That being so, how can there be any forgiveness? Would not forgiveness be a sort of monstrosity, a wanton breach in the law of Cause and Effect? Aeschylus, in the Agamemnon, gives his answer in unusually clear language (161–182). The prophet Calchas has been describing the ravenous feast of the two Eagles; the wrath of Artemis thereat and the vengeance exacted in the death of Iphigenia; the future vengeance to be exacted for that death; and beyond a yet further vista of vengeances re-avenged. Then Aeschylus asks how man can find escape from this endless chain and “cast off from his mind the burden of futility.” “Only,” he answers, “in the thought of Zeus, whatever Zeus may be.” It is a Zeus sublimated by the mind of Aeschylus and very different from that glorified Achaean chieftain who was King of gods and men in the ordinary Homeric tradition. To Aeschylus Zeus, as the ruler of heaven, is the founder of a new world, much as Athena herself was the founder of a new civilization on earth. The old gods struck and were stricken; they fought and they passed away. One had no more meaning than another. But Zeus is “He who made a road to Thought, who established Learning by Suffering to be an abiding law.” He himself in the distant past won his throne by violence, but now he has learned and his heart is changed.

This idea of a supreme Ruler who, though inscrutably wise, is not perfect but only working his way towards perfection, was developed by Aeschylus in the Prometheus-trilogy, where Zeus, beginning as a conqueror and a tyrant, seems at first like the villain of the piece. But he possesses this peculiar secret: he can learn by his own offences; so the end is reconciliation. Similarly in the Supplices we hear how Io, once the persecuted victim of his lust, is at last led to peace and blessedness and becomes the Virgin Mother of the Deliverer of Prometheus.1 The idea is not purely Aeschylean, for Pindar also tells us how Eternal Zeus set free his chained enemies, the Titans (Pyth. IV 291). It is also he who instituted the law of the suppliant. He forgave the bloodstained Ixion because of his suffering and prayer. Nay, he is not only the protector of suppliants, he is himself the Eternal Suppliant, the God and Master of all things, who forgives because he also craves for forgiveness (Supplices, l. 1). There, however, we touch upon a mystery. … The essential point is that the Zeus who learns and understands is also the Zeus who can forgive the sinner. He can forgive just because he understands. The Law of the Moirai and the Erinyes neither understands nor forgives. It simply operates.

“All this,” it may be said, “is possible enough, but it is not what Aeschylus represents as occurring. Zeus does not appear at all in the Eumenides.” Of course he does not. The Greek convention, like our own, did not easily represent the Supreme Father in bodily form on the stage. Apart from satyr-plays and comedy, I only know of one play, The Soul Weighing of Aeschylus, in which Zeus was actually represented; and there he appears not on the stage but in the sky, holding the divine balance. In the Eumenides he is represented by his son and daughter, Apollo and Athena.

Apollo, we are told expressly, is “the Prophêtês Dios, the revealer of Zeus” (19). He says himself, “Never have I spoken on my throne of prophecy any word concerning man, woman or city, which was not commanded by Zeus the Father” (616). He warns the Court not to disregard the oracles “that are mine and the Father’s” (713). Consequently we see that it was by the will of Zeus himself that Orestes slew his mother, it is Zeus who wills now that he be set free.

Athena likewise, we are told with emphasis, is the daughter of Zeus alone, with no mother. She is pure, undiluted Zeus (664 ff.). She is, so to speak, his Thought, not born by any bodily process, but sprung directly from his brain (665); and when she gives her vote it is not so much that she votes on the side of Zeus but that her judgement inevitably is the same as his, “for I am utterly the Father’s” (738). When she asks the Furies to yield to the will of Zeus she says, “I also trust and obey him. I know his overwhelming strength, but He needs it not!” (826). And she explains that Zeus has given to her just that power of thinking and understanding (τὸ φρονεῖν) to which we were told in the Agamemnon that he was guiding mankind. Thus the mechanical and automatic operation of the Law is corrected by the will of the Father. It is not broken, but more truly and perfectly fulfilled.

One is reminded of a passage in Plato’s Statesman: “The best of all is not that a law should rule, but a man, if the man be wise and of royal nature. … A law can never comprehend exactly what is noblest and most just for all cases, and consequently cannot enjoin what is best. The infinite varieties of men and circumstances, and the fact that nothing human ever for a moment stands still, make it impossible for any art to lay down a simple rule to hold universally and for all time. … But that is what we see the law aiming at, like some stubborn and ignorant man who will allow nothing to be done against his orders and no further question to be asked …” (p. 294a).

Equally near to Aeschylus is Aristotle’s famous discussion of the difference between legal justice and that higher justice which he calls Epieikeia (Equity). “It is the correction of the law where it fails owing to its generality” (Ethics, V p. 1137 b, 26), and the correction has to be applied by the “wise man.” In Aeschylus as in these two philosophers the ultimate justice is to be found in an appeal from a law to a person.

This appeal plays an important role in the history of Greek thought, and consequently in that of all modern Europe. The other philosophic schools of the Hellenistic Age, Cynic, Stoic, and Epicurean, made even greater use than Plato and Aristotle of the idea of the Wise Man, rather than the Law, as the judge and embodiment of right conduct. In a grosser form the idea invaded practical politics. We find the Hellenistic world escaping from the conflict of constitutions and systems of law by the deification of Alexander and his successors, and cutting its juridical knots by the legal fiction of the divine will. Nay, even before Aeschylus set to work upon it, the same conception was really implicit in the anthropomorphism of the classical Olympian religion. As I have tried to show elsewhere,2 the great advance made by that system as compared with the welter of primitive taboos and terrors which it tried, however artificially and inadequately, to supersede, lies in this same humanizing of the nonhuman. It brought to man the Good News that, as Plutarch expresses it, “the world is not ruled by fabulous Typhons and Giants”—nor, we may add, by blind mechanical laws—“but by One who is a wise Father to all.” It sought to make religion humane at the expense of making it anthropomorphic.

It is more interesting still to realize that the Aeschylean doctrine is in essence an early and less elaborate stage of the theological system which we associate with St. Paul: the suppression of the Law by a personal relation to a divine person, and a consequent disregard for the crude coarse test of a man’s “works” or “deeds” in comparison with the one unfailing test of the spirit, its “faith” or “faithfulness” towards God. Aeschylus would have understood Paul’s exhortation to escape beyond the “beggarly elements” to Him who made them, beyond the Creation to the Creator; and Paul would have understood Aeschylus’ insistence on the forgiveness of the suppliant, that is, of him who believes and repents and prays. It is noteworthy, indeed, that Paul made one great concession to primitive thought which Aeschylus had entirely rejected. When Orestes is pardoned by the will of Zeus, the Furies yield; the Law is deemed to be satisfied; there is no talk of its demanding to be paid off with another victim. But in Paul, when man is to be forgiven, the sin still claims its punishment, the blood will still have blood; and the only way to appease it is for the Divine King, himself or his son, to “die for the people.” Thus the pollution is cleansed and sin duly paid with blood, though it happens to be the blood of the innocent. Aeschylus, as a poet, was familiar with that conception. He knew how Codrus died, and Menoikeus and Macaria, how Agamemnon and Erechtheus and other kings had given their children to die. But for him such practices belonged to that primitive and barbaric world which Hellenic Zeus had swept away, so he hoped, forever.

A modern reader is more likely to ask why, if Orestes only fulfilled the command of Zeus, he should be punished at all. Why is there any talk of suffering and forgiveness? The answer is quite straightforward. He has after all broken the Law; he has offended against Themis and Moira, and he must suffer. In modern language, a man who kills his mother, even if he is amply justified in doing so, is bound to suffer acute grief and distress; if he did not, he would really deserve to be punished. It is only in the end that Zeus can overrule and make good, just as he did with Io and with Prometheus. It is in the end, after suffering and struggle, after cleansing and supplication, that union is achieved between the Law which acts like blind fate and the Father who understands.3

Thus at last the offender who deserves pardon can be pardoned. But that is not all. The Law that can pardon and understand can itself be understood and loved. Its ministers are no longer alien and hostile beings, proud of the agonies which they righteously inflict and the hatred which they naturally inspire. They are accepted by Athena as fellow-citizens, and their Law recognized as an inward aspiration, a standard of right living which men consciously need and seek. The “Furies” have become “Eumenides.”

Dramatis Personae

The Eumenides

The Scene represents the front of the Temple of Apollo at Delphi; great doors at the back lead to the inner shrine and the central Altar. The Pythian Prophetess is standing before the Doors.4

First of all Gods I worship in this prayer5
Earth, the primeval prophet; after her
Themis, the Wise, who on her mother’s throne—
So runs the tale—sat second; by whose own
Accepted will, with never strife nor stress,
Third reigned another earth-born Titaness,
Phoebe; from whom (for that he bears her name)
To Phoebus as a birthtide gift it came.

He left his isle, he left his Delian seas,6
He passed Athena’s wave-worn promontories,
In haste this great Parnassus to possess
And Delphi, thronèd in the wilderness.
And with him came, to escort him and revere,
A folk born of Hephaistos, pioneer
Of God’s way, making sweet a bitter land.
And much this people and the King whose hand
Then steered them, Delphos, glorified his name,
Till Zeus into his heart put mystic flame
And prophet here enthroned him, fourth in use:
So Loxias’ lips reveal the thought of Zeus.7

These gods be foremost in all prayers of mine,
Who have held the Throne. Next, She before the shrine,
Pallas, is praisèd, and the Nymphs who keep
Yon old Corycian bird-belovèd steep,
Deep-caverned, where things blessèd come and go.
And Bromios walks the mountain, well I know,
Since first he led his Maenad host on high
And doomed King Pentheus like a hare to die.8
And Pleistos’ fountains and Poseidon’s power
I call, and Him who brings the Perfect Hour,
Zeus, the Most Highest. With which prayers I go
To seat me, priestess, on the Throne. And, oh,
May God send blessing on mine entrance, more
And deeper than He e’er hath sent of yore!

If there be present men of Greece but not
Of Delphi, let them enter as the lot
Ordains; I speak but as God leadeth me. She enters the Inner Shrine, and the stage is for a moment empty. Then she returns, grasping at the wall for support.
Ah! Horrors, horrors, dire to speak or see,
From Loxias’ chamber drive me reeling back.
My knees are weak beneath me, and I lack
The strength to fly. … O hands, drag me from here
If feet fail! … An old woman, and in fear,
A thing of naught, a babe in helplessness!
I made my way into the Holy Place,
And there, at the inmost Altar of the world,
A man abhorred of God, his body hurled
Earthward in desperate prayer; blood on his hand9
Yet reeking, and a naked new-drawn brand
Wreathed in beseeching wool, a suppliant’s weed
Of snow-white fleece … so much mine eyes could read.
But out in front of him a rout unknown
Of women sleepeth, flung from throne to throne.
Women? Nay, never women! Gorgons more:
And yet not like the Gorgon shapes of yore. …10
I saw a picture once of woman things
That ravished Phineus’ banquet. But no wings
Have these; all shadows, black, abominable.
The voices of their slumber rise and swell,
Back-beating, and their eyes drop gouts of gore.
Their garb, it is no garb to show before
God’s altar nor the hearths of human kind.
I cannot read what lineage lies behind
These shapes, nor what land, having born such breed,
Hath trembled not before and shall not bleed
Hereafter. Let Apollo great in power
Take to his care the peril of this hour:
Being Helper, Prophet, Seer of things unseen,
The stainèd hearth he knoweth to make clean. The Prophetess departs. The doors open and reveal the inner shrine, Orestes at the Altar, the Furies asleep about him, and Apollo standing over them.11

I fail thee not. For ever more I stay,
Or watching at thy side or far away,
Thy guard, and iron against thine enemies.
Even now my snares have closèd upon these,
The ragers sleep: the Virgins without love,
So grey, so old, whom never god above
Hath kissed, nor man, nor from the wilderness
One wild beast. They were born for wickedness
And sorrow;12 for in evil night they dwell,
And feed on the great darkness that is Hell,
Most hated by the Gods and human thought.
But none the less, fly thou and falter not.
For these shall hunt thee, ever on through earth
Unwandered, through the vast lands of the North,
The sea-ways and the cities ringed with sea.
But faint not. Clasp thy travail unto thee;
On till thou come to Pallas’ Rock,13 and fold
Thine arms in prayer about her image old.
In Athens there be hearts to judge, there be
Words that bring peace; and I shall set thee free
At last from all this woe.—If thou didst kill
Thy mother, was it not my word and will?

Not to betray thou knowest. Oh, ponder yet
One other lesson, Lord—not to forget!
Thy strength in doing can be trusted well. Orestes departs.

Remember! Let no fear thy spirit quell!

Do thou, O Hermes, brother of my blood,
Watch over him. Thou guide of man, make good
The name thou bearest, shepherding again
My suppliant. Him who pitieth suffering men
Zeus pitieth,14 and his ways are sweet on earth. Exit Apollo. Presently enter the Ghost of Clytemnestra. She watches the sleeping Furies.

Ye sleep. O God, and what are sleepers worth?
’Tis you, have left me among all the dead
Dishonoured. Alway, for that blood I shed,
Rebuke and hissing cease not, and I go
Wandering in shame. Oh, hear! … For that old blow
I struck still I am hated, but for his
Who smote me, being of my blood, there is
No wrath in all the darkness: there is none
Cares for a mother murdered by her son.

Open thine heart to see this gash!—She shows the wound in her throat. In sleep
The heart hath many eyes and can see deep:
’Tis daylight makes man’s fate invisible.

Oft of my bounty ye have lapt your fill;
Oft the sad peace of wineless cups to earth
I have poured, and midmurk feastings on your hearth
Burned, when no other god draws near to eat.

And all these things ye have cast beneath your feet,
And he is fled, fled lightly like a fawn
Out of your nets! With mocking he is gone
And twisting of the lips. … I charge you, hark!
This is my life, my death. Oh, shake the dark
From off you, Children of the Deep. ’Tis I,
Your dream, I, Clytemnestra, stand and cry. Moaning among the Furies.
Moan on, but he is vanished and forgot.
So strong the prayers of them that love me not! Moaning.
Too sound ye sleep.—And have ye for the dead
No pity? … And my son, my murderer, fled! Groaning.
Ye groan; ye slumber. Wake! … What task have ye
To do on earth save to work misery? Groaning.
Can sleep and weariness so well conspire
To drain the fell she-dragon of her fire? Sharp repeated muttering: then words “At him! At him! Catch, catch, catch! Ah, beware!”
Ah, hunting in your dreams, and clamorous yet,
Tired bloodhounds that can sleep but not forget!

How now? Awake! Be strong! And faithful keep
Thy lust of pain through all the drugs of sleep.

Thou feelst my scorn? Aye, feel and agonize
Within; such words are scourges to the wise.
Thy blood-mist fold about him, like a doom.
Waste him with vapour from thy burning womb.
A second chase is death! … Pursue! Pursue! The Ghost vanishes as the Furies gradually wake.

Awake! Quick, waken her as I wake you!
Thou sleepest? Rise; cast slumber from thy brain
And search. Is our first hunt so all in vain?

Speaking severally.

—O rage, rage and wrath! Friends, they have done me wrong!
—Many and many a wrong I have suffered, mockeries all!
—Evil and violent deeds, a shame that lingereth long
And bitter, bitter as gall!
—The beast is out of the toils, out of the toils and away!
—I slept, and I lost my prey.

—What art thou, O Child of Zeus? A thief and a cozener!
—Many and many a wrong I have suffered, mockeries all!
—Hast broken beneath thy wheels them that were holy and old?
—Many and many a wrong I have suffered, mockeries all!
—A godless man and an evil son, he but kneels in prayer,
And straight he is ta’en to thy fold.
—Thou hast chosen the man who spilt his mother’s blood!
—Are these things just, thou God?

—As a raging charioteer mid-grippeth his goad to bite
Beneath the belly, beneath the flank, where the smart is hot,
There riseth out of my dreams Derision with hands to smite;
As a wretch at the block is scourged when the scourger hateth aright,
And the shuddering pain dies not.

—These be the deeds ye do, ye Gods of the younger race:
Ye break the Law at your will; your high throne drips with gore,
The foot is wet and the head. There is blood in the Holy Place!
The Heart of Earth uplifteth its foulness in all men’s face,
Clean nevermore, nevermore!