As the Moon Climbs

Having used the magic of the internet to do what we all do so well–namely, put all those pesky opinions of mine out there for all three of my readers to see–I feel like my ruminations on Hippolytus are somehow incomplete. There are people who disagree with me and I want to say things to them so they can say more things back to me, and so here we are, and by “we” I mean me, of course.

There’s no time machine to take sociologists or anthropologists back to before the common era with clipboards and questionnaires, so all we know about the ancient Greeks comes from the materials that have survived to today, either directly from the proverbial horses’ mouths or from other people who were around at the time. I say this as a preface because I am going to follow it up with a bunch of opinions that, grounded in evidence or not, are pretty much impossible to prove one way or the other. Add to that the fact that I am in no way a scholar of Greek history and society, and you’ve basically got a girl with a blog who has something to say and is probably going to get some of it wrong. All I know, I learned in school from a couple of cool guys who may also be wrong, but are at least better educated. All right, enough with the caveats.

So, one way or another, it seems like the gods were a part of Greek life: these people had temples and festivals and statues in their houses and we have all these plays that talk about the gods a whole bunch. They prayed to different gods for different reasons, and sometimes prayed to all of them to cover their bases, but they almost always prayed to Zeus in addition to whoever else warranted a special shout-out. But what could the gods do? Sometimes they could intercede on someone’s behalf, sometimes they couldn’t because another god was doing his thing, and sometimes it seems like they kind of threw up their hands and said, “Nothing we can do, it’s fated.” This is weird when you think about it, because they’re the gods, right? Why should they be bound by fate? Even Zeus apparently can’t get around things that are meant to be, and he’s the head honcho by most standards. But there he is, shrugging his godly shoulders and munching on ambrosia while the mortals get screwed.

Given that the Greeks definitely seemed to believe in destiny, it’s weird to think that they could also believe in free will. In the beginning of Hippolytus, Aphrodite herself shows up and says, “This is how things are going to go down,” and sure enough they do, so it’s tempting to shrug and eat some grapes and blame the gods or fate for the whole shebang. But that’s not what the characters do. They don’t lie around singing the Greek equivalent of “que sera, sera,” perhaps because they don’t get to hear Aphrodite’s helpful speech and so they’re blissfully unaware of the impending mayhem. But then again, what does it matter?

Therein lies the crux of the free will vesus destiny battle, or lack thereof: if you can’t know your fate, then in a sense, it doesn’t matter. You make choices, and those choices will lead you to your fate, but they were still your choices. It’s like being in a maze with a lot of twists and turns and dead ends, and you keep walking forward, trying to get out, picking a direction when you hit a crossroads and hoping for the best, but knowing all the time that the form of the maze has already been set and will lead to the same place no matter how you get there. The gods are above the maze, looking down, able to see all the paths and pitfalls, and sometimes they can move a wall or nudge a person in a particular direction, but they can’t pull the person out of the maze and put them in another one. And sometimes other gods are slipping in more traps, because they can do that too, and sometimes the gods are even right there in the maze at specific spots because they have their own fated role to play.

The actions of the play Hippolytus are manipulated by the interference of the gods, namely Aphrodite. She is the one who is angered by Hippolytus’ chastity, and so she makes Phaedra fall in love with him, knowing that he will reject her and subsequently bring about his own downfall. Because of this, it can be argued that human choice is futile, because the desires of the gods win out in the end. However, so many of the actions in this play are conceived and carried out by humans that their agency is undeniable, if predictable.

Phaedra is the somewhat unwitting pawn in this godly game of checkers; in the world of the play, she does not fall in love with Hippolytus of her own free will but is forced to do so by Aphrodite. However, she does not lose her ability to make choices, despite her enforced predicament. Initially, she chooses to starve herself to death in order to escape the bonds of passion with her reputation intact. Once her secret is revealed and she is reviled by Hippolytus, she then chooses to implicate him in her suicide in order to, once again, preserve her good name. Her suicide is also a choice that she makes. None of this adds up to futility; despite her motivation being at least partially imposed by a god, each action she takes is deliberate and yields the intended results.

The nurse is also resposible for making her own choices: first, to beg Phaedra to reveal her secret love, then to convince Phaedra to let her tell Hippolytus. Although Aphrodite may have relied on the nurse’s interference and have foreseen how she would act, this does not indicate any futility in the choices. To call the actions futile would imply that they would have no affect on the outcome of the play, when they were arguably the catalyst for the subsequent unraveling of events.

Theseus is the final actor, sealing his son’s fate by asking Poseidon to kill him. While his curse is rashly spoken, it is not externally imposed on him by any of the gods; Aphrodite expected and wanted it, but did not force him to do it. If anyone in the play lacks agency, it is arguably Hippolytus, whose death is brought about by Phaedra through no fault of his own, and who remains honest and faultless to the end. However, to say that human choice is futile throughout the play solely because of his tragic end is to discount the human actions that led to his demise.

The principle of helping friends and hurting enemies is central to Euripides’ Medea; her every action is intended to hurt those who she considers to be her enemies: Jason, Creon and Glauce. Conversely, she is enraged and the chorus is troubled by the notion that Jason has engaged in activities which are harmful to his near and dear ones, namely abandoning his wife and children for another woman. This perversion of the accepted ethical standard creates a dilemma for the audience: are we meant to sympathize with Medea and approve of her vengeful actions, or are we meant to be repulsed by the murders that she coldly plans and executes?

Several factors seem to argue for a sympathetic reading of the character, for the most part. First, a number of the other characters in the play–such as the nurse, Aegeus and the chorus–consider her to be a victim of circumstance and feel sorry for her. She herself repeatedly makes the compelling argument that she has given up everything for Jason–her home, her family, and to a certain extent her identity–only to have him repay her by tossing her aside like a used tissue. Jason himself, when he arrives to justify his actions, comes across as vain, haughty and callous toward his soon to be ex-wife and children. Creon also appears to be unduly harsh by banishing her and her children from his kingdom, although we later learn that his concerns were well founded, and Glauce is described as hiding her face and turning away from the children when they arrive to give her the gift that is supposed to win her good will. By making her enemies unlikeable, Medea is in turn rendered more pitiful. In short, Medea has helped her near and dear ones, but Jason has harmed them, and thus he becomes Medea’s enemy along with the king and princess.

However, one thing arguably blemishes the clear line between treatment of friends and enemies: Medea’s murder of her children. Within the context of the play, she states that she is killing them to harm Jason, which is consistent with the need to hurt one’s enemies. He is undoubtedly harmed by the action, as he is left alone without even his own flesh and blood to comfort him after the loss of his new bride and all the power and money that would have come with the marriage. Nonetheless, Medea is murdering innocent near and dear ones who have done nothing to deserve their fate, but merely had the bad luck to be related to an unscrupulous man and an intractable woman. Moreover, she is also harming herself, subordinating her own small measure of happiness to exacerbate Jason’s misery. Finally, the chorus does not approve of her actions, despite their prior support for her other revenge schemes.

Medea herself is a complex character; she is by turns a frantic, jilted lover, a caring mother, a pitiful suppliant and a cold, calculating killer. Which is the real Medea? Can they be reconciled into a cohesive person, and is that person sympathetic or not? If we accept that she has successfully managed to hurt her enemies, what does her victory say about the very notion of reciprocity? At what point does the cost of hurting your enemies become too high to be ethical? Would her actions be considered a form of justice, or merely retribution? Finally, given that she literally gets away with murder and escapes, leaving Jason to deal with the aftermath, can she really be considered a tragic hero?

If one takes for granted that the ancient Greeks wholly endorsed the ethical principle of “help friends and harm enemies,” then Ajax is something of an enigma. The character himself embodies the principle; after all, the play begins as he tortures what he thinks are his enemies, namely Odysseus, Agamemnon and Menelaus, but what are actually herd animals. However, his most hated rival Odysseus comes to his defense at the end when the other two Greek commanders seek to deprive him of proper burial rites. It is difficult to reconcile these disparate events into a cohesive whole, but Sophocles attempts to do so in the final argument between Odysseus and Agamemnon.

As in Antigone, the argument between opposing sides is over whether the corpse of an “enemy” deserves proper burial. Menelaus and Agamemnon claim that it doesn’t, while the family of Ajax, namely Teucer, argues that it does. It is reasonable to expect the family members to push for burial, but when Odysseus arrives and takes their side, Agamemnon is shocked: “…should you not also trample him now that he is dead?” he asks. Odysseus replies, “Do not take delight, son of Atreus, in that superiority which brings no honor.” This idea that harming an enemy who cannot defend himself is dishonorable at worst and pointless at best is a strangely modern one, calling to mind the adage, “Don’t kick a man when he’s down.” It seems to indicate that while there is value in defeating an enemy, there is no merit in continuing to molest him once he is already defeated.

A few lines later, Agamemnon continues, “Remember to what sort of man you show this kindness!” Odysseus counters, “The man was once my enemy, yes, but he was also noble.” Pressed further, Odysseus says, “I yield to his excellence much more than his hostility.” This directly counters the idea of only doing harm to enemies; it creates a separate class of enemy that is worthy of distinction based on his own redeeming qualities. It even seems to contradict the previously stated (and possibly wrongheaded) ideas of Ajax and Teucer, who believe it fitting that Ajax die on the sword of Hector, his enemy, even though the weapon was given as a gift. Agamemnon then states, “Men who act as you do are the unstable sort in humankind.” To which Odysseus replies, “Quite the majority of men, I assure you, are friendly at one time, and bitter at another.” This indicates that today’s friend may be tomorrow’s enemy, which is arguably the case with Ajax himself. This also implies that the opposite could be true. Either way, it provides further reinforcement for Odysseus’ position.

Agamemnon’s last concern is that he and Menelaus, and even Odysseus, will seem cowardly if they capitulate. “On the contrary,” Odysseus replies, “we will be men of justice in the eyes of all the Greeks.” This is a difficult claim to back given that the Greeks were gossiping about Ajax earlier in the play at Odysseus’ prompting. But then Agamemnon asks Odysseus if he will take responsibility for the act, and the Ithacan immediately agrees, which seems to indicate a desire to undo what he did by spreading the information in the first place. He also expands his list of reasons by adding, “I too shall come to that necessity,” meaning he will also need burying someday and hopes that he will not be deprived of proper rites himself.

Taken holistically, Odysseus advocates kindness toward fallen enemies as well as those who warrant distinction based on their deeds. He also appears to adopt an approach counter to the “help friends and harm enemies” mentality, namely one that is closer to the idea summarized as “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” While the two are not mutually exclusive, the former does not allow helpful deeds to be done to enemies in the hopes of receiving reciprocal treatment at a potential future time, while the latter could be construed as favoring that attitude. However, one could speculate that Odysseus, having seen firsthand how quickly the gods can turn on their favored heroes, is less altruistically minded and more concerned about himself personally.

It is difficult to imagine anyone viewing or reading King Oidipous without any knowledge of the major events of the play, especially the revelation of Oidipous’ “evils.” Now, millennia later, there is an almost obsessive avoidance of “spoilers,” divulging of details important to a story or movie to someone who hasn’t seen it, which may have been completely foreign to a culture that seemed to value the reimagining of old myths and legends rather than the invention of new ones. Even so, the use of dramatic irony persists in modern fiction not so much as an external practice, in which vital information regarding the events of the plot are known beforehand, but in a more internal fashion, in which details are revealed to the audience but not the character within the fictive work. In the case of King Oidipous, the dramatic irony arises from the audience being previously aware of the crime that Oidipous has committed; there is a great deal of foreshadowing, but it would be lost on someone being exposed to the material for the first time.

To say that dramatic irony is at work in this play is an understatement; it permeates the dialogue and, like the gods, is almost an omnipresent additional character. One could even argue that the representation of Apollo’s shrine as part of the scenery, if it was actually there, is the literal manifestation of the god’s presence. Apollo knows everything, like the audience, and it is the words of his oracle as brought back by Kreon that start the characters on their inevitable slide towards tragedy. While the audience immediately understands the implication of the prophecy, the characters are still in the dark and act accordingly. Oidipous’ grand pronouncements about the perpetrator being cast out and not permitted to “participate in prayers or sacrifices / to the gods” are uncomfortable to hear, inspiring a sense of empathetic dread since he is condemning himself to the various punishments. The suspense is heightened when Teiresias arrives, especially since he repeatedly refuses to tell Oidipous what he (and the audience) knows, until finally Oidipous galls him into action and then immediately rejects his statements. When Jokasta hears what Teiresias said, she too rejects the information because she believes that previous oracles were incorrect and thus, logically, others can be wrong as well; one wonders whether the audience would have been surprised by a female using logic, flawed as it might be. Soon thereafter, however, she is the first to realize the full implications of the various prophecies, while Oidipous is still ignorant until the only remaining eyewitness to his lineage arrives at the very end. The point of revelation is the point at which the dramatic irony vanishes, and both the audience and Oidipous are left to wonder what will happen next.

Because the audience is already well aware of what is going to occur from the beginning, at least in a general sense, much more attention can be paid to the technical aspects of the play: the language, the structure, the song and dance, the acting, and so forth. It is also worth noting that although the two plays are not meant to be read or viewed together, it is difficult to read King Oidipous without recalling Kreon’s fate in Antigone. Both made harsh pronouncements of punishment without considering who they might have to punish. Both internalized the problems of the city and believed that their personal success hinged on solving those problems. The two characters even reject Teiresias in the same way, by accusing him of taking bribes. Still, Oidipous is somewhat more sympathetic than Kreon in the sense that his ills seem to have been set in motion when he was a baby, long before any character flaw had time to manifest itself, while Kreon had a strong guiding hand in his own downfall.