The story of Orestes the avenger was complete in every essential
particular before it came to the earliest of those three Attic
dramatists, each of whom has stamped it so strongly with the impress
of his own mind.
In the
Iliad there is no hint that the house of Pelops
lay
under a curse which entailed a series of crimes.
The sceptre made by Hephaestus for Zeus, and brought by Hermes to
Pelops, is peacefully inherited by Atreus, Thyestes and
Agamemnon
1. Yet the
Iliad makes at least one
contribution to the material which Aeschylus found ready to his
hand. It is the figure of Agamemnon himself, with eyes and head like
those of Zeus, in girth like Ares, in breast like Poseidon
2; ‘clad in flashing bronze, all glorious, and
pre-eminent amid all
3.’ As Helen stands with Priam on the walls of Troy,
and watches the Achaean warriors moving on the battle-field, he asks
who this one may be:—‘There are others even
taller by a head; but never did I behold a man so comely or so
majestic (“
γεραρόν”); he is like unto one
that is a king
4.’ This is the royal Agamemnon, “
ὁ παντόσεμνος”
5, who lives in the Aeschylean drama, and whose image
reappears in later poetry. For the rest, the
Iliad
gives us just one far-off glimpse of the king's home beyond the
Aegaean, where Orestes is a child in the fortress-palace at Mycenae,
with three sisters, Chrysothemis, Laodicè, and
Iphianassa
6; children of that Clytaemnestra to whom, in the opinion of
her lord at Troy, the damsel Chryseïs was ‘in no
wise inferior, in beauty or in stature, in wit or in skill
7.’
The
Odyssey tells the story as follows. Agamemnon,
before going to Troy, charged a certain minstrel (“
ἀοιδός”) to watch over
8 Clytaemnestra at Mycenae. The
precaution implies a sense of possible danger, but not necessarily
distrust of Clytaemnestra. Presently a tempter came to the lonely
wife in the person of her husband's first-cousin, Aegisthus, son of
Thyestes, who, while his kinsmen were fighting at Troy, dwelt
‘at peace, in the heart of Argos
9.’ For some time Clytaemnestra ‘refused
the shameful deed; for she had a good understanding
10.’ Meanwhile the gods themselves, by their
messenger Hermes, warned Aegisthus against the course of crime upon
which he was entering. But Hermes spoke in vain
11.
Aegisthus removed the minstrel to a desert island, and there left
him, a prey to dogs and birds. He then took the
‘willing’ Clytaemnestra to his home; while he
sought to propitiate the gods by burnt-offerings on their altars,
and by hanging up in their temples ‘many gifts of
embroidery and gold
12.’
Agamemnon, after a stormy voyage from Troy, landed on the coast of
Argolis at a point not far from the dwelling of Aegisthus; who,
apprised by a watcher, came in his chariot, and invited the king to
a banquet; after which he slew him, ‘as a man slays an ox
at the manger
13.’
In this narrative (given by Menelaüs to Telemachus)
Clytaemnestra is not even named; though Menelaüs had
previously spoken of her ‘guile’ as aiding the
crime
14. It is only in a part of the
Odyssey which is of later origin than the
‘Telemachy’ in books
I—IV,—viz., the “
Νέκυια” in the eleventh book,—that Clytaemnestra
appears as actively sharing in the horrors of the banquet, where she
slays Cassandra with her own hand. And, even there, it is by the
sword of Aegisthus alone that Agamemnon is slain
15.
The young Orestes fled, or was conveyed, to Athens. For seven years
Aegisthus and Clytaemnestra reigned at Mycenae. In the eighth,
Orestes returned, and slew Aegisthus
16. Clytaemnestra died at the same
time, but how, we are not told; and Orestes ‘made a
funeral feast,’ for both of them, ‘to the
Argives
17.’
Two points distinguish this Homeric legend from later versions.
First, Aegisthus is the principal criminal
18. Clytaemnestra's part is altogether
subordinate to that of her paramour. Secondly, the vengeance of
Orestes is regarded as a simple act of retributive justice. It is
not said that he slew his mother; the conjecture is left open that
she may have died by her own hand. Nothing comes into the Epic view
which can throw a shadow upon the merit of the avenger. The goddess
Athena herself exhorts Telemachus to emulate the example and the
renown of Orestes
19.
In the interval between the
Odyssey and the Lyric
age, legends connected with the house of Pelops were
further developed in some of the Cyclic epics
20. The
Cypria21, ascribed to
Stasînus of Cyprus (
circ. 776
B.C.), related the immolation of Iphigeneia at Aulis,—a
story unknown to Homer,—and distinguished her from the
Iphianassa of the
Iliad (9. 145). A new source of
poetical interest was thus created, since it could now be asked (as
Pindar asks
22) how far Clytaemnestra was actuated by resentment for the
sacrifice of her daughter. In another epic, the
Nostoi23
(by Agias of Troezen,
circ. 750 B.C.),
Clytaemnestra aided Aegisthus in the murder, though probably in a
subordinate capacity. Further, Pylades was associated with Orestes.
And the name of Pylades at once points to Delphi
24,—the agency by which the primitive
legend of Orestes was ultimately transformed.
The influence of the Delphic priesthood rose and spread with the
power of the Dorians. It did so, not merely because that power was
an apt instrument for its propagation, but also because in Hellas at
large the time was favourable. The religion of Apollo, as his
Pythian interpreters set it forth, was suited to an age which had
begun to reflect, but which retained a vivid faith in the older
mythology. Here we are concerned with only one aspect of the
Apolline cult, that which relates to blood-guiltiness. The Homeric
man who has killed another may either pay a fine to the kinsfolk, or
go into exile
25; but in Homer there is no idea that he
can be purified by a ritual. In other words, there is the notion of
a debt in this respect, but hardly of a sin; of quittance, but not
of absolution. It was a somewhat later stage when men began more
distinctly to recognise that in cases of homicide there are kinds
and degrees of moral guilt which cannot be expressed in the terms of
human debtor and creditor. Clearly a man ought to do what the gods
command. But what if a god tells a man to do something which most
men think wrong? If the man obeys, and if his conduct is to be
judged aright, the tribunal, like the instigation, must be divine.
Nor is this so only when the opinion offended is that of men. A god
may command a mortal to do an act by which some other god, or
supernatural being, will be incensed. Suppose, for instance, that a
man receives a divine mandate to slay a guilty kinsman; if he obeys,
nothing can save him from angering the Erinyes, who resent every
injury to kinsfolk.
For questions such as these the Pythian creed provided
Purification from
bloodguilt. |
an answer, or at least a mystic compromise.
Apollo, the god of light, is the all-seeing arbiter of purity. A man
who commits homicide displeases Apollo, who abhors every stain of
blood. But Apollo can estimate the degree of guilt. And he has
empowered his servants to administer rites by which, under certain
conditions, a defiled person may be freed from the stain. In later
days the critics of Apollo could object that he had encouraged crime
by thus far alleviating its consequences. But in the age when the
doctrine was first put forth, it must have been, on the whole,
beneficent. It tempered the fear of capricious or vindictive deities
by trust in a god who, as his priests taught, never swerved from
equity, and who was always capable of clemency. At the same time it
laid the unabsolved offender under a ban worse than mere out lawry,
for it cut him off from the worship of the temple and of the hearth,
and, indeed, from all intercourse with god-fearing men. It made his
hope depend on submission to a religion representing the highest
spiritual influence which ever became widely operative among the
people of pagan Hellas.
The ritual of Apollo the Purifier had already a place in the Cyclic
epic called the
Aethiopis26, said to have been composed by
Arctînus of Miletus, about 776 B.C. More than a century
elapsed after that date before Lyric poetry was matured; and
meanwhile the worship of the Pythian Apollo, with its ritual of
purification from blood, was diffused throughout the Greek world. It
was to be expected, therefore, that, when the story of Orestes began
to receive lyric treatment, the influence of Delphi should be
apparent. If, in avenging his father, Orestes killed Clytaemnestra
as well as Aegisthus, the Pythian priesthood had a text than which
they could desire none more impressive. For, according to the
immemorial and general belief of Hellenes, Orestes did well to
avenge Agamemnon. If, however, he slew his mother, the Erinyes were
necessarily called into activity. Who, then, was to vindicate the
avenger? Who was to assert, even against the Erinyes, that his deed
was righteous? Who but Apollo, the supreme judge of purity? And then
it was only another step to represent Apollo himself as having
prescribed the vengeance. A Greek vase-painting
27 portrays him in the act of doing
so. The scene is in the temple at Delphi. Apollo, laurel-crowned, is
sitting on the omphalos; in his left hand is a lyre; with the stem
of a laurel-branch, held in his right, he is touching the sheathed
sword of Orestes, who stands in a reverent attitude before him; he
thus consecrates it to the work of retribution. Behind Apollo, the
Pythia sits upon the tripod, holding a diadem for the brows of
Orestes, when he shall have done the deed
28; and near her is Pylades.
Stesichorus, of Himera in Sicily, flourished towards the
The
Oresteia of Stesichorus. |
close of the
seventh, and in the earller part of the sixth, century B.C.
29. The Choral Lyric, which
Alcman had already cultivated under the Dorian inspirations of
Sparta, received a new development from Stesichorus. He applied it
to those heroic legends which had hitherto been the peculiar domain
of Epos. In style and in dialect, no less than in choice of themes,
he was here essentially an epic poet employing the lyric form
30. This character, and the
popularity which he won by it, are significantly attested in the
words of Simonides
31,—‘Thus Homer and
Stesichorus sang to the people.’ One of his most
celebrated poems was that in which he told the story of Orestes
(“
Ὀρέστεια”). It was of large
compass, being divided into at least two books or cantos
32. The direct sources of
information concerning it are meagre, consisting only of a few small
fragments (less than twelve lines altogether), gleaned from the
passing allusions of later writers. But archae-
ology comes
to the aid of literature. The supplementary evidence of Greek art
makes it possible to reconstruct, if not with certainty, at least
with high probability, a partial outline of the once famous poem.
This has been done by Carl Robert, in an essay on ‘The
death of Aegisthus,’—one of the series of
essays, entitled
Bild und Lied, in which he brings
archaeological illustration to bear upon the heroic myths
33. The substance of his results may be
briefly given as follows.
A red-figured Attic vase
34, belonging to the first half of
the fifth century B.C., depicts a scene which does not come from any
extant literary source. Orestes, wearing a cuirass, has plunged his
sword into the breast of Aegisthus, who is falling from his
seat,—the throne that once was Agamemnon's. Meanwhile,
something has startled Orestes; his face is turned away from
Aegisthus; he glances over his right shoulder at a woman who hurries
up behind him. This is Clytaemnestra, as an inscription certifies.
She grasps the handle of an axe with both hands; she is coming to
the rescue of Aegisthus. But an old man, wearing the conical hat of
a herald, has overtaken her; his left hand grasps her right arm, his
right, the axe; her purpose is baffled. Between her and Orestes
stands a maiden whose uplifted hands express horror; this (as the
artist informs us) is Chrysothemis. Vase A (as we shall call this
one) must next be compared with vase B,—another
red-figured Attic vase
35 of the fifth century,
but of later date than the other. The subject on B is fundamentally
the same as on A, but it is curiously abridged, or rather mutilated.
Orestes—who here is in full armour, with helmet and
greaves as well as cuirass—has dealt the mortal wound to
Aegisthus, and is looking straight at him. Clytaemnestra, furiously
brandishing her axe, is close behind Orestes,—so close,
that nothing can now save him from her blow. Electra (the name is
inscribed) stands behind the dying Aegisthus; her outstretched right
hand points at Clytaemnestra, her left is raised to the back of her
head with a gesture of bewilderment and terror; evidently she is
uttering a cry of warning to Orestes. The painter of B was led by
considerations of style or convenience to omit a vital feature of
A,—viz., the old man who stops Clytaemnestra at the
critical moment.
Now A and B belong, as Robert shows, to a small group of vases which
must have had a common archetype; and while A has preserved the
meaning of the whole scene more truly than B, the latter has
preserved some details which A has lost. The scene represented by
the archetype was probably as follows:—Orestes, in full
armour, slays Aegisthus, who falls from his throne; Clytaemnestra
rushes up behind Orestes, with an axe; Electra, standing at the back
of Aegisthus, cries out to warn her brother; but already the aged
herald has seized Clytaemnestra, and defeated her intent. Who is
this old man, the herald, who interposes so opportunely? He appears
along with Orestes in another work of art, earlier than these
vases,—viz., a marble relief, in the developed archaic
style, found at Melos
