ΚΑΙ ΠΑΡΩΝ ΕΡΩ A Narratological Analysis of the Sophoclean Messenger‐speech By Phinney Wilders Universiteit van Amsterdam studentnummer: 0591432 1 Contents 1. Introduction p.3 2. Narratology p.4 3. Analyses p.12 3.1. Electra 3.2. Oedipus Tyrannos 3.3. Antigone 4. Commentaries p.45 4.1. Electra 4.2. Oedipus Tyrannos 4.3 Antigone 5. Conclusion p.64 6. Bibliography p.66 2 1. Introduction "Εγω, φιλη δεσποινα, και παρων ερω," (I was there, dear mistress, and will tell you) The sentence quoted above (line 1192 in Sophocles' Antigone) is the opening line of the messenger's story, addressed to Eurydice, concerning the events that befell her husband Creon and her son Haemon, with Antigone's suicide taking a backseat. I have chosen to begin with this quote because this line contains three 'aspects' that point out my intentions in this research. In this thesis I am going to analyze the messenger‐speeches of three different tragedies of Sophocles, namely the Electra, Oedipus Tyrannos and Antigone. But rather than employing a line‐by‐line analysis often used in traditional commentaries, I intend to use a narratological approach. As such, this study is concerned with the messenger‐speech as a narrative. A narrative is told by a narrator, who in these cases is the messenger. My primary intention in this thesis is to analyze how these narratives are constructed by their narrator; which choices can and does he make in the presentation of his story and what is their effect? How does he tell (ερω) the story? At the same time, I wish to show the merit of using a narratological approach in pointing out different aspects of the text that have received little or no attention in traditional analyses. Secondly, this thesis is also concerned with the position of the messenger. Some critics have seen him as just a tool of information. His story is often said to 'tell itself'. According to these critics his story is characterized by a self‐effacement and objectivity (or neutrality/impartiality) that lifts the authority of his account above that of the multitude of voices that together form the rest of the play. It is my intention to show that, at least as far as Sophocles is concerned, this principle does not hold. I argue that the messenger is also one of the dramatis personae, with ties to other characters and his own views and choices. The 'identity' of the messenger as a character can be distinguished in the text by closely observing signs of his focalization (which may also make clear his ties to other characters (φιλη δεσποινα)) as well as the very structuring of the text. 3 And thirdly, if objectivity and neutrality are not the primary source that gives the messenger authority to surpass that of the others in the play, then what is? In this thesis I suggest that the primary source of any messenger's authority is his superior knowledge, as compared to his narratees (addressees). The messengers know what they do not, and as they have no other account to gainsay the messenger's words, the narratees can't challenge his words. This superior knowledge can stem from hearsay, or from autopsy, the latter of which is generally considered more reliable. In just about all messenger‐speeches autopsy is the form that this source of authority takes, as is also the case in the play from which the quote above is derived (παρων). As for the layout of this study, the next chapter will deal shortly with those aspects of a narrative that are analyzed when a narratological approach is employed. Secondly, I will speak about the consequences of applying a narratological approach to narrative in drama. And thirdly, I will discuss the contrast between my analysis of the messenger as character, and that of Barrett with the messenger as tool of information. In chapter 3 I will present my analyses of the three messenger‐speeches in question. Chapter 4 is concerned with traditional commentaries and what they have to say (or lack to say) about the narrative aspects of the messenger‐speech. In chapter 5 I will present my conclusions regarding the interests I have set out above. 2. Narratology Narratology is a relatively new approach to analyzing ancient texts. As the name indicates, it deals specifically with the interpretation of narrative texts. "A narrative text is a text in which a narrative agent tells a story"(Bal, [1985]1997, p.16).Hence, the narratological approach is concerned with the manner in which this story is presented by a narrator. This narrator should never be automatically equated with the author of the text. Not even if we are dealing with a first‐person narrator who shares the same name as the author. The narrator is rather a creation of the author like all the other characters. This narrator chooses to present his story in a certain manner, with a specific rhythm, setting, plot etc. It is this 4 'story' that narratology focuses on, rather than single sentences or words. As such, narratology deals mostly with the meso‐ and macro‐levels of the story, whereas traditional scholarship has too often been focused on single lines or words. This does not mean that these cannot be mentioned or studied in a narratological analysis, but they are interpreted and treated with regard to the significance they have for the story as a whole. In short, a narratological approach is a study of the art of story‐telling. In analyzing the way stories are told there are several aspects of profound importance. The most central aspect is that of the narrator and the narratee. A story must always be told by someone to someone else. Thus in the first place we have to analyze (or 'identify') and describe what sort of narrator we are dealing with. Similarly, who the addressee of the narrator is should also be analyzed. The presentation of a story shifts depending on who is talking and who is listening, as well as their relation to the content of the narrative. For example, if the narratees are already aware of most of the events recounted in the narrative, the narrator can choose to leave out much details because they are already known, focusing only on what is not known, or he can explicitly offer his perspective on the events, highlighting only the details he finds important. Whatever he does, it is always the choice of a narrator to present his story in a certain manner. Even if there are no explicit signs of the narrator's presence in the narrative and he remains completely covert, this is no more than a choice on the narrator's part. He is the medium through which the story is presented. The relationship between narrator and narrative works both ways. The narrative shows the choices of the narrator in presenting his story, and the identity of the narrator may clarify the choices made in the narrative. A similar relation exists between the narrative and the narratee(s). Their reception of the narrative shows their personal interpretation of the narrated events, thereby throwing light on their 'identity'. However, in offering a possible interpretation for reading the narrative (a perspective which others can follow), they also draw attention to those aspects of the narrative that evoked this reception. According to some narratologists, there exist stories that tell themselves, like a camera filming. However, as De Jong rightly notes, even a camera presupposes certain choices (about distance, angle, lenses etc.). Indeed, if there was a form of narrative that allows the story to tell itself (in other words, a story that presents not an interpretation of 5 reality, but reality itself) then every single detail would have to be recounted, from the dust on the ground to the shaking of the leaves on the trees. Similarly, every passing second should be described, as well as the actions of all the characters involved during these passing moments. It is impossible to accurately recreate reality in a narrative. Reality is simply too complex, so choices have to be made. The exclusion of a single detail or a single second implies such a choice: that this detail or second does not need to be included in the narrative. As we have seen the only one who can make such a choice is the narrator. This is part of the pretense of a narrative text. Certain events have occurred , are remembered or seen, and then have to be filtered and ordered by a focalizer (the narrator), before he relates them to the narratees. The fact that all narratives are formed by the choices made by the narrator in presenting his story (the filtering and ordering of events by means of his focalization) implies that there can be no narrative without focalization (which also means that there can be no such thing as an objective or neutral narrative). As we have seen, reality is too all‐encompassing and detailed to be recreated in narrative. A narrator has to choose how to tell his tale, since he simply cannot tell all. The focalization of the narrator can also be made clear in a more direct manner. In the case of an overt narrator, he can show his own perspective on events explicitly by means of evaluations, comparisons, judgments, moralizing and other comments of similar sort. Furthermore, a narrator can also embed the focalization of other characters in his story, showing their perspectives on things. However, the choice to do so lies in the hands of the narrator, so if he does embed the focalization of another in his narrative, the question rises pf why he does so? As such the embedded focalization of another character may indirectly also show the focalization of the narrator, as it is he who chooses to include the embedded focalization in his story. It is always rewarding to keep in mind whose focalization we are dealing with, and what the significance is for the narrative. A third aspect (apart from narrator/narratee and focalization) is that of time. A preliminary observation should concern how much awareness of time is apparent in the text. Does the narrator provide a precise schedule in which the narrative is fitted, or does he choose to leave the chronology vague? Another preliminary observation concerns the temporal relation between the narrative and the narrated events. Is the narration subsequent, simultaneous or prior to the narrated events? Here the distinction fabula‐
6 story‐ text becomes important. In his text a narrator tells a story, which is based on the fabula; a series of logically and chronologically related events which are caused or experienced by the characters. The fabula is in essence no more than a reconstruction on the part of the narratees, based on the story of the narrator. From this story they try to derive 'reality'; the events how they would have happened in real life. The difference between this reconstructed 'reality' and the story of the narrator shows the choices the narrator made in turning reality into a story. Within this distinction there is room to accurately analyze the various temporal procedures a narrator has at his disposition. They can change the order of events (order), the time spent on recounting events (rhythm) or the amount of times a specific event is retold (frequency). The variation in these different aspects of time in the narration throws a light on the choices of the narrator and thus on the narrator himself. A final important aspect of the narrative is the attention to spatial elements. This includes the setting of the action of a story, all other localities which are being referred to, and the objects (or 'props') that fill these places. One should consider how much attention has been spent on the spatial elements of story. Some narratives abound in descriptions, with so much attention to detail that one loses sight of the action. Other narratives are all about the action and leave the surroundings vague. Consequently it is also important to discern how these spatial elements are brought into the narrative. For example, does the narrator include these spatial elements by means of an elaborate description that stops the rhythm of the narration, or does he infuse them in the flow of the action? Furthermore, apart from the form in which these elements are introduced, one should also consider the function. Why does the narrator bestow attention to some spatial elements, but not to others? As we have seen above, the narrator cannot supply all possible details. He has to choose which details to include in his narrative and which to leave out. The inclusion of certain spatial elements (such as, for example, the attention bestowed upon a specific prop) may have other functions apart from just supplying a background for the action, including being thematic, symbolic or characterizing. When we apply this theory to the narratives of messenger‐speeches in drama, certain aspects of the narrative (such as narrator, narratee, time and place) are predetermined by the play surrounding the narrative. As such, the choices in presentation of the narrator 7 concerning these aspects is limited. After all, the narrative is part of a larger play and must fit the surrounding frame in a coherent manner. Furthermore, it is important to determine the limits of the narrator's choices. We can then analyze better what choices he does make within these limits, whether he breaks them and in general how the narrative is tied to the play around it. Let us begin with the position of the narrator himself; the most central aspect to any narrative. The narrator of the story (the messenger) is at the same time also a character in the play, with ties to the other characters. He tells his narratees onstage about events which he himself has experienced but the others haven't. As such, the messenger's narrative becomes a first‐person narration. Two important hallmarks of first‐person narration are a direct consequence of the participation of the narrator in the events narrated. Firstly, the presentation of the narrator is engaged or even biased. As a character in the play with ties to the other characters, including those starring in the messenger‐
speech, his presentation is his own personal account of the events. This ties in closely to the second consequence of this form of narration. As a first‐person narrator, the presentation by the messenger is restricted (as opposed to the omniscience and omnipresence of, for example, the narrator of the Iliad and the Odyssey). This restriction can be divided in three groups. Firstly, there is the restriction of place (a first‐person narrator can only be in one place at the time). Secondly, there is the restriction of access (a first‐person narrator has no access to other people's minds). And thirdly, there is the restriction of understanding (a first‐
person narrator may have only a partial or even a false understanding of what is happening around him). However, there are also possibilities for the narrator to evade, circumvent these restrictions, or sometimes even to break them. For instance, the restriction of place can be circumvented by reporting hearsay. The restriction of access can be eluded when the messenger gleans the feelings of characters through observing their actions, or their words. Avoiding the restriction of understanding can depend on, for example, the decision of the messenger whether to use hindsight or not. He can choose to tell the story with the focalization and knowledge he has now, while he tells the tale (narrating focalization), or he can choose to present the story with the focalization and knowledge he had at the time he experienced the events (experiencing focalization). If he chooses the former, the messenger can use the knowledge and understanding gleaned afterwards (his ex eventu knowledge) to present facets of the story he couldn't logically have known at the time. 8 The identity of the secondary narratees whom the messenger is reporting to is also premeditated by the text. Like the messenger, they are also characters with ties to others. These ties are an important ingredient in forming their own opinion after hearing the message. Their reception is not based solely on the contents of the narrative and the focalization offered by the messenger, but also on their own relations with those involved in the message. Furthermore, the identity of the secondary narratee(s) may also influence the form of the narrative itself. For example, the fictitious messenger‐speech in the Electra is set up by purpose to persuade Klytaimnestra, the most important secondary narratee, of the story's veracity. Had the Paidagogos not been able to, then Orestes' plans for revenge would have to have been discarded for the moment. However, the influence that the identity of the narratee can have on the form of the narrative can also be much more subtle. An example can easily be given. One would tell a story differently to a teacher than to a close friend. Likewise one would speak differently to someone known than to someone unknown, differently to someone you like than to someone you don't like, etc. The properties of Space and Time in the narrative are also restricted, in the sense that both must fit coherently within the larger frame offered by the play surrounding the narrative. In the case of the latter, it is obvious that the duration of the events in the narrative should fit within the larger time‐schedule of the play. For example, we can't have the characters in the narrative make a long journey if the play surrounding the narrative dictates that the events in the message couldn't have lasted longer than a little while. The temporal relationship between the events recounted in the narrative and the surrounding events of the play should be logically coherent. If the time‐sequence of the play is rather loose, or if the contents of the message aren't directly a part of the plot (and thus the time‐
sequence), but rather fall outside the time‐sequence of the play or are somehow separated from it, then the narrator has more room to take liberties with this specific aspect of his narrative. Regarding the aspect of Space, we should primarily consider the setting of the action in the narrative. In most cases this setting is not predetermined by the play, in which case the narrator has more choices available, but sometimes this is not the case. For example, in the Antigone, Creon leaves the stage in line 1114. During the preceding discussion the chorus is able to persuade him to right his wrongs; to properly bury Polynices and release Antigone from her tomb. Creon leaves the stage after stating that he will go 9 himself to reverse his prior orders. When, after the ensuing Stasimon by the chorus, the messenger arrives to tell what happened, logic dictates that the soon‐to‐be burial site of Polynices and the tomb of Electra should be the setting (which is what happens). If this hadn't been so, then at least some mention of these locations should have been made, or the story would stop to be logically coherent. After Creon leaves the stage saying he will personally reverse his own decrees, he can't suddenly show up somewhere else completely without any explanation. As has been said above, there are some critics that support the theory that messengers allow their stories to tell themselves. One such critic I wish to discuss shortly is Barrett. A quote: "..., the messenger employs a number of narrative strategies that work to claim a privileged status. Most important of these is his tendency within his narrative toward self‐effacement that appears as virtual disembodiment. While there is, on the whole, a strong identification of speaker and speech in tragedy, the messenger, in sharp distinction, offers a narrative that in general is conspicuously disassociated from any particular point of view. His narrative, in short, appears to "tell itself". These practices distinguish the messenger from the others onstage, while freeing his narrative to a considerable degree from the partiality that defines the speeches of the other dramatis personae." (Barrett, 2002, p.xvii) As has become clear throughout this chapter so far, I disagree with Barrett here. In my analysis I wish to show that, at least as far as Sophocles is concerned, the messenger's account is biased, or at least engaged. I see the messenger as one of the dramatis personae (albeit, admittedly, less fleshed out in general than most of the others), with ties to other characters. His account cannot be objective, or even really neutral. This becomes clear through signs of his focalization, both obvious ones and very subtle ones. Furthermore, the very structuring of the narrative shows the narrator's presence. A narrative, or a story, cannot tell itself. Out of the multitude of details and information, the narrator chooses what to say and what to leave out, how to say it and in what order, etc. Indeed, each line in a narrative shows the presence of the narrator behind it in this way. One should always wonder: why tell this fact, but clearly leave out others? A messenger is able to make his focalization subtle and avoid mentioning his own presence explicitly in an attempt to make it 10 seem as if his story tells itself. However, I deem this an attempt to resemble an 'ideal' form. If the goal of a messenger is to give out information to the other characters, then the ideal form would be to do so without appearing to be a medium himself: to present the other characters not with a presentation of reality, but reality itself. However, that is impossible, as we have seen. The narrator simply cannot recede from view in his own narrative. Regarding Sophocles' repertoire Barrett singles out the Electra as a play in which the messenger displays this afore‐mentioned self‐effacement. Barrett whishes to see the Paidagogos' manipulation of the form of a messenger as a (meta‐theatrical) commentary on what constitutes a messenger‐speech. I oppose this view. We should not forget that the Paidagogos is a pseudo‐messenger and his purpose in telling the story differs greatly from any 'normal' messenger. Where most messenger tell their stories with the primary purpose of giving information, the purpose of the Paidagogos is to persuade; to deceive Klytaimnestra in making her believe a lie. I think his strategies in telling the story should also be seen in this light. Indeed, rather than reading the Paidagogos' message as a commentary about other messengers, I would prefer to consider what elements of other tragedies the Paidagogos chooses to use in order to manipulate his way towards his goal. Let us not forget that his tale is fictitious, composed with the sole directive of persuading Klytaimnestra. The strategies employed to achieve this have been chosen by the narrator. In fact, one could say that in the case of the Paidagogos' speech the very choice of disembodiment shows the choices (and thus the presence) of the narrator in presenting the story. The Paidagogos may indeed use this disembodiment to make his story seem to tell itself, to make it more 'real', but I would not see this as a standard element in Sophoclean messenger‐speeches. For example, in the Oedipus Tyrannos (Barrett himself notes the OT as an exception to his analysis 1 ) and the Antigone both messengers don't employ this technique at all, but this doesn't really harm their authority as messengers. Indeed, I don't believe that such self‐
effacement is the central aspect to the 'privileged' status of the messengers. I think that the primary source of authority for any messenger is superior knowledge. He knows what other people do not know. In fact, in most plays the events recounted in the messenger‐speech are only told there. In these cases (as with the Antigone and Oedipus Tyrannos) the messenger's account is the only source of information about what happened. As the 1
See Barrett, chapter 6. 11 narratees have no knowledge of the events themselves and have no other source of information, they have no choice but to take the words of the messenger at face‐value. Without any knowledge of their own, they cannot make a judgment about what is true and what is not. Only if another character gainsays the account of the messenger with one of his own, does it become necessary for the messenger to hold on to his authority by other means. If he does not, then his account and voice become just one among others. Similarly, although autopsy is more reliable than hearsay, the distinction between the two is only necessary when there are conflicting accounts. If the narrative of the messenger is the only version, it doesn't matter if he recounts it by hearsay or from autopsy, since there is nothing else to go on. During my analyses of the Oedipus Tyrannos, the Electra and the Antigone I hope to concretize the above‐mentioned critique, as well as to show the benefits of applying a narratological approach to the analysis of messenger‐speeches. 3.1 Electra The messenger‐speech of the Paidagogos is unusual for several reasons. First of all it is the only 'false' messenger‐speech in the extant tragic corpus. (Barrett, p.132). One could argue that the Paidagogos is not a messenger at all, but a character manipulating the form of a messenger and pretending to be one. He is Orestes' ally and his false narrative is meant to lull the murderers of Agamemnon, Klytaimnestra and Aegisthus, into a sense of security. The speech of the Paidagogos is, in fact, the pivotal moment around which Orestes' scheme revolves. Because especially Klytaimnestra still fears retribution at the hands of her son, she and Aegisthus keep a wary eye out for Orestes. Therefore it is imperative for Orestes' scheme that the Paidagogos succeeds in convincing Klytaimnestra that his 'message' is true. In other words, the purpose of the false messenger speech is to present a fictitious story in a way that persuades the internal narratees that it is a 'real' messenger‐speech. Indeed, one could suggest that the choice of the Paidagogos to present his false narrative as a messenger‐speech implies a claim to authority (or credibility) in the very form of a 12 messenger‐speech. In other words, the story as a whole becomes more reliable and credible because it takes the form of a messenger‐speech. This claim to authority derives from the primary function of the messenger; to inform the primary and secondary narratees of events that occur back‐ or offstage. This function underscores two other claims upon which the authority of the messenger rests: their claim to knowledge of what happened (usually by means of 'eyewitness' status, but this need not theoretically be so) and their ability to tell what happened. If the primary function of a messenger is to inform the narratees, then the 'ideal' messenger would have a transcendental and all‐encompassing knowledge of what happened (a perfect claim to knowledge) and he would be able to recount the events exactly as they occurred (a perfect ability to recount events). the messenger as a persona would disappear from view to give way to a totally covert, omniscient narrator, who would recount things exactly as they happened (what Barrett would call the 'literary messenger'). Therein, however, lies a problem. The messenger would have to cast of his personality as a dramatis persona and totally recede from view in his own narration. In fact, it would perhaps be better to say that the 'ideal' messenger would be the one that is not there, leaving just a disembodied message. However, all tragic messengers are involved in the plot as dramatis personae in some way. It is impossible for them to be totally without substance. They have ties with other characters (often small ties, but defining nonetheless) and speak accordingly. Furthermore, in their narratives we can find (often subtle) signs of the messenger as a persona by means of focalization. Messengers can evaluate events they recount, or moralize, or show admiration, sadness, awe, horror etc. Are these not signs of the personalized and colored view of messengers as dramatis personae? It seems that although messengers derive authority from the fact that they have superior knowledge to their narratees and have the ability to share that knowledge, as dramatis personae they always have their own personality and focalization. As a result they are incapable of objectivity and neutrality. Of course, the closer their message resembles an 'ideal' form, the stronger their claim to credibility. If a messenger displays knowledge that he can't plausibly have, is he then displaying feats of an 'ideal' messenger, or is he trying to make a stronger claim to credibility by approaching that 'ideal' form as closely as he can, even though he can never attain it? 13 At first sight it might appear that the false narrative of the Paidagogos is different, since its entire content is fictitious and was carefully planned out beforehand. Therefore, as part of the scheme, it could have been possible for the Paidagogos to tell the story 'objectively and neutrally' without showing any signs of his 'presence' in the narrative. After all, objectivity and neutrality mean nothing in a fictitious story. However, as we will see, the Paidagogos does not recede from view in his own tale. He is involved in the plot and involved with the characters even more than most other messengers, and he is incapable of throwing his own focalization and personality aside to become, as it were, a narrating machine. Nonetheless, he aims to make his story sound as credible as possible. Barrett thinks that he does so solely by resembling a 'real' messenger‐speech. The messenger is trying to present his 'false' messenger‐speech as a 'real' messenger‐speech. In other words, the more the account of the Paidagogos resembles a 'real' messenger‐speech, the more does his account rise in authority. Following this logic, Barrett turns the story of the Paidagogos into a standard for what constitutes a reliable/credible messenger‐speech. He concludes that the powerful effects of the Paidagogos' speech are inherent characteristics of all tragic messenger‐speeches (Barrett, p.165‐167). However, I disagree with Barrett here. Instead of basing the authority of the Paidagogos' speech solely on its status as an messenger‐speech, I would rather say that he adopts those characteristics of a messenger‐speech that aid him in his goal. Let us not forget that the Paidagogos' speech also harbors many characteristics that are not present in other (Sophoclean) messenger‐speeches. For example, the 'privileged eyesight' of the messenger that Barrett regards as the basis of the authority of any messenger‐speech is absent in the Antigone and Oedipus Tyrannos, without really harming the authority of those messengers. Indeed, I would rather say that such techniques are specifically chosen by the Paidagogos to aid in achieving his purpose. The Paidagogos' actorial motivation is to persuade. His entire story is constructed to achieve one thing: make the characters on stage (the secondary narratees) believe a lie. This alone makes the Paidagogos' speech radically different from other messenger‐speeches. Whereas 'normal' messengers seek to inform, the Paidagogos seeks to convince. Of course the audience (the primary narratees) already knows that his story is false. This superior knowledge allows them to bestow all their attention on the contents of the false narrative and the reactions of the characters rather than be afflicted by the news themselves. 14 However, I think the best approach is to analyze the narratorial techniques of the Paidagogos in the light of his pressing need to convince the secondary narratees of the veracity of his tale. In the same manner I prefer to interpret the choice of the Paidagogos to disguise his deceit as a messenger‐speech as an attempt to make his tale sound more reliable and plausible (but only using those elements that aid him in his purpose). In my analysis I will try to show that, rather than receding from view, the Paidagogos as dramatis persona is clearly visible in his own narrative, both in the way he presents the story, and in more direct signs of personal involvement. The scene starts with the entrance of the Paidagogos. Like a 'real' messenger the Paidagogos asks whether he has come to the right place and people (660‐665). Of course the Paidagogos knows he has come to the right place, but these questions are a necessary element of introducing himself as a messenger. This is indeed the next step, as the Paidagogos refers to himself as a messenger from Phanoteus, a trusted ally of Klytaimnestra and Aegisthus (670). In presenting himself as the messenger of a trusted friend the Paidagogos makes Klytaimnestra all the more ready to believe his lies. He then moves on to tell the heart of the message; that Orestes is dead (673). ἐν βραχει ξυνθεις λεγω sounds like an invitation to a request for more information, which is what follows. This is all standard procedure for a messenger‐speech. The Paidagogos starts the narrative with stating that he has come to tell them all that has happened (680). True to his role as messenger the Paidagogos here claims authority in delivering his report. In stating that he has full knowledge of events and is able to tell all details, the Paidagogos takes in a position that is superior to the other characters. He now decides what is 'real' and what is 'true'. Since they have no knowledge of Orestes themselves, Klytaimnestra and Electra have no choice but to believe him. All messengers claim their authority in the same way; they have superior knowledge to the other characters and, as such, become the filter through which these other characters see 'reality'. In other words, the messenger is the only way for the other characters to get to the 'truth' of what happened. Although the report of the messenger is always flawed, in the sense that the messenger can only tell his own experience, the messenger is the only available way for the other characters to know anything, even if it is a lie. This is the position into which the Paidagogos has cleverly manoeuvred himself. By presenting himself as a trusted messenger 15 of a friend and as a means to get to the truth, the Paidagogos tries to assure a readiness to believe on the part of Klytaimnestra and the other listeners. However, the Paidagogos is no messenger, and there is no truth in his words to get to. Instead of sharing his superior knowledge like most messengers, the Paidagogos uses his knowledge to manipulate the other characters in telling an outrageous lie. But because he looks like a messenger and appears to claim the same authority as a messenger, he can easily get away with it. What follows is an elaborate laudation of Orestes. The Paidagogos speaks more than 10 lines to praise Orestes and his performance at the contest in Delphi. As a narrator, what does the Paidagogos aim to achieve with this elaborate description? Perhaps he praises Orestes so much in order to create a stark contrast between the marvelous young man and his regrettable fate, to wrench more pathos out of the story. It is a feature that occurs often in Greek stories. If everything is going perfectly, then this is just a prelude to oncoming disaster. If that is the case, then Orestes' success would foreshadow his dramatic end. In any case the Paidagogos' focalization is clear. Orestes is a "brilliant man, an object of admiration for all" (685). Admittedly, πασι may indicate the embedded focalization of all spectators at the contests (the reaction of the crowd to Orestes' fall in 749‐751 also suggests that this is a possibility), I prefer to interpret it as the narrator's judgment. In the same way line 686 contains an evaluation on the part of the narrator, considering the φυςις of Orestes. In line 688‐689 the presence of the narrator becomes explicitly clear in the use of the verbs λεγω and οιδα. But his focalization can also be seen in small evaluative words, such as κλεινον (681 and 694) and παντιμον (687). All in all it is clear that through his focalization the Paidagogos presents Orestes as a splendid figure, worthy of admiration. He then tells that Orestes was proclaimed as the son of Agamemnon, with a specific reference to the latter as former leader of the Greek army (694‐695) 2 . Is this remark intended to hurt Klytaimnestra? It has to rankle a little, since the gathering of the Greek forces for the expedition to Troy ultimately led to her daughter's sacrifice, and her bloody vengeance. Furthermore, presenting Orestes as the son of Agamemnon may be a reflection on his role as avenger of his father's murder. On the other hand, with the news that Orestes is dead, Klytaimnestra perhaps finally realizes that the threat against her life has lifted. 2
The presentation of Orestes in 693‐695 is also an application of the victor's proclamation according to the mores of the Panhellenic games. See chapter 4, n.693‐695. 16 Lines 696‐697 offer the turning point in the story. From here things start to go downhill. Having summarized Orestes' success in the previous lines, now the reason that he couldn't avoid death becomes clear. Even a mighty man such as he can't stand up to a god. Clearly we are dealing with the evaluation of the narrator here. It is also a way of foreshadowing the end, which is already known to the narratees. These lines partly explain why Orestes' success was treated so indistinctly. Apart from the explicit mention of the foot race to start with, Orestes' success is left vague, in the sense that no other information is given about the other contests than that Orestes won (not how he won and in which contests exactly). The primary purpose of the laudation appears to have been to create a contrast between Orestes' death and his success and to enable this turning point in the narration. In contrasting the glorious persona of Orestes with his bleak demise, the latter part gains more impact for the narratees. Displaying more details about the other contests, in which Orestes was victorious, is unnecessary, since the Paidagogos has already achieved his purpose: to present Orestes as a mighty man who is reduced to nothing by a power even he can't overcome. The reference to the act of a god may also have been seen as a favorable sign of the gods in the case of Klytaimnestra. It would mean that the gods have taken her side in relieving her of her worst fear. Perhaps this would make her more ready to believe the story. After the turning point in the story the narrator moves on to the decisive day on which Orestes fell. For the first time in the narrative some mention of time is given (699), but the specifics remain uncertain. The setting of the scene is apparently a racetrack, but once again no further details are available. Apparently the narrator does not wish to bestow any attention on the paraphernalia of the action, just on the action itself. In this scene once again the rhythm of the narration points to the narrator as orchestrator of the information. Some parts of the race have been left out of the narration or have been summarized shortly, whereas in other parts fabula‐time and story‐time coincide and the narration becomes scenic. Such a structuring of the rhythm of the narration can only come from the narrator. Things that are not important for the message are either left out or dealt with quickly. For example, the narration focuses on three parts of the race: the start of the race, the initial crash of the other charioteers, and Orestes' fall. What happens in between those events is dealt with in a few lines (723 and 741‐742). For instance, although the list of the other 17 competing charioteers in the contest is extensive (701‐708), the competitors themselves are hardly more than walk‐ons. Although ten other charioteers to compete with Orestes is a lot (quite a lot more than during the funeral games of Patroclos in Iliad 23, see Barrett p.162) 3 , none of them get any form, apart from their nationality. They are of no real importance to the plot of the story. The story is, after all, not about the chariot race, it is about Orestes' death (a marked difference with Iliad 23). The list is not only there for form (Orestes needs someone to race to), but primarily for the effect of retardation. The list of charioteers is a pause in the story that builds up tension for the narratees, especially Klytaimnestra and Electra. In drawing out the story the narrator build tension and expectations, so that the gruesome death gains more impact and shocks the narratees. After the list of charioteers the race quickly commences 709‐711). The start of the race (709‐722) is presented in close‐up with a scenic rhythm. According to Barrett (p.163‐
165), here we see the first sign of the narrator's "privileged" eyesight, as he is able to describe small details, such as the breath of the horses (718‐719) and the charioteers actually gripping the reins (712‐713). Although I think that seeing the dust rise on the track (714‐715) doesn't imply a real panoramic view, the narrator‐focalizer does seem to have a peculiarly sharp eye for detail. Furthermore, the intertextual links between this narrative and Iliad 23 also strongly suggest this. The narrator is able to 'see' what happens more accurately than any normal spectator should be able to. He is able to 'zoom in' on the action, presenting the narratees with a close‐up of the action. At the same time the narrator seems to disappear from view in his own narration. His bodily presence at the scene can hardly be located, but it must be said that there are little surroundings to speak of in any case. Nonetheless, the spectacular eyesight of the narrator makes it difficult to locate a place from which all of this could have been discerned. Barrett sees this a sign of the 'ideal' spectatorship of the narrator. He sees this ability as a basis of the authority of not only the Paidagogos, but all messenger‐speeches. However, we have to remember that this story is fictitious. Rather than interpreting the supernatural abilities of the narrator as a metatheatrical commentary that applies to all messenger‐speeches, I would rather focus on the function of these abilities. What does the narrator try to do when he appears to recede from view and is able to see more than he should? He tries to show the scene as it really 3
Barrett deals with the relationship between the Paidagogos' acount and Iliad 23 exhaustively, see Barrett, p.138‐140 and p.160‐165. 18 happened, in a neutral way. This makes it more realistic, hence also more plausible. And the primary purpose of the narrative is to persuade the narratees of its veracity. In presenting the story in so much detail and appearing to recede from view himself the narrator creates the image that the story is telling itself. The level of detail also helps to make the story seem more 'real'. It is as if the narratees are brought up close and personal, so that they can see the events for themselves. To tell the story in such a scenic manner also has the function to build the tension. It is after all, a dramatic moment. The race which will mean Orestes' death has started, and the accident can happen anytime now. During the start of the race, Orestes uses Nestor's tactic (Barrett, p.138‐140) to make his curves around the post as tight as possible (721‐721). Starting 723 the narrator employs retardation once again. After line 723 one would expect the crash of Orestes to follow. However, the crash just about takes out everybody but Orestes. As was the case with the start of the race, the most important moment of the story is once again delayed by a close‐
up scenic narration. The horses of one of the Aenian smash into the chariot of another competitor to create a massive crash and the whole plain is filled with wreckage (724‐730). The good eyesight of the narrator is once again revealed in his ability to oversee the entire track, now filled with chariots. This imagery also makes the scene more impressive. The only two to survive the crash are Orestes, who is coming up from the rear (734), and the Athenian. The Athenian is called δεινος, an evaluation on the part of the narrator, probably based on the fact that he was able to avoid crashing. Of course, the survival of at least one other charioteer to challenge Orestes is also functional. If Orestes was the only driver to remain, he would have won automatically, without having to take risks. Orestes sees that only the Athenian is left and brings his chariot alongside that of the Athenian (736‐740). The race is now one‐on‐one and the tension is building. The narratees know now that the finale is fast approaching. The climax of the story begins with lines 741‐742. Throughout all the laps Orestes was able to keep upright, until now. It is hard to know how many laps these were 4 . The narrative is achronical as a whole. Temporal relationships are hard to formulate. The events are told in chronological order, but the time‐span of the events and whatever happens in 4
The race probably consists of 12 laps. It is not meant explicitly when Orestes goes down, but most commentators assume that he falls in the last round. See also chapter 4, n.741‐748. 19 between is impossible to uncover. We know that Orestes achieved his success before this day, and we know of three phases in the race. But we don't know what happened in the laps in between and if Orestes' crash occurred near the end of the race. All we know is that in the turn from the sixth to seventh round of the race a big crash took out all of the charioteers, except Orestes and the Athenian, and we know that a while later Orestes falls from his chariot when he tries to take a tight bend around the post (743‐745). Now that we have reached the climax of the story, the level of detail increases significantly and the rhythm of the narration slows down accordingly. The narrator once again uses his 'privileged' eyesight to present us with a close‐up of the action. His ability to see what happens around the turning post so precisely, as well as the slight hand‐motion of Orestes that precedes it, suggests once more that the narrator is able to see more than normally possible (especially when compared to the uncertainty in Iliad 23, see Barrett, p.164‐165). Just as was the case earlier, I interpret this narratorial technique as an attempt to make the story more plausible. In appearing to recede from view and telling the story in such a scenic rhythm with so much attention to detail, the narrator creates the imagery that the story tells itself. The action is presented so visually that the narratees can almost see it for themselves. the level of detail also makes the story more convincing in that it leaves nothing to imagination. It is told exactly as it 'happened'. Additionally, the gory details of Orestes death are also meant to shock the narratees, hammering the message home with more impact. Orestes' death, after all, is not a pretty one. First he falls out of his chariot and gets tangled up in the reins (746‐747). Then, as he gets drawn along the ground by the reins, the horses wildly jump away beyond his control (747‐748). He gets tossed in the air and back to the ground (752‐753), until he is finally released, so bloody that not even one of his friends would recognize him (755‐756). These details leave nothing to imagination; there can be no hope for Orestes. The contrast between the power and success of Orestes and his pitiful end, set up in at the start of the speech, also resurfaces, by means of focalization. In 749‐751 we are dealing with the explicit focalization of the spectators. The moment they saw Orestes fall, they pitied him, because of the misfortune he suffered, even though he was such a mighty man (having won all other contests in which he entered). By means of this embedded focalization the narrator draws out more pathos, implying that there wasn't anyone in the 20 crowd who could not feel pity after seeing it. It is also possible that the narrator implicitly shows his own focalization by means of the embedded focalization of the crowd. He was, after all, also a spectator. I suggest a similar reading of lines 755‐756. Although the judgment that Orestes is so maimed that not even a friend would recognize has to come from the narrator, αθλιον could both be described to the focalization of the narrator, as well as the embedded focalization of any friend that would see Orestes. However, if we take the latter interpretation, the focalization of the narrator would still be implicitly present, as he is the one to present a hypothetical focalizer. Orestes' maimed form is burned on a pyre, so his ashes can be brought back to his homeland for burial (757‐760). Both μεγιστον and δειλαιας must be evaluative words from the narrator, bringing up once more the contrast between Orestes' power and his terrible fate. The narrator ends his narrative with the most emphatic focalization in his whole narrative. The story is not only terrible to relate (760‐761), it was even the worst of all disasters he has ever seen (762‐763). It is remarkable that the narrator chooses to wait until the last two lines to finally say explicitly, that he has seen the matter himself. Although it was natural to presume the narrator's physical presence at the scene of the narration, there are no explicit signs of this anywhere in the text. Nowhere does the narrator describe himself as being at the scene and seeing the action, until these very last lines. To ascertain that the secondary narratees believe his account, the narrator chooses to end the narrative with the highest claim to the authority (and reliability) of his story, which forces the secondary narratees to believe him. The end of the matter is that he has 'seen' it, whereas the narratees have not. In claiming 'eyewitness' status the narrator tries to prove beyond doubt the 'veracity' of his story. The reactions of Klytaimnestra and Electra following the narrative of the Paidagogos' messenger‐speech show that the Paidagogos succeeds perfectly in his plan. Both believe the story readily. Electra even believes the words of the Paidagogos more than those of her own sister Chrysothemis, when the latter tells her that Orestes has arrived alive and well. The narrative of the Paidagogos is so persuasive that Electra even prefers to believe this version, rather than the truth. 21 3.2 Oedipus Tyrannos The Oedipus Tyrannos deals with the events that lead to Oedipus finding out his identity and consequently stabbing out his own eyes. The entirety of the plot takes place after Oedipus' defeat of the riddling Sphinx and his rise to the throne. A plague has befallen Thebes and the people are unable to stem the tide. Therefore they put their trust in Oedipus, their former savior, to deliver them from evil. Oedipus swears to find the one responsible for the plague, not realizing that he himself is the real perpetrator. Although different signs that this is the case are made known, Oedipus is unable to believe the story, because it contrasts too heavily with his own perspective of 'reality', which turns out later to be false. In the end Oedipus discovers the truth when in fact it is already many years too late to do something about it. He has killed his father Laius and made his own mother Iocaste his bride. After finding Iocaste swinging from a noose in her chamber, Oedipus curses his inability to have discerned the truth. Afterwards, in order to save himself from having to witness the results of his terrible error, he stabs his own eyes repeatedly, both as a punishment and as a means to escape more punishment (for example, looking at his children and realizing in what an incestuous manner they came to be). The Oedipus Tyrannos is graced with the presence of two messengers. However, the appearances of both messengers are vastly different. Whereas the second messenger comes in to deliver a one‐sided narrative as messenger usually do, the first messenger behaves otherwise. Initially, he enters like a normal messenger. He wonders whether he has come to the right place and where Oedipus is (924‐926). He runs into Iocaste and then states where he comes from (936). He also states the heart of the message (939‐940): Oedipus is to be made king of Corinth. Barrett (2002, p.192‐194) rightly notes that the messenger and the secondary narratees (Oedipus and Iocaste) have very different views on what the heart of the message entails. In the messenger's perspective the heart of the message is that Oedipus is going to be king (939‐940). However, Iocaste immediately asks how that can be and if Polybus is no longer in power (941). This shows that for her the message that Oedipus is going to be king of Corinth is far less important than the consequence of that message: that Polybus, whom she believes to be Oedipus' father, is dead. After all, in her perspective and 22 that of Oedipus this means that the horrifying prophecy that he is to murder his father and marry his mother can no longer come true. In fact, one could say that because Iocaste and later Oedipus focus all their attention on the prophecy, the scene doesn't turn into a regular messenger‐speech. Rather than asking the messenger for more information about the death of Polybus (as is usually done), Iocaste and Oedipus consider the consequence for the possible fulfillment of the prophecy. It is their discussion that later induces the messenger to tell Oedipus that Polybus was not his father. So instead of the narrative expected from a messenger, the scene actually turns out otherwise, and the 'would‐be' messenger is revealed to have played a far more crucial role in the plot than anticipated. Firstly Oedipus appears relieved that the prophecy apparently can't come true (964‐
972), but knowing his mother is still alive he says he can't stop worrying although he knows that the prophecy is 'false' (984‐986). The messenger, upon hearing this and the prophecy about Oedipus, then tries to be helpful in telling Oedipus that he has been needlessly worrying himself, since Polybus was not his father (1016). He thinks that this will help Oedipus leave his fear behind, not realizing that the result will be the opposite in the end. In telling this and the fact that Oedipus was delivered to Polybus by his own hands (1022), the messenger is suddenly shown to have a far more direct involvement than messengers usually have. One could say that he functionally transcends his own role and becomes a full‐
fledged party in the action. Rather than a messenger, he now becomes a valuable witness in Oedipus' search. And what follows is not a traditional messenger‐speech, but an elaborate interrogation on the part of Oedipus about his own origins and the messenger's involvement in these affairs. The original message about the death of Polybus is totally forgotten for the moment. Furthermore, the messenger is not interrogated in his function as messenger but in his prior profession as shepherd. The interrogation of the messenger bears resemblance in form to the interrogation of the other shepherd later on (the one who received the baby Oedipus from Iocaste). The marked difference between the two scenes is that the messenger does not yet realize that the baby came from Iocaste, whereas the shepherd does. He knows that the prophecy has come true, which makes him all the more reluctant to tell Oedipus the truth. He actually begs Oedipus not to have to do so. Putting this difference aside, both accounts are of equal importance to the plot. Only if you tie both accounts together it becomes clear that the 23 prophecy has been fulfilled. Although Barrett rightly states (p.212 and 220) that one could describe the search for the murderer of Laius as a search for a missing messenger‐speech, and that Oedipus' own memory could be seen as the result of that search (Oedipus is the one who killed Laius, so the missing messenger‐speech about Laius' death could only be supplied by Oedipus' own memory), the plot is about more than just the search for Laius' killer. The plot may have been put into motion by Oedipus' vow to find the perpetrator, but with the words of the messenger that he is not Polybus' son, Oedipus' focus starts to shift. Rather than worrying if he is the murderer, Oedipus starts worrying about his own origins. Indeed, the fact that he did unwittingly kill his father does not receive much of his attention compared to the possibility that he has married his mother. What Oedipus laments most at the end is the fact that he is both a son and husband to his mother, and both a brother and a father to his children. To reach the complete truth the memories of Oedipus alone are insufficient. One needs all the accounts (Tiresias, Oedipus, the messenger and the shepherd) to construct the bigger picture that reveals that Oedipus is not only responsible for the plaque in killing the former king Laius, but also that the prophecy has come to fruition. The messenger has a crucial role in this process, having become a character more directly involved in the revolving of the plot than messengers usually display. The second messenger, near the end of the play, is another case. This messenger appears in a more traditional fashion, including the trademark narrative of a messenger‐
speech. The second messenger enters in 1223. He has no need to introduce himself, nor does he need to ask whether he has come to the right place. After all, the messenger is one of Oedipus' retinue, and inhabitant of Thebes. Although he does not explicitly say so in his narrative, it becomes clear through his physical presence at the events narrated, as well as his presentation of the action. As one familiar with the Theban elders, the messenger immediately greets them accordingly with his first words. In the next lines (up to 1230) the messenger states in a proleptic manner the contents of his message. He tells them that they will hear things mournful to those who still follow Laius (1224‐1226) and that he will bring some of the horrors concealed in the house of Laius to light (1227‐1230) (in saying that not even two rivers could wash away these horrors the messenger reveals the first signs of his own focalization regarding the events he is about to narrate). He concludes this preliminary statement in saying that the grief which is most painful is the one that we bring upon 24 ourselves (1230‐1231). This implies an evaluation on the part of the messenger that the grief he is about to recount was brought about by those who suffered it. Does the messenger mean by this that he considers Iocaste and Oedipus responsible for their own fate? Oedipus did vow to bring the murderer of Laius to justice, but then it turned out to be himself. In this manner the punishment he vowed to bring upon Laius' killer was brought upon himself. Furthermore, in delving into mysteries which should have been left to lie 5 , Oedipus found out that the prophecy had been fulfilled, bringing the grief of that knowledge upon himself and Iocaste also. As such one could say that the resulting end (as about to be told by the messenger) was also brought upon himself. So the evaluative comment of the messenger could be applied to Oedipus 6 . On the other hand, if we look at the next words of the messenger and the start of the narrative (until 1252) he seems to deal solely with Iocaste. Although it may seem as if the messenger reveals the heart of the message in quite a traditional manner (1234‐1235), it is remarkable that the fate of Oedipus is left out. One would consider the stabbing out of the eyes as a major event that would be worth mentioning at this point, but the messenger remains remarkably silent. Instead the start of the narrative makes it seem as if the death of Iocaste is the only subject of the speech and Oedipus will not be involved. The messenger omits the fate of Oedipus here so it can be told later in the narrative with greater impact (a form of delay). Oedipus' act of self‐mutilation then gains impact and becomes more shocking and surprising, since it is unexpected (as well as being gory). The initial focus on Iocaste could also mean, however, that we have to apply the statement of the messenger in 1230‐1231 to Iocaste. Suicide is, of course, also self‐inflicted. Nonetheless this latter interpretation seems less probable. The preliminary statement of the messenger (1223‐
1231) is said in such a proleptic manner as to comprise the entirety of his messenger‐speech. The blinding of Oedipus is a part of that speech, so it is only natural that the evaluation in 1231 should be applied to Oedipus, perhaps even more than Iocaste. Indeed, one could say that the suicide of Iocaste is a part of the punishment of Oedipus; the grief he has brought upon himself as stated in 1231. 5
Such as the identity of Laius' killer and Oedipus' real origins. Many commentators favor another interpretation. They find the notion of Oedipus being responsible for his own fate too objectionable. See chapter 4 n.1231. 6
25 After stating briefly that Iocaste is dead (1234‐1235) the messenger answers the demands of the Theban elders for more information. They ask what caused Iocaste's demise (1236). This questions paves the way for the messenger to start his narrative, saying that she died by her own hand (1237). In these lines he also immediately states his claim to authority and thus the credibility of his story (albeit in a circuitous manner). He does so in determining the difference between himself and the Theban elders. They have not seen the death of Iocaste, whereas he was present at the scene. His presence at the scene is implied by his statement in 1239, where he says that he draws the story from his own recollection. Here the messenger defines the fundamental difference between himself and the other characters; the source of his authority. He has seen whereas the others have not. Because of the fact that this makes his story the only known version of events, the authority of his words is undisputable. This authority still holds if he can't see everything (as we will see later on). His superior knowledge (e.g. the fact that there is nobody to gainsay his account) forces the other characters to take his words at face value. Indeed, this authority would even hold if the messenger based his story on hearsay. Hence it doesn't damage the authority of the message even if the eyesight of the messenger is curtailed. The messenger also shows signs of his own focalization. He says that the elders are spared the most painful part because they did not see (1237‐1238), thereby showing his own horror considering the events. His pity for Iocaste (and Oedipus, although this remains implicit) also becomes clear throughout his first statements leading up to the start of the narrative proper in 1241. Firstly, the news he is going to tell is mournful (1224‐1225). Secondly, it is a grief that is the most painful (1230‐1231; 1237‐1238). And lastly, the most direct sign of the focalization of the messenger is found in 1240, where he explicitly refers to "the sufferings of the poor woman". Signs that we should pity Iocaste according to the messenger become clear even before he has started his narrative. The messenger then moves on to the narrative proper in 1241. Iocaste comes in furiously and immediately speeds to her bridal bed, closing the door after coming in (1241‐
1244). I agree with Barrett (p.197) that the moment she closes the door marks the point where the messenger is no longer able to see Iocaste. He can only hear her from this point on, until Oedipus forces the door open in 1261‐1262. The fact that Oedipus has to force the door open for everyone to be able to see her is a clear indication that they were not able to 26 do so beforehand. However, it has to be said that this makes the interpretation of lines 1252‐1254 a little more awkward. In these lines the narrator say that they (he and the other retinue inside) were not able to see Iocaste's calamity to its end (εκθεασασθαι) 7 , because Oedipus came bursting in shouting, diverting their attention. It would, of course, be possible to listen at the door (although it would beg the question whether they would be able to hear Iocaste hang herself), but looking inside would have been impossible, since Oedipus himself was forced to bust the door open before he was able to look inside the room. Thus Iocaste's next actions are only heard, not seen by the messenger. Iocaste calls on Laius, who is long since a corpse, reminiscing their love of old, which in the end brought him death and her a husband that is also her son (1245‐1248). She then weeps over the bed, lamenting having brought forth a husband by her husband, and children by her child (1249‐1250). One could say that the narrator, in telling explicitly how Iocaste remembers how she and Laius used to make love, thereby referring to the very source of this tragedy, invites us to reflect on the story and how this grievous end came to be. I think that Laius' description as one long dead supports this, as it calls Oedipus' crime to memory, which led to the plaque in Thebes. Furthermore, I think this passage also shows the embedded focalization of Iocaste. It is she who calls on Laius (καλει, 1245) and remembers their love‐making (μνημην, 1246) and it is also she who weeps on the bed (γοατο, 1249). This could mean that signs of focalization such as δυστεκνον (1248) and δυστηνος (1249) are the embedded focalization of Iocaste, rather than a direct judgment on the part of the narrator. Lines 1251 and 1252‐1254 signal a marked turning point in the narrative. If we look at the narrative so far, it would appear that the message is only about Iocaste and her death. The heart of the message stated in 1234‐1235 mentions Iocaste, but Oedipus is left out of the entire narrative up to this point. Indeed, if we look at the first lines of the narrative (1237‐1240) the messenger makes it 'clear' that the message is about the sufferings of Iocaste. One would thus expect the climax of the messenger‐speech to be the suicide of Iocaste. The rest of the narrative up to this points conforms to this theory, as the sudden involvement of Oedipus is foreshadowed nowhere by the messenger. It all seems to lead up 7
I follow Kamerbeek's interpretation that εκθεασασθαι doesn't literally mean 'see', but rather 'to keep paying attention until the end'. See also chapter 4, n.1253. 27 to the death of Iocaste as a climax. However, rather than the expected suicide scene of Iocaste, the narrator misdirects the expectations of the narratees. Instead of presenting the audience with the climax he has been building up to, the narrative is seemingly brought to a dead end, as the narrator says that he does not know how she perished afterward (1251). The expected climax is suddenly barred from view. Although I think Barrett is right in saying that it is typical of this tragedy, with its focus on sight 8 , that the messenger is not able to see the actual death of Iocaste, as we have seen this does not harm the authority of the messenger, nor the credulity of his story. An interesting question is why the narrator structures his narrative in this way. He knew before telling his message that he had not seen the death of Iocaste, only the outcome, so why does he structure his narrative up to this point as if he had seen it. The entire narrative is structured to lead up to the suicide of Iocaste. The messenger even went so far as to distinguish himself from the others because they had not seen whereas he had, which is why they were spared the most painful part (1236‐1240). And now we find out that he hasn't actually seen the death that he claimed to tell about. I would say that the messenger does this in order to let the real climax of his speech (Oedipus seeing Iocaste's corpse and stabbing his eyes out) gain more impact, because it comes so sudden and unexpected. Furthermore I think the sudden sight of Iocaste swinging from a noose when Oedipus breaks down the door makes her death more impressive, especially through the resulting actions of Oedipus. Although the others may have seen her first, it is the reaction of Oedipus to finding Iocaste that embodies the impact, the shock, that the sudden sight has on the beholders. The death of Iocaste, which the narrative had been building up to, but was seemingly deterred from in 1250, returns in full force, sudden and unexpected. In the same way I think that the actions of Oedipus also gain impact because they are unexpected. In the case of Oedipus there are no signs at the beginning of the narrative that he is going to play a role. His blinding is not foreshadowed by the messenger, nor is there another kind of mention of it in advance. The scene hits the narratees like rain from a clear sky, thereby gaining much more impact. 8
Barrett pays a lot of attention to the power of opsis as opposed to that of logos in his analysis of the second messenger‐speech. See Barrett (2002, p. 194‐205) 28 The reason that the messenger is initially unable to see the end of Iocaste (apart from the doors being closed) is that his attention, and that of the other people in the court, is diverted away from Iocaste, because Oedipus suddenly comes in shouting (1252‐1254). This passage ascertains beyond doubt the physical whereabouts of the messenger at the scene. He is in the court with the other retinue, locked outside of the bridal chamber. This standpoint of the narrator‐focalizer is also implicit in the first lines of the narrative proper (1241‐1244), where the narrator describes Iocaste coming in and passing through the court to her bridal chamber, closing the doors as she goes in. One would have to be inside to be logically able to see that. However, in this passage, his presence at the scene becomes more clearly defined by the limits of a human body. Because Oedipus is attracting attention, the messenger is not able to know what happens to Iocaste. The fact that he is unable to devote his attention to two things at the same time, only being able to look at Oedipus, is a sure sign of the limits of the human body. This messenger is not granted the gift of 'privileged eyesight'. His eyesight is just that of a human, and now all of it is absorbed by Oedipus' antics. Oedipus rangers about, asking for a sword (1254‐1255) and looking not for his wife, but the field that yielded two harvests (1256‐1257). In reporting the words of Oedipus the narrator shows Oedipus' focalization. I wonder why Oedipus would ask to be handed a sword, especially in the context of searching for Iocaste, whom he describes in a rather spiteful way. This makes it look as if he is planning to kill her, or perhaps to kill himself in front of her, although I think the latter is unlikely if we look at the precise way Oedipus is introduced in the scene by the narrator. And if he plans to commit suicide, then why would he still look for Iocaste? Perhaps for one last talk before he kills himself? That may sound farfetched, but Oedipus having any intention to kill Iocaste is equally illogical, although that is what Oedipus' introduction seemingly leads to. Lines 1258‐1259 could also be interpreted as a confirmation of Oedipus' bad intentions. The narrator states that Oedipus must have been shown the way by some deity, as it was none of the men who stood nearby. Even though he asks them for a sword and the location of Iocaste, they don't help him. In defying a direct order from Oedipus, they could be said to distance themselves from the raging king. However, if we look at Oedipus' reaction upon finding Iocaste, it appears that he is both shocked and dismayed. This makes it highly improbable that he had any intention to kill her 29 in the first place. And if Oedipus was planning on killing himself with the sword, then why did he settle for stabbing out his eyes after discovering her, instead of killing himself in some fashion or another? This question is answered specifically in the tragedy. In 1366‐1367 the chorus of Theban elders says to the blind Oedipus that it would have been better if he were dead rather than alive and blind. Oedipus' response is that he would not be able to look upon his father and his ταλαιναν μητερ', such deeds has he done upon them (1371‐1374). This response belies the interpretation that he planned to kill himself, as well as the interpretation that he planned to kill Iocaste. Thus the question why Oedipus comes in asking for a sword and looking for his wife still remains open for debate. Whatever Oedipus' original intention may be, Oedipus does not seem to get the requested sword. Some sort of force does show him the way to Iocaste (1258) and with a dreadful cry, as though some other was guiding him, he rushes to the door to the bridal chamber and forces them to open (1260‐1262). There they are confronted with the sudden and shocking sight of Iocaste hanging in a noose 9 . Perhaps then the raging of Oedipus should be seen as a narratorial technique to make the sudden sight of Iocaste more surprising. After all, the introduction of Oedipus and his bursting through the door seem initially to lead to some sort of confrontation between mother/wife and son/husband. However, that climax is averted abruptly, when instead the narratees are confronted with the sudden sight of the corpse of Iocaste. Because of the way the story is build up by the narrator, the death of Iocaste is still shocking and surprising, even though the narratees were already made aware of her demise. I think that in a similar way the narrator presents Oedipus' act of blinding himself as more shocking and sudden because he has structured the entire narrative so far in such a manner that he hasn't aforementioned the blinding in any manner whatsoever. It comes as a sudden shock (The fact that there is no signal whatsoever beforehand that Oedipus is going to blind himself could also be taken to mean that his decision is an impulsive one upon seeing Iocaste, rather than something planned out earlier). Let us not forget that at the start of the narrative all focus was on Iocaste and that it didn't appear as if Oedipus was even going to be involved. Then there is his sudden entrance in 1252 leading up to the sight of Iocaste's corpse. And after 1267 he steals the center of attention entirely, during the climactic, and rather gory scene of his blinding. 9
The fact that the messenger and the other attendants see her before Oedipus does is of little relevance in portraying the sudden shock of seeing Iocaste's corpse. 30 This transit from Iocaste as the object of the narration to Oedipus is made complete by the narrator himself in 1267. In telling that what came next was terrible to see, the narrator indicates that Iocaste's death is now left behind and we are moving on to a new horror; that of Oedipus' blinding (the narrator also shows his own focalization, of course). This now turns out to be the climax of the messenger‐speech. The blinding of Oedipus is quite gory, as if the messenger is building up such a detailed climax to make up for being unable to see and describe Iocaste's death earlier. Oedipus' emotional crisis, which has been steadily growing throughout the play, now reaches its peak. The sight of Iocaste's corpse is the final push over the edge, which leads to him blinding himself right there on the spot (Oedipus gives other reasons as well in 1369‐1383), but I think this is the final straw). The fact that Oedipus uses the pins that used to adorn Iocaste (1268‐1270) could be interpreted so as to confirm this theory. In the end her death is what makes Oedipus blind himself, therefore he uses her pins to do it. Striking his eyes, Oedipus utters a sort of vow: that his eyes should not see his suffering or actions (1271‐1272) but in the future should see in darkness those they should not have seen, and fail to recognize those he wished to know (1273‐1274). I take this mean that the sight of his father and mother will forever haunt his mind's eye, whereas he will not be able to see those he wishes to recognize. This curse, as well as his exile from Thebes, is the punishment Oedipus metes out for himself. Oedipus keeps striking his eyes until they are running down his cheeks (1275‐1277). The high level of detail, albeit gory, indicates that the blinding has now become the climax of the speech, rather than the announced and anticipated death of Iocaste. The messenger concludes his narrative with a general reflection on the outcome of the tragedy of the house of Laius. The horrible events brought grief to all those present (1281). And although their earlier happiness, was 'true' happiness, this day none of the ills that can be named is absent (1282‐1285). In comparing their earlier happiness (at the start of the play) with the outcome of the plot, the narrator allows room for reflection on the whole of the tragedy. Of course it also shows the personal focalization of the narrator. It is obvious from different signs of focalization that the messenger pities Iocaste and Oedipus, although he has also implied that they brought this grief upon themselves (in 1230‐1231) The message now seems to have come to an end, but the chorus of Thebans asks the messenger whether Oedipus has found some respite from his pain (1286). The messenger 31 responds with an answer that could be seen as a sort of epilogue to the messenger‐speech. After having blinded himself, Oedipus cries to have the gates unbarred (1287) and to be shown to all the Cadmeians, uttering such unholy words that the messenger cannot utter them (1288‐1289). The narrator states that Oedipus means to banish himself from the land, not willing to linger under his own curse (1290‐1291). I think that the narrator shows us the embedded focalization of Oedipus here. It is Oedipus who regards the curse as his own, thereby meaning that he brought this fate upon himself, rather than the narrator‐focalizer. If this is so, then the questions arises of whose focalization we are dealing with in the next two lines. I think it is the most logical to assume that it is the narrator who judges Oedipus to bear a sickness too great to bear and to need a guide. The last two lines of the messenger (1295‐1296), however, display without a doubt the focalization of the messenger. He is the one who describes the sight of the blind Oedipus as one so mournful it would bring pity even to those that hate him. The last three lines of the play also become an effective introduction of the blind Oedipus, neatly tying the narrative of the messenger and the appearance of Oedipus together. The narrator indicates that however we may think of Oedipus and his actions, at least he deserves pity. The messenger has also stated in his preliminary remark (1224‐1225) that his message is something to be mourned. Through his own focalization, but also through the structure of the narrative, the messenger has tried to present the fate of Oedipus and Iocaste as something shocking and pitiful. His own emotional involvement to the contents of his narrative are clear throughout his message. Furthermore, we can even establish his bodily presence at the scene, so we could say that his involvement is more direct than merely emotional (although he does distance himself from the action by, for example, not answering Oedipus' questions). His exact location in the court remains unclear, however. His standpoint seems to be fixed, but there is no elaborate description to ascertain this. The location of the other people in the court is also hard to construct, as well as the general make‐up of the court. These details are unimportant for the narrative and don't get any attention from the messenger. The details that the messenger does deliver each have their own importance. The bed in the bridal chamber is mentioned explicitly because of its symbolic value. It is both the place where Iocaste slept with Laius, as well as the place where she slept with his (and her) son Oedipus. However, the only spatial detail that is of major 32 importance is the double doors that divide the bridal chamber from the court which contains, among others, the messenger. Because these are closed, the messenger and the others cannot see inside the room until Oedipus breaks it down. Indeed, it is only because of the element of the closed doors that the narrator is able to present the dead Iocaste as such a sudden sight. As such the doors are an element of the surroundings that play a crucial role in the development of the narrative. Concerning the rhythm of the narration, there is little real visible variety in the speed of the narration. The message is not a particularly long one as such and most elements of the story receive equal attention. The climax of Oedipus' blinding does show a bit more detail, but the rhythm hardly goes down. The only variation in the rhythm I can discern, can't even be pinned down specifically in the narrative itself. It is only when we compare the messenger‐speech to the play that something stands out. If we look at the messengers' narrative, we can see that Oedipus appears to enter the house relatively quickly after Iocaste comes in. It is most likely that the house of Laius is adjacent to the place of the action (where Iocaste and Oedipus listen to the first messenger, e.g. the stage). Therefore the event of Iocaste entering the house (as told by the messenger) must have taken place immediately after her leaving the stage after 1072. However, Oedipus stays on the stage, first listening to the third Stasimon and then elaborately interrogating the shepherd that once received him from Iocaste when he was but a baby. Oedipus leaves the stage after 1185; a long time after Iocaste has entered the house. It is therefore remarkable that Oedipus' entrance in the messenger‐speech appears to happen so quickly. In my opinion this can only indicate that Iocaste's lamentation must have taken quite a while longer than the narrative makes out. Hence the rhythm must have been sped up accordingly, to make it seem like a short time. In fact her lamentation may have taken more time than Oedipus' entrance, the discovery of her corpse and Oedipus' blinding put together (at least if we look at the fabula‐time). However, because of its limited importance, the lamentation of Iocaste can be summarized succinctly. On the whole we have been dealing with a messenger who is both mentally and physically involved with the events he narrates. Through his focalization (evaluation, reflections, judgments etc) the presence of the messenger as a character, or dramatis persona, remains apparent throughout his narrative. We can even ascertain his bodily presence at the scene. Indeed, he is so bound to his body, that any form of 'privileged 33 eyesight' is denied to him. This, however, does not harm the authority of his story, as his superior knowledge (and thus also the fact that there is nobody to gainsay his story) forces the narratees to take his words at face value. Furthermore, the position of the messenger‐
speech at the end of the tragedy also allows reflection on the part of the narratees. In telling, as it were, the results of the tragedy (and referring back to the beginning) the messenger actually presents the narratees with the whole of the tragedy. He tells them how it started and how it ended, inviting them to look at the story and judge it themselves. It has to be said, of course, that this interpretation is guided implicitly by the perspective of the messenger, as well as the ending itself. The messenger clearly pities the house of Laius, but he does determine that the grief they suffered was brought upon them by themselves. Through his focalization in telling the message, the messenger perhaps unwittingly influences the reception of the narratees. His pity and judgment invite others to look at it the same way. The ending itself also guides the narratees' reception. Indeed, one could say that the very fact that Oedipus and Iocaste suffer a bad ending shows that they have acted neither pious nor just and are punished because of it. 3.3 Antigone The Antigone deals with the events following the battle between the sons of Oedipus, Eteocles and Polynices. In their contention for the throne, Eteocles has driven his brother from Thebes. Robbed of his homeland, Polynices seeks allies to lay siege to the city that expulsed him and take revenge on his younger brother. The Thebans just see Polynices as a traitor; one who would go so far as to assault his homeland and his own brother out of jealousy and spite for not getting to be king himself. They see Eteocles as their rightful king and the defender of their city, whereas Polynices is considered a godless backstabber. The Antigone starts after the battle between the two brothers and their forces has come to an end. Both have fallen in the war, leaving their uncle Creon as the new king of Thebes. As the new king, Creon decrees that Eteocles should be given a proper burial, befitting a hero who defended his city. Polynices, on the other hand, is to be left to rot in the dust. Creon even goes so far as promising terrible punishments for those who lament Polynices, or try to bury 34 him. He is to lie there on the ground till he is no more than fodder for carrion eaters. Antigone, as Polynices' (and Eteocles') sister cannot accept the decision to leave her brother to rot. She goes straight against the decrees of Creon, knowing what consequences there might be. She argues that burying her fallen brother is an adherence to the laws of the gods, which are absolute regardless of the decrees of mortal kings. Creon is livid with rage when he finds out. He actually wants her killed, but in order to escape the pollution that would befall the city if he were to kill one of his one family, he decides to entomb Antigone alive, leaving her some food as well. However, Tiresias shows that the gods are heavily displeased with Creon, especially now he has doubled his sin (he has refused to bury a dead man and he has insisted on burying a living woman, even though he was advised against it). Although he initially disbelieves Tiresias and accuses him of dishonesty, after the blind seer leaves Creon starts to fear the words of the old man. The members of the chorus advise him to repair his mistakes and to turn the tomb of Antigone into a burial place for Polynices. Creon then leaves the stage in a hurry. After the ensuing Stasimon the messenger enters to tell what happened. The messenger starts speaking in 1155. His entrance is somewhat similar to the entrance of the messenger in the Oedipus Tyrannos. Since he is a citizen of Thebes and a member of Creon's household, there is no need for the messenger to ask whether he has come to the right place or to formally introduce himself. Instead he directly addresses the chorus of Theban elders with a preliminary statement that foreshadows the message to come, as well as showing the messenger's own evaluation (and thus his focalization). The statement builds up tension in that it reveals almost nothing of the particulars of the message yet to be told. It is made clear that things didn't fare well for Creon (1165‐1168), but the specifics are left out. Furthermore, The messenger makes it explicitly clear that this entire statement is his own evaluation of (or reflection on) the fate of Creon (including the contents of the message he is going to relate). He does so by means of introducing a well‐
known Greek motto: that people can't be called fortunate or unfortunate while they still live, since the gods have a habit of turning the lives of mortals around. The fate of the fortunate and the unfortunate alike can be turned upside down in the blink of an eye. Therefore it is only possible to call people fortunate or unfortunate when they are dead, because only then can their fortune no longer be changed. 35 After introducing this motto in 1156‐1160 and clearly indicating that this is his own personal view of things (1157), the messenger then puts Creon's fate forward as an example of this principle. As such the messenger shows his own reflection on Creon's fate even before recounting the most important part of said fate (which he has come to relate), thereby foreshadowing the message he has yet to utter. Apparently the messenger once found Creon to be enviable (1161). Creon has delivered Thebes from its enemies (1162), has acquired kingship (1162) and has lived happily with his children (1163). He had everything one could want. But now, as the messenger states (1165), all those things have left him. Indeed, lines 1165‐1168 make clear that the messenger now regards Creon as an animated corpse rather than a living being, now that his pleasures have abandoned him (ἡδοναι should in this instance be taken to mean the very things that once made Creon enviable in 1162‐1164). Indeed, the messenger makes clear in the last four lines of his evaluation that wealth and luxury (and all the other privileges of royalty) become meaningless in the absence of pleasures. He would not want any of it if it meant that he would have to forsake pleasure. It is clear from the statement that the messenger considers Creon to be in that state. The Thebans then ask the messenger what further burden he brings (1172). The messenger answers, but in such a vague manner that it doesn't actually tell the Thebans anything. Normally one would expect the messenger to state the heart of his message at this point; and he does in a way, but his answer is so vague that it is of no use to the Thebans. All the listeners can glean is that some people are dead and that those who are alive are to be held responsible for the matter. After some prompting from the Theban elders (1174), the messenger gives the next little piece of information (1175). Haemon is dead, but it is uncertain how. Αυτοχειρ can mean 'by his own hand', but also 'by a kinsman's hand'. Hence, the Theban elders consequently ask whether Haemon died by his own hand or his father's. This question prompts the messenger to give another piece of information, as if he is slowly handing out pieces of a puzzle. Next is the motive: Haemon apparently killed himself out of rage at his father for the murder he committed (1177). That indirectly makes it clear that Antigone is also dead, as she is the only murder Creon could have committed. Hence it becomes clear who the dead ones in 1173 are, as well as at least one of the guilty ones. Haemon and Antigone are dead and the guilty one is Creon, although the plural indicates 36 that Creon is not the only one. Perhaps all the Thebans who stood by and let this atrocity happen are to be hold responsible. It is remarkable that the messenger, rather than immediately stating the 'heart of the message' in an understandable way, sort of builds up to the message. In presenting the information about the message in separate parts, the messenger alternately highlights different aspects of the message he has yet to tell, thereby building tension, as the actual message keeps getting delayed. In line 1177 the most crucial information is given. Not only is Haemon dead, but so is Antigone, and his father is responsible for both deaths (the fact that those who are alive are called guilty in 1173 supports that Creon is the guilty one). One could wonder whether φονου (1177) is the embedded focalization of Haemon, or the judgment of the messenger. I think it best to hold both possibilities open, especially as Haemon and the messenger both consider Creon to be responsible. However, the messenger does so in a far more dispassionate way than Haemon. Indeed, during the narrative the messenger does not stress the guilt of Creon much, except for his final remark (1241‐1242). It only becomes clear through his preliminary observations (e.g. 1173, 1177), and of course it is implicit in the course and the result of the message. The fact that Creon is punished in this way by the gods shows in itself that Creon is at fault. Furthermore, the ensuing reaction of Eurydice (cursing Creon as the killer of her son in 1304‐1305) also shows that she interprets the message as indicating Creon's guilt. Her reaction shows her personal perspective on the messenger‐
speech. However, this reaction only makes sense if the messenger‐speech indeed allows room for her interpretation. It would be ridiculous for Eurydice to run off and kill herself if the messenger had made explicitly clear that Creon was not to blame 10 . The Theban elders, upon hearing that Haemon killed himself in anger at his father, remember the words of Tiresias that have now come true. Creon has lost one of his own blood, just like Tiresias prophesied (1066‐1067). The messenger tells them that these things stand thus, but they have to deliberate themselves upon the other things. I think that ὡς ὡδε εχοντων (1179) refers to the pieces of information that the messenger has previously presented in 1173, 1175 and 1177. These are the facts that the messenger knows, but the Thebans have to deliberate upon the rest, including whether or not the prophet accurately foresaw this. These things falls outside of the range of knowledge of the messenger. 10
See also chapter 2. 37 In 1180‐1182 the Thebans spot Eurydice coming out of the house and approaching them. Upon her entrance Eurydice immediately identifies herself as the most important narratee; in other words, she is the one who is the most involved with the contents of the narrative. That's also why the messenger addresses his narrative directly to her. It may be a bit of a long stretch, but perhaps this provides another reason for the vague answers of the messenger to the inquiries of the Thebans, apart from the fact that the delay builds tension as well as foreshadows different elements of the story. Perhaps the messenger was waiting for the right audience before telling his tale. This does not mean that he waits for Eurydice in particular, but at least for some narratee who really takes the matter to heart. The messenger is not very communicative to the chorus, after all. Whether this is true or not, ultimately it is Eurydice's request that leads to the messenger's narrative. Upon her arrival, Eurydice explains that she chanced to hear the news about her son when she was about to say prayers to Pallas, striking her dumb with shock (1183‐1189). She then orders the messenger to tell the news again (1190). Eurydice has already heard that Haemon is dead. However, because she fainted and fell back in the hands of her servants, she did not hear everything the messenger (and the Thebans) have said. That is why she asks him to tell the news again. Because his speech concerns her son, the messenger has to justify the horrible details he will tell her. Therefore he mentions explicitly that he will tell the truth at the start of his narrative (1193‐1195) 11 . The fact that Eurydice has only heard that her son is dead, but not how and why, becomes clear also if we look at Eurydice's reaction to the messenger's tale. After the message Eurydice rushes off without responding to the message. She commits suicide immediately after. However, if she already knew how and why he died, then how could the message drive her to commit suicide. Was the confirmation of something she actually knew so compelling? I think that rather than just the confirmation of Haemon's death, the most compelling force that drives Eurydice is the fact that Creon is responsible. Indeed, the last words on her lips before she dies are curses upon Creon, calling him his child's killer (1305). This implies that she did not hear that Haemon died because of Creon (1177). So she must have fainted before that. Furthermore, she also doesn't seem to know that Haemon committed suicide, as she does not mention it herself. So the most logical assumption is that she fainted after hearing 1175. 11
Jebb and Brown rightly note that the messenger's defense of the truth is also an apology to Eurydice for the pain he may cause her. 38 The messenger starts his message by establishing his authority as a messenger. He was present at the scene, having witnessed the events himself (παρων, 1192). This immediately sets him apart from the other characters on the stage. Due to his superior knowledge his words gain an authority that none of the other characters can claim. As of now, the message of the messenger is the only source of information for the other characters concerning the events that occurred off‐stage. Furthermore, the messenger makes it emphatically clear that he will tell the truth and will not suppress any of the information (1193‐1195). That the messenger speaks the truth is often left implicit in saying that he will tell all, but here it is highlighted. As we have seen, this is probably because he needs to justify (and apologize for) the terrible details he will have to lay bare. The messenger also shows his own identity in the first lines addressing Eurydice. He is one of the attendants of Creon and Eurydice (called respectively δεσποινα in 1192, and δεσποτης in 1208 and 1219). At least he is trusted enough or close enough to Creon to accompany him on his mission to right his wrongs. In 1196 the messenger starts the narrative proper. He states that he accompanied Creon to the edge of the plain where the corpse of Polynices was still lying on the ground, torn by dogs (1196‐1198). The fact that Polynices' corpse is called 'without pity' and 'torn by dog' is, I deem, an explicit reference to one half of the crime Creon has committed, thereby also showing the focalization of the messenger himself. Creon has denied Polynices a proper burial, which has led to the pitiful state Polynices' body is currently in. I think that the description of Polynices' corpse and the prayers to Pluto and Hecate to restrain their wrath (1199‐1200) could be seen as an indication that Creon's crime has already been committed. Creon may hope to make amends for his sins, but he cannot undo them (and therefore his punishment can't be undone either). His retinue (including the messenger) washes the corpse and burns the remains of the body before raising a tall burial mound for the deceased (1201‐1203). Afterwards they approach the tomb where Antigone is imprisoned (1204‐
1205). However, upon approaching they hear the sound of lamentation coming from around the tomb and return to Creon to tell it (1206‐1208). It is clear that the messenger could not, at this time, ascertain to whom the wailing belonged. The wailing comes from inside the chamber and is therefore blocked from view. Indeed, it is only when Creon orders them to enter the hole 1215‐1217), which must have been made by Haemon earlier, that they are 39 able to see inside the tomb. The fact that the messenger was not able to see inside the chamber until he stood in the right place shows that this messenger is not granted with any 'privileged eyesight'. This messenger is confined by a body that is located at the scene. He is a part of the attendants that accompany Creon on his quest. He even directly participates in the action when giving the last rites to Polynices, instead of distancing himself as an observer. With just four lines the burial of Polynices is handled quite succinctly. This could mean that the messenger does not regard it as a particularly important element of the story and thus speeds up the rhythm of the narration. The message is, after all, not about Creon's quest to right his wrongs, but about the death of Haemon. Therefore the importance of this part of Creon's quest for the heart of the message pales in comparison to the next part (Antigone's tomb). After having been told about the wailing, Creon approaches the tomb, only to recognize the howling as that of his son. He questions his miserable fate and then orders his attendants to confirm whether it is indeed Haemon (1209‐1218). When his attendants comply they are suddenly confronted with the sight of Antigone strung up. In very similar fashion to the messenger of the Oedipus Tyrannos this messenger's initial inability to look inside the tomb is suddenly lifted, only to be followed with the sudden and shocking sight of a woman having hanged herself. Just like in the Oedipus Tyrannos it is their initial inability to see that makes the sight of the woman more shocking and sudden. Here this inability stems from the fact that the action takes place inside a tomb with only one way to look inside. That is also why the narrator bestows his attention to this spatial detail in particular; because it is an element of importance to the structure of the narrative. The tomb ensures that the group of Creon is not able to see what happens until they stand before the hole, the contents of which can then be presented with more impact because of their suddenness. Inside the attendants also see Haemon lying with his arms around the waist of Antigone, lamenting his bride, his father's actions and his miserable marriage (1223‐1225). The focus of the narration is almost immediately turned from Antigone to Haemon. Antigone's death is mentioned beforehand in an indirect, implicit manner, when the messenger tells the Thebans that Haemon killed himself in anger at the murder his father committed (1177). However, it is the suicide of Haemon that is the heart and focus of the message, not the death of Antigone. The implicit manner wherein the fate of Antigone is treated beforehand makes her death 40 more sudden and surprising, but it also shows that her death is considered less important than Haemon's fate. Apparently the messenger has decided that the death of his own master's son is more important, especially because he is addressing Eurydice, who is his mistress and Haemon's mother. In fact, from the beginning the messenger has made it clear that the focus of the message is on Haemon. Antigone's fate is provided only as the motivation for Haemon's actions, as becomes clear from his lamentations in 1224‐1225, as well as the manner of his suicide in 1234‐1241. Her death may be shocking, but it is a side issue nonetheless. Upon seeing his son Creon rushes inside the tomb and wails to his son, asking him what came into him and begging him to come out (1226‐1230). It is remarkable that Creon is the only one whose words are presented in direct speech, both here and in 1211‐1218. For instance, the lamentations of Haemon (1224‐1225) and the report of the attendants to Creon about the wailing (1208) are not reported directly. So why does the narrator choose to present only the words of Creon in direct speech? Creon's words, which is the only speech reported directly, are clearly reactions to the events in which he finds himself. That the only direct speech presented in the narrative consists of the reactions of Creon reinforces his position as the one who suffers the entire ordeal. After all, the death of Haemon is part of the punishment laid out for Creon. In presenting Creon's reactions in direct speech the messenger shows more closely how his master was affected by these events, thus drawing out more pathos than if he had presented Creon's reactions in indirect speech. A secondary effect of reporting Creon's words in direct speech is that the message seems to resemble the 'true' version of events more closely (the fabula), of which the message is only a reflection (the story). As such, the story becomes more credible for the narratees. They are seemingly presented with Creon's own words, rather than some interpretation of their meaning by the messenger. The messenger shows them 'what really happened', seemingly cutting himself out as the middleman temporarily. Furthermore, since Eurydice is the most important of the narratees, hearing her own husband's words affects her more than indirect speech would have. For her the story gains not only in credulity, but also in impact. Haemon does not answer his father pleas, but glares at him and spits him in the face, before drawing his blade (1231‐1233). However, Creon darts back and avoids the swing (1233‐1234). Haemon then proceeds to commit suicide in his rage. Haemon's suicide is the 41 climax of the speech; its most important feature. The rhythm of the narration slows down accordingly. The narrator takes 7 lines (1234‐1241) to describe the act of Haemon, which would only have taken seconds in fabula time. His act receives more attention than any of the other events in the story, such as the last rites of Polynices, which definitely would have lasted longer than Haemon's suicide in fabula time. Looking at the rhythm of the entire narration, it becomes clear that the last rites of Polynices are of lesser importance to the message. The messenger deals with that part of Creon's mission quickly, using a fast rhythm where the story time is considerably shorter than the fabula time. The travels to and from the mound of Polynices have also been shortened to single sentences, even though they would have lasted longer in fabula time. They are also unimportant, so the narrator has no need to bestow more attention upon them. The rhythm only slows down when Creon himself approaches the tomb. Of course, direct speech automatically makes story‐and fabula time coincide. Therefore I think it best to assume that the ensuing scene ultimately leading to Haemon's suicide should be interpreted as having a scenic rhythm. One would perhaps have expected the rhythm to slow down with the discovery of Antigone's body, showing some more detail in the margin, but in a stroke of misdirection the messenger quickly diverts the focus of the scene to Haemon. The latter's actual suicide takes the most attention. I think one could argue that the story time is here actually longer than the fabula time, as the messenger takes quite some time to tell something which would have lasted only a couple of seconds in real life. The level of detail rises accordingly, as Haemon clasps Antigone in his arm, staining her cheek with a jet of blood before dying (1235‐1239). He then lies there as a corpse holding a corpse, having achieved his marriage rites in death (1240‐1241). There is one element of Haemon's actions that bothers me. In 1235‐1236, after having narrowly missed his father, Haemon drives his sword in his side because he is angry with himself. But the messenger reported to the Thebans in 1177 that he committed suicide out of anger at his father. Is Haemon then so angry with himself that he missed his father, that he killed himself because of it? This seems quite harsh. Yet if it is just the fate of Antigone that drives him, why hasn't he committed suicide earlier? Perhaps he wanted to confront his father first. At any rate, Haemon's attempt to skewer Creon does show emphatically that he too holds his father totally responsible, even hates him for his actions. This is of importance because it partly explains Eurydice's reaction to the message. She 42 immediately leaves to die, cursing Creon before she does. During the play the guilt of Creon is made explicit by many characters, including Haemon and Eurydice, the chorus, Tiresias and even Creon himself takes responsibility for his actions at the end of the play, saying that he himself caused the death of his loved ones. The messenger also holds Creon responsible. This becomes clear in his statements prior to the narration but also from the narration itself, albeit in a subtle manner. Firstly, through the presentation of Creon's words in direct speech, his position as the one suffering this punishment is reinforced. Secondly, the focalization of Haemon also points out Creon as the guilty one. His lamentations in 1224‐1225 makes this clear, as well as his attempt to kill Creon in 1234‐1235, since missing his father makes Haemon angry enough to kill himself. Another sign that the messenger holds Creon responsible is his own personal focalization. Although he clearly pities Haemon (as becomes clear from δυςμορος in 1234 and δειλαιος in 1241), any signs of pity for Creon are suspiciously absent, which is remarkable as Creon is the messenger's own master 12 . Apparently he is not to be pitied. The strongest indication that the messenger holds Creon responsible can be found in 1242‐1243, the last two lines of the message. Here the messenger clearly shows his own focalization, as he concludes his story with an evaluative comment. He says that in dying Haemon showed by how much αβουλιαν is the worst of evils. This is a clear judgment on the part of the messenger that Creon is responsible, as it his αβουλιαν that brought Haemon's death to be. In concluding his message with such a profound judgment, the messenger gives a strong statement about the way in which his story should be reflected on. He concludes from his story that Creon's bad decrees brought this upon Haemon, thereby influencing the reception of his message by the narratees. The reaction of Eurydice, as we have seen, says it all. She has no questions to ask, or other words to say, but leaves immediately. Her curses to Creon, prior to her suicide, show that she has drawn the conclusion from the message that Creon is responsible. It is then only a small step to say that the way in which the messenger has presented the story (e.g. presenting Creon as guilty) influences Eurydice to kill herself. This makes the messenger partly responsible for her death. His message has an important role beyond giving information and offering reflection on prior events. It is the message that ultimately drives Eurydice to kill herself, thereby fulfilling the second part of Creon's 12
Most messengers would show some sign of sympathy or pity when discussing the horrible events that befell their masters. Remarkably, here the messenger shows such signs of pity to Haemon only. 43 punishment. As such the message also has an important effect on the events which happen afterwards, becoming a powerful tool for the plot. Although at first reading the message seems to offer information and reflection only (such as, for example, the second messenger does in the Oedipus Tyrannos), Eurydice's ensuing suicide shows that the message plays a role on a larger scale. The message itself is a necessary element for the fulfillment of Creon's punishment. We cannot answer for certain what would have happened if the messenger had not been there to deliver his story. Perhaps Eurydice would have still found out that Creon was responsible, and would have killed herself then. But as the story is presented now, it is the message which grants her the necessary information. And, as we have seen before, the messenger does not clear Creon of his charges, but also holds him responsible, which influences the way Eurydice interprets the story. After watching Eurydice run off without saying a word, the Thebans and the messenger are filled with apprehension. The messenger leaves right after 1256. Seemingly his role is done now that he has delivered his message. However, he returns to the stage unexpectedly in 1278, where it appears that he only left the stage to check on Eurydice. Meanwhile Creon comes in from the side carrying his son. Consequently Creon confesses his guilt, admitting that he is to blame for his son's demise (1261‐1269). When the messenger returns he tells Creon that she is dead. There is no need for an elaborate recounting of the tale, as her corpse is in plain sight, no longer hidden indoors (1293). There is a short narrative starting in 1301, but there is a lacuna here, as well as debate over the lines. What does become clear from the conversation between Creon and the messenger is, once more, Creon's guilt/responsibility. The messenger makes clear that he finds Creon responsible in 1278‐
1280, and also that Eurydice and Haemon felt the same way (in 1304‐1305 and 1312‐1313). Furthermore, Creon concurs and takes the blame on himself for his son in 1261‐1269, and for Eurydice in 1317 and 1320. He repeats his guilt once more 1341‐1346 before he finally leaves the stage and the play is ended. As we have seen, Creon's guilt is made explicit several times throughout the text by different characters. I have argued that the messenger shares this disposition. Although mostly in a subtle way, the messenger also shows this during his narrative. It is clear that he pities Haemon but any signs of pity for Creon are absent, even though this is normally a standard element for any messenger reporting the disasters that befell his master. The 44 messenger subtly reinforces the notion by reporting only the words of Creon in direct speech, marking him as the one for whom the punishment was meant. The last two lines of the narrative are, in my opinion, the strongest indication of this view, besides being the most emphatic display of the personal focalization of the messenger. Although the messenger did explicitly state telling the truth, his message is hardly a neutral (or objective) recounting of events, but a personally colored view. This view is also made apparent by the messenger in his statements prior to delivering his message, as well as during the events after the message, when he reports Eurydice's suicide to Creon. Rather than functioning like some tape‐recorder, the messenger makes his own choices in the presentation of his story. For example, the differences in the rhythm of the narration show the messenger's judgment concerning what is most important to tell. In the same way it is the messenger who, as the narrator, decides to describe some spatial details and to leave out others. Only those he finds important are included. Furthermore, after his message the messenger remains involved in the plot. His message induces Eurydice to kill herself, and after becoming distressed he leaves temporarily to check on her. He returns to inform Creon of her death, but as he does so he clearly confronts Creon with the fact that it is his fault; his decisions that brought this about, thereby showing his own perspective, but also that of the deceased. This messenger, then, is not some robot that offers just 'truth' to the characters on stage. He is a character involved in the plot himself, with a role to play and ties to the other characters. He has his own personal view of things, which becomes clear in his actions and his words, including those of his messenger‐speech. 4. Commentaries In writing my analyses of the plays of Sophocles I have intentionally avoided the use of other commentaries as much as possible. The exception to this is Barrett. My interpretation of the messenger stands at odds with his (see Narratology), hence my analysis was written partly as a response to his. However, putting Barrett aside for the moment, I have refrained from using other commentaries in order to keep my own narratological 45 approach free of influence. To avoid the risk of missing something interesting because of being too absorbed in the interests of former commentators, I have chosen to write my own analysis first before consulting other commentaries. From these commentaries I have selected those notes that touch on my own approach or are of some interest to it. Rather than integrating the notes directly into my own analysis, I have chosen to present them in a separate chapter. This allows for a clearer picture of what a narratological approach has to offer, especially in drawing attention to aspects of the story which often have been hardly mentioned at all. The commentaries used for the Electra are Jebb (1962) and Kamerbeek (1974). For the Oedipus Tyrannos they are Jebb (1962) 13 , Kamerbeek (1967) and Dawe (2006). Finally, for the Antigone I have used Jebb (1962), Kamerbeek (1978) and Brown (1987). 4.1 Electra 657‐659: Jebb notes that the appearance of the messenger is like an immediate response of Apollo to Klytaimnestra's prayers. Kamerbeek points at the dramatic irony of the situation. The object of Klytaimnestra's prayers is seemingly fulfilled, but the message is actually the instrument of her undoing. Both commentators note that the Paidagogos' entry is like an answer to Klytaimnestra's prayers. Kamerbeek focuses on its effect on the audience, but the effect of his entrance on Klytaimnestra herself is not mentioned. Would she not be far more ready to believe the messenger if she sees him as the answer to her prayers? If so, then just by his entry the Paidagogos has already made an important step in his mission: to persuade Klytaimnestra to believe his story. 660: Jebb directs attention to the courteous mode of inquiry used by the Paidagogos. The Paidagogos establishes himself as a polite gentleman, elaborating his already superbly timed entrance. 666: Jebb remarks that ω prefixed to χαιρε marks joyous excitement. 13
Jebb's commentaries are reprints. See Bibliography. 46 This joyous excitement of the Paidagogos in addressing the queen must also be a part of the charade to appear as a trustworthy man whom she would be willing to believe. 671/672: Kamerbeek notes that Klytaimnestra now echoes the words of the messenger, but only after hearing his employer's name. Indeed, lines 668/669 show that Klytaimnestra is hesitant in trusting the stranger until she knows where he is from. Only after hearing where he is from does she truly believe the words uttered by the Paidagogos in 666‐667. 673: Jebb and Kamerbeek agree that there is no hidden meaning in ξυνθεις. Some critics have preferred to read a second meaning of in this word: 'construct', as in 'constructing a lie', which would refer to the deceit of the Paidagogos. However, the construction is not in favor of such an interpretation. 675: Jebb and Kamerbeek point out that Klytaimnestra's mode of talking marks excitement. Kamerbeek adds that she, as it were, brushes Electra and her distress aside. Kamerbeek also notes that she does so again in 678 with derisive scorn, as if the death of Orestes does not concern her. So far the ploy of the Paidagogos is working. Klytaimnestra's both excited and very curious about the fate of Orestes. She wants to hear the rest of the tale, but Electra is interrupting with her moans. I don't agree with Kamerbeek's interpretation of 678. Klytaimnestra telling Electra to mind her own concerns does not imply that Orestes' death is not an issue for Klytaimnestra. Rather, I think Klytaimnestra is referring to Electra's moans. She means to say: "Go busy yourself somewhere else, because I want to hear the rest of the story". Hence the immediately following question to the Paidagogos for more information. If Orestes' death is of no concern to her, it would be silly to immediately ask about him after stating so. 685‐692: about the success of Orestes Kamerbeek notes that it's function is dramatic. Orestes' fictitious glory enhances the pity of his fictitious death and, at the same time, anticipates the 'real' triumph he will achieve. Jebb draws attention to the construction used to describe Orestes' success. First the messenger states in the briefest way his success by saying they are matchless, then he points out one thing: that he won every contest. 47 I agree with Kamerbeek insofar that Orestes' glory enhances the pity of his death, but I wonder if it anticipates his real triumph. It is a victory of quite a different nature and weight than his wins in any contest. Besides, this last effect is something only felt by the audience, the external narratees. Enhancing the pity of Orestes' death by contrast with his success, however, also has its impact on the internal narratees, especially Klytaimnestra. Regarding Jebb, the messenger, as a character, might have good reasons to not go into detail. The story is a lie after all, and should therefore not be made too intricate. Besides, his success primarily serves as a contrast to make his pathetic death gain more impact. 693‐695: Kamerbeek recognizes the construction as a dramatic application of the victor's proclamation belonging to the customs of the Panhellenic games. A nice trick by the narrator (the Paidagogos), which adds to the realism of the story. Rather than attributing these words to the author directly, it is also interesting to keep in mind which character is speaking and to whom. 701‐708: Kamerbeek and Jebb wonder about the composition of the group of riders, arguing whether they are grouped topographically and/or due to their horse‐mastery and political prominence. Both commentators appoint the composition of the group to the choices of the author, but forget to consider the 'reality' inside the play. The Paidagogos is trying to persuade Klytaimnestra to believe a lie. His extraordinary situation also has its impact on the story told. For example, the riders are hardly more than walk‐ons. Going into detail is both too complex and not necessary, as these riders are really of no importance to the story at all. This summary is rather a retardation of the action to heighten suspense, rather than the delivery of any crucial information. 709‐748: Both commentators divert all their attention to a detailed reconstruction of the race. However, in doing so, they often forget the fact that this speech is uttered by one of the characters, the Paidagogos, to another character, within the world of the play. This story is not just the description of a race, but a lie told by the Paidagogos to Klytaimnestra, and its purpose it to persuade her. Furthermore, the story is ultimately not about the race, but about Orestes' death. I think the other scenes should also be seen as a build‐up to that dramatic 48 moment, rather than just as different elements of the race. Both Kamerbeek and Jebb focus on how we should visualize the race, Kamerbeek even going so far as to supply sketches denoting the driving lanes different riders were taking (such as Orestes' course, or those of the Aenian and the Barcaean, leading up to the massive wreckage in the middle of the race). However, we should also wonder how these scenes influence the narratees within the reality of the play, especially with regard to the purpose of the Paidagogos in telling them the story. Furthermore, we should not forget that the description of the race is also delivered to us by the messenger. If we try to understand how to properly visualize the scene, as if it really happened (which is what Kamerbeek and Jebb essentially do), then we should also wonder how the Paidagogos would have been able to see all this. 740: Jebb and Kamerbeek agree that the drivers in turn project their heads out in front of the chariots to take the lead. Jebb insists that the scene is depicted 'en profil', meaning that the riders are seen from the side. Kamerbeek does not disagree. I wonder if 739‐740 really indicates any particular viewpoint rather than just being an observation of the actions of both riders. However, if we do follow Jebb's interpretation, we shouldn't forget that it is the Paidagogos who delivers this perspective. He pictures the scene from the side. However, this does not really help us place him on the scene (since the track is elliptical there are always two stretches of the track where you witness the riders from the side, no matter where you sit or stand). In fact, I doubt whether it is possible to place the Paidagogos at the scene. The story is fictitious, after all, so if a scene is presented from a particular viewpoint or viewing angle, I think it best to assume that the Paidagogos does so because this form of presentation has the most impact on the narratees. The dramatic function of this passage (a one‐on‐one stretch to the finish) is to heighten the suspense for the narratees, not just for the external narratees, but most off all for the internal narratees, especially Klytaimnestra. However, I doubt whether the construction of 739‐740 really implies such a viewpoint. 741‐748: Both Jebb and Kamerbeek place the fall of Orestes in the last round, but admit that there is no explicit mention of this in the text. Only because of dramatic poignancy do they assume that the crash must have happened at this time. 49 The fact that the text does not mention explicitly when this happened during the race proves more than anything that the race or its results are of no importance. The race is just context and build‐up leading up to the dramatic climax of the speech: Orestes' fall from the chariot. Neither the chorus, nor Klytaimnestra are interested in the race. They are preoccupied by the fact that the tale recounts Orestes' death. That is what they are waiting for, and the Paidagogos delivers. 757‐758: Kamerbeek notes that this construction is highly expressive of 'pathos' by means of the antithesis, enjambment and oxymoron of the genitive going with σωμα. The Paidagogos draws out even more pathos here by contrasting Orestes' once superb form with the ashes that are all that is now left. Although the Paidagogos knows how Klytaimnestra has always hoped to be delivered from her fear of Orestes, he does turn the latter's fictional death into a tragic one, picturing a great man succumbing to a terrible disaster. Orestes' death is presented as a grievous thing, even though the Paidagogos knows that Klytaimnestra does not see it as such. Does he present the story as such to increase its credibility, or does he wish to influence Klytaimnestra in another way (for example, by trying to draw out some sort of emotion or feeling of loss in Klytaimnestra)? Indeed, in 766 Klytaimnestra shows that she still has some feelings for Orestes as her son. 762‐763: Kamerbeek says that the fictional character of the speech is nowhere more palpable than here, where the speaker emphasizes in the strongest terms the fact that he was an eyewitness. Indeed, this is the effect that the words of the Paidagogos have on the external narratees, the audience, but the effect on the internal narratees is entirely different. Within the reality of the tragedy there is a very good reason for the messenger to stress his eyewitness‐status here. It is the most powerful claim to authority the Paidagogos can make, differentiating him from the other characters onstage. He was there to see it, whereas they weren't. His superior knowledge compared to the other characters supplies the basis for his authority, which in turn strengthens the credibility of his story. Let us not forget that the purpose of the story is to persuade Klytaimnestra. This is the Piadagogos' most powerful technique to do so. 50 766: Kamerbeek points out that Klytaimnestra's words are not just hypocrisy. This fleeting moment of awareness of her tragic situation redeems her from absolute inhumanity and unreality. I agree with Kamerbeek that these words are not hypocrisy. However, I wonder if perhaps this reaction is also a result of the dramatic and pathetic way the Paidagogos presents Orestes' death. Would she, for example, have felt the same if he was run over by a cart, or had dropped dead by the side of the road? Perhaps not even Klytaimnestra can remain unmoved about her son in the face of such a tragic account as the Paidagogos has just delivered. 772: Jebb and Kamerbeek agree that this line shows the Paidagogos' assumption that his tidings would be welcomed and he would be rewarded for his troubles. Thus a cue is given to change Klytaimnestra's tone. Kamerbeek adds that Klytaimnestra's next words will also show the shallowness of her maternal feelings: only for a moment did they counterbalance her immense relief at the news of the (fictional) death of the avenger. I agree with both commentators here. One might wonder if perhaps this is also a part of the Paidagogos' ploy, but I doubt it. When in line 1343 Orestes asks whether Klytaimnestra and the others were pleased at hearing his death, the Paidagogos says that he will tell him after all is over. He clearly does not want to tell Orestes of Klytaimnestra's feelings (766‐768 and 770‐771) , since now is not the time to hesitate. I think that this indicates that Klytaimnestra's feelings are really something unexpected, and not something calculated in the plan. 799: Kamerbeek points out that the Paidagogos' feigned purpose to leave serves the deceit. I agree with Kamerbeek. In asking if it is okay for him to leave, the Paidagogos prompts Klytaimnestra to show proper hospitality and invite him into her house, which is exactly where he needs to be to further aid Orestes. 51 4.2 Oedipus Tyrannos First Messenger 924: Jebb notes that the arrival of the messenger is like the fulfillment of Iocaste's prayers. Kamerbeek points out that the lines 924‐926 are a situation and wording of recurrent type in Tragedy. The arrival of the messenger with such superb timing is something we have seen before. In the Electra the messenger also appears at such a time that it makes his entrance look like the answer to a prayer. The effect of his entrance on the relation between messenger and narratee is difficult to pinpoint, but I assume that the messenger's entrance enhances the readiness to listen and believe on the part of the narratees; a similar effect as in the Electra 928: Jebb and Kamerbeek both point out the close proximity of γυνη to μητηρ and point out the dramatic irony in this sentence. To the audience, who know the outcome of the play, this line could refer to Iocaste being both Oedipus' wife and mother. However, as Kamerbeek points out, this reference is only for the audience. The line itself is not ambiguous in its meaning. For the internal narratees it is a simple statement. Jebb adds that the description of Iocaste in 930 and 950 is similarly poignant for the audience, although to a somewhat lesser degree. 930: Kamerbeek notes that παντελης refers to Iocaste having borne children to Oedipus. The primary 'duty' of a wife is to bear children to her husband. In doing so she becomes, as it were, a 'complete' wife. Kamerbeek also adds that the messenger has a personal interest in Oedipus. Not only does the messenger state that he came in the hope that he might achieve some reward for his work (1105‐1006), but, as it will turn out, he is also the shepherd who once gave the baby Oedipus to king Polybus of Corinth. 936‐37: Dawe remarks that the messenger comes to offer Oedipus the throne of Corinth, and not because of the prophecy. The death of Polybus is to him not the heart of the message. He thinks he brings in the first place joy, because Oedipus is to be king and does not need to fear killing his father anymore, and grief in the second place, because Polybus is dead. 52 I agree insofar that the messenger and Iocaste (and Oedipus later on) have different priorities in regarding the news. But the messenger can't possibly think that he is bringing Oedipus joy in relieving him from the prophecy. At this point, the messenger does not even know the prophecy yet. He is told later in 994‐996. Furthermore, the messenger does already know that Polybus is not Oedipus' real father. It is Iocaste and Oedipus who believe the death of Polybus shatters the prophecy, not the messenger. 946‐949: Jebb points out that that Iocaste's critique is not directed at the gods. She believes in the power and wisdom of the gods, but not in the human counterpart of that power, the seers and oracles. The gods are wise, but they give no προνοια to man. Kamerbeek notes that προς της τυχης conveys what we should call 'a natural death' or 'death by natural causes', but implying the idea εικῃ, not by a decree of fate as embodied in Apollo's oracle to Oedipus. 956: Kamerbeek draws attention to the fact that calling Polybus by name as Oedipus' father reminds of the truth. Kamerbeek notes the effect that the line has on the audience, the external narratees. But what about the internal narratees? One might perhaps wonder why the messenger does not tell them here that Polybus is not Oedipus' father. That is because there is no good reason to do so yet. Oedipus loved Polybus as his father and Polybus loved Oedipus as a son. There is no reason yet for the messenger to tear at this relationship now. 958: Here it is Kamerbeek who notices that the messenger and his internal narratees Oedipus and Iocaste have different priorities. The messenger came to make Oedipus king, not to discuss the death of Polybus at length. Dawe adds that the messenger seems nettled that Oedipus and Iocaste keep turning to this side of the story. 964‐972: Dawe mentions that Oedipus is glad, but shows his disgust for prophecies, now that he thinks he has eluded his. 976: Dawe notes that Iocaste herself opened the door to this question by telling Oedipus not to worry about αυτων any more, thereby referring also to the part of the prophecy about his mother, which Oedipus seemingly forgot for a moment. Kamerbeek points out that the very 53 notion of that part of the prophecy still being possible raises Oedipus' fears. He probably hopes she dies so he can be without blame and will no longer have to worry. I agree with both commentators on these counts. I think lines 984‐986 and 988 show Kamerbeek is right. Oedipus' fear is connected to Merope being alive. It remains implicit that when she dies, so does his fear. 987: Jebb remarks that Iocaste seems elated at the news of the messenger. Indeed, right now she is in high spirits, in contrast to the end of the messenger's revelations, when she has realized the truth and begs Oedipus not to inquire further into his parentage. 1008: Kamerbeek notes that ω παι indicates that the messenger is an old man and feels himself, up to a point, Oedipus' foster father. Dawe points out that the messenger could have told Oedipus this at 955‐956 but only now does he have a really good reason to do so. A foster father may be a bit too much, but the messenger does show that he really cares about Oedipus' fate. This is not so weird, considering his own role in the survival of the baby. It would only be natural that he would have some feeling of responsibility and caring for the child. 1035: Dawe notes that in the first place it is impossible that such old wounds would still reveal such scars. Secondly, Polybus and Merope could never have told him how it had happened without showing that it didn't happen under their care, but before. Jebb notes giving the kid scars was a custom to recognize them later, after they had been exposed as children. I agree with Dawe that Polybus and Merope couldn't have told exactly what happened. So it is a bit strange that Oedipus seems to know how he got his scars. As for the custom of scarring foundlings to recognize them later, if this is true, then we should conclude that it didn't really work. After all, Iocaste didn't recognize him from the scars. 1039: Kamerbeek points out that 1026 is ambiguous and made it seem as if the messenger had found him lying somewhere on the mountainside. Hence it is not initially clear to Oedipus that the shepherd hadn't found Oedipus himself. 54 1056: Jebb notes that Iocaste must have know the truth since 1042 but still wants to spare Oedipus the pain of knowing what she knows. However, he mistakenly thinks she is afraid of him possibly being low‐born. Kamerbeek agrees, pointing out that Iocaste raises an urgent entreaty in 1060 and 1064, which is lowered to an appeal in 1066 and finally leaves nothing but a pathetic wish in 1068 and her moving exit. The worst is that Oedipus misjudges her reasons, thinking she is afraid that he is of low descent, whereas in truth she already knows that his problem is rather his 'noble' descent. Dawe primarily notices the rough edge to Oedipus' tongue in answering Iocaste. I agree with Jebb and Kamerbeek on this matter. As for Dawe, I think that the rough edge and the harshness of Oedipus' words are one of his major sins in this play. He displays vile words and harsh judgments which are both unjust and often premature. He displays such vulgarity in the face of Tiresias, Croesus, the shepherd and Iocaste. His tongue is one of the factors that makes Oedipus bring such disaster upon himself. Second Messenger 1223‐1224: Dawe states that the words of the messenger are said to show that the royal family now hardly exists. Now the αει τιμωμενοι will have to establish continuity. I find Dawe's interpretation of these lines rather strange. Is he implying that line 1224 entails the activities that the chorus members now have to do to maintain continuity, in the absence of the royal family? That makes no sense. Line 1224 marks the content of the messenger's speech. That is what they will hear and see, and suffer from. 1227: Kamerbeek notes that this idea was set as example in Aeschylus. The two rivers are chosen for their remoteness. 1229: Jebb perceives a contrast between κευθει and φανει. The former denotes Iocaste's corpse, the latter the blinded Oedipus. These horrors came to be through acts both conscious and unconscious. Kamerbeek disagrees, saying that there is no great contrast between evils hidden and those about to come to light, but only an imperfect antithesis of the horrors inside the house and the part that will be shown forthwith. I agree with Kamerbeek. The antithesis is imperfect. A lot of things are hidden in the house, but only a part is revealed to the light. 55 1231: All three commentators agree that this line concerns the audience (or perhaps also the chorus), and not Oedipus. Kamerbeek adds that if the line did concern Oedipus, the truth of the sentence would be too questionable. It would make no sense for αυθαιρετοι to denote the audience here. Firstly, The messenger is speaking about the house of Laius here. It would be very illogical to suddenly turn out of nowhere to the audience, who are not involved otherwise in any sort of manner in his words. Perhaps out of some 20th‐century moralizing do the commentators refuse to recognize what becomes evident throughout the entire play: that Oedipus is held responsible for the disasters. It becomes clear through Tiresias words, but mostly of all through the end of the play. The disaster befalling Oedipus at the end of the play is a punishment by the gods indicating his responsibility. Furthermore, here Oedipus takes the blame upon himself, and there are none who go against it. Not Creon, nor the chorus. Apparently the other characters also think that Oedipus is responsible. I don't think this is too questionable. First of all there is his rough tongue. His judgments are harsh, his words often vile, but both are often unjust or premature. He verbally abuses just about everybody he talks with (Tiresias, Croesus, the shepherd and even Iocaste). Then there is the crime of killing his father and bedding his mother. The fact that he was predetermined to do so does not absolve him of these crimes. He actually made it worse by trying to outrun his fate, showing his hubris. The fact that he can't avoid this prophecy doesn't mean he is innocent. It means he was predetermined to be guilty. Iocaste is equally guilty in this last sense. She too tried to elude Apollo's prophecies, by exposing the little baby Oedipus. In the end their actions did nothing more than bring disaster to them, hence the use of αυθαιρετοι. 1238‐1239: Jebb and Kamerbeek point out that the messenger means that they would be able to picture what happened far more vividly if they drew it from their own memory, compared to the images he is able to convey through telling. Dawe interprets μνημης not as 'memory', but as 'mention', 'taking account', in the sense of 'the power to describe'. I agree with Jebb and Kamerbeek, but the messenger does more than just that. Here he is differing himself from the other characters. He has seen it himself and can draw from memory whereas they can't. This superior knowledge is the pillar upon which his authority rests. His account of what happened is the only one at this moment. With no contrary 56 information, the narratees can't do anything but accept his authority and his story. I reject Dawe's interpretation for the same reason. The fact that he is drawing the story from memory is the basis of the authority of the story. 1241: Kamerbeek notes that this is where the real story starts, with the typical construction οπως γαρ. 1243: Kamerbeek points out that αμφιδεξιοις is 'more vividly constructed'. It conveys Iocaste's hysteria in a better way than with a simple αμφοιν. If this construction is indeed more vivid in portraying Iocaste's hysterics, we should not forget that it is the narrator who chooses to present the situation as such. The messenger apparently wishes to convey her madness as accurate as he can. 1253: Kamerbeek notes that εκθεασασθαι doesn't literally mean 'see', which was impossible (because she closed the doors), but rather means: to keep paying attention until the end. However, Oedipus came in and drew that attention. Dawe says that they are distracted by Oedipus' entrance. Dawe states that the playwright has to deal successively with what would have presented itself simultaneously in real life. I agree with Kamerbeek. I have to reject Dawe's interpretation though. First of all it is the messenger who is speaking here, not the playwright. Second, he does not deal with events that would have presented themselves simultaneously in real life. First Iocaste comes in and shuts herself up. When Oedipus comes in raging, diverting everyone's attention, she is still alive. After ranging about for a sword, Oedipus, suddenly inspired, rushes to the doors and forces them open. At that time she is already dead. When Oedipus forces open the door, we do not return to the point of the story where we left Iocaste, lamenting over her bed. She is now dead. In the time that Oedipus was ranging about, she hung herself. The messenger and the others in the courtyard, can't focus their attention on both Oedipus and Iocaste at the same time. In real life that would also be impossible. Such is the limit of a human. 1255: Jebb points out that Oedipus comes in like a raving wild man. Dawe notices that Oedipus asking for a sword is peculiar. According to him the only possibility to explain it is that Oedipus intents to kill his wife/mother Iocaste. 57 The messenger makes it clear, by presenting Oedipus as a raving wild man, why exactly he was unable to keep his attention fixed at Iocaste. As for Dawe, it is very weird that Oedipus asks for a sword. However, Oedipus planning to kill Iocaste just doesn't make sense if we look at the ending of the play (1371‐1374, for example). 1273‐1274: Kamerbeek thinks that the things that Oedipus' eyes shouldn't have seen are his children, and that the things he should've recognized are his parents. According to Jebb, Iocaste can also be included in the first category, those his eyes shouldn't have seen. However, Kamerbeek adds that both categories have not been left indefinite for no reason. I think the most logical solution is that the first category (which his eyes shouldn't have seen) consists of Oedipus' children. The second category (those he should have recognized) consists of his real parents, Iocaste and Laius. Kamerbeek's remark is intriguing, however. The messenger is here presenting the words of Oedipus, who has been driven to the edge of madness. Perhaps Oedipus does not have any definitive faces to put into both categories. Certainly some names can be put in both categories, such as Iocaste and Laius. And one could argue that he also didn't recognize his friends (such as Creon). Perhaps this fluidity is the reason that both categories are left indefinite. 1295‐1296: Dawe points out that the messenger ends his account in the same way as he started it: with a reference to the power of οψις. The messenger does not actually start with a specific reference to οψις, but addresses the chorus about what they are going to hear, see and suffer. However, he does start the message proper (the start of the actual account) with such a reference, namely in 1237‐1238. However, the similarity does not stop there. This is not just about seeing, but about seeing terrible things. In both instances it's about the impact of seeing terrible things for yourself. 4.3 Antigone 1156‐1160: Jebb explains the motto in these lines: Prosperity may seem secure, or misery irredeemable, but no condition can be regarded as really stable. Kamerbeek mentions that 58 we are dealing here with a reflection on the story the messenger is going to tell. Brown notes that the messenger has in fact only seen things turn for the worst. The notion that life can also become better can be accredited to a tendency to antithesis in the Greek language or a feeling/sense of balance and reciprocity in the universe by Sophocles. I think Jebb's explanation is correct, but he forgets that we are dealing with a reflection of the messenger on the story he is going to tell. In other words, this reflection shows the focalization of the messenger as a character. Although Kamerbeek does come close to this, he does not mention explicitly that it is the messenger's reflection, and thus focalization, that is contained within these lines. I think Brown does not interpret the motto used by the messenger correctly. The point is not whether things turn for the better or the worst, but the fact that life is not stable. As long as you live everything can turn around. Which is exactly what happened to Creon. Things turned out well for him once (when he became king), but now all comes to naught. 1161‐1164: Kamerbeek points out that these lines have a certain importance for gauging the position of Creon as meant by the poet. First of all, I would rather appoint these lines to the messenger than to Sophocles directly. Furthermore, I think it would be better to say that Creon is the example of the principle stated by the messenger in 1156‐1160. 1166: Jebb notes that προδωσιν means rather to lose something through your own fault (to forfeit), than just to lose something. In that case one would expect απολλυναι. Kamerbeek follows Jebb's interpretation. I too would like to follow Jebb here. If προδωσιν does mean 'forfeit', then this is another sign that the messenger holds Creon responsible for his own fate. 1173: Brown notes that the 'grief' in 1172 is both the death of Haemon and the fact that his father is guilty of it. Hence both these elements are included in the messenger's answer. Kamerbeek adds that τεθνασιν primarily means Haemon, but the plural allows us to understand that Antigone is also meant. Kamerbeek stresses that the spectators and the chorus do not know precisely who is meant by τεθνασιν at this point. The messenger's cryptic words heighten suspense. 59 I agree with Kamerbeek's interpretation. I especially find his last comment interesting. The messenger leaves the narratees, both internal and external, in the dark with just scraps of information. He heightens suspense and postpones his account for now. The right time has not yet come to tell the full account. 1177: Kamerbeek explains that with φονου the murder of Antigone is meant. Kamerbeek is undoubtedly right, but that does not make it easier to discern whose focalization we are dealing with. Is it the focalization of Haemon, or that of the messenger? Or perhaps it is the focalization of both? After all, it is the messenger who chooses the word φονου. 1183: Brown remarks that Eurydice only addresses the chorus. Jebb on the other hand, thinks that this form address was chosen to include the messenger. I find Jebb's interpretation more logical here. At the end of her speech asks them to repeat the news to her (1190). It would be only natural if this question was also addressed at the messenger, who after all, was the one who delivered that news. Even if she does not know who of the group exactly was bringing the news about Haemon, it would still be strange for her to exclude the messenger from the others. 1186‐1189: Brown remarks that Eurydice has to explain why she was outside to hear their words. Jebb notes that she must have heard line 1173 (perhaps 1175). If she fainted after that, her question in 1190 would be only natural. Kamerbeek thinks that she must have fainted after 1173. He remarks that the message of woe is personified as a deadly shot. These lines contain not only an explanation of why Eurydice was outside to hear them, but also an explanation of why she asks them to repeat the news in 1190. She didn't hear it all because she swooned. It is clear that she couldn't have heard more than 1175 at most, or else she would already know of Creon's responsibility for the disaster. I think that it is the revelation that Creon is responsible that ultimately drives Eurydice to kill herself after hearing the story of the messenger. 1192‐1195 Brown and Jebb agree that the messenger's defense of the truth (as a messenger he has to supply all the details) is also an apology to Eurydice for the pain he may cause her. 60 Kamerbeek point out something else entirely, noting that the construction in 1172 puts emphasis on παρων. I find Brown and Jebb's interpretation very appealing. The messenger doesn't just build his authority in 1192‐1195, distinguishing himself from the others onstage, but he also apologizes for doing what is in essence his duty as a messenger, knowing that it might cause harm. I think this would also show that the messenger is also a character with ties to others; a dramatis persona of the play. As for Kamerbeek, I think that the reason is that παρων is the very basis of the messenger's authority. He has been there and he has seen it, whereas everyone else hasn't. 1199‐1203: Brown notes that the body is mangled. Sophocles stresses both the propriety of the rites and the state of the body. This begs the question in how far the outrage of Creon can still be undone. I agree with Brown, but I think it is more interesting to ascribe these words to the messenger, rather than directly to Sophocles. 1202: Brown remarks this is a grim sentence. Especially λελειπετο shows the bad state the body is in. Jebb notices that συγκατῃθομεν means 'buried together', rather than 'buried completely'. It implicates dismembered parts being gathered and buried together. Kamerbeek, who notices both elements, adds that the messenger is not sparing in gruesome details. In presenting his narratees with the state of the body of Polynices ( the result of Creon's heinous act) the messenger implies that the damage has gone too far to undo Creon's crime. Thereby he also foreshadows the bad ending to come. If Creon's crimes can't be undone, he will have to face the consequences. 1216: Jebb thinks that the entrance to the tomb (στομιον) is the gap made by Haemon. Brown, however, thinks that the entrance is inside the mount and that this line refers to the corridor (δρομος) that leads to the 'mouth' (στομιον) of the tomb. Kamerbeek hesitates to choose between both options. 61 Brown's interpretation implies that the gap in the stones outside leads to the corridor and on to the mouth of the tomb. This means Creon orders his attendants to go inside the mount to the mouth of the inner chamber. Either way, the narratological effect is the same. The messenger can't look inside the temple until he stands on the correct spot. This means that the narratees also don't know. Just like the messenger in his story they are suddenly confronted with a horrible sight. It is the gap made by Haemon that serves as a window for the attendants to look inside the tomb. Only through this gap can they know what happens inside the tomb. 1220‐1222: Brown points out that there is little concern for and attention to Antigone's death. This is because her death is not the primary concern of the messenger and Creon. Her effect on Haemon becomes her primary goal. Kamerbeek notes that first we find Antigone hanging, but when Haemon clasps her waist she must also be lying down. In the end he follows Jebb, who claims that Haemon's embrace must have been while lowering Antigone, since she is lying down in 1236‐1240. However, both acknowledge that this is illogical, and we are probably dealing with an inconsistency. Brown also notes the discrepancy. The only other option is that Haemon is half lying down and clasping the still hanging Antigone around her waist, hanging around her, as it were. Both here and in 1236 only Haemon is explicitly mentioned as lying down. However, this explanation is also very farfetched. 1230: Kamerbeek notes that the full pathos of the words can be understood if we bear in mind that in clinging to the dead Antigone, Haemon is clinging to death in general, and that Creon's words stand in stark contrast to his words after Haemon's exit (768‐769). 2131‐1236: Jebb is of the opinion that Haemon tries to kill his father in a fit of rage, but kills himself in regret after sobering up. Brown agrees but notes that remorse couldn't be the only reason because of 1177 and the general situation: he can't live without Antigone. In line 1177 it is stated that he died in anger at his father for the murder he committed. Furthermore, Creon is seen as guilty of Haemon's death. Eurydice's reaction to the story is illuminating. She kills herself uttering curses, calling Creon his own son's killer. This makes it 62 in my eyes doubtful that Haemon commits suicide out of a regret for attacking his father. I rather think that Haemon kills himself because he can't forgive his father. He can't live without Antigone nor with the crimes his father committed. 1242‐1243: Brown notes that this is the corollary of the words Tiresias used in 1050. Interesting. Apparently the messenger is of the same opinion as Tiresias: that the malady from which Creon suffers is his own αβουλια. This is after all a reflection on the part of the messenger. 1244: Jebb points out a similar thing happens to Iocaste in the Oedipus Tyrannos. There Iocaste also leaves the stage after the messenger has told his tale, perhaps not in silence, but with a reticence called σιωπη. Afterwards she turns out to have killed herself, just like Eurydice does here. 1246: Kamerbeek points out that the roundabout way the messenger employs to express his hopes could very well indicate that those hopes and expectations turn out to be illusory. 1278‐1280: Kamerbeek remarks that many have termed the messenger as changing from an αγγελος to an εξαγγελος. Perhaps it is not superfluous to say that not only does the same actor perform both these roles, but we are actually dealing with the same dramatis personae. 1278: Jebb notes that Creon is literally carrying his son's corpse along. This is the burden he has in hand (εχων) and the burden in store for him is Eurydice's corpse (κεκτημενος). Brown, however, thinks that Creon is not really carrying Haemon himself, but is at most touching his head while an attendant carries him. I favor Jebb's interpretations most. The messenger's words at 1278‐1280 are much stronger if we imagine Creon to be carrying Haemon himself. Lines 1257‐1260, these lines and 1298 and following all suggest that it is more logical and likely that Creon is holding Haemon himself. 1282: Brown wonders about the interpretation of παμμητωρ. Jebb and Kamerbeek think that it means a 'true' mother; 'a mother in all aspects'. Jebb adds that her maternal feelings go so far that she can't live without her son. 63 Her son's death does play a role in Eurydice's suicide, but I think that the aspect that ultimately drives her to commit suicide is not Haemon's death, but rather the fact that Creon is responsible for it. 5. Conclusion My research and analysis are oriented on three primary objectives. Firstly, my analysis and comparison with other commentaries show the merits of applying a narratological approach to narrative texts (in this case the messenger‐speech) in pointing out aspects of the story that traditional commentaries hardly touch upon. Although commentators such as Jebb and Kamerbeek do occasionally make observations of some narratological value, there is still too little attention bestowed on the 'identity' of the narrator and internal narratee(s) within the tragedy. I have shown that the structure of the messenger‐speech shows the choices made by its narrator, the messenger, and vice versa, that the 'identity' of the messenger and his internal narratees may clarify choices in the narrative. Commentators often forget that a tragedy has a 'reality' of its own. They often treat the words of the messenger‐speech as the direct words of Sophocles, directed at the audience. However, within the 'reality' of the play the messenger‐speech is told by the messenger, and directed at other characters on stage. His words are not just plain information for the benefit of the audience, but also have impact on the other characters in the play, and can even influence the further development of the plot. Secondly, I have shown that the messenger is not a 'tool of information', whose authority is based on impartiality. He is a character, with ties to other characters. Rather than impartial, his account is engaged and often biased. The messenger shows his own perspective by means of focalization, both subtle and very direct. The messenger may moralize, reflect on matters, pass judgment or make some sort of observation, all of which conspire to make him more than just a 'tool'. The messenger can also show his focalization more subtly, by the choice of a particular word or the singling out of a specific detail. Furthermore, his 'presence' can be detected in the very structure of the narrative. He can choose to change the rhythm or order of the narration, to include direct speech, which event or detail is important enough to be included in the narrative, etc. I oppose Barrett's view of 64 the messenger as an impartial source of information. Instead I suggest that the messenger is one of the dramatis personae. Lastly, in rejecting impartiality as the basis of the messenger's authority, I have supplied another foundation for his authority: 'superior knowledge'. The messenger's words carry weight because his story is derived from knowledge which his narratees don't share. His story is their only source of information. With no contrary information they can't gainsay his tale. Usually they claim this superior knowledge by stressing 'autopsy'. The messengers have seen certain events, whereas their narratees haven't. It is this difference above all others that grants the messenger's words their authority. 65 6. 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