was conservative in his outlook, and he attacked the dramatic changes that he saw in Athens in the fifth century BC.  Aristophanes wrote works that called for peace with Sparta during the Peloponnesian War (431-404 BC), and he attacked philosophers such as the Sophists, whom he saw as subverting the social system with their ideas. Aristophanes’ work was rediscovered during the Renaissance, and has been enormously influential on western comedy drama and satire.
Bust of Aristophanes
Bust of Aristophanes
The Clouds
The Clouds was composed by Aristophanes for the Festival Dionysia (423 BC) but was not well-received. However, the work circulated in manuscript form and became influential. The plot concerns a spendthrift son, Pheidippides, being urged to go back to school at the insistence of his father. He wants his son to go to the ‘Thinkery’, a school where he can learn how to outwit his creditors. He refuses, so in desperation his father Strepsiades joins the school instead. The head of the school is Socrates, one of the founders of western philosophy.
The philosopher instructs Strepsiades that the gods do not exist, and exposes him to other radical ideas for the time. Socrates is shown as teaching the man how to make the weaker argument the stronger argument, and how to twist words to win a case, irrespective of its merits. This is known as sophistry, and was named after the philosophers and teachers, the Sophists. They taught a form of relativism, and how to use rhetoric to win arguments. Strepsiades eventually persuades his son to enrol in the Thinkery. The Chorus in the play warns Strepsiades against this, but it is ignored. The father believes that in the Thinkery his son will gain skills in sophistry, and that this can help him to outwit his creditors and avoid bankruptcy.
A Greek comic mask- similar masks would have been worn by the actors in The Clouds
A Greek comic mask- similar masks would have been worn by the actors in The Clouds
When two of Pheidippides’ creditors come looking for him, Strepsiades uses the sophistry taught to him by Socrates to baffle them. He claims that because the gods do not exist, he does not have to repay any debts. The Chorus again warns Strepsiades that sophistry and its relativism will one day leads to disaster. Suddenly a shocked Strepsiades appears, and he is being beaten by his son after the two had an argument over literature. The Chorus sings that this unfilial violence is a result of sophistry and the teachings of Socrates. Strepsiades comes to agree, and he and his slave attack and burn down the Thinkery.
Themes of The Clouds
Aristophanes’ play is a satire of the education provided by the Sophists and the teachings of Socrates. He shows their ideas as dangerous, as they do not respect the truth or the gods. This is demonstrated in the way that Strepsiades cheats his sons’ creditors, and when Pheidippides beats his father. These events would have shocked the conservative Athenian audience, as respect for contracts and one’s elders were seen as essential for society. Aristophanes was not just mocking the Sophists and thinkers such as Socrates, he was showing them as dangerous, and a threat to order and society.
In The Clouds, Aristophanes’ portrays Socrates as a Sophist. This was not actually true. It is in fact the opposite of how he was portrayed by his student Plato, who has Socrates arguing against the relativism and sophistry of thinkers such as Protagoras. Despite this, The Clouds is an example of how influential satire and comedy can be. In Plato’s Apology, it is claimed that Aristophanes’ work had contributed to the trial of Socrates and his death; Aristophanes’ portrayal of the philosopher turned many Athenians against him, and this led ultimately to his execution.
Conclusion
Despite this, Aristophanes’ plays is still funny, and its ideas are still relevant, even after 2500 years. His writing gives us another perspective on ancient Athens and is an important source on its history and culture. The influence of The Clouds on comic writing has been immense, and unlike others works, has always remained popular and critically acclaimed.

Classical Allusions in James Joyce’s Ulysses

by February 2, 2022

by Sean Kelly, Managing Editor, Classical Wisdom
A century ago today, James Joyce’s daring masterpiece Ulysses was first published. It has since been acclaimed as a landmark in literary history, and (by some) as the greatest novel of the twentieth century. Yet its roots go much deeper. As its title suggests, the novel features a substantial link to the ancient world: Ulysses is a retelling of Homer’s Odyssey.
Instead of showcasing the adventures of Odysseus’ journeys over the ten years after the fall of Troy, however, it instead follows the wanderings of Leopold Bloom, a polite, married man of Jewish background, across a single day in Dublin (June 16th, 1904). His various experiences across this one day each correspond to events from the Odyssey, and so do the various people he encounters. The novel is then, naturally, saturated with references to antiquity. Even the sea-blue colour of the first edition’s cover was chosen to evoke both the seas Odysseus travels upon, as well as the contemporary Greek flag.
The three main characters of Ulysses (Leopold Bloom, Stephen Dedalus, and Molly Bloom) are each ‘versions’ of major figures from the Odyssey. Joyce wished to create an ‘everyman’ character in Leopold Bloom, and he believed that Odysseus was the perfect model of a ‘complete man’. As he related to his friend, the artist Frank Budgen, during the novel’s gestation:
‘Hamlet is a human being, but he is a son only. Ulysses is son to Laertes, but he is father to Telemachus, husband of Penelope, lover of Calypso, companion in arms of the Greek warriors around Troy and King of Ithaca. He was subjected to many trials, but with his wisdom and courage he came through them all.’
Joyce’s desire with Ulysses was to celebrate ordinary, everyday life. He achieved this by choosing a decent but unremarkable man as his protagonist, and linking his life with one of the most famous heroes of world literature. He has frustrations and disappointments, but also joys and small triumphs. In many ways he is unlike Odysseus: he is a pacifist, and he is much more honest than Odysseus. Yet, like Odysseus, he has a great curiosity, and learns a great deal from those he encounters across his travels.
The first ever edition of Ulysses, at the Museum of Literature Ireland.
The first ever edition of Ulysses, at the Museum of Literature Ireland. (Photo by Sean Kelly)
A substantial alteration from the Odyssey, however, is Bloom’s relationship with his wife Molly, Joyce’s analogue for Penelope. Whereas Penelope is Odysseus’ faithful wife, awaiting his homecoming (or nostos), Molly Bloom is having an adulterous affair with a brazen local loudmouth, Hugh ‘Blazes’ Boylan. Yet Joyce is unjudgmental in his portrayal of Molly’s infidelity. Indeed, her husband is aware of, and even tacitly approves of the affair. The couple’s marriage was permanently altered by the death of their young son just a few days after his birth eleven years prior to the events of the novel. Unable to be intimate with one another since then, the couple sleep head to toe of each other. Despite the infidelity, there is a great deal of love and warmth between the couple. During the famous soliloquy of Molly Bloom, she recalls vividly and with great warmth moments in their relationship. Part of the reason Bloom is wandering around for so much of the day is to give his wife privacy for her affair. Yet as Leopold wanders the city, he is haunted by the memory of his lost son.
Thirdly, we have the character of Stephen Dedalus. He is essentially Joyce’s fictional self-portrait and shares an abundance of the writer’s biography. He is the protagonist of Joyce’s earlier novel A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (essential reading for anyone wanting to read Ulysses). Stephen is still in his early twenties, and much younger than the thirty-something Blooms. Of course, Stephen Dedalus’ own name is a classical reference itself. Daedalus was the master craftsman of Greek myth, who created wings so that he could escape the Cretan labyrinth of the minotaur. He is also, of course, the father of the perhaps more famous figure of Icarus. Portrait of the Artist focuses heavily (yet subtly) on the myth of Daedalus, and features many instances of imagery regarding flight and wings. It opens with an epigram from Ovid’s Metamorphoses, and closes with a metaphorical ‘flight’ from Ireland to mainland Europe.
Yet when we find Stephen at the start of Ulysses, he is not in full flight. He has returned to Dublin after his expedition abroad at the end of A Portrait of the Artist has ended unsuccessfully. Furthermore, during the time between the two novels, the character has experienced a painful bereavement, for which he feels culpable. His artistic ambitions have stalled, and he is a young man very much at a loose end. Stephen’s biological father, Simon, is still alive, but he is a very different man to his son. He is unable to offer the guidance and direction that the young artist needs.
Beyond the main characters, the structure of Ulysses is also based upon that of the Odyssey. Much like how the Odyssey doesn’t feature Odysseus until Book V (with the earlier books focusing on Telemachus), Bloom doesn’t show up until the fourth chapter. The early chapters of Ulysses instead focus on Stephen. Within the framework of the Odyssey, Stephen is therefore cast as Telemachus, Odysseus’ son.
Some of Joyce's notes, from the Museum of Literature Ireland
Some of Joyce’s notes, from the Museum of Literature Ireland. (Photo by Sean Kelly)
One of the stranger editorial choices across the writing of Ulysses was the decision to remove the chapter titles. These are present in Joyce’s notes for the novel, and have long been used in Joycean and academic circles, although they are absent from the novel itself.  From the perspective of a Classics enthusiast, they are particularly illuminating: each chapter is named after a significant incident in the Odyssey. The classical allusions often work on a metaphorical level and the titles helps clarify these metaphors.
For instance, the central chapter of the novel features Bloom in a bar getting into an increasingly heated and antagonistic conversation with a bigoted antisemite, known simply as ‘the Citizen’. The notes reveal the title of the chapter is ‘Cyclops’, which recasts the entire situation. While the character has both his eyes and can see, his small mindedness has left him ‘one-eyed’. The chapter climaxes with Bloom fleeing from the bar as a biscuit tin is thrown at him, a humorous echo of the rocks Polyphemus hurled at the escaping Odysseus.
Beyond the events that take place, each chapter is written in a unique style that reflects the novel’s ancient predecessor in some way. The Aeolus chapter features multiple, continuous references to the wind, like that of the wind god Odysseus encountered. Similarly, the Sirens chapter has a significant emphasis on music, like that of the sirens’ song, with the novel even featuring sheet music.
The novel’s most experimental chapter is titled Circe and is set in Dublin’s Nighttown district (turn of the century Dublin’s red light district), where men metaphorically turn to pigs. Here, Stephen gets into an altercation with a British soldier and is left badly needing aid. Bloom is passing by and is able to come to his help. Bloom helps Stephen recover from the incident, and takes him to a bar wherein they encounter a drunk (Joyce’s stand in for Eumaeus, the swineherd). Bloom is able to leave Stephen in considerably better physical shape than he found him. More than that, however, Bloom’s act of kindness has inspired Stephen, and looks to elevate him from the rut in which he has found himself.
For all its experimentation and fearsome reputation, for all its allusions and footnotes, Ulysses is at core, about something very simple and very human. It is about a father looking for a son, and a son looking for a father.

Wine and Roman Poets

by January 4, 2022

By Visnja Bojovic, Contributing Writer, Classical Wisdom
When we think of wine in the ancient world, the first thing that comes to mind is the Romans and their luxurious banquets. We know that wine was an important part of the Roman culture; there were even precise rules for the way and quantity in which it was to be consumed. However, while we do know that wine played an enormous part in the life of the ancient Romans, we have to bear in mind that most of the information we have about wine and drunkenness in Roman society come from literary sources. As such, the information we get from these sources is entirely susceptible to the requirements of the genre.
Horace
If you wanted to find the most ardent fan of wine, look no further – you have found a man who not only resorts to wine for pleasure, but claims that his work itself entirely depends on it:

No poetry could ever live long or delight us

That water-drinkers pen. Since Bacchus enlisted

Poets, the barely sane, among his Fauns and Satyrs,

The sweet Muses usually have a dawn scent of wine.

The most important role that Horace attributes to wine is that of a source of inspiration, and he claims that he cannot write until directed to by Bacchus, the god of wine. He does not know where Bacchus will take him, but this direction also depends on Horace’s mood, as well as the type of wine that he is drinking.
We all know the famous line “seize the day”. What some of us may not know, however, is that Horace uses wine more than anything else to demonstrate the importance of this attitude. He says that there is no way to know what gods have in store for us, so the solution is:Be wise, strain the wine, and trim your long hope into a brief space … seize the day, trusting as little as possible in the next.” It is not useful to spend time thinking about bad things, and to get rid of these earthly cares, we should resort to wine.
Another important feature of wine, according to Horace, is its inability of being connected to the war in any way. He thinks that Bacchus brings only harmony, and that there is no place for war in the wine-drinking world. What is important to note, however, is the fact that Horace emphasizes the importance of moderation in drinking, and warns of the dangers if this moderation is not achieved.
Propertius
As mentioned above, the exaggerated appraisal of wine that can be found in the works of these poets should not be taken literally. That is to say that, most probably, they were not such passionate wine-drinkers in their private lives. This is especially true when it comes to Propertius. We know almost for sure that Propertius the man would not allow himself to fall under the temptations caused by excessive intake of wine. Propertius the poet, on the other hand, continues the elegiac tradition in the best way possible.
He uses wine to emphasize the passion in his poems, and it is an almost inevitable feature of the lovers’ encounters. Similar to Horace, for Propertius, wine is the source of inspiration, his muse. However, Propertius is a bit more realistic, taking into account that wine does not only solve lovers’ problems, but it also creates them. In his prayer to Bacchus, Propertius says: Through you lovers are joined, through you they are broken up.
Propertius with his lover Cynthia
The poet’s ambivalent approach to wine can also be seen in the following verses:

Perish the man who discovered undiluted grapes and

first corrupted good water with nectar! … Beauty dies by wine, youth is broken by wine,

often a mistress does not know her own man because of wine

Tibullus
The two greatest passions of Tibullus are his lover and the countryside. For him, wine is an instrument that he uses to emphasize the importance of both, as it is not only related to love affairs, but also to the celebration of nature. When it comes to love though, he is a bit more moderate than his two colleagues. He takes Horace’s stance that wine can dissolve earthly cares, but he also agrees with Propertius that it is not always the case.
Tibullus was in love with a married woman named Delia. You can imagine how much suffering this situation can cause, especially for an elegy poet. Therefore, only wine and sleep can provide him with a temporary relief:

Add merum, and restrain new grief with wine,

so that victorious sleep might occupy the eyes

of a tired man.

On the other hand, wine can also help him seduce Delia, or bring sleep to her husband, leaving some lovers’ time to them. This poet’s stance on wine was very ambivalent, which usually depended on the nature of the relationship in question. When he was suffering, not even the countryside could soothe his sadness. When things were going well, however, there was nothing better than enjoying wine outside:

Let the wines celebrate the day: There is no shame

in dripping with wine on a feast day, and clumsily moving

wobbly feet

Even though we know for sure that these poets were merely conforming to the requirements of the genre, we can still learn a lot of actual wine facts from them, and take great pleasure in reading about their struggles and passions.
After all, we have all been there, haven’t we?

Alcestis: The Least Tragic Tragedy

by December 5, 2021

by Sean Kelly, Managing Editor, Classical Wisdom
What do you think of when hear the words “Greek tragedy”?
I’ll bet that the images that spring to mind tend to be dark and dramatic. Yet not all tragedies fit this preconception. Not all tragedies are quite so…. Tragic.
For instance, there were the Satyr plays. In ancient Greece, tragedies were staged in trilogies, accompanied by an additional play in a separate genre, the Satyr play. These were much more comedic and farcical in nature than the sometimes austere world of tragedy. In honour of the god Dionysus, centaurs drank and caroused, causing mischief and chaos in irreverent settings. Only one of these plays has been handed down to us, the Cyclops, once more by Euripides, which is a playful retelling of Odysseus’ encounter with the one-eyed Polyphemus. It is from these plays such as these that we get the word satire.
There is, however, another play that is neither comedy, tragedy, nor satyr play. It is a unique blend of all these forms, and yet utterly unlike anything else handed down from the ancients. The story has more in common with a fairy-tale than many of its peers in the corpus of Greek tragedy. It is Alcestis.
Of the three Greek tragedians, Euripides is by far the most unconventional, frequently challenging the norms and conventions of the form. It is from these experiments that a play as unusual but ultimately moving as Alcestis emerges.
Unlike the more familiar stories of the Theban Oedipus cycle or the unhappy tales of the House of Atreus, Alcestis deals with a lesser known, more unusual branch of Greek mythology. Alcestis tells the story of the title character and her husband, Admetus. Due to a complicated mythical backstory, the god Apollo was forced to work as a labourer. During this humbling experience, Admetus, the human king of Thessaly, treated the diminished god with great kindness.
The god, eager to repay a human kindness, has arranged a special favour for Admetus. He is granted the chance to live a longer life than he had been allotted by the Fates, and in doing so, frustrate death. Yet, this gift comes with a cost.
The play begins with a conversation between Apollo and Death (or Thanatos in Greek). Thanatos is eager to the reclaim what Apollo has denied him: someone now has to die in Admetus’ place. Admetus’ father refuses to do so, and so Admetus’ wife, Alcestis, chooses to die in her husband’s place. Much of the early part of the play is dedicated to the household’s anticipation of Alcestis’ death. As is typical of Euripides, situations are inversed: someone still alive is being mourned.
Alcestis dies, and Admetus is wracked by grief and despair. Yet, despite this, hope may yet remain with the arrival of Heracles, Alcestis being one of a number of tragedies featuring the demigod. Here, he is characterised very differently to how he appears elsewhere in tragedy. In Alcestis, Heacles is as a dim-witted, yet kindly party boy.
Wood engraving of the death of Alcestis
Wood engraving of the death of Alcestis
Heracles is blissfully unaware that his friend Admetus is in mourning; he arrives eager to drink, party and have fun. Admetus decides to not burden his guest with the sad news. The world of the Satyr play and Tragedy now collide in a way that enhances each other. The starkness of Admetus’ grieving for his wife is set against the oblivious, fun-loving Heracles, to great effect.
Whenever Heracles does discover the truth, the demi-god realizes that he is, in fact, uniquely qualified to deal with the situation, being one of a very small group of Greek heroes who can travel to the Underworld. Eager to help his grieving friend, Heracles exits the scene to go and retrieve his friend’s wife from Hades.
What follows is one of the most moving scenes in Greek theatre. Herakles returns to the party with a veiled woman in tow. He offers her to Admetus as a new wife, but the grieving King finds this highly inappropriate. Eventually he is goaded, against his judgement in to seeing just who it is beneath the veil…
King Admetus recognises Alcestis, who has been led from the underworld by Hercules
King Admetus recognises Alcestis, who had been led from the underworld by Hercules
Considering that the play begins with a conversation between Apollo and Death, it ends on a very human emotion: the joy of reunion. For all the grandeur of the mythic backdrop and quarrelling divinities, the Alcestis is, at core, about the love between a married couple.
It is the earliest play we have by Euripides, having been staged in 438 BCE. Considering how much ancient literature is lost, it is a gift that this strange, tragi-comic fairy-tale can still resonate.

Euripides’ Helen – an Alternative View of Helen of Troy

by October 14, 2021

by Sean Kelly, Managing Editor, Classical Wisdom
She’s probably the single most famous woman from all of Greek mythology.
We think we know the tale – the most beautiful woman in the world, and the enormous war that was fought over her.
Yet her story is much more complex than many may imagine. Was she really the face that launched a thousand ships?
The most well-known version of the Helen of Troy myth is what we get from the Epic Cycle, particularly Homer in the Iliad and the Odyssey. After visiting Menelaus, King of Sparta, the young Trojan prince Paris absconded with the Spartan king’s wife, Helen, and took her to Troy. In retribution, and in outrage at the insult to xenia, Menelaus and his brother King Agamemnon launched a vast expedition against the city of Troy, leading to a siege which lasted for ten years. Following the fall of Troy, Menelaus and Helen returned to Sparta, where they lived as king and queen once more.
That’s the most commonly known version of the myth. Yet there is another, very different version of this story.
Helen of Troy
Helen of Troy
The Greek lyric poet Stesichorus, one of the Nine Lyric Poets of ancient Greece, is attributed with creating an alternative view of the Trojan war.  While much of his poetry is lost, a key segment survives in quotation, regarding Helen of Troy:
It is not true, the tale. You did not go in the well-benched ships; you did not come to Pergama of Troy.’
In Stesichorus’ version of the myth, it was not really Helen that was taken to Troy by Paris. Rather, Helen was replaced by an eidolon – a sort of ancient Greek version of a phantom. The eidolon is a completely convincing doppelgänger of the Spartan queen, fooling all who see it, but it is not really her. The real Helen was spirited away by the gods to Egypt, where she lived for the whole duration of the Trojan War. Here she lived under the protection of the Egyptian King Proteus, while the eidolon resided in Troy. None of the Trojans nor the Achaeans knew the truth, and the war was fought, essentially over nothing.
This is the version of the myth that Euripides – the most experimental and daring of the three surviving Greek tragedians – used as the basis of his play Helen. Euripides was also influenced by the Encomium of Helen by the Greek Sophist Gorgias, which expressed similar ideas. When we meet Euripides’ Helen, she is a painfully isolated figure, all too aware of the events of the Trojan war, and moreso, of the blame wrongly attributed to her. She cries:
O Troy, city of sorrow, for deeds never committed you have perished and suffered a piteous end!
The play focuses on the distinction between nomos – the name of something, and physis – the reality of something. It’s an exploration of how what people say about us can conjure up an image that is completely removed from the reality of who we are, and yet remain a potent force. Helen knows that the Greeks consider her to be an adultress, when in reality, she has been completely faithful to her husband. She knows she is blamed for the vast number of deaths in the Trojan War, when she truly had nothing to do with it.
Helen and Menelaus
Helen and Menelaus
The play also follows Menelaus on his homecoming – or nostos – following the Trojan War. Newly shipwrecked in Egypt, Menelaus is now a man who looks like a beggar, claiming to be a king, and unaware of how close he is to finding his real wife. Greek drama is famous for its recognition scenes, and this play features a moving one, when both members of the married couple are baffled and overwhelmed to be in each other’s presence again.
Despite the tenderness of their reunion, all is not well. Helen’s protector King Proteus has died, and his son Theoclymenus plans to swiftly make her his bride, believing reports that Menelaus died in the shipwreck. This Euripides play belongs alongside his other ‘escape tragedies’ like Iphigeneia Among the Taurians, or his lost play on the Andromeda myth. These are somewhat removed from what we typically think of as ‘tragedies’. While they were performed on the same stages as the famous tales of Oedipus or the House of Atreus, they are perhaps closer to a medieval romance: tales of adventure and love, set in faraway lands, with a villainous tyrant lurking.
The play ends with the appearance of Castor and Pollux  – the Dioscuri. They act as a deus ex machina in the play, resolving the conflict, and ensuring that Helen and Menelaus freely escape. In a play so concerned with how misleading a name can be, it is ironic that these characters have a much more famous name. Elsewhere in myth, they are turned into stars and become a costellation, twins known as the Gemini to the Romans. While they are Helen’s brothers, perhaps the more relevant detail is the fact that they are twin brothers. It is perhaps a fitting image for the drama to end on – two who are alike, and yet not alike.