When Nietzsche made his famous definition of tragic pleasure he fixed his eyes, like all the other philosophers in like case, not on the Muse herself but on a single tragedian. His "reaffirmation of the will to live in the face of death, and the joy of its inexhaustibility when so reaffirmed" is not the tragedy of Sophocles nor the tragedy of Euripides, but it is the very essence of the tragedy of Ęschylus. The strange power tragedy has to present suffering and death in such a way as to exalt and not depress is to be felt in Ęchylus' plays as in those of no other tragic poet. He was the first tragedian; tragedy was his creation, and he set upon it the stamp of his own spirit. It was a soldier spirit. Ęschylus was a Marathon-warrior, the title given to each of the little band who had beaten back the earlier tremendous Persian onslaught. As such, his epitaph would seem to show, he merited honor so lofty, no mention of his poetry could find place beside it: Ęschylus, the Athenian, Euphorion's son, is dead. This tomb in Gela's cornlands covers him. His glorious courage the hallowed field of Marathon could tell and the long-haired Mede had knowledge of it. Did he fight elsewhere too? There is no answer to this or to any other question about him except in so far as it can be found in what he wrote. The epitaph, a statement that he was descended from an aristocratic family, and a few dates--of the production of this or that play, and of his death--make up all the facts that have come down. There was no Plato to draw his portrait with sure, intimate touches and make him a living human being forever. As with Shakespeare, we know him only as he permits us through his plays, a doubtful matter in the case of the greatest poets whose province is the whole of life and who can identify themselves with everything there is, delight in conceiving an Iago equally with an Imogen, as Keats once said. Even so, Ęschylus' work, what we have of it, that is--seven plays only left from ninety--shows the main lines of his character and the temper of his mind as Shakespeare's, with its boundless range, does not. Such is the overpowering impression each of Ęschylus' plays makes of his grandeur of mind and spirit, of the heroic mold he was cast in, it is not possible to conceive of his writing anything that would not have been so stamped. So much we can conclude about the man himself, but of his actual life there are almost no indications. He was used to the ways of a great house, we gather, and despised the nouveau riche--he makes him off in the Zeus of the Prometheus, "the upstart god" who "shows forth his power for his brief day, his little moment of fording it." In this matter of his soldiering, too, there are passages that would appear to strike unmistakably the note of personal experience: "Our beds were close to the enemy's walls; our clothes were rotting with the wet; our hair full of vermin." Even more pointed are the words in Clytemnestra's announcement that Troy has fallen, when she pauses in the full flight of her tale of triumph to give a strange little realistic picture of a newly captured town: The women flung themselves on lifeless bodies, husbands, brothers--little children are clinging to the old dead that gave them life, sobbing from throats no longer free, above their dearest. And the victors--a night of moaning after battle has set them down hungry to brakfast on what the town affords, not billeted in order, but as chance directs. That speech sounds oddly on a great queen's lips. It seems an old soldier's reminiscence, each clear detail part of a picture often seen. But these few passages are all there are that throw any light upon his way of life. We are, the greatest of us, the product of our times. Ęschylus lived in one of those brief periods of hope and endeavor which now and again light up the dark pages of history, when mankind makes a visible advance along its destined path without fear or faltering. A mere handful of men had driven the hosts of the ruling world-power, so defeated that Persia was never again to repeat an invasion that had brought only disaster. The success of that great venture went thrillingly through the land. Life was lived at an intenser level. Peril, terror, and anguish had sharpened men's spirits and deepened their insight. A victory achieved past all hope at the very moment when utter defeat and the loss of all things seemed certain had lifted them into an exultant courage. Men knew that they could do heroic deeds, for they had seen heroic deeds done by men. This was the moment for the birth of tragedy, that mysterious combination of pain and exaltation, which discloses an invincible spirit precisely when disaster is irreparable. Up to that time the poets of Greece had looked with a direct and unselfconscious gaze upon the world and found it good. The glory of brave deeds and the loveliness of natural things had contented them. Ęschylus was the poet of a new era. He bridged the tremendous gulf between the poetry of the beauty of the outside world and the poetry of the beauty of the pain of the world. He was the first poet to grasp the bewildering strangeness of life, "the antagonism at the heart of the world." He knew life as only the greatest poets can know it; he perceived the mystery of suffering. Mankind he saw fast bound to calamity by the working of unknown powers, committed to a strange venture, companioned by disaster. But to the heroic, desperate odds fling a challenge. The high spirit of his time was strong in Ęschylus. He was, first and last, the born fighter, to whom the consciousness of being matched against a great adversary suffices and who can dispense with success. Life for him was an adventure, perilous indeed, but men are not made for safe havens. The fullness of life is in the hazards of life. And, at the worst, there is that in us which can turn defeat into victory. In a man of this heroic temper, a piercing insight into the awful truth of human anguish met supreme poetic power, and tragedy was brought into being. And if tragedy's peculiar province is to show man's misery at its blackest and man's grandeur at its greatest, Ęschylus is not only the creator of tragedy, he is the most truly tragic of all the tragedians. No one else has struck such ringing music from life's dissonance. In his plays there is nothing of resignation or passive acceptance. Great spirits meet calamity greatly. The maidens who form the chorus of the Prometheus demand full knowledge of all the evil before them: "For when one lies sick, to face with clear eyes all the pain to come is sweet." Antigone, about to do what means certain death to her, cries, "Courage! The Power will be mine and the means to act." When Clytemnestra has struck her blow and her husband has fallen dead, she opens the palace doors and proclaims what she has done: Here I stand where I struck. So did I. Nothing do I deny. Twice did I strike and twice he cried out, and his limbs failed and he fell. The third stroke I gave him, an offering to the god of Hell who holds fast the dead. And there he lay gasping and his blood spouted and splashed me with black spray, a dew of death, sweet to me as heaven's sweet raindrops when the cornland buds. Prometheus, helpless and faced by irresistible force, is unconquered. There is no yielding in him, even to pronounce the one word of submission which will set him free; no repentance in dust and ashes before almighty power. To the herald of the gods who bids him yield to Zeus' commands, he answers: There is no torture and no cunning tricks, There is no force, which can compel any speech, Until Zeus wills to loose these deadly bonds. So let him hurl his blazing thunderbolt, And with the white wings of the snow, With lightning and with earthquake, Confound the reeling world. None of all this will bend my will. Herald Submit, you fool. Submit. In agony learn wisdom. Prometheus Seek to persuade the sea wave not to break. You will persuade me no more easily. With his last words as the universe crashes upon him, he asserts the justice of his cause: "Behold me, I am wronged"--greater than the universe which crushes him, said Pascal. In this way Ęschylus sees mankind, meeting disaster grandly, forever undefeated. "Take heart. Suffering, when it climbs highest, lasts but a little time--that line from a lost play gives in brief his spirit as it gives the spirit of his time. He was a pioneer who hews his way through by the magnificence of sheer strength and does not stay to level and finish. There is no smooth perfection of form in him such as ever gives a hint that the summit has been reached and just beyond lies decadence. He could have heaved the mighty stones of the Mycenean gate; he could not have polished the lovely beauty of the Praxiteles Hermes. ..............................................................................................................................It is usually held that the radical and the religious temperaments are antagonistic, but in point of fact the greatest religious leaders have been radicals. Ęschylus was profoundly religious and a radical, and so he pushed aside the outside trappings of religion to search into the thing itself. The gods come and go bewilderingly in his plays for the reason that they are only shadows to him, whose inconsistencies and incongruities do not interest him. He is looking past them, beyond the many to the one, "the Father, Ancient of Days, who fashioned us with his own hand." In Him, in God, he holds, rests the final and reconciling truth of this mystery that is human life, which is above all the mystery of undeserved suffering. The innocent suffer--how can that be and God be just? That is not only the central problem of tragedy, it is the great problem everywhere when men begin to think, and everywhere at the same stage of thought they devise the same explanation, the curse which, caused by sin in the first instance, works on of itself through the generations---and lifts from God the awful burden of injustice. The haunted house, the accursed race, literature is full of them. "The sins of the fathers shall be visited upon the children." Oedipus and Agamemnon must pay for their forefathers' crimes. The stolen gold dooms the Volsungs. It is a kind of half-way house of explanation which satisfies for a time men's awakening moral sense. It did not satisfy Ęschylus. He was a lonely thinker when he began to think "those thoughts that wander through eternity." He could accept the irrational and rest in it serenely; the actual fact before him did not confront him inescapably as it did the Greek. Ęschylus was conscious of his own isolation when he went beneath the accepted explanation. "I alone do not believe thus," he wrote. He took the problem at its worst, a wife driven to murder her husband, a son driven to kill his mother, and back of them an inheritance of black deed upon black deed. No easy way out that would "heal the hurt" of the world "slightly" would do for him. He saw the inexorable working out of the curse; he knew tht the sins of the fathers are visited upon the children; he believed in the justice of God. The truth to reconcile these truths he found in the experience of men, which the men of his generation must have realized far beyond others, that pain and error have their purpose and their use: they are steps of the ladder of knowledge: God whose law it is that he who learns must suffer. And even in our sleep pain that cannot forget, falls drop by drop upon the heart, and in our own despite, against our will, comes wisdom to us by the awful grace of God. A great and lonely thinker. Only here and there in the very greatest have the depth and penetration of his thought been equalled, and his insight into the riddle of the world has not yet been superseded. Source: THE GREEK WAY (Edith Hamilton)
