EURIPIDES’ ESCAPE-TRAGEDIES

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 Euripides’
Escape-Tragedies
A Study of Helen,
Andromeda and Iphigenia
among the Taurians

MATTHEW WRIGHT

3
 3
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British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
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Wright, Matthew Ephraim.
Euripides’ escape-tragedies : a study of Helen, Andromeda, and Iphigenia
among the Taurians / Matthew Wright.
ISBN 0–19–927451–7 (alk. paper)
Includes bibliographical references and index.
1. Euripides—Criticism and interpretation. 2. Helen of Troy (Greek mythology) in literature.
3. Andromeda (Greek mythology) in literature. 4. Iphigenia (Greek mythology) in literature.
5. Euripides. Iphigenia in Tauris. 6. Euripides. Andromeda. 7. Escape in literature.
8. Euripides. Helen. 9. Tragedy. I. Title.
PA3978.W75 2005 882'.01—dc22 2004025239
ISBN 0–19–927451–7
3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
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 Acknowledgements

It is easy to ignore the ‘Acknowledgements’ section in academic

books. This is because they all too often resemble acceptance
speeches at the Oscars (prolix, lachrymose). In the hope, how-
ever, that this paragraph will not be overlooked, I shall not test
the patience of the reader, eager to get to Chapter 1, by dwelling
at length on every act of kindness which I have ever experienced.
Rather, I hope that it will suffice to list the people who have
helped me to write this book, either by reading and criticizing its
earlier drafts or by influencing my thinking about Euripides and
his world. Chris Gill, John Wilkins, Judith Mossman, James
Diggle, Richard Seaford, David Braund, Norman Postle-
thwaite, Peter Wiseman, Lynette Mitchell, †Don Fowler,
Gregory Hutchinson, Oliver Taplin, Edith Hall, Malcolm
Davies, Nicholas Purcell, Bob Cowan, David Fearn, Isabelle
Torrance, Jean Lee and Graham Robertson have each played a
vital role (they know what), and I offer my profound thanks to
them all.
M.E.W.
Exeter
November 2003
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 Contents

Notes on Conventions viii

Prolegomena 1
1 Escape-Tragedies 6
1.1 Escape-TRAGEDIES 6
1.2 ESCAPE-tragedies 43
2 Myth, Fiction, Innovation 56
2.1 ‘Use of myth’ 56
2.2 ‘Myths’ and ‘plots’ 58
2.3 Old and new elements: inheritance, adaptation,
innovation 80
2.4 Metamythology 133
3 A Tragic Landscape 158
3.1 A sense of place 158
3.2 Exotica 163
3.3 Ethnicity 177
3.4 The imaginary landscape 202
4 Tragedy of Ideas 226
4.1 Introduction 226
4.2 Philosopher of the stage 235
4.3 Tracing philosophical threads 260
4.4 Reality, illusion, delusion 278
5 The Tragic Universe 338
5.1 Introduction 338
5.2 Tragedies as ‘religious’ texts 339
5.3 Making sense of the universe 362
Afterword 385
Bibliography 389
Index Locorum 415
General Index 425
 Notes on Conventions

Abbreviations used in the Bibliography and in the main text

generally follow the practice of S. Hornblower and A. Spawforth
(eds.), The Oxford Classical Dictionary, 3rd edn., Oxford 1996,
with the following exceptions:

Davies M. Davies, Epicorum Graecorum Fragmenta (1988)

and Poetarum Melicorum Graecorum Fragmenta post
D. L. Page (1991– )
Nauck A. Nauck, Tragicorum Graecorum Fragmenta, 2nd
edn. (1889), with Supplement of B. Snell (1964)
TGF B. Snell, R. Kannicht, and S. Radt, Tragicorum
Graecorum Fragmenta (4 vols., 1971–85).
FGH F. Jacoby, Fragmente der griechischen Historiker
(1923– )

All Euripidean quotations and references (except fragments) are

taken from the Oxford Classical Text of James Diggle (1981–
94). In the case of Andromeda, the edition cited is the Budé text
of Jouan and Van Looy (1998), which uses the numbering of
Kannicht’s forthcoming volume 5 of TGF. All other Euripidean
fragments are cited according to Nauck (above).
Following the practice of Aristotle, I shall use the title
Iphigenia throughout this book to stand for Iphigenia among the
Taurians; the Iphigenia at Aulis, where mentioned, will be
named in full.
I hope that this book will be of use to the student and the inter-
ested general reader as well as to the professional scholar. With
this in mind, I have translated or paraphrased all quotations in
the text and footnotes, so that the argument will be at all times
intelligible to the non-reader of Greek. (Unless otherwise attri-
buted, these translations are my own.)
 Prolegomena

The three plays which I shall call ‘escape-tragedies’—Helen,

Andromeda and Iphigenia among the Taurians—were, at different
times, among Euripides’ most popular tragedies. Aristotle, in
whose opinion Euripides was ‘the most tragic’ of the Athenian
dramatists,1 held the Iphigenia in high esteem, seemingly using it
as an example of how to write good tragedies.2 The Andromeda,
often mentioned by ancient writers, was an enormous success for
many years after its first production: not only was it said to be a
particular favourite of Dionysus, god of the tragic theatre,3 but
also selected excerpts from it were performed from memory by
Alexander the Great,4 and it was reputedly the cause of an
episode of Euripides-mania in Abdera.5 The escape-tragedies
made such an impact on first production that they were the sub-
ject of an elaborate parody by Aristophanes the following year;
this seems to testify to their immense popularity or notoriety.6
Similarly, the large number of vase-paintings based on scenes
from these tragedies (especially Iphigenia) indicates that they
remained well-known for a long period of time, possibly through
revivals at the City Dionysia and other Attic or Italian festivals.7
1
Arist. Poet. 1453a29–30. This important passage is discussed below (§1.1).
2
Arist. Poet. 1452b6–7; 1454a7, b32; 1455a7–18, b3. Discussed by Belfiore
(1992) 359–78: she argues that the Iphigenia was a favourite of Aristotle on
account of its well-constructed plot, emotional power and its ‘universal tragic
significance’ (375).
3
Ar. Frogs 52–4.
4
Athenaeus, Deipn. 12.537d–e.
5
Lucian, De Conscrib. Hist. 59.1.
6
Ar. Thesmophoriazusae (411 bc); see below (§1.2) for discussion.
7
See Trendall and Webster (1971) 78–82, 91–4; Webster (1967) 154–60. IG
II2 2320 (col. 2) records that Iphigenia was revived at the City Dionysia in 341
bc: this probably refers to the Tauric Iphigenia, to which Aristotle could refer by
the name ‘Iphigenia’ alone (n. 2 above). Euripides’ Helen is not represented on
any surviving vase or monument, and receives no subsequent mention in
the critical-historical record (see LIMC IV.1. 500). Since this play was so
memorable in terms of plot and of theatrical and visual effects, this paucity of
2 Prolegomena
The matter of subsequent reception of the escape-tragedies is
more obscure. At any rate, the ‘definitive selection’ of Euripi-
dean tragedy, made during the third century ad, did not include
them, and consequently, along with the other plays, they dis-
appeared from view.8 Were it not for the accidental survival of
part of a complete ‘alphabetical’ collection of Euripidean tragedy
(the ancestor of the fourteenth-century codex Laurentianus), we
would not now have Helen and Iphigenia.9 Sadly, Andromeda
survives only as a handful of jejune fragments.
The early popularity of the escape-tragedies contrasts with
their more recent unpopularity. Today the escape-tragedies (or
what remains of them), along with certain other Euripidean
tragedies, occupy an unenviable position in tragic scholarship.
Far from being admired or seen as exemplary dramas, Helen and
Iphigenia (along with Orestes, Ion, Electra and most late plays
of Euripides) are generally held to be unsatisfactory or funda-
mentally problematic. Many critics seem to feel that they are
undeserving of serious interest. In particular, Iphigenia has been
largely neglected: despite the appearance, during the last few
years, of Martin Cropp’s new Aris and Phillips edition of the text
and a handful of articles, which indicate that interest may be
reawakening, there is still room for a lot more work on this play.10
evidence might seem to be disturbing: for instance, Verrall (1905, 43–133),
notoriously, believed that Helen was never produced at the Dionysia but at a
private festival of Demeter, entry to which was restricted to women. But it
is probably better to attribute the difficulty to the incomplete nature of the
surviving evidence.
8
The ten selected plays were: Hec., Or., Phoen. Hipp., Med., Andromache,
Alc., Rhes., Tro., Bacch. The principles of selection (suitability for educational
use? popularity? perceived status as ‘best plays of Euripides’?) are unknown.
9
On textual transmission see Zuntz (1965), Dale (1967) xxix–xxxiv,
Kannicht (1969) 1.78–133.
10
When I began thinking about this project in 1997, the literature on
Iphigenia was very thin indeed. The last scholarly commentary was that of
Platnauer (1938), which is still of considerable philological interest, despite its
almost total failure to discuss matters of literary or historical importance.
Cropp’s (2000) admirable edition is far fuller than any of the other volumes in its
series: I presume that this is due precisely to the large gap which it has to fill.
Commentaries aside, apart from a chapter in Burnett (1971, 47–75), no sub-
stantial study of the play as a whole exists. The articles (by Sansone, Caldwell,
Wolff and a few others) cited in my bibliography show that the Iphigenia
has been perceived to be of interest chiefly for its treatment of ritual, and is
regarded as a repository of ideas and topoi rather than a work of any great
literary value.
 Prolegomena 3
Helen has fared a little better, in terms of the number of
published discussions, but it is difficult to find anyone who takes
the play seriously.11 So it often seems more difficult to begin
discussing the escape-tragedies than (say) Oedipus the King or
Agamemnon, because, in addition to writing about the literary
and dramatic qualities of the plays, one inevitably has to engage
with some fairly serious methodological problems raised by
existing criticism.
This book is a critical study of the escape-tragedies, based on
the belief that they are to be taken seriously as a major dramatic
and intellectual achievement. It has two specific aims. The first
is to read the plays together, arguing that they were produced as
a trilogy in 412 bc. I am not the first to make this suggestion; but
no one has previously followed up the suggestion and attempted
a sustained, connected reading of all three plays. One could not
hope, of course, to cover every aspect of the plays in a work of this
scope. If I had more time and space at my disposal, no doubt I
should have given more attention to such areas as characteriza-
tion, rhetoric, music and staging, textual criticism, the plays’
Nachleben, and so on. I make no claim to completeness, then; but
the areas on which I have chosen to concentrate were not plucked
out of the air at random. What I have tried to give is a coherent
and (in a sense) self-contained reading of the escape-tragedies,
which addresses the more important of the ‘big’ issues raised by
such a reading. These areas—myth and innovation, geography
and landscape, philosophy, theology and ritual—are all indis-
pensable, and all closely linked.
Throughout the book, I have tried to bring the fragmentary
Andromeda into the discussion as much as possible, while keep-
ing speculation to a judicious level; but there are, clearly, severe
constraints on the extent to which this is possible. This means
that no very firm conclusions can be drawn about the relation-
ship of Andromeda to the other two plays. Nevertheless, I am
encouraged by the number of connections and parallels which
can be seen.
11
At least Helen does not lack adequate commentaries: that of Kannicht
(1969) is unlikely to be superseded, while Dale’s (1967) addition to the Oxford
series, despite the same sort of failings as Platnauer’s Iphigenia, is likewise excel-
lent on philological matters. However, there are few discussions which deem
Helen worthy of serious, prolonged consideration: Podlecki (1970), Segal (1971)
and Wolff (1973) are notable exceptions.
4 Prolegomena
However, any study of Helen and Iphigenia must, before it
even gets off the ground, deal with a further problem, which does
not arise in the case of (say) Medea or Hippolytus. This is the
problem of genre. As we shall see, the tone of most modern
criticism of the escape-tragedies, as well as being largely nega-
tive, is based on the notion that these plays are not tragedies; that
they should be categorized as something generically different
(tragicomedy, romance, comedy, melodrama, or similar).
My second specific aim, then, is to argue that the escape-
tragedies are definitely, unambiguously tragic. I am aware that it
will not be immediately clear exactly what I am claiming with
this statement—just as it is unclear exactly what critics are claim-
ing when they complain that Helen and Iphigenia are not ‘tragic’.
This lack of clarity is due in part to the complexity of meaning in
the words ‘tragedy’ and ‘the tragic’. Therefore, in the first
chapter (1.1), I attempt to make it plain exactly what it means to
say that a play is, or is not, ‘tragic’, and to assess the way in which
genre affects one’s understanding of the plays.
Clearly defining the questions which we ask about tragedy,
and examining the ways in which we approach the business of
criticism, is more important than the formulation of a set of
generic rules. The main fault (as I perceive it) with much of what
is written about Greek tragedy is a lack of explicit definition of
method and meaning. My own approach, not only to the specific
question of genre but more broadly, has been to react against the
unchallenged, unexamined preconceptions on which much
criticism is based; to challenge, to define, to make the implicit
explicit. Even if my critical opinions are found wanting, I hope
that this method itself has something to commend it.
In all of what follows, I have tried to strike an appropriate
balance between general discussion and detailed commentary on
the texts. In order to understand the escape-tragedies (or,
indeed, any tragedies), it is necessary to examine other areas of
Greek thought, religion, culture and myth. Without adopting a
single or explicitly ‘theorized’ perspective, I have tried to inter-
pret the escape-tragedies in their original cultural and intel-
lectual context: a combination, that is, of literary history and
literary criticism, exploring how broad questions can affect close
reading. The result is a new interpretation of the escape-
tragedies which also has important implications for Euripidean
 Prolegomena 5
tragedy as a whole (including the other ‘problematic’ late plays)
as well as for the way in which we read tragedies in general.12
Having discussed, in Chapter 1, the issue of genre and the
arguments in favour of an escape-trilogy, in the remainder of the
book I shall apply this approach to the plays in detail. Chapter 2
is concerned with the relationship of the escape-tragedies to their
myths, arguing for a serious purpose behind plots which might
seem prima facie to be provocative, playful or perverse. Chapter
3 investigates several different levels on which a ‘sense of place’
is important to the plays, including its role in the creation of
personal and cultural identity. Chapter 4 attempts to erode the
(Platonic and Nietzschean) distinction between ‘literature’ on
one hand and ‘philosophy’ on the other; I argue that the escape-
tragedies constitute an ambitious intellectual project, with clear
connections to Presocratic and sophistic theories of ontology and
epistemology. A short fifth chapter continues to explore the
theme of (mis-) understanding in the events of the plays, this
time from a theological perspective.
On my reading, far from being (as some would like to think)
untragic, light, or whimsical entertainments, the escape-
tragedies emerge as being serious, dark, pessimistic plays which
raise some very disturbing questions about the audience’s
knowledge of their myths, their gods, and their very existence.
12
For this general approach, compare William Allan’s recent book (2000a),
and its title: The Andromache and Euripidean tragedy (my underlining).
 1
Escape-Tragedies

EURIPIDHS πstin kakÎn moi mvga ti propefuramvnon.

KHDESTHS po∏În ti;1

1.1 escape- TRAGEDIES

We shall begin with a few representative opinions which illus-
trate the problems of the escape-tragedies. The plays’ (undeni-
ably odd) plots and settings have caused critics to overreact,
expressing themselves, in general, in terms of bafflement or dis-
satisfaction. For example, the only substantial commentary in
English on Helen begins, almost wearily one might think, with
the question: ‘What are we to make of this play?’2 Two different
(but closely related) types of answer to this question are to be
encountered.
In the days before it became unfashionable to describe texts as
‘good’ or ‘bad’, it was common for critics to write that the escape-
tragedies are simply unsatisfactory—that is, botched, artistically
imperfect works whose structure, plot and substance are
deficient in some looked-for quality. This was Gilbert Murray’s
view: ‘The Helena . . . is, if we understand it rightly, a rather
brilliant failure.’3 Likewise Platnauer: ‘The Iphigenia in Tauris
has never been ranked as among its author’s great plays. It has
neither the moving pathos of the Hecuba nor the stark tragedy
of the Hippolytus, nor can its heroine compare as a dramatic
character with Alcestis or Medea.’4 Kitto and Grube detailed
manifold ‘imperfections’ in both plays, holding that all other
details were subsidiary to brilliant plotting.5 Most people would,
1
Ar. Thesm. 75–6. ‘Euripides: There’s some terrible trouble brewing for me.
Relative: What sort of trouble?’
2
Dale (1967) vii.
3
Murray (1913) 146.
4
Platnauer (1938) v.
5
Kitto (1961) 311–29; Grube (1961) 315, 329–30.
 Escape-Tragedies 7
if pressed, agree that writers do from time to time produce work
of varying quality, and that certain literary works are (judged by
some criteria) ‘better’ than others. Nevertheless, the scholarly
move, more recently, away from qualitative judgements reflects
the serious problems with this type of view. It is easy to argue
that a play which prima facie seems inexplicable is ‘bad’, but this
is usually an unprofitable approach to literary criticism. It is
better (if more difficult) to attempt to explain each unexpected
feature—unless, that is, we really believe that ‘Euripides did not
think very closely about it’.6 In any case, the question of what
makes a literary work comparatively ‘good’ or ‘bad’, even if one
makes scrupulously clear one’s criteria, is highly subjective.
Critics of the last few decades have been less prone (at least less
explicitly prone) to making perfunctory value-judgements on
the problematic plays. But far more serious—and almost uni-
versal in the critical literature—is the second type of reaction.7
This is the view that these tragedies are somehow not tragic; in
other words, that they lack some important quality of tragedy
‘proper’, or that they exhibit features which belong not to
tragedy but to some other genre. The majority of critics attach
other labels—if these plays are not tragedies, then what are they?
Murray draws a distinction between the ‘true tragedies’ (such
as Medea) and the ‘works of pure fancy or romance’ (which
include the escape-tragedies and several other plays composed
after 415);8 similarly, Conacher’s influential book on Euripides
separates the ‘properly tragic plays’ from ‘the other kind of
Euripidean play which we may conveniently call romantic
tragedy’.9 Platnauer explains that ‘in the first place, the Iphigenia
is not a tragedy at all . . . not so much a tragedy as a romance—a
romance, it may be added, with some of the elements of a
thriller’.10 Patin calls Helen, Iphigenia and Ion ‘tragédies
romanesques’,11 while Verrall (followed by many others) uses the
6
Dale (1967) 69 (on Helen 1).
7
It is easy (one might object) to find questionable opinions or methodology
in the works of obsolescent critics such as Murray and Kitto; but the range of
views quoted here shows that the approaches which they used, and the faulty
assumptions which they made, are still alive and kicking.
8
Murray (1913) 142.
9
Conacher (1967) 14.
10
Platnauer (1938) v; cf. Lesky (1972) 15.
11
Patin (1883) 2. 75.
8 Escape-Tragedies
term ‘tragicomedy’.12 Kitto’s comment is typical: ‘intellectual
profundity is as alien to this tragi-comedy as moral profundity;
we look in vain for any serious purpose beyond the serious
purpose of creating such elegant drama.’13 Knox describes the
escape-tragedies as ‘romantic intrigue-plays’,14 having earlier
referred to them and other late Euripidean plays, in an influential
article, as fully-fledged ‘comedy’ characterized by a light,
domestic tone. ‘The only thing that puts these plays in the tragic
category,’ he writes, ‘is the fact that they were entries in the
tragic competition at the festival of the Dionysia.’15 Oliver
Taplin’s relabelling of Euripides’ tragedies, which sits some-
what uneasily alongside his later arguments about the separate-
ness of tragedy from other genres,16 again reflects a feeling that
Euripides’ plays are of fairly low quality.17 Taplin refers to
Iphigenia and Helen, along with Ion, as ‘curious “romances” with
happy endings’; he also classifies Orestes, Phoenician Women and
Iphigenia at Aulis as ‘sagas of melodrama and pathos’.
It is usually assumed that these ‘untragic’ plays have nothing
important or serious to say, but are essentially nugatory, light-
weight pieces of theatrical entertainment. T. B. L. Webster, for
instance, advised that ‘the Helen should not be taken too serious-
ly’.18 Vellacott, like Kitto, believed that tragic status depends on
a play’s success in treating a ‘tragic theme’, and that the ‘tragi-
comedies’ (or ‘melodramas’) of Euripides fail in this respect.19
Zuntz found Helen a jolly play, full of ‘light relief’, a ‘superior
pa≤gnion’.20 M. L. West (discussing the Orestes) writes that
Orestes, Iphigenia, Helen and Ion are ‘concerned more with
emotional ups and downs . . . than with profound tragic issues’,
and he concludes that Orestes is simply ‘a rattling good play’.21
12
Verrall (1895) 43–133; Vickers (1973) 299; Seidensticker (1978) 320 and
13
(1996) 393; Dunn (1989) 250–1. Kitto (1961) 316.
14
Knox (1985) 318.
15
Knox (1979) 256–7; cf. Lee (1997) 37. E. Segal (1995, 49), oddly, describes
the Helen and Iphigenia as ‘proto-comedy’, as if comedy did not yet exist (pre-
sumably, he means New Comedy).
16
Taplin (1986) and (1996): see below.
17
Taplin (1978) 28: ‘I will not disguise the fact that I find Euripides the least
great of the three tragedians. His oeuvre is very uneven in quality . . .’
18
Webster (1967) 201.
19
Vellacott (1975) 56; Kitto (1961) 190, 315–22.
20
Zuntz (1960) 201–9.
21
West (1987) 27–8.
 Escape-Tragedies 9
Very recently, Conacher writes that Helen is ‘a comedy of
mistaken identity’,22 while Hall maintains that ‘of all Greek
tragedies, including the not dissimilar Iphigenia in Tauris,
[Helen] is by far the lightest and funniest’.23 Sommerstein’s new
introductory book on Greek drama distinguishes the ‘tragic’
from the ‘melodramatic’ plays of Euripides, and adds that ‘the
lighter plays are pure, often exhilarating entertainment’.24
Michelini describes Andromeda as ‘an openly romantic tale com-
plete with magic, monsters and a happy ending’.25
The problem lies, basically, in the fact that the critics quoted
above, along with many others, confuse several different issues.
The issues at stake are, first, the genre of the plays; second, the
serious or unserious tone of the plays; third, the quality of the
plays as literature. Any attempt to defend or to criticize Helen,
Andromeda and Iphigenia should make it clear which of these
issues is being confronted, but this is often not the case. The
section which follows is all about definitions: what does it mean to
argue that the escape-tragedies are or are not ‘tragic’? If we want
to use labels, then we must be rigorous about their application
and explain just what these labels mean. In the latter part of this
opening section, I offer a definition of what I understand by
‘tragedy’; but there are several important preliminaries to be
dealt with first.
Let us begin by examining the defects of the ‘relabelling’
approach to Euripidean tragedies. One serious drawback of such
a tendency is that it effectively diverts attention away from the
texts themselves: a disproportionate amount of time is spent try-
ing to decide what type the plays are, with the result that their
literary qualities, art and meaning are neglected. But, far more
seriously, to call the escape-tragedies ‘comedies’, ‘melodramas’,
‘tragicomedies’ or ‘romances’ is a misuse of these terms, each of
which has a specific generic meaning. The first term, ‘comedy’,
22
Conacher (1998) 75.
23
Hall (1997) xxiii.
24
Sommerstein (2002) 22, 58.
25
Michelini (1987) 77. One wonders how she can make so confident a pro-
nouncement on the basis of the fragments. Klimek-Winter (1993, 199) also
detects a comic tone in Andromeda, particularly the point at which Perseus
mistakes Andromeda for a statue (fr. 125: discussed at more length in Ch. 4
below). Gibert (2000, 86–9) ponders, inconclusively, the subject of Andromeda’s
‘generic affinities’.
10 Escape-Tragedies
may be fractionally less improbable than the others, because at
least it is a genre contemporary with tragedy. Nevertheless, it is
obvious that Helen and Iphigenia were not comedies, because
they were put on in the tragic competition, as well as having
distinct formal differences (for which see below). None of
the other genres, however, existed in 412 bc. ‘Tragicomedy’,
although the word seems to have been invented by Plautus to
describe a mixture of comic and tragic plot-elements,26 was first
used as a generic term in the early seventeenth century ad by
Giambattista Guarini (in his Compendio della Poesia Tragicomica
of 1601), and later by other European dramatists including
Corneille and Molière.27 The term ‘melodrama’ was invented by
Jean-Jacques Rousseau for his Pygmalion (1770), and originally
denoted a form of musical drama distinct from opera, character-
ized by excitement, suspense, lovers, long-lost children and so
on. English ‘melodramas’ of the nineteenth century, including
Thomas Holcroft’s A Tale of Mystery (1802), altered the mean-
ing of the word to something resembling its standard modern
definition, ‘a dramatic piece characterized by sensational inci-
dent and violent appeals to the emotions, but with a happy end-
ing’.28 ‘Romance’ was first used in the twelfth century ad of
heroic narrative poetry, such as The Romance of the Rose and
Arthur and Merlin, before acquiring, several centuries later, the
sense of ‘a fictitious narrative in prose of which the scenes and
incidents are very remote from those of ordinary life’.29
Even if one protests that these terms are helpful (in the sense
that they seem to tell us something important about our own
texts), the practice of attaching modern labels to ancient plays is
a totally anachronistic and misleading exercise, the effect of
which is to squeeze the texts into inappropriately constructed
categories. The fifth-century Greeks, unlike modern audiences,
did not have as wide a choice of dramatic genres by which to
classify their plays. A dramatic performance at a fifth-century
Attic festival was either a comedy, a tragedy or a satyr-play, and
26
Plautus, Amphitryo 59: ‘faciam ut commixta sit; sit tragicomoedia’. How-
ever, note that the 5th-cent. comic poet Dinolochus may have written a play
called Kwmwidotragwid≤a (PCG I, p. 79: T3).
27
Brief histories of the term and its uses are given by Seidensticker (1982)
9–27 and Hirst (1984) 3–17.
28
OED2 (1989), s.v. ‘melodrama’ (I.1). Cf. Smith (1973) 1–14.
29
OED2 (1989), s.v. ‘romance’ (II.2).
 Escape-Tragedies 11
the context of the festival would have left the audience in no
doubt as to what type of play they were watching.30 The assess-
ment of genre and the attaching of labels is part of today’s theatre
because of (crucially) the lack of fixed performance contexts, and
because of the frequency with which elements from different
genres are mixed together in modern dramatic or literary works.
However, watching a play in the fifth-century theatre of Dio-
nysus was a different activity, requiring the audience to evaluate
the drama within a given, defined generic framework. Despite
change and development, fifth-century genres remained separate
from each other. One of the strongest arguments against Euri-
pides’ supposed generic impurity is Aristotle’s failure to mention
it. Given the ‘taxonomical’ approach to genre in the Poetics, if
Euripidean plays had transgressed the generic limits of tragedy,
Aristotle would, surely, have classified such plays as special
cases.31
This is not to deny that certain features of Euripidean tragedy,
and the escape-tragedies, were later to become features (even,
perhaps, defining features) of other genres. (This observation
has been made of, in particular, Euripides’ influence on New
Comedy.32) However, such similarities do not provide much
illumination. Charles Segal’s influential and thought-provoking
article on Helen may be used as just one example of this anachro-
nistic approach. As Segal writes:33
In addition to its setting in the Egyptian never-never land, the play
also includes the reunion of long-separated lovers, the loss and recovery
of identity, the supernatural knowledge of a magician-like princess,
and (like Shakespeare’s Much Ado about Nothing and Cymbeline) a
calumniated heroine whose virtue will carry her and her beloved
through the perils of delusion and restore them to their own kingdom to
live happily ever after . . . Euripides has intertwined these hoary and
popular themes of the romantic plot with the sophistic intellectualism
of his own day.
30
There may have been possible exceptions, such as Euripides’ Alcestis: see
below (at n. 58).
31
Aristotle’s theory of tragedy in the Poetics is arranged by quasi-scientific
‘taxonomic’ principles, reflecting an interest in biological science and
anatomy—and, seemingly, a belief that a work of literature may be dissected and
made to correspond to an empirical reality. See Dale (1969) 139–41.
32
Satyrus’ Life of Euripides (P. Oxy. 1176 §10, fr. 39 VI = Kovacs (1994) 19)
is an early source to note this influence, in terms of shared motifs such as recog-
33
nitions, rapes and reversals of fortune. Segal (1971) 556–7.
12 Escape-Tragedies
Segal’s process of reasoning is back-to-front. All the features
which seem to him to mark out Helen’s genre as ‘romance’ are
‘romantic’ only in the literature of substantially later periods:
these themes were not ‘hoary and popular’ in 412 bc. The plot-
elements outlined here may indeed have become characteristic
features of romance, which means that any history of the
development of the romantic genre may include Helen (along
with the Odyssey and other Greek poems from a variety of
genres) among a list of antecedents of the form. However,
while we can use Euripides to understand romance, we cannot
properly use romance to understand Euripides. (The same is
true of Shakespeare, whom Segal adduces, unconvincingly,
as a parallel.) In other words, to label the escape-tragedies
‘romances’ because they have certain features in common with
later romantic fiction is comparable in value to labelling them
‘pantomimes’ (because they contain songs and men dressed as
women) or ‘soap-operas’ (because they are family sagas aimed at
a mass audience).
There are other imprecisions here. What, for instance, is a
‘never-never land’? The phrase was certainly not in use in
classical Greece; and, in any case, Egypt is a perfectly real
location, not an imaginary one. Even if one concedes that an
Egyptian setting is unusually exotic for tragedy, the way in
which Euripides uses that setting in Helen is quite different
from the use of landscape in Heliodorus, Apuleius, Lucian,
Shakespeare and others.34 Other features which Segal takes to
be characteristic of romance—recognitions, the disguise and
recovery of identity, magic and the supernatural—are equally
characteristic of tragedy, comedy, and epic, so cannot be said to
be exclusively romantic. ‘Calumniated heroines’, too (if one
wants to use such an expression), may be found in virtually all
tragedies which feature female characters. Perhaps it is the
reunion of lovers, in particular, that Segal sees as romantic; but
here, too, he is wrong. Helen and Menelaus are not young lovers
of the type found in romance, but a middle-aged, married
couple.35
34
See Ch. 3 below for a discussion of the landscape and ‘sense of place’ in the
escape-tragedies.
35
In other words, this is not erotic love but conjugal loyalty—a point well
made by Konstan (1994) 177. Compare too Iphigenia, which is sometimes
described as romantic: in that play, the reunited pair are brother and sister.
 Escape-Tragedies 13
If the genre of romance existed in 412, or if the characteristics
of romance could be shown to correspond more closely to
Euripides’ plots, then it might perhaps be acceptable to discuss
the tragic texts as romances. But, as it is, the ‘romantic’ label (like
the ‘melodramatic’ and the ‘tragicomic’) is not only anachronis-
tic but vague and ill-defined; it is used as a sort of metaphor to
add rhetorical force to shaky arguments. Vagueness and lack of
definition are, as I have said, the main faults of much existing
criticism, especially the ‘relabelling’ approach. But, in this
respect, we must return to our original label, ‘tragedy’.
At the root of the problem is the fact that the words ‘tragedy’
and ‘the tragic’ may be used in three quite distinct senses, with-
out its being at all clear which of those three senses is intended.
The first, original meaning—and the only one which should be
used by scholars in connection with Greek literature—is
rigorously historical: ‘tragedies’ are tragwid≤ai, those plays
which were exhibited in the Athenian festival of Dionysus in the
classical period. The second meaning is transhistorical but still
broadly literary: a ‘tragedy’ is any work of (not necessarily
dramatic) literature, from any period or context, which, by
choosing to call itself a tragedy, deliberately identifies itself with
the high artistic tradition in Western literary and intellectual
culture. The third sense is colloquial: a ‘tragedy’ is a sad event,
usually perceived to be undeserved. The same terminology can
be used, indiscriminately, to describe a play by Aeschylus, a play
by Euripides, a play by Shakespeare, a play by Brecht, an opera
by Wagner, a poem by Tennyson, a novel by Heine, an accident
at Beachy Head, or the death of a breakfast television presenter.
If it were the case that professional classicists used the term only
in the first sense, the problem would be less profound; but this is
not the case.
It may be that there has been so much slippage in the mean-
ing(s) of ‘tragedy’ and the ‘tragic’ that it is impossible to avoid
ambiguity when using these words. A more important factor is
that many critics have found it attractive to align themselves with
‘high-brow’ culture for a variety of social and political, as well as
intellectual, reasons. That is, critics of ‘tragedy’ can be perceived
as the purveyors of high culture, the intellectual élite, working
within a tradition which includes not just Greek antiquity but
two and a half millennia of literature, philosophy and art. In this
14 Escape-Tragedies
case, imprecise use of terminology may have considerable
rhetorical effect. (What depth of meaning can be added to the
simplest of sentences by the addition of the word ‘tragic’! How
much more weighty is ‘a tragic dilemma’ than a plain, common-
or-garden ‘dilemma’; how many times more complex is ‘a tragic
flaw’ than any other sort of ‘flaw’ . . .) Awarding or denying
texts the appellation of ‘tragedy’ is tied up with the creation of
‘literature’, of a ‘canon’—a process which is infinitely more
complex, in social, historical, political and intellectual terms,
than the study of a few texts from a specific point in Greek
antiquity. The history of ideas in Western culture is a fascinating
subject, but ultimately irrelevant to my topic. My concern is to
understand Greek tragedy on its own terms.
At this point, let us discard the notion that an entity called
‘the Tragic’ exists in, and characterizes, Greek tragedy.36 It is
usually supposed that ‘the tragic’ is a particular type of Weltan-
schauung—a view of the human condition, or a distinctive theo-
logical or philosophical system. Because suffering and death
loom so large in most tragedies, the popular conception of ‘the
tragic’ is deeply pessimistic, even nihilistic. A ‘tragic vision’ of
life might resemble (let us say) the words of the chorus in Oedipus
the King:
j° genea≥ brot0n,
„ß Ëm$ß ÷sa ka≥ tÏ mh-
d†n z*saß ƒnariqm0.
t≤ß g3r, t≤ß ån¶r plvon
t$ß eÛdaimon≤aß fvrei
∂ tosoıton Òson doke∏n
ka≥ dÎxant’ åpokl∏nai;
tÏn sÎn toi par3deigm’ πcwn,
tÏn sÏn da≤mona, tÏn sÎn, _
tl$mon OjdipÎda, brot0n
oÛd†n makar≤zw.37
Alas, you generations of men!—I count your life as next to nothing!
Who is there, what man is there who enjoys anything more than the
mere semblance of happiness, and, after the semblance, the loss of it?
Taking you as an example, your fate—yes, yours, wretched Oedipus—
I say that no mortal is happy.

36
For variations on this view, see the essays in Silk (1996).
37
Soph. OT 1186–96.
 Escape-Tragedies 15
This vision is found in at least one tragedy—in fact, moralizing
sentiments of a similar tone can be located in a number of
tragedies—but why assume that this, or something like it, is the
underlying message of the whole genre? In fact, the construction
(or postulation) of ‘the tragic’ should be seen as a product of the
trend in intellectual history which I have just been describing; it
is a tool to be used in the creation of the ‘canon’.
The ancient critics did not discuss tragedy in terms of ‘the
tragic’, just as they did not look for something called ‘the comic’
at the heart of comedy. (However, if Plato and Aristotle had been
more preoccupied with comedy than tragedy, no doubt the
critical tradition would have been correspondingly different.38)
On the (infrequent) occasions when ancient writers used the
adjective tragikÎß, it generally bore the sense ‘of, or pertaining
to, tragedy or tragic poets’, without any perceptible overtones.39
This is very disappointing for those who would look for
‘essences’.40 A notable occurrence of the word (and, seemingly, a
unique occurrence of the superlative form) is found in Aristotle’s
Poetics: he describes Euripides as tragik*tatÎß ge t0n poiht0n,
‘the most tragic of the poets’.41 However, this passage implies
that ‘tragicness’ is directly related to sad endings—a suggestion
which, as we shall see, does not hold water.
It is incorrect to postulate ‘the tragic’ as something along the
lines of a general philosophy which each play attempts to express
in its own way. If that were the case, one could measure each
tragedy as if on a sliding scale, measuring how thoroughly or how
38
Note that Aristophanes can be seen as engaging with, or reacting against,
a tradition, active even in his own time, that tragedy is a more valid or impor-
tant art form than comedy. See Taplin (1983); Bowie (1993) 217–27; Silk
(2000).
39
tragikÎß as ‘pertaining to tragedy or the high style’: Hdt. 5.67, Ar. Peace
136, Isocrates 6.3, 48.6, 136.9, 168.6, Arist. Rhet. 3.3, 1406b8, Polyb. 5.26.9,
Isaeus 5.36.2, 6.60.6–9, Andoc. Alc. 23.7, 42.5. In the rare sense of ‘sad’ (no 5th-
cent. uses): Xen. Eph. 3.1.4, Plut. Quaest. Conv. 8.1 (Mor. 717c).
40
According to Halliwell (1996), Plato’s view of ‘the tragic’ was a nihilistic
philosophy of life which he repudiates; Halliwell has to resort to laborious
archaeological work on the text, since as he admits (333–4) there is nowhere any
explicit or fully worked-out statement of such a philosophy, either in Plato or
elsewhere. Later he claims that ‘this vision need not be discoverable in all de
facto members of the genre of tragedy’ (346); but, once again, if this ‘meaning’
may be separated from some of the thirty-two tragedies, how can we properly
call it ‘the tragic’ ?
41
Arist. Poet. 1453a29–30: discussed by Lucas (1968) ad loc.
16 Escape-Tragedies
successfully it expounds this philosophy of ‘the tragic’. This is
what some critics explicitly try to do (see below); in others it is
implicit. But one should not see the tragic as a sort of ‘ideal’
or quasi-Platonic ‘form’, with some plays being more or less
‘tragic’ than others. On the contrary, ‘the tragic’—if it exists at
all—should be seen simply as a defining feature which is either
present or absent. All tragwid≤ai are ‘tragic’.
Many critics who believe in the existence of ‘the tragic’ adopt
an anachronistic way of reading the texts. Their implied model
of ‘the tragic’, or ‘a typical tragedy’, is based on a few Greek
tragedies, but also later so-called ‘tragedies’ from other tradi-
tions, as well as ethical, philosophical and psychoanalytic writing
from a period of many hundreds of years. Few, then, would
dispute that Agamemnon, Oedipus the King, Antigone, Medea and
Hippolytus (for example) are tragic, because they seem more
closely to resemble later ‘tragedies’, but there is less consensus
on the ‘tragic’ status of many other tragwid≤ai. Page, in his intro-
duction to the commentary of Denniston and Page on the
Agamemnon, arranges Greek tragedies in a hierarchy reflecting
the extent to which they correspond to a mid-twentieth-century
conception of ‘the Tragic’.42 George Steiner lately takes an
extreme line, talking about ‘tragedy pure and simple’—which for
him means a bleakly nihilistic sort of vision to be found
expressed, in varying degrees of concentration, by plays calling
themselves ‘tragedies’: Sophocles’ Antigone, Euripides’ Bacchae,
Shakespeare’s Timon of Athens, Racine’s Bérénice and Büchner’s
Wozzeck are among Steiner’s few ‘pure’ tragedies.43 Such a
broad model of ‘the tragic’, with its profound implications for
life and literature in general, might appeal to some deep human
instinct in us, but I would argue that it has only an indirect
connection with Greek tragedy itself. Familiarity with the works
of Shakespeare, Racine, Nietzsche, Kierkegaard and Freud
(etc.) may make possible rich and fascinating discussion about
comparative literature—but it can only hinder an understanding
of Greek tragedies. It is simply unacceptable to define Greek
tragedy by reference to one’s dozen or so favourite examples
while regarding the rest as somehow deviant.
An important point emerges from a discussion, in M. S. Silk’s
42
Denniston and Page (1950) xx–xxii.
43
Steiner (1996) 535–42.
 Escape-Tragedies 17
volume Tragedy and The Tragic,44 between A. M. van Erp
Taalman Kip and A. F. Garvie. ‘I am fairly convinced,’ writes
the former, ‘that Aristotle would not have denied to Iphigenia in
Tauris the predicate “tragic” (tragikÎn).’45 So Garvie: ‘If one
were to ask Euripides himself to classify Iphigenia in Tauris,
no doubt he would reply that of course it is a tragwid≤a
(“tragedy”).’46 Yet both critics are uneasy because the Greeks
seem to have been unaware of ‘what seems obvious to the
modern reader’, that Greek tragedies included ‘very different
kinds of plays’—including those which modern readers find
untragic.47 This is essentially a restatement of an old problem.
Compare Dale’s remark: ‘The Helen, though not tragic in
our sense, is a Greek tragedy.’48 We can say with reasonable
certainty that Helen, Iphigenia, Andromeda, Orestes and the rest
were all produced at the City Dionysia as tragwid≤ai. Therefore
no one would dispute that they are ‘tragedies’ in some sense—
although (it is implied) not a very important sense.
But why should ‘our sense of the tragic’—that manifold, com-
plex, contradictory mass of received opinion—be of primary
importance in a discussion of Greek tragedies? On the contrary,
the most relevant sense in which the escape-tragedies, or any
tragedies, were ‘tragic’ is the contemporary Greek sense. The
plays exhibited by Euripides (and others) at the City Dionysia,
which might now appear to be a disparate collection, were all
called tragwid≤ai. If the tragwid≤ai do not correspond to ‘our’
notion of tragedy, that is too bad. ‘Tragedy’, and (if we persist in
trying to locate the concept) ‘the tragic’, must be seen as identi-
cal to tragwid≤a—that is, as specifically historicized entities. Of
course, twenty-first-century critics cannot read the plays as
fifth-century Athenians did, however much we might try to
discard preconceptions and anachronistic ‘baggage’; but it is
worth making the attempt to get as close as possible to the
historical context. In the remainder of this section, I give (for
what it is worth) a historical definition of ‘tragedy’, attempting,
as far as possible with the limited evidence, to show what

44
Silk (1996).
45
Van Erp Taalman Kip (1996) 132.
46
Garvie (1996) 139–40.
47
Garvie (1996) 140.
48
Dale (1967) ix. This is also the view of Knox (1979) 256–7 et al.
18 Escape-Tragedies
Euripides’ audience understood by tragwid≤ai and how genre can
affect our reading of the escape-tragedies.

A number of handicaps face anyone who wants to define Greek

tragedy. One is that tragedy is perceived as being an entity too
alarmingly big to define, or as something which perhaps, by its
very nature, eludes definition.49 This is a refuge of the cowardly.
Although there may be a grain of truth in such views, I think we
can see that, in essence, they are a direct consequence of the
critical opinions that I have been discussing. To stress the point:
I am not trying to engage with ‘the tragic’ and the huge edifice of
the intellectual tradition, but only with Greek tragedies. The
really important handicap, however, is that nearly all of the
plays are lost, along with the whole experience of the ancient
festivals—which means that no definition can be more than
tentative and provisional.
One modern theorist writes that a major problem of generic
definition inheres in a certain circularity of approach: ‘one estab-
lishes such a definition on the basis of a few examples, and yet the
choice of those examples from the multitude of possible ones
implies a prior decision about the characteristics of the genre’.50
This method of working typifies much writing about tragedy, as
we have already seen. But the problem vanishes when we are
dealing with tragedy in a historical, finite sense. Here it is not a
matter of assigning specimen plays to a genre, because it is already
known that they are tragwid≤ai. ‘Tragedy’ as we now have it is a
tangible (and rather small) body of thirty-two plays by three
playwrights:51 a careful reading of all those thirty-two plays will
tell us something—although by no means everything—about the
genre of which they were examples. My method, then, has been
broadly empirical: that is, I have read all the extant plays and
tried to find elements which are common to them all. Since the
49
e.g. Mason (1985) 1: ‘It is of the essence of Tragedy that there can be no
cut-and-dry propositions about it.’ Kirkwood on Sophocles (1958, 28)
describes the definition of tragedy as ‘a pleasant but frustrating game’.
50
Dubrow (1982) 46.
51
This takes for granted that Rhesus is Euripidean and Prometheus Bound
Aeschylean—matters which are far from certain. Perhaps we have the work of
four or five tragedians instead of three; it is still only a fraction of the total. The
problems of working with fragments are so great that, in the interests of space, I
exclude them from this brief survey.
 Escape-Tragedies 19
thirty-two plays are actually quite heterogeneous, it should not
come as a surprise that the results are not particularly interesting
or illuminating.
Another factor to take into account at the beginning is that the
tragic genre underwent change and development over the course
of a couple of centuries. It seems certain that for a tragedian
writing in, say, 412 bc, more things were possible, or permis-
sible, than for his counterpart eighty years before—a wider range
of effects, and increased freedom and flexibility in the use of
actors and chorus. The supposed position of Euripides in this
process of development is another ‘fact’ which has had a serious
influence on dramatic criticism. The current orthodoxy can be
represented roughly as follows: Euripides, the last of the ‘great’
Athenian dramatists, was endlessly experimenting with the generic
limitations and the dramatic possibilities of tragedy: his work must
be seen in relation to its socio-political context of crisis, disillusion-
ment and fragmentation. His later works in particular exhibit
features which would have had no place in earlier tragedies, and
which one should properly call romantic (vel sim.). These self-
consciously ‘late’ plays are not only generically impure but also
inferior in quality; they ought not to be considered on the same terms
as the more serious tragedies of old.52
This ‘received view’ of Euripides seems to derive ultimately
from the views of ancient critics—including Aristophanes—and
of Nietzsche, whose description of tragedy’s Todeskampf in the
hands of Euripides has been excessively influential.53 However,
there is no good reason to adopt that view. For the ancient bio-
graphical tradition is often demonstrably wrong; the bulk of it
derives from the ‘evidence’ of comic playwrights who had their
52
This is a composite (but not, however reductive, entirely a caricature) of
views contained in the majority of critical writings on Euripides over the last
hundred years, including all the writers so far quoted. For a fuller survey of the
critical tradition, see especially Collard (1981) and Michelini (1987).
53
Nietzsche (1872): see §4.2.1 below for more discussion. ‘Aeschylus’ in
Aristophanes’ Frogs criticizes Euripides on several accounts (which notably do
not include generic impurity): his dubious morality, his presentation of religion,
his cleverness, the wantonness of his female characters, his sordid or ‘bourgeois’
subject-matter and his experimentation with new verse-forms and music; these
are recurring criticisms throughout Aristophanes’ plays. Other ancient sources
are quoted by Kovacs (1994) 82–9. It may be relevant to enquire why out of all
the tragedians only Euripides, Aeschylus and Agathon appear in Aristophanes
(perhaps it is simply that their style is more easily parodied).
20 Escape-Tragedies
own particular and far from straightforward objectives.54 While
old jokes about Euripides must reveal some basic truths about
his work and its reception, the picture given in the comedies is
exaggerated and distorted in ways that one cannot hope entirely
to appreciate. Even if one were to accept the ancient evidence as
literal truth, there is another reason not to subscribe unquestion-
ingly to the standard view. It may be imprudent to deny that
there is at least some value in this appraisal; but it is miguided to
allow one’s views to be falsely patterned. Why should one con-
ceptualize ‘development’ in terms of a triad consisting of
Aeschylus–Sophocles–Euripides? Why perceive Euripides as a
problematic and destructive tragedian, explaining all his idio-
syncrasies and seeming irregularities as ‘products of their
times’? In the first place, as Mastronarde points out, change and
development are signs not of a moribund, obsolescent genre
but of a healthy, lively one.55 Furthermore, a teleological recon-
struction of tragedy’s development based on a small, perhaps
unrepresentative sample of plays is hazardous. One cannot chart
patterns of change and pronounce on reasons behind them,
except in a tentative, cautious way.
A comparison of the extant tragedies of Euripides with those
of Aeschylus and Sophocles does suggest that his were the most
varied and innovative (to begin with, there are so many more of
them). But it does not follow from those descriptions that they
were heterodox or iconoclastic. The numerous lost tragedies of
Sophocles and Aeschylus may have been equally varied and sur-
prising as those of Euripides. Nor were these three writing in a
vacuum. There were many other contemporary tragedians
whose success and prominence was comparable—Phrynichus,
Ion, Nicomachus, Aristias and Agathon, to name but a few—but
whose characteristics and contribution to tragedy’s development
are virtually unknown. In any case, there was no neat evolution.56
The surviving plays of Euripides do not correspond to a simple
model of progressive experimentation or deconstruction. We
54
See Lefkowitz (1981) and Kovacs (1990) on uses of ancient ‘critical’
material.
55
Mastronarde (2000b) 27.
56
The problems associated with a teleoscopic model of tragedy’s develop-
ment can be seen in the case of Aeschylus’ Suppliants, the ‘primitive’ features of
which were once wrongly thought to date its production several decades too
early: see Easterling (1997b) 151–2.
 Escape-Tragedies 21
have nothing from the first twenty years of his career—his first
production was Daughters of Pelias in 455 bc57—but his earliest
surviving play, Alcestis (438 bc), is found by critics to be most
perplexing in terms of generic classification and development.58
And what of Bacchae, produced after Euripides’ death (along
with Alcmaeon in Psophis and Iphigenia at Aulis), and so possibly
his last play of all? This contains some bizarre features, but no
one denies that it is a tragedy. Can we believe that Euripides,
having irrevocably altered, even ‘destroyed’, tragedy, returned
to the straight and narrow at the end of his life?59 This seems a
somewhat unnatural perspective.
57
Suda (s.v. EÛrip≤dhß); Gvnoß EÛrip≤dou ka≥ b≤oß (Kovacs (1994) 3–11) §15.
The Rhesus has been considered to be a work of Euripides’ youth, but this (as,
indeed, its authorship) is far from certain: S Rhes. 575; cf. Grube (1961) 439;
Ritchie (1964).
58
The Alcestis is sometimes labelled ‘pro-satyric’ (e.g. Sutton (1980)
180–90). This nomenclature derives from the Hypothesis of Aristophanes of
Byzantium, which first states that Alcestis is rather akin to satyr-play, on
account of its ‘happy ending’ (saturik*teron, Òti ejß car¤n ka≥ Ódon¶n katastrvfei
par¤ tÏ tragikÎn), but continues that it is more like comedy (‹ ƒsti m$llon
kwmwid≤aß ƒcÎmena). The value of this self-contradictory summary is question-
able. Alcestis cannot be both satyric and comic. In fact, either description seems
inappropriate. It cannot be a satyr-play because there is no chorus of satyrs, and
it cannot be a comedy because comedies were not exhibited along with tragedies
at the Dionysia. ‘Happy’ endings are found in several tragedies and are not, as
Aristophanes of B. supposes, an invariable feature of comedy. One might be
tempted to see Alcestis as generically a ‘special case’ because of its circumstances
of production: we know that Alcestis was produced as the fourth play in a
tetralogy consisting of Cretans, Alcmaeon, Telephus, Alcestis. Such a play was
usually, but not always, a satyr-play (see n. 76 below), a fact which may have
confused Aristophanes. However, its final position in the tetralogy may not have
been what caused Aristophanes to liken Alcestis to comedy or satyr: his
Hypothesis to the unquestionably tragic Orestes uses the same terminology.
Alcestis seems to me to be a tragedy which was produced instead of the satyr-
play, which had become dispensable by this date (Seaford (1984) 24–5). It is not
‘pro-satyric’—a label with no good provenance—and it contains little of ‘satyric’
quality (cf. Dale [1954] xi–xii) except, perhaps, for the drunkenness of Heracles
(drunkenness is listed by Seaford [1984, 33–44] and Sutton [1980, index s.v.] as
a satyric motif). Nevertheless, for its comparatively early date it seems an inno-
vative tragedy.
59
Dodds (1960, xl) asks: ‘Why did Euripides, tireless innovator and experi-
menter as he had always been, leave as his final legacy to his fellow-countrymen
this topical yet deeply traditional miracle-play, “old-fashioned” in style and
structure as in the incidents it depicted?’ The common explanation (until the
19th cent.) used to be that Euripides was ‘recanting’ his earlier atheism—in
other words, that Bacchae was a death-bed palinode. Dodds (xlvii) supposes
that ‘the renewed contact with nature in the wild country of Macedonia . . . had
22 Escape-Tragedies
Unless a substantial amount of new information should come
to light, it is better to abandon teleoscopic models of tragic
evolution—and to stop seeing Euripides as a problematic figure.
Although his plays are undeniably inventive, clever (which need
not be understood in a pejorative sense60) and often unexpected,
Euripides can nevertheless be seen as doing the same sort of
thing as his contemporaries did—that is, writing tragedies of
various sorts.61 Euripidean tragedies should be interpreted along
the same lines as any other Greek tragedies, rather than from an
initial preconception that they are bound to be outré.
‘Tragedy’ incorporates what might seem to us to be a wide
assortment of plays. This is, in part, due to the small number of
possible genres in existence in classical Athens. Because every
play had to be either a tragedy or a comedy or a satyr-play, each
of those three genres inevitably had a broad range. Yet whatever
it was, tragedy was not comedy or satyr-drama. Now it may be
argued that an inverse definition is of limited practical useful-
ness;62 but nevertheless the genres were always distinct, and
therefore in many areas it can be illuminating to compare and
contrast the conventions of the different genres (as, for instance,
Aristotle does at various points in the Poetics).63 What resources
were available to comedy, which to tragedy—and which to both

released some spring in the aged poet’s mind, re-establishing a contact with
hidden sources of power which he had lost in the self-conscious, over-intellec-
tualized environment of late-fifth-century Athens’. But this seems a rather
questionable application of old-fashioned biographical criticism. See also
Vellacott (1973) 29–38, Knox (1985) 318, etc., for the view that Euripides
returned to writing ‘genuine’ tragedies at the end of his life. One ought at least
to point out that Bacchae cannot be a ‘death-bed’ composition, unless one
supposes that the poet knew he was going to be torn apart by dogs (or as it might
be women . . .).
60
As Aristophanes (Knights 11–20, Lysistrata 368–9), Winnington-Ingram
(1969) and Conacher (1998), for example, do. On the question of Euripidean
sof≤a, see §4.2.2 below.
61
Kovacs (1987, 9–21) also argues for a ‘straight’ reading of Euripides.
62
When Violet Elizabeth Bott composes a crossword puzzle for William
Brown, her clue for ‘dog’ is: ‘Oppossit of cat’ (Richmal Crompton, William in
Trouble, London 1927, 80–2). As Silk (2000, esp. 42–97) argues, comedy and
tragedy may define themselves in relation to each other, but there is no reason to
see them as polar opposites.
63
It will be clear from what follows how much I have been influenced by
Taplin’s (1986) synkrisis of tragedy and comedy, without finding myself in
agreement with him on every point.
 Escape-Tragedies 23
genres? What could comedy and satyr-drama include that
tragedy could not?64
It is clear that there are certain features in comedy and satyr-
drama (use of less elevated or colloquial language, certain plot
features, etc.) which are also to be found in tragedies of various
dates. These features are sometimes used to ‘prove’ that certain
tragedies—including the escape-plays—are not properly, or
purely, tragic.65 But if certain elements appear in two or three
genres, then they cannot be said to be defining characteristics of
only one genre—cannot be said, for example, to be ‘comic
elements incorporated into tragedy’66—but must rather be seen
as cross-generic features which tragedies, comedies or satyr-
dramas may include without sacrificing their respective natures.
It is what remains apart from these cross-generic features that
defines comedy or tragedy.67
It is worth observing that, although the competitors were
expected to produce both tragedies and satyr-drama, no one in
the fifth century wrote both tragedies and comedies. Nor did any
tragic actors play in comedies, or vice versa.68 Socrates at the end
of the Symposium, chatting with the tragedian Agathon and the
comic poet Aristophanes, endeavoured to make them agree that
the same man could write comedy and tragedy; but he was
advancing a characteristically unorthodox and provocative view-
point, not representing a current practice.69 That Euripides
or Aeschylus might have written a successful comedy is not
intrinsically ridiculous or impossible; after all, Shakespeare
64
Loss of material is again a problem, especially with satyr-plays, for which
it is hard to find a definite set of characteristics. Generally satyr is thought to be
a sort of ‘playful tragedy’ (Demetr. de Eloc. 169: oÛd† g¤r ƒpino&seien £n tiß
tragwid≤an pa≤zousan, ƒpe≥ sat»ron gr3yei ånti tragwid≤aß); cf. Seaford (1984,
1–7), who goes on to list some characteristics of satyr-drama based on the frag-
ments and Cyclops; Taplin (1986) 163.
65
e.g. Sutton (1980) 185–90: he actually believes that Helen was the fourth
play in its set and as such ‘burlesque’ or ‘prosatyric’.
66
Seidensticker (1978) and (1982).
67
Mastronarde (2000a, 17) asks a similar question: ‘even if the non-tragic (or
extra-tragic) feature was identifiable as such by the intended audience, did its
very presence and its juxtaposition with heterogeneous elements constitute a
perceptible challenge to generic identity, or would the impurity be accepted as
naturalized within the tragic genre?’
68
Pl. Rep. 395a–b1. However, one Simus combined the profession of tragic
actor with that of chef (Alexis, Linus fr. 140 PCG): cf. Sommerstein (2002) 154.
69
Pl. Symp. 223d1–6.
24 Escape-Tragedies
composed both ‘tragedies’ and ‘comedies’ (albeit in the modern
sense of the words).70 So there was presumably some not entirely
literary reason behind it. (After all, there were strong political
and religious elements to the City Dionysia: might the idea of
being both a tragedian and a comedian have been in some way
comparable to that of being, say, both a Methodist and a
Catholic, or both a Socialist and a Tory?) Whatever the under-
lying reason, it is preferable to follow the ancients and to view
comedy and tragedy as ‘mutually exclusive’ genres.71
Because the Athenian theatre was as agonistic as a chariot-race
or discus event, it is interesting to wonder if there was ever a set
of regulations governing the City Dionysia. Surely there must
have been rules of a sort; in order to ensure a fair competition, the
poets must have known what was expected of them.72 But what
would the rules have looked like? (‘Competitors must each submit
three ‘tragedies’, which are 〈?〉, and one ‘satyr-drama’, which is 〈?〉;
they are forbidden to do the following things: 〈?〉. A chorus will be
awarded to three candidates of merit. The competition will be judged
on the following criteria: 〈?〉 . . .’) It is unlikely that anyone will
find out—just as we shall never discover the rules for deciding
just who was allowed to compete in the Olympic Games—but
there must have been a consensus on the matter, even if there was
not a set of written regulations posted somewhere in Athens.
Conventions and habits are not, of course, the same thing as fixed
generic rules, and there may have been a number of reasons why
certain types of play and certain effects were more common than
others, including considerations of what worked in front of an
average audience, what seemed to appeal to the judges, the
fashion of the moment, reaction to one’s predecessors, and so on.
Note also that the rules never seem to have altered over time: the
number of categories and the organization of the competition
remained the same (although there was later a prize for actors).
70
Nevertheless, it is hard to think of many other examples of playwrights
who were successful in both genres.
71
The phrase of Taplin (1986, 163), who rightly emphasizes the polarity and
lack of ‘blurring’ between tragedy and comedy—in disagreement with Knox,
Seidensticker et al.
72
Sets of regulations do survive for the organization of certain (later, non-
Attic) dramatic festivals: these relate not to the plays themselves but to the pro-
ceedings at the festivals, payment of participants and value of prizes. For
example, CIG 2758–9 (Aphrodisias), SEG 38.1462b (Lycia), SEG 19.335
(Tanagra); cf. Csapo & Slater (1994) 186–206.
 Escape-Tragedies 25
Elements in generic definitions tend to correspond roughly to
the dichotomy of form and content. Similarly, I shall arrange
what follows under three headings. The first heading (a) relates
to all the formal, stylistic external features shared by the plays,
and characteristics grouped under this heading appear as a set of
definite, tangible features. The second heading (b) relates to the
internal features of the plays themselves, and can be sub-
divided—on one hand (b1), their events, plot, characters and
settings, and on the other hand (b2), ‘what the plays are about’:
their meanings and the ways in which they affect the audience.73
Nearly all available definitions of tragedy are concerned with the
content—in particular, the ‘tone’ and ‘meaning’— rather than
with the form of the plays. This reflects the perception that these
qualities are the most obscure, difficult and elusive. But a repre-
sentative definition must take all areas into consideration.

(a) Form. First of all, tragedy’s mode is dramatic (as opposed to,
say, prose narrative or lyric), and tragedies are not properly
‘texts’ but performances on the stage, as the bulk of recent tragic
criticism makes plain.74 Tragedies were exhibited competitively
at the City Dionysia, the Athenian festival of Dionysus which
took place annually in the month of Elaphebolion (March). It
seems that there were three competition-days, each of which was
given over to the work of a single playwright.75 On each day three
tragedies (sometimes with a connected narrative or subject-
matter, sometimes unconnected) were usually followed by a
satyr-play, but there were occasional divergences from this
pattern.76 Tragedies were performed by either two or (by the
time of Sophocles77) three male actors and a chorus of perhaps

73
Aristotle (Poet. 1447a16–18) says that genres differ in three respects, what
he calls ‘medium’, ‘materials’ and ‘mode’ (diafvrousi d† åll&lwn tris≤n, ∂ g¤r t0i
gvnei ‰tvroiß mime∏sqai ∂ t0i 1tera ∂ t0i ‰tvrwß). ‘Medium’ and ‘mode’ corre-
spond roughly to my ‘form’, ‘materials’ to my ‘content’.
74
e.g. Taplin (1977) and (1978), Rehm (1992), etc.
75
Pickard-Cambridge (1968, 64–74) gives the known information about the
competition-days. Cf. Ar. Birds 786.
76
Euripides’ Alcestis (438 bc), the fourth play in its group, was a tragedy (but
see n. 58 above); Aristias’ Wrestlers (467 bc), a satyr-play, seems to have been
third in its group; Pratinas, according to the Suda (s.v.), exhibited fifty plays of
which thirty-two were satyric.
77
Arist. Poet. 1459a18–19; Csapo and Slater (1994) 221–4.
26 Escape-Tragedies
nine, twelve or fifteen.78 All the performers wore masks and
grand costumes.79 It is likely that the acting and stage-presenta-
tion was very stylized, formal and un-naturalistic. There was
little in the way of stage-decoration, scenery or props; thus
‘special effects’ were limited.80
Tragedies were always composed in verse, using a mixture of
iambic and lyric metres, divided into prologue, parodos,
episodes, stasima, exodos, lyric exchanges or sung monodies by
the actors.81 As for stylistic norms, the dialogue was formal and
elevated: a feature which comedy found ripe for parodying.
There seems to have been a growing tendency, as time pro-
gressed, towards a higher ratio of spoken to sung lines, greater
naturalism in tragic dialogue, freer and more fluid use of the
chorus and more actors’ songs.82 In general, there is great variety
of arrangement of episodes and lyrics, and there does not seem to
have been a normative structure. The average length of plays
may have increased with time.83
Comedy and satyr-drama, on the other hand, while they
shared some of these external features (the dramatic mode,
theatre, stage-properties, masked actors and chorus, iambic
dialogue, lyric songs), had important formal differences. The
performance conditions were different (different days or times at
the festivals).84 In comedy, the costumes were more elaborate,
sometimes incorporating huge phalluses; the use of metres
was more widely varied;85 the chorus does not feature until
78
Pickard-Cambridge (1968) 135–231.
79
Euripidean costumes were, seemingly, more striking—notably, the
naturalistic clothing and props with which war-torn heroes were equipped (e.g.
Menelaus, Phoenix, Oeneus, Telephus etc.). This tendency was mocked by
Aristophanes (Ach. 393–489), who also depicted Euripides’ house as being full
80
of props and set-dressings. See §3.1 below.
81
Arist. Poet. 1452b14–27 lists all these ‘component parts’ (mvrh) as one
would list parts of the body.
82
On colloquialism, see Stevens (1976), esp. 64–65; on song, Hall (1999)
96–122.
83
On the basis of the extant tragedies, the average length seems to have
increased—e.g. Helen (1692 lines), Ion (1622), Phoen. (1763), Or. (1690), Oed.
Col. (1779), compared with Pers. (1077), Seven (1078), etc. The partial nature
of the surviving evidence prevents firm conclusions, as often. (Why might
playwrights consciously have written longer plays? Possible reasons include a
reaction to changing tastes or a move towards more complex plots.)
84
Pickard-Cambridge (1968) 69, 82–3.
85
See L. Parker (1997).
 Escape-Tragedies 27
comparatively late in each play, and plays a more prominent role
in the stage action; the arrangement of dialogue and sung
sections included a parabasis, not found in tragedy; the dialogue
was more colloquial, often obscene, and funnier—there are
virtually no jokes in tragedy.86
One criticism often made of the escape-tragedies is that their
diction and mood is not sufficiently ‘heavy’ for tragedy—mean-
ing ‘sombre’ or ‘grim’. Some critics say that they are, wholly or
in part, even ‘comical’.87 This supposed hilarity is often exagger-
ated by wilfully misrepresentative translations in English.88
However, there is virtually no stylistic difference between the
escape-tragedies and other tragedies. It can be seen that the dia-
logue in Helen contains fractionally more colloquial expressions
on average than other tragedies, but the evidence is hardly over-
whelming (Iphigenia, on the other hand, contains slightly fewer
colloquialisms).89 The tone is never exactly merry, and certainly
not bawdy or burlesque (as comedy and satyr invariably were).
The presence of ‘lighter’ moments in tragedy is harder to deny
(partly because of the subjective judgement involved): from the
escape-tragedies one calls to mind the scene between Menelaus
and the portress in Helen, in which Menelaus is verbally and

86
Tragedy may perhaps have ‘light’ or even amusing lines or whole scenes (a
characteristic, it is often alleged, of the escape-tragedies and Ion), but there
seems to be only one joke (as such) in extant tragedy. The following bizarre
exchange (Eur. Tro. 1049–50) takes place between Menelaus and Hecabe just as
Menelaus prepares to take Helen away from the captured Troy: EK. m& nun ne°ß
so≥ taÛtÏn ƒsb&tw sk3foß. | ME. t≤ d’ πsti; me∏zon br∏qoß ∂ p3roiq’ πcei; But is this
a joke? Surely only Menelaus will be laughing. For differing views on the
matter, see S Tro. 1050, Seidensticker (1982) 90–1, Barlow (1986b) ad loc.,
Gregory (2000) 63 n. 22.
87
Vellacott (1973), Knox (1979), E. Segal (1995), Seidensticker (1978) and
(1982), Hall (1996), Sutton (1980).
88
e.g. Vellacott’s translation (1973) of Helen; E. Segal’s (1995, 47) of Ion;
West’s (1987) of Orestes (criticized in this regard by P. G. Mason in JHS 109
[1989] 220–2). Gregory (2000) is rightly critical of ‘comical’ mistranslations.
See also §4.1 below for more on this aspect.
89
Stevens (1976) investigates the matter rigorously. See pp. 66–7 in parti-
cular for a statistical summary of the distribution of colloquialisms in all
Euripidean plays. The percentage of lines containing a colloquial expression in
relation to the total number of lines varies from 0.9 per cent (Rhesus) to 4.4 per
cent (Heracles); the average is between 3 and 4 per cent; the figures calculated for
Helen and Iphigenia, respectively, are 4.1 per cent and 2.4 per cent. Stevens
admits (66–9) that the evidence is largely inconclusive.
28 Escape-Tragedies
physically abused by the old woman.90 But before passing a
judgement on this one must ask, first, how ‘funny’ this really is;
second, how different it is from any other ‘light-hearted’
moments in tragedy; and third, what its purpose might be
(assuming that it is not a momentary lapse from taste).
First of all, then, the scene (and others like it) is not exactly as
hilarious as some critics would have one believe. In fact, its
implications for Menelaus’ heroism, and the meaning of the
play, are grave.91 Nor—crucially—is the ‘humour’ of the same
sort as that of comedy (or satyr-drama): neither Menelaus nor
the portress is drunk, no one farts, no one suffers violence, and
there is not a phallus in sight. One can compare Euripides’ scene
with Aristophanes’ comic version of the same scene to observe
the differences in content and linguistic register.92 Then there
may be various other ‘light’ moments in the undisputed
tragedies: compare the famous scene in Aeschylus’ Libation-
Bearers, which has the nurse Cilissa describing the infant
Orestes’ toilet-training; or the speech of the dithering Guard in
Sophocles’ Antigone; or Menelaus’ remark about Helen’s weight
in Trojan Women (see n. 86 above). However, as Gregory says, it
is dificult to decide what the fifth-century Greeks would have
found funny. Even when an ancient commentator identifies an
element, line or scene from tragedy as being gelo∏on (which is not
often), the meaning of this adjective may vary: ‘funny’, ‘strange’
or ‘incongruous’ are all possible translations.93
It would be wrong to suppose that humour in tragedy is a
distraction or an aberration; in fact, humorous elements, far
from inhibiting the ‘correct’ response to a tragedy (if there is
such a thing), may enhance it. This is, in essence, the view taken
by Seidensticker in his Palintonos Harmonia. First of all, Seiden-
sticker makes a very important and necessary distinction
between ‘comical’, i.e. humorous, elements (‘komische Ele-
mente’) and elements belonging to the genre of comedy
(‘Komödienelemente’):94 his interest is with the former type.

90
Helen 437–82.
91
See §4.4.2 below.
92
Ar. Thesm. 874–88. See Rau (1967) 53–65.
93
See Gregory (2000) 62–72, castigating Seidensticker (1978) and (1982) for
not being sufficiently rigorous in his identification of what is ‘funny’.
94
Seidensticker (1982) 44.
 Escape-Tragedies 29
He believes that, in Helen and other plays, certain ‘comical’
elements or effects exist in a fruitful tension with their context,
which enhances the tragic effect of the whole work.95 Seiden-
sticker is probably right, though I think he is too inclined to find
humour where there is none: and again, how do we know which
features the original audience (all of them? some of them?) would
have perceived to be ‘komische Elemente’?
Laughter is out of place in tragedy when it is untimely, but
when it is deliberately evoked by the play it may be a valid
response. It may be (as Taplin suggests, closely following
Seidensticker) that the effect is rather like chiaroscuro, in that
moments of comparative light-heartedness both provide a
momentary release from tension and also cast the grimmer,
darker moments into sharper relief.96 Or perhaps the effect is
more unsettling, caused by a mixture of shock and horror as well
as amusement—related, even, to fear and pity? This is akin to
what we would call black comedy, a type of humour ‘marked by
the use of morbid, ironic or grotesquely comic elements’ which
have a bearing on the human condition and its awful predica-
ments.97 But however one might view the purpose of humour or
‘light’ elements in tragedy, their presence here and there (not
just in the ‘problematic’ plays) means that we cannot call them
anomalous. We simply cannot talk of such a thing as a ‘tragic
tone’ of unrelenting grimness. Tragic language and expression in
general were stylized and stately, but variations certainly existed.
These external features, as well as prior knowledge of the
performance context, give an unambiguous signal of a play’s
generic status. Yet it is the internal features which tend to be
thought to provide a more satisfactory definition.
(b1) Content. The setting of tragedies is invariably what might
be called a special ‘tragic world’, which has a far from straight-
forward connection with the ‘real’ world of contemporary classi-
cal Athens. The imagined time is the heroic past, and the precise
setting is often a non-Athenian polis, although it might just as
normally be a tent in one of the camps before Troy, a cave near
95
Seidensticker (1982): see esp. pp. 9–13 and 244. His title, referring to the
attunement of opposite tensions (as of a bow or a lyre) is taken from Heraclitus
(DK 22 B51: pal≤ntonoß [or pal≤ntropoß] Årmon≤h). Cf. Gregory (2000) 61–2.
96
So Taplin (1996). One might compare for this effect, perhaps, the
97
‘Drunken Porter’ scene from Macbeth. Charney (1978) 105–6.
30 Escape-Tragedies
the Caucasus or a desert island.98 The escape-tragedies still
belong to the distant mythological past of the Trojan War, but
they are set in bizarre and exotic non-Greek locations. This is,
admittedly, an unusual feature, but it is far from unique, and
does not alter their tragic status (as some critics have main-
tained),99 since there was no ‘standard’ setting for plays of any
genre. Contemporary Athens is never a setting; historic Athens
only rarely.100 Nor are there are ever any real-life Athenian
characters in tragedy. This provides another contrast with
comedy, in which the dramatis personae often include real, living
individuals (especially politicians, philosophers and poets—
Cratinus was even a character in his own play Pytine (Wine-
Flask) of 423 bc) and the normal setting is, at least ostensibly, the
present-day city of Athens, though some comedies were not even
set on earth (e.g. Birds, Frogs).
A further difference between the genres lies in their respective
relationships with their own created ‘world’. Comedy deliber-
ately and regularly refers to its own fictive status: the chorus and
actors may at any time seem to speak in ‘the poet’s voice’,101 and
attention is drawn to the actors, audience, costumes and theatre:
one could never believe for long in the reality of the comic
‘world’. In particular, the parabasis of comedy is a formal way in
which the dramatic illusion is ruptured. Such consistent self-
consciousness is quite foreign to tragedy.102
Both tragedy and comedy have an unusual relationship with
real life. Aristotle describes tragedy as a mimetic art-form, in
that it ‘represents’ reality;103 the precise way in which reality is
represented is important if we are to understand tragedy’s
98
See §3.1 below for more discussion of tragic settings.
99
e.g. Sutton (1980) 185; E. M. Hall (1997) xxiii. In fact, I shall argue below
(Ch. 3) that the geography of the escape-tragedies contributes substantially to
their meaning.
100
Eumenides is the only extant tragedy to be set (partially) in Athens; inci-
dentally, it is the only tragedy incorporating a scene-change, the first half being
set in Delphi. Some titles of lost tragedies indicate an Athenian setting (e.g.
101
Theseus, Erechtheus). Cf. Goldhill (1991).
102
The essential contrast is explored at length by Taplin (1986) 165–73.
However, tragedies could occasionally—though rarely—have moments of
metatheatricality. An example is Eur. El.: see Davies (1998). Segal (1982) also
finds a certain amount of metadramatic play in Bacchae.
103
Arist. Poet. 1449b24–29. The term m≤mhsiß is very problematic indeed: see
Lucas (1968) ad loc. (with his ‘Appendix I’).
 Escape-Tragedies 31
‘world’ and the type of actions or words which were possible
within it. As Aristotle puts it, tragedy is a representation not of
what did happen (that would be history), but of what might
happen, under special conditions with a close similarity to real
life.104 It seems that tragedy was further away than comedy from
the reality of everyday Athenian life (not that comedy’s ‘Athens’
is an accurate representation of the real city, either), and yet its
‘world’ is not exactly fictional. It is to be seen as somehow analo-
gous to the real world, since one of its purposes is to explore and
problematize current concerns about the real polis and real
human behaviour in social, political and religious spheres. What
is it about tragedy’s ‘world’ and its subjects which makes this
almost paradoxical purpose possible?
The subject-matter and characters of tragedy will help to
explain it. They are taken, almost without exception, from the
‘traditional, widely-known stories’ of Greek mythology—what
Aristotle calls the pareilhmmvnoi mıqoi.105 The Greeks’ attitude
towards their myths—treating them as not only historical but
also as highly meaningful in terms of their own lives—is crucial.
However, not every mıqoß (‘myth’) was suitable for tragedy, and
there is a definite pattern to be seen. Tragedy uses a limited range
of myths with certain features in common: these features may tell
us something about what tragedy was ‘about’. Most simply, all
tragedies show a constant preoccupation with death, suffering
and grief. Sometimes there is a high body-count; or sometimes
(as in the escape-tragedies and several other plays) none of
the main characters dies, or the anticipated catastrophe fails to
materialize, but nevertheless death and anguish are always in the
foreground.106 The characters and the chorus of all tragedies
spend a great number of lines discussing the reasons for their
(actual or foreseen) death and suffering, and giving expression to
the grief aroused by their various situations.
104
Arist. Poet. 1451a36–b5.
105
Ibid. 1453b22. Discussed at length in §2.2 below.
106
The extant tragedy with the highest number of deaths is Euripides’
Heracles (five), closely followed by Medea and Phoenician Women (four). In
ten of the extant tragedies (Aesch. Pers., Suppl., Eum., Soph. Phil., Eur.
Andromache, Ion, Or., Helen, Iphigenia, Iphigenia at Aulis) all of the main
characters survive death. The average body-count per play is 1.34: Euripides
kills off the most characters (1.44 per play), compared with Sophocles (1.43) and
Aeschylus (1).
32 Escape-Tragedies
Specifically ‘tragic’ myths, then, must in some way contain
elements of death and suffering; but they can also be summarized
under a limited number of headings. Many tragic plots centred
on war. A particularly common subject was the Trojan War;107
this is significant in view of the similarity which Aristotle sees
between the genres of tragedy and epic.108 But, more strikingly
(as Aristotle also recognizes),109 most tragic plots are concerned
with suffering which occurs within philia-relationships: that is,
when family members or friends harm each other. On one calcu-
lation, only six extant plays do not have plots centring on harm to
friends or family,110 while the other twenty-six dramatize
destructive or painful acts (including the threat or attempt of
such acts) inflicted against blood-kin, or within other reciprocal
relationships (marriage, suppliancy or guest-friendship).
Aristotle says that the best (not all) tragic plots centre on ‘a few
families’.111 Chief among those ‘few families’ figured the house of
Atreus,112 the house of Oedipus,113 and the house of Heracles;114
other popular ‘tragic’ families included that of Alcmaeon,
Meleager and Telephus. It is clear that the escape-tragedies fit
into this group: the violation of philia-relationships in Pelopid
family history is prominent throughout Iphigenia, and the threat
that Iphigenia will kill her brother is frighteningly real; Helen
too contains an episode of narrowly averted kin-killing, where
Theoclymenus attempts to murder his sister Theonoe;
Andromeda’s heroine was very nearly sacrificed, like Iphigenia,
by her own father.
Tragic plots include certain recurrent motifs or patterns: for
example, sacrifice, supplication, slavery, revenge, usurpation
107
Fourteen of the extant plays (Aesch. Ag., Eum., Ch., Soph. Ajax, El.,
Phil., Eur., Andromache, Hec., Tro., El., Or., both Iphigenias, Rhes.) and
numerous other known titles are in some way connected to the Trojan War
theme.
108
Arist. Poet. 1449b9–10, 1459a17–1462b19.
109
Ibid. 1453b19–25.
110
These six are: Aesch. Pers., Soph. Ajax, Eur. Alc., Tro., Andromache,
Rhes. Belfiore (1998) 151–3 presents a complete schematic summary of the
111
plays’ fil≤a relationships. Arist. Poet. 1453a18–22.
112
The subject of eight extant plays (Aesch. Ag., Ch., Eum., Soph. El., Eur.
El., Or., Iphigenia, Iph. Aul.) and various other known titles.
113
The subject of five extant plays (Aesch. Seven, Soph. Ant., OT, Oed. Col.,
Eur. Phoen.).
114
The subject of three extant plays (Soph. Trach., Eur. Her., Hcld.).
 Escape-Tragedies 33
and recognition.115 Many plot-motifs involve philia-relation-
ships, especially the perversion of normal relationships,
marriage, childbirth and so on: incest, parricide, matricide and
infanticide figure large. Then there is violence—suicide, hang-
ing, stabbing, blinding, mutilation—not to mention madness,
sickness and disease, often described in terms of divine punish-
ment. Other themes are, again, related to the waging of wars:
victory and defeat for individuals and cities, and the cruel after-
math of war.
One might well be tempted to define tragedy as (simply) the
dramatization of a range of traditional stories from mythology.
This would apply to almost all the plays (with the exception of a
few ‘historical’ tragedies, such as Aeschylus’ Persians and
Phrynichus’ Sack of Miletus, and a few oddities such as
Agathon’s ‘fictional’ Antheus).116 An important consequence of
this fact is that many of the audience will already have known
before they watched a tragedy more or less what was going
to happen in it. This feature of tragic plots is not simply an
interesting curiosity: it is an absolutely essential integral feature
of the genre. It may be apposite to quote a classic interview with
Alfred Hitchcock to illustrate what I mean.
Let us suppose that three men are sitting in a room in which a ticking
bomb has been planted. It is going to go off in ten minutes. The
audience does not know it is there, and the men do not know it is there
either. So they go on talking inanely of the weather or yesterday’s base-
ball game. After ten minutes of desultory conversation the bomb goes
off. What is the result? The unsuspecting audience gets a surprise. One
surprise. That’s all.
Suppose the story were told differently. This time, while the men still
do not know the bomb is there, the audience does know. The men still
talk inanities, but now the most banal thing they say is charged with
excitement. The audience wants them to get out of the room, but they
talk on, and when one finally says, “Let’s leave,” the entire audience is
praying for them to do so. But another man says, “No, wait a minute. I
want to finish my coffee,” and the audience groans inwardly and yearns
for them to leave. This is suspense.117
115
Compare Burian (1997) 181–91 for a ‘typology of plot’ in tragedy.
116
I discuss tragedy’s myths and plots in more detail in §2.2 below.
117
Alfred Hitchcock, ‘A Master of Suspense explains his Art’, Life, 13 July
1959 (repr. in Gottlieb [1995] 45–9). An interesting discussion of suspense (die
Spannung) in tragedy is given by Fuchs (2000).
34 Escape-Tragedies
Hitchcock might almost be describing the reactions of the
audience sitting in front of Oedipus the King or Medea . . . they
know more or less exactly what is around the corner, and it is
fearful. When Agamemnon at last returns to Argos, we groan
inwardly as we yearn for him not to step into the bathroom; we
pray that Oedipus will not after all undertake his investigation
into the murder of Laïus . . . but in vain. Tragedy is about
suspense rather than surprise; it is about groaning, yearning and
praying. The response called for by a tragedy is not to wonder
what is going to happen, but rather to consider, to go over the
implications of, what is certainly going to happen. This general
rule, then, can be seen to have important implications in terms of
the interpretation of meaning.
What types of characters are depicted in the traditional myths
of tragedy? They are ‘better than us’,118 mostly men and women
of royal or aristocratic status, Greek or barbarian, from the
heroic age; but they also include slaves. It is interesting to note
that women and slaves, who in the real city of Athens had little
social or political influence, in tragedy are presented in a
provocative way, with an articulate voice and distinctive views.
(As Hall writes, discussing the ‘sociology of Athenian tragedy’,
the plays do their thinking ‘in a form vastly more politically
advanced than the society which produced them’.119) The
characters of comedy, by comparison, are more lowly, repre-
senting ‘typical’ Athenians, farmers, jurymen, tradesmen and so
on.120 Gods are characters in both genres; but they are treated
rather differently, as one might expect. The gods of comedy are
very similar to the human characters: they have power, but not
dignity or unfathomability. The gods of tragedy are more like
the gods of the Iliad: they may have some human characteristics,
but essentially they are irreconcilably different. Whether drunk
and disorderly (as Heracles in Alcestis), conspiratorial (as Athena
in Rhesus), or terrifying (as Aphrodite in Hippolytus), they
remain immune from harm, dangerous, wilful, unfathomable
entities with immense power over human lives.121

118
Arist. Poet. 1448a1–5.
119
E. M. Hall (1997) 125.
120
See Ehrenberg (1943).
121
I return to the divine world-view of tragedy (in a somewhat specific sense)
in Ch. 5 below.
 Escape-Tragedies 35
A word on the choruses of tragedy. Their identity varies
widely—they may be citizens of the polis in which the tragedy is
set, sailors, Bacchants, young women, effete old men, and so
on—but they are generally people with no more than a tangential
connection with the main characters or the events (although—as
in the escape-tragedies—they usually stand to be affected, for
good or evil, by the outcome). They offer comment and occa-
sional advice, they may perform the function of witnesses or
keepers of secrets, they sing lyric songs connected to the action
and themes of the play, but they never obtrude significantly into
the action or decisively affect the plot. The chorus may be hostile
to the principal characters (for example the Theban elders in
Antigone) or sympathetic (like the young women in Helen and
Iphigenia, who share the nationality and various other interests
of the heroines). In one extant play only—Aeschylus’ Suppliant
Women—the chorus (of Danaids) is the principal character.122
By contrast, the choruses of comedy are more active and more
vociferous; they may express views as if through the mouthpiece
of the poet himself (usually in the parabasis), and they may be
theriomorphic (birds, frogs, ants, storks and others are attested).
There is something else which might usefully be said about
the plots and events of tragedy: that virtually nothing happens in
most Greek tragedies. (Not only that, but there is also virtually
no detail which can be described as incidental or fictional: every-
thing seems to have some point, or some meaningful connection
with real life or myth.) The bulk of the lines consist of attempts
to make sense of what has happened, speculation about what is
yet to happen, and the expression of grief, sorrow and horror.
What Aristotle described as the representation of action is really
no more than the words of characters standing, without much
movement, on a small stage. Most of the significant actions in
each tragedy are imagined to have taken place off-stage and are
reported in messenger-speeches or in the course of dialogue—a
narrative rather than mimetic presentation.123 The strangely
non-active nature of tragedy is remarkable, and one might well
122
This, a supposedly ‘primitive’ feature, used to be taken as evidence
placing this play at a very early stage in the development of tragedy, but now it
must be described simply as ‘uncommon’, following the discovery of a papyrus
fragment (P. Oxy. 2256.3) deriving from the didaskaliai, which securely places
the production of Suppl. at a date around 463. See TGF 1 (Snell) 44; Garvie
123
(1969) 1–4; Kitto (1961) 1–3. See de Jong (1991).
36 Escape-Tragedies
wonder why hardly anything happened on stage. One reason
might have been the technical limitations of the theatre of
Dionysus. Some of the events of Greek mythology and
tragedy—flying horses, maritime battle-scenes, sieges and so
on—could only be represented convincingly by the resources of
big-budget modern cinematography; so perhaps the formal,
non-realistic acting and lack of ‘action’ proper represented a
means to avoid representing more than was practicable: it was to
be left to the imagination rather than run the risk of seeming
ridiculous.124 Nor was it usual to show deaths on stage, perhaps
for reasons of delicacy (although Ajax, for example, does, so it
must not have been unknown). Nevertheless, it would have been
possible to show much more on stage; and some of the actions
which did make it into the theatre—divine epiphanies, flying
horses and suchlike from the mechanical crane (mhcan&)—were
faintly absurd and (literally) creaky. So the limitations on stage
action must have been, at least to some degree, a matter of con-
scious choice or convention rather than necessity.
Then there is the matter of tragic closure: is there a character-
istic way in which tragedies tend to end? ‘Happy’ and ‘unhappy’
endings are often mentioned in definitions: it might be that
tragedies have ‘unhappy’ endings and comedies ‘happy’ ones.
But as soon as one begins to define what is meant by ‘happy’ or
‘unhappy’, it becomes clear that the antithesis is too problematic
to be useful.125 Suppose that an ‘unhappy’ ending is one which
involves death or catastrophe for the main characters. Aristotle’s
opinion was that the best sort of tragic plot had a character like
ourselves passing from good to bad fortune.126 But Aristotle is
talking not of tragic plots in general, but about one type of tragic
plot which appeals to his own personal tastes: he makes it clear
that there are other tragedies with quite different reversals of
fortune, including situations where characters passed from bad
to good fortune.127 In a significant number of extant tragedies (as
124
Arist. Poet. 1459a22–9 and 1460a11–17 discusses the choice of events
which can properly be represented on stage and the means of doing this.
125
Dunn (1996) is concerned with tragic closure in a more nuanced way.
126
Arist. Poet. 1453a.
127
Since the tradition contained myths with both positive and negative out-
comes, it is not at all surprising that tragedies based on these myths had both
positive and negative outcomes: a point well made by Mastronarde (2000b)
29–33.
 Escape-Tragedies 37
I noted above), no main character dies and no catastrophe
occurs: Aeschylus’ Suppliant Women and Eumenides, Sophocles’
Philoctetes, Euripides’ Ion, Orestes, Helen and both Iphigenias fit
this description. Aristotle’s discussion of Euripides refers
approvingly to his penchant for ‘unhappy’ endings, which
people had criticized—this implies that many people expected
‘happy’ endings. So it is clearly inaccurate to say that tragedy was
characterized by ‘unhappy’ endings of this type. It is not even
certain whether the concept of peripeteia is particularly apt in the
case of all tragedies.128
But are the tragedies in which no death or disaster occurs to be
described as ‘happy’? Helen and Iphigenia, as their detractors
frequently note, have ostensibly ‘happy’ endings, in that the
heroines and their rescuers all get away from their places of
captivity and (literally) sail off into the sunset; but I would argue
that few audience members would have failed to be deeply
disturbed by the events leading up to these conclusions, the
strangely unsatisfying nature of the imposed ‘resolutions’ and
the worrying implications of what they had seen. No main
character dies in Helen or Iphigenia, but the threat of death, and
of familial murder, is real enough; and lots of minor characters
die at the end of Helen, which I believe we are meant to take
seriously. A properly ‘happy’ ending is what one finds at the end
of a Savoy Opera, a P. G. Wodehouse novel or (perhaps) a
Shakespearean ‘comedy’, where all the characters are thorough-
ly contented and there is a marriage or a party of some kind.
Some Aristophanic comedies have happy endings of this type,
but not all—Clouds, for example, disintegrates into arson and
violence—so it cannot be said without reservation that comedy’s
endings are all ‘happy’.
It seems, then, that notions of ‘happy’ versus ‘unhappy’ are
inappropriate. However, Taplin believes that, with a slight
change in terminology, a closural contrast may still be drawn
between tragedy and comedy. His antithetical definition con-
trasts comedy’s ‘closed, wrapped-up, reassuring’ endings with
128
Burnett’s (1971) discussion of Euripides’ later plays is based on a
refinement of the Aristotelian categories. She identifies a pattern of ‘mixed
reversal’ in several plays, including the escape-tragedies: this pattern is made up
of a mixture of major and minor peripeteiai from good to bad fortune and vice
versa. (On the escape-tragedies, see especially Burnett’s discussion on pp.
47–100.)
38 Escape-Tragedies
tragedy’s ‘open, disturbing, unsettled’ ones.129 This is better
than previous definitions, but is not entirely accurate. Tragedies
are arguably unsettling, but that is not the same as an ‘open’ or
partially resolved closure. Nor is it true to say that comedy’s
endings are always completely ‘closed’. Another consideration is
the trilogic arrangement of certain tragedies: in connected
sequences, the closure of the final play would have been more
‘wrapped-up’ than that of the preceding two. This is suggested
by the only surviving trilogy, the Oresteia, in which the first and
second plays end disastrously (or, as one might say, on a question
mark), but the final play has a celebratory closure. It is, then,
important to remember apropos of closure that one may be deal-
ing with only part of a complete work of art (and that, of course,
real closure would have been provided by the satyr-play in any
case).130

(b2) Meaning. Most tragic criticism, whatever its particular

slant, represents a basically hermeneutic approach: it wants to
discover what tragedy is about. Nevertheless, ‘meaning’ is a
slippery thing. What sort of ‘meaning’ might one expect from a
serious play? (For tragedy, as Aristotle observed, is unquestion-
ably a serious genre.131)
Tragedies often have an explicitly intellectual content. Indeed
(as I shall argue in a later chapter), the plays could be used as
vehicles for the presentation of serious philosophical ideas. One
would not expect that all tragedies would have been comparably
(or at all) philosophical; but there is ample evidence from
antiquity that serious poetry in general, and tragedy in parti-
cular, was thought to be concerned with moral or ethical issues.
Take, for example, the argument of Plato in the Republic, which
is based on the power of (especially tragic) poetry to inculcate the
wrong as well as the right moral values in its audience.132 Others
in antiquity took tragedies as being ‘about’ ethical or political
issues. It seems to have been an accepted practice in forensic
oratory to use passages from tragedies by way of illustrating
an argument on a theme. This is seen, for example, in
129
Taplin (1996) 196.
130
I return to the question of connected trilogies in §1.2 below.
131
Arist. Poet. 1449b24.
132
Pl. Rep. 595c1–2; 606e1–5. See further §4.2.1 below.
 Escape-Tragedies 39
Demosthenes’ On the False Accusation. Because Aeschines had
been unable to produce witnesses in support of his accusations,
he had quoted poetry to the jury; Demosthenes retaliated by
quoting lines from Sophocles’ Antigone to make a point against
Aeschines, saying: ‘it is the enviable privilege of third-rate actors
to come on as tyrants, carrying their royal sceptres. . . . Now you
shall weigh the merits of the verses which were specially written
by the poet for the character of Creon–Aeschines.’133 Demos-
thenes’ listeners were, evidently, expected to have a conception
of Antigone as being ‘about’ tyranny, if his rhetoric was to
have been effective. Similarly, Aristophanic comedy represents
a belief that tragedies were ‘about’ underlying issues. The
character ‘Aeschylus’ in Frogs reveals that his Persians was
‘about’ (in fact, that it taught) patriotism,134 and to Strepsiades in
Clouds the Aeolus of Euripides was ‘about’ sibling incest.135
Euripides’ perceived unpopularity in antiquity may be partly
due to his perceived immorality or heterodoxy (and, therefore,
his unsuitability as a moral teacher).
An influential modern critic, Malcolm Heath, argues force-
fully for the idea that tragedy was not there to provide an intel-
lectual, cognitive or didactic function, but simply to give
pleasure and emotional stimulus through the Aristotelian evoca-
tion of fear and pity—although ‘ideas’ might be an ‘ancillary
pleasure’.136 Heath quotes a variety of texts to support the view
that tragedy was primarily aesthetic:137 he notes, particularly,
that Aristotle’s Poetics does not include an intellectual dimen-
sion in his definition of tragedy.138 There is perhaps something to
be said for Heath’s interpretation. It is true that the ‘meanings’
found by ancient readers of tragedy are often elementary or banal
133
Demosth. De Falsa Leg. 246–9.
134
Ar. Frogs 1026–7: AI. e”ta did3xaß Pvrsaß met¤ toıt’ ƒpiqume∏n ƒxed≤daxa |
nik$n åe≥ toŸß åntip3louß (‘and after this, when I put on my Persians, I taught
them always to be eager to defeat their adversaries’).
135
Ar. Clouds 1371–2: Aeolus is also mentioned at Frogs 1081 as an example of
the perceived immorality of Euripidean tragedy.
136
Heath (1987), esp. 1–36.
137
Heath also cites Pl. Grg. 501e–502d (for the view that poetry is in essence
no different from the titillating skills of the pastry-cook, and that moral aims
come second to pleasure); but this view, rather than being characteristic of Plato
in general, does not sit easily alongside the argument in the Republic, which is
clearly based on the premise that tragedy—unlike cakes—did alter its audience’s
138
intellect or moral outlook. Heath (1987) 3–39.
40 Escape-Tragedies
(as above), and that, ultimately, any ‘meaning’ may simply
depend on the ‘uses’ made of a text by its various motley readers,
or the contexts which one might choose to emphasize.139
Furthermore, the fact that many tragedies struck their audience
as being full of ideas does not prove that those ideas were a
defining feature of tragedy as a whole. I think it is probably
better to say simply that tragedy is many things to its different
audiences. It seems fairly obvious that the plays were written
to provide pleasure and to advance intellectual, political and
religious ideas. One’s individual approach to a particular play
may privilege one aspect over another, but there is no need to
disregard any aspect when looking for definitions.
The influence of ‘French school’ structuralism has been an
impetus to examine and question the way in which meaning is
conveyed by a text. Rather than relying on a surface literalism or
a (perhaps naïve) intentionalism, this type of criticism relies on a
combination of methods, linguistic and anthropological. For
such critics, tragedies (and specifically tragic myths) are seen as
one expression of a deep structure or framework of codes which
make up the society in which they were written: it is those under-
lying patterns rather than the surface literalism which are of
interest. Tragedy has been influentially described, by Vernant,
Lévi-Strauss and others, as a system of tensions and opposition.
This is different from the ‘tragic conflict’ which earlier critics
found to be an essential feature of the genre: the ‘conflict’ of
Goethe, Murray, Kitto, Lesky and others was the clash between
humans and gods. But, for the structuralists, the ‘conflict’ is seen
as being specifically a product of the fifth century in Athens, a
society in flux. Vernant describes the ‘historical moment of
tragedy’ as a period of tensions, conflicts and development in
society, politics and law; a time when a gap was widening
between the mythological-historical tradition and evolving
political-legal thought.140 I wrote above that specifically ‘tragic’
myths embody a particular attitude towards society. A major
achievement of structuralist criticism is to identify this typically
tragic attitude as a problematic vision of the world: tragedies,
like other texts, produce their meaning through a system of
linguistic and social structures and codes, but, crucially, they are
139
On fourth-century ‘uses’ of tragedy for rhetorical or didactic reasons, see
140
Wilson (1996). Vernant and Vidal-Naquet (1988) 23–7.
 Escape-Tragedies 41
seen as problematizing the structures themselves, paradoxically
both embodying and questioning the normative codes. The end-
product may be a form of justification, or redefinition, of the
established code and values, or perhaps a negation of those
values (depending on whether one prefers a positive or negative
interpretation).
These plays came into being as part of the festival of Dionysus,
which naturally might lead one to wonder whether Dionysus, or
‘the Dionysiac’, figures in the subject-matter or ‘meaning’ of
tragedy. The matter has been endlessly debated, with no firm
conclusion, and has been revived in the light of the structuralist
criticism mentioned above.141 Apart from Bacchae, tragedy does
seem to have nothing to do with Dionysus in particular: that
is, he is largely absent from the imagery, myth and dramatis
personae of the plays.142 Therefore, if tragedy really has some-
thing to do with Dionysus, it will have to be found ‘beneath
the surface’, on the basis of a metaphorical, allegorical or struc-
turalist reading. Vernant and others see the ‘Dionysiac’ in
tragedy as an element of ambiguity and transgression: ‘one of
Dionysus’ major characteristics is constantly to confuse the
boundaries between illusion and reality, to conjure up the
beyond in the here and now, to make us lose our sense of self-
assurance and identity.’143 This corresponds very closely with
his own interpretation of tragedy as an ambiguous, questioning
genre, but is it correct? Can it really be maintained with certainty
that Dionysus stood for all of that in classical Greece, or that
there was a widely held notion of something called ‘the
Dionysiac’? A modern (or even postmodern) Dionysus might
well embody characteristics of ‘otherness’ and unanswered
questions, but the vagueness of this concept of the Dionysiac will
cause concern to many critics.144
141
Plut. Quaest. Conviv. 615a is often quoted in relation to this problem: he
represents the view that tragedy had nothing to do with Dionysus (oÛd†n prÏß tÏn
DiÎnuson). Also see: Winkler and Zeitlin (1990); Easterling (1997b) 43–53;
Friedrich (1996); Seaford (1994) and (1996); Vernant and Vidal-Naquet (1988)
181–8. Scullion (2002) now gives a radically negative view of this problem,
arguing, against Seaford and others, that tragedy had nothing whatsoever to do
with Dionysus or ritual; the connection came about (he says) largely because of
the name of the theatre in which the plays were held.
142
Scullion (2002, 110–12) gives a full summary of the available evidence.
143
Vernant and Vidal-Naquet (1988) 187–8.
144
Also, as Seaford (1994, 363–6) points out, the ambiguity of Dionysus and
42 Escape-Tragedies
If all this is true, then a search for meaning must take the form
of literary excavation-work, going ‘beneath the surface’ of the
texts and looking for codes. But one might well feel uneasy
at a type of interpretation which is so imprecise, even impres-
sionistic, and which pays little attention to the ‘surface’ of the
texts themselves. As I have already made clear, the extent to
which one can really find overarching patterns and hermeneutic
essences (whether or not we actually refer to them as ‘the
Tragic’) in our heterogeneous collection of plays is limited. If we
still want to find a single ‘message’ common to all thirty-two
plays, it will have to take a form so simple as to seem almost
banal: tragedies explore human suffering.
Of course, this basic truism is nothing so elaborate as a
Weltanschauung or a philosophical vision. There is no reason,
indeed, why one should expect plays about suffering to have the
same outlook on the world. The range of possible effects may
extend from profound pessimism to a more healthy outlook on
life and the world. Tragedies might teach one to ‘know one’s
place’, in social or cosmic terms, thus fitting into the general
pattern of Greek ethical maxims such as ‘knowing oneself’ and
‘not succumbing to excess’ (maxims which also have a place in
many tragic plays). Tragedies were performed as the centrepiece
of a major civic festival, attended by thousands of people from
many other states outside Athens—a festival which in every
other major aspect seems to have drawn attention to the glory of
human (specifically Athenian) achievement. So it would be
strange if these tragedies were an institutionalized form of
mourning for the futility of mankind, a negation of human
achievement. The alternative, an opportunity for a salutary
examination of life, seems just as possible. But we must be aware
that the plays are, simply, diverse.145 One ought to get away from
generalities and progress to the particular: the meanings of each
individual play and trilogy are of far more interest than ‘the
irresolution should not be privileged: often, he says, one does get resolution and
affirmation. For Seaford, one of the most important types of plot involves the
‘Dionysiac self-destruction of the ruling house’, which leads to communal co-
hesion of polis-ritual: but he is careful to emphasize that this is ‘an important
feature’ of tragedy, and not ‘a formula that illuminates every tragedy’ (1994,
344).
145
Vickers (1973) 41: ‘Once you’ve seen (or read) one Greek tragedy, you
have thirty-one to go.’
 Escape-Tragedies 43
tragic’ would be, even if it existed. Indeed, if the major purpose
of each tragedy were to express an unchanging ‘basic message’ of
the genre, they would be very dull dramas.

It is time for a brief conclusion. I have offered a definition of

Greek tragedy into which the escape-tragedies do comfortably
fit; but, as I warned at the outset, this definition has told us very
little. Does this mean, then, that it makes little difference
whether we call our plays escape-tragedies or not?
On the contrary: there is a crucially important point still to be
made. Although the terms ‘tragedy’ and ‘the tragic’ in them-
selves may not have very much meaning, it makes all the
difference to call Helen, Andromeda and Iphigenia ‘tragedies’.
Genre will not provide us with magical elucidation of the plays,
but it will profoundly affect the way in which we look at them.
The critical tradition, as we have seen, has consistently failed to
take the escape-tragedies seriously. Tragedies are (as Aristotle
says) serious dramas: and the relabelling as ‘un-tragic’ of plays
which one does not like is simply an excuse to dismiss them with-
out giving them substantial, profound consideration. But the
escape-tragedies are worth prolonged, serious attention. This,
and perhaps this alone, is the reason why it is worth making a fuss
about genre.

1.2 ESCAPE -tragedies

I should explain why I have chosen to discuss Andromeda, Helen

and Iphigenia among the Taurians all together, calling them the
‘escape-tragedies’. The discussion above will have made it
obvious that this nomenclature does not reflect anything in the
way of a distinct generic status or a classifiable type, or sub-
category, of tragedy. Rather, it seemed natural to examine the
three plays as a group simply because of their similarity in
subject-matter.
It is not often observed that captivity and escape are highly
unusual subjects for tragedy. In fact, the escape-theme is almost
unparalleled in extant tragedy. While it is true that (as we have
seen) tragedies were always greatly varied in their subject
matter, and that a motif of ‘catastrophe survived’ characterizes
44 Escape-Tragedies
several Euripidean tragedies,146 nevertheless escape from im-
prisonment or oppression is a remarkable subject for a tragedy
even of this sort. It is necessary to add the qualification that
other lost works may have been concerned with escape,147 but it
seems likely that these three tragedies were outré in their very
conception.148
Euripides evidently became interested in this unusual subject
at a particular point towards the end of his career, and the three
escape-tragedies were certainly composed very close together. It
would be desirable to know the exact circumstances and date of
production for all three plays; but as it is, it seems extremely
unlikely that more than a couple of years separated them. For
Helen and Andromeda, at least, the dating seems certain, thanks
to the evidence of Aristophanes and the Aristophanic scholia,
which indicate that both plays were produced as part of the same
trilogy in 412 bc.149 However, we know neither the title of the
third play of that trilogy (as well as its accompanying satyr-play)
nor the date of Iphigenia.
Since very few points in Euripidean chronology can be fixed
by external evidence, and since there are never any precise refer-
ences in tragic texts themselves to contemporary persons or
events, stylistic dating is regarded as the only method of deter-
mining the date of a play’s composition. Zielinski’s analysis of
those few plays with known dates, and the intervals separating
them, revealed that Euripides’ style developed over time
towards a freer, more resolved iambic trimeter. The resolution-
rate and the variety of types of resolution can be charted as a
fairly steady linear increase: thus metrical calculations can give a
rough estimate of any play’s date.150 Zielinski’s technique has
more recently been applied to all the plays and fragments, using
advanced statistical techniques from mathematics, by Martin
Cropp and Gordon Fick:151 their work makes clear that one has
146
The term coined by Burnett (1971) to describe Helen, Iphigenia, Alcestis
147
and Ion. Cf. Mastronarde (2000b) 32.
148
See §2.3.5 below for further examination of the escape-theme.
149
Ar. Thesm. 850, 1060; S Frogs 53; S Thesm. 1012, 1040.
150
Zielinski (1925), liber II.
151
Cropp and Fick (1985) use the same basic technique but offer exhaustive
statistical analysis of the data using methods unavailable to Zielinski. The
problems posed by the fragments are more profound: therefore the margin of
error must be far greater than for the complete surviving plays.
 Escape-Tragedies 45
to admit of a large margin of error in estimating dates.152 Where-
as Zielinski estimates that Iphigenia (resolution-rate: 26.5 per
cent) was written in 414 or 413, slightly earlier than Helen
(resolution-rate: 27.4 per cent), Cropp and Fick’s calculations
show that the relatively tiny margin of difference makes it impos-
sible to make a mathematically persuasive statement about their
respective priority. Their calculation of the date of Iphigenia
is between 416 and 412. (When Cropp and Fick apply the
same formulae to Helen and the fragments of Andromeda, the
‘calculated’ dates are, respectively, 412–406 and 425–408!) It is
probable, therefore, that Iphigenia was written either shortly
before or in the same year as Helen and Andromeda; but one can
be no more definite than that. It is perhaps salutary to observe
also that metrical dating has never been conclusively proved.153
Kjeld Matthiessen attempts to establish a sequence of late
Euripidean plays using not only metrical data but also an analysis
of the structure of the plays.154 He concludes that the plays were
written in the order Electra—Heracles—Trojan Women—
Iphigenia—Ion—Helen, and believes that Ion, not Iphigenia, was
the third play in the 412 trilogy.155 But, as with metrical dating, it
is hard to be convinced by such evidence, especially when the
plays in question are so close in date. Not only that, but the struc-
ture and design of the plays, since it can be measured with far less
accuracy than the behaviour of the trimeter, is intrinsically a less
convincing index of date than that of Zielinksi. Furthermore (as
Lucas observes in his review of Matthiessen’s book), it is over-
schematic, or simply wrong, to assume that ‘the structure of
plays is like a mould which is made continuously more elaborate,
so that the more intricate work is always later than the less
intricate’.156
152
Cropp and Fick (1985) 22–23, 70 and Tables 3.4, 3.5, 5.1.
153
No new external evidence has surfaced since 1925. It is just possible—
though admittedly improbable—that Euripides adopted a freer form of trimeter
not as a (conscious or unconscious) yearly progression, but in order to achieve a
specific effect (‘naturalism’ vel sim.) from time to time in selected plays of
scattered date. In any case, the resolution-rates do not conform to a wholly
regular pattern (Orestes poses a notable problem: see Cropp and Fick (1985)
22–3), nor are we able to compare the resolution-rates of two complete plays from
the same year.
154
Matthiessen (1964) 1–92.
155
The view also of Webster (1967a, 192) and E. Segal (1995, 49).
156
Lucas (1968) 161.
46 Escape-Tragedies
Nevertheless, others apart from Matthiessen find an indica-
tion that Iphigenia was the earlier play in the similarity of the
play’s structure and plot—yet at the same time its comparative
‘weakness’—to Helen.157 Their view is that Iphigenia lacks
Helen’s reiteration of ‘underlying’ themes and, therefore, its
unity. Representative of this type of view is Podlecki, who states
that ‘the dominant motifs of Helen, like the basic situation, are
adumbrated in I.T. in a tentative and even unsure way. . . . They
are then left to work their wonder in the poet’s mind until they
blossom more perfectly in Helen.’158 There are two objections to
this. First, one cannot assume that two (possibly unconnected)
plays share precisely the same motifs, themes or underlying
purpose; nor can one be certain that one has identified these
supposed ‘shared themes’ correctly—especially if one first tries
to identify them (as Podlecki does) by reference to only one of the
plays. Second, even if Iphigenia were a weaker play than the
Helen this would not necessarily lead to the conclusion that it is
also an earlier play.
Others discussing the question of relative date have attempted
to place Iphigenia before Helen by other, less convincing, argu-
ments based on internal factors. For example, Platnauer invokes
what he calls ‘contextual evidence’ to support the view that
Iphigenia came first: perceiving that the play is shot through with
bitterness and disillusionment (particularly—he says—against
oracles), he believes that the play contains direct allusion to
the disaster in Sicily. He reads the final lines of the play as ‘a
pathetic prayer for the salvation of the city faced with some over-
whelming disaster’, concluding that the play dates from spring
413.159 This type of close, quasi-allegorical, politicizing reading
of tragedies is currently unfashionable. Although works of
literature written during time of war (particularly those, like
tragedies, with an undeniably strong civic context) will
obviously bear a certain relationship to external events, it is
impossible to tell how much of a play’s content can be read as
implicit political comment. The connection which Platnauer
157
Murray (1913) 72–3; Platnauer (1938) xv; Podlecki (1970) 417–18, Hall
158
(1989b) 41. Podlecki (1970) 418.
159
Platnauer (1938) xiii–xv (cf. Thuc. 8.1.1). He fails to take into account that
a problematic attitude to prophecy is a recurrent feature of many tragedies
throughout the fifth century, including Aesch. Oresteia, Soph. OT, Phil., etc.
This feature is discussed by Nock (1972) 542 and Dover (1974) 64.
 Escape-Tragedies 47
perceives between the text and the events is in any case hope-
lessly vague; therefore, as a basis for dating, this is unacceptable.
So there is nothing to indicate the priority of Iphigenia to
Helen. On the contrary, I suggest that they belong to the same
year—in other words, that the Euripidean trilogy presented at
the City Dionysia of 412 was an escape-trilogy consisting of
Helen, Andromeda and Iphigenia among the Taurians. Unless
some new external evidence should surface, this hypothesis is
impossible to prove, but I believe that it is, at least, likely to be
true. On the basis of metrical calculations (as we have seen) a date
of 412 for all three escape-tragedies is possible; in addition, a
number of other arguments might be adduced to support the
idea of a trilogy.
First, there is the uniqueness of the escape theme and the
absence (as far as we can tell) of escape-plots from the tragedies
of other years. Escape is not just an exciting plot motif but an
important central subject of the plays which is explored as an
essential concern of the plays. At least two of the plays in 412
were of this type—why not the third? Euripides’ preoccupation
with escape seems to have been closely tied to a particular short
period of time, for he wrote no other plays of the same type: why
not a single year? In asking these questions, perhaps it is appro-
priate to look at the historical context: just why might Euripides
have been interested in plays about escaping in 412 bc? It is
perhaps significant that the 412 Dionysia was the first since the
news that the Sicilian expedition had disastrously failed; the
general mood in Athens was one of growing desperation, disillu-
sionment and political subversion, with the prospect of defeat in
the Peloponnesian War more immediate than before. It may be
that this was an impetus for ‘escapism’; compare the Birds of
Aristophanes, from a couple of years earlier, which seems to
reflect a different kind of ‘escapism’ altogether, a mood of opti-
mism following the dispatch of the fleet to Sicily in 415.160
However (as I said before, apropos of Platnauer’s ‘contextual’
dating of Iphigenia), this sort of historical factor, though
undoubtedly of importance for appreciating the reaction of the
original audience, cannot be used as evidence for dating.161
160
See Sommerstein (1987) 4–5.
161
Zuntz (1958, 155–62) and Kannicht (1969, 1. 53–7) link the theme of dis-
illusionment in Helen to the political situation in Athens of 412.
48 Escape-Tragedies
Similarity of plots and interlocking motifs suggest a very close
connection between the three plays—another feature which
might support the single-year view.162 In each play, a beautiful,
helpless heroine, trapped in a far-flung barbarian country as the
result of some divine act, hopes and prays for rescue and escape
back to Greece. The chance to escape is offered by a heroic male
character who arrives, seemingly by coincidence, at the place of
captivity; but a threat to the rescuer’s own life soon follows.
Eventually the rescue is effected—despite a number of seeming-
ly impossible obstacles including a supernatural, man-eating
sea-monster, a lust-crazed or potentially violent Oriental despot
and the active hostility of the gods—by means of an elaborate
plot. The thwarted captor threatens to commit some terrible act
of revenge, but is prevented by a god, and finally the heroines and
their rescuers leave by sea or air, with the gods’ approval.163
There are also certain idiosyncratic formal and structural
similarities between the plays. Each begins with a prologue
spoken by the distressed heroine, who outlines the details of her
present situation;164 there is a lyric lament between the heroine
and the chorus (who are also expatriated Greek women sharing a
deep affinity with the heroine); a series of questions-and-answers
leading up to a recognition-scene; scenes of stichomythia or
distichomythia preparing the scenes of intrigue. In general, the
chorus is used in a similar way, and the number of sung lines is
higher than normal, reflecting the important monodizing role for
the protagonist who played the respective heroines.165 An article,
by Graham Ley, on the stagecraft of Helen makes a further
practical point which could also be adduced in favour of an
escape-trilogy. The distribution of roles between the three
actors in Helen and (as far as one can tell) Andromeda exactly
corresponds to that in Iphigenia: the configuration is that of

162
What follows is based largely on Helen and Iphigenia, though it seems
likely that Andromeda’s plot and structure was at least similar. A possible recon-
struction is offered by Webster (1967, 192–9) and Bubel (1991, 45–63).
163
Similarity of plot-structure between the plays is noted also by Platnauer
(1938) xv–xvi; Burnett (1971) 1–14; Wolff (1973) 67–8.
164
Andromeda, however, began not with the more usual iambics but with an
anapaestic song by the heroine («W nŸx Èer3, fr. 114; cf. S Ar. Thesm. 1065). Cf.
the (mutilated?) opening of Iphigenia at Aulis. I return, briefly, to Euripidean
prologues in §3.1 below.
165
Hall (1999) 99, 112–17.
 Escape-Tragedies 49
two linked performers (Helen–Menelaus, Andromeda–Perseus,
Iphigenia–Orestes) and a third performer (playing a barbarian
king, among other supporting roles). As Ley argues, ‘the distinct
possibility that we may here be detecting format composition
would not only associate these plays closely in time . . . but might
also reveal some of the characteristics of a group of particular
performers, perhaps gathered and retained by the playwright for
their relative strengths.’166
An escape-trilogy seems perfectly plausible, but (as far as I
have been able to ascertain) the suggestion has seldom been
made. Those few who have hinted at an escape-trilogy have
rejected the idea immediately, on the grounds that such a group-
ing would have been monotonous for the audience.167 However,
this objection is not actually very persuasive. Three identical
plays produced one after another would no doubt have been
intolerable; but, while Helen, Andromeda and Iphigenia may
have certain similarities, they are very far from being identical.
The three plays are sufficiently dissimilar from each other, and
they are so packed with diverse and unusual material, that they
are unlikely to have induced tedium. In any case, we need to
make more of an effort to imagine the effect made on the audience
by a set of plays with very similar plots. Similarity and repetition
of central elements between three plays need not be seen as a
negative feature, detracting from the quality of the set. On the
contrary, it can be seen as a positive feature, deliberately calcu-
lated by Euripides to make a certain point. I have already noted
tragedy’s significant tendency to rehearse and re-enact familiar
stories. But this did not usually happen in quite the same way as
this. The production of three plays which closely resembled each
other would stimulate the audience to consider the similarities
and differences between them, and to explore the subject of
escape: the circularity and repetition of the situations is very
166
Ley (1991) 32–3.
167
Wilamowitz (1875, 153) and Steiger (1908, 236–7) hint at the possibility of
an escape-trilogy; the idea is rejected, for similar reasons, by Schmid and
Stählin (1940) 520: ‘gegen die Vermutung . . . spricht aber die Einförmigkeit,
die durch die Wiederholung desselben Motivs innerhalb einer Trilogie ent-
standen wäre.’ Cf. Grégoire (1968) 106: ‘on a quelquefois pensé que l’Iphigénie
fut jouée en 412, avec l’Hélène et l’Andromède. Il faut rejeter cette idée: car le
public n’aurait pas supporté, dans une même trilogie, deux pièces aussi exacte-
ment pareilles.’
50 Escape-Tragedies
important. Also, situations which seem very similar but which
are in reality different are closely linked to the philosophical
ideas at the heart of all three plays—the theme of deceptive
appearances and the confusing nature of reality.168
The theatrical impact would have been immense: and it seems
that Aristophanes’ Women at the Thesmophoria, produced the
following year, is a direct reaction to the strangeness and the
repetitiveness of the escape-tragedies—an indication that 412
was a remarkable year at the Dionysia. One might examine just
what is going on in Aristophanes’ play. Euripides was a common
enough figure in Aristophanic comedy,169 so there is perhaps
nothing so out-of-the-ordinary about his being lampooned in
411 in particular: but here Euripides and his Relative are in the
position of having to escape from a group of hostile women.
They hit on the idea of using stratagems from Euripidean
tragedy as a means of escape: first the Relative kidnaps a baby
with the idea of holding it to ransom, a motif from Telephus
(689–764), then he tries sending secret messages on oar-blades, a
motif from Palamedes (768–75); but both these stratagems fail.
Eventually the Relative, now held in chains by a Scythian archer,
says: ‘Which of his plays will really fetch him? I know! I’ll
pretend to be his new-style Helen!’ (t¶n kain¶n }Elvnhn mim&somai,
849–50). There follows a long scene of paratragedy based on the
Helen. This too fails; later, Euripides appears as Perseus, which
prompts the Relative to say: ‘I have to become Andromeda now!’
(de∏ me g≤gnesq’ !ndromvdan, 1011–12). Another paratragic scene,
this time based on the Andromeda, follows. It seems that the
whole play was designed to lead up to these Euripidean scenes of
escape, which rely on the same situations—and the same jokes—
being repeated again and again.
Explicit verbal references in the text make it certain that Helen
and Andromeda are being parodied; but I believe that one can
also see a parodic reference to Iphigenia in the last section of the
play.170 Admittedly, there are no unambiguous verbal clues, as

168
This theme is explored at length in Ch. 4 below.
169
Ar. Frogs, Ach. 393–489, Kn. 11–20, Cl. 1364–78, Wasps 54–61, 1412–14,
Peace 146–8, 528–34, Lys. 283–4, 368–9, in addition to Thesm.
170
Ar. Thesm. 1160–225. A convincing case is made by Bobrick (1991),
although (perhaps strangely) she does not follow it up with the natural sugges-
tion that Iphigenia was part of the same trilogy as the other two. MacDowell
 Escape-Tragedies 51
before, but (as Bobrick argues) in this last scene that is entirely
the point. The escape-stratagems based closely on Helen and
Andromeda having failed, Euripides is at a loss what to do in
order to bamboozle the Scythian captor: ‘Alas! What to do!’ he
cries.171 ‘What speeches shall I turn to now? . . . but no, his
barbarian nature would not understand them. It would be a
waste of effort to use clever new ideas on fools. No—some other
stratagem, one suitable for this fellow, must be used.’ The
significance lies in the move away from words: ‘for the final
scene, Euripides borrows a mhcan& but avoids lÎgoi.’172 The
stratagem is still of the same kind—a Euripidean escape-plot—
and it still involves a level of metatheatrical role-playing and illu-
sion; but whereas the previous two plans were rather more
subtle, with the characters consciously using the same words to
step into the role of different characters and play out the action of
the other tragedies, this new and final plan is to be brought into
effect in a non-verbal way. In other words, the Scythian is to be
lured into playing the role of Thoas without even realizing it.
The stratagem which follows involves Euripides adopting the
role of a procuress, an old woman called Artemisia, and the intro-
duction of a new character, a dancing-girl called Elaphion.
‘Artemisia’ tricks the Scythian by letting him have Elaphion
while Euripides’ Relative makes good his escape. Finally
‘Artemisia’ allows Elaphion to escape, bringing the play to a
close. Nowhere is it said, as it was before of Helen and
Andromeda, that this is ‘a ruse from the Iphigenia’; but neverthe-
less there are some verbal clues in the names of the characters.
Euripides’ ‘Artemisia’ has an obvious connection with the
goddess Artemis, who rescued Iphigenia from sacrifice at Aulis
and replaced her with a deer.173 And ‘Elaphion’ means ‘little
deer’—the diminutive of πlafoß, the word used for a deer in that
play. The events themselves do not exactly recall that of the
Iphigenia—at the end of that play Athena rescues Iphigenia from
Thoas. But there is still a rescue: and there is enough similarity
and allusion to the general situation and plot motif for this scene

(1995), however, finds Bobrick’s theory far-fetched, seeing in the final part of
Thesm. only crude sexual innuendo.
171
Ar. Thesm. 1128–32: aja∏: t≤ dr3sw; itself recalls Medea 1042.
172
Bobrick (1991) 71.
173
Iphigenia 28–30: on Artemis’ role, see §3.3 below.
52 Escape-Tragedies
to be highly suggestive of that play. At the end of the play the
Scythian shouts that he has lost Artemisia (he mispronounces
the name as !rtemoux≤a, 1216–25)—again, this is reminiscent of
Thoas’ loss of the cult statue of Artemis at the end of the
Iphigenia. There is a further similarity between Iphigenia and the
end of Aristophanes’ play, not seen by Bobrick but noted by
others.174 In Iphigenia (1294–301), the barbarian messenger who
brings Thoas news of the Greeks’ escape is deceived by the
Greek chorus leader in an attempt to delay Thoas’ pursuit;
similarly, in Thesm. (1218), the chorus leader dupes the Scythian
archer.
There is another argument in favour of a trilogy, provided by
an odd line in the prologue of Iphigenia which can be seen as a
self-conscious reference to Helen.175 In the course of the usual
Euripidean ‘scene-setting’ there, Iphigenia, describing her
sacrifice at the hands of Agamemnon, says: that her father slew
her for the sake of Helen—so it seems („ß doke∏). Why does
Iphigenia say this? Surely the most important reason for
Agamemnon’s sacrifice of his daughter was not Helen as such,
but Artemis’ command. In addition, the comment „ß doke∏ is not
required and seems odd in the immediate context. But the
line makes sense if one understands it in relation to Helen, as a
deliberate allusion to that play. This is not just a self-conscious
reference to Helen’s outrageous plot, in which it emerged that
Helen was not to blame for the events at Aulis or Troy, but also a
signal that Iphigenia will, like Helen, be concerned with the
philosophical relationship between what is true and what only
seems to be so.176 If a reference is intended, it follows that Helen
must have preceded Iphigenia. Another reason, in other words,
to view Iphigenia as part of the 412 trilogy (unless, as seems less
likely, its date is 411 or even later); and also—if the escape-plays
are a trilogy—an argument for placing Helen as the first or
second play in the set, and Iphigenia as either second or third.
The order and connection of the three plays, assuming they
174
Hall (1989b) 52 n. 71; Sommerstein (1994) 237.
175
Iphigenia 8: πsfaxen ’Elvnhß o\nec’, „ß doke∏, pat¶r. It is possible that there
is a further reference to Helen six lines later in the prologue: Menvlewi c3rin fvrwn
(‘for Menelaus’ sake’, 14) may recall the frequent and prominent use of the word
c3riß in Helen (see §4.4.6 below).
176
See §4.4 below for extended discussion of the reality-illusion theme in all
three escape-tragedies.
 Escape-Tragedies 53
are a trilogy, is worth considering. However, it has to be admit-
ted that very little is known about the principles which governed
the tragedians’ connection of individual plays within trilogies
and tetralogies, since we possess only one complete trilogy, the
Oresteia. Aristotle, unhelpfully for us, ignores trilogies in his
analysis of tragic plot in the Poetics.177 The patchy evidence of
didascaliae and other surviving records of production tells us
little, while the loss of most of the plays themselves means that
one is almost always working with titles and meagre frag-
ments.178 It seems that some trilogies (such as the Oresteia) had a
single, consecutive narrative, while some trilogies (such as Euri-
pides’ ‘Trojan’ trilogy of 415) were thematically connected; but
in the case of many trilogies and tetralogies it is hard to discern
any obvious link between the individual plays. All that can be
said for certain is that at all periods there were both connected
and unconnected trilogies. In addition, the fact that Euripides
produced Alexander, Palamedes, Trojan Women and Sisyphus
together a few years earlier suggests that he was interested in
thematic connection at around this time.179
The escape-tragedies are not ‘connected’ in the same sense
177
It is possible that Aristotle’s other works discussed the trilog≤a or
tetralog≤a: see fr. 618–9 Rose.
178
Useful evidence is collected by Snell: TGF I. 22–58. Pickard-Cambridge
(1968, 80–1) summarizes some of the evidence for connected and unconnected
trilogies, arguing against an earlier view that in the late fifth century trilogies
moved progressively away from narrative connection. Sommerstein (1996,
53–70), though his main concern is with Aeschylean tragedy, has many interest-
ing remarks on the general question of trilogies/tetralogies.
179
Scodel (1980) explores at length the connections between the plays of this
‘Trojan’ trilogy/tetralogy: Others, including Koniaris (1973), are more scepti-
cal. Cf. Dale (1956, viii), for instance, who finds no obvious connection between
the four Euripidean plays of 438 (Cretans, Alcmaeon, Telephus, Alcestis),
writing: ‘only excess of zeal has enabled scholars to discern in these four plays
some common underlying theme, or specially significant correspondences and
contrasts; any four plays of Euripides taken at random could with a little good-
will be made into as significant a group’. Webster (1967) makes an attempt to
arrange almost all of Euripides’ known plays into trilogies, often on question-
able principles (he is criticized in this regard by Scodel [1980] 19). He suggests
(8–9 and 163–5), without any evidence, that the competition rules of the
Dionysia changed at various points in the mid- to late 5th-cent.—a suggestion
which he uses as the basis for his grouping of plays. Webster’s suggestion for
Euripides’ trilogy of 412 consists of Helen, Andromeda and Ion: ‘here we can see
a kind of strophe, antistrophe, epode pattern: two plays about the rescue of a
woman from an exotic country followed by a third play which is much less light-
hearted.’
54 Escape-Tragedies
that (say) the Oresteia is a connected trilogy, yet they are very
closely linked in ideas, themes and motifs and their various
developments. Rather than following the same closed circle of
family-related characters over the course of three consecutive
plays, the escape-tragedies follow different, unrelated characters
in a variety of bizarre locations, all playing out the same sort of
actions. So their connectedness, though not that of chronological
or causally linked narrative, is still important, and the order
therefore is of interest. Women at the Thesmophoria has implica-
tions for the order of the escape-tragedies. Assuming that the
plays were a trilogy, it seems unlikely that Thesm. varied the
order—what would have been the point, dramatic or artistic?—
which implies that the order was probably Helen—Andromeda—
Iphigenia.180 The ‘tail-pieces’ at the plays’ endings might perhaps
be important: Iphigenia’s is an address to the judges asking for
Victory, which would fit in with its being the last play in a set.
But this may be a later addition, tied to another production of the
play in different circumstances unrelated to its original place in a
trilogy, so it cannot be said to tell us very much.181
As it would happen, there is another self-conscious verbal
reference, this time to Andromeda, contained in the satyr-play
Cyclops, another drama about escapes. There Polyphemus’ first
words upon seeing the Greeks are: πa: t≤n’ Ôclon tÎnd’ Ør0 prÏß
aÛl≤oiß; (‘Ah! What is this crowd that I see . . .?’, 202). This seems
to be a deliberate reminiscence of the striking line spoken by
Perseus on first seeing Andromeda (fr. 125): πa, t≤n’ Ôcqon tÎnd’
Ør0 (‘Ah! What is this rock that I see . . .?’). Like the Helen
reminiscence above, the line has seemingly little point in its
immediate context: and, since the verbal closeness is so marked,
it seems that a sort of joke is intended. But Aristophanes in
Women at the Thesmophoria also includes the same line (1105) in
his parody of Andromeda. So who is parodying (or ‘alluding to’)
whom here, and in what order? Adam Parry’s opinion was that
‘Euripides is here answering Aristophanes’ mockery by mocking
himself’,182 which would mean that Cyclops was produced after
180
Helen is arguably the most outrageous of the set, and its impact as the first
play in the trilogy would have been substantial. Iphigenia is the most ‘restrained’
and least flamboyant, so perhaps more naturally suited to forming a conclusion
to the set?
181
See Roberts (1987).
182
Parry (1971) 319; followed by Seaford (1984) 49 and Bubel (1991) 122.
 Escape-Tragedies 55
Thesm., that is, in or shortly after 410. But one need not assume
that the line in Cyclops was written in response to Aristophanes.
Would the joke not be more pointed, in fact, if the satyr-play
immediately followed the trilogy of which Andromeda was part?
If Cyclops does in fact belong to 412 (a date which stylistic and
metrical considerations would support), there is an important
consequence. For, if at least two of the tragedies and the accom-
panying satyr-play were about escapes, then it would be even
more attractive to suppose that the whole tetralogy of 412 was
escape-related, and that Iphigenia completes the group.183
For all their attractiveness, all these arguments are, admitted-
ly, speculative and (worse still) unprovable. A possible counter-
argument (apart from our lack of knowledge about trilogies in
general) is that there is no surviving mention from antiquity of a
trilogy (or tetralogy) of escape: if it really was so extraordinary,
this lack of critical attention might be seen as suspicious. The
Aristophanic scholiast who mentions that Helen and Andromeda
were put on in the same year does not mention Iphigenia, nor does
he say that Iphigenia is the subject of parody in the last scene of
Thesm. But, on the other hand, perhaps the lack of positive evi-
dence is not so suspicious. Most contemporary information, after
all, is lost, and ancient commentators, writing many years after
the original productions, are often unreliable, to say the least.
The external, contextual and metrical evidence for dating the
escape-tragedies is far from watertight. However, the internal
evidence, in the form of coherence and connections between the
three plays, is more satisfying. Whether or not one can accept
that Helen, Andromeda and Iphigenia were a trilogy, it is still
possible to see these extraordinary plays as a distinct group
somewhat different from any other tragedies, very closely
connected in the poet’s mind. The rest of this book will examine
the extent of that connection.
Seaford (1982), however, argues for a date of c.408 for Cyclops, based (largely
but not exclusively) on metrical criteria.
183
I do not propose to discuss Cyclops in this book, but it is worth noting that
several of the themes of the satyr-play correspond to themes in Helen,
Andromeda and Iphigenia. There one encounters not only the escape-theme, but
(for instance) the provocative use of Homeric and tragic myth, the motif of
disguise and intrigue, the exploration of geography and cultural identity, and
questioning of the relationship between the gods and chance (t»ch). On these
and other aspects of Cyclops see Seaford (1984).
 2
Myth, Fiction, Innovation

EURIPIDHS e”t’ oÛk ƒl&roun Ò ti t»coim’ oÛd’ ƒmpes°n πfuron,

åll’ oËxi°n pr*tista mvn moi tÏ gvnoß e”p’ #n eÛqŸß
toı dr3matoß—
AISCULOS kre∏tton g¤r Án soi, n¶ D≤’, ‡ tÏ sautoı.1

2.1 ‘use of myth’

Helen, Andromeda and Iphigenia are certainly tragic, but it is
clear that they are also unusual, startlingly original dramas. This
is particularly to be seen in their plots—which (broadly speak-
ing) are the subject of this chapter. Earlier I discussed the
uniqueness of the escape-theme which marks out these three
plays as a distinct group (if not, in fact, a trilogy);2 now I want to
examine the extent of Euripides’ invention, and his handling of
pre-existing material from myth and literature. I believe that a
characteristic feature of the escape-tragedies is an extraordinary
attitude to traditional myths. This attitude has been described
by some critics in terms of self-consciousness, scepticism or dis-
belief, which is true to a certain extent;3 but no one has yet, I
think, fully explored the subject of myth, fiction and fictiveness,
and its effects on the meaning of the drama.
Novelty, innovation and surprise have rightly been recog-
nized as distinctive features of the escape-tragedies, but I shall
continue to argue against the widely held notion that they
characterize these plays as somehow ‘un-tragic’. There is no
reason why tragic plots cannot embrace novelty and innovation,
1
Ar. Frogs 945–7. ‘Euripides: What’s more, it was never my habit to prate on
about whatever came into my head, or to rush in and get into a muddle—rather,
the first character to come on would immediately explain the background to the
play. Aeschylus: It was a damn sight better than your own background!’
2
§1.2 above.
3
Segal (1971) 562; Stinton (1976a) 75–9; Eisner (1979); Arnott (1990) 3–4,
Barlow (1986b) 27–9, etc.
 Myth, Fiction, Innovation 57
without implications for their generic category. However
extraordinary the plays may seem, they are still within the
normal conventions of tragedy (and what, in any case, is an ordi-
nary tragedy?). To appreciate this, it is necessary to define one’s
terms of reference clearly and (as I have been trying to do so
far) to discard anachronisms and preconceptions. Starting with
the undeniable fact that these plays have outré stories, I shall
examine the ways in which the escape-tragedies are similar to
and different from other tragedies.
‘Myth’, ‘fiction’, ‘innovation’, ‘originality’—these and related
terms pose certain problems of definition and interpretation. To
begin with (§2.2), then, I shall examine the plays in the context of
tragic myths and plots in general. Exactly what constitutes a
traditional myth, and how much freedom did poets and play-
wrights have to adapt and invent material in their individual
‘treatments’?
Next (§2.3), I shall examine the literary sources for the myths
of Helen, Andromeda and Iphigenia, and attempt to determine
which elements in Euripides’ versions are new. Inevitably, some
of the information here will merely summarize the findings of
others, but I have some new interpretations to offer.
In some books and commentaries, the sections on ‘use of
myth’ (vel sim.) are disappointingly arid. They often provide
little more than an annotated list of literary antecedents, which is
presented as a necessary preamble but largely peripheral to the
main business of criticism. What I shall try to do in the following
sections is to suggest a conceptually more ambitious way of treat-
ing this material, which will lead to a reinterpretation of the
plays. Studying Euripides’ ‘use of myth’ is not a peripheral but
an absolutely essential activity. What Euripides has done with
the material at his disposal, and the techniques and strategies
which he has employed to do this, is what makes each play a
unique artistic and intellectual achievement. This is true of all
tragedies—but in the escape-tragedies, however, I would argue
further (§2.4) that Euripides has not simply ‘made use of’
myth, but has written plays which are, in an important sense,
actually about myth and fiction. The choice of subjects itself, the
particular versions of the myths which have been adopted, the
alterations and innovations which have been made, and the
manner of presentation—all these are crucially important, and
58 Myth, Fiction, Innovation
all contribute intellectual ‘meaning’ to the plays, as well as (ulti-
mately) giving rise to disturbing implications not only about
myths but about life itself.

2.2 ‘myths’ and ‘plots’

2.2.1 Counterfactuals
Imagine a new history of the causes of the Second World War,
which revealed that everyone had been wrong about Adolf
Hitler. During the 1930s and 1940s, at the time when he was said
to be engaged elsewhere, Hitler was in fact managing a bicycle-
shop in Aberdeen: those who remember him describe him as a
thoroughly delightful chap, a pacifist and a Judaeophile. This
revised account shows conclusively that the ‘Hitler’ who led the
Fascist movement in Germany and invaded Poland was a
Doppelgänger . . . Alternatively, imagine a film version of Titanic
in which RMS Titanic arrived safely in New York harbour on 15
April 1912; or an account of the Passion in which Christ was not,
after all, crucified.
Each of these scenarios may usefully be described as counter-
factual: that is, ‘pertaining to, or expressing, what has not in fact
happened, but might, could, or would happen in different con-
ditions’.4 We know that Hitler did invade Poland and that the
Titanic did sink, but it is interesting to imagine what might have
been the consequences if they had not done. Counterfactuals
may be an intellectually diverting game, but they may also serve
a serious purpose: this is reflected by recent scholarship in
modern history and (in particular) political analysis.5
The counterfactual scenarios above are (in slightly different
ways) comparable to Euripides’ offering at the festival of
Dionysus in 412 bc. There cannot have been very many
Athenians in the audience who did not know that Helen caused
the Trojan War by eloping with Paris,6 and that Iphigenia had to
be sacrificed by Agamemnon in order for the Greek fleet to sail.
4
As defined in the OED (2nd edn., 1989).
5
See esp. the bibliography in Tetlock and Belkin (1996); cf. Ferguson (1997)
on counterfactual versions of modern history. As far as I can see, counterfactual
experiments have not yet (September 2002) been made in ancient history . . .
6
Cf. Gorgias, Encomium of Helen (DK 82 B11) §5: Gorgias claims that he
does not need to tell his audience the myth, since they know it already.
 Myth, Fiction, Innovation 59
But in Euripides’ tragedies, Helen did not elope with Paris,
and Iphigenia was not sacrificed at Aulis. It is often said that
mythical novelty and experimentation are particularly Euripi-
dean characteristics;7 but, while elsewhere Euripides’ alterations
to myths tend to be comparatively minor, the plots of Helen and
Iphigenia are based on quite extraordinary changes, which
amount to a complete overturning of the ‘usual’ myths—they
are, indeed, counterfactual, in a way different from any other
tragedy.8
It is clear that Euripides’ aims, in the escape-tragedies and
elsewhere, included the creation of surprise and shock-effects,9
and indeed one possible source of such effects is plot. Because
tragedies always treated the same range of mythical subjects,10
audiences would have held certain expectations, even before the
plays began, about what was likely to happen. It may be that
there were additional sources of advance information about the
plot or other details of tragedies, apart from inherited knowledge
of myth;11 but at any rate it seems likely that the audience in 412

7
Eisner (1979) 153: ‘Nearly every critic and literary historian agrees that
Euripides is different’; cf. Snell (1960) 132; Conacher (1967) 12; Collard (1981);
Burian (1997) 183–6, etc.
8
For example: in Euripides’ Electra, the heroine marries a yokel; in
Phoenician Women, Jocasta lives on in Thebes, the functions of Eteocles and
Polyneices are radically different from other versions (Aesch. Seven and Soph.
Antigone), and Oedipus remains in the Theban palace, locked in the attic; in his
Antigone, the heroine survived to bear Haemon a son (S Soph. Ant. 1351; cf.
Webster [1967] 182; Burian [1997] 185). Such innovations are still far less
outrageous than the alternative Helen- and Iphigenia-myths.
9
Arnott (1973) is concerned with ‘the unexpected’ in Euripidean drama. See
below (passim) for surprise as a feature of the escape-tragedies.
10
See §2.2.2 below for detailed discussion.
11
Some advance information was presented in the proagon, an event which
took place in (from c.440 bc) the Odeon, a few days before the beginning of the
contest: see Csapo and Slater (1994) 80, 104–11; Pickard-Cambridge (1968)
67–8; Baldry (1971) 26. It seems that the playwrights and their company of
actors appeared on stage, garlanded but without costumes or masks, and intro-
duced the plays which they were exhibiting (Plato, Symp. 194a–b; S Ar. Wasps
1109; Aesch. in Ctes. 66–7 [with S]). The form which this introduction, or dis-
cussion, took is unclear. I believe that it was a largely ritual occasion (com-
parable to, say, the opening ceremony at the Olympic Games), and offered
nothing more elaborate than an announcement of the titles, or subjects, of the
plays; any additional information would, surely, reduce the impact of the play
and ruin by anticipation any ‘surprises’. (Of course, playwrights could not have
relied on all their audience members having attended the proagon.) Very full
60 Myth, Fiction, Innovation
got a shock (Aristophanes’ Women at the Thesmophoria, pro-
duced the following year, seems to confirm this). What I want to
explore is precisely what kind of shock-effect was aimed for in
the escape-tragedies, and to what degree Euripides was respon-
sible for these outrageous counterfactual myths.

2.2.2 Aristotle’s Poetics and poetic licence

An important feature of my definition of the tragic genre in the
last chapter (§1.1) was that tragedies almost invariably dramatize
pre-existing subjects from Greek mythology.12 This fact has
frequently been discussed by ancient and modern writers: for
example, a fragment of Antiphanes’ lost comedy Poetry runs:
‘Tragedy is a fortunate type of poetry in every respect, since its
material is already well-known to the audience even before
any word is spoken; consequently the poet need only remind
them . . .’.13 A well-known passage in Aristotle’s Poetics, also,
highlights the role of traditional myths: he observes that in

prologue-speeches (especially in Euripides) are perhaps the strongest argument

against an expository proagon.
It is a matter for regret that we know nothing for certain about the tragedies’
original titles. We cannot say whether the plays’ titles as given in their manu-
scripts are contemporary with the original production dates or later additions;
nor whether they were given to them by their playwrights; nor whether, in fact,
titles were perceived to be very important in pre-Alexandrian literature.
Aristotle refers simply to Sophocles’ ‘Oedipus’ (Poet. 1452a24–33, 1453b31,
1454b8, 1455a18, 1462b2) without additional designation; and he calls the Tauric
Iphigenia simply ‘Iphigenia’ (Poet. 1454a7, 1454b32, 1455a18–b3), distinguish-
ing the other Iphigenia-play with the title Ó ƒn AÛl≤di (1454a32)—but this may
mean nothing except that Oedipus the King and Iphigenia among the Taurians
were the more popular and widely-known by the 4th cent. (as well as each being
the earlier of two tragedies about the same character). Note that alternative titles
occur: the Catalogue of Aeschylus’ plays, for instance (TGF III [Radt] T 78),
lists five such plays (Argo or Copastes; Theoroi or Isthmiastai; Carians or Europe;
Semele or Water-Bearers; Phrygians or The Ransoming of Hector). If titles were
significant, there may have been a dramatic point in calling the plays Helen (and
not Helen in Egypt) and Iphigenia (and not Iphigenia among the Taurians), i.e., to
increase the shock-effect of the revelation of these exotic settings. But it is
impossible to know.
12
Of almost 600 known tragedies, over half have repeated titles: see TGF I
[Snell]; cf. Burian (1997) 183–6 and 193–8 on ‘the pressure of precedents’.
13
Antiphanes, Poetry (PCG fr. 189.1–5): mak3riÎn ƒstin Ó tragwid≤a | po≤hma
kat¤ p3nt’, e÷ ge pr0ton oÈ lÎgoi | ËpÏ t0n qeat0n ejsin ƒgnwrismvnoi, | pr≥n ka≤ tin’
ejpe∏n: ¿sq’ Ëpomn[sai mÎnon de∏ tÏn poiht&n ktl.
 Myth, Fiction, Innovation 61
Greek tragedy ‘one cannot alter the traditional stories—for
example, one must have Clytemnestra killed by Orestes and
Eriphyle by Alcmaeon—but one ought to be creative and use the
traditional material well’.14 Compare Peter Burian’s observation
that ‘it would make no more sense to show an Oedipus who did
not kill his father and marry his mother than it would to show a
Napoleon who triumphed at Waterloo’.15
It might seem that the unusual, counterfactual plots of Helen
and Iphigenia do not correspond to this general rule—another
reason which certain critics give for maintaining that there is
something not quite tragic about these dramas.16 But I want to
argue that, while there are certain innovative elements in the
plots of the escape-tragedies, they still largely conform to generic
norms.
A useful starting-point is the Aristotelian passage quoted
above. Perhaps, like many authoritative-seeming statements
from the Poetics, it raises more questions than it succeeds in
answering. One could point out that Aristotle elsewhere directly
contradicts himself, saying that one need not try to stick at any
cost to the traditional stories.17 And, in general, it is certainly
difficult to interpret Aristotle’s pronouncements (are they to be
seen as dogmatic? descriptive? prescriptive?).18 Nevertheless,
Aristotle knew and admired Iphigenia, to which he refers more
14
Arist. Poet. 1453b22–6: toŸß m†n oˆn pareilhmmvnouß m»qouß l»ein oÛk πstin,
lvgw d† oÍon t¶n Klutaim&stran åpoqanoısan ËpÏ toı ∞ Orvstou ka≥ t¶n E ∞ rif»lhn ËpÏ
toı !lkmvwnoß, aÛtÏn d† eËr≤skein de∏ ka≥ to∏ß paradedomvnoiß cr[sqai kal0ß.
15
Burian (1997) 185.
16
Murray (1913); Dale (1967); Vellacott (1973); Whitman (1974); E. M. Hall
(1997) 23–5, etc.
17
Arist. Poet. 1451b23–4: oÛ p3ntwß #n e÷h zhthtvon t0n paradedomvnwn m»qwn,
per≥ oÙß aÈ tragwid≤ai ejs≤n, åntvcesqai. He also mentions having enjoyed
Agathon’s Antheus, an extreme case of a tragedy in which the plot and characters
were completely invented (ibid. 1451b21).
18
Quite apart from the problem of the work’s ‘unfinished’ feel and lack
of obvious organization, we do not know what sort of work the Poetics was
intended to be. Aristotle may have been offering advice for would-be tragedians
on how to write the ‘best’ tragedies, based on a classical model, not dictating a
set of regulations to be observed rigidly; or he may be describing tragedy as it
was in general in the fifth century (or his own time), without cataloguing all the
exceptions to every rule. On the likely purpose and nature of the Poetics, see
Lucas (1968) ix–xiv; Halliwell (1986) 7–19. Of course, Euripides had not read
the Poetics; and there is no reason why one should automatically accept
Aristotle’s judgement on tragic matters. But a 4th-cent. view is, still, nearly con-
temporary—and, in the absence of other good evidence, better than nothing.
62 Myth, Fiction, Innovation
than once as an example of a well-constructed tragedy.19 Are we
to attribute this apparent inconcinnity to an instinctive liking for
the play despite its failure to conform to Aristotle’s own rules?
This may be true; but I believe that his remarks on plot can in
fact be read as an illuminating description of tragic plots in
general (and, more importantly, one which embraces Helen and
Iphigenia). If this is true, however, Aristotle’s terminology will
require careful definition and clarification.
Failure to define crucial expressions is one feature which
makes Aristotle difficult to decipher.20 In the passage above, he
represents the fact that the tragedians treated the traditional
stories with a certain amount of fluidity; but he does not go on to
specify just what constitutes a ‘traditional story’. The (practi-
cally synonymous) terms pareilhmmvnoi mıqoi and t¤ paradedo-
mvna refer to something that has been ‘handed down’ from earlier
times in a literary or oral tradition, but what precisely is a mıqoß?
This is the most important question, but it eludes a simple
answer. It seems that the Greeks were not concerned to distin-
guish between ‘story’, ‘myth’, and ‘plot’—that is, they employed
the same word, mıqoß, in each of these senses—but these three
terms bear significantly different meanings in today’s critical
vocabulary. In fact, a distinction between ‘myths’ and ‘plots’ (in
particular) is absolutely essential for an adequate discussion of
tragedy, and a failure to make this distinction reduces the value
of many discussions.
First of all, then, ‘myth’. The word is defined in the Oxford
English Dictionary as ‘a purely fictitious narrative usually involv-
ing supernatural persons, actions, or events, and embodying
some popular idea concerning natural or historical pheno-
mena’.21 Fritz Graf’s slightly more refined ‘provisional’ defini-
tion will appear familiar from the viewpoint of modern classical
studies: according to Graf, myths are traditional tales; they do
not coincide with particular texts or genres; they are transmitted
from generation to generation without anyone knowing who
created them; they contain information about the world, culture,
society and institutions.22
19
Arist. Poet. 1452b6–7; 1454a7, b32; 1455a7–18, b3; cf. Belfiore (1992).
20
Cf. Halliwell (1986) 23.
21
OED (2nd edn., 1989) s.v. ‘myth’ (1.a).
22
Graf (1993) 1–8. The role played by ‘myth’ in recent (especially
 Myth, Fiction, Innovation 63
It seems fairly obvious that, in the passage quoted, Aristotle
uses pareilhmmvnoi mıqoi and t¤ paradedomvna to refer specifically
to ‘myths’—the part which the individual poet inherits from the
narrative tradition. Because these ‘myths’ were transmitted in a
variety of forms, they should be seen as entities which underlie,
and (in some sense) exist independently of, individual texts. But
how to identify a ‘traditional myth’ from the various texts in
which it is found?
One might begin by identifying the earliest extant version, but
this will not necessarily be definitive. It is perhaps unsurprising
that myths should become progressively more elaborate with
subsequent tellings. Primitive myths might acquire additional
elements which were later to become widely accepted: certain
versions of myths might even gain priority over other, earlier
ones. For example, the popularity of Sophocles’ treatments of
the myths of Oedipus (in Oedipus the King) and Antigone (in
Antigone) led to their becoming, in later antiquity, the dominant
versions, despite antecedents which differ in certain particulars.
In such cases, which is to be seen as the more ‘traditional’ myth?
It seems more reasonable (though not unproblematic) to
attempt to isolate a ‘basic version’. In other words, by examining
as many tellings of a myth as possible and extracting only
those elements found in all, one will emerge with a ‘basic’
version, boiled-down as one might say to a collection of bare,
unembellished facts. (This type of exercise has been taken to an
extreme by, for example, M. R. Cox of the British Folk-Lore
Society, who painstakingly analysed 345 versions of the
Cinderella story.23)
One might compare the narratologist Génette’s view that any
narrative text is an expansion of a single, extremely basic verbal
form. For example, the Odyssey is (he says) a ‘monstrous
development’ of the basic verbal statement ‘Odysseus comes
home to Ithaca’; in the same way, Proust’s A la récherche du
temps perdu (Génette’s exemplary text) is an ‘amplification’ of
the basic statement ‘Marcel becomes a writer’.24 In the same

structuralist-influenced) classical studies scarcely needs stating: cf. Burkert

(1979) 23; Vernant (1983) 203–8; Bremmer (1987b) 1–7; Bremmer’s entry in the
OCD (3rd edn., 3, 1996) s.v. ‘mythology’; Buxton (1999).
23
Cox (1893).
24
Génette (1980) 30.
64 Myth, Fiction, Innovation
way, ‘Orestes kills Clytemnestra’, ‘Agamemnon sacrifices
Iphigenia’ and so on might be said to be the basic verbal forms,
the myths, which may be developed or amplified into narra-
tives.25
There are, admittedly, difficulties inherent in this approach as
well. Not only is it impossible to recover every single telling of a
myth, but also to obtain a ‘basic’ myth along the lines suggested
by Génette is, in fact, far from simple. In the first place, it is
unclear at just what point the process of elaboration or
amplification from myth into narrative plot begins. Which
elements are intrinsic or necessary, and which are peripheral?
Orestes’ oracle from Apollo; Agamemnon’s dilemma; the role of
Artemis; the characters’ motivations and moral colourings: all
are, surely, of importance. Just how basic, or elaborate, does a
‘basic’ version of a myth have to be? Second, it might be argued
that the process of identifying and presenting the ‘basic’ (under-
lying) version can never be entirely objective. No version of a
myth is ever not narrated: every single story has to be made by
someone with a particular set of interests and motives, which
means that no telling can be absolutely ‘basic’.
Another related question is this: when are two narratives
telling the same story? The question may be answered in
different ways. For example, Raymond Quéneau’s famous
Exercices de Style narrates ‘the same’ short story in ninety-nine
different ways.26 This assumes that a single underlying story
exists (somewhere) and that the narration is a matter of form
(récit) differently representing content (histoire).27 Quéneau
gives no ‘basic’, unstyled version of the story, because he
believes that this would be impossible. (By comparison, recep-
tion theorists would claim that the narratives which different
readers construct from identical words may be very different;
25
For the purposes of this discussion, I shall assume that tragic drama is a
form of narrative, although this is, in fact, a debated point. A narrative, defined
simply, is ‘anything which recounts a story, a series of events in a temporal
sequence’ (Cohan and Shires [1988] 1). Tragedies, whatever else they do,
certainly tell stories, but they also have other functions. Génette (1980, 41)
denies that drama is narrative, but see Goward (1999) and Gould (2001) 319–34
26
for the opposite view. Quéneau (1947).
27
Génette (1980) and others distinguish between récit (the presentation of
events in a narrative) and histoire (the order in which these events occurred in
real life, or imagined ‘real’ life). This is reminiscent of the Formalist distinction
between sjuzhet and fabula.
 Myth, Fiction, Innovation 65
structuralist criticism is based on the assumption that many
stories are ‘the same’ by reference to a perceived underlying
structure, and so on.28)
Because myths ‘underlie’ their diverse tellings, certain essen-
tial elements may be said to be implicitly present in any version,
even when they are not explicitly narrated. That is, since ele-
ments such as Helen’s beauty and duplicity, the judgement of
Paris, the murder of Laius, etc. are so central to the story and so
widely known to their audience, they are often to be taken for
granted. In what follows, I have made the commonsensical
assumption that the same basic elements ‘underlie’ any telling
which assumes them or (at least) does not explicitly contradict
them.
A little should be added about the elements that make up a
myth. These consist of, roughly, characters and events.29
‘Characters’ should be seen to include not only people and gods
but also their characteristics, gender, age, and personality traits,
as well as the relationships between characters.30 ‘Events’ are
slightly less simple to define, because they admit of different
interpretations. In order to progress from a narrative into its
constituent ‘events’, it is necessary to subject it to a process of
analysis, to separate it into its smallest units and examine how
these units fit together.31 But ‘events’ in a myth are not always
neatly segmentable, and the very act of segmentation must
(again) be a subjective process, relying on the attitudes of each
individual interpreter. Just as there may be as many narratives as
readers, so there may be as many ways of segmenting myths (or
plots) into events and sequences.32 Neither Aristotle nor any
28
In particular, recurring story-patterns in myth may be of importance: see
Lattimore (1964) 8–9, 52–3; O’Brien (1988) 99–101; Burian (1997) 180–98 (on
the ‘typology’ of tragic plots); Achilles Tatius 3.6–7.
29
This description might seem to be somewhat jejune to those who, follow-
ing Vernant and Vidal-Naquet (1988), Segal (1983) and others, find it illumi-
nating to view Greek tragic myth as a semiotic and structural system. But for the
present purpose I should prefer to class structural features not as ‘elements’ but
as ‘interpretations’. See Kirk (1970) for a summary of approaches to myth.
30
Cf. Easterling (1990) 99; Goldhill (1990) 109.
31
Cf. Barthes (1988) 103: ‘Every system being the combination of units
whose classes are known, we must first segment the narrative and determine the
segments of the narrative discourse which can be distributed into a small
number of classes; in a word, we must define the smallest narrative units.’
32
A recurrent feature of structuralist attempts to define an event is the notion
66 Myth, Fiction, Innovation
other ancient writer gives explicit guidance in this area, although
the Poetics does suggest that ‘Orestes kills Clytemnestra’,
‘Alcmaeon kills Eriphyle’ and so on may be suitable expressions
of ‘smallest possible units’.
All of this means that any attempt to identify the ‘basic’
elements in a myth should be seen as an approximation and a
(necessarily) subjective process. But the exercise may, neverthe-
less, be of some practical use, if one bears these qualifications
in mind. In Figures 2.1–3 I have tried to give semi-graphic
summaries of the main elements in the myths of Helen,
Andromeda and Iphigenia, in terms of the important events as
narrated in texts before and after Euripides’ time.33 These
summaries (in which the ‘smallest units’ are quite broadly
defined) are meant to give nothing more than a sense of the major
variants: I have not attempted to be exhaustive or comprehen-
sive. Such a laborious task would yield only limited reward, since
the comparative scarcity of surviving material (see §2.3 below)
means that even a complete summary of every extant text which
mentions Helen and Iphigenia would give only a very partial
reconstruction of ‘the tradition’. What this collection of infor-
mation shows is that the three myths consisted of a variety of
elements, which may or may not have been in circulation in the
late fifth century.34

of change: ‘one situation moves to another’ (Todorov [1977] 11); or, alterna-
tively, ‘an action . . . always demonstrates a triadic structure whose different
components consist of the existing situation, the attempt to change it and the
new situation’ (Pfister [1988] 199). This definition implies a discernible
sequence governed by temporal or causal factors. Yet this gives rise to more
problems. How can one tell the difference between a sequence and an event?
How much overlap is there? For example, one might treat ‘Orestes kills
Clytemnestra’ as a single event, or one might separate it into a series of smaller
events: the motivation of Orestes, the raising and plunging of the weapon, the
scream, the spurt of blood, Clytemnestra’s falling to the ground, etc.
33
This manner of summary was suggested by a tabulation of variants in the
Callisto myth by Henrichs (1987, 256–7). Like Henrichs, I offer an assorted and
unsystematic collection of references: all I am aiming to do is to represent the
main events, rather than giving a list of sources. More detail can be found in
LIMC (s.vv.) in all cases.
34
The use of post-Euripidean sources is problematic: it is of course possible
that the variants which they contain evolved at a later stage and that the 5th-
cent. tradition was less multifarious. Even the fragments and reports of writers
from the fifth century and before which are preserved in later sources may have
undergone change and distortion (see particularly Stesichorus—§2.3.2 below).
 Myth, Fiction, Innovation 67
Figure 2.1: Variants on the Helen myth in some literary sources
1 BIRTH
Zeus/Leda Hom. Il. 3.418–426
Zeus as swan/Leda Apollodorus 3.10.7, Hyginus Fab. 77, Lactantius 1.21
Born from egg Herodorus (FGH 31 F21), Pausanias 3.16.1, Apollodorus 3.10.7,
Hyginus Fab. 28
Zeus as swan/Nemesis as goose Cypria fr. 7 Davies, Cratinus, Nemesis (fr 113–27
PCG), Apollodorus 3.10.7
Zeus plants Nemesis’ egg in Leda’s womb Hyginus Fab. 28
Helen seen as Tyndareus’ daughter Hesiod fr. 176 MW, Stesichorus fr. 223 Davies,
Gorgias Hel. 3.
2 VARIOUS SUITORS Hesiod fr. 197, 204 MW, Hellanicus (FGH 4 F29), Apollodorus
3.10.8, Hyginus Fab. 81
3 MARRIAGE TO MENELAUS Stesichorus fr. 189–91 Davies, Apollodorus 3.10.6, 3.11.2
4 CHILDREN
From Menelaus: Hermione Hom. Od. 4, Acusilas (FGH 2 F41), Apollodorus 3.11.1
Nicostratus Apollodorus 3.11.1
From Paris: Corythus Hellanicus (FGH 4 F29: incl. variant that Corythus was
Trojan suitor of H!)
Bunomus, Aganus, Idaeus, Helen Tzetzes ad Lycophr. 851.

5 RAPED
By Paris; cause of Trojan War
Hom., Il., Od., Sappho fr. 16,
Alcaeus fr. 283, Herodotus 1.1–4,
Gorgias, Hel.,
Apollodorus Epit. 3.1–5,
Pausanias 3.22.2
6 NO RAPE
phantom Stesichorus fr. 192 Davies (?)
Apollodorus Epit. 3.1–5
flown to Egypt Stesichorus
fr. 192, Davies (?), Apollodorus Epit. 3.1–5
Helen on isle of Leuke with Achilles
Pausanias 3.19.11, Philostratus 10.32–40

By Theseus Or protected by Theseus

Pherecydes (FGH 3 F153), from rape by Idas and Lynceus
Plutarch Thes. 31.1, Hellanicus (FGH 4 F168),
Apollodorus 3.10.7, Plutarch Thes. 31.1,
Pausanias 1.18.5, 1.41.5, Apollodorus Epit. 1.24
Hyginus Fab. 79
Which causes war between
Athens and Peloponnese
Plutarch Thes. 29
Helen bears Iphigenia to Theseus
Duris (FGH 76 F92), Pausanias 2.22.7,
Tzetzes ad Lycophr. 183

7 HELEN SAILED TO EGYPT

With Paris Herodotus 2.112–20, Hom. Il. 6.289–92 (Phoenicia)
With Menelaus Hom. Od. 4, Hecataeus (FGH 1 F307),
Hellanicus (FGH 4 F153)
8 ATTEMPTED RAPE BY THONOS Hellanicus (FGH 4 F153)

9 AFTERWARDS
Deified Herodotus 6.61, Pausanias 3.7.7
Back to Sparta with Menelaus; eternity in Isles of Blest Hom Od. 4
Sacrificed in Tauric land by Iphigenia Photius Bibl. 479
Hanged by servants of Tlepomenus’ widow Polyxo Pausanias 3.19.10
68 Myth, Fiction, Innovation
Figure 2.2: Variants on the Andromeda myth in some literary
sources

1 BORN TO CEPHEUS AND CASSIOPEIA (Cassiepeia, Cassiope) Herodotus 7.61,

Ovid, Met. 4.663–5.249, Apollodorus 2.4.3–5, Eratosth. Catast. 15–17

2 BETROTHAL TO PHINEUS Ovid, Met. 4.663–5.249, Apollodorus 2.4.3–5, Eratosth.

Catast. 15–17

3 EXPOSED TO MONSTER Herodotus 7.61, Conon (FGH 26 F1.40), Soph. Andromeda

(fr. 126–36 TGF), Ovid, Met. 4.663–5.249, Pausanias 4.35.9, Strabo 16.2.28, Philostratus,
Imag. 1.29, Josephus, BJ 3.420, Lucian, Dial. of Sea-gods 14.3

because of Cassiopeia’s boasts to the Nereids Apollodorus 2.4.3–5, Eratosth.

Catast. 15–17

4 RESCUED BY PERSEUS Herodotus 7.61, Pherecydes (FGH 3 F12), Conon (FGH 26

F1.40), Soph. Andromeda (fr. 126–36 TGF), Ovid, Met. 4.663–5.249, Pausanias 4.35.9,
Strabo 16.2.28, Philostratus, Imag. 1.29, Josephus BJ 3.420, Lucian, Dial. of Sea-gods 14.3

5 DUEL BETWEEN PERSEUS AND PHINEUS Ovid, Met. 4.663–5.249, Apollodorus

2.4.3–5, Eratosth. Catast. 15–17

6 PERSEUS MARRIES ANDROMEDA Ovid Met. 4.663–5.249, Apollodorus 2.4.3–5,

Eratosth. Catast. 15–17

7 ANDROMEDA GIVES 8 ANDROMEDA ABANDONED

BIRTH TO PERSES BY PERSEUS
Herodotus 7.61, Apollodorus 2.4.3–5, Pherecydes (FGH 3 F12)
Eratosth. Catast. 15–17

9 CATASTERISM Apollodorus 2.4.3–5, Eratosth. Catast. 15–17

 Myth, Fiction, Innovation 69
Figure 2.3: Variants on the Iphigenia myth in some literary
sources
1 NAME
Iphigenia Cypria fr. 1 Davies, Stesichorus fr. 215 Davies, Soph. El. 156–7
(≠ Iphianassa)
Iphimede(-a) Hesiod fr. 23a MW, Apollodorus 1.7.4
Iphinoe Acusilas (FGH 2 F28: ≠ Iphianassa)
Iphianassa Hom. Il. 9.144–5, 286–7 (Iphianassa, Chrysothemis and Electra only),
Pherecydes (FGH 3 F114), Acusilas (FGH 2 F28), Soph. El. 156–7 (≠ Iphigenia),
Apollodorus 2.2.2 (≠ Iphinoe)

2 PARENTS
Helen and Theseus Stesichorus fr. 191 Davies, Duris (FGH 76 F92), Pausanias 2.22.7
Agamemnon and Clytemnestra Hom. Il., Cypria, Soph. El., Apollodorus Epit. 2.16,
Hyginus Fab. 120
Proetus and Stheneboea (Iphinoe/Iphianassa) Acusilas (FGH 2 F28), Apollodorus
2.2.2
Triops (Iphimedea) Apollodorus 1.7.4

3 IMPIETY AGAINST HERA (Iphianassa) Hesiod fr. 131 MW, Acusilas (FGH 2 F28),
Pherecydes (FGH 3 F114)

4 BETROTHED TO ACHILLES Eur. Iph. at A., Apollodorus 3.13.8

5 AGAMEMNON COMPELLED TO SACRIFICE IPHIGENIA

Because of Artemis’ jealousy Cypria fr. 23 Davies, Apollodorus Epit. 3.21
Because of non-fulfilment of a vow Apollodorus Epit. 2.10
In obedience to prophecies Plutarch Ages. 6

6 IPHIGENIA SACRIFICED 7 IPHIGENIA NOT SACRIFICED AT AULIS

AT AULIS Hom. Il. 9. 144–287,
Cypria fr. 23 Davies, Aesch. Ag.,
Soph. fr. 726–30 TGF, Xen. Hell.
3.4.3, Plutarch Ages. 6,
Apollodorus Epit. 2.10, 3.21
Cypria fr. 19 Davies, Hesiod fr. 23, 358
MW, Phanodemus (FGH 325 F14), Eur.
Iph. at A., Apollodorus Epit. 3.21

8 LAST-MINUTE SUBSTITUTION
By hind Cypria fr. 23 Davies,
Apollodorus Epit. 3.21
By calf Antoninus Liberalis 27
By bear Phanodemus (FGH 325 F14),
S Ar. Lys. 645 (?)
By phantom double Hesiod fr. 23a MW (?)

9 IPHIGENIA GOES TO THE BLACK SEA

Cypria (Proclus) p. 32 Davies, Hyginus,
Fab. 120–1
And sacrifices Helen and Menelaus
Photius Bibl. 479

10 IPHIGENIA IS DEIFIED Herodotus 4.103,

Soph. fr. 726–30 TGF, Strabo 9.1.22,
Apollodorus Epit. 3.21
As Hecate Pausanias 1.43.1
As Artemis Hesiod fr. 358 MW.
70 Myth, Fiction, Innovation
The most important thing to emerge from Figures 2.1–3 is
that each myth incorporates contradictory features. In no case
can there be said to be ‘a single myth’, but rather a number of
(often widely divergent) strands. Helen’s birth and parentage
were described in a number of different ways; her relationships
with various suitors, including Theseus, Odysseus and Paris,
were unclear; her exact whereabouts during and after the Trojan
War was a moot point, as was her eventual fate. The details of
Iphigenia’s family—even her name—were not fixed;35 the reason
why her father had to sacrifice her was not clearly known; a
number of conflicting accounts existed to explain what happened
to her at Aulis; and her subsequent history, like Helen’s, was
obscure. There is a greater uniformity in the different versions of
the Andromeda myth, which (not insignificantly) is far less
commonly found in extant authors than the other two myths; but
even that is not without discrepancies as regards the details of
Andromeda’s life and death following her dramatic rescue from
the monster.
So the idea of extracting only those elements which are
common to all tellings is less feasible in practice than in theory.
But this in itself reveals something very important about myths.
Detailed examination of any myth uncovers many inconsisten-
cies of detail, major and minor.36 This is due partly to the fact
that there was no single canonical, authorized version of Greek

35
Multiple names cause a particular problem. The four similar names
(Iphigenia, Iphimede[a], Iphinoe and Iphianassa) are sometimes used inter-
changeably to refer to the same person, but in some versions it is clear that
Iphianassa, Iphigenia and Iphimede are quite distinct. In Apollodorus, for
example (1.4.7), Iphimedea is the daughter of Triops who fell in love with
Poseidon, and is not to be identified with Iphigenia; but in Hesiod (fr. 23 M–W)
Iphimede is indeed the daughter of Agamemnon who was sacrificed (possibly
even as a phantom) at Aulis. It seems likely that the similar-sounding names
caused confusion, with the result that (up to) four characters became three, two
or one.
36
‘Everybody knows’ the myth of Oedipus—according to Aristotle (Poet.
1453b5–6), they shudder at the mere mention of the name—but even that tradi-
tion contained important differences. In Odyssey 11, Oedipus’ mother’s name is
not Jocasta but Epicaste, nor is there any mention of his ignorance or self-blind-
ing (both of which were important motifs in Sophocles’ influential version); and
in the ancient epic Oedipodeia, his sons were fathered on Eurygania, rather than
Jocasta or Epicaste (Pausanias 9.5.10 = Oedipodeia fr. 2 Davies). On this lack of
homogeneity (and many other aspects of myth) see now Fowler’s (2000) collec-
tion of early Greek mythographers.
 Myth, Fiction, Innovation 71
myths, but a vast, diverse, unsystematic tradition. Reinach’s
comment (apropos of the Iphigenia), ‘il faudrait dire les légendes,
et non la légende’, is particularly apt.37 Aristotle (among others)
might discuss the traditional stories in such a way as to imply that
there existed something like a ‘bible’ of mythology, but in fact
there was no mythical orthodoxy. It is possible that the Homeric
poems come fairly close to being an authoritative source of
myth;38 and it may also be true that epic and tragic myths, since
they reached a wider audience through performance, were de
facto more authoritative than others. Nevertheless, though we
may talk of the oldest-established or most commonly attested
versions (which, as we have seen, may often be quite different
things), it is never accurate to talk of a version of myth which
possesses definitive status. It is probable that the Greeks’ know-
ledge of these traditional myths, even the ‘major’ myths like
those of Helen and Iphigenia, was comparatively hazy.39
But, despite the presence of plural, rival versions of myth, the
same people believed in the myths and worshipped the gods and
heroes on whom they centre. To fifth-century Athenians, myths
were not just fairy-stories (albeit fairy-stories with social
significance), but they were to a large degree inseparable from
history.40 In addition, they were a source of religious belief, on
37
Reinach (1915) 6.
38
See Graf (1993) 142–3; Mossman (1995) 20–1; cf. also e.g. Athenaeus
8.347e (the tragedians serving up ‘slices from Homer’s great banquet’); TGF
III (Radt) T112a–b (Aeschylus’ claim that his writings represented the ‘crumbs
from Homer’s table’); S Soph. El. 445 (on disagreements with Homer).
39
Aristotle (Poet. 1451b25–6) says that even the well-known stories were
well-known only to relatively few people in the audience of tragedy (ƒpe≥ ka≥ t¤
gn*rima øl≤goiß gn*rim3 ƒstin). This presents another problem, and another
contradiction with evidence which suggests that people did widely know tragic
myths (e.g. Arist. Poet. 1453b5–6, and the quotations at the beginning of this
section). Perhaps Aristotle is exaggerating, in order to make the point that ‘non-
mythical’ tragedies such as Agathon’s Antheus are permissible. Or perhaps
(because of the imprecision in his terminology) he may be taken to mean that
people knew the ‘basic’ myths of Oedipus, Orestes and so on, but did not
possess more intimate knowledge of specific (or contrasting) treatments of these
myths by different poets.
40
Burian (1997) 185: ‘Myth is subject to interpretation and revision, but not
to complete overturn, because it is also history’; see also Knox (1979) 10–15 on
myth as history in the sense of ‘collective memory’ and Eisner (1979) 153 on
myths as ‘ancient history’ in Herodotus and Thucydides; cf. Bowie (1993) 11.
One might also compare the statement of S Pind. Ol. 4.31b that Pindar’s
account of the Hypsipyle myth is contrary to history (par’ Èstor≤an), although,
72 Myth, Fiction, Innovation
which contemporary ritual practices were based.41 This curious
paradox is central to Greek religious belief and historical
thought, and does not seem to have troubled any ancient writers
on the subject, who discuss myth as if it were really fixed and
immutable. In addition, Aristotle’s remarks on the limitations of
poetic invention reveal another ‘blind spot’ in ancient thinking:
it was not sufficiently taken into account that poetry and drama,
as well as ‘using’ myths, must have played a substantial role in
creating and altering them.42
It is these inconsistencies and contradictions inherent in
‘myth’ and the mythical tradition that are of particular impor-
tance for understanding the myths of Helen and Iphigenia and
what Euripides has done with them in the escape-tragedies.
Nevertheless, as I said above, it remains important to distin-
guish between ‘myths’ and ‘plots’, that is, between the inheri-
tance and the invention of material. Aristotle’s advice is that the
tragedian should not ‘alter’ (l»ein)43 myths but ‘invent’ (eËr≤skein)
for himself, as well as making ‘good use’ of (cr[sqai kal0ß)
myths. At first sight, this might seem rather a contradictory set
of instructions—how can there have been freedom to invent
material, if alterations were forbidden? But if the concepts of
‘myth’ and ‘plot’ are understood to be quite separate, then
Aristotle’s meaning becomes quite clear.
paradoxically, the scholiast implies that a very large degree of poetic licence is
permissible (πxesti pl3ttein to∏ß poihta∏ß 4 bo»lontai). A similar point is made by
Plutarch (Quomodo Adul. 20c).
41
In particular, the cult aetiologies and genealogies with which many
tragedies end show the importance of myth in everyday religion, as well as of the
continuity between the past and contemporary fifth-century life: see esp.
Conacher (1967) 304; Wolff (1992) [on Iphigenia]; Seaford (1994). However,
one should note also the opposite view: Mikalson (1991) believes that tragic and
‘lived’ religion were conceptually separate; and Veyne (1988, 17) writes that
‘Greek mythology, whose connections with religion were very loose, was
basically nothing but a popular literary genre.’ Of course one cannot deny the
diverse and unsystematic nature of Greek religion in general, but there was no
other ‘religious’ literature available: in that case the importance of myth and
mythological texts must, surely, extend far beyond (simply) literature. (See §5.2
below on tragic ‘religion’.)
42
Plut. Mor. 346f–348d, for example, expounds the view that the proper
function of poetry is to ‘compose’ myths (poe∏n m»qouß . . . Ò t[ß poihtik[ß πrgon);
cf. Mor. 14d–18a (muqopo≤hma ka≥ pl3sma); Plato, Phaedo 61b (poetry, myths,
and ‘truth’). See Morgan (2000) on all these aspects.
43
A difficult word to translate. ‘Loosen’, ‘dissolve’, ‘unravel’ (etc.) would
also be possible meanings.
 Myth, Fiction, Innovation 73
Myth is the traditional, inherited material. But far more
prominent in the Poetics is plot, the other sense of mıqoß: ‘the plan
or scheme of any literary creation, as a play, poem, or work of
prose fiction’.44 Plot is Aristotle’s principal interest: indeed, he
believes it to be the most important feature of tragedy.45 As
one influential critic observes, mıqoß in Aristotle becomes ‘a
virtually technical term’ for ‘the plot-structure which is both the
organized design and the significant substance or content of a
poem’.46 He discusses mıqoß in a broadly literary and aesthetic
sense, but is not greatly concerned with the social, political or
religious (‘mythic’) functions which modern critics highlight.47
Although the Poetics contains no programmatic definition of
mıqoß, certain scattered remarks at different points throughout
the text add up to a partial clarification and expansion of mean-
ing. Having said that mıqoß is a ‘representation of an action’
(pr3xewß . . . m≤mhsiß),48 Aristotle proceeds to explain that ‘by
mıqoß, I mean the composition of events’ (lvgw g¤r mıqon toıton,
t¶n s»nqesin t0n pragm3twn).49 A little later, Aristotle more or less
repeats this idea, saying that the first and most important thing
in tragedy is the ‘arrangement of events’ (s»stasiß . . . t0n
pr3gmatwn).50

44
OED (2nd edn., 1989), s.v. ‘plot’ (III.6).
45
Arist. Poet. 1450a4–5, 38–9. It may be interesting to compare an anecdote
about the comic poet Menander, which also reflects the prime importance of
plots to playwrights: when asked about the state of completion of his new play,
he replied that it was practically finished—the plot was made, but he just had to
write the lines (Plut. Mor. 347b).
46
Halliwell (1986) 23: he contrasts this with Plato’s mıqoß, which is ‘a story or
fable which embodies and asserts, without qualification, a set of propositions
about the world’—in other words, a ‘myth’ in a modern sense (cf. Graf [1993]
1–8) rather than a ‘plot’.
47
On the ‘failure’ of Aristotle to address the concerns of modern critics see,
for example, Hall (1996) and Belfiore (2000).
48
Arist. Poet. 1450a4. Earlier (1459b36), Aristotle has defined tragedy itself as
pr3xewß . . . m≤mhsiß, which, presumably, gives emphasis to his view of the
centrality of plot.
49
Arist. Poet. 1450a4–5. This is ‘not the most obvious sense, which was
simply “story”’: Lucas (1968) ad loc.
50
Arist. Poet. 1450b22–3; cf. Ó t0n pr3gmatwn s»stasiß at Poet. 1450a15.
Lucas (1968, 100) translates this as ‘structure’. The same terminology is used
also of epic (Poet. 1459a17–19: de∏ toŸß m»qouß kaq3per ƒn ta∏ß tragwid≤aiß
sunist3nai, ‘one must put together plots just as in tragedy’); one can ‘put
together’ plots, but not myths.
74 Myth, Fiction, Innovation
Aristotle also explains what he means by cr[sqai kal0ß: he
does not mean that the myth has to be interfered with, but that
the poet has to make certain decisions as to which parts of it he
should include. Which characters from the myth, for instance,
will appear as characters in the tragedy? Should he insert plot
elements such as ignorance, peripeteiai, pity and fear (and in
what order)? Plot is not what the poet inherits, but just how he
deals with it—the selection and arrangement of a limited amount
of material, to make a coherent, unified play of about ninety
minutes’ length with a neat beginning and ending.51 Plots, as one
critic wrote, are ‘slices out of a larger whole’;52 in general, they
deal with only a small number of events from the myths, to be
imagined as taking place during a single day in the lives of their
characters. What happens on-stage—the entry and exit of
characters; their dialogue, physical actions, movements and
gestures; recognitions; supplications; lamentations; rituals—is
often peripheral to the main events of the myth. The rest of the
myth (as a whole) is usually either implicit in the action of the
play or explicitly referred to at different points during the play,
especially in the prologue-speeches, the choral odes and the
speeches of gods ex machina.53 Therefore, plots must be com-
patible with myths, but they are not identical with them.
Sometimes the precise order and mixture of events included in a
plot would seem more familiar than in others,54 but usually the
composition of the plot and the selection of events and characters
51
Cf. Arist. Poet. 1450b–1451b.
52
Stinton (1986) 74.
53
On prologue-speeches, see Segal (1992) 85–92; Austin (1994) 141; Goward
(1999) 9–20.
54
This seems to be acknowledged by Aristotle when he writes that the poet,
when writing his tragedy, should first set out his story—even if it is ready-
made—in general terms (to»ß te lÎgouß ka≥ toŸß pepoihmvnouß de∏ ka≥ aÛtÏn
poioınta ƒkt≤qesqai kaqÎlou: Poet. 1455a34–b1). In other words, some plots had
been used before. (This seems the most natural reading of that passage; Lucas
[1968] ad loc. points out that elsewhere in the Poetics pepoihmvnoß means ‘fabri-
cated’ or ‘contrived’ as opposed to ‘traditional’ [Poet. 1451b20, 1454b30,
1457b2], but if that were the sense here it would be hard to see Aristotle’s point.)
Aristotle goes on (Poet. 1455b3–15) to summarize the plot of Iphigenia, but the
text gives the bizarre impression that he thinks Euripides came up with the
events—the sacrifice, the recognition, and so on—before he had even decided on
the myth or the characters! (In Aristotle’s defence, however, one could read him
as implying that an author might be drawn to a myth because of its potential for
dramatic plotting.)
 Myth, Fiction, Innovation 75
from the myth relied on the creativity of the individual play-
wright.55
One of Dio of Prusa’s rhetorical exercises illustrates the dis-
tinction. It takes the form of a synkrisis of the tragedies of
Aeschylus, Sophocles and Euripides on the same subject,
Philoctetes.56 Dio first describes, in the simplest terms possible,
what one might call the part of the myth on which the tragedies
were based, the element which all three plays have in common:
‘the theft or seizure of Philoctetes’ bow’.57 Then he describes the
individual plots of the three tragedies in more detail, as well
as commenting on other areas in which the tragedians demon-
strated their individuality and original invention (characteriza-
tion, use of the chorus, language, ethical content). The ‘basic’
myth is the same in all cases, but the plots are different. We learn
from Dio that in Aeschylus’ plot, Odysseus was not disguised by
Athena (as in Homer and Euripides); the chorus did not apolo-
gize for their neglect of Philoctetes (as in Euripides); and
Odysseus’ character was not guileful. In Euripides’ plot,
Odysseus was in disguise and practised deceit, inventing the
story of a false embassy to ensnare Philoctetes; there were certain
new characters (Diomedes and a Lemnian neighbour of Philoc-
tetes), and the story was ‘more complicated’ (poikil*teron). In
Sophocles’ plot, Odysseus arrived with Neoptolemus; the
characters were more dignified; the chorus was composed of
sailors and not native Lemnians; the bow was returned; and
Heracles appeared at the dénouement. Dio writes of Sophocles’
version with especial approbation, saying that his management
of the plot is excellent and most convincing (t[i . . . diaskeu[i t0n
pragm3twn år≤sthi ka≥ piqanwt3thi kvcrhtai). We could compare
the tragedies by the same three tragedians on the subject of
Electra: again, they use approximately the same part of the
Electra myth but have quite different plots.
55
On the type of activity that constituted poetic freedom—selection, adapta-
tion, ‘cut-off’ points, the ‘engineering’ of character, motivation, paradeigmata,
and so on—see March (1987) xi; Lattimore (1964) 5–6; Stinton (1986) 70–5.
56
Dio Chrys. Or. 52; discussion in Russell and Winterbottom (1972) 504–7.
Only Sophocles’ version survives, making an up-to-date synkrisis impossible.
57
Dio Chrys. Or. 52.1.20–1. He does not use the word mıqoß either of the
myth or the plot(s), but refers to the three plays as being per≥ t¶n aÛt¶n ËpÎqesin,
¬n g¤r t¶n t0n Filokt&tou tÎxwn e÷te klop¶n e÷te Årpag¶n de∏ lvgein (‘on the same
subject, which one must call either the theft or the snatching of Philoctetes’
bow’).
76 Myth, Fiction, Innovation
To clarify the distinction further, with specific reference to the
escape-tragedies, I offer below an analysis of the main events in
all three plays. Events marked with the symbol m are taken from
the inherited myth, and those marked p make up Euripides’
invented plot. A prime (´) denotes that there is some significant
doubt, to be discussed later on—but of course, in theory, there
may be far more m than we can know. That is, if more Greek
poetry had survived, we might be able to identify more inherited
material.58 Inevitably, then, this analysis is somewhat provi-
sional; but it is still possible to distinguish with some confidence
between the sort of events which happen on the stage and the sort
of events which are transmitted in tellings of myths of all kinds.
(In the case of the Andromeda, I have listed only those fragments
which seem to contain a discernible ‘event’: the results are,
inevitably, partial, but even there it is possible to distinguish
myth from plot.)

Helen
(lines 1–3) Helen is in Egypt m´
(4–22) Genealogy m
(23–30) The beauty contest on Ida m
(31–6) Hera made a phantom-double of Helen m´
(37–43) The Trojan War was fought for a phantom m´
(44–55) Hermes brought Helen to Egypt m´
(56–67) Helen chastely resists Theoclymenus’ advances p
(68–163) Teucer arrives and questions Helen p
(83–122) Teucer reports news of the Trojans p
(123–32) Menelaus and ‘Helen’ are reported dead in a shipwreck
p
(133–43) Leda and the Dioscuri are reported dead p
(144–50) Teucer requires help to find his way home p
(151–63) Teucer leaves, warned of Theoclymenus’ violence p
[parodos 164–251: lamentation over deaths of Leda, Dioscuri
and Menelaus p]
(255–305) Helen bewails her beauty and her life p, m
(306–29) The Greek women cause Helen to doubt Teucer’s
reports p
(330–85) Helen prepares to ask advice of the omniscient
Theonoe p
58
See the section which follows (§2.3).
 Myth, Fiction, Innovation 77
(348–61) Helen threatens to kill herself if Menelaus is really dead
p
(362–85) Helen laments p
(386–436) Menelaus arrives, shipwrecked and lost p
(437–82) Menelaus argues with the Portress p
(483–514) Menelaus’ confusion when he learns that Helen is
here p
(515–40) Helen learns that Menelaus is alive p
(541–96) Helen meets Menelaus: no recognition p
(597–615) Servant reveals that the phantom has vanished p
(616–733) Recognition p
(734–57) Menelaus sends servant away to the shore p
(758–776) Helen questions Menelaus p, m
(777–804) Menelaus learns that Theoclymenus is a threat p
(805–18) Plan to kill Theoclymenus or escape p
(819–841) The Greeks plan to win over Theonoe p
(842–64) Menelaus hides behind tomb p
(865–93) Theonoe recognizes Menelaus and warns him off p
(894–997) Helen and Menelaus supplicate Theonoe p
(998–1029) Theonoe offers her allegiance p
(1030–1106) The Greeks plan escape by means of a bogus ritual
p
[stasimon 1107–64: Troy’s sufferings revisited m]
(1165–83) Theoclymenus threatens to kill Menelaus p
(1184–1300) Helen dupes Theoclymenus p
[stasimon 1301–68: Demeter m]
(1369–1450) A ship is prepared for the bogus ritual p
[stasimon 1451–511: anticipates the escape p]
(1512–620) Messenger reports that Helen and Menelaus have
escaped p
(1621–41) Theoclymenus makes to kill Theonoe p
(1642–end) Dioscuri prevent murder and send Helen and
Menelaus on their way p
(1662–end) Helen and Menelaus’ distant future: deification; the
isle of Helene m´

Andromeda
(fragment 114) Andromeda watches the night sky p
(115, 122) Andromeda laments her misfortune p, m
(118) Andromeda speaks to Echo p
78 Myth, Fiction, Innovation
(120–2) Andromeda has been exposed for the sea-monster by
Cepheus m
(123–5) Perseus arrives [in Ethiopia?] with the Gorgon’s head m
(125) Perseus mistakes Andromeda for a beautiful statue p
(127–32?) Dialogue between Perseus and Andromeda; he pities
her p
(129, 136–8) Perseus falls in love with Andromeda (?) m, p
(139) [Perseus] clashes with a barbarian p, m´
(145) The monster rushes from the sea towards Andromeda m, p

Iphigenia
(lines 1–5) Genealogy m
(6–27) The sacrifice at Aulis m
(28–9) Iphigenia replaced by a hind m´
(29–30) Artemis brings Iphigenia to the Tauric land m´
(31–2) Thoas rules the Taurians m´
(33–41) Iphigenia is a priestess who performs human sacrifice
m/p´
(42–66) Iphigenia’s dream: Orestes is dead p
(67–103) Orestes and Pylades arrive in search of Artemis’ image
m/p´
(104–22) Orestes and Pylades hide in a cave p
[parodos 123–43]
(144–235) Iphigenia and the Greek women lament their suffer-
ings p
(236–339) The herdsman tells Iphigenia what he has seen at the
shore p
(284–305) Orestes slaughters cattle in a frenzy p
(306–339) The herdsmen capture Orestes and Pylades p
(340–91) Iphigenia resolves to sacrifice Orestes and Pylades p
(358–77) Iphigenia recalls her own sacrifice p, m
[stasimon 392–466: the Greek women’s trip to the Black Sea p]
(467–577) Iphigenia questions Orestes and Pylades about
Greece and Troy p, m
(578–642) Iphigenia asks Pylades to take a letter to her family p
(643–668) Lamentation p
(669–722) Orestes and Pylades discuss what should be done p
(723–68) Iphigenia gives the letter to Pylades p
(769–771) Iphigenia begins to read the letter out loud p
(772–899) Mutual recognition of Iphigenia and Orestes p
 Myth, Fiction, Innovation 79
(800–938) Orestes recounts family history p, m
(939–88) Orestes recounts his wanderings p, m
(989–1055) The siblings start to plan their escape p
(1056–88) The complicity of the chorus is obtained p
[stasimon 1089–1152: the chorus recount past misfortunes m, p]
(1153–202) Thoas questions Iphigenia about the sacrifice p
(1203–21) Iphigenia tricks Thoas p
(1222–33) Preparations for the bogus sacrifice p
[stasimon 1234–83: Apollo and Delphi m]
(1284–389) A servant reports the Greeks’ attempted escape . . .
p
(1390–410) . . . and that a violent wave has trapped them p
(1411–34) Thoas’ servants attempt to capture the fugitives p
(1435–41) Athena appears and orders Thoas to quell his anger p
(1442–61) Athena ordains Orestes’ future: Athens and Halae m´
(1462–74) Athena ordains Iphigenia’s future: Brauron m´
(1475–85) Thoas ceases to entertain violent thoughts p
(1489–end) The Greeks escape safely p

It is clear from the above that the myth is found largely in the pro-
logue, choral odes and epiphany-speeches, but that the plot
accounts for the larger share of events. In this respect, the
escape-tragedies correspond to the normal pattern of other
tragedies.
Another, crucial thing which emerges (from the items marked
with a prime) is that it is more difficult than usual to distinguish
‘myth’ from ‘plot’ in the escape-tragedies. The ambiguous
elements, in Helen, are Helen’s phantom-double, her airborne
trip to Egypt, Menelaus’ arrival in Egypt, and the closing aetio-
logies; in Iphigenia, the heroine’s replacement by a hind at Aulis,
her transportation to the Tauric land in human form, the arrival
of Orestes, and the closing aetiologies. Euripides’ presentation
and treatment of these counterfactual versions of the Helen and
Iphigenia stories is precisely in keeping with tragic myths else-
where: he includes them in the prologue speeches (etc.) along
with other inherited elements and continually refers to them in
the same manner as other episodes from mythical history.
Whether or not Euripides actually invented these counterfactual
stories, he makes them seem identical to other myths in normal
tragic usage. But did he invent them?
80 Myth, Fiction, Innovation
The extent of Euripides’ so-called heterodoxy depends on the
answer to this question. If it could be shown that Euripides had
invented these revised myths (as well as his plots), then these
tragedies must be seen as deviant from the norm. But that would
be difficult to prove. It is more likely, as I shall argue in the
following section, that Euripides did not invent the phantom-
double of Helen or the substitution at Aulis, but inherited them
from a complicated and contradictory tradition. In other words,
Euripides’ plots do, as in other tragedies, largely correspond to
traditional myths. It is the myths themselves which are
unusual—i.e., the fact that the mythical tradition was able to
accommodate both the ‘standard’ Helen and Iphigenia stories as
well as their ‘counterfactual’ alternative versions. And Euri-
pides’ purpose in the escape-tragedies seems to have been to
exploit the inconsistencies and paradoxes of these particular
myths.

2.3 old and new elements: inheritance,

adaptation, innovation
2.3.1 The basic problem
Before moving on to the specifics of these myths and plots, the
first and most crucial observation to be made is that source-
criticism of Greek poetry is very much more difficult than its
practitioners generally admit. Only the tiniest fraction of Greek
literature survives—perhaps one or two per cent., at a generous
estimate.59 In this case, therefore, it is impossible to know just
what were the influences on Euripides, how extensively he used
his sources, and what that ‘use’ of sources actually entailed. A
recent book on allusion and intertextuality in Greek poetry
59
Most early poetry is represented only by titles or fragments. Consider the
genre of tragedy, for example: Snell (TGF I, vi) lists fifty-two tragedians who
are known to have worked in the 5th cent., but there will certainly have been
others. We may assume that during the 5th cent. about 900 plays were
exhibited at the City Dionysia in Athens; then there would have been plays
exhibited at other festivals, and even plays which were not performed. But all
that survives is thirty-two complete plays, the work of three (or possibly four or
five) tragedians, and a quantity of meagre fragments. Tragedy, moreover, was a
popular genre with a wide (geographical and chronological) reception. By
contrast, other poetic genres (lyric, dithyramb, etc.) are even more under-
represented.
 Myth, Fiction, Innovation 81
discusses in its introduction some of the unanswered, and
perhaps unanswerable, questions which assail the critic.60 Allu-
sion is unprovable, not just because of the loss of material but
because we do not know whether fifth-century poets thought in
terms of (inter-)textuality as such. Surviving ancient criticism
relating to the period does not discuss this subject (but that does
not prove or disprove anything). Clearly, poetry and drama were
available in the fifth century in the form of written texts,61 but the
fact that texts were well known does not allow us to say exactly
how poets made use of these texts when writing new works.
Also, although all that survives of the mythical-literary tradi-
tion is a collection of literary texts, these texts were not the only
vehicle for ancient myth and storytelling. Oral, active, non-
recorded means of dissemination will have been equally impor-
tant; nor should we forget about the iconographic tradition. So,
although a modern discussion of ‘myth’ is, basically, restricted to
the realm of intertextuality and narratology,62 one should
remember that the business of allusion was more complex than
‘intertextuality’ implies.
One is forced to make much—perhaps too much—of little. It
may be that we are dealing with only the tip of the iceberg. Who
is to say that Euripides’ escape-tragedies do not make highly
complex allusions to a hundred lost, unknown and irrecoverable
sources, both oral and written?
Consequently, I believe that one should beware of making
confident pronouncements about Euripides’ (or any classical
Greek poet’s) sources. Any conclusions which one might
reach about supposed influence, allusion and intertext must be
regarded as tentative and provisional, subject to this insuperable
shortage of information. In particular, I believe that one should
be wary of claiming that Euripides was radically inventive in his

60
Garner (1990) seems to be the only book of its kind in English. The absence
of other such studies, no doubt, indicates the difficulty of the subject. In
contrast, intertextual studies of Latin poetry proliferate: see for example the
survey of Hinds (1998), esp. 1–16 and 145–50.
61
Internal evidence from tragedy and comedy includes: Eur. Med. 423,
Hipp. 451–5, Iph. at A. 794–800; Ar. Clouds 1355–72, Frogs 52–4; cf. Harris
(1992) 92–3; Garner (1990) 18–19.
62
Cf. Mossman (1995) 19: ‘A “myth” can often seem to us to consist almost
entirely of individual literary instantiations of a story . . . and in that case one is
almost inevitably talking about the relationship of one text to another.’
82 Myth, Fiction, Innovation
handling of myth. The absence of obvious sources and parallels
for ‘odd’ features should not necessarily lead us to conclude that
Euripides was the originator of such features. No firm state-
ments, no definite answers, are possible.
Nevertheless, I do not mean to imply that inquiry into
influences is without use. In the first place, even if it is impossible
to get the whole picture, one can still identify some of Euripides’
likely sources and some probable allusions in the text of the
plays. Second, it is salutary to underline the hazards of making
firm statements about Euripides and his predecessors, and to
modify or correct the accounts given by certain, less cautious,
scholars. It may seem that my view of source-criticism is rather
pessimistic; but pessimism may have a positive benefit, if it can
allow one to progress beyond shaky and unreliable inferences
towards a realistic, relatively informed view of Euripides’ atti-
tude to myth. What follows, then, is a tentative attempt to deter-
mine just which features of the escape-tragedies would have
seemed novel and which more familiar.

2.3.2 That tale is not true . . .

Euripides’ ‘use of myth’ should not be understood in terms
either of invention or of direct inheritance of motifs from specific
individual authors. Rather, I suggest that the myths of the
escape-tragedies represent an original combination of pre-exist-
ing but disparate elements, and that the plays’ meaning results
from the odd manner in which these elements have been com-
bined, as well as the choice of mythical subjects itself. What is
important—as I shall go on to argue—is Euripides’ attitude to
myth in general, rather than his relationship to any poet or poets
in particular.
Ultimately, as I have already said, it would be impossible to
prove this suggestion. It may be that numerous (now lost) poems
also treated the myths of Helen, Andromeda and Iphigenia along
exactly the same lines as Euripides, and that Euripides recycled
these myths—what Aristotle would have called pareilhmmvnoi
mıqoi—without significant alteration. Nevertheless, it seems
fairly clear that Euripidean invention (as such) can be ruled out.
It is highly probable, at any rate, that each of the ‘ambiguous’
counterfactual elements (§2.2.2 above)—the substitutions
 Myth, Fiction, Innovation 83
and the transportations to exotic lands—already existed in the
mythical tradition by the fifth century or earlier. Whether these
elements existed separately or in combination is more obscure.
A tradition of Helen in Egypt was definitely in existence
before Euripides’ time, although the reason for her sojourn there
differed from that given by Euripides. Herodotus depicts Helen
as having travelled to Egypt with Paris (by ship) en route to
Troy.63 Other writers had Menelaus as Helen’s travelling
partner: Homer’s Odyssey, Hecataeus and Hellanicus all record
that couple’s accidental visit to Egypt on the way home to Sparta
from Troy.64
The motifs of miraculous substitutions, images fashioned
from clouds and phantom-doubles also existed from a very early
period in Greek literature.65 The nature and purpose of these
cloud-images varied:66 sometimes invisibility was the aim, but
more often phantoms (e÷dwla) were intended to be indistin-
guishable from their human originals. (Helen’s phantom was of
the second type, since its specific purpose was to deceive Paris
into thinking he held the real Helen in his arms.) For example,
Apollo in the Iliad replaced Aeneas on the battlefield with a
phantom (e÷dwlon) in order to protect him;67 Athene in the
Odyssey made Odysseus invisible with aether;68 Pindar’s Zeus
made a phantom of Hera to delude Ixion;69 Hesiod’s Zeus made

63
Hdt. 2.112–20. In the Iliad (6.289–92) Paris and Helen land up in
Phoenicia, another ‘beyond’ place. The idea that people could end up in Egypt
‘en route’ from Greece to Troy (or vice versa) is surprising: but one must
remember that sea-travel was a dangerous and unpredictable means of trans-
port, susceptible to storm, gods and shipwreck (see §3.4 below).
64
Hom. Od. 4.220–569; Hecataeus (FGH 1 F307–9); Hellanicus (FGH 4
F153).
65
The motif persisted in post-Euripidean literature also: e.g. Verg. Aen.
10.633–52 (Aeneas); Sil. Ital. 17.522–33 (an Italian soldier); Paus. 6.11.2 (a
priest who uses a f3sma of Timosthenes in order to have sex with Timosthenes’
wife—I don’t at all understand how that worked).
66
Hartigan (1981, 24 n. 5) feels the problem deeply: ‘If we look at cloud
images too closely we become rather unclear ourselves.’ But perhaps she is echo-
ing the sentiments of Achilles in the Iliad, who reminds us of the insubstantial
nature of these phantoms: he says that existence in Hades is nothing but an
insubstantial phantom (yuc¶ ka≥ e÷dwlon, Il. 23.99; cf. Od. 10.490–5, 11.474–6,
for the notion that skia≤ live in Hades). See §4.4.6 below for more on phantoms.
67
Hom. Il. 5.443–54.
68
Hom. Od. 7.13–17.
69
Pind. Pyth. 2.33–48.
84 Myth, Fiction, Innovation
a phantom of Endymion when Hera had conceived a love
for him;70 an apparition (f3sma) in Herodotus assumed the
appearance of Ariston;71 and in Euripides’ Bacchae Zeus gave
Hera an image made from aether in exchange for the infant
Dionysus.72 There was even a (perhaps later) tradition that
Helen herself was deceived by Aphrodite by means of a similar
trick, whereby she made Paris resemble Menelaus—another
ingenious example of the phantom-motif being used to exoner-
ate Helen from blame.73
The question of whether the phantom-double of Helen her-
self appeared in any pre-Euripidean poem is unanswerable, not
only because of the shortage of evidence but also because the
story of the phantom became extremely well known, and
extremely confused, in later antiquity. It is impossible to extract
the version of any single poet, or to chart the origin or develop-
ment of the phantom-theme, from the chaotic and contradictory
collection of references. If we are to take the evidence of the frag-
ments at face value, it could be that either Hesiod or Stesichorus
(or both) wrote about Helen’s phantom-double. But it is impos-
sible to conclude either who introduced the phantom or whose
phantom it was. It may even be that the original phantom was
not Helen’s, but Iphigenia’s (another suggestive connection
between the two heroines?).
Clues have been found in two Hesiodic fragments. The first,
from the Catalogue of Women, relates the events leading up to the
sacrifice of Iphimede (= Iphigenia) at Aulis:
Ifimvdhn m†n sf3xan ƒ”kn&[m]ideß !caio≥
bwm0[i πp’ !rtvmidoß crushlak]3. t[ou] keladein[ß,
‡mat[i t0i Òte nhus≥n ånvpl]eon. “Ilion e.[÷sw
poin¶[n teisÎmenoi kallisf»rou !rgei*. [nh]ß, 20
ejdw[lon: aÛt¶n d’ ƒlafhbÎ]lo. ß jocvaira
Âe∏a m3l’ ƒxes3w[se, ka≥ åmbros]≤hn [ƒr]at. e. [in¶n
st3xe kat¤ kr[[qen, Jna oÈ c]r. °ß [πm. pe[d]o. [ß] e. [÷h,
q[ken d’ åqanato[n ka≥ åg&r]aon ‡ma[ta p3nta.74
The well-greaved Achaeans sacrificed Iphimede on the altar of clear-
voiced Artemis of the golden distaff, on the very day that they sailed to
Troy in order to exact retribution for the Greek woman with the
70 71
Hesiod fr. 260 M–W. Hdt. 6.69.5–6.
72 73
Eur. Bacch. 288–97. Eustathius ad Hom. Od. 23.218.
74
Hesiod, fr. 23(a) M–W, 17–24.
 Myth, Fiction, Innovation 85
beautiful ankles, a phantom: the arrow-showering deer-slayer saved
her with great ease, and sprinkled lovely ambrosia over her head, so that
her flesh might not decay, and made her immortal and perpetually age-
less.
If we adopt the conjecture of Merkelbach, the e÷dwlon (line 21) is
that of Iphimede: it seems to be a reference to the tradition in
which Agamemnon’s daughter escaped sacrifice at the last
minute, although it is only here that her escape is explained away
by means of a phantom, rather than (as elsewhere) a transforma-
tion into a young animal of some sort.75 But another possibility is
to read not e÷dw[lon but ejd*[lou, with March.76 In that case, the
phantom must be that of Helen. ‘If this is the case,’ writes
March, ‘then presumably the death of Iphimede here in Hesiod
would be the same as in the Cypria, where Artemis replaces her
with a deer and thus saves her; so the epithet ƒlafhbÎ[loß would
have particular meaning at this point’.77 Another consideration
may be that no other writer mentions the phantom of Iphigenia.
The second relevant Hesiodic fragment is from a scholion on
Lycophron 822, which reads: pr0toß }Hs≤odoß per≥ t[ß ∞Elvnhß tÏ
e÷dwlon par&gage (‘Hesiod, writing about Helen, was the first to
introduce the phantom’).78 But there is a problem. Usually this is
taken to be an unhelpful contradiction of the above fragment
23(a), by a negligent scholar. The fragment is thought to be of
doubtful value (categorized among fragmenta dubia vel spuria by
Merkelbach and West),79 and it later contains incorrect informa-
tion about Herodotus’ account, saying, wrongly, that Helen’s
phantom is to be found there also. Nevertheless, if March’s con-
jecture is right, fragment 358 could still be correct in attributing
the e÷dwlon of Helen to Hesiod.
No matter which of the above suggestions is right, I think
that one should be suspicious of the manner in which the
phantom is mentioned in fragment 23(a). Austin observes, with-
out further comment, that the odd enjambement ‘allows the
poet to add a qualification, an afterthought to a thought already
75
Cypria fr. 23 Davies; Apollod. Epit. 3.21; Ant. Lib. 27; Phanodemus
(FGH 325 F14).
76
March (1987) 88–9: ejd*[lou: ko»rhn d’ ƒlafhbÎ]loß jocvaira.
77
March (1987) 89.
78
= Hesiod fr. 358 M–W (but see West [1985] 134).
79
I note also that it is rather odd grammatically: the meaning of per≥ is hard
to decipher unless one supplies 〈lvgwn〉 vel sim.
86 Myth, Fiction, Innovation
completed’.80 But the oddest thing is that the reference consists
of just a single word (e÷dwlon or ejd*lou) standing on its own as if
in parenthesis. If this word stands for the rescue and substitution
of Iphigenia, it is elliptical in the extreme; in addition, the
interval of four lines between e÷dwlon and I∞ fimvdhn (with which it
is in apposition) seems undesirable. If, on the other hand, it
refers to the myth that Helen’s phantom, and not Helen herself,
was the ultimate cause of Iphigenia’s sacrifice, it seems syntacti-
cally more natural but even more oblique. Either way, a paren-
thetic, single-word ‘afterthought’ is simply not explicit enough
to bear the required weight of meaning if this passage really were
the first occurrence of the radical new myth. Rather, it looks like
a casual, brief allusion to another, more explicit version of the
myth. This might have been narrated earlier in the Catalogue—
or perhaps Hesiod expected his audience already to be familiar
with the myth from a different source?
In other words, this cannot be the first appearance of the phan-
tom: so there is no firm proof that Hesiod was the inventor of the
phantom of either Iphigenia or Helen. What these fragments do
show is that the phantom of either Helen or Iphigenia was in exis-
tence by Hesiod’s time. But whose idea was it? Another possible
candidate has been identified in Stesichorus of Himera, author of
some twenty-eight works including an Oresteia and a Helen.
Indeed, it seems to be an accepted ‘fact’ that one of his (now lost)
poems, the Palinode, was the direct or principal source for the
plot of Euripides’ Helen.81 However, I believe that this ‘fact’ is
completely mistaken, and a serious distraction to anyone who
really wants to understand what Euripides was trying to do in
Helen. To demonstrate this, it will be necessary to examine at
some length what is known about the Palinode.
80
Austin (1994) 108.
81
Virtually every commentator claims that Euripides recycled the ‘counter-
factual’ Helen-myth directly from the Palinode. For example (a full list would
fill pages): Burnett (1971) 76–100; Conacher (1998) 74; Dale (1967) xvii–xxiv;
Davison (1968) 221–2; Griffith (1953) 36–41; Kannicht (1969) I.26–31; Segal
(1971) 561; Webster (1967) 199–204, etc. Farina (1968) 28 even lists passages
from Helen which he claims, highly unconvincingly, to be allusions to the
Palinode. Austin’s (1994, 138–99) version of Euripides’ sources is more complex
but still identifies Stesichorus as the principal inspiration. A notable exception
to this trend is Bowra (1934, 115–19), who writes that ‘statements which imply
that Stesichorus told the same story as Euripides’ Helen are not based on a real
knowledge of his text’.
 Myth, Fiction, Innovation 87
It is not intrinsically unlikely that Stesichorus’ poem should
have provided a model for Euripides. He was clearly an influen-
tial writer, sometimes ranked alongside Homer and Hesiod;82
and several sources suggest that his approach to myth was, like
Euripides’, innovative or provocative.83 But this can scarcely be
said to prove anything. Both Euripides’ Helen and the Palinode
seem to have used extraordinary versions of the Helen myth, but
there is no reason to assume that the versions were identical, or
that Euripides borrowed directly from the earlier poet. Even if
the Palinode did describe more or less the same events as
Euripides’ Helen, there would still be nothing to show that
Stesichorus was the originator of this version or the only writer
to feature such a myth. But there is no evidence that Stesichorus
was a source for Euripides. It may be that Stesichorus was one
among many sources dealing with the myth of Helen; but it may
be (for whatever reason) that Euripides never used the Palinode
at all.
If one examines the evidence closely, one begins to doubt the
‘fact’ that Helen is directly based on the Palinode. The problem is
not just that Euripides’ plot only imperfectly matches up with
what is recorded about the Palinode, but rather (far worse) that
the evidence of the testimonia eludes any sort of coherent recon-
struction. This evidence, as I shall show, is a complete muddle of
obscure and contradictory information. Most scholars who have
been sufficiently brave, or optimistic, to tackle this material have
expended great amounts of labour and ingenuity on attempting
to reconcile the various chaotic elements into a coherent, mean-
ingful picture. But the truth is that these ‘facts’ (such as they are)
simply do not add up. Our sources, taken separately or together,
make it impossible to tell anything for sure about the content of
82
On Stesichorus’ high status or perceived similarity to Homer in antiquity,
see Anth. Pal. 7.75, 9.184; Longinus 13.3; Dion. Hal. Comp. 24; Hor. Carm.
4.9.8; Quint. Inst. 10.1.62; Dio Chrys. 2.33; Suda s.v. Sths≤coroß; Austin (1994)
90–3; Campbell (1982) 253–6.
83
Evidence of mythical innovation, or (at least) a commitment to presenting
a more ‘truthful’ version of myths, in competition with differing or inaccurate
versions, may be detected at (for example) Stesichorus fr. 191, 193 (the difficult
‘Chamaeleon papyrus’, P. Oxy. 2506), 194–5, 199, 216. Nevertheless, fr. 217
states that in general Stesichorus tends to agree in detail with Homer and
Hesiod. It may be added, for what it is worth, that definite evidence of
Euripidean borrowing from Stesichorus elsewhere is scant: see Sider (1989),
429–30 and n. 29.
88 Myth, Fiction, Innovation
the Palinode or the form which it took. About one fact, however,
there is no doubt: the Palinode and its legend became extremely
famous in antiquity, acquiring almost proverbial status. The lost
work is mentioned, in one way or another, in a large number of
sources (of somewhat differing interest and value).84 It seems
likely that many of the inconcinnities in the evidence are the
result of unacknowledged guesswork and fabrication on the part
of the ancient scholars, whose fascination with the Palinode story
was, unfortunately, accompanied by complete ignorance of the
text itself.
According to one old proverb, the mark of an uneducated man
was that he did not even know tr≤a t¤ SthsicÎrou. ‘The three of
Stesichorus’ is thought to refer to the three-line quotation of the
Palinode by Plato.85 The passage in question, Phaedrus 243a, is
the conventional point from which to begin one’s Stesichorean
inquiries. It is the most substantial of the fragments (fr. 192
Davies), as well as (possibly) the earliest surviving mention of
the Palinode. Here we read that Stesichorus was blinded as a
punishment for reviling Helen’s character in his poetry,86 but
that he realized his mistake and composed some verses—which
Plato refers to as the Palinwid≤a—to correct his former views.
Plato quotes:
oÛk πst’ πtumoß lÎgoß o˜toß,
oÛd’ πbaß ƒn nhus≥n ƒ”ssvlmoiß
oÛd’ Jkeo pvrgama Tro≤aß.
It is not true, this tale;

84
See Davies (1982b) and Cingano (1982). Davies omits many of these testi-
monia from his edition of the fragments (frr. 192–3), on the grounds that they
simply duplicate the information that is found in earlier citations but show no
independent knowledge of the Palinode.
85
Suda s.v. tr≤a t¤ SthsicÎrou and palinod≤a (sic); Hor. Epod. 17.42, Odes
1.16; Macarius, Paroem. 2.210; cf. Campbell (1982) 256. For fuller discussion
see Davies (1982a).
86
Not enough of Stesichorus’ Helen (fr. 187–91 Davies) or other poems
survive to give much of an impression of his original portrait of Helen. It seems
likely that he followed the ‘standard’ (i.e. Homeric) version of the myth (see SA
Hom. Il. 2.339 = Stesichorus fr. 190) and that he presented her in the familiar
guise of treacherous husband-deserter and causer of war (cf. S Eur. Or. 249;
Hesiod fr. 176 M–W, in which it is reported that, in Stesichorus, Aphrodite
made all Tyndareus’s daughters lipes3noreß). See Davison (1968) 198–201 for a
reconstruction of the likely content of Stesichorus’ Helen.
 Myth, Fiction, Innovation 89
You did not travel on well-benched ships,
Nor did you reach Troy’s citadel.
Evidently, the goddess Helen was gratified by this act, for we
read that the poet’s sight was quickly restored.
Obviously, there is not very much here; nevertheless, if we
compare the information given here to Euripides’ plot, it is
immediately clear that there are certain differences. To illustrate
these differences, it may be helpful to separate the variant Helen-
stories into their component parts. Euripides’ plot differs from
the usual (that is, Homeric) myth in three ways: (1) Helen did
not go to Troy; (2) Helen was spirited to Egypt in a cloud; (3) a
phantom Helen was fought for at Troy. But the main elements in
the Palinode, as quoted by Plato, are: (1) Helen did not travel by
ship; (2) Helen did not go to Troy. This is compatible with
Euripides’ version, but it does not say the same thing. The most
unusual features of Euripides’ plot—the phantom double and
the trip to Egypt—are not mentioned.
There are other matters which Plato leaves tantalizingly
unclear. First of all, what exactly was the Palinode? No other
‘palinodes’ exist from antiquity. It seems clear what the word
palinwid≤a means (a ‘recantation’);87 but Plato (among others)
calls it ‘the so-called (t¶n kaloumvnhn) palinode’. This means that
the word was probably a neologism and probably the title of a
particular poem, rather than a generic name for a type of poem
(although it did, later, assume this second meaning).88 Never-
theless, one could also take kaloumvnhn to mean that Palinwid≤a
was not the actual name of the poem: perhaps one should refer to
the ‘palinode’ rather than the Palinode.89 The Palinwid≤a may
not even have been a single, distinct composition: Plato makes it
impossible to tell. Another possibility is that it was not a new,
separate work but a later addition to a longer poem which criti-
cized Helen.90 Or perhaps Palinode was an alternative title for
87
Woodbury (1967) 157–62 discusses the use of p3lin with polemical or
depreciatory connotations (LSJ s.v. p3lin I.2 [cf. pal≤gglwssoß, pal≤gkotoß];
Eur. Ion 1096 pal≤mfamoß åoid3, etc.). See also Hackforth (1952) and Rowe
(1986) ad loc.
88
For example, the Suda (s.v. palinod≤a [sic]) discusses the literal and
proverbial uses of the word (including the verb palinwid0).
89
See Kannicht (1969) I.29.
90
This may be suggested by the wording of Aristid. Or. 2.572, mvteimi d’ ƒf’
1teron proo≤mion kat¤ Sths≤coron. But proo≤mion may refer to a complete work
90 Myth, Fiction, Innovation
Stesichorus’ poem Helen (‘correcting’ an earlier version of Helen
in, say, the Oresteia).91
The second unanswered question is: how much of the
Palinode is being quoted in the Phaedrus? Were these the first
three lines? Or an extract, chosen to give the ‘gist’? The manner
in which the lines are quoted does not make it clear. Plato writes
only that Stesichorus ‘realized the cause of his blindess and
immediately composed (πgnw t¶n ajt≤an ka≥ poie∏ eÛq»ß)’, which
might be taken to mean that oÛk πst’ πtumoß ktl. was the first line,
but this is not necessarily true. Certainly oÛk πst’ πtumoß lÎgoß
o˜toß does not seem like a usual opening: o˜toß, in particular,
effectively rules out the possibility of its being the first line.92 It
might even be thought, less plausibly, I think, that these three
lines constituted the entire palinode. However, Plato (at least)
does not support that view, since he continues: ‘when
Stesichorus had written the whole palinode (p$san t¶n kaloumvnhn
palinwid≤an)’. This wording suggests a longer poem, of which
these three lines are an excerpt.
So far, then, no definite fact has emerged about the Palinode.
It may or may not have been a complete poem; it told that Helen
did not sail by ship (but did she travel by some other means?); it
told that Helen did not go to Troy (but did she go somewhere
else?). Plato does supply a reason for Stesichorus’ having com-
posed it; but (as I shall explain below) it is unsatisfactory.
Although he tells us hardly anything, it might have been
better if Plato had been the only writer to mention the Palinode,
because the other sources which add potentially relevant

(Thuc. 3.104.4; Plut. Mor. 1132d). Stesichorus fr. 189 (= Argum. Theocr. Id.
18) describes a feature of Theocritus as being taken ƒk toı pr*tou SthsicÎrou
} lvnhß: from ‘the first book’ or ‘the first section’ of the Helen? Hor. Epod. 17,
E
which seems to be influenced by Stesichorus, combines elements of abuse and
recantation in a single poem. Sider (1989) suggests that the ‘abuse’ of Helen, the
‘blinding’ and the ‘recantation’ were all elements acted out in a single, semi-
dramatic work. On the form and length of the palinode, see further Woodbury
(1967) 157–77; Kannicht (1969) 1.21–48; Campbell (1982) 258–9.
91
As suggested by Davison (1968) 204–8.
92
Davison (1968) 207–8, thinks that before these lines stood ‘a personal
explanation of the circumstances in which the Palinode had come to be written’.
Willink (2002) suggests emending the opening to ‘the rhetorically more
effective’ oÛk πst’ πtumoß lÎgoß o˜toß: | oÛk πbaß . . . oÛd’ Jkeo . . . In this case, it
might be easier to accept o˜toß in the opening line. On the normal conventions
for beginnings in Greek poetry, see Woodbury (1967) 171–2 and Race (1992).
 Myth, Fiction, Innovation 91
information turn out to confound rather than clarify matters.93
These sources, while not differing significantly in type from
other testimonia, exhibit a couple of suggestive features. First,
the Palinode is very seldom quoted, and the few quotations either
repeat the same three lines or are spurious. Second, there is
much confusion and contradiction. In fact, none of the writers
who discuss the Palinode seems to have known what form it took
or precisely what its content was.
For example, the Palinode is quoted by two sophists of the
second century ad. Philostratus writes about ‘the wisdom of the
man from Himera, who composed a lyric poem in honour of
Helen, revising the earlier version, and called it the palinode:
“That tale is not true . . .” ’.94 The version given by Maximus of
Tyre is almost identical: ‘ “That tale is not true,” says the poet of
Himera, presumably of his own verses, as he revokes the former
poem in which he says he spoke untrue words about Helen.’95
Each of these writers gives only the words oÛk πst’ (or πstin)
πtumoß ktl., directly from Plato. Neither offers any new detail
about the form or content, except for what Plato had already
written—that Stesichorus changed his mind about Helen. (The
phrases ƒnant≤on t0i protvrwi lÎgwi, ƒxomn»menoß t¶n πmprosqen
∑id¶n and ånam3cetai . . . tÏn πmprosqen yÎgon do not necessarily
refer to a distinct earlier poem). It seems unlikely, then, that
Philostratus or Maximus had any first-hand, non-Platonic evi-
dence for the Palinode.
Isocrates (Helen 64) has been taken, rightly or wrongly, as giv-
ing evidence that the Palinode was an addition, or continuation,
to original ‘blasphemous’ verses:
Òte m†n g¤r årcÎmenoß t[ß ∑id[ß ƒblasf&mhsv ti per≥ aÛt[ß, ånvsth t0n
øfqalm0n ƒsterhmvnoß, ƒpeid¶ d† gnoŸß t¶n ajt≤an t[ß sumfor$ß t¶n
kaloumvnhn palinwid≤an ƒpo≤hse, p3lin aÛtÏn ejß t¶n aÛt¶n f»sin katvsthse.
Since at the beginning of his poem Stesichorus had made some
93
Most of the sources quoted here are listed by Davies (fr. 192, pp. 177–80).
He does not include the Suda entry (see below), which Bowie (1993, 27–8)
believes to be an important piece of evidence.
94
Philostr. Vit. Apoll. 6.11: sof≤a I} mera≤ou £ndroß, ß £idwn ƒß t¶n E} lvnhn
ƒnant≤on t0i protvrwi lÎgwi palinwid≤an aÛtÏn ƒk3lesen, oÛk πstin πtumoß lÎgoß
o˜toß.
95
Maxim. Tyr. 21.1: oÛk πst’ πtumoß lÎgoß o˜toß, lvgei pou t0n aËtoı åism3twn
Ó I} mera∏oß poiht¶ß ƒxomn»menoß t¶n πmprosqen ∑id¶n ƒn ¬i per≥ t[ß E } lvnhß ejpe∏n
fhsin oÛk ålhqe∏ß lÎgouß.
92 Myth, Fiction, Innovation
blasphemous reference to Helen, he stood up to find himself blinded.
But he realized the cause of his misfortune, and when he had written the
so-called Palinode Helen restored him to normal.
But Isocrates does not really have anything to add about the form
of the composition. All he says is that Stesichorus made his
mistake årcÎmenoß t[ß ∑id[ß (‘at the beginning’, whatever that
might mean) and that he composed the palinode later. The word
ånvsth (‘stood up’) in Isocrates’ account has been seen, by
Bowie,96 as an oblique clue to how Stesichorus knew he had
erred. He wrote the original poem, then got up to find himself
blind—this may or may not correspond to the Suda’s story that
Helen appeared to Stesichorus in a dream.97 None of this helps to
solve the problem. Nor does Dio of Prusa, who refers to what
Stesichorus said ƒn t[i \steron ∑id[i—‘later in the poem’ or ‘in
the later poem’.98
So much for the Palinode’s form. But what about the question
of its content? Isocrates is similarly unhelpful in this regard.
Unlike Plato, he does not quote any of Stesichorus’ lines; nor
does he describe the Palinode’s substance, except to record that it
was intended as a correction to ‘some blasphemous reference’.
This lack of detail is vexing; but we should not simply shrug it off
and move on to the next piece of evidence. If one examines
Isocrates’ words a little more closely, it becomes clear that his
evidence is seriously problematic in other ways. It is the phrase
ƒblasf&mhsv ti that strikes an odd note: it could be interpreted in
two ways, each of which suggests that Isocrates’ version is
unsatisfactory.
On one hand, one could understand the phrase as being un-
acceptably vague: Stesichorus ‘committed some blasphemy or
other’. Now if his recantation was to have any effect (either as a
work of literature or as an appeal to the goddess), Stesichorus
would have had to make it clear what his blasphemy was and
(crucially) just how the Palinode was aiming to set the record
straight. If Isocrates had read the Palinode, it is almost incon-
ceivable that these facts could have escaped him; but why does he
not mention them? Could it be that Isocrates is attempting to
gloss over the fact that he did not know the Palinode or its
contents at all?
96
Bowie (1993) 26–8.
97 98
Suda s.v. Sths≤coroß (4.433). Dio Chrys. 11.40.1.
 Myth, Fiction, Innovation 93
On the other hand, we can read ƒblasf&mhsv ti as being rather
casual in tone: ‘he committed some blasphemy’. If we follow
Plato, the ‘blasphemy’ in question is, in effect, the whole of
the traditional, Iliadic myth which represented Helen as the
cause of the war—which Stesichorus ‘recanted’ by completely
refuting that myth. But ƒblasf&mhsv ti seems far too weak to be
a reference to the telling of an entire story. The phrase is more
naturally taken as referring to a lesser, or (at least) more specific,
error.
Furthermore, if we examine the wider context in which this
passage is quoted, it becomes hard to see why Isocrates would
have wanted to refer to a story which denied Helen’s responsi-
bility for the war. The overall argument of his Encomium of Helen
is based on a full recognition of her divine nature and her power
over men. Isocrates argues not only that Helen did indeed cause
the Trojan War—a sure sign of her potency—but also that the
war was a good thing, since it united the West against the
barbarian East.99 It is made clear, in the lines immediately
following the passage just discussed, that Isocrates’ Helen not
only approves of, but is personally responsible for, the Homeric
version of her myth:
lvgousi dv tineß ka≥ t0n O
} mhrid0n „ß ƒpist$sa t[ß nuktÏß O } m&rwi pro-
svtaxe poie∏n per≥ t0n strateusamvnwn ƒp≥ Tro≤an, boulomvnh tÏn ƒke≤nwn
q3naton zhlwtÎteron ∂ tÏn b≤on tÏn t0n £llwn katast[sai: ka≥ mvroß mvn ti
ka≥ di¤ t¶n O
} m&rou tvcnhn, m3lista d† di¤ ta»thn o\twß ƒpafrÎditon ka≥
par¤ p$sin ønomast¶n aÛtoı genesqai t¶n po≤hsin.
Some of the Homeridae also say that Helen appeared to Homer by night
and commanded him to write a poem about the men who went on the
expedition to Troy, because she wanted to make their death more
envied than that of anyone else. They also say that it is partly because of
Homer’s art, but chiefly because of Helen, that his poem is so charming
and has become so universally famous.100
The standard editions of the fragments are wrong to omit this
passage, since it has a crucial bearing on the way in which one
99
Particularly relevant sections of Isoc. Hel. include 22 (Helen is so excellent
a woman that those who pursued her are more worthy of admiration than other
men); 38, 54, 61, 64–7 (Helen’s immense power to control events); 43–8 (Paris’
motivation for wishing to marry Helen was by no means ill-advised); 50, 67 (the
positive benefits of the Trojan War).
100
Isoc. Hel. 65.
94 Myth, Fiction, Innovation
interprets the reference to Stesichorus. Since Isocrates’ Helen
retained, and gloried in, her responsibility for events at Troy,
she would scarcely have rewarded Stesichorus for denying it!101
If the Palinode was really an exoneration or a rejection of Helen’s
behaviour, as Plato represents it, Isocrates could not have cited it
in the way that he does without making nonsense of his own
argument. And so it emerges that Isocrates and Plato each
assume completely different versions of the contents of the
Palinode—they cannot both be right. It seems more likely, on the
basis of the three-line quotation, that Plato’s version is the
correct one—in which case we must conclude (for the moment)
that Isocrates made a mistake.
There is more to be said about the inconsistency of detail
between Plato’s Phaedrus and Isocrates’ Helen; but for the
moment let us investigate some other testimonia for further
clues about the Palinode’s content. In particular, did the
Palinode mention Egypt or a phantom-Helen? On this point the
(mainly late) sources differ. Aristides records that ‘some poets’
(poiht0n . . . tineß) say that Paris took away a phantom (e÷dwlon)
instead of Helen.102 He does not mention these poets by name,
but the scholia name Stesichorus as the source of the myth,103 as
does Aristides himself in another speech.104 However, this does
not explain why Aristides first uses the plural ‘poets’ (is he think-
ing of Euripides as well?); nor do any of these testimonia explain
the precise function of the e÷dwlon within Stesichorus’ poem. We
must bear in mind that the motif of the phantom-double (in a
variety of guises) is quite well attested in Greek poetry from
Homer onwards. Even if Stesichorus did introduce an e÷dwlon
101
As a few highlighted phrases from the closing section of Isoc. Hel.
(67) show, there can be no doubt that Isocrates conceived of Helen as being
responsible for the war: cwr≥ß g¤r tecn0n ka≥ filosofi0n ka≥ t0n £llwn ∑felei0n,
4ß πcoi tiß #n ejß ƒke≤nhn ka≥ tÏn pÎlemon tÏn Trw∫kÏn ånenegce∏n, dika≤wß #n ka≥ toı
m¶ doule»ein Óm$ß to∏ß barb3roiß }Elvnhn ajt≤an e”nai nom≤zoimen. eËr&somen g¤r
toŸß E fi llhnaß di’ aÛt¶n Ømono&santaß ka≥ koin¶n strate≤an ƒp≥ toŸß barb3rouß
poihsamvnouß ktl (‘apart from art, philosophy, and the other benefits which one
could attribute to her and to the Trojan War, we might well say that it is because
of Helen that we are not enslaved to the barbarians. For we shall find that it was
because of her that the Greeks became united and organized a common expedi-
tion against the barbarians . . .’).
102
Aristid. 1.128.
103
S AC/BD Aristid. 1.212.
104
Aristid. 2.234.
 Myth, Fiction, Innovation 95
into his poem, it may not have been in order to engineer an out-
rageous overturning of the myth, as in Euripides.105 Perhaps
Stesichorus’ Helen just became temporarily invisible, like
Aeneas in the Iliad? Indeed, one of the scholia to Aristides,
which purports to be describing the contents of the Palinode,
actually quotes, inaccurately, from the Iliad’s description of
Aeneas’ phantom, which suggests that the writer is confused
about the purpose of Stesichorus’ e÷dwlon (and that, in general,
this information is of very little value).106
The scholia to Aristides also contain an odd, ‘rationalizing’
explanation of Stesichorus’ e÷dwlon: they claim that, when Paris
and Helen were visiting Pharos, Proteus stole Helen and gave
Paris a painted picture of his wife (ƒn p≤naki) in return, so that he
could assuage his passion by looking at it. This version of the
motif is not seen in any of the other reports of Stesichorus. Note
that the scholia (not Aristides himself) link the e÷dwlon with the
Egyptian strand of the myth: this may be a sign that the Palinode
contained both elements. However, there is another problem:
this version directly contradicts the quotation in Plato, in which
it is said that Helen did not sail anywhere (sc. with Paris). And,
if Helen still sailed away with Paris, how could the Palinode
possibly have absolved her from blame for the war? In summary,
then, the evidence of Aristides and the scholia lacks coherence,
and we are no closer to discovering the real facts about the
Palinode.
Herodotus’ version of Helen’s sailing to Egypt (in this
instance, with Paris and without the complication of the e÷dwlon)
does not mention Stesichorus as a source, saying instead that the
story came from ‘priests’.107 This has been seen as an indication
that Herodotus did not know the Palinode, or that the Palinode
did not mention Egypt.108 Perhaps so; but one must beware of
relying too heavily on the argument ex silentio. Even though
Herodotus does not acknowledge Stesichorus as his source, the
Palinode might still have mentioned Egypt; and, moreover,
105
A variety of phantoms: Hom. Il. 5.443–54, Od. 7.13–17; Hesiod fr. 23, 260
M–W; Pind., Pyth. 2.33–48; Hdt. 6.69.5–6; Eur. Bacch. 288–97; Eustathius ad
Hom. Od. 23.218.
106
S BD Aristid. 1.212: åmf≥ d’ ejd*lwi Tr0eß ka≥ d∏oi !caio≥ m3conto (cf. Il.
5.451–2: åmf≥ d’ £r’ ejd*lwi Tr0eß ka≥ d∏oi !caio≥ | d&ioun ktl).
107
Hdt. 2.112–20.
108
Vürtheim (1919).
96 Myth, Fiction, Innovation
Herodotus’ purposes in writing his Egyptian narrative might
have led him to exclude Stesichorus for other reasons.109 (There
can scarcely be any doubt, I think, that Herodotus was familiar
with the famous Stesichorus.)
Another source to attribute both the e÷dwlon and Egypt to
Stesichorus is the Byzantine scholar Tzetzes, but, like the
scholia just quoted, he still includes the damning detail that
Helen sailed off with Paris.110 To the same commentator is attri-
buted a quotation from Stesichorus about the e÷dwlon, but this
is almost certainly bogus, since it is almost identical to the word-
ing of Aristides 2.234 (and the other quotations from the
palinode are not in hexameter).111 It is worth remarking, too, that
in general the value of Tzetzes’ evidence has been severely
doubted.112
Nevertheless, Dio of Prusa seems to contradict all these other
writers. He says emphatically that, although in the work of
‘others’ (£lloi dv tineß) Helen was brought to Egypt after being
snatched by Paris, Stesichorus’ Helen did not go anywhere at all
(oÛd† ple»seien Ó < Elvnh oÛdamÎse).113 This reading is compatible
with the line quoted by Plato, oÛd’ πbaß ƒn nhus≥n ƒ”ssvlmoiß.
Some, however, interpret the passage differently, focusing their
attention on oÛdv ple»seien. Helen (they argue) may not have
sailed anywhere at all, that does not necessarily mean that she
never went anywhere, as it might be on foot or by flight. This may
just be true, at a pinch: but it seems to me that, in Dio at least, the
109
See Davison (1968) 213.
110
Tzetzes ad Lycophr. 113: lvgousin Òti diercomvnwi !lex3ndrwi di’ Ajg»ptou
Ø PrwteŸß E} lvnhn åfelÎmenoß e÷dwlon E} lvnhß aÛt0i dvdwken ka≥ o\twß πpleusen ejß
Tro≤an, ¿ß fhsi Sths≤coroß (‘it is said that when Paris was passing through
Egypt, Proteus took Helen away from him and gave him a phantom-Helen in
her place; and so Paris sailed to Troy—as Stesichorus says’).
111
Tzetzes, Antehomerica 149: gr3fei g¤r Ø Sths≤coroß: Tr*ess’, oÊ tÎt’ ÷san
E
} lvnhß e÷dwlon πconteß (‘S. writes: “the Trojans, who then saw that they had the
phantom of Helen” ’). Cf. Aristides 2.234: ¿sper oÈ SthsicÎrou Tr0eß oÈ tÏ t[ß
E
} lvnhß e÷dwlon πconteß „ß aÛt&n (‘just like Stesichorus’ Trojans, who have the
phantom of Helen, believing it to be Helen herself’).
112
Davies (1982c).
113
Dio Chrys. 11.40–1: the passage is quoted at length in what follows. In
another oration (80. 4), Dio makes a brief reference to a version of the myth in
which the Trojans fought to the death for Helen, ignorant of the fact that she was
in Egypt. However, he does not mention the name of Stesichorus, introducing
the fact with the imprecise fasi (‘they say’), and there are other sources—
including Euripides—from which Dio could have taken this detail.
 Myth, Fiction, Innovation 97
point at issue is whether or not Helen left Greece (hence Dio’s
use of tÏ par3pan oÛd† . . . oÛdamÎse); the mode of transport is
irrelevant. However, it all depends on what one judges to be the
more natural interpretation of this sentence.114
While Dio may not tell us as much as we would wish to know
about Helen’s (non-)travels, his account of the Palinode is
obliquely revealing in another sense. Here, again, it is worth
looking in a little more detail at the text from which the testi-
monium has been extracted, since the overall themes and pre-
occupations of Dio’s Trojan Oration are clearly relevant to our
inquiry. Like Euripides, Dio presents us with an outrageous
revision of the myth of the Trojan War which contradicts the
Homeric version of events. This time, however, it is not Helen’s
role that is important, but the very fact of the war itself. Dio
claims that the Trojan War never happened! Unlike the
scholiasts, who are simply recording details as best they might,
Dio presents us with a piece of epideictic oratory which aims to
be entertaining as well as learned. The ironical, tongue-in-cheek
manner in which he unfolds his argument makes it difficult to
know how much of it, if any, is to be taken seriously.115
In the passage quoted by the fragment-collectors, Dio
describes a conversation which he purports to have had with
an Egyptian priest who made fun of the Greeks for valuing
ignorance as highly as wisdom. This passage, quoted at some-
what greater length, runs as follows:
o\twß dv, πfh, gelo≤wß åpÏ to»twn di3keisqe Ëmeiß ¿ste poiht¶n 1teron
O } m&rwi peisqvnta ka≥ taÛt¤ p3nta poi&santa per≥ ’Elvnhß, Sths≤coron „ß
o”mai, tuflwq[na≤ fate ËpÏ t[ß < Elvnhß „ß yeus3menon, aˆqiß d† ånablvyai
tånant≤a poi&santa. ka≥ taıta lvgonteß oÛd†n ¬tton ålhq[ fasin e”nai t¶n
O
} m&rou po≤hsin. ka≥ tÏn mvn Sths≤coron ƒn t[i \steron ∑id[i lvgein Òti tÏ
par3pan oÛd† ple»seien Ó E } lvnh oÛdamÎse: £lloi d† tineß, „ß Årpasqe≤h mvn
E} lvnh ËpÏ toı !lex3ndrou, deıro d† par’ Óm$ß ejß A÷gupton åf≤koito: ka≥
toı pr3gmatoß o\twß åmfisbhtoumvnou ka≥ poll¶n £gnoian πcontoß, oÛd†
o\twß Ëpopteısai d»nantai t¶n åp3thn.
‘So ridiculous,’ he said, ‘an effect have these people had upon you
that you say of another poet who was taken in by Homer and repeated
114
This controversy is discussed at some length by Davison (1968), 211–13.
115
One might note also that this description is true also of Isocrates’ Helen,
though it does not alter one’s interpretation of the Stesichorean passage there.
Nor should one neglect the presence of irony and humour in Plato’s Phaedrus—
but I shall return to this point later on.
98 Myth, Fiction, Innovation
these same stories about Helen—Stesichorus, I think it is—that he was
blinded by Helen for telling lies about her, but then recovered his sight
by recanting. Yet, although you say these things, you none the less
believe that Homer’s account is true. Furthermore, you say that
Stesichorus in his later poem [or later in his poem] said that Helen never
sailed anywhere at all, but others say that Helen was snatched by Paris
and came to us here in Egypt; yet with all this confusion and ignorance
surrounding the subject you cannot penetrate the deception.’116
What strikes one is not the specific details of the story so much as
the manner in which it is presented. In particular, an almost
cryptic obscurity is created by the multiple layers of indirect
speech, which make it difficult to discern just who said what (‘he
said . . .’, ‘these people . . .’, ‘you say . . .’, ‘taken in by Homer
. . .’, ‘I think . . .’, ‘you say . . .’, ‘you say . . .’, and ‘others say . . .’,
in just a few lines of Greek). It seems likely that this obscurity is
a deliberately calculated effect.117 But, as we have seen, the tradi-
tion of the Palinode was already quite complicated enough. Why
should Dio have wished to confuse matters still further?
The answer to this question is suggested by Dio’s argument in
the Trojan Oration as a whole, and, in particular, his remarks
about myth and belief in the opening section (1–11) of that
speech. In general, Dio is concerned to expose and to ridicule the
naïve manner in which (he claims) gullible readers accept what-
ever they are told by ancient authors. He argues, playfully and
provocatively, that people will believe anything and that the real
truth is difficult or impossible to discern. In this context, one’s
perspective on the Stesichorus passage is altered. Rather than
reading it ‘straight’, as a factual account of the Palinode’s actual
contents, one can interpret Dio’s account as an ironical comment
on the tangled tradition which had arisen around the Palinode.
One detects an ironical or playful intent not only in the obfus-
catory indirect speech just noted, but also in the marked way in
which Dio’s Egyptian priest archly pretends to have forgotten
Stesichorus’ name (he uses the slightly mocking, pseudo-casual
phrase Sths≤coron, „ß o”mai, although it is clear that he knows
very well the identity of the poet, and goes on to show detailed
116
Dio Chrys. 11.40–1.
117
Cf. Hdt. 1.1–5 for this device, whereby indirect speech and ambiguous
focalization are used to highlight the multiplicity of H.’s sources and problema-
tize the notion of objective historical truth. On this passage, see e.g. Goldhill
(2001) 14–15 and Pelliccia (1992) 63–84.
 Myth, Fiction, Innovation 99
acquaintance with the tradition). The Palinode, it seems, is
being cited as a good example of a story in which the truth is
impossible to uncover; ‘yet with all this confusion and ignorance
surrounding the subject’—says Dio with a smirk—‘you cannot
penetrate the deception’. Nor is Dio the only ancient author to
express such a view. Lucian, another sophistic writer with an
interest in the truth-value of myth and history, depicts Helen
and Stesichorus as perpetually squabbling even in Elysium—an
image which also suggests, with a smile, that this is one of those
scholarly problems that is basically insoluble.118
By now, it will have emerged just how tangled and intractable
are all these testimonia. Not only must one contend with inaccu-
racy and contradiction, but also one has to admit the possibility
of irony and oblique double meanings. If all this were not enough
to give one a headache, matters were confused yet further by an
Oxyrhynchus papyrus find in the 1960s (P. Oxy. 2506, now
published as fr. 193 Davies). This is a fragment of a second-
century ad commentary on the peripatetic critic Chamaeleon,
which mentions, perplexingly, that Stesichorus wrote not one
but two palinodes! In general, it is hard to know what value to
place on this, the first mention of a second palinode, some seven
hundred years after the event;119 and, as we shall see, it is equally
hard to know from what source (or sources) the information in
the papyrus fragment really derives. Indeed, given that it is
utterly at odds with every ‘fact’ we have so far seen, one might be
forgiven for simply dismissing this evidence as nonsense. But,
since (inexplicably) no one seems to have been much troubled
by the new fragment, it is worth re-examining it closely and
exposing its shortcomings.
According to this commentator, Stesichorus wrote two
Palinodes, one in which he ‘criticized’ (mvmfetai) Homer, and
another in which he ‘criticized’ Hesiod. Two lines are given,
which are said to be the openings of each of the two palinodes:
118
Lucian, VH 2.15.
119
Davies (fr. 193) lists other testimonia (Conon, FGrHist 26 F1, Irenaeus,
Adv. Haer. 1 fr. 12 = Hippolyt. Adv. Haer. 6.19.3, Interpr. Lat. Irenaei 1.23.2)
which might indicate that Stesichorus composed two Palinodes. But this is not
necessarily so. Some of these sources either make vague mention of ‘hymns’
(which may have been different poems altogether); and those which do mention
‘palinodes’ in the plural could have taken this ‘fact’ from Chamaeleon or his
commentator.
100 Myth, Fiction, Innovation
deır’ aˆte qe¤ filÎmolpe (‘Come hither again, dance-loving
goddess . . .’) and crusÎptere parqvne (‘Maiden of golden wing
. . .’). These invocations to the Muse do, unlike Plato’s lines, look
like lyric beginnings. Nevertheless, they also correspond metri-
cally, not only to each other, but also to oÛk πst’ πtumoß lÎgoß
o˜toß—which might mean that all these lines were from alter-
nating strophes and antistrophes in one single poem.120 But the
different addressees might tell against that: the two lines from
the papyrus seem to be addressed to the Muse,121 while oÛk πst’
πtumoß lÎgoß o˜toß is addressed to Helen.
As for the content of the Palinode(s), the papyrus tells us, after
quoting the two lyric openings, that in Stesichorus a phantom-
Helen went to Troy while the real Helen stayed with Proteus in
Egypt (aÛtÏ[ß d]v fhs[in Ø] Sths≤coro[ß] tÏ men e[÷dwlo]n ƒlqe∏[n ƒß]
Tro≤an t¶n d’ }Elvnhn p[ar¤] t0i Prwte∏ katame∏n[ai). But the
authenticity of this information is open to doubt. It may have
been lifted straight from Chamaeleon, in which case one might
remark that a third-hand, indirect summary is not the best type
of information (though it is not necessarily to be discredited on
that account).122 It is not even certain that Chamaeleon himself
had first-hand knowledge of the Palinode(s): it is possible, given
what we know about Chamaeleon’s scholarship in general, that
this detail originates not from Stesichorus but from one of the
other sources already mentioned.123 However, the wording of
this fragment strongly implies that Chamaeleon’s writings did
not mention Egypt or the phantom. Although Chamaeleon is

120
oÛk πst’ πtumoß lÎgoß o˜toß
deır’ aˆte qe¤ filÎmolpe
crusÎptere parqvne 〈 -× 〉
= --11-11-×
Responsion and its consequences are discussed by Davison (1968) 219–25;
Kannicht (1969) 1. 31; Woodbury (1967) 158–65.
121
However, Helen is not out of the question altogether: see Davison (1968)
223.
122
On the differing value of direct and indirect quotations, paraphrases,
reports and inferences made of lyric poetry, see Davison (1955) 72–3, 80–1.
123
Chamaeleon’s dates (mid-4th to mid-3rd cent. bc) are rather closer in time
to Stesichorus than those of the papyrus author, and (to go by the evidence of
Athenaeus, who often quotes him), Chamaeleon was familiar with a wide range
of poetic texts. However, Chamaeleon is known for inventing details and for
falsely deducing details about writers’ lives from the texts. See Athenaeus 10.
428f–429a; discussed by Arrighetti (1987) 368–72.
 Myth, Fiction, Innovation 101
explicitly credited as the source of the two lyric verses („ß
ånvgrafe Camailvwn), in the next sentence the commentator
introduces his plot-summary with the words ‘Stesichorus him-
self says that . . . (aÛtÏ[ß d]v fhs[in Ø] Sths≤coro[ß])’. Furthermore,
we are not told which of the two Palinodes quoted by
Chamaeleon was concerned with Egypt or the phantom. All of
this suggests that the commentator had another, separate source
of knowledge apart from Chamaeleon. No doubt he would like
his readers to think that this source was none other than the
Palinode itself (or the Palinodes themselves). But this is almost
unthinkable, for the simple reason that, if the commentator
really had possessed a copy of the Palinode(s), he would have
quoted directly from it, rather than having to resort to
Chamaeleon for the two lyric lines which he does quote! And so,
if this author had no knowledge of Stesichorus himself, it may
well be that he borrowed the supposed details of the Palinode
from Euripides, Plato, Isocrates, Dio—or someone else.
There is still no good reason, then, to think that the
Palinode(s) described a phantom-Helen or Helen’s sojourn in
Egypt. If we discount the plot-summary of fragment 193, certain
facts remain there which have seemed to shed some light on the
content of the Palinode(s). However, these ‘facts’ too are highly
suspect. Little can be gleaned from the two lines deır’ aˆte qe¤
filÎmolpe and crusÎptere parqvne. For all the information they
contain, the lines might as well have been taken from any
poem at all. But there is a more serious difficulty, concerning the
nature and purpose of the Palinode(s). Either (as elsewhere)
Stesichorus recanted his own writings, or (as we are told here) he
criticized the writings of other poets. Neither of these possi-
bilities is unnatural, but they are both very different types of
activity.124 A ‘palinode’, as it was understood by everyone else
before and after Chamaeleon, denotes recantation only. I
suggest, therefore, that the poems cited by Chamaeleon were not
124
It is not intrinsically unlikely either that the Palinode criticized another
poet or that it corrected another first-person account by the same poet. From the
sixth century onwards, lyric and epic poets were beginning to establish them-
selves as individual poetic personae, in competition with other earlier poets, and
also questioning the concepts of truth and memory. For this aspect of early
Greek poetics, see (e.g.) Hes. Theog. 26–8, 526–34, 613–6; Hom. Hymn Dionys.;
Pind. Ol. 1. 46–55, 10. 1–6. Discussed by Bowie (1993), Griffiths (1990) 196–9,
and Pratt (1993) 1–53.
102 Myth, Fiction, Innovation
Palinodes at all but some other type of composition. Whether
Chamaeleon himself referred to these poems as palinwid≤ai, or
whether his commentator is responsible, cannot be known—
though we have already seen that the author of the papyrus is
rather undependable. But one or other of them seems to have
assumed, erroneously, that any poem which contained some
element of mythical innovation or criticism was a ‘palinode’.125
If one prefers to maintain that the papyrus evidence is true,
and there really were two Palinodes, one must deal with another
problem. Two Palinodes would, surely, have represented rather
a waste of effort on Stesichorus’ part. That is, if Palinode number
one had achieved the desired result, viz. a cure for blindness,
what would have been the point of a second? But perhaps this is
not such a serious problem after all. The reason Plato gives for
Stesichorus’ writing the Palinode ought to be queried. All the
ancient critics accepted Stesichorus’ blindness and magical
restoration of sight as real historical events—which of course
influenced their view of the Palinode’s likely content. But Plato’s
story is almost certainly fictional. It seems to belong to a
common type of anecdote, in which supposedly biographical
details about the poets were simply lifted from their writings.126
In other words, it is likely that since Stesichorus was known to
have written strikingly different types of poem, or a poem with a
novel myth, a picturesque story arose to explain why.127 The
motif of the ‘blind bard’ is particularly appropriate for this
purpose because of its Homeric associations. Nevertheless, a
little caution is in order. Where the works of a poet survive—in
125
Woodbury (1967) 162 suggests that the author of the papyrus fragment
not only misunderstood the Palinwid≤a but also treated the unfamiliar proper
name as if it were a common noun. ‘It is,’ he says, ‘as if someone noticed
another of Handel’s choruses which contained Hallelujahs and chose to
announce this discovery to the world by stating that Handel composed two
Hallelujah Choruses’.
126
See Lefkowitz (1981). A typical example of the banality of ancient ‘bio-
graphical’ criticism is provided by a testimonium on Aeschylus which asserts
that, since Aeschylus was the first to put drunken characters on stage, he must
have been an inebriate (TGF 3 [Radt] T 118). This method is, significantly,
characteristic of Chamaeleon also (see n. 123 above)—which again may affect
the value of his comments on Stesichorus’ ‘palinode’.
127
It has been suggested by Hutchinson (2001, 116–17) that two Palinodes
may have been turned into one in order to make the story work better. However,
this explanation does not quite fit. If more than one Palinode existed, it is hard
to see why the story should have arisen in the first place.
 Myth, Fiction, Innovation 103
the case of Euripides or Aristophanes, for example—it is often
demonstrable that the biographical ‘facts’ are derivative or
invented; but in the case of Stesichorus, where neither the poem
nor any independently verifiable facts exist, one is in a far less
secure position to make such deductions. It is far more probable,
of course, that the ‘biography’ arose in order to explain the exis-
tence of the Palinode, but is worth bearing in mind that the ‘fact’
being explained by the anecdote might actually have been a
freakish episode of blindness in the life of the poet.128 Whatever
the truth may be, it is unlikely that Stesichorus really wrote the
Palinode(s) in order to persuade Helen to restore his sight. In
that case, one might add, it is not necessary to assume that the
poem(s) exonerated or justified Helen’s behaviour.129
The Palinode was a popular subject of discussion in antiquity;
but the scholarship surrounding the poem and the circumstances
of its composition became hopelessly confused. It seems that the
whole tradition sprang up from the knowledge that Stesichorus
had once written a provocative, innovative, critical or self-
refuting poem (or poems), combined with scholars’ puzzlement
that no trace of such an interesting poem could be found. Our
sources disagree in major and minor details, in such a way as to
suggest that none of them had ever read the Palinode.130 Their
knowledge, such as it is, seems to come from second-hand
sources—which may well have included Euripides himself. On
the basis of the available evidence, it is impossible to give certain
128
Devereux (1973) proposes, somewhat over-confidently, that Stesichorus
suffered from the condition now known as ‘hysterical blindness’. Sider (1989,
esp. 424–5) gives a balanced summary of viewpoints: he argues, interestingly,
that the Palinode was a semi-dramatic performance in which the poet’s ‘blind-
ness’ was acted out—an explanation which might explain some of the odd-seem-
ing features of Plato and Isocrates’ accounts—but we simply do not know
enough of the performance conditions of lyric poetry to say whether or not this
might be true. (On the performance—or non-performance—of Stesichorus’
lyrics, see West [1971] 302–14.)
129
Dale (1967, xx) writes: ‘the one thing certain about Stesichorus’ story is
that it was intended as a rehabilitation of Helen’s character.’ But this is far from
certain: the theme of Helen’s guilt or innocence is made much of in Euripides’
play, but why assume that it was an inherited motif from Stesichorus?
130
See Austin (1994) 96: ‘The Palinode was more talked of than read, if
indeed it was read at all after the time of Plato.’ In fact, there are signs that
Stesichorus’ star was on the wane even earlier than Plato’s time. Eupolis fr. 139
K–A reflects a feeling that Stesichorus was thought to be out-of-date; cf. Ar.
Clouds 1353 ff . on changing attitudes to lyric poetry in the fifth century.
104 Myth, Fiction, Innovation
answers about the form, content or purpose of the Palinode, or
even to say how many Palinodes there were.
It has been suggested that all of the garbled information con-
tained in the testimonia derives directly from the Phaedrus
passage, and that none of the other scholars and writers had inde-
pendent knowledge of the poem.131 This conclusion might seem
quite attractive, were it not for the existence of Isocrates’ Helen.
In the first place, the relative dates of Isocrates’ Helen and Plato’s
Phaedrus are not known: it is possible that Isocrates is the earlier
of the two.132 In addition, as I explained earlier, it is impossible
to reconcile the evidence of Plato and Isocrates: therefore it is
clear that Isocrates’ description of the Palinode does not depend
on Plato.133 The implications of this fact are extremely impor-
tant, and demand further exploration. Isocrates implies that
Stesichorus’ Helen retained responsibility for events at Troy;
Plato says explicitly that she did not. One of them must be
wrong. It may be that Isocrates was completely ignorant of both
the Palinode and the Phaedrus; but still there must be some
explanation for the fact that he and Plato seem to be talking about
completely different poems. In the remainder of this section I
shall suggest an explanation.
When discussing the problem earlier, I provisionally con-
cluded that Isocrates had somehow made a mistake. This con-
clusion was based on the assumption that Plato’s is the first
surviving reference to the Palinode and that his three-line quota-
tion is genuine. But these assumptions may be unreliable. If we
assume instead that Isocrates’ version is the first, and that it is
based on the Palinode itself (or some other, separate source
which contained information about the Palinode), we are led to a
different, and rather disturbing, conclusion. That is, Plato’s
quotation must be fake.
131
Kannicht (1969) 1.26–41.
132
It has even been suggested that Plato’s Phaedrus contains polemical
references to Isocrates’ Helen: see Howland (1937) and Eucken (1983) 116. The
dates of the two works are discussed by Davison (1968) 204 and Mathieu and
Brémond (1956) 160.
133
Davison (1968) 204 also writes that Isocrates and Plato are independent
witnesses, but gives no justification for this view. He claims that certain verbal
similarities between the two accounts suggest a common source; but they might
equally suggest that one writer copied the other. In any case, as I have already
shown, the idea that both Plato and Isocrates are talking about the same Palinode
is untenable.
 Myth, Fiction, Innovation 105
I believe that Plato did indeed invent the lines oÛk πst’ πtumoß
ktl.134 This idea may provoke reactions of disbelief, but it is by
no means a ludicrous suggestion. If one asks why Plato should
have wanted to invent the quotation, the answer is not too
difficult to find. When we look at Plato’s work in general, we
find that Plato does sometimes take surprising liberties with his
poetic and mythical source-material. As Halliwell has argued,
persuasively, in a recent article, Platonic citations of the poets are
based on a principle of ‘the subjection of muthos to logos’: in
other words, Plato seems to believe that while poetic texts are not
in themselves an authoritative source of truth, they can legiti-
mately be used, and manipulated, as the philosopher might wish,
in order to make a point.135 For the purposes of argumentation,
he often misquotes, invents, paraphrases or adapts lines of
poetry, and makes use of pastiche and parody, without any
explicit indication that he is doing so.136
When one begins to look in more detail at the Phaedrus in
particular, the case that Plato invented the Palinode quotation is
strengthened yet further. It turns out that the dialogue in which
the Palinode-story appears is extraordinarily full of suspect
quotations. In fact, nearly all the citations there have been
questioned. These include a gnomic hexameter ‘quotation’
which fits one of Plato’s arguments suspiciously well;137 a parody
of epic-style invocations to the Muse;138 a Pindaric ‘quotation’
which has been altered;139 two ‘Homeric’ lines which do not
134
Athenaeus 11.505b (3.116 Kaibel) might be read as regarding Plato, not
Stesichorus, as the author of the quotation: Ø kalÏß Pl3twn mononouc≥ ejp*n: oÛk
πst’ πtumoß lÎgoß o˜toß, ƒgk*mia aÛtoı diexvrcetai ktl. However, this attribution
might simply be an abbreviated form of reference: see Davies (1982b) 9.
135
Halliwell (2000).
136
Plato’s literary inventions and suspicious quotations include, for example,
the speeches of Aristophanes and Agathon in Symp.; the misinterpretation of
Simonides (fr. 542 PMG) in Prot. 339a–346d; the misquotation of Pindar in
Gorgias 484b10; wilful misrepresentation of Solon’s poetry in Prot. 343a; the
dubious poet ‘Tynnichus’ in Ion 534d; lies about Theognis’ birthplace in Laws
630a; misquotation of the Iliad in Apol. 28c7–8. Discussion of this aspect of
Plato’s relationship to poetic texts may be found in Bernadete (1963) and Demos
(1997), among others.
137
Pl. Phaedrus 241d1: this may be an adaptation of Il. 22.263, but I follow
Hackforth’s (1952, ad loc.) scepticism.
138
Pl. Phaedrus 237a7–b1: Rowe (1986) ad loc. detects an ironic or ludic tone
here.
139
Pl. Phaedrus 227b9–11 (from Pind. Isth. 1.2).
106 Myth, Fiction, Innovation
appear in any text of Homer;140 a paraphrase of another Homeric
line, presented as a direct quotation;141 a reference to non-
existent rhetorical treatises by fictional characters;142 a genuine
inscription of disputed authorship;143 and, most strikingly, an
entire speech which is attributed to Lysias but thought by most
critics to be an invention or pastiche by Plato himself.144
There is ample evidence here to suggest that Plato was capable
of inventing and distorting poetic material for his own purposes,
and that his literary or rhetorical agenda at the point of intro-
ducing the Stesichorus story may be rather complex. Here,
again, it may repay the effort to examine the overall argument of
the Phaedrus. The subject under discussion (among others) in
this dialogue is the impossibility of putting philosophical truths
140
Pl. Phaedrus 252b5–9. Plato describes these lines as being ‘from obscure
poems’ (ƒk t0n åpoqvtwn ƒp0n), and even ventures the opinion that one of them
is ‘totally outrageous’ (—n tÏ 1teron ËbristikÏn p3nu)—which, if he had written
the lines himself, must surely be a joke. Hackforth (1952, 97) writes that ‘it is
uncertain whether the two lines are simply invented by Plato or modified from
existing lines fathered on Homer, perhaps by some Orphic writer’ (but why
should one think that?); Rowe (1986, ad loc.) that ‘hardly anyone doubts that the
lines are at least in part Plato’s own’.
141
Pl. Phaedrus 266b6–7: a possible model is Hom. Od. 5.193.
142
Pl. Phaedrus 261b6–8: references to treatises on the art of speaking com-
posed by Nestor and Odysseus in their moments of leisure at Troy!—obviously
fictional, though Socrates may be casting Gorgias in the role of Nestor and
Thrasymachus (or Theodorus) in the role of Odysseus.
143
Pl. Phaedrus 264d3–6: epigram said to have been inscribed on the tomb of
Midas the Phrygian (cf. Diog. Laert. 1.90: he gives two extra lines, however, and
says that it is possibly the work of Cleobulus of Lindus).
144
Pl. Phaedrus 230e6–234c5 (= [Lys.] Or. 35, ‘Erotikos’). The general con-
sensus is that the speech is spurious, although ancient critics accepted it as
genuine (Diog. Laert. 3.25). Dover (1968b) 69–71 concludes that there can be no
certainty as to the authorship: stylistic considerations give no answer, because
no other paignion of Lysias survives for comparison, and any non-Platonic
features here would be entirely natural in a pastiche. But others firmly believe
that Plato and not Lysias was the author, referring to the content and context of
the speech. See e.g. Hamilton (1973) 26: ‘the peculiar appropriateness of the
speech in respect to Plato’s purpose is perhaps the strongest argument against
its being an actual work of Lysias’. Rowe (1986, ad loc). points out that else-
where Plato never quotes other authors verbatim at such length. Cf. de Vries
(1969) ad loc.: ‘constructing a speech according to all conventional rules, and
then destroying it, seems to me to be rather more Platonic play with styles than
quoting at length a piece of mediocre contemporary oratory’. This is the view
also of Hackforth (1952, 17), who suggests that Plato attributed the invented
speech to Lysias because his criticism of rhetorical culture would be more
effective with a named target, and Lysias’ name was an ‘obvious’ one to use.
 Myth, Fiction, Innovation 107
into writing: Plato says that the written word is nothing more
than a pale phantom (e÷dwlon) of the real truth.145 And he has illus-
trated this argument with misleading, spurious, written texts, of
which the Palinode is one among many.
When Plato makes Socrates say, apropos of the speech of
Lysias, that ‘a speaker who knows the truth can make fun of his
hearers and lead them astray („ß #n Ø ejd°ß tÏ ålhq†ß prospa≤zwn
ƒn lÎgoiß par3goi toŸß åko»ontaß)’,146 might we detect an ironic
double-meaning? Many readers have detected an ironic or ludic
tone in this dialogue, and in the Stesichorus story in particular.
The argument proposed by Socrates is of great philosophical
importance, but he is also warning his readers not to take him—
or anything which he says or quotes—entirely seriously. The
following passage, taken from the closing section of the dialogue,
well represents the overall message and mood of the Phaedrus,
with its playful tone and self-refuting use of irony:
Ø dv ge ƒn m†n t0i gegrammvnwi lÎgwi per≥ ‰k3stou paidi3n te Ógo»menoß
poll¶n ånagka∏on e”nai, ka≥ oÛd†na p*pote lÎgon ƒn mvtrwi oÛd’ £neu mvtrou
meg3lhß £xion spoud[ß graf[nai, oÛdv lecq[nai „ß oÈ Âaywido»menoi £neu
ånakr≤sewß ka≥ didac[ß peiqoıß 1neka ƒlvcqhsan, [. . .] o˜toß d† Ø toioıtoß
ån¶r kindune»ei, _ Fa∏dre, e”nai oÍon ƒg* te ka≥ sŸ eÛxa≤meq’ #n sv te ka≥ ƒm†
genvsqai.
The person who believes that in the written word there must always be
much frivolity, and that no prose or poetry deserves to be taken terribly
seriously (not even the recitations of the rhapsodes, which are designed
with persuasion in mind, without opportunity for questioning or
education) [. . .] I dare say, Phaedrus, that such a person is the sort of
man you and I might pray that we ourselves may become.147

The remarks here about poetry and rhapsodes are of particular

interest, since at several points in the course of the dialogue
Socrates has presented himself in terms of an inspired rhapsode

145
Pl. Phaedrus 276a.
146
Ibid. 262d2–3. Perhaps Plato’s later reference (Rep. 9. 586c) to the
supposed e÷dwlon of Helen, usually taken to constitute an additional reference to
the Palinode’s contents, is really a ludic reference to his own argument—and the
Stesichorean forgery—in the Phaedrus. Incidentally, it is interesting to note that
Plato seems to have invented another phantom, this time the f3sma of Eurydice,
in Symp. 179d. This has been seen as another example of Platonic invention in
‘a dialogue full of fancies’: Guthrie (1935) 31.
147
Pl. Phaedrus 278a–b.
108 Myth, Fiction, Innovation
or poet!148 We are being warned, then, to take everything in the
Phaedrus—including the Palinode—with a pinch of salt. In other
words, even if the Stesichorus story and the quotation did not
contradict the version of Isocrates, it would be impossible to
view the Phaedrus passage as a straightforward piece of literary
biography.
If, as it appears, we cannot trust Plato, the fons et origo of
nearly all the information about Stesichorus, the consequences
for our ‘knowledge’ of the Palinode are severe. Even the very
limited ‘facts’ contained in those three short lines—that Helen
never travelled by ship, and never arrived at Troy—must now be
rejected. Thus there no longer remains any reason to think that
Stesichorus’ poem, like Euripides’ Helen, overturned the Iliadic
myth of Helen: indeed, Isocrates suggests very strongly that it
did not.
A further, final piece of evidence which supports the view that
the Palinode had nothing to do with negating the story of the
Trojan War, or with exonerating Helen, is Gorgias’ Encomium of
Helen, a short work of sophistic philosophy and rhetoric, more or
less contemporary with Euripides’ Helen.149 In the opening para-
graphs of this provocative piece, Gorgias claims to be telling the
truth about Helen, revealing at last the falsehoods of other
writers. This introductory section would be an obvious and
appropriate point at which to mention Stesichorus, but Gorgias,
strikingly, fails to do so. Instead, he says emphatically that all
previous poets have been unanimous regarding Helen’s guilt.150
Gorgias cannot have been unaware of the existence of such a

148
Pl. Phaedrus 234d–235d (Socrates filled with inspiration, as a jug
with water), 237a (S. invokes the Muses), 238c–d (S. claims to be uttering
dithyrambs), 241d–e (S. breaks into hexameter and says that if one is carried
away by a subject one becomes poetic), 243a (S. as mousikÎß—the Palinode
passage), 259 (the cicadas surrounding S. and Phaedrus are servants of the
Muses).
149
I return to this fascinating work, and its implications for the escape-
tragedies, in Ch. 4 below.
150
Gorgias, Helen (DK 82 B11) §2: toı d’ aÛtoı åndrÏß lvxai te tÏ dvon ørq0ß
ka≥ ƒlvgxai toŸß memfomvnouß E } lvnhn, guna∏ka per≥ ¬ß ØmÎfwnoß ka≥ ØmÎyucoß
gvgonen ~ te t0n poiht0n åkous3ntwn p≤stiß ~ te toı ØnÎmatoß f&mh,  t0n sumfor0n
mn&mh gvgonen (‘The man who says rightly what ought to be said should also
refute those who put the blame on Helen, a woman about whom the belief of
those who have listened to poets and the report of her name—which has become
a reminder of disaster—have been totally unanimous’).
 Myth, Fiction, Innovation 109
poem as the Palinode, the work of his famous fellow-Sicilian.
(One might claim that Gorgias is deliberately ignoring the
Palinode, in order to exaggerate his own originality for rhetorical
effect; but in fact the inclusion of an alternative myth which
claimed to exonerate Helen, far from detracting from Gorgias’
impact, would actually have lent support to his argument, which
is concerned with the power of words to delude and deceive.)
The only fact which emerges (more or less) unscathed at the
end of our investigation is that Stesichorus once wrote some-
thing called a Palinode. The title of this composition suggests
that it was markedly different from other compositions by the
same poet. If it did not contain a denial of the plot of the Iliad, a
phantom-Helen, or an Egyptian narrative, one can only guess at
its contents. A plausible—but, as usual, unprovable—explana-
tion may, I suggest, be found in Helen’s nature. Helen appears in
the Iliad and tragedy as a human character, but she was also
worshipped as a goddess in Peloponnesian ritual.151 We know
from the fragments of his Helen that Stesichorus portrayed the
heroine in her more usual human guise. We also suspect, on the
basis of certain local details in other fragments, that Stesichorus
visited the Peloponnese, or was influenced by Spartan patrons, at
some point in his life;152 therefore it is likely that Stesichorus
composed poetry about Helen qua goddess as well. Poems con-
cerning the divine Helen of Spartan cult would naturally be
different in kind from poems about the human, Iliadic Helen; so,
if Stesichorus composed both types of poem, this could well be
what gave rise to the belief that he had ‘recanted’. Of course, this
explanation is not perfect: it depends on attaching a rather
different sort of meaning to the word Palinode (which may or
may not have been Stesichorus’ own title). However, it does
allow us to look more charitably upon Chamaeleon’s reference to
Palinodes in the plural, and his two lines deır’ aˆte qe¤ filÎmolpe
and crusÎptere parqvne—which may, perhaps, go some way
towards placating those Stesichoreans who shudder at the
prospect of being left with no lines at all.
There is no indication, then, that either Hesiod or Stesichorus
supplied Euripides with the myth of Helen in the precise form
which he uses. The most commonly given explanation is that
151
See especially Clader (1976).
152
Bowra (1934) and (1961); cf. Davison (1968) 209.
110 Myth, Fiction, Innovation
Hesiod introduced the phantom of Iphigenia and Stesichorus
introduced the phantom of Helen, and that the tradition sub-
sequently became confused.153 But, since (as I have shown) one
cannot be absolutely certain of any detail, it may plausibly be
argued that Euripides used neither Hesiod nor Stesichorus.
Most importantly, our limited evidence suggests that the
Palinode, whatever it actually was, had nothing to do with a
‘counterfactual’ Helen-myth. What is ‘known’ about these
earlier writers’ treatment of phantoms, Egypt, and suchlike is in
fact highly problematic and may even derive from Euripides
himself.
So far, we are no closer to discovering whether Euripides’
alternative Helen-myth was in circulation prior to 412 bc.
However, there are two further pieces of evidence which have
been thought to be significant. The first is extremely tenuous and
can be dealt with briefly. The passage in question comes from the
first stasimon of Aeschylus’ Agamemnon (458 bc), where the
subject is Menelaus’ desertion by Helen:
pÎqwi d’ Ëperpont≤aß
f3sma dÎxei dÎmwn ån3ssein.154
And because of his desire for her who is far away across the seas, it seems
that an apparition is in charge of the house.
It does seem that the apparition in question is that of Helen: even
though she has gone away, leaving only destruction and despair
in her wake, Menelaus seems to see her all over the palace: that is
why he cannot even bear the sight of statues, as the ode goes on to
tell. ‘This, the simplest and most obvious explanation, has
always been followed by men with a sensitive feeling for poetry’,
wrote Fraenkel.155 It is possible, on the other hand, that the word
refers to Menelaus—a ‘shadow’ of his former self—but this is not
the most natural reading.156 The main question is: if Helen’s

153
See Austin (1994) 105–11. Note, in addition, that it now seems likely that
Stesichorus and the author of the Catalogue were roughly contemporary, which
means that either of them could have influenced the other: see West (1985)
154
130–5. Aesch. Ag. 414–15.
155
Fraenkel (1950) ad loc. He goes on: ‘if anyone cannot appreciate this either
from personal experience or the power of imagination, then even the intense
pathos of lines like E. Alc. 944 ff . will be lost on him.’ This seems rather dis-
ingenuous, or (worse) naïve.
156
Fraenkel (1950) gives two possible tragic parallels for this type of
 Myth, Fiction, Innovation 111
apparition is meant here, does this constitute an oblique allusion
to the version of the myth in which Helen’s phantom went to
Troy?157 This is just possible—despite the fact that f3sma rather
than e÷dwlon is used, and that there is no explicit reference to the
phantom and substitution. But Fraenkel says, correctly, that the
question can hardly be answered, pointing out the total
difference of the situations and declaring that the Agamemnon
ode contains simply ‘a piece of general and purely human
experience’. These considerations do not preclude the possi-
bility of allusion; but Fraenkel is right to say that certainty is
unattainable.
The second reference is more difficult to explain. The follow-
ing lines occur in the speech of Castor ex machina at the end of
Euripides’ Electra (1280–3):
E
} lvnh te q3yei: Prwtvwß g¤r ƒk dÎmwn
~kei lipoıs’ A÷gupton oÛd’ Álqen Fr»gaß:
ZeŸß d’, „ß πriß gvnoito ka≥ fÎnoß brot0n,
e÷dwlon E} lvnhß ƒxvpemy’ ƒß “Ilion.
and Helen will bury [Clytemnestra]; for she has come from the house of
Proteus, leaving Egypt, and she did not go to Troy. Zeus, in order to
cause strife and bloodshed among mortals, sent a phantom of Helen off
to Ilium.
This is the very version of the myth that appears in Helen. Even
Zeus’ motivation (to make the earth less heavy by relieving it of
surplus population) appears to be the same.158 Therefore, assum-
ing that the lines are genuine,159 there are certain implications for
Euripides’ originality.
It is almost certain that Electra preceded Helen, but its precise
date is unknown. Metrical analysis suggests a date between 424
expression (Soph. Phil. 946–7, Oed. at Col. 109–10), but notes that in each case
the word used is different (e÷dwlon, ski3) and the description more explicit.
157
So thinks Welcker (1854) 194–5.
158
This rather capricious divine plan appeared in the Cypria (fr. 1 Davies),
and was used by Euripides not only in Helen (38–40) but also in the later Orestes
(1639–42).
159
An interpolation? There is no reason to suppose that the lines are not
genuine: The manuscript L and its copy P contain them, without any dis-
crepancies, and they cannot be removed without serious disruption of the text.
The syntax of 1279–81 will not permit any excision without the loss of sense.
Lines 1282–3 are detachable—this would leave the Egyptian reference without
the e÷dwlon, but 1281 still clearly says that Helen did not go to Troy.
112 Myth, Fiction, Innovation
and 410,160 but a reference to the ‘Sicilian sea’ (pÎntoß SikelÎß, El.
1347–8) has been thought to date the production to 413: so
Denniston wrote, overconfidently, that ‘the date 413 bc for the
Electra is fixed beyond all reasonable doubt’.161 However,
Cropp, following Zuntz, believes that ‘allusions so inorganic to
the dramatic context are alien to Greek Tragedy’ and that ‘the
passages in question make sense purely in terms of their dramatic
context’;162 therefore he rejects the ‘contextual’ dating of
Denniston in favour of the somewhat earlier ‘metrical’ date.
Nevertheless, the date of production makes a considerable
difference to one’s interpretation of this passage. Leaving aside
for the moment the question of who first combined the motifs of
Helen in Egypt and her phantom-double, I think that one should
examine more closely the context of these four lines. No matter
what their source, the most important thing is that they are
extremely incongruous here: Helen has nothing to do with the
plot of Electra and no dramatic relevance in the current situation,
where Castor is explaining to everyone what they must do. He
reassures Orestes that the burial of his mother will be attended to
by Menelaus—and Helen, he adds. Helen is only an adjunct of
Menelaus, with no personal function to perform; so her mention
here seems like an afterthought. There is no point whatsoever in
the additional information that Helen never went to Troy, and
neither Castor nor any other character goes on to comment or
elaborate upon this strange myth, but the subject is at once
changed. In other words—to meet Cropp’s objection—the allu-
sion to Helen is inorganic to the dramatic context, nor does it
make sense (purely, or at all) in terms of this dramatic context.
Unless we are to assume that Euripides’ art deserted him at this
point, we must find some other way to interpret the lines. It has
been thought that the reference is justified here because it ‘dis-
credits’ Electra and Orestes’ vengeance on Clytemnestra by
160
Cropp and Fick (1985, 23) estimate somewhere between 422 and 417, with
420–419 more likely; Devine (1981, 47–55) gives the larger range of 424–10;
Collard (1981) 2 suggests ‘pre-415’, also on metrical grounds. Matthiessen
(1964) 66–9 gives a firm date of 413 based on a variety of considerations. It
should be noted that all of these critics use Murray’s text; Diggle’s OCT, how-
ever, deletes far more lines, which means that the calculations for ‘metrical’
dates may be affected.
161
Denniston (1939) xxxiv.
162
Cropp (1988) li, referring to Zuntz (1955) 63–71.
 Myth, Fiction, Innovation 113
removing the reason for it.163 But this explanation still leaves the
contextual incongruity of the lines unexplained. The only inter-
pretation which seems to me to make sense is that offered by
Denniston: the reference to Helen is a deliberately shocking
incongruity designed to be an ‘advertisement’ for Euripides’
next production, the Helen.164 This would have been a most
striking device (whether or not Euripides was the first to use that
particular myth), albeit unusual in a tragedy.165 Therefore 413 bc
(pace Cropp and Fick) seems the most attractive date. In any
case, there is no reason to believe that Electra 1280–3 alludes to
any specific treatment of the ‘counterfactual’ Helen-myth, and
we are no closer to concluding whether or not Euripides was its
originator in the form which he uses.

Now for Iphigenia, which is rather less complicated than Helen

(but not without its difficulties). Here, as in Helen, I suggest it is
likely that Euripides’ myth consisted of a new combination of
pre-existing mythical elements. According to one source, the
counterfactual Iphigenia-myth of the substitution at Aulis and
the transportation to the Black Sea existed as early as the seventh
or sixth century bc, in the Cypria.166 But the authenticity of
Proclus’ summary, the source of this data, has been questioned:
might it not be that Proclus relied on sources other than the
Cypria itself, including Euripides’ influential play?167 This
explanation is possible, but it cannot be denied that the
Athenians of the fifth century had knowledge both of the
Taurians and of the fact that Iphigenia—in her divine aspect—
was associated with the Taurian people.168 Herodotus discusses
Iphigenia, as a deity, in his section on the Taurians’ custom
of human sacrifice: ‘the Taurians themselves say that this
goddess to whom they make sacrifice is Agamemnon’s daughter
163
Eisner (1979) 167–8.
164
Euripides ‘whetting the curiosity’ of the audience: Denniston (1939)
xxxiv. Cf. Wilamowitz (1875) 152–3. It has also been suggested that Electra was
part of the same trilogy as Helen in 412: Denniston (1939, xxxiv) mentions this
only to reject it.
165
There is a comic parallel for this self-conscious advertising of next year’s
show, in Aristophanes’ Acharnians (425 bc): lines 301–5 anticipate Cleon’s
treatment in Knights (424).
166
Cypria (Proclus), p. 32 Davies.
167
Burnett (1971) 73; Hall (1989a) 111.
168
See §3.2 below.
114 Myth, Fiction, Innovation
Iphigenia.’169 Thus, even if Proclus’ evidence for the Cypria
cannot be trusted, it is clear that Euripides did not invent the fact
of Iphigenia’s presence (in whatever form) in the Tauric land.
Another possible source for Euripides is Sophocles’ Chryses.
The play itself does not survive, apart from a handful of frag-
ments which contain practically no information about setting,
characters or plot.170 But it may be that the plot is preserved by
Hyginus: he records a sequel to the events of Euripides’ play, in
which Orestes and Iphigenia were pursued by Thoas to
Sminthe, the home of Chryses, priest of Apollo; Chryses helped
Orestes to kill Thoas so that he could escape to Mycenae with the
statue of Artemis.171 It is very likely that Chryses was produced
before Iphigenia, which means that Sophocles cannot have been
influenced by Euripides’ version.172 Therefore, if Hyginus’
summary really does represent the plot of Sophocles’ play,
Euripides cannot have been the first to use the Tauric setting or
the alternative Iphigenia myth in tragedy. But that is far from
certain.173
I believe that Euripides’ innovation lay in the fusion of precise
details. Previously, Iphigenia had either died at Aulis or was
immortalized (cf. Hesiod, Stesichorus, Herodotus); in this play,
she survives as a human, and eventually returns to Greece.174
Another seemingly new detail in Euripides is that of Iphigenia
and Orestes ‘coincidentally’ reuniting in the Tauric land. In this
respect, Orestes can be seen to be a particularly useful, flexible
character, because part of his unchanging character and function
in myth, following the murder of Clytemnestra and pursuit by
the Furies, is as an exiled ‘wanderer’. This allows a considerable
169
Hdt. 4. 103: t¶n d† da≤mona ta»thn t[i q»ousi lvgousi aÛto≥ Taıroi I∞ figvneian
t¶n !gamvmnonoß e”nai.
170
TGF 4 (Radt) frr. 494–5.
171
Hyg. Fab. 120–1. Cf. Burnett (1971) 73–5; Conacher (1967) 303–5.
172
Ar. Birds (414 bc) parodies Soph. Chryses: S Ar. Birds 1240. This gives a
terminus ante quem of 415 for Chryses. If we accept a date of 414–412 for
Iphigenia (see §1.1 above), then the order of the two plays is fixed. Cf. Grégoire
(1968) 106; Cropp (2000) 45 n.50. Burnett (1971, 75 n. 26) concludes, however,
that ‘the chronological situation here is too obscure for dogmatism’.
173
Hyginus’ version is cast somewhat in the form of a Euripidean escape-
plot!—which does not seem particularly Sophoclean in character. Nevertheless,
one should add that our notion of what is ‘Sophoclean’ is based on a very
limited collection of plays. (See Kiso [1984] on ‘the lost Sophocles’.)
174
Cf. Cropp (2000) 44–6.
 Myth, Fiction, Innovation 115
freedom of geographical range: Orestes might without incon-
gruity turn up anywhere in the Greek world in the course of his
wanderings. Therefore Orestes’ arrival at the Tauric shores does
not, unlike that of his sister, require a counterfactual alteration of
the existing myth—merely a willingness to accept a slight
stretching of the normal limits of tragic probability and neces-
sity.175 However, it is worth remarking that Orestes’ travels
elsewhere are not nearly so wide-ranging, nor are they under-
taken by ship, as here. (Again, the evidence of Sophocles’
Chryses and Hyginus may testify to a tradition of Orestes in the
Black Sea; but here there is more uncertainty than in the case of
Iphigenia, and as before Euripides may have been the source for
Hyginus.)
Ultimately, as I said at the outset, we cannot know the extent
of Euripides’ originality, invention or allusion. It is not impos-
sible, on the basis of the evidence above, that Euripides’ counter-
factual Helen- and Iphigenia-myths were completely invented
in every particular. But it is more likely, and more in line with
tragic myth and plot elsewhere (as we have seen in §2.2.2 above),
that Euripides inherited, rather than invented, these odd myths
or their individual component elements. (For why assume that
Euripides is more heterodox and (even) un-tragic than neces-
sary?) Throughout this section I have been inclining towards
the view that Euripides’ innovation took the form of mixing
together existing strands of myth and forming something
slightly different, yet familiar. I shall return to this view, and its
implications, in the final section (§2.4) below.

2.3.3 The new Helen and the new Iphigenia

Even if the myths were not Euripidean in origin, they were still
unusual fare for tragic drama. Helen—if I am correct, the first
play in the trilogy176—is, in some ways, the most surprising: this

175
One should never, of course, expect any tragedy exactly to follow the rules
of real-life logic; there are always far more ‘coincidences’ than in life. The
classic example of tragedy’s ‘offences against probability’—this time with
regard to plot rather than myth—is Sophocles’ Oedipus the King: see Dawe
(1982) 1–22.
176
See §1.2 above. Position in the trilogy might have a certain relevance in
terms of the creation of surprise.
116 Myth, Fiction, Innovation
is reflected in Aristophanes’ phrase Ó kain¶ }Elvnh (‘the new
Helen’).177 That a play about Helen was written at all is remark-
able. Helen of Troy seems to have been one of those characters
whose significance is increased through being often talked about
but seldom seen in person. Her influence is very often felt, either
explicitly or implicitly; she is frequently mentioned, in an evoca-
tive or passionate manner, by characters or choruses; she may be
said to be one of the most important characters in tragedy—yet
she generally remains off-stage (so that, in fact, her significance
and mystique are made to seem even greater).178
Helen of Troy was a figure of great symbolic significance. In
the first place, she stood for beauty. She was the most beautiful
woman in the world, the epitome of femininity and desirability,
embodying all that men find to love in women.179 But Helen, like
177
Ar. Thesm. 850: t¶n kain¶n E } lvnhn. How to translate the phrase? ‘New’?
‘Strange’? ‘Outré’?—the scholion attached to this line interprets kain& in its
obvious chronological sense (‘last year’s), but as Kannicht (1969, 1. 21–4)
correctly remarks, the adjective also bears the sense of kainÎthß (‘novelty’); as
such it may apply equally to the play or to the character of Helen. Kannicht also
believes that ‘Ó kain¶ E
} lvnh’ had already become a slogan by 411, owing to the
notoriety of Euripides’ play.
178
There is no certain record of any other previous tragedy called Helen.
Sophocles wrote a tragedy called The Retrieval of Helen (}Elvnhß åpait&siß, TGF
4 [Radt] frr. 176–180a—or, possibly, the title was simply E } lvnh, according to S
Ar. Knights 84b), but the surviving lines tell us virtually nothing about the play
or characters. The only extant tragedies which feature Helen as a (minor)
character are Eur. Tro. and Or. (which post-dates the Helen). nb also that Helen
features comparatively rarely in art, and that (significantly) none of the
surviving artefacts obviously represents a theatrical production. Perhaps it was
perceived to be impossible adequately to portray a figure who was so great an
icon and, moreover, of such fabled beauty (see LIMC s.v. ‘Helen’). There is evi-
dence of two 4th-cent. tragedies called Helen. Two lines survive of Theodectas’
Helen, quoted by Arist. Pol. 1255a37 (TGF 1 [Snell] 72 fr. 3), but we have only
the title of Diogenes’ tragedy (TGF 1 [Snell] 88 fr. 1b, T 1.2; cf. Suda s.v.
Diogenes; Diog. Laert. 6.80).
179
Her presentation in the Iliad makes much of her beauty: for example, a
stock line to describe the beauty of other women uses Helen as a point of com-
parison (Il. 9.140, 9.282 etc.). Note, too, the reaction of the old Trojan men to
the sight of Helen in the teichoscopia: oÛ nvmesiß Tr0aß ka≥ eÛkn&midaß !caioŸß |
toi[id’ åmf≥ gunaik≥ polŸn crÎnon £lgea p3scein (‘No one could blame the Trojans
and the well-greaved Achaeans for toiling for such a long time for the sake of
such a woman’, Il. 3.156–7). Sappho (fr. 16.9 L–P) and Alcaeus (fr. 283 L–P)
both attempt to exonerate Helen from blame on account of her surpassing
beauty. According to various other legends, the very sight of Helen’s beauty
caused the Greeks to drop the stones with which they were preparing to pelt her
(Stesichorus fr. 201 Davies), and caused Menelaus to throw away his sword
 Myth, Fiction, Innovation 117
beauty, was paradoxical. Beauty may be pure and good, or it may
turn out to be baneful, with the power to effect unmentionable
harm. Aeschylus, for example, links Clytemnestra with Helen in
order to ponder whether there is not something intrinsically evil
and destructive about the whole of womankind. In this sense,
Helen may be seen to have an unusual semiotic function in myth:
she is representative of her gender, but she also symbolizes a
violent transgression of the normal societal relations between the
genders.180
Virtually all the references to Helen in extant tragedy are
markedly hostile.181 In Euripides’ play the character herself
(among others) makes reference to this fact, saying that there is
no one at all among humans who does not loathe Helen.182 Helen
is cursed as the causer of tears and woe; she is a wanton, a traitor,
the cause or even the personification of ruin, a wife that is not a
wife, a mad, lust-crazed, evil bitch.183 Helen was supposed to be
guilty of causing the Trojan War, the greatest event in Greek
myth-history, in which many years were taken up in fighting, a
multitude of men were slaughtered, and the world was in
turmoil—all of it for Helen’s sake.184 The Trojan War was an
årc¶ kak0n—not only a milestone event in history, but also the
first major event, according to Herodotus: essentially, Greek
history and Greek life were perceived to begin with this conflict.

(Ibycus fr. 296 Davies; S Ar. Lys. 155; Ilias Parva fr. 19 Davies). Helen’s
shrines at Sparta and elsewhere were supposedly a source of beauty, to which
ugly people flocked (Hdt. 6.61; Paus. 3.7.7). Pherecydes (FGH 3 F 29), claim-
ing that Penelope had more womanly virtue than Helen, is clearly reacting
against the common assessment of Helen’s feminine virtues. On Helen’s
portrayal in Greek literature in general, see Adams (1988).
180
Aesch. Ag. 1455. Goldhill (1986) is interesting on the subject of Helen as
a semiotic device: her adultery ‘strikes at the heart of a relation of exchange
through which society is formed and ordered’ (24).
181
Cropp (2000, 199) briefly discusses blame of Helen (yÎgoß E } lvnhß) as a
motif in Greek tragedy.
182
Helen 926; cf. Teucer’s words at 81 (see also discussion below: §2.4).
183
e.g. Aesch. Ag. 63, 680, 408, 1051, 1213, 1455; Eur. Andromache 103, 248,
680; El. 214, 1027, 1083; Hec. 441, 629, 943; Iph. at A. 176, 485, 583, 682, 782,
1253; Or. 1588, etc. (An exhaustive list would fill pages.)
184
Helen’s responsibility is a recurrent theme in tragedy and epic, and the
phrases E} lvnhß 1neka, ¬ß 1neka, 1qen 1neka, gunaikÏß o\neka, and similar, are widely
to be seen. (Hom. Il. 2.156–7, 3.129, 3.154–5, 6.536, 19.235; Od. 11.438,
14.68–9, 17.118; Aesch. Ag. 800, 865; Eur. Andromache 105; Hec. 265–6;
Iphigenia 8, 14; Iph. at Aul. 1253; Tro. 865, 891, etc.)
118 Myth, Fiction, Innovation
And Helen was to blame—the archetypal causer of war, of love,
of history.185
But in Euripides’ new version it is all different, as Helen her-
self relates in the prologue-speech and later on. Not only the
central events, but the characterization also (so it seems) has
been altered. Helen presents herself as no longer a lust-crazed
deserter of husbands, but a chaste, meek, middle-aged woman:
as Dale puts it, ‘she has . . . perfect wifely charm and tact’!186
Much is made in the play of chastity and virginity, qualities
which were scarcely to be associated with the old Helen. The
description of the ‘lovely-virgin’ (kallip3rqenoi) streams of Nile
in the prologue is highly suggestive;187 Helen was sent to Proteus,
who was judged to be ‘the most honourable’ (swfronvstatoß) of
all mankind, to guard her chastity inviolate for her husband;188
she finds the thought of a new husband repugnant,189 and is,
indeed, so desperate to keep her marriage inviolate that she has
fled as a suppliant to Proteus’ tomb (63–5). Helen’s wifely con-
cern for Menelaus is frequently expressed in the earlier parts of
the play. She goes on living, she claims, only because she clings
to the hope that he is still alive, and is apparently distraught at the
news of his death—to the extent that she vows to commit
suicide.190 Helen is still beautiful, as before, but she now realizes
that her beauty was among the causes of her misfortunes, and
wishes that she could be plain.191 Later in the play, she does alter
her appearance, by cutting off her hair, so that this new Helen
would have been (literally) unrecognizable.192
185
The topos of feminine abduction is always a problematic feature in Greek
theories of causation. One might object that the guilt lies elsewhere (in this case,
with the gods or with Paris), but the fifth-century attitude to rape was more
complex: Herodotus’ Persians, for example (1.4.2), thought that women were
never raped unless they wanted to be (d[la g¤r d¶ Òti, ej m¶ aÛta≥ ƒbo»lonto, oÛk
#n Órp3zonto).
186
Dale (1967) viii.
187
Helen 1. Dale (1967, ad loc.), missing the point, evidently thinks this an
unusual epithet, concluding that ‘perhaps Eur. did not think too closely about
it’.
188
Helen 46–8: for s*frwn in the sense of sexual continence cf. Barrett (1963)
72–3 (on Hipp. 79–81).
189
Helen 294–7; cf. 314.
190
Helen 56–9, 203–4, 277–8, 292–3, 351–6.
191
Helen 27, 261–3. Is this a metatheatrical comment, or something else?—
see §4.4.6 and §4.4.7 below.
192
Helen 1186–9. Dale (1967, viii) attributes this to a touching lack of vanity;
 Myth, Fiction, Innovation 119
Like Helen, Iphigenia seldom appeared among the characters
of tragedy, and was seldom a subject for a tragedy. Aeschylus and
Sophocles had each written an Iphigenia, but there is no record of
any other fifth-century tragedy on the same subject.193 The most
obvious part of the myth for a tragedy on Iphigenia would be the
events leading up to her sacrifice at Aulis, which, as seems likely,
appeared in the versions of Aeschylus and Sophocles, and which
Euripides indeed used in his later Iphigenia at Aulis. But, as far
as we can tell, the Taurian episode from Iphigenia’s life (whether
it was Euripides’ own invention or not) had never before been
dramatized.
It might seem that Iphigenia has undergone a less radical
change of personality in Euripides’ play.194 After all, her
character traits, as recorded in the mythical tradition, were not so
strongly marked in comparison with the treacherous, over-sexed

but the main point is that Helen’s shorn locks are part of the plan to dupe
Theoclymenus. But contrast Orestes 128–9, where Helen’s vanity prevents her
from cutting off more than the smallest amount of her hair as a grave-offering:
÷dete g¤r £kraß „ß åpvqrisen tr≤caß, | s*izousa k3lloß: πsti d∞ Ó p3lai gun& (‘look:
she has cut only the ends of her hair, preserving her beauty: she is the same old
Helen!). As Willink (1986) ad loc. points out, this ‘reasserts that this is the tradi-
tional Helen’. In addition, I would add that the phrase Ó p3lai gun& (in a play of
408 bc) might plausibly be a self-conscious allusion to Aristophanes’ Ó kain¶
E } lvnh (Thesm. 850).
193
Aeschylus’ Iphigenia: TGF 3 (Radt) T 78, 6d. No fragments exist, but the
title is listed in the Catalogue of A’s plays; it is said, tantalizingly (T 93b 2–3),
that it was in this play that Aeschylus ‘profaned the mysteries’. Sophocles’
Iphigenia: TGF 4 (Radt) fr. 305–12 (largely unrevealing fragments). TGF 2
(Kannicht/Snell) frag. adesp. 663 is assigned to a play about Iphigenia because
certain features seem to correspond to accounts of the events at Aulis (cf.
Apollodorus epit. 3.22); but this is not definite, and the authorship and date of
the fragment are unknown. The 4th-cent. sophist Polyidus may have written an
Iphigenia: Aristotle (Poet. 1455a6–8) refers to Ó Pol»idou toı sofistoı per≥ t[ß
I∞ figene≤aß, which Lucas (1968, ad loc.) believes to be a commentary of some sort
on the Iphigenia of Euripides. Nevertheless, Aristotle goes on: ejkÏß g¤r πfh tÏn
O∞ rvsthn sullog≤sasqai Òti Ó t’ ådelf¶ ƒt»qh ka≥ aÛt0i sumba≤nei q»esqai (‘he said
that it was probable for Orestes to reason that he was going to be sacrificed
because his sister had been sacrificed’). The word πfh (‘he said’) is omitted by
some manuscripts and papyrus sources, which adds the possibility that Polyidus
was the author of a play on the subject of Iphigenia (cf. ibid. 1455b10). Might this
play have been a tragedy, or a dithyramb? A certain Polyeidus of Selymbria won
a prize for dithyramb c.399–380 bc: see TGF 1 (Snell) 248 fr. 78, T 1–7; Diod.
Sic. 14.46.
194
But see §3.3 below for a more detailed discussion of Iphigenia’s character-
development.
120 Myth, Fiction, Innovation
and guilty Helen, which means that the novelty of the ‘new’
Iphigenia would inevitably be less shocking. Nevertheless, in
Euripides’ play Iphigenia’s character has been altered. In other
versions of the myth, Iphigenia, like Helen, was beautiful (which
may have been a reason for her death at Aulis),195 but she was
rather less complex: whereas Helen was an active, even malig-
nant, causer of events, Iphigenia was more passive and vulner-
able, (simply) a character to whom things happened. But
Euripides’ Iphigenia is drawn in such a way as to make her
appear even more like Helen. Both women, despite being in a
passive position of vulnerability, are really the most active
characters in their respective plays: they are able easily to gain
ascendancy over their captors; they give orders; they take charge
over their male rescuers in the formulation of the escape-
plans.196 (Indeed, these women are very far from being the
‘damsels in distress’ that their role in the plot requires them to
appear: one might well wonder why they have not escaped before
now.) A Helen responsible for the course of events is already
familiar; but a dynamic Iphigenia is an innovation. In addition,
it would have seemed most surprising and incongruous that the
girl who was so cruelly sacrificed by her own father is now herself
in the position of sacrificing Greeks.197

195
Cf. Iphigenia 20–1: Òti g¤r ƒniautÏß tvkoi | k3lliston, hÇxw fwsfÎrwi q»sein
qe$i (‘[Agamemnon] vowed to sacrifice to the light-bearing goddess the most
beautiful produce of the year’).
196
‘Active’ women: at Helen 1049, Helen tells Menelaus, ironically, to
‘listen—if a mere woman can offer a sensible suggestion’ (£kouson, ‡n ti ka≥ gun¶
lvxhi sofÎn); at 1621 Theoclymenus claims that he has been ‘wretchedly duped
by feminine wiles’ (_ gunaike≤aiß tvcnaisin aÈreqe≥ß ƒg° t3laß); at Iphigenia 1032
Orestes says that ‘women are fearfully good at hatching plots’ (deina≥ g¤r aÈ
guna∏keß eËr≤skein tvcnaß). It is worth noting, though, that Helen, Iphigenia and
Andromeda are all of a quite different type from the ‘bad’ women—the Phaedras
and Stheneboeas—whom Aristophanes’ ‘Aeschylus’ (Frogs 1043) thought typi-
cal Euripidean heroines. Perhaps this fact explains why in Thesmophoriazusae,
when he is charged with misrepresenting women, ‘Euripides’ uses the escape-
tragedies, with their good heroines, as a suitable ruse.
197
The sacrifice at Aulis, with its terror and agony, is described a dozen times
throughout the play: Iphigenia 6–9, 19–24, 26–9, 178, 210–17, 358–71, 565–6,
770–1, 783–7, 854–5, 1082–3, 1418.
 Myth, Fiction, Innovation 121

2.3.4 A new Andromeda?

Euripides’ Helen and Iphigenia are characterized by their
novelty; but how does the other escape-tragedy fit into the
picture? Of course, one should not fall prey to a banal schemati-
zation by automatically assuming that, since they are alike in
certain ways, all three plays shared identical features of con-
struction and content. But it may nevertheless be interesting to
speculate on whether the plot and the heroine of Andromeda
were also based on a counterfactual version of the myth. Nothing
in the fragments definitely suggests an unfamiliar version of the
story, but so little can be said for certain of the plot (especially in
the latter half of the play) that the absence of clues is not particu-
larly significant. It is hard to add anything of substance to
Webster’s reconstruction of the plot of Andromeda, which skil-
fully incorporates all the available evidence from the fragments
and other treatments of the myth, including vase-paintings.198
However, it has to be admitted that this reconstruction, like his
other versions of lost plays, is not characteristically ‘Euripi-
dean’—that is, he does not fully consider the ways in which
Andromeda might have been distinctive or different, in line with
Euripides’ habits elsewhere (Webster’s Andromeda might just as
plausibly have been written by any tragedian). Perhaps such
speculation is a waste of time, unprovable and overly reliant
upon subjective judgements (just what sort of thing is ‘charac-
teristically Euripidean’?); but I think that it is important at least
to take the consideration of Euripides’ originality into account in
one’s reconstruction.
The fragments, as Webster observes, give a reasonably clear
impression of what happened towards the beginning of the
play—Andromeda is already bound to the rock; she describes
her sufferings; she talks to the chorus members and performs a
lyric lamentation; Perseus arrives by air; a conversation between
Perseus and Andromeda ensues, in the course of which she
implores him to take pity on her and rescue her from the
monster, in return for her hand.199 The outlines of the story so far
198
Webster (1967) 192–99; Bubel (1991), indeed, adds little. For the paint-
ings, see Trendall and Webster (1971) 78–82, figs. III.3.10–13 (cf. LIMC I.2
s.v. ‘Andromeda’).
199
This (simplified) summary deals with frr. 114–32. I have summarized the
122 Myth, Fiction, Innovation
are familiar from the ‘normal’ myth: so, if there were any
counterfactual elements, it seems that they were not introduced
at the beginning (as in Helen and Iphigenia) but later. Unfortu-
nately, it is not possible to say what happened next. There was
obviously a debate of some sort (maybe an ag∫n), the subjects of
which included bastardy (fr. 141), wealth (fr. 137, 142–3), and
love (fr. 136, 138); and a contretemps of some kind involving a
barbarian character (fr. 139); but apart from that, who can say
what happened? Our ignorance of the identity of the other
characters in the play (apart from Echo—who may perhaps
have been a genuine Euripidean invention) is another serious
problem.
If one imagines a counterfactual overturning of the familiar
story as outrageous as that seen in Helen and Iphigenia, then
there are several possibilities. One scenario is that Andromeda
was not saved by Perseus—the monster proved to be invincible,
or perhaps it even killed the gallant rescuer (there is no sign that
Perseus survived to the end of the play). It is unlikely that
Andromeda was devoured by the monster: this act would have
been narrated in a messenger-speech rather than acted out, but
Andromeda is (because of her chains) a permanent on-stage
presence. Another possible scenario is that Perseus did not
marry Andromeda, for whatever reason. Particularly intriguing
is the presence of the magical Gorgon’s head, which Perseus has
in his sack (fr. 123). Webster makes little of this, suggesting
merely that ‘Perseus . . . may have threatened to use the Gorgon’s
head to petrify the opposition’.200 But why suppose that the
matter extended only so far as a threat? In other versions of the
myth, Perseus does actually petrify his rival Phineus and his
followers.201 In a counterfactual version, it might have happened
that the ‘wrong’ person was turned to stone—even Andromeda
herself, perhaps?202 That would have been a most poignant
and pathetic end to the tragedy, as well as forming an ironically

definite ‘events’ in Andromeda above (§2.2.2); for more detail see Webster
(1967); cf. Klimek-Winter (1993).
200
Webster (1967) 198–9.
201
Apollodorus 2.4.3; Hyg. Fab. 64; Ov. Met. 5.1–235.
202
A possible precedent for petrification in tragedy is Aeschylus’ Niobe (TGF
4 [Radt] frr.154a–167b), but the fragments provide no clear sign of this. (Cf.
Hom. Il. 24.614–7, Ar. Frogs 911–12).
 Myth, Fiction, Innovation 123
satisfying ‘frame’ along with Perseus’ first sight of Andromeda,
where he actually mistook her for a beautiful statue.203
As I said, it is impossible to know whether or not the events in
Euripides’ play happened as imagined above or in one of a
hundred other different ways: such speculation, however divert-
ing, is not a very useful activity. But a strong argument against
a ‘counterfactual’ Andromeda is that no extant version of
the Andromeda myth contains any such violent variation on the
usual themes.204 It could be argued that this is because the
counterfactual myths elsewhere (in Helen and Iphigenia) were
not part of the mythical tradition but Euripidean inventions;
therefore the same might well have been true for Andromeda.
But, given the popularity of Andromeda in antiquity, one might
have expected the Euripidean version, even if unique and un-
paralleled, to have been reflected in the later mythical tradition.
In any case (as I have argued) Euripides probably did not invent
material to any great extent.
Even if the plot of Andromeda was based on a radical over-
turning of the usual myth, it would not be exactly comparable
with the other escape-tragedies. Counterfactual versions of the
myths of Helen and Iphigenia are particularly shocking because
both characters may be said to be ‘major’ characters in myth—
that is, they are related to a great many other characters and
events, and the repercussions of their lives and actions extend
through a number of generations. The Trojan War, perhaps the
biggest single event in Greek myth and history, would not have
happened but for Helen’s elopement and Iphigenia’s sacrifice.
Also, from the counterfactual angle, the plots of Helen and
Iphigenia are to be placed at the end of their respective mythical
sequences, and therefore prompt a radical re-evaluation of
everything that preceded. In comparison, Andromeda is a
‘minor’ (indeed, non-Greek) character who does not greatly
impinge on other characters or myths.205 Therefore the surprise
203
Andromeda fr. 125: parqvnou t’ ejk* tina | ƒx aÛtomÎrfwn la≤nwn tukism3twn
| sof[ß £galma ceirÎß (‘It is the statue of a young girl, fashioned out of a piece of
solid stone, the work of a skilled hand’). See §4.4.6 below for more comment on
this important fragment.
204
See the summaries above (§2.2.2).
205
She was, nevertheless, the mother of Perses: Apollodorus 2.4.3–5;
Eratosth. Catast. 15–7; Hdt. 7.61—so her actions and eventual fate were not
unimportant.
124 Myth, Fiction, Innovation
created by (say) an Andromeda who was eaten by the monster
would not be of precisely the same kind as that created by a
chaste Helen or a Tauric Iphigenia.
The plot and the treatment of myth in Andromeda may or may
not have corresponded to that in the other escape-tragedies, but
there are still numerous ways in which connections and simi-
larities can be observed. One of the most significant of these is
the escape-theme.

2.3.5 Escapology
As I observed in the first chapter (§1.2), the theme of escape and
rescue shared by Helen, Andromeda and Iphigenia was almost
unparalleled in extant tragedy. It may be that other lost,
unknown plays centred on escapes, but the only certain examples
of previous ‘escape-tragedies’ are Sophocles’ Andromeda and
Aeschylus’ lost Prometheus Unbound.206 Sophocles wrote a
tragedy entitled The Retrieval of Helen (}Elvnhß åpait&siß), which
survives only in a tiny number of fragments:207 the title might
indicate an escape-tragedy, but the fragments give no clue as to
the plot, characters or substance of the play. Sophocles’
Philoctetes also took escape as its theme, but that play dates from
409 bc (when it won first prize) and was probably influenced by
Euripides.208 Euripides’ Alcestis (438 bc) contains the motif of an
‘escape’ from death, but the central concern in that play is really
the dilemma of Admetus. While it can be seen that the subject-
matter of tragedy in general is diverse,209 escape from desperate
situations is nevertheless an odd and unexpected theme.
Escapes were, it seems, a recurrent feature of satyr-drama
(compare, for example, the escape of the Greek sailors from the
Cyclops in Euripides’ play).210 This fact is adduced by certain
206
Soph. Andromeda: TGF 4 (Radt) fr. 126–36; cf. TGF 1 (Snell) 100 fr. 1c;
212 fr. 1.; cf. p. 31 above.
207
TGF 4 (Radt) fr. 176–180a: see also n. 151 above.
208
There are other important differences between Philoctetes and Euripides’
escape-tragedies: the setting (Lemnos, rather than exotic barbarian lands), the
small number of characters, the nature of the ‘captivity’ and ‘rescue’, the lack of
physical danger, etc.
209
See the discussion in §1.1 above.
210
Further examples are given by Sutton (1980): index s.v. ‘bondage and
liberation’, and Seaford (1984) 33 on ‘the captivity, servitude and liberation of
the satyrs’. It has been suggested that Sophocles’ Andromeda was a satyr-play:
 Myth, Fiction, Innovation 125
critics who claim that Helen and Iphigenia are un-tragic;211 but in
fact there is no reason to assume that the escape-theme was per-
ceived in the fifth century as being a characteristic exclusive to
the satyric genre. It is more accurate to view escape and rescue as
‘cross-generic’ features which sometimes featured in satyr-play
and sometimes (but more rarely) featured in tragedy.
(Interestingly, no one ever claims that Philoctetes is satyric or
‘pro-satyric’.)
One obvious explanation for the rarity of escape-related plots
is that escape features in comparatively few myths—especially
few tragic myths, where the focus is usually on suffering and
death.212 The myth of Andromeda is one of the few exceptions.
And the reason why escape-plots are particularly unexpected
here is that the myths of Helen and Iphigenia (however inter-
preted) did not contain escapes from distant countries.
Euripides has added the escape element to the traditional myths
in order to create his plots.
The reason why this was possible, and indeed why Euripides’
plots seem to be more inventive than any others, is that the
counterfactual alternatives of the Helen and Iphigenia myths
are, in an important sense, not really myths at all. Rather, they
are negations of myths, ‘anti-myths’ as one might say. ‘Helen did
not cause the war’, ‘Iphigenia did not die’—these are not events;
they tell only what Helen and Iphigenia did not do, and not what
they actually did.213 Furthermore, these ‘anti-myths’ lack
sequels: what really happened to Helen and Iphigenia next is left
unclear (despite the attempts of the plays’ concluding aetiologies
to pin down their eventual, divine fate, long in the future). In
consequence, then, Euripides had a great deal more freedom of
imagination than usual to develop his plots, for it was only at
their beginnings—the initial situations with which the plays
start—that he was bound to the myth. Having inherited the
characters and situations (having, in fact, deliberately chosen
the presence of Pans (mentioned in fr. 136), as well as the escape-motif, has been
seen as another argument in favour of that interpretation (but Lloyd-Jones
[1996, 50–1] considers this insufficient evidence).
211
Sutton (1980); E. M. Hall (1997).
212
See §1.2 above.
213
Cf. Austin (1994) 10–11: ‘All that could be said of this revised Helen was
that she was not that troublesome ghost who had caused the grief at Troy . . . the
only reason for this Helen’s being was to be not-Helen of Troy.’
126 Myth, Fiction, Innovation
them), Euripides would have had carte blanche to develop them
as he wished.
In this respect one can appreciate the particular importance of
Andromeda in relation to the other two myths. As I argued
above, Andromeda is not a ‘major’ character like Helen or
Iphigenia; neither genealogy nor circumstance connect her to
these heroines; and in all probability her mythical tradition, and
the plot of Euripides’ tragedy, contained none of the contra-
dictory or counterfactual elements that characterize the other
two. Indeed, the three women seem to have little in common: on
the face of it, Andromeda is not at all an obvious character to
complete the triad. But I believe that the importance of the
Andromeda myth is that it suggested to Euripides a plot for
Helen and Iphigenia. As Burnett puts it (with reference to
Iphigenia), Euripides ‘saw the relevance of the Andromeda
pattern’.214 Euripides’ creativity or innovation, in other words,
consisted in part of adapting each subject to conform to a single
type—an unexpected and imaginative feat. In terms of situation
and character, Helen and Iphigenia have been transformed into
versions of Andromeda: they have all become (at least, for the
purposes of the myth) ‘damsels in distress’ waiting to be rescued.
Andromeda’s importance for the trilogy, then, is that she
embodies the themes of captivity, oppression, danger from the
sea, rescue, and escape which are so central to these plays.
One argument against a ‘trilogy of escape’ is that the effect of
three tragedies with almost-identical plots would be enervating,
confusing or otherwise undesirable.215 But this would not neces-
sarily have been the case. True, a sequence consisting of Helen—
Andromeda—Iphigenia would have had an odd, quasi-hypnotic
quality which may well have left some audience members bored
or baffled. Equally true is that it is hard to find definite parallels
for a thematic trilogy, especially one concerned with so unusual
(even factitious) a theme as escape (though the possibility should
214
Burnett (1971) 74: my italics. On story-patterns, cf. Lattimore (1964) 8–9,
52–3; O’Brien (1988) 99–101; Burian (1997). The ‘Andromeda pattern’ is a folk-
tale motif with parallels in Oriental mythology also. Burkert (1987, 33–4 and
figs. 2.7–8) gives various examples from literature and iconography, including
Astarte, who was offered to the Canaanite sea-god Jam; in art, cf. LIMC
‘Andromeda’ I.
215
Schmid and Stählin (1940) I.3, 519–20; Grégoire (1968) 106: see §1.2
above for more discussion of the points raised here.
 Myth, Fiction, Innovation 127
not be rejected for that reason alone). But I believe that these
three plays were produced as a set, and that there was a deliber-
ate and calculated purpose behind the trilogy. In the first place,
three escape-plays in succession would have stimulated their
audience to think deeply about the subject of escape and its con-
sequences. In general, the close repetition of certain actions and
patterns may lead to the emergence of new levels of meaning.
Second, this end-to-end arrangement would have forced the
audience to consider not only the similarities but also the
differences between three ostensibly identical plots and situa-
tions. This is extremely significant in the light of another motif
which connects the escape-tragedies: the contrast between
reality and illusion.216 In other words, the escape-tragedies seem
to resemble each other, but in reality there are numerous (large
and small) differences.

2.3.6 Weird geography

From the moment when the character Helen stepped on to the
stage and started to deliver the prologue-speech, the audience
must have realized that this was no ordinary tragic plot. Ne≤lou
mvn aJde kallip3rqenoi Âoa≤—‘Nile’s lovely-virgin streams are
these’—is the line with which the play opens. The placing of
Ne≤lou as the first word is extremely emphatic, and seems
designed for maximum shock-effect—surely the obvious setting
for a tragedy about Helen would have been Troy, or Sparta?217
Most tragedies were set somewhere in Greece or the area
around the Aegean.218 Although foreign characters are often to
be found, a foreign setting in a barbarian land was unusual, and
the choice of Egypt in particular was almost unique. Other
tragedies had made mention of Egypt and its inhabitants,219 but

216
See §4.3 and 4.4 below.
217
On shock-tactics in prologues (in particular) see Arnott (1990) 1–2.
218
Of Euripides’ surviving nineteen plays, three (Rhes., Tro., Hec.) are set in
or near Troy, four (Med., Hipp., El., Or.) in the Peloponnese, three (Ion, Alc.,
Andromache) in northern Greece, four (Phoen., Her., Bacch., Iph. at Aulis) in
Boeotia, two (Children of H., Suppl.) in Attica and one (Cycl.) in Sicily. (Com-
pare Bernand [1985] 166 on ‘l’atlas d’Euripide’.) Interestingly, no tragedies are
thought to have been set in Sparta.
219
Aeschylus, Prometheus Bound and Suppliants.
128 Myth, Fiction, Innovation
it seems likely that only once before (if ever) had a tragedy used
Egypt as its setting.220
In fact, not just Helen but all three escape-tragedies are
remarkable for their far-flung settings. It is probable, though not
certain, that Ethiopia was the location for Andromeda.221 The
setting would probably have emerged, as in the other two plays,
from the prologue-speech (although this is not clear from the
fragments).222 As it is, there is no firm internal evidence to indi-
cate the place: we know that the heroine was imprisoned on a
rock situated in the waves of the sea, near a cave;223 but the
country and precise locale remain unknown, beyond the fact that
it is clearly a barbarian country.224 One has to look for external
evidence to suggest a location: but there is some contradiction.
Some versions of the myth give the setting as Ethiopia, of which
Andromeda’s father Cepheus was king,225 but a number of
sources specifically name Joppa in Phoenicia as the scene of the
exposure and rescue;226 and Herodotus says that Perseus married
220
The title of Euripides’ satyr-play Busiris indicates an Egyptian setting.
Although the fragments (TGF frr. 313–15 Kannicht) provide no assistance,
there exist possible indications of the plot (Apollodorus 2.5.11, Dio Chrys. 8.32,
S Apoll.Rh. 4.1396). Aeschylus also wrote a satyr-play called Proteus (TGF 3
[Radt] frr. 210–15). However that might be, there is still no ground for claiming,
as some critics do, that an Egyptian setting marks out Helen as satyric or pro-
satyric: E. M. Hall (1997) xxiii; Sutton (1972 and 1980). Hall (1989a, 112)
claims that no tragedy prior to 412 was based in Egypt, but it seems at least
possible that Aeschylus’ Egyptians (TGF 3 [Radt] T 78) was set there: cf. Garvie
(1969) 188; Taplin (1977) 197–8. Kranz (1933, 75) discusses Phrynichus’ plays
with foreign choruses: the Suppliants, which (like Aeschylus’ play of the same
name) had an Egyptian chorus, and the Antaeus with its chorus of Libyans (see
also Suda s.v. Fr»nicoß).
221
Webster (1967, 199) takes it for granted (without stating the evidence) that
Ethiopia is correct.
222
The play notably did not open, as Helen, Iphigenia and many other
Euripidean dramas had done, with a scene-setting iambic speech, but instead
with a sung anapaestic monody which began _ nŸx Èer3: Andromeda, fr. 114 (cf.
S Ar. Thesm. 1065).
223
Andromeda fr. 125 (see further discussion in §3.4 below).
224
Perseus, in Andromeda fr. 124, asks: t≤n’ ejß g[n barb3rwn åf≤gmeqa; (‘to
what barbarian country have I come?).
225
Apollod. 2.4.3–5; Eratosth. Cat. 15–17; Philost. Imag. 1.29.3 (Ó kÎrh d†
Óde∏a m†n Òti leuk¶ ƒn Ajqiop≤ai, ‘the young girl is delightful on account of her
white skin in Ethiopia’). This last detail is reflected on vase-paintings, where the
white-skinned Andromeda contrasts with the black (Ethiopian?) male figures:
see Trendall and Webster (1971) 78–82 (figs. III. 3.10–13).
226
Paus. 4.35.9; Joseph. BJ 3.420; Strabo 16.2.28; Conon (FGH 26 F 1.40).
 Myth, Fiction, Innovation 129
Andromeda in Persia (naming Belus as her grandfather).227
Nevertheless, Aristophanes’ parody, which is considered good
evidence for the content of Andromeda, is set in Ethiopia: this
may be decisive.228
Like Egypt, Ethiopia was an extraordinary, if not unique,
setting for tragedy.229 The same is true of the Tauric land, the
outlandish location of Iphigenia. Here Iphigenia, unusually,
postpones announcement of the setting for thirty lines, which
again adds emphasis (in a different way from Helen’s Ne≤lou),
since most Euripidean prologues reveal their setting far
sooner.230 It is unlikely that any other tragedy (before or after
Iphigenia) was set by the shores of the Black Sea: indeed, apart
from this counterfactual Iphigenia story, no other Greek myth
seems to have been connected with the Tauric land. (While, as
we have seen, it is possible that Sophocles’ Chryses was a pre-
cursor to Iphigenia, the plot of that play as preserved by Hyginus
unfolds not in the Tauric land but on the isle of Sminthe, near
Lesbos.)
Whether or not Euripides was the first to use these locations, it
is one of the most striking features of the escape-tragedies that
their geography is as prominent as their myths and characters.
That is, the audience is invited to consider not just what the
characters did—or didn’t do—but where they did it. By empha-
sizing the locale so strongly (not just in the prologues but
throughout the plays), Euripides is both drawing attention to the
radical, counterfactual versions of the myths, and also highlight-
ing the idea of bizarre geography for its own sake.
In connection with this, it may be relevant to note that the
chief source of amusement in Aristophanes’ parodies of the
227
Hdt. 7.61. Cf. also Eur. Archelaus fr. 228a Kannicht.
228
Ar. Thesm. 1098.
229
It seems likely that Euripides’ Phaethon was set in Ethiopia (fr. 777
Nauck; cf. Strabo 1.2.27 and discussion in Diggle [1970] 78 and Collard, Cropp
and Lee [1995] 200, 224). An Aeschylean fragment of uncertain origin (TGF 3
[Radt] fr. 300) is concerned with Ethiopian weather-conditions, including the
supposed fact that Ethiopia is a source for Egypt’s water (from melted snow):
this clearly relates to Helen 1–3 (see §4.3 below). But who can say if the fragment
came from a tragedy set in Ethiopia?
230
Line-numbers indicate first revelation of setting: Alcestis 8; Andromache
16; Bacch. 1; Electra 6; Hec. 8; Heracles 4; Hcld. 7; Hipp. 12; Ion 5; [Iph. at Aul.
14, but suspected interpolation at beginning]; Med. 10; Orestes 46; [Phoen. 4,
but text corrupt/damaged at beginning]; Rhesus 20–24; Suppl. 1; Tro. 4.
130 Myth, Fiction, Innovation
escape-tragedies is not, as one might have expected, the unusual
myths and innovative characterization, but the exotic settings
and representation of the ethnic difference between Greeks and
barbarians. While it is perhaps dangerous to base too much on
this observation—it is always notoriously difficult to interpret
ancient jokes,231 and it may be simply that jokes about foreigners
are funnier, with far more comic mileage than jokes about
myth—Aristophanes’ parody is still strong evidence that the
contemporary audience found Euripides’ foreign settings a most
remarkable aspect (or the most remarkable aspect?) of the
escape-tragedies.
I observed above that the counterfactual myths of Helen and
Iphigenia were really ‘non-myths’, in that they consisted only of
what their characters did not do. In the same way, for the
purposes of these (non-) myths, Egypt, Ethiopia and the Black
Sea have a purely negative function as ‘non-places’, representing
regions so far distant as to be inaccessible or even imaginary.232
Each setting is just somewhere conveniently ‘off-stage’, where
the heroines could be kept safely, doing nothing, completely
invisible to the Greek world. Ken Dowden (in his Uses of Greek
Mythology) illuminatingly describes ‘barbarian’ lands such as
Egypt and Ethiopia as ‘beyond’, contrasting with ‘here’, in the
structural scheme of Greek mythology: ‘Locations in Greek
myth have a message relative to the location of the speaker . . . the
distance of a location from the speaker may be set to ‘maximum’
and therefore divorced from the standard order of things’.233
Places ‘beyond’ (to adopt his term) can be seen to have a relevant
connection to the motif of divine rescue: not only in the escape-
231
See esp. Murray (1933) 86: ‘if the scholars of ad 2500 were to discover
some present-day farce in which a man from Aberdeen was represented as
wildly scattering his money, or Dr. Einstein as refusing to pay his year’s rent on
the ground that Time does not exist . . . might we not easily have a scholiast
explaining that Aberdonians were notorious spendthrifts [and] that Dr.
Einstein was accused of not paying his debts . . .?’
232
This is rather different from the everyday significance of these places to
many 5th-cent. Athenians, who would have had knowledge of such countries as
real places (often from visiting them in person): see §3.2 below. The imaginary
landscape, as opposed to the real significance of foreign countries, is very impor-
tant in the escape-tragedies: I return to this theme in §3.4 below.
233
Dowden (1992) 129–33; the quotation is from 133. Cf. Davison (1991) 58:
‘the outer limits of geographic description serve as a directional device by which
the Greeks recognize their centrality in the Mediterranean world.’
 Myth, Fiction, Innovation 131
plays but elsewhere do the gods remove their favourites from
the scene of action or danger and transplant them to far-flung
places ‘off-stage’. In addition to Helen and Iphigenia, compare,
for example, the fragment of Euripides’ Erechtheus where
[Poseidon] in the prologue recalls his rescue of Eumolpus:
Ajqiop≤an nin ƒxvsws’ ƒp≥ cqÎna (‘I brought him safely to the land
of Ethiopia’).234 Poseidon at the beginning of the Odyssey, and
Zeus and other Olympians in the first book of the Iliad, are said
to be ‘away’ visiting the Ethiopians—this, again, is a narrative
device to place a character as it were ‘off-stage’.235
However, in Euripides’ unique transformation of these myths
into plots, this ‘device’ has become important in its own
right. The geography, the setting, and the means and routes of
travel have been made much more central—they are positive
rather than negative or purely symbolic features. Indeed, geo-
graphy and landscape are to form a major preoccupation of the
trilogy.236
It can be seen that Euripides’ interest in exotic geography is
shared, to some extent, by such poetic writers as Aeschylus and
Phrynichus; but this interest more obviously represents the
influence of prose writers such as Hecataeus, Hellanicus and
Herodotus, who fall somewhere in between ‘history’ and ‘geo-
graphy’. The influence of Herodotus, in particular, can be seen
in a number of ways. Most obviously, he mentions all three
Euripidean heroines—Andromeda, Helen (in Egypt) and
Iphigenia (in the Tauric land), though his version of their myths
is substantially different from that of Euripides in each case.
Some scholars have claimed that Euripides was dependent on
Herodotus’ Histories for detailed knowledge of Egypt and the
Black Sea.237 In the following chapter, I shall argue that this
claim is untrue. The details in Euripides, for whatever reason,
do not in fact correspond with Herodotus’ account. Never-
theless, Herodotus is of great importance: not, perhaps, as a
factual source, but instead—along with the other geographical-
234
Eur. Erechtheus fr. 349 Nauck: see Collard et al. (1995) 176 for the identifi-
cation of the speaker.
235
Hom. Od. 1.22; Il. 1.423; cf. 23.205–7. Cf. also S. West (1988) 74: she
observes Homer’s vagueness concerning the location of Ethiopia, which
supports the view that the country is used primarily as a narrative device.
236
This matter is explored in depth in Ch. 3 below.
237
Notably Hall (1989b): see §3.2 below.
132 Myth, Fiction, Innovation
historical writers just mentioned—as a more subtle, conceptual
influence.
Hecataeus, Hellanicus and Herodotus (among others) made
several significant contributions to Greek thought.238 Their
synoptic view of the world, their research into the past, their
polarization of human activity into ‘Greek’ and ‘barbarian’, and
their increasingly objective attitude to myth and ‘history’—all of
these developments are clearly reflected in Euripides’ own
world-view. The concepts of travel and of mapping the world
were developed by Hecataeus, who notably composed a
Periegesis (or Periodos) of the world.239 This work, which was
organized on the basis of a polar division of the earth into
‘Europe’ and ‘Asia’, seems to have described all the places visited
during the course of a voyage around the coast of the Medi-
terranean and the Black Sea. The idea of the periplous—a circuit
of the world and its seas—may give us another valuable perspec-
tive on Euripides’ ‘weird geography’ in the escape-tragedies. It
may be attractive to read the escape-tragedies as a kind of
periplous, taking in Egypt, Ethiopia and the Black Sea. All of
these locations and their inhabitants were described by
Hecataeus; and one notes with interest that these three regions in
particular were perceived by Herodotus as being at the extreme
edges of the inhabited world.240 So the escape-tragedies are, in
some sense, a world-tour, a nod to the developing disciplines of
ethnography, history and geography. And, like these other
writers, Euripides has something serious and important to say
about identity, ethnicity, culture and myth.
The unusual, ‘geographized’ quality of the escape-tragedies
suggests another way of looking at the question with which we
began this chapter. That is: can we say who really influenced
Euripides? When we investigate the question, it is worth con-
sidering just what we mean by ‘influence’. I have been dealing
with the issue so far in the sense of Quellenforschung—that is, by
treating (mostly poetic) texts and authors as sources and attempt-
ing to trace specific (small or large) details of Euripides’ myths or
238
This summary does not even attempt to do justice to the complexity of
these writers. Fowler (1996) and Thomas (2000) are among the best surveys of
the early historians and ethnographers and their intellectual context.
239
Hecataeus (FGH 1 F 217–68); his influence on the tragedians is discussed
by Hall (1989b) 75–6 and Kranz (1933).
240
Hdt. 3.17, 3.26, 4.46, 4.179.
 Myth, Fiction, Innovation 133
plots in these earlier works. As I said at the beginning of this
section, we cannot hope to identify Euripides’ sources exactly,
owing to the lack of evidence. Even so, I hope that the preceding
discussions have reinforced the case for perceiving Euripides’
myths as unusual combinations of elements, rather than as
original inventions or as direct borrowings from a single source.
In the following section (§2.4), I shall attempt to explain why
Euripides should have wanted to combine elements in this way.
But ‘influence’ may be understood in another sense. Instead of
focusing our attention on the borrowing of specific details, we
can examine the literary tradition in general, tracing Euripides’
broader conceptual debts to authors, genres or ideas—indeed,
this is, in a sense, what I shall be trying to do in the remainder of
this book. Once again, we must bear in mind that our informa-
tion is limited; but the scarcity of surviving texts becomes less of
a handicap when we concern ourselves with general influences
rather than detailed allusions. Whether or not Stesichorus’
Palinode has anything to do with Euripides, and whether or not
Sophocles got in first with the ‘counterfactual’ Iphigenia-myth
(and so on), I think that the escape-tragedies reveal the traces of
other—and rather more interesting—influences. In the chapters
which follow, we shall see some of the ways in which Euripides
reflects contemporary intellectual movements. Meaningful
connections can be made between his plays and a wide variety
of writings—poetic and non-poetic, historical, geographical,
philosophical and theological.

2.4 metamythology
At the beginning of this chapter, I made the claim that
Euripides’ attitude to myth in the escape-tragedies is extra-
ordinary. So far, I have been trying to demonstrate that
Euripides’ achievement was to adapt inherited material in a new
way. The precise degree to which inheritance and originality are
combined must, inevitably, remain obscure; but, in any case, we
miss the point somewhat if we spend all our time inquiring into
Euripides’ sources. If one can say little for certain about
Euripides’ relationship to specific literary predecessors, it still
remains to discuss Euripides’ position with regard to myth and
fiction in general: it is this position which makes the plays
134 Myth, Fiction, Innovation
extraordinary. I claimed in the introduction (§2.1) to this chapter
that the escape-tragedies are in some sense ‘about’ myth and
fiction, and this final section will attempt to expand and illustrate
that claim.
These plays do not just ‘make use’ of myth in the broadly
tragic sense of adopting and adapting traditional stories accord-
ing to the purposes of plot-construction.241 It seems to me that
Helen and Iphigenia242 have a distinctive intellectual quality, in
that they encourage their audience to consider the business of
myth and fiction as a subject in its own right. They are pre-
occupied with the mythical tradition—with the uses to which
myth is put, and the statements which people make about myths.
It is this preoccupation, I believe, which lies behind the choice of
the myths of Helen and Iphigenia: these myths (as we have seen)
were unusually abundant in contradictions and inconcinnities,
not just in minor details but in their self-negating counterfactual
versions. Such entangled myths are, clearly, ideal subjects for
tragedies which explore and problematize the nature and mean-
ing of myth.243 In fact, a failure to realize this has affected the
approach of many studies of Euripides’ ‘sources’ (as discussed in
the last section).
Whether Euripides was drawing on Hesiod or Stesichorus in
particular is far less interesting, and far more difficult to demon-
strate, than the fact that these escape-tragedies draw on disputed
myths in general. In other words, Euripides’ original way of
looking at myths is far more important than the myths them-
selves.
Euripides’ attitude to myth and the presentation of the
241
The tired phrase ‘use of myth’—Eisner (1979), Hartigan (1981), etc.—
very often marks a lack of thought, a refusal to define just what this ‘use’ was
(apart from mere allusion) and a failure to consider why Euripides should have
bothered with these changes in substance and presentation. It is these short-
comings that I have been attempting to address throughout this chapter.
242
Andromeda must largely be excluded from the discussion, for the nature of
the fragments prevents any firm conclusions being drawn about that play’s
presentation of myth and fiction. Nonetheless, fr. 151 may tentatively be seen to
fit into the picture (see n. 279 below).
243
Cf. Hartigan (1981) 27–8: she says that Euripides’ myth in the Helen is
‘eminently suited to illustrate the ideas E. wished to portray. . . . the tension
between its very improbability . . . and its dubious veracity . . . offers the drama-
tist the opportunity to call into question the bases for men’s beliefs and apparent
certainties’.
 Myth, Fiction, Innovation 135
traditional stories in the escape-tragedies could, I suggest, be
described as metamythological. This term has not, to my know-
ledge, previously been used—but, while acknowledging that
jargon in literary criticism may often obscure rather than illumi-
nate, I believe that there is a need for such a term to denote the
specific type of literary activity which is at work here.
‘Metamythology’ may be defined as a type of discourse which
arises when mythical characters (here, but not necessarily, in
dramatic fiction) are made to talk about themselves and their
own myths, or when myths are otherwise presented, in a deliber-
ate and self-conscious manner; it is a type of discourse which
seems to be designed to emphasize the fictionality of myth, as
well as to signal that the myth is being discussed qua myth (rather
than qua real life, as the fictional context would normally lead us
to assume). This type of literary activity is quite closely related to
‘metatheatricality’ and ‘metafiction’, but there is an important
difference. Unlike these other two types of meta-activity, the
genre and the context are not important. Hence, it is not the
theatricality that is being emphasized: metamythology could be
observed in a theatre, or in a song, or as it might be in the pages
of a book. Nor is it, specifically, the fictiveness that is being
emphasized (though that aspect, as we shall see, plays a large part
in the discussion). It is myth—specifically in the sense of myth
and the mythical tradition—that is under the magnifying-glass.
Self-conscious reference to myth has been perceived as occur-
ring in, for example, the recognition-scene of Euripides’ Electra;
but in that play the reference is to a specific earlier tragedy on
the same subject by Aeschylus, and not necessarily to the myth
or the mythical tradition in a wider sense.244 So the Electra
may be classified as ‘metatragic’, ‘polemical’ or ‘parodic’, but not
metamythological as such.245 Indeed, it does not appear that

244
Eur. El. 518–46: discussed by, among others, Bond (1974) and Davies
(1998). Davies argues, in particular, that this type of parody is extremely rare:
he dismisses nearly all ‘further alleged criticisms of specific tragedies in extant
tragedy’, concluding that in fact there is nothing comparable to the Electra
passage and some ‘smaller pieces of dramatic criticism’ in Phoen. 748–53 and
Or. 1225–42 (pp. 396–9, 402–3).
245
Segal (1982, 216) gives a good definition of metatragedy as ‘self-conscious
reflection by the dramatist on the theatricality and illusion-inducing power of
his own work, on the limits and range of the truth that the dramatic fiction can
convey.’ This is, clearly, something quite different from my subject here.
136 Myth, Fiction, Innovation
metamythology is much to be found outside the escape-
tragedies;246 at least, not with the same frequency and concentra-
tion as in these plays—another way, then, in which the
escape-tragedies seem to stand together as a distinct group.
To begin with, I shall illustrate precisely what I mean by the
‘deliberate and self-conscious’ manner in which myths are pre-
sented in Helen and Iphigenia. There are a number of ways in
which this can be observed.
First, and most prominent, are those instances where charac-
ters refer to their own lives and ‘contemporary’ events in such a
way as to suggest that these were already well known, as ‘myth’
or ‘history’. Characters and events are described as being
‘famous’; mythological statements are prefaced by such phrases
as ‘everyone in the world knows that—’, and ‘people say that—’.
References of this type are striking and unnatural whichever way
they are viewed. They sit uneasily within the fictional situation
in which they are uttered because—although the Trojan War
may well have been a popular topic of conversation among Helen
and Iphigenia’s contemporaries247—the events to which they
refer would not have acquired this sort of mythic or quasi-
mythic status at the supposed date at which the play is set. If, on
the other hand, one considers such words as being effectively an
address to the audience, not to the characters, the incongruity
arises through the ironic rupturing of the dramatic illusion.248
(Clearly, remarks about ‘famous’ events in myth do appeal
primarily to the fifth-century audience’s knowledge of myth
through Homer and the other poets.)
The use of words and phrases meaning ‘famous’ or ‘well-
known’ are common throughout the plays. For example, in the
246
However, see e.g. Euripides’ Melanippe the Wise (fr. 484 Nauck): koÛk
ƒmÏß Ø mıqoß, åll’ ƒm[ß mhtrÏß p3ra. Is this metamythological? The lack of con-
text makes it hard to say. A different sort of ‘self-consciousness’, based on the
loaded use of the word kainÎß, is detected in some of Euripides’ plays (e.g.
Heracles 26–34, Suppl. 592–7, Hcld. 929–30, Hec. 674–89) by MacDermott
(1991). This is not seen in the escape-tragedies, but may be compared for a
broadly similar technique of emphasis and problematizing of myth.
247
Of course, this remark assumes that the audience is to imagine the heroic
age and its characters in terms of real people with characteristics explicable in
terms of real-life experience—for the pitfalls associated with this line of think-
ing (the ‘documentary fallacy’ and related concepts), see especially Goldhill
(1990); Easterling (1990).
248
Cf. Bain (1977) and (1987)—though with a rather different perspective.
 Myth, Fiction, Innovation 137
prologue to Iphigenia (9), the heroine describes the bay of Aulis,
where her ‘sacrifice’ took place, as kleina∏ß. Why, exactly, is Aulis
‘famous’? One could answer that the sacrifice of Iphigenia would
have been spoken of by the Argives and the Greek army at Troy
soon after its occurrence, but there are clearly additional over-
tones to the description, since it refers to what by the fifth
century would have been a famous event. Similarly, Helen refers
to the kleinÏn . . . pvdon (‘famous plain’) of Sparta and the klein¶n
pÎlin (‘famous city’) of Troy;249 she says, pointedly, in the pro-
logue that her birthplace is oÛk ån*numoß (‘not nameless’);250 one
of the reasons given for Zeus’ decision to cause the war was to
make Achilles gnwtÎn (‘well-known’);251 and Menelaus talks of
kleinÏn tÏ Tro≤aß pır (‘the famous fire that burnt down Troy’)
and tÏ TrwikÏn . . . klvoß (‘the glory of Troy’).252 All these
descriptions seem unescapably two-edged. One might profitably
compare the remark of Winnington-Ingram (on the Phoenician
Women): ‘I have often wondered whether the epithet kleinÎß,
which occurs with some frequency in these later plays, does not
really indicate something like “belonging to the epic”.’253 Lee
records that, among the seventy-four definite instances of kleinÎß
in Euripides, more than twenty refer to the Trojan War: ‘this is
by far the largest of the categories into which the occurrences of
kleinÎß in Euripides can be divided.’254
Sometimes there might be additional irony. Menelaus, who
describes himself as being ‘famous the whole world over’ (oÛk
£gnwstoß ƒn p3shi cqon≤, 504), nevertheless suffers embarrass-
ment and humiliation during the following exchange with the
old Portress at Theoclymenus’ palace (453–4):

249
Helen 57–8, 105.
250
Helen 16: an additional reason for believing the description to be pointed
is the prominence of Ônoma and related words in that play—see Solmsen (1934a),
Segal (1971) and §4.4 below.
251
Helen 41.
252
Helen 503–4, 843–4. Cf. ibid. 1602, where Helen—in rather a different
sense—asks poı tÏ TrwikÎn klvoß; (‘Where is the glory of Troy?).
253
Winnington-Ingram (1960) 34–5.
254
Lee (1986) 311–12. He is arguing for the manuscript reading kleinÎß
at Helen 1399 (in preference to Beck’s conjecture kainÎß, adopted by Diggle
and others): not only does the word possess epic connotations, but it is also a
regular title of honour bestowed on princes and tyrants (cf. Eur. El. 327,
Heracles 38).
138 Myth, Fiction, Innovation
ME. aja∏: t¤ klein¤ poı st≤ moi strate»mata;
GR. oÛkoın ƒke∏ pou semnÏß Ásq’, oÛk ƒnq3de.
Menelaus: Alas!—where is my famous army now?
Portress: No doubt you were a big man somewhere or other—but not
here.
It must be borne in mind that the Portress is a cantankerous old
Egyptian woman, and that Greeks did not expect that barbarians
would be familiar with their myths;255 but, even so, this dialogue
presents in a depressingly negative light the Trojan War and the
heroic way of life as expressed in the person of Menelaus.256 The
Portress’s contemptuous ƒke∏ pou (‘somewhere or other’) and the
treatment of Menelaus elsewhere in the play, makes the hero of
Troy and his exploits seem largely insignificant. What, after all,
does Menelaus’ ‘fame’ mean?—and what is the good of being
famous for fighting at Troy, if the war is now seen to have been
completely futile?257
In general, the characters show an artificially enhanced aware-
ness that people up and down the Greek world are talking about
them and their myths. For instance, Teucer, asked by Helen
about Menelaus, replies: „ß ke∏noß åfan¶ß sŸn d3marti kl&izetai
(‘it is said that he perished, together with his wife’), repeating this
impression of a universal rumour a little later with qan°n d†
kl&izetai kaq’ }Ell3da (‘it is said all over Greece that he is dead’).258
Iphigenia says to Orestes: Tro≤an ÷swß o”sq’, ¬ß Åpantacoı lÎgoß
(‘I wonder if you have heard of Troy, whose fame has reached
everywhere’).259 The irony here lies not just in the obvious
fact, known to the audience but not to Iphigenia, that Orestes
certainly ‘knows about’ Troy (the casual ÷swß underlines the
irony), but also in her statement that the lÎgoß of Troy—story?

255
In fact, ignorance of Greek customs, including myths, was one of the
criteria on which the inferiority of barbarian people was judged: see §3.3 below.
256
Admittedly, Menelaus’ treatment in tragedy does not generally show him
up very well. His appearance at Soph. Ajax 1046 is described by Jebb (1896, ad
loc.) as ‘the type of Spartan arrogance’, but Griffith (1953, 37) considers that
‘rather, he has a good deal of the “Miles Gloriosus” about him’; cf. Eur. Or. and
Andromache (for, again, a largely negative portrayal). Even in the Iliad there are
precedents (e.g. 15.160) for making Menelaus ‘a combination of the valorous
and the ludicrous’ (Whitman [1974] 47); cf. Athenaeus 5.178b.
257
See §4.4.2 below.
258
Helen 126, 132: compare ibid. 926–8 (quoted below).
259
Iphigenia 517.
 Myth, Fiction, Innovation 139
history? myth?—is universally widespread. In any case, there is
an inherent improbability here (if one is paying attention to
logic): how can Iphigenia have been expected to know the extent
of Troy’s fame? She had supposedly been flown to the Tauric
land at the moment of her sacrifice, before the expedition had set
sail. (However, there is, I think, an additional point here, con-
cerning tragedy’s own presentation of its spread and influence
throughout the Mediterranean world. The implicit assumption
that their tragedies are universally known is, in some sense, an
expression of the Athenians’ imperialist attitude.260)
The stichomythic section of Iphigenia in which Iphigenia
questions her brother about events connected to the Trojan War
(517–69) is shot through with similar references to ‘famous’
Greeks. She asks him whether the return of the forces from Troy
happened „ß khr»ssetai (‘as it is reported’, 527), and shortly
afterwards enquires t≤ d’ Ø strathgÏß n lvgous’ eÛdaimone∏n;
(‘what about the general, the one whom they call “fortu-
nate”?’)—a reference to her father Agamemnon, in which lvgous’
has a wider significance.261 Like her other questions, it alludes to
a mythic tradition of which Iphigenia, trapped for years in the
wilds of the Tauric land, could not have been aware. Orestes in
the same exchange (532–4) uses similar phrases (—ß Án . . . lÎgoß,
„ß lÎgoß) to refer to the wide fame of the heroes of Troy. When
asked about Odysseus, he replies (534–6):
OR. oÇpw nenÎsthk’ o”kon: πsti d’, „ß lÎgoß.
IF. Ôloito, nÎstou m&pot’ ƒß p3tran tuc*n.
OR. mhd†n kate»cou: p3nta tåke≤nou nose∏.
Orestes: He has not yet returned home, but he is still alive, so the story
goes.
Iphigenia: May he perish, and never return to his fatherland!
Orestes: Do not curse him: his situation is entirely wretched.
Odysseus’ fate in some way mirrors their own; but just how does
Orestes know what perils have befallen him on the sea since
leaving Troy? It seems that „ß lÎgoß here is a self-conscious
appeal to the audience’s knowledge of myth and epic: Orestes is
260
This is, I suppose, metatragic rather than metamythological (but not in any
usual sense).
261
Iphigenia 543. Cropp (2000, ad loc.) lists some parallels, all tragic, for the
use of eÛda≤mwn to describe the Greek leaders at Troy: Hec. 753, Helen 453, 457,
Or. 351–5.
140 Myth, Fiction, Innovation
made to speak as if the Odyssey had already been composed as he
stood on the Tauric shores. When Iphigenia asks Orestes about
the fate of Calchas, he replies: Ôlwlen, „ß Án ƒn Mukhna≤oiß lÎgoß
(‘he has perished, according to the Mycenaean version of events’):
this time it is not just myth, but a specific local tradition, to which
attention is drawn. (Did the Mycenaean version of the myth of
Calchas contrast with other current versions?262) Again, a detail
of minor importance in itself is used to highlight the status of
myth qua myth.
The sufferings of the royal family of Argos following the end
of the war are also thoroughly familiar, according to Pylades:
‘everyone who has at all considered the matter’ knows about
them.263 This can be seen as an implicit reference not just to the
mythical tradition but also to the numerous tragedies which had
dramatized the myths of the house of Agamemnon. And just a
few lines after this passage, when Pylades is deliberating what to
do, it emerges that he is concerned about what people will say
about him in the future. Dreading the acquisition of a reputation
for cowardice, he says (677–9):
ka≥ deil≤an g¤r ka≥ k3khn kekt&somai
⁄rgei te Fwkvwn t’ ƒn polupt»cwi cqon≤:
dÎxw d† to∏ß pollo∏si (pollo≥ g¤r kako≤)
prodoŸß ses0sqai s’ aÛtÏß ejß o÷kouß mÎnoß.
Argos and Phocia with its many valleys will hold me to be a coward and
a traitor; and to the population at large (low as they are) I will seem to
have betrayed you in order to get home safely myself.
Fear of being scorned by one’s enemies was a regular topos in epic
and drama, but perhaps there is another meaning being
expressed here. For Pylades, in contrasting the opinion of Argos
262
There were certainly differing versions of the Calchas myth. In one well-
known version, he died of frustration after losing a contest in prophecy to
Mopsus, the son of Apollo: Strabo 14.5.16 (= Sophocles, Retrieval of Helen:
TGF 4 [Radt] fr. 180, 180a). See Cropp (2000) 212; Platnauer (1938) 106.
263
Iphigenia 670–1: t¤ g¤r toi basilvwn paq&mata | ÷sasi p3nteß —n ƒpistrof&
tiß Ái. Cropp (2000, ad loc.) translates as ‘(all) of/from whom there was any
attention; not ‘(kings) to whom any regard was due (L.S.J. ƒpistrof& II.3)’.
This translation sits better in context: the alternative would remove specific
reference to Agamemnon’s family, which seems to be Pylades’ main point. Cf.
Platnauer (1938) ad loc., who translates as ‘ “all who have given and received
visitations know . . .”, i.e. all who have not lived out of the world.’ He sees
Kirchhoff’s —n 〈t’〉 as attractive in that case, but this change is not necessary.
 Myth, Fiction, Innovation 141
and Phocia with that of the population at large, is clearly imagin-
ing that his name will be on the lips of many more people than his
family, friends and fellow countrymen. So the words dÎxw d† to∏ß
pollo∏si may refer to a potentially much wider audience—the
audience of tragedy, students of myth, or even the whole of
posterity.264
Pylades is not the only character to be concerned with his
reputation. Orestes, too, expresses the hope that his name will
live on, even if his body perishes at the hands of Iphigenia.265
Iphigenia herself reveals that she is interested in what the Greeks
have been saying about her, asking her brother, before they
have recognized each other, whether there is any news of
Agamemnon’s sacrificed daughter (sfage≤shß qugatrÏß πsti tiß
lÎgoß, 563). He replies—perhaps disappointingly for her—that
there is none (oÛde≤ß ge).266 But fame is important most of all to
Helen, whose sufferings (she says) arise largely from her false
reputation as an adulteress and bringer of ruin.267 Although
again Helen is, ostensibly, referring to her stock among con-
temporary Greeks, seventeen years after the fall of Troy, her
frequently-expressed concern for fame has implications far
beyond the immediate time-scale of the play. Helen is anxious
about the false ‘talk’ (b3xiß) which travels through the cities of
Greece,268 and rues the fact that her own name has a ‘false report’
264
Why call them kako≤ (678), in that case?—a potential difficulty, which may
be resolved if we take it as a reference to a mass tragic audience, as opposed to
Pylades’ aristocratic background. The description then becomes anachronistic,
reflecting late fifth-century democratic terminology (but this is not incongruous
in the context; nor is it unparalleled in tragedy elsewhere: see Easterling
[1985a]).
265
Iphigenia 697: Ônom3 t’ ƒmoı gvnoit’ #n. Here, unusually in the escape-
tragedies, one’s Ônoma is made to seem potentially more, not less, permanent than
one’s s0ma. Nevertheless, the unreliability of names and words elsewhere in the
plays makes one question the truth of Orestes’ words: see §4.4 below.
266
As we have seen, Iphigenia believes that everyone is talking about
Troy and its stories. Many people in real-life and fiction are fascinated by the
thought of what their friends will say about them, once they are dead. One
thinks particularly of Trimalchio, who staged a mock-funeral for his dinner-
guests: ‘fingite me’ inquit ‘mortuum esse: dicite aliquid belli’ (Petronius, Satyr.
78.2).
267
Helen 53–55: Ó d† p3nta tl$s’ ƒg° | kat3ratÎß ejmi ka≥ dok0 prodoıs’ ƒmÏn
| pÎsin sun3yai pÎlemon Efi llhsin mvgan (‘but I, the long-suffering one, am reviled
and thought to have betrayed my husband and brought about a massive war for
the Greeks’). Cf. 270–90, 926–8, etc.
268
Helen 223–8. This image is rather like that of Vergil’s Fama which sweeps
142 Myth, Fiction, Innovation
(may≤dion πcei f3tin, 250). She bewails the ‘Helen’ of the standard
version of the myth, whom this new, ‘real’ Helen wishes to
expunge from the public memory (926–8):
E
} lvnhn g¤r oÛde≥ß Òstiß oÛ stuge∏ brot0n:
© kl&izomai kaq’ }Ell3d’ „ß prodoıs’ ƒmÏn
pÎsin Frug0n •ikhsa polucr»souß dÎmouß.
There is no one alive who does not loathe Helen: I am talked about
throughout Greece as having betrayed my husband and having gone to
live in Troy’s extravagant palaces.
This is not simply paranoia or egomania: just in case we had
forgotten Helen’s negative portrayal in the rest of tragedy,
Teucer confirms Helen’s summary of the situation, saying that
the whole of Greece hates Helen (mise∏ g¤r }Ell¤ß p$sa t¶n DiÏß
kÎrhn, 81). The image created is of a whole world talking about
Helen and the Trojan myths. But this far-flung fame is, accord-
ing to the plays, based on falsehood and delusion: Helen’s deser-
tion of her husband is a misapprehension; Iphigenia’s death was
a red herring; therefore the Trojan War, and Orestes’ exile and
displacement, were for nothing. If people all over Greece hate
Helen, it is a result of myth—and the myth, so we are now led to
believe, was wrong.
Another sort of ‘self-conscious’ presentation of myth is to be
observed (chiefly) in Helen. Helen is made to refer to certain inci-
dents from her own life or family history as stories subject to the
conditions of truth and falsehood usually associated with fiction.
In the passages in question, she does not, as one would have
expected, vouch for the authenticity of her own stories, but
rather invites the audience to choose between either believing or
disbelieving them. Helen’s detachment, when talking about
events which purport to form her own experience, creates a
bizarre and rather unsettling effect: does she not know what
happened in her own life?
The first example of this strangely impersonal ‘auto-
biography’ occurs in the prologue-speech. Helen relates her
genealogy, saying that her father is Tyndareus—but on the other
hand there is a certain story (17–21) . . .

through cities causing damage (Aen. 4.173 ff .: ‘Extemplo Libyae magnas it

Fama per urbes, | Fama, malum qua non aliud velocius ullum’).
 Myth, Fiction, Innovation 143
pat¶r d† Tund3rewß: πstin d† d¶
lÎgoß „ß ZeŸß mhtvr’ πptat’ ejß ƒm¶n
L&dan k»knou morf*mat’ Ôrniqoß lab*n,
ß dÎlion eÛn¶n ƒxvprax’ Ëp’ ajetoı
di*gma fe»gwn, ej saf¶ß o˜toß lÎgoß.
my father is Tyndareus. But there is a certain story that Zeus, taking the
form of a swan, flew to my mother Leda and lay with her by deception,
pretending to be fleeing the pursuit of an eagle—if that story is true.
Although the myth of Zeus visiting Leda as a swan was, it seems,
an old story,269 the fact of Helen’s having, in a sense, two fathers
is odd, and in part it is this oddity to which attention is being
drawn. (How can anyone with a rudimentary knowledge of bio-
logy seriously believe this myth?) But more important is the way
Helen tells the story: she introduces it in the manner of an anec-
dote which she cannot authenticate and which, more disturbing-
ly, she seems not to believe! The phrase ej saf¶ß o˜toß lÎgoß is
difficult to translate accurately, for the precise nuance may con-
sist of any combination of archness, scepticism, indifference or
disbelief. ‘If that story is true’ / ‘That story might be true’—in
effect, she seems to be saying: ‘Believe that if you will.’270
This passage should probably be seen as programmatic. Apart
from the genealogy of the Egyptian royal family, it is the
first myth in the play (perhaps the first in the trilogy, if I am
correct about the order), and thus it sets the stage early on for the
problematizing of myth.271 Immediately after these lines we will
hear Helen expounding the counterfactual version of her own
story (22–55): that myth is presented in a quite straightforward,
un-self-conscious manner, but the emergence, right at the begin-
ning, of this new attitude of detached scepticism must alert us to
the possibility that not just weird counterfactuals but all myths
are potentially suspicious.
Elsewhere in the play Helen creates the same impression that
she is recounting somebody else’s (fictional) story and not her
269
See §2.2.2 above for sources.
270
Cf. Stinton (1976a) 75: ‘from Helen’s own lips the effect of ambivalence is
curious and a little startling.’ He points out that the swan-story is treated with
scepticism also at Eur. Iph. at Aulis 793–800; however, there the context and
speaker are quite different (the passage occurs in a choral ode).
271
Contrast, for example, Eur. Heracles, where the problematic myth—made
much of by Stinton (1976a) and Brown (1978)—comes almost right at the end of
the play (1341–6).
144 Myth, Fiction, Innovation
own (true) one. Take, for instance, the following conversation
between Helen and Teucer (98–9):
TE. tÏn Phlvwß tin’ o”sq’ !cillva gÎnon;
EL. na≤:
mnhst&r poq’ E} lvnhß Álqen, „ß åko»omen.
Teucer: Have you heard of Achilles, the son of Peleus?
Helen: Yes: he once came as a suitor of Helen, so we hear.
‘So we hear . . .’ Of course, Helen has not yet owned up to being
Helen, but this remains an odd reply on two counts. Not only
does her „ß åko»omen amplify the impersonal attitude already
observed (Helen certainly had a great many suitors, but would
she not remember Achilles?), but there are also some versions of
the myth in which Achilles’ name does not appear among the
suitors of Helen.272
Although, as I said, this type of statement is largely restricted
to Helen, one might compare Helen’s words here with the con-
versation which Iphigenia and Orestes have about an episode
from their own ancestral history. When Orestes enquires
whether Iphigenia knows about the quarrel between her grand-
father Atreus and great-uncle Thyestes, she replies that she has
‘heard about it’ (‡kousa, 813). For both characters this is, again,
a strangely disinterested way in which to refer to one’s family
affairs. Iphigenia is also to be found casting doubt on the story of
her ancestor Pelops, in the course of an emotionally-charged
speech about the gods’ morality.273
ƒg° m†n oˆn
t¤ Tant3lou qeo∏sin ‰sti3mata
£pista kr≤nw, paidÏß Ósq[nai bor$i,
toŸß d’ ƒnq3d’ aÛtoŸß Ôntaß ånqrwpoktÎnouß
ƒß t¶n qeÏn tÏ faılon ånafvrein dok0.
272
Dale (1967) ad loc. says that this detail is ‘inconsistent with prevailing
versions of the legend’, but several early (and, presumably, influential) versions
link Achilles erotically with Helen (Hesiod, Catalogue, fr. 204. 87–93 M–W;
Cypria [Proclus, Chrestom.] 77–8, p. 32 Davies). Pausanias (3.19.11) and
Philostratus (10.32–40) record a tradition in which Helen spent the whole
Trojan War with Achilles on the island of Leuke. See also Kannicht (1969) 2.
45–6.
273
Iphigenia 386–90. Iphigenia’s attitude here is comparable to other
Euripidean passages (Heracles 1340–6, Tro. 969–82) in which characters profess
disbelief in the gods’ actions or existence. All such passages are discussed by
Stinton (1976a), to whom I shall return in the following pages.
 Myth, Fiction, Innovation 145
Well, I do not believe in the story of Tantalus’ banquet for the gods,
that they ate his son with relish; but the people here, since they them-
selves are murderous, ascribe their disgusting habit to the goddess.
Not only does Iphigenia suppose that myths are invented (as
opposed to historical), but she also speculates that cultural
motives are to be held responsible for their invention.
The story of the swan, and of the egg from which Helen—
perhaps—hatched, recurs after the parodos, when Helen is
describing her sufferings to the women of the chorus. She first
opines that her mother bore her to be a freak (tvraß) to all
mankind, which reaffirms her metamythological status as a
figure about whom everyone is talking; then she goes on to
comment about the improbability of the story of her birth
(257–9):
gun¶ g¤r oÇq’ }Ellhn≥ß oÇte b3rbaroß
teıcoß neoss0n leukÏn ƒkloce»etai,
ƒn —i me L&dan fas≥n ƒk DiÏß teke∏n.
It is completely unheard-of for a woman, either Greek or barbarian, to
give birth to a child in a white egg-shell, in which they say Leda bore me
to Zeus.
Again, Helen refuses to commit herself to a definite version of
events, referring to her supposed birth from an egg as a freakish
story put about by unspecified people. Again, the force of her
words is equivalent to: ‘Believe that if you will.’ It may well be
completely unheard-of (in everyday life) for a woman to lay an
egg, but it is also unheard-of for a mythical character to cast
doubt on a myth in this way. In other words, the startling or
destabilizing effect here comes about not from the egg-story
itself—after all, far odder things than this often happen in
myths—so much as from the open-minded, detached manner in
which Helen discusses her own mythical life.274
It is possible that these three lines (257–9) are an interpolation.
Diggle, following Kannicht, Murray and Wieland, brackets the
274
Evidently some Greeks believed literally in the egg-story: the supposed
egg in question later became a tourist attraction (Paus. 3.10.7). Religious belief
has been responsible for the acceptance of many freakish or ‘miraculous’ events
by otherwise rational people. Before dismissing the myth of Leda’s egg as
obvious hokum, one has to ask whether it is so different in kind from (say) con-
temporary Christian belief in parthenogenesis. In other words, the story which
Helen here questions is not supposed to be intrinsically ridiculous.
146 Myth, Fiction, Innovation
lines. It has been thought that the sentiments and the wording
are inappropriate—Dale, for instance, asked: ‘Are these words
from Helen . . . tastelessly grotesque?’275 Kannicht believed that
the phrase leukÏn neoss0n teıcoß was taken by the interpolator
from another tragedy,276 but Stinton disagrees, claiming that the
phrase is ‘clearly paratragic’.277 I can see no particular problem
with this phrase, nor with the tone of the lines, which are, clearly,
in line with Helen’s ‘metamythological’ behaviour throughout
the play. The more serious difficulty is in the language of 257–9;
in particular, their connection with what goes immediately
before and afterwards. Lines 256–61, in full, run:
¢r’ Ó tekoıs3 m’ πteken ånqr*poiß tvraß:
gun¶ g¤r oÇq’ }Ellhn≥ß oÇte b3rbaroß
teıcoß neoss0n leukÏn ƒkloce»etai,
ƒn —i me L&dan fas≥n ƒk DiÏß teke∏n:
tvraß g¤r Ø b≤oß ka≥ t¤ pr3gmat’ ƒst≤ moi,
t¤ mvn di’ H
fi ran, t¤ d† tÏ k3lloß a÷tion.
It seems, then, that my mother bore me to be a freak in the eyes of
mankind: for it is completely unheard-of for a woman, either Greek or
barbarian, to give birth to a child in a white egg-shell, in which they say
Leda bore me to Zeus. Yes, my life is freakish, and my situation too, in
part because of Hera, and in part because of my beauty.
It may be that the repetition of g3r (257 and 260) is undesirable,
creating a slight awkwardness in the line of argument. Dale
defends the text, arguing that the repeated g3r is used in a ‘not-
only-but-also’ construction: ‘[And indeed it seems as if it must
be so], for [not only was I born a tvraß but] my life in general and
my fortunes are thus extraordinary.’ This seems quite possible.
Kannicht’s additional objection, that tvraß must be understood
in two different meanings (on 256 it refers to her ‘freakish’ birth,
but on 260 it refers to her ‘remarkable’ life), is not actually very
important: tvraß may naturally bear either meaning and there is
nothing incongruous about the usage here. It would be far more
unappealing, in fact, to delete 257–9 and thus leave tvraß at the
start of 260 immediately following tvraß at the end of 256. Dale
and Denniston278 both argue that, if 257–9 are deleted, 256
should also go: in that case, however, the explanation tvraß g¤r

275 276
Dale (1967) ad loc. Kannicht (1969) vol. 2 ad loc.
277 278
Stinton (1976a) 77. Denniston (1954) 581.
 Myth, Fiction, Innovation 147
ktl. would appear unprompted as if from nowhere. In the end,
Stinton’s suggested emendation of the second g3r to d’ £r’ is the
best answer (if one either keeps or rejects 257–9). I should prefer,
with him and Dale, to keep all the lines (as in the manuscript L),
incorporating this slight change.
However, Stinton’s interpretation of these lines is less satis-
factory. Not only does he explain the peculiar tone of this passage
as ‘manifestly unserious’, by reference to the supposed ‘comic
affinities’ of Helen,279 but he interprets the meaning of the lines
according to a type of rhetorical ploy which he detects in
Euripides in general. Stinton’s argument, in brief, is that certain
common expressions of scepticism or disbelief ‘are frequently
not what they purport to be, and express not disbelief but some
quite different attitude’.280 He finds that in most cases apparent
‘disbelief’ is in fact a device calculated to add emphasis.
(Aficionados of situation-comedy will naturally call to mind the
character Victor Meldrew from David Renwick’s excellent One
Foot in the Grave,281 whose catchphrase ‘I don’t believe it!’
denotes not disbelief but rather horror or surprise at a situation
whose reality Meldrew believes only too well.) This interpreta-
tion is largely convincing, but Stinton’s case is weakened by a
desire to adduce too many examples which, when subjected to
pressure, turn out to mean something slightly different.282
Granted, lines 257–9 of Helen may well possess a ‘pathetic
emphasis’ as Stinton argues; but the tone of arch detachment and
scepticism is much more prominent and should not be explained
away—especially when the passage is viewed in the context of the
play as a whole.
We have seen Helen’s reluctance to vouch for the truth of any
particular story; Teucer is similarly evasive when asked by
Helen whether her brothers, the Dioscuri, are still alive. He
answers, unexpectedly, that ‘they are dead and not dead: there
are two versions of the story’ (teqn$si koÛ teqn$si: d»o d’ ƒstÏn
lÎgw, 138).283 As far as the audience is concerned, one function of

279
Stinton (1976a) 77.
280
Ibid. 60.
281
Written and directed by David Renwick: BBC Television, 1990–2000.
282
Brown (1978) 22–30, for example, has attempted to refine some of
Stinton’s interpretations (in the case of Eur. Heracles).
283
For the ‘doubleness’ of the disputed myth, compare Helen’s ‘two fathers’
148 Myth, Fiction, Innovation
Teucer’s reply is the creation of suspense regarding the ultimate
fate of the twins; but the natural effect of these words on Helen
would be maddeningly imprecise. Nevertheless, Helen does not
give any sign that she finds Teucer’s answer incongruous—she
simply asks which version is the better (Ø kre≤sswn) one. The
reason why all this jars so horribly is that we expect these charac-
ters to talk about each other as if they were real, not as fictions
subject to alteration and debate. If they cannot believe their own
myths, why should anyone else do so?
The next (and final) way in which ‘metamythological’ activity
can be seen is through what might be called ‘provocative’
presentation of myth—that is, references to mythical characters
and events which are loaded with scepticism or which include
outré or invented matter. This occurs even with peripheral,
minor details, which seem to have no other purpose than to be
slightly outrageous.
I have already mentioned Helen’s incidental statement (99)
that Achilles was among her suitors, a detail which is at odds with
certain other accounts. There is no obvious contextual reason for
Helen to mention this supposed fact: one might suspect, there-
fore, that it is deliberately intended to strike a slight discord. The
same can be said of Helen’s telling of the story of Callisto
(375–80):284 in other versions of the story, Artemis transformed
Callisto into a bear after her rape by Zeus, but according to
Helen Callisto became not a bear but a ‘wild-eyed lioness’
(Ômmati l3brwi sc[ma lea≤nhß): a change that is pointless in itself,
but whose significance seems to lie in its discrepancy with the
usual story. False stories are mixed up with true, but both types
are presented in a way that makes them equally (un-)believable.
Compare the rather more shocking revelation (136) that Leda
committed suicide because of her daughter’s infamy: Dale and
Kannicht consider this to be an invention by Euripides.
Certainly it is unparalleled in other sources. This story, also, is
prefaced by the loaded word fas≤n (‘they say’), which (as else-
where) causes one to question its sources and veracity.285 Shortly

(ibid. 17–21, discussed above)—and see §4.4 below for further discussion of
these lines.
284
Diggle (1993, 179–80) thinks these lines corrupt.
285
Compare Andromeda fr. 151: t&n toi D≤khn lvgousi pa∏d’ e”nai DiÏß | ƒgg»ß
te na≤ein t[ß brot0n Åmart≤aß (‘they say that Justice is the daughter of Zeus and
 Myth, Fiction, Innovation 149
afterwards (143), Teucer cuts off the flow of Helen’s questions,
saying ‹liß d† m»qwn—‘enough of stories’ (‘myths’?—‘fictions’?—
‘lies’?).
One consequence of inventing plots which involved escapes
was that the escapees (excepting Andromeda, whose monster
was already written into the tradition) required threatening
figures from whom to escape. In Helen, the threat is posed by the
tyrant Theoclymenus and his omniscient sister Theonoe; in
Iphigenia, by the tyrant Thoas. It seems possible that these
characters are Euripides’ inventions,286 since they occur in no
other extant version of the myths (and, in fact, in no other place
in the whole of Greek mythology). However, there is something
strangely familiar about these ‘new’ characters, for certain pre-
existing accounts contained characters whose names and charac-
teristics were extremely similar to those of Theoclymenus,
Theonoe and Thoas. For example, Aeschylus’ satyr-play
Proteus contained a character called Eido (the ‘alternative’
name of Theonoe, given in Helen 11).287 This is probably an
abbreviated form of the name Eidothea,288 the name of Proteus’
daughter in the Odyssey.289 The name Theoclymenus is found
also in the Odyssey, where it belongs to a seer (perhaps odd, then,
to find it here of a character whose sister, not himself, has
prophetic skills). Thoas’ name, like that of the other tyrant, is
familiar from Homer, where it belonged to the king of Lemnos
and father of Hypsipyle.290 But are we meant to be reminded,
also, of ‘Thonos’, the king of Canobus killed by Menelaus in
return for his attack on Helen in one version of the myth?291—or
‘Thon’, the husband of the Egyptian Polydamna in the
Odyssey?292—or ‘Thonis’, which is (confusingly) Strabo’s name
for the same king, as well as Herodotus’ name for the guard of the
Nile mouth who tells Proteus of Paris’ treachery?293 This play on

that she dwells near human error’). Bubel (1991, 152) comments: ‘wie auch
sonst häufig teilt Euripides Realien der Mythologie, die hier auf Hesiod zurück-
gehen, unter Berufung auf eine communis opinio.’
286
The view of Dale (1967) 70; Cropp (2000) 174–5, and others.
287
Aesch. Proteus, fr. 212 (TGF 3 [Radt]).
288
Compare U } y* for U
} yip»lh (Aesch. fr. 247, TGF 3 [Radt]). On the abbre-
viation, see entries in the Suda and Etymol. Symeonis s.v. kerd*; cf. S EHQ
289
Hom. Od. 4.366. See Sutton (1980) 184–7. Od. 4.351–455.
290 291
Il. 14.230, 23.745. Hellanicus (FGH 4 F 153).
292 293
Od. 4.220–32. Strabo 17.1.16–17.
150 Myth, Fiction, Innovation
the names of minor characters is rather provocative: it high-
lights, again, the discrepancies within the tradition, as well as
providing yet another suggestive link between Helen and
Iphigenia. In addition, the importance of characters who are
paradoxically both familiar and unfamiliar will emerge a little
later.
Iphigenia’s prologue-speech contains what seems to be both a
sceptical reference to the mythical tradition and a deliberate
reference to Helen (another argument, incidentally, for believing
that Iphigenia followed Helen, as I believe, later in the same
trilogy). Talking about her sacrifice at Aulis, she says that
Agamemnon sacrificed her—so it seems—for the sake of Helen
(πsfaxen E} lvnhß o\nec’, „ß doke∏, patvr, 8). In their immediate
setting, the words „ß doke∏ are unnecessary, and therefore
striking. If Iphigenia really does belong to the same trilogy as
Helen, then Iphigenia’s pejorative description of the ‘old’ Helen
of myth (521–5) must also be seen as remarkable. Her words _
m∏soß ejß Efi llhnaß, oÛk ƒmo≥ mÎnhi (‘O hateful creature—to the
Greeks, not just to me!’) could also be seen, in the light of the
discussion above, as referring to the mythical tradition at large.
On another occasion where Iphigenia talks about the events at
Aulis (359), she says that she went to the slaughter ‘like a calf’
(¿ste mÎscon). This description can be explained in terms of the
standard sacrificial image of young animals seen elsewhere in
tragedy (the calf, unlike the hind, was a sacrificial animal);294 but
I wonder whether an additional allusion cannot be seen, to
another ‘counterfactual’ version of the myth in which Iphigenia’s
last-minute substitution was for a calf rather than a hind?295
A striking feature of the earlier part of Iphigenia is that it
obviously plays with the different possibilities offered by the
‘standard’ versus the ‘counterfactual’ versions of the myth:
namely, is Iphigenia dead or not? Even though she tells of the
294
Cf. Mossman (1995) 147–51. Cropp (2000) ad loc. lists parallels from
tragedy in which sacrificial victims, including Iphigenia, are described as goats
or calves (Aesch. Ag. 232; Eur. Iph. at A. 1083, 1113, etc.).
295
Reflected only in one late source (Antoninus Liberalis 27): the ultimate
source and date cannot be known. It is an interesting variant, however, because
of the very different status of these animals in ancient thought. The substitution
of a calf (domestic, sacrificial animal) for Iphigenia implies that the sacrifice was
appropriate, whereas a hind (untamed, non-sacrificial) implies that the sacrifice
is not appropriate.
 Myth, Fiction, Innovation 151
miraculous substitution, Iphigenia still describes herself as
having been killed, which creates a certain amount of con-
fusion.296 Ghosts were not unusual in tragedy—Aeschylus’
Persians and Euripides’ Hecabe contained such characters, and
in the latter play the shade of Polydorus even speaks the pro-
logue. Thus the audience is left perpetually unsure just what is
going on.
The first entry of Menelaus in Helen (at line 386) has been seen
as unusual in terms of the play’s structure, since it appears to be
a ‘second prologue’, following the emptying of the stage after the
parodos.297 It is remarkable also in the fact that it plays with the
theme of counterfactual myth, in a rather different way from the
passage just discussed. Menelaus starts by apostrophizing his
mythical ancestor Pelops (386–90):
_ t¤ß teqr≤ppouß Ojnom3wi P∏san k3ta
Pvloy Åm≤llaß ƒxamillhqe≤ß pote,
e÷q’ •feleß †tÎq’ [Ón≤k’ πranon ejß qeoŸß
peisqe≥ß ƒpo≤eiß] ƒn qeo∏߆ lipe∏n b≤on,
pr≥n tÏn ƒmÏn !trva patvra genn[sai pote
O Pelops, you who once competed in the chariot-race with Oenomaus
at Pisa, if only you had died †at the time [when you were served up as a
meal for the gods]† , before you begot my father Atreus . . .
In expressing the wish that things had turned out differently,
Menelaus is suggesting the possibility of additional counter-
factual myths—a version of the story in which Pelops was not fed
to the gods,298 and in which the house of Atreus never even
existed. How is the audience expected to interpret, at this stage
in the play, a second counterfactual prologue? The provocative
idea provides a little incidental food for thought, but it is not
developed further. However, might not certain perceptive
members of the audience have remembered Menelaus’ lines
when (as it might have been a few hours later) they came to the
296
Iphigenia 8 (πsfaxen), 20 (sfage∏san), 27 (ƒkainÎmhn), 177 (sfacqe∏s’),
359–60 (m’… πsfazon), 541 (pa∏ß πt’ oˆs’ åpwlÎmhn), 563 (qanoısan), 770
(sfage∏san), 920 (pat¶r πkteinv me). Remarked upon by Hulton (1962) 365. Note,
however, that these imperfects may differ in meaning from aorists, in that they
may refer to an attempted killing (cf. Ion 1408).
297
See §4.4.7 below.
298
Pindar (Ol. 1.36–63) had in fact already experimented with a counter-
factual Pelops-myth, saying that he could not believe that the gods were greedy
enough to eat the boy. See Cropp (2000) 202 (and refs. there).
152 Myth, Fiction, Innovation
beginning of Iphigenia, where the first word of yet another
‘counterfactual’ prologue is ‘Pelops’ . . .? Perhaps Euripides’ idea
was to tantalize them with the possibility that Iphigenia would
deal with an alternative, ‘Pindaric’ version of the Pelops-
myth?299
From counterfactuals to embroidery. I mentioned above one
remarkable feature of Iphigenia and Orestes’ discussion of
Atreus’ and Thyestes’ quarrel. Even more worthy of comment is
the fact that Iphigenia wove a tapestry depicting this event
(\fhna ka≥ tÎd’ e”doß eÛm≤toiß ploka∏ß, 817). Weaving was a
perfectly natural feminine pastime in the Greek world, but it has
also been seen, in certain literary contexts, to have a symbolic
function. Helen in the Iliad (3.121–7) famously wove a tapestry
depicting the events of the Trojan War, and this has been inter-
preted as a self-referential activity. Homer’s Helen is able to
distance herself from the events in which she herself is so deeply
implicated and to act instead as a ‘commentator’ outside the
action; her weaving in some way represents the act of poetry or
myth-making.300 Iphigenia’s tapestry here can be seen in a
similar metaphorical light: not only is it another instance of
‘metamythology’, but it also illustrates another way in which
Iphigenia has become more like Helen—is Euripides trying to
conflate or confuse the roles of the two women? Iphigenia’s ka≥
seems to indicate that this is not the only tapestry which she has
woven; thus her metaphorical function may be seen as habitual.
In other words, it is not just in this one place that Iphigenia’s
actions form a commentary on myth.
More self-conscious mythic commentary occurs in a speech of
Orestes: a most bizarre allusion to the Dionysiac ceremony of the
Choes. The ritual itself and its connection with the drama will be
299
Of course, ‘metamythography’ is not the only purpose of the strategic
placing of Pelops in Iphigenia’s prologue. In addition, the genealogy, signifi-
cantly, ‘highlights successive generations of betrayal and deceit’ (Hartigan
[1986] 106) which come to a climax, in one sense or another, in the course of the
play. Cf. O’Brien (1988).
300
This interpretation was seen very early on by S Iliad 3.126–7 (‘the poet has
formed a worthy archetype of his own poi&siß’). Cf. Kennedy (1986, 5–14), who
interprets Helen’s weaving as metafictional; and Taplin (1992, 97), who says
that ‘her weaving gives her a special affinity with the poet and his audience.’ He
compares Il. 6.357–8, where Helen says to Hector that the suffering has come
about in order that they may be a subject of song to the generations to come: „ß
ka≥ øp≤ssw | ånqr*poisi pel*meq’ åo≤dimoi ƒssomvnoisi.
 Myth, Fiction, Innovation 153
discussed in a later chapter; but for the present purpose what
is most interesting about this speech is its forward-looking
reference to a fifth-century Athenian festival. Orestes says (958–
60):
kl»w d’ !qhna≤oisi tåm¤ dustuc[
telet¶n genvsqai, k£ti tÏn nÎmon mvnein
co[reß £ggoß Pall3doß tim$n le*n.
I have heard that the Athenians have based a ritual upon my sufferings,
and that the people of Pallas even today have the custom of honouring
the pitcher.
It is highly improbable that Orestes can be talking about a ritual
which existed in his own time: this is, almost certainly, an
anachronism. Cropp, following Wolff, interprets the lines as
‘advertising to Euripides’ audience the importance of such
ritual institutions and their dependence on careful negotiation
between humans and the divine’.301 This is perhaps true, but the
main point is, surely, the complete incongruity of the reference,
especially Orestes’ ‘even to-day’ (k£ti). Nowhere else does an
aetiology of this sort occur mid-play, in the mouth of a human
character. Platnauer’s opinion was that the lines ‘certainly seem
unnecessary to an Athenian audience’,302 but his conclusion was
that they are spurious. On the contrary, there is no reason to
doubt the lines, and they have an obvious part to play in the
metamythic strategy which pervades the whole play.
A further example of bizarre aetiology is to be found at the
end of the Helen. Here the Dioscuri ex machina make another
alteration to the ‘new’ myth of Helen, adding an element which
has previously not been mentioned at all. They say that Hermes,
after lifting Helen up from Sparta, set her down on an island
called Acte en route to Egypt. This detail is geographically
unconvincing, since ‘Acte’ is Makronissi, off Sunium, and (as
Dale rightly observes) it brings Hermes wildly off-course for
Egypt.303 Indeed, in other versions Acte was a stopping-point en
route to Troy. It seems possible that Euripides is making the
same sort of change to Acte’s place within the myth as he has
made to the way in which Egypt fits into the myth: for versions
301
Cropp (2000) 231: cf. Wolff (1992) 325–9.
302
Platnauer (1938) ad loc.
303
Helen 1670–5; cf. Dale (1967) ad loc.
154 Myth, Fiction, Innovation
existed in which Helen went to Egypt either en route to Troy
from Sparta, or on the way home from Troy to Sparta, either
with Menelaus or with Paris, or even (as here) instead of going to
Troy at all.304 The precise stage at which the significant location
(Acte or Egypt) fits into the myth is subject to alteration—which
means that one is led, again, to question why, or even if, it is
significant.305
It is time for some tentative conclusions. All of the instances of
metamythography which I have described should be seen not as
providing incidental food for thought but as being intricately
tied up with the use of all the old-and-new elements in
Euripides’ myths and plots, and with the overall messages and
meanings of the escape-tragedies.
However one might interpret these plays, it seems undeniable
that they are calculated to draw particular attention to their
myths. The unusual nature of the myths themselves, combined
with the arch self-consciousness displayed by the characters,
makes the myths stand out with unusual clarity and emphasis.
This is done in such a way as to create a tone of complete
artificiality throughout the plays. The result of this mannered
presentation and extreme incongruity is that it is not just the
more bizarre-seeming elements, or the smaller ‘incidental’
details, which stand out. Rather (by implication), all myths are
exposed to the same scrutiny—as is the manner in which these
traditional stories are talked about and transmitted. Euripides is
provoking his audience to examine their ‘knowledge’ of myth
and to question what had previously seemed unobjectionable.
Myth is never simply ‘there’ to be accepted as a condition of the
plot and stage-action. It is problematized; it is made to seem
remarkable, illogical, irrational, unreal.
In the earlier sections I suggested that Euripides did not
304
Hdt. 2.112–20; Hecataeus (FGH 1 F 307–9); Hellanicus (FGH 4 F 153);
Hom. Od. 4.
305
Perhaps this oddity can be accounted for by suggesting that a local cult
may have been associated with the place during the fifth century. The existence
of cults may often explain the tendency of poets to retain odd-seeming (small or
large) details of previous myths: see e.g. Sourvinou-Inwood (1997). However,
this explanation still fails to explain why the geographical location—or, indeed,
the cult—was significant. Cult aetiologies in tragedy may often perplex us
precisely because they do not satisfactorily justify beliefs or ritual practices: see
§5.2 below for more discussion of this problem.
 Myth, Fiction, Innovation 155
invent the strange-seeming elements in the ‘new’ myths of Helen
and Iphigenia, but in each case combined previously disparate
elements into a single myth. If this is true, then there is a parti-
cular purpose to be detected, which can be explained in the light
of metamythology. I have argued elsewhere that the interpreta-
tion of the meaning of tragedies comes about from the interplay
between the audience’s pre-existing knowledge of the mythical
subjects and the particular manner in which these subjects were
presented on stage.306 This is equally true of the escape-
tragedies. Most people (I maintain) would have been familiar
with the ‘standard’ myths of Helen, Andromeda and Iphigenia,
and some (though fewer—perhaps an educated minority) would
have had knowledge of some or all of the mythical variants to be
found in a variety of authors—the trip to Egypt, the phantom(s),
the substitution at Aulis, and so on. Euripides has included no
major detail that would not have been familiar to at least some
members of his audience.
What he has done is far more interesting. The whole point of
Euripides’ myths is, I believe, that they are deliberately designed
to be confused, mangled, mixed-up composite versions.307
But because they contain nothing new, they would be virtually
unassailable to anyone whose instincts prompted them to cry:
‘That tale is not true!’ (vel sim.). Apart from those few who
possessed intimate knowledge of the tradition and its many
oddities, the audience would have found themselves hopelessly
confused by this mythical mish-mash which was both familiar
and bafflingly unfamiliar. (‘Is that what happened to Iphigenia?
I seem to remember it, but . . .’) The overall effect would have
been to shock the audience out of complacency and radically
to undermine their sense of secure, certain knowledge of
myths—even of these myths which ‘everyone knew’. This effect
corresponds precisely with that of Euripides’ metamythological
presentation of individual elements, as illustrated above. And I
think that this scenario, if true, would be far more effective and
meaningful than an alternative scenario in which the extent of
Euripides’ invention was greater.308
306
See §1.1 above.
307
Cf. Austin’s (1994, 186) verdict that the Helen is ‘a hodgepodge of the old
Helen stories’.
308
And yet, as I warned before (§2.3.1), it remains possible to argue that
Euripides invented a huge amount of material. It may be that any scenario which
156 Myth, Fiction, Innovation
But what is the point of this so-called metamythology? Now it
may be that Euripides’ intention extended no further than a
desultory throwing-round of witty ideas, aiming for a certain
‘piquant intellectual novelty’: this is the assessment often made
of Euripides’ philosophical or intellectual content.309 But I have
assumed, rather, that Euripides was using metamythology to say
something particular about myth. The connection which he has
made between the past and the present (i.e. 412 bc) is such that
his audience is made to question what they know now about the
mythical past. Put briefly, Euripides’ message is that the details
of myths are confused, that the manner of their transmission pre-
cludes authenticity or absolute veracity, and that, ultimately,
literal belief in myth is impossible. Ostensibly, the counter-
factual myths of Helen and Iphigenia are presented as the re-
examined, true versions of these stories, in contrast to those false
myths which were previously the basis of our ‘knowledge’. But
the manner of presentation makes it progressively more plain
that there is no more justification for believing the new than the
old version, and that there is, ultimately, no way at all of deciding
which myths are true and which false. That is, all myths are
nothing more than substitutable fictions.
Other critics have hinted at a similar interpretation, dis-
cussing Euripides’ ‘sceptical’ attitude to individual myths and
linking his tragedies to a perceived late fifth-century Zeitgeist of
doubt, crisis and intellectual questioning.310 This explanation is
perfectly plausible, but it will become clear that the escape-
tragedies view the matter from a slightly different angle. Here, it
is not individual myths which are being treated with scepticism,
but the whole paraphernalia of the mythical tradition—and, in a
wider context, the basis for belief or disbelief in anything at all—
which Euripides is (explicitly or implicitly) criticizing. This
theme is intimately connected with his exploration of reality and

fits the limited facts is as good as any other, but I maintain that the interpreta-
tion offered here is conceptually more satisfying.
309
e.g. Winnington-Ingram (1969); Griffith (1953) 36–7 (from whom the
phrase ‘piquant intellectual novelty’ comes); Kitto (1961) 319; Austin (1994)
187, etc.
310
Euripides was ‘forced to use myths which he didn’t want to’—the over-
simplification of Lucas (1968) 176; cf. Snell (1960) 132; Whitman (1974) 116–
28; Eisner (1979) 155, etc.
 Myth, Fiction, Innovation 157
illusion—a subject to which I shall return in Chapter 4 below. In
this metamythological world, myths are presented as a form of
illusion (or delusion), possessing only a tenuous and unverifiable
connection with reality.311
It is possible to see why many critics have detected a comic
tone in some of the passages which I have been discussing. First
of all, the mood of artificiality and detachment which can be
detected in the plays is very difficult to interpret. In addition,
metamythology is essentially an ironical, ludic activity:312 it
strikes the reader (or the person in the audience) as an intellectual
game, which may be entertaining, witty or thought-provoking.
But talk of sophisticated ‘play’ on myth and ideas belies the basic
seriousness of Euripides’ intention. We should not be misled
into equating ‘ludic’ with ‘comic’, for there is nothing funny
about metamythology. On the contrary, the implications of
Euripides’ presentation of myth, for religious belief and episte-
mology in general, are grave. The mythical tradition was the
only means available to fifth-century Athenians of knowing
about their history and their gods; but if the veracity of myth is
subjected to severe pressure, the consequences are disturbing.
After sitting through the escape-tragedies, not only must we
question whether or not there are any reasons left for belief in
anything, but we are bound to be left, also, with a terrible feeling
that nothing at all is as it seems. The words which bring to an end
the messenger-speech in the Helen seem to provide a suitable, if
sobering, conclusion: on the basis of what has been seen and
experienced, there is no more useful advice for humans than to
be sensible, and disbelieve.313
311
It may seem that this is a rather ambitious claim to make, and certainly it
will be easier to appreciate Euripides’ overall meaning after a fuller considera-
tion of the ontological and epistemological themes of the plays (§4.4 below).
312
Cf. Eisner’s (1979, 157) view that Euripides aim was aesthetic rather than
didactic: the poet ‘playing games’ for a small reading public. Goward (1999,
144), thinks that all drama is essentially ‘ludic’ in nature.
313
Helen 1617–18: s*fronoß d’ åpist≤aß | oÛk πstin oÛd†n crhsim*teron broto∏ß.
Dale (1967) and Kannicht (1969, vol. 2 ad loc.), both believe that this line
recalls, by means of paraphrase, a maxim of Epicharmus (DK 23 B13: n$fe ka≥
mvmnas’ åpiste∏n: £rqra taıta t0n fren0n, ‘be sober and sceptical: that is the route
to articulate thought’). If so, it is a rather loose parallel. Kannicht adds that it is
similar to other general reflections in tragedy (Med. 1224–30, Hcld. 863–6,
Suppl. 726–30, Bacch. 1150–5).
 3
A Tragic Landscape

KHDESTHS oÍÎn te, pr≥n tÏn spl[na komid[i m’ ƒkbale∏n,

par¤ soı puqvsqai po∏ m’ £geiß, wˆripidh;1

3.1 a sense of place

In literature, the creation of a vivid ‘sense of place’—that is,
evocative description of an imaginary location, or careful,
accurate depiction of a real one—is most usually associated with
genres such as narrative poetry or the novel. For a playwright,
whose concern is primarily with action and not description, and
whose means of exposition and description is through the spoken
words of his characters, the matter of creating a setting in
which to locate a play’s action may be difficult. Consequently,
dramatic genres are not particularly connected with detailed
visual description. But a strong ‘sense of place’ turns out to be a
striking, indeed characteristic, feature of the escape-tragedies.2
How, exactly, is a dramatic poet to go about creating a sense of
place? Description of the environment emerges in several ways.
First, there are the prologue-speeches which Euripides almost
invariably employs,3 in which principal characters succinctly
1
Ar. Thesm. 3–4. ‘Relative: Euripides! Can you tell me, before I pass out
completely, where you’re taking me?’
2
This fact has seemed to some scholars to provide another argument for
viewing the escape-tragedies as romantic or proto-novelistic (as distinct from
tragic): see E. M. Hall (1997) xxiii–xxiv; Segal (1971) 553–8 (connecting
Euripides with the romantic as formulated by Frye 1965); Eisner (1979) 168–9.
Ostensibly the setting of the escape-tragedies resembles the faraway, ‘never-
never land’ familiar to romance; but (quite apart from the anachronism of this
viewpoint—Euripides cannot have been taking over a feature of a genre that did
not yet exist!) I hope to demonstrate that Euripides’ purpose substantially
differs from romanticism. In any case, the settings of the escape-tragedies are
real, not fantastic, places: see §3.2 below.
3
All his extant plays have such prologues, except for the Rhesus (which is
possibly spurious) and the Iphigenia at Aulis (which is suspected to have under-
gone substantial alteration, but contains a ‘scene-setting’ speech from line 49 of
 A Tragic Landscape 159
provide important information. These prologues are (literally)
‘scene-setting’, as they tell the audience where exactly the action
is to be played out, often adding a few local details for the sake of
verisimilitude, embellishment, or as it might be deeper signifi-
cance for interpreting the play’s action and thought.4
The plays’ lyric portions, in particular the stasima, are narra-
tive to a greater extent than the spoken portions, and so more
suitable for (among other things) descriptions of place. But
choral lyrics cannot be treated simply as an extension of the
scene-setting of the rest of the play: though closely linked, they
are nevertheless separate from it, and so their landscape may
often be quite distinct from the ‘real’ landscape of the play’s
action. (See §3.3 below for further discussion.)
Then there are references and descriptions in the course of the
action (or the messenger-speeches, which are predominantly
narrative in mode).5 These may include descriptions of the geo-
graphical setting or, more usually, the mise-en-scène: the house,
palace, tent or cave represented by the stage-building and the
physical objects (altars, shrines, rocks, etc.) in view on the stage.
This manner of description may be incidental, ornamental or
more meaningful; or it may include those which seem to have the
function of ‘stage-directions’, all of which are internal to the
text.6 It is important to remember that the surviving texts alone
do not give the whole picture. Certain details of ancient theatre
production are impossible to excavate from the texts themselves;
the transmitted text). But Andromeda began in unorthodox form, with a sung
monody (fr. 114). Aristophanes (Frogs 946–7, 1197–247), using elaborate
parody and pastiche, shows just how characteristic Euripides’ prologues were
thought to be, and contrasts this technique with that of Aeschylus. See
Sommerstein (1994) 264–6 on the Frogs passages, and, on Euripides’ prologues
in general, Erbse (1984).
4
For example, Poseidon’s prologue to Trojan Women describes in horribly
vivid detail the sacked city of Troy, comparing its former glory, its ring of walls,
its towers and its masonry (5–7, 45–6) with the smoking ruins (8), the deserted
groves (15), the bloodied temples (15–16), the corpse-strewn altar steps (16–17)
and the Greek ships, full of booty, by the shore (18–20). Aphrodite’s prologue to
Hippolytus identifies the scene as Troezen (12) before filling in significant details
of its topography: the woods where Hippolytus hunts and worships Artemis
(16), and the rock of Pallas, with its temple to Artemis, imagined as visible over
the sea from Troezen (30–1). Hermes in Ion describes at length the layout of
the Delphic precinct (5–81) as well as giving some details about Attica and its
5
mountains (8–19). See de Jong (1991).
6
See Taplin (1977) 28–39 and (1978) 9–21.
160 A Tragic Landscape
yet such resources as scenery and costume (in which the play-
wrights took a personal concern) would have been of great
importance in the creation of a setting. One technique of stage-
craft was skhnograf≤a, which is said by Aristotle to have been
invented by Sophocles.7 This has aroused great interest and
speculation, for no one knows just what skhnograf≤a was. The
word is usually translated ‘scene-painting’, which is appro-
priately vague. Does it refer literally to paint and paintbrushes—
something along the lines of painted scenery or backdrops? This
is the traditional explanation;8 but it cannot be either confirmed
or rejected, owing to our lack of evidence. My own view is that
any painting was minimal and that scene-‘painting’ was achieved
mainly by the words of the text.
Two factors support this view. First, the layout of the theatre
of Dionysus was substantially different from most modern
theatres, whose scenery involves a backdrop or a blank wall at the
rear of the stage. But the ‘backdrop’ of the outdoor, tragic theatre
was the panoramic view of the Attic countryside, taking in the
Peiraeus and the sea. An important characteristic of the ancient
theatre has been seen to be its use of the real, outdoor environ-
ment. The French critic André Bernand, for example, describes
Greek theatre as ‘le théâtre ouvert’, writing provocatively that the
great difference between ancient and modern drama is that one
‘opens up’ the scene, while the other is a ‘closed room’: ‘Le
théâtre est donc une sorte d’observatoire dominant un panorama
7
Arist. Poet. 1449a18–19: tre∏ß ka≥ skhnograf≤an Sofokl[ß (‘Sophocles [intro-
duced] three [actors instead of two] and scene-painting.’) This elliptical
sentence is difficult to interpret: see Brown (1984).
8
Lucas (1968, ad loc.) translates skhnograf≤a as ‘scene-painting, which made
use of the newly-discovered knowledge of perspective. According to Vitruvius
7.11, this was due to the painter Agatharchus, and the initiative came from
Aeschylus.’ (But he does not discuss the contradiction between Vitruvius and
Aristotle: was Aeschylus or Sophocles responsible?) Brown (1984, 8 n. 31) gives
a large number of references attesting the translation ‘painting in perspective’,
to be distinguished from skiagraf≤a (‘trompe l’oeil’). Halliwell (1986, 338) also
accepts the usual translation. Kuntz (1993, 153–61) is (rightly, I think) more
sceptical, pointing out that there is no evidence whatsoever in support of any
interpretation. Brown (1984) argues that Arist. Poet. 1449a18–19 is an inter-
polation, and that Sophocles is unlikely to have used ‘scene-painting’ in our
sense of the term. His arguments are similar to mine (which follow): he adds
(9–12) that vase-paintings of tragedy never set figures in front of a background,
and that even in later antiquity only three basic kinds of dramatic ‘set’—comic,
tragic and satyric—were known (Vitruvius 5.6.9).
 A Tragic Landscape 161
. . . symboliquement et physiquement le paysage est présent.’9
Every scene in tragedy is to be imagined as taking place outdoors:
when events occur inside the house, they are always reported
rather than played out on stage.10 So there were never any sets, in
the sense of rooms. The real landscape would have acted as the
‘set’, except in so far as the stage-building may have been painted
to resemble the exterior of some building or other (man-made or
natural) structure. We cannot know if any other temporary
(wooden or other) structures were used; but, in general, if we
imagine what the spectators would have actually been able to see
in front of them, it seems unlikely that painted scenery, wooden
boards or backdrop (vel sim.), if used, would have been very
effective at creating an illusion of place.11
Second, the stage-building was required to represent four
different places in the course of a tetralogy.12 Sometimes these
might be very similar—four royal palaces, for example—but
sometimes, as in the escape-tragedies, the settings were sub-
stantially different—a palace, a temple, a cave. It is safe to
assume that, since the plays occupied a single day, they were
played in quick succession, separated by only short intervals.
Such intervals would not have been long enough to re-paint the
stage-building for its new purpose, though the possibility of
painted boards on the sk∂n∂, which could be quickly changed,
cannot be ruled out. In a few cases there was even a scene-change
during a single play,13 which makes it seem even less likely that
backdrops were used.14
9
Bernand (1985) 17–19.
10
Great play is very often made on the contrast between what happens in and
outside the house, especially in Aesch. Oresteia: on this see Taplin (1978) 31–40.
11
The theatre building and related paraphernalia are discussed at length by
Arnott (1962) and Pickard-Cambridge (1946); cf. Csapo and Slater (1994)
79–88.
12
However, it is not always clear, especially in earlier tragedies, whether the
skene was used to represent anything at all: not all the texts make reference to the
presence of a building or other feature in the background. Aesch. Prometheus is
the most problematic, since the setting is supposed to be in the uninhabited
wilds (see Taplin [1977] 452–9).
13
At Aesch. Eum. 231 the scene changes from the Delphic shrine to the
Athenian Areopagus (see Taplin [1977] ad loc.); the action of Soph. Ajax 719 ff .
must be seen as shifting from the tent to an unspecified area of open countryside.
Webster (1967, 196) believed that the scene of Andromeda changed from the sea-
girt rock to the palace of Cepheus, but there is no evidence for this.
14
Trendall and Webster (1971, 9) note that ‘the rare changes of scene within
162 A Tragic Landscape
This leaves little scope for ‘set-design’ (another possible
meaning ofskhnograf≤a). Some rudimentary paintwork, perhaps;
some large objects, like altars, shrines, thrones or rocks; a limited
number of hand-held props, such as bows and arrows, scrolls
and poison-bottles: all of these are implied by the texts. But
are we to believe that these elementary stage-properties were
absent from pre-Sophoclean drama? It is possible, but seems
unlikely, even if one bears in mind the non-realistic conventions
of tragedy, and that early drama may have had its origins in
mime.
Discussion of original staging details must, inevitably, remain
speculative; but the subject cannot be ignored. Alternatively,
skhnograf≤a may be taken more metaphorically to mean that
Sophocles was the first playwright to take care to create a ‘sense
of place’ in the text: that is, verbal scene-painting.15 Although (as
I stated above) this seems an attractive explanation of how scenes
were ‘painted’ in drama generally, it is unlikely that Aristotle
meant the word in this sense. Sophocles can hardly be said to
have pioneered the art of describing places in words; and, in any
case, the extant plays of Sophocles suggest that he was largely
indifferent to geography and physical setting: indeed, he seems
to have been less concerned to describe his plays’ locations than
either Aeschylus or Euripides.16 So the question of skhnograf≤a
must remain unanswered, but not ignored.

This chapter is concerned with the various ways in which these

plays explore and exploit their physical setting—their geography
and topography, the question of ethnicity, and the real and
imaginary landscape in which the action unfolds. Far from
merely furnishing picturesque, aesthetically pleasing poetic
description, far from being an interesting but incidental feature,
the landscape of the escape-tragedies is central in their action,
language, rhetoric and meaning—is, in a sense, what these plays
are about. More than any other extant tragedies, the escape-

tragedy were chiefly indicated by the chorus leaving the orchestra and returning
to say that they had arrived somewhere else.’
15
This view is implied by Arnott (1962, 26), who suggests that Greek tragedy
in ‘its most inventive and productive period’ rejected realistic, physical scene-
painting in favour of verbal scene-painting.
16
Cf. Bernand (1985) 101.
 A Tragic Landscape 163
plays are ‘geographical’. Geography is central to their myths;
their plots are driven by travel to and from different locations;
and they pose important questions of culture and identity.
Recent scholarship has given some attention to the unusual
geography of the escape-tragedies and drawn certain con-
clusions about its nature and meaning. In particular, it will be
obvious that I have made much use of the highly influential work
of Edith Hall, which is of great relevance in this area, and now
even represents the standard orthodoxy on such matters.17 But I
have questioned her conclusions and those of others; while not,
perhaps, radically differing, I have attempted to adapt, refine
and clarify. Again, as before, my approach has been to read the
plays closely without preconceptions about what they should be
like. Tragic geography and ethnicity in general may be seen to
exhibit certain patterns, but there is no reason why one should
automatically interpret these tragedies in particular as con-
forming to the general rules. It seems that Euripides’ treatment
of physical setting in the escape-tragedies is both thought-
provoking and completely unexpected.

3.2 exotica
As we saw in the previous chapter, the escape-tragedies are
remarkable for their exotic, far-flung settings and their ‘geo-
graphized’ myths. In this section, I want to examine the plays’
presentation of their exceptional settings.18 How accurately does
Euripides depict these locations and their geography? What, in
other words, is distinctively Egyptian, Tauric or Ethiopian
about the plays’ sense of place? The answer to these questions
may be surprising.
In order to give an answer, it is necessary to investigate how
much Euripides and his audience knew about Oriental geo-
graphy and culture, and from what sources they derived this
knowledge. The approach of Edith Hall (and various others) is to
sift through the ethnographic portions of Herodotus’ Histories
and the tragedies of Aeschylus for evidence, looking for parallels
with Euripides’ treatment. Herodotus’ writings, which were
17
Hall (1987), (1989a), (1989b), (1997).
18
Not enough of Andromeda survives to make precise discussion of its geo-
graphical content feasible—but see §2.3.6 above for its setting.
164 A Tragic Landscape
almost certainly in circulation by the 420s bc, contain lengthy
sections describing the geography, inhabitants and customs of
both Egypt and the Black Sea region.19 Aeschylus’ Suppliants
and Prometheus demonstrate precise knowledge of, even fascina-
tion with, genuine ethnographic material from Egypt:20 one
scholar writes that Aeschylus was ‘seduced’ by the appeal of
barbarian settings and characters.21 Aristotle particularly associ-
ates Aeschylus with the type of drama which is effective because
of tÏ terat0deß, the marvellous, picturesque or weird-and-
wonderful element which was one of the effects provided by
foreign (i.e. non-Greek) content in tragedy.22
There is no doubt that Herodotus is a valuable source, for
Athenian perceptions of non-Greeks as much as the ethno-
graphic data which he provides; and I have suggested elsewhere
certain ways in which Herodotus’ overall conceptual outlook
may have shaped Euripides’ own.23 However, the precise details
of Herodotus’ non-Greeks do not match up with the details in
the escape-tragedies. If, like Edith Hall, we attempt to make the
two writers’ accounts correspond, we run up against two serious
problems. In the first place, Herodotus is far from being a
straightforward, objectively ‘factual’ text. Not only is much of
his ethnographic material likely to be deliberately polemical,
reacting provocatively aginst the views of Hecataeus and other
predecessors,24 but also his accuracy and use of source-material
is questionable—in particular, he may never have visited any of
the places which he describes.25 Second, and more importantly,
19
Herodotus, bks 2. and 4, respectively.
20
See Kranz (1933) 98–102; Bernand (1985) 68–74.
21
Bernand (1985) 74.
22
Arist. Poet. 1456a. As Kranz (1933, 74) writes: ‘Weit ausgebreitet und
lockend lag die außerhellenische Welt vor den Augen des Dramatikers der
Frühzeit.’
23
See §2.3.6 above.
24
This point is made by David Braund in relation to Herodotus’ treatment of
the Taurians. I am grateful to Prof. Braund for allowing me to see drafts of his
forthcoming book on this subject, which has influenced my own views in much
of what follows.
25
The extent of Herodotus’ factual knowledge and experience has been
questioned: improbable or inaccurate details, impossible sights, etc. have
caused some critics to wonder just how much of his History was a fabrication.
Armayor (1978, 62), for instance, writes apropos of Herodotus’ section on
Scythia and the Taurians: ‘If Herodotus went to the Black Sea at all, his narra-
tive bears little or no relation to whatever his travels may have been on the basis
 A Tragic Landscape 165
there is no reason to suppose that Herodotus represented the
only source, or even a particularly authoritative source, of
knowledge. Some of Hall’s conclusions, to which I shall refer in
what follows, are based on the view that Egypt and the land of
the Taurians were completely unfamiliar, alien places, known
to Euripides and his audience chiefly through the pages of
Herodotus. However, this seems to be an unrealistic assump-
tion.
It can be seen that Athenians of 412 and earlier had knowledge
of Egypt and the Black Sea area from a wide range of sources,
including direct personal contact. Travel and trade between
Greece and these foreign countries had been going on for
perhaps hundreds of years: Naucratis, in particular, had long
been a famous centre of Greek trade.26 Herodotus, though else-
where he is at pains to show the lack of cultural continuity
between Greeks and barbarians, states explicitly that Greeks had
enjoyed regular intercourse with Egyptians since the time of
Psammetichus, and he describes Greek settlements at Memphis
and elsewhere.27 There is evidence of Athenian imperial interest
in Egypt and the Black Sea during the mid- to late fifth century,
including a major (but unsuccessful) expedition to Egypt and
Cyprus in the 450s and an expedition by Pericles to the Black Sea
in the 430s.28 Miltiades’ conquests and settlement in the
Chersonese during the mid-sixth century are described by
Herodotus.29 Therefore, many Athenians in the audience would
have visited these locations, or they would have known people

of evidence now in hand.’ Fehling’s (1989) extensive survey offers a strongly

negative view of the value of Herodotus’ information, concluding (240–1):
‘there is possibly not a single passage, certainly none concerned with anywhere
outside Greece, that we can treat as evidence that Herodotus went to a particular
place.’
26
See Bernand (1971) for extensive discussion of Greek-Egyptian links in
the archaic and classical periods. Trade between Greece, Egypt and Libya is
27
attested in e.g. Thuc. 4.53, 8.35. Hdt. 2.154.4.
28
The Athenians fought a campaign in Egypt for six years from 459–8 bc;
and a few years later, at the time of the five-year truce between Athens and the
Peloponnese, Cimon’s expedition to Cyprus included sixty ships destined for
Egypt (Thuc. 1.109–12). Both expeditions were unsuccessful, but they show
intense interest in expanding Athenian interests in this area over a long period.
Pericles’ expedition is mentioned in Plut. Pericles 20, but little information is
known about this episode.
29
Hdt. 6.41–2, 137–40.
166 A Tragic Landscape
who had travelled there, or they would have had contact of some
sort with Egyptians or Scythians. This means that their natural
reaction to Euripides’ plays, unlike that of Hall and other
modern readers, would not have been to detect detailed allusions
to Herodotus.
It is almost certain, then, that Euripides and his audience were
familiar with the geography and culture of Egypt and the Black
Sea. Therefore—had Euripides wished—Helen and Iphigenia
could easily have been colourful, recognizable portrayals of
Egyptian and Tauric antiquities, drawing on genuine ethno-
graphic material to provide local colour. But this is not the case.
Helen’s scene-setting opening lines (1–3) are deceptively
fecund with information:
Ne≤lou m†n aJde kallip3rqenoi Âoa≤,
ß ånt≥ d≤aß yak3doß Ajg»ptou pvdon
leuk[ß take≤shß ciÎnoß Ëgra≤nei g»aß.
These are the lovely-virgin streams of the Nile, which waters the soil of
Egypt’s fields not with rainfall from Zeus but with white, melting snow.

Following the surprise revelation that Egypt is the location, we

are treated to a strikingly accurate description of precipitation in
the Nile region: melting snows are indeed the cause of the Nile’s
flooding, and this meteorological fact is mentioned by Anaxa-
goras as well as other tragedians.30 But, as it soon transpires, this
is virtually the only accurate local detail. It is almost as if it has
been inserted right at the start in order to give the audience a mis-
leading idea of what sort of play this is. The initial impression is
that Helen will be an ethnographic, description-rich play about
Egypt, perhaps accumulating a mass of picturesque detail in
the manner of Aeschylus. But that impression is very soon dis-
pelled.
No attempt is made to describe the topography or exact
physical geography of Egypt.31 Helen says that the site of
Theoclymenus’ palace is somewhere on the banks of the Nile,
30
I discuss the sources (with references) in §4.3 below (see particularly
n. 132–4 there). Herodotus (2.18–24) offers the same explanation, along with
two variants. Plato (Laws 657a–b) describes the pleasantness of the Nile region
(possibly conveyed by kallip3rqenoi, although the adjective is more complex
than that).
31
Cf. Goossens (1935) 245: ‘Il est clair qu’ Euripide, en écrivant l’ Hélène, ne
s’est pas beaucoup préoccupé de pittoresque et d’ exotisme.’
 A Tragic Landscape 167
but we never learn just where; clearly it is within walking-
distance of the sea, at some quite short distance from the harbour
and Theoclymenus’ dockyards.32 There is a stream, a large
palace, an altar; some jagged rocks lurk along the coast, to sink
Menelaus’ ship; but apart from these scant details—none of
which can be said to impart an authentically Egyptian flavour—
there is nothing. No detail is given of Menelaus’ fraught journey
to Egypt, or of the route by which he and Helen will escape to
Greece. The final stasimon of the play notably describes their
homeward journey without a single geographical reference: all
that emerges is that the Greeks are sailing away in a ship, and
that, presumably, they will get back to Greece on this journey,
because the gods will it. Menelaus does tell his helmsman to steer
for Greece (1611), but it might be argued that, when one has a
god guiding one’s journey with favourable winds, one does not
need to possess a knowledge of maritime geography.
However, the Greek characters’ ignorance of Egyptian geo-
graphy is amply stressed. The old Servant who enters from the
shore complains of the difficulty of trying to find Menelaus, say-
ing (possibly an exaggeration) that he has ‘wandered over the
whole of this savage land’ in search for him (p$san planhqe≥ß t&nde
b3rbaron cqÎna, 598). Teucer has stopped off in Egypt en route to
Cyprus—an odd route to take from Salamis, one would have
thought—and has to ask Theonoe the right way to go (147–50).
Menelaus arrives on the scene completely lost, not recognizing
anything, not knowing where on earth he has landed (414–15,
459). When Helen and Menelaus are formulating their escape-
plan later on, they are forced to concede that escape over land is
impossible since, in their ignorance of this barbarian country,
they have no idea what route to take (1041–2). It may be that
their ignorance reflects the genuine ignorance, or indifference, of
Euripides and his audience. Even if a knowledge (to whatever
extent) of Egypt is assumed, and if some trade took place
between Greece and Egypt, it is not clear how familiar Greek
travellers would have been with Egyptian geography; nor is it
clear how much an ‘average’ Athenian of the fifth century would
have known of such matters.33 If the lack of description reflects
32
The play involves two-way movement of characters between the palace
and the shore: Helen 428–9, 740, 1390, 1513, 1530.
33
Some familiarity with cartography is assumed by Aristophanes, Clouds
168 A Tragic Landscape
indifference rather than ignorance, then one must ask why this
should be. Perhaps Euripides decided not to bore his audience
with abstruse details, or perhaps there is a particular reason for
his deliberately leaving these places ill-defined and nebulous.
So much for geography; what else does Euripides tell his
audience about Egypt? There is no clear evidence of a debt to
Herodotus, or any literary text, at all. Of Herodotus’ crocodiles,
hippopotami, flying snakes, mummies, and numerous other
Egyptian curiosities there is no trace. One scholar has seen in the
proximity of the palace and Proteus’ tomb a possible reference to
a Herodotean description of Egyptian antiquities, but this is
an extremely tenuous claim, scarcely justified by the slight simi-
larity of the situations.34 Another has laboriously tried to find
parallels between Theonoe’s ritual paraphernalia and other
accounts of Egyptian religious customs:35 one small detail, the
use of a torch to purify the air, is also found in a passage of
Plutarch,36 but other supposed correspondences are less
certain.37 It might be that there are details in the play which made
sense in the light of knowledge of Egypt from some other, non-
Herodotean source; but there is nothing which obviously fits this
description. In fact, apart from the scant details just noted, the
play is devoid of anything which even resembles local detail.
Euripides’ Egypt is scarcely more Egyptian than Athens.
One might compare with Helen Euripides’ description of the
Black Sea setting of Iphigenia, to see whether similar tendencies
emerge. At first glance, at least, there is a little more local detail
here: but critical opinion differs. Hall writes that Euripides’
Taurians, and their geography, are accurately depicted; but
206–17, where Strepsiades is made to seem a buffoon on account of his ignor-
ance of maps and (at least Attic) geography. But is this strictly comparable?
34
Bernand (1985) 286; he compares Hdt. 2.112.
35
Goossens (1935) 249–50.
36
Theonoe’s assistants at Helen 865–7 burn incense; cf. Plut. Moralia (de
Iside et Osiride) 383b, where Egyptian priests burn resin and myrrh.
37
Helen 1013–16 records a belief in punishment for sins after death (but
Bacon [1961, 149] points out that this is a Pindaric motif); Theoclymenus at
Helen 1421 discounts the after-life, but this actually contradicts Hdt. 2.123.
The tolerance of Greek customs expressed at Helen 1241–4 also contradicts
Hdt. 2.79. Hall (1989a, 148) suggests also that the plot of Andromeda reflects
an eastern, possibly Phoenician ritual of propitiatory sacrifice: but this too
is vague, and there is no real evidence from the surviving text to support this
claim.
 A Tragic Landscape 169
another critic judges that the geography is a muddle, and that
none of the ethnographic references in the play localizes a
specific, actual place: ‘it is probably not ignorance that makes
Euripides vague and inaccurate. The fact is that for his particular
poetic purpose it does not matter whether he is geographically
accurate or not.’38 Which is true?
One can see that in Iphigenia there is an attempt made to locate
the action a little more exactly than in Helen—at least, in the
sense that specific topographical reference is made to the Black
Sea and its environs. The place is named twice as ‘the land of
the Tauri’,39 placing it somewhere in the region of the Black
Sea and Scythia.40 Like Egypt, it is said to be a very long way
away from civilized Greece (1325–6). At lines 106 ff . the coastal
milieu is stressed, but Greece, too, has plenty of coastline
and caves: what makes the Tauric coastline different from any
Greek one is its inhospitability. It is repeatedly described as
‘inhospitable’, £xe(i)noß.41 In one of its frequent uses this adjec-
tive is simply a geographical term, a name by which the Greeks
called the Black Sea;42 nevertheless, the adjective is not invari-
ably a toponym, and the double meaning (or word-play: see §3.4

38
Bacon (1961) 156–8.
39
Iphigenia 29, 85. The play’s Hypothesis gives the additional detail ƒn Ta»roiß
t[ß Skuq≤aß (‘among the Taurians of Scythia’), which may be slightly mislead-
ing: the question of how far a distinction ought to be made between Taurians
and Scythians depends on the extent of Euripides’ familiarity with Herodotus
(who makes a case for stricter classification of the peoples of the Black Sea, say-
ing [4.99] that Taurians and Scythians are different). However, it seems likely
that Herodotus is unusual (polemical?) in distinguishing the two groups: few
followed him. The character in Ar. Thesm. who represents Thoas in the parody
of Iphigenia is not Taurian but Scythian, which suggests that the distinction was
not a standard one, or (at least) not seen to be very important. (However, the
aims of the parody may be more complicated: see Hall [1989b, 48–54], who
observes that Scythian archers were essentially comic stereotypes of barbaric
characters, to be found also in Acharnians and Lysistrata. Truly enough, the
Scythian archer in Thesm. 1016–18 fulfils the dramatic function not only of the
Taurian king but also of the [Ethiopian?] villain of Andromeda.)
40
Hdt. 4.99–101.
41
Iphigenia 94, 218, 253, 341, 438, 1388.
42
Allen (1947, 86–8) argues convincingly that the toponym £xe(i)noß for the
Black Sea was adopted not just because of its appropriateness to describe such
perilous waters, but because of its similarity to the old Iranian word acšaéna
(‘dark, black’); the euphemism eÇxeinoß was later adopted by Ionians who settled
in the region. Cf. Pind. Pyth. 4 and Eur. Andromache 794 for £xe(i)noß in its
toponymic sense.
170 A Tragic Landscape
below) is particularly appropriate here.43 As in Helen, the coast,
and its caves hollowed out by the sea, must be sufficiently
near the temple to allow easy and quick two-way movement of
characters.44
As for the description of the specific place where the temple of
Artemis stands, there are a few indications, all of which are con-
tained within the choral lyrics. ‘The debate over where Euri-
pides visualized the action of the drama,’ writes Hall, ‘centres on
three passages: in all other places the information he supplies is
not only internally consistent, but accords with Herodotus’
account of the Tauric Chersonese.’45 But this assessment makes
the problem sound far less serious than it really is, because the
three debated passages in question are in fact the only passages
which describe the geography in any detail!
First, at the start of the parodos, Iphigenia addresses the
chorus (123–5):
eÛfame∏t’, _
pÎntou diss¤ß sugcwro»saß
pvtraß åxe≤nou na≤onteß.
Keep holy silence, you who dwell by the twin converging rocks of the
inhospitable sea.
Later on in the parodos, the chorus members sing (132–6):
}Ell3doß eÛ≤ppou p»rgouß
ka≥ te≤ch cÎrtwn t’ eÛdvndrwn
ƒxall3xas’ EÛr*pan,
patr*iwn o÷kwn 1draß.
[I have come,] leaving behind the towers and walls of Greece, rich in
horses, and Europe with its thick forests, site of my ancestral home.
The third and most substantial description comes in the first
stasimon, where the chorus discuss the voyage made by Orestes
and Pylades to the Tauric land (393–7). They address the
43
But compare e.g. Helen 404–5, where Menelaus says of his windblown, off-
course wanderings in Libya: Lib»hß d’ ƒr&mouß åxvnouß t’ ƒpidrom¤ß | pvpleuka
p3saß (‘I have sailed to all the desolate and inhospitable places of Libya’).
Perhaps the adjective is no less common as a metaphor than as a toponym (cf.
Soph. Phil. 217). Bacon (1961, 157) notes that often ways of naming or referring
to the Black Sea are simply formulaic. So frequent references are indeed
emphatic but not necessarily precise.
44
Iphigenia 67–70, 106–9, 236–7.
45
Hall (1987) 427.
 A Tragic Landscape 171
ku3neai ku3neai s»nodoi qal3ssaß,
Jn’ o”stroß †Ø petÎmenoß !rgÎqen†
£xenon ƒp’ o”dma diepvrasen 〈 〉
!si&tida ga∏an
EÛr*paß diame≤yaß,
Dark-blue, dark-blue channels of the sea, where the gadfly that flew
from Argos traversed the swell of the inhospitable sea 〈 〉, leaving
Europe and travelling to the land of Asia,
and continue to speculate (422–38):
p0ß t¤ß sundrom3daß pvtraß,
p0ß Fineºdaß †å»-
pnou߆ åkt¤ß ƒpvra-
san par’ ‹lion ajgialÏn ƒp’ !mfitr≤-
taß Âoq≤wi dramÎnteß . . .
. . . ∂ pne»masi Zef»rou,
t¤n poluÎrniqon ƒp’ a”-
an, leuk¤n åkt3n, !cil[-
oß drÎmouß kallistad≤ouß,
£xeinon kat¤ pÎnton;
How did they pass through the clashing rocks? How did they pass
through the †unsleeping† shores of Phineus, running along the sea’s
coast on Amphitrite’s surf [. . .] or under the breath of Zephyr, to the
land of many birds, the white shore, the lovely running-ground of
Achilles, across the inhospitable sea?
Just how much information is actually being given here? The
‘dark-blue passage’ (ku3neai s»nodoi), presumably, represents the
channel leading into the Black Sea from the Propontis, and the
‘clashing rocks’ (sundrom3daß pvtraß) the Symplegades which
marked the entrance to the Black Sea itself. These jagged,
impassable rocks are mentioned many times throughout the
play, which suggests that they are a very important element of
the imagined setting,46 but we still do not find out where exactly
the temple of Artemis is supposed to be. It is most probably the
Chersonese peninsula, but who is to say for certain? Somewhere
in the region of the Tauri is indicated, but where? When
Iphigenia says that the women of the chorus dwell by the
Symplegades and the Black Sea (a vague, far-reaching descrip-
tion), are we supposed to imagine that these coastal features are
46
References to the ‘clashing rocks’ are found also at Iphigenia 124–5, 241,
260, 355, 392–5, 746, 889–90, 1389.
172 A Tragic Landscape
right next to the temple? This would surely place the play’s
action somewhere other than the Chersonese: that is, in an area
not elsewhere associated with the Taurians. As Hall points out,
the difficulty may be resolved by interpretation. The verb used
for ‘dwelling’ (na≤w transitive without ƒn) is vague; and mention
of the Symplegades or the sea could well be a generalized,
metonymic means of referring to a very wide geographical area,
just as ‘Nile’ may sometimes stand for Egypt. But even if this
interpretation is accepted, the description, far from being
straightforward as Hall suggests, is at best ambiguous.
The description of Orestes’ and Pylades’ voyage does not
resolve the difficulty. They are said to have sailed from the
Propontis, through the Bosporus (lines 393–5) and the Sym-
plegades (422) into the Black Sea itself, and then to have passed,
surely northwards, along the coast (423–6). So they are definitely
(as we already knew) somewhere in the Black Sea; but from this
point precise details are lacking. The final piece of information
given is that the voyagers sailed in the direction of ‘the white
coast’ (435–6), a reference to Leuke (modern Phidonisi), an
island lying opposite the mouth of the Danube, which housed a
temple to Achilles. This information gives us their direction of
travel, but not their final destination.47
Hall argues that we should still locate the play in the
Chersonese—not because Euripides actually tells us this, but
because other details of the play are ‘compatible’ with what was
known, from Herodotus, of the Taurians who inhabited the
Chersonese. (I remain unconvinced that these details are similar,
as I shall go on to say in a moment.) Hall’s view of Euripides in
general, in fact, is that he was profoundly influenced by the
historian, and that Iphigenia ‘constituted a dramatic bringing-
to-life of chapters in Herodotus.’48 It is not satisfactory to define
geographical ‘accuracy’ as correspondence with Herodotus. As it
turns out, Hall cannot show that Euripides was influenced by
47
Bacon (1961, 158) assumes that Leuke was Orestes’ final destination; but
the play gives no sign that this was its location. Hall (1987, 428–9) rightly points
out that this ode is not a periplous of the Black Sea, but continues: ‘for poetic
reasons he chooses not to deal with the remaining itinerary, which involved
skirting the coast of the Black Sea which curved north-eastward to the
Chersonese.’ But we cannot know for sure that the Chersonese was the final
location.
48
Hall (1989a) 112.
 G
F
E

Black Sea

D
A Hellespont
B Propontis B C
C Bosporus
D Symplegades A
E River Danube
F Leuke (Phidonisi) 0 50 100 150 miles
G Chersonese
174 A Tragic Landscape
Herodotus, because the details are different in each; but, even if
Euripides was influenced by Herodotus, this would not neces-
sarily consitute ‘accuracy’ of a type to which the audience could
relate.
Hall’s final point concerns the statement of the chorus that
they ‘left Europe’ (135) in coming to the Tauric land. She argues
that ‘no Athenian who was influenced by Herodotus—as Euri-
pides plainly was—could conceive that the Taurians lived any-
where but Europe’, and accordingly she adopts Barnes’s
emendation EÛr*tan for the manuscripts’ EÛr*pan, making
them say instead that they have ‘left the Eurotas’.49 Nevertheless,
as we have seen, the chorus (apropos of Io’s wanderings) do
describe the Bosporus as the ‘gateway from Europe to the land of
Asia’ (393–5), which is definitely a contradiction and cannot be
so conveniently emended. So, whether or not Euripides knew
Herodotus, it does seem that he conceived of the Taurians
inhabiting Asia and not Europe. Was this due to ignorance,
indifference or disagreement?
The characters’ ignorance of local geography is also marked
(as it was in Helen). Orestes and Pylades did not arrive at the
Tauric land as a result of aimless, clueless wanderings, but
definitely steered their ship there from Argos (70), which does,
admittedly, imply geographical knowledge of the region (but, on
the other hand, it might well be that, with Apollo guiding them,
they could never have sailed off-course, however ignorant of the
route to take). Orestes does later say that it is to an unknown
country that they have come (£gnwston ƒß g[n, 94); and, as in
Helen, it is made clear that escape by any route except by sea
would be impossible, owing to ignorance of the terrain as well as
its dangerous nature (including bad roads).50
The geography may be ambiguous, but let us examine the few
other details in Iphigenia which, Hall claims, reflect Herodotus’
description of the Taurians who inhabited the Chersonese.51
Herodotus, like Euripides, describes the Taurians’ custom of
49
Hall (1987) 430; Barnes (1694) ad loc.
50
Iphigenia 884–9: pÎteron kat¤ cvrson, oÛc≥ naΩ | åll¤ pod0n Âip$i; | qan3twi
pel3seiß £ra b3rbara fıla | ka≥ di’ ØdoŸß ånÎdouß ste≤cwn. (‘[Shall we go] on
dry land, not on shipboard but with flurry of feet? But in that case you would
meet your end as you pass through barbarian tribes and roads that are no
roads.’)
51
Hall (1987); (1989a) 110–12.
 A Tragic Landscape 175
sacrificing shipwrecked sailors;52 and the Taurians’ nasty habits
of impaling people on stakes or throwing them over cliffs are
reflected in the threats which Thoas makes to the chorus and the
escapees.53 But Hall pushes her case too far. It cannot really be
said that the simple, imprecise mention of b3rbara fıla
(‘barbarian tribes’) is to be taken as a reference to Herodotus’
more detailed catalogues of barbarian peoples,54 and these few
scattered references are just not sufficiently substantial or
numerous to justify her claim that Iphigenia ‘was profoundly
influenced, if not actually prompted, by Herodotus’ account of
the Taurians’.55 In any case, Hall does not acknowledge the
difference in detail between Herodotus and Euripides. For
example, the character of Iphigenia is different in each: in
Euripides she is a priestess who returned to Greece in human
form, but in Herodotus she is a goddess. Hall also claims, false-
ly, that decapitation features in both accounts; but in fact there is
no sign of this practice in Euripides’ play.56 Once again, then,
we have to conclude that Euripides’ Taurians are neither
Herodotean nor well-defined in any other sense.
Another odd feature of these ‘foreign’ plays is that they con-
tain hardly any foreigners: the Greek characters outnumber
the natives. In Iphigenia there is only one major Taurian
character (Thoas) and two minor ones (Herdsman, Messenger),
while in Helen there are two Egyptians with substantial roles
(Theoclymenus, Theonoe) and three lesser ones (Portress, two
Messengers). More unexpectedly still, the choruses of both
Helen and Iphigenia (and possibly of Andromeda also)57 are com-
posed of Greek women, rather than indigenous inhabitants of
the land in question.58 A foreign chorus was a significant way of
marking the setting, not just because of their very presence on
52
Hdt. 4.99–109: cf. Iphigenia 38–41, 72, 276–8, etc.
53
Hdt. 4.103: cf. Iphigenia 1429.
54
Iphigenia 886–7; cf. Hdt. 4.16–29, 99–109: Hall (1989a) 112.
55
Hall (1989a) 134.
56
She arrives at this supposed parallel by mistranslating Euripides’ Greek
(Iphigenia 74): see p. 185 below.
57
Andromeda fr. 117: f≤lai parqvnoi, f≤lai moi (‘Dear maidens! my dear
friends!’), spoken by Andromeda to the chorus (S Ar. Thesm. 1015). Greek,
Ethiopian, or other?
58
Contrast the use of foreign choruses elsewhere: Phrynichus’ Suppliants
and Libyans, Aeschylus’ Egyptians and Suppliants, Euripides’ Phoenician
Women, and so on. (See §2.3.6 above.)
176 A Tragic Landscape
the scene, or whatever costumes and mannerisms they had, but
because of their music (since there were distinct ethnic styles of
music, singing and dancing in tragedy).59 Significantly, it has
been noted that all the genuinely foreign words and references to
foreign speech in Euripides, but not in Sophocles or Aeschylus,
are contained in the choral lyrics.60 The Greek choruses of the
escape-tragedies are therefore unconventional: they seem to be
another way in which Euripides has reduced the exoticism of his
chosen settings, has made them even less foreign, by putting his
foreigners in the minority. Furthermore, the presence of large
numbers of Greek women in such remote, inaccessible regions is
intrinsically unlikely and highly outré. Why on earth are they
there? How did they arrive at these far-flung regions at all, and
why have they ended up, coincidentally, as attendants to the
respective heroines?61
To sum up: Euripides’ presentation of Egypt and the Taurian
land is very different from what one might have expected. He
(along with his audience) was almost certainly knowledgeable
about Egypt and the Black Sea area; but, as far as the geo-
graphical data goes, these locations are drawn neither precisely
nor coherently, and there is an almost total absence of distinctive
local detail. Euripides has gone to great lengths to set these
tragedies in the most outrageously exotic far-flung settings
imaginable, choosing and even specially adapting variant myths
for the purpose: but, having established these settings, he then
deliberately underplays and undermines them.
One possible explanation for this strange treatment is that
Euripides was not concerned to depict these regions for their
own sake, but rather for what they represented in fifth-century
Athenian rhetoric. Many of Euripides’ contemporaries were
accustomed to thinking about distant lands in terms of their
59
See n. 72 below.
60
Bacon (1961) 115–20. Krausse (1905, 205) was the first to suggest that
Euripides relied on music for his ‘foreign effects’.
61
Iphigenia 1109–10 suggests that the Greek women were taken in a piratical
raid and sold to Thoas as slaves; why Thoas should have given them to Iphigenia
(63–4) is unclear. Helen gives similarly little clue as to the origins of its chorus,
though one presumes that they suffered a similar fate (191). The Greek women
are attendants of Helen, but Hermes is not said to have borne them to Egypt
along with Helen; no doubt that would have quite spoiled the effect. Note that
sometimes the chorus’ presence is explained (Aesch. Cho., Eur. Phoen., Ion, Iph.
at Aulis).
 A Tragic Landscape 177
difference from Greek lands and peoples. As much recent work
in this area has shown, stereotypical portrayals of foreign places
and people were prevalent in fifth-century discourse. In the next
section I shall examine how, and why, the escape-tragedies react
to this rhetoric.

3.3 ethnicity
It is well known that Greeks of the fifth century constructed their
ethnic identity in two ways.62 First, there was the ‘aggregative
method’ of self-definition, characterized by a panhellenic, unify-
ing spirit, as expressed famously by Herodotus’ Athenians: aˆtiß
d† tÏ }EllhnikÎn, ƒÏn ÒmaimÎn te ka≥ ØmÎglwsson, ka≥ qe0n Èdr»mat3
te koin¤ ka≥ qus≤ai ‡qe3 te ØmÎtropa (‘But then think of what it is
to be Greek: it is common blood and common language, and the
temples of the gods which we share, and rituals, and also similar
customs’).63 Aggregative self-definition, encouraged by pan-
hellenic festival activity, existed from the archaic period
onwards.
The second type of ethnic self-definition was ‘oppositional’, a
method emphasizing ethnic differences rather than similarities.
Historians’ and ethnographers’ descriptions of far-off lands,
even when giving specific details of individual ethnic groups,
used language designed implicitly and explicitly to mark a
simple contrast: ‘we’—the Greeks—with ‘them’—foreigners.
The central concept of Greek ethnic ideology of this type is con-
tained in the word b3rbaroß, sometimes translated ‘barbarian’
but used to stand for any people, of any ethnic group, who were
non-Greek.64 It has been argued convincingly that oppositional
definition was a direct response to the Persian Wars in the
early decades of the fifth century, and that the dichotomy
62
On subjective and objective definitions of ethnicity, see Smith (1986) and
(on Greek antiquity) J. Hall (1997).
63
Hdt. 8.144.2.
64
Peculiarly, this notion of a ‘universal foreigner’ is unique to Greek
ethnicity. Even the strong national identity of the English in the early twentieth-
century did not give rise to quite the same sort of terminology, despite the wide-
spread presence of such xenophobic views as those caricatured by Nancy
Mitford: ‘Uncle Matthew’s four years in France between 1914 and 1918 had
given him no great opinion of foreigners. “Frogs,” he would say, “are slightly
better than Huns or Wops, but abroad is unutterably bloody and foreigners are
fiends.” ’ (The Pursuit of Love, ch. 15.)
178 A Tragic Landscape
was absorbed into all areas of rhetoric, politics and literature—
but it came about (for whatever reason) that tragic drama in
particular both embodied and created fundamental attitudes of
oppositional identity.65
As Hall puts it, the standard rhetoric of tragedy contrasted a
‘single category’ of Greeks with a ‘single category’ of barbarians
embodying the opposite values.66 Specific aspects of their
foreignness were expressed using the same criteria as Herodotus’
aggregative definition of Greekness—descent, language, religion
and culture. In the terms of this polarized rhetoric, ‘barbarians’
were completely unrelated to Greeks by blood ties; they com-
municated in chattering, incomprehensible languages; they
worshipped strange gods in unfamiliar rituals; they were cruel,
tyrannical, inferior in intellect and body; they wore ridiculous
clothes; they were presented as everything that the Greeks were
not (a logical impossibility).67
To Euripides and his audience, then, the Egyptians, Taurians
and (perhaps) Ethiopians of the escape-tragedies, whatever their
individual ethnic characteristics, were all to be viewed as
b3rbaroi. Thus an obvious explanation of what seemed above to
be strangely imprecise depiction of foreigners has been that
Euripides’ purpose was to provide, not ethnographic entertain-
ment, but rather embodiment of what, by 412, was a widespread
ethnic viewpoint. It has been written that Euripides’ ‘underlying
premise’ in writing plays such as Helen and Iphigenia was ‘the
ascendancy of Hellas over the barbarian cultures at the edges of
the earth’.68 There is indeed an extraordinarily large number of
occurrences of the word b3rbaroß (often pejorative) in the plays:
so there can be no doubt that Euripides was awake to the familiar
question of ethnicity and concerned to make his audience acutely
aware of the fact.69
65
In particular, the works of Hartog (1988) and Hall (1989a). Both methods
of definition, the oppositional and the aggregative, are highly problematic
rhetorical devices (on which see e.g. Hobsbawm [1992] 1–20): my interest here
is not in the relative objectivity or truth of either method, but in the specific
treatment of the ‘Greek versus barbarian’ dichotomy in the escape-tragedies.
66
Hall (1989a) 161.
67
Herodotus (2.35.2) wrote that the Egyptians were so peculiar that they
were contrasted with the rest of mankind, not just the Greeks!
68
Hall (1989a) 113.
69
Examples of b3rbaroß (or cognates) abound, more or less evenly-spaced
throughout the plays: in Helen, twenty-seven (131, 192, 224, 234, 257, 274, 276,
 A Tragic Landscape 179
But the obvious explanation may not always be the correct
one; and, in fact, the way in which Euripides actually explores
the question is surprisingly unfamiliar. Just as he evokes a
foreign atmosphere of extreme exoticism only to ignore it, so he
brings the ethnic question to the audience’s attention only to do
something rather unexpected with it. In the escape-tragedies the
standard dichotomy breaks down, and what one sees is not good,
noble, splendid, familiar Greeks contrasted with rotten, cruel,
savage, strange barbarians, as one might have expected, but
something rather more peculiar and unsettling.
One must acknowledge a certain degree of self-consciousness,
even archness, in such remarks as that of Thoas, when he hears
of Orestes’ matricide: ‘By Apollo! not even among barbarians
would anyone have borne to commit such a deed!’ (⁄pollon:
oÛd’ ƒn barb3roiß πtlh tiß £n, 1174). Both Theoclymenus and
Thoas and the Taurians, bizarrely, refer to themselves as
‘barbarians’ rather than ‘Egyptians’ or ‘Taurians’,70 which is
highly provocative. A tendency towards deconstruction of such
polarities as ‘Greek’/‘barbarian’, ‘slave’/‘free’ (etc.), in line with
the commonly perceived Zeitgeist of intellectual questioning and
crisis at Athens, has already been observed in several late
Euripidean tragedies;71 but I maintain that, in these particular
plays, the questioning tendency shows itself, not just in such
occasional raised voices of provocative query, but in a way that is
seriously, radically subversive. Euripides’ attitude here is
different from that of many other fifth-century writers and his

295, 501, 598, 600, 666, 743, 789, 800, 863, 864, 1042, 1100, 1117, 1132, 1200,
1258, 1380, 1507, 1594, 1608); in Iphigenia, fifteen (31, 180, 417, 739, 629, 775,
886, 906, 1086, 1112, 1170, 1174, 1337, 1400, 1422). These numbers are
extraordinarily high, and unmatched by any other Euripidean play. Bacon notes
(1961, 10 n.7) that Euripides uses b3rbaroß or related words ten times as often as
Sophocles and six times as often as Aeschylus: a highly suggestive statistic,
which becomes even more suggestive when one realizes (as Bacon does not point
out) that over 40 per cent of all these occurrences are in Helen and Iphigenia.
Bacon also thinks (1961, 12) that occasionally in Euripides b3rbaroß loses all
reference to nationality and comes to mean only ‘savage’, ‘evil’, or ‘cruel’: she
cites as evidence Helen 501 and Iphigenia 31, 417, 739, 886. (But while
these instances may certainly be pejorative, they are by no means simple: their
cruelty, etc., is closely bound up with other aspects of their ethnicity and cannot
be separated.)
70
Iphigenia 1174, 1422; Helen 1210, 1258.
71
Saïd (1984); Hall (1989a) 201–22.
180 A Tragic Landscape
own work elsewhere. Whatever his purpose may have been, it
was not to demonstrate the ascendancy of Hellas over the
barbarians.
Take the chorus, for instance. I mentioned (§3.1 above) the
unexpected fact that the choruses are composed of Greek
women, and the strangeness of their being present at all; but,
even stranger still, the chorus of Iphigenia sing in a very un-
Greek way (179–81):
åntiy3lmouß ∑id¤ß \mnwn t’
!siht$n soi b3rbaron åc¤n
despo≤nai g’ ƒxaud3sw.
To you, mistress, I shall respond with songs and the barbarian clamour
of Asian hymns.
This oddity may perhaps be explained in terms of the musical
‘modes’ which were associated with the evocation of specific
emotions,72 but this does not entirely explain away the oddity
of Greeks who sing barbarian songs. Do the Greek chorus
members adopt a characteristically foreign style of singing or
dancing in the other odes, also? How are they dressed? It is
fascinating to speculate. One might point out, also, that Helen
(in the parodos of her play) calls for the chorus to come and
sing with a Libyan flute, which might mean that there is some-
thing distinctively un-Greek about their odes, as well.73 Later
on, in the second stasimon of that play (the so-called ‘Magna
Mater’ ode, representing a syncretism of Cybele, the Phrygian
nature-goddess, with Greek worship of Demeter), with its
mention of exotic musical instruments, rattling cymbals and
Dionysiac revels, there are clear Oriental influences in subject-
72
See West (1992) 178–82. The Mixolydian and the ‘tense’ Lydian mode
were thought suitable for women and for lamentation (Plato, Rep. 398e); the
Ionian and the ‘slack’ Lydian mode were used for symposia. Morwood (1999,
166) explains that ‘[the chorus in Iphigenia] plan to demonstrate the intensity of
their sorrow by singing in the Mysian or some other Asiatic mode’ (musical
style); cf. Plutarch, De Audiendo 46b, which records that a chorus member was
rebuked for laughing during the singing of a lament in the plaintive Mixolydian
mode. Compare Cyclops 443 and Erechtheus fr. 370 Nauck for the association of
Asiatic music with lamentation.
73
Helen 170–1: mÎloit’ πcousai L≤bun | lwtÏn (‘come with Libyan flute’).
Nevertheless, there are other ‘Libyan’ flutes in Euripides which do not neces-
sarily connote exoticism or barbarism: Iph. at Aulis 1036, Alc. 346, Heracles
684.
 A Tragic Landscape 181
matter and style, which might well have been expressed in per-
formance.74
Language was indeed an important criterion in definitions of
ethnic identity. All Greeks were supposed to speak the same
language (Herodotus’ description above ignores the numerous
dialects, some of which were mutually unintelligible to a sub-
stantial degree),75 while barbarians were supposed to converse in
unintelligible tongues.76 Language difficulties are a stock-in-
trade of ancient (as well as modern) comedy: one thinks of the
Triballian god in Aristophanes’ Birds, or the character called
Pseudartabas in Acharnians, both of whom speak a sort of non-
sense-language, half-Persian and half-Greek.77 But the fact that
Greeks evidently found language differences humorous might
explain why there is in tragedy little attempt to represent foreign
speech. Aeschylus’ Persians contains various foreign names and
items of vocabulary,78 and it is possible that other lost plays with
exotic-sounding titles also did the same; but in general it is true
to say that tragedy did not represent foreign language to the same
extent or in the same way. All characters, whether Greek or
barbarian, speak in Attic in the dialogue sections and break into
other Greek dialects from time to time in the lyrics.79
It is hard to know what the actors sounded like, whether
singing or speaking, but it is possible that a suggestion of
foreignness could have been made in production, in a way which
would naturally not show up in the text. This area of discussion
is necessarily inconclusive, but there are a few indications from
other plays which might give useful pointers. Two passages in
particular have sometimes been taken to suggest that ‘normal’
Attic Greek was sometimes spoken with a discernible foreign
accent. In Aeschylus’ Libation-Bearers, Orestes and Pylades
74
Helen 1301–68. See Hall (1989a) 152–3; Hartog (1988) 80–2.
75
See e.g. Thucydides 3.94.5 (unintelligible Aetolians); Aesch. Cho. 563–4
(Phocian dialect); J. Hall (1997) discusses the role of language in constructing
ethnicities.
76
The word b3rbaroß originally expressed purely linguistic difference
(Homer used barbarÎfwnoß, Iliad 2.867), and only later came to express racial
difference: this suggests that language is a most important means of definition.
77
Ar. Birds 1628–9, 1678–9; Ach. 100–104.
78
Aesch. Pers. 825–64, 900–2.
79
Notable instances in Greek tragedy where reference is made to foreign
dialects or accents: Phoen. 1302–3 (the chorus), Rhesus 294–7 (a Trojan
shepherd), Orestes 1395–7 (a Phrygian slave), Bacch. 158–9 (chorus).
182 A Tragic Landscape
disguise themselves to gain entry into the royal palace; and
Orestes adds: ‘We will both speak the language of Parnassus,
mimicking the sound of the Phocian dialect.’80 But when it comes
to the deception-scene (lines 653 ff .), Orestes’ speech is, as
before, written out in Attic, not Phocian. One could compare a
passage in Euripides’ Phoenician Women where Jocasta refers to
an utterance of the chorus as a ‘Phoenician cry’.81 This is just
what one might expect, perhaps, from a chorus of Phoenicians,
but the important point is that Jocasta claims to have heard a
sound, in a passage of spoken Greek, which struck her as being
distinctively Phoenician.82 Colvin’s survey of foreign speech in
Greek drama concludes that in tragedy there was only a limited
degree of ‘linguistic realism’, by which he means that reference to
dialect was permissible, but oral representation of dialect was not.
This is implied by the frequency with which the characters make
self-conscious reference to foreign speech: there would, Colvin
claims, have been no need to do so, if foreign pronunciation was
actually being used.83
There is virtually no sign in the text of Helen or Iphigenia
that the barbarian characters were characterized by means of
linguistic differentiation. Thoas, Theoclymenus, Theonoe and
the minor characters are no less articulate than the Greek
characters, nor do they use any authentically foreign, or other-
wise unusual, words or expressions. The only possible oddities
(and these are trifling) occur in the speech of Theoclymenus: he
utters more exclamations than the other characters (but, after all,
Helen is a play of much surprise and suspense),84 and he uses one
colloquial expression.85 But neither of these unusual features (if
80
Aesch. Libation-Bearers 563–4: £mfw d† fwn¶n ~somen Parnhss≤da |
gl*sshß å”t¶n Fwk≤doß mimoumvnw. It may be that Aeschylus, by using fwn¶n and
å”t¶n, is distinguishing between ‘accent’ and ‘dialect’: see Garvie (1986) ad loc.
81
Eur. Phoen. 301: Fo≤nissan bo¤n kl»ousa.
82
To illustrate what is meant, the scholiast quotes a passage from a lost
Sophoclean play where a character’s speech is said to ‘smell’ Spartan: Retrieval
of Helen, fr. 176 Radt (ka≥ g¤r carakt¶r aÛtÏß ƒn gl*sshi t≤ me | parhgore∏
L3kwnoß øsm$sqai lÎgou).
83
Colvin (1999) 74–89 (esp. 86).
84
Helen 1165 (_ ca∏re), 1176 extra metrum (πa), 1180 (∑&), 1204 (⁄pollon).
85
The colloquial particle da≤ following interrogative p0ß (Helen 1246): Dale
(1967 ad loc.) says that this idiom ‘should not be banished from Eur.’, but there
is a slight difficulty. The word is found elsewhere in Euripides (Cycl. 450; El.
244, 978, 1116, 1303; Ion 275; Iph. at Aulis 1443; Med. 339, 1012), but in all
 A Tragic Landscape 183
they are to be seen as unusual at all) can properly be said to mark
out the speaker as barbarian. If it was (pace Colvin) possible for
actors to speak Attic Greek in a Phocian, Phoenician or Spartan
accent, it must also have been possible to speak in an Egyptian or
Taurian accent. But, in any case, whether or not oral representa-
tion of accent was attempted, there is no reference to foreign
speech in either play. So it seems that there was no audible
difference between the Greeks and the other characters: Euri-
pides’ ‘barbarians’ speak in beautiful, unmarked Greek iambics.
An odd literary survival is a papyrus dating from the second
century ad, which is an anonymous mime, Charition, clearly
based on the Tauric Iphigenia.86 This is significant in a number
of ways. First, it strongly suggests that, in later antiquity at least,
Euripides’ play was perceived to be about the ethnic contrast
between Greeks and barbarians; second, it expresses the ethnic
difference primarily through language and mutual incompre-
hension; third, it makes this difference extremely overt; fourth, it
is comical. Euripides could not have made the language of
his Taurians and Egyptians like that of Charition’s gibberish-
talking foreigners, owing to tragic conventions—but would it
not have been possible, if desired, to make more of linguistic
traits?
As for the lineage and descent of Euripides’ barbarians, a
similar blurring of the expected boundary occurs. For we learn
that, far from being of separate (inferior) stock, the royal family
of Egypt has a place in Greek mythical genealogy. Grandfather
Nereus and father Proteus were Greek sea-deities, mother
Psamathe a Nereid who had earlier been unhappily married to
Aiacus. The new king and his sister have Greek names—
Theoclymenus and Theonoe—with Greek etymologies (‘famous
because of a god’ and ‘knowledgeable about the divine’, respec-
tively). No information is given about the ancestry of the
invented Thoas, but he too has a Greek name, unattested in any
cases except Cyclops and Helen the manuscripts record variants or are otherwise
corrupt. It seems that da≤ was thought by editors, scribes (or others) to be
improper tragic usage. Stevens (1976, 45) has more to say on da≤, which he
identifies as a colloquialism in this passage. Helen 1246 may be incongruous,
then; but did Euripides mean it to be so, or should one emend to d’ aı, d¶, d’ oˆn
vel sim.? The question is unanswerable. However, it cannot be said, on the basis
of this single word, that Theoclymenus’ speech is markedly odd.
86
Page (1954) 336–49.
184 A Tragic Landscape
local material, which (as we are painstakingly told) means
‘swift’.87
Not only their language and blood, but also their gods—Zeus,
Artemis, Hera, Aphrodite, Hermes, Athena et al.—are Greek.
This was probably not because Euripides was ignorant of foreign
religious customs. I have argued above that Egypt and the Black
Sea were at least moderately well known to Greeks of 412; the
non-Greek gods worshipped in Egyptian and Taurian ritual,
including Isis, Osiris, Amun and others, are discussed in some
detail by Herodotus;88 and Euripides himself had written a satyr-
play called Busiris—which proves at least some degree of
acquaintance with Egyptian athanatology.89 But despite this
knowledge, Euripides chose not to represent foreign gods, either
in these plays or elsewhere in his tragedies.90 This may have been
because, while satyr-drama was permitted to introduce foreign
gods onto the stage (presumably in the form of grotesquely com-
ical, anthropoid characters such as the Triballian god in Birds),
tragedy was (largely) about the Olympian gods:91 anything
else would be not only beneath the dignity of tragedy, but also
impossible to fit into its acknowledged theological system. (How
could the supernatural workings of tragedy possibly have con-
tained both foreign and Greek gods operating side-by-side? A
theomachy would doubtless have resulted—but clearly tragic
poets were not interested in exploring this possibility.) Another,
more important reason for the presence of Greek gods in
barbarian ritual was that Euripides was purposely Hellenizing
his barbarians and barbarizing his Hellenes—as in various other
ways.
Edith Hall believes that at least one aspect of Taurian religious
practice, as depicted in Iphigenia, is both authentic (according to
87
Helen 9–10, Iphigenia 31–3: on names and their (in-)appropriateness, see
§4.4.5 below.
88
Herodotus (2.42–55; 4.58–60, 103–4) describes Egyptian, Scythian and
Taurian gods and religious practices, including their possible similarities with,
and influences on, Greek religion. H. suggests that there existed a certain
tendency to identify Greek and Egyptian gods.
89
Eur. frr. 313–15 Nauck.
90
That is, except those foreign gods who had been integrated into Greek
religion, such as Dionysus or—most notably—Artemis.
91
Thanatos in Alcestis is an exception; but this play may also be an exception
to generic rules (see §1.1, p. 21 above). Prometheus in Aeschylus and Lyssa in
Heracles are other non-Olympians in tragedy.
 A Tragic Landscape 185
Herodotus’ description, that is) and stereotypically barbarian (in
the sense of cruel and savage). Orestes’ and Pylades’ first sight of
Artemis’ temple frightens them on account of its grisly decora-
tion (69–75):
OR. Pul3dh, doke∏ soi mvlaqra taıt’ e”nai qe$ß,
πnq’ !rgÎqen naın pont≤an ƒste≤lamen;
PU. πmoig’, O∞ rvsta: so≥ d† sundoke∏n cre*n.
OR. ka≥ bwmÎß, E fi llhn o˜ katast3zei fÎnoß;
PU. ƒx aÈm3twn goın x3nq’ πcei qrigk*mata.
OR. qrigko∏ß d’ \p’ aÛto∏ß skıl’ Ør$iß ]rthmvna;
PU. t0n katqanÎntwn g’ åkroq≤nia xvnwn.
Orestes: Pylades, does this seem to you to be the temple of the goddess,
for which we sailed here over the sea from Argos?
Pylades: It does indeed, Orestes, and you must agree that it is so.
Orestes: And is this the altar where Greek blood drips down?
Pylades: Yes—at least, its copings are stained with blood.
Orestes: And do you see spoils fastened underneath the copings them-
selves?
Pylades: Yes—the first-fruits of dead visitors.
It is the word skıla, ‘spoils’ (74), which is important. Hall inter-
prets this word as a reference to Herodotus’ description of
decapitation among the Taurians, translating it as ‘heads’.
However, I cannot agree with this. She seems to be deliberately
bending the meaning, in order to bolster her already tenuous
case that Euripides is ‘enormously indebted’ to Herodotus.92 In
fact, the details in each writer are quite different—and not just
where heads (or the lack of them) are concerned. Whereas
Herodotus and Hall talk of severed heads fastened to the tops of
buildings, Orestes and Pylades are clearly looking at spoils
fastened to an altar.93
92
Hall (1989a) 111–12. The relevant passage from Herodotus is 4.103.1–3.
Hall is followed by Morwood (1999) 3 (see also his notes on pp. 164–5): ‘And do
you see the heads hung up under the coping?’ The display of decapitated heads
was no doubt alien to the civilized ideals of 5th-cent. Athens, but it may not have
been seen as an exclusively barbarian habit: a Sophoclean fragment (Oenomaus
fr. 432 Radt) shows that Oenomaus treated the heads of Hippodamia’s suitors in
such a manner. In Stesichorus’ Cycnus (fr. 207 Davies), the Thessalian son of
Ares beheaded strangers and made their skulls into a temple to Phobos.
93
Hall is not alone in this mistake. One of the vase-paintings of Iphigenia
(Trendall and Webster [1971] 3.3.32 = Leningrad inv. 2080/W.1033), a 4th-
cent. amphora by the Ixion painter, shows a severed head hanging from
the architrave of the Taurian temple. So it seems that Herodotus (or other
186 A Tragic Landscape
The temple itself, which is described in some detail, is
extremely Greek in its architecture and fittings. This is oddly
incongruous: a temple of savage cult, miles from Greece, is
neither decked out in barbarian decadence and splendour
nor crudely built, but in every respect resembles a Greek build-
ing.94 So, in the wilds of the Black Sea region, there is a Greek
temple, where a Greek goddess is worshipped in rites carried out
by a Greek priestess: a curiously paradoxical situation. I shall
return to this paradox, and attempt to explain it, later on in this
section.
The business of human sacrifice in Iphigenia has attracted
some attention, for the text does not admit of easy interpreta-
tion.95 The majority of references seem to present a coherent
picture of the doings at Artemis’ Taurian temple: Iphigenia pre-
sides at the sacrifice of Greeks, but other (male) attendants carry
out the actual killing;96 and other visiting Greeks have indeed
been sacrificed before Orestes’ and Pylades’ arrival.97 However,
there are several incongruities.
The first description, in the prologue-speech (34–41), of

knowledge of Taurian customs), as well as Euripides’ play, had an influence on

the iconographic tradition.
94
Iphigenia 72–5, 96–99, 113–29, 1044–5, 1157–8, 1286. Bacon (1961, 132–6)
describes the temple at length: it has Doric triglyphs, double doors, a stone base,
columns, coping-stones, a cult statue in an inner room, and an altar in front. ‘All
these, unless qualified by some suggestion of strangeness, could only remind a
Greek audience of their own architecture (136).’ Bacon compares also the tomb-
sanctuary at Theoclymenus’ palace in Helen (800–1), which is (she says) Greek
in style. All this means that, when Pylades says to Orestes: ‘does this seem to you
(doke∏) to be the right temple?’ (69), one might well suspect another incidence of
the reality-illusion theme which is a preoccupation of the escape-tragedies (see
§4.4 below). This building does not seem like a Taurian temple, but it is. (Or is
it? . . .)
95
There are eighteen references to the Tauric ritual: Iphigenia 34–41, 53–4,
72, 225–8, 258–9, 342–3, 336–9, 384–91, 439–46, 456–8, 464–71, 584–7, 617–24,
725–6, 774–6, 1153–4. Grube (1961) 331–2, Diggle (1993), Sansone (1975) and
(1978), Strachan (1976), and Cropp (2000) ad loc. discuss various disputed
aspects of the text and suggested emendations.
96
Iphigenia 621–4; cf. 471–2 and 725–6 for similar details.
97
Iphigenia 53–4 (kåg° tvcnhn t&nd’ ©n πcw xenoktÎnon | tim0sa, ‘And I, in
observance of this stranger-killing art which I practise . . . ’) implies an ongoing,
frequent process (cf. 774–6). At 72–4 Orestes and Pylades see bloodstains; at
342–3 Iphigenia describes her former kindness to her Greek victims; at 584–7
she recounts the last moments of a recent Greek victim, who penned a letter for
her.
 A Tragic Landscape 187
Iphigenia’s bloody duty is perhaps the most problematic of all,
owing largely to textual difficulties:
nao∏si d’ ƒn to∏sd’ Èervan t≤qhs≤ me:
Òqen, nÎmoisin oÍsin ~detai qe¤
⁄rtemiß, ‰ort[ß (toÇnom’ ¬ß kalÏn mÎnon:
t¤ d’ £lla sig0, t¶n qeÏn foboumvnh)
[q»w g¤r Ôntoß toı nÎmou ka≥ pr≥n pÎlei
ß #n katvlqhi t&nde g[n E fi llhn ån&r]
kat3rcomai mvn, sf3gia d’ £lloisin mvlei
[£rrht’ πswqen t0nd’ ånaktÎrwn qe$ß].
(S)he made me priestess in this temple: hence, by the customs which
please the goddess Artemis, I preside over a festival (which is fine in
name only—for the rest of it, I keep silence out of respect for the
goddess); [for, by the custom which this city has long since followed, I
sacrifice every Greek man who reaches this land]. I preside, but the
slaughter [a matter not spoken of within these precincts of the goddess]
is a task carried out by others.
The first question is: who is the subject of t≤qhsi (line 34)? The
context leaves it ambiguous—was it Thoas or Artemis who put
Iphigenia in her current difficult position? Platnauer (ad loc.)
believes that the subject is to be understood as Artemis; but
perhaps Thoas is preferable, especially in the light of Iphigenia’s
later declaration that the Taurians, being murderers themselves,
impute their own wicked deeds to the goddess (toŸß d’ ƒnq3d’,
aÛtoŸß Ôntaß ånqrwpoktÎnouß, ƒß t¶n qeÏn tÏ faılon ånafvrein dok0,
389–90). Nevertheless, it was certainly Artemis herself who
brought Iphigenia here, and Artemis still allows the ritual to take
place.
Lines 37 and 38 here are deleted by Diggle, because the
interval between ‰ort[ß (36) and its verb kat3rcomai (40) is over-
long, creating grammatical awkwardness. It also might seem that
q»w contradicts kat3rcomai: Iphigenia ‘presides over’ the ritual,
but can she be said to ‘sacrifice’ the victims herself, since, as she
says, the actual slaughtering is carried out by others? In fact, as it
turns out, q»w must be capable of bearing either meaning. It
more naturally refers to the physical act of slaughter, and is
found in the play in just this sense,98 but it seems that the word
can also quite normally refer to the act of presiding at the
98
Iphigenia 621–2: OR. aÛt¶ x≤fei q»ousa q[luß £rsenaß; | IF. oÇk: (Orestes:
‘Do you yourself, a woman, sacrifice the men with a sword? | Iphigenia: No . . .’).
188 A Tragic Landscape
sacrifice, without actually wielding the knife: when Orestes asks
Iphigenia who will sacrifice (q»sei) him, she replies that she will,
for she holds this office of the goddess.’99 Thus there cannot
be said to be a contradiction here, only a (perhaps calculated)
ambiguity.
A more serious difficulty is the use of the verb katvrcomai (39),
seemingly in the sense of ‘arrive at’, which Diggle says is not to
be found elsewhere.100 Sansone finds a parallel, but from
Homeric Greek, which is not necessarily ‘acceptable tragic
usage’ as he states.101 Sansone is eager to retain the bracketed
lines for two reasons: first, the fact that Greeks (in particular) are
sacrificed has to be given here if the audience is to understand
Iphigenia’s dream later in the prologue-speech; and second,
the words ka≥ pr≥n (38) give the detail that the ritual is a long-
standing custom. Markland transposes lines 38–9 to follow line
41, which (apart from breaking up the long, interrupted sentence
structure from 36–40) is pointless. The excision of line 41 is a
comparatively minor change: line 66 is virtually identical, and it
adds nothing here, so has been thought to be an interpolation.102
Nevertheless, Sansone would preserve all the lines 34–41
intact.103 Whether excision is carried out or not, these lines do not
directly contradict any information elsewhere in the play; but
other problematic passages, confusingly, do.
Two passages in particular have been taken to deny what is
elsewhere amply stated—that Iphigenia has certainly sacrificed
99
Iphigenia 617–18: OR. q»sei d¶ t≤ß me ka≥ t¤ dein¤ tl&setai; | IF. ƒg*: qe$ß
g¤r t&nde prostrop¶n πcw (‘Orestes: But who will brave the awful deed
of sacrificing me? | Iphigenia: I will: for this duty of the goddess is held by
me’).
100
Diggle (1993) 56–9.
101
Sansone (1978) 38 quotes Od. 24.115.
102
Platnauer (1938, ad loc.) thought scribal; Page (1934, 76), less plausibly,
histrionic. Cf. Cropp (2000, 175), who sees 40–1 as ‘an “informative” editorial
interpolation’.
103
In order to do so, however, he makes a major emendation which has no
basis in the manuscript (L): Sansone views lines 35–6 as peculiar in sense: for
how could Iphigenia regard as ‘fair in name alone’ anything which is at the same
time lawful? So S., believing that a negative has somehow been omitted, gives
for 34–5 oÛd∞ ƒnnÎmoiß tima∏sin ~detai qe3. This is unnecessary, since there is a
recurrent ambiguity, not only in this play but in the whole myth-ritual tradition
(see Lloyd-Jones [1983a]), as to Artemis’ attitude to the sacrifice of the defence-
less young. Compare Iphigenia 384–91 and 484–6 for contrasting attitudes with-
in the play.
 A Tragic Landscape 189
other Greeks in the past. In the first, Iphigenia is made to say, of
Orestes and Pylades (258–9):
crÎnioi g¤r ~kous’: oÛdvpw bwmÏß qe$ß
E
} llhnika∏sin ƒxefoin≤cqh Âoa∏ß.
Their arrival is timely: the altar of the goddess has not yet been stained
with streams of Greek blood.
Later, the Herdsman says to Iphigenia (336–9):
hÇcou d† toi3d’, _ ne$ni, so≥ xvnwn
sf3gia pare∏nai. k#n ånal≤skhiß xvnouß
toio»sde, tÏn sÏn E
fi llaß åpote≤sei fÎnon
d≤kaß t≤nousa t[ß ƒn AÛl≤di sfag[ß.
It is for strangers like these, young mistress, that you have been praying
to have as your victims. If you execute these strangers, Greece will be
making amends for your murder and paying the price for your sacrifice
at Aulis.
The first of these is clearly a contradiction, and should be deleted
(as Diggle, rightly, does).104 The second is not: it does not pre-
clude the fact that Greek strangers have been to the temple
before, and the stress must therefore be on toi3d’ (336): it is for
strangers like these that she has been waiting—noble, heroic
young men of the sort that went to fight at Troy, necessitating
her own sacrifice.105 Iphigenia, after all, desires revenge on the
Greeks for her ‘death’ (357–8); the chorus, too, acknowledge this
feeling, when they wish for Helen to come to the Tauric land so
that their mistress may kill her (439–46).
Sansone, bizarrely, elects to retain both of these problematic
passages, on the grounds that Euripides ‘recognized that
there were dramatic possibilities inherent in both situations,
Iphigenia’s experience of having sacrificed previously and her
not having sacrificed at all, and he tried to take advantage of
both’.106 That Euripides made use of calculated ambiguity, in
order to leave the audience in doubt as to Iphigenia’s frame of
mind at any given point in the drama and to make them fear for
104
Emendations—Dobree’s o÷d’ åf’ o˜, Heath’s ƒx Òtou—fail to convince.
105
Diggle adopts Mekler’s hÇcou (for ms. eÇcou). Cropp (2000, 197) retains
the imperative (cf. El. 563–5, Ion 423), because the imperfect makes this the only
passage suggesting that Iphigenia previously relished her job. Either way, this
problem is less important than the other inconsistencies.
106
Sansone (1978) 43.
190 A Tragic Landscape
Orestes’ life, is an attractive theory and would be entirely
characteristic; but one must be careful to distinguish between
ambiguity and contradiction. What the text actually provides, as it
stands, is the latter, the effect of which is not dramatically
enhancing, but confused and obfuscatory. It seems likely,
rather, that some bowdlerizing interpolation has taken place at
some stage in the transmission of the text, by someone who
found the idea of a Greek-hating, Greek-murdering, ‘barbarian’
Iphigenia unattractive.
Iphigenia’s prayer to Artemis, dvxai qus≤aß | 4ß Ø par’ Óm∏n
nÎmoß oÛc Øs≤aß | †fi Ellhsi didoŸß† ånafa≤nei (‘receive these sacri-
fices which †our Greek custom clearly declares† unholy’, 464–6)
seems, despite its textual crux, to provide a reminder that Greece
considers human sacrifice abhorrent. But this cannot be read as a
straightforward comment reflecting Greek-versus-barbarian
ethnicity. Iphigenia may complain about the necessity of sacri-
fice, here and elsewhere,107 but she also seems to welcome the
opportunity, as we have seen:108 and, unwilling or not (as one
might choose), she still performs her rites and never mentions
having considered refusing her ‘duty’.
Far more importantly, we are reminded frequently through-
out the play of another human sacrifice carried out by a Greek—
Iphigenia’s own sacrifice, at Aulis in Greece, by her father
Agamemnon! There are a dozen references to the scene at Aulis,
in which Iphigenia keeps recalling the terror and the agony of the
experience,109 and the parallelism between Iphigenia’s sacrifice
and Orestes’ narrowly-averted fate is clearly emphasized.110
Greek custom and conventional Greek rhetoric might well con-
sider such deeds unholy and barbarous, but Euripides’ Greeks
nevertheless perform these deeds.111
More paradox abounds in Thoas’ kingdom, not only in the
area of religion but also in its politics. The place where the

107
Cf. Iphigenia 36 (for which see above) and 389–91.
108
Iphigenia 336, 357–8, 439–46.
109
Iphigenia 6–9, 19–24, 26–29, 178, 210–17, 358–71, 565–6, 770–1, 783–7,
854–5, 1082–3, 1418.
110
This theme has been discussed at length by Sansone (1975) 283–5;
Hartigan (1986) 119–21; Strachan (1976); O’Brien (1988).
111
Cf. Croally (1994) 77–8: ‘The problems involved in the maintenance of
one polarity (man/god) infect the security of another (Greek/barbarian).’
 A Tragic Landscape 191
Taurians live is repeatedly described as a polis,112 and, although
they have a king, they are nonetheless peculiarly referred to as
‘citizens’.113 But such political structures were supposed to be
characteristically Greek.
Barbarians looked distinctively bizarre: that is, their manner
of depiction in ancient art, in paintings, vases and sculptures,
invariably contrasts them with Greek aesthetic ideals. In these
media, barbarians appeared ugly, squat, small-featured, comi-
cal, sometimes dark-skinned; they sported strange, stripey
clothes and comical millinery. To judge by vase-paintings
influenced by drama, it seems that theatrical costumes were
often distinctive and elaborate.114 But since Euripides nowhere
describes the appearance of any barbarian character—either
their physiognomy or their apparel—we cannot know how they
looked on stage. There is no reason why the plays should
metatheatrically draw attention to the costumes unless there is a
specific dramatic point in so doing at any given moment. Were
Thoas, Theoclymenus, Theonoe and the barbarian servants
dressed as stereotypical barbarians? One would have thought it
possible, even probable, but it is not at all certain.115
Attention is seldom drawn to the visual appearance of the
characters, but sometimes the absence of description may be
suggestive. The Portress in Helen knows at once that Menelaus is
Greek, even before he has spoken: does he have a distinctively
Hellenic appearance, even though he is—at this stage—clothed
in tattered rags (437–40)? It seems not; for Helen shortly after-
wards complains that he has a ‘savage look’ about him, this man
who is chasing her (£grioß dv tiß | morf¶n Òd’ ƒst≥n Òß me qhr$tai
labe∏n, 544–5). Similarly, Menelaus cannot tell from her appear-
ance whether Helen is Greek or Egyptian, so has to enquire.116

112
Iphigenia 38, 220, 463–6, 595, 877, 1212, 1214.
113
Iphigenia 1226, 1417 (pol≤taiß), 1422 (åsto≥).
114
On this subject, see Taplin (1993) 21–9; Webster (1967); Trendall and
Webster (1971). One of the vase-paintings of Andromeda (Trendall and
Webster [1971] 3.3.10 = Berlin inv. 3237) shows Andromeda and Cepheus in
non-Greek headgear, but otherwise the paintings of the escape-tragedies show
unremarkable, Greek-style costumes.
115
Ley (1991, 33–4), dealing with this aspect of the production of Helen, is
extremely speculative.
116
Helen 561 (omitted by L; the line is restored from Ar. Thesm. 910): E
} llhn≥ß
e” tiß ∂ p
∞ icwr≤a gun&; (‘Are you a Greek woman or native to this place?)
192 A Tragic Landscape
The same situation occurs in Iphigenia, where the siblings
Orestes and Iphigenia are unable to tell each other’s nationality
by looking at—or, surprisingly, from talking to—each other. In
the end, the main indication for Orestes is that Iphigenia
displays a suspiciously large amount of knowledge about her
native Greece.117 Nevertheless, Iphigenia had earlier asked the
Herdsman where he thought the strangers had come from, in a
way which implies that their appearance would have given them
away.118 Bodily appearance was meant to be a sure sign of one’s
ethnicity; but in plays where a constant theme is the discrepancy
between seeming and being, where not everything is as it seems,
perhaps one ought not to be too surprised at this ambiguity.119
More deceptive appearances abound. Teucer’s description of
Theoclymenus’ palace, for instance, has been seen to represent
typical barbarian luxury and decadence:120
t≤ß t0nd’ ƒrumn0n dwm3twn πcei kr3toß;
Plo»tou g¤r o”koß £xioß proseik3sai,
bas≤lei3 t’ åmfibl&mat’ eÇqrigko≤ q’ 1drai.121
Who is master of this imposing palace? Why, one might well compare it
to the house of the god Wealth, looking at its royal battlements and its
walls with their solid coping!
But can this really be said to be typically Egyptian or typically
barbarian? After all, tragic tyrants, whether Greek or barbarian,
all live in rich houses: wealth, and display of wealth, is an attri-
bute of royalty and a status-symbol. To say that ‘tyrannical’
behaviour is characteristic of barbarians was a topos of Athenian
political philosophy (although there were plenty of Greek
tyrants),122 but the situation in tragedy is more complicated.
117
Iphigenia 495–541: Cropp (2000) 201 has some remarks on the place of
question-answering scenes in what he calls ‘recognition-and-intrigue’ plays.
118
Iphigenia 246: podapo≤; t≤noß g[ß sc[m∞ πcousin oÈ xvnoi; (‘Where are they
from? What country’s appearance do these strangers present?’). Note that sc[m’
is Monk’s conjecture, replacing L’s Ônom’.
119
Again, see §4.4 below on this aspect.
120
Hall (1989a) 127; Hartog (1988) 322–30.
121
Helen 68–70. The description is later echoed by Menelaus (430–3), where,
again, wealth is stressed.
122
Saïd (1984, 29) lists barbarian richesse as one defining characteristic of the
breed, mentioning Theoclymenus’ palace in particular. Hall (1989a, 154–5) says
that terms such as t»rannoß, £nax and basile»ß in tragedy frequently bear pejora-
tive overtones: but, while this may be true to a certain extent, monarchy and its
language cannot be seen as specifically barbarian. Cf. Podlecki (1984) 83–99.
 A Tragic Landscape 193
Democracy may often provide an implicit influence on tragic
rhetoric, but in tragedy there are few democrats:123 all the major
characters, whether barbarian or (as usually) Greek, are from
royal houses and may be described as t»rannoi, ‘tyrants’—with or
without the pejorative connotation of the word. Thus, when
Teucer and Menelaus draw attention to the elaborate appear-
ance of Theoclymenus’ palace, it seems unlikely that they are
making a comment on barbarian, despotic decadence, or that the
audience is meant to interpret the description (which, after all, is
less than three lines in length) as implicit ethnic or ideological
commentary. It may be that Teucer’s surprise is due to no more
than his unexpectedly finding an important-looking building,
after a wearisome period of wandering about a completely
unfamiliar country. Nor, one might add, is the description of the
palace distinctively Egyptian or ‘foreign’: the building is rich
and elaborate, with an encircling wall and coping to the roof, but
such buildings existed in Greece. One is, naturally, reminded of
the Greek-looking temple in Iphigenia.
Egypt and the Tauric land, it is emerging, would have seemed
disturbingly Hellenic to the Athenian audience of 412. When
one examines the behaviour of the barbarian characters, there
emerges a similar pattern. It is difficult to describe any of the
Egyptians or Taurians as brutal, alien or inferior to the Greek
characters: the stereotypes do not correspond to this particular
Euripidean reality.124
Barbarians were supposed to be hostile to Greeks; but Helen
explains that all the Egyptians are friendly towards her (p3nteß
f≤loi moi, 314). When Menelaus presumes that she must have
been ill-treated by the barbarians, she replies emphatically in the
negative, and her husband’s reaction is one of great surprise.125

123
Exceptions include Theseus in Eur. Suppl., Demophon in Hcld., and the
king in Aesch. Suppl.
124
Nevertheless, most critics would disagree with me: as well as the influen-
tial view of Hall (1989a), which I go on to discuss, Burnett (1960, 157) describes
Theoclymenus as ‘a cruel despot, willing to break any law, human or divine’;
Podlecki (1970, 415) believes that attempts to absolve Theoclymenus of guilt
represent ‘misguided critical ingenuity’; Segal (1971, 584) thinks that Theocly-
menus ‘completely fulfils the possibilities of a bizarre, outré idiosyncrasy that
one might expect of an Egyptian monarch.’
125
Helen 600–1: qaım’ πst’ (‘It is marvellous!’). Is is too far-fetched to see in
this an arch allusion to the ‘great and marvellous deeds’ (πrga meg3la ka≥
194 A Tragic Landscape
We have already learnt in the prologue to Helen that Proteus, the
late king of Egypt, was a good, noble and wise man—the
most virtuous man in the world, in Zeus’ opinion (p3ntwn . . .
swfronvstaton brot0n, 47)!—although, surely, such qualities are
scarcely associated with non-Greeks.126 Then there is the
Portress at Theoclymenus’ palace: an unfortunate quarrel takes
place when she first encounters Menelaus at the palace doors, but
it transpires that she was just trying to ward him off for his own
good, lest her feared master Theoclymenus should catch
him: her grim exterior is adopted to disguise the fact that she
actually likes Greeks (eÇnouß g3r ejm’ E
fi llhsin, 481)! Like so many
characters in Helen, she is not what she seems. Theonoe, too, is a
‘good’ barbarian who, like her father, embodies characteristic-
ally Greek virtues: her heart contains a huge shrine of Justice
(1002); it is her nature and her wish to show piety to the gods
(998); she is wise, omniscient, and helpful to Helen and
Menelaus to the extent that she even endangers her own life.
Even Theoclymenus is not as barbaric as he might have been.
The play’s plot and structure demands that he should pose a
threat to the safety of Helen and Menelaus, but he is not as
formidable an enemy as he seems.127 Both Helen and the Portress
remark that Theoclymenus kills any Greek whom he catches
near his house, but we never see any evidence of this. Menelaus
is treated with respect and fairness, even though he is deceiving
his host. Helen says to Teucer, rather obliquely, that he ‘must
not seek to discover the reason’ for Theoclymenus’ supposed
qwmast3) of Herodotus (1.1 pr.) which were supposed to be amazing characteris-
tics of barbarians?
126
Quite the opposite: Greeks were wise, just, prudent, virtuous; barbarians
were foolish, arbitrary, unjust, wicked by nature, according to Greek ethical
thinking. Cf. Plato, Rep. 427e10–11, 444b7–8. The Scythian Anacharsis in
Herodotus (4.46.1) is the exception that proves the rule: oÇte g¤r πqnoß t0n ƒntÏß
toı PÎntou oÛd†n πcomen probalvsqai sof≤hß pvri oÇte £ndra lÎgion o÷damen
genÎmenon, p3rex toı Skuqikoı πqneoß ka≥ !nac3rsioß (‘it cannot be said that a
single one of the tribes in the Black Sea region possesses any wisdom, nor do we
know of any distinguished person from that region, except for the Scythian
Anacharsis’).
127
Burnett (1971, 97) interprets the ‘diminishment of the villain’ as a struc-
tural device: ‘it entirely destroys the kind of suspense ordinarily generated by
scenes of intrigue, leaving a kind of emotional vacuum which the poet has filled
in this case only with verbal wit.’ This may or may not be true; but far more
prominent is the manipulation of ethnic attitudes which is effected by this
presentation of the tyrants.
 A Tragic Landscape 195
bloodthirstiness, and that she will not tell him.128 Teucer does
not seem to think this odd: perhaps one just came to expect
that sort of inexplicable, odd behaviour from barbarians.
Theoclymenus, like his sister, is reverent towards the gods—we
learn in the prologue that his name was given to him for that very
reason,129 and we see that he behaves piously throughout.
Although he is eager to marry Helen, he never assaults her, nor
violates her supplication at Proteus’ altar. Helen professes to fear
such an event, talking of Theoclymenus’ outrageous behaviour
(\briß, 784–5), but there is no evidence that she has any real
cause for fear. Perhaps her former experience of treatment at the
hands of men, or her feeling that even suicide is preferable to
being married to a barbarian, is to blame: who can say?130
Theoclymenus’ love, or one might perhaps call it physical long-
ing, for Helen is in no doubt; it is referred to throughout the play,
sometimes in the form of metaphors or imagery from hunting.131
But how to interpret his attentions? Hall’s view is that they
represent ‘the barbarian male’s generic lust for Greek females’;132
but this ignores certain factors. First, Helen is most decidedly a
special case: she is not just any Greek female, after all, but the
most beautiful woman in the world: would not anyone, Greek or
barbarian, pursue her with a view to marriage? (The answer,
given in the play and in just about every extant work of Greek
literature, is of course: Yes.133) Nor has Theoclymenus actually
128
Helen 156–7: Òtou d’ 1kati m&te sŸ z&tei maqe∏n | ƒg* te sig0. Dale (1967,
ad loc.) says, literal-mindedly, that the reason is Theoclymenus’ fear that some-
one will carry Helen off (cf. 1175–6); but this does not entirely explain the odd
means of expression here.
129
Helen 9–10: Diggle’s text, following Nauck, brackets these lines (they will
not scan properly and may be inauthentic on other grounds). Dale (1967, ad loc.)
comments that ‘the etymology does not work very well, nor is the description
suitable to the age or the conduct of the new king’; but she is mistaken. In the
first place, many of Euripides’ etymologies are atrocious, to the extent that one
often suspects ironic or even punning intent (in the escape-tragedies, there is
also Thoas’ weak etymology at Iphigenia 32–33; cf. also Ion 661–3, Bacch. 367,
Rhesus 158–9). In the second place, contrary to what Dale believes, the play
shows that Theoclymenus’ conduct towards the gods is indeed reverent, quite
living up to his name.
130
See Helen 296–302 for her feelings on the matter. (But one should not, of
course, succumb to the ‘documentary fallacy’.)
131
Helen 62–3; 541–3; 1170–1.
132
Hall (1989a) 113 (my italics). Cf. Austin (1994, 162) on Theoclymenus’
‘un-Hellenic lust’.
133
Cf. Hom. Il. 3.156–7: oÛ nvmesiß Tr0aß ka≥ eÛkn&midaß !caioŸß | toi[id’ åmf≥
196 A Tragic Landscape
forced his attentions on Helen. She fears that he might—
possibly thinking, like Edith Hall, of the generic characteristics
of barbarians—but all that he has done is to make his interests
known. Perhaps this behaviour is to be called hybristic because
Menelaus is still alive, or because Theoclymenus as a barbarian
ought to have known his place. But if Theoclymenus had been a
stereotypically barbaric barbarian, without regard for decency
or piety, he would have raped Helen, suppliant or not;134 and if he
had lusted after Greek females in general, he would have raped
the members of the chorus (who are only slaves and not, like
Helen, an aristocratic house-guest). After all, Theoclymenus is a
despot, and there is nothing to prevent him from doing anything
he wants—but he refrains from such shocking anomie.
In the scene of dialogue between Helen and her Egyptian
suitor (1186 ff .) a number of questions arise. First: had Theocly-
menus always been hell-bent on killing all the itinerant Greeks
who came his way? It is implied strongly that his decision came
about only from the time when he decided to marry Helen; for
there are only two possible reasons, according to Theoclymenus,
why any Greek should come to Egypt. Either he would be a spy,
or he would try to steal Helen (1175–6). But when he actually
encounters Menelaus, whom Helen introduces as a Greek sailor,
he makes no attempt to kill him, because Helen persuades him
that this Greek is no threat. Theoclymenus is kind and con-
siderate to Helen, he makes no attempt to leap on her, even
though she is no longer in supplication, he rejoices when Helen
tells him that at last she has agreed to marry him, and he readily
acquiesces in her plan to give Menelaus a bogus burial at sea, and
willingly takes instruction: s» moi s&maine, pe≤somai d’ ƒg* (‘show
me what I must do, and I will obey’, 1256). It is right, says
Theoclymenus, that he should foster piety in his own wife (prÏß
Óm0n £locon eÛseb[ trvfein, 1278): a restatement of Theocly-
menus’ own religious character and a reversal of the expected
pattern of civilized Greek versus uncivilized barbarian.
Theoclymenus is, admittedly, angry when he learns of the

gunaik≥ polŸn crÎnon £lgea p3scein (‘no one could blame the Trojans and the well-
greaved Achaeans for suffering toils for such a long time for the sake of such a
woman’).
134
Cf. Hdt. 3.80.5: Otanes says that one of the greatest crimes of the generic
tyrant is that he rapes women (bi$tai guna≤kaß).
 A Tragic Landscape 197
escape of Helen and Menelaus: but he has, after all, been duped
in a particularly unfair and upsetting manner by a woman whom
he had hoped to marry, and a great number of his own country-
men have been slaughtered in the process. He rushes to murder
his sister out of vengeance, which is sometimes said to be anoth-
er act of barbarian cruelty and impulsive violence; but the reason
which Theoclymenus gives for his putative fratricide, we find, is
justice (Ó d≤kh kele»ei m’, 1628). ‘No! unjust,’ we may object—but
how many other, Greek characters in tragedy commit terrible
acts out of a sense of perceived ‘justice’ which is later brought
into question? Is Theoclymenus really so different?
Then, just how stupid is Theoclymenus? Barbarian back-
wardness and intellectual inferiority was a commonplace,135 and
it has been thought that the king is a stereotypically blockheaded,
guileless character, whom the Greek characters, without much
difficulty, deceive.136 But this assessment is not quite accurate.
Certainly Helen’s persuasive charms have the desired result; but
there are other reasons apart from stupidity why Theoclymenus
might have granted her request. As we shall see in a later
chapter,137 it is not just barbarians who succumb to the power
of persuasive rhetoric and deceptive appearances. Mutual
ignorance of religious customs is another explanation: Theocly-
menus is persuaded that the usual paraphernalia of Greek
obsequies includes a ship, because he knows no better.138 His
ignorance may perhaps strike the audience as stupidity, but it is
largely pardonable. Another reason for Theoclymenus’ com-
pliance is that he wants to please Helen, whose charms and guile
extend beyond the norm.
But, certainly, the tyrant’s reaction on learning that Helen has
disappeared again seems naïve: ‘How? Did she fly away, or go by
135
Compare Andromeda fr. 139, in which [Perseus] comments on the limita-
tions of the barbarian mentality: aja∏, t≤ dr3sw; prÏß t≤naß strefq0 lÎgouß; | åll’
oÛk #n ƒndvxaito b3rbaroß f»siß. Also similar is Hecabe 1129–31; cf. Plato, Rep.
4.435e6 on barbarian stupidity.
136
Hall (1989a) 122: ‘IT and Helen both include long deception scenes
in which Greek characters demonstrate their intellectual ascendancy over
barbarian foes.’ Vellacott’s highly tendentious translation (1973) of Helen (esp.
1171: ƒg° d’ ƒmautÏn pÎll’ ƒloidÎrhsa d&, ‘I’ve just been calling myself a fool’)
corresponds to such a view.
137
See §4.4 below.
138
Helen 1210–79, esp. 1246 (lvleimmai t0n ƒn E fi llhsin nÎmwn, ‘I am most
unfamiliar with Greek customs’).
198 A Tragic Landscape
foot?’ he cries.139 Since he gave her the ship in question, such
a query might indeed strike one as foolish; even when the
messenger explains a few lines later that the Greeks sailed off in
a ship, Theoclymenus is slow to grasp the significance of this. So
perhaps Theoclymenus is to be viewed as intellectually inferior
to the Greek ideal. However, the Greeks do not precisely
measure up to these ideals, either. Helen is intellectually nimble,
but Menelaus is rather dull. He emerges from the scene of argy-
bargy with the Portress (437–82) without much credit, and he is
hopelessly bewildered by Egypt and the situation which he finds
there. What! he thinks. Is there a man called Zeus living by the
banks of the Nile? . . . And are there two places called Sparta,
two Troys? He is at a loss.140 While intellect and command of
rhetoric were not characteristics necessarily associated with
every hero of the Homeric type, the absence of these qualities
does not exactly show Menelaus up in a good light, especially
when comparison between him and the barbarian king can
so easily be made. The Greeks, it is true (both here and in
Iphigenia), still manage to outwit their foes, but the contrast
between clever Greeks and stupid barbarians is not at all clear-
cut.
Thoas, the only principal barbarian in Iphigenia, like
Theoclymenus and Theonoe turns out to be surprisingly
courteous, piously religious and—dare one suggest it?—Greek
in his behaviour. Unlike Theoclymenus, he is not eager to take
the heroine as his bride, nor does it seem that he compels
Iphigenia to officiate in the temple against her wish.141 He
readily acquiesces in Iphigenia’s fraudulent rituals purely from
139
Helen 1516: ptero∏sin årqe∏s’ ∂ pedostibe∏ pod≤; Kannicht (1969, 2.401)
places this in a class of ‘ironische åd»nata’, comparing Hec. 1263–5. Theocly-
menus’ words may seem naïve or silly, but in fact the form of expression, with
its evocation of flight and mobility, is relevant: see §3.4 below. The line also
echoes the Servant’s words of 605–6: bvbhken £locoß s¶ prÏß ajqvroß ptuc¤ß |
årqe∏s’ £fantoß (‘your wife is gone: she was raised up and disappeared into the
folds of the air’).
140
Helen 491–4. Dale (1967, xi–xii) even (wrongly, I think) finds a ‘half-
comic tone in the depiction of Menelaus’ bewilderment’. I return to this
passage, and the interpretation of Menelaus’ character, in more detail in §4.4
below.
141
But it may be significant that, as we have seen, the text makes it unclear
whether Artemis or Thoas made Iphigenia a priestess (see discussion of
Iphigenia 34 above).
 A Tragic Landscape 199
motives of religious devotion, and like Theoclymenus, although
he is ignorant of Greek religion, he is ready to be instructed in the
right thing to do.142 He allows Iphigenia free rein to do as she
thinks fit: t¤ t[ß qeoı pr$ss’ ƒp≥ scol[ß kal0ß (‘Perform the
goddess’s rituals properly, at your leisure’, 1220). Thoas trusts
Iphigenia because she is a priestess, although, as she ironically
tells him, one can never trust a Greek.143 Thoas understands her
to mean that Orestes and Pylades cannot be trusted—so it seems
that he does not quite think of Iphigenia as a Greek—but he will
soon learn the truth. Thoas’ reversion to type comes, like that of
Theoclymenus, at the end of the play, when he learns that he
has been duped: he threatens to throw the escapees over a cliff
or to impale them, as soon as he catches them (1428–30), and
promises to ‘punish’ the chorus members whenever he has
leisure (poinasÎmesqa, 1433). But when Athene ex machina orders
Thoas to quell his anger, he complies without demur, saying that
he is not angry—why should he be (1474–8)?
Hall’s view is that Thoas and Theoclymenus ‘seem to have
been created precisely in order to provide an opportunity
for exploring vices stereotypically imputed to the barbarian
character.’144 But as we have seen, these vices are not exploited
but significantly played down. So it cannot really be said that
they were created precisely in order to do something which they
do not, in fact, do.
Iphigenia, on the other hand, is surprisingly barbaric, as we
have already seen with regard to her participation in the Tauric
ritual. When Iphigenia tells Thoas that she hates the whole
of Greece (p$s3n ge misoıs’ }Ell3d’ ~ m’ åp*lesen, 1187), the
immediate context leads one to interpret this remark ironically:
she is, after all, in the process of deceiving Thoas into giving her
a ship in which to escape, and she will naturally employ every
persuasive rhetorical device to hand, however mendacious. But
left open is the distinct possibility that Iphigenia really does hate
142
Iphigenia 1188–219. Note esp. 1217: t≤ cr& me dr$n; (‘what must I do?’).
143
Iphigenia 1205: pistÏn E} ll¤ß o”den oÛdvn. Saïd (1984, 43) sees in this remark
a provocative reference to Hdt. 8.142, „ß barb3rois≤ ƒsti oÇte pistÏn oÇte ålhq†ß
oÛd†n (‘among barbarians there is no such thing as truth or honesty’): another
way, in other words, in which Euripidean Greeks are seen to have barbarian
characteristics. (It is interesting to note that Herodotus’ Persians [1.138] con-
sider lying to be one of the gravest sins.)
144
Hall (1989a) 103.
200 A Tragic Landscape
Greece and the Greeks, on account of her treatment at their
hands. She may express regret and nostalgia (although less
frequently than do the chorus members), but her feelings for her
native country are by no means unambiguously warm. She is
sometimes said to be compassionate;145 but her kindly attitude
towards Greeks vanishes as soon as she thinks that the last of her
surviving relatives is dead—so it is primarily her family, not
Greeks in general, for whose company she yearns. Iphigenia has
become savage, as she explicitly confesses (]gri*meqa, 348).
Eventually, on her last appearance at the end of the play—when
she has left the Tauric land and is sailing for Greece again!—she
is seen as a witch, uttering loud barbarian shrieks.146

In the last two sections I have illustrated the nebulous and

imprecise way in which the exotic regions of the escape-tragedies
are evoked, as well as the highly unusual treatment of barbarians.
Exoticism and ethnic stereotypes are underplayed and sub-
versively undermined. Rather than exploiting the familiar tragic
contrast between Greeks and barbarians, Euripides has chosen
to play on the ideas and perceptions of his audience, decon-
structing this dichotomy and producing an effect which is para-
doxical and unsettling: we have to question our assumptions and
perhaps draw disturbing conclusions. But what sort of con-
clusions? Why has Euripides confronted us with barbarians to
whom we have to respond in this odd way? We can fall back, if we
like, on the fairly common explanation that Euripides is simply
a provocative playwright, who wants to prompt awkward
questions or provide ‘clever’, piquant entertainment. However,
I think that the matter can be pursued a little further, so as to link
the plays’ ethnicity to their other themes.
One explanation for the erosion of the Greek-versus-
barbarian distinction is to be found in religious ritual. When dis-
cussing Iphigenia above (p. 186) I noted that ‘in the wilds of
the Black Sea region, there is a Greek temple, where a Greek
goddess is worshipped in rites carried out by a Greek priestess: a
145
Strachan (1976) 138; Sansone (1978) 44.
146
Iphigenia 1336–7: ånwlÎluxe ka≥ kat[ide b3rbara | mvlh mage»ous’ (‘she
howled aloud and started reciting barbarian chants, behaving as a witch’).
Cropp (2000) ad loc. detects an ‘amusing’ reference to magical incantations, in
which foreign-sounding names and terms were often used, but I find the
description rather more chilling.
 A Tragic Landscape 201
curiously paradoxical situation’. This summary is only partially
true, because this is a deliberate paradox, which reflects the
character of both Artemis and Iphigenia. Artemis is a Greek
goddess, but she is also a Taurian goddess; Iphigenia is a Greek
heroine, but she is also defined by her role in the Taurian cult, as
well as being, in both Taurian and Attic cult, a goddess com-
parable with (or, in some sense, identical to) Artemis herself. It
is possible to read Iphigenia as an extended aetiology for
Artemis-worship, which explains certain ‘darker’ aspects of the
fifth-century Attic cults at Halae and Brauron.147 The play’s
religious message is concerned with the integration of Greek and
barbarian elements: when Orestes brings both Iphigenia and
Artemis from the wilds of the Taurian land to civilized Greece,
it is symbolic of a fusion of cultures.
This explanation might suggest a largely positive, affirmatory
interpretation of the plays: Euripides is, it seems, reminding us
that Greek culture, despite its oppositional, polar rhetoric of
‘self’ versus ‘other’, does in reality contain a mixture of elements
(racial, linguistic, religious, mythical) from different ethnic
origins. Similarly, it is fairly clear that Andromeda was (literally)
about the marriage of Greek and Ethiopian. However, this posi-
tive explanation is not the only one available to us. Helen, in con-
trast with the other escape-tragedies, is not at all concerned
(either in its closing aetiology or elsewhere) with the integration
of Greek and foreign elements—which suggests that the expla-
nation for Euripides’ ethnic paradoxes may be more complicated
than cultural or religious ecumenism.
Why else might Euripides have presented his audience with
barbarized Greeks and Hellenized barbarians? Another explana-
tion may lie in contemporary intellectual ideas about identity,
language and knowledge. Euripides was not alone in debating
these issues. Antiphon the sophist, at roughly the same time as
the escape-tragedies were produced, had doubted the difference
between Greeks and barbarians, arguing that there is nothing at
all in nature to differentiate the two and that it is all a matter of
nomenclature.148 This argument seems to have come from his
147
I return, briefly, to this aspect of the play in §5.2 below.
148
Antiphon (DK 87 B44b, col. 2, 7–27): ƒn to»twi d† prÏß åll&louß
bebarbar*meqa, ƒpe≥ f»sei p3nta p3nteß Ømo≤wß pef»kamen ka≥ b3rbaroi ka≥ Efi llhneß
e”nai. skope∏n d† parvcei t¤ t0n f»sei Ôntwn ånagka≤wn p$sin ånqr*poiß: por≤sai te
202 A Tragic Landscape
treatise On Truth, which was—like the escape-tragedies—con-
cerned with the relationship between reality and our perceptions
of it.149 The deconstruction of the ‘self’-versus-‘other’ antithesis
in these plays is, I believe, linked to the plays’ epistemological
and ontological themes which I shall discuss in the next chapter.
Euripides is using geography and ethnicity, along with other
features of myth and plot, to explore the possibility that nothing
is as it seems. In the escape-tragedies (not just Helen), the notion
that we can know anything at all about our identity, or about any-
thing else that we formerly took for granted, is subjected to
serious pressure. ‘Self’ and ‘other’, ‘Greek’ and ‘barbarian’,
‘true’ and ‘false’, ‘real’ and ‘illusory’—none of these polarities
stands up to pressure, which may lead to some disturbing con-
clusions. It seems, then, that positive and negative readings are
both possible.
The evidence so far, then, has seemed only to disprove my
initial claim that the escape-tragedies are notable for their
physical sense of place. The sense of place which these tragedies
ostensibly lead their audience to expect—that is, the actual
setting—is systematically rejected. But in the following section I
will argue that, instead, the plays’ sense of place depends on what
one might call an imaginary landscape, which combines elements
physical, metaphysical and metaphorical.

3.4 the imaginary landscape

ka≥ d[t’ ƒp≥ t[ß ne°ß ånagign*skont≤ moi
t¶n !ndromvdan prÏß ƒmautÏn ƒxa≤fnhß pÎqoß
t¶n kard≤an ƒp3taxe p0ß o÷ei sfÎdra.150
Now as I was reading Andromeda to myself on a ship, a sudden longing
struck my heart, you can’t imagine how hard!

kat¤ taÛt¤ dunat¤ p$si, ka≥ ƒn p$si to»toiß oÇte b3rbaroß åf*ristai Óm0n oÛde≥ß
oÇte E fi llhn (‘in this respect we have been behaving as barbarians to one another,
since by nature Greeks and barbarians are alike in every single respect. If one
considers the natural qualities which are essential to all people, one finds that in
respect to all these faculties there is nothing to distinguish any of us as barbarian
or Greek’).
149
On the argument of Antiphon’s Per≥ !lhqe≤aß see Moulton (1972),
Luginbill (1997).
150
Ar. Frogs 52–4.
 A Tragic Landscape 203
The god Dionysus was particularly fond of Euripides’
Andromeda; and, as it would happen, he was travelling on the sea
when he read it. Now ‘one would have thought that the deck of a
trireme was a far from ideal environment for such a purpose’,151
so it may be that there is some significance in these Aristophanic
lines. The escape-tragedies were produced at the festival of
Dionysus, in Dionysus’ own theatre, and it is perhaps no coinci-
dence that the god had a traditional connection with the sea;152
but why else might Andromeda have been seen to be particularly
appropriate shipboard reading?
The reason lies in the escape-tragedies’ unusual sense of place.
For, if one sets aside the problematic foreign aspects of the
setting, one is left with a richly drawn landscape consisting of the
sea, with its coasts and caves, and the sky. One might well call to
mind Helen, Andromeda or Iphigenia when travelling over the
waves, or looking out across the sea from the shore, because they
each so strongly evoke their landscape.
Critics in antiquity found Euripidean descriptions of the sea
sensitive and evocative. Indeed, the ancient Life of Euripides
records that the reclusive playwright lived in a cave on Salamis
which opened out onto the sea. This was probably a ‘bio-
graphical’ invention based on the supposed evidence of the
dramas themselves: it seemed logical to suppose that Euripides
lived by the sea because so many of his similes describe the sea.153

151
Sommerstein (1996) ad loc.
152
e.g. Homeric Hymn to Dionysus (7); Apollod. 3.5.3; Philostr. Imag. 1.19;
Lucian, Dial. mar. 8; Ov. Met. 3.582–691. Dionysus is to be found in the icono-
graphic tradition depicted with Amphitrite and Poseidon, and on-board ship
(see LIMC s.v. ‘Dionysus’, 603–5, 788–90). See also Burkert (1985) 166–7.
153
EÛrip≤dou gvnoß ka≥ b≤oß 22 (= Kovacs [1994] 2–11). Cf. Fairweather (1974),
Lefkowitz (1981, 90) and Lesky (1947, 246) on the biographical tradition. Lesky
asks why the tradition should have concentrated on Euripidean sea-imagery
when the other tragedians can be shown to have treated this area with com-
parable interest and skill (e.g. Aesch. Eum. 550 ff ., Seven 158 ff .; Soph. Ant.
586 ff , etc.). One might, interestingly, compare Matthew Arnold’s ‘Dover
Beach’ for a Victorian idea that Sophocles was particularly associated with the
imagery of the Aegean. Lefkowitz (1981, 91) suggests that the same comments
are not made of the other tragedians because they were not supposed to have
shunned human company; but this leaves one in some doubt as to which part of
the tradition arose first.
In 1998 a small skyphos bearing the inscribed name of Euripides and dating
from the 2nd or 3rd cent. ad was discovered in a cave in the bay of Peristeria on
Salamis. It is supposed to be a dedicatory or commemorative item, and supports
204 A Tragic Landscape
Images of the sea in Euripidean tragedy in general are, certainly,
of interest for their poetic and aesthetic qualities; but with regard
to the escape-tragedies in particular the sea is not merely an
interesting ‘feature of poetic imagery’, to be listed alongside
flowers, small animals, fire, Sphinxes and wheelbarrows.154
Rather, one ought to be concerned with the way in which the
imaginary landscape of sea, coast and sky fits into a system of
ideas and meanings, gaining interpretative significance.
In each of the three tragedies the heroine and the chorus
members are trapped in a certain location, from which they will
eventually be rescued.155 But, interestingly, despite the differ-
ence in their precise situations, the locale is practically the same
in each case. They are trapped not just anywhere, but, as the
audience is emphatically told, beside the sea. Andromeda is
chained to a sea-girt rock in the foam of the ocean,156 Helen is
stranded by the Nile coast,157 Iphigenia’s prison is the Black Sea
coast beyond the Symplegades.158 All three coastlines have a
cave to hand, for the habitation of Echo, the safe-keeping of the
phantom-Helen or the concealment of Orestes and Pylades.
Most of the action takes place at the water’s edge or in the sea
itself: however, in two of the plays these actions are reported and
not observed, and the scene of the on-stage action (Proteus’
palace; Artemis’ temple) is imagined as being at a little distance
from the shore itself. Andromeda alone is actually situated at the
sea-shore, with the stage-building presumably representing the
cave.159
the view that Salamis became a place of pilgrimage for Euripidean enthusiasts
(for which see Aulus Gellius, Attic Nights 15.20.5). See the Archaeological
Reports for 1997–8, pp. 16–17 and fig. 27.
154
Barlow (1971) exhibits this tendency: the other examples of imagery (qua
‘imagery’ alone) are taken at random from her index (168).
155
The fate of the chorus-members in Iphigenia is perhaps unclear (see
Cropp [2000] 264 and Kovacs [2000]).
156
Andromeda fr. 125.
157
Helen 1–3.
158
Iphigenia 123–5.
159
Webster (1967, 196) believes that in the second half of Andromeda the
scene changes from the sea-girt rock to the palace of Cepheus; but there is no
evidence for this in the fragments. (Scene-changes were very rare: see n. 13
above). In South Italian vase-paintings of Andromeda, a cave often appears
behind the heroine and the sea-shore in front: see Trendall and Webster (1971)
3.1.27. The problem of skhnograf≤a is again relevant here: how was the sea
represented, if at all? Could the parodoi or orchestra have been somehow
 A Tragic Landscape 205
The similarity in setting is marked: but its interest is to be
seen, specifically, in the way it is used. The sea’s significance
lies in its capability to bear multiple levels of meaning and
symbolism.
In the Greeks’ mythical and historical tradition, the sea was a
paradoxical entity. It was seen to provide great possibilities for
mobility and trade, but at the same time was full of mystery and
danger. The Greeks frequently travelled by ship, but were
always aware of its perils and the possibility of shipwreck. The
danger of the sea is a common topos in literature: Hesiod writes
that sea-trade is too risky for sensible men to attempt;160 a
Phaeacian in Homer ventures the opinion that there is nothing
more terrible than the sea;161 Plato writes that avarice is the only
possible reason for embarking on navigation, since it is so
dangerous;162 for Xenophon, seafarers epitomize the general
class of men who fear danger.163 Yet sea-trade did go on, as a
characteristic feature of Greek life.164 Nevertheless, any aspect
of human activity connected with the sea acquired, in certain
literary genres, negative moral connotations. Sailing, fishing and
trading took on a notably pejorative aspect, compared with land-
based pursuits.165 There was thought to be something in the sea’s
nature which made it essentially different from the world on dry
decorated to represent the beach or waves? Were there certain areas of the stage
that were ‘out-of-bounds’, as it were uncrossable areas of water? How was
Andromeda’s isolation physically suggested? Such considerations mean that
Andromeda was probably more difficult to stage than either Helen or Iphigenia.
160
Hes. WD 240, 618–90.
161
Hom. Od. 8.138; cf. Od. 14.224.
162
Plato, Gorgias 467d; the chorus at Iphigenia 408–12, surprised that Orestes
and Pylades have made it to the perilous Black Sea, suppose that a desire for
making money brought them.
163
Xen. Cyr. 3.1.24. Interestingly, the Greeks thought they were the only
race who could swim well: Hdt. 6.44.2–3, 8.89.2. Cf. Hall (1993), on swimming
and Timotheus’ Persians.
164
The seashore, in that case, would be the place most accessible to Greek
travellers, and the area in any non-Greek location in which Greeks will naturally
be interested, even if they penetrate no further. This may be an additional
reason why the escape-tragedies’ settings have more to do with the coast and less
to do with exotica.
165
Scorn directed at ‘dishonest’ trader: Theocritus 5.14; Hesiod, Th. 440–7;
Plato, Laws 705a; Aesch. fr. 322 TGF (Radt), Eur. fr. 1114 Nauck; S Aesch.
Seven 545; Soph. Ant. 295; Eur. Iphigenia 412; see also Knorringa (1926) 5–8;
Buxton (1994) 97–100. A ship’s sailing was what, traditionally, ended the
Golden Age . . .
206 A Tragic Landscape
land. The sea’s water itself was considered by Heraclitus to be,
paradoxically, both pure and impure; and even eating the fish
which inhabited it had peculiar moral overtones.166 Sea-fishing
was dependent on luck, for one never knew what one would
net; in fact, fortune, good or bad, was seen to characterize most
activity in the sea.167 The sea was not only a chancy thing,
but also deceitful: one could never foresee hidden dangers, accu-
rately judge the sea’s depth, or predict whether a calm sea would
turn squally. An aphorism of Pittacus, one of the ‘Seven Sages’,
runs: pistÏn g[, £piston q3lassa (‘Put your trust in dry land, but
never the sea’).168 The presence of this considerable anti-sea
culture, among people whose way of life was to a large degree
dependent on maritime activity, whose overseas expansion was
achieved through seaborne mobility, and whose various hege-
monies were largely thalassocratic,169 is a peculiar but recurrent
phenomenon. The sea, and the Greeks’ attitude to it, is full of
contradictions and mysteries.
In literature, the metaphorical function of the sea is of great
interest: again, it bears not just one but a variety of meanings.
Sometimes the sea was a symbol of high emotion: for instance,
Phaedra’s Nurse in Hippolytus warns her mistress about becom-
ing more wilful than the sea;170 Plato compares angry men to
ships which bob up and down on the waves without cargo or
ballast;171 a beautiful but deceptive woman is compared by
Semonides to the sea;172 the chorus of Antigone liken savage,
166
Heraclitus (DK 22 B61). Was sea-water drinkable? Cf. Strabo 6.1.1;
Purcell (1995) 132.
167
Purcell (1995) 147: ‘The person who is the classic type of dependence on
luck, the fisherman, has a special role in the economy of luck which is as based
on the sea as his activities . . . and an economy of luck is what the ancient world
knew.’ For strange catches, cf. Hdt. 3.41–2; Paus. 10.9.3. On luck, one might
compare, from Roman antiquity, Anicetus’ ironic—perhaps proverbial—
remark to Nero: ‘nihil tam capax fortuitorum quam mare’ (Tac. Ann. 14.3), and
the poor fisherman Gripus, in Plautus’ Rudens, who finds a treasure-chest.
Fishermen in tragedy might also net the unexpected: a purple-fisher in
Euripides’ Stheneboea (fr. 670 Nauck) comes across Bellerophon’s body in the
waves; and it is a fisherman who rescues the messenger in Helen (1615–17) when
he has jumped overboard.
168
Pittacus (DK 10 5.10).
169
See Purcell (1990).
170
Eur. Hipp. 304.
171
Plato, Theat. 144a.
172
Semonides fr. 7 PMG.
 A Tragic Landscape 207
uncontrollable love to the sea.173 In tragedy in particular, the sea
became a common symbol of turbulence and the uncertainty of
human affairs.174 In all three tragedians’ work appears the image
of the ‘ship of state’ which was also a familiar image from lyric
poetry: the polis in times of political trouble is like a ship battered
by many storm-waves.175 But the most distinctive tragic image is
perhaps the ‘sea of troubles’, as a metaphor for inexplicable
suffering.176 The tragic sea of troubles spawned more related
metaphors: a person in trouble may be described as the steers-
man of a ship;177 a deliverer from disaster is a ‘harbour’;178 to ‘be
a fellow-passenger’ (sumple∏n) means that one shares another’s
sufferings;179 to ‘bob up and down on the waves’ (sale»ein) means
that one’s fortunes fluctuate.180
The escape-tragedies can be seen to dramatize all the various
aspects of the sea: beauty, mystery, ‘otherness’, ambiguity,
danger, troubles. What makes these tragedies distinctive is that
they do not just contain the image of, but are actually about, the
‘sea of troubles’. When Orestes says to Pylades that they are
fellow travellers on the sea of troubles, he is speaking literally as
well as metaphorically.181 Euripides has taken a common
metaphor and turned it into a central element of setting and plot.
The first mention of the sea in Iphigenia is made by its heroine
in the prologue. Here the sea is violent, described by a succession
of adjectives as black, swirling, eddying waters, churned up by
the winds—the scene of cruelty and horror, of her bloody
173
Soph. Ant. 783–6.
174
Nevertheless, Eur. Bellerophon (fr. 304 Nauck) provides an odd excep-
tion: there, winds and waves are used not as symbols of life’s mutability but as a
contrast to it.
175
Alcaeus, fr. 6 and fr. 208 PMG; Aesch. Seven 208, 795; Soph. Ajax 1083;
Eur. Suppl. 473. The allegorical image became common also in Hellenistic and
Roman lyrics: see e.g. Hor. Carm. 1.14 and Nisbet and Hubbard (1970) 181.
176
Aesch. Pers. 599 (kl»dwn kak0n); Soph. OT 1527 (kl»dwna dein[ß
sumfor$ß); Eur. Hipp. 822 (kak0n pvlagoß); Eur. Med. 362 (kl»dwn kak0n).
177
Soph. OT 923; Eur. Tro. 225.
178
Aesch. Ag. 900; Eur. Med. 769; Andromache 749, 891.
179
Eur. Her. 1223.
180
Soph. OT 22–3, El. 335, 1074–5. Campbell’s (1986) brief study concerns
nautical imagery in OT as a metaphor for disaster (lines 420–3, 695–6, 795,
922–3, 1208–10, 1411). See also Knorringa (1926) 30–3.
181
Iphigenia 599–600: Ø naustol0n g3r ejm’ ƒg* t¤ß sumfor3ß, | o˜toß d†
sumple∏ t0n ƒm0n mÎcqwn c3rin (‘I am a traveller on the sea of troubles, and this
man is my fellow-sailor on account of my difficulties’).
208 A Tragic Landscape
sacrifice at the hands of Agamemnon.182 We will soon learn that
the shores of the Tauric land, similarly violent with wind and
waves, are the scene of human sacrifice. So we are prepared from
the beginning for the seashore’s sinister and deathly significance.
The sea itself may bring death, by drowning or shipwreck:
Pylades is a reminder of this, fearing that he might get lost at sea
and fail to deliver Iphigenia’s letter to Argos (755–9). In Helen it
seems initially that Menelaus is drowned; and later on her plot
depends on the pretence that he has met his death in the waves
(1050). The sea’s deathly potency is made much of in Helen: it is
stressed several times that many men were wrecked, drowned or
lost on the voyage home from Troy (126–32, 397–403, 409–10);
mention is twice made of Nauplius, who used beacons to lure
men to their death in the waves (767, 1126–31); Theoclymenus
fears that Helen will commit suicide by throwing herself into the
sea (1395–7); and the escape-ruse involves the bloody slaughter
of numerous Egyptian sailors on-board ship, where murder
‘flows’ (fÎnwi d† naıß ƒrre∏to, 1602). In Andromeda the danger of
death posed by the sea is increased by the presence of a man-
eating monster (frr. 121, 145). The sea, then, may present many
perils; it may also rob those who travel upon its waves, as
Menelaus complains: the sea has ‘stolen’ his clothes and equip-
ment, thus forcing him to appear in rags, and has even taken his
ship: ‘theft’ is thus another aspect of the shipwreck theme.183
Even when the sea does not carry death, it may represent
wandering, uncertainty and toil to be endured for a long period
of time. Sea-journeys, even when they are blessed with
favourable winds and calm waves (which occurs seldom in
tragedy—except under unusual circumstances, by the special
pronouncement of a deus ex machina for instance184), take a long
time, and nearly every reference to sea-travel in the escape-

182
Iphigenia 6–8: ©n £mf≥ d≤naß 4ß q3m’ EÇripoß pukna∏ß | aÇraiß ‰l≤sswn
kuanvan ‹la strvfei | πsfaxen (‘. . . my father sacrificed me by the eddying
currents which Euripus with its frequent gusts of wind whirls around as it
churns the dark-blue sea’).
183
Helen 423–4: pvplouß d† toŸß pr≥n lampr3 t’ åmfibl&mata | clid3ß te pÎntoß
~rpas∞ (‘the sea has stolen my clothing and shiny, luxurious equipment’); 1048:
~n g¤r e÷comen q3lass’ πcei (‘the sea has got hold of the ship we had’). For the
image of the sea as thief, cf. Antiphanes fr. 151 PCG.
184
In addition to the endings of the escape-tragedies, perhaps compare the
choral prayer for calm seas in Euripides’ Phaethon (fr. 773 Nauck).
 A Tragic Landscape 209
tragedies stresses the extraordinary length of time and endur-
ance involved.185 The classic paradeigma of seaborne troubles
and wanderings is of course Odysseus, who is mentioned when
Orestes is questioned by Iphigenia about the fates of those who
left Troy by sea. ‘Odysseus has not returned home yet, but he
is still alive,’ says Orestes, ‘so the story goes . . . his affairs are
grievously afflicted.’186
Some force is seen to be at work to prevent the sea-voyagers
from putting an end to their protracted wandering: Menelaus
has been on the waves for ten years, ever since he sacked Troy;
but every time he thought he was nearing his native land, the sea
and winds forced him away, so he continues to wander—a
thoroughly miserable process, as he describes it to Helen187—
and he has come to believe that his misfortunes are caused by the
gods’ will.188 Similarly, as Burnett writes of the sea-storm which
nearly averts the ‘felicitous’ ending of Iphigenia, ‘the report of
the wave seems to testify to the existence of an unidentified force
at large in creation, a force strong enough to destroy with ease the
noblest of human achievements, but weak enough to be set aside
by god with an even greater ease.’189 In Andromeda, the image
of the wind is used to describe the changeability of human
fortunes.190
Thus the sea, the winds and the weather are all mysteriously
linked; they are held to possess a supernatural aspect, represent-
ing the unpredictable and powerful forces at work in the natural
world, suspected to be controlled in whole or part by the will of
the gods or something more random and inexplicable (i.e.
185
Iphigenia 116–17, 533, 599, 1109; Helen 126, 147, 226, 387, 397, 400, 520,
773–4, 1107.
186
Iphigenia 533–6: IF. t≤ g¤r Ø Lavrtou gÎnoß; | OR. oÇpw nenÎsthk’ o”kon, πsti
d’, „ß lÎgoß. | . . . p3nta tåkeinoı nose∏. Odysseus’ fate mirrors their own; but just
how does Orestes know what perils have befallen Odysseus on the sea? See §2.4
above for a ‘metamythological’ interpretation of these words.
187
Menelaus describes himself as wretched or long-suffering at Helen 401
(tl&mwn Ål0mai), 520 (trucÎmenoß), 777 (_ t3laß), 876 (_ tl[mon) etc.
188
Helen 402–3: kåß p3tran cr&izwn mole∏n | oÛk åxioımai toıde prÏß qe0n tuce∏n
(‘even though I long to go home, I am not thought deserving of this by the
gods’).
189
Burnett (1971) 65. Winds and divine powers are also linked at Eur. Hec.
1289–90: see Segal (1993) 221.
190
Andromeda fr. 153: ne»ei b≤otoß, ne»ei d† t»ch | kat¤ pneım’ ånvmwn (‘life
nods its head, fortune nods its head, along with the movement of the winds’).
See §5.3 below for more discussion.
210 A Tragic Landscape
t»ch).191 Certain gods, demi-gods or other supernatural beings
make their home in the sea and take a part in controlling what
goes on in their waters, but non-aquatic deities also are involved
in altering the effect of the sea. Menelaus, before his aquatic
escape-attempt, prays to Poseidon and the Nereids for a safe
escape for himself and his wife (Helen 1584–7); the reason why
Orestes and Iphigenia’s escape is almost prevented is, according
to the messenger, that Poseidon is working against them; but it
takes the favour of another god, Athena, to make Poseidon still
the waves and turn the sea into a controlled, less chaotic entity
(Iphigenia 1435–89). Aphrodite, born from the sea,192 also has a
certain authority there: Theonoe warns Helen that Aphrodite is
working against them, and that they must pray for her to allow
them to cross the waters, as well as imploring Hera to remain
well-disposed towards their escape (Helen 1025–7). The Dio-
scuri finally intervene to grant Helen and Menelaus a safe
passage, ensuring a favourable wind for the journey.193
The sea is conceived of by the characters (and, as seems likely,
the audience) as, by nature, precisely the sort of place where
supernatural entities are likely to be in operation. When the
herdsmen in Iphigenia (264–74) spot Orestes and Pylades by the
rocks and caves at the seashore, they conclude automatically that
they are deities of the sea, and pray fervently to them—but who
are they? Palaemon, son of the sea-nymph Leucothea, protector
of ships? The Dioscuri? Members of the family of Nereus, father
of fifty ocean-nymphs? The young men are none of these, but to
the awestruck herdsmen, bewitched by the strangeness of the
sea (and arrivals by sea, especially on this perilous Black Sea
coastline), anything seems possible. The supernatural inhabi-
tants and controllers of the sea in Andromeda (whoever they
might have been) included an added menace, the terrifying
monster, who might arbitrarily dart out of the waves (fr. 145):
one is reminded of that other symbol of the sea’s terror, the
shadowy and monstrous bull which rose from the deep to kill
191
On t»ch and its meaning in the escape-tragedies, see §5.3 below.
192
Her name was sometimes thought to bear an etymological connection with
åfrÎß, ‘foam’ (see Plato, Cratylus 406c).
193
Helen 1642–79. Compare the scene with the end of Orestes, where Apollo
promises that Helen will become honoured for eternity along with the Dioscuri,
holding sway over the sea and those who sail on it (πntimoß åe≥ | sŸn Tundar≤daiß
to∏ß DiÎß, Ëgr$ß | na»taiß medvousa qal3sshß,1688–90).
 A Tragic Landscape 211
Hippolytus.194 Menace and terror seem far removed from the
Egyptian coast, but the sea-setting of Helen is nevertheless semi-
supernatural, for the ruling family of Egypt is descended from
Proteus, the ‘Old Man of the sea’, who married a sea-nymph
called Psamathe (a name which has some etymological connec-
tion with sand). Both Proteus and Psamathe, as Homer and
Hesiod relate, possessed the ability to change into any desired
shape—so each was, like the sea, a being of multiple and shifting
identity.195 The chorus later (1457) sing of another (this time
beneficent) deity of the sea, Galaneia, the ‘grey daughter of
Pontus’.
Now, for the dramatic events which actually happen at the sea.
All the major actions have an aquatic setting, since the seashore
is perceived as the direction of movement: in Iphigenia, the sea is
described as crashing right next to the temple where the action
takes place (1196–7). Most of the arrivals and departures
(Teucer, Menelaus, the Greek sailor, Orestes and Pylades, the
herdsmen, the messengers, etc.) take place to and from the
seashore; and of course the escape-plots themselves make use of
the sea. The characters and the chorus frequently, even obses-
sively, talk about the sea and the coast. Here one sees an acute
sense of landscape, colours and textures, but there is more to the
sea’s recurrent presence than a need to create a sense of place
which is convincing and aesthetically pleasing. Euripides’ pre-
occupation with the sea is highly self-conscious—in other words,
he seems deliberately to be drawing attention to the sea, even
when, in certain contexts, this attention appears unusual or
artificial.
At one point in Iphigenia the Herdsman enters the stage and
announces the seaborne arrival of Orestes and Pylades. The
chorus has already announced, in Iphigenia’s hearing, that the
herdsman has come from the sea-shore (ka≥ m¶n Òd’ åkt¤ß ƒklip°n
qalass≤ouß | bouforbÏß ~kei, 236–7), but nevertheless Iphigenia
proceeds to ask the herdsman where he was when he happened to
see the two men. His answer is: £kraiß ƒp≥ Âhgm∏sin åxvnou pÎrou

194
Hippolytus 1197.
195
Helen 3–7; cf. Hom. Od. 4. 365–6; Hes. Theog. 1003–4. Watery places in
general, it seems, were the favoured home of shape-changing deities: Proteus
(sea) was the archetype; but not the only well-known shape-changer: cf.
Achelous (river) in Soph. Trach. 9–13.
212 A Tragic Landscape
(‘right by the breaking waves of the inhospitable sea’, 253). This
is a stilted answer, and the herdsman is telling Iphigenia nothing
she did not already know: what need for the question to be asked
in the first place? and what need for him to say that he saw the
men ‘right by the breaking waves of the inhospitable sea’, instead
of something more succinct? One might counter that tragic dia-
logue is never natural; but I think that there is something parti-
cular to be noted about these words. A phrase which signals a
possibility of additional meanings is åxvnou pÎrou, the ‘inhos-
pitable sea’: this suggestive description has already been used
twice of the Tauric coastal region, and will recur prominently
throughout the play.196
The unusual description is to be noted, then: but the dialogue
moves on, and now Iphigenia herself makes it clear that the
herdsman’s reply is intrinsically unlikely—why, she asks, should
herdsmen have anything to do with the sea (ka≥ t≤ß qal3sshß
boukÎloiß koinwn≤a; 254)? What was he doing there in the first
place, instead of policing the hills and pastures? The herdsman
replies that he and his colleagues were washing their cattle in the
waves, an improbable scenario.197 Now one could point out that
many ‘coincidental’ happenings in tragic plots are similarly
unlikely; but incongruities often have a point. Here it seems
that the plot is being manipulated for the specific purpose of
making everything centre on the seashore.198 The herdsman
goes on to furnish an evocative description of the milieu of the sea
and coast: the clashing rocks, the hollow cliffs, the caves which
are used as a shelter for the purple-fishers who carry on their
196
Instances of åxv(i)noß pÎntoß: Iphigenia 125, 218, 241, 253, 341, 394–5, 434,
1388. Discussed further on pp. 217–18 below.
197
The ritual use of the sea in ceremonies of purification is attested, but I can
find no example of whole herds of cattle being driven into the sea: see Parker
(1983) 226–30. Burkert (1985) 55–9 describes the more usual features of animal
sacrifice. Even if this is a genuine echo of ritual practice at Halae or Brauron
(which, again, cannot be proved with the available evidence), the positioning of
the reference here is prominent and provocative.
198
There is no definite evidence from the Andromeda, but clearly the action
must have taken place at the sea-shore for at least so long as Andromeda was in
chains. Interestingly, Webster (1967, 196) suggests that fr. 146 (p$ß d† poimvnwn
πrrei le*ß ktl., ‘all the shepherds are going together . . .’) was spoken by a herds-
man-messenger character following ‘some such opening as “I had just brought
my sheep down to the sea” (cf. Bacch. 677–80)’. The fragment may well imply
(at least) that shepherds were somehow involved in the action (again, why
shepherds by the sea-shore?) . . . so a possible parallel is provided.
 A Tragic Landscape 213
trade by sea; again, it all seems deliberately self-conscious and
calculated.
There is another significant point to be made about this
exchange: the act of washing cattle in the sea has a ritual feel
about it, and in this aspect it obviously prefigures the bogus
ritual of the escape plot, in which Iphigenia supposedly has to
bathe and purify the tainted bodies of Orestes and Pylades and
the cult statue (1187–98). In Helen too (1258) the bogus ritual
involves the sacrifice, at sea, of a bull. ‘Rituals at sea’ form a
distinct motif in the escape-tragedies: but these rituals all turn
out to be unrealistic or fraudulent. Iphigenia tells Thoas that the
sea washes all pollution from human bodies (q3lassa kl»zei
p3nta tånqr*pwn kak3, 1193), but the purificatory aspect of the
sea is significantly played down, since the rituals are sham. In
these plays seaborne religious rituals are stripped of meaning,
instead purely playing the part of stratagems. They are artificial;
like so much in these plays, they are not what they seem.199 To
cast an offering into the sea is an empty and pointless exercise.
Like the many men who were drowned, Menelaus’ ship which
was wrecked and his equipment and clothes which were ruined,
if things go into the sea they are as good as lost.
So far I have been discussing the sea’s various ‘significances’;
but it remains to explore precisely how the sea, along with the
other aspects of the settings, fits into a context of action and plot.
It is worth noting (although it might at first seem somewhat
banal) that the plots of escape-tragedies require, first: a place of
captivity; second: a place of refuge; third: a means of escape; and
that these three requirements are necessarily interlinked. A
couple of passages from Helen and Iphigenia should make the
connection clear.

ME. pe≤seiaß £n tin’ oJtineß tetraz»gwn

Ôcwn ån3ssous’ ¿ste n0in doınai d≤frouß;
EL. pe≤saim’ 〈£n〉: åll¤ t≤na fug¶n feuxo»meqa
ped≤wn £peiroi barb3rou g’ Ônteß cqonÎß;
ME. åd»naton e”paß [. . .]

åll’ oÛd† m¶n naıß πstin ¬i swqe∏men #n

fe»gonteß: ©n g¤r e÷comen q3lass’ πcei.200

199 200
See §4.4 below. Helen 1039–43, 1047–8.
214 A Tragic Landscape
Menelaus: Could you persuade someone, if they own four-horse
chariots, to give one to us?
Helen: I could—but how shall we make our escape, since we are
ignorant of the plains of this barbarian country?
Menelaus: You are right: it is impossible [. . .]; and there is not even a
ship in which we could escape to safety: the sea has got hold of the one
which we had.
IF. t≤na soi 〈t≤na soi〉 pÎron eËromvna
p3lin åpÏ pÎlewß, åpÏ fÎnou pvmyw
patr≤d’ ƒß !rge≤an; [. . .]
pÎteron kat¤ cvrson, oÛc≥ naΩ
åll¤ pod0n Âip$i;
qan3twi pel3seiß £ra b3rbara fıla
ka≥ di’ ØdoŸß ånÎdouß ste≤cwn: di¤ kuanvaß m¤n
stenopÎrou pvtraß makr¤ kvleuqa na-
ºoisin drasmo∏ß.201
Iphigenia: What way, what way shall I find for you to bring you back
from this city, from violent death, back to Argos your homeland? [. . .]
Should it be by land, not on a ship but with flurry of feet? No—you
would meet your death at the hand of barbarian tribes as you travel
along roads that are no roads. You must go on ship by the long route
through the narrow passage of the dark rocks.
How are the escapes to be made? Or rather, what is preventing
escape? Neither Helen nor Iphigenia is bodily restrained by
chains, like Andromeda (fr. 128), but what traps them is their
geographical location. There are only three possible modes of
travel from place to place: over land (which is dangerous and
impracticable; they would be caught and killed), over sea (but
they have no ship) or through the sky (but they cannot fly).202 So
another sense of paradox is created: the land, sea and sky repre-
sent both the means of escape and the instruments of captivity, by
which boundaries are imposed on the Greek escapees.
In this way a further symbolic significance of the landscape
emerges: the seashore comes to represent the boundaries of the
characters’ situations. As Richard Buxton observes in his Imagi-
nary Greece: ‘the shore is narrow—a line, a boundary, a margin

201
Iphigenia 876–9, 884–91.
202
Observe the priamel here: for this specific usage, of plans mentioned only
to be rejected (and perhaps a metatheatrical comment on the evolution of plot),
cf. Soph. Trach. 498 ff . with Davies (1991b, ad loc.) and (1998).
 A Tragic Landscape 215
where opposites meet . . . there is even an entire tragedy, Euri-
pides’ Iphigenia in Tauris, whose action is located on a series of
symbolic and literal margins.’203 This description also fits Helen
and Andromeda: the Nile’s shores and Ethiopia stood for the
outer limits of the known, civilized world, so their locations are
‘marginal’ in an additional sense.204 In all three plays the coastal
setting symbolizes the marginal nature and the isolation, mental
and physical, of the characters.205
The characters and the audience are acutely aware of these
boundaries and of the means of freedom which is so close, yet
elusive. Travel cross-country, even if they knew which way to
go, is not quick enough; only gods and birds possess the ability to
travel through the air. Thus, in terms of practical expectations
related to human capabilities, the characters plot their escapes by
sea, the only method with at least a chance of success. Inevitably,
most of the travelling about in these plays does take place by sea;
but there are important exceptions.
First, some boundary-crossing is done by air. The most
striking example from these plays was probably the arrival of
Perseus in Andromeda. Although he might on occasion travel by

203
Buxton (1992) and (1994) 101–3. A recent structuralist book on mytho-
logy (Dowden [1992] 129–33) describes places like Egypt, the Black Sea and
Ethiopia as the setting for myths which represent margins and the ‘beyond’:
they are seen as ‘off-stage’; as ‘[lands] where myth and reality merge’. Myths are
located in such places (Dowden states) because their function is to distance the
material from the speaker and the standard order of things. Davison (1991,
49–63) also deals with ‘myth and the periphery’. Myths which traverse exotic
places have the function (he says) of demarcating the world into ‘centres’ and
‘boundaries’.
204
Indeed, Herodotus represents all three settings, Egypt, Ethiopia and the
Black Sea, as geographical extremes and as barely accessible to travellers (3.17,
3.26, 4.46, 4.179). Compare Andromache 650 for the metaphorical usage of the
Nile to represent the world’s limits.
205
For such effective linking of landscape and psychology, compare Soph.
Phil. and Achilles’ retreat to the seashore in the Iliad; also Eur. Andromache 854
combines the coastal setting with a feeling of abandonment, desolation and
danger. (‘Abandonment on the shore’ later became a topos of Latin poetry,
notably in the Ariadne–Theseus story: Ov. AA 1.530 ff , Amores 1.7.15 ff .). Cf.
Morwood (2001) on the use of geography as metaphor in Eur. Iph. at Aulis:
‘Euripides draws our attention to the location of the play by the Euripus with its
famously shifting currents . . . because he wishes it to be an external symbol . . .
for the extreme shifts the play’s characters undergo (p. 608).’ It is worth noting,
too, that herdsmen (prominent in Iphigenia), like fishermen, were seen as
‘marginal’ people: Buxton (1992) 100–1.
216 A Tragic Landscape
ship like anybody else,206 Perseus’ entrance in this case was air-
borne, ‘on swift sandal, planting my foot on high, cutting a path
through the midst of the aether’.207 Perseus’ ability to fly marked
him out as extraordinary, transcending the normal human
limits.208 Elsewhere, too, flying can be achieved rarely and only
by strange or supernatural means.209 Helen travelled through the
air (though not literally flying), when Hermes took her up in the
folds of the sky, wrapping her in a cloud (Helen 44–5), and simi-
larly Iphigenia was spirited away through the bright air by
Artemis (Iphigenia 28–30). Helen’s phantom, which is not quite
human or divine, also moves freely through the ether.210
The Dioscuri are something of an exception to normal rules of
travel and transport, and it is hard to tell just how Euripides
envisaged them as moving about. At the end of Helen the
heavenly twins appear in the sky (ex machina) with instructions
for Helen and Menelaus’ escape: however, they seem to have
been riding horses (another staging problem), and are described
as pÎnton parippe»onte, so what is meant? Is it land, sea or air
travel—or a magical sort of mixture of all three? The point is
really that the Dioscuri, as gods, have absolute freedom to
travel, effortlessly, above, through or over any given physical
feature. They simply go from place to place without having to
specify or even conceptualize (as humans have to do) a medium
or mode of transport.
This deliberate vagueness of detail, representing absolute
freedom from human boundedness, is paralleled by other
206
Perseus, in Andromeda fr. 123, travelled ‘over the sea to Argos, carrying
the Gorgon’s head (PerseŸß prÏß ⁄rgoß naustol0n tÏ GorgÎnoß| k3ra kom≤zwn).
207
Andromeda fr. 124: _ qeo≤, t≤n’ ejß g[n barb3rwn åf≤gmeqa | tace∏ ped≤lwi;
di¤ mvsou g¤r ajqvroß | tvmnwn kvleuqon pÎda t≤qhm’ ËpÎpteron.
208
See Sommerstein (1994) on Thesm. 1008, and Mastronarde (1990) 280,
for the question of staging Perseus in both Aristophanes and Euripides. It is
probable that the mechane was used for the exit and entrance of divine
characters: one should observe the similarity between Andromeda and Helen and
Iphigenia in this respect.
209
Perseus flies only by means of technology (tace∏ ped≤lwi) and not, like
divine characters, by special powers of his own: similarly, the other examples of
human ‘flight’ in tragedy required magical chariots or horses (cf. Medea 1321
[although as Helios’ grand-daughter her status is ambiguous]; Bellerophon fr.
306–8, Stheneboia fr. 669 and the parody at Ar. Peace 80–126).
210
See esp. Helen 605–6 (the servant to Menelaus): bvbhken £locoß s¶ prÏß
ajqvroß ptuc¤ß | årqe∏s’ £fantoß (‘your wife has gone off into the folds of the
ether, raised up on high, invisible’).
 A Tragic Landscape 217
descriptions of gods travelling. Compare, for example, the
wanderings of Demeter in the second stasimon of Helen. She is
portrayed as travelling with amazing speed and freedom, as if
flying, but over land. Demeter ‘ran on speeding feet over the
mountains, through the wooded forests and the streams of the
rivers and the deep-roaring waves of the sea’—a bewildering and
awesome description.211 This depiction of divine freedom as a
contrast to human captivity is to be borne in mind when dealing
with the choral odes, which present a highly distinctive concep-
tion of movement and travel.
The opening lines of the parodos of Iphigenia (123–5) intro-
duce a word which—as we have already seen—is suggestive and
relevant.
eÛfame∏t’, _
pÎntou diss¤ß sugcwro»saß
pvtraß åxe≤nou na≤onteß.
Keep holy silence, you who dwell by the twin converging rocks of the
inhospitable sea.
As Barlow points out, ‘the prominence the chorus give to the sea
suggests that it is a controlling force in their lives’,212 and indeed
the formulaic opening (whether the lines are spoken by Iphigenia
or by the leader of the chorus of Greek women213) reflects this
prominence. Iphigenia later replies (218–20): 214
nın d’ åxe≤nou pÎntou xe≤na
sugcÎrtouß o÷kouß na≤w,
£gamoß £teknoß £poliß £filoß.
And now I, enjoying the hospitality of the inhospitable sea, live on the
borders of the world, unmarried, childless, cityless, friendless.
The introduction and Iphigenia’s reply both contain the epithet
211
Helen 1301–5: øre≤a pot† drom3di k*- | lwi M3thr ƒs»qh qe0n | ån’ Ël$nta
n3ph | pot3miÎn te ceım’ Ëd3twn | bar»bromÎn te kım’ ‹lion ktl.
212
Barlow (1971) 26.
213
Diggle’s OCT, following Taplin (1978, 194 n. 3), attributes the lines to
Iphigenia; Cropp (2000) to the chorus.
214
Iphigenia 218–20. The MSS reading (219) is in fact duscÎrtouß, ‘barren’,
which seemed to Platnauer and Köchly an odd word for o÷kouß. The latter’s
suggested emendation to sugcÎrtouß, ‘bordering on’ (c. gen.; cf. Andromache
16–7) is attractive, especially in view of Iphigenia’s ‘marginality’ (though I only
tentatively use it, not wishing to bend the text to fit the argument). Nevertheless,
Diggle did not think it worthy of inclusion in his apparatus criticus.
218 A Tragic Landscape
åxe≤noß to decribe the sea: this was noted earlier as an unusual
feature of the herdsman’s description of the coast.
What is the significance of this recurrent word, ‘inhospitable’,
‘unfriendly’, ‘hostile to foreigners’ (etc.)? It is an uncommon
adjective, and its meaning here seems to extend beyond its
toponymic usage.215 First, the literal meaning would have
become very clear to any Greeks who should happen to land on
these shores, for it is Iphigenia’s duty to sacrifice them.216
Second, as far as Iphigenia, a foreign visitor (xe≤na), is concerned,
the Tauric land is simply an unpleasant and barren place:217
Iphigenia’s isolation, and the menacing, inhospitable nature of
the place in which she now lives, is clear. (In this respect it is very
different from the setting of Helen.) But another sense of åxe≤noß
is that no outsiders ever come here: these shores are remote from
civilized human contact, unknown and all but inaccessible to
visitors (including, most importantly, potential rescuers). In this
sense, however, there is some degree of irony implicit: for,
although we are reminded often that the dangerous Symplegades
make it virtually impossible for anyone to gain access, neverthe-
less Orestes and Pylades, the other Greeks who were sacrificed in
the temple, and Iphigenia herself (albeit by supernatural means)
are outsiders who have managed to penetrate this far. Iphigenia’s
own self-observed status is deliberately contradictory: she is
åxe≤nou pÎntou xe≤na—‘enjoying the hospitality of the inhos-
pitable sea’—a guest in a place where (supposedly) no guest ever
comes.
For the greater part of the plays, then, the characters are
trapped, by whatever means. The types of captivity may all be
different. Egypt, where the lovely-maiden streams flow, is
beautiful and delightful, as even Menelaus grudgingly admits to
the Portress.218 In contrast, the Tauric land is utterly bleak and

215
Earlier used of persons, meaning ‘inhospitable’, opp. pol»xeinoß: Hes. WD
713, Plato, Soph. 217e. For its geographical sense, see n. 42, p. 169 above.
216
See §3.3 above for detailed discussion of this controversial point.
217
Cf. Strabo 7.3.6 on the unpopularity of this sea, with its fogs, sudden
storms and the lack of good harbours.
218
Helen 461–3: ME. A÷guptoß; _ d»sthnoß, oÍ pvpleuk’ £ra. | GR. t≤ d¶ tÏ
Ne≤lou memptÎn ƒst≤ g3noß; | ME. oÛ toıt’ ƒmvmfqhn: t¤ß ƒm¤ß stvnw t»caß.
(Menelaus: I am in Egypt? Oh, misery, to have sailed here! | Old Woman: And
what is wrong with the splendour of the Nile? | Menelaus: Nothing—I am
lamenting my own fortunes.)
 A Tragic Landscape 219
unprepossessing,219 and Andromeda’s rocky prison is particu-
larly uncomfortable. However, in all cases, whether in the wilds
of the Tauric land or in the Nile valley, whether in the service of
one’s guardian goddess, in flight from a love-struck despot or
exposed as food for a monster, captivity causes its victims great
misery and despair.
In their misery, their thoughts naturally turn to escape and to
the place to which they wish to return. ‘Oh, my life!’ cries Helen
(594–6):
oŒ ∞ g*: t≤ß Óm0n ƒgvnet’ åqliwtvra;
oÈ f≤ltatoi le≤pous≤ m’ oÛd’ åf≤xomai
E
fi llhnaß oÛd† patr≤da t¶n ƒm&n pote.
Who can be more wretched than me? Those whom I love abandon me,
and I shall never rejoin my fellow Greeks, nor reach my native land ever
again.
Note that ‘escape’ means not simply getting away but, specific-
ally, returning home to Greece and the civilized society to which
they belong—the prayer of Iphigenia to Athena and the repeated
wish of the chorus members.220 As long as the heroines are in
captivity, they feel a terrible sense of isolation, and all of them
complain about being alone.221 Similar sentiments are expressed
too by those in exile from Greece (Teucer and Orestes):222 so
exile is also a sort of captivity, from which ‘liberation’ can only
take the form of repatriation.
Another indirect way, then, in which a sense of place is created
is through nostalgia, a most potent means of evoking a setting.
Trapped at the ends of the earth, the characters reminisce about
their homes, using highly moving, emotional language. The
second stasimon of the Iphigenia is an extended expression of
homesickness:
ƒg* soi parab3llomai
qr&nouß, £pteroß Ôrniß,
219
See the descriptions at Iphigenia 107, 260, 324, 1373.
220
Iphigenia 1399–400: s0sÎn me t¶n svn Èervan prÏß }Ell3da | ƒk barb3rwn g[ß
(‘Bring me your priestess safely back to Greece from this barbarian land’). Cf. the
chorus members’ words: Helen 1452, Iphigenia 447, 1123, etc. This feature of
‘escape’ (qua ‘return’) may represent a 5th-cent. development of an epic theme
(from the Odyssey and Nostoi).
221
Andromeda fr. 122; Helen 274; Iphigenia 220.
222
Helen 87; Iphigenia 711.
220 A Tragic Landscape
poqoıs’ }Ell3nwn ågÎrouß,
poqoıs’ ⁄rtemin loc≤an.
I match my lament with yours, I, a wingless bird, longing for the
gatherings of the Greeks, longing for Artemis, goddess of childbirth.
Here (1094–7) the chorus members remember their own
country, the characteristically Greek activity of the pan-Hellenic
festival, Greek wedding-feasts, dancing and the humane
religious rituals to which they were formerly accustomed. They
long for escape—they long for return. 223
A principal characteristic of the choral lyrics is nostalgic
reminiscence about Greece and a wish to return there. But there
is more to be remarked, in connection with the plays’ structure
and unity. The common use of choral odes at climactic points in
drama, either to release tension or simply to change the direction
of movement, had already in Euripides developed into a dis-
cernible type of ode. Padel, in a sensitive and thought-provoking
article, identifies as a distinct group those odes which share the
‘e÷qe geno≤man theme’—odes, in other words, which express
desperate or impossible wishes—and her discussion centres on
Euripides’ use of escapism to counteract the supposed realism of
his tragedies.224 The wish to become a bird and fly away had been
expressed before by tragic characters in times of extreme
distress;225 but Euripides can be seen to be developing the motif,
expanding it into entire odes. As Padel observes, these odes are
not exactly to be classified as ‘escapist’, but rather they move, at
crisis-points in the drama, to an imaginary location, in order to
explore various preoccupations of the play ‘in a new mode, as a
dream regroups the thoughts and events of the waking day’.226

223
Iphigenia 1094–7. It is unusual that the Greek girls yearn for Artemis
Lokhia (in her capacity as goddess of childbirth) in particular. Perhaps the
significance is that, as perpetual virgins, they will never have children and so are
in need of escape in another sense, ‘stranded’ at a particular point in life. Cf.
Iphigenia’s complaint that she is childless (£teknoß, 220).
224
Padel (1974) 227.
225
The topos is found also at Hippolytus 732–5, Andromache 861–4, Ion 746
and Soph. OC 1081. The chorus in Aesch. Suppl. 777 ff . wish that they could
turn into smoke and disappear. The same motif is found in Ar. Birds 1337–9
(which the scholiast attributes to Sophocles’ Oenomaus) but can in fact be traced
back to Alcman (PMG fr. 26.2–4). See L. Parker (1997, 340–1) for further
parallels and discussion.
226
Padel (1974) 241.
 A Tragic Landscape 221
In the escape-tragedies, certainly one looks for, and finds,
thematic unity between play and ode of the type Padel describes,
and one might remark too that odes of escape are particularly
appropriate in escape-tragedies. But here I believe that Euri-
pides has gone a step further: he has transformed yet another
common tragic metaphor into a central concern of the plays’
structure and plot, in an expert union of form and content.227
It has been pointed out that when the chorus members
reminisce about Greece, they ‘mentally cross the sea first’.228 This
observation is clearly of relevance to my earlier remarks about
the plays’ conception of movement and travel and the limitations
placed on the human characters. But the odes are fantasy.
When the characters and chorus fantasize about escape, they are
envisaging themselves in a dreamlike situation as doing the
impossible; as transcending their boundedness like a god, a
ship, a bird; of flying; of soaring beyond constraints; of being
liberated, like gods, from human boundaries and covering a vast
geographical range. Now it is possible to see a large-scale struc-
tural effect: for the dynamic of the tragedies is a constant alterna-
tion and contrast between the boundedness of the episodes and the
liberation of the choral odes.
Not just one but all the odes in the escape-tragedies (apart
from the third stasimon of Iphigenia) are concerned with
journeys over a vast expanse of sea or sky.229 In the second
stasimon of Iphigenia the Greek women imagine liberation in the
form of airborne travel: the ode is addressed to the halcyon, the
bird of the sharp sea-cliffs (1089), and culminates in a wish
to become a bird and fly across the sea (1138). They also recall
their own abduction, the ships which rowed them away to this
barbarian coast, and predict that a similar pentekonter will arrive
to take Iphigenia and Orestes back home by swift sea-voyage

227
In fact, one could view the escape-tragedies’ counterfactual plots in their
entirety as a reconceptualization of the ‘e÷qe geno≤man theme’, in its sense of a
rhetorical topos of tragedy, in which characters very often wish, in vain, that
things had turned out differently. A famous example of this topos is the prologue
to Medea: ‘If only the Argo had never sailed . . .’ (e÷q’ •fel’ !rgoıß m¶ diapt3sqai
sk3foß | KÎlcwn ƒß a”an kuanvaß Sumplhg3daß ktl., 1–3).
228
Barlow (1971) 28. (My italics.)
229
The lyric prologue of Andromeda began by describing the chariot of the
Night, flying through the starry sky (fr. 114); apart from that, though, the frag-
ments divulge nothing about the odes of that play.
222 A Tragic Landscape
(1110–24). There is clearly a contrast between the practical
expectations of escape by sea and the fantasy of escape by air,
made necessary because they realize that they will be left behind
and that fantasy is their only option. This is similar to the wish of
the chorus in Helen’s third stasimon to fly with cranes (di’ ajqvroß
e÷qe potano≥ | geno≤meq’, 1451), though the situation and general
mood of that ode is somewhat different. There Menelaus and
Helen have just departed for what looks like a successful escape
and the chorus sing joyfully and impressionistically about sea
and air travel—an ode of pure escapism.
The parodos of Helen and the second stasimon of Iphigenia tell
of the abductions of the Greek women at the time of the Trojan
War; Helen’s first stasimon relates Menelaus’ laborious sea-
travels and the Greek expedition; Iphigenia’s first stasimon
describes the arrival of Orestes and Pylades and (like the second
stasimon and the third stasimon of Helen) anticipates longingly
their return to Greece; the ‘Magna Mater’ ode of Helen tells of
Demeter’s magical, racing journey all over Greece. It is also
interesting that nearly all the odes are addressed to birds or
ships: the Sirens,230 the nightingale,231 the halcyon,232 the swift
Sidonian ship.233 A great mobility and geographical sweep is
imagined before the succeeding episodes bring the action, more
or less literally, ‘down to earth’.
At the end of each play the Greeks successfully escape from
their places of captivity, at last achieving the liberation and
mobility which has so far been the stuff of nostalgic fantasy.
Correspondingly, in the last section of each play there seems to
be a change in the significance of the landscape. An influential
structuralist reading of Helen has maintained that, instead of
symbolizing suffering, danger and uncertainty, the sea now
acquires newly positive functions: the restoration of identity,
recovery of the past, purification, rebirth.234 The sea in Iphigenia,
230
Helen 167.
231
Helen 1107–10.
232
Iphigenia 1089–90.
233
Helen 1451.
234
Segal (1971) 595–6. He sees the second stasimon of Helen as an ode of
rebirth, ‘crystallizing the movement of the entire plot, which is in turn the cycli-
cal movement from Winter to Summer’; he also connects the third stasimon
with its reference to the Hyacinthia. His interpretation stresses the cult-
aetiological aspect which other structuralist analyses of the play have been keen
to pursue (e.g. Foley 1992).
 A Tragic Landscape 223
also, ostensibly assumes a newly positive aspect. But I would
argue that these seemingly ‘happy’ endings, and the role of the
landscape, are open to differing interpretations.
One can choose to view the endings of the escape-tragedies as
‘happy’, since the characters are all successfully liberated, there
has been an Aristotelian peripeteia from bad to good fortune, and
the plot has been wound up in an ostensibly satisfying way. But
it is also possible to take a more disturbing, more pessimistic
view. It seems that the plays, especially in their closure, prompt
their audience to ask certain questions. What is the end result of
all these abductions, rescues and escapes? What, for that matter,
is escape or imprisonment? No satisfactory or reassuring answers
are offered, but it is difficult to view the Greeks’ successful escap-
ing as ‘a dream come true’, as a straightforward reading of the
plays and their odes would suggest. If we subject to pressure the
plays’ presentation of escape, a more sinister possibility emerges.
In the first place, one might find it hard to agree that life-
enhancing optimism and rebirth can really be represented by
seas on which many men are stabbed to death in the course of
perverted, fake ritual burials, and which may still without warn-
ing (as in Iphigenia) churn up in a perilous storm; or by escapes
which are effected on ships where murder ‘flows’ (fÎnwi d† naıß
ƒrre∏to, Helen 1602). It seems that this still may be a sea of
troubles, never shedding its danger, unpredictability and
capacity for bringing suffering.
Captivity is more complex a state than it might seem.
Andromeda’s situation is possibly the most straightforward: she
is chained to a rock and her oppressor is a monster, a thoroughly
undesirable state of affairs. But Helen’s imprisonment, on the
other hand, constitutes no physical ordeal; and, indeed, ‘escape
from a beautiful place’ is a slightly paradoxical concept. (Why
does Helen wish to escape from Egypt to a Greece where she is
hated and, indeed, may never regain her former reputation?235)
Iphigenia’s position is different again, because (as we have seen)
she fulfils a double role: she may be a captive in the Tauric land,
but she is also a captor, in some sense parallel to Thoas; she
235
At Helen 287–9, Helen says that it would be worse than anything she has
yet suffered, if she were to return home and yet be unable to clear her name and
recover her identity. These lines (and others) may well have prompted the
audience to reflect that Helen did not succeed in clearing her name. . . .
224 A Tragic Landscape
exhibits barbarian characteristics; she is the menacing priestess
of Artemis with a disturbing penchant for human sacrifice, from
whom Orestes and Pylades, her rescuers, themselves have to be
rescued; she shows few signs, even, of wanting to escape until her
discovery that Orestes is still alive. Thus more paradox and
unease abounds.
One has to question, also, just what and where the escapees are
escaping to. Despite the Greeks’ constant nostalgic yearnings for
their native land and prayers to the gods to save them from the
barbarians, the systematic blurring of the distinctions between
Greeks and barbarians means that one can no longer simply view
a return to Greece in terms of (as in the Odyssey) a blessed return
to civilized, familiar values. One strong implication of the plays
is that one can say little for certain of people or places; but there
are ample hints that a return to Greece may not be particularly
desirable. Greece is the place where Iphigenia was sacrificed, the
place which, as she says, she hates; it is the place where Helen’s
name is utterly reviled. Furthermore, it is impossible for either
heroine to resume her previous ‘normal’ existence in Greece.
Not only are their families now severely reduced in size, largely
as a result of murder or suicide, and their homes destroyed—but
also, more importantly, there is no proper sequel to these alter-
native, radically different versions of the myths. That is, we
learn, at the end of each play, the eventual divine role of the
heroines, far in the future; but neither the ‘real’ Helen nor the
‘murdered’ Iphigenia have any subsequent mythological exist-
ence in immediate, human terms. They sail off into the sunset, to
who knows what fate?
We have seen how ‘escape’ is constantly envisaged as being
equivalent to repatriation. But Helen and Iphigenia have already
been saved once, before the plays begin: they have only come to
be in these strange, barbarian lands as a result of earlier rescues.
They were saved from Greece, and brought to Egypt and
the Tauric land: so, in other words, it is possible to view the
barbarian lands as places of refuge as well as prisons. Likewise,
Orestes and Menelaus are in their current parlous positions
because of earlier ‘rescues’ from the sea.236 What gain can there
236
This fact is stressed particularly at Helen 778 (swqe≥ß d’ ƒke∏qen ƒnqad’ Álqeß
ƒß sfag3ß, ‘you were saved from there only to come here and be killed’) and
863–4 (Tro≤aß d† swqe≥ß kåpÏ barb3rou cqonÏß | ƒß b3rbar’ ƒlq°n f3sgan’ aˆqiß
 A Tragic Landscape 225
be in escaping from one situation to find themselves in another,
worse situation?
In fact, the rescuers are as restricted by their human limita-
tions as all the other characters: Menelaus, Orestes and Pylades
(and Perseus?237) themselves require rescuing, and at the close of
each play it is a god alone who can finally remove the danger,
subdue the seas and allow them to transcend their boundaries. It
may be that the boundedness of the characters’ physical situa-
tions metaphorically represents their human limitations: they
can never really ‘escape’, but simply move around, propelled by
forces largely outside their control. Near the start of Iphigenia
(116–17), Pylades exhorted Orestes to complete the task which
they set out to perform, saying that they have not rowed such a
long journey to turn round and row back again (oÇtoi makrÏn m†n
‡lqomen k*phi pÎron | ƒk term3twn dv nÎston åroımen p3lin). But
the words must strike an ironic note when one realizes that this is
precisely what they will do, whether they complete their mission
or not. Their sea-journeying, a long and arduous toil, will neces-
sitate more journeying and more toil. Again, the supposed
‘circularity’ which the structuralist critics see in these plots may
be negative rather than positive, representing not optimism,
rebirth and the great cycle of nature, but pessimism, self-defeat
and flux. Is there any ultimate purpose to human endeavour—or
is Euripides advancing a nihilistic world-view?
It has emerged from this chapter, I hope, that Euripides’ uses of
setting are greatly more numerous, complicated and provocative
than at first seems to be the case. The unique sense of place which
the escape-tragedies, in their various ways, create is an area of
quite crucial importance, in which close connection of substance
and ideas can be observed between all three plays. The landscape
of the escape-tragedies—especially when considered in relation
to their other intellectual themes—makes them wholly distinc-
tive works of art.
ƒmpes[i, ‘having been saved from Troy, a barbarian land indeed, you will yet die
by a barbarian sword’).
237
It is difficult to make any firm statement; in some sense, as we have seen,
Perseus is more able to transcend boundaries than the other rescuers (i.e. by
literal flight), but it seems likely that a situation arose in Andromeda from which
Perseus himself needed divine help (see Webster’s (1967, 197–9) reconstruction
of the play, which supposes a threat to Perseus’ life from the monster and from
Cepheus). Cf. §2.3.4 above.
 4
Tragedy of Ideas

EURIPIDHS Òtan t¤ nın £pista p≤sq’ Óg*meqa,

t¤ d’ Ônta p≤st’ £pista.
DIONUSOS p0ß; oÛ manq3nw.
åmaqvsterÎn pwß ejp† ka≥ safvsteron.1

4.1 introduction
The ancient description of Euripides as ‘the philosopher of the
stage’2 is often quoted but seldom discussed at length.3 In this
chapter I want to explore the meaning and the implications of
these words, and to evaluate the ways in which Euripides (or, for
that matter, any fifth-century tragedian) can be described as
‘philosophical’. This is an important question, the answer to
which is left only implicit, or even ignored altogether, by most
writers on tragedy. It is even more important for the current
purposes to formulate a point of view on the matter, not only
because Euripides is generally regarded (for whatever reason) as
the most ‘philosophical’ of the Greek dramatists,4 but also
1
Aristophanes, Frogs 1443–5. ‘Euripides: When we believe the true untrue,
and the untrue true, too— Dionysus: What? I don’t understand. Could you
possibly explain it more clearly, in words of one syllable?’
2
First attested in Vitruvius, De Arch. 8 pr. 1: Euripides, auditor Anaxagorae,
quem philosophum Athenienses scaenicum appellaverunt; cf. Athenaeus 4.48, 158e
(Ø skhnikÏß o˜toß filÎsofoß: it is suggested that Euripides would appeal particu-
larly to a learned, grammatik*tatoß, man) and 13.11, 561a (ka≥ ƒlvcqhsan lÎgoi
filÎsofoi p3mpolloi: ƒn oÍß tineß ka≥ ƒmnhmÎneusan toı skhnikoı filosÎfou
EÛrip≤dou åism3twn); Sextus Empiricus, Adv. Math. 1.288: Ø skhnikÏß filÎsofoß;
Clement of Alexandria, Stromata 5.70.1: Ø ƒp≥ t[ß skhn[ß filÎsofoß EÛrip≤dhß.
3
The epithet is mentioned, in different contexts, by Nestle (1901, 4),
Décharme (1893, 21), E. Segal (1968a, 9), Winnington-Ingram (1969, 127),
Collard (1981, 30), and others: I shall go on to discuss the different senses in
which these and other scholars understand the concept.
4
It is interesting to note, incidentally, that the surviving portrait busts of
Euripides (from various periods) resemble a recognizably philosophical type:
see Décharme (1893) 6–7 (listing images of Welcker, Alte Denkmäler 1. 485).
 Tragedy of Ideas 227
because (as I shall argue) the escape-tragedies are particularly
rich in ideas. I believe that Helen, Andromeda and Iphigenia
are more intellectually advanced than has previously been appre-
ciated, and that all three plays5 can be read as interrelated treat-
ments of the same ideas.
For the time being, I shall concentrate on what one might
broadly term ontological and epistemological ideas, postponing
until the next chapter discussion of Euripidean theology. Begin-
ning (§4.2) with an examination of the relationship between
tragedy and philosophy, I shall proceed (§§4.3, 4.4) to explore
the nexus of ideas in the escape-tragedies which might be con-
sidered specifically ‘philosophical’, namely those concerning the
relationship between sense-perception, spoken and written
words, and reality. In this respect, the connection between
Euripides and other contemporary thinkers, such as Gorgias and
Anaxagoras, will require careful analysis. Underlying this
approach is an impulse to search for meaning in the plays—in
other words, an essentially hermeneutic method. Of course, this
is not to claim that my interpretation is the only valid one.
Nevertheless, I do not want to subscribe to the prevailing trend
which emphasizes ambiguity, unanswered questions and lack of
resolution in the discussion of tragedy in general, and paradox
and elusiveness in the discussion of Euripides in particular.6 The
work of the ‘French school’ critics, from which these and similar
phrases derive, has provided great insights into the genre as a
whole; but it seems to me that many readings of tragic texts,
under the influence of Vernant and others, go too far. Continual
recourse to words such as ‘problematic’ or ‘ambiguous’ not only
overstates the case, but can also imply an automatic, even lazy,
uniform response to tragic texts. On my reading of the escape-
5
With the usual caveat, of course: the fragmentary state of Andromeda means
that one can make only provisional attempts to fit it into the picture.
6
Ambiguity and ‘open questions’ as characteristic of tragedy: see esp.
Vernant and Vidal-Naquet (1983); Goldhill (1986); Taplin (1986) and (1996).
Euripides seen to be (deliberately) resisting interpretation: see especially Dale
(1967) vii–xvi; Segal (1968b), who calls Euripides a ‘poet of paradox’; Wolff
(1973) 61; Vellacott (1975) 2 (‘Euripides’ plays were apt to end with a question-
mark rather than a full stop’); Dimock (1977) 7; Collard (1981) 30–6; Barlow
(1986b); Buxton (1988), who believes that ‘bafflement’ is the effect aimed for by
many Euripidean plays; Croally (1994) 16 (‘Euripides, as I present him, more
often questions than affirms, more often makes things difficult rather than
easy’), etc.
228 Tragedy of Ideas
tragedies, a less open-ended interpretation emerges: Euripides is
directing his audience towards a definite conclusion about the
nature of human knowledge; and, furthermore, this conclusion
is a distinctly pessimistic and disturbing one. Indeed, this is
another way in which one can view Helen, Andromeda and
Iphigenia as being thoroughly tragic—not at all ‘light’, ‘amus-
ing’, or ‘comic’.
However, this is not a widely held opinion. The title which I
have given to this chapter represents a deliberate reaction against
that of Anne Pippin Burnett’s influential 1960 article, ‘Euripides’
Helen: a comedy of ideas’.7 Why does she call it ‘comedy’ rather
than ‘tragedy’? The question is difficult to answer because of the
manner in which Burnett expresses her argument: she offers
scarcely any explicit justification of her opinion that Helen is
‘comic’, which means that one struggles to engage with her argu-
ment in detail. Although she makes some interesting points,
Burnett’s whole approach seems to me flawed because (in
common with so many studies of Euripides) it is based on
implicit and largely subjective judgements of ‘tone’ which ulti-
mately represent nothing more or less than personal taste. While
it may seem perfectly reasonable for Burnett to read the play and
find it amusing (for whatever reason), she ought to have done
more to convince other readers why they should agree—or, at
least, to have given sufficient grounds on which to base agree-
ment or disagreement.
On only two occasions does Burnett come close to an explana-
tion. The first is when she writes that ‘a new comic irony’ is what
characterizes the play and sets it apart from other Greek
tragedies. This ‘comic irony’ occurs, she says, in the course of
the scene where Helen and Menelaus deceive Theoclymenus:8
‘the responsibility of tragic irony, with its burden of knowledge
shared by audience and dramatist but withheld from the charac-
ters, is laid aside, and the spectator may rest and enjoy the irony
of double meanings which are conscious expressions of intention
and power.’9 This point can be answered by pointing out that the
type of irony in question is neither remarkable, nor different in
7
Burnett (1960): as ‘A. N. Pippin’.
8
Helen 1193–300.
9
Burnett (1960) 153: she reuses the term ‘comic irony’ in a later book (1971,
77).
 Tragedy of Ideas 229
kind from irony elsewhere in tragedy, nor characteristic of com-
edy as a genre, nor particularly ‘comical’ or ‘funny’.10 (Neverthe-
less, I shall return, briefly, to ‘irony’ below.11)
The second occasion is when, a couple of pages later, Burnett
writes that ‘Euripides has hung some of the baubles of Old
Comedy in the branches of the tragic structure’,12 elaborating on
this, she explains that the portress’s invective, Menelaus’
costume and his characterization, and the deception theme are
all ‘highly Aristophanic’. However, this, too, fails to convince.
Deception of one sort or another, like irony, can be seen in many
tragedies, as can cowardly or blustering characters (for example,
Jason, Polymestor, Admetus).13 Ragged costumes and the dia-
logue with the portress are ‘Aristophanic’ in the sense that
Aristophanes parodied these features in his comedies, but they
cannot be seen as intrinsically comic features.14
As I said above, deciding what is comical or funny is to a large
degree a subjective matter.15 Nevertheless, it will not do simply
10
Rosenmeyer (1996, 510–15) gives a useful ‘taxonomical’ outline of some
species of irony which makes clear the large variety of ironical effects in drama
and elsewhere. What we have in Helen is simply deception of one character by
another—categorized by Rosenmeyer as a type of ‘forensic irony’. Similar
scenes occur in Iphigenia (although Burnett would, I suspect, also call that a
‘comedy of ideas’), Medea, Philoctetes and frequently elsewhere in tragedy.
11
See pp. 230–2.
12
Burnett (1960) 155.
13
It might be objected that Menelaus’ swaggering is of a somewhat different
sort from that seen elsewhere—both Griffith (1953, 37) and Grube (1961, 339),
rather like Burnett, thought that Menelaus had something of the miles gloriosus
about him, but they miss the point. Menelaus is not funny; the debunking of his
heroic values, and of the Trojan War, has a very serious point (related to the
questioning of knowledge, myth and traditional values). See also Dale (1967)
xi–xii: ‘the comic aspect of Menelaus should not be pressed too far’ (although,
rather confusingly, Dale goes on to say that Euripides is trying to create ‘amuse-
ment instead of pathos’ at Menelaus’ first appearance). Podlecki’s (1970, 402–3)
interpretation is far more subtle. (On this question in more detail see §4.4.2
below.)
14
Euripides’ ragged heroes—of whom Menelaus is the only extant
example—did appeal to Aristophanes’ sense of humour (Ach. 410–79, Peace
146–8, Frogs 841–2, 1063), but they are not in themselves either comical or
exclusively Euripidean: Aeschylus’ Persians and Sophocles’ Philoctetes and
Oedipus at Colonus provide notable counter-examples. The portress-scene is
parodied in Ar. Thesm. (870–88). It should be noted that a comic poet’s decision
to parody something does not imply that the feature in question is itself comic or
funny. See further Rau (1967).
15
Cf. Winnington-Ingram’s (1948, 40) perhaps over-pessimistic view: ‘The
presence of humour cannot be argued; it can only be felt.’
230 Tragedy of Ideas
to state that something is funny; and, although one may not be
able to prove one’s case on stylistic grounds, one must attempt to
provide illustration. Throughout the article Burnett relies for
her illustration of Helen’s ‘comic’ tone on an unscrupulous
technique, which is in fact a recurrent feature of discussions of
supposedly ‘comic’ or ‘tragi-comic’ tragedies. Rather than
quoting from Euripides’ Greek, Burnett adopts a mixture of
paraphrase and over-enthusiastic translation which is character-
ized by barely-suppressed hilarity and mirth: this gives a quite
misleading impression of the tone of the Greek.16 However, if
we examine the words of the play itself, this apparent jollity
evaporates. I shall give just a few examples here (though there
are plenty of others).
Burnett’s account of the meeting and subsequent dialogue
between Menelaus and Helen is typical. ‘From the moment of
first seeing her,’ she writes, ‘his head has not worked very well,
but at last he shakes it and says, “No, my mind is sound, it’s my
eyes that have gone wrong”.’17 In Greek, this is:
EL. oÛk πstin £llh s& tiß ånt’ ƒmoı gun&.
ME. oÇ pou fron0 m†n eˆ, tÏ d’ Ômma mou nose∏;
Helen: You have no other wife except me.
Menelaus: What? Have I lost my reason? Is my eye diseased?

One might remark, first of all, that there is nothing here about
head-shaking—this is, of course, a possible description of the
stage action, but how could we know? But, more importantly, the
bantering tone of the translation is not found in the Greek. If
one looks at the whole of the passage in question, ‘ideas’ are
certainly prominent, but comedy is absent. In fact, the tone of
the stichomythic dialogue seems urgent, anxious and perplexed.
It might be that the particle pou, sometimes ironical, has
16
I should stress that Burnett is not alone in this practice, but it is a most
serious shortcoming. Dishonest rendering into English is a factor which con-
tributes significantly to the perpetuation of the idea that Euripides’ tragedies are
not tragic; and it is a great handicap for any who study the plays in the medium
of English translation. See e.g. the Penguin translations of Euripides by
Vellacott (1953–74) and the Aris and Phillips edition of Orestes by Martin West
(1987), as well as Conacher (1967) and (1998); Dale (1967); E. M. Hall (1997);
Kitto (1961); Knox (1979); E. Segal (1968b); Webster (1967); Winnington-
Ingram (1969).
17
Burnett (1960) 152, quoting Helen 575.
 Tragedy of Ideas 231
influenced Burnett’s judgement; but here it is more naturally
taken as expressing Menelaus’ genuine doubt rather than irony.18
Finally, the paraphrase ‘his head is not working very well’ does
not directly reflect anything in the Greek, and is clearly flippant.
A little later, Burnett gives a facetious rendering of Helen’s
comment to Menelaus on his ragged costume: ‘Well, you’ve
certainly got a nasty way of dressing’.19 In this case, the words
which Euripides wrote are:
ME. oÛ kl0pvß ƒsmen oÛd’ Ëphrvtai kak0n.
EL. ka≥ m¶n stol&n g’ £morfon åmf≥ s0m’ πceiß.
Menelaus: I am not a thief or a criminal!
Helen: And yet your body’s clothing, indeed, is ugly.
As in the previous passage, it is hard to see that the Greek version
is as amusing as the English. At this stage, Helen and Menelaus
are each unaware of the other’s identity: Helen is unconvinced
by Menelaus’ assurance that he does not pose a threat, and so
she replies (picking up his words oÛ kl0pvß ƒsmen) that his
appearance suggests otherwise.20 Burnett’s translation of this
line is especially inappropriate, since it emphasizes the ‘comedy’
but actually ignores the prominent ‘idea’ (the self-conscious use
of the word s0ma to bring out, as often elsewhere, the difference
between outward appearances and reality).21 Helen’s comment
on her disguised husband’s costume, in Burnett’s translation,
resembles not so much the confusion of a frightened woman as
the unasked-for opinion of some acerbic arbiter elegantiae.
Similarly, Theoclymenus, when he too remarks on Menelaus’
rags, is made to sound like Bertie Wooster’s Aunt Agatha:
‘What’s that frightful outfit he’s wearing?’22 (Euripides wrote:
18
Denniston (1954, 492) places the pou of Hel. 575 (along with identical usage
at 135, 600 and 791) in the category of ‘incredulous or reluctant’ questions.
19
Burnett (1960) 152, quoting Helen 554.
20
Again, the use of the particles (the nuances of which are sometimes difficult
to grasp) seems unambiguous. Although ge can sometimes be ironical, sarcastic
or contemptuous, in this instance it should clearly be taken with ka≥ m¶n, as
giving emphasis to stol&n. See Denniston (1954) 119–20: ‘Determinative ge is
most commonly found after connecting particles. Whether these express dis-
junction, opposition, progression, or inference, ge serves to define more sharply
the new idea introduced: “this, and nothing else”.’ (Examples of this use of the
combination ka≥ m¶n . . . ge are supplied by Denniston on page 120.)
21
See §4.3 below for extended discussion of this theme.
22
Burnett (1960) 152, quoting Helen 1204.
232 Tragedy of Ideas
⁄pollon, „ß ƒsq[ti dusmÎrfwi prvpei, ‘By Apollo! How con-
spicuous he is in his tattered garments’.)
Elsewhere, this time discussing the scene in which Theocly-
menus is deceived, Burnett again supplies a missing stage-
direction and a tone of voice, as well as another misleading trans-
lation. In response to Theoclymenus’ concern about his forth-
coming wedding and Helen’s previous husband,23 Helen
replies—‘slyly’ as Burnett would have us believe—‘Nonsense!
my wedding celebrations have already begun.’24 Euripides
wrote: åll’ oÛkvt’: ‡dh d’ £rce t0n ƒm0n g3mwn—in which the
absence of the word ‘Nonsense’ may be noted.25 (The mistrans-
lation of the imperative £rce, while distracting, does not affect
the tone.) This is the ‘comic irony’ which Burnett makes central
to her discussion. Seriously misleading translations, then, are
an inadequate basis for a reading of any play, and should be
avoided.
A couple of further methodological problems emerge from
Burnett’s article. The first is an apparent contradiction regard-
ing the supposed generic status of Helen. Although she has been
arguing that it is a comedy, at one point Burnett states that
Euripides’ plot is something rather different: ‘a romantic plot is
used as an excuse for the poetic expression of philosophical
ideas’.26 This causes confusion: what, then, is the Helen? Surely
it cannot be both comic and romantic?27 In fact, neither label is
satisfactory, but ‘romantic’ is even less appropriate than ‘comic’,
since the genre of romance did not yet exist in 412 bc.28 Burnett
follows this up by stating that Helen is ‘ancestor to Measure

23
In this case, the text—that is, the order of lines 1225–31 more than the
words themselves—is problematic (see Diggle’s apparatus, incorporating
Jackson’s transposition); but this seems unlikely to affect one’s judgement of the
tone.
24
Burnett (1960) 153–4, quoting Helen 1231.
25
There does not seem to be any way in which åll’ oÛkvt’ could mean
‘Nonsense!’ A better translation would run: ‘I shall spurn your advances no
longer: now begin the preparations for our marriage’. The words clearly answer
Theoclymenus’ question t≤ kertome∏ß me; (‘Why are you taunting me?’ 1229). Cf.
Dale (1967) ad loc.
26
Burnett (1960) 154: my italics.
27
Admittedly, Burnett does refer (ibid.) to the ‘experimental’ nature of
Helen, which might go some way to explaining the seeming inconsistency. On
the application of ‘romance’ and other generic labels, see §1.1 above.
28
This problem has already been discussed at greater length (§1.1 above).
 Tragedy of Ideas 233
for Measure and The Winter’s Tale’, which underlines the
anachronism of her approach. We cannot use Shakespeare (who
was, directly or indirectly, influenced by Euripides) to illumi-
nate Euripides’ intentions; a comparison of the two writers
should not be taken to prove anything about the earlier.
It may be that this inconsistency is not very important, aside
from illustrating the woolliness with which numerous critics talk
about issues of genre. But the second problem is fundamental to
the whole question of Euripides’ treatment of ‘ideas’: is it the
‘ideas’ themselves which make Helen seem to be comic? Burnett’s
title and general tone appear to be implying this, but in places—
with the sentence about the ‘romantic plot’ which I have just
quoted, as well as her identification of supposedly ‘Aristophanic’
features—she implies that, on the contrary, it is certain plot-
elements, rather than the ‘ideas’ themselves, which are being
judged comical. This is to assume both that ‘plot’ is separable
from ‘ideas’ and that plot is less important (‘used as an excuse’)
than ideas. However, both of these assumptions are question-
able. (How might one go about separating the ideas from the
plot, since each partly determines the other? Even if one could
expunge the ideas, would the plot still remain?)
Burnett’s article, then, does not yield a clear explanation why
Helen or the other tragedies should be seen as comedies.
Nevertheless, the writings of Burnett and other critics who have
interpreted the plays on similar lines all imply that the ‘ideas’ are
indeed, at least partially, responsible for the perceived lightness
of tone.29 This implication needs to be taken very seriously: why,
exactly, should intellectual content and humour be seen as con-
comitant qualities in drama? Is there something intrinsically
funny about epistemological, ontological, or cosmological specu-
lation?
Perhaps the answer lies precisely in the fact that these philo-
sophical subjects are not funny. At issue here is a fundamental,
general question of the literary presentation of serious ideas:
there is a feeling that the dull dough of philosophy has to be

29
Burnett (1960) 162; Zuntz (1960) 201–3; Grube (1961) 232; Winnington-
Ingram (1969)—on which see below (§1.2) for further comment; Segal (1971)
553–6 and 561; Wolff (1973) 82; Dimock (1977) 4–6; Bowie (1993) 218–9; E. M.
Hall (1997) xxiii–xxv; on Iphigenia, compare Burnett (1971) 48 (referring to the
play’s ‘festive complexity’) and Cropp (2000) 33–4.
234 Tragedy of Ideas
leavened with something more lively, if it is to appear palatable
to readers (or, especially, the audiences of drama, which by its
nature arouses expectations of entertainment more than other
forms of—written and read—literature). Of course, no ‘intel-
lectual’ writer, ancient or modern (not even the writer of an
academic monograph), ever entirely eschews entertainment. But
the techniques employed to make serious works more entertain-
ing—irony, word-play, puns, and so on—can also make the
overall tone difficult to interpret.30 Since tragedy aims at an
emotional, not just an intellectual, effect, this difficulty is parti-
cularly serious. A self-conscious or ludic manner of presentation
may often belie the complexity and the seriousness of the treat-
ment of ideas, misleading us into thinking that the writer’s inten-
tion is funnier than it really is. Even the critical terminology
which we use—‘word-play’—may distort the picture; but we
should be quite clear that word-play and irony, although they are
(in some form) part of comedy’s stock-in-trade, are not intrinsic-
ally or exclusively comic.31
Finally, there is another reason why the escape-tragedies
should not be seen as comedies. In general, comedy’s relation-
ship to the world of ideas is significantly different from tragedy’s.
Comic poets, typically, treat philosophical ideas in a superficial
way; they represent philosophy or philosophers, often in a
caricatured or satirical manner, but they rarely engage with
ideas in a dynamic sense or add new ideas.32 A recent survey of
philosophy and comedy notes that Old Comedy presented the

30
I have already mentioned this problem in relation to ‘metamythology’ (§2.4
above). One might compare Kevin Lee’s (1997, 31) difficulties in interpreting
the ‘ideas’ of Euripides’ Ion, another play often, like the escape-tragedies,
unfairly labelled ‘tragicomedy’: ‘what is the tone of this exploration of human
(mis-) understanding? . . . Euripides’ treatment . . . may not have a tragic edge,
but neither is it reassuringly comic.’
31
Goldhill (1986, 236) recognizes this when he says that tragedy as a whole is
characterized by close attention to the (shifting, negotiable) meaning of words:
‘this is not just “word play”, but deadly serious debate of issues contemporary
and important to the polis.’
32
Evidence of Old Comedy’s interest in contemporary philosophy includes
Ameipsias’ Connus (which featured Socrates as character as well as a chorus
of frontista≤, ‘thinkers’), Eupolis’ Flatterers (which featured Protagoras),
Cratinus’ All-Seeing Ones, the Sophists of the comic poet Plato, and, of course,
Aristophanes’ Clouds (Socrates and the personified Dissoi Logoi). See Carey
(2000) for details.
 Tragedy of Ideas 235
intellectuals ‘in a broadly similar light’ as ‘verbose poseurs.’33
Aristophanes’ attitude may have been rather more complex, and
his presentation of ideas more detailed, than that of his rivals, but
it seems that the taste of the comic audience was for less philo-
sophy and more jokes.34 In contrast, tragedy tends to explore,
rather than simply representing, philosophical ideas. This
important difference is reflected in the fact that the philosophical
tradition, from Plato onwards, is far more preoccupied with
tragedy than with comedy.35
In case it is objected that this contrast is too simplistic, I
should add that the relationship between tragedy and philosophy
is rather more complicated and variable than I have so far
suggested. The next section (§4.2) will attempt to clarify the
connection between the two. For the moment, however, the
important point is that the type of treatment of ideas which we
see in the escape-tragedies is essentially unlike that of comedy.
Drama, then, can be intellectually dazzling, provocative,
ironical, ludic or entertaining without thereby becoming comic.
On the contrary, Helen and the other escape-tragedies are deadly
serious, and unambiguously tragic . . . but ‘philosophical’? So
far, I have been assuming that tragedy is (or may be) philo-
sophical, but this is a matter which calls out for a little more pre-
liminary discussion.

4.2 philosopher of the stage

4.2.1 Tragedy and ‘philosophy’
If we are to take Euripides and his ideas seriously, there are two
questions that have to be pondered, in the light of ancient and
modern critical views. First of all, is tragedy really philosophical,
and, if so, in what ways? Second, is Euripides philosophical or
merely ‘clever’?
We might begin by reconsidering the description Ø skhnikÏß
33
Carey (2000) 429–30.
34
This may be seen in e.g. the reception of the first, more complex, version of
Aristophanes’ Clouds. See the poet’s own remarks in the parabasis of Wasps, and
cf. Dover (1968a) xxxii–lvii and lxxx–xcviii and MacDowell (1995) 30–6 for dis-
cussion of Aristophanes’ presentation of Socratic ideas and the two versions of
Clouds.
35
This point is made by Goldhill (2000) 84–6.
236 Tragedy of Ideas
filÎsofoß, ‘philosopher of the stage’: what might this phrase
mean, or what might it have meant to a fifth-century audience?
Does the emphasis lie on skhnikÏß or filÎsofoß?—in other words,
is Euripides a philosopher who happened to write plays, or a
playwright whose work happened to have a philosophical
flavour? The answer is that he is both of these things, and yet
neither formulation is really appropriate.
The date at which the phrase was first used makes a differ-
ence—whether in the fifth century bc, the first century ad,36 or at
some point in between. Critical perceptions of Euripides in
Hellenistic and Roman culture reflect various opinions accumu-
lated over several centuries, from Aristophanes and his contem-
poraries onwards, which means that it is difficult to identify
contemporary, fifth-century views among much later reactions
based on different sets of assumptions. This problem particu-
larly affects our understanding of Ø skhnikÏß filÎsofoß, because
the relationship between philosophy and poetry was perceived in
quite different ways at different times.
There is a widespread tendency in the scholarly tradition to
make a clear distinction between poets on the one hand and
philosophers on the other. This is probably due to Plato’s
influence. His criticism of poetry (especially in the Republic), and
his well-known formulation of ‘the ancient quarrel between
poetry and philosophy’, have greatly affected the history of
ideas.37 However, the ‘quarrel’ was not as ancient as all that.
The terms in which Plato expresses the problem reflect his own
intellectual preoccupations—he is arguing, polemically, for the
primacy of his own type of writing over that of earlier writers—
but they do not necessarily reflect the situation in the fifth
century and earlier.
True, the relationship between different types of literature,
and the value of their content (measured in terms of truth,
validity, pleasure, or other qualities), were matters for ongoing
debate, and had been since (at least) the time of Hesiod;38 but the
36
Vitruvius’ is the first known citation: see n. 2 above for references.
37
Plato, Rep. 10. 607b5–6: palai¤ mvn tiß diafor¤ filosof≤ai te ka≥ poihtik[i.
(See Halliwell (1988) ad loc. and Kannicht (1988) for discussion.) A comparable
Platonic statement of the conflict between philosophy and epic and tragic poetry
can be seen at Laws 7. 817a–d. See also Croally (1994) 23 (with n. 19) on the
subject of the huge bibliography relating to Plato’s view of tragedy.
38
Hes. Theog. 27–8 is often quoted: ÷dmen ye»dea poll¤ lvgein ƒt»moisin Ømo∏a,
 Tragedy of Ideas 237
formulation of this debate as a quarrel between two opposing
terms is a distinctly fourth-century phenomenon. Indeed, it is
arguable that ‘philosophy’ did not exist as something separate
from ‘poetry’ in Euripides’ time.39 (Significantly, filÎsofoß in
the sense of ‘philosopher’ is not attested until Plato.40) It would
be more accurate to describe the situation in terms of a number
of different writers all staking individual claims to truth and
undermining similar claims in other, earlier writers. Therefore,
to describe Euripides as a poet writing philosophy or a philo-
sopher writing plays inadequately reflects the complexity of the
situation in 412 bc. In other words, then, it is unlikely that
Euripides’ contemporaries called him Ø skhnikÏß filÎsofoß.
The evolving conception of genre and the gradual emergence
of ‘philosophy’ mean that it is difficult to give accurate or
meaningful labels to writers of this period. As one scholar has
recently written, ‘deciding whether a particular individual is a
rhapsode, a sophist, an orator, or a philosopher is of questionable
utility’.41 Instead of trying to separate these titles and functions,
| ÷dmen d’, eˆt’ ƒqvlwmen, ålhqva ghr»sasqai (‘we understand how to speak many
lies similar to genuine facts, and we understand how to give voice to truth, when
we wish to do so’). Later writers join in the debate with varying degrees of
sophistication. Xenophanes (DK 21 B1, 11–12, 14–16) and Heraclitus (DK 22
A22–3, B40, 42, 56–7) acknowledge that Homer and Hesiod are teachers, but
criticize them for their errors: this no doubt influenced Plato’s view of the harm-
ful effect of poetry. Pindar (Ol. 1.52, 9.35–41) reacts against earlier poets,
allegedly in the interests of a more truthful version. See esp. Griffith (1990) on
the competitive nature of early Greek poetry; Bowie (1993) on claims of truth
and falsehood in the poets; Morgan (2000) on the relationship between myths,
poetry and philosophy. Thomas and Webb (1994, 10) examine the intellectual
transformation from orality to rhetoric and philosophy in this period as a
process by which ‘men create their own eloquence without the aid of the Muses’.
39
See Nightingale (2000) 138: ‘philosophy’ as a 4th-cent. invention. Plato
appropriated the term filosof≤a, ‘which had previously been (broad) intel-
lectual cultivation’.
40
Heraclitus (DK 22 B35) used filÎsofoß as an adjective, in the sense of
‘wisdom-loving’ (cf. LSJ II.1). The verb filosofvw is used by Herodotus
(1.30.2) of Solon, who had come to Sardis after travelling about ‘in search of
knowledge’ (filosofvwn g[n poll¶n qewr≤hß eJneken). According to Cicero (Tusc.
5.3.9), Pythagoras described himself as filÎsofoß rather than sofÎß (‘wise’). But
the first widespread use of the word to denote, specifically, an occupation seems
to have been in Plato (see esp. Rep. 5.475e: the search for truth is what charac-
terizes a filÎsofoß; but note also Phaedo 61c, which describes the sophist—and
poet—Evenus as a filÎsofoß). Later, Aristotle made further distinctions
between disctinct branches of philosophers (fusiko≤, fusiolÎgoi, muqolÎgoi, etc.):
41
see Most (1999) 332–4. Morgan (2000) 91.
238 Tragedy of Ideas
we should, instead, acknowledge how much the different writers
have in common, not only in their choice and treatment of
subject-matter but in other ways as well. For example, we cannot
make a straightforward distinction between prose (philosophy)
and verse (poetry), because certain writers whom it is customary
to call ‘philosophers’ (Empedocles, Xenophanes, Parmenides)
wrote in hexameter verse. Even in Aristotle’s time, the debate
over generic classification was still continuing, as is seen in his
discussion of the similarities and differences between Homer
and Empedocles.42 Although the prose treatise was then wide-
spread, it was not the only vehicle for philosophy (and it is
interesting that Aristotle found it difficult to assign a genre to
Plato’s dialogues).43
It is not just the writers of ‘philosophical’ literature but also
their audiences that one must consider.44 Philosophy, in the
sense of prose treatises and written books, implies a small,
specialist community of practitioners and readers; but, again,
this is not a view of ‘philosophical’ activity which is seen in
Euripides’ time. The context for serious thought was not
primarily solo reading, or the classroom.45 On the contrary,
ƒp≤deixiß—the element of public performance—is what charac-
terized ‘philosophy’ of the fifth century and earlier; and its
42
Arist. Poet. 1447b17–20: oÛd†n d† koinÎn ƒstin }Om&rwi ka≥ E∞ mpedokle∏ pl¶n tÏ
mvtron, diÏ tÏn m†n poiht¶n kale∏n, tÏn d† fusiolÎgon m$llon ∂ poiht&n. On his inter-
pretation, Homer and Empedocles have nothing in common except their metre,
but it is typically Aristotelian (because of his interest in ‘taxonomical’ cate-
gorization) to point out differences rather than similarities.
43
Arist. Poet. 1447b9–13: oÛd†n g¤r #n πcoimen ønom3sai koinÏn toŸß S*fronoß
ka≥ Xen3rcou m≤mouß ka≥ toŸß SwkratikoŸß lÎgouß oÛd† e÷ tiß di¤ trimvtrwn ∂
ƒlege≤wn ∂ t0n £llwn tin0n t0n toio»twn poio∏to t¶n m≤mhsin (‘we have no single
term to refer to the mimes of Sophron and Xenarchus and Socratic dialogues,
nor to any imitation which one could produce using iambic trimeters, elegiac
couplets or any other such verse form’). Compare also Aristotle, Per≥ poiht0n fr.
72 (= Athenaeus 505c), which adds that this new genre of philosophical dia-
logue, inspired by Socrates’ conversations, was first practised by Alexamenus of
Teos.
44
A point well made by Most (1999) 336.
45
If it is objected that certain philosophical ideas can be grasped more subtly
or thoroughly by the process of reading (rather than spectating), this need not
pose a problem: it is clear that written texts of drama existed alongside public
performances for (at least) a considerable part of the fifth century (see e.g. Ar.
Frogs 52–3). It is quite possible that the playwrights had in mind a smaller, more
‘academic’ reading public in addition to the 15,000 spectators in the theatre of
Dionysus.
 Tragedy of Ideas 239
audiences would have been large and varied.46 The hexameter
poetry of Empedocles and others was written to be recited in
public by rhapsodes (Âaywido≤).47 Hippias, Gorgias and the other
sophists spoke in public buildings, in theatres, at festivals,
dressed in elaborate costumes.48 In their style of presentation
and their relationship to their audience(s), what Plato calls
‘philosophy’, ‘poetry’ and ‘drama’ are directly comparable:
indeed, Plato’s own ‘philosophy’ takes the form of dramatic dia-
logue!49
A tragedy differs from a prose treatise in that it does not offer a
straightforwardly systematic, sustained treatment of ideas or
theories. However, this is not enough to prevent our seeing
tragedy as ‘philosophical’: it is rather that the meaning emerges
in a different way, and the identification of the poet’s own
opinion is more problematic (an issue to which I shall return).
These considerations aside, tragedy and ‘philosophy’ are alike in
their intellectual objectives. Serious drama is full of ideas; it
makes people think.
Nevertheless, there is still disagreement over the function of
tragedy as an institution and the aims of its writers. For instance,
a notable recent book, Malcolm Heath’s Poetics of Greek
Tragedy, adopts an extreme version of Plato’s view of tragedy,
arguing that tragedy aims only at aesthetic and not at cognitive or
didactic ends.50 Heath quotes several texts which suggest that
educational or intellectual aims come second to pleasure;51 and
he maintains that none of the ancient theorists ascribes to
tragedy a didactic function. (In fact, Aristotle wrote that tragedy

46
Compare Bonanno (1997) and Goldhill and Osborne (1999), who see
archaic and classical Athens in general as a ‘performance culture’.
47
See e.g. Athenaeus 14.12, Diog. Laert. 8. 63–6.
48
Gorgias (DK 82 A1a, 9, B7–9); Lysias 33.2; Plato, Hipp. Min. 363c7–d4,
Gorg. 447a1–b3; Prodicus, DK 84 B8: see Kerferd (1981) 18–34. Guthrie (1971,
41) adds that ‘audiences of sophistic displays were presumably similar in
composition and behaviour’ to audiences at the theatre and the assembly (com-
paring Thuc. 3.38.7).
49
Charalabopoulos (2002) asks whether the Platonic dialogues were written
to be performed as, in some sense, ‘dramatic’ events. The contributors to Gill
and McCabe (1996) discuss the various problems of interpreting philosophy in
dialogue form.
50
Heath (1987) 1–39. Cf. Croally (1994) 22–8 for more detailed criticism.
51
See particularly Dissoi Logoi (DK 90.3.17) and Plato, Gorgias 501e–502d:
note, however, that such texts are polemical and deliberately hostile to tragedy.
240 Tragedy of Ideas
is ‘more philosophical’ and ‘more serious’ than history, because
it is concerned with universal or general matters, rather than—as
history—specific or trivial concerns.52 But this is not quite the
same thing as saying outright that tragedy is philosophical or
didactic.) However, Heath does not take into account the fact
that Plato’s criticism is based on the assumption that Athenians
expected to learn from tragedy.53 Perhaps it is better to talk in
terms of the uses which people made of tragedy, rather than
the (ultimately unknowable) purpose of the institution or the
aims of its practitioners. But whether or not one agrees that
tragedy was an intrinsically didactic genre, it is clear that
audiences and readers of tragedy, in all periods, saw tragedy as
having an intellectual content which could be turned to didactic
ends.54
There is ample evidence, from Xenophanes, Plato, Isocrates
and others, that didactic uses were widely made of tragic texts.55
The evidence from Old Comedy is also striking: Aristophanes’
Frogs explicitly represents tragedians as teachers. The character
‘Euripides’ there says that he has taught his audiences to chatter
(a claim also referred to by ‘Aeschylus’), and he later claims to
have taught them to think, putting a rational, critical spirit into

52
Arist. Poet. 1451b5–7: diÏ ka≥ filosof*teron ka≥ spoudaiÎteron po≤hsiß
Èstor≤aß ƒst≤n: Ó m†n g¤r po≤hsiß m$llon t¤ kaqÎlou, Ó d’ Èstor≤a t¤ kaq’ 1kaston
lvgei. The meaning of t¤ kaqÎlou, ‘universal matters’, discussed by Lucas (1968)
and Halliwell (1986) ad loc., seems to take into account a process by which the
events in question become intelligible: cf. An. Post. 88a5, t≤mion tÏ kaqÎlou Òti
dhlo∏ t¶n ajt≤an (‘generalization is valuable because it explains things’). Aristotle
also saw m≤mhsiß as educative (Poet. 1448b5).
53
A point made by Croally (1994) 26.
54
In this respect, one might also compare Goldhill’s (2000, 62–5) view of the
political and ideological uses of tragedy: he stresses in particular the scale of
citizen participation (assisted by the theoric fund) and refers to a sense of ‘the
city on display’, arguing that tragedy did indeed aim to shape the viewpoints of
the polis.
55
Croally (1994) quotes a range of texts to support this view. See particularly
Xenophanes (DK21 B10); Plato, Rep. 595c1–2, 606e1–5. Similarly, Nussbaum
(1986, 123) quotes Heraclitus (DK22 B40), who includes himself among a list of
‘rivals’ which includes Hesiod, Pythagoras, Xenophanes and Hecataeus. ‘In our
terms,’ writes Nussbaum, ‘he has named a didactic poet, a seer and oral philo-
sopher, a philosopher who wrote in verse, and a writer of prose ethnographical
treatises.’ (Compare also my own earlier remarks [§1.1 above] about the—often
banal or simplistic—‘meanings’ which ancient readers, including Aristophanes,
saw in tragedies.)
 Tragedy of Ideas 241
his drama.56 A didactic purpose to tragedy is also assumed in the
exchange between ‘Aeschylus’ and ‘Euripides’, where they con-
sider what qualities ought to be admired in a poet. The answer,
according to ‘Euripides’, is the ability to give good advice: that is,
poets make people better citizens.57 It is not just Euripides who
is seen as a teacher: ‘Aeschylus’ also claims to have taught his
audiences patriotism and a martial spirit.58 Indeed, the plot of
Frogs as a whole requires that poets be seen as ‘useful’ to the city,
in the sense of practical or moral teachers (did3skaloi).
The stimulus to think about moral, ethical, political, or ‘philo-
sophical’ issues could come from tragedy as much as from the
poems of Homer, Parmenides, Empedocles, or any other writer.
Since, as we have seen, ‘philosophy’ was not a clearly delineated
branch of literary activity in Euripides’ time, there can be no
difficulty in seeing the plays as philosophical (if we want to
use the word).59 Nor, I believe, would Euripides’ audiences
have seen anything unusual about ‘philosophical’ tragedies.
Naturally, the range of responses from the large audience of a
dramatic performance would vary more widely, in type and in
profundity, than the responses from a small group of pro-
fessional philosophers. Naturally, not every tragedy would
invariably be ‘philosophical’ in a profound sense, and not every
play would treat ideas at the same level of complexity. Never-
theless, tragedy is an intellectual genre, a platform for—among
other things (of course)—the serious exploration of ideas.
56
Ar. Frogs 944: πpeita toutous≥ lale∏n ƒd≤daxa; 1069: e”t’ aˆ lali¤n ƒpithdeısai
ka≥ stwmul≤an ƒd≤daxaß. Cf. ibid. 972–9.
57
Ar. Frogs 1008–10. Sommerstein (1996, ad loc.) comments that
Aristophanes ‘was outstanding if not unique among comic poets in the emphasis
he laid on his own contribution to making people better members of their com-
munities’, comparing Frogs 389–90 and 686–7. So comic, as well as tragic,
poetry might be seen as didactic (or philosophical): but see my earlier remarks
(§4.1 above) on the difference between tragic and comic ‘ideas’. Note that the
claim to teach people and make them better citizens was made also by the sophist
Protagoras (according to Plato, Prot. 319a).
58
Ar. Frogs 1026–7: e”ta did3xaß Pvrsaß met¤ toıt’ ƒpiqume∏n ƒxed≤daxa | nik$n
åe≥ toŸß åntip3louß (‘afterwards, when I put on my Persians, I taught them to
desire always to beat their rivals’).
59
Foley (1985, 9) is probably correct when she says that the rise of ‘philo-
sophy’ as a distinct genre was linked to the decline of tragedy in the fourth
century: ‘philosophy soon challenged the intellectual role of drama in the city’.
Cf. Easterling (1993) on developments in the tragic genre during the fourth
century.
242 Tragedy of Ideas
It remains to ask why Euripides should have been seen as ‘the
philosopher of the stage’, more philosophical than any of his
contemporaries. None of the remarks above seems to apply to
Euripides alone: Aeschylus and Sophocles, and no doubt the
majority of the other fifth-century tragedians (who included,
notably, the polymath Ion of Chios), may also be seen as intel-
lectually advanced.60 So why was Euripides singled out for
special mention? The phrase Ø skhnikÏß filÎsofoß seems to be
a judgement on Euripides’ work in general; but whether it
originally arose from the reception of a particular play or trilogy
cannot be said. (Did Euripides always strike his audiences as
being notably more philosophical than the competition, from
The Daughters of Pelias onwards?) It might be that Euripides,
more than the other tragedians, came under the influence of the
sophists in the later part of his life, so that in some sense he came
to represent the fifth-century ‘enlightenment’ (or, alternatively,
fin de siècle decadence and doubt): this was the view of Nietzsche,
derived from Aristophanes, to which we shall turn shortly. On
balance, it seems probable that Euripides’ plays struck his con-
temporaries, or later readers, as being unusually intellectual, or
as reflecting current philosophical trends. But did this impres-
sion arise from the plays themselves, or from Aristophanes’
exaggerated representation, or from some other source? Ulti-
mately, one cannot say for certain, because of the lack of evi-
dence—not only the small total number of surviving tragedies,
but also the fact that all the extant plays of Euripides come from
the latter half of his career and of the century. Euripides may or
may not be more philosophical, in general, than Aeschylus or
Sophocles: it is hard to say. The important point, though, for the
current purposes, is that he can be seen as a serious intellectual
figure, and (what is more demonstrable) that the escape-
tragedies in particular are philosophical.
Nevertheless, the Platonic notion that tragedy and philosophy
ought to be kept in separate compartments leads people to
take Euripides’ ideas less seriously than they deserve. One

60
Little work has been done in this area. Nevertheless, traces of ‘intellectual-
ism’ in Aeschylus (for example) are the subject of a recent article by Letizia Poli
Palladini (2001), and Rösler (1970) discusses links between the Presocratics and
Aeschylus. Kitto gave a series of lectures, published in 1958, on Sophocles as
‘dramatist and philosopher’.
 Tragedy of Ideas 243
frequently finds, in modern discussions of Euripides’ intel-
lectual content, the qualification that tragedy is not philosophy,
or that Euripides is a dramatist rather than a thinker.61 This
persistent attitude may be explained as a reaction against
Nietzsche’s idiosyncratic but powerful view of tragedy in Die
Geburt der Tragödie. This is not the place to engage at length
with Nietzsche’s complex argument, but three features of his
conception of tragedy are relevant here: first, his division
between philosophy and poetry; second, his characterization of
Euripides as a Socratic rationalist; and third, his condemnation
of Euripides as the destroyer of tragedy.
In the first place, Nietzsche believes that it is possible to
fragment Euripides the writer of tragedies into (at least) two
separate aspects or personae—the most commonly quoted pair-
ing is ‘Euripides the poet’ versus ‘Euripides the thinker’, but it
is also formulated as ‘Euripides the passionate actor’ versus
‘Euripides the Socratic thinker’.62 According to Nietzsche, what
is wrong with Euripides is that he is not an artist pure and

61
e.g. Décharme (1893) 19, 42; Dodds (1929) 79; Norwood (1954) 14–15;
Arnott (1973) 138; Wolff (1973) 77–8; Lloyd-Jones (1983b) 146–7; Williams
(1993) 14; Goldhill (2000) 88. Matthiessen (1964, 103–4) denies that one can see
a sustained exposition of serious philosophical or religious ideas in Helen; Segal
(1971, 556) follows Matthiessen, adding that ‘there is . . . some danger in going
too far and forgetting that the Helen…is also a play for the stage’; in Conacher’s
(1998, 10) view, ‘Euripides was not a philosopher, or even a systematic thinker;
he was a dramatist, very much a man of the theatre’.
62
Nietzsche (1872) §11, p. 76 [NB all page-numbers are given from the
edition of Giorgio Colli and Mazzino Montinari, Nietzsches Werke III.1, Berlin
1972]. In Nietzsche’s vision, Euripides is imagined sitting in the theatre and
acknowledging that he does not understand his great predecessors: he feels
superior to the masses, but not to two of his spectators—one of these spectators
is Socrates, and the other is ‘Euripides selbst, Euripides als Denker, nicht als
Dichter.’ The second pairing is from §12, p. 80: ‘als Sokratischer Denker ent-
wirft er den Plan, als leidenschaftlicher Schauspieler führt er ihn aus.’ Michelini
(1987, 8) records that such an ‘inner division’ already existed in the European
scholarly tradition, and explains that it had been formulated to explain the
seeming contradiction or incongruity posed by beautiful poetry with philo-
sophical or political speculation: ‘if an artist’s work was expressive of his inner
nature, such a mixture of irreconcilables must express a very uneven and
divided nature.’ Michelini cites a further two scholars who seem to have found
Euripides practically schizophrenic: Schlegel (1846, 139), ‘Man kann in ihm
eine doppelte Person unterscheiden’, and Weil (1879, xiii), ‘A la fois penseur et
poète, il proteste contre les fables qu’il fait revivre; et ce qu’il créé d’une main, il
le détruit de l’autre’.
244 Tragedy of Ideas
simple, either in the design or in the execution of his plays.63 In
other words, we are required to accept both that there could be
such a person, in the sphere of tragedy (at least), as ‘an artist pure
and simple’,64 and also that tragedy and philosophy do not mix.
For Nietzsche, art is something which ought to be separate from
philosophy: Euripides has failed precisely because he has
blurred the boundary between these two categories and thus
contaminated the purity of his work. Nevertheless, it is signifi-
cant that in Euripides’ case tragedy and philosophy can and do
mix, because this shows that they are not completely separable.
The reasons why (according to Nietzsche) they ought to be kept
apart are aesthetic or moral, rather than arising from a natural
incompatibility.
The other two major features of the Nietzschean Euripides are
closely linked, although the manner in which they are presented
is a little confusing. Nietzsche’s account of tragedy’s Todeskampf
at the hands of Euripides mentions the playwright’s technical
and formal innovations, but, no matter what outward changes
have been made, it is still Euripides’ view of the world that
Nietzsche seems to mean when he says that Euripides has
destroyed tragedy.65
Nietzsche’s account identifies Euripides with a late fifth-
century ‘rational’ intellectual movement, and (in particular)
equates the Euripidean with the Socratic.66 As Nietzsche
memorably expresses it, Euripides was, in a sense, only a mask
which barely concealed the fact that a new ‘deity’—Socrates—
was speaking through him!67 Euripides’ tragic project as a whole
is seen to be radically at odds with the pathos and grandeur of
Aeschylean and Sophoclean tragedy: by contrast, he wants, like
Socrates, to make everything rational and intelligible. Nietzsche
also compares Euripides to another great thinker, Anaxagoras, in

63
Nietzsche (1872) §12, p. 80: ‘Reiner Künstler ist er weder im Entwerfen
noch im Ausführen.’
64
Aeschylus—in Nietzsche’s opinion—fits this description.
65
Cf. Silk and Stern (1981) 296.
66
The view of certain others, too: Euripides as a product of his age. See espe-
cially Reinhardt’s (1957) well-known article; also Décharme (1893) 31–6;
Collard (1981) 30; Webster (1967) 21, etc.
67
Nietzsche (1872) §12, p. 79: ‘Auch Euripides war in gewissem Sinne nur
Maske: die Gottheit, die aus ihm redete, war nicht Dionysus, auch nicht Apollo,
sondern ein ganz neuegeborner Dämon, gennant Sokrates.’
 Tragedy of Ideas 245
the sense of a pioneer: just as Anaxagoras (he says) was the first
‘sober’ person among ‘drunken’ philosophers, so Euripides may
be seen as the first ‘sober’ poet.68 Nietzsche takes as historical
reality the biographical tradition in which Euripides and
Socrates are closely linked: he sees as a genuine and crucially
important fact the story that Socrates attended the theatre only
when Euripides’ plays were being performed.69
Is Nietzsche right? Leaving aside his naïve acceptance of the
ancient anecdotes, it does no justice to the ideas of either Euri-
pides or Socrates to treat them both as more or less interchange-
able. It is doubtful whether Euripides’ ideas are even similar to
those of Socrates, except in a broad sense. Silk and Stern, in their
study of Nietzsche, query whether Euripides is really more of a
rational, critical artist than the other tragedians. They agree that
he ‘is certainly a cerebral writer, the prototype of the Western
intellectual. He thinks and makes his audience think—about the
gods, about women, about war. He even draws attention to earl-
ier tragedians’ technical inadequacies’.70 Nevertheless, Silk and
Stern point out that ‘none of this makes [Euripides] more of a
“critical” artist than Aeschylus . . . or Sophocles . . . or Wagner’.71
Another problem in Nietzsche’s argument is his claim that
Euripides’ ‘destruction’ of tragedy led directly to the New
Comedy of Menander et al.72 But, although New Comedy is
certainly characterized by the quotidian reality and some of the
formal features which Euripides (according to Nietzsche) intro-
duced, it is certainly not more philosophical, nor even com-
parably so.73 This means that Nietzsche’s linear model of change
and development does not entirely work.
68
Nietzsche (1872) §12, p. 83: ‘Und wenn Anaxagoras mit seinem nous unter
den Philosophen wie der erste Nüchterne unter lauter Trunkenen erschien, so
mag auch Euripides sein Verhältniss zu den anderen Dichtern der Tragödie
unter einem ähnlichen Bilde begriffen haben.’
69
Nietzsche (1872) §13, pp. 84–5. (See n. 86 below.)
70
Silk and Stern (1981) 259–60.
71
Ibid. Silk and Stern, correctly, see that one reason for Nietzsche’s exces-
sive antagonism towards Euripides—and another reason to treat Nietzsche with
caution—is that Euripides ‘reminds Nietzsche uncomfortably of Wagner’
(262), as a critic, innovator or destroyer.
72
Nietzsche (1872) §11, p. 72.
73
Menander’s interests have often been seen as particularly ethical, but this
is a rather different matter. See Gomme and Sandbach (1973) 24–6 on
Menander’s interest in human character and relations; discussions are to be
found also at Bain (1983) xviii–xix and Zagagi (1994) 33–45.
246 Tragedy of Ideas
Whatever the merits or faults of Die Geburt der Tragödie,
Nietzsche exerted an influence on many critics of the nineteenth
and twentieth centuries—particularly in his formulation of
Dichter und Denker. ‘Attempts to treat Euripides as a philo-
sopher who wrote poetry were persistent and widespread,’
writes Michelini, summarizing Euripidean scholarship in this
period.74 For example, the title of Nestle’s 1901 book, Der
Dichter der griechischen Aufklärung, reflects his preoccupations
unambiguously. For Nestle, Euripides was a rationalist, a
questioner of received views, to whom ‘knowledge’ amounted to
doubt and scepticism.75 Nestle shares with Nietzsche the
tendency to compartmentalize: in this case, not poet versus
thinker, but poet versus teacher—for Nestle, Euripides, al-
though basically Socratic in method and outlook, differed from
his philosophical contemporaries in the fact that he wrote for a
general public, not for a close circle of chosen pupils.76 But this
explanation misrepresents the type of activity of the ‘philo-
sophers’ of the period, who were public performers (see pages
238–9 above). It also exaggerates the relative levels of accessi-
bility: Socratic philosophy was intended to be comprehensible
rather than abstruse, and tragedy, though intended for a large
audience, is not simple (at least, its ideas are such as to appeal to
sophisticated thinkers as well as those on a comparatively low
level).
Nietzsche, Nestle, Reinhardt and others tended to deprecate
Euripides’ poetic qualities in favour of his philosophical quali-
ties. Even comparatively recently, Lattimore expressed the view
that Euripides would have been happier writing in prose.77
However, E. R. Dodds’ article ‘Euripides the irrationalist’ was
an attempt to dissociate Euripides from Socrates—thus counter-
ing not only Nietzsche but also A. W. Verrall’s famous (and now
much-maligned) book of 1895, Euripides the Rationalist.78
74
Michelini (1987) 8.
75
Nestle (1901, 42) sums up Euripides’ outlook thus: ‘Der Zweifel ist der
Vater aller Wissenschaft und jeder wahren Überzeugung.’
76
Nestle (1901) 50: ‘er predigt dabei seine Weisheit, wo nicht auf der Gasse
wie Sokrates, doch in jedermann zugänglichen Theater so daß ihn hören kann,
77
wer will.’ Lattimore (1964) 104–11.
78
Dodds (1929). He says that Euripides did not believe in rationalism in any
of the usually accepted (Socratic) senses: cf. Silk and Stern (1981, 260), who
discuss this point in more detail.
 Tragedy of Ideas 247
Dodds seems to have believed in the dichotomy of Dichter und
Denker,79 but he was prepared to minimize its importance: ‘the
answer to this is simply that while Sophocles is a dramatist,
Euripides happens to be, like Bernard Shaw and Pirandello, a
philosophical dramatist.’ Dodds’s main argument is that
Euripides did not believe, like Plato, that lÎgoß was the guiding
principle in the universe: this is what he means by ‘irrational-
ism’.80 The same point is also made by Bruno Snell: ‘it is quite
wrong to brand [Euripides] as a rationalist or to call him simply
the poet of the enlightenment, for the rational optimism of the
sophists, who thought that through their learning they could
control life, is completely alien to him.’81
Dodds raises another question, which is of particular impor-
tance if one wants to see Euripides as philosophical—that of
interpretation. It is inevitable that a dramatic text by its nature
will admit more flexibility and variety of interpretations than a
work of prose philosophy.82 But if one wishes to interpret a
tragedy as expounding, in some form, a philosophical argument,
how might one go about identifying this argument, and how does
it relate to the poet’s own point of view? The way in which Dodds
(and others) approached the problem is based on a naïve assump-
tion, made by Aristophanic comedy and the biographical tradi-
tion, that the views expressed by characters in a play are those of
the author. Dodds, rightly, does not make this simplistic
assumption, but he still uses the opinions and arguments of indi-
vidual characters within the plays as a basis for interpretation.
He believes, first, that it is possible to distinguish between
characters who are ‘only characters’ and those who are
‘thinkers’; and, second, that from the views of these ‘thinkers’ we
can extract Euripides’ own opinions (in those places where the
views seem incongruous to the situation or the personality of
the speaker).83 Some members of the audience may well have
79
Dodds (1929) 79: ‘The business of a dramatic poet is, in Aristotle’s words,
to represent “men in action”, not theories in discussion . . . the fact remains that
Euripides wrote plays, not treatises.’
80
As Dodds makes clear, other critics—in particular, Verrall—understood
‘rationalism’ in a slightly different sense: I shall return to this subject in §5.2
81
below. Snell (1982) 401.
82
But again, compare the difficulties of interpreting Platonic dialogues (see n.
49 above): Plato’s meanings, like those of tragedy, are often notoriously elusive.
83
Dodds (1929) 80 (giving as an example Hec. 592 ff .): ‘Where . . . [a
248 Tragedy of Ideas
interpreted the plays’ meanings along these lines; but Dodds’s
method leaves too much to individual, subjective judgement.
On what basis is one to decide which characters fall into the
category of ‘thinkers’? Even if one is confident that one has made
a correct identification, it still remains to determine which of
their views are ‘incongruous’—but by what criteria? The result
of such a method will be an uncomfortable amount of disagree-
ment and ‘grey areas’.
However, unless one supposes that Euripides wanted his ideas
to be implicit or concealed, it seems more natural to try to inter-
pret his meaning without resorting to a complex strategy of
selection. Just as one would not use a scattered selection of
separate paragraphs from a prose treatise as the basis for inter-
pretation, so it is better to look at the plays as a whole, rather than
individual passages (of whatever length, and from whatever
speaker) taken out of context. That is how philosophical mean-
ings and arguments will emerge: we can interpret individual
passages only in the light of the wider context of the play’s action,
when we see how the events unfold. In other words, the plot and
shape of the play, rather than extended verbal discussions, are
what provide the framework of the ‘argument’. The eventual
‘meaning’ may be referred to as either ‘the author’s own view’, or
‘the view of the postulated author-figure’, or ‘the play’s view’
(provided that we are quite clear what we mean by this, and
about the way at which we have arrived at our interpretation).
Nevertheless, the audiences of tragedy are expected to do a lot of
the thinking for themselves: the plays’ ‘meanings’ are conveyed
implicitly, and therefore are more subject to (as it might be
perverse or erroneous) interpretation than the explicit argu-
ments of prose philosophy.
The modern scholarly opinion that Euripides is not really to
be taken seriously as a thinker may be a reflection of Plato’s idea
of poetry, or a reaction against Nietzsche, Nestle and others;
but it can also be seen as a reaction against the ancient tradition
regardingEuripidesandthe philosophers.84 In this ‘biographical’

character’s] opinions are conspicuously inappropriate to his personality or his

dramatic situation—where the di3noia breaks loose from the mıqoß—there we
have especial reason to suspect the intervention of the author.’
84
The majority of these ‘biographical’ texts are quoted from the edition of
Kovacs (1994).
 Tragedy of Ideas 249
material, much of it dating from several centuries after Euri-
pides’ death, Euripides is consistently portrayed as an important
intellectual figure. (The ancient Lives and anecdotes concerning
Sophocles and Aeschylus, by contrast, contain no such informa-
tion.) The most interesting feature is the large number of asser-
tions that Euripides was connected personally with, and even
taught by, other intellectuals. In particular, Anaxagoras and
Socrates are most commonly linked with Euripides, but the
names of Protagoras, Prodicus and others also crop up.85 How-
ever, the value of the ancient biographies has been seriously
doubted. Apart from Old Comedy, the material is all late, which
has been seen to affect its reliability as evidence. Furthermore, as
Wardy points out, the identification of intellectual ‘genealogies’
was a standard organizational principle of the later doxo-
graphers.86 This means that relationships between writers may
be artificially distorted to make them fit a pattern, so that the
factual content of the ‘information’ regarding Euripides’ life
may be quite low. Most seriously, it has been convincingly
argued that nearly all the biographical material is derived either
from the Euripidean plays themselves or from Old Comedy.87
Aristophanes may be the original source of the idea, so impor-
tant to Nietzsche, that Euripides and Socrates are closely com-
parable. In his Clouds, both Socrates and Euripides represent
85
Satyrus, Life of Euripides (P. Oxy. 1176 = Kovacs [1994] 14–27), §37:
Euripides admired Anaxagoras, and echoed his theories in his plays (quoting
Eur. fr. 912); §38–9: Euripides echoes Socratic thought (quoting Eur. fr. 1007c).
Suda, s.v. EÛrip≤dhß E3695: Euripides heard lectures by Anaxagoras and
Clazomenius and turned to philosophy because of Anaxagoras’ trial for impiety.
Gvnoß EÛrip≤dou ka≥ b≤oß (= Kovacs [1994] 1–5), §4–5, 33: Euripides studied
under Anaxagoras, Protagoras, Prodicus, Socrates, and Archelaus, and his plays
were actually co-written with Socrates and Mnesilochus! Aulus Gellius, Attic
Nights 15.20: Euripides studied under Socrates, Anaxagoras and Prodicus.
Diogenes Laertius 2.45: Euripides and Socrates were both pupils of Anaxa-
goras; 2.18, Socrates collaborates with Euripides on his plays; 2.22, Euripides
gave Heraclitus’ works to Socrates; 3.6, Euripides went with Plato to see the
Egyptian prophets; 9.54, Protagoras read out his work at Euripides’ (or possibly
Megacleides’) house. Aelian, Var. Hist. 2.13: Socrates went to the theatre only
if Euripides was competing (cf. Cicero, Tusc. 4.63)
86
Wardy (1996) 7.
87
Fairweather (1974) and (1983); Lefkowitz (1981); Kovacs (1990) 1–35. For
example, Diogenes Laertius (2.18) gives four comic fragments as ‘evidence’ that
Socrates wrote Euripides’ plays: Teleclides fr 41 K–A (misattributed by
Diogenes), fr. 42 K–A; Callias fr. 15 K–A; Aristophanes fr. 392 K–A (the ‘first’
Clouds).
250 Tragedy of Ideas
new and progressive ideas; in his Frogs, when Euripides loses the
contest with Aeschylus, the chorus reflects that ‘it isn’t, after all,
desirable to sit beside Socrates chattering away, ignoring poetry
and neglecting the most important aspects of the tragedian’s art.
Wasting one’s time on pretentious claptrap and cant is the mark
of a madman.’88
Kovacs, rightly, stresses that the evidence from Old Comedy
is difficult to assess.89 It is easy to miss the point of ancient jokes;
we cannot tell how accurate the comic portraits are, nor how
positive or negative is the intended effect. Nevertheless, it is easy
to be too cautious and to assume that there is no value at all in this
type of evidence. While it is clear that the factual content of
Old Comic jokes may be low, it is not necessarily null; and,
although the later biographers made erroneous or naïve use of
this material, it does not follow that the material itself is worth-
less. It is not intrinsically impossible, or even unlikely, that
Euripides did indeed have a close connection with Socrates,
Anaxagoras and others. Kovacs is sceptical: ‘that Euripides is
said to have studied with almost every one of the leading intel-
lectuals of the fifth century is remarkable,’ he writes; ‘we have no
reliable evidence of personal contact or that he was in any special
sense a student or associate of philosophers.’90 If we conceive of
the relationship between Euripides and Socrates (or Anaxa-
goras, etc.) as that of teacher and pupil, this scepticism is perhaps
prudent;91 but to conceive of it as familiarity with each other’s
work, or influence (of either man on the other), or even friend-
ship or acquaintance, is plausible even if not provable.92 In any
case, Kovacs fails to see that personal contact or friendship is far
less interesting, and of less consequence, than intellectual
influence. Whether or not Euripides was influenced (in some
88
Ar. Frogs 1491–9: car≤en oˆn m¶ Swkr3tei | parakaq&menon lale∏n, |
åpobalÎnta mousik¶n| t3 te mvgista paralipÎnta| t[ß tragwidik[ß tvcnhß.| tÎ t’
ƒp≥ semno∏sin lÎgoisi| ka≥ skarifhsmo∏si l&rwn| diatrib¶n årgÏn poie∏sqai,|
parafronoıntoß åndrÎß.
89
Kovacs (1990) 22: ‘the amount of truth in a comic portrait can be extremely
low’.
90
Kovacs (1990) 10, 12.
91
One should not, of course, assume that Euripides’ ‘education’ stopped in
the 450s.
92
As Plato’s Socrates points out (Apology 26d), Anaxagoras’ works were
widely and cheaply available in Athens at the end of the 5th cent.; the same was
no doubt true of many other philosophers’ writings.
 Tragedy of Ideas 251
sense) by Socrates or Anaxagoras matters greatly; whether or not
he drank wine with them does not.
The relationship between Euripides and specific philosophers
is only one aspect of the comic portrayal. The other, perhaps
equally important, feature is that in general Aristophanes
describes Euripides—using words such as sofÎß or dexiÎß—as an
intellectually ‘sophisticated’, ‘learned’ or ‘clever’ playwright.93
Again, it is Frogs that provides the most vivid portrait: in that
play, Euripides is consistently presented as intellectual, in his
use of rhetoric and his ideas. The inhabitants of Hades, where
Euripides now lives, are said to have gone mad over his twisty
speeches, which made them consider him sof*tatoß (‘extremely
clever’);94 and ‘Aeschylus’ and others repeatedly present this
rhetorical character in a pejorative light, saying that he has
brought about idle chattering.95 Euripides is seen in the intel-
lectual context of Athens in the last decades of the fifth century,
where (supposedly) everyone is literate and understands clever
ideas: they are all sofo≤!96 This is a comically exaggerated
93
Ar. Lys. 368: oÛk πst’ ån¶r EÛrip≤dou sof*teroß poiht&ß (‘there is no poet
cleverer than Euripides’). See also Clouds 1369–70, where Euripides’ progres-
sive plays are seen as the favourite literature of the degenerate younger genera-
tion—in the words of Strepsiades, he is a ‘neoteric’: sŸ d’ åll¤ to»twn | lvxon ti
t0n newtvrwn, ‹tt’ ƒst≥ t¤ sof¤ taıta (‘go on, then: you recite something by a
neoteric poet—some of their clever stuff’). Pheidippides later adds that
Euripides is sof*tatoß (‘very clever’, 1378). In Thesm., the character Euripides’
Relative addresses him in similar terms: dexi0ß mvntoi lvgeiß (‘you do put it
cleverly’, 9) and oÍÎn gv po» ’stin Ó sof0n xunous≤a (‘what a wonderful thing it is,
the conversation of intellectuals’, 21). Euripides’ reputation for cleverness is
seen also in Acharnians (17–18), where a slave asks how to express himself
komyeuripik0ß (‘in a wordy, Euripidean way’). A further fragment of
Aristophanes (682 K–A, quoted by S Frogs 775) describes the art of Euripides
as strey≤malloß (‘twisty, complex’); similar to this is a well-known fragment of
Cratinus (342 K–A) which links Aristophanes and Euripides together in verbal
dexterity and cleverness: t≤ß d’ e” su; 〈t3c’ #n〉 komyÎß tiß πroito qeat&ß. |
ËpoleptolÎgoß, gnwmidi*kthß, eÛripidaristofan≤zwn (‘“Who are you?” some
clever play-goer may ask. “Weaver of subtle words, chaser of epigrammatic
saws, euripidaristophanist’). Brief discussion can be found in Kovacs (1990)
22–32: the translation here is taken from Kovacs (1994) 112.
94
Ar. Frogs 774–6.
95
Ar. Frogs 841, 917, 944, 1069, 1310, 1491–2, 1496–7. Perhaps Plutarch was
thinking of Frogs when he wrote that one could find fault with Euripides’ lali3
(‘verbosity’: de recta ratione audiendi 13 = Moralia 45a). Note again the assump-
tion here that tragedy’s function is didactic (see above).
96
Ar. Frogs 1108–18. This passage—in so far as one can detach ‘real’ mean-
ing from the jokes—has important consequences for our knowledge of Athenian
252 Tragedy of Ideas
presentation of events, which makes the coming verbal contest
(åg*n)—which is far from high-brow—more funny and un-
expected. Nevertheless, for the play to caricature such a situa-
tion, and for Euripides in particular to be associated with novel
ideas, is important.

4.2.2 Euripides’ cleverness

Aristophanes’ discussion of Euripidean sof≤a brings us at length
to the second of the two major questions with which I began this
section: is Euripides really a serious intellectual? Aristophanes’
tone has led some critics to argue that Euripides, far from being
philosophical, was merely a ‘clever’ playwright aiming to create
sophisticated, but ultimately superficial, amusement.97 This
may be seen as another type of anti-Nietzschean viewpoint; or it
may be another variation on the essentially negative view of
Euripides which pervades so much of the critical tradition.
(In other words, to deny that Euripides is a serious thinker is
another form of value-judgement, along the same lines as saying
that his plays are boring, badly structured, untragic, vel sim.) It
will be seen that such an argument, with its implications for tone
and genre, also relates back to Burnett’s assessment of Helen as a
‘comedy of ideas’ (see §4.1 above).
R. P. Winnington-Ingram’s 1969 article ‘Euripides: poietes
sophos’ is the classic exposition of this viewpoint. In the opinion
of Winnington-Ingram, the ‘influence’ of the sophistic move-
ment on Euripides and the ‘echoes’ of contemporary philosophy
in his work have been overemphasized by critics: ‘it is arguable
that, despite this top-dressing of philosophy, Euripides was the
least philosophic of the three tragedians . . . one can be clever
without being a philosopher.’98 Winnington-Ingram exhibits the

literacy, as Sommerstein (1996, 255–6) notes (with some useful bibliographical

references).
97
It is interesting to observe that the two influential views—‘Euripides as
serious thinker’ and ‘Euripides as completely lacking in seriousness’—both
derive from readings of Aristophanes.
98
Winnington-Ingram (1969) 127. This judgement is reflected in Arnott’s
(1973) article also: he refers to Euripides’ ‘cleverness’ and ‘frivolity’, and claims
to show how ‘a serious dramatist can use his skill to lighter ends’ (p. 63). On
Euripides’ ‘superficiality’, compare also E. Segal (1968b, 249–53), Eisner (1979,
157), and Dale’s (1967, xvi) summary of the intellectual content of Helen: ‘there
 Tragedy of Ideas 253
tendency, which I have observed, to see the clever ideas as
responsible for a less than tragic tone: he talks in terms of
‘sophisticated jokes’ which aim ‘to amuse his fellow-intellec-
tuals’.99 This ‘sophistication’ is seen in a superficial sense: ‘the
less seriously his thought and feelings were engaged, the
more scope, the more excuse there was for sophistication’.100
Winnington-Ingram, suggestively, goes on to compare Euri-
pides’ art to that of Bernard Shaw and Oscar Wilde.101 However,
one need not, as I have said, interpret self-conscious cleverness
or irony as light or funny.
‘Cleverness’ may be a suitable translation of dexiÎthß and
sof≤a in Aristophanes, because it is able to capture both positive
and negative overtones. However, it is hard to agree that
Aristophanes’ tone is disparaging. Even if one does believe that
Aristophanes found Euripidean tragedy lacking in depth, it is
still better to query this conclusion for oneself by reading the
tragedies, rather than simply to accept a comic portrait at its face
value. In this respect it is suggestive that Aristophanes describes
Socrates in the same terms as Euripides. In Clouds, Socrates and
his teachings are described as sofÎß and dexiÎß;102 and this was not
confined to Aristophanes: Phrynichus’ Muses also portrayed
Socrates as dexiÎß.103 The importance of the parallel is important,
as Kovacs remarks: we should not infer that Euripides’ clever-
ness was merely superficial, ‘just as we should not infer from
Clouds that Socrates in the 420s was or was thought to be a quack
is much play with such antitheses as s0ma/Ônoma, and flashes of irony from this
source point the dialogue, but there is no metaphysical or psychological depth
here, nor would anything of the kind be conceivable or appropriate’.
99
Winnington-Ingram (1969) 132.
100
Ibid. 128.
101
Ibid. 136, 138.
102
As Dover points out (1968a, 106 and 113), Aristophanes describes his own
work in terms of sof≤a and dexiÎthß (e.g. Clouds 547–8); but I cannot agree with
him that these terms are nowhere intended by the speaker to have any deroga-
tory tones: the irony of the passages in question (Clouds 148, 331, 418, 428,
520–1, 527, etc.) makes it quite possible to interpret them in a pejorative sense,
as sneering at ‘cleverness’ on the part of naïve or disingenuous characters. (For
this tone, perhaps one could compare Encolpius’ ‘admiration’ of Trimalchio’s
lautitia and elegentia in Petronius’ Satyricon [26.9, 27.4, 29.1, 32.1]: see Smith
[1975] 52.) Further discussion of the nuance of sofÎß and sof≤a in Aristophanes
(‘clever’? ‘intellectual’? ‘ironic’?) can be found in Woodbury (1986) 244. See
also n. 93 above.
103
Phrynichus, Muses fr. 32 K–A: see Carey (2000).
254 Tragedy of Ideas
scientist and a teacher of dishonest rhetoric’.104 Furthermore,
Aristophanes described his own poetry in similar terms;105
which, again, does not suggest that he perceived Euripides as an
ersatz intellectual.
Winnington-Ingram describes Euripides’ Athens as ‘a world
of clever ideas (with which in the main I am not concerned)’.106 The
italicized phrase highlights the danger of this kind of approach—
that is, concentrating on the tone but ignoring the really interest-
ing aspect of the drama because one believes that the ‘ideas’
themselves are not worth detailed study. On the contrary, one
should concern oneself with these ideas. Winnington-Ingram
fails to raise the first of the major questions which I have been
discussing, that of tragedy’s intrinsically (un-) philosophical
nature: that is, even if Euripides’ tone were serious rather than
‘light’, would the presence of ideas count as an undesirable intru-
sion? I have been arguing that tragedy is (or can be) seriously
‘philosophical’, but it is unclear from Winnington-Ingram’s
article whether he would agree. In other words, Aeschylus and
Sophocles may not share Euripides’ questionable cleverness; but
are they interested in current ideas? (Largely not, I suspect
Winnington-Ingram would answer.) If one begins from the
premise that drama is something different from philosophy, then
one is bound to take the plays less seriously, whether or not one
can detect in them a playful tone.
I have already discussed (apropos of Burnett’s article) the
difficulty of proving that the tone of a passage is light or comic. It
is similarly difficult to prove that the presentation of an idea is
only superficial. Winnington-Ingram relies on the same tech-
nique employed by Burnett—that of tongue-in-cheek mistrans-
lation.107 As an example of superficial ‘sophistication’, he offers
the presentation of Ion’s attitude to Apollo. Setting the scene by
104
Kovacs (1990) 24. It is clear that Socrates was not a charlatan, but it is
worth remarking that popular conceptions of Socrates were affected, for the
worse, by Aristophanes, as Plato’s Socrates himself remarked (Apology 17d–
19d).
105
Ar. Clouds 547–8 (comparing himself with other, ‘lesser’, comedians): åll’
aje≥ kain¤ß jdvaß ejsfvrwn sof≤zomai | oÛd†n åll&laisin Ømo≤aß ka≥ p3saß dexi3 (‘I
am always introducing new ideas which are the height of cleverness and have
nothing in common with anything previously seen’). Plutarch [Mor. 854c],
however, did not agree with this claim. Cf. Cratinus fr. 342 K–A (quoted in
106
n. 93 above). Winnington-Ingram (1969) 127: my italics.
107
See §4.1 above.
 Tragedy of Ideas 255
referring to the ‘little sermon’ of the temple servant, he renders
Ion’s words nouqethtvoß dv moi | Fo∏boß, t≤ p3scei into English as:
‘What has come over Apollo? I must give him a piece of my
mind.’108 A little later, turning his attention to the Electra, he
compares Castor’s criticism of Apollo—sofÏß d’ ¯n oÛk πcrhsv
soi sof3—which he translates as: ‘He is clever, but there was
nothing clever about his oracle to you.’109 This is less straight-
forward, since it hinges on the interpretation of the word sofÎß.
Winnington-Ingram has his own reasons for wishing to translate
it as ‘clever’, but it might equally mean ‘wise’. Indeed, the
context here—a divine character in tragedy speaking of another
god—might seem to demand the weightiness implied by
‘wisdom’, rather than the lighter alternative. Surely Castor’s
tone is somewhat different from that of (say) Aristophanes’
Pheidippides describing Euripides? It is hard to be confident
that this really is witty; but, as Winnington-Ingram acknow-
ledges, ‘there is bound to be a subjective factor’ in such cases.
It is not only sophistication but also novelty with which
Winnington-Ingram is concerned. These two qualities are said
to be ‘closely related but not identical’ (although throughout his
article they are in fact treated as identical, and equally associated
with this perceived lightness of tone). He also draws attention to
Euripides’ parody of Aeschylus in Electra, which (he says) is ‘not
malice so much as an exhibition of cleverness. It was clever to
score points at the expense of the archaic technique of the older
poet’.110 This may be correct; but there is more to the Electra’s
recognition-scene than point-scoring; it is a serious demonstra-
tion of Euripides’ awareness of his literary predecessors and the
self-conscious highlighting of his own originality—meta-
tragedy rather than paratragedy.
Another ‘hit’ at Aeschylus, and an illustration of the ‘light’
tone, is detected in Euripides’ Helen, at the point when Theocly-
menus, on his first entry, salutes his father’s tomb: _ ca∏re,
patrÏß mn[m’: ƒp’ ƒxÎdoisi g¤r | πqaya, Prwteı, s’ 1nek’ ƒm[ß
prosr&sewß.111 Winnington-Ingram enquires: ‘When . . . the

108
Winnington-Ingram (1969) 128, quoting Euripides, Ion 436–7 (‘I must
reproach Apollo for his actions’ would be a more literal translation).
109
Ibid., quoting Euripides, Electra 1246.
110
Ibid. 129.
111
Helen 1165–6. A literal—not terribly amusing—translation runs:
256 Tragedy of Ideas
Egyptian king explains that he has buried his father outside the
front door so that he can salute him as he goes in and out of
the palace, is this a tribute to realism? Or is it a hit at the con-
ventional treatment of locality in the Choephori, where the scene
shifts unobtrusively from tomb to palace-front?’112 The lines
may be described as metatheatrical, but not for that reason,
necessarily, as ‘light’ or as a ‘hit’. It should also be noted that this
sort of ‘cleverness’ (if that is how one wishes to refer to it) is of a
different order from allusion to sophistic ideas or rhetorical
dexterity.
Winnington-Ingram’s attempt to demonstrate Euripides’
superficiality fails to convince, then, not only because of his
questionable interpretations but also because he focuses on indi-
vidual passages and utterances rather than the plays in their
entirety—a method which is itself superficial. But when one
takes a little longer to explore the plays’ treatment of ideas, it
becomes harder to believe that they are merely ‘clever’.
A different (and slightly more justifiable) reason for not
investigating Euripides’ philosophy in depth is given by
Desmond Conacher, in his short book Euripides and the Sophists:
that is, we do not possess enough knowledge of current ideas in
the fifth century to make such an investigation feasible or mean-
ingful.113 We cannot say (as I have already discussed) whether
Gorgias, Anaxagoras and others influenced Euripides, and their
works survive only in fragments and (often distorted) citations.
From this Conacher concludes that an attempt to situate
Euripides in his intellectual context is doomed from the start. To
me this seems excessively pessimistic, as I shall go on to discuss
(§4.3); however, even if we had no knowledge at all of these other
thinkers, there would be no reason not to interpret Euripides on
his own terms, viewing him as an independent thinker.114
‘Greetings, monument of my father. I buried you, Proteus, by the palace doors
so that I could easily speak to you’.
112
Winnington-Ingram (1969) 131: I cannot see why one ought to under-
stand here a specific allusion to Choephori. Dale (1967, ad loc.) perceives only a
‘slightly naïve effect’, but the metatragic element is seen also by Kannicht (1969,
2.308), quoting Arnott (1962) 61: ‘Had the tomb been a portable property, it
could have been displaced to one side, and no apology would have been needed.
We can only conclude that it was represented by a permanent fixture which
Euripides could not move and therefore felt compelled to account for.’
113
Conacher (1998) 10.
114
This is the view also of Allan (2000b, 147): he thinks that it is ‘misguided’
 Tragedy of Ideas 257
But Conacher does not proceed along these lines, because he
also, like Winnington-Ingram, denies that Euripides was a
systematic or philosophical thinker.115 In fact, he presents a dis-
tinctly Nietzschean outlook, holding that most critics ‘have
failed to distinguish sufficiently sharply between Euripides the
dramatist and Euripides the thinker’,116 and that ‘Euripides
was not a philosopher, or even a systematic thinker; he was a
dramatist, very much a man of the theatre’.117
Accordingly, Conacher defines the (rather limited) scope of
his book as that of examining only the ‘dramatic treatments’ of
certain ‘philosophical ideas’.118 But there is a lack of definition
here. What is a dramatic treatment of ideas, as distinct from a
philosophical (or other) treatment? If Euripides uses ideas only
to make a dramatic point, how does a ‘dramatic point’ differ
from a philosophical point? Conacher leaves these important
questions unanswered; but the Euripides who emerges from his
interpretations of the plays is not very different from the
Euripides of Winnington-Ingram. On this reading, Euripides’
‘dramatic point’ turns out to be nothing more than unambitious,
superficial allusion to ideas with which the members of his
audience might have had varying degrees of familiarity.
Conacher turns his attention in particular to Helen, describing it
variously as ‘a jeu d’esprit on the appearance and reality theme’119
and ‘the only play we have considered in which Euripides . . . has
provided a clearly satirical treatment of sophistic themes’,120 and
concluding that ‘the poet is here interested mainly in a sort of
dramatic tour de force on what might have been a favourite theme
of sophistic debate, rather than making any moral point with
to look for the views of individual Presocratics or sophists in Euripides’ plays;
however, he believes that what is important is not Euripidean ‘borrowing’ but
the poet’s individual, creative, intellectual response to central problems of
society.
115
Conacher (1998, 11) later describes Euripides as ‘a poetic magpie of ideas’.
116
Ibid. 13.
117
Ibid. 10.
118
Ibid. The same view is expressed by Collard (1981, 32): ‘Euripides
frequently expatiates or “philosophizes” as context suggests a way of making its
dramatic point immediate to the audience through familiar techniques of
expression and argument’.
119
Conacher (1998) 82.
120
Ibid. 110: it is unclear why Helen is the only such play among Euripides’
oeuvre.
258 Tragedy of Ideas
regard to it’.121 I believe that Conacher is mistaken. Phrases such
as jeu d’esprit and tour de force are basically inadequate to
describe the nature of Euripides’ art.
Perhaps it is no coincidence that such descriptions are so often
used of Euripides, since they are also found in discussions of the
sophists. As we shall see, Euripides—whether or not we care to
call him ‘sophistic’122—clearly fits into the same intellectual
movement as Gorgias, Hippias, Democritus and others. He
shares certain major preoccupations with the sophists—for
example, as we shall see, an interest in epistemology, language
and rhetoric—as well as the twisty, paradoxical flavour which
makes their work hard to assess.123 So it is perhaps unsurprising
that Euripides should be talked about in the same terms and held
in the same sort of suspicion. In particular, Gorgias’ two most
important surviving works (Encomium of Helen and On What is
Not) have often suffered, like Euripides’ Helen and Iphigenia,
from a feeling that their slippery ‘cleverness’ is not to be taken
too seriously; they have even been interpreted as elaborate
jokes.124 This is particularly significant, because (as I shall argue
121
Conacher 47.
122
Is Euripides sophistic? Just as it is difficult to attach the label of ‘philo-
sopher’, it is rather difficult to define a ‘sophist’ in the fifth century, or even to
talk about a coherent sophistic ‘movement’. (Various attempts at definition are
made by Guthrie [1971, 14–50], Kerferd [1981, 24–34], Goldhill [1986, 222–6],
Wardy [1996, 6–9], Winton [2000, 93–4], Morgan [2000, 89–92], etc.) The term
sofist&ß in Plato (Protagoras, Sophist, Gorgias and elsewhere) acquired negative
connotations, as well as the specific sense of one who took money for lessons in
rhetoric; but it originally had a wide range of meanings, including wise man,
skilled practitioner of an art, philosopher, seer, even poet. A comprehensive list
of sources, along with discussion, is given by Kerferd (1950) 8–10. Euripides
certainly never taught rhetoric for money; but he shared the sophists’ sceptical,
provocative attitude to ideas—as is reflected by frequent references to him in
Guthrie’s (1971) study of the sophists (28, 49, 127, 136, 157–9).
123
Euripides sometimes gives explicit indications of his sophistic leanings:
for example, Hecabe 816–9, 1193–5; Hippolytus 921; Antiope fr. 189 Kannicht.
124
Gorgias’ own description of his Encomium as a joke (pa≤gnion, Helen [DK
82 B11] §21) is partly responsible for this tendency (cf. MacDowell [1982] ad
loc.). Interestingly, Zuntz (1960, 209) describes Euripides’ Helen as a ‘superior
pa≤gnion’, though he makes no explicit connection between the two writers.
Guthrie (1971, 197 n. 2) called On What is Not ‘engaging nonsense’. Waterfield
(2000, 223–5) mentions that Gorgias’ work ‘used to be dismissed as a jeu d’esprit’
(note the use of this phrase again), but argues that we should treat it as serious
and coherent philosophy. Kerferd (1981, 93–100) gives a very full outline
of several critical judgements (On What is Not seen as a joke or parody, a
rhetorical exercise, an attack on specific philosophical doctrines, or a subtle
 Tragedy of Ideas 259
in the following sections) these two Gorgianic works are crucial
for understanding the escape-tragedies. Nevertheless, recent
scholarship has been more willing than before to take Gorgias
and the other sophists seriously; I maintain that this enlightened
attitude should be adopted in the case of Euripides also.

To sum up so far, I have been setting the scene, at some length,

for a discussion of the escape-tragedies as serious, profound,
intellectual tragedies of ideas. The length of this preliminary
section is, I think, justified, because it is absolutely essential to
identify the nature of the issues at stake and the basis on which
much of the critical literature rests. It seems that two major
issues have arisen. First, there is the question of what one means
by ‘philosophy’ and its relation to literature. Second, it con-
tinues to be clear just how much the question of genre (central to
my whole book) affects the way in which one focuses on other
central questions. It transpires that much of the scholarship in
these areas can be seen as, in some (positive or negative) sense, a
response to the extreme views of Plato and Nietzsche or to the
questionable evidence of Old Comedy. We should recognize
these preoccupations without necessarily distorting our own
picture by reacting too strongly against earlier views. Whatever
we have been conditioned to think by Aristophanes, Plato,
Nietzsche and others (or by clichéd reiterations of their posi-
tions), in fact ‘philosophical’ ideas are perfectly compatible with
the tragic genre; poetry is not an entity separate from ‘philo-
sophy’; Euripides is both a poet and a ‘philosopher’ (if we still
want to use such terminology); and we have still not encountered
a single convincing argument that the escape-tragedies are
comic.
reinterpretation of Parmenides). Wardy (1996, 22) asks: ‘is it philosophy? Or is
it merely a cerebral joke?’ As in the case of Euripides, it is not only the tone of
Gorgias’ writing but also its status as philosophy that is being debated.
Gomperz (1908, 35) denied that On What is Not had any philosophical content
at all: ‘der “philosophische Nihilismus” des Gorgias ist aus der Geschichte der
Philosophie zu streichen. Seine Scherzrede über die Natur hat ihren Platz in der
Geschichte der Rhetorik’; the question is discussed also by Dodds (1959, 8) and
Segal (1962, 99–102). Woodruff (1999, 306) thinks that On What is Not is a
serious attempt to refute Zeno, Parmenides and others, but that it is entirely
negative (in that it denies altogether the possibility of ontological discussion).
That I accept both Gorgias and Euripides as serious ‘philosophers’ will become
even more clear from the next section (§4.3).
260 Tragedy of Ideas
However, it is still not enough to reveal the shaky foundations
of some critics’ arguments, nor will it do simply to state that we
can read the plays (or any tragedies) seriously. The remainder of
this chapter aims to demonstrate conclusively that such a reading
of the escape-tragedies is feasible, by examining in detail the
plays’ exploration of ideas.

4.3 tracing philosophical threads

When people talk of ‘influences’ on tragedy they are usually
referring to poetic source-material or the ‘mythical tradition’ (in
a broad sense). However, it can be seen that the escape-tragedies
(among other tragedies) draw on a far wider range of source-
material, including cosmological, epistemological, ontological
and theological texts in both prose and verse: this tells us a lot
about the type of drama with which we are dealing.
When I discussed (in Chapter 2) the question of Euripides’
poetic sources, and the extent of his borrowing or innovation, I
noted that the main obstacle was the lack of evidence. This is no
less true when discussing Euripides’ philosophical ‘sources’.
The writings of the Presocratics and the sophists exist only in the
form of fragments, quotations and summaries by later writers,
leaving the historian of ideas to stumble around in comparative
darkness. It is possible to identify the main subjects of interest to
sixth- and fifth-century intellectuals—for example, the nature of
existence, the physical composition of the world, the relation-
ship between reality, words and sense-perception, and the
nature of the gods—but a good deal harder to discern just what
anybody thought about these subjects. The exact details of their
arguments, the complexities of their ideas, and the extent of
agreement or disagreement between individual thinkers all
remain unclear; nor can we talk with very much confidence about
philosophical ‘movements’.125
Some over-pessimistic scholars, as I mentioned earlier, have
viewed this shortage of information as fatally prohibitive to
further study.126 However, there are two good reasons for reject-
ing this view. In the first place, it is true that we cannot say,
whenever we identify a philosophical idea in a tragedy, precisely

125 126
Cf. Kerferd (1981) 18–34. See pp. 256–7 above.
 Tragedy of Ideas 261
how much it owes to Anaxagoras, Antiphon or others. However,
if we treat Euripides as a serious, creative thinker (rather than,
simply, a ‘poetic magpie of ideas’),127 we can still try to interpret
that idea—for, although the Presocratics’ and sophists’ works
are fragmentary, the plays themselves are complete. We should
not only be scraping around for allusions and parallels, but
rather asking: does this make sense on its own terms as a coherent
treatment of ideas? As things stand, the question of Euripides’
originality cannot exactly be answered; but there are other, more
interesting issues at stake. Euripides should not be seen as
merely interpreting or ‘packaging’ ideas in a form palatable to
the public, but rather as responding creatively to these ideas. As
Simon Goldhill sees, the situation is more complicated than a
one-way ‘influence’ of the sophists et al. on Euripides.128 Rather,
it is a two-way process. Both tragedian and sophist address
current ideas: ‘they share the intellectual life of the city’, and
they are ‘parallel investigators of the position of man in language
and society’.129
A second cause for optimism is that, although our evidence is
scant, it is not completely non-existent. In the case of the escape-
tragedies, at least, the fragments do enable us to get some idea of
the philosophical context into which the plays fit, and to make
some meaningful connections between Euripides and other
intellectuals (including, notably, Gorgias).
To begin with, however, it is necessary to distinguish between
two classes of ideas in the plays. First, and most important, are
ideas which are central to an understanding of the plays; those
themes which recur prominently both in the course of individual
scenes and throughout the overall plot-structure. Second, there
are some ideas which seem to be no more than incidental allu-
sions to the theories of other writers. Their connection to other
ideas or themes is not obvious, and it is difficult to interpret them
127
Conacher’s (1998, 11) term.
128
Goldhill (1986) 238: ‘nor is it sufficient to note “a sophistic influence” as if
that answered the question.’
129
Goldhill (1986) 229 (cf. ibid. 243: ‘Tragedy and sophistic writing both
attest to a radical series of tensions in the language and ideology of the city’);
Allan (2000b) 147 has a similar outlook. Vernant’s overall view of tragedy inter-
prets it as being close to the concerns of the sophists: according to Vernant and
Vidal-Naquet (1988, 235), the tragic genre aims to teach us that ‘there are in the
words exchanged between humans zones of opacity and incommunicability’.
262 Tragedy of Ideas
either in their immediate context or in relation to the play as a
whole: such ideas have struck some readers as irrelevant or
gratuitous.130
Bearing in mind the source-problems just mentioned, this
division is of course artificial. It is the second class that is more
problematic, for it may well be that, if an idea strikes us as being
of peripheral importance, this is only because we do not have
enough information to comprehend it fully. If a manuscript con-
taining the entire body of Presocratic and sophistic writing were
unexpectedly to surface, I suspect that we would be able to see
the relevance of at least some of these ideas. Nevertheless, as
things stand, there are certain ideas which do seem to obtrude
into the plays without obviously adding very much to the inter-
pretation of the plays on the whole. (It may well be this type of
idea which certain critics have in mind when they accuse
Euripides of superficial cleverness.131)
The opening lines of Helen (1–3) might be taken to illustrate
this second, ‘peripheral’ type of ideas:
Ne≤lou m†n aJde kallip3rqenoi Âoa≤,
ß ånt≥ d≤aß yak3doß Ajg»ptou pvdon
leuk[ß take≤shß ciÎnoß Ëgra≤nei g»aß.
These are the lovely-virgin streams of the Nile, which waters the soil of
Egypt’s fields not with rainfall from Zeus but with white, melting snow.
These three lines, outlining the theory that the Nile’s waters
come not from its tributaries but from the melted snows of
Ethiopia, are explicitly engaging with contemporary cosmo-
logical speculation. The source of the theory is—typically—no
130
Bers (1994, 179), for example, talks of ‘accumulations of argument that
seem to run beyond, or even contrary to, dramatic need’; Norwood (1954, 14–5)
complains of ‘wildly irrelevant lumps of philosophy and science’ (such as Tro.
884). Euripides’ echoes of contemporary thought sometimes do seem out of
context, and this was occasionally remarked on in antiquity (see S Hipp. 953,
S Hec. 254, S Alc. 780, S Phoen. 388, as well as the implied criticism of
Aristophanes [§4.2.2 above]). Grube (1961, 92–8) devotes a long discussion to
‘the problem of relevance’ in relation to Euripides’ ‘philosophizing’, but he is
really talking about gnomic or proverbial utterances, rather than specific
engagement with or allusion to the theories of other writers. Scattered, inci-
dental irrelevancies (if that is what they are) may strike one as aberrations; but it
is quite a different matter to say, with Norwood, Nietzsche and others, that on
the whole philosophy and tragedy do not mix.
131
e.g. Burnett’s (1960) ‘comedy’ article deals with the (seemingly peri-
pheral) ideas in Helen 1013–16 (discussed below).
 Tragedy of Ideas 263
less obscure than the source of the Nile. It was thought to be
Anaxagorean,132 but may derive from some other writer:
Kannicht points out that Aeschylus’ Suppliants, written earlier
than Anaxagoras’ arrival in Athens, makes reference to the
same idea.133 Several other writers, including Sophocles and
Herodotus, had already contributed to the discussion before
412.134 What is clear, then, is that Egyptian meteorology was a
matter for current debate, and that, by placing these lines right at
the start of the play, Euripides is being provocative. It is a clear
sign of intellectual engagement (an important enough point in
itself); but it cannot be seen to have a wider relevance within the
play. (That is, the Nile is an important physical and meta-
phorical presence throughout Helen,135 but the source of its
waters, never again mentioned, does not seem to make any
difference.)
Hard-to-pin-down allusions are seen in another passage from
Helen (1013–16), where the purportedly omniscient Theonoe
explains why it is important to behave justly:
ka≥ g¤r t≤siß t0nd’ ƒst≥ to∏ß te nertvroiß
ka≥ to∏ß £nwqen p$sin ånqr*poiß: Ø noıß
t0n katqanÎntwn z[i m†n oÇ, gn*mhn d’ πcei
åq3naton ejß åq3naton ajqvr’ ƒmpes*n.
Indeed, all people, both above and below the earth, are accountable for
their deeds: when people die, their mind does not remain alive, but it
has an immortal consciousness, combining with the immortal ether.
Hartung and Dindorf found these lines so incongruous that they
deleted them; but this seems an extreme measure.136 There
132
Anaxagoras (DK59 A91): cf. [anon.], de Nilo (FGH 647 F1). See Dale
(1967) 69 and Guthrie (1965) 311, 324.
133
Aesch. Suppl. 559 (also fr. 300 Radt): discussed by Kannicht (1969, 2. 16)
and Jouan and Van Looy (1998, 292 n. 35). The date of Anaxagoras’ arrival in
Athens is thought to be 460 bc.
134
Sophocles too (fr. 882 Radt) made reference to this idea. Herodotus (2.22)
disagreed; Aristides (Or. 36.13) later disputed the theory with specific reference
to the Helen passage: p0ß oˆn, _ sof*tate EÛrip≤dh, leuk[ß take≤shß ciÎnoß årde»ei
Ne∏loß Ajg»ptou g»aß; (‘how, then, most clever Euripides, does the Nile irrigate
Egypt’s fields with white, melting snow?’). Euripides himself reused the idea in
Archelaus (fr. 228a. 1–5 Kannicht).
135
See Ch. 3 above.
136
The reading of the main manuscript (L) is unproblematic in sense and
style. It might seem that these ideas occur somewhat abruptly in the argument
(which would run on smoothly from 1012 to 1017 with the deletion). However,
264 Tragedy of Ideas
seems no reason to doubt that the lines are genuine. Never-
theless, the concept of posthumous repayment for one’s deeds,
and the theory that the mind has some form of eternal existence
in the ether, are certainly not ordinary Greek beliefs. Dale adds
another objection to the lines, that they lack internal coherence:
‘how,’ she asks, ‘does a t≤siß apply to a piece of consciousness
floating in the ether?’ She concludes that the passage is ‘a piece of
high-toned but vague mysticism appropriate to Theonoe, who
reasonably excuses herself from further elaboration by „ß oˆn
parain0 m¶ makr3n’ (‘so I shall not go on at length’, 1017).137 I
think that Dale overstates the incoherence and irrelevance of
these lines. She points out, rightly, that the ideas as presented
here do not quite correspond to any single surviving authority;
but it is clear that they are somehow related to a current philo-
sophical debate.
A certain amount is known about this debate.138 The cosmo-
logical theories of Anaximenes, Anaxagoras, Empedocles and
others seem to have been variations on the important idea that air
(å&r), or ether (ajq&r, the upper air), in addition to being vital for
human life, is a fundamental constituent of the universe.139 Some
writers, including Euripides himself, referred to a belief that
there was something divine about the ether, not just because the
gods lived there, but because the ether possessed its own
powers.140 All of these theories, like the passage from Helen,

they do have an undeniable relevance (whatever one makes of it) to the point at
issue—the moral character of both Theonoe and Proteus—as Kannicht (1969,
2. 261) and Dale (1967, 132) point out.
137
Dale (1967) 132. Sansone (1985, 29), similarly, asks ‘what do the notorious
lines 1013–16 mean (if, indeed, they are intended to mean anything at all)?’ and
points out their lack of connection with the previous lines, ‘which they purport
to explain’.
138
Wright (1995, 109–25) lists and discusses many of these important
sources.
139
Anaximenes (DK 13 A5, A6, A10, B2) held that å&r was the substrate of
all things. Anaxagoras (DK 59 B2, B7) distinguished between å&r and ajq&r, and
thought that each had an important cosmogonic role. Empedocles (DK 31 B38,
B100) listed ajq&r, fire, sea and sky as the four elements. Diogenes of Apollonia
(DK 64 B4–5) held that å&r was the fundamental element of humans, animals
and the universe as a whole.
140
Ajq&r identified with Zeus: Heraclitus (DK 22 B120), Aeschylus fr. 70
Radt, Euripides fr. 877 Nauck; identified with Hera: Empedocles (DK 31 B6);
air as a god: Diogenes (DK 64 B4–8), Eur. Iph. at A. 365. More references are
supplied by Burnett (1960, 161).
 Tragedy of Ideas 265
attempt to trace ‘a continuity between the individual life-form
and the cosmic whole’.141 M. R. Wright suggests that the lines in
question may relate to the tradition of ‘astral eschatology’, the
belief that human souls have their origins in the stars and return
to the stars after death. This belief is attested in, for example,
Anaximander, Epicharmus and the Athenian inscription of 432
bc commemorating the dead of Potidaea,142 and Euripides refers
to it in his Suppliant Women,143 but the tradition originally came
from Egypt—which makes it a particularly appropriate belief for
the Egyptian Theonoe to express.144
Nevertheless, it is hard to see a specific link between these
various cosmological writings and Theonoe’s conception of the
posthumous existence of the mind. Burnett’s opinion, that
Euripides is innovating here by uniting concepts of cosmology
with justice,145 makes sense but is impossible to prove. Even if
Burnett is right, one is still left with the problem of the lack of any
clear connection between these four lines and the other ideas in
Helen. (However—in this case more than the previous passage
about the Nile’s source—I think that there is more behind
the allusion than it is now possible to see. This is suggested, in
particular, by the prominence of the word ajq&r, whch recurs
throughout all three escape-tragedies.146) All of these considera-
141
Wright (1995) 118.
142
Anaximander (DK 12 A9, B1); Epicharmus (DK 23 B9); IG I2. 945.6:
ajq¶r m†n yuc¤ß Ëpedvxato, s*mata d† cq*n. Dale (1967, 132) refers to this last
sentiment as a cliché, and notes that it does not correspond precisely to
Theonoe’s lines.
143
Euripides, Suppl. 533–4 (pneıma m†n prÏß ajqvra, | tÏ s0ma d’ ƒß g[n); ibid.
1139 (ajq¶r πcei nin ‡dh).
144
Wright (1995) 121–3. Herodotus (2.123.2–3) wrote that the Egyptians
were the first to claim that the soul is immortal.
145
Burnett (1960) 160–2.
146
Theonoe instructs her servants to purify the ether at her first entry
(865–7): Ógoı s» moi fvrousa lampt&rwn svlaß | qe≤ou te semnÏn qesmÏn ajqvroß
muco»ß, | „ß pneıma kaqarÏn oÛranoı dex*meqa (‘you, lead on with torch-flame,
and fumigate the air of heaven in the holy ritual, so that we may receive the pure
breath of the sky’). Helen’s phantom is made out of ether (583–4; but note the
similar but not quite identical oÛranoı . . . £po at 34) and later disappears back
into ether (605–6, 1219; this may be a reference to Anaximander et al. [note 141
above]). Zeus in his guise as a swan flies through the ether (di’ ajqvroß, 216). The
‘real’ Helen is transported through the ether by Hermes (ƒn ptuca∏sin ajqvroß 44;
cf. 246). References to ether occur in the other escape-tragedies also. In
Andromeda, the Night is imagined as riding a chariot through the starry ridges
of the ether (åsteroeidva n0ta . . . ajqvroß Èer$ß, fr. 114—note the epithet Èer$ß);
266 Tragedy of Ideas
tions mean that, in the absence of further information, one has to
treat the passage as being of only minor significance. Zuntz con-
cludes, I think rightly, that it would be wrong to concentrate
one’s attention on these four verses, because ‘the “theology”—sit
venia verbo—of the Helena is . . . in the whole scene, or, rather, in
the whole play’.147 If the concept contained in lines 1013–16 were
really central to the cosmological or theological argument of the
whole play, surely one would expect that it would be mentioned
more than once?148
Whenever one comes across a philosophical allusion, even if it
should seem to be irrelevant or incongruous, it may be worth
giving it the benefit of the doubt. For example, the following
conversation between Teucer and Helen has caused some
difficulties (119–23):
TE. £llou lÎgou mvmnhso, m¶ ke≤nhß πti.
EL. o\tw doke∏te t¶n dÎkhsin åsfal[;
TE. aÛtÏß g¤r Ôssoiß ejdÎmhn, ka≥ noıß Ør$i.
EL. ‡dh d’ ƒn o÷koiß sŸn d3marti Menvlewß;
Teucer: Change the subject: do not talk about her any longer.
Helen: Do you imagine that what you imagine you witnessed was real?
Teucer: I saw it with my own eyes—and my mind sees.
Helen: But is Menelaus now at home with his wife?

The words which signal an allusion are noıß Ør$i, which have
been seen to refer to a saying of Epicharmus: noıß Ør[i ka≥ noıß

Perseus too travels through the middle of the ether (di¤ mvsou . . . ajqvroß, fr. 124);
and Andromeda wishes that a thunderbolt from the ether would destroy her
(purfÎroß ajqvroß åst¶r, fr. 122). In Iphigenia, as in Helen, the heroine is trans-
ported to her land of captivity through the ether (29); Iphigenia tells her dream
‘to the ether’ (prÏß ajqvr’, e÷ ti d¶ tÎd’ πst’ £koß, 43—this, according to Cropp
[2000, ad loc.], is an apotropaic formula: cf. Sophocles, Electra 424); her joy at
reuniting with Orestes is so great that she fears it may fly away to the ether (prÏß
ajqvra 843); and the statue of Artemis is brought out beneath the ether (Ëp’
ajqvr’) in order to purify it (1177). It may be significant that at the beginning of
Ar. Thesm., the play which is so clearly based on the escape-tragedies, the
character Euripides delivers some abstruse reflections on Ajq&r, there conceived
of as a sort of divine entity (13–18). (Cf. Socrates’ invocation of Ajq&r at Clouds
265).
147
Zuntz (1960) 211.
148
One might, I suppose, object to this that Theonoe’s ‘omniscience’ lends
her words a more authoritative status than those of other characters—but I shall
return to ‘omniscience’ below (§4.4.2).
 Tragedy of Ideas 267
åko»ei: t£lla kwf¤ ka≥ tufl3.149 However, Diggle (following
Ribbeck) deletes lines 121–2.150 There may be linguistic grounds
for this deletion (ejdÎmhn is found only in lyric passages elsewhere
in Euripides),151 but it is more probably due to the fact that
the lines ignore the request of 120 (Teucer has asked Helen
to change the subject, but she carries on regardless). Dale,
strangely, denies that there can be an allusion here at all, even
if the lines are genuine: ‘the suddenness of the quotation, its
allusiveness and brevity in the middle of plain dialogue, and the
obscurity of the point here . . . make it improbable to the point of
absurdity.’ It can hardly be denied that noıß Ør$i is sudden and
brief; but, even if we cannot fully grasp the point, there is still no
reason to doubt that Epicharmus is being alluded to.152 Kannicht
(who retains 121–2) notes also that Euripides makes an almost
identical allusion twice elsewhere.153 It is frustrating that we
know too little about Epicharmus’ line of thought to pursue the
connection;154 but, in any case, the point of the allusion is not
obscure. In fact, it does relate to the play’s broader theme of
sense-perception (and I shall return to this passage in §4.4.2
below).
To resume the main argument, then, the most important ideas
are not those which are (by design or accident) limited to allu-
sions, but those which are thoroughly worked into the plot and
structure. In the escape-tragedies, it is epistemological and onto-
logical speculation that emerges, unmistakably, as being of
149
Epicharmus (DK 23 B12): ‘The mind sees and the mind hears: the rest is
dumb and blind.’
150
Dale (1967, ad loc.) also deletes.
151
Note that Gilbert Murray’s apparatus records an emendation by Reiske
(e”don ©n ka≥ noıß) designed to remove this problem: Diggle does not judge this
worthy of consideration.
152
Conacher (1998, 123 n. 6) also judges these lines of relevance, if not to
Epicharmus, then at least to sophistic views of sense-perception in general:
Teucer is ‘talking like a Sophist’. In this respect, I note that Empedocles also
contrasts the ‘sight’ of the eyes and the mind (DK 31 B17), as does Antiphon
(DK 87 B1; cf. Suda s.v. £tta 1.397.15–17 = Waterfield [2000, 264] F15)—
which, again, suggests that there is more to this subject than we can know.
153
Trojan Women 988 (Ø sÏß d’ jd*n nin noıß); fr. 909.6 (oÛ g¤r øfqalmÏß tÏ
kr≤nein ƒstin, åll¤ noıß).
154
Cf. Solmsen (1934a, 121 n. 1): ‘ “in visu operatur intellectus”. So Professor
Murray explains [ka≥ noıß Ør$i], rightly as I think. But can we understand it thus
without assuming that there is a theory behind, which identifies a÷sqhsiß and
ƒpist&mh?’
268 Tragedy of Ideas
central importance.155 Put more simply, Euripides is concerned
to explore the relationship between reality and various forms of
illusion or delusion. What is the basis for believing anything to
be as it is? If it turned out that we could not trust our own senses
accurately to perceive reality, or that words and language could
not adequately represent reality, what would be the con-
sequences for our ‘knowledge’ of the world? These are the major
philosophical questions which the escape-tragedies confront.
It cannot be said that these were novel preoccupations in
412.156 Euripides himself had, in earlier plays, drawn attention to
the issue of deceptive appearances—to such a remarkable extent,
in fact, that even in 425 Aristophanes could parody this
tendency. In his Acharnians Dicaeopolis explains why he has
gone to Euripides for advice, saying: de∏ g3r me dÎxai ptwcÏn e”nai
t&meron, | e”nai m†n Òsper ejm≤, fa≤nesqai d† m¶.157 These lines,
with their characteristic word-play and neat dichotomy, are a
quotation from Euripides’ Telephus—which shows that Euri-
pides had been making use of ontological themes as early as
438.158
Euripides was not the first or the only intellectual to concern
himself with this area of thought, as a brief glance at the views of
some of his contemporaries and predecessors shows.159 For
155
Guthrie (1971, 187) makes the excellent point that Greek ‘epistemology’
and ‘ontology’ are inseparable. This will become clear from the discussion
which follows.
156
Kerferd (1981) 78 has more on the intellectual climate of Athens at this
date.
157
Ar., Ach. 440–1 (‘for today I have to seem to be a beggar—to keep my own
identity, but appear to be something else’).
158
Eur. Telephus, fr. 698 Nauck (the words e”nai t&meron must be Aristo-
phanic); attrib. S Ar. Ach. 440. MacDowell (1995, 55) says that ‘the contrast
between appearance and fact makes [the lines] characteristic of Euripides’; cf.
Rau (1967) 19–42. Segal (1993, 38) remarks that the question of how reality and
appearance relate to each other ‘is asked somehow or other in nearly every
Euripidean play’. Some varied examples of Euripides’ exploitation of deceptive
appearances are found at Alcestis 339, Phoen. 389, Medea 601–2, Iph. Aul. 338,
Polyidus fr. 638, Phrixus fr. 833, etc. Nevertheless, it should be noted that, apart
from the Telephus fragment, no other extant passage contains the same sort of
neat word-play and symmetry found in the escape-tragedies. This means
that we must slightly qualify MacDowell’s assessment of the lines as ‘character-
istic’: the technique may not be as typically Euripidean (in a broad sense) as all
that.
159
I could not claim that the summaries which follow do justice to the
theories of these thinkers. This is not the place to discuss their ideas at length,
 Tragedy of Ideas 269
instance, Parmenides’ discussion of ålhqe≤h (‘truth’ or ‘reality’)
is based on a discrepancy between sense-perception and true
being, contrasting the way of truth with the way of delusion.160
Heraclitus (and, later, Anaxagoras) likewise doubted the relia-
bility of humans’ senses and judgement, believing that the true
nature of reality tends to hide itself.161 The atomists Leucippus
and Democritus believed that the universe is composed of
particles which do not have qualities, which led them to distrust
the evidence of the senses which perceive such qualities. The
relativism of Protagoras has implications for sense-perception:
that is, if things seem to any individual to be such-and-such, then
they are such-and-such for that individual.162 Democritus’ view
is comparable: sense-perception is subjective and individual,
and may give no clue to reality.163 Melissus’ thoughts about the
nature of existence also aim to undermine our reliance on the
senses. He claims that what exists is single, and that it is incor-
poreal (in fact, has no sensible qualities): if it had solidity it
would have parts, but if it had parts it would no longer be single.
This being so, if we could perceive reality accurately with our
senses, we would see that it is unchanging; but our senses per-
ceive change, showing that our senses are unreliable.164 Whether
or not we agree with his process of reasoning, it will become clear
that Melissus’ theory (in particular, his questioning whether
existence has anything to do with s*mata) is connected to the
concerns of the escape-tragedies.
As well as exploring the relationship between reality and
sense-perception, these thinkers had also been questioning
the relationship between reality and language.165 The sophist
only to demonstrate the range of philosophical views current in and before
Euripides’ time.
160
Parmenides (DK 28 B2); discussed by Wardy (1996) 9–14.
161
Heraclitus (DK 22 B55, B107, B123); Anaxagoras (DK 59 B21): cf.
Guthrie (1965) 319–20.
162
Protagoras (DK 80 B1); cf. Plato, Cratylus 385e, Theaetetus 151e, Arist.
Met. 1047a4–7; discussion in Kerferd (1981) 86–7, Conacher (1998) 70.
163
DK 67 A6–7, A19; DK 68 A112, A135, B117.
164
Melissus (DK 30 B8–9).
165
Guthrie (1971, 218–19) gives an excellent summary of various positions
held in the late 5th and early 4th cents. Goldhill (1991, 24–36) shows that the
relationship between names and their objects was an important issue even in
Homer. For example, etymological play with ∞ Odusse»ß and the verb ød»ssesqai
(Odyssey 1.62, 5.339–40, etc.) leads Goldhill to conclude that ‘the use and
270 Tragedy of Ideas
Antiphon is known to have had a particular interest in ørqÎthß
ønom3twn, the ‘correctness’ of names in relation to their referents.
His work On Truth seems to have argued that the defining
feature of things is their nature, not their name; thus words are
often deceptive.166 Several decades after Euripides, Plato’s
Cratylus took up the question of whether names were con-
ventional or inherent in the nature of things. Plato provides
further evidence of fifth-century interest in this subject-area,
mentioning such names as Protagoras, Prodicus and the sophists
in general.167 However, the most important near-contemporary
of Euripides to write on ørqÎthß ønom3twn seems to be
Democritus, the author of a treatise On Homer or On the Correct
Use of Language and Unusual Words,168 whose fragments—as we
shall see—contain some very suggestive terminology.169
Euripides’ plays should be read in the light of all these
theories; but it seems to me that the principal inspiration for the
escape-tragedies came from Gorgias of Leontini, the sophist
who came to Athens in 427. Gorgias’ treatise On What Is Not (or
On Nature), famously, stated three propositions: (a) that nothing
has being; (b) that, even if it did have being, no human could
apprehend it; (c) that, even if it did have being and was appre-
hensible, we could not communicate it to anyone else.170 This
manipulation of the name in the Odyssey indicates . . . a concern for the complex
relations between man and his language, particularly in self-representation’.
166
Antiphon (DK 87 B14, B15): discussed by Guthrie (1971) 204–6.
Antiphon illustrated the deceptiveness of words with the example of ‘Greeks’
and ‘barbarians’, who are (he says) all the same by nature but different in name
(DK 87 B44B: ƒn to»twi d† prÏß åll&louß bebarbar*meqa, ƒpe≥ f»sei p3nta p3nteß
Ømo≤wß pef»kamen ka≥ b3rbaroi ka≥ Efi llhneß e”nai ktl.). This is clearly relevant to
Euripides’ provocative presentation of the Greeks and ‘barbarians’ of the
escape-tragedies, which, as I argued (see Ch. 3 above), breaks down the ethnic
distinction.
167
Plato, Crat. 384b, 391b–c; cf. Euthydemus 277e.
168
Democritus (DK 68 B20a): PERI OMHROU ∂ ORQOEPEIHS KAI
GLWSSEWN.
169
Democritus (DK 68 B26).
170
Gorgias (DK 82 B1–4). B3: 2n mvn ka≥ pr0ton Òti oÛd†n πstin, de»teron Òti ej
ka≥ πstin, åkat3lhpton ånqr*pwi, tr≤ton Òti ej ka≥ katalhptÎn, åll¤ to≤ ge ånvxois-
ton ka≥ ånerm&neuton t0i pvlaß. There are serious problems with the text of On
What is Not, which survives in the form of two separate—and rather different—
epitomes (the first by Sextus Empiricus; the second part of a composite peri-
patetic text, ‘MXG’). The problems of using either version to understand
Gorgias’ real views are discussed by Wardy (1996, 15–16) and Kerferd (1981,
93–100).
 Tragedy of Ideas 271
argument presents some difficulties. Aside from the textual
difficulties, it cannot be said with confidence whether Gorgias is
talking about existence or predication. I have just translated his
oÛd†n πstin as ‘nothing has being’, but equally possible are the
translations ‘nothing is [such-and-such]’ or ‘nothing exists’.171
Nevertheless, Gorgias seems to be arguing that what we com-
municate is only ever words and never the objects themselves
(which we cannot really know). This radical argument relates to
fragments of other Gorgianic writings which contain similar
views about the illusory relationship of words to reality. In his
Defence of Palamedes, he wrote that, if it were possible for the
truth about things to be made clear through words, judgement
would be easy, since it would follow directly from what has been
said; but this is not so.172 Elsewhere he wrote that words are a
pale, quivering imitation of objects;173 and another, difficult-to-
translate fragment contrasts appearances unfavourably with
reality.174 According to Gorgias, we are constantly limited by our
inability to apprehend reality: dÎxa (‘seeming’ or ‘opinion’),
rather than true knowledge, is the best that we can hope to
attain.175 But external forces can powerfully affect our dÎxa, as
Gorgias later showed in his Encomium of Helen.
171
The Greek verb e”nai poses problems for the philosopher. Kerferd (1981,
93–5) in particular argues at length for ‘a massive shift of emphasis, away from
the view that much of Greek philosophy was concerned primarily with
problems of existence, and towards the view that it was rather in such cases con-
cerned with what we would call problems of predication.’ He summarizes
Gorgias’ argument thus (99): ‘if words are used to refer to things, . . . how is it
that a word is accepted as referring to the things to which we say it does refer,
and not to other things to which we say it does not refer?’ This interpretation
brings On What is Not close to the concerns of Protagoras, Antiphon,
Democritus and others; but Gorgias’ can still be understood equally well as
referring to existence. The same problem is encountered in Plato’s Sophist (for
which see more below): is this dialogue about the ambiguities of the verb e”nai?
See Bluck (1975), esp. 21–2, and Brown (1986) 47–70.
172
DK 82 B11a §35: ej m†n oˆn Án di¤ lÎgwn t¶n ål&qeian t0n πrgwn kaqar3n te
genvsqai to∏ß åko»ousi 〈ka≥〉 faner3n, eÇporoß #n e÷h kr≤siß ‡dh åpÏ t0n ejrhmvnwn:
ƒpeid¶ d† oÛc o\twß πcei . . . Cf. B11 (Encomium) §11.
173
DK 82 B6.16: clwr¤ 〈mvn〉 ka≥ πnaima t¤ pr3gmata, trvmonta 〈dv〉 ka≥ ∑cr¤ t¤
gr3mmata.
174
DK 82 B26: πlege d† tÏ m†n e”nai åfan†ß m¶ tucÏn toı doke∏n, tÏ d† doke∏n
åsqen†ß m¶ tucÏn toı e”nai. Does this mean ‘existence is unknown unless it
acquires appearance, and appearance is feeble unless it acquires existence’? Or
do we have the more pessimistic version ‘existence is unknowable because it does
not have appearance’? (Cf. Guthrie [1971] 199 n. 1).
175
Cf. Segal (1962) 111; Kerferd (1981) 81.
272 Tragedy of Ideas
It is impossible to take On What is Not entirely at its face value
because, if verbal communication of the nature of things really
were impossible, Gorgias could not convey this truth to his
audience by means of verbal communication! The argument is
paradoxical and self-refuting: this is why scholars have often
been unwilling to regard it as a serious work of philosophy.176 But
a deliberately contradictory argument may be an effective way to
make one’s case obliquely or indirectly. As Wardy puts it, ‘the
intention is to compel us to work through, and thus thoroughly
understand, the paradoxes for ourselves’. The conclusion he
draws is that Gorgias is trying to instil in his audience a more
critical, sceptical attitude towards philosophical writings
(lÎgoi).177 This is rather more optimistic a reading than that of
Gomperz (who described Gorgias’ message as ‘philosophische
Nihilismus’).178 In fact, knowing self-contradiction is a recog-
nizable characteristic of Gorgianic philosophy, seen also in the
Encomium, and it is another way in which the influence of
Gorgias can be seen on Euripides.
However, it remains to explain why Gorgias should be seen as
the principal inspiration for the escape-tragedies. Why is Gorgias
more important than anyone else? On What is Not, while it
certainly puts forward an extreme argument, covers much of the
same ground as the other philosophers which I have mentioned.
To understand why Euripides should have turned to the theme
of reality and illusion in 412 in particular, it is necessary to look
at another Gorgianic work, the Encomium of Helen.179 The dating
of this work, unlike that of the earlier treatise, is disputed, but I
believe that it should be placed very closely before Euripides’
Helen and seen as a direct, crucially important influence on that
play.180
176
See n. 125 above.
177
Wardy (1996) 22: ‘philosophical logos will by itself carry precious little
conviction, despite Parmenides’ attempt to monopolize persuasion.’
178
Gomperz (1908) 35.
179
Gorgias (DK 82 B11). This work is not actually an ƒgk*mion but an
åpolog≤a, as Isocrates (Helen 14) points out. See Wardy (1996) 25–8 on Gorgias’
transgression of genre: ‘a running theme of the Encomium will be the force and
attractions of deceit: how better to convey them than by the text’s own partial
occlusion of its central topic and true genre?’
180
On What is Not is usually placed early in Gorgias’ career, in 444–441
(Olympiodorus, Commentary on Plato, Gorgias, pr. 9). There is no external evi-
dence to date his two other substantial works, Encomium of Helen and
 Tragedy of Ideas 273
The Encomium returns to the subject-matter of On What is
Not, but from a quite different angle. Here (as it has been nicely
put) ‘epistemological concerns exist side-by-side with self-
advertisement and rhetorical posturing’.181 Gorgias is now con-
cerned not so much with how things are (or are not) as with the
power of various types of illusions, including visual appearances
and (in particular) words. He undertakes to exonerate Helen
from guilt, not by claiming that she was innocent of misdeed,
but by arguing that she succumbed to the irresistible power of
illusion.
The questionable relationship between words, appearances
and reality is seen very early on in the speech, where the contra-
dictory stories of Helen’s parentage are discussed. Was Zeus or
Tyndareus her father?—one seemed to be because he was, but
the other’s claim was refuted because he said he was! (Ø m†n di¤ tÏ
e”nai πdoxen, Ø d† di¤ tÏ f3nai ]lvgcqh).182 Where does the truth
lie?—in doke∏n, e”nai or f3nai, seeming, being or appearing?
Palamedes. Since Gorgias claims (§2) that at the date of writing no other poet had
ever diverged from the usual account of Helen’s guilt, it seems that the
Encomium must pre-date Euripides’ Helen (cf. my earlier—§2.3—argument
about the ‘palinode’). A Gorgianic tone and content (especially, the connection
between πrwß and b≤a) has been detected in Helen’s self-justificatory speech in
Euripides’ Trojan Women (914–65), which Barlow (1986b, ad loc.) calls
Euripides’ ‘Gorgianic play’. If Gorgias really was an influence, the date of the
Encomium must be 415 or earlier. This is the view of Pohlenz (1920, 166),
Freeman (1954, 363), Orsini (1956, 86) and Guthrie (1971, 192 n. 2). Preuss
(1911, 9), however, argues that Gorgias’ speech was composed between
Euripides’ Trojan Women and Helen—that is, c.414—which supposes a more
complex series of influences. Neither Untersteiner (1954, 99 n. 59) nor Segal
(1962, 100) goes further than stating that the Encomium belongs somewhere in
the last quarter of the fifth century.
181
Morgan (2000) 129.
182
Gorgias (DK 82 B11) §3. MacDowell (1982, 30) replaces ]lvgcqh with
ƒlvcqh, a late reading which he admits may be a mediaeval conjecture, on the
grounds that the manuscript reading does not make sense. I cannot understand
why this should be so. As the text stands, the meaning is quite clear (as I trans-
late above). MacDowell’s version, ‘the other was reputed to be because he said he
was’, destroys the balance between the two clauses by having two verbs (πdoxen
and ƒlvcqh) with essentially the same meaning. Wardy (1996, 31–2) elaborates
on the meaning of the text as it stands: ‘the [visible] truth is so vivid that we need
not fear deception or delusion’, since Helen’s k3lloß immediately gives the lie to
the mortal’s pretension. However, in the light of Gorgias’ later comments about
visual åp3th, we cannot really believe in such a thing as an obvious, visible truth;
this is another way, then, in which Gorgias deliberately refutes himself by con-
structing arguments which he will later implicitly demolish.
274 Tragedy of Ideas
Gorgias does not now concern himself with answering this
question, perhaps because of his claims elsewhere that it is ulti-
mately impossible to discern truth or reality. He goes on to
remind us of this earlier argument, saying that, if everyone had
knowledge, speech would not have its power;183 but this power
itself is his main point in the Encomium. Whether or not they are
accurate representations of reality, words exert a powerful effect
on the listener which may override intellect or free will.
Gorgias’ exoneration of Helen is based on the premise that all
four possible reasons for Helen’s elopement (supernatural
powers, force, persuasion, or love) are pardonable, on the
grounds that they are irresistible. The third reason is of parti-
cular interest: if it was speech that persuaded Helen, this is
defensible, for speech is a mighty ruler, which accomplishes
superhuman feats even though its physical form is almost non-
existent.184 So mighty, indeed, that succumbing to language is
comparable to succumbing to physical force.185 Elsewhere in the
Encomium, words are compared to magic spells and drugs: they
trip up the soul and deceive the opinions.186 In the hands of a
skilled rhetor, who adds persuasion (peiq*) to speech, words can
mould the listener’s mind.187 This, argues Gorgias, is why Helen
did what she did, and why it is justifiable.
The last possible reason for her action, that she fell in love, is
cleverly linked to what has gone before, since Gorgias manages
to draw connections between erotic love, persuasion and the rest
of his theory.188 The common factor is appearances. We fall in
183
DK 82 B11 §11: ej m†n g¤r p3nteß per≥ p3ntwn e”con t0n paroicomvnwn mn&mhn
t0n te parÎntwn 〈πnnoian〉 t0n te mellÎntwn prÎnoian, oÛk #n Ømo≤wß Òmoioß Án Ø
lÎgoß. This last phrase is hard to translate. Kerferd (1981, 81) renders it ‘speech
. . . would not resemble the knowledge’. Probably there is a textual problem
(MacDowell obelizes Òmoioß).
184
DK 82 B11 §8: lÎgoß dun3sthß mvgaß ƒstin, ß smikrot3twi s*mati ka≥
åfanest3twi qeiÎtata πrga åpotele∏. For the idea of speech as a ‘ruler’, compare
Hecabe 814–9 (where peiq* is a t»rannoß). The word s0ma seems slightly odd:
perhaps Gorgias is playing on the familiar Ônoma–s0ma dichotomy. MacDowell
(1982, 32) comments: ‘it is not safe to deduce . . . that [Gorgias] really believed
that speech was a material substance’—but is this the point?
185
DK 82 B11 §12.
186
DK 82 B11 §10: yuc[ß Åmart&mata ka≥ dÎxhß åpat&mata. Cf. §14 (f3rmaka).
187
DK 82 B11 §13: Ó peiq° prosioısa t0i lÎgwi ka≥ t¶n yuc¶n ƒtup*sato Òpwß
ƒbo»leto. Cf. Plato, Phaedrus 261a, 267a (for the concept of rhetoric as
yucagwg≤a).
188
DK 82 B11 §15–19.
 Tragedy of Ideas 275
love with someone, says Gorgias, because of the visual impres-
sion which they make on us; and this visual impression is directly
comparable to, and no less powerful than, the verbal impression
made by the power of persuasion. This section of the argument
makes it unambiguously plain that words and appearances are to
be seen as species of the same phenomenon—illusion. They may
be equally deceptive (in relation to the real nature of things) and
equally powerful on the one who sees or hears. The effect of
appearance (Ôyiß) upon the soul is described by Gorgias in
exactly the same terms as the effect of words (lÎgoi): as a ‘mould-
ing’.189 In this case, visual art (painting or sculpture) is also a
form of deception: in fact, it makes one’s eyes ‘ill’.190 As
MacDowell explains, ‘there is something “wrong” with one’s
eyes, because one seems to see a man when one is really looking
at paint or stone’.191
Like On What is Not, the Encomium contains various self-
refuting features, whereby the argument is implicitly under-
mined at the same time as it is being constructed. This,
paradoxically, reinforces the point about the deceptive, untrust-
worthy, seductive power of words. The most obvious and out-
rageous ‘self-refutation’ occurs at the very end, with the words
ƒboul&qhn gr3yai tÏn lÎgon }Elvnhß m†n ƒgk*mion, ƒmÏn d† pa≤gnion
(‘I wanted to write this speech as an encomium of Helen and a
joke for myself’).192 However, there have been other occasions
through the speech where a similar paradoxical flavour can be
detected. For example, Gorgias says that it is necessary to

189
DK 82 B11 §15: di¤ d† t[ß Ôyewß Ó yuc¶ kån to∏ß trÎpoiß tupoıtai.
190
DK 82 B11 §18: Ó d† t0n åndri3ntwn po≤hsiß ka≥ Ó t0n ågalm3twn ƒrgas≤a
nÎson Óde∏an parvsceto (‘the making of figures and the creation of statues pro-
vides a pleasant disease for the eyes’). There may be a slight ambiguity in
Gorgias’ argument: although he describes the power of lÎgoß and Ôyiß in the
same terms, here visual deception is a disease, whereas verbal deception is com-
pared to a drug (f3rmaka §14). The primary sense of f3rmaka in the earlier
passage seems to be that of spells; nevertheless, the word may also refer to a
medicinal cure. If it is possible to read f3rmaka in this way, perhaps Gorgias
wants us to consider lÎgoi stronger than—a potential cure to—the sickness of
Ôyiß? This shade of meaning certainly fits in with his rhetorical preoccupations.
191
MacDowell (1982) 39. Perhaps this Gorgianic passage is referred to at
Euripides, Trojan Women 892–3 (where Hecabe warns Menelaus not to look at
Helen). This is the view of Barlow (1986b, 207–8) and Wardy (1996, 50), but
denied by MacDowell (1982, 12).
192
See n. 124 above.
276 Tragedy of Ideas
demonstrate by belief (dÎxa) the truth of his version of events;193
but since, if we are to believe him, language works precisely
by deceiving or beguiling one’s dÎxa (which is unreliable and
fallible), we could not possibly be convinced by a ‘demonstra-
tion’ of this kind. And in general, since Gorgias’ own theories are
expounded in the form of words, we can conclude that his speech
is no less likely than any other words to deceive us or give us a
false idea of reality!194 As we shall see, this built-in self-contra-
diction, as well as the substance of the argument itself, is an
important feature which Euripides shares with Gorgias.
The reason why Gorgias is so crucial, then, is because he
provides an answer to two questions—first, why Euripides
should have turned his attention with such intensity to the
reality-and-illusion theme in 412 (even though he had touched
on it previously); and second, why Euripides should have chosen
to explore this theme through the myth of Helen in particular
(even though, with a little ingenuity, one could examine the same
philosophical question with reference to almost any myth).
The escape-tragedies are, I believe, an explicit nod to
Gorgias—indeed, more than just a nod. Study of the plays in
detail will reveal just how thoroughly Gorgianic subject-matter,
thought and style have been absorbed by Euripides. Even if we
cannot assign a precise date to the Encomium, it seems unlikely to
be coincidental that two works should deal in a similar way with
the same philosophical theme and the same myth at more or less
the same time: one must, surely, be reacting to the other.195 This
means that we should treat Euripides’ intellectual content very
seriously indeed. Euripides is responding directly to a new,
exciting, ‘cutting-edge’ philosophical debate: this means that we
should see the escape-tragedies not just as philosophical but
extremely topical.
Although (as I warned earlier) it is impossible to say just how
original Euripides is, it seems that he is not just alluding to, or
rehashing, the Gorgianic material. Instead, he is doing some-
193
DK 82 B11 §9: de∏ d† ka≥ dÎxhi de∏xai to∏ß åko»ousi.
194
Cf. Wardy (1996) 51: ‘logos itself has seduced us, the audience of Gorgias,
into pitying Helen and execrating Paris.’
195
It is not impossible that Euripides’ Helen came first. However, the
Gorgianic echoes which have been detected in the earlier Trojan Women (see
note 180 above), and Gorgias’ seeming lack of knowledge of any outré versions
of the Helen myth (DK 82 B11 §2), make this improbable.
 Tragedy of Ideas 277
thing more ambitious, taking Gorgias’ ideas further and present-
ing them from new angles. Euripides can be seen as responding
to a challenge posed (implicitly) in the opening section of the
Encomium, where Gorgias claims that all previous poets have
been unanimous in blaming Helen.196 Gorgias himself goes on to
‘exonerate’ Helen, not by means of denying her elopement, but
by justifying her acts. Euripides, however, has found another
way of ‘exonerating’ Helen, not attempted by Gorgias—that is,
by providing an alternative myth! Gorgias tells his audience
early on in his speech that he does not propose to relate the
myth of Helen, on the grounds that it is too well-known
already.197 MacDowell comments that ‘this is disingenuous,
since Helen’s guilt is too well-known also. . . . It is possible, as
others (Euripides and/or Stesichorus) did, to justify Helen
by providing an alternative account of her behaviour’.198 But,
if Gorgias predates Euripides (and if, as I have argued,
Stesichorus’ ‘palinode’ had nothing to do with exonerating
Helen),199 we do not need to see Gorgias as disingenuous. It is
rather that Euripides is doing something which did not occur to
Gorgias.200
However, Euripides’ original contribution lies not in his novel
defence of Helen (if that is what it really is), but in the fact that he
has combined the separate theories of Gorgias’ Encomium and
On What is Not into a single, unified argument. In addition, he
has taken this argument significantly further, by applying
Gorgias’ conclusions about reality and language to myths. Now
Gorgias had made use of mythical characters (in the Encomium
and also the Defence of Palamedes); but, although he had drawn
some parallels between poetry, tragedy and other areas of
196
DK 82 B11 §2.
197
DK 82 B11 §5.
198
MacDowell (1982) 30–1.
199
See Ch. 2 above.
200
This is yet another reason why we should not be paying very much atten-
tion to Stesichorus. If we are looking for influences behind Euripides which will
help us to understand the plays, Gorgias is clearly a better bet. This is seen by
Solmsen (1934a, 120), who adds that ‘there is in fact no possibility that
Stesichoros or any other Greek poet who lived before Euripides speculated on
the difference of ønÎmata and pr3gmata (or s*mata)’. Solmsen also notes that
Euripides started exploiting the contrast between these terms only around the
time of Helen—but he does not quite make the connection between Gorgias and
the escape-tragedies.
278 Tragedy of Ideas
his theories,201 Gorgias had not applied his conclusions to the
mythical tradition itself. Where do myths fit into the relationship
between reality, illusion and deception? Can we believe myths?
Are myths true or lies? These are questions which the escape-
tragedies pose. Thus they are ‘philosophical tragedies’ in a very
special sense. By questioning ‘mythical reality’ as well as ‘real
reality’, they bring the typical preoccupations and subject-
matter of tragedy into a broader critical and intellectual frame-
work. Some of the Presocratics had brought together poetic
subject-matter and philosophy together—usually from a theo-
logical perspective.202 But the combination of epistemology,
ontology and tragic myth in Euripides is extraordinary.

4.4 reality, illusion, delusion

4.4.1 Reading the trilogy
So far, because of the significance of Gorgias, I have been talking
mainly about Helen. Perhaps unsurprisingly, Helen is the most
explicitly ‘philosophical’ of the escape-tragedies, in its highly
concentrated and verbally explicit presentation of ideas. Never-
theless, the theme of reality and illusion is also shared by
Andromeda and Iphigenia. This has not previously been acknow-
ledged (one fairly negative comment on Iphigenia judges that
play to be a ‘tentative adumbration’ of some of the themes of
201
Gorgias referred to poetry as ‘language with metre’ (lÎgon πconta mvtron,
B11 §9), which makes explicit that poetry is just another type of lÎgoß, subject to
the same problematic relationship with reality. Elsewhere, Gorgias wrote that
tragedy aimed specifically at deception of its audience (DK 82 B23). Segal
(1962) attempts at length to explain Gorgias’ work in terms of a rudimentary
psychological/aesthetic theory of literature. His argument is ingenious; but
there is no sign from Gorgias that we should read his works as relating only to the
literary or rhetorical sphere: they are clearly ‘philosophical’ in a wider sense.
Segal’s conviction that Gorgias’ subject was really ‘the psychology of the
logos’ may explain why his interesting essay (1971) on Euripides’ Helen uses a
modern framework (structuralism and the work of Northrop Frye), rather than
an ancient one, for interpreting the play. Nevertheless, it is still rather odd that
he does not pursue further the obvious connections between Gorgias and
Euripides. He merely (560–1) links Euripides in general to ‘the concerns of the
late fifth century’ (Cf. Kannicht [1969] 1. 57–60). This is all very well, but we
cannot blame ‘the late fifth century’ for everything, without looking for indi-
vidual influences!
202
e.g. Xenophanes’ criticisms of Homeric and Hesiodic gods (DK 21
B10–16).
 Tragedy of Ideas 279
Helen, but does not refer specifically to the philosophical
content).203 The question arises, of course, to what extent one
should look for coherence and connectedness between these
three plays, even if, as I am arguing, they form a trilogy. I think
it would be excessively schematic and dull to expect each play
to treat the same ideas in exactly the same way; and, clearly,
they do not do this. The intense word-play of the Helen, if
repeated to the same degree in all three tragedies, would no
doubt bring about fatigue in even the most highbrow members
of the audience. However, the plays, though not identical, do fit
together coherently.
I have already argued that Helen is the first play of the trilogy—
and we can now see a particular reason for this position. The
function of the whole play is, in a sense, programmatic. Euri-
pides is making clear, right at the beginning, his Gorgianic affini-
ties and the nature of his philosophical ideas, identifying the
main themes of interest which will recur, in some form or other,
throughout the trilogy. Thus, even though Andromeda and
Iphigenia have slightly different preoccupations, they will still be
read in the light of Helen.
If the whole of Helen is programmatic, its prologue is
especially so: it is not just ‘scene-setting’, but clearly directs its
audience how to read the play (and the trilogy). Even the most
cursory glance will show that practically all the themes which the
plays explore are (implicitly or explicitly) signalled there. The
difficulty, or impossibility, of distinguishing reality from illu-
sion; the connection of names to their objects; different forms of
illusion, delusion and deception; the problematic relationship of
myth to reality—all are introduced in the prologue’s one
hundred and sixty-six lines.204 However, rather than starting
there and reading the plays sequentially from beginning to end,
I am going to arrange what follows (approximately) by themes,
in order to elucidate their argument more clearly.
203
Podlecki (1970) 418: ‘The dominant motifs of Helen, like the basic situa-
tion, are adumbrated already in I.T. in a tentative and even unsure way . . . what
one misses is the insistent reiteration of themes that Helen exhibits, and I.T.
seems to be without the unity which its dominant themes give to Helen.’
204
Reality versus illusion: 4, 18–21, 27, 34–6, 42–3, 54, 66–7, 72–7, 108,
117–22, 137–40, 160–1. Names: 7, 9–10, 11–14, 16–17, 22, 24, 66–7, 148–50.
Deception/delusion: 20, 34–6, 126, 132. Scepticism towards myth: 17–21, 99,
137–40.
280 Tragedy of Ideas
That argument, in brief, is as follows. It is impossible for
human beings to make any firm statements about reality, exis-
tence, or personal identity; it is impossible to tell the difference
between reality and illusion, or even what ‘reality’ is. Much of
human action is based on delusion. We cannot believe the evi-
dence of our eyes and ears; we cannot trust language to represent
reality; and we cannot believe myths (which are just one parti-
cular form of language). In short, we cannot understand our-
selves, other people, or the world. This Weltanschauung is
radically nihilistic in a philosophical sense, but also dark and
uncomfortable in a human sense. Euripides connects all of this
speculation to tragedy’s generic depiction of human limitations
and human suffering;205 he is showing how philosophy impinges
on life, in individual terms as well as on a large scale.
My summary—which might strike the reader as rather
extreme—represents the escape-tragedies’ message in its most
developed form. However, this message may be read on different
levels, as the full significance emerges only gradually. The
‘counterfactual’ scenarios, as established in the prologues, may
shock and disturb us, but their philosophical implications are
initially less complex and less radical than they will later turn out
to be.

4.4.2 Disillusionment
Both Helen and Iphigenia in their prologue-speeches explain to
the audience that they have been labouring under a delusion.
The familiar myths, they say, are untrue: the real events were not
as they previously seemed to be. The Trojan War was fought not
for Helen’s sake but for a phantom which only resembled her;
and Agamemnon sacrificed not Iphigenia but a hind. Before you
sat down in the theatre on this spring day in 412, you never
suspected this. Instead, you were misled, by the gods, by your
deficient senses, by false opinion, by speech (and so on), into
believing lies. But now, at last, we are presenting you with the
real version of events.
To accept even so much has serious consequences, since it
causes us to re-evaluate the central events of the Trojan War and
205
As I said above (p. 42), tragedy in general explores human suffering: but
we need not call this ‘the tragic’.
 Tragedy of Ideas 281
the calamities of the Argive royal family. We are reminded, by
frequent, unmissable references throughout the plays, of the
horror of Iphigenia’s sacrifice,206 the murder of Agamemnon,207
Orestes’ matricide and madness,208 the destruction and massive
loss of life at Troy209—yet all of this suffering is now seen to be for
nothing. This is completely ‘disillusioning’, in the worst sense of
the word.210
Helen’s miserable words in her prologue-speech (52–5) make
the situation plain:
yuca≥ d† polla≥ di’ πm’ ƒp≥ Skamandr≤oiß
Âoa∏sin πqanon: Ó d† p3nta tl$s’ ƒg°
kat3ratÎß ejmi ka≥ dok0 prodoıs’ ƒmÏn
pÎsin sun3yai pÎlemon E fi llhsin mvgan.
Because of me, many souls perished by the streams of Scamander. And
I have borne all manner of sufferings, yet I am cursed because it seems
that I betrayed my husband and started a huge war for the Greeks.
Many souls perished—for nothing. Helen’s yuca≥ . . . polla≥
unmistakably recalls the wording of the first lines of the Iliad,211
thus prompting the reflection that the heroic events described
by Homer, and even the definitive epic poem itself, are now
diminished in meaning and worth. Here and throughout the
play, the emphasis is on suffering: not just the suffering of those
who fought and died at Troy, but the suffering of Helen herself
and her family which has been caused by mistaken opinion and
206
Iphigenia 6–9, 19–24, 26–9, 178, 210–17, 358–71, 565–6, 770–1, 783–7,
854–5, 1082–3, 1418.
207
Iphigenia 170–1, 199–200, 545–55, 663–5, 926–7 (238 and 1185 may also
indirectly recall the event to mind).
208
Iphigenia 78–80, 281–94, 296–319, 556–9, 663–5, 924–35, 940–4, 1007–8,
1033, 1047, 1173–5, 1200.
209
Helen 33, 39–40, 44–5, 52–5, 73–4, 109–10, 128, 198, 248, 364, 384–5,
398–9, 539, 582, 603, 608–10, 683, 692–3, 703, 705–7, 716, 750, 766, 848–9, 876,
970, 1013–16, 1122, 1126, 1135–6, 1161, 1219–20, 1446. There are references to
Helen’s guilt and the suffering and death at Troy in Iphigenia also: 8, 13–14,
355–7, 439–51, 521–6, 566.
210
Kannicht (1969, 1. 53–68) makes the pointlessness of the Trojan War cen-
tral to his reading of Helen, interpreting it as, essentially, an ‘anti-war’ play.
Grube (1961, 347) wrote that ‘it may not be too fanciful that the poet . . . is
making us feel that all wars are fought for phantoms’. This is supported by the
first stasimon, in which the chorus sing that all who wage wars are fools (£froneß,
1151). Cf. Segal (1971) 568, 580; Alt (1962) 15–16; Vellacott (1975) 166–7;
Seidensticker (1982) 198; Meltzer (1994) 238.
211
Hom. Il. 1. 3–4: poll¤ß d’ jfq≤mouß yuc¤ß ⁄∫di proºayen | Ór*wn.
282 Tragedy of Ideas
false appearances. We already know of the toils which Menelaus
has undergone in order to retrieve his wife; but now we learn,
from Teucer, that the shame of Helen’s supposed guilt has
caused her mother Leda to hang herself.212 This disturbing fact
is not altered by the revelation of the ‘truth’ about the phantom.
Nobody will bring Leda, like Iphigenia, back from the dead; no
one will restore to life and vigour those countless young men who
perished by Scamander’s side. The futility of the war is made
explicit in the words of the old messenger, when he learns that
the gods have deceived everyone:
t≤ f&iß;
nefvlhß £r’ £llwß e÷comen pÎnouß pvri;213
What?—we suffered in vain, for a cloud?
Even the barbarian king Theoclymenus, when he learns of the
phantom, exclaims: _ Pr≤ame ka≥ g[ Trwi3ß, 〈„ß〉 πrreiß m3thn (‘O
Priam and the land of Troy, you were destroyed for nothing’,
1220)—a sentiment which (one might think) must have occurred
to him previously—but its inclusion here again underlines the
point.
The world of Homer and heroic myth is thrown into doubt by
the ‘truth’ about Helen. Male, heroic values are now seen to be of
questionable worth.214 In this context, the klvoß—glory, fame,
renown—of Troy becomes just another word, another instance
of misleading language.215 It is in this light that the character of
Menelaus and his reactions to the new situation should be inter-
preted—for this explains why he is not, as Burnett and others
212
Helen 133–6. Dale (1967, on 136) thinks this detail a Euripidean invention:
see §2.3 above.
213
Helen 706–7. (Interestingly, these lines were used by Seferis as the epi-
graph for his own E } lvnh, a poem about the evils of war.) Earlier in the play, the
same character has already told Menelaus that all his manifold toils have been in
vain (603: lvgw pÎnouß se mur≤ouß tl[nai m3thn), but at that point, not knowing
that there were two ‘Helens’, he was referring to the fact that the phantom-
Helen had disappeared: so his words are full of proleptic irony.
214
See Segal (1971) 574–7.
215
Helen 845, 1063–4. Wolff (1973, 81) points out that in Helen klvoß is
inseparable from the Trojan War. The exploitation of the two meanings of klvoß
in Helen (‘glory’ or ‘report’) is discussed at (perhaps extreme) length by Meltzer
(1994). Some of his conclusions are somewhat odd: for example, he claims (239)
that the play ‘deconstructs the notion of a unitary, transcendent meaning of
kleos’; but, since the word is (since Homer) already dual in meaning, there can
have been no need for Euripides to ‘deconstruct’ such a notion.
 Tragedy of Ideas 283
thought,216 a comical figure in an amusing predicament. In fact,
as Podlecki points out, he is ‘a Homeric hero who now finds him-
self in a desperately serious situation to cope with which he can
find no tactics in his military manual’.217 Menelaus—unlike
Odysseus—cannot survive out of his natural, Iliadic context.
In particular, the scene in which Menelaus is verbally and
physically abused by the old Portress is used to highlight his lack
of status and unheroic behaviour.218 Even if Menelaus had
behaved with valour and courage throughout the play, we would
be forced to question his past actions; but, as it is, he is charac-
terized in an extremely negative way. He is desperate, lowly and
ineffectual, and in both intellect and action he takes second place
to his wife. All of this further points up the disparity between
apparent and genuine ‘heroism’.
We can draw similarly grim conclusions from the plot of
Iphigenia, where again the counterfactual myth causes us to re-
evaluate all that we previously thought we knew. The fact that
Iphigenia was not sacrificed means that her mother need not
have killed Agamemnon,219 and, in turn, that Orestes need not
have killed Clytemnestra. Orestes, when the awful truth dawns
on him, does not even wish to put it into words, even though
Iphigenia presses him not once but several times for an explana-
tion. When Iphigenia first asks about Agamemnon, the follow-
ing exchange occurs (548–54):
OR. tvqnhc’ Ø tl&mwn: prÏß d’ åp*lesvn tina.
IF. tvqnhke; po≤ai sumfor$i; t3lain’ ƒg*.

216
Burnett (1960) 155 (see §4.1 above); cf. Griffith (1953) 37; Grube (1961)
339–41; Alt (1962) 14–15; Bowie (1993) 218.
217
Podlecki (1970) 402–3.
218
Helen 437–82. Note especially the old woman’s words at 454: oÛkoın ƒke∏
pou semnÏß Ásq’, oÛk ƒnq3de (‘no doubt you were a big man somewhere or other—
but not here’). Wolff (1973, 81) notes that this negative attitude towards the
Trojan ‘achievement’ is found at Hom. Od. 9.273 and Eur. Cycl. 283–4. This fits
in with Segal’s (1971, 572–4) characterization of Helen as an ‘Odyssean’ work of
literature; however, I find his identification of ‘Odyssean’ with ‘romantic’
qualities unacceptably anachronistic and imprecise.
219
Cropp (2000, 229) thinks that there may be a deliberate ambiguity con-
cerning Clytemnestra’s motivation—was it the sacrifice or her affaire with
Aegisthus that made her act as she did (cf. Pind. Pyth. 11.22–5)? I cannot
agree with him. It is true that Euripides never gives a definite answer, but he
implicitly links Iphigenia’s sacrifice and the murder in at least two places (545–
55, 926–7)—and, in any case, no mention whatsoever is made of Aegisthus.
284 Tragedy of Ideas
OR. t≤ d’ ƒstvnaxaß toıto; m0n pros[kv soi;
IF. tÏn Ôlbon aÛtoı tÏn p3roiq’ ånastvnw.
OR. dein0ß g¤r ƒk gunaikÏß o÷cetai sfage≤ß.
IF. _ pand3krutoß Ó ktanoısa c∑ qan*n.
OR. paısai nun ‡dh, m&d’ ƒrwt&shiß pvra.
Orestes: The unfortunate man is dead: and he caused the death of
another.
Iphigenia: Dead? What happened to him? O, wretched me!
Orestes: Why does that make you wail? Surely he had nothing to do
with you?
Iphigenia: I am lamenting his former prosperity.
Orestes: He died terribly, murdered by his wife.
Iphigenia: O thoroughly lamentable, the killer and her victim!
Orestes: Stop right there, and do not ask me any more questions.
At this point, Orestes is unaware of Iphigenia’s identity, which
means that his reticence is perhaps understandable; but the
implicit significance of his reluctance to answer questions
will not escape the audience. Later on, after the recognition of
brother and sister has taken place, they continue (924–7):
IF. t¤ dein¤ d’ πrga p0ß πtlhß mhtrÏß pvri;
OR. sig0men aÛt3: patr≥ timwr0n ƒm0i.
IF. Ó d’ ajt≤a t≤ß ånq’ Òtou kte≤nei pÎsin;
OR. πa t¤ mhtrÎß: oÛdv so≥ kl»ein kalÎn.
Iphigenia: But how did you endure to commit those terrible acts against
our mother?
Orestes: Let us not speak about them. I was avenging our father.
Iphigenia: But why did she kill her husband?
Orestes: Drop the subject of our mother. It is not good for you to hear
of it.
A few lines later Orestes refers again, euphemistically, to t¤
mhtrÏß taıq’ 4 sig0men kak3 (‘that awful business of our mother,
about which we do not speak’, 940). This repeated silence, in the
face of Iphigenia’s curiosity, is an extremely effective way of
emphasizing the pain of Orestes’ realization of the futility of
his actions, in contrast to the explicit horror (t≤ f&iß;) of the
messenger in Helen.
Both Helen and Iphigenia begin, then, by encouraging us to
reject our previous ‘knowledge’ of reality and replace it with a
new, more accurate version. So far, however, there have been no
very profound epistemological consequences. The message, on
 Tragedy of Ideas 285
the face of it, is that people sometimes make mistakes. Now that
the mistakes have been corrected, we are at liberty to accept the
restoration of order, joyous reunions and ‘happy endings’ which
the plays seem to offer. Nevertheless, many members of the
audience (especially bearing in mind the progress of the war in
spring 412) will have found that the pervasive sense of futility
and waste outweighs any positive aspects. Nor is that the only
reason for unease. It becomes clear as the plays progress that we
cannot accept the initial situations at their face value. The extent
of human delusion may not be limited to just a couple of (albeit
major) myths.

4.4.3 Is anything as it seems?

The escape-tragedies present their material—not only the myths
of Helen and Iphigenia but many other elements, major and
minor—in such a way that we are led to question whether any-
thing is as it seems. All appearances and words, including myths,
are potentially deceptive, either because language is incapable
of representing reality or because people deliberately use (or
misuse) words in order to create persuasion or deception.
Apart from the main ‘counterfactual’ myths, the plays contain
many other instances of deceptive language and appearances.
Words relating to language and sense-perception (such as dok0,
Ør0, lvgousin, fas≤n, „ß lÎgoß, and so on) are so common that
otherwise unremarkable statements are altered in meaning,
becoming ambiguous and suspicious. (For example, the word
doke∏n and its cognates occur, often in a pointed manner,
explicitly or implicitly contrasting seeming with reality, some
twenty-four times in Helen and twenty-five times in Iphigenia.220)
Iphigenia is dead only in seeming (false);221 Agamemnon only
seemed (falsely) to run his daughter through with a sword;222
Orestes says that his task is to remove the image of Artemis
which they say (truly or falsely) fell from the sky;223 they say that
220
Helen 35, 36, 54, 119, 121, 307, 576, 611, 657, 658, 748, 758, 841, 917, 954,
956, 982, 993, 1020, 1392, 1661, 1683, 1690, 1691. Iphigenia 8, 44, 50, 69, 71,
176, 279, 299, 349, 390, 641, 678, 785, 802, 831, 855, 896, 956, 1029, 1030, 1164,
221
1219, 1336, 1402, 1443. Iphigenia 176: dok&masi.
222
Iphigenia 784–5: ©n πqus’ ƒmÏß pat¶r | dok0n ƒß Óm$ß øxŸ f3sganon bale∏n.
223
Iphigenia 87–8: labe∏n t’ £galma qe$ß Ò fasin ƒnq3de | ƒß to»sde naoŸß . . .
pese∏n.
286 Tragedy of Ideas
Justice is the daughter of Zeus;224 Iphigenia’s joy at her reunion
with Orestes is greater than words (more real);225 the chorus of
Iphigenia comment that the events they have witnessed are
beyond words;226 Thoas’ amazement at the escape of Iphigenia
cannot be put into words;227 Menelaus is said (falsely) to be dead
up and down Greece,228 and he later has to die in word (false);229
characters’ words are often inadequate reflections of their situa-
tions . . .230 and so on. (These are just a few examples, chosen at
random; the sections which follow will explore more of the
numerous passages throughout the plays which contrast the
apparent and the real.)
The characters frequently cannot be sure what is before their
eyes. This is a problem posed particularly by Helen and her
Doppelgänger (to which I shall return), but it arises in many other
places. Indeed, none of the characters initially recognizes any of
the others. For instance, the herdsmen who catch sight of
Orestes and Pylades on the Tauric cliffs are deceived by their
eyes into thinking that they are gods: oÛc Ør$te; da≤monvß tineß |
q3ssousin oJde (‘Can you not see? Those are gods sitting there’).231
A little later, Orestes is plagued by Furies which he alone can
see.232 He cries to his friend: Pul3dh, dvdorkaß t&nde; t&nde d’ oÛc
Ør$iß | fiAidou dr3kainan; (‘Pylades, have you seen her? Do you not
see this woman, this snake from Hades?’). Pylades cannot see the
Furies, but they are real enough. The herdsman who narrates
this occurrence confirms their invisibility:
224
Andromeda fr. 151: t&n toi D≤khn lvgousi pa∏d’ e”nai DiÏß . . . Bubel (1991,
152) compares this to Helen 17 ff ., but he thinks that lvgousi is a technique used
simply to mark a common myth: ‘wie auch sonst haüfig teilt Euripides Realien
der Mythologie, die hier auf Hesiod zurückgehen, unter Berufung auf eine
communis opinio.’
225
Iphigenia 836–7: _ kre∏sson ∂ lÎgoisin eÛtucoıs3 mou | t»ca: t≤ f0;
qaum3twn | pvra ka≥ lÎgou prÎsw t3d’ åpvba.
226
Iphigenia 900: m»qwn pvra.
227
Iphigenia 1321: _ qaıma: p0ß se me∏zon ønom3saß t»cw;
228
Helen 126: „ß ke∏noß åfan¶ß sŸn d3marti klñizetai, 132: qan°n dv klñizetai
kaq’ }Ell3da.
229
Helen 1150: bo»lhi lvgesqai m¶ qan°n lÎgwi qane∏n; 1152: 1toimÎß ejmi m¶
qan°n lÎgwi qane∏n.
230
Andromeda fr. 140: _ tl[mon, „ß so≥ t¤ß t»caß m†n åsqene∏ß | πdwc’ Ø da≤mwn,
231
mvga fronoısi d’ oÈ lÎgoi. Iphigenia 267–8.
232
Iphigenia 284–5. Note Cropp (2000) 195: ‘As in the other dramatic
accounts, only Orestes can hear the Furies, but their imaginariness is not played
on here as it is in Orestes (211–315).’
 Tragedy of Ideas 287
par[n d’ Ør$n
oÛ taıta morf[ß sc&mat’, £ll’ ]ll3sseto
fqogg3ß te mÎscwn ka≥ kun0n Ël3gmata
†4ß f$s’† E∞ rinıß Èvnai mim&mata.233
it was not possible to see these figures; but [Orestes] was answered by
the lowing of cattle and the barking of dogs, †which they say† the
Furies emit, mimicking these creatures.
There are two layers of illusion in this episode: not only are the
Furies visible-yet-invisible, but the way in which they speak is
calculated to confuse the senses even further, for they mimic the
noises of dogs and cows! So deceptive sounds—the Furies, the
gruesomely inappropriate wedding-hymns and pipe-music at
Aulis,234 the disembodied voice of Echo in Andromeda,235 the
phantom who has Helen’s voice as well as her appearance,236 and
so on—are seen to fall into the same category.
Dreams are another form of deceptive appearance, made
much of in Iphigenia.237 Dreams are, for whatever reason, a
common motif in various versions of the Atreid myths: one
thinks of Clytemnestra’s horrific dreams of Agamemnon (in
Stesichorus’ Oresteia) and Orestes (in Aeschylus’ Libation
Bearers and Sophocles’ Electra).238 The play opens, after the
initial details of myth and genealogy have been outlined, with
Iphigenia’s account of the dream which she had during the
previous night.239 In this dream, Iphigenia seemed to see the
royal palace at Argos collapsing in ruin, except for a single pillar
with remarkably human features; to this pillar Iphigenia gave a
ritual sprinkling of water, as to one about to die. As it later
transpires, the details of the dream are close (though not identi-
cal) to the truth. (It correctly represents the miserable state of the
house of Atreus, and it prefigures the narrowly averted sacrifice

233
Iphigenia 291–4. Cropp (2000, ad loc.) thinks that line 294 is a ‘clumsy
“explanatory” interpolation’ (cf. 299), but he does not take into account the
frequent use of fas≤ (etc.) elsewhere in the play for deliberate effect.
234
Iphigenia 365–8.
235
Andromeda fr. 118.
236
Helen 608–15. Note that Homer’s Helen (Od. 4. 277–9) mimicked the
voices of the wives of the men hidden inside the Wooden Horse, in an attempt to
expose their deception!
237
See Devereux (1976) 259–312; Cropp (2000) 175–6.
238
Stesichorus fr. 219 Davies; Aesch. Cho. 22, 514; Soph. El. 417.
239
Iphigenia 43–60.
288 Tragedy of Ideas
and bogus purification ritual, as well as anticipating Iphigenia’s
return to Greece and her ritual duties at Brauron. However, the
geography and the temporal sequence are distorted.) It is
Iphigenia’s interpretation of the dream, based on what seems to
be true (dÎxa),240 that is erroneous: she thinks that Orestes is
dead. The events of the play show that the dream was genuinely
prophetic, but Iphigenia persists in saying that it was false:
yeude∏ß Ôneiroi, ca≤ret’: oÛd†n Át’ £ra (‘Farewell, false dreams: so
you were nothing after all’, 569). The details of the dream, and
the manner in which it is fulfilled, make it less straightforward
than other tragic dreams. As Devereux points out, one of its
functions, in terms of plot, is the creation of suspense by falsely
anticipating later actions: ‘it decreases Orestes’ chances of being
recognized, and increases the risk that he will be sacrificed.’241
Nevertheless, the real significance of Iphigenia’s dream is that,
true or false, it emphasizes human misunderstanding and the
suffering which it can bring. Dreams are a form of illusion with a
genuine connection to reality, but we cannot trust our senses or
our dÎxa to explain or communicate that reality.
The main characters use words and appearances as a means to
an end, rather than a reflection of truth. Deliberate deception
forms a recurrent motif throughout the plays.242 There are many
scattered references to deception (åp3th): for example, the trans-
formation of Zeus into a swan in order to consummate his
passion by trickery;243 Aphrodite’s cheating in the beauty-
contest;244 the misleading beacons which Nauplius lit on Euboea
in order to sink Greek ships;245 the trickery of Odysseus which
devised Iphigenia’s sham marriage with Achilles;246 and the
deceptive dreams which Zeus sends to mortals in order that
240
Iphigenia 44 (πdox’), 50 („ß πdoxv moi).
241
Devereux (1976) 270.
242
Downing (1990) discusses uses of åp3th in Helen.
243
Helen 20 (ß dÎlion eÛn¶n ƒxvprax’).
244
Helen 25–30.
245
Mentioned not once but twice (Helen 766–9, 1126–30): their connection to
the themes not just of deceptive appearances but also of the dangers of the sea
(see §3.4 above) is clear. It is possible that there is a provocative allusion here to
Gorgias’ Defence of Palamedes (DK 82 B11a), whose date is unknown (see Segal
[1962] 100 and my note 180 above for the problems of dating Gorgias), but
which might well have influenced Euripides: see especially Palamedes §6–7, with
its remarks on the role of speech in conspiracy.
246
Iphigenia 24–5, 361–77, 538–9.
 Tragedy of Ideas 289
Apollo should retain his prophetic honour.247 However, the most
prominent use of deception is in the plot itself. In the first half of
each play, all the characters struggle to separate reality from
delusion: a process which culminates in the recognition-scenes.
But in the latter half, the main characters immediately start
deceiving the barbarians and concealing their newly regained
identity, so that once again—this time ironically—appearances
and reality fail to coincide. Both heroines dissemble at length,
spinning their captors completely fabricated accounts of bogus
rituals.248 As has been pointed out elsewhere, Helen’s own
deception is described in terms very similar to the deception
brought about by the phantom.249 Iphigenia and Orestes use
words to persuade the women of the chorus to assist them, not by
speech but by silence, for a loyal tongue is a fine thing.250 The
category of deceptive words can thus include deceptive silence
too.251 Iphigenia promises that, if the women help her escape, she
will rescue them—a promise which may or may not be genuine
but which achieves its aim.252 Later on, when the chorus speak to
the Tauric messenger and Thoas, their words are completely
false.253 Similarly, in Helen, the chorus is asked by Helen
(with the same promise of safety as bait) to guard their mouths;254
and they later lie to Theoclymenus (even though, as Dale

247
Iphigenia 1234–82.
248
Iphigenia 1129–1233; Helen 1193–300.
249
Helen 610, 813, 930, 1034, 1049, 1091, 1621: cf. Downing (1990) 11–12.
250
Iphigenia 1063–4: sig&saq’ Óm∏n ka≥ sunekpon&sate | fug3ß: kalÎn toi gl0ss’
Òtwi pist¶ par[i. For more examples of mendacious words from complicit
choruses, see Cropp (2000) 237.
251
Andromeda fr. 126, spoken by (?)Perseus, concerns the interpretation of
silence, as opposed to words: sig$iß: siwp¶ d’ £poroß ‰rmhneŸß lÎgwn (‘you are
silent: but silence is no use as an interpreter of words’). The lack of context
makes it hard to understand, but it clearly connects to the same theme. Jouan
and Van Looy (1998, 174) compare this line to Hippolytus 911 (sig$iß: siwp[ß d’
oÛd†n πrgon ƒn kako∏ß, ‘you are silent; but in difficult times silence is of no avail)
and the tantalizing fr. incert. 977 (Ó g¤r siwp¶ to∏ß sofo∏sin åpÎkrisiß, ‘for silence
is a response to the wise’).
252
Did Iphigenia really mean to help the Greek women escape? No mention
of this is made in the escape-plans which follow, and it is not clear how Iphigenia
will effect their rescue. Nevertheless, Athena’s closing words ex machina
(1467–9) do indeed provide for the women’s safe return to Greece. See Cropp
(2000) 60, 237, 264 (he believes that there is a lacuna in 1468) and Kovacs (2000).
253
Iphigenia 1293–1301; cf. 1308 (yeud0ß πlegon).
254
Helen 1387–9: ka≥ s† prospoio»meqa | eÇnoun krate∏n te stÎmatoß . . .
290 Tragedy of Ideas
notes, ‘Theoclymenus is too angry to notice the disingenuous
remark’).255
Illusions and delusions abound. As the plays contrast appear-
ances and reality, they establish a series of verbal antitheses
which are exploited prominently (especially in Helen, as befits its
‘programmatic’ status). For example, Helen contrasts her name
with her physical identity, saying: ej ka≥ kaq’ }Ell3d’ Ônoma
duskle†ß fvrw, | m& moi tÏ s0m3 g’ ƒnq3d’ ajsc»nhn Ôflhi (‘even if
my name has an inglorious reputation throughout Greece, here
in Egypt my body may avoid disgrace’).256 When talking of the
beauty-contest on Ida, Helen says (42–3): proutvqhn ƒg° m†n oÇ,
tÏ d’ Ônoma toÛmÎn (‘I was set up as a prize—not I myself, but my
name’), again making the same distinction. Solmsen long ago
noted the frequent occurrence of this contrast between Ônoma
(‘name’) and s0ma (‘body’),257 but this is not the only source of
word-play. Language and reality are contrasted in other ways,
too: for instance, the Greek servant, expressing surprise that he
has not been molested by barbarians, exclaims: qaum3st’, πlasson
toÇnom∞ ∂ tÏ pr$gm∞ πcon (‘It is amazing!—even the word ‘amazing’
cannot express the fact of the matter’).258 Reality is also juxta-
posed with appearance or seeming, often with reference to the
phantom: for instance, Helen says of Paris that doke∏ m’ πcein, |
ken¶n dÎkhsin, oÛk πcwn (‘he believes he possesses me, but he does
not: it is an empty belief’).259
Despite what some critics think,260 this is more than mere
word-play. Rather, the recurring words form a framework for
interpreting what we see in front of us: the plays are designed to
make us think in terms of polar opposites. As others have
255
Helen 1619–20. Dale (1967, ad loc.) interprets their words there as an
attempt to divert suspicion from themselves, noting that (as such) the purpose
differs from that of the actively deceptive chorus in Iphigenia.
256
Helen 66–7; cf. 588, 601, 1100 for similar expressions.
257
Solmsen (1934a).
258
Helen 600–1. Cf. 792 (Ônoma–pr$gma). It will be noted here and elsewhere
that these Greek sentences are difficult to render into English which is accurate
and which retains the sophistication of the original.
259
Helen 35–6: cf. 611.
260
Dale (1967, xvi), for example, wrote: ‘There is much play with such
antitheses as s0ma–Ônoma, and flashes of irony from this source point the dia-
logue; but there is no metaphysical or psychological depth here, nor would any-
thing of the kind be appropriate.’ I have been arguing against this type of
approach throughout this chapter.
 Tragedy of Ideas 291
observed, the use of antithesis and word-play is a characteristic-
ally sophistic mode of organizing thought, found especially
in the so-called Dissoi Logoi but also widely elsewhere.261 In
general, the various antitheses can be seen to correspond to a
single schema as set out in Table 4.1.

Table 4.1
Illusion Reality
old new
false true
delusion knowledge
Iphigenia sacrificed hind sacrificed
wicked Helen phantom
Ônoma (‘name’) s0ma (‘body’)
doke∏n (‘seem’) e”nai (‘be’)
lÎgoß (‘word’) πrgon (‘deed’, ‘fact’)

This schema itself reflects the epistemological ideas of many of

the Presocratics and sophists discussed above (§4.3). Its polari-
ties make it attractive for those who, like Charles Segal, give a
structuralist reading of Helen. I follow Segal’s lead in presenting
these ideas in the form of a table;262 but it will be clear that my
own interpretation is somewhat different from his. Table 4.1
suggests that the plays conform to a neat, unambiguous pattern.
Segal does, indeed, give a satisfyingly coherent interpretation of
Helen, mapping on to this basic framework many other elements
from the play (for example, Theonoe and Theoclymenus,
morality, justice, gender, and so on); but, while his argument is
ingenious, it does not entirely work. This is not (or not only)
because it is over-schematic, but, more importantly, because the
play does not lend itself to a neat analysis. Segal’s reading is
based on two beliefs: first, that Helen is a romance, and second,
261
Dissoi Logoi (DK 90). Rusten (1991) 7–17, on lÎgoß and πrgon in
Thucydides, provides interesting comparative material. Parallels between
sophistic antitheses and Euripidean language are noted by Solmsen (1934a);
Kannicht (1969) 1. 57–8; Wolff (1973) 77–9; Conacher (1998). Other examples
from Euripides of sophistic word-play are to be found at Orestes 390, 454–5
(Ônoma–s0ma) and Hipp. 500–1 (Ônoma–πrgon). Pohlenz (1954, 1. 386), wittily,
calls the plot of Euripides’ Helen a ‘dissos muthos’.
262
Segal (1971) 574, 582, 591.
292 Tragedy of Ideas
that it has (on the whole) a ‘happy ending’.263 These beliefs (both
of them erroneous) have caused him to play down the negative
aspects of the play. I have already given one reason why the
plays’ apparent optimism is hard to swallow—but, ‘disillusion-
ment’ aside, it is simply not true that Helen or the other escape-
tragedies clarify our former delusions.
The escape-tragedies do not do what they at first seem to be
doing, viz. simply replacing false, deluded opinion with true
knowledge. If it were really possible to describe every problem-
atic ‘fact’ in the plays as either real or illusory, then there would
be no problem; but as the plays progress it becomes impossible
to assign a definite truth-value to anything. It is not just certain
specific ‘facts’, but the whole basis for our ‘knowledge’ of reality,
that is being challenged. The tidy schema in Table 4.1 is itself a
delusion: its series of antitheses breaks down as soon as it has
been established, and the polar relationship between reality and
illusion is cast into doubt.
The deconstruction of the dichotomy can be seen on the level
of word-play, where, confusingly, familiar verbal contrasts are
altered and structurally opposite terms exchange positions. For
example, Teucer, remarking on the identical appearance of
Helen and the phantom, says (to Helen) that, although she may
resemble Helen in body, her personality is quite different (}Elvnhi
d’ Òmoion s0m∞ πcous’ oÛ t¤ß frvnaß | πceiß Ømo≤aß åll¤ diafÎrouß
pol»).264 This distorts the usual antithesis of Ônoma (illusory)
versus s0ma (real), and instead replaces it with s0ma (illusory)
versus frvneß (real). A little later, Helen bewails her lot, saying:
åll¤ p3nt’ πcousa dustuc[ | to∏ß pr3gmasin tvqnhka, to∏ß d’
πrgoisin oÇ.265 This again disturbs the usual contrast: instead of
Ônoma (illusory) versus pr$gma (real), or lÎgoß (illusory) versus
πrgon (real), she makes two ‘real’ terms opposed to each other. So
what do Helen’s words here mean? ‘I am dead in deed, but not in
fact’? Morwood translates the phrase as: ‘I am as good as dead
and yet I am alive’,266 which is probably the most obvious mean-
263
Segal does, it is true, detect certain unresolved tensions at the end of the
play (1971, 607–10), but he does not press these tensions far enough, preferring
‘ambiguity’ and ‘lack of resolution’ to a definite (either positive or negative)
264
interpretation. Helen 160–1.
265
Helen 285–6.
266
Morwood (1997) 127. See also Dale (1967) ad loc., comparing Hecabe 431
and Soph. Oed. Col. 782.
 Tragedy of Ideas 293
ing; but the mode of expression is both confusing and slightly
sinister.
‘Alive’ and ‘dead’, like ‘reality’ and ‘illusion’, ought to be a
fixed and unambiguous antithesis, but in Iphigenia, notably, it is
not. Even though the plot is based on Iphigenia’s having been
saved, not slain, at Aulis, Iphigenia repeatedly refers to herself as
‘dead’.267 The first lines of her letter to Orestes state that
Iphigenia is both ‘alive’ and ‘not alive’, a typically Euripidean
paradox: Ó ∞ n AÛl≤di sfage∏s’ ƒpistvllei t3de | z0s’ ∞ Ifigvneia, to∏ß
ƒke∏ d’ oÛ z0s’ πti (‘She who was killed at Aulis sends you this
message, Iphigenia who is alive, though no longer alive so far as
those there are concerned’).268 Thus more confusion is created.
Which version is true?
The familiar lÎgoß-s0ma dichotomy is deconstructed also at a
number of points in Iphigenia. First of all, Orestes says that, even
if he is killed, his name will live on if Pylades survives and returns
to Argos (Ônom3 t’ ƒmoı gvnoit’ £n, 697). This is a reversal of the
usual situation, in which one’s Ônoma is less, not more, durable
than one’s s0ma. A little earlier, Orestes had made a similar
point, telling Iphigenia that she may sacrifice his body but not
his name (tÏ s0ma q»seiß toÛmÎn, oÛc≥ toÇnoma, 504). The
lÎgoß–s0ma contrast returns later, when Iphigenia is instructing
Pylades to take her letter (as she imagines, over the dangerous
seas) to Orestes. She has made Pylades swear an oath to deliver
the letter safely, but Pylades fears that the sea may prevent him
against his will from carrying out her request (755–8):
ƒxa≤retÎn moi dÏß tÎd’: ‡n ti naıß p3qhi,
c] dvltoß ƒn kl»dwni crhm3twn mvta
åfan¶ß gvnhtai, s0ma d’ ƒks*sw mÎnon,
tÏn Òrkon e”nai tÎnde mhkvt’ πmpedon.

267
Iphigenia 8 (πsfaxen), 20 (sfage∏san), 27 (ƒkainÎmhn), 177 (sfacqe∏s’),
359–60 (m’ . . . πsfazon), 541 (pa∏ß πt’ oˆs’ åpwlÎmhn), 563 (qanoısan), 770
(sfage∏san), 920 (pat¶r πkteinv me).
268
Iphigenia 770–1. This is rather similar to a famous fragment of Euripides’
Polyidus (638 Nauck): t≤ß d’ o”den ej tÏ z[n mvn ƒsti katqane∏n, | tÏ katqane∏n d† z[n
k3tw nom≤zetai; (‘Who can tell if “life” is really death, or if “death” is really
life?’) In addition, the phrase oÈ ƒke∏ (‘the people there’) is sometimes used
euphemistically for the dead (e.g. Soph. Electra 356, Ajax 855, Antigone 76).
Clearly, the primary meaning of to∏ß ƒke∏ here is—as Platnauer (1938, ad loc).
has it—those back in Argos, to∏ß ƒn ⁄rgei—but might the riddling nature of these
lines contain a provocative hint of the other meaning? . . .
294 Tragedy of Ideas
Grant me this exception: if something should happen to the ship, and
the letter, along with the goods, should disappear in the waves, and I can
save only my own body, that this oath shall no longer be binding.
Iphigenia consents (764–5):
IF. ∂n d’ ƒn qal3sshi gr3mmat∞ åfanisq[i t3de,
tÏ s0ma s*saß toŸß lÎgouß s*seiß ƒmo≤.
If the written message should disappear in the sea, by saving your body
you will save my words for me.
This dialogue exhibits considerable word-play and paradox.
Neither lÎgoß nor s0ma here corresponds straightforwardly to
‘real’ or ‘illusory’, but (as with Orestes’ lines above) it is clear that
the survival of words is more important than that of the
body. However, the very fact of the letter, by giving a physical,
tangible form to words, bridges the gap between the seemingly
opposite terms. This is seen in Iphigenia’s distinction between
gr3mmata (physical, written words) and lÎgoi (spoken, invisible
words). In addition, there is considerable linguistic dexterity
here. As Cropp points out, another common verbal contrast,
between cr&mata (goods) and s0ma (one’s self), is exploited in
756–7.269 One might add that the similarity in sound between
cr&mata and gr3mmata (surely no coincidence) further enhances
the word-play. The word used each time to express the likely fate
of Pylades, rather than ‘perish’, is ‘become invisible’ (åfan¶ß,
åfanisq[i); while this is a common enough euphemism, its
repeated use here, in a play so much concerned with deceptive
(dis-)appearances, may be important. The assonance of s0ma
and derivatives of s*izw, and the sigmatism in the last line
quoted above, all add to the bizarre, unsettling effect.
In general (word-play aside), the relationship between reality
and illusion is more complex than a simple structure admits.
Because the plays contain so much that is deceptive or illusory,
and so many varying levels of ambiguity, we are bound to reflect
that the words and appearances which are presented as true are
no different in kind from those which are presented as false. We
have no way of knowing which ones correspond to reality—and
it becomes increasingly possible that none of them does. What
proof is there? There is nothing intrinsically more credible or
269
Cropp (2000, ad loc.) gives, as 5th-cent. examples, Democritus (DK 68
B40, B280) and Thuc. 1.141.5, 2.53.2.
 Tragedy of Ideas 295
authoritative about the ‘new’ Helen and Iphigenia. They may
seem plausible enough, but the only reason we have for accepting
this new ‘knowledge’ is what Helen and Iphigenia say, and what
we see in front of us.270 (How else can humans communicate
reality, except by means of words and appearances?) Gorgias in
the Encomium showed how Helen was overpowered by words
(lÎgoi) and outward appearance (Ôyiß); now we, the audience, are
being beguiled by the persuasive—why not deceptive?—lÎgoi
and Ôyiß of drama.
In other words, Euripides has created a situation which he
proceeds to undermine. This in-built ‘self-refutation’, it has
already been noted, is a characteristically Gorgianic feature. In
fact, it can be seen to be a recurring strategy of presentation,
whereby our initial expectations are later frustrated.271 We have
already seen, for example, Euripides’ efforts to create extra-
ordinary settings for his plays, only to ignore them and, indeed,
to make his ‘barbarian’ places and characters more like Greek
ones.272 In the chapter which follows, I shall show that the plays’
supernatural powers are not quite as they seem. We cannot
straightforwardly believe anything which is put before our eyes
. . . including the plays themselves or their characters! The ‘new’
Helen and Iphigenia themselves are deeply ambiguous. Both of
them are transformed from passive victims to active, deceptive
aggressors. Iphigenia, far from being helpless, poses an active
threat to her rescuers; she is the priestess of a savage cult, who
even after her rescue is portrayed as a witch, uttering loud
barbarian shrieks.273 (And was she killed at Aulis or not?) Helen
is initially presented—or, rather, presents herself (a highly
significant fact)—as a demure, chaste wife, the total opposite of
the ‘old’ Helen of tragic myth. Yet the events of the play, to a
large extent, undermine this initial presentation. In what
follows, Helen is once again the object of male pursit; as before,
270
Cf. Zuntz (1960) 224: ‘So perplexing must the kain¶ E} lvnh have seemed
. . . that many a spectator may have felt about as much difficulty in accepting her
for what she claimed to be as, soon afterwards, Teucer and Menelaus were to
show on stage.’
271
Cf. Podlecki (1970) 407: ‘Often in Euripidean drama an early scene has
more than its surface importance and “means” more than it contributes to the
straightforward development of the play’s action.’
272
See Ch. 3 above.
273
Iphigenia 348; 1336–7 (see §3.3 above).
296 Tragedy of Ideas
she inspires love and strife, as two men contend with each other
to possess her as a wife. The play ends with a sea-battle between
Greeks and eastern adversaries fought for her sake, in which
many men are killed on the sea’s waves as Helen stands on the
ship’s prow shouting out poı tÏ TrwikÏn klvoß; (‘where is the
glory of Troy?’).274 Even after the recognition-scene, Menelaus
persists in saying that the Trojan War was fought over this
Helen, not the phantom but the woman in front of him.275
‘Reality’ and ‘illusion’, ‘new’ and ‘old’, are not, after all, so far
apart.
All of this means that Helen is not, as it seems to be, an
exoneration or rehabilitation of Helen; Iphigenia is not about the
killings at Aulis and Argos. Rather, these plays are about know-
ledge—or the lack of knowledge. This being so, the presence of a
purportedly omniscient character is clearly provocative. In fact,
Theonoe’s ‘omniscience’ is probably another illusion: again, our
expectations are aroused only to be disappointed. Theonoe is
said to be omniscient—indeed, a reference to this quality accom-
panies practically every mention of her name—but there is
surprisingly little evidence of this superior knowledge.276 The
facts which she reveals to the other characters from time to time
do not seem particularly impressive or revelatory. Theonoe
announces that the gods are still debating the fate of Helen and
Menelaus (878–91), but does not reveal the outcome of the
debate. Her privileged information about Menelaus is given up
far too late for it to bring either comfort or surprise. (Perhaps it
is seventeen years too late: why has Helen never asked her about
Menelaus before?277) She reveals that Menelaus is alive long after
Helen and the audience have already discovered this for them-
selves;278 and, unless her difficult-to-decipher words about con-
274
Helen 1602–3; cf. Meltzer (1994).
275
Helen 970 (t[sd’).
276
Helen 12–13: t¤ qe∏a g¤r | t3 t’ Ônta ka≥ mvllonta p3nt’ ]p≤stato (‘she
understands the supernatural—all of it, both what is and what is to come’). Cf.
317–8 (t¤ p3nt’ ƒp≤statai, ‘she understands everything’), 530 (© p3nt’ ålhq0ß
o”de, ‘she knows the truth of everything’), 823 (p3nt’ o”d’, ‘she knows every-
thing’).
277
It seems that this is one of those implausibilities in tragedy which one sim-
ply has to accept, without asking too many questions based on logic or proba-
bility: cf. Dawe (1982) 6–22 and Waldock (1951) 163–4 on the plot of Sophocles’
Oedipus.
278
Helen 873. Cf. Zuntz (1960) 209: he points out that Theonoe, ‘the
 Tragedy of Ideas 297
sciousness and the ether (see §4.3 above) are to be granted special
status as true wisdom about the universe, there is no sign that she
really is omniscient, or that there are any benefits to be derived
from omniscience. Theonoe’s main function is not to offer a
magical elucidation of the nature of existence, but to provide
Helen and Menelaus with, first of all, a potential foe and, later, an
ally who will prevent Theoclymenus from hampering their
escape. For all her ‘omniscience’, what affects Theonoe’s deci-
sion to assist the Greeks is not superior wisdom but the power of
rhetoric. Helen and Menelaus both make long speeches, employ-
ing great argumentative subtlety and appeals to both reason and
emotion, in order to achieve persuasion.279 Menelaus rounds off
his speech with a plea: you may decide to kill us both, if you think
it right, but rather let me persuade you otherwise by my speech
(to∏ß ƒmo∏ß pe≤qou lÎgoiß, 994). Theonoe immediately yields: their
words (true or false) have achieved the desired result. The
obvious conclusion is that language, although deceptive, is more
powerful than knowledge: the very point that Gorgias made in
the Encomium.

4.4.4 Recognitions
The concealment and subsequent revelation of identity is a well-
documented characteristic of tragic plots in general. Scenes of
recognition, in which certain characters come to recognize the
identity of others (in most cases, friends and relatives), appear in
tragedies of all periods.280 Most studies of tragic recognition
(ånagn*risiß), influenced by Aristotle’s Poetics, are broadly
narratological: that is, the recognition is seen as a plot device and
studied from the point of view of the play’s structure and
unity.281 There are, according to Aristotle, six species of recogni-
tion: those arising from tokens; those contrived by the poet;
ci-devant fairy godmother’, has a grasp of the situation as it is, but has no
mastery over the future.
279
Helen 894–995.
280
I mean 5th-cent. Greece in particular, but recognition, a motif in
literature since the Odyssey, is found in literature of many genres, periods, and
cultures: see the wide-ranging study of Cave (1988).
281
Arist. Poet. 1450a33–b20, 1452a12–b8 and 1454b19–1455a18 are concerned
with ånagn*risiß. Perrin (1908), Burnett (1971) and Goward (1999) in particular
exemplify the ‘plot-based’ sort of approach.
298 Tragedy of Ideas
those arising from memory; those arising through a process of
reasoning; those based on false inference; and those which come
about naturally.282 Although it might seem that this characteris-
tically taxonomic scheme is too rigid, Aristotle does not specify
that all recognitions must conform exclusively to a single type.
The recognition-scene in the Iphigenia, in fact, is mentioned
under two (or is it three?283) different headings. Orestes’ speed at
making himself known, after Iphigenia’s letter has been read, is
said to be contrived (the second type);284 but this scene also con-
forms to the last (and ‘best’) kind, since it was natural that
Iphigenia should want to send a letter.285
Both Helen and Iphigenia are marked by prominent and pro-
tracted recognition-scenes, which are certainly important in
terms of plot. They occur roughly in the centre of the plays and
are structurally climactic. As I remarked above, in each play the
direction of the plot completely changes after the recognition
has taken place: from ignorance and confusion to deliberate
282
Arist. Poet. 1454b19–1455a21. The first type is di¤ t0n shme≤wn; the second
pepoihmvnai; the third di¤ mn&mhß; the fourth ƒk sullogismoı; the fifth ƒk para-
logismoı; and the sixth ƒk t0n pragm3twn. See Lucas (1968) ad loc. for discus-
sion. (Are there five or six types?) Perrin (1908, 403–4) refined Aristotle’s
scheme, dividing all recognition-scenes into just two basic types: (I) sponta-
neous and (II) induced by proof of some sort.
283
Aristotle (Poet. 1455a6–8) mentions Iphigenia under the fourth heading;
but it is unclear whether it is Euripides’ play or a work by Polyidus the sophist
that is under discussion. The text runs: ka≥ Ó Polu≤dou toı sofistoı per≥ t[ß
I∞ figene≤aß: ejkÏß g¤r πfh tÏn O
∞ rvsthn sullog≤sasqai Òti Ó t’ ådelf¶ ƒt»qh ka≥ aÛt0i
sumba≤nei q»esqai (‘There is also the recognition mentioned by Polyidus the
sophist concerning Iphigenia: for he said that it was probable for Orestes to
reason that he was going to be sacrificed because his sister had been sacrificed’).
The problem hinges on the word πfh (which Kassel’s OCT retains, but it is not
in the best mss). If πfh is correct, then it means that Polyidus made a comment
on Euripides’ Iphigenia; but the comment does not exactly reflect the content of
that play. It would not be logical, in any case, for Orestes to ‘reason’
(sullog≤sasqai) that he was going to be sacrificed because his sister had been
sacrificed. It seems better to remove πfh (with Lucas and others), meaning that
Polyidus himself was the author of a tragedy (or other work) on Iphigenia. (See
Lucas [1968] 170–1.) Alternatively, in Heath’s (1996, 27) translation, the
passage is understood as referring to a suggestion that Polyidus made for [a
possible improvement to?] Euripides’ play. Polyidus’ ‘version’ is mentioned
again at Poet. 1455b10, where again it is impossible to say what this version was
or how the comment applies to Euripides. It is interesting to note once again that
here the interests of Euripides and the sophists coincide.
284
Arist. Poet. 1454b30–35.
285
Ibid. 1455a16–19.
 Tragedy of Ideas 299
concealment, deception and escape-stratagem.286 In terms of
narrative time (what the narratologist Génette calls durée),287
they are marked, since the action (histoire), the moment of recog-
nition itself, occupies a much smaller period of real time than the
dramatic presentation of that moment (récit). The recognition-
scenes are a focal point for the characters’ emotions, and they are
marked by music and song, in the form of beautiful lyric duets
performed by the main characters.288
However, it is clear that here recognition is more interesting
than a plot-device; it is (as even its etymology shows) an
epistemological topos, profoundly connected to the plays’ treat-
ment of ideas in general.289 The recognition-scenes encapsulate
the main themes of the plays: how are appearances and reality
connected, and how do we define personal identity? Of course,
this sense of ånagn*risiß is also present in the Poetics. As Aristotle
saw, most tragedies involve, in some sense, a change of state: at
the end of the plays, the characters (and the audience?) tend to
know more than they did at the beginning.290 Aristotle defines
ånagn*risiß as a change from ignorance to knowledge, leading
either to affection or enmity; he adds that it marks a turning-
point in the fortunes of the characters involved, which explains
why he deals with it alongside peripvteia (‘reversal’).291 A recent
286
Burnett (1971) in her discussion of complex plots refers to this type of
peripvteia as ‘mixed reversal’. Cf. Perrin (1908) 371; Lucas (1968) 292.
287
Génette (1980).
288
Helen 627–97, Iphigenia 827–99. Cf. Soph. El. 1233–87; Eur. Ion 1437–
509. See Hall (1999) on actors’ song in tragedy.
289
Helen’s description of recognition raises the possibility that its signifi-
cance is not just epistemological but theological: qeÏß g¤r ka≥ tÏ gign*skein f≤louß
(‘Recognition of one’s friends might even be called a god’, 560). The phrase is
rather difficult to translate: is recognition actually a god, or is a god responsible
for recognition? Goward (1999, 131) renders the words as: ‘Yes, there’s a god at
work in recognition.’ Kannicht (1969) vol. 2, ad loc. lists some other expressions
from drama (not all of them strictly comparable to this passage) in which
characters, usually in times of distress or shock, perceive a divine presence at
work in affairs (e.g. Eur. Phoen. 506, Aesch. Suppl. 731–2, Menander fr. 223).
Helen is expressing surprise, but we need not, perhaps, press the theological
point too far. Dale (1967, ad loc.) thinks the words ‘whimsical’ and unimpor-
tant.
290
Lucas (1968, 292) writes that tragic plots are typified by ‘misapprehension
over vital matters’. Cave (1988, 10), also with reference to Aristotle, describes
tragedy and epic as ‘epistemological fictions’.
291
Arist. Poet. 1452a29–32: ånagn*risiß dv, ¿sper ka≥ toÇnoma shma≤nei, ƒx
ågno≤aß ejß gn0sin metabol&, ∂ ejß fil≤an ∂ ejß πcqran, t0n prÏß eÛtuc≤an ∂ dustuc≤an
300 Tragedy of Ideas
study of literary recognition-scenes (by the French linguisticians
Greimas and Courtés) clarifies Aristotle’s position slightly: ‘the
narrative pivot, of a cognitive order and called “recognition”, is
not the passage from ignorance to knowledge, but the passage
from a certain knowledge (erroneous) to another knowledge
(true)’.292
These reflections hold true for most tragedies; but then Helen
and Iphigenia are not most tragedies. The cognitive status of the
recognition-scenes in our plays is rather different because the
whole nature of knowledge, sense-perception and reality has
been radically questioned. All that Euripides allows us here is (to
use Greimas and Courtés’ phrasing) the passage from a certain
‘knowledge’ (potentially erroneous) to another ‘knowledge’
(potentially erroneous). We cannot be confident that genuine
recognition really has taken place, or could ever take place. Thus
it is impossible to take the recognition-scenes, like so much else,
at their face value. Their extravagant joy is undercut by a darker
mood of uncertainty and doubt.
This is especially true of the recognition-scene in Helen. Since
the ‘real’ Helen and the phantom are indistinguishable, recogni-
tion is not just undermined but completely impossible. Teucer’s
meeting with Helen in the prologue, which is a sort of botched
non-recognition-scene, demonstrates the insuperable difficulty
of the situation. When Teucer enters, he immediately sees that
the woman in front of him looks like Helen: but reason tells him
(wrongly) that it cannot be Helen (72–7).
_ qeo≤, t≤n’ e”don Ôyin; ƒcq≤sthß Ør0
gunaikÏß ejk° fÎnion, ~ m’ åp*lesen
p3ntaß t’ !caio»ß. qeo≥ s’, Òson m≤mhm∞ πceiß
E
} lvnhß, åpopt»seian. ej d† m¶ ∞ n xvnhi
ga≤ai pÎd’ e”con, t0id’ #n eÛstÎcwi pter0i
åpÎlausin ejkoıß πqaneß #n DiÏß kÎrhß.

„rismvnwn (‘Recognition is, as the name signifies, a change from ignorance to

knowledge, in the case of friendship or enmity, on the part of people destined for
good or bad fortune’). At first, it seems that Aristotle understands ånagn*risiß as
the realization that a peripvteia has taken place, but it turns out, from the illus-
trations which he gives, that he means it exclusively in the sense of recognition
of people’s identity. Cf. Lucas (1968) 131: ‘it causes confusion that the word
means both recognition of people and realization of circumstances.’
292
Greimas and Courtés (1989) 570–1; cf. Goward (1999) 131–3.
 Tragedy of Ideas 301
O gods! What is this sight that I have seen? I see the murderous image of
a most hateful woman, who has destroyed me and all the Achaeans. May
the gods spit you out, so close is your likeness to Helen! If I were not on
foreign soil, you would have met your death from this arrow’s sure aim,
reaping the reward for being the image of Zeus’ daughter.
Teucer curses her vehemently,293 unable to trust the evidence of
his eyes. His mistake, and the fact that Helen and the phantom
are completely indistinguishable, are emphasized by his calling
the real Helen an ‘image’ or ‘likeness’—not once but four times in
the space of six lines. Teucer has got everything the wrong way
round; but he cannot be called particularly stupid or naïve
(although he has conveniently forgotten to ask her name).
Yet again, a few lines later, the same point is made. When
Helen asks Teucer if he has seen the unfortunate Helen, he
replies: ¿sper sv g’, oÛd†n ¬sson, øfqalmo∏ß Ør0 (118). ‘With these
eyes, as clearly as I see you now’—the irony is almost unbearable.
The dialogue continues (119–22):
EL. skÎpei d† m¶ dÎkhsin e÷cet’ ƒk qe0n.
TE. £llou lÎgou mvmnhso, m¶ ke≤nhß πti.
EL. o\tw doke∏te t¶n dÎkhsin åsfal[;
TE. aÛtoß g¤r Ôssoiß ejdÎmhn, ka≥ noıß Ør$i.
Helen: Watch out, in case it was an illusion from the gods that you saw.
Teucer: Change the subject: do not talk about her any longer.
Helen: Do you imagine that what you imagine you witnessed was real?
Teucer: I saw it with my own eyes—and my mind sees.
This is the context in which these notorious ‘Epicharmean’ lines
(see p. 266) occur. And it now becomes clear that their meaning,
too, is ironic. Helen is preparing Teucer for an amazing revela-
tion, with the threefold repetition of words for ‘seeming’
(dÎkhsin, doke∏te, dÎkhsin) and gentle questions about the nature
of his ‘knowledge’. Can Teucer be quite sure that he left Helen by
the shore? Of course he cannot, for Helen is standing in front of
him (or is she?) . . . Nonetheless, he repeats confidently that he
saw Helen with his eyes—and not only his eyes, but also his
mind. The audience knows, and Helen knows, that neither
his eyes nor his mind saw what they seemed to see. Teucer’s
293
Interestingly, the emphatic (and unusual) word åpopt»w is found again at
667: Helen is using it there, and this time what is being ‘spat out’ is another
deceptive illusion—speech (lÎgon).
302 Tragedy of Ideas
ignorance about the relationship of illusions and reality is total—
intellectual as well as sensory. He is totally wrong; and quoting
Epicharmus will not make him less ignorant. (Indeed, the
quotation suggests that philosophy itself is subject to the same
universal delusions.) Teucer leaves the stage convinced that
Helen is still safely housed in the Greek ship. His parting words,
already quoted, reinforce the ironical effect of the scene: E
} lvnhi d’
Òmoion s0m’ πcous’ oÛ t¤ß frvnaß | πceiß Ømo≤aß åll¤ diafÎrouß pol»
(‘your body resembles that of Helen, but your character does
not—it is different by far’, 160–1).
Even though this first, failed recognition-scene is full of
ambiguities, it is logically more satisfying than the second,
‘successful’ recognition-scene between Menelaus and Helen
which follows.294 This recognition has already been fatally
undermined, but Helen’s own words, spoken to the chorus in the
first episode, further weaken the effect of the eventual recog-
nition. If Menelaus were alive, she says, they would recognize
each other at once by means of secret tokens known only to each
other.295 As we see, this turns out to be untrue: and so these
sentiments are rather poignant. Segal believes that ‘a gulf
separates Helen and Menelaus’, in contrast with Iphigenia,
where (he says) the lost pair feel instinctive affinity.296 (He is
right to point out the lack of rapport between husband and wife,
but I think he overstates the straightforwardness of the relation-
ship in Iphigenia, which is not without its difficulties.)
When Menelaus finally comes face-to-face with Helen, he
(like Teucer) immediately perceives the ‘likeness’ between her
and his wife. Helen, too, at once recognizes that this ragged man
is ‘like’ her husband (563–4):
ME. E
} lvnhi s’ Ømo≤an d¶ m3list’ e”don, g»nai.
EL. ƒg° d† Menvle*i ge sv: oÛd’ πcw t≤ f0.
294
Nevertheless, logic and realism are not the only criteria according to
which recognition-scenes should be judged. Cave (1988, 2–4) makes the
good point that all recognition-scenes in literature are characterized by their
unrealistic quality: recognition is ‘the mark or signature of a fiction, so that even
if something like it occurs in fact, it still sounds like fiction and will probably be
told as such.’
295
Helen 291–2: ej m†n g¤r πzh pÎsiß, ånegn*sqhmen #n, | ejß x»mbol’ ƒlqÎnteß 4
faner¤ mÎnoiß #n Án. However, Diggle (1993) 574–8 questions the authenticity of
these lines.
296
Segal (1971) 580.
 Tragedy of Ideas 303
Menelaus: You look extraordinarily like Helen, lady.
Helen: And you look like Menelaus, too: I am at a loss what to say.
Sadly, the recognition is only one-sided. Menelaus confirms that
Helen has identified him correctly (πgnwß g¤r ørq0ß £ndra
dustucvstaton), but when Helen tries to embrace him, he repels
her, unwilling to believe that she is his wife. Helen attempts to
persuade him of her identity—not, as one would have thought,
by explaining about the phantom, but, most oddly, by resorting
to the one argument that cannot possibly convince him!
EL. oÛk πstin £llh s& tiß ånt’ ƒmoı gun&.
ME. oÇ pou fron0 m†n eˆ, tÏ d’ Ômma moı nose∏;
EL. oÛ g3r me le»sswn s¶n d3marq’ Ør$n doke∏ß;
ME. tÏ s0m’ Òmoion, tÏ d† safvß g’ åpostate∏.
EL. skvyai: t≤ soi de∏ p≤stewß safestvraß;297
Helen: You have no other wife except me.
Menelaus: What? Have I lost my reason? Is my eye diseased?
Helen: When you gaze on me, do you not think you see your wife?
Menelaus: Your appearance is the same—but I have no evidence.
Helen: Look at me! What need have you of any clearer proof?

Does he not think (doke∏n again) he sees his wife? Can there be any
clearer proof than appearance? These questions are manifestly
ironic. Menelaus’ confused replies are interesting, not just
because of the contrast between s0ma and tÏ safvß, which, as
previously noted, blurs the ‘reality’ vs. ‘illusion’ antithesis (in
which s0ma corresponds to ‘reality’), but also because Menelaus
thinks that his eyes must be ‘ill’. This expression, which prima
facie seems picturesque and slightly odd, is, surely, an allusion to
Gorgias’ discussion, in the Encomium, of the visual power of
works of art: he writes that statues made by skilled sculptors
resemble their subjects to such a degree that they make one’s
eyes ill (by deceiving them).298 Menelaus, like Teucer above,
describes the real Helen in terms more appropriate to an artistic
copy.
Appearances are not enough to convince Menelaus of Helen’s
identity; therefore they have to resort to words—which are, as we
297
Helen 574–8. The text is uncertain here: see Dale (1967), Kannicht (1969,
vol. 2) and Diggle (1993) ad loc.
298
Gorgias (DK 82 B11) §18. See nn. 190–1 above (and further discussion of
artistic images in §4.4.6 below).
304 Tragedy of Ideas
have seen, no more reliable. Words will not prove that this is the
real Helen. But it is the words of the Greek servant—in parti-
cular, his report of the words of the phantom as it disappeared for
ever—that suffice to convince Menelaus. The servant himself
clearly did not believe the words of the phantom, for as soon as
he sees Helen he exclaims (616–19):
_ ca∏re, L&daß q»gater, ƒnq3d’ Ásq’ £ra:
ƒg° dv s’ £strwn „ß bebhku∏an mucoŸß
‡ggellon ejd°ß oÛd†n „ß ËpÎpteron
dvmaß foro≤hß.
Greetings, daughter of Leda—so you were here all the time! I came here
with the news that you had gone to a hidden place among the stars, com-
pletely ignorant of the fact that you could fly.
There is yet more irony in his words ejd°ß oÛd†n (‘completely
ignorant’), since he is even now mistaken. But his story is enough
for Menelaus, who says that he now understands everything:
xumbeb$s≤ moi lÎgoi | oÈ t[sd’ ålhqe∏ß. It is words, he says, that
have convinced him: but, in the light of what we have already
discovered about words, we have to be sceptical. How does he
know that they are true (ålhqe∏ß)? In any case, the reunited
husband and wife embrace and burst into song: it is almost as if
recognition were really unproblematic.
More incongruities follow. When the recognition-scene is
over, the ‘new’ Helen begins to look rather like the ‘old’ Helen, as
she explains that another man is attempting to marry her. A
telling exchange follows: it turns out that, despite the emotional
scene which has just taken place, Menelaus does not trust Helen
an inch. He subjects her to questions, but obviously does not
believe her answers, since he goes on to ask for proof of her
fidelity (793–6):
EL. p3nt’ o”sq’ £r’, „ß πoikaß, åmf’ ƒm0n g3mwn.
ME. o”d’: ej d† lvktra divfugeß, tÎd’ oÛk πcw.
EL. £qikton eÛn¶n ÷sqi soi seswmvnhn.
ME. t≤ß toıde peiq*; f≤la g3r, ej saf[ lvgeiß.
Helen: You know everything, then, so it seems, about my marriage.
Menelaus: I do know; but I still do not know whether you tried to avoid
the union.
Helen: You can be sure that I preserved my chastity for you.
Menelaus: What proof is there of that?—Of course this is good news, if
what you claim can be believed.
 Tragedy of Ideas 305
Menelaus still, it is clear, thinks of Helen in terms of an unfaith-
ful deserter. Helen’s parenthetic „ß πoikaß (‘so it seems’) is
hardly reassuring; nor is Menelaus’ saf[ (‘plausible’ rather than
‘true’); for we remember the chorus’ saying that many state-
ments may be perfectly plausible but completely false (pÎll’ #n
lvgoito ka≥ di¤ yeud0n saf[, 309). Even after Helen has shown
him the ‘proof’ (the site of her supplication at Proteus’ tomb),
Menelaus remains doubtful and suspicious. He asks her what
would happen to them if they were caught trying to escape, and
she replies (833–4):
EL. qan[i: gamoımai d’ Ó t3lain’ ƒg° b≤ai.
ME. prodÎtiß #n e÷hß: t¶n b≤an sk&yas’ πceiß.
Helen: You will die; and I, unfortunate woman, will be married by
force.
Menelaus: Treacherous woman! You are using ‘force’ as an excuse!
His is an odd and insensitive response, ‘an explosion of jealousy’,
as one critic has described it.299 Menelaus will never, it seems, be
quite convinced of the wifely virtues of the ‘new’ Helen—but
perhaps he is right to be suspicious. However that might be, it
finally takes a suicide pact to convince him of his wife’s loyalty.
Thus the recognition-scene in Helen is hardly what it seems to
be—a positive celebration of the recovery of identity and the
reunion of a loving husband and wife. The recognition-scene of
the Iphigenia, by contrast, is less awkward—mainly because
there are no phantom doubles to cause confusion. Nevertheless,
a living Iphigenia is still, as far as Orestes is concerned, an
impossibility. This time, a coup de théâtre—the letter-device,300
so admired by Aristotle—prompts the recognition. When
Iphigenia starts reading out the letter, which begins with her
name, Orestes cries out poı d’ πst’ ƒke≤nh; katqanoıs’ ~kei p3lin;
(‘Where is she? Has she come back from the dead?’ 772). Indeed
his sister has, in a sense, come back from the dead . . . but does
Iphigenia’s reply, ~d’ ©n Øra∏ß s» (‘she is here, the person whom
you see in front of you’), alert us to a possible double-meaning, in
the light of what we have learnt about faulty appearances? We
have already had our senses questioned sufficiently to wonder
whether what Orestes can see is really proof enough. When
299
Dale (1967) ad loc.
300
I return to this device below (§4.4.7).
306 Tragedy of Ideas
Iphigenia reminds her brother that she is a priestess, practising
human sacrifice in a barbarian country, he is utterly perplexed
(778–80): he calls confusedly on Pylades for support; words fail
him (t≤ lvxw;); and he is completely disorientated (poı pÎt’ Ônq’
hËr&meqa;), invoking the gods as it might be for assistance (_
qeo≤). The normal conventions of truth and illusion, identity, and
geography, have all broken down. This should be a joyful recog-
nition, as it shortly seems to become; but its effect is soured by
this terrible doubt and confusion.
As in Helen, the recognition is initially only one-sided (which
somewhat gives the lie to the ‘instinctive affinity’ detected here
by Segal). Orestes, following his initial perplexity, accepts the
bizarre explanation of Iphigenia’s presence,301 but Iphigenia, by
contrast, finds it difficult to accept that her brother, who should
be in Argos, is here. When Orestes points out to his sister that her
opinion (dÎxa) is mistaken,302 she, in turn, believing that his
words (lÎgoi) are deceptive, tells him sharply to stop talking
(801–5).
OR. m& m’ åpostrvfou,
πcous’ ådelfÏn oÛ dokoıs’ 1xein potv.
IF. ƒg* s’ ådelfÏn tÏn ƒmÎn; oÛ pa»shi lvgwn;
tÏ d’ ⁄rgoß aÛtoı mestÏn ~ te Naupl≤a.
OR. oÛk πst’ ƒke∏ sÎß, _ t3laina, s»ggonoß.
Orestes: Do not turn away from me, now that you hold your brother,
whom you thought you would never meet again.
Iphigenia: What? My brother? Stop this at once! His haunt is Argos,
and Nauplia.
Orestes: Unfortunate woman—your brother is not there.
It is so unnatural, even impossible, for Orestes to be in the
Tauric land that Iphigenia concludes (wrongly) that this must be
someone else. As in the case of Menelaus and Helen, the weird
location (Egypt or the Black Sea) somehow affects not only
people’s own identities but also their ability to identify others:
who they are depends, at least in part, on where they are.
301
That is, unless we take the ‘disbelieving arm’ with which he embraces her
(åp≤stwi . . . brac≤oni 796) as an expression of scepticism, rather than, as seems
more likely, a figure of speech designed to add emphasis to his surprise (see
Stinton [1976a] and the discussion in §2.4 above).
302
Her delusion is described in language reminiscent of Paris’ delusion that
he had Helen: Helen 35–6, 611.
 Tragedy of Ideas 307
(Compare Orestes’ confused words above, poı pÎt’ Ônq’
hËr&meqa;). The role of geography in the definition (or decon-
struction) of personal identity is surprising; but it can be seen as
yet another level of significance of the barbarian settings which I
discussed in the previous chapter. Culture and ethnicity are join-
ing forces with epistemology to deny us knowledge about our-
selves.
Eventually the siblings realize that appearances are not
enough. Unlike Helen and Menelaus, they resort to proofs, not
one but three—Iphigenia’s tapestry, ritual locks of hair, and
Pelops’ spear. Paradoxically, these proofs are not real, physical
artefacts, but only words: the characters talk about them, but
they are never produced (perhaps unsurprisingly, given the
circumstances). Iphigenia asks Orestes a series of questions,
thinking that, if he answers them correctly, he must be her
brother.303 This, in the light of all that we have heard about the
limitations of words, considerably limits the power of these
verbal ‘proofs’ to prove anything. Furthermore, it emerges that
Orestes himself only knows about two of these three tokens
because somebody else has told him!304 When Iphigenia is satis-
fied, and their recognition duet has finished, the chorus members
describe what has happened as completely remarkable, beyond
words; and they add that they have witnessed these events per-
sonally, rather than hearing about them second-hand (ƒn to∏si
qaumasto∏si ka≥ m»qwn pvra | t3d’ e”don aÛt¶ koÛ kluoıs’ åp’
åggvlwn, 900–1). Thus the inadequacy of Orestes’ proofs is
implicitly stressed.
Neither recognition-scene, then, offers what it seems to offer;
the plays’ message becomes increasingly negative.

4.4.5 Words and names

So far, in the recognition-scenes and elsewhere, we have seen
that words cannot be trusted. As I said before, the problem is not
simply that people sometimes make mistakes, but rather that
language is fundamentally inadequate. The escape-tragedies
both confirm and explore further the Gorgianic idea that reality
cannot be communicated by means of words. Words are always
303
Iphigenia 809–26.
304
Iphigenia 811: lvgoim’ #n åko[i pr0ton H
∞ lvktraß t3de.
308 Tragedy of Ideas
just words, with their own autonomous power to persuade,
beguile or deceive.305
In many places throughout the plays, we are, frustratingly,
denied any confirmation that words are true or false—even (or
especially) when matters of life and death are under discussion.
For example, when Helen asks Teucer whether her brothers are
alive or dead, her question requires the answer yes (true) or no
(false). However, Teucer avoids answering the question directly
(Helen 137–40):
EL. oÈ Tund3reoi d’ ejs≥n ∂ oÛk ejs≥n kÎroi;
TE. teqn$si koÛ teqn$si: d»o d’ ƒstÏn lÎgw.
EL. pÎteroß Ø kre≤sswn; _ t3lain’ ƒg° kak0n.
TE. £stroiß sf’ vmoiwqvnte f3s’ e”nai qe*.
Helen: The sons of Tyndareus: are they alive or dead?
Teucer: They are dead and not dead: there are two stories.
Helen: Which is the more powerful? O woe, how I am suffering!
Teucer: It is said that they are gods, transformed into the likeness of
stars.
As in the case of Helen herself, there are conflicting (in fact, dia-
metrically opposite) stories (lÎgoi) pertaining to the Dioscuri,
and no way of telling which is accurate. One would expect Helen
to ask Teucer which lÎgoß is the true one, but instead she asks
which is the ‘stronger’, exploiting the double-meaning inherent
in lÎgoß (‘story’ and ‘argument’)! This is an explicit reference to
Protagoras’ dictum that in the case of everything there are two
lÎgoi, a weaker (i.e., less convincing) and a stronger (more con-
vincing) argument, opposed to each other.306 It is not the truth or
falsehood of the lÎgoß, but its power to persuade the listener, that
is seen to be at issue. Teucer’s reply is qualified by fas≤—
whether or not it is true, ‘they say’ that the Dioscuri have been
deified. (In fact, as we see at the end of the play, this lÎgoß is
partially false: Castor and Polydeuces have not been transformed
into stars, at least, because they appear on horseback.307) We may
recall Helen’s earlier recounting of the lÎgoß of her birth, where
305
Gorgias (DK 82 B1–4, B6, B11, B11a, B26): see §4.3 above for discussion.
306
Protagoras (DK 80 A1, B6). Perhaps one might compare the slightly odd
expression of Andromeda fr. 138a, in which a character asks [Aphrodite?] to pick
the ‘best’ of her words: ƒk d† t0n lÎgwn | 1lou t¤ bvltisq∞ . . .?
307
Helen 1664–5. Cf. Heracleidae 845–8 for the catasterism, or other super-
natural manifestation, of the brothers.
 Tragedy of Ideas 309
again she gave two completely different versions of her parent-
age. Similarly, Helen refrained from saying there whether or not
Zeus or Tyndareus was her true father, but ended with the odd
phrase ‘if this tale can be believed’ (ej saf&ß o˜toß lÎgoß).308 The
use of saf&ß (‘clear’? ‘plausible’?) rather than the more natural
ålhq&ß (‘true’) makes the same point: ‘believe this story if you
wish.’
Plausibility is not the same as truthfulness, as the following
exchange between Helen and the chorus makes clear:
CO. E } lvnh, tÏn ƒlqÎnq’, Òstiß ƒst≥n Ø xvnoß,
m¶ p3nt’ ålhq[ dox3shiß ejrhkvnai.
EL. ka≥ m¶n saf0ß g’ πlex’ ølwlvnai pÎsin.
CO. pÎll’ #n lvgoito ka≥ di¤ yeud0n saf[.
EL. ka≥ t£mpal≤n ge t0nd’ ålhqe≤aß πpi.309
Chorus: Helen, do not believe that this newcomer—whoever the
stranger is—has told you the whole truth.
Helen: But he said clearly that my husband had perished.
Chorus: Many statements may be clear but false.
Helen: And the reverse of this, where true statements are concerned.
A similar point is made, in equally epigrammatic language, by
Andromeda (or Perseus) in Andromeda:
m& moi prote≤nwn ƒlp≤d’ ƒx3gou d3kru.
gvnoitÎ t#n pÎll’ —n dÎkhsiß oÛk πni.310
Do not make me cry by offering me hope.
In many situations appearances may be deceptive.
Plausible words can be false, and implausible words can be
true—so how could one know which ones were which? And does
it make any difference? It is as if the connection of the words to
real people or events were completely irrelevant. This, in turn,
may make us wonder (like Gorgias) if there is any reality under-
lying the words in question.
The ‘metamythology’ of the escape-tragedies, which I dis-
308
Helen 17–21: cf. ibid. 259, on the egg in which they say Leda gave birth to
Helen from Zeus (ƒn —i me L&dan fas≥n ƒk DiÏß teke∏n). These passages have been
discussed at greater length in §2.4 above.
309
Helen 306–10. The lines as printed by Diggle incorporate several emenda-
tions in the interest of pointedness and clarity: see Diggle (1993), Dale (1967)
and Kannicht (1969, vol. 2) ad loc.
310
Andromeda fr. 131. Bubel (1991, 134) attributes the first line to
Andromeda and the second to Perseus.
310 Tragedy of Ideas
cussed in an earlier chapter, begins to make more sense in this
new context. In my earlier discussion,311 I concluded that all the
myths in the escape-tragedies were somehow problematized;
that is, they were characterized by improbability and contra-
diction, and thus laid open to doubt and scepticism. As in the
passages above, it was impossible to assign a truth-value to the
myths in question. Earlier I could only provisionally explain
why Euripides should have decided to present myths in this way.
It is often said, rightly, that many of Euripides’ plays ‘question’
myths—but why? We should not be satisfied by a variation on the
explanation that Euripides is simply being provocative (for that
has too much in common with the ‘comedy of ideas’ approach),
or by a sociopolitical solution (Euripides as ‘questioner of
society’ or ‘embodiment of the Zeitgeist’). In the case of our three
plays, at least, the real reason is becoming clear. ‘Questioning
myths’ is an activity with serious philosophical consequences.
The reason why Euripides wants his audience to doubt the
mythical tradition is that myths are another form of written or
spoken language, which fail to reflect reality (either because they
fundamentally misrepresent it or because there is no reality).
Myths are words; and words are just words.
It is not just language in general that is challenged by
Euripides, but names in particular (as witness the frequent con-
trast of Ônoma–s0ma). As I mentioned above, intellectuals such as
Protagoras, Prodicus and Antiphon inquired whether or not
names correspond to the people or things for which they are
used. The escape-tragedies suggest strongly that they do not. In
this respect, I think that Euripides’ attitude owes a lot to the
theories of Democritus on the ‘correctness of names’ (ørqÎthß
ønom3twn): in particular, fragment 26 (part of Proclus’ commen-
tary on the Cratylus) seems relevant. According to Proclus,
Democritus gave four reasons to explain why names (ønÎmata)
are conventional rather than natural: first, the same name is
sometimes used to describe different objects; second, different
names are sometimes used to describe the same object; third,
names can be changed; fourth, one can conceive of things for
which no name exists.312 It seems that special attention is drawn
to the names of practically every character in the escape-

311 312
See §2.4 above. Democritus (DK 68 B26).
 Tragedy of Ideas 311
tragedies; and that these names explore all four problematic
categories which Democritus identifies.
The first character to be named in Helen is Proteus, the former
king of Egypt. It was well known (although Euripides does not
allude to the fact directly) that Proteus could change his shape at
will.313 Proteus’ name (Ônoma), in other words, can be used to
describe more than one object (s0ma)—Democritus’ first point
exactly. The same is true of Zeus’ deceptive metamorphosis into
a swan (Helen 18–21): same Ônoma, different s0ma. Of course,
Helen herself is the most striking illustration of this phenome-
non: both the ‘real’ and the phantom-Helen shared the same
Ônoma, leading to terrible complications which we have already
seen.
In a number of places, names are changed, with the result that
the same Ônoma is made to describe more than one person or place
(Democritus’ first and third points). For instance, the excuse
which Teucer gives for his presence in Egypt is that he is en route
to Cyprus, which Apollo told him to inhabit and rename: instead
of Cyprus, it will henceforth be called Salamis (148–50).
ƒß g[n ƒnal≤an K»pron, o˜ m’ ƒqvspisen
ojke∏n !pÎllwn, Ônoma nhsiwtikÏn
Salam∏na qvmenon t[ß ƒke∏ c3rin p3traß.
to the sea-girt land of Cyprus, where Apollo predicted that I should
live, giving it the island name of Salamis after my native land.
It is not commented on by Helen, but it surely cannot have
slipped Teucer’s mind that there is already a (rather famous)
Salamis. This incidental reference to name-changing might
seem almost gratuitous. Since Salamis and Cyprus are irrelevant
to the context (and are not mentioned again), their inclusion here
has no purpose except that of highlighting again the unsatis-
factory relationship of names to real places. The accumulation of
such small details enhances the overall effect of confusion and
bafflement.
A similarly ‘irrelevant’ name-change is effected in the aetio-
logical passage at the end of Helen. No sooner have the Dioscuri
said that Helen has finished ‘lending’ her name to the gods (to∏ß
qeo∏ß parvsce toÇnom’, 1653) than they announce that in future she
will be lending it to something else. This time, it is not a phantom
313
Helen 4–6; cf. Hom. Od. 4. 349–570.
312 Tragedy of Ideas
but an island, which until now has been called Akte (modern
Makronnisi, off Sounion): }Elvnh tÏ loipÏn ƒn broto∏ß kekl&setai
(‘for the rest of time, people will call it Helen’, 1674). The inclu-
sion of this small detail is extremely incongruous (Dale writes,
correctly, that this detail ‘brings Hermes widely off course for
Egypt, and Euripides has here deflected the more usual legend
which makes Helene a stage-post on the way to or from Troy’).314
Not only does this detail highlight Euripides’ extraordinary atti-
tude to myth, but it also emphasizes the absurdity of names.
Once again, by divine will, there will be two ‘Helens’!
At the close of Iphigenia, as in Helen, the aetiological digres-
sion involves the assignation of names. Athena instructs Orestes
to name the temple which he will establish to her at Halae after
the Tauric land. This, as Cropp points out, is in fact a false
etymology: Artemis’ title TauropÎloß, by which she was
worshipped at Halae, means ‘bull-herd’ and is not derived from
the Tauri.315
The confusion which names can thus create is illustrated in
the speech of Menelaus which leads up to the problematic recog-
nition-scene in Helen. Here, the old Portress has told him
that there is a woman called Helen—the daughter of Zeus, the
daughter of Tyndareus, who once lived in Sparta—living in
Theoclymenus’ palace. This information causes Menelaus great
distress. Can it be that another woman with the same name as his
wife is living here? Can there be a man called Zeus in Egypt? For
a moment his comprehension of language and reality breaks
down completely (489–99):
DiÏß d’ πlexe pa∏d3 nin pefukvnai.
åll’ Á tiß πsti ZhnÏß Ônom’ πcwn ån¶r
Ne≤lou par’ Ôcqaß; eÍß g¤r Ò ge kat’ oÛranÎn.
Sp3rth d† poı g[ß ƒsti pl¶n Jna Âoa≥
toı kallidÎnakÎß ejsin EÛr*ta mÎnon;
diploın d† Tund3reion Ônoma kl&izetai,
Lakeda≤monoß d† ga∏3 tiß xun*numoß
314
Dale (1967) 168. Pausanias (1.35.1–2) later gave the same aetiology as
Euripides for the name of the island of Helen. (See also §2.4 above for discussion
of this passage in terms of ‘metamythology’.)
315
Cropp (2000) 267; cf. Lloyd-Jones (1983a) 97. In the 5th cent. and later,
both explanations of TauropÎloß were current: see Apollodorus (FGH 244
F111), Phanodemus (FGH 325 F14) and Ister (FGH 334 F18) for different ety-
mologies (and cf. TauropÎla, Soph. Aj. 172).
 Tragedy of Ideas 313
Tro≤aß t’; ƒg° m†n oÛk πcw t≤ cr¶ lvgein.
pollo≥ g3r, „ß e÷xasin, ƒn poll[i cqon≥
ønÎmata taÇt’ πcousi ka≥ pÎliß pÎlei
gun¶ gunaik≤ t’: oÛd†n oˆn qaumastvon.
She said that she was the daughter of Zeus. But can there really be a man
called Zeus by the banks of the Nile? No, there is only one Zeus, the one
who lives in heaven. But where in the world is Sparta, except by the
streams of the Eurotas with its lovely reeds, and there alone? Are there
two people called Tyndareus? Is there some other land called Sparta,
and some other Troy? I do not know what I should say. For it seems that
in the whole world many people have the same names—one city has the
same name as another city, one woman as another woman . . . So there
is nothing to cause astonishment.
The frightening possibilities are true. There are indeed two
‘Helens’; as Teucer’s words showed, there will also be two
‘Salamises’; there may not be a man called Zeus, but there was
once a swan called Zeus . . . As Helen will later say, a name can be
everywhere, but a body cannot (toÇnoma gvnoit’ #n pollacoı, tÏ
s0ma d’ oÇ, 588). Menelaus, as we see, is a naïve and not very per-
ceptive character, but, in a sense, his reaction is an exaggerated
version of the reaction of the audience to the peculiar epistemo-
logical situation that has been created. Anyone in this night-
marish situation would be excused for toppling into confusion.
Note also that here, as in the recognition-scene in Iphigenia (see
above), geography is used to problematize identity, as Menelaus’
(literal) disorientation is used to express his sense of intellectual
alienation and incomprehension.
The names of the barbarian characters, including their
etymologies, are emphasized in the prologues of each play. One
of these characters, notably, has more than one name: Proteus’
daughter Eido, whose name was later changed to Theonoe.316
She thus illustrates Democritus’ second and third points: two
different names are used to describe the same person, involving a
change of name from one to the other. (Theonoe/Eido is not the
only character to be known by two names: Helen’s Trojan lover
also has two names, Paris and Alexander, both of which are used
indiscriminately, in Helen and in general throughout Greek
literature.317) The question arises whether ‘Eido’ or ‘Theonoe’
more accurately represents the true nature of Proteus’ daughter.
316 317
Helen 12–13. Helen 24, 28, 29, 32.
314 Tragedy of Ideas
Confusingly, the answer is that both names do. Not unusually
for Euripidean names, both Ejd* and QeonÎh are etymologically
significant. They have a clear connection with words for cogni-
tion (jd-, novw, noıß, etc.),318 and the latter name corresponds to its
owner’s prophetic function, as Helen goes on immediately to
explain: kaloısin aÛt¶n QeonÎhn: t¤ qe∏a g¤r | t3 t’ Ônta ka≥
mvllonta p3nt’ ]p≤stato (‘they call her Theonoe: for she under-
stands the supernatural—all of it, both what is and what is to
come’, 13–14). So the names Eido and Theonoe are simul-
taneously appropriate (in that they accurately express the attri-
butes of their owner) and problematic (in that they are plural and
not single). Furthermore, can it be entirely accidental that Ejd*
so closely resembles e÷dwlon?319
The names of Proteus’ wife and son are also given: like
Theonoe/Eido, they are unusually appropriate for their owners.
‘Psamathe’ (Yam3qh) is suggestive of sandy beaches, a distinctive
feature of Egyptian geography, and ‘Theoclymenus’ (Qeok-
l»menoß) seems to tell us something about its owner’s pious
nature.320 In Iphigenia, the name of the Taurian king is also
etymologized: ‘Thoas’ is so called, apparently, on account of his
swiftness of foot (QÎaß, ß ∑kŸn pÎda tiqe≥ß ÷son ptero∏ß | ƒß toÇnom’
Álqe tÎde podwke≤aß c3rin).321 This is less appropriate than the
other ‘significant’ names. In the event, Thoas does not run
quickly enough to stop the escapees, but this early mention of
swiftness does perhaps contribute to the sense of danger and the
threat which he poses to the Greeks.
Since the plots of Helen and Iphigenia are based on concealed
identity, it is unsurprising that there is a certain amount of
318
Plato, indeed, includes the name QeonÎh in his discussion of the meaning
of names (Cratylus 407b), explaining it as Ó t¤ qe∏a nooısa (‘one who understands
the divine’). Cf. Kannicht (1969, 2. 20).
319
Remarked on by Downing (1990) 4–5.
320
Kannicht (1969, 2. 18) explains its meaning as ‘durch einen Gott
berühmt’, comparing Qeo-kl»menoß, qeÎkleitoß, Qeokl[ß and cognates to Peri-
kl»menoß, perikleitÎß, Perikl[ß, etc. See §3.3 above for discussion of Theocly-
menus’ god-fearing character. Both Kannicht and Diggle delete part of lines
9-10 [Òti d¶ qeoŸß svbwn | b≤on di&negk’], which gives an etymological explanation
of Theoclymenus’ name, on grounds of authenticity.
321
Iphigenia 32–3. Cf. Aristophanes, Lemnian Women fr. 373 K, where Thoas
is the name of Hypsipyle’s father: he is also said to be the slowest runner in the
human race—which is probably a joke based on the Euripidean etymology. See
Sommerstein (1994) 194.
 Tragedy of Ideas 315
provocative play on names, and unknown names, in the dialogue
up to and including the recognition-scenes. This is seen in the
conversation between Iphigenia and the herdsman who saw
Orestes and Pylades on the rocks by the shore (248–51):
IF. oÛd’ Ônom’ åko»saß o”sqa t0n xvnwn fr3sai;
BO. Pul3dhß ƒkl&izeq’ ‹teroß prÏß qatvrou.
IF. t0i xuz»gwi d† toı xvnou t≤ toÇnom’ Án;
BO. oÛde≥ß tÎd’ o”den: oÛ g¤r ejshko»samen.
Iphigenia: Did you not hear the strangers’ names? Can you not tell me
who they are?
Herdsman: One of them was calling the other Pylades.
Iphigenia: And his companion: what was his name?
Herdsman: No one knows: we did not hear it.
Pylades alone is named, for the plot demands that Orestes
remain nameless for the moment. Even when the recognition-
scene is in progress, the tension is sustained, since Orestes will
not tell Iphigenia his name even when asked. (It will be another
two hundred and ninety lines before Orestes is finally named.322)
Instead, he gives a false name, ‘Unfortunate’, saying (as we have
already seen) that she can sacrifice his s0ma but not his Ônoma.
IF. so≥ d’ Ônoma po∏on πqeq’ Ø genn&saß pat&r;
OR. tÏ m†n d≤kaion Dustuc¶ß kalo≤meq’ £n.
IF. oÛ toıt’ ƒrwt0: toıto m†n dÏß t[i t»chi.
OR. tÏ s0ma q»seiß toÛmÎn, oÛc≥ toÇnoma.323
Iphigenia: What sort of name did your father give you?
Orestes: By rights I ought to be called Unfortunate.
Iphigenia: That is not what I am asking—leave that to fortune.
Orestes: It is my body, not my name, that you are going to sacrifice.
Even though it is not his real name, Dustuc&ß—as Orestes points
out—is appropriate to describe his situation. At any rate,
‘Unfortunate’ is a better reflection of reality than the soubriquet
of Agamemnon—‘the fortunate’ general—which Iphigenia later
mentions (t≤ d’ Ø strathgÏß n lvgous’ eÛdaimone∏n;). Orestes
replies that the person whom he knows does not correspond to
this name (t≤ß; oÛ g¤r Òn g’ ƒg_ida t0n eÛdaimÎnwn).324
322
Iphigenia 792.
323
Iphigenia 499–501 and 504 (the lines in the order adopted by Barthold: see
Cropp [2000] ad loc.)
324
Iphigenia 543–4. Cropp (2000, ad loc.) compares Helen 453, 457 and
Orestes 351–5 for this appellation.
316 Tragedy of Ideas
Words and names, then, are confusing. Sometimes they seem
appropriate, sometimes inappropriate. Sometimes they seem
definitely to identify people, places or objects, but just as often
they do not. What we call things may have nothing to do with
their real nature.325 For Euripides, as for both Gorgias and
Democritus, language is a pale shadow of reality.326 In this sense,
and in the deceptive, persuasive or perplexing power which they
exert on humans, words are directly analogous to other sorts of
image.

4.4.6 Images and reality

H
fi ra d† memfqe∏s’ o\nek’ oÛ nik$i qe¤ß
ƒxhnvmwse t£m’ !lex3ndr0i lvch,
d≤dwsi d’ oÛk πm’ åll’ Ømoi*sas’ ƒmo≥
e÷dwlon πmpnoun oÛranoı xunqe∏s’ £po
Pri3mou tur3nnou paid≤: ka≥ doke∏ m’ πcein,
ken¶n dÎkhsin, oÛk πcwn.327
Hera, full of reproach because she had not beaten the goddesses in the
contest, turned my marriage with Paris into thin air; it was not me that
she presented to king Priam’s son, but a breathing phantom resembling
me, put together from air. He believes he possesses me, but he does not:
it is an empty belief.
Helen’s double is an e÷dwlon which Hera has put together from
air. But what is an e÷dwlon? It is usually translated ‘phantom’, but
its meaning will bear a little more exploration. The word also
corresponds to the English ‘image’, ‘likeness’, ‘reflection’, or
‘representation’. There are several places in tragedy where
characters use e÷dwlon as a metaphor for weakness or old age.328 It
is a standard word for the ghost of a dead person,329 a substitu-
tion, a phantom-image sent usually by the gods to replace some-
325
See Iphigenia 36: ⁄rtemiß ƒort[ß, toÇnom’ ¬ß kalÏn mÎnon (‘the festival of
Artemis—a festival fine in name alone’); Helen 27: toÛmÏn d† k3lloß, ej kalÏn tÏ
dustucvß (‘and my beauty—if such a wretched quality can be “beautiful” ’), etc.
326
Democritus (DK 68 B145): lÎgoß g¤r πrgou ski& (‘language is a shadow of
reality’). Cf. Gorgias’ description of pallid words (DK 82 B6, quoted below).
327
Helen 31-6.
328
Soph. Ajax 126, Phil. 947, Oed. Col. 110, fr. 659 TGF (Radt); Eur. Phoen.
1543–5 (where Oedipus, notably, describes his feebleness in old age as a phan-
tom, a shadow, a dream and a corpse).
329
e.g. Aesch. Pers. 681 (e÷dwlon Dare≤ou).
 Tragedy of Ideas 317
one,330 or an image fashioned by human hands as a replacement
for a dead or absent person, usually a wife or lover.331
What all its various usages in Greek have in common is that
e÷dwla are always insubstantial and inferior to real objects.
Democritus’ saying lÎgoß g¤r πrgou ski& (‘language is a shadow of
reality’),332 which I quoted above, is remarkably similar to an
apophthegm of Solon which states: Ø m†n lÎgoß e÷dwlon t0n πrgwn
(‘language is a phantom of reality’).333 Indeed, the significance of
Democritus’ lost writings is, I think, far greater than we can
know. Another fragment of Democritus demonstrates his
concern with e÷dwla, here in the sense of images which the gods
send to us through our pores while we are asleep. These e÷dwla
are explained, in a related fragment, as the only form in which we
have ‘knowledge’ of gods; however (as seems to be the most
natural interpretation of Democritus’ words), this is not real
knowledge, because what we see is not the gods themselves, but
deceptive, inferior images of them. And—what is more—the air
(å&r) is said to be full of these images.334 This reminds us of the
escape-tragedies’ numerous references to air,335 again suggest-
ing, as before, that there is some significance here that we cannot
quite grasp.
It is also worth looking at the significance of the word e÷dwlon
in post-Euripidean philosophy. Several Platonic writings
(Sophist, Cratylus, Gorgias, Theaetetus) consider the relation-
ship between e÷dwla (representations) and the genuine objects
which they represent.336 According to Plato, e÷dwla are spurious
330
Hom. Il. 5.449, 5.451, Od. 11.213, Hdt. 1.51, 6.58, etc. (More references
are given in §2.3.2 above.)
331
e.g. Alcestis (Eur. Alc. 348–54) and Protesilaus (Apollodorus 3.30, Hyg.
Fab. 104: these sources may reflect the plot of Euripides’ Protesilaus, according
to Vernant [1983, 310]). The chorus of Aeschylus’ Theoroi (fr. 78a Radt) thank
another character for making e÷dwla which resemble them exactly.
332
Democritus (DK 68 B145).
333
Diog. Laert. 1.58.
334
Democritus (DK 68 A77, A78; cf. B30): the theory is mentioned (obscure-
ly) by Cicero, Nat. D. 1.12.29 and Augustine, Ep. 118. Guthrie (1965) 474–81
discusses these passages but finds them unclear and cryptic. However, he says,
on the basis of the meaning of e÷dwla elsewhere, that ‘it is more likely that
Democritus believed that e÷dwla were thrown off by gods rather than being the
gods’.
335
See §4.3 and note 146 above.
336
See esp. Sophist 234c–240a, Cratylus 432b–c, Gorg. 463d1–2; discussion
in Bluck (1975), Steiner (2001) 56–78, Robinson (2001).
318 Tragedy of Ideas
versions of real things: they have no rationality, and exist only to
give pleasure. For example, rhetoric is an e÷dwlon of politics.
These e÷dwla are consistently shown to be not only deceptive but
also dangerous, since they affect our ability to discern truth from
lies. For Plato, the sophists, paradoxically, as well as showing
interest in the ‘seeming versus being’ (doke∏n–e”nai) theme, also
embodied the dichotomy in their own status as purveyors of
apparent-but-not-real knowledge.
Alcidamas, the pupil of Gorgias and author of a treatise On the
writers of written speeches, uses the word e÷dwlon in a significant
way. He argues that written-down speeches and orally delivered
speeches are substantially different and should not be called the
same thing: the written version, he says, should be called not
‘words’ (lÎgoi) but ‘phantoms’ (e÷dwla): they are pale ‘imitations’
(mim&mata) of the real thing.337 Furthermore, Alcidamas advises
that we should have the same opinion of written-down speeches
as of works of art and statuary: all of these things give us pleasure,
but they are completely useless in terms of real life. This is
similar to Gorgias’ view, in the Encomium (see below), that words
and works of art are analogous. Both Alcidamas and Gorgias
mention the pleasure that words or images arouse in the listener
or viewer; but, rather than (as Gorgias) stressing the deceptive-
ness of verbal ‘phantoms’, Alcidamas highlights their uselessness
and lifelessness. The type of word spoken ex tempore, straight
from the heart, is alive, spirited and like real bodies, compared
with the utter lack of life and energy of the written word.338 (But
note that Helen’s phantom, in contrast, is described by Euri-
pides as ‘living’ or ‘breathing’, πmpnoun).339 Alcidamas’ imagery
clearly alludes to, and breaks down, the sophistic distinction
between words (lÎgoi) and bodies (s*mata), by showing that one
can have lÎgoi which are like s*mata. But the important obser-
vation to be made about Alcidamas is that, like Euripides, he uses
the concept of the e÷dwlon in connection with words and bodies
337
Alcidamas 27: Ógoımai d’ oÛd† lÎgouß d≤kaion e”nai kale∏sqai toŸß
gegrammvnouß, åll’ ¿sper e÷dwla ka≥ sc&mata ka≥ mim&mata lÎgwn.
338
Ibid. 28: o\tw ka≥ lÎgoß Ø m†n åp’ aÛt[ß t[ß diano≤aß ƒn t0i paraut≤ka
legÎmenoß πmyucÎß ƒsti ka≥ z[i ka≥ to∏ß pr3gmasin 1petai ka≥ ålhqvsin åfwmo≤wtai
s*masin. Ø d† gegrammvnoß ejkÎni lÎgou t¶n f»sin Ømo≤an πcwn Åp3shß ƒnerge≤aß
£moiroß kaqvsthken. For a similar view, see also Pl. Phaedrus 274c–277a, Letters
2.314b–c, 7.341b3–345a.
339
Helen 36.
 Tragedy of Ideas 319
and works of art. Alcidamas is not alone: Plato and Aristotle use
the analogy of art to make the same point about the difference
between written and spoken words.340 Nevertheless, Euripides
in the escape-tragedies had done the same thing several decades
earlier.
How can we use this fourth-century evidence to help us to
understand Euripides? The evidence of Plato, especially, is far
from straightforward. Plato’s dialogues and, in particular, his
representations of the sophists, are coloured by his own distinc-
tive intellectual views to such a degree that we cannot tell exactly
what the earlier philosophers thought (for example, it does not
seem likely that Plato’s Gorgias represents the real Gorgias or his
ideas).341 Nor can we extract from the fourth-century writings
precisely what was being thought or said in 412 or earlier.
Nevertheless, Plato, Alcidamas and others help us to situate the
escape-tragedies in the context of a serious intellectual debate:
they reflect the fact that the sophists were interested in the
relationship of words and appearances to reality; that a debate
about what is and what is not (tÏ Ôn and tÏ m¶ Ôn) was roughly
contemporary with Euripides; and that the terminology of the
e÷dwlon was common to all these thinkers. (The extant writings of
Gorgias do not, however, contain the word e÷dwlon: this may
signify Euripides’ originality in synthesizing elements from
myth, philosophy and rhetoric.) In other words, Euripides can
be seen as anticipating—or influencing—the arguments of Plato
and the fourth-century rhetoricians.
Vernant finds another (rather different but clearly related)
significance of the word e÷dwlon, in terms of what he calls ‘the
psychological category of ‘the double’.342 Statues, funerary
monuments and images in dreams, according to him, ‘fall within
a category of very clearly defined phenomena to which the term
e÷dwla is applied. As well as the yuc&, which is a shade, and the
kolossÎß, which is a crudely-formed idol, this category includes,
340
Plato, Phaedrus 276a contrasts ‘living’ words with written words, which
he calls e÷dwla. Plato’s Eleatic Stranger (Sophist 234c–d) says that sophists trick
people by means of e÷dwla legÎmena (‘spoken phantoms’). Aristotle (Rhetoric 3.
1413b–1414a) also contrasts written and spoken speeches, using the image of
painting (skiagraf≤a).
341
See e.g. Dodds (1959) 6–10 and Havelock (1957).
342
Vernant (1983) 305–20 (the quotation is from p. 308); cf. Zielinski (1927)
for a similar, though less explicit, view.
320 Tragedy of Ideas
for instance, the dream-image (Ôneiroß), the shade (ski3), and the
supernatural apparition (f3sma).’ In all these cases, writes
Vernant, the mind apprehends the image-double as the equiva-
lent of the real thing: therefore the images have ‘something of the
effect of a trick, a deception, a snare, åp3th’.343
The double may have a further function, that of ritual substi-
tution. For example, Segal notes that in Euripides’ ‘tragi-
comedies’ (Alcestis, Helen, Iphigenia) the heroines triumph over
death by various means which, though different, nevertheless
can be seen as acts of ritual substitution.344 Helen’s replacement
with the phantom thus corresponds, in terms of the structural
interpretation of the myth, to Iphigenia’s replacement with the
hind (and, if Iphigenia really was replaced by a phantom in
Hesiod,345 this variation would, clearly, be exactly equivalent in
function). The ritual significance of phantom-doubles is seen
also in certain Spartan burial practices. Whenever a man died in
battle but his body could not be recovered, an e÷dwlon was used
in place of the lost body, so that the necessary rites could still take
place even without a corpse.346 In this respect, it is interesting to
note that missing bodies are called to mind several times in
Helen. Menelaus tells that of those who went to Troy only the
names, not the bodies, of the dead came back home: this is an
unusually moving use of the name-body (Ônoma–s0ma) anti-
thesis.347 Menelaus’ corpse, on the other hand, is absent because
it does not exist; Theoclymenus asks: t≤ d’; πst’ åpÎntwn t»mboß; ∂
q3yeiß ski3n; (‘What?—a tomb for absent bodies?—or are you
going to bury a shadow?).348
One very prominent significance of images (e÷dwla, åg3lmata
343
Vernant (1983) 309.
344
Segal (1993) 37–50.
345
See §2.3.2 above.
346
This practice is attested by Herodotus (6.58, 7.238) in the case of royal
burials (Agesilaus is given as an example). Toher (1999, 114) argues that these
‘effigies’ were more widespread. The use of substitute ‘corpses’ is not just
Spartan burial customs but a wider phenomenon: for example, the 13th-cent. bc
graves at Midea (Dendra) discussed by Vernant (1983, 306).
347
Helen 399: nekr0n fvrontaß ønÎmat’ ejß o÷kouß p3lin.
348
Helen 1240; cf. 1243, on supposed Greek customs for those who die at sea:
keno∏si q3ptein ƒn pvplwn Ëf3smasin (‘bury them in an empty shroud of woven
cloth’); 1261: lvktra s*matoß ken3 (‘a bier without a corpse’); 1546, where a
messenger says that Helen is performing burial without a body (~d’ åpÎnta
kenotafe∏).
 Tragedy of Ideas 321
and others) is in the sense of works of art—sculpture and paint-
ing. In particular, Gorgias’ remarks (in the Encomium) on visual
art are reflected in several places in the escape-tragedies: that is,
the power of images to beguile and deceive is comparable to the
power of words and other sorts of illusion. However, Gorgias
was not the only intellectual to make this comparison in one form
or another.349 Democritus’ name crops up again, suggestively: a
fragment from his writings expresses the view that names are
images (åg3lmata) of their objects.350 The little-known Hierocles
is also said to have described those who first assigned names to
objects as ‘image-makers’ (ågalmatopoio≤), in the sense that they
‘manufactured’ names as images (ejkÎneß) of the functions
(dun3meiß) of their objects.351
Perseus, on his first entry, mistakes the bound Andromeda for
a lovely statue, whose appearance has a great effect on him:
πa, t≤n’ Ôcqon tÎnd’ Ør0 per≤rruton
åfr0i qal3sshß; parqvnou t’ ejk* tina
ƒx aÛtomÎrfwn la≤nwn tukism3twn
sof[ß £galma ceirÎß.352
Ah! What is this rock that I see, washed around by the foam of the sea?
It is the statue of a young girl, fashioned out of a piece of solid stone, the
work of a skilled hand.
Perseus is completely taken in by the deception, thinking that
what he sees is a statue, the work of a ‘skilled’—or ‘clever’—hand
(sof[ß ceirÎß).353 The situation here beautifully reflects Gorgias’
linking of outward appearances, statues and erotic love, since
Perseus does indeed fall in love with Andromeda.354 Also, the
349
One might compare Simonides’ view that painting is ‘silent poetry’ and
poetry ‘speaking painting’ (quoted or alluded to by Plutarch several times: Mor.
18a, 58c, 347a, 748; Life of Homer 216).
350
Democritus (DK 68 B142): åg3lmata fwn&enta ka≥ taıt3 [ØnÎmata] ƒsti
(‘these names are images which speak’).
351
Quoted by Olympiodorus (on Plato, Philebus 12c), and listed by Diels–
Kranz, along with the fragment of Democritus just quoted (B142).
352
Andromeda fr. 125. (Cf. Ovid, Met. 4. 675, where Andromeda is described
as a marmoreum opus.)
353
The use of the adjective sofÎß may be marked; it is used elsewhere of other
statues: Eur. Alc. 348-9; Eurystheus fr. 372 Nauck. See also Steiner (2001) 44–8
on the accomplishment (sof≤a) of artists.
354
The ‘sexual appeal’ of statues is seen also in Euripides, Hecabe 560–1:
masto»ß t’ πdeixe stvrna q’ „ß åg3lmatoß | k3llista (‘she displayed her naked
breast, as beautiful as a sculpted statue’). Cf. Michelini (1987) 77.
322 Tragedy of Ideas
possibility of a statue which exactly resembled Andromeda
raises similar questions of identity as did the phantom which
exactly resembled Helen. (The possibility that Andromeda, or
someone else, was petrified in the course of the play355 opens
up more such questions: would a petrified Andromeda be
Andromeda any less than the flesh-and-blood version?) It is
unusual for someone to mistake a person for a statue; one would
have thought it much more likely to happen the other way
around. Does this mean that the real Andromeda somehow lacks
the lifelike quality which a real human being would possess?
Not only Andromeda but also Helen is described in terms
which seem deliberately reminiscent of works of art. First of all,
Teucer’s first glimpse of Helen in the prologue lead him (as we
have seen) to make a similar mistake to Perseus, since he
describes her in the same breath as an Ôyiß (‘vision’), an ejk*n
(‘image’) and a m≤mhma (‘likeness’).356 Later on, Helen, saying
that her beauty has been responsible for her misfortunes,
expresses the wish that she could change her appearance, scrap-
ing off her beauty like paint from an £galma (‘statue’ or ‘paint-
ing’).357
e÷q’ ƒxaleifqe∏s’ „ß £galm’ aˆqiß p3lin
a÷scion e”doß πlabon ånt≥ toı kaloı,
ka≥ t¤ß t»caß m†n t¤ß kak¤ß 4ß nın πcw
E
fi llhneß ƒpel3qonto.
Would that I had been cleaned like a statue [or painting] and begun
afresh, taking an uglier appearance instead of this lovely one! In that
355
See §2.3.4 above.
356
In Helen 72–7, quoted in §4.4.4 above.
357
Helen 262–5. Is this a painting or a statue? Dale (1967, ad loc.) thinks a
painting, ‘not as more usually a figure in the round, since ƒxale≤fw must mean
obliterate, not wipe clean’. Must it? Kannicht (1969, 2. 89–90) is not so sure, and
quotes instances of £galma in both senses. In any case, Dale’s reasoning is
wrong: a painting wiped clean would leave a blank piece of wood with no trace
of the former picture, but a statue wiped of its paint would still resemble Helen.
One could ‘obliterate’ a statue in the sense of smashing it, and ƒxale≤fw is found
metaphorically in the sense of ‘destroy’ (Iphigenia 698, Hipp. 1241; Aesch.
Choeph. 503, Seven 15; Hdt. 7.220); but the text here could not possibly support
such a muddle of literal and metaphorical meanings. The same verb is used by
Euripides elsewhere in the sense of scrubbing out a picture (Peleus fr. 618
Nauck): tÏn Ôlbon oÛd†n oÛdamoı kr≤nw broto∏ß, | Òn g’ ƒxale≤fei Â$ion ∂ graf¶n qeÎß
(‘I consider that human prosperity is completely meaningless, because a god
scrubs it out more easily than if it were a picture’). To conclude, then, Helen is
talking about scraping off paint, from either a statue or a painting.
 Tragedy of Ideas 323
case the Greeks would have forgotten the evil fortune which now dogs
me.
Helen in these lines acknowledges the similarities between her
own body and works of art: both exert an irresistible power on
the beholder, and both are (in various ways) deceptive.
The point at issue is not just deceptive appearances, but
personal identity. Helen wishes to remove her beauty; but
Helen’s beauty is so integral to her identity, and such an essential
characteristic of her mythical tradition, that she cannot easily be
imagined without it. An ugly Helen would be as ‘counterfactual’
as a chaste, innocent Helen. Here, again, the dichotomy between
‘truthful’ bodies (s*mata) and ‘false’ names (ønÎmata/lÎgoi) is
distorted; for Helen’s body itself, she now claims, is unreal,
responsible for misleading people about her true nature. These
words contain an alarming implication. If Helen’s identity could
be detached from her name and her body, how else could it be
defined? Would she still exist at all?
Iphigenia makes much of another representational image: this
time it is the cult statue (brvtaß, also described as an £galma) of
Artemis. As in the passage above, this image raises questions of
identity (albeit of a somewhat different kind). Images of deities
differ in status from images of human beings, since they have a
ritual purpose: in the context of the temple and the sacrificial
worship, the statue not only represents Artemis, but in some
sense it is Artemis, and is seen to be invested with divine powers.
(For example, it moves, and closes its eyes, of its own accord—a
clear sign that it is far from inanimate.358) It is unclear just what
form the Tauric statue in the play is imagined as taking: was it
‘representational’ in an anthropomorphic sense? Pausanias
describes not one but two statues of Artemis in the sanctuary at
Brauron in his time: an archaic wooden totem (which may have
been the one which Orestes brought from the Tauric land) and a
fifth-century marble statue.359 When Orestes takes the statue of
Artemis to Athens, this is symbolic of his transferring the
religious rituals of Artemis to Athens.360 So the statue in
358
Iphigenia 1165–7.
359
Steiner (2001, 80–95) tries to chart the progression from crude, primitive
images to more highly developed anthropomorphic works of art, giving
examples of the various types of image.
360
See §5.2 below.
324 Tragedy of Ideas
Iphigenia both is and is not ‘really’ Artemis. (One might compare
the views of both Heraclitus and Democritus, who took a deeply
sceptical view of the status of divine images, openly doubting
whether the images were actually gods, whether they had any-
thing numinous about them, or whether they were like gods in
any respect at all.361)
A word often to be found in association with statues is c3riß.
Usually rendered in English as ‘charm’ or ‘grace’, but in fact
virtually untranslatable, c3riß is a quality thought to be desirable
in images, a quality which skilled artists might impart. Classical
painting and sculpture was preoccupied with accurate, mimetic
representation: the aim of artists was the exact reproduction of
their subjects. But, as Deborah Steiner’s recent book on Greek
art and philosophy makes clear, it is not skill at creating a mere
visual likeness, but skill at creating a semblance of life, which was
seen to be important.362 C3riß is therefore a deceptive quality, a
form of appearance which deliberately misrepresents reality.
(Perhaps we will think of Pindar’s statement, apropos of the
poet’s art, that c3riß makes the incredible credible.363 We may
well recall, too, Aeschylus’ description of Menelaus’ empty
house, furnished with statues of Helen which possess so much
c3riß that they are hateful to him.364) Appropriately, bearing
all this in mind, the word c3riß occurs with extraordinary
frequency in the escape-tragedies, often in an ambiguous or
suggestive way.365 Of course, the word c3riß has other meanings
as well. As ‘favour’, it is an ethical concept, embodying recipro-
city and related principles;366 as ‘(feminine) charm’, it can refer

361
Heraclitus (DK 22 B5), Democritus (DK 68 B195).
362
Steiner (2001) 46. She lists Aeschylus, Theoroi fr. 78a Radt and Euripides,
Eurystheus fr 372 Kannicht, which both contain examples of statues designed to
deceive viewers into thinking that they are looking at real human beings.
363
Pind. Ol. 1. 28–32: C3riß d’, ‹per ‹panta te»cei t¤ me≤lica qnato∏ß, |
ƒpifvroisa tim¤n ka≥ £piston ƒm&sato pistÎn | πmmenai tÏ poll3kiß (‘Grace, which
accomplishes all that is delightful for mortals, bringing renown and more often
than not making the incredible credible’).
364
Aesch. Ag. 410-26. Vernant (1983, 310), oddly, thinks that they lack c3riß.
365
Andromeda fr. 129. Helen 150, 175, 655, 806, 902, 921, 940, 1000, 1006,
1234, 1254, 1273, 1331, 1373, 1378, 1397, 1402, 1411, 1420, 1449. Iphigenia 14,
33, 455, 507, 566, 600, 602, 631, 847, 1147, 1444.
366
MacLachlan’s (1993) study of c3riß in Greek literature takes a social/
reciprocal view. See especially pp. 149–57, which deal with Helen (albeit
opaquely). In Alcestis, c3riß approximates to xen≤a (‘guest-friendship’ or
 Tragedy of Ideas 325
to real women as well as statues; and in the accusative case
(‘because of’), c3rin is simply a preposition. Nevertheless, when
Helen invokes c3riß to persuade Theonoe to help her (dÏß t¶n
c3rin moi t&nde, ‘grant me this favour’, 940), and when she says to
Theoclymenus, after tricking him into giving her a ship, ~d’
Ómvra soi t¶n ƒm¶n de≤xei c3rin,367 there is a great sense of irony. In
each case, Helen’s surface meaning relates to reciprocal good-
will and gratitude. However, other senses are in play beneath the
surface, for Helen’s effect, not only on the Egyptian twins but
also on the audience, is as bewitching as that of any statue. In
Steiner’s words, ‘equipped with all the persuasive, beguiling
powers that images possess, Helen inspires in those who witness
her a response analogous to that elicited by works of art’.368
In all of the passages above it can be seen that words and
visual images may be comparable in an epistemological sense. As
forms of illusion, they exert an autonomous power, irrespective
of their relationship to reality.

4.4.7 Illusions on the stage

This might seem an odd place to start discussing stagecraft;369
but it is clear that the physical staging of the plays reflects and
enhances the major philosophical themes. Just as the idea of

reciprocal hospitality): see Conacher (1998). On c3riß in tragedy, see also

Fraenkel (1950, on Aesch. Ag. 354); Taplin (1992) 59-60; Mossman (1995)
27–8.
367
Helen 1420. One could translate this as, for instance: ‘This day will show
you how grateful I am for your help’, or perhaps ‘this day will make clear to you
the full extent of my charms’: either version is deliberately ironic.
368
Steiner (2001) 56.
369
Time and space prevent me from including a separate chapter on this
aspect. For the moment, this brief methodological note may suffice to explain
my attitude. Many studies of stagecraft are unsatisfactory, because they con-
centrate on entrances, exits and other largely unanswerable questions along the
lines of ‘what might I have done if I wanted to direct this play myself?’ (Halleran
[1985], Seale [1982] and Ley [1991] exemplify this type of approach; Taplin
[1977] and [1978] is a notable exception to the rule; Goldhill [1989] provides an
excellent critique.) Unless one is specifically interested in the paraphernalia and
actors of the Attic theatre, this type of speculation is conceptually unsatisfying.
Rather, we should be attempting to link the physical productions (so far as we
can tell anything about them) to the imaginative, thematic aspects of the plays.
Whether Orestes comes on to the stage from the left parodos or the sk∂n∂ door is
interesting only if it helps us to understand the play better.
326 Tragedy of Ideas
deceptive appearances is explored in the script on a verbal level,
it is exploited on the stage on a visual level.370
One important way in which the Attic theatre differed from
modern theatre or cinema is in its presentation of reality. If any
audience is to engage with a play or film, its members will have to
accept that what is before their eyes is ‘real’, temporarily detach-
ing themselves from ‘real reality’ and succumbing to the conven-
tions of the medium. (One might compare Gorgias’ view that
tragedy is a collusion in deception between playwright and
audience.371) Despite Aristotle’s description of it as a representa-
tion (m≤mhsiß) of reality, Greek tragedy makes comparatively
little attempt to represent reality realistically. What the audience
sees is only ever the circular theatre of Dionysus and its minimal-
ist trappings, with the Attic landscape as the backdrop372—yet,
for the purposes of the drama, they have to disregard appear-
ances and view the scene as Mycenae, Thebes, Corinth—or, as in
these plays, Egypt, Ethiopia or the Black Sea! Because of these
bizarre settings, the gap between words and what the audience
can actually see is rather larger than normal. This may have led
them to question their ‘suspension of disbelief’—especially
since, as it turns out, there is actually little effort to render these
settings credibly exotic.373 The lack of realism in tragedy is
scarcely a new observation, but it is worth mentioning in this
context because the ‘illusion’—or ‘deception’—in tragedy is
achieved as much through words as through visual appearances.
This aspect of the Greek theatre happens to fit in nicely with
Gorgias’ point that words and appearances are parallel.
This being so, one might have expected Euripides to draw
attention to the illusory nature of the plays themselves (qua
plays), and to remind us that we are watching not heroes and
heroines in Egypt (etc.) but actors on a stage. No doubt many
spectators would have made links in their own minds between
the plays’ treatment of deceptive appearances and the theatrical
‘illusion’; but in fact the plays contain almost nothing which
could be described as metatheatrical. This (perhaps disappoint-
ing) fact can be explained by the all-important consideration of
370
Cf. the brief remarks of Burnett (1960, 154) and Muecke (1982, 29).
371
Gorgias (DK 82 B23): cf. Wardy (1996) 36.
372
In §3.1 above I discuss the outdoor theatre and skhnograf≤a.
373
See §3.2 above.
 Tragedy of Ideas 327
genre. That is, tragedy on the whole, unlike comedy, never
entirely disrupts the theatrical ‘illusion’ in order to indulge in
metatheatrical play.374
Nevertheless, there is one passage in Helen which approaches
metatheatricality, drawing attention to the theatrical convention
of the mask. This is the passage which I quoted in the last
section, where Helen expresses the wish that she could change
her appearance (262–5):
e÷q’ ƒxaleifqe∏s’ „ß £galm’ aˆqiß p3lin
a÷scion e”doß πlabon ånt≥ toı kaloı,
ka≥ t¤ß t»caß m†n t¤ß kak¤ß 4ß nın πcw
E
fi llhneß ƒpel3qonto.
Would that I had been cleaned like a statue [or painting] and begun
afresh, taking an uglier appearance instead of this lovely one! In that
case the Greeks would have forgotten the evil fortune which now dogs
me.
These lines may well cause us to reflect that the male actor play-
ing Helen could in fact wipe away the paint from his mask, or
take it off altogether, to change his appearance.375 If the intended
effect here is metatheatrical, it might be suggested that this is an
example of Euripides’ ‘genre-bending’, incorporating features
which are out of place in tragedy. But this is different from comic
metatheatricality, which is far more overt and explicit. As
Muecke points out, ‘in Euripides, play with the theatrical illu-
sion is for the sake of the play with ideas in the drama, while in
Aristophanes contrast between reality and illusion is used for the
sake of reflecting on theatrical illusion itself’.376 This is quite
right. But one can go further and point out that, although
Helen’s words here can be read as implicitly metatheatrical, their
more obvious meaning relates to the theme of Helen’s beauty
and the remarks of Gorgias and Democritus about works of art.
We should not expect to find metatheatricality, then; but we
can see other ways in which the staging represents the epistemo-
logical themes of the plays. Perhaps the most obvious is the
creation of confusion. The construction of the plot of Helen, for
example, seems designed to create the impression that the play
374
Taplin (1986) 168–70 (cf. §1.1 above).
375
E. M. Hall (1997) xxiv.
376
Muecke (1982) 29 (comparing the metatheatricality of Aristophanes’
parodies of the escape-tragedies).
328 Tragedy of Ideas
has ended at line 385, when both Helen and the chorus exit,
leaving the stage empty. Menelaus makes his entrance at 386
onto an empty stage and begins a speech in the style of a pro-
logue: _ t¤ß teqr≤ppouß Ojnom3wi P∏san k3ta | Pvloy Åm≤llaß
ƒxamillhqe≤ß pote (‘O Pelops, you who once competed in the
chariot-race with Oenomaus at Pisa’).377 This highly unconven-
tional technique is confusing. So, too, is the very fact of
Menelaus’ presence; not just its fortuitous timing (why should
he be in Egypt, of all places?) but because until this point it
seemed—owing to deceptive words—that he was dead. A further
striking feature of this entrance is that Menelaus is dressed
uncharacteristically in rags (to which I shall shortly return): this
means that the audience will have been initially unsure of his
identity. His opening lines about Pelops and Oenomaus do not
entirely give the game away, and it is several tantalizing lines
before he reveals himself as Menelaus.
Menelaus’ ‘second prologue’ is just one example of the
doubling of motifs (or ‘gemination’, as Segal called it).378 The
importance of elements which are not what they seem, which
resemble other elements but are really quite different, is clearly
of great relevance; and, again, its effect is to confuse and baffle the
audience. Helen contains two ‘prologues’, two sets of twins (the
Dioscuri and the children of Proteus), two deception-scenes,
two recognition-scenes, two shipwrecked Greek sailors who
question Helen (Teucer and Menelaus), two ‘reported deaths’ of
Menelaus (both false) and two messengers. In Iphigenia a pair of
rescuers (Orestes and Pylades) rescue not one but two female
figures (Iphigenia and Artemis). In Andromeda the heroine’s
plight, and her words, are echoed within the caves by Echo, and
there seem to have been two separate perils from which
Andromeda had to be rescued (the monster and Cepheus?).379
Clearly, Helen contains more ‘gemination’ of elements than do
377
Burnett (1971, 80), noting this ‘breaking with tragic conventions’, adds
that ‘Menelaus does not say anything which he could not have said to the
chorus’.
378
Segal (1971) 562: ‘This doubling of the motifs reflects the mirror-like con-
fusion with which “reality” in this play confronts the human participants.’
379
See Webster (1967) 192–9 and Bubel (1991) 45–63. One of the vase-paint-
ings of Euripides’ Andromeda (Trendall and Webster [1971] 3.3.12 = Matera
12538) depicts two Pans: their relevance is unclear (but note Sophocles’
Andromeda fr. 136 TGF [Radt], which also mentions Pans in the plural).
 Tragedy of Ideas 329
the other two plays individually; but if the escape-tragedies are a
trilogy, the cumulative effect of three tragedies with virtually
identical plots, which resemble each other visually and in terms
of plot and structure,380 will have heightened still further this
confusing feeling that things are not what they seem.
Costumes are used in Helen to create more confusion.
Costumes and masks are, apart from the words spoken, our only
indications of a character’s identity, since each of the three actors
played more than one character. But another function of
costume is to alter or disguise one’s appearance. At the same time
as the audience’s trust in personal identity and names is shaken
up by the characters’ words, changes in appearance are also used
to confuse them as to the identity of the characters.381 Both major
characters in Helen completely change their appearance halfway
through the play. Helen, who has been dressed in white robes
and (as seems likely) a beautifully painted mask, changes into
black mourning robes and a mask representing tears and bloody
scratches from her fingernails, and cuts off her hair.382 Menelaus,
who has previously been clad in a shipwrecked beggar’s
appalling rags,383 is dressed (by Helen!) in fine clothes and dons
heroic armour.384 This discontinuity, which is unparalleled in
tragedy, would have been as disorientating as, say, a modern film
version of Helen in which the actors playing the lead characters
were suddenly changed!385 Certainly the disguise is so successful
that Theoclymenus, failing to recognize the short-haired, black-
clad woman in front of him, at first imagines, wrongly, that
380
See §1.2 above.
381
Note that Aristophanes’ parody of these plays in Thesmophoriazusae is
based primarily on costumes and disguises as a means of deception.
382
Helen 1053–4, 1087–9, 1186–90, 1224.
383
Helen 420–4, 554, 1079–80.
384
Helen 1281–4, 1379–84.
385
This would strike a modern audience as most peculiar: for obvious
reasons, there are comparatively few cinematic examples of such a technique.
David Lynch’s postmodern thriller Mulholland Drive (2001) reversed the roles
of the two lead actresses mid-way through the film. Woody Allen’s Deconstruct-
ing Harry (1997) uses different actors to blur the distinctions between real and
fictional characters. Ed Wood Jr’s decision to change the main actor in Plan 9
From Outer Space (1956) came about by accident (Bela Lugosi died mid-shoot)
rather than design, and the resulting film is ludicrously hard to follow. Of
course, the audiences of long-running soap-operas are far more accustomed to
different actors playing a single character—but here I am talking about high
art . . .
330 Tragedy of Ideas
Helen has escaped from the house. On the point of setting men
and chariots in pursuit of her, he recognizes her and shouts
(1184–90):
ƒp≤scet’: ejsor0 g¤r oÙß di*komen
parÎntaß ƒn dÎmoisi koÛ pefeugÎtaß.
a\th, t≤ pvplouß mvlanaß ƒx&yw croÏß
leuk0n åme≤yas’ πk te kratÏß eÛgenoıß
kÎmaß s≤dhron ƒmbaloıs’ åpvqrisaß
clwro∏ß te tvggeiß d3krusi s¶n parh≤da
kla≤ousa;
Stop! I can see our quarry here in the house; she has not got away. You,
Helen, why have you changed your white garments and clothed your
body in black? And why have you shorn the hair from your noble head
with a knife? And why are you crying, drenching your face with fresh
tears?
Helen answers his question with a completely fabricated tale: her
new appearance resembles the customary attire of mourning
ritual, because the escape-plan depends on the pretence that
Menelaus is dead. In other words, the primary reason for these
changes of appearance is the deliberate deception of Theocly-
menus. Both words and appearances (as in Gorgias’ Encomium)
are to work together in order both to persuade and to deceive. To
the news of the ‘death’ Theoclymenus replies excitedly (1197–
8):
oÛdvn ti ca≤rw so∏ß lÎgoiß, t¤ d’ eÛtuc0:
p0ß o”sqa; m0n soi QeonÎh lvgei t3de;
I do not rejoice at all in your words; but on the other hand I am fortu-
nate. How do you know Menelaus is dead?—surely not from Theonoe?
These words (whether or not the first line is genuine)386 are
386
Diggle deletes, perhaps because the extra line breaks up the passage of
stichomythia which otherwise runs uninterrupted from 1195 to 1277; but the
line occurs very near the beginning of this passage, before any momentum has
been gained. Dale (1967, ad loc.) writes: ‘either of these lines separately is a
possible response to 1196. Together they are less happy.’ She adds that 1197
removes some of the ‘surprised’ tone of p0ß o”sqa; Nevertheless, I should keep
both lines. Theoclymenus’ language here, from his entry onwards, is jerky, full
of exclamations, ‘false starts’ and changes of addressee (1165, 1169, 1171, 1176,
1180, 1184), which means that his response to Helen’s news is not incongruous.
The slight awkwardness which Dale detected in the shape of 1197 is removed by
Heath’s emendation t¤ d’ (t3d’ L). As they stand, the lines register, first of all,
Theoclymenus’ instinctive reaction of surprise and barely-suppressed joy,
 Tragedy of Ideas 331
unconsciously ironical. Theoclymenus has little reason indeed
for rejoicing in these deceptive words, and his ‘good fortune’ too
will be a short-lived delusion. The abrupt question which
follows—how does Helen know that Menelaus is dead?—is
highly pertinent in a trilogy concerned with the shaky basis of
knowledge. Theoclymenus is interested only in the immediate
context, but his question has a wider epistemological signifi-
cance. His suggestion that Theonoe might have revealed the sad
news may cause us again to wonder why neither Theoclymenus
nor Helen thought to ask Theonoe about Menelaus’ fate at any
time during the previous seventeen years (or whether Theonoe’s
‘omniscient’ words are really a stable clue to reality). We might
well recall, also, Theoclymenus’ enquiring, only seven lines
earlier, why Helen might be upset: is it, he suggests, because of a
dream or a rumour from home?387 Both dreams (as we have seen in
Iphigenia) and rumours (as we have already seen in this play),388
like Helen’s own deceitful words, are deeply unsatisfactory
sources of ‘knowledge’.
Costumes are significant, then, in the sense of disguises,
analogous to deceptive words. However, this is not their only
function. Menelaus’ two costumes are used to explore further
the question of personal identity which has already been
addressed from various angles: to what extent is a person’s nature
or identity defined by their clothing? When Menelaus enters
the stage dressed as a beggar, is it just a disguise (albeit an acci-
dental one, not deliberately feigned)? Or has the hero actually
become a beggar (as Muecke puts it, ‘the costume dictating the
character’)?389
The initial confrontation between Menelaus and Helen is used
to bring out this problem. Here, as we saw, the recognition does
not occur instantaneously, not only because of the cognitive

which then changes to a more rational incredulity: how on earth could Helen
know of this ‘death’?
387
Helen 1190–2: pÎteron ƒnn»coiß pepeismvnh | stvneiß øne≤roiß ∂ f3tin tin’
o÷koqen | kluoısa l»phi s¤ß divfqarsai frvnaß; (‘Why do you lament? Is it because
of a convincing dream in the night, or have you heard some rumour from home
that has destroyed your spirit with grief?’)
388
For example, the emphatic final words of the parodos (Helen 250–1): tÏ d’
ƒmÏn Ônoma par¤ Simount≤oiß Âoa∏si | may≤dion πcei f3tin (‘my name has a vain
report by the streams of Simois’).
389
Muecke (1982) 28.
332 Tragedy of Ideas
difficulties presented by the phantom, but also because it is
impossible to identify Menelaus on the basis of his appearance.
Despite his reassurance that he intends her no harm, Helen is
still deceived by his clothing into being wary.390
ME. oÛ kl0pvß ƒsmen oÛd’ Ëphrvtai kak0n.
EL. ka≥ m¶n stol&n g’ £morfon åmf≥ s0m’ πceiß.
Menelaus: I am not a thief or a criminal!
Helen: And yet your body’s clothing, indeed, is ugly.
The word s0ma implies that Menelaus’ body alone, without the
disguise of clothes, might provide a clue to his real identity—but
is this true? It is not just Menelaus’ clothing that characterizes
him as a beggar, but the whole situation in general. In this case,
it might be that appearances do correspond to reality! This
possibility is denied by Menelaus in his later conversation with
Helen (789–92):
EL. po≤oiß ƒpist¤ß barb3roiß pul*masin;
ME. to∏sd’, πnqen ¿sper ptwcÏß ƒxhlaunÎmhn.
EL. oÇ pou pros&iteiß b≤oton; _ t3lain’ ƒg*.
ME. toÇrgon m†n Án toıt’, Ônoma d’ oÛk e”cen tÎde.
Helen: At whose gates in this barbarian country did you stand?
Menelaus: These ones, from which I was being driven away just like a
beggar.
Helen: Surely you were not begging for food? Oh, misery!
Menelaus: That is indeed what happened, but I did not call myself a
beggar.
Nevertheless, we have seen Menelaus in his rags, wretched and
washed-up, oppressed by need, lacking food and clothes. He has
considered scavenging for provisions; but when he finally knocks
desperately at the palace door, pleading for assistance, it is to be
humiliated and ejected by the old Portress.391 This esurience is
not a pose: in his circumstances, and the manner in which he is
treated, Menelaus really is a beggar. This means that his denial
390
Helen 553–4. These are among the lines which Burnett (1960) found so
amusing: see pp. 231–2 above.
391
Helen 408: t3laß nauagÎß (‘an unfortunate, shipwrecked man’); 420–1:
cre≤a d† te≤rei m’: oÇte g¤r s∏toß p3ra | oÇt’ åmf≥ cr0t’ ƒsq[teß (‘necessity is
ravaging me: I have no food nor clothes on my body’); 428–9: mÎnoß d† nost0, to∏ß
ƒke∏ zht0n f≤loiß | t¤ prÎsfor’ ‡n pwß ƒxereun&saß l3bw (‘I have come back alone,
in search of provisions, if I can manage to find some, for my companions on the
beach’); Menelaus is humiliated by the servant at lines 437–482.
 Tragedy of Ideas 333
(the word-play with πrgon and Ônoma, and the use of ¿sper to
qualify ptwcÏß) cannot be taken too literally. The fact that
Menelaus did not call himself a beggar had no effect on the
reality of the situation, but rather serves to highlight again the
unreliability of names, as well as the instability of personal
identity. Words aside, if one’s actual status as an aristocratic hero
or a lowly beggar results from circumstances rather than one’s
nature, the implications in terms of social class are disturbing.
One might compare the words of the lowly Greek messenger,
who uses words to blur the boundaries between ‘servile’ and
‘noble’, ‘free’ and ‘slave’, and to bring out the difference between
what we are called and what we are. Social status, rather than
resulting from one’s nature or birth, may be far more arbitrary:
is a ‘noble slave’ really as much of a paradox as it seems?
ƒg° m†n e÷hn, kej pvfuc’ Òmwß l3triß,
ƒn to∏si genna≤oisin ]riqmhmvnoß
do»loisi, toÇnom’ oÛk πcwn ƒle»qeron,
tÏn noın dv.392
I should like to be counted among noble slaves, even though I am of
servile nature; I may not be called free, but I have a free mind.
As the details of the escape-plan evolve, costume resumes its
deliberately deceptive function. Although to begin with Helen
may have been appalled at Menelaus’ embarrassment, she later
comes to realize that his ragged dress might prove useful to them
(1079–82):
ME. ka≥ m¶n t3d’ åmf≤blhstra s*matoß Â3kh
xumm3rturvß soi nautik0n ƒreip≤wn.
EL. ƒß kairÏn Álqe, tÎte d’ £kair’ åp*lluto:
tÏ d’ £qlion ke∏n’ eÛtuc†ß t3c’ #n pvsoi.
Menelaus: These coverings I am wearing round my body, made of
tattered remnants from the ship, will surely act as witnesses on your
behalf.
Helen: They are exactly what we need—though previously your loss
was untimely; so it may be that wretched fortune may in fact turn out
for the best.
392
Helen 728–31. The same paradox is expressed by the servant at the end of
the play: prÏ despot0n | to∏si genna≤oisi do»loiß eÛklevstaton qane∏n (‘For noble
slaves, to die on behalf of their masters is most glorious, 1640–1). Cf. Ion 854.
(The series of maxims in Helen 728–33 have struck some critics as unconnected
or garbled: Diggle, following Willink, deletes the lines; cf. Dale [1967] 115–16.)
334 Tragedy of Ideas
The use of the word kairÎß (‘the right moment’ or ‘timeliness’) is
interesting, recalling its use as a quasi-technical term by sophists
and rhetors—including, notably, Gorgias (it is even possible that
Gorgias wrote a treatise with the title Per≥ kairoı).393 Just as it is
important to use words at the right moment in order to make
one’s speech as persuasive as possible, so it is important for
Helen and Menelaus’ deception-plan to use appearances at the
right moment.394 The rhetorical, litigious flavour is emphasized
further by the image of Menelaus’ clothes as ‘witnesses’
(xumm3rtureß). So the significance of Gorgias emerges in another,
slightly different way, which is immediately linked in to the big
picture. Clothes, like words, can have a kairÎß; and, like other
forms of outward appearance, they can perform the same per-
suasive or deceptive function as words.
In addition, the question of the ‘correctness of words’ (ørqÎthß
ønom3twn) recurs in these few lines. Can words really correspond
to the nature of things, if we can use different words for the same
things depending on circumstance? Previously, the words £kaira
(‘untimely’) and £qlion (‘wretched’) could be applied to
Menelaus’ rags, but now the directly opposite terms ƒß kairÏn
(‘timely’) and eÛtuc†ß (‘fortunate’) are used for the same rags,
which have not changed. The correctness of words, then, is rela-
tive: which, as so many times before, makes us question how far
language really represents reality.
Menelaus’ beggarly grovelling is now part of the escapees’
ruse (although nothing has really changed; he is still, for all prac-
tical purposes, a beggar). More irony follows, as Theoclymenus
catches sight of him crouching on the ground and remarks on his
disreputable appearance, for Helen supposes that ‘her husband
also’ looks like this (dok0 m†n kåmÏn —d’ πcein pÎsin, 1205). This
time, she is not deluded in her supposition, but Theoclymenus is
the one deceived. It is because of the success of the deception that
Theoclymenus agrees to equip Menelaus with everything he
393
Importance of kairÎß: Gorgias (DK 82 B13), Dionys. Halicarn. De Comp.
Verb. 12, Diog. Laert. 9.52 (who gives the title Per≥ kairoı, though most believe
that the work was called Tvcnh), Isoc. Paneg. 7–9; see Guthrie (1971) 272,
Kerferd (1981) 82.
394
One might compare Iphigenia 907–8: sof0n g¤r åndr0n toıto m¶ ∞ kb3ntaß
t»chß, | kairÏn labÎntaß, Ódon¤ß £llaß labe∏n (‘wise people do not let luck pass
them by, but seize the right moment and obtain even more pleasure’), in which
Cropp (2000, ad loc.) detects something of ‘a sophistic tone’.
 Tragedy of Ideas 335
wants. You will not go away from here empty-handed, he
tells Menelaus, since he sees what a lowly state the man is in
(ƒpe≥ nın g’ åql≤wß 〈s’〉 πconq’ Ør0, 1284). More irony abounds:
Theoclymenus would have done better not to believe what he
sees. The appearance of the Greek sailors (not staged, but
reported by the messenger) is also calculated to achieve decep-
tion: they are all dressed in rags; their disgusting appearance
belies the fact that they are fine specimens of manhood; they all
have concealed weapons; and they are shedding counterfeit
tears.395 Everything about them, in fact, is deceptive: as it turns
out, they are not mourners but murderers.
When, after the second stasimon, Menelaus re-emerges,
prepared to perform the bogus rituals, he is carrying a shield and
spear and wearing armour (1376–8). As before, his outward
appearance reflects, rather than misrepresents, reality: he is
about to behave heroically, replaying Troy. His behaviour on-
board ship, as reported by the messenger a little later, seems
completely different from before, and perhaps it is, at least
partly, due to his new costume. We are bound to ask: does out-
ward appearance dictate reality, rather than vice versa? Costume,
then, has a complex and changing function related to the play’s
themes and it is not at all straightforward.
In Iphigenia there does not seem to have been as much play on
costume: Orestes and Pylades are required to don veils in order
to take part in the sham purification ritual (1207), but the decep-
tion is not as marked as in Helen. However, there is an extra-
ordinary moment in the play which is not only memorable in
theatrical terms but also an effective visual form of an epistemo-
logical motif. This is Iphigenia’s letter to Orestes, which is
instrumental in bringing about the recognition. Iphigenia hands
the letter to Pylades, with elaborate instructions to deliver it to
her brother, who she thinks is in Argos, but Pylades simply
carries it across the stage and hands it to the previously unidenti-
fied Orestes (791–4).
PU. jdo», fvrw soi dvlton åpod≤dwm≤ te,
Orvsta, t[sde s[ß kasign&thß p3ra.
OR. dvcomai: pare≥ß d† gramm3twn diaptuc3ß,
t¶n Ódon¶n pr0t’ oÛ lÎgoiß aÈr&somai.

395
Helen 1538–40, 1574–5, 1547.
336 Tragedy of Ideas
Pylades: See, I have a letter to give to you, Orestes, from this woman,
your sister.
Orestes: I receive it—but I shall cast aside the written tablets, and take
pleasure not in mere words.
Letters are to be found elsewhere in tragedy,396 but this parti-
cular use of the letter-device is a brilliantly-judged coup de
théâtre, a memorable and defining moment of the play (indeed,
several of the vase-paintings of Iphigenia are based on the
moment at which the letter is handed over).397
The scene is clearly of great interest from a narratological
point of view: Patricia Rosenmeyer, in her study of letters in
Greek literature, observes that ‘Euripides used letters in his
dramas primarily as a means to vary the conventions of tragic
narrative’ . . . they are ‘agents in the plot, provoking reactions
and directing events kinetically’.398 Rosenmeyer points out also
that the presence of a letter in a work of fiction may be more
important than its contents: she distinguishes ‘communicative’
letters (whose contents are of vital importance) from ‘kinetic’
letters (whose function is to advance the plot, regardless of their
actual contents). The letter in Iphigenia falls into the second,
‘kinetic’ category, as far as the audience is concerned; but for
Orestes the communicative function is just as important.
So this scene plays a crucial part in the plot,399 but it is equally
interesting in intellectual terms. In the first place, the letter gives
a physical form to words: that is, paradoxically, lÎgoi acquire a
s0ma. At the same time, the letter-device reinforces most
effectively Euripides’ message that words are inferior to reality.
This is, in part, because there is no real need for the letter at all:
Iphigenia, rather than reading the letter out,400 merely repeats its
396
Cf. Soph. Trach., Eur. Hipp., Iph. at Aul., Theseus (fr. 382 Nauck). Taplin
(1978, 95), writing of Phaedra’s letter in Hippolytus, calls it ‘an unusually small
and naturalistic prop for Greek tragedy’.
397
Trendall and Webster (1971) 3. 27, 30(a), 30(b) (= Ferrara Spina T 1145,
Moscow 504, Sydney 51.17); LIMC (s.v. ‘Iphigenia’) 19–26, 56, 57.
398
Rosenmeyer (2001) 63–5.
399
Cf. Burnett (1971) 52–6; Goward (1999) 139–40.
400
Can Iphigenia read? The letter had to be written for her by one of her pre-
vious Greek victims (Iphigenia 584–6). See Cropp (2000) 213–14. Phaedra in
Hipp. can (probably) write, which raises wider questions of literacy (and in
particular women’s literacy) in Greek society. Thomas (1992) deals with this
and related issues. The most important question for our purposes is whether
Euripides’ audience would have found an illiterate Iphigenia odd—and, if so,
 Tragedy of Ideas 337
contents from memory.401 It is not the written but the spoken
word that brings about the desired effect—the same point, more
or less, which Alcidamas was to make in On the writers of written
speeches.402 However, the uselessness of the letter is seen more
strikingly in the fact that Orestes throws it away!—this action
can be seen to symbolize the redundance not just of this letter but
of words in general. Orestes says that his pleasure at recognizing
his sister has nothing to do with words. It corresponds to reality,
rather than illusion—or so he thinks.

4.4.8 A nihilistic conclusion

Euripides’ ideas, far from being superficial or unimportant, are
at the very centre of the plays and cannot be taken seriously
enough. Their ‘philosophy’, as I have shown, is an extreme
version of the epistemological and ontological theories of
Gorgias and various other sophists and Presocratics. What is
reality? If anybody or anything has being, it is impossible for
humans to understand or communicate it; there is no knowledge,
only illusion and delusion. Everything that we previously held to
be sources of knowledge—appearances, words, and myths—is
shown to be deceptive or, at best, confusing and contradictory.
In the end, the only answer that the plays give about reality is
that it is beyond human grasp.
This is not a philosophical quandary for the amusement or
edification of the intelligentsia; it is not an academic problem to
be considered in a vacuum. Rather, because these are tragedies of
ideas, Euripides appeals not just to our intellect but to our
emotions. He has brought philosophy into contact with tragic
myth, and in doing so he emphasizes the extent to which humans
have suffered, and will continue to suffer, as a result of ignorance.
The escape-tragedies could not be further from optimism or
comedy. They are among Euripides’ most pessimistic tragedies,
depicting humans not unlike ourselves struggling to compre-
hend a world which confounds and disappoints.
whether the elaborate, circuitous way in which the letter-device is worked into
the plot is doubly marked.
401
Seen by Rosenmeyer (2001) 76; Knox (1979) 287.
402
Cf. Burnett (1971) 53: ‘it is speech that must be obtained if this scene is to
succeed’.
 5
The Tragic Universe

DIONUSOS ƒp≤qeß libanwtÏn ka≥ sŸ d¶ lab*n.

EURIPIDHS kal0ß:
1teroi g3r ejsin oÍsin eÇcomai qeo∏ß.
DIONUSOS ÷dio≤ tineß sou, kÎmma kainÎn;
EURIPIDHS ka≥ m3la.1

5.1 introduction
This final chapter is concerned with the role of supernatural
forces—the gods, fate and luck—in the escape-tragedies. There
are a number of ways in which the ‘role’ of such powers might be
understood. Critics from Aristophanes onwards have been con-
cerned with Euripides’ religious beliefs, however they are to
be defined: the texts have often been treated as repositories of
(perhaps heterodox) theological views. On the other hand, many
studies of tragedy in the last two decades have been concerned
with ‘religion’ in the specific sense of ritual practice and the way
in which it is reflected in the action and imagery of the drama. I
shall begin (§5.2) with a brief critical survey of such approaches,
arguing that both literary and cultural-historical readings may
be valuable.
However, my own approach to the ‘religion’ of the escape-
tragedies (§5.3) is somewhat different. I want to investigate the
significance of the supernatural element in a specific sense, very
closely related to the intellectual themes which I have already
explored (so, in a sense, this is a continuation of the previous
chapter). As I have shown, Euripides uses the language and ideas
of contemporary philosophy to express the inability of humans
to apprehend or to communicate reality. The theological mean-
1
Ar. Frogs 888–90. ‘Dionysus: Now it’s your turn to take some incense and
make a libation. Euripides: Very well: but the gods I worship are different.
Dionysus: Do you mean private ones, a special coinage of your own? Euripides:
Precisely.’
 The Tragic Universe 339
ing of the plays, too, is tied up with human ignorance. It is all
about trying, and failing, to make sense of reality.
In all Greek tragedies, the characters (like the people in the
audience) attempt to explain why things happen as they do and,
in particular, why they suffer. The explanations to which they
resort are not just based on rational factors, such as human moti-
vation. In addition, they invariably look outwards to the ‘big
picture’, searching for metaphysical, cosmic reasons. This
general summary is equally true of the escape-tragedies. How-
ever, the metaphysical issues take on a new depth here because
the nature of physical reality, and what we can know about it, has
been questioned to such an alarming extent. That is, if we cannot
even trust language and sense-perception to tell us what is
happening, we cannot be confident that we know why it is
happening. In this context, both beliefs and rituals appear in a
new light.

5.2 tragedies as ‘religious’ texts

In older (and some not so old) books on Euripides, one frequent-
ly comes across the view that the poet was an atheist; or, at least,
that his view of the gods was fundamentally at odds with that of
other Athenians of the same time.2 This point of view, like the
notion that tragedy and philosophy do not mix, seems to derive
from the comedies of Aristophanes. In passages which have been
quoted as ‘proof’ of Euripides’ atheism, we encounter a female
garland-seller who complains that Euripides, by persuading
people that there are no gods, has ruined her business; a carica-
tured ‘Aeschylus’ who describes his rival as an enemy of the
gods; a ‘Euripides’ who insists on praying to his own ‘private
gods’ (Ether, Tongue, Intellect, and Nostrils), and so on.3 It is
also possible to quote certain lines from the tragedies which,
taken out of context,4 seem to illustrate Euripides’ unorthodox
2
On the critical tradition, ancient and modern, see Allan (2000a) 234–5,
Kovacs (1990) 1–32 (esp. 11–12), Michelini (1987) 11–27, Muir (1985).
3
Ar. Thesm. 450–1 (nın d’ o˜toß ƒn tragwid≤aiß poi0n | toŸß £ndraß ånapvpeiken
oÛk e”nai qeo»ß); Frogs 936 (_ qeo∏sin ƒcqrv), 885–93 (the lines quoted as the epi-
graph to this chapter). Quoted and discussed by Lefkowitz (1987) and (1989);
see also Parker (1996) 205.
4
This is, of course, the reason why the views expressed in the fragments seem
more outré than those which can be situated in complete plays: see Dover (1974,
340 The Tragic Universe
views: for example, Hippolytus’ notorious attitude to oath-
taking;5 Bellerophon’s outright denial that there are gods in
heaven, and his view that gods who behave shamefully are not
gods;6 and Heracles’ expression of disbelief in the traditional
stories about the gods’ actions.7
By the time that Diogenes Laertius wrote his Lives of the
philosophers, the tradition of Euripides as heterodox was well
advanced. For example, Diogenes quotes the well-known state-
ment of Protagoras, ‘concerning the gods I have no means of
knowing either that they exist or that they do not exist; for many
are the obstacles that impede knowledge’,8 before, a little later,
saying that Protagoras read and discussed his work at Euripides’
house in Athens. Plutarch depicts Euripides as joining with such
philosophers as Diagoras of Melos, Theodorus of Cyrene,
and Euhemerus of Tegea in saying that there are no gods at all.9
In a late source of somewhat dubious value, we even read
that Euripides was prosecuted for impiety (åsvbeia): a spurious
‘fact’ which seems to derive from over-literal readings of
Aristophanes.10 As we have seen in the previous chapter (§4.2.1),
14–16) on the danger of treating tragic lines in isolation as if they were moral
recommendations.
5
Hippolytus 612 (Ó gl0ss’ øm*moc’, Ó d† fr¶n ån*motoß, ‘it was my tongue
that swore—not my mind!’); parodied by Aristophanes (Thesm. 274–6) and
quoted by Aristotle (Rhet. 1416a29–35), who records that the lines were used as
evidence against their author in a perjury trial!
6
Bellerophon fr. 286 Nauck (fhs≤n tiß e”nai d[t’ ƒn oÛran0i qeo»ß; | oÛk ejs≤n,
oÛk e÷s’, e÷ tiß ånqr*pwn qvlei | m¶ t0i palai0i m0roß ¯n cr[sqai lÎgwi, ‘does any-
one say that there are really gods in heaven? There are none, none, I tell you,
unless one is foolish enough to adhere to old stories’). Compare fr. 292 (ej qeo≤ ti
dr0sin ajscrÎn, oÛk ejs≥n qeo≤, ‘if the gods act shamefully, they are not gods’).
7
Heracles 1340–4 (ƒg° d† toŸß qeoŸß oÇte lvktr’ 4 m¶ qvmiß | stvrgein nom≤zw
desm3 t’ ƒx3ptein cero∏n | oÇt’ ]x≤wsa p*pot’ oÇte pe≤somai | oÛd’ £llon £llou
despÎthn pefukvnai. | de∏tai g¤r Ø qeÎß, e÷per πst’ ørq0ß qeÎß, | oÛdenÎß. åoid0n oJde
d»sthnoi lÎgoi, ‘I do not believe that the gods commit adultery, or bind each
other in chains: I never believed it and I shall not be persuaded now; nor do I
believe that one god is master over another. Gods, if they are really gods, lack
nothing. These are wretched tales of poets’). Discussed by Stinton (1976a,
83–4) and Brown (1978); I shall return to these lines later apropos of Iphigenia
380–91, which are similar in sentiment.
8
Protagoras (DK 80 B4): per≥ m†n qe0n oÛk πcw ejdvnai, oÇq’ „ß ejs≥n oÇq’ „ß
oÛk ejs≥n oÇq’ Øpo∏o≤ tineß jdvan: poll¤ g¤r t¤ kwl»onta ejd†nai ktl. Cf. Diog. Laert.
9.24; Philostratus 1.10.2 (= DK 80 A2). Discussed by Guthrie (1965, 226–35).
9
Plut. De Plac. Phil. 1.7 (Moralia 880d–e).
10
Satyrus, Life of Euripides, P. Oxy. 1176 col. X (= Kovacs [1994] fr. 39): ËpÏ
m†n g¤r Klvwnoß toı dhmagwgoı t¶n t[ß åsebe≤aß d≤khn πfugen (‘he was acquitted
 The Tragic Universe 341
Euripides came to be associated with the intellectual avant-
garde—whether he was or not.
Whatever its merits, this image of Euripides persisted into
more recent times. One can without much difficulty find, from
the last hundred years or so, numerous assertions of Euripides’
heterodoxy. Among the most outrageous is Coleridge’s state-
ment that Euripides was ‘like a modern Frenchman, never
so happy, as when giving a slap at the Gods altogether’.11
Nietzsche’s view of Euripides in Die Geburt der Tragödie, which
I have already discussed in the previous chapter, connects the
poet’s religious iconoclasm with his general attitude to know-
ledge and society; Nestle, and later Reinhardt, held similar views
of Euripides’ godless rationalism.12 Gilbert Murray found in
Euripides ‘a rather different attitude towards the pieties of
the common man,’ an obscure mixture of ‘moral revolt’ and
‘denial’ alongside ‘wonder and surmise’.13 For L. H. Green-
wood, Euripides was ‘a religious heretic and satirist’.14 Gilbert
Norwood thought that ‘Aristophanes’ idea of Aeschylus . . .
closely resembles our own; and even what he says about
Euripides never bewilders us.’ Indeed, Euripides, for Norwood
and many of his readers, was ‘a vaguely agnostic soul and a wit’.15
Kitto’s approach is similar in some respects. While, like the
others just quoted, he claims that Euripides (along with his
audience) did not believe literally in anthropomorphic gods, he
argues that Euripides believed symbolically in the powers or the
psychological states which (so he says) those gods represented.16

of the charge of impiety brought against him by the demagogue Cleon’). This is
widely thought to be an invention, again based on the faulty evidence of
Aristophanes and the ‘biographical’ tradition. See Dover (1988) 138–9 and
148–51; Kovacs (1990) 11–12; Lefkowitz (1987). Note that another papyrus
fragment (P. Oxy. 24.2400), a list of topics for rhetorical exercises dating from
the third century ad, includes that of Euripides’ self-defence against the charge
of impiety.
11
Table Talk, 29 December, 1822; I am grateful to Malcolm Davies for this
quotation.
12
Nietzsche (1872); Nestle (1901) 124–41; Reinhardt (1957).
13
Murray (1918) 96–7.
14
Greenwood (1953) 18.
15
Norwood (1954) 2, 8.
16
Kitto (1961) 250: ‘Euripides is thinking of [the gods] as he thinks of the love
of Phaedra and the fanatical anti-love of Hippolytus: as psychological forces
which take entire possession of their victims and drive them where they
342 The Tragic Universe
A major influence on these and other English-speaking
scholars during much of the twentieth century was the
Cambridge critic A. W. Verrall. In his 1895 book Euripides the
Rationalist (the date is important), Verrall, like Aristophanes,
argued that Euripides was an opponent of popular religion. The
purpose of Euripides’ unusual attitude to myth, which I have
been discussing at length, was seen by Verrall as the ridiculing of
the Olympian gods. ‘The creed of Euripides,’ he writes, ‘was that
of nascent philosophy, science, and rationalism; between which
and the worship of the regular gods there was a war to which
modern religious controversies offer no parallel . . . it was the
purpose and effect of his plays to destroy the old religious
beliefs.’ Verrall goes on: ‘if we wanted to find any sort of parallel
in our own life, it must be by supposing that some eminent
Positivist or Agnostic were appointed for one Sunday in every
month . . . to preach the sermon in Westminster Abbey.’17
I think Verrall is wrong; but what he says is extremely sugges-
tive. The most obvious criticism to make (as hindsight makes
possible) is that his interpretation is very much of its time. His
reference to ‘modern religious controversies’ recalls the clash
between Darwinian evolutionists and clerics, and the growing
mood of rationalism, in Victorian Britain.18 Whether this has
anything to do with fifth-century Athens is questionable.19 (Even
Verrall’s hundred-year-old statement of the situation now seems
quaintly archaic, and scarcely less alien than Euripides himself.)
Although we cannot avoid a certain degree of anachronism in
twenty-first-century readings of tragedy (however much we
might try to discard our own conceptual baggage), it is important
to attempt to examine the plays from a fifth-century perspective.
In the area of religious belief and practice (perhaps more than

will.’ Ibid., 377: ‘Dionysus, or what he typifies—for we need not tie Euripides
to a literal belief in his mythology—exists, and that is enough.’ Grube’s (1961,
41–62) account of Euripidean religion, while more judicious, hints at a similar
interpretation. Lloyd-Jones (1983b, 145–55) protests, convincingly, against this
‘symbolic’ type of reading.
17
Verrall (1895) 82–4.
18
On which now see the excellent study of A. N. Wilson: God’s Funeral
(London, John Murray, 1999).
19
Religion and scientific rationalism were not separate, exclusive categories
of 5th-cent. thought (as they were in Victorian thought): see e.g. Hippocrates,
On the Sacred Disease.
 The Tragic Universe 343
any other), where a great gulf separates Euripides’ audience from
ourselves, a broadly historicizing approach is called for.
There are other problems, too, with Verrall’s view. In the first
place, he (along with all the other scholars cited above) assumes
that the plays provide, in some form, a statement of Euripides’
own religious creed. However, the difficulty with this assump-
tion is one which we have already encountered when attempting
to extract a ‘philosophical view’ from the texts.20 That is, they are
mimetic, dramatic works, in which no authorial voice can be
directly identified. So we should be interested, not in Euripides’
own religious views, but in the way in which the plays, either
individually or collectively, present a view of the gods and the
universe. In the second place, when Verrall states that Euripides’
purpose and function was ‘to destroy the old religious beliefs’,
and compares Euripides’ plays to sermons at Westminster
Abbey, he is making certain untested assumptions about the
nature of a tragic performance. Could a play really destroy some-
one’s religious belief? Are tragedies really the same sort of things
as religious sermons? Rather than making questionable claims of
this sort, one should be examining the way in which tragedy was
perceived and interpreted by its original audience, and asking in
what sense tragic performances or texts are ‘religious’.
A third problem associated with the work of Verrall, and
several critics influenced by him, is their method of interpreting
the views found in the text. A considerable stumbling-block
which they encountered was that Euripides’ tragedies do not
consistently deny the existence of the gods. It is possible to locate
a handful of stray quotations (such as I give above) which can be
used to ‘prove’ the playwright’s atheism. Nevertheless, there are
comparatively few such passages;21 and, in any case, lines (such
as the quotations from Bellerophon and Heracles) which appear
to be stark denials of the existence of gods often assume a com-
pletely different, or more nuanced, meaning when they are read
in the context of the rest of the play.22 Furthermore, a com-
parison with Aeschylus and Sophocles shows that the gods
20
See §4.2.1 above.
21
As noted by Yunis (1988, 60), who adds that statements of atheism (as
such) were extremely rare in general at this date. Cf. Feeney (1991) 22. Diagoras
of Melos (Diod. Sic. 13.6–7) was a notable exception: see Dover (1988) 137–8.
22
A seemingly obvious point, but one which is infrequently stressed (how-
ever, cf. Sourvinou-Inwood [1997] 162 and Allan [2000a] 235).
344 The Tragic Universe
appear far more prominently in Euripides’ plays—surely not a
sign of atheism or secularism?23 In order to get round this ‘diffi-
culty’, critics like Verrall resorted to irony. That is, they assumed
that Euripides was prevented by convention from expressing his
views explicitly, but that, whenever a divine character appears in
a play, or whenever one of the characters voices what seems to be
an orthodox view, one should disregard it or assume that there
is a hidden meaning. The more enlightened members of the
audience (we are invited to believe) would have interpreted the
‘real’ meaning of such words and appearances as veiled criticism,
or denial, of the gods.24 I think that we should be uncomfortable
with the idea of plays which can be understood only by certain
members of the audience, and with the readiness of many critics
to interpret selected portions of plays as ‘ironic’ and others as
‘non-ironic’. The basis on which one might make the selection is
unclear. What Verrall and the others are advocating is, in
essence, a type of reading which ignores the texts and claims
that ‘meaning’ is completely arbitrary: we can take the plays to
mean exactly what we want. Since not only the text but also the
historical context was neglected by most scholars of the time, this
critical position seems wilfully dishonest.25 (Nevertheless, this is
not to deny that ‘irony’ is, in some sense, a useful concept for
understanding tragic theology—as I shall go on to argue.)
23
Euripides’ plays frequently feature divine characters, often but not always
at the beginning and end (Dionysus in Bacchae, Apollo in Orestes, the Dioscuri
in Helen and Electra, Thetis in Andromache, Aphrodite and Artemis in
Hippolytus, Apollo, Death and Heracles in Alcestis, Athena in Iphigenia,
Poseidon in Trojan Women, Hermes and Athena in Ion, Iris and Lyssa in
Heracles, Athena in Suppliant Women, the Muse in Rhesus). In Sophocles and
Aeschylus, divine appearances are rarer (Heracles in Philoctetes; Athena in
Ajax; Athena and Apollo in Eumenides; Zeus, Kratos, Hephaestus, Hermes in
Prometheus Bound). It could be that the contrast is exaggerated by the greater
number of surviving plays by Euripides in comparison with the other two:
Lefkowitz (1989, 70 nn. 1–2) surveys some of the evidence from the fragments.
See also Taplin (1977) 444–5; Allan (2000a) 233.
24
Verrall (1895) 138: ‘On the Euripidean stage whatever is said by a divinity
is to be regarded, in general, as ipso facto discredited. It is in all cases objection-
able from the author’s point of view, and almost always a lie.’ An almost pre-
cisely similar view is to be found in Greenwood (1953) 1–26; cf. Norwood (1954)
1–49; Vellacott (1975) 1–22. Griffith (1953, 198–9), Grube (1961, 45–6), and
Michelini (1987, 25–6) provide succinct criticism of the ‘ironic’ approach.
25
This critical irresponsibility resulted, in Verrall’s case at least, in interpre-
tations which were so bizarre as to be almost ludicrous: his (1905) reading of
Helen is a case in point.
 The Tragic Universe 345
One does not have to look very hard to find objectionable
views in the pages of such scholars as I have been quoting. It may
be thought that these easy targets are not worth the effort of
shooting down, especially since more recent scholarship (in the
last twenty-five years or so) has been reacting against the legacy
of these critics, offering refinements and more nuanced views.26
Nevertheless, it is still relevant to mention this earlier trend in
scholarship, because the issues raised have not been entirely laid
to rest. The two basic areas of debate are, first of all, the nature of
religious belief in fifth-century Athens, and, second, the type of
‘religious’ content one should expect to find in tragedy. The
solutions to these problems are far from easy to find, chiefly (as
so often) owing to the lack of evidence. However, a little further
clarification is desirable.
First, then, our notion of ‘atheism’ is a modern one, influenced
more strongly by Judaeo-Christian theology than by anything in
Greek culture. Whatever a fifth-century Athenian understood
by ‘atheism’, it was not the same as the conception of Verrall and
the Victorian Church of England. Indeed, it seems that there was
considerable intellectual freedom for individual Athenians to
think and say what they liked about gods.27 Harvey Yunis, for
example, has used Plato’s Laws to reconstruct what he calls three
‘fundamental beliefs’ of Greek polis religion. These are, first,
that the gods exist; second, that the gods pay attention to
humans; and third, that there is reciprocity of a kind between
humans and gods.28 Within these broad limits there is, in fact,
26
Notably, Mikalson (1983) and (1991); Lefkowitz (1987) and (1989);
R. Parker (1983), (1996) and (1997); Seaford (1994); Sourvinou-Inwood (1990)
and (1997); Yunis (1988). Burkert (1985, 7) apologizes for his failure to deal with
tragedy in his major study of Greek religion: ‘the reader may regret the absence
of a satisfactory account of the religion of the tragedians, but this question is too
subtle to be treated within the space of a few pages.’
27
Guthrie (1965, 226–49) outlines a variety of theological positions held in
the 6th and 5th cents., which encompass ‘agnosticism’ and ‘atheism’: for
example, the well-documented views of Xenophanes, Protagoras, Diagoras,
Prodicus and Critias. Cf. Dover (1988); Muir (1985) 202; Sourvinou-Inwood
(1997); Lefkowitz (1989) 72–3; Obbink (1996) 1–4. Parker (1996) 199–217 con-
tains an interesting discussion of Socrates’ trial in relation to the religious
climate of Athens in the late fifth and early fourth centuries (was there a religious
‘crisis’ ?).
28
Yunis (1988), esp. 29–51. The three ‘fundamental beliefs’ are based on
Plato, Laws 10. 885b4–9; dissidents fall into three classes: the sophists and
relativists (ibid. 886d2–3), those who believe that the gods do not pay attention
346 The Tragic Universe
possibility for a huge diversity of belief. There is no evidence to
show that these Platonic principles ever represented normative
views, nor that they were current in Euripides’ time; but it does
seem, as Yunis demonstrates at length, that Euripides’ plays
correspond to the three fundamental beliefs.
Even a brief comparison between ancient and modern beliefs
shows that it is useless to use either one as a model for under-
standing the other. Judaeo-Christian ‘religion’ has a very fixed
and well-defined body of religious texts, in the sense of
scriptures—the Torah, the Bible—and a clearly delineated set of
religious occasions for ritual and worship, as well as a pre-
occupation with rules and commandments which must be
followed. But Greek religion, so far as we know, did not have
scriptures—at least, none survives—and it is much harder to
separate ‘religious’ from ‘non-religious’ activity, because so
many occasions in everyday social, personal and political life,
which we would consider secular, contained elements of ritual
and observance.29 So ‘religion’ and the gods, for fifth-century
Athenians, are inextricably bound up with the institutions of the
polis and with conditioned modes of social behaviour. (To say
that Euripides did not believe in the gods might be comparable,
in some ways, to saying that one does not ‘believe in’ the British
royal family.) The fact that impiety-trials in the fifth and fourth
centuries were (almost without exception) politically motivated
seems to confirm this view.30 Greek religion was polis religion,
which was, seemingly, more concerned with outward participa-
tion in cult than with inward beliefs: it was the rituals of the polis,
rather than texts, which constituted religious authority.31
This speculation leads on to the second major question which
Verrall left unanswered: what sort of entities are Greek tragedies?
It is not the same thing to argue that they are ‘religious’ as it is to

to men (899d8–900b3), and those who think that the gods can be bribed by gifts
(905d4–c6). Cf. Plato, Symp. 188b on reciprocity between humans and gods.
29
This is the perspective of Easterling’s (1985b) study of poetry and Greek
‘religious’ activity; cf. Osborne (1985) 178–87.
30
On impiety-trials in general, see Dover (1988), Yunis (1988, 59–66) and
Muir (1985, 209–18).
31
See Easterling (1985b) 44; Sourvinou-Inwood (1990); Parker (1996).
Dodds (1973b) ponders the question of what rituals meant to ‘the ordinary man’
in classical Greece, concluding—but by no means proving—that ideas had little
place in the religion of everyday life. Mikalson (1983) has a similar view.
 The Tragic Universe 347
argue that they are ‘philosophical’ (as I have done above).
Tragedies are obviously ‘religious’ in some sense: they were
performed at a festival of Dionysus, they often have divine
characters, and they are invariably concerned with theology and
theodicy;32 but their status, in comparison with other types of
‘religious’ text and ‘religious’ experience, is unknown. In fact,
just as it is hard to distinguish between ‘religious’ and ‘non-
religious’ activity, it is extremely difficult either to distinguish
between ‘literary’ and ‘religious’ texts, or to say how far the
gods and theology in literature related to ‘real-life’ Athenian
religion—but this is fundamental to the whole problem.
Uncertainty over how to interpret the available evidence is as
serious as the shortage of evidence itself. We do not know just
how Greeks thought about ‘religion’; this is why imposing our
own conceptual framework on the evidence is a difficult hazard
to avoid. Comparatively little material survives from an
identifiably ritual context, and what little there is can be inter-
preted in widely differing ways.33 The bulk of our evidence for
what Athenians actually did, and thought, and believed during
worship comes from texts belonging to a miscellaneous collec-
tion of genres and contexts: epic and didactic poetry, hymns,
lyric poetry, prose historians, philosophers, orators’ speeches—
and, of course, tragedy itself. (Imagine if our only evidence for
late twentieth-century religion in the UK consisted of the
Narnia books of C. S. Lewis, the Jewish Chronicle and Monty
Python’s Life of Brian!)
However, to look at the problem from a different angle, the
fact that there were no authoritative, canonical, Greek religious
texts is very important. The absence of scriptures is a funda-
mental quality of Greek religion. The key to understanding it all
is diversity: there was seen to be no need for authorized versions
of mythic or religious texts, but rather among the different
Greek states there was a need for variety. Homogeneity is
emphatically not a Greek characteristic, in any area of life.34
Nevertheless, we have still not answered the question of what
type of text tragedy was (though it may be that the question is
32
I have touched on these defining features of tragedy in §1.1 above.
33
On types of evidence and their uses, see especially Burkert (1985) 4–7 and
Parker (1996) 1–9.
34
See Purcell (1990).
348 The Tragic Universe
ultimately unanswerable). I have mentioned the various types of
text in which theological views are found; but we cannot assume
that all these types of writing had similar, or comparable, status.
That is, tragedy may not have been viewed in the same way as
(say) hymns or epic poetry as a source of religious belief. Did
Athenians think that some genres of literature were more
authoritative guides than others to belief, or more relevant to cult
practice? It is impossible to say for certain. The extent to which
an individual’s beliefs and outlook may be altered by different
sorts of experience (talking, worshipping, performing rituals,
reading, watching plays, and so on), and the connections which
people make between life and literature, are variable and largely
irreducible to rules.
It is possible to observe that the gods are portrayed slightly
differently in each of the different types of text. Some have
traced, in philosophy and literary criticism of the classical
period, a growing feeling that ‘real’ philosophical theology is
separable from ‘poetic’ theology. Xenophanes, for example, is
well known to have criticized Homer and Hesiod for teaching
everyone that the gods were anthropomorphic and immoral; but
he also adds that Homer’s stories about the gods are inventions
(pl3smata). Theagenes defends Homer’s portrayal of the gods
by explaining that it is the product of literary form (åpÏ t[ß
lvxewß) rather than true reality. The writer of the sophistic
Dissoi Logoi argues that poetry is autonomous; that it must be
judged on its own terms rather than by reference to general
notions of ‘truth’. This point of view is seen also in Aristotle’s
Poetics, which states that poetry has its own distinct function
(tvloß).35 Of course, philosophers and critics, with their often
polemical content, may hold views very different from those of
the majority of tragedy’s audience members. Nevertheless, if we
assume that the authors just quoted are broadly representative in
their general approach (if not their exact details), we may follow
up this line of thought in a number of directions.
First, we may return to the idea that religious authority was
independent of specific texts or doctrines. It may be that the
35
Xenophanes (DK 21 B10–22), Theagenes (DK 8 B1–2), Dissoi Logoi (DK
90 B3), Arist. Poet. 51a36–b11; cf. Feeney (1991) 6–16, who gives a succinct
summary of the views of these writers and the ‘intellectual environment’
inhabited by the poets and their readers.
 The Tragic Universe 349
Athenians were happy to interpret the gods according to the
rules of the particular context—that, if they were peforming a
ritual, or reading philosophy, or watching a play, their theo-
logical views—or perhaps responses—would change accord-
ingly. This is, clearly, very different from our own approach to
religious thought. As Denis Feeney writes (in a wide-ranging
study of the ‘religion’ of epic poetry), genre and context are all-
important. ‘In a fundamental sense, the gods existed for the
ancients according to the rules of the particular context in which
they were encountered, whether that be epic, lyric, cult or philo-
sophy’ (or, one might add, tragedy).36 Feeney recognizes,
correctly, that ‘a frame of mind which arranged belief according
to occasion or setting is exceedingly difficult for inheritors of a
revealed, Church tradition to recapture’.37 However, it remains
to be seen whether he is right to insist on the separability of
all these types of ‘encounter’: are the rules of context or genre
really more important than what literature and ritual have in
common?38
I think we can at least begin to appreciate the importance of
context, even in our own, largely post-Christian, society. Let us
consider, for instance, Monty Python’s Life of Brian.39 This
British film is a comic version of the history of early Christianity,
its hero Brian closely resembling Christ. Like Christ, he is
eventually crucified (upon which he sings the song ‘Always Look
on the Bright Side of Life’). Now there are several ways in which
this film is a genuine representation of, and comment on,
Christian beliefs (or, at least, as the makers claimed, ‘organized
religion’). The film caused a considerable amount of controversy
36
Feeney (1991) 45. Cf. R. Parker (1997, 146) for a similar view: it is
‘generic expectations and conventions’, rather than ‘personal experience’, that
help readers and audiences make sense of certain elements in drama. (For
example, we are able to interpret the deus ex machina at the end of many
tragedies without believing that gods actually behave in that way.) However, he
adds that it is seldom a simple ‘either/or’ situation: is real life not shaped by
37
certain generic expectations and conventions? Feeney (1991) 16.
38
It will be clear that I disagree with Feeney where tragedy is concerned, but
I should add that Feeney, although he is making some wide-ranging claims
about literary genres and religion, does not specifically discuss tragedy.
Nevertheless, his argument concerns poetry in general; and his use of the Greek
critics, who were preoccupied as much with tragedy as with epic, means that his
conclusions are certainly applicable to Euripides.
39
Directed by Terry Jones (Hand Made Films, 1979).
350 The Tragic Universe
when it was released in 1979, with many Church leaders publicly
denouncing it as blasphemous, and several regional cinemas
refusing to show it. Nevertheless, many Christians seem to enjoy
the film on its own terms; and the writers, in fact, were
Christians. Whatever one’s view of its moral content, it would, I
think, be foolish to see the film’s purpose as that of inciting
atheism. In general, it gives a distorted reflection of Christianity
(no one would claim, for instance, that Christ’s message to the
planet was always to look on the bright side of life); yet the film
and its reception could be used, with caution, as evidence for
serious religious attitudes or beliefs. Life of Brian is a film, and as
such would not normally be described as a ‘religious’ text. But if
it had been shown in Westminster Abbey during Matins, it may
well have provoked a different response. Interpretations, then,
may depend on genre, context and occasion. However, the
degree to which they alter in each context may be only partial.
A slightly different (but basically comparable) approach to the
problem is that of Jon Mikalson, who shows partiality towards
certain types of text, on the grounds that some are more truthful
or authoritative than others. Tragedies are not among his privi-
leged texts: in fact, Mikalson argues for a total disjunction
between tragic and ‘real-life’ religion. He writes that ‘the gods of
poetry are . . . the products of literary fantasy and genius, not of
the Greek religious spirit’.40 This is not a new point of view (as
Xenophanes, Theagenes and others show), but what is new
about Mikalson’s thesis is that it values prose texts above poetic
ones. He claims that the writings of historians and orators are the
only reliable source for ‘real-life’ popular religion (that is, what
Athenians actually said, believed and did), whereas poetic
texts are closer to what we would call fiction. For Mikalson,
Euripidean ‘religion’ is a composite, which (like Homer’s
language) never really existed. He believes that the gods of
tragedy are different from the gods whom ‘real-life’ Athenians
worshipped. For example, they made sacrifices to Athena Polias,
Athena Skiras, Athena Hygieia, whereas (he claims) tragedy just

40
Mikalson (1991) outlines his general approach in pp. 1–12 (the quotation is
from p. 5). His argument draws heavily on his earlier (1983) book on Athenian
popular religion. Although many will disagree with his outlook, the value of
both books is that they collect and classify a huge amount of material from
different literary contexts.
 The Tragic Universe 351
has one homogenized ‘Athena’. If we accept Mikalson’s view, it
means that, even if Euripides were criticizing the gods, he would
not ipso facto be criticizing contemporary religious belief or
practice; his gods are just a literary device.
Is Mikalson right or wrong? I think that his position can be
criticized on several grounds. In the first place, to say that the
gods of tragedy are a ‘literary device’ is an easy way of avoiding
an answer to the main question—comparable (as Feeney puts it)
to ‘criticizing the carburettors or pistons in a car as an engineer-
ing device’.41 Second, there is no basis in fact for supposing that
prose texts represent ‘facts’ and poetic texts ‘fiction’. Not only
does this supposition ignore the social context and uses of
different types of text in Greek antiquity,42 but it also seems an
exceptionally banal antithesis, whatever the cultural context
under discussion. Third, and most seriously, it would have been
impossible for Athenian audiences to interpret tragic religion
completely independently of ‘real-life’ ritual. These plays, after
all, describe gods with the same names as the ones whom they
worshipped, with the same attributes; the plots of the tragedies
and the cults themselves are based on identical myths; the plays
make references to genuine cults at Athens (this is particularly
important, as we shall see, in the case of Iphigenia). How, then,
could tragic religion have been seen as completely fantastic?
Finally, there is Plato’s view, in the Republic, of the power of
tragedy to alter one’s perceptions for the worse:43 this suggests
strongly that many people in the audience would not have sepa-
rated real life and fiction to the degree suggested by Mikalson.
Christianne Sourvinou-Inwood, contra Mikalson, makes
another important point: that the cult titles of the gods are not
neglected in tragedy.44 This again suggests that Athenians did
not consider Athena Polias, Athena Skiras, Athena Hygieia (and

41
Feeney (1991) 2.
42
One might compare the false antithesis of ‘verse literature’ and ‘prose
philosophy’, which I discussed in §4.2.1 above. R. Parker (1997, 158–9), answer-
ing Mikalson, points out that all genres have their own conventions and their
own opacities, and that none of them (prose or verse) is a direct route to Athenian
religious thoughts or beliefs.
43
Pl. Rep. 2.376–3.398, 10.595–607.
44
Sourvinou-Inwood (1997) 161–9. Cult-titles in tragedy include Zeus
E
} rke∏oß (Soph. Ant. 487), Zeus Kt&sioß (Aesch. Ag. 1038, Suppl. 445), Artemis
Loc≤a (Iphigenia 1097), etc.
352 The Tragic Universe
so on) to be different gods, and that the plays make reference to
real cult worship as well as abstract beliefs. There is evidence
from elsewhere in literary sources and from religious icono-
graphy that divinities were indeed perceived as having a single
identity across their different cults.45
To sum up so far: despite certain contextual differences,
tragedies contain many similarities to real religious practice. We
cannot know exactly how the audience’s religious behaviour was
affected or altered by the plays, but we must consider tragedy as
a religious experience. This means that it is not acceptable to
discuss the plays as if they were works of fiction. Many readings
of tragedy (and epic) are inadequate precisely because they
approach the gods as if they were entirely literary constructs—
fictional ‘characters’, independent of anything in real life outside
the texts. Such a reading has, perhaps, a certain attractiveness, in
the light of the numerous unanswered—and unanswerable?—
questions which accumulate around ‘real life’. The defender of a
purely ‘literary’ interpretation may argue that it is more satis-
fying—that is, it seems more self-contained; it has fewer gaps; its
conclusions are less provisional. But interpretations of this sort
miss out too much. We need to consider all the angles together—
ritual practice in society, as well as intellectual and literary
ideas—even if definite conclusions cannot be reached.
Having said all this, it may seem strange that, in what follows,
I am not going to spend very much time considering the rituals
of Helen and Iphigenia. There are two reasons for this decision.
The first is that the work of other scholars in the area has been so
thorough that there is nothing substantial to add, in the way of
either material or interpretation. The second, more important,
reason is that my own reading of the gods and rituals of the
escape-tragedies (as I said earlier) takes a rather specific angle of
approach, linked to the intellectualism of the previous chapter.
Nevertheless, it is still necessary to ask what the presence of
elements from cult ritual added to the audience’s interpretation
of the plays.

45
Literary and epigraphic sources are collected by Sourvinou-Inwood
(1997) 165–9. Allan (2000a, 238) notes that visual art from the seventh century
shows gods behaving in the characteristic manner of epic and other types of
poetry—but this does not answer the question of how far visual art represents
‘religion’.
 The Tragic Universe 353
The significance of ritual motifs varies from play to play, but
in general it seems that such elements exist in order to make
meaningful connections between myth and real-life religion: for
example, explaining certain defining features of cult or empha-
sizing the extent of continuity between past and present. There
may be political as well as religious issues at stake. According to
Richard Seaford, for example, many tragedies are seen as using
ritual to dramatize a historical transition in society, from aristo-
cratic reciprocity to the organization of city-states: a process
which results in ‘the communal cohesion of polis ritual’.46 Some-
times (as in Iphigenia) the similarities between myth, plot and
contemporary ritual are very pronounced. In other cases, such
significance as we can appreciate seems to take the form of
suggestive images, allusions and underlying structural similari-
ties to ritual, which may add complexity to one’s interpretation
without necessarily, or obviously, constituting the main point of
the play. Without venturing too far into this area, it is worth
making a few brief remarks about the interpretation of rituals in
the escape-tragedies.
It seems clear that Iphigenia in particular is deeply concerned
with ritual. Indeed, the whole play may be read as an extended
aetiology of the cults of Artemis at Halae and Brauron. As I have
said in an earlier chapter (§3.3 above), Iphigenia explores the
process by which the Taurian Artemis was civilized and brought
to Greece, and it may go some way towards explaining why her
worship contains certain ‘darker’ elements. These aspects of the
play have been covered very thoroughly in a number of recent
studies.47 Helen’s preoccupation with ritual, on the other hand, is
46
Seaford (1994), esp. 328–405.
47
Strachan (1976) and Sansone (1975) and (1978) are concerned with the
theme of sacrifice; Lloyd-Jones (1983) deals with a variety of sources other than
Euripides in a survey of the cults of Halae and Brauron; Wolff (1992a) tries to
interpret the meaning of allusions to ritual in Iphigenia, concluding, interest-
ingly (331), that it is hard to say whether the play reinforces the viability of
ritual or creates ambiguity and disturbance; Sourvinou-Inwood (1997, 171–5)
tries to reconstruct an ‘ancient reading’ of Iphigenia, in which references to cult
are ‘zooming’ devices (I shall return to this view); Cropp (2000, 50–6) provides
an admirably concise summary of a huge amount of literary and archaeological
evidence for the cults at Brauron and Halae; Scullion (2000) deals briefly with
the concluding aetiology; Tzanetou (2000) tries to show that Iphigenia can be
understood in the light of ‘underlying structural similarities’ to female rites of
passage at Brauron and Mounichia, even though there are no direct parallels or
references in the text: she seems to add little to the other works just cited.
354 The Tragic Universe
less obvious for most of its length. Like Iphigenia, that play con-
cludes with an aetiology which mentions the heroine’s eventual
deification and cult worship, but in much of what has preceded
there has been little interest—in terms of what happens in the
plot, at least—in ritual practices. However, it has been argued
that Helen’s use of imagery (in particular, its allusions to the
myth of Demeter) adds another level of ritual significance to the
play.48
The ways in which different readers identify ‘similarities’
between plays and rituals vary. Where allusions can definitely be
seen, in the form of direct (if fleeting) verbal references to rituals,
sanctuaries, significant geographical locations, cult titles and
attributes of gods, and so on, it is easy to accept that a meaning-
ful connection is being made between drama and real-life
religion—even if one might not be able to grasp the full signifi-
cance of the allusion. However, when it is the case that underly-
ing structural parallels (only) are detected, one might be forgiven
for adopting a more sceptical or provisional attitude. This is
not to say that such interpretations are never valid: quite the
opposite.49 It is rather that the same method is, naturally, capa-
ble of producing sound and unsound interpretations, without its
ever being possible to prove or disprove them.
It cannot be said that every supposed ‘underlying similarity’ is
equally illuminating. Of course, each individual spectator or
48
Foley (1992): see below for discussion. West (1975), although his interest
does not lie specifically in Euripides’ play, presents a series of structural
parallels between the myth(s) of Helen and various Near-Eastern nature myths
(including the Rgveda and Latvian folk-songs). He argues that the ‘persistent
tradition’ of Helen in Egypt has no organic connection with the saga of Troy,
and derives instead from Helen’s status in Spartan ritual as a nature goddess
who, like Demeter, had temporary absences corresponding to the seasons. This
interpretation is ingenious but, like other ‘underlying’ readings of ritual, ulti-
mately unprovable.
49
Seaford’s (2000) defence of his own method against the criticisms of Griffin
(1998) is instructive in this regard. See esp. p. 38: ‘The answer to G.’s question
“can we really be happy to interpret the plays primarily in the light of something
that is mentioned elliptically or not at all?” (53) is (leaving aside the ‘primarily’,
which he has introduced to make the view easier to dismiss) a resounding yes.
And indeed there are numerous other practices of the Athenian polis that, even
though mentioned in tragedy either not at all or far less frequently than hero-
cult is, cannot be ignored by serious interpreters of tragedy: democracy, philo-
sophy, written law, the mysteries, the development of rhetoric, the legal
position of women, the Peloponnesian war, to name but a few.’
 The Tragic Universe 355
reader may interpret the play in front of him in any number of
ways; but the vital factor to be considered is, surely, the concep-
tual framework of the original audience (so far as this can be
determined). Would it have occurred to an Athenian of 412 to
read Helen and Iphigenia (etc.) in the light of oblique resem-
blances to rituals? To think this is true, one would need to give
the ancient audience a lot of credit for thinking in the same way
that modern structuralists do; but there is no evidence that they
did. An additional problem (even if we assume for the moment
that Euripides’ audience did interpret their dramas in terms of
deep structures) is that certain structural models are conceived
of in such vague, broad terms that they could, with a little
ingenuity, be applied to almost any situation.
I am thinking, in particular, of the wide application among
critics of van Gennep’s model of Greek rites de passage.50 Van
Gennep’s analysis concludes that such rites conform to a tri-
partite structure, consisting of: (1) separation from the commu-
nity; (2) a transitional phase; (3) reincorporation into the
community. Following this model, Foley interprets the plot of
Helen as corresponding to three stages: (1) separation in the form
of abduction; (2) a transitional period in Egypt; (3) rescue and
reintegration into the civilized world. Foley believes that the
particular rites to which Helen corresponds are those of Demeter
(whose daughter or counterpart, Kore, similarly, underwent
abduction, a transitional period in the lower world, and eventual
rescue and return to the upper world).51 This connection is made
on the basis of scattered references to Demeter in the text of
Helen, as well as the general similarity in their situations, which
(Foley believes) may have prompted audience members to draw
comparisons between the women.52 However, the allusions are
not all that numerous; and the women’s situations are strikingly
different in some respects. Helen’s flight to Egypt cannot
exactly be said to correspond to Kore’s kathodos to the lower
world—though she does, admittedly, find herself crouching
by a tomb at the start of her play—and, as Foley herself notes,
Helen is a middle-aged, married woman, whereas Kore is a
young virgin. So we cannot be sure—nor can we rule out the
50
Van Gennep (1960).
51
Foley (1992), esp. 134–5.
52
Helen 167–90, 1301–68. Parallels are noted also by Wolff (1973) 62–8.
356 The Tragic Universe
possibility—that (some of) Euripides’ audience would have
interpreted Helen’s situation in the light of the Demeter/Kore
myth. In the end, Foley settles for a judicious compromise, in
which allusions to ritual are seen to ‘bring to each play not a
scenario to imitate in any literal fashion, but a set of implications
and expectations that colour the action and enrich its signifi-
cance’.53
Foley’s reading is backed up, however provisionally, by the
text itself. By contrast, Tzanetou’s application of van Gennep’s
schema to the plot of Iphigenia is less convincing because it is not
textually grounded.54 Tzanetou begins by identifying three
stages of the plot which are said to provide the underlying
structure: (1) Iphigenia and Orestes are separated from Argive
society; (2) they undergo a transitional period in the Tauric land;
(3) they are finally reintegrated into Greek society. She then
asserts that the ritual being evoked is the Arkteia, as practised at
the sanctuaries of Brauron and Mounichia. This is of course
possible, given the prominence of Artemis in the play as a whole,
but (as Tzanetou admits) there is no verbal reference and no
direct parallel between the situations. In that case, it is difficult to
be convinced by this interpretation. Why should one believe that
the Arkteia, in particular, is significant? After all, if (as van
Gennep claims) many rites shared the same basic structure, how
could one ever know, in the absence of any direct sign in the text,
which ritual is being referred to? And does it matter? (If, for
example, I decided that the ritual of the Tauropolia was the key
to understanding Helen, the underlying structures would be
exactly the same, but my interpretation distinctly questionable.)
Again, the question arises as to who is imagined as perceiving
these structures and similarities. As Tzanetou expresses it,
Iphigenia’s plot ‘unfolds in accordance with an underlying ritual
sequence that evokes the Arkteia’.55 The italicized words (my
italics) are crucial, but their meaning is vague. In interpretations
of this sort, one must be clear what sort of intellectual activity is
under discussion—whether the reaction of (some of? all of?) the
audience members, the unknowable intentions of Euripides, or
the ingenuity of modern critics who make of the texts whatever
they wish.
53
Foley (1992) 137.
54 55
Tzanetou (2000), esp. 201–3. Ibid. 200.
 The Tragic Universe 357
Whether or not we care for schematic readings, another, less
questionable, significance of ritual can be seen at the closure of
many tragedies. Helen and Iphigenia, in common with various
other plays, conclude with aetiological speeches delievered by
divine characters ex machina. Such aetiologies are commonly
seen as constituting positive, or clearly resolved, endings, which
offer a satisfactory outcome of the play’s action in the form of
continuity between past and present.56 In what follows, I want to
modify this view. Although the plays do often end by affirming
the value of ritual to the polis, ritual closure may be interpreted
on different levels, not all of them positive. It is not just that
uncomfortable details and ambiguities very often persist, but
also that ritual meaning is to some degree separable from intel-
lectual meaning.
Let us begin with those ritual elements which do not quite add
up. A fundamental problem in assessing such elements is, as
usual, the lack of evidence for Greek cult activity. Whether or
not the cult descriptions or allusions in Euripides are factually
accurate (a question which we cannot entirely answer), it may be
that certain details are deliberately incongruous.
The possibility is occasionally raised that Euripides some-
times invents cults, or gives fictional aetiologies for real cults.57
This suggestion is comparable to the view that Euripides invents
myths; but it should be taken less seriously, because it is essen-
tially a variation on the view that literature does not represent
real religion. Scullion, who argues this viewpoint, defends it, in
the first place, by arguing that ‘no Athenian could have partici-
pated in anything like the full complement of distinct rituals for
distinct divinities performed in Attica in a given year, or been
familiar with all the aitia traditionally attached to them’.58 He
adds that real-life cults were not conservative or unchanging,
and that cults could be conceived of as having more than one
aition.59 The evidence, such as it is (including passages from
56
Michelini (1987) 107 puts it succinctly: ‘The aition that so often closes
Euripidean plays has the . . . effect of reminding the audience that the myth is not
only a real event from the past . . . but also a symbolic or significant event,
different from ordinary events, and having deep roots in the religious and civic
present.’ Seaford’s (1994) approach to tragedy is based on the positive, affirma-
57
tory value of ritual. Dunn (1996); Scullion (2000).
58
Scullion (2000) 218.
59
Ibid. 230–1.
358 The Tragic Universe
Helen and Iphigenia), can be made to fit Scullion’s hypothesis;
but incongruous-seeming details may have made perfect sense to
(at least some of) the original audience. There is simply not
enough evidence to allow us to decide.60 Tragedy is considered to
be one of the few reliable sources for genuine cults: if we start dis-
trusting the evidence of certain tragedies, the implications for
our ‘knowledge’ of any cults at all are serious. (Are we to reject
only those tragic passages which prima facie seem odd, or are we
compelled to reject all drama as a source of evidence?61)
In any event, the most effective counter-argument is that
Scullion does not offer a reason why Euripides should have
chosen to fictionalize real cults. Indeed, it is difficult to imagine
such a reason. The closest that Scullion comes to an explanation
is the suggestion that Euripides might have done it ‘for literary
purposes’ (232): but what literary purposes? This is, essentially,
a variant on the commonly found view that Euripides’ outlook on
myths or ideas is witty, ludic, clever or provocative; but, as we
have already seen, there is usually more to Euripides than this
view suggests. One might argue, perhaps, that Euripides’
purpose in altering details of rituals reveals a fundamental dis-
belief in those rituals or the gods behind them—but this is not a
very natural conclusion. If Euripides’ descriptions of real (albeit
obscure) cults had been inaccurate, or if the plays had given
aetiologies for rituals which nobody at all practised, their effect
would have been totally bizarre. Again, it is the reaction of the
audience that we must consider: at whom is the ‘meaning’ of the
60
In the case of Iphigenia, Scullion (2000, 226–8) argues that the aetiology of
the Choes (945–60) is invented, because there is no other evidence to connect
this ritual with pollution; and that the final details relating to the Tauropolia at
Halae (1446–67) are invented, because this ritual is described differently else-
where (Menander, Epitrep. 451–7). Hollinshead (1985), mentioned by Scullion,
shows that it is difficult to reconcile Euripides’ evidence with the archaeological
evidence. Scullion (p. 220) also thinks that Helen 1664–9, an aetiology for
Helen’s receiving worship (qeoxen≤a) along with the Dioscuri, is an invention.
The fact that this ritual is also mentioned at Orestes 1635–7 is taken by Scullion
as strengthening the case that Euripides invented it; but multiple references are
more naturally taken as evidence that the ritual actually did exist. However, in
all these cases it seems that the problem of interpretation cannot be separated
from the lack of information: we do not know enough about the rituals to tell
whether these details are in fact incongruities.
61
Mikalson (1991, 231) implies that it is not safe to treat Euripides as an
authoritative source for real-life Athenian cult: it follows from his general
approach (outlined above) that no ‘literary’ text can be used in this way.
 The Tragic Universe 359
play aimed? Assuming that Scullion is right and that certain
aetiologies are fictional, how many of the audience members
would have appreciated the point? Not very many, if (as he
argues) comparatively few of them were familiar with any given
cult. This conclusion combines two views, neither of which
seems to me to be very attractive: either Euripides is seen to be
writing primarily for his own amusement (in the knowledge that
he can ‘get away with’ subversive material), or he is seen to be
writing primarily for a minority of his audience.
I do not take Scullion’s suggestion very seriously. However,
there remain certain oddities and incongruities which seem to
complicate or undermine the ‘positive’ effect of ritual closure. In
both Helen and Iphigenia, as we have seen, the heroines are pre-
sented in a distinctly ambivalent manner, at the same time as
they are being celebrated in ritual terms. In the aetiology which
concludes Helen, Helen’s brothers predict, rather vaguely, that
she will share in their cult feast (xen≤a or xenismÎß), but they con-
spicuously fail to mention a very famous cult of Helen and the
Dioscuri at Therapne: the absence of this detail has been thought
to undermine the positive, integrative effect of the ritual end-
ing.62 In Iphigenia, important questions about the nature and
will of Artemis are left unanswered: what sort of a goddess is it
whom the Athenians worship? Does the goddess delight in
human sacrifice or not? Iphigenia’s contradictory nature as both
willing and unwilling participant in the Taurian rites is partially
responsible for this uncertainty, as is her statement—never
confirmed or denied—that the Taurians have ascribed to
Artemis their own murderous habits.63 Wolff’s study of the
rituals in Iphigenia sees this unresolved tension as being of
central importance to the play: he concludes that the different
views of ritual constitute a ‘balancing act’, in which it is hard
to say whether the play reinforces or questions the viability of
ritual.64
One should bear in mind, however, that the cults themselves
62
Helen 1668. For the cult at Therapne, see Alcman fr. 7 PMG, Pindar Pyth.
11.61–4, Isoc. Hel. 63. For discussion of the undermining, or complicating,
effect of its omission, see Foley (1992) 147–8.
63
I discuss the theme of human sacrifice in §3.3 above (pp. 186–90). See
Iphigenia 380–91 for Iphigenia’s statement of (seeming) disbelief: further dis-
cussion can be found in Stinton (1976a) 60–89 and Cropp (2000) 201.
64
Wolff (1992), esp. 309, 331.
360 The Tragic Universe
were complex entities. The ‘celebration’ of cults should not be
imagined as covering every aspect of that word in English usage,
nor should an affirmation of the viability of ritual be expected to
offer a straightforward explanation of every mystery. A more
positive approach to the presence of seemingly disturbing
elements is that of Sourvinou-Inwood, who interprets tragic
‘religion’ as a mixture of ‘zooming’ and ‘distancing’ elements.
‘Zooming’ elements are direct verbal references, allusions,
images and cult titles, which signalled to the original audience
that they should understand the gods of the plays in terms of
specific cults. In Iphigenia, for example, ‘zooming’ devices
include (apart from the obvious aetiologies) scattered references
here and there to Artemis’ cult title fwsfÎroß, which show that
the ‘Artemis’ of the play is to be understood with reference to
the ‘Artemis’ of the Attic cults.65 ‘Distancing’ devices, on the
other hand, are elements (such as human sacrifice) which do not
correspond to cult activity. Rather than stressing (as Wolff does)
the disturbing lack of homogeneity in the plays’ rituals,
Sourvinou-Inwood argues that Euripides’ point was to present
to the audience ‘an exploratory construct, through which aspects
of their cult are articulated, problematized, and explored’.66
Exploring, she maintains, is not the same thing as criticizing:
again, we must try not to look at the problem through Judaeo-
Christian eyes.67
I think that Sourvinou-Inwood is largely right; but it is still
possible to detect a disturbing or ambivalent tone in other ways,
which cannot be accounted for with reference to ‘zooming’ and
‘distancing’ techniques. One way is to be found in the mechanics
of the plot: it is not the details of the ritual that are incongruous,
but the manner in which closure is brought about. At the end of
Helen, for example, the gods who appear to round off the action
might seem an odd choice. As usual in tragedy, the epiphany is
appropriate to the play’s action and themes in one obvious sense:
the Dioscuri, as Helen’s brothers and sons of Zeus, with their
role in Spartan cult, are clearly relevant.68 However, there is a
65
Iphigenia 21, 1097–105.
66
Sourvinou-Inwood (1997) 175.
67
Ibid. 185.
68
In Iphigenia, also, Athena’s connection to the city of Athens where the cults
are to be established makes her appropriate. Athena had a similar role to play in
the aetiologies of the Oresteia, Orestes, Ion, Suppliant Women and Erechtheus, in
 The Tragic Universe 361
note of discord, since the play has led us to believe that Castor
and Polydeuces were either dead or catasterized (neither of which
tales, it now seems, is true).69 Can we really believe in these gods,
or the evidence of our own eyes and ears?
The unusual abruptness with which both Helen and Iphigenia
end has also been thought to undermine their overall effect of
‘resolution’. When it seems that events have reached impasse, the
gods suddenly appear from nowhere and shout ‘Stop!’ (ƒp≤sceß,
paısai)—an extremely emphatic and unusual technique.70 What
strikes one is its artificiality: the endings have been imposed in
what seems a perfunctory manner.71 Has the action really been
rounded off, in any satisfactory sense? Has resolution really been
achieved? Perhaps not—but a god willed it.
The last couple of sentences above could be seen as summing
up the gods’ role and function in the whole escape-trilogy. It also
brings us to the other reason (apart from assorted and variously
plausible ‘incongruities’) why ritual closure does not entirely
provide positive, resolved endings. As I stated above, the plays’
‘ritual meaning’ is separable from their ‘intellectual meaning’. It
seems to me that there is nearly always a discrepancy between
ritual resolution and theological irresolution. The escape-
all of which she is connected with Attic institutions. Cropp (2000, 260), Allan
(2000a, 250–8) and Dunn (1996, 63) all remark on the significance of Athena, to
make it clear that these plays with their diverse settings are nevertheless con-
nected to Attica.
69
Helen 137–40. See §4.4.5 above. Deification and catasterism need not be
seen as mutually exclusive categories—it may be that the Dioscuri, as gods, were
at liberty to assume different forms from time to time—but the play’s presenta-
tion of this issue remains ambiguous and misleading.
70
At Helen 1642, Castor’s first word from the mechane, to Theoclymenus, is
ƒp≤sceß. The entry of the Dioscuri is doubly striking from the point of view of
staging, since it appears that the actors were swung in on horseback (dummy
horses?—see Dale [1967] ad loc.). Wooden horses, at the end of a play where
echoes of the Trojan War have been accumulating thick and fast (see §4.4.3
above), may add a further level of disturbing significance. Athena’s words to
Thoas at Iphigenia 1435–7 are: po∏, po∏ diwgmÏn tÎnde porqme»eiß, £nax | QÎaß;
£kouson t[sd’ !qhna≤aß lÎgouß. | paısai di*kwn Âeım3 t’ ƒxorm0n stratoı
(‘Where, where are you taking this pursuit, King Thoas? Hear these words of
Athena: put a stop to your pursuit and hold back the flood of your forces’). The
only comparably abrupt ending is that of Ion (1320). See Dunn (1996) for
further discussion.
71
Some, indeed, argue that all epiphanies ex machina are to be interpreted as
ironic, on the grounds that they resemble nothing at all in real-life, experienced
Greek religion. See Parker (1999) 22 (with n. 41).
362 The Tragic Universe
tragedies (along with many other tragedies) leave one with a feel-
ing that the problems of morality and divine justice have not
been solved by the imposition of ritual, and that the value of
these rituals is to be questioned in the light of the nature of the
gods and of human belief.
These two different levels of religious meaning, the ritual and
the intellectual, should be seen in juxtaposition to each other—a
combination of ‘positive’ ritual and ‘negative’ theology. Tragedy
uses ritual to confirm the political and religious authority of the
city, while at the same time acknowledging that the gods can
never really be understood in intellectual terms. The plays’
closure is ultimately ambivalent, both resolved and unresolved.72
As with so many other elements in the escape-tragedies, Euri-
pides has created a situation only to undermine it.
To conclude, then: if we are going to understand, or attempt to
understand, the role of religion in our plays, we must examine
the literary as well as the ritual angle. In the next section, I shall
turn to the theological views expressed by the characters, and
suggest a possible method for interpreting those views.

5.3 making sense of the universe

I am interested in the escape-tragedies’ theology in terms of the

characters’ strategies of interpretation. As the characters act and
suffer, they try to comprehend what is happening, and to situate
their experience in a wider, metaphysical context. However, it is
a difficult task—for characters and audience alike—to make
sense of the universe. If one examines all the theological and
cosmological views expressed by the characters, one finds an
incoherent, muddled and contradictory collection of ideas. I
want to suggest, in the light of the previous chapter, that this
incoherence is precisely the point—and that the reason behind it
is somewhat more subtle than the supposed atheism or agnosti-
cism of the playwright. Rather, it seems that the plays are explor-
ing theological discourse as an epistemological theme. The
characters’ words relating to the gods, fate and luck reveal
72
This type of interpretation is a compromise between ‘ritualist’ interpreta-
tions and Taplin’s (1986 and 1996) view of tragedy’s generic predilection for
‘open’ endings and unanswered questions (see §1.1 above).
 The Tragic Universe 363
another aspect of the limitations of human knowledge and of the
uselessness of words to express reality.
To put it briefly: there is often a large difference between what
the characters and chorus members say about the gods, fate and
luck and what is really true about gods, fate and luck (to judge by
the words of the divine characters and the events themselves).
Irony is therefore of central importance—but not the ‘irony’ of
Verrall et al.,73 which is based on inscrutable ‘hidden meanings’
aimed at subversive intellectuals. Rather, meaning is created
through the tension between, on one hand, the apparent mean-
ing of the characters’ words and, on the other, the way in which
their explanations are borne out by the eventual outcome of the
play.74
Some of the characters’ words might seem to be more authori-
tative or accurate than others. For example, the prologue-
speeches, with which Helen and Iphigenia (along with many
other tragedies) open,75 are deceptively reliable as a source of
meaning. Like the messenger-speeches, they are more akin to
narrative than to drama in mode, which causes them to appear
more objective, and simple to interpret, than the bulk of the lines
of dialogue. In these prologue-speeches, the characters deliver
what purports to be authoritative accounts of mythical history
and genealogy, including the reasons (divine and human) why
things are as they are. Helen and Iphigenia explain exactly what
has happened to them and why, assuming, for the duration of the
prologue, a sort of temporary omniscience (or, at least, seeming
omniscience) which they later on abandon.76 This ‘omniscience’
is a convention of the genre, which has practical uses in terms of
73
See p. 344 and n. 24 above.
74
Compare the approach of Budelmann (2000, 139) to Sophoclean gods: ‘I
will look for the gods not so much in the events of a play . . . but rather pay close
attention to how characters speak about the gods.’ Of course, the problems of
the Sophoclean critic are somewhat different from those of the Euripidean,
because the gods scarcely ever appear in person in Sophocles’ plays: ‘critics have
therefore tried to grasp Sophocles’ gods mostly where they see nothing but their
traces’ (ibid. 134).
75
See p. 158 (with n. 3) above.
76
Goward (1999, 1–26) also discusses ‘authoritative’ prologue-narratives. In
plays which have divine prologue-speakers (Hippolytus, Alcestis, Bacchae,
Trojan Women, Ion), the interpretative status of their words is rather different,
but there is still the possibility of irony or (most importantly) statements which
are misleading or only selectively revealing.
364 The Tragic Universe
the exposition of plot; but nevertheless it may be revealing or
suggestive in other ways. It is hard to know just how to interpret
it, or to reconcile their temporary omniscience with their later
ignorance. Probably we are meant to accept it as a convention
without questioning its realism too closely; but it causes
problems if we want to assess the extent to which the human
characters really understand what is happening to them.
This is certainly the case in the prologue of Helen, where
Helen seems to have knowledge of the plans of Zeus and the real
cause of the Trojan War (t¤ d’ aˆ DiÏß | boule»mat’ £lla to∏sde
sumba≤nei kako∏ß, 36–7), as well as a prophecy of Hermes (56–8)
which stated that she will be reunited with Menelaus and
return to Sparta. However, even elsewhere in the prologue her
acquaintance with Zeus seems limited (she does not even know
for sure whether or not he is her father), and later on in the play
she seems to have no knowledge at all of the gods’ workings, rely-
ing on Theonoe for (unhelpful) advice in this area. Also the
prophecy of Hermes is later ignored: Teucer’s false report of
Menelaus’ death causes Helen to disbelieve it (277), even though
one would have thought that the direct word of a god was more
authoritative than that of a man. There is a dramatic reason for
the rejection of the prophecy: the plot requires excitement and
tension, whereas Hermes’ words effectively remove all threat to
the heroine and her husband. But, in that case, Euripides need
not have included the detail at all. The fact that he did reinforces
the point that humans cannot comprehend reality. Even when
the evidence is there, in the form of direct revelation from the
gods, people persist in misunderstanding or ignoring this evi-
dence.
The choral songs of tragedy present themselves as another
particularly authoritative source of meaning. They seem to
provide moments of insight and clarification in between the
episodes, exploring the wider ramifications of what has
happened. In particular, the chorus tends to make causal links
between past and present, frequently offering reasons on a
cosmic scale.77 However, the attempts of the chorus to find
meaning turn out to be no more reliable than those of any other
77
e.g. Helen 214–6, 758–60, 1137–50, 1688–92; Iphigenia 196–202, 1117–22,
1234–82; Andromeda fr. 119–20, 137, 152, 153 (all of these fragments quoted by
Stobaeus for their gnomic properties).
 The Tragic Universe 365
human characters. It is not just that their sweeping generalities
may have little to do with the particular situation, but also that
they resort to exactly the same range of explanations as everyone
else.78
In general, when the gods appear in plays as characters and
speak lines, we might think that their words represent a defini-
tive, authoritative meaning. This is, largely, true—but with the
important qualification that the gods, or their prophets, are often
selective as to how much information, or how much clarification,
they offer. In many cases, the full extent of the gods’ will, or the
full meaning of the oracle (etc.), becomes clear only at the end of
the play, if at all.79 These general remarks apply equally to the
escape-tragedies, where the situation is relatively uncompli-
cated: there are no divine manifestations (except indirectly, in
the form of dreams and oracles) before the final epiphanies of the
Dioscuri and Athena.80
Each of these types of utterance has what might be called a
different interpretative status. None of them can be said to give
direct access to the meaning of life, the universe and everything;
but in general it seems safe to assume that the words of the deities
have the highest status. Ultimately, the audience members inter-
pret theological ‘meaning’ by weighing up all these words and
appearances against each other and against their own knowledge
of the myths. In the remainder of this chapter, I shall illustrate
this process, outlining the ways in which the characters hope-
lessly and incoherently try to make sense of things, and the
difference between their words and the truth.
Attitudes to prophecy are as good a place as any from which to
start. In tragedy in general, and Helen and Iphigenia in parti-
cular, the revealed word of god always turns out to be true, but
(despite this) it is usually subjected to severe disbelief or doubt.81
78
Cf. Dodds (1929) 80: ‘The opinions hardest to assess are those of the
Chorus. It is certain that in many cases the Chorus are content to draw the con-
ventional moral from the events of the play, although it is equally certain that
this was not the moral that Euripides meant us to draw.’
79
Cf. Parker (1999) on the inscrutability of Sophocles’ gods, especially in the
matter of revelations of divine will: ‘in the admittedly small sample the gods
prove very economical as to how much they will or can reveal’ (p. 13).
80
With the partial exception of the words of the phantom (Helen 608–14).
81
Is there a topical reference to prophets in Helen and Iphigenia? Thucydides
(8.1) describes the Athenians’ hostility in 413–2 to the prophets who had played
a role in the sending of the Sicilian expedition. No doubt some of the members
366 The Tragic Universe
I have already mentioned Helen’s changing attitude to the word
of Hermes, as well as (in §4.4.4 above) the uselessness of the
prophetic Theonoe’s advice to Helen; but far more important in
Helen is the attitude of the disillusioned Greek servant. Realizing
that the prophecy of Calchas led the Greeks to war for nothing,
he attacks not only Calchas but the art of prophecy in general, in
a speech which begins:
πstai t3d’, _nax, åll3 toi t¤ m3ntewn
ƒse∏don „ß faıl’ ƒst≥ ka≥ yeud0n plva . . .82
It shall be so, master; but I now realize how shabby a business, and how
full of lies, is prophecy . . .
There is nothing healthy about inspecting burnt-offerings; only
a fool would think (the word doke∏n again) that prophecy helps
mortals . . . the servant’s words are a vehement denunciation of
the prophetic art. He cannot understand why Calchas did not tell
them that the Trojan War was pointless—was it because the god
did not want them to know? The speech concludes:
e÷poiß £n, o\nec’ Ø qeÏß oÛk ]bo»leto.
t≤ d[ta manteuÎmeqa; to∏ß qeo∏si cr¶
q»ontaß, ajte∏n ågaq3, mante≤aß d’ ƒ$n.
b≤ou g¤r £llwß dvlear hËrvqh tÎde,
koÛde≥ß ƒplo»ths’ ƒmp»roisin årgÏß •n.
gn*mh d’ år≤sth m3ntiß ~ t’ eÛboul≤a.
You might say that it all happened because the god did not want us to
know—but why, in that case, do we consult prophets? We should make
sacrifices to the gods, and request that they grant us good things, but
leave prophecy alone. It is a worthless thing, invented to entice us; but
no idle man has ever become rich through divination. Good sense and
sound judgement are the best prophets.
There is an element here of criticism of the gods (to∏ß qeo∏si cr¶
. . .), but the speech is more obviously an attack on human
attempts to understand the gods than an attack on the gods them-
selves. The six lines quoted above (751–7), along with certain

of the audience would have made a connection between the play and real life in
this respect (the view of Mikalson [1991] 110); but, as Dale (1967, 118) and
Cropp (2000, 213) point out, a sceptical attitude to prophecy is found in
tragedies of all periods.
82
Helen 744–57. On all textual points raised by this passage see Dale (1967)
and Kannicht (1969, vol. 2) ad loc.
 The Tragic Universe 367
others in the speech, are deleted by Diggle and others, on the
grounds that the train of thought is confused and there are too
many gnomic platitudes. However, one should not be too quick
to excise lines: in this case, there are at least a couple of reasons
for thinking that the incoherence is deliberate, adding to, rather
than detracting from, the effect. First, it may be that it is a means
of characterizing the servant as a foolish, emotional old man:
Dale notes that a similar technique is sometimes used by
Euripides elsewhere (but she deletes lines 746–8, 752 and 755–7
anyway).83 More importantly, incoherence and desperate
moralizing are not confined to the words of this character, but (as
I am arguing) can be seen as characterizing the presentation of
ideas on the whole.84 I should follow Kannicht and Murray in
retaining all the lines.
Calchas’ name is also mentioned in the prologue of Iphigenia
(15–16), where Iphigenia describes the storm at Aulis and the
prophet’s revelation that Iphigenia must be sacrificed. Here no
notably pejorative tone attaches to the craft or motivation of the
seer, but it is clear that, as often, Calchas’ prophecy is selective
and partial, revealing only a small fraction of future events. The
same is true of the most prominent prophecy in Iphigenia, the
word of Apollo to Orestes. This oracle is first mentioned by
Orestes, in tones of frustration and uncertainty, shortly after his
first appearance on stage. He begins with the question: _ Fo∏be,
po∏ m’ aˆ t&nd’ ƒß £rkun ‡gageß | cr&saß; (‘O Phoebus, where have
you led me this time—into this snare—with your oracle? 77–8).
Orestes cannot make sense of his sufferings. Although, as he will
go on to explain, he has already wandered far and wide, he has
once again been forced to make a voyage, this time into a snare (as
he sees the bleak and hostile Taurian land). His wanderings will,
he trusts, eventually lead to purification from his matricidal
stain, but in the meantime he can only place blind faith in Apollo,
not knowing what is in store. Apollo’s instructions, we learn, are
83
e.g. the same servant at Helen 726–7; cf. the Nurse at Medea 119–30.
84
However, this does raise a methodological problem which is difficult
to solve. Textual emendation is often carried out on the basis of improving
coherence; but if we assume that Euripides is adopting incoherence as a
deliberate stylistic device, this makes the decision whether or not to emend
almost impossible (an unusual variation on the rule difficilior lectio potior?).
Mossman (2001) deals with a similar problem relating to women’s speech in
Eur. El.
368 The Tragic Universe
bafflingly incomplete (tÏ d’ ƒnqvnd’ oÛd†n ƒrr&qh pvra, ‘nothing
was said about what would follow’, 91), but Orestes has no choice
but to follow them.
The manner in which Orestes expresses his adherence to
Apollo’s will strikes me as markedly odd (120–1):
oÛ g¤r tÏ toı qeoı g’ a÷tioß gen&somai
pese∏n £crhston qvsfaton.
I shall certainly not be held responsible for the failure of Apollo’s
oracle.

If this version of the text (Heath’s emendation, adopted by

Diggle and Cropp) is correct, Orestes is made to emphasize that
he will not be the cause of the failure of the prophecy. The image
of humans consciously striving to perform actions which have
been predestined by a god—so as not to bring the god’s name
into disrepute (?)—is most unusual. (Cropp likens this to
Orestes’ later view that the gods will be more likely to help those
who exert themselves,85 but this is, surely, a somewhat different
point.) One might perhaps be tempted to alter the text back to
a÷tion gen&setai (the manuscript reading), in which case a trans-
lation would run: ‘Apollo for his part will not be the cause of the
failure of his word.’ But even this is problematic: in this case the
train of thought is disrupted, since 119 and 121–2 are concerned
with the men’s own efforts, not those of the god. On balance,
although it contains an irregular point of view, it may be prefer-
able to retain a÷tioß gen&somai, on the grounds that a similar point
of view is expressed by Iphigenia in her prayer to Artemis later
on in the play (1084–5):
s0sÎn me ka≥ nın toısde t’: ∂ tÏ Lox≤ou
oÛkvti broto∏si di¤ s’ ƒt&tumon stÎma.
Rescue me now, and these people too!—otherwise because of you the
word of Apollo will no longer be true for mortals.

This request for divine help sounds almost like blackmail—

unless Artemis rescues the Greeks, no one will trust Apollo’s
oracle. Both this prayer and Orestes’ words contain the same
jumble of ideas. They ignore the fact that oracles always turn
85
Iphigenia 910–11: ∂n dv tiß prÎqumoß Ái, | sqvnein tÏ qe∏on m$llon ejkÎtwß πcei.
A similar sentiment is expressed at Eur. El. 80–1.
 The Tragic Universe 369
out to be true, and that, if events really are predestined, they
will happen whether or not one makes an effort. And, if
Apollo’s word may be false, what is the point of trying to prove it
true?
As in the case of Hermes’ prophecy in Helen, attitudes to
Apollo’s oracle fluctuate at different points during the play. It is
in times of special distress or perplexity that characters tend
towards doubt and disbelief. Although Orestes begins, as we
have seen, by affirming his faith in Apollo, he wavers when it
seems that he will be killed by Iphigenia. The gods, he now
says, may appear to be wise, but they are no less deceptive than
dreams (oÛd’ oÈ sofo≤ ge da≤moneß keklhmvnoi | pthn0n øne≤rwn ejs≥n
åyeudvsteroi, 570–1); and only a little later he directly accuses
Apollo of being a liar (Óm$ß d’ Ø Fo∏boß m3ntiß ¯n ƒye»sato, 711).
However adamant Orestes’ asseverations, it is clear that con-
fusion, rather than genuine disbelief, lies behind them, since,
immediately after calling the gods false, he adds that there is
much confusion in divine and human affairs: polŸß taragmÏß πn te
to∏ß qe≤oiß πni | kån to∏ß brote≤oiß, 572–3).86 In the end, it turns out
that Apollo’s word is, after all, true. This fact is confirmed by the
events of the play and celebrated in the play’s third stasimon
(1231–82), which contrasts divine omniscience with human
ignorance.
Even when the gods have provided (partial) clarification
through their word, the human characters are at a loss. Their
misunderstanding is, naturally, far more profound when there
is no direct clue who or what is responsible for events. In all
three escape-tragedies, the haphazard and unsatisfactory
explanations to which the characters resort include—more or
less indiscriminately, separately or in combination—named
individual gods,87 anonymous ‘god’ or ‘gods’ (qeÎß or qeo≤),88

86
These lines are deleted by Cropp (2000, ad loc.) on the grounds that they
are unconnected with 570–1. But here again the lack of connection has a point
(see n. 84 above).
87
Helen 2, 31, 36, 44–6, 238, 261, 569, 586, 608, 670, 672, 700, 878–91,
964, 960, 1025–7, 1093, 1441, 1495, 1584–8; Iphigenia 354, 711–3, 747–62,
782–8, 936–7, 1012–15, 1082, 1234–82, 1398, 1416; Andromeda fr. 122, 136,
151.
88
Helen 74, 119, 273, 560, 640, 663, 700, 878, 930; Iphigenia 388, 560, 572,
895, 909–11, 1230–4; Andromeda fr. 153. On this ‘vague’, anonymous use of
qeÎß, see Jones (1913).
370 The Tragic Universe
unspecified ‘powers’ (da≤moneß or da≤mwn),89 ‘destiny’ (pÎtmoß),90
‘fate’ (mo∏ra),91 and ‘chance’ (t»ch).92
It would take many pages to discuss every one of these
passages, but a few examples from Helen will suffice to illustrate
the contradictory and overdetermined scheme of causation
which the plays present. Helen, wondering why her life has been
so miserable from the start, blames two factors (as it seems, more
or less equally): on one hand Hera, and on the other her beauty,
is responsible (t¤ m†n di’ fiHran, t¤ d† tÏ k3lloß a÷tion, 261). How-
ever, just a few lines earlier she implied that a third factor, her
destiny, was involved (f≤lai guna∏keß, t≤ni pÎtmwi sunez»ghn; 255).
Elsewhere, Helen says that the gods, as a plural, unnamed collec-
tive, were responsible for her imprisonment in Egypt (qeo≤ m’
åfidr»santo g[ß | ƒß b3rbar’ ‡qh, 273–4). Menelaus, when he
finally appears, confuses the situation further. His bewilder-
ment, although exaggerated in the interests of characterization,
in some sense mirrors the audience’s own difficulty in making
sense of events. We have already encountered Menelaus’ notion
that there must be two Zeuses;93 now one might add that, at the
end of his speech about the dual nature of appearances,
Menelaus comforts himself with a gnomic reflection about
necessity that makes no reference at all to the gods: lÎgoß g3r
ƒstin oÛk ƒmÎß, sof0n dv tou, | dein[ß ån3gkhß oÛd†n jsc»ein plvon
(‘there is a saying—not my own, but some wise man’s—that
there is no force stronger than dread necessity’, 513–14). Later
still, after more baffling revelations, Menelaus declares, over-
confidently, that he understands the workings of the divine
(]isqÎmhn t¤ t[ß qeoı, 653), and that everything that has
happened is a ‘present’ from the gods (p3nta d0ra daimÎnwn,
89
Helen 455, 1075; Iphigenia 157, 202–4, 267, 391, 570, 913–5; Andromeda fr.
140, 152.
90
Helen 255, 669, 1115, 1286; Iphigenia 864, 913.
91
Helen 212, 1318; Iphigenia 207; Andromeda fr. 122, 152.
92
Helen 27, 146, 163, 180, 236, 264, 267, 277, 285, 293, 304, 321, 345, 360,
403, 412, 417, 463, 565, 645, 699, 715, 719, 738, 742, 855, 857, 891, 925, 1030,
1082, 1143, 1195, 1197, 1213, 1249, 1290–1, 1296, 1300, 1369, 1374, 1409, 1424,
1445, 1450, 1636; Iphigenia 15, 89, 329, 352, 441, 473, 475, 478, 489, 500, 501,
511, 535, 560, 607, 616, 630, 647, 694, 722, 837, 841, 850, 851, 867, 874, 907,
909, 958, 1003, 1065, 1067, 1121, 1183, 1209, 1232, 1265, 1321, 1410, 1481,
1490; Andromeda fr. 115, 136, 138, 140, 142, 143, 150, 153, 154. These figures
include forms of tugc3nw, eÛtuc≤a, dustuc≤a (etc.): see n. 100 below.
93
Helen 491–2: discussed at greater length in §4.4 above.
 The Tragic Universe 371
663)—but he still cannot understand why Hera would want to
ruin him and his wife (fiHra; t≤ n0in cr&izousa prosqe∏nai kakÎn;
673). The barbarian characters also make widely differing
attempts to explain events, with about as much success.
Theonoe’s conception of the universe, bizarrely, involves ajq&r
(‘ether’) and noıß (‘intellect’) in addition to—or perhaps instead
of?—gods.94 When Helen has finally made her escape, Theocly-
menus and his servant explain her actions with reference to
different abstract forces: chance brought her to Egypt, but
necessity took her away again (QE. åll’ πdwken Ó t»ch moi. DM. tÏ
de cre°n åfe≤leto, 1636).
None of these explanations, considered individually or all
together, brings about clarification. It is when the various super-
natural forces are mentioned in relation to each other that the
characters’ confusion is most evident. The precise status of
each force or deity, the relative power of each, and the way in
which these forces work together all remain obscure, despite (or
perhaps because of) these elaborate, often emotional explana-
tions.
Among the most memorable of such expressions of bewilder-
ment are the words of the chorus in the first stasimon of Helen:
Òti qeÏß ∂ m¶ qeÏß ∂ tÏ mvson
t≤ß fhs’ ƒreun3saß brot0n;
makrÎtaton pvraß h˜ren ß t¤ qe0n ƒsor$i
deıro ka≥ aˆqiß ƒke∏se ka≥ p3lin åmfilÎgoiß
phd0nt’ ånelp≤stoiß t»caiß [. . .]
oÛd’ πcw
†t≤ tÏ safvß Òti pot’ ƒn broto∏ß tÏ t0n qe0n
πpoß ålaq†ß e˜ron†.
What is a god, and what is not a god, and what is in between? Can any
human say, even when he has investigated the question? The man who
observes the workings of the divine leaping this way and that and back
again, in confusing, unexpected changes of fortune—it is he who is
closest to an answer. [ . . .] But I cannot answer the question clearly;
concerning the gods I can find no true account among men (1137–42;
1148–50).
This is a frank statement, not of disbelief, but of ignorance: the
chorus are admitting defeat. It is acknowledged that the gods
94
Helen 1013–16 (quoted and discussed in §4.3 above). These are the lines
which Sansone (1985, 27) calls ‘eschatological mumbo-jumbo’.
372 The Tragic Universe
exist, but that they are are completely baffling; and they are
thought to be linked somehow to fortune (though the form of
expression, and the connection of t¤ qe0n to t»ch, is vague). The
changeability and unpredictability of the divine is clearly
thought to be one of the obstacles to knowledge. Compare the
reflection of the Greek servant a little earlier in the play (711–15):
Ø qeÏß „ß πfu ti poik≤lon
ka≥ dustvkmarton, eˆ dv pwß p3nta strvfei
ƒke∏se kåke∏s’ ånafvrwn: Ø m†n pone∏,
Ø d’ oÛ pon&saß aˆqiß Ôllutai kak0ß,
bvbaion oÛd†n t[ß åe≥ t»chß πcwn.95
How subtle, and how difficult to interpret, is the god! Somehow he
directs everything for the best, moving the pieces around this way and
that. One man toils, while another does no work and then perishes
wretchedly; he can never rely on fortune at all.
Again, this time even more vaguely, the power of the god (anony-
mous qeÎß, more or less equivalent to tÏ qe∏on) is somehow seen to
be connected with that of fortune (t»ch). The word ånafvrwn, a
metaphor from the game of draughts,96 also connotes the unpre-
dictable. The same inscrutability and changeability is expressed,
in almost identical language, in a fragment of choral song from
Andromeda (fr. 152), where the chorus link the divine power not
to fortune but to fate (mo∏ra):97
tÏ daimÎnion oÛc Ør$iß
†Òphi mo∏ra diexvrcetai;†
strvfei d’ £llouß £llos’ ejß Åmvran.
Do you not see the divine power—how fate is working its purpose out?
It moves different people in different directions from day to day.
However, in another fragment which may be from the same song
(fr. 153), qeÎß and t»ch are connected, to strengthen—or further
obscure—the same argument:
 m†n Ôlbioß Án, tÏn d’ åpvkruyen
qeÏß ƒk ke≤nwn t0n pote lampr0n:
95
Diggle deletes 713–15, again on the grounds of obscurity of thought: see
comments on Helen 751–7 above.
96
Noted by Griffith (1953) 38: cf. Heraclitus (DK22 B52), Plat. Rep. 487b.
Elsewhere in tragedy, the gods’ unpredictable will is likened to the throw of
dice: Aesch. Seven 414, Eur. Suppl. 330–1, Rhesus 183, 446.
97
Cf. Eur. Suppl. 331, Meleager fr. 536 Nauck for similar expressions.
 The Tragic Universe 373
ne»ei b≤otoß, ne»ei d† t»ch
kat¤ pneım’ ånvmwn.
While one man prospers, the god keeps another away from his former
distinction. Life nods its head, fortune nods her head, along with the
breath of the winds.
The detail about the mutability of human fortunes, hardly an
original observation, is nevertheless expressed in very similar
terms to those of Helen 713–15 (quoted above). The important
observation to be made is that the same effect is attributed, in the
space of a few lines, to four different causes (tÏ daimÎnion, mo∏ra,
qeÎß, t»ch), without its being at all clear how these forces interact.
(Incidentally, it is interesting to note that the image of gusts of
wind is used of the unpredictability of life and fortune both in
this passage from Andromeda and in Iphigenia: another mean-
ingful link between the escape-plays.98) Like so many ‘meaning-
ful’ proverbs about human life, the effect of these generalities
may strike us as either profound or banal. But, unlike many
gnomic statements, they do not embody an ultimate moral
certainty so much as the postponement of a definite answer.
Not only the passages just quoted but various others reflect on
the close connection, or as it might be the division of power,
between the gods and fortune (t»ch). Before looking at these
passages, it is worth noting that t»ch is in fact the most frequent
explanation to which the characters (in all three plays) resort.99
In general, t»ch, tugc3nw and related words occur far more
frequently in Euripides than in Sophocles or Aeschylus, and
there are more occurrences in Helen and Iphigenia than almost
any other extant play of Euripides.100 Even Andromeda is notable
for the number of appearances of t»ch-words—in nine of its

98
See §3.4 (pp. 206–11) above for the significance of winds and waves in the
escape-tragedies.
99
References are provided in n. 92 above.
100
The words t»ch, tugc3nw, eÛt»chma, eÛtucvw, eÛtuc≤a, eÛtuc&ß, eÛtuc0ß,
dustucvw, dustuc≤a, dustuc&ß, dustuc0ß and tuchrÎß occur in Helen 47 times and
in Iphigenia 42 times. Only Ion (52) and Phoen. (47) match or excel this number;
in other plays, the frequency is less, though often markedly high (Alc. 30,
Andromeda 29, Bacch. 13, Cyc. 3, El. 24, Hec. 37, Hcld. 34, Hipp. 37, Heracles
37, Iph. at Aulis 38, Med. 28, Or. 40, Suppl. 28, Tro. 37, Rhes. 16). By contrast,
t»ch-words occur significantly less on average in the plays of Aeschylus (PV 16,
Seven 17, Suppl. 13, Pers. 10, Ag. 33, Ch. 20, Eum. 10) and Sophocles (Phil. 13,
OC 21, Ant. 14, Trach. 11, OT 29, El. 30, Aj. 19).
374 The Tragic Universe
forty-three fragments.101 This frequency has led certain critics,
not unreasonably, to think that Euripides sees t»ch as being a
particularly important force at work within the plays. Solmsen,
followed by several others, even describes Helen and Iphigenia as
‘t»ch-plays’, in which t»ch is the dominant factor.102 Burnett
argues that Iphigenia ‘takes the role of accident in human life
more seriously than any other Euripidean tragedy does’,103 and
she tries to show that ‘chance has . . . a curious, semi-demonic
power’,104 stronger than humans but weaker than the gods.
Whitman, similarly, writes that Iphigenia ‘is built on a wonder-
fully intricate interweaving of the forces of tyche and techne,
chance and intrigue’.105 Recently, Cropp echoes these interpre-
tations, writing of the importance of t»ch in Iphigenia as ‘the pre-
vailing uncertainty of human experience’. In his view, the play
teaches that ‘humans must manage their luck and their relations
with the gods as best they can despite their limitations. The
realization of this is an important ethical element of the play’.106
These and other scholars, like Euripides’ characters, take t»ch
seriously as a supernatural power operating in the world. I want
to suggest that we would understand the concept better if we
viewed it, along with all the other interpretative strategies, as
problematic and unsatisfactory.
The very meaning of the word, both in tragedy and in other
types of text, is vague, changeable and hard to pin down. In
general, t»ch can mean success,107 good fortune,108 bad or change-
101
Andromeda fr. 115, 136, 138, 140, 142, 143, 150, 153, 154. This very high
number may not, of course, be representative of the whole play (the tendency of
doxographers to quote gn0mai, which by their nature contain more references to
supernatural forces, may be responsible for the selection and survival of these
and no other fragments), but at least it is highly suggestive.
102
Solmsen (1934b); Busch (1937); Matthiessen (1964) 180–5.
103
Burnett (1971) 66.
104
Burnett (1971) 69. She sees the power of t»ch especially in the storm
which almost prevents the Greeks’ escape at the end of the play: ‘the report of
the wave seems to testify to the existence of an unidentified force at large in
creation, a force strong enough to destroy with ease the noblest of human
achievements, but weak enough to be set aside by god with an even greater ease.’
105 106
Whitman (1974) 51. Cropp (2000) 37–9.
107
Homeric Hymn to Athena 11.5; Pind. Ol. 13.115; Soph. Phil. 775; Eur. El.
593–5. (Here and in the notes that follow I give just a small sample of the many
examples of each meaning.)
108
Pind. Ol. 8.67, Py. 8.53, Nem. 6.24; Bacchylides 17.130–2; Solon fr. 31
West; PMG fr. adesp. 882; Hdt. 1.118.2; Aesch. Ag. 668; Eur. El. 890–2.
 The Tragic Universe 375
able fortune,109 or (often, but not always, in the plural) any situa-
tion or state of affairs that comes into being.110 From an early
stage, t»ch was conceived of as not only an abstract concept but
also a living being, most usually a goddess,111 though cult
worship of T»ch is not attested until the fourth century, and T»ch
never appears as a divine character in drama until the time of
New Comedy.112 The most important, and the most imprecise,
feature of its meaning(s) is that t»ch is used to signify both cause
and effect—the powers that cause things to happen, as well as the
circumstances which these powers bring about.113
Various examples of these different senses of t»ch can be seen
in the escape-plays. It carries the sense of ‘good fortune’ in the
words of the chorus to Pylades, congratulating him on his
prospective escape;114 likewise, the chorus in Helen express the
opinion that future ‘good fortune’ is enough to compensate for
past misery.115 At one point, Helen uses the word in a neutral
109
Thuc. 1.78.2; 1.144.4; Aesch. Ag. 333, 1058–9; Eur. Hec. 492, 785–6, 821,
956; Hcld. 714; Alc. 889; Rhes. 728; Ion 1512; Heracles 480.
110
Hdt. 7.236.2; Soph. Phil. 1317.
111
Homeric Hymn to Demeter 2.420; Hes. Theog. 349–62; Pind. Ol. 12.1–2;
Empedocles (DK 31 B103); Soph. OT 1080; Chaeremon (TGF I [Snell] 71 fr.
2). Greek orthography often makes it difficult to tell whether a personified god
or an abstraction is the intended meaning: is it t»ch (lower-case tau) or T»ch
(upper-case tau)? See e.g. Eur. Hipp. 1105–6, Ion 1512–5; Gorgias, Encomium of
Helen (DK 82 B11) §6. The problem is discussed at length by Kershaw (1986)
1.1–26. Personified T»ch is very rare in tragedy, for reasons which I shall go on
to mention.
112
Cult-worship of Tyche: IG II2 333c (a shrine of !gaq¶ T»ch in Athens in
335 bc); shrines also at Megara (Paus. 1.43.6), Sicyon (Paus. 2.7.5), Olympia
(Paus. 5.15.6). See Nilsson (1948) 85–6 on tyche as a stage in ‘secularizing’
religion. In Menander’s Aspis, Tyche speaks the ‘postponed prologue’, 97–148;
cf. also frs. 517 and 630. See Gomme and Sandbach (1973) 73–4 on Menander’s
characterization of Tyche in relation to the fourth-century intellectual context.
The rise of t»ch in the fourth century seems to signify a major change in atti-
tudes to the gods and the supernatural. The politician and philosopher
Demetrius of Phaleron (FGH 228 F39) wrote an essay On Tyche, asking who,
fifty years previously, could have foreseen such changes in circumstances or
people’s attitudes. However, it should be noted that the personification of
abstractions in general was becoming more frequent in the fourth century.
113
Remarked upon by Giannopoulou (2000, 257), apropos of Ion 67
(‘factum’) and 1514 (‘agens’): she concludes that in Ion the role of t»ch, in rela-
tion to that of the gods, is left deliberately ambiguous, characterized by ‘shifting
perspectives’.
114
Iphigenia 648–9: s† d† t»caß m3karoß, _ nean≤a (‘Young man, we call you
blessed on account of your good fortune’).
115
Helen 698–9: ej ka≥ t¤ loip¤ t[ß t»chß eÛda≤monoß | t»coite, prÏß t¤ prÎsqen
376 The Tragic Universe
sense, to signify the ‘outcome’ of her escape-plans;116 and there
are several other examples of the word referring to ‘circum-
stances’ or ‘what comes to pass’.117 More frequently, t»ch
(singular or plural) bears the sense of ‘bad fortune’ or ‘disastrous
circumstances’, closely equivalent to sumfor3. Iphigenia asks her
brother if he has come to the Taurian land because of some ‘mis-
fortune’,118 and later wonders if a new ‘disaster’ is in store.119
Helen, similarly, wonders what ‘misery’ awaits her,120 and
wishes that her ‘bad circumstances’ could evaporate along with
her beauty;121 her husband, too, laments his ‘sufferings’.122 The
old portress tells Menelaus that there has been a ‘change of
fortune’ in the house, since Theoclymenus has set his sights on
Helen.123 All of these meanings just quoted correspond to t»ch
as effect; but t»ch as cause is also common. Sometimes it is
envisaged as a completely independent power, in passages such
as that in which Orestes says that ‘we must allow fortune to take
its course’,124 or where Theoclymenus says that ‘fortune was
responsible for bringing Helen here’;125 but more commonly the
characters talk about t»ch as an entity which in some obscure
way works in conjunction with the gods.
This brings us back to the confusing manner in which the
årkvsein £n (‘If it should happen that you meet with good fortune in the future,
it would compensate for what has gone before’).
116
Helen 1409: πrcetai g¤r d& tin’ ƒß t»chn t3de (‘Yes, all this is moving
towards some outcome’).
117
Iphigenia 475: t¤ß t»caß t≤ß o”d’ Òtwi | toia≤d’ πsontai; (‘who knows who will
have experiences such as this?); Helen 320–1: prÏß t¤ß t»caß tÏ c3rma toŸß gÎouß
t’ πce (‘rejoice or weep in accordance with circumstances’), 738: o˜ t’ ƒsmvn t»chß
(‘our current situation’), 742: ƒß 2n . . . t»chß (‘in a single event’); Andromeda fr.
138: ƒsql0n Òtan t»cwsin t0n ƒrwmvnwn (‘whenever it comes about that people
find noble lovers’), etc. This is, of course, the most natural meaning of the verb
tugc3nw in most of its occurrences.
118
Iphigenia 511: fug¤ß 〈d’〉 åp[raß patr≤doß ∂ po≤ai t»chi; (‘Did you leave
your home as an exile, or as a result of some other sort of misfortune?’).
119
Iphigenia 875: t≤ß t»ca moi sugkur&sei; (‘What disaster will befall me?’).
120
Helen 293: t≤ d[t’ πti z0; t≤n’ Ëpole≤pomai t»chn; (‘Why then do I go on
living? What misery is in store for me?’).
121
Helen 264–5: . . . ka≥ t¤ß t»caß m†n t¤ß kak¤ß 4ß nın πcw | Efi llhneß ƒpel3qonto
(‘[if only] the Greeks had forgotten the evils which dog me now’).
122
Helen 463: t¤ß ƒm¤ß stvnw t»caß (‘I am lamenting my own sufferings’).
123
Helen 477–8: πsti g3r tiß ƒn dÎmoiß | t»ch. I follow Dale’s (1967, ad loc.)
translation.
124
Iphigenia 489: t¶n t»chn d’ ƒ$n cre*n.
125
Helen 1636: åll’ πdwken Ó t»ch moi.
 The Tragic Universe 377
characters and chorus imagine the combination of supernatural
powers. As in the passages already quoted (the ‘What is a god?’
ode and others), confusion and contradiction abound. Although
the chorus members in Andromeda imply that the gods and t»ch
operate independently,126 a character elsewhere in that play
asserts that t»ch is subordinate to the gods—that, in fact, it is in
the power of a god to bestow t»ch on mortals.127 The view that the
gods are responsible for t»ch is seen elsewhere. For example, no
good fortune is said to result from Orestes’ treatment by the
gods;128 Iphigenia blames ‘god-sent’ t»ch—as well as destiny—
for her misery;129 the chorus in Helen pray to the gods for good
luck;130 Menelaus complains about the fortune which the gods
have given him;131 a prayer imagines t»ch as being at Zeus’
fingertips . . .132 and so on.
In other places, however, the relationship is less clear. After
the recognition-scene in Iphigenia, Orestes says (909–11):133
kal0ß πlexaß: t[i t»chi d’ o”mai mvlein
toıde xŸn Óm∏n. ∂n dv tiß prÎqumoß Ái,
sqvnein tÏ qe∏on m$llon ejkÎtwß πcei.
You have spoken well: I reckon that responsibility rests with fortune
and our own efforts. When one eagerly strives for something, it seems
likely that the divine power will be stronger.

126
Andromeda fr. 153 (quoted above).
127
Andromeda fr. 140: _ tl[mon, „ß so≥ t¤ß t»caß m†n åsqene∏ß | πdwc’ Ø da≤mwn
(‘Unhappy person: what pitiable fortune the god has bestowed upon you!’).
128
Iphigenia 560: åll’ oÛ t¤ prÏß qe0n eÛtuce∏ d≤kaioß •n (‘Although Orestes is
in the right, he gets no good fortune from the gods’).
129
Iphigenia 864–7: åp3tor’ åp3tora pÎtmon πlacon. | £lla d’ ƒx £llwn kure∏ |
da≤monoß t»cai tinÎß (‘My destiny was unfatherly, unfatherly treatment. But now
matters are taking a different turn from before, because of some god-sent
fortune’).
130
Helen 855–6: _ qeo≤, genvsqw d& pot’ eÛtuc†ß gvnoß | tÏ Tant3leion (‘O gods,
may the house of Tantalus enjoy good fortune at last’).
131
Helen 403: oÛk åxioımai toıde prÏß qe0n tuce∏n (‘I do not deserve this bad
fortune which the gods have given me’).
132
Helen 1444–5: k#n £krai q≤ghiß cer≤, | ~xomen Jn’ ƒlqe∏n boulÎmesqa t[ß t»chß
(‘With just a touch of your fingertip we shall arrive at the good fortune we
desire’).
133
With this passage Cropp (2000, ad loc.) compares Eur. Electra 610 and
890–2, where an equal division of responsibility is envisaged between t»ch and
either Orestes or the gods. Other Euripidean passages in which characters con-
template the relative power of gods and t»ch include Hec. 488–93, Cycl. 606, fr.
901 Nauck.
378 The Tragic Universe
He is scarcely confident about this explanation of events (as is
shown by the over-cautious qualifications, o”mai and ejkÎtwß
πcei), but he seems to view t»ch and the gods as equivalent.
Iphigenia’s words to Orestes, as she prepares to sacrifice him,
could also be read in a similar way. Here, t»ch and the workings
of the divine (t¤ qe0n) are seen as vaguely equivalent, if not
exactly the same (475–8):134
t¤ß t»caß t≤ß o”d’ Òtwi
toia≤d’ πsontai; p3nta g¤r t¤ t0n qe0n
ƒß åfan†ß 1rpei, koÛd†n o”d’ oÛde≥ß safvß:
Ó g¤r t»ch par&gag’ ƒß tÏ dusmaqvß.
Who knows who will have experiences such as this? All the workings of
the divine are obscure in outcome, and no one knows anything for
certain, for fortune leads us astray into perplexity.
Both senses of the word—effect (t¤ß t»caß) and cause (Ó t»ch
par&gag’)—are present in these few lines: but, despite the con-
tinued lack of clarity, this passage hints at a solution to the
problem of t»ch. Iphigenia is beginning to acknowledge the
hopelessness of human attempts to make sense of the universe.
Her words are an admission of ignorance: no one knows anything
for certain. The significance of t»ch, as Iphigenia says, is that it
misleads us. What she might have added, if she had realized it, is
that t»ch does not exist.
In other words, the action and eventual resolution of the plays
suggest very strongly that t»ch plays no part in the theological
scheme. When, at the end of the plays, the characters and audi-
ence are finally enlightened as to the true causes of events by the
speeches of the Dioscuri and Athena ex machina, no mention
whatsoever is made of t»ch, but only of divine will, fate and
necessity. If the gods’ words, which (as I said) possess a higher
interpretative status than anything else, attribute nothing to
t»ch, then we must conclude that the humans were wrong to
invoke t»ch as a cause, for, as seems likely, there is no such
power.135
134
Similar expressions can be found at (for example) Heracles 62, Bellerophon
fr. 304 Nauck, Soph. OT 977–8.
135
Compare the view of Matthaei (1918, 158–62), who says that Greek
tragedies tend to ‘eliminate the inexplicable’; the typical ‘surprise’ of Greek
tragedy is ‘the surprise which can eventually be led back to a recognizable cause,
this cause being some action of a human personality, not some accident in
 The Tragic Universe 379
We will understand t»ch in the escape-tragedies if we see it not
as a force at work in the universe but as a purely linguistic
phenomenon. It is a strategy of interpretation which arises out of
extreme uncertainty or perplexity, and as such its meaning is
roughly equivalent to Iphigenia’s ‘no one knows anything for
certain’ (oÛd†n o”d’ oÛde≥ß safvß). As the passages above suggest,
t»ch is the explanation which characters employ faute de mieux in
desperate situations. In this respect, it is interesting to compare
a fragment of Democritus, whose theories about language and
deceptive appearances were encountered in the previous chapter
(§4.4.5). Here, too, it seems that Democritus may have exerted
more of an influence on Euripides than we can now know.
Democritus’ opinion was that humans created the image of t»ch
in order to excuse their own lack of thought. The word which he
uses to describe the real nature of t»ch will perhaps come as no
surprise, since we have encountered it before—it is a phantom
(e÷dwlon). 136
This highly important fragment helps us to see more clearly
the connection between Euripides’ theological and epistemo-
logical ideas, for which I have been arguing. It is no coincidence
that these plays which so greatly problematize the connection
between language and reality, and so profoundly explore the
failure of human knowledge, contain more references to t»ch
than almost any other tragedy. T»ch bears the same relationship
to the gods as appearances bear to reality. Like Helen’s double, it
is a phantom, a name without a body, a deceptive false image. In
this sense (rather than that of Solmsen), one might still with
some correctness call the escape-tragedies ‘t»ch-plays’, in that
t»ch is symptomatic of the inability of humans to comprehend
the universe and of the inadequacy of language to express mean-
ingful truths.
nature.’ Although Matthaei claims to be discussing tragedy, her subject is
really Aristotle’s view of the role—or, rather, the lack—of accident in human life
(Phys. 2.5.197a and Metaphys. 1064b–1065b). Dover (1974, 138–41) draws a
similar conclusion, though he is concerned not with tragedy but with popular
morality in general. (He writes that ‘“chance” is no more than a useful word by
which to distinguish the unintended from the intended.’)
136
Democritus (DK 68 B119): £nqrwpoi t»chß e÷dwlon ƒpl3santo prÎfasin
jd≤hß åboul≤hß (‘Humans manufactured the phantom of fortune as an excuse for
their own thoughtlessness’). Cf. the later view of Polybius (36.17), who wrote
that in the case of things which it is difficult or impossible for humans to explain,
one may justifiably refer them, in one’s difficulty, to tyche.
380 The Tragic Universe
It is also possible to see in t»ch (and certain other faulty expla-
nations) another connection between the theology of tragedy and
the religious discourse of real-life Athenians. Mikalson’s study
of Athenian popular religion discusses the range of techniques
which people in prose texts, including history and oratory,
employ in order to try to make sense of the universe. He notes
that speakers tend to assign good and desirable events to gods
(either named individual gods or a collective group of ‘gods’),
but that it is disaster or wretched states of affairs that are more
often accounted for by resort to t»ch or da≤mwn (‘divine power’):
t»ch is usually the explanation of last resort.137 This being so,
references to t»ch are often emotionally or rhetorically charged—
which gives another reason not to interpret them as true expres-
sions of belief. (In this respect, t»ch can be seen to correspond to
another, often misunderstood, type of theological outburst—the
apparent disbelief noted by Stinton as a characteristic of tragic
characters in extremis, which nearly always turns out to have
another significance.138) I have already discussed Mikalson’s
views about the relationship of tragic to real-life ‘religion’, and
found it impossible to agree with his opinion that the two are
separable.139 The similarity of the use of t»ch and other ‘vague’
expressions (such as da≤mwn) in a variety of contexts outside
tragedy provides another piece of evidence to support the oppo-
site view. If the theological discourse of drama resembles more
or less exactly that of real-life religion, this is surely yet another
connection between the two spheres.
For the greater part of the plays, then, the characters stumble
around in the dark; but the final appearances of the Dioscuri and
Athena provide sudden, brilliant flashes of illumination. This
process closely resembles the disillusionment effected by the
137
Mikalson (1983) 53–62, quoting Demosth. 2.22, 3.133, 18.192–4, Lysias
24.21–2, Xen. Hell. 7.4.3. R. Parker (1997, 155–6) takes a similar view, and adds
Plutarch, Alcibiades 33.2 as an example. Cf. Dover (1974) 80. Kershaw (1986,
2.2) notes that the sense of t»ch as explanation of last resort was common in
Hellenistic writers: ‘if [they] attempted to account for an occurrence and found
that they had exhausted all the principles which might be classified as “natural”,
and also those which can be associated with freedom of will and divine inter-
vention, they would be left with a residuum still standing in need of an explana-
tion.’ Kershaw suggests that this principle may account for the eventual
cult-worship of T»ch in the ‘disillusioned’ 4th cent. and after.
138
Stinton (1976a): see §2.4 above.
139
See §5.2 above.
 The Tragic Universe 381
heroines in their respective prologues. Just as the plays’ counter-
factual plots required the audience members to abandon their
previous ‘knowledge’ of reality, the epiphanies require the
characters to abandon their previously held beliefs about divine
causation, which—in common with so many other elements in
the plays—were based on mistaken appearances. The real
reasons for everything, the gods now reveal, include divine will,
fate and necessity.
At the end of Helen, the Dioscuri say that they have waited so
long to rescue Helen because it was ‘necessary’ (ƒcr[n, 1651) for
her to stay in Egypt until now. This might not exactly satisfy our
desire for an explanation; but they continue (1658–61):
p3lai d’ ådelf¶n k#n pr≥n ƒxes*samen,
ƒpe≤per Óm$ß ZeŸß ƒpo≤hsen qeo»ß:
åll’ ~sson Ámen toı peprwmvnou q’ ‹ma
ka≥ t0n qe0n, oÍß taıt’ πdoxen —d’ πcein.
We would have rescued our sister long before now, since Zeus made us
gods; but we were weaker than the combined powers of destiny and the
gods, who decided that things should turn out as they did.

The Dioscuri are no match for the combination of destiny and

the gods, which is now confirmed as the true cause, not only
of the Trojan War and Helen’s incarceration, but also of the
eventual deification of Helen (ZeŸß g¤r —de bo»letai, 1669) and of
Menelaus’ eventual home in the Isles of the Blessed (qe0n p3ra |
. . . ƒsti mÎrsimon, 1676–7). Similar explanations are offered by
Athena in Iphigenia: everything happened as it did because it
was fated (peprwmvnon, 1438) by Apollo’s oracle; it is Poseidon
who controls the waves, as a favour to Athena (1444–5); but even
the gods are subject to necessity (tÏ g¤r cre°n soı te ka≥ qe0n
krate∏, 1486).
However, the plays’ endings, even taking into account their
cult aetiologies, leave a sense of dissatisfaction, for the gods’
words do not reveal all that we might wish to know. Far from it:
the characters and audience find out who is responsible for their
sufferings, and they are given access to a partial hierarchy of the
supernatural powers: but that is all. If we were expecting some-
thing more profound than that—moral justification of what has
happened, or some sign that the gods care about human life—we
will be grievously disappointed. This absence of intellectual or
382 The Tragic Universe
spiritual meaning is the main reason why (as I argued above) the
institution of ritual cannot be seen as a straightforwardly positive
form of closure. In the place of theological profundity, the plays
end on a note of emptiness—or, in the case of Helen, banality.
The final words of the Dioscuri (1678–9) are both trite and
comfortless: toŸß eÛgene∏ß g¤r oÛ stugoısi da≤moneß, | t0n d’
ånariqm&twn m$llon †ejsin oÈ pÎnoi† (‘the gods do not hate those of
noble birth, but they make them suffer more than the countless
mass’).140 The play’s closing lines, sung by the chorus (1688–92),
are similar in tone:
polla≥ morfa≥ t0n daimon≤wn,
poll¤ d’ åvlptwß kra≤nousi qeo≤:
ka≥ t¤ dokhqvnt’ oÛk ƒtelvsqh,
t0n d’ ådok&twn pÎron h˜re qeÎß.
toiÎnd’ åpvbh tÎde pr$gma.
The gods reveal themselves in many forms,
Bring many matters to surprising ends.
The things we thought would happen do not happen;
The unexpected God makes possible:
And this is what has happened here to-day.141
The glib way in which these commonplaces are trotted out as an
‘explanation’ of all the suffering that has preceded them may be
intended to highlight, in a grimly ironic way, the pitilessness of
the play’s outlook. (One also notes, in particular, the absence of
t»ch from these concluding lines.)

It is time for some concluding remarks. Euripides has created

a situation in which it is very difficult to discern real beliefs
among the mass of deceptive words and appearances.142
Nevertheless, it seems clear that the plays’ view of the universe is
140
Dale (1967, ad loc.) finds the lines so outrageous that she suspects a textual
problem, commenting: ‘It would be an extraordinary reversal of the content and
spirit of the whole body of Greek legend if such a sentiment really rounded off
the speech of the god from the machine.’
141
The translation used here is that of Vellacott (1973)—its banality (for
once) hits the mark completely. The same lines are found at the end of Alcestis,
Andromache, Bacchae and (with a slight change) Medea, which has led some to
suspect them: see Dale (1967) and Kannicht (1969.II) ad loc and Barrett (1963)
ad Hipp. 1462–6. Roberts (1987), who examines the question of closing lines
thoroughly, defends the lines.
142
Cf. Zuntz (1960, 221), whose ultimate view of Euripides’ theology is ‘the
renunciation of a final truth’.
 The Tragic Universe 383
more complex than the ‘atheism’ which Aristophanes, Verrall
and others were disposed to see in them. If the gods did not
exist, then the plays would make no sense. Ultimately, it seems
that the escape-tragedies are more concerned with human
attempts to understand supernatural forces than with those
forces themselves: this interpretation fits in very closely with the
plays’ philosophical concerns. Human perceptions of the gods,
and the language which we use to describe them, are seen to be
inadequate—just as human means of perceiving and expressing
reality in general are inadequate. The terrible events which
happen all around us may appear to happen at random, un-
expectedly, inexplicably; but appearances, as we have learnt, are
very often deceptive.
At the end of the day, whatever else may be true or false,
humans are seen to be at the mercy of the omnipotent gods. The
gods’ motives may seem obscure or non-existent—indeed, there
is no divine justice here143—but nothing in tragedy would happen
without them. To know this may not comfort us (or the charac-
ters), nor does it necessarily, or ever, offer a justification of events
which satisfies our desire for comprehensible moral or causal
sense. Just because it is revealed, late on, that the gods’ plans
were responsible for everything that happened to Helen,
Iphigenia and the others, that still does not explain why Zeus,
Apollo and Artemis decided to plan things in that way, causing
so much unmerited suffering and wretchedness. We (the every-
day Athenians in the audience) might also be led to reflect that,
since real life contains nothing like the deus ex machina, we our-
selves are doomed to continue living in ignorance and incompre-
hension, without even the limited illumination which the
characters in the play obtain. Euripides’ tragic universe, it will
be seen, is based on a divine scheme familiar from Homeric epic,
in which fate, the will of Zeus and the other Olympians work
together to govern a universe which seems unjust or incompre-
hensible to the humans in it.144 Euripides’ gods, like Homer’s,
are omnipotent, capricious, cruel and unfathomable; like

143
Cf. the very similar view of Lloyd-Jones (1983b) 144–55.
144
In Homer, one might add, there is no t»ch. There are a couple of
references in the Homeric Hymns (see n. 107 and 111 above), but none at all in
either Iliad or Odyssey. Of course, the gods and fate have a similarly indetermi-
nate hierarchy from Homer onwards.
384 The Tragic Universe
Homer’s gods, they laugh while humans suffer.145 Nevertheless,
that is just how the universe is. We cannot make sense of it, and
there is no escape from it.
145
Zeus laughs (gvlase) at the self-interested behaviour of the young Apollo
at the end of the third stasimon of Iphigenia (1274–5), an ode which celebrates
the gods’ withholding of knowledge from humans. On divine laughter in the
Iliad and the gulf which separates humans from gods, see especially Griffin
(1980).
 Afterword

‘Tragicomedies’, ‘melodramas’, ‘romances’, ‘comedies of ideas’,

‘failures’ . . . I hope I have shown in the preceding pages that
none of these descriptions adequately fits the escape-tragedies.
Of course, I cannot be said to have proved that Helen, Andromeda
and Iphigenia are ‘tragic’ in any very meaningful sense of the
word: indeed, as I explained in the opening chapter, the concept
of ‘the tragic’ is largely an irrelevance and a distraction.
However, what has emerged from the preceding chapters is that
the escape-tragedies are a major dramatic and intellectual
achievement. Far from being quirky oddities or light entertain-
ment, as so many readers have supposed, these are serious
dramas with a profound message about human existence and
human suffering.
I hope that I have persuaded at least some of my readers of the
high quality and serious nature of the escape-tragedies: this was
the real purpose of my insistence that the plays are ‘tragedies’.
The reluctance of many previous scholars to take these plays
seriously is what accounts, I think, for their failure to undertake
a project like mine—of sustained criticism of the plays at a
significant length. However, as it turns out, there are rich
rewards to be reaped from spending time investigating these
plays. I believe that my approach to the plays, which has
involved engaging with the texts and the critical literature in as
objective a way as possible, has led me to make some salutary
observations about these fascinating texts. In addition, along the
way I have tried to situate the escape-tragedies more precisely in
their contemporary intellectual context, as well as raising some
important methodological issues about the criticism of tragedy
in general. How do we approach tragedy in general, and how
do we approach Euripides in particular? This book has tried to
give some fresh answers to these problems by questioning a
range of basic critical assumptions. Certain widely held ideas
386 Afterword
have been subjected to pressure, with some interesting, and
perhaps surprising, results: for example, the relationship
between tragedy and philosophy, Euripides’ manipulation of
myth, the (un-) importance of Stesichorus for the Helen, the role
of ethnicity, and the way in which we interpret tragic religion, as
well as the nature of tragedy itself. Many of the odd-seeming
features which have previously been thought to detract from the
quality or generic status of these plays are not only compatible
with the tragic genre as a whole but also, more importantly, at the
very centre of the plays.
Perhaps the most controversial aspect of this book will seem to
be my suggestion that the escape-tragedies were a connected
trilogy. But if tomorrow morning a papyrus fragment were
unearthed which proved beyond doubt that Iphigenia was not
produced with Helen and Andromeda at the Dionysia of 412,1 this
fact would not materially alter very much of what I have written.
It is neat and satisfying to believe that Helen, Andromeda and
Iphigenia are a thematically connected trilogy, but, even if I am
wrong in this belief, there is ample evidence in the pages above to
show that the escape-tragedies are intimately connected. The
plays undoubtedly share many features of form and content,
and they deal with the same range of themes in a surprisingly
coherent and integrated manner. The collective title ‘escape-
tragedies’ therefore remains both useful and appropriate, since
the three plays are a coherent group in some sense: they form a
distinct group within Euripides’ oeuvre, and no other plays seem
to have resembled them.
The range of themes treated by the plays, and the inter-
connection between these themes, will have emerged progres-
sively from the discussions in each chapter. Myth, geography,
ethnicity, philosophy, and theology are not separate, distinct
areas of interest, but are all integrally joined together to form an
intricate nexus of ideas. Central to all these themes are, as we
have seen, the power of illusion, the failure of language and myth
to express reality, and the problems of knowledge and personal
existence. In other words, the reason for Euripides’ having
1
One might compare the publication, in 1952, of P. Oxy. 2256 (fr. 3.1b),
which caused scholars to revise their firmly held convictions about the date of
Aesch. Suppl. and the development of early tragedy in general: see Garvie
(1969) for more details.
 Afterword 387
composed these (on the face of it) rather bizarre tragedies,
mangling together various strands of myths to present us with
familiar mythical heroines in unfamiliar situations, is to explore
and undermine tragic myth. ‘Myth’ in all its senses—history,
knowledge, language, religion—is approached in a highly scepti-
cal, radically questioning manner; the plays expose myth as a
fundamentally inadequate representation of reality, but offer no
alternative. What we thought we knew about ourselves, our
myths, our ethnic and personal identities and the supernatural
forces which govern us may be completely wrong. We cannot
trust our eyes or ears, our language, or our myths. We may
appeal to the gods for help or enlightenment, but no help will
come. As for escape, the plays seem to be saying that no one can
really escape from a situation. Wherever we go, we will still be
trapped by our human limitations, including, crucially, our
inability to understand the nature of reality.
This is not mere flirtation with clever ideas from contempo-
rary philosophy, but rather a fully worked-out, horribly bleak
view of the world. The escape-tragedies present a coherent, but
radically negative, view of the consequences for human life when
our ‘knowledge’ of reality is revealed as irremediable ignorance.
The ‘meaning’ of the escape-tragedies (if we want to talk in such
terms) may be called a kind of epistemological nihilism.
In most tragedies, awful events happen to the characters and
terrible suffering takes place. But what we witness in the escape-
tragedies is far worse than that. Since Euripides fatally under-
mines human knowledge of reality (or even reality itself), the
characters’ suffering cannot be alleviated by understanding. The
world-view of the escape-tragedies is thus much more pessi-
mistic than that of (say) Aeschylus’ Oresteia, in which—in the
end—one can at least hope to learn something from one’s
suffering: p3qei m3qoß. In Euripides, the possibility of knowledge
is completely denied, which means that the characters can expect
only unrelieved suffering. Nor can any crumb of comfort or
justification be expected from the inscrutable supernatural
forces which govern the universe. This view of the world is
absolutely comfortless and terrifying.
The characters in the escape-tragedies may not, ultimately, be
able to say very much about the universe or explain very much
about why things happen, but their suffering is real enough.
388 Afterword
And, even though the characters and situations of tragedy are far
removed from the experience of the audiences of tragedy
(ancient or modern), we are bound to relate what happens on
stage to our own lives. Here the implications for our own life, and
our own knowledge of reality, are equally bleak and ‘disillusion-
ing’ (in every sense of the word).
Despite my capacious definition of tragedy in the opening
chapter (which could be summed up, more or less, in the words
polla≥ morfa≥ t0n tragwidi0n), it will be clear that my reading
of the escape-tragedies is significantly darker and more grim
than any other available interpretations. Indeed, one might
well be tempted to think that the plays qualify as ‘tragedies’ in
some broader, less satisfactory sense of the word. But this is
completely irrelevant. As I have argued, and as the plays them-
selves give us to believe, names may very often deceive us as to
the true nature of things.
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Stud. 19: 63–88.
—— (1994), The Comedy of Menander: Convention, Variation and
Originality, London.
Zeitlin, F. I. (1970), ‘The ritual world of Greek tragedy’ (diss.),
Columbia.
—— (1994), ‘The artful eye: vision, ecphrasis and spectacle in
Euripidean theatre’, in S. Goldhill and R. Osborne (eds.), Art and
Text in Ancient Greek Culture, Cambridge: 138–223.
Zielinski, T. (1923), ‘L’évolution religieuse d’Euripide’, Rev. Ét.
Grec. 36: 459–79.
—— (1925), Tragodumenon libri tres, Cracow.
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 Index Locorum

This is a complete list of passages cited from the escape-tragedies.

References to the works of other authors are listed in the General Index.

Andromeda fr. 146: 212 n. 198

fr. 114: 48 n. 164, 128 n. 222, 158 fr. 150: 370 n. 92, 373–4
n. 3, 221 n. 229, 265 n. 146 fr. 151: 148 n. 285, 286
fr. 115: 370 n. 92, 373–4 fr. 152: 364, 370 n. 89, 370 n. 91,
fr. 117: 175 n. 57 372
fr. 118: 287 fr. 153: 209, 364, 369 n. 88, 370
fr. 119: 364 n. 92, 372–4, 377
fr. 120: 364 fr. 154: 370 n. 92, 373–4
fr. 121: 208
fr. 122: 219 n. 221, 266 n. 146, Helen
369 n. 87, 370 n. 91 1: 118, 127
fr. 123: 122, 216 1–3: 262–3
fr. 124: 128, 216, 266 n. 146 1–166: 279
fr. 125: 54, 123, 128, 204, 321–2 3–7: 211, 311
fr. 126: 287 9–10: 184, 195
fr. 128: 214 11: 149
fr. 129: 324 12–13: 296, 313
fr. 131: 309 13–14: 314
fr. 136: 122, 369 n. 87, 370 n. 92, 16: 137
373–4 17–21: 142–3, 148 n. 283, 286 n.
fr. 137: 122, 364 224, 309, 311
fr. 138: 122, 370 n. 92, 373–4, 20: 288
376 24: 313
fr. 138a: 308 n. 306 25–30: 288, 313
fr. 139: 122, 197 n. 135 27: 118, 316 n. 325, 370 n. 92
fr. 140: 286, 370 n. 89, 370 n. 92, 31–6: 316, 318
373–4, 377 32: 313
fr. 141: 122 33: 281 n. 209
fr. 142: 122, 370 n. 92, 373–4 34: 265 n. 146
fr. 143: 122, 370 n. 92, 373–4 35–6: 285 n. 220, 290, 306 n. 302
fr. 145: 208, 210 36–7: 364
416 Index Locorum
Helen (cont.): 198: 281 n. 209
39–40: 281 n. 209 203–4: 118
41: 137 212: 370 n. 91
42–3: 290 214–16: 364
44–5: 216, 265 n. 146, 281 n. 209 223–8: 141, 178 n. 69
46–8: 118, 194 226: 209 n. 185
52–5: 141, 281–2, 285 n. 220 236: 370 n. 92
56–9: 118, 364 248: 281 n. 209
57–8: 137 250: 142
62–3: 195 250–1: 331
66–7: 290 255: 370
68–70: 192 257–9: 145–7, 178 n. 69, 309
72–7: 300–1, 322 261–3: 118, 370
73–4: 281 n. 209 262–5: 322–3, 327–8, 370 n. 92,
81: 142 376
87: 219 267: 370 n. 92
98–9: 144, 148 270–90: 141 n. 267
105: 137 273–4: 370
109–10: 281 n. 209 274: 178 n. 69, 219
118–22: 301–2 276: 178 n. 69
119–23: 266–7, 285 n. 220 277–8: 118, 364, 370 n. 92
126: 138, 209 n. 185 285–6: 292, 370 n. 92
126–32: 208, 286 287–9: 223
128: 281 n. 209 291–2: 302
131: 178 n. 69 292–3: 118, 370 n. 92, 376
132: 138, 286 294–7: 118, 178 n. 69
133–6: 282 296–302: 195
136: 148 304: 370 n. 92
137–40: 308, 360 306–10: 309
138: 147 307: 285 n. 220
143: 149 309: 305
146: 370 n. 92 314: 118 n. 189, 193
147: 209 n. 185 317–18: 296
147–50: 167, 311, 324 320–1: 376
156–7: 195 321: 370 n. 92
160–1: 292, 302 345: 370 n. 92
163: 370 n. 92 351–6: 118
167: 222 360: 370 n. 92
170–1: 180 364: 281 n. 209
175: 324 375–80: 148
180: 370 n. 92 384–5: 281 n. 209
191: 176 n. 61 386–90: 151–2
192: 178 n. 69 387: 209 n. 185
 Index Locorum 417
397: 209 n. 185 588: 290, 313
397–403: 208, 281 n. 209, 320 594–6: 219
400: 209 n. 185 598: 167, 178 n. 69
401: 209 n. 187 600: 178 n. 69
402–3: 209, 370 n. 92, 377 600–1: 193, 290
404–5: 170 n. 43 603: 281 n. 209, 282 n. 213
408: 332 605–6: 198 n. 139, 216, 265 n.
409–10: 208 146
412: 370 n. 92 608–10: 281 n. 209
414–15: 167 608–15: 287, 365
417: 370 n. 92 610: 289
420–4: 329, 332 611: 285 n. 220, 290, 306 n. 302
423–4: 208 616–19: 304
428–9: 167, 332 627–97: 299–307
437–40: 191 645: 370 n. 92
437–82: 27–8, 198, 283, 332 653: 370
453–4: 138, 315 n. 323 655: 324
455: 370 n. 89 657–8: 285 n. 220
457: 315 n. 323 663: 370–1
459: 167 666: 178 n. 69
461–3: 218, 370 n. 92, 376 667: 301 n. 293
477–8: 376 673: 371
481: 194 669: 370 n. 90
489–99: 312–13 683: 281 n. 209
491–4: 198 692–3: 281 n. 209
501: 178 n. 69 698–9: 370 n. 92, 375
503–4: 137 703: 281 n. 209
513–14: 370 705–7: 281 n. 209, 282
520: 209 n. 185, 209 n. 187 711–15: 372–3
530: 296 715: 370 n. 92
539: 281 n. 209 716: 281 n. 209
541–3: 195 719: 370 n. 92
553–4: 231, 332 726–7: 367 n. 83
554–5: 191, 329 728–31: 333
560: 299 n. 289 738: 370 n. 92, 376
561: 191 740: 167
563–4: 302–3 742: 370 n. 92, 376
565: 370 n. 92 743: 178 n. 69
574–5: 230 744–57: 366
574–8: 302–3 748: 285 n. 220
576: 285 n. 220 750: 281 n. 209
582: 281 n. 209 758: 285 n. 220
583–4: 265 758–60: 364
418 Index Locorum
Helen (cont.): 1000: 324
766: 281 n. 209 1002: 194
766–9: 288 1006: 324
767: 208 1013–16: 168 n. 37, 262 n. 131,
773–4: 209 n. 185 263–6, 281 n. 209, 371
777: 209 n. 187 1017: 264
778: 224 1020: 285 n. 220
784–5: 195 1025–7: 210
789: 178 n. 69 1030: 370 n. 92
789–92: 332 1034: 289
792: 290 1039–43: 213–14
793–6: 304–5 1041–2: 167, 178 n. 69
800: 178 n. 69 1047–8: 213–14
800–1: 186 n. 94 1049: 120 n. 196, 289
806: 324 1050: 208
813: 289 1053–4: 329
823: 296 1063–4: 282
833–4: 305 1075: 370 n. 89
841: 285 n. 220 1079–82: 329, 333–4, 370 n. 92
843–4: 137 1087–9: 329
845: 282 1091: 289
848–9: 281 n. 209 1100: 178 n. 69, 290
855–6: 370 n. 92, 377 1107: 209 n. 185
856–7: 168, 370 n. 92 1107–10: 222
863–4: 178 n. 69, 224 1115: 370 n. 90
865–7: 265 1117: 178 n. 69
873: 296 1122: 281 n. 209
876: 209 n. 187, 281 n. 209 1126–31: 208, 281 n. 209, 288
878–91: 296, 370 n. 92 1132: 178 n. 69
894–995: 297 1135–6: 281 n. 209
902: 324 1137–50: 364, 371–2
917: 285 n. 220 1143: 370 n. 92
921: 324 1150: 286
925: 370 n. 92 1151: 281 n. 210
926–8: 141 n. 267, 142 1152: 286
930: 289 1161: 281 n. 209
940: 324, 325 1165: 182
954: 285 n. 220 1165–6: 255–6
956: 285 n. 220 1170–1: 195
970: 281 n. 209, 296 1175–6: 196
982: 285 n. 220 1176: 182
993: 285 n. 220 1180: 182
998: 194 1184–90: 330
 Index Locorum 419
1186–9: 118, 329 1380: 178 n. 69
1190–2: 331 1387–9: 289
1193–300: 289 1390: 167
1195: 370 n. 92 1392: 285 n. 220
1197–8: 330–1, 370 n. 92 1395–7: 208, 324
1200: 178 n. 69 1402: 324
1204: 182, 231–2 1409: 370 n. 92, 376
1205: 334 1411: 324
1210: 179 1420: 324, 325
1210–79: 197 1421: 168 n. 37
1213: 370 n. 92 1424: 370 n. 92
1219–20: 265 n. 146, 281 n. 209, 1444–5: 370 n. 92, 377
282 1446: 281 n. 209
1224: 329 1449: 324
1229: 232 1450: 370 n. 92
1231: 232 1451: 222
1234: 324 1452: 219
1240: 320 1457: 211
1241–2: 168 n. 37 1507: 178 n. 69
1243: 320 1513: 167
1246: 182, 197 n. 138 1516: 198
1249: 370 n. 92 1530: 167
1254: 324 1538–40: 335
1256: 196 1546: 320
1258: 178 n. 69, 179, 213 1547: 335
1261: 320 1574–5: 335
1273: 324 1584–7: 210
1278: 196 1594: 178 n. 69
1281–4: 329, 335 1602: 137, 208, 223
1286: 370 n. 90 1602–3: 296
1290–1: 370 n. 92 1608: 178 n. 69
1296: 370 n. 92 1611: 157
1300: 370 n. 92 1615–17: 206 n. 167
1301–5: 217 1617–18: 157
1301–68: 180–1 1619–20: 290
1318: 370 n. 91 1621: 120 n. 196, 189
1331: 324 1628: 197
1369: 370 n. 92 1636: 370 n. 92, 371, 376
1373: 324 1640–81: 333
1374: 370 n. 92 1642–79: 210, 361
1376–8: 335 1651–61: 381
1378: 324 1653: 311
1379–84: 329 1661: 285 n. 220
420 Index Locorum
Helen (cont.): 87–8: 285
1664–5: 308 89: 370 n. 92
1664–9: 358 n. 60, 359, 381 91: 368
1670–5: 153, 312 94: 169, 174
1676–7: 381 96–9: 186
1678–9: 382 106: 169
1683: 285 n. 220 106–9: 170, 219
1688–92: 364, 382 113–29: 186
1690–1: 285 n. 220 116–17: 209, 225
120–1: 368
Iphigenia 123–5: 170, 171 n. 46, 204, 217
6–9: 120, 137, 190, 281 n. 206, 125: 212, 217–18
208 132–6: 170
8: 52, 151, 281 n. 209, 285 n. 220 157: 370 n. 89
13–14: 281 n. 209 170–1: 281 n. 207
14: 324 176: 285 n. 220, 285
15: 370 n. 92 177: 151
19–24: 120, 190, 281 n. 206 178: 120, 190, 281 n. 206
20–1: 120, 151, 360 179–81: 180
24–5: 288 180: 179 n. 69
26–9: 120, 190, 281 n. 206 196–202: 364
27: 151 199–200: 281 n. 207
28–30: 216 202–4: 370 n. 89
29: 169, 266 n. 146 207: 370 n. 91
31: 179 n. 69 210–17: 120, 190, 281 n. 206
31–3: 184, 195 n. 129, 314, 324 218: 169, 212, 217–18
34–41: 175 n. 52, 186 n. 95, 218–20: 217
186–8 220: 219, 220 n. 223
36: 190 n. 107, 316 n. 325 225–8: 186 n. 85–7
43: 266 n. 146 236–7: 170, 211
43–60: 287 238: 281 n. 207
44: 285 n. 220, 288 241: 171 n. 46, 212, 217–18
50: 285 n. 220, 288 246: 192
53–4: 186 n. 95–7 248–51: 315
63–4: 176 n. 61 253: 169, 212, 217–18
67–70: 170 253–4: 212
69–75: 185–6, 285 n. 220 258–9: 186 n. 95, 189
70: 174 260: 171 n. 46, 219
72: 175 n. 52, 186 n. 95–7 264–74: 210
72–5: 186 267–8: 286, 370 n. 89
77–8: 367 276–8: 175 n. 52
78–80: 281 n. 208 279: 285 n. 220
85: 169 281–94: 281 n. 208
 Index Locorum 421
284–5: 286 473: 370 n. 92
291–4: 286–7 475: 370 n. 92, 376
296–319: 281 n. 208 475–8: 378
299: 285 n. 220 478: 370 n. 92
324: 219 489: 370 n. 92, 376
329: 370 n. 92 495–541: 192
336–9: 186 n. 95, 189, 190 499–504: 315
341: 169, 212, 217–18 500–1: 370 n. 92
342–3: 186 n. 95–7 504: 293
348: 200, 295 507: 324
349: 285 n. 220 511: 370 n. 92, 376
352: 370 n. 92 517: 138
354: 369 517–69: 139
355: 171 n. 46 521–6: 281 n. 209
355–7: 281 n. 209 527: 139
357–9: 189, 190 532–4: 139, 209 n. 185
358–71: 120, 151, 190, 281 n. 206 533–6: 139, 209, 370 n. 92
361–77: 288 538–9: 288
365–8: 287 541: 151
380–91: 359 543: 139
384–91: 186 n. 95 543–4: 315
386–90: 144–5 545–55: 281 n. 207, 283 n. 219
388: 369 n. 88 548–54: 283–4
389–91: 190 n. 107 556–9: 281 n. 208
390: 285 n. 220 560: 369 n. 88, 370 n. 92, 377
391: 370 n. 89 563: 141, 151
393–7: 170–1, 172, 174 565–6: 120, 190, 281 n. 206,
394–5: 212, 217–18 281 n. 209
408–12: 205 n. 162 566: 324
412: 205 n. 165 569: 288
417: 179 n. 69 570: 370 n. 89
422: 172 570–1: 369
422–38: 171–2 572–3: 369
434: 212, 217–18 584–7: 186 n. 95–7, 336
438: 169 599–600: 207, 209 n. 185
439–46: 186 n. 95, 189, 190 600: 324
439–51: 281 n. 209 602: 324
441: 370 n. 92 607: 370 n. 92
447: 119 616: 370 n. 92
455: 324 617: 186 n. 95, 188
456–8: 186 n. 95 621–4: 186, 187
464–71: 186 n. 95, 190 629: 179 n. 69
471–2: 186 n. 96 630: 370 n. 92
422 Index Locorum
Iphigenia (cont.): 851: 370 n. 92
631: 324 854–5: 120, 190, 281 n. 206, 285
641: 285 n. 220 n. 220
647: 370 n. 92 864: 370 n. 90
648–9: 375 864–7: 377
663–5: 281 n. 207–8 867–9: 214, 370 n. 92
670–1: 140 n. 263 874: 370 n. 92
677–9: 140, 285 n. 220 875: 376
694: 370 n. 92 884–91: 174, 214
697: 141, 293 886–7: 175, 179 n. 69
698: 322 n. 357 889–90: 171 n. 46
711: 219, 369 895: 369 n. 88
711–13: 369 896: 285 n. 220
722: 370 n. 92 900: 286
725–6: 186 n. 95–6 900–1: 307
735: 174 906: 179 n. 69
739: 179 n. 69 907–8: 334, 370 n. 92
744–6: 186 n. 95–7 909–11: 369 n. 88, 377
746: 171 n. 46 910–11: 368
747–62: 369 913–15: 370 n. 89–90
755–9: 208, 293–4 920: 151
770–1: 120, 151, 190, 281 n. 206, 924–35: 281 n. 208, 284
293 926–7: 281 n. 207, 283 n. 219
772: 305 936–7: 369
775: 179 n. 69 940–1: 281 n. 208, 284
778–80: 306 945–60: 358 n. 60
782–8: 369 956: 285 n. 220
783–7: 120, 190, 281 n. 206, 285 958–60: 153, 370 n. 92
785: 285 n. 220 1003: 370 n. 92
791–4: 335 1007–8: 281 n. 208
792: 315 1012–15: 369
796: 306 n. 301 1029–30: 285 n. 220
801–5: 306 1032: 120 n. 196
802: 285 n. 220 1033: 281 n. 208
809–26: 307 1044–5: 186
813: 144 1047: 281 n. 208
827–99: 299–307 1063–4: 289
831: 285 n. 220 1067: 370 n. 92
836–7: 286, 370 n. 92 1082–3: 120, 190, 281 n. 206, 369
841: 370 n. 92 1084–5: 368
843: 266 n. 146 1086: 179 n. 69
847: 324 1089–90: 221, 222
850: 370 n. 92 1094–7: 219–20, 351 n. 44
 Index Locorum 423
1109–10: 176 n. 61, 209 n. 185 1286: 186
1110–24: 221–2 1293–301: 289
1112: 179 n. 69 1308: 289
1117–22: 364, 370 n. 92 1321: 286, 370 n. 92
1123: 219 1325–6: 169
1129–233: 289 1336–7: 200, 285 n. 220, 295
1138: 221 1337: 179 n. 69
1147: 324 1373: 219
1153–4: 186 n. 95 1388: 169, 212, 217–18
1157–8: 186 1389: 171 n. 46
1164: 285 n. 220 1398: 369
1165–7: 323 1399–400: 219
1170: 179 n. 69 1400: 179 n. 69
1173–5: 281 n. 208 1402: 285 n. 220
1174: 179 1410: 370 n. 92
1177: 266 n. 146 1416: 369
1183: 370 n. 92 1418: 120, 190, 281 n. 206
1185: 281 n. 207 1422: 179
1187: 199 1428–30: 199
1187–98: 213 1429: 175 n. 52
1188–219: 199 1433: 199
1196–7: 211 1435–7: 361
1200: 281 n. 208 1435–89: 210
1205: 199 1438: 381
1207: 335 1443: 285 n. 220
1209: 370 n. 92 1444: 324
1217: 199 1444–5: 381
1219: 285 n. 220 1446–67: 358 n. 60
1220: 199 1467–9: 289
1230–4: 369 n. 88 1474–8: 199
1231–2: 369, 370 n. 92 1481: 370 n. 92
1234–82: 289, 364, 369 1486: 381
1265: 370 n. 92 1490: 370 n. 92
1274–5: 384
This page intentionally left blank
 General Index
Aeschylus 28, 30 n. 100, 33,
53–4, 71, 120 n. 196, 131,
149, 163–4, 166, 205 n. 165,
240–1, 242, 249, 255–6,
264 n. 140, 339, 343
Ag. 110–11, 117, 150 n. 294,
207 n. 178, 324, 351 n. 44,
374 n. 108
Cho. 176 n. 61, 181–2, 255–6,
287, 322 n. 357
Egyptians 128 n. 220,
175 n. 58
Eum. 161 n. 13, 203 n. 153
Iphigenia 119 n. 193
Niobe 122 n. 202
Oresteia 135, 161 n. 10, 387
Pers. 181, 207, 219 n. 14, 241,
316 n. 329
Philoctetes 75
Prometheus Unbound 124
Proteus 128 n. 220, 149
PV 127 n. 219, 161 n. 12,
184 n. 91
Seven 59 n. 8, 203 n. 153, 207
n. 175, 322 n. 357, 372 n. 97
Suppl. 127 n. 219, 175 n. 58,
193 n. 123, 263, 351 n. 44
Theoroi 317 n. 331, 324 n. 362
aetiologies 200, 311–12, 353–4,
357–62
Agamemnon 69, 190, 281,
283–4, 285, 315
Agathon 33, 71 n. 39
Alcaeus 207
Alcidamas 318–19, 337
Ameipsias 234 n. 32
Anaxagoras 166, 227, 244–5,
249–51, 256, 263–4, 269
Anaximander 265
Anaximines 264
Andromeda:
embodies themes of trilogy
126
in mythical tradition 68,
121–9, 131
as statue 321–2
unites Greeks and Ethopians
201
Antiphanes 60, 208 n. 183
Antiphon 201–2, 267 n. 152,
270–1, 310
Apollo 174, 244–5, 311, 366–8
Apollodorus 128 n. 225,
203 n. 152, 312 n. 315,
317 n. 331
appearances:
compared to drugs 275
connected with words 272–8
contrasted with reality 50, 52,
127, 156–7, 191–2, 197,
201–2, 231–2, 257, 268–79,
285–337, 382–3
Aristides 94–5, 263 n. 134
Aristophanes:
and barbarians 169, 181
criticizes Euripides 19,
50 n. 169, 116, 242, 249–52,
253–4, 268, 339–40
and philosophy 234–5,
240 n. 55, 242, 249–54, 259
426 General Index
Aristophanes (cont.):
parodies Euripides 1, 50–2,
129, 216 n. 209, 229, 329, 381
Ach. 113 n. 165, 169 n. 39,
181, 229 n. 14, 251 n. 93, 268
Birds 181, 184, 220 n. 225
Clouds 39, 81 n. 61, 234 n. 32,
235 n. 34, 249–54, 266 n. 146
Frogs 39, 81 n. 61, 120 n. 196,
122 n. 202, 159 n. 3, 202–3,
229 n. 14, 238 n. 45, 240–1,
250–1, 339
Lemnian Women 314 n. 321
Lys. 169 n. 39, 251 n. 93
Peace 229 n. 14
Thesm. 44, 50–4, 60, 116,
120 n. 196, 129, 169 n. 39,
229 n. 14, 251 n. 93,
266 n. 146, 329 n. 387,
339–40
Wasps 235 n. 34
Aristotle:
on Aeschylus 164
on Euripides 1, 60–2
on recognition 297–9
on tragic myths and plots
30–1, 60–3, 71–4, 81
Poet. 11, 25 n. 73, 26 n. 81,
30–1, 39, 53, 65–6, 160–2,
237 n. 40, 238, 240, 297–9,
326, 348
Rhet. 319 n. 341, 340 n. 5
Artemis 51, 114, 170, 184 n. 90,
190, 200–1, 220, 224, 285,
312, 323–4, 351, 353–60, 368
Athena 289, 312, 351–2, 360 n.
68, 361 n. 70, 365, 378–82
Athenaeus 105 n. 134, 226 n. 2
Atreus 32, 144–5
barbarians 128–30, 132, 138,
164, 169 n. 39, 174–6,
177–202, 290, 313–14
biographical criticism 19, 102–3,
203, 241–3, 247–52, 340–1
Black Sea 130–1, 163–77, 204,
210, 215, 217–19, 306
map of 173
Burnett, A. P. 44, 228–33,
252–6, 265
Calchas 366–7
Callisto 148
captivity 204, 213–19, 222
Chamaeleon 99–102, 109
characterization 34, 65–6,
115–20, 282–5, 295–7,
312–13, 332–4, 367, 370
charis 324–5
Charition 183
chorus 26–7, 30, 35, 48, 74, 159,
175–6, 180–1, 189, 204,
217–23, 289, 299, 364–5,
369, 371, 372–3, 384
closure 36–8, 222–5, 285, 292,
312–13, 357–62, 378–84
Clytemnestra 69, 117, 283–4
colloquialism 27–8
Conacher, D. J. 256–8
costume 26, 118, 160, 176, 180,
191, 229, 231–2, 329–36
counterfactuals 58–60, 79, 113,
129–30, 150–2, 221 n. 227,
381
Cratinus 30, 234 n. 32, 251 n. 93
Cypria 85, 111 n. 158, 113–14
dating of works 44–8, 52, 54–5,
111–13, 272 n. 180
Demeter 180–1, 217, 222, 354–6
Democritus 258, 270, 271 n.
171, 294 n. 269, 310–16, 317,
321–4, 327, 379
Demosthenes 39, 380 n. 137
Diagoras 340
Dio of Prusa 75, 92, 96–9
 General Index
Diogenes of Apollonia
264 n. 139–40
Dionysus 41, 80, 202–3
Dioscuri 147–8, 153–4, 210, 216,
308, 311–12, 358 n. 60,
359–61, 365, 378–82
Dissoi Logoi 239 n. 51, 291, 348
Dodds, E. R. 246–8
dramatic festivals 1, 17, 24, 25,
347
dreams 287–9, 320, 331, 365
Echo 122, 204, 287, 328
Egypt 79, 83, 94, 97–8, 127–32,
153–4, 163–77, 306, 312–13
Eido, see Theonoe
Empedocles 238–9, 241, 264,
267 n. 152
Epicharmus 157 n. 313, 265,
266–7, 301–2
Eratosthenes 128 n. 225
escape 43, 47, 54–5, 120, 124–7,
149, 213–16, 219, 220,
222–5, 289, 297, 329–31,
333–4, 387
Ethiopia 128–9, 163, 215
ethnicity 132, 162, 164, 166,
177–202
Eupolis 103 n. 130, 234 n. 32
Euripides:
attitude to myth 133–5, 154–6
in biographical tradition 19,
102–3, 203, 241–3, 248–52,
340–1
career 21
‘cleverness’ 235, 251–9
perceived atheism 339–45
perceived scepticism 154–6,
179, 242–5
‘philosopher of the stage’
226–7, 235–52, 318–19
similar to Aristophanes 229,
254
427
and Socrates 244–6
and sophists 257–9
Alc. 21, 34, 53, 124,
127 n. 218, 180 n. 73,
184 n. 91, 317, 320,
321 n. 353, 324 n. 366,
344 n. 23
Alcmaeon 53
Alexander 53
Andr. 169 n. 42, 207 n. 128,
215 n. 205, 217 n. 214,
220 n. 225, 344 n. 23
Antigone 59 n. 8
Antiope 258 n. 123
Archelaus 263 n. 134
Bacch. 21, 30 n. 102,
127 n. 218, 157 n. 313,
181 n. 79, 195 n. 129,
344 n. 23
Bellerophon 207 n. 174,
216 n. 209, 340, 343,
378 n. 134
Busiris 128 n. 220, 184
Cretans 53
Cyc. 54–5, 124, 127 n. 218,
180 n. 72, 182 n. 85,
283 n. 218, 377 n. 133
El. 59 n. 8, 111–13, 127 n. 218,
135–6, 182 n. 85, 255,
344 n. 23, 374 nn. 107–8,
377 n. 133
Erechtheus 131, 180 n. 72
Eurystheus 321 n. 353,
324 n. 362
Hcld. 127 n. 218, 136 n. 246,
193 n. 123
Hec. 127 n. 218, 136 n. 246,
197, 247 n. 83, 258 n. 123,
321 n. 354, 377 n. 133
Her. 127 n. 218, 136 n. 246,
143 n. 271, 180 n. 73,
184 n. 91, 207 n. 178,
378 n. 134
428 General Index
Euripides (cont.):
Hipp. 34, 81 n. 61, 118 n. 188,
127 n. 218, 159 n. 4, 206–7,
211, 220 n. 225, 258 n. 123,
289 n. 251, 291 n. 261,
322 n. 357, 340, 344 n. 23,
366 n. 396
IA 81 n. 61, 119, 127 n. 218,
143 n. 270, 150 n. 294,
176 n. 61, 180 n. 73,
182 n. 85, 215 n. 205,
264 n. 140, 268 n. 158,
336 n. 396
Ion 159 n. 4, 176 n. 61,
182 n. 85, 195 n. 129,
220 n. 225, 254–5,
299 n. 288, 333 n. 392
Med. 51, 127 n. 218,
157 n. 313, 182 n. 85,
207 n. 178, 216 n. 209,
221 n. 227, 268 n. 158
Melanippe the Wise 136 n.
246
Meleager 372 n. 97
Or. 118 n. 192, 127 n. 218, 135
n. 244, 181 n. 79, 286 n. 232,
291 n. 261, 315 n. 323,
344 n. 23, 358 n. 60
Palamedes 53
Peleus 322 n. 357
Phaethon 208 n. 184
Philoctetes 75
Phoen. 59 n. 8, 127 n. 218,
135 n. 244, 175 n. 58,
176 n. 61, 181 n. 79, 182,
268 n. 158, 316 n. 328
Phrixus 268 n. 158
Polyidus 268 n. 158, 293 n. 268
Protesilaus 317 n. 331
Rhes. 34, 127 n. 218, 181 n. 79,
195 n. 129, 344 n. 23,
372 n. 96
Sisyphus 53
Stheneboia 206 n. 167,
216 n. 209
Suppl. 127 n. 218, 157 n. 313,
136 n. 246, 193 n. 123,
207 n. 175, 265, 344 n. 23,
372 n. 96–7
Telephus 53, 268
Theseus 336 n. 396
Tro. 27 n. 86, 53, 127 n. 218,
159 n. 4, 267 n. 153,
272 n. 180, 275 n. 191,
276 n. 195, 344 n. 23
fate 362–84
fortune 206, 209–10, 362–84
and ‘tyche-plays’ 374–9
Galaneia 211
genre:
characteristic plots 31–3
comedy contrasted with
tragedy 22, 26–7, 30–1,
234–5
and escape-theme 124–5
generic definitions 10, 13,
18–43
‘relabelling’ approach to 6–12,
43
romance 11–13, 232,
283 n. 218
satyric drama 23, 125
and setting 128 n. 128,
158 n. 2
and ‘tone’ 9, 27–9, 228–33
tragedy and philosophy
227–35, 243–52
tragedy and religion 342–52
‘the Tragic’ 4, 14–17
geography 127–33, 158–9,
163–77, 200, 202–25, 306–7,
313, 326
gods 111, 255, 317, 338–84
as causes 362–84
as characters 344
 General Index
cult titles 351–2
divine freedom 215–17, 221
in the ether 264, 317
ex machina 74, 111, 153–4,
208, 289 n. 252, 360–1, 365,
378–83
in fifth-century belief 345–6,
351, 380
foreign gods 183–90
presentation in tragedy 34,
71–2, 350–2
as prologue-speakers 363
relation to fate and fortune
368–84
in the sea 209–11
tragic gods similar to Homeric
34, 383–4
at work in recognition
299 n. 289
see also ritual; theology
Gorgias 227, 239, 256, 258–9,
261, 270–8, 308, 316, 318,
326–7, 334, 337
Defence of Palamedes 271, 277
Encomium of Helen 58 n. 6,
108–9, 258, 271, 272–8, 295,
297, 303, 318, 321, 330,
375 n. 111
On What is Not 258–9, 270–2,
275–8
Hall, E. M. 163–4, 168–78,
184–5, 192–9
Heath, M. 39–40, 239–40
Hecataeus 83, 131–2, 154 n. 304,
164
Helen:
beauty 166–7, 322–3, 327
birth from egg 145–7
in Egypt 83
in Gorgias’ Encomium 272–8
guilt 58, 117, 123, 136, 141–2,
273–4
429
and Menelaus 302–7
in mythical tradition 67,
115–20, 125–6, 136
negative portrayal in tragedy
117–18, 141–2
parentage 142–4, 273–4,
308–9, 364
plans escape 167–8, 196–8,
208, 329–31
real or phantom? 82–6, 89–96,
100–1, 110–12, 136, 224,
280–5, 286, 290, 302–7,
316–22
in ritual 352–62
and Stesichorus 86–109
symbolic significance of
116–17
and Theoclymenus 194–6
untrustworthy 295–6
Hellanicus 83, 131–2, 149 n. 291,
154 n. 304
Heraclitus 206, 237 n. 38,
237 n. 40, 240 n. 55,
249 n. 85, 264 n. 140, 269,
324, 372 n. 96
Herodotus 83, 95–6, 113–14,
117–18, 128–9, 131–2,
154 n. 304, 193, 194,
196 n. 134, 205 n. 163,
237 n. 40, 263, 265 n. 144,
317 n. 330, 320, 374 n. 108
as conceptual influence on
Euripides 131–2
and ethnic identity 177–8
as evidence for geography
163–77
on foreign gods 184
on Taurians 184–90
heroism 137–8, 280–5
Hesiod 83, 64–6, 87, 99, 109–10,
134, 144 n. 272, 205,
211 n. 195, 218 n. 215,
236 n. 38, 348
430 General Index
Hierocles 321
Hitchcock, A. 33
Homer 34, 87, 99, 102, 105–6,
136, 149, 238, 241, 280–5,
348, 383–4
Il. 83, 95, 109, 116 n. 179,
122 n. 202, 152, 181 n. 76,
195 n. 133, 281, 317 n. 330
Od. 12, 63, 70, 83, 131, 149,
154 n. 304, 205, 211 n. 195,
219 n. 220, 224, 283 n. 218,
317 n. 330
Homeric Hymns 203 n. 152, 374
n. 107, 375 n. 111, 383 n. 144
identity 299, 306–7, 312–13,
322–4, 331–5
illusion, see appearances
intellectualism 38, 58, 226–7,
235–60, 319, 341
intertextuality 80–1, 84–115, 140
Iphigenia:
and Artemis 175, 200–1, 359
dead or alive? 150–1, 293,
305–6
hates Greeks 189–90,
199–200, 223–4, 295
in mythical tradition 69,
113–15, 119–20, 125–6
phantom 84–6
as priestess 175, 186–90, 218,
223–4, 295, 306, 359
and ritual 352–62
sacrifice 58, 84, 113, 119–20,
123, 137, 190, 208,
281 n. 206, 293
sends letter 293–4, 298, 305–6,
335–7
similarity to Helen 120, 152
irony 157, 228–33, 234, 253,
272–6, 302–4, 331, 334–5,
344, 361 n. 71, 363
Isocrates 91–4, 104, 240
‘late Euripides’ 2, 19, 179, 242
Leda 282
Lucian 99, 203 n. 152
Lysias 106, 239 n. 48, 380 n. 137
Maximus of Tyre 91
Melissus 269
Menander 245, 358 n. 60
Menelaus 67, 83, 110, 137–8,
151–2, 167–8, 191, 198,
224–5, 229–32, 282–5, 286,
303–7, 312–13, 320, 327–34,
364
messenger-speeches 35, 159, 363
metatheatricality 30–1, 50–1,
135, 191, 255–6, 326–7
Mikalson, J. 350–2, 380
mimesis 30, 35, 326
music 180–1, 287, 299
myth:
absence of mythical orthodoxy
71
‘anti-myths’ 125–6, 224
as defining feature of tragedy
31–3
differentiated from ‘plot’
58–80
as form of illusion 277–8,
280–5
as form of language 154–7,
277–8, 280–5, 309–10, 387–8
as ‘knowledge’ 154–7, 277–8,
387–8
lacking sequels 224
‘metamythology’ 133–57, 234
n. 30, 309–10
and ritual 71–2
undermined by escape-
tragedies 309–10, 387–8
‘use of myth’ 56–8, 80–2,
83–115, 121–4, 132–3, 154–6
names 70, 141, 149–50, 270, 279
 General Index
n. 204, 290–5, 308–16,
320–3, 388
narratology 63–70, 76–80,
297–300
Nietzsche, F. 19, 242–6, 248–9,
252, 257, 259, 341
Nile 166–7, 215, 262–3
novelty 56–7, 120–1, 255
Odysseus 70, 209
Oedipus 32, 34, 61–3, 70 n. 36,
316 n. 328
Orestes 69, 114, 152–3, 172,
186–90, 219, 224–5, 281–4,
285–6, 293–4, 304–7, 315,
323–4, 334–7, 367
Paris 67, 70, 83, 313, 316
Parmenides 238, 241, 269
Pausanias 145 n. 274, 312 n. 314,
323
Peloponnesian War 46, 365 n. 81
peripeteia 37, 74, 223, 299
periplous 132
Perseus 68, 121–4, 215–16, 225,
321–2
pessimism 14–15, 46–7, 142,
222–5, 280, 307, 337, 387–8
phantoms 79, 82–6, 89–96,
100–1, 107, 110–12, 316–21,
379
philosophy 226–7, 232–5,
236–337
Philostratus 91, 128 n. 225,
144 n. 272, 203 n. 152
Phrynichus (comedian) 253
Phrynichus (tragedian) 33,
128 n. 220, 131, 175 n. 58
Pindar 71 n. 40, 83, 105,
151 n. 298, 169 n. 42,
237 n. 38, 283 n. 219, 324,
359 n. 62, 374 nn. 107–8
Pittacus 206
431
Plato 166 n. 30, 180 n. 72,
205 n. 165, 206, 210 n. 192,
235, 248, 250, 258 n. 122,
259, 269 n. 162, 317–19
inventor of Palinode quotation
105–10
and myths 72 n. 42, 105–10
on tragedy and philosophy
236–9, 248
Cratylus 270, 314 n. 318, 317
Euthydemus 270 n. 167
Gorgias 205, 239, 317
Hipp. Min. 239 n. 48
Laws 345–6
Phaedr. 88–109, 319
Rep. 38, 107 n. 146,
194 n. 126, 236–9, 237 n. 40,
240, 351, 372 n. 96
Symp. 23, 107 n. 146,
346 n. 28
Theaet. 317
Plautus 10 n. 26
plot:
centrality of recognition 298–9
counterfactual scenarios
58–60, 79, 113, 121–3
differentiated from ‘myth’
58–80
invention 114–15, 123, 125–6,
149–50
and philosophical ideas 233–4,
289
in tragedy 35, 48
see also myth
Plutarch 41, 72 n. 42, 165 n. 28,
168 n. 36, 180 n. 72,
251 n. 95, 340 n. 9
Polyidus 119 n. 193, 298 n. 283
Poseidon 210
proagon 59 n. 11
Prodicus 239 n. 48, 249, 270, 310
prologues 74, 127–8, 129, 158–9,
328, 363–4
432 General Index
prophecy 46, 364, 365–9
Protagoras 234 n. 32, 249, 269,
270, 271 n. 171, 308, 310,
340
Proteus 100, 118, 183, 194, 211,
305, 311
rationalism 244–8, 341–3, 348–9
reality, see appearances
reception:
ancient 1–2, 226, 235–7,
239–42, 338, 339–45
modern 6–9, 15–22, 39–42,
243–8, 338, 339–45
recognition 286, 289, 297–307,
313–16, 328, 331–3
rescue 130–1, 223–5, 328
see also escape
rhetoric 108–9, 122, 197–9, 254,
258, 272–8, 297, 334
ritual 71–2, 109, 120, 184–90,
196, 200–1, 212–13, 288,
312, 320, 323–4, 335, 338,
351, 352–62, 375
scene-painting 159–62,
204 n. 159
Scullion, S. 357–9
sea 128, 170–4, 203–25, 293–4
linked to fortune 206, 209–10
as metaphor 206–7, 214–15,
222–5
and sailing 167, 205–6
as setting for plot 211–14
Seaford, R. A. S. 41–2, 353–4
Segal, C. 11–12, 222–5,
278 n. 201, 291–2, 328
Seidensticker, B. 28–9
Semonides 206
Shakespeare, W. 11–12, 23–4,
29 n. 96, 232–3
Simonides 321 n. 349
Socrates 235 n. 34, 238 n. 43,
243–9, 253–4, 266 n. 146
Solon 317
sophists 237, 239, 260–2,
268–78, 290–1, 319, 334, 337
Sophocles 28, 160–2, 185 n. 92,
220 n. 225, 242, 263, 343,
363 n. 74, 365
Aj. 36, 161 n. 13, 207 n. 175,
293 n. 268, 316 n. 328
Andromeda 124, 328 n. 379
Ant. 39, 59 n. 8, 203 n. 153,
206–7, 293 n. 268, 351 n. 44
Chryses 114–15, 129
El. 266 n. 146, 287, 293 n. 268,
299 n. 288
Iphigenia 119 n. 193
OC 220 n. 225, 229 n. 14,
316 n. 328
OT 14, 63, 207, 378 n. 134
Phil. 75, 124–5, 170 n. 43,
215 n. 205, 229 n. 14,
316 n. 328, 374 n. 107
Retrieval of Helen 116, 124,
140 n. 262, 182 n. 82
Trach. 211 n. 195, 336 n. 396
Sourvinou-Inwood, C. 351–2,
360–1
Sparta 109, 127, 137, 320
staging:
and actors in tragedy 48–9
in Andromeda 204
and foreign characters 180–2
non-realistic conventions 36
reflects plays’ themes 325–37
and sense of place 158–62,
175–6
statues 122–3, 275, 303, 321–5,
327
Stesichorus:
Cycnus 185 n. 92
Helen 88, 90
Oresteia 287
Palinode 86–110, 133, 277
 General Index
Stinton, T. C. W. 146–8,
340 n. 7, 380
Strabo 149 n. 293, 218 n. 217
structuralist readings 40–1, 126,
130–1, 222–5, 227, 320,
354–7
surprise 56, 60, 113, 120, 127
Taplin, O. P. 22, 37–8
Taurians 79, 113–15, 129,
138–9, 163–77, 179, 182–90,
198–201, 218–19, 312, 359
Teucer 138, 167, 192, 219,
300–1, 308–11
textual discussion 111 n. 159,
137 n. 254, 145–7, 186–90,
217 n. 214, 263 n. 136, 267,
273 n. 182, 314 n. 320,
330 n. 386, 333 n. 392,
366–7, 368, 372 n. 95
textual tradition of Euripides 2
Theagenes 348
Theoclymenus 32, 149, 166–7,
175, 182, 191, 194–8, 289,
314, 325, 329–31, 371
theology 40, 71–2, 184, 266, 278,
338–84
Theonoe 32, 168, 175, 182, 191,
194–8, 263–6, 296–7, 325,
331, 364, 371
also called Eido 149, 313–14
Thoas 51, 149, 175, 182, 190–1,
198–9, 286, 289, 314
Thucydides 165, 239 n. 48,
291 n. 261, 294 n. 269,
365 n. 81, 375 n. 109
titles of plays 59–60
tragedy, see genre
translations 27, 197 n. 136,
230–3, 254–6, 382 n. 141
433
trilogies and tetralogies 3,
21 n. 58, 25
escape-trilogy 43–55, 124–7,
278–80, 328–9, 386–8
‘Trojan’ trilogy 53
Trojan War 32, 67, 69, 70,
86–109, 111, 117, 123, 136,
142, 222, 280–5, 296,
361 n. 70, 364, 366, 381
truth 101 n. 124, 236, 269–70
see also appearances
tyche, see fortune
Tzetzes 96
vase-paintings 1, 128, 185 n. 93,
191, 328 n. 379, 336
Verrall, A. W. 342–9, 363
Vitruvius 226
weather linked to fortune
209–11, 372–3
Winnington-Ingram, R. P.
252–6
word-play 234, 279, 292–5,
332–3
words:
compared to visual images
316–25
correctness of 270, 310–16,
333–4
as form of illusion 272–8,
290–5, 303–7, 309–10, 321,
336–7, 363, 388
see also names
writing and literacy 81, 251–2,
293–4, 336–7
Xenophanes 237 n. 38, 238, 240,
278 n. 302, 348
Xenophon 205