by Aeschylus
The complex relation of gender and power in the Oresteia has been much discussed in recent years.16 It is often said that from this point of view the story of the Oresteia is one of women’s political disenfranchisement, and it is certainly possible to see the political thrust of Eumenides as validating a change from the perverted female rule of Clytemnestra to the (real) patriarchy of Athens in Aeschylus’ own day, in which women were as far as possible excluded from participating in public life. It must be understood, however, that what is at stake here is not a record of the loss of women’s power, but a myth of failed rebellion against a patriarchy that had always been in place. In weighing such views, much will depend on how one frames the issues. Take, for example, the version of the Delphic succession myth presumably invented by Aeschylus as a replacement for the usual story, in which Apollo won control of the most important sanctuary in Greece by the bloody conquest of Pytho, a vicious female monster.17 According to the very different account in Eumenides, Delphi passed peacefully from Mother Earth to her daughter Themis, and then by Themis’ own free will to Phoebe, another child of Earth, and from her to Apollo, who thenceforward added “Phoebus” to his name (1–10 / 1–8). Froma Zeitlin argues that this way of telling the story provides “a direct mythological model for the transference of power from female to male,” differing from the traditional story only because Aeschylus wants a peaceful and orderly version of the transfer to foreshadow the orderly, peaceful ending of the trilogy.18 Peter Rose, on the other hand, points out that the main thrust of the change is to repudiate a particularly misogynist tradition of violent male triumph over the very embodiment of female viciousness. From this perspective, the prominence in Aeschylus’ version of a whole succession of female figures evoked in very positive terms, the device of Phoebe’s friendly transfer of Delphi to Apollo as a birthday present, and Apollo’s adoption of her name as a gesture of recognition are distinctions with a difference, even if the outcome (a given) remains the same. Rose concludes:
It is legitimate to see in this version a model of willing acquiescence in female subordination; but the fact of subordination was not Aeschylus’ doing, whereas the myth he offers to explain it maximizes the enduring positive contribution of females to the new order and specifically rejects a version that represented them as the threat to be beaten and obliterated.19
Female submissiveness is normative in the Oresteia. Nothing makes this clearer than the disparaging and evidently disturbing portrayal of Clytemnestra’s androgyny, the kind that most threatens men through the woman’s assumption of “male” mastery and “male” freedom to speak and act. She is firmly in charge during Agamemnon’s absence, and after killing him on his return, she rules with her new man, but as the dominant partner. Despite the overt ugliness of her portrayal, however, Aeschylus insists that we understand her motives and recognize the justice in her actions. Indeed, the depiction of women in the Oresteia is everywhere complicated and nowhere reflects unproblematic misogyny. Cassandra is a fascinating example. In her unbridled hostility toward Clytemnestra and her concomitant loyalty to the man who has destroyed her city and taken her as part of his spoils, she takes the side of patriarchy. Yet, her very presence and, after her long silence, the mighty torrent of her words and cries testify to the horror of her suffering at the hands of males. Unlike Iphigenia, whom the Chorus depicts as gagged at the moment of her sacrifice, wanting to speak but able to appeal to her killers only with her eyes (Agamemnon, 270–79 / 235–43), Cassandra can shout out the horror and pathos of the victim. Aeschylus seems to insist that we feel the pathos of those who do not attack the patriarchy, but are made the victims of its brutality.
It is, then, of some significance that Eumenides begins with an account that makes Apollo’s rule in Delphi not the result of destroying a monstrous female, but of a gift willingly made by benign female deities. The trilogy is working its way toward a transformation of the relations of men and women from hostility to a form of mutual respect and acceptance. The context of accommodation remains the patriarchy, to be sure, but Athena’s persuasion will win the Erinyes a home and rites of honor in Athens as “kindly ones” (1158 / 992), “venerable ones” (1218 / 1041) who will protect and bless the city’s lands, crops, and people. The model of women’s submissiveness that this ending suggests is not a model that we can readily approve, but it is not simply misogynist. Exclusion of fermales from political power leads in the Oresteia to their incorporation into the community through a cult that benefits the city as a whole.
In that light, the contrast implied by Athena’s allusion to the legend of the Amazons’ attack on Athens (800–806 / 685–90) is telling. Orestes’ acquittal and restoration to power will come at the spot where these warlike barbarian women challenged the men of Athens in battle, threatening their sovereignty and their very lives. The battle returns almost obsessively in the art and literature of the fifth century, suggesting both overt attachment to and unconscious insecurity about an ideology of male domination.20 Like Clytemnestra (with whom Apollo associates them, 730–32 / 627–28), the Amazons attempted to overthrow patriarchy and were destroyed. But a different end awaits the Erinyes. Their suit is defeated in court, but they are neither demolished nor dismissed. They are coopted and made to serve the interests of the polis, rather than the narrower ones determined by ties of blood.
The most glaring instance in the trilogy of what many have taken to be misogyny is Apollo’s argument before the Athenian court that Orestes should be acquitted because a mother is no true parent, merely “a sort / of nursing soil for the new sown seed” (770–71 / 659). What are we to make of this argument? It will inevitably strike a modern audience as absurd, but many scholars have assumed that it must have sounded compelling to Athenians of the period. I am inclined to doubt this, and indeed to doubt that the argument itself has any great weight for the trilogy as a whole. It is worth noting that the way Apollo introduces the idea has a certain quality of desperation about it; he pulls it out of the hat when the Erinyes have effectively cornered him (748–67 / 640–56). They answer his contention that Zeus was more concerned about a father’s than a mother’s death by challenging Zeus’ bona fides, pointing out that he locked up his own father in chains. But chains are a different thing from death, says Apollo, for once the earth has drunk up a dead man’s blood, nothing can bring him back. Just so, reply the Erinyes, so how can Orestes, who has shed his mother’s blood, go back to Argos with that blood on his hands? Ah, replies Apollo, she wasn’t the real parent.
Making the father the sole parent serves Apollo’s purpose by underlining the primacy of the male line in defining the properly patriarchal family. But we can say with assurance that his biology was far from uncontested. Aristotle gives it support a century later, but all the evidence we have (much of it collected for us by Aristotle himself) leads to the conclusion that there were strongly divergent views in circulation about how procreation worked, in Aeschylus’ day as well as in Aristotle’s. Indeed, we have less early evidence in support of Apollo’s view than we do for the theory that women also produced semen and that a child’s sex was determined by the relative contribution of each seed.21 It looks as though Aeschylus has deliberately chosen a rather arcane argument, and one about which people could and did disagree. After all, it is a crucial part of his plan to make the acquittal of Orestes the result of an evenly divided vote, and thus he has no desire to give Apollo what might seem to his audience an overwhelmingly decisive argument.
The chief value of Apollo’s view turns out to be its appeal Athena, who uses it to make a final decision based on what might be called personal, and to that extent arbitrary, grounds (854–60 / 735–40). Apollo had supported his theory of the male as sole parent by reference to the goddess, whose birth from the head of Zeus proves, he claimed, that a child can be born without a mother.22 Athena confirms Apollo’s story about her birth, though not necessarily his generalization of it to human biology, when she justifies her vote to acquit Orestes of ki
lling his mother by her own motherlessness. All this conspires not so much to produce a coherent case for the primacy of the male parent as to render the decision to acquit Orestes one about which contemporary Athenians, like the jurors on stage, could disagree. If this is so, then the point of raising the argument is not to focus on the politics of gender as much as on the politics of the law court: no matter how arbitrary or contested the verdict, once it is delivered it must command the respect and assent of all. And, as a political comment, it must be considered a reflection on democratic institutions, where popular consent is of the essence. All this stands in the greatest possible contrast to the “trial” held to decide the fate of Troy (Agamemnon, 933–38 / 813–17): there the pleas come “not from any mouth but from force of arms” and the jurors are the gods, who cast their ballots “into the urn of blood” in a unanimous death sentence for Troy.
The role of Athena in Eumenides brings questions about the relations of male and female together with questions about the relations of gods and mortals. As a warrior goddess, Athena shares androgyny with Clytemnestra, but as a permanent virgin, she exists apart from the conflict of the sexes. Clytemnestra, Helen, and Cassandra can be seen in various ways as rebels against the constraints of marriage; Athena has no part in marriage23 but can serenely recognize its importance to the prosperity and stability of the polis. She sees to it that those other virgin goddesses, the Erinyes, will receive sacrifices for marriage and the birth of healthy children (970–74 / 834–36). Indeed, the most important thing about Athena in Eumenides is her role as mediator between gods and mortals. It is fundamental to the trilogy that mortals cannot establish lasting justice by themselves, and gods cannot impose it. Only collaboration between them will achieve it. Athena, wise as she is, understands this and eagerly accepts her part. Although both the Erinyes (516–18 / 433–35) and Orestes (555–57 / 468–69) explicitly accept Athena’s right to judge their case by herself, and both welcome her decision, Athena refuses:
No, even I don’t have the right to rule
on a murder trial like this one, one
that calls down such fierce anger either way. (559–61 / 471–72)
In the end, as we have seen, Athena does cast the decisive vote, and does so on personal, seemingly arbitrary grounds. It is not the grounds, however, nor perhaps even the decision, but the process she has set in motion and the institution she has created, that matter most. The process may not be perfect (many scholars have labored to show how flawed this one is), but it brings balance by its finality.
If Eumenides represents the emergence of polis institutions, and specifically those of the Athenian democracy, as the only means to resolve the impasse of the old clan justice, it is Athena’s founding of the Court of the Areopagus that embodies that new solution. Athena says that she will appoint to it “my ablest citizens,” so it is not, as it was not in historical times, a democratically chosen body. On the other hand, as has often been observed, these judges are consistently addressed as if they represent the entire citizen body, and both Orestes’ grateful offer of alliance with Athens (885–98 / 762–74) and the Erinyes’ threats of pollution of the entire land (906–17 / 780–87) indicate clearly that the court has acted for the city as a whole.24
Athena’s work of mediation is not over when the court returns its verdict, for she must still face the question of how to neutralize the Erinyes’ potential for harm and win them instead to the side of the polis. (As goddesses, and ancient pre-political ones at that, the Erinyes are not bound by the social contract that empowers human law.) Again, one may say that Athena’s wisdom is harnessed to an essentially democratic process, for she has decided to use persuasion, the defining tool of democratic political leadership, in what amounts to an open negotiation. She takes the Erinyes and their ancient wisdom (987–88 / 848–49) seriously, and has the patience to understand and the resourcefulness to meet their deepest needs. In the face of the Erinyes’ apparent intransigence, Athena persists—“Let me persuade you” (923 / 794); “I’ll put up with your anger” (987 / 848), “I’ll never tire of telling you the benefits / I’m offering” (1025–26 / 881)—until at last she hears them say, “You might persuade me; I feel my anger is easing” (1047 / 900). Only once does Athena threaten force, but if the threat is unmistakable, so also is her resolve not to resort to force:
I have Zeus on my side and—
why even bring it up?—I’m the only one
among the gods who knows where he keeps the key
to the chamber in which the lightning bolt is sealed.
No, we won’t have need of that. Please,
let me persuade you . . . (960–65 / 826–29)
In winning over the Erinyes, Athena heals the breach between the older and younger generations of gods, a matter of deep and bitter concern to the Erinyes. They are among the oldest of the gods, and having seen Zeus chain Cronus underground (cf. 750–51 / 641) and the Olympian gods ascend to supreme power, they are keenly aware that their old honors and powers are in danger of disappearing. Thus, when Athena first offers them a new home “in a vast cavern / deep in this land of justice” (934–35 / 805), they imagine that they will be imprisoned, like Cronus (975–78 / 837–39 = 1013–16 / 870–72). Only gradually do they come to realize that this will be a place of honor, and that there will be a new and vital role for them to play as guardians of the soil of Attica and its fertility, patrons of marriage and birth, bestowers of the blessings of peace and plenty, and protectors; from the scourge of civil strife. Eumenides ends with a solemn ritual procession that will bring the Erinyes to their new home, accompanied by torch light and robed in the crimson cloaks that metics (resident aliens) wore in the great Panathenaic processions held in honor of Athena (1196–99 / 1022–25). The symbolism is both obvious and effective. The Erinyes have become honored guests, essential to the civic cohesion and good order of the new polis. The blood-red fabric evokes the cloths that Agamemnon trampled down and the cloths he was caught in, cloths so memorably displayed in the first two plays of the trilogy; it evokes the blood that was shed at Troy and in Argos, and the blood that the Erinyes themselves once drank in the house of Atreus. The torch-fire that sees the Erinyes on their solemn way evokes the flames that engulfed Troy and then flew across the sea as beacon-light to presage Agamemnon’s homecoming—and yet more ruin. Now, the meaning of these symbols has been transformed and resolved into new promise, reminding us of the long and arduous path that the trilogy has taken and where it has brought us.
LANGUAGE AND IMAGERY, FORM AND MEANING
The language of the Oresteia can be pithy and direct; more often it is dense, sometimes almost to the point of inaccessibility. Its use of imagery and metaphor is particularly rich and striking, and at times (as in the example we have just noticed) figures move from verbal to visual realization on stage, to wonderful effect. Aeschylus adapts and extends the language of Homer and the Greek lyric poets, but he also invents new words and startling periphrases, tests the limits of Greek syntax, and plays brilliantly with ambiguity and enigma. The choral lyrics are particularly rich in such experiments. The language of prophecy and dream, though often only partially understood by those to whom the words are addressed, has a special and compelling power. And there are moments when the power of words per se seems to overtake their speakers (or singers). In the great opening Chorus of Agamemnon, for example, the elders of Argos attempt to sing of “the good omens / shown to the two kings” (124–25 / 104–5), but again and again words of ill omen rise unbidden to their lips as they are drawn, almost against their will, to evoke the sacrifice of Iphigenia. “Sing sorrow, sorrow, but let the good prevail” becomes a kind of refrain chanted against the implications of their own song (139 / 121, 158 / 139, 178 / 159). And when the Chorus has heard the Herald’s story of Troy’s fall, the power of language reveals itself in the discovery that Helen is truly named. The Chorus finds the “truth” of the name in the Greek verb stem hel- (seize, destroy):
Helen: des
troyer. The name
became her, suited her,
it seemed, as much as the soft
luxuries of the bower
she sailed from, destroyer of ships,
destroyer of men, destroyer
of cities. (782–88 / 687–91)
In Aeschylus’ startling wordplay, Helene metamorphoses into hele-nas, hel-andros, hele-ptolis.
The verbal texture that results from elements such as these is unsurpassed in magnificence and complexity, but is almost impossible to elucidate without direct reference to the Greek text. Rather than continue with generalized description, I shall pursue one strand of dramatic imagery that runs through all three plays and illustrates important features of Aeschylus’ figurative language. Anne Lebeck suggests some important principles for the study of his imagery:
The images of the Oresteia are not isolated units which can be examined separately. Each one is part of a larger whole: a system of kindred imagery. They are connected to each other by verbal similarity rather than verbal duplication.... [A]ssociative or reminiscent repetition . . . may evoke several different passages, yet correspond exactly to none. Each recurrence adds a new element to those with which it is associated. . . . The significance of a recurrent image unfolds in successive stages, keeping time with the action of the drama.... Significance increases with repetition; the image gains in clarity as the action moves to a climax.25
Since Aeschylus’ characteristic method is to interlock related images that are repeated and varied over the course of the trilogy, strictly speaking one cannot isolate a single element from the whole system of imagery. For the purpose of exemplifying Aeschylus’ way of working, however, it will be useful to focus on a set of closely associated images that move gradually from riddle to clarity, and from conflict to resolution. These images are grounded in a well-known Greek custom of pouring three drink offerings after a meal, the first (in the most usual version) to Olympian Zeus and the Olympians, the second to the Heroes, the third (always) to Zeus Savior.26 The libations were generally followed by the singing of a hymn called the paean, In the Oresteia, the references to this rite are highly allusive until the final one, in Eumenides. The Greek audience will have had no trouble, however, in deciphering the allusions and detecting both the bitter irony with which the rite is perverted and distorted, and the residual promise of a saving Zeus, who crowns the meal with blessings and may yet bring the murderous vengeance in the house of Atreus to some good end.