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'Antigone': A Study In Critical Method

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'Antigone': A Study In Critical Method

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Content This dissertation has been
microfilmed exactly as received
69-5061
MARGON, Joseph Sherman, 1918-
ANTIGQNE: A STUDY IN CRITICAL METHOD.
University of Southern California, Ph.D., 1968
Language and Literature, classical
University Microfilms, Inc., Ann Arbor, Michigan
Copyright © by
Joseph Sherman Margon
1969
ANTIGONE
A STUDY IN CRITICAL METHOD
by
Joseph Sherman Margon
A Dissertation Presented to the
FACULTY OF THE GRADUATE SCHOOL
UNIVERSITY OF SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA
In Partial Fulfillment of the
Requirements for the Degree
* DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY
(Classics)
June 1968
UNIVERSITY O F SO U T H E R N CA LIFO RN IA
T H E GRADUATE SC H O O L
UNIVERSITY PARK
LO S AN G ELES. CA LIFO RN IA 9 0 0 0 7
This dissertation, written by
under the direction of Aia.~. Dissertation C om
mittee, and approved by all its members, has
been presented to and accepted by the Graduate
School, in partial fulfillment of requirements
for the degree of
. . J [ _ Q S ep.h. S_h e r m ari _ M a r_gon
D O C T O R O F P H I L O S O P H Y
T
Dean
Date..A . u g . u . s . t , . . . l . 9 . 6 . 8 ,
DISSERTATION COMMITTEE
iatrman
PREFACE
i
: When I had my first serious encounters with literature
j
[as a student, I was amazed and troubled at the number and
I
jvariety of interpretations given to each work. Years later,
by the time I had become a teacher, my amazement had worn
thin, but I was still troubled— in fact, even more acutely,
Since with the years and a growing acquaintance with litera-
|
ture I had discovered an even greater variety of interpre
tations. When the opportunity presented itself to make a
closer study of literary criticism, I decided to investigate
the reasons for variations in interpretations.
As I followed this line of inquiry, the need for a
jcomprehensive critical method became apparent almost from
|
|the very start. With this need in mind, I have devised such
E
a method, realizing, of course, that even if the same criti-
i
I
!cal method should be used by everyone, some diversity m
interpretation would still result, due to individual dif-
i
ferences in knowledge and temperament among critics. *
Much critical and scholarly work has been lavished on
i
the Antigone. Yet the meaning and form of the play, the
motivation and nature of its characters, and the signifi
cance of several of its incidents and choral odes are still
jmatters of dispute. In an attempt to resolve these diffi
culties I have chosen to do an interpretative study of this
play. At the same time a demonstration of my method through
actual application will both test its soundness and reveal
more clearly and fully the critical method itself and the
theory behind it.
The expression "literary criticism" occurs several
times in this study, and I want to advise the reader that
when I use this term, I am referring only to the interpre
tative, and not to the evaluative, aspect of criticism. A
study of a method of evaluation would require another work
of equal detail and scope. In a few instances, where in
terpretation depends upon evaluation, I have used some of
the broadest and most basic principles of evaluation about
|which there is unanimous agreement.
I
I want to thank my teachers, of whose attitudes many
are reflected in this study; I wish, also, to acknowledge
iii
my debt of gratitude to the critics and scholars— even those
with whom I have disagreed— whose work in criticism and on
the Antigone has stimulated my own thoughts.
iv
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Page
PREFACE ..... ii
PART I. LITERARY THEORY
Chapter
I. VARIATIONS IN INTERPRETATION ................ 2
II. AN OUTLINE OF A COMPREHENSIVE CRITICAL
M E T H O D ..................................... 19
PART II. INTERPRETATION
III. THE ANTIGONE (1-581)........................ 48
Prologue (1-99)
Parodos (100-161)
First Episode (162-381)
First Stasimon (332-375)
Second Episode (376-581)
IV. THE ANTIGONE (582-987).................... . 167
Second Stasimon (582-625)
Third Episode (626-780)
Third Stasimon (781-800)
Fourth Episode (801-943)
Fourth Stasimon (947-987)
Chapter Page
V. THE ANTIGONE (988-1352)...................... 235
Fifth Episode (988-1114)
Fifth Stasimon (1115-1154)
Exode (1155-1352)
VI. THE PLAY AS A WHOLE.......................... 270
Themes
Form
BIBLIOGRAPHY........................................ 294
vi
PART I
LITERARY THEORY
1
CHAPTER I
VARIATIONS IN INTERPRETATION
The large body of critical writing devoted to almost
every well-known work of literature testifies to the exist
ence of many and diverse interpretations. The plays of
Sophocles are no exception,^ and of the seven extant trag-
2
|edies perhaps the Antigone offers the widest variety. The
| -*-0n the variety of interpretations of Sophocles' plays
Robert M. Torrance writes: "How are we to read Sophocles?
The question is anything but rhetorical, as the sweeping
.diversity of current interpretations makes clear." "Sopho-
jcles: Some Bearings," Harvard Studies in Classical Philol-
|ogy (Cambridge, Mass., 1965), LXIX, 269. C. M. Bowra,
iSophoclean Tragedy (Oxford, 1965), p. 2, makes the same
ipoint: "There is uncertainty about almost every play of
jsophocles, not merely about matters of language and text but
jabout the whole meaning of an episode or even of a play."
i i *
!
i p
^Robert F. Goheen, The Imagery of Sophocles1 Antigone
(Princeton, 1951), p. 4, writes: "The 'idea' of the An
tigone has been the subject of as much conflicting opinion
as that of any play." H. D. F. Kitto, Form and Meaning in
Drama (London, 1960), p. 138, lists five different views of
the Antigone and then comments, "Not all of these views are
incompatible; it may be simply a question where we should
lay the chief emphasis."
2
S 3
jquestion then arises whether there is a single and correct
j
interpretation or whether several are valid. Since the text
3
of the play itself is for the most part fixed, the explana
tion for this variety must lie in the relationship between
the critics and the play.
The individual critic, or for that matter any reader,
brings to a literary work his total experience, both con
scious and unconscious. Not all of it may have relevance
to a particular piece, but it is all present and available.
(The work itself selects and draws from the reader's total
!
i
experience what is pertinent. The constituents of this
experience do not exist either separately or even as an
arithmetical sum of influences but only in a relationship
to each other and the totality which they compose. Never
theless, for the sake of lending clarity to our analysis let
i
i
jus grant ourselves the license of separating them for the
i
moment and let us consider fxrst what may be termed life-
!
experience.
If two hypothetical readers can be imagined who have
■^Verses 904-920 have been the chief textual dispute in
the Antigone. but in his survey of Sophoclean scholarship
iHolger Friis Johansen, "Sophocles 1939-1959," Lustrum (Got-
jtingen, 1963), VII, 198, says that only a few still dispute
the authenticity of these verses.
4
just read King Lear for the first time, perhaps one can see
the effect that life-experience may have upon interpretation,
Both readers are in their seventies. One is a bachelor,
economically well off, surrounded by friends; his life is
(full and interesting. The other, a widower, has barely the
|
■means for existence; he has two daughters who have married
well but who ignore him; his life is lonely. Granted the
hypothesis that our two readers are identical in all other
respects, the facts of the play will be the same for both.
i
5Tet it seems highly unlikely that both men, possessing such
vastly different life-experience, will regard these facts
I
jwith the same significance. Affected by this difference in
I
■significance, both men, it seems probable, will arrive at
i
somewhat different interpretations. Who is to say which of
these readers is correct?
We can see that our two hypothetical readers represent
i
!
|an extreme example, but nevertheless life-experience for all
of us, no matter how similar, is never quite the same, with
i
i
the result that to each of us the significance of a work of
art can never be identical. On the other hand, readers
t
[living in the same period and culture will have much in
l
common. To this extent, at least, similarities can be
looked for in their interpretations. A reader, however,
from another century and culture, bringing to art a life-
experience markedly different from our own, can be expected
to arrive at interpretations quite different from those of
our day. Should the interpretations of this reader be
labelled wrong? It will be better to leave this question
unanswered until an examination has been made of the other
constituents of experience that affect interpretation.
!
Whether J. L. Lowes' Road to Xanadu is successful as
4
literary criticism or only as literary scholarship, his
|
ipremise that the extent and nature of Coleridge's reading
i
j
'affected the meaning of Kubla Khan and The Ancient Mariner
!
! is unquestionably sound. The previous reading of a critic
I
jlikewise influences the meaning he gives to any literary
work. This reading experience is of two kinds, and to
i
|
describe its nature perhaps it may be well to derive our
^John Livingston Lowes, The Road to Xanadu: A Study in
^he Ways of Imagination (Boston, 1927). For a comment on
the value of this work as criticism see T. S. Eliot, "The
Frontiers of Criticism," On Poetry and Poets (New York,
1957), pp. 119-120. Eliot feels that Lowes' achievement is
interesting as a piece of detection and has value as the in
vestigation of a process, but as criticism he feels that it
adds nothing to the understanding and appreciation of Cole
ridge 's poetry. R. P. Blackmur, "A Critic's Job of Work,
Form and Value in Modern Poetry (Garden City, 1957), p. 363,
regards Lowes' work purely as scholarship and as an impor
tant contribution to criticism, since Blackmur feels that
all forms of literary criticism depend upon scholarship.
6
Iterms from a distinction that John Dewey draws between
i
science and art, statement and expression. "Science," he
5
writes, "states meanings; art expresses them." The exper
ience acquired from the reading of works of art may be
designated for want of a better term as aesthetic knowledge;
jthat gained from the reading of works outside the realm of
i
i
art may be termed stated knowledge. In short, the con
stituents of the total experience that a reader brings to a
work and by which his interpretations are influenced are the
jempirical knowledge of life-experience, and the aesthetic
i
jand stated knowledge derived from his reading experience.
Just as the life-experience of individuals cannot be
identical, so the extent and kind of their stated knowledge
jcannot be the same. A professional psychologist, or even an
!
interested layman who is widely read in that field, will
bring to a literary piece the emphasis of that study. The
l
i
sociologist will stress his specialty, and the historian
his. The philosopher, depending on whether his major in
terest is ethics or aesthetics, will emphasize one approach
I
or the other. Of course, some continuity of stated knowl
edge exists, since readers may be well versed in more than
C
Art as Experience (New York, 1924), p. 84.
| 7
jone field and also since many of the fields of stated
[knowledge ultimately touch common points of reference; but
jnevertheless what stated knowledge a reader brings to a work
i
! • !
|of art is not a matter of choice, for he can bring only what
knowledge he has.
|
Each age makes new contributions to stated knowledge,
at the same time altering the attitudes implicit in the
older fields of knowledge. Taine's manifesto of the three
criteria for classifying and analyzing a literary work— the
race, surroundings, and epoch— revealed a sociological
j
japproach permeated with the Darwinian Zeitgeist of the nine
teenth century. Later, when this approach fell under the
!
I
S
influence of Marxist theories, it became greatly altered.
jFreudian psychology changed and enriched the earlier bio-
i
jgraphical method of Sainte-Beuve, provided also a more exact
vocabulary for describing the creative process, and came to
jbe used as an explanation for the motivation of fictitious
characters. Frazer's work in anthropology and later Jung's
writings, particularly his theory of the collective uncon
scious, have given rise to a school of critics who since the
i
early years of this century have been paying increasing
i
attention to an approach designated as archetypal criticism.
It becomes clear at once that a reader from a previous
! 8
i
period, isolated from the changes and additions in stated
knowledge that our age has effected, will arrive at inter
pretations quite different from those of our time. It seems
equally probable that the readers of our day, though pos
sessing individual differences in the various fields of
I
stated knowledge, share more in common with each other and
will tend to produce similarities in interpretation.
In addition to the influence that life-experience and
stated knowledge exert upon interpretation, the comprehen
sion of a literary work is also achieved by comparing it
j
y/ith other works. In this fashion the aesthetic knowledge
j
derived from previous reading affects interpretation. It
would seem that it would only be necessary for individual
critics to have read the same works for their aesthetic
knowledge to be the same. The nature, however, of aesthetic
knowledge precludes this possibility. Of the constituents
of experience aesthetic knowledge alone cannot be isolated
j
3ven for the purposes of analysis. It is directly influ
enced by life-experience and stated knowledge, and since
these two constituents are never identical among individual
ritics, their aesthetic knowledge can never be the same.
En general, however, there will be greater similarities in
he aesthetic knowledge of readers who have read the same
i 9
i
works than among those who have not. Therefore, it is not
surprising that the aesthetic knowledge of critics of pre
vious ages differs from that of contemporary critics and
engenders differences in interpretation.
The question which was posed earlier, whether the in
terpretations of critics from past centuries should be
labelled wrong simply because they differ from those of our
time, should be answered, it seems, not only with the ra
tional acknowledgment that the interpretation of literary
jworks has differed from age to age but also with a protec
tive humility that embraces the probability, even the cer-
i
I
tainty, that the interpretations of our period will be dis
closed as different from those of the succeeding age. The
notion that the single and absolute interpretation of a
I literary piece is possible and has not been reached only
jbecause of the lack heretofore of precise, intelligent, and
extensive scholarship is in view of the facts untenable.
Except for insufficient knowledge of the facts of a work
and inconsistencies within the framework of a particular
j
critical method, earlier interpretations, where they differ
from those of our time, are wrong only in a relative sense.
In an absolute sense they should be regarded only as
I 10
6
dxfferent.
The foregoing thoughts have been, as the reader has
probably recognized, an indirect attack on a critical atti-
7
tude and method that has come to be known as historicism,
a view that gained prominence in nineteenth-century Ger-
g
many. One of the principal tenets of this doctrine is
that, if we are to understand and appreciate a work of lit
erature, we must make ourselves contemporary in thought and
feeling to the audience to which that work was originally
^Cf. Eliot, p. 114: "Many years ago I pointed out that
every generation must provide its own literary criticism;
for, as I said, 'each generation brings to the contemplation
of art its own categories of appreciation, makes its own
demands upon art, and has its own uses for art.1 When I
made this statement I am sure that I had in mind a good deal
more than the changes of taste and fashion: I had in mind
at least the fact that each generation, looking at master
pieces of the past in a different perspective, is affected
in its attitudes by a greater number of influences than
Ithose which bore upon the generation previous."
^For a discussion of historicism see Rene Wellek and
Austin Warren, Theory of Literature. 3rd ed. (New York,
1962), pp. 40-45.
^Perhaps the most prominent spokesman for this view
among classical scholars was the elder Wilamowitz. The
principles of historicism are clearly and thoroughly ex
pressed in his introduction to Aristophanest Lysistrate
(Berlin, 1927). Even in Germany, however, in the time of
Wilamowitz there was some reaction against historicism,
particularly by Ernst Troltsch. See Ernst Troltsch, Per
Historismus und seine Probleme (Tubingen, 1922); Per Histo-
rismus und seine Dberwindung (Berlin, 1924).
11
addressed. Another is that we should try to realize in a
9
work only the intention of the author. Thus the advocates
of historicism believe literary criticism to be nothing more
than the historical reconstruction of the author's intention
and the cultural, religious., and political milieu of his
original audience. While it is understandable that critics
of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, under the
influence of Taine's theories and in the general Darwinian
atmosphere of those times, should hold such views, histori
cism as an attitude and method of literary criticism appears
to have little validity for our time.
It is not possible for critics of today in reading a
Greek tragedy to divorce themselves from their twentieth-
century experience and identify with the thoughts and feel-
10
mgs of a fifth-century Athenian audience. It is true, of
^Related to these tenets, particularly to the reali
zation of the author's intention, is the biographical method
of criticism, that is, examining the facts of the author's
life to gain an understanding of his works. For a refuta
tion of the validity of this method, see Harold Cherniss,
"The Biographical Fashion in Literary Criticism," Univer
sity of California Publications in Classical Philology. XII
(1943), 279-293.
■^In the case of the Iliad and Odyssey, since we do not
know the date of their composition, it is impossible to make
sven an attempt at identification with their contemporary
audience.
12
course, that through the persistent efforts of scholarship
the thoughts and feelings of a previous age can be recon
structed, but what the historical reconstructionists fail to
realize is that "there will always be a decisive difference
between an act of imaginative reconstruction and actual
! 11
participation in a past point of,view." We are men of the
twentieth century and in experiencing the literature of the
past we cannot escape the "circumambient atmosphere" of our
12
own time. The only vantage point from which we can ex-
13
perience the past is from that of the present.
■ ’ ■-'•Wellek and Warren, p. 42.
12]^ m . Cornford, Thucydides Mythistoricus (London,
1907), p. viiii "In every age the common interpretation of
the world of things is controlled by some scheme of unchal
lenged and unsuspected presuppositions; and the mind of
every individual, however little he may think himself in
sympathy with his contemporaries, is not an insulated com
partment, but more like a pool in a continuous medium— the
circumambient atmosphere of his time and place."
-*-^Cf. J. P. Sullivan, "Introduction," Critical Essays
an Roman Literature; Elegy and Lyric, ed. J. P. Sullivan
(London, 1962), p. 9; "We admit, of course, that we are,
for good or ill, twentieth-century minds with twentieth-
century attitudes and susceptibilities; that our taste— if
it is an active, inquiring literary taste and not a philo
logical interest which masquerades as a cultural interest—
is ultimately formed by our own milieu and our own litera
ture; that it is from these that we know what the ultimate
literary questions are which we have to pose to earlier
literatures."
13
As for attempting to realize the intention of the au
thor, this is a misdirection. "The meaning of a work of art
is not exhausted by, or even equivalent to, its intention.
14
. . . It leads an independent life." Writers frequently,
r
poreover, fall short of, change, or exceed their aim, even j
j
(when that aim has been expressly stated. Thucydides, for
t
example, tells us that he is writing a history intended to
be useful to those who are interested in understanding the
events of the past, which, he claims, will be repeated at
15
some time in the future. One can perhaps question the
validity of such an intention or even whether Thucydides has
successfully fulfilled his aim, but few would deny the
artistic merit of his history, an achievement that goes
beyond the intention he expressed.
In view of our inability to participate in a past point
of view or to realize the intention of the author, one might
think that the work of the historical reconstructionist is
without value. The first and most obvious answer to this is
that scholarship needs no defense. Knowledge for its own
sake is worthwhile. The second is that, without the
|
■^%ellek and Warren, p. 42.
Thucydides, 1. 22 .
scholarship of the historical reconstructionists, criticism
of the literature of the past is almost impossible. It is
necessary only to glance at a Shakespearean glossary to
comprehend that unless many of the words found there are
understood as Shakespeare's audience understood them, much
of his plays would be incomprehensible. Frequently, our
comprehension of a literary work demands knowledge of his
torical and cultural facts. The work of the historical re
constructionist makes it possible for us to understand such
jliterary facts as they were originally understood. Thus the
i
jaccomplishment of historical reconstruction is not really
criticism at all but literary scholarship. The process of
literary criticism is the way in which we view literary
facts and assemble them into concepts that comprise our
interpretations.^ Thus literary scholarship is the founda-
17
tion upon which literary criticism rests.
^Cf. Eliot, p. 126: "There will be details of expla
nation, especially with poems written in another age than
our own, matters of fact, historical allusions, the meaning
of a certain word at a certain date, which can be estab
lished. . . . But as for the meaning of the poem as a whole,
it is not exhausted by any explanation, for the meaning is
what the poem means to different sensitive readers."
•^Blackmur (p. 362), writing about literary scholarship
and criticism, makes this analogy: "Upon scholarship all
other forms of literary criticism depend, so long as they
15
Up to this point, judging from the stress that has been
j
i
jlaid on the factors producing differences in interpretation,
one might easily be misled into believing that this study
proposes that the interpretations of one generation differ
so radically from those of another as to have little or no j
similarity, and that this diversity is only a little less
!
jgreat among contemporaries. Controlling factors exist, how-
iever, which generally make the similarities in interpreta
tion far exceed the differences. The very fact that a human
r
f
|species can be denoted suggests that individuals are essen
tially more alike than different. The fundamentals of life-
iexperience may be variously viewed by different societies
j
|and different generations, but the fundamentals themselves
I
!
remain immutable. Birth and death, the terminals of mortal
jexistence, however they may be regarded, are fundamentals
'common to all men. Marriage and parenthood, though they may
l
jvary in aspect from one culture to another, have always
existed in some form. The need for food, protection, and
companionship has been felt by all generations. To the
degree that human nature itself renders life-experience
are criticism, in much the same way that architecture de
pends upon engineering."
! 16
J
[similar, the essential immutability of these fundamentals
i
creates a uniform basis for similarity of interpretation,
while on the other hand only their changing aspects effect
differences.
| We have.seen that the aesthetic knowledge of contempo-
i
raries cannot be identical and that this disparity appears
to increase when the aesthetic knowledge of a twentieth-
century critic is compared with that of a critic of a pre
vious age. Nevertheless, aesthetic knowledge also acts as
a controlling factor to produce similarity in interpreta-
i
ition; for there exists in all literature a sameness that
i
I
tends to unite the critic of our time to his nineteenth-
century counterpart and even to the critics of a more remote
past. The term that has been given to this unifying factor
is tradition.
It is a commonly observed fact that the tradition of a
literature is always changing and being augmented and that
if tradition ever became static, a literature would wither
and die, as though receiving no new sustenance. Tradition,
however, embraces not only the concept of change but also,
what is even more usually attributed to it, the concept of
conformity. A literary work, even if it is genuinely new,
must still conform sufficiently to works written previous
17
jto its appearancej if its newness is to be recognized and
I
I
jappreciated. Without this conformity the new work is not
jtruly new but unique, and uniqueness is difficult and often
l
1 18
jimpossible either to understand or evaluate. No basis for
comparison exists, and the unique work can be approached
|
only in terms of itself. If the Iliad, for instance, were
jthe only extant work of its kind, it would be much more
i
!
jdifficult to comprehend? but on acquaintance with the Odys
sey similarities are noticed, a genre is established, and
|
leach work, measured in terms of the other, helps in the
jelucidation of both. Each new epic since the Odyssev has
jeonformed sufficiently to be called an epic and to shed
light on the older epics and, in turn, to receive illumina
tion from them. It is this conformity of the new with the
old that binds the critic of the present to the critic of
|the past by producing similarities in aesthetic knowledge.
|
j
In a like fashion the tradition of many of the fields
of stated knowledge have persisted uninterrupted from an
cient times to unite the present to the past. In addition,
a fourth controlling factor exists: the proper critical
^®See T. S. Eliot, "Tradition and the Individual Tal
ent," Selected Essays (New York, 1932), pp. 4-5.
18
method. But unlike the constituents of experience, it is
not accessible in a natural state. It must be derived,
studied, consciously formulated, and self-imposed. Life-
experience, stated knowledge, and aesthetic knowledge are
the constituents of literary criticism. The method itself
is the manner in which these interlocking constituents are
applied to the facts of a literary work. The method, too,
will be determined by the constituents, but since the dis
parity in total experience is relatively less for contem
poraries, a critical method, proper for our time, with a few
!
jand slight individual variations, is at least possible.
!
Such a method can be proper, of course, only for its own
time (see p. 10, n. 6 above), since it depends on the con-
I
stituents of its own age, but where the constituents of one
age resemble those of another, similarity in method will
appear. The proper method has two advantages: it reduces
the number and degree of differences in interpretation and
at the same time makes those differences that do occur
appear as a meaningful variety rather than as an irrelevant
diversity. Literary criticism, after all, is our means of
communicating about literature, and if the proper method
makes communication easier and clearer, it is obviously
desirable.
I
CHAPTER II
J AN OUTLINE OF A COMPREHENSIVE CRITICAL METHOD
What is the proper critical method for our time? A
perusal of any anthology of modern criticism will reveal
that many approaches are in vogue. Wilbur S. Scott, for
instance, notes five categories of modern criticism: the
i
moral approach, the psychological, the sociological, the
! l
formalistxc, and the archetypal. With reservations he
|
appends a sixth, which deals with the influence of earlier
i
writers upon those who follow them (p. 13). Scott prefers
i
j
fto distinguish this technique as literary history rather
j
than as true criticism (p. 13). Eliot, however, insists
i
i
[that literary history cannot be separated from aesthetic
criticism, since no writer has his full meaning alone but
must be understood and appreciated in terms of his relation
• * -Five Approaches of Literary Criticism (New York and
London, 1962), p. 11.
19
to his predecessors.
Wellek and Warren in their Theory of Literature clas
sify the approaches to literature as extrinsic or intrinsic
(pp. 5-6). Under extrinsic they list the relationship of
i
I
literature to biography, psychology, society, philosophical
ideas, and the relationship of literature to the other arts.
Under intrinsic approaches they include: euphony, rhythm,
meter, style and stylistics, image, metaphor, symbol and
myth, modes of narrative fiction, and literary genres.
| Northrop Frye, however, considers all the components of
i
his critical system intrinsic and distinguishes four types
of criticism: historical, ethical, archetypal, and rhe-
3
torical. By rhetorical criticism Frye means an investiga
tion into "most of the features characteristic of literary
I
form, such as rhyme, alliteration, metre, antithetical
balance," and "the use of exempla" (p. 245). Yet he also
includes in rhetorical criticism a theory of genres which
Eliot considers pertinent to historical as well as aesthetic
criticism and which Scott feels is only literary history.
Unlike Scott and Wellek-Warren, Frye does not even include
2,,Tradition, " pp. 4-5.
3The Anatomy of Criticism (Princeton, 1957), pp. ix-x.
I 21
f
|in his view of criticism the sociological and psychological
japproaches.
t
f
| With just a brief sampling of a few literary theorists
!
I
[it becomes evident that literary criticism as a study does
not possess clearly defined and uniform terms, nor do the
various approaches have distinctness except at their very
centers. In addition, due to a work's polysemous meaning
I
and the discontinuity of knowledge among critics, a multi
plicity of methods has arisen that precludes regarding lit
erary criticism as a science and even raises some doubt that
|
jit can ever become a clearly defined and uniform field of
study. The confusion grows even greater with the realiza
tion that any, or all of these methods, if judiciously ap-
i
i
plied, is essentially valid. Frye states the problem clear
ly:
Once we have admitted the principle of polysemous mean
ing, we can either stop with a purely relative and
I pluralistic position, or we can go on to consider the
possibility that there is a finite number of valid
critical methods, and that they can all be contained
in a single theory. (p. 72)
Frye himself makes an effort toward a comprehensive
view which includes component and related critical ap
proaches with archetypal criticism as the central and unify
ing factor (p. 341). In his laudable endeavor to prevent
the separation of form and meaning he often forces himself
into a position of constricting and slighting both. To
I
{employ myth as a structural organizing principle (p. 341),
Lhich through the integrated components of archetypal
thought, character, and incident produces literary form
(pp. 135-136), is surely an oversimplification and an error
jas great as the separation of form from meaning. No regard
|
|is paid to the possibility of the novelty of meaning in new
I
jthought, character, or incident, nor does Frye consider that
i
jthe use of referential time and point of view is frequently
i
just as important in effecting literary structure as charac
ter and incident.
In his essay, "A Critic's Job of Work," R. P. Blackmur
prefaces his plea for a comprehensive approach by first re-
4
vealmg the inadequacies of certain monist methods. He
demonstrates forcibly that the danger inherent in monist
techniques is that of making a greater contribution to some
field of study other than literary criticism. The
^Blackmur, pp. 348-354, selects Santayana's essay on
Lucretius in Three Philosophical Poets as an example of
ethical criticism, Van Wyck Brooks' Pilgrimage of Henry
James as representative of a sociological technique which
{emphasizes psycho-biographical values, and Granville Hicks'
The Great Tradition as an exposition of Marxist theories of
economics.
i 23
| '
|
jachievement of the monist ethical critic will relate more
i
i
s
to philosophy than to criticism, that of the sociological
critic more to cultural history and biography, and that of
the Marxist critic more to economics. The common denomina
tor among these methods is that each seizes upon what the
critic feels is the separable content of literature, gives
it the appearance of being the entirety of a work, and pre
sents the illusion that the method's treatment of this con
sent is the whole of literary criticism. Yet Blackmur does
I
t
jnot assert that even such methods lack validity if properly
jsubordinated to a comprehensive scheme. The two advantages
i
that he claims for a comprehensive method are that it read
ily encompasses all other approaches and that it reduces all
approaches to an engagement with nothing but literary fact
(p. 365). Blackmur writes convincingly of the need for a
comprehensive method, but his statement of what that method
i
I
i
should be is so sketchy and unspecific as to be inadequate
(p. 365).-
The need for a comprehensive method is apparent, and it
is the aim of this study to present such an approach. Since
genres, however, as well as possessing similarities, have
differences that require corresponding differences in meth
od, it is necessary to limit the scope of this study to the
jpresentation of a comprehensive approach that is applicable
i
to a particular genre. In this instance the genre that has
been selected is the drama.
I
The most obvious fact about literature is that it con
sists of words, and it is in the nature of words that a
comprehensive critical method must find its source. The
unity of form and meaning in a work of literature exists on
a grand scale and on the smallest scale possible. Though
form and meaning and their effect upon each other grow ever
i
jmore complex with the increasing assemblage of words, the
i
jprinciple of their unity is seen as clearly in the microcosm
! 5
of the single word as in an entire work. If we take the
i
i
word boy, we can see that it has both meaning and form and
that the meaning and form are inseparable, though not iden
tical.^ Prom the point of view of meaning, the word boy is
I
5In writing about the nature of words Owen Thomas,
Transformational Grammar and the Teacher of English (New
York, 1965), p. 48, makes this statement about morphemes:
"Morphemes are certainly a part of the formal— or syntactic
— structure of language. Yet it is difficult to give a no-
tational definition of the term. Linguists have debated a
definition for nearly thirty years, and they are still a
long way from agreement." For this reason it will be clear
er for our purpose to use the word as the unit of literary
language.
_____^Cf. W- Nelson Francis, "Revolution in Grammar,”_______
25
a denotative symbol, pointing out the male young of the
human species. From the point of view of form, it is a
inoun.
Implicit also in the form and meaning of a word is its
i
!potential for assuming more complex meaning and form when
placed in context with other words. If, for example, we
say The boy throws the ball, the meaning of bov has grown
much more complex. Boy is doing much more than merely
pointing out the male young of the human species; it is
denoting in effect that a particular young male of the human
jspecies is performing an action on an object known as a
1
ball. Likewise, the form of boy has become more complex.
i
i
jln isolation it had the form of a noun; in context it has
j
the form of a noun-subject. The relationship of form and
meaning and the effect they have upon each other can be
i
i
readily seen if we alter the form of boy and ball, inter-
i
i
jchanging them as subject and object. The ball throws the
i
boy expresses a different meaning, one that would generally
Applied Linguistics. ed. Harold B. Allen, 2nd ed. (New York,
1964), p. 75. Francis uses three bases for the classifica
tion of a word; form, function, and meaning. By function
he means the use of a word in the context of a sentence.
The form of the word "horse" is a noun; its function is as
subject or object.
26
jbe considered without normal sense.
{
I
j The nature of the single word as form and meaning and
jits potential for greater complexity allows for the inte-
I !
| j
jgration of the other elements of a literary work. Language,!
; !
jmoreover, is absolutely pervasive throughout all the ele- j
; i
! 7
jments and is the material of which they are composed.
j
i
i
jTherefore, to arrive at the fullest and most accurate in-
j
terpretation of a work, the study of its language must be
pursued thoroughly. Yet this is not enough. The total
meaning of a work consists of more than the accrual of mean
ing which its language presents. Just as individual words,
each with its own meaning and form, when constituted in a
sentence, produce a completion of larger form and meaning,
so do the integrated elements of a work of literature rep
resent the same sort of completion, though on a far more
I
^complex scale.
Before a critical method can advance beyond the base of
language to other considerations, it must take into account
7Cf. Wellek and Warren, pp. 151-153.
^This analogy, however, is not quite exact, for there
is one difference: Unlike individual words that have form
and meaning even when they are not placed in the context of
a sentence, the elements of a literary work have no exist
ence apart from language.
27
what it is criticizing. Since, however, the genre of our
work is evident, we can proceed with an examination of the
nature and relationship of the other elements. Character
and story-incident are easily recognized as elements belong-
9
xng to a drama. Both move through time, so that time it
self must be considered an element. All these elements must
be presented from a particular point of view which can give
either the impression that contemporary life is taking place
on the stage, or the illusion that figures and events from
i
jthe past are being viewed, or these elements can be pre-
|
sented through a narrator, whose very presence admits that
it is not life taking place on the stage but simply a play.
Consequently, point of view should be considered an element.
I
Each of these elements, including language, only exists in
combination with and in terms of the others. The nature of
this existence is the unity of a drama.
The conjunction and integration of patterns produced by
language through its use of symbol, image, and metaphor,
realize that "myth" is a favorite term of critics
for describing narrative or story, but the word has so many
meanings that relate it to religion, anthropology, folklore,
and psychoanalysis that I believe it will be clearer if a
purely literary term such as story or story-incident is
used.
I 28
I
jthrough the syntactical and grammatical relation of words in
i
jphrases and sentences, and through the relation of words in
j
jaccordance with a style and a meter make, in most instances,
j
ithe major contributions to the effecting of the elements of
’ character and story-incident. Though all the elements are |
inseparable from each other and the total work which they
jcompose, even for the sake of analysis it is particularly
|difficult to think of character and story-incident except in
|
jterms of each other. As Henry James has put it, "What is
Character but the determination of incident? What is inci
dent but the illustration of character?"^
It is with the elements of character and story-incident
i
[that the so-called extrinsic approaches have their greatest
i
jutility. Here a knowledge of sociology, psychology, anthro-
i
j
pology, philosophy, and of political science and cultural
I
: 11
history contributes to the understanding of a work. Yet
l - 8l,The Art of Fiction," Selected Fiction, ed. Leon Edel
(New York, 1953), p. 597.
■^Northrop Frye makes archetypal criticism the central
approach in his system, because it is possible to speak of
archetypal characters, incidents, even archetypal plots, and
themes; but archetypal criticism can deal only with the ele
ments of a literary work where a conformity with previous
works can be noted. Where newness is observed in the use of
the elements, there is no conformity, and archetypal criti
cism has no means to deal with newness except to note that
29
are these methods truly extrinsic, as Wellek and Warren
would have us believe (see p. 20 above), or can they have
validity as intrinsic techniques? If the study of a work's
imagery is considered an intrinsic approach, why should
methods that engage primarily the meaning of a work be con
sidered extrinsic? It is true that these approaches rarely
deal with form, but surely the meaning of a work is intrin
sic to the work itself. Blackmur has clearly pointed out
that using only one of these approaches inevitably results
in an extrinsic achievement which consequently condemns the
method as extrinsic (see pp. 22-23 above). To avoid this
danger it seems necessary to employ all of these approaches
equally, or at least several of them. Yet the discontinuity
of knowledge among critics makes such an attempt seem hardly
possible. A workable compromise must be adopted. If a
it is new. Of course, it may be argued that the newness of
a work becomes archetypal as soon as that work's place in
tradition is fixed by the appearance of other works founded
upon it. Consequently, the archetypal method would be able
to deal with all literature except contemporary. If, how
ever, contemporary literature gives us our vantage point and
the attitude with which to regard the literature of the
past, then archetypal criticism, because of its inability to
leal with the quality of newness in contemporary literature,
fails as a comprehensive approach to all literature, al
though as a subordinate method in a comprehensive system it
still has validity.
30
critic does not lose sight of the ideal of total knowledge
and uses all of these methods to the best of his ability,
being especially careful not to emphasize one method more
than another, such an attitude toward these approaches will
have a twofold advantage: it will prevent the critic from
utilizing a literary work to make a greater contribution to
an extrinsic field of knowledge than to an understanding of
the work itself and at the same time it will point the need
for a controlling and unifying factor for these many ap
proaches. That factor will be clearly manifested as the
literary facts of a work, all of which will guide and limit
12
[the critic in his use of these methods. Employed in this
!
f
Way, these approaches are as intrinsic as any method that
engages the language or form of a piece.
Though time is sometimes classified as a mode of narra-
13
tive fiction, it is important to our critical method to
establish it as a constituent element. Time in fiction is
of two kinds, the performing or reading time of a work, and
the time to which a work refers. The two types of time are
l^cf. Blackmur, p. 365.
have used the word "narrative" here, as Wellek and
Warren use it (p. 215), to include the novel, the epic, the
tale, and the drama.
31
constantly played one against the other, the author of a
novel on occasion describing the course of years in a few
sentences and on other occasions devoting many pages to an
(action that occurs in an instant. Likewise in a drama time
can be telescoped in an inverse proportion or expanded to
cover an extent that far exceeds its playing time.
It will be pertinent to our attempt to establish time
as a constituent element to consider for a moment the fail
ure of the critics of the late sixteenth and seventeenth
centuries to distinguish between the two types of time and
to allow for their separate but related coexistence. Mis
interpreting the Poetics. the critics of that period de-
I
i
jveloped the theory of the three unities of time, place, and
i 14
(action. It was not, however, so much their desire to
l
|
observe what they thought to be the dicta of Aristotle that
Ithey cited him as an authority, but rather their yearning
-^Aristotle insists only on the unity of action (Poet
ics . 1451 8). In regard to the unity of time he formulates
no theory but merely says that the length of a tragedy tends
to fall within a single revolution of the sun or to extend a
little more (1449^5). Of the unity of place he makes no
mention. For ;a brief summary of the development of the doc
trine of the three unities see Gilbert Highet, The Classical
Tradition (Oxford, 1959), pp. 142-143. For a more detailed
description see Joel Spingarn, A History of Literary Criti
cism in the Renaissance. 2nd ed. (New York, 1930), pp. 99-
101.
to tooIster and improve the credibility of the current drama
15
by imposing upon it strictures of realism. The success of
their theory culminated in Corneille's capitulation and ad-
i
E
jmission that "the supposed duration of a play should equal j
• t
jthe time it took to act."^ The unwillingness of the crit- j
ics of that period to permit the unequal coexistence of two
types of time within a drama made referential time extremely
realistic. They could not, however, do away with it. The
two types of time still coexisted, only now not playing
i
jagainst each other but equated.
j
The inability of those critics to destroy referential
time suggests a sound reason for considering time a con
stituent element and not a mode. "Mode," if it is to have
meaning, should mean "manner," specifically in literary
criticism the manner in which the constituent elements are
used. If referential time, when it is equated with playing
time, can be said to be realistic, then to the degree that
jit is not equated with playing time it can be said to be
I
jnon-realistic. "Realistic" and "non-realistic" are, of
■^Highet, pp. 142-143.
. L. Lucas, Tragedy; Serious Drama in Relation to
Aristotle's Poetics, rev. ed. (New York, 1962), p. 147.
33
course, modal terms describing in this instance the manner
in which time is used. It appears then that time, no matter
in what way it is employed, realistically or non-realisti-
i
cally, must nevertheless be present as much as language it- j
self if a drama is to exist at all. Consequently, time
17
should be considered-a constituent element.
1 7
'In the drama, Thornton Wilder's Our Town offers an
excellent illustration of the importance of time in effect
ing form and meaning. Approximately two and a half hours
are required to perform this play. Etched against the per-
jforming time is a highly involved system of referential time
that achieves its complexity through the presence of a nar
rator, who in the cast of characters is called the Stage
Manager. Act I covers the entire day of May 7, 1901 in
Grovers Corners, New Hampshire. The Stage Manager intro
duces scenes, interrupts or concludes them whenever he
wishes, and brings on other scenes, in this manner acceler
ating or decelerating the referential time. Act II takes
place three years later on July 7, 1904. It is the wedding
day of the two leading characters, Emily and George. Within
this act the Stage Manager shows the audience an incident
that occurred on another day several years before, the day
when Emily and George realized they were in love. Act III
opens nine years later. It is the day of Emily's funeral.
Now that she is dead, she finds that she can return to any
particular day that she wishes, and she chooses her twelfth
birthday. In the two and a half hours of performing time
the audience has seen incidents occurring on five different
days that cover a span of years from 1899 to 1913. This use
of time is neither arbitrary nor for the sake of mere clev
erness. It relates directly to the play's theme as well as
to its form. In the last act when Emily returns to the day
of her twelfth birthday, possessing the consciousness of a
deceased person and of a twelve-year-old girl, she is hurt
to see how unaware people are of each other. She turns to
the Stage Manager and says, "... It goes too fast . . . We
don't have time to look at one another . . . Oh earth,
j ■ 34
j
j Any comprehensive critical method must therefore con
sider how time works with and affects the other elements.
I
!The fact that time is always present as an element of narra
tive fiction does not necessarily imply that its signifi-
j
jcance as an affecting force is equal in all works. In many
1
jworks character and story-incident are dominant. Language,
|
of course, is always a dominant element. Though twentieth-
i
century literature is generally regarded as having given
18
time a greater•importance than it had previously, one has
only to consider the Odvssev to realize that even in earlier
literature time plays an important role in effecting struc-
19
ture, shape, and meaning.
jyou're too wonderful for anybody to realize you . . . Do any
human beings ever realize life while they live it?— every,
jevery minute of it" (Three Plays [New York, 1958], p. 62).
This is exactly the feeling that the audience has experi
enced as it has witnessed in two and a half hours almost the
jentire story of many individual lives and of an entire town.
p?he audience has felt the fleetness of time and has been
.given warning both by the form of the play and its verbal
ized theme to look to its own life and to be sure to appre
ciate every living moment.
-*-®See Lawrence Durrell, "Space, Time, and Poetry,1 1 A
Key to Modern British Poetry (Norman, Okla., 1952).
•J-^The Odyssey is obviously the prototype of those nov
els that depend heavily on the element of time. In Book I
with the sending of Athena to Ithaca and with the suggested
departure of Hermes to Ogygia two time-lines are estab
lished, those of Telemachus and Odysseus. Telemachus' time-
35
Point of view, too, like time, is often considered a
20
mode of narrative fiction rather than an element, and
likewise its role in affecting the constituent elements has
assumed more noticeable importance in the literature of the
21
late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, though its
presence can be noted in the narrative fiction of all
is followed for four books, and while he is in Lacedaemon,
in parallel construction to his time-line the machinations
of the suitors in Ithaca are revealed. Also, in Book IV
Menelaus1 narration both reveals a time antecedent to Tele
machus 1 time-line and parallels the time later represented
in Odysseus' narration to the Phaeacians. In Book V the
time-line of Odysseus begins, paralleling that of Telemachus
until Book IX where Odysseus begins his narration of events
from the conclusion of the Trojan War to his arrival on
Ogygia (the time parallel to Menelaus' narration). Odys
seus' time-line in Books IX-XII precedes the point in time
where the Odyssey opens. In Book XIII Odysseus' time-line
again becomes parallel to Telemachus' and is followed
through Book XIV. Book XV reverts to the time-line of Tele
machus, and in Book XVI the two time-lines having joined
continue as one to the conclusion of the epic. Referential
time in the Odvssev is complex, having several layers.
Where the time-lines of Odysseus and Telemachus are parallel
the action represents thirty-seven days. Odysseus' narra
tion (IX-XII) extends the referential time to cover a period
of ten years.
2 ° S e e Wellek and Warren, pp. 222-225.
2lFor a detailed examination of point of view in the
novel see Percy Lubbock, The Craft of Fiction (New York,
1947). This work is based on the material found in Henry
James’ introductions to the 1904 edition of his complete
works. See also Robert Scholes and Robert Kellogg, "Point
of View in Narrative," The Nature of Narrative (New York,
1966), pp. 240-282.
jperiods. The term point of view has generally been used in
a purely technical sense to indicate first- or third-person
22
narration m genres other than the drama. Point of view,
I
however, also exists in the drama. The question whether it j
lis a constituent element or a mode can be settled by deter- !
| |
jmining whether it is a means of narrative fiction or only a |
|
jmanner.
The most realistic use of point of view in the drama
occurs in plays where there is no recognition of an audience
by the actors. The audience is given the opportunity, so to
|speak, of viewing the lives and actions of people who are
[presumably unaware that they are being observed. The play
is presented not as an illusion of life but as life itself.
This point of view can be designated as that of the audi
ence .
I Within the audience's point of view there is a range of
l
j
realism to less realism. If the characters and events of a
play are historical, the audience is obviously aware that it
is not viewing life taking place on the stage but that it is
witnessing a representation of something that happened in
PP
^The use of the second person is extremely rare,
though Ring Lardner has used it to some extent in his short
story Haircut.
i 37
|the past. This is certainly true of Greek tragedy where the
characters are legendary, mythical, or historical. In such
plays the audience's point of view is considerably less
realistic than in plays such as Picnic or A Streetcar Named
'Desire which deal with contemporary situations and charac-
The least realistic use of point of view in the drama
occurs in plays where there is the recognition of the audi
ence by the actors. This recognition can assume several
jaspects. Sometimes there is a narrator outside the action
i 24
pf the drama who stands between the play and the audience.
j
In Wilder’s Our Town and Williams' The Glass Menagerie such
narrators are employed at the very beginning of each work.
i
!
jln the Wilder play the narrator, or Stage Manager as he is
I
Jcalled, begins the drama by saying, "This play is called
Our Town" (p. 5). Tom, the narrator in the Williams play,
| p O B #
i CJIt is interesting to note that the point of view m
phekhov's plays has grown less realistic with the passage of
[time. His characters and situations are contemporary with
his own day, but that era has passed, and his characters and
situations are now historical.,
^Sometimes a narrator appears within a play as one of
the characters, but this does not affect the realism of the
point of view. Such a narrator is often seen in Greek
tragedy in the character of a messenger.
says in his opening remarks that he is going to present
25
"truth in the pleasant disguise of illusion." The narra
tors in both plays recognize that there is an audience in
!
the theater and inform that audience that it is about to see
a play. There is no pretense that the events on the stage j
are life. This point of view can be designated as that of
the actor.
Sometimes this recognition of the audience takes the
form of a remark addressed indirectly to the audience by a
j
^character from within the play. In the opening of The Froas
of Aristophanes we have such an example where Xanthias, the
slave, asks his master Dionysus if he should tell any of
those old jokes that always make the audience laugh. Solil-
i
joquies, too, imply the presence of an audience in the thea-
i
|ter. Music and dancing in a play, unless performed solely
i
jfor the benefit of an on-stage audience, are also a form of
i
jaudience recognition.
i
As in our consideration of time, we have used in our
examination of point of view modal terms that measure real-
!
ism. In a like manner character, story-incident, and lan
guage can be spoken of as being realistic or less realistic,
^Tennessee Williams, The Glass Menagerie (New York,
1945). p. 4. ____________ I ___________________
since none of the constituent elements exists in a free
state apart from modal usage. If point of view shares with
these elements a capacity for different modal uses, it, too,
must be considered an element. These, then, are the con-
i
jstituent elements of narrative fiction: language, charac-
I
ter, story-incident, time, and point of view. Mode is the
manner in which these elements are used.
The subject of modes has been touched upon in reference
to the elements, but now it should be scrutinized more
jclosely in its own right. Mode functions through its ef
fect on the constituent elements to produce the reality of
a work of art. It is a commonplace that the first requisite
of any work of art is that it have reality, without which
jnothing else is possible. How often has one heard a reader
i
say, "I couldn't finish that novel. It just didn't seem
real." Or the playgoer condemn the play with, "It just
wasn't real. I didn't believe it." The reality of a work
is, however, not its truth but its credibility. Hardly
anyone today would regard the gods in the Iliad as true,
but their appearances and actions are made to seem credible.
A fairy tale is not true, but it can be accepted as real or
credible. In this sense a distinction between "real" and
"realistic" should be scrupulously observed. "Real" simply
imeans "credible"; "realistic" means "lifelike," is a modal
[term, and refers to the verisimilitude to life with which
i
jthe constituent elements are presented.
i
! |
| Essentially, there are only two modes, realism and non-j
; i
realism. Realism, though it is the more lifelike mode,
can never be as lifelike as life itself. Aristotle per-
i
ceives this clearly when he insists that a work of art is an
27
imitation of life. Eliot has phrased the same thought for
our times; "The difference between art and the event is
i 28
[always absolute." Nor can non-realism be entirely devoid
[of the lifelike quality of realism. Therefore, non-realism
is not an adequate term, since it implies the total absence
of realism, and at this point it seems wise to abandon it
for a more suitable word. Since non-realistic works of art
depend less for their reality upon a verisimilitude of life
2^Frye, pp. 33-34, derives his theory of modes from the
'Poetics (1448a2). He limits the use of mode to character
jand story-incident, designating five different modes; (1)
the character superior in kind both to other men and their
environment? (2) the character superior, in degree to other
men and his environment; (3) the character superior to other
men but not to his environment; (4) the character neither
superior to other men nor to his environment but like one of
us; (5) the character inferior to other men.
27Poetics- 1447a2; 1449b6.
28"Tradition," p. 9.
[than realistic works, the word "artificial" will be adequate
|
jfor our purpose, though perhaps other words could be found
that would serve just as well. Again, since "artificial" is
i
a substitute for "non-realistic" and since there is a degree
|
jof realism in all works, artificiality must not be thought
of as the opposite of realism. Rather like the terms of
temperature, artificiality and realism should be regarded as
degrees of difference on the same scale.
These two modes, presenting the constituent elements to
varying degrees of realism or artificiality, form a frame of
reference which in itself tends toward artificiality or
realism and establishes the reality or credibility of a
j
work. The use of the constituent elements throughout a work
must be in accord with the artificiality or realism of this
!
frame. It is not necessary, however, for all the elements
i
jin a work to be realistic or artificial to the same degree
i
|
for the frame to be preserved, provided that the degree of
difference is not too great. Yet if one or several of the
elements, employed within an artificial frame, should sud
denly shift to an extreme of realism, the frame would be
ruptured and the reality of a work collapse. The same re
sult would occur if the elements within a realistic frame
should make an extreme shift to artificiality. For example,
if in the middle of a play, set in the realistic mode where
there has been no recognition of an audience in the theater,
E ; /
an actor should suddenly address the audience directly, the
29
frame of reference would be broken and credibility lost.
| The effect of mode upon the constituent elements, the
jinteraction of the elements themselves, and their integra-
!
jtion combine to produce in an inseparable unity the total
i
jform and the total meaning of a work. In a narrative fic-
i 30
|tion the term "plot" may be used to designate form. Just
I
Sas the over-a11 form of a work contains smaller forms within
i p Q
j ^Aristotle1s dxcta that the incidents of the plot
should follow the laws of probability and necessity (1451^9-
1452a10) and that character portrayal should heed the same
laws (1454a15) are strictures of modal use. For example,
Oedipus Rex could be concluded with a tile accidentally
falling from the roof of the palace and killing Oedipus.
jThis sort of event could happen in actual life. Certainly,
jit has the possibility of truth and would seem quite realis
tic, but for it to happen in a play where everything up to
[that moment has been the result of probability or necessity
jwould be to break the frame of reference, thereby destroying
the play's reality. On the other hand, nothing in Ionesco's
play The Bald Soprano develops from probability or neces
sity, either incidents or characters. Furthermore, the
frame of reference is extremely realistic from the stand
point of language, point of view, and time. If any incident
were developed or any character appeared motivated by proba
bility or necessity, the frame of reference would be broken,
and the play would lose its credibility.
^°Wellek and Warren write, p. 216: "The narrative
structure of a play, tale, or novel has traditionally been
called the plot."
43
jit, so we can say that a work has a major plot and sub-plots
jas well.
i
Story and plot are terms which are either frequently
confused or used interchangeably as synonyms for what is
regarded as identical. Yet a substantial distinction ex
ists. Story, or story-incident, is only one of the con
stituent elements, while plot is a product of those ele-
f
i
ments. Probably the origin of this confusion derives from
t
i
the Poetics. though Aristotle is not entirely culpable. It
j
is true that he distinguishes plot as one of six elements
i 3 1
and makes no place for story-incident as an element, but
he does say that he means by plot "the arrangement of the
incidents" (1450a6). Since story-incident had no place as
an element in his classification, it became easy for readers
Jto identify plot with incidents, forgetting the stress that
1
!he gives to his definition of plot as the arrangement of the
.incidents. ^
The term "themes" may be used to designate the total
meaning of a work. They consist of specific issues, ques-
33-Aristotle. Poetics . 1450a6.
32cf. E. M. Forster, Aspects of the Novel (New York,
1927), p. 130, for his differentiation between story and
plot.
44
I
tions, or problems of an ethical, religious, philosophical,
psychological, or political nature which a work explicates
either by finally resolving or indicating the impossibility
33
of any resolution. Motifs are sometimes called themes.
But in reality motifs belong to the elements of story-
incident and characterization as a term that classifies and
groups together certain incidents and attitudes of a similar
nature that recur in a particular narrative fiction or even
in an entire genre. This confusion in terms is due to the
failure to distinguish between story, characterization, and
jtheme. Though story and characterization, as two of the
1
jelements that produce the totality of a work, make heavy
contributions to a work's meaning or themes, nevertheless
j
jstory and characterization encompass and refer only to what
i
!
jhappens in a narrative fiction and to whom it happens.
| 34
jThemes represent what the work is about.
| Implicit in any critical method are certain attitudes
!
!
with which that method should be applied: (1) One attitude
jhas already been mentioned (see p. 14 above): that though
jeach age has its own literary criticism (see n. 6, p. 10
j
^^Scholes and Kellogg^ p. 27.
■^Cf. Scholes and Kellogg, pp. 26-28.
45
jabove), nevertheless we must understand the literary facts
!of a work as they were understood by the audience to which
the work was originally addressed. The language of a work
!
and the cultural, religious, and political attitudes and
knowledge which a work assumes and shares in common with its
audience are its literary facts.
(2) Because in this study we are dealing with a play
that was written for performance on a stage, our method must
recognize that an interpretation based on the text alone is
j
hot enough. What takes place on the stage during a per-
:
formance must also be considered: the effect of exits and
|
{entrances, of the presence of characters on stage even when
!
they are silent, and of the moments of music and dancing.
[ (3) Occasionally, a critic who has full knowledge of a
i
{work's outcome, interprets a scene or a character in the
I
Slight of his omniscience of what will happen instead of
|viewing the work as it unfolds and develops. Sometimes this
i
i
approach, which may be described as the synoptic view, al
lows the critic to find irony which otherwise he would not
notice. At other times, however, the critic, prevented by
the synoptic view from experiencing a work as it unfolds,
misinterprets characters and scenes as they move through
time by viewing them from the vantage point of the work's
conclusion (see p. 63, n. 27 and p. 65, n. 33 below). Since
the interpretation of a work of art and the consequent
appreciation based upon that interpretation demand the ex
periencing of the work rather than mere knowledge of it, it
seems advisable to avoid the synoptic view except in those
instances where irony would otherwise be overlooked (cf. pp.
248-250 below).
It is obvious that the comprehensive critical approach
that has been presented is only an outline. Our interest,
however, is twofold, concerned as much with the result of
the application of this approach to a particular work as it
is with the derivation of the proper critical method. It is
hoped that the method will assume as clear and as full pro
portions, when its application is viewed, as a longer and
more detailed exposition would reveal.
PART II
INTERPRETATION
47
CHAPTER III
THE ANTIGONE (1-581)
Prologue (1-99)
I
|
| Too often, as the word suggests, the prologue of a
i
Greek tragedy is thought of as a preamble to the play proper
rather than as an integral scene. The term is obviously too
I
broad, since several kinds of prologues can be found in
|
jGreek tragedy. First, there is the pure preamble-type in
I
which only the exposition of the situation is set forth and
in which there is no development of story-incident and of
1
characters who are seen within the play. The second kind
is a composite of the preamble-type and of a first scene:
there is advancement of story-incident, and, while there is
-*-Apollo and Death are the only characters in the pro
logue to the Alcestis. They reveal and debate the situa
tion. Some hint is given at the conclusion of the prologue
as to the outcome of the play, but no action develops, nor
do Apollo and Death appear again after the prologue.
48
I 49
i
i
development of a major character, other characters appear
2
who are never seen again. Sometimes in this type there is
3
advancement of story-incident but not of character. The
third kind advances incident, develops character, is as in-
|
trinsic to a play as any interior scene, and consequently is
not a true prologue at all but actually an initial scene.
|The Antigone. like the other extant plays of Sophocles with
i
jthe exception of the Ajax, has such a prologue. If the form
|
land meaning of a play work organically, it is reasonable to
jassume that one would find in a prologue of this type the
seeds of almost everything that is to follow.
i
i
| Antigone's opening speech (1-10) establishes her
i
I
|
i
i
j o
j cIn the prologue to The Troian Women after the solilo-
jquy of Poseidon and his ensuing dialogue with Athena both
jgods disappear from the play. Hecuba, the leading charac
ter, delivers a lament which helps develop her characteriza
tion and gives an emotional and personal tone to the situa
tion that the gods have outlined. The prologue to Prome
theus Bound is quite similar: Hephaestus and his helpers
never reappear after the prologue, and Prometheus begins
bpeaking after their departure. In the Hippolytus. Aphro-
jdite after her opening soliloquy appears no more, but before
[the Chorus enters a scene develops in which the character of
Hippolytus is delineated.
| prologue to the Agamemnon seems like an opening
Iscene, but it, too, belongs to the composite type: the
story-incident develops with the sighting of the beacon, but
there is no development of a major character, and the Watch
man is not seen again.
50
jintense devotion to her family, the basic motivation to
i 4
which all her other motives are related. Her language is
i
I . 5
highly emotional. Beginning with an intense expression of
jsisterly kinship, Ta> hoiv6v a{»T(5c6eXcpov ’icriirjvriQ napa (1),
|
she uses such words as tcov cxtc* OibCitou Hocwffiv (2), ocXYei»v6v
(4), aTTjQ (4), aLaxpov (5), octliiov (5), amv (6),Mcqj.u5v
(6), Kawffiv (6). With-these words she recalls the troubles
that have befallen her family, alluding to the patricidal
act of Oedipus, the incest of her mother and father, and the
mutual fratricide of her brothers. At the same time her
i
}
words relate her sister and herself to these misfortunes,
and there is a hint that some new evil is about to descend
upon them, the last survivors of the family (2-3). In lan-
i
iguage that is cold and formal in contrast to the intensity
and warmth of the preceding lines she refers to this new
I ^H. D. F. Kitto, Greek Tragedy. 3rd ed. (London, 1961),
jp. 125, writes of Antigone: "Her fate is decided in the
'first few verses, and she can but go to meet it."
^Goheen, p. 76, writes: ". .-. Antigone draws heavily
upon direct terms of emotion . . . Antigone is, in fact,
narked by a strong tendency to think emotionally and feel
tier judgments as likes and dislikes, love and hate, pleasure
and displeasure."
^All words and passages cited from the Antigone are
taken from Sophocle: Les Trachiniennes— Antigone, text by
Alphonse Dain, trans. Paul Mazon, Bude, I (Paris, 1955)
j 51
i
!
!
disaster as an edict of the State, using such words as
* r * 7
rnxvSruiu) rcoXei (7), HTjpuyiia. 0eivou r6v aTpaTriyov (8).
In the final line of her opening speech with the words
TTpfcg t o \) q (pCXouQ o t e Cx o v t o c tcov sxQpffiv wand (10), Antigone
resorts again to highly emotional language to express the
!
I
!injustice of the State toward her family. o&CXouq, of
7
The use of aTpaTT[y6v instead of Tijpavvov can be
•easily and reasonably explained. It is a time of war. A
,bfreat battle has just been fought and won in which Antigo
ne's brother Eteocles, the former general, has perished.
Thinking of the immediate past, she uses OTpaT'nyov in ref
erence to Creon who has now assumed the office formerly held
by her brother. Cf. Fridericus Ellendt, Lexicon Sophocleum
(Hildesheim, 1965), p. 696. Victor Ehrenberg, Sophocles and
Pericles (Oxford, 1954), pp. 105-112, 173-179, makes an at
tempt with the word arparriyov to identify Creon with Peri-
jcles. In fact, his entire book is devoted to this attempt.
Whether he is successful or not is beside the point. While
he does make many incidental and interesting comments on the
play, the real issue is whether his ultimate contribution is
to history or literary criticism. If the Antiaone is such a
topical play that it can. be understood only in terms of an
identification of Creon with Pericles, then Ehrenberg,
granted that he is successful, has uncovered literary facts
jand has made a valuable contribution to criticism. The
jplay, however, is understandable on a general and abstract
jlevel. Its treatment, for instance, of the theme of tyranny
! does not rely for its meaning on specific references to his
torical figures but is entirely abstract and universal. See
H. Lloyd-Jones1 perceptive review of Ehrenberg's book in
iTournal of Hellenic Studies. LXXVI (1956), 112-113. Cf.
kitto, Form and Meaning, p. 177, for his comments on the en-
Jdeavors of ancient historians to find judgments on contem
porary Athenian politics in this play.
52
i
1
8
course, means "friends,” but it also means "relatives."
The language of poetry being connotative as well as denota
tive, cpiXoug in the context has both meanings: it refers
jto Antigone and Ismene as friends of the State rather than
i
i
its enemies; and it alludes to Polyneices as a relative,
9
since he can hardly be considered a friend of the State.
To the reader the meaning of the word as "relatives" in
cludes not only Antigone, Ismene, and Polyneices, but also
preon. With the inclusion of Creon the reader sees some-
f
f
[thing that Antigone from her standpoint had not meant by the
prord. He sees the suggestion of an ironic sense, intimated
|ever so slightly, that Creon has perhaps created by his
proclamation a conflict between his position as ruler and
his familial duty as an uncle.^
At Ismene's profession of ignorance of the edict
I ^Bernard Knox, The Heroic Temper (Berkeley, 1964), p.
80, writes, regarding cptkog; "By Sophocles’ time the word
bould mean either 'close relative' or 'friend,' depending on
the context."
^Knox, p. 81, though he feels that 9CA.0UQ refers only
to Polyneices, believes that in reference to him the word
must mean "relative" and not "friend." Cf. J. H. Kells,
"Problems of Interpretation in the Antigone." Bulletin of
the Institute of Classical Studies. X (1963), 49.
-*-®Cf. Knox, p. 80, for the ambiguous use of the word
tptkoQ in the speeches of Antigone and Creon.
! 53
I
Antigone informs her that no one is to bury Polyneices or
i
mourn him (28) and whoever disobeys will suffer death by
jstoning (36). With the indignant and parenthetical words,
jXeyco yap K&p.e (32), Antigone reveals for the first time
the attitude which the emotionalism expressed in her opening
i
jspeech impels her to take: others may be willing to obey
i
|
Creon, but she will not. The opportunity Antigone offers
Ismene to prove her nobility with the words, h< xI &et£st,Q
12
Ta, xp/ git’ euysvf)Q itscpuHaq six’ saSXcov naxf) (38-39), is
obviously Antigone's as well, and her indignation has indi-
i
J
jcated that she is not going to miss such an opportunity. At
!
this point we have two motivations for the course of Antigo
ne ' s action: a deep devotion to her family and her desire.
■*-^Cf. Richard Jebb, Sophocles: The Plays and Frag
ments . "Antigone," Part III, 3rd ed. (Amsterdam, 1962), p.
15, n. ad, 31.
i
i
M. Kirkwood, A Study of Sophoclean Drama (Ithaca,
1958), pp. 177-178, makes this point about the word
EuyevfiQ: "Originally, o Euyevf|Q is the 'gentleman,' the
man wellborn; it is a matter of inherited rank and need have
no more personal significance than 'nobleman' need have in
English usage. But as Sophocles1 tragic heroes use the word
it means not only 'of noble birth' but also and always 'of
noble nature.' In Antigone the heroine can declare that
Ismene will show by her attitude toward the burial of Poly-
peices: eit* E^YEvfiQ TEEcpiwaq eu t* eoOXoov Hanp 30. To be
EuyevriQ, then, is not only a matter of birth, since Ismene
may be base in spite of her parentage, but of one's own
nature (TCECpuxaq). "
jto prove her own nobility, that she may be worthy of this
i
|
Inoble family.
Though Ismene is completely sympathetic with her sis
ter's resolve, her timidity and reluctance to transgress the
1
jState's decree moves Antigone to say: o u t* av KsXeuaaLp.’ ,
!out’ av, ei GeXolq eti/ TipdaaEiv, em, ou y’ t|6eci) q Spirit;
|
p.ETa (69-70) . This remark seems, at first glance, to re-
I
I 2.3
iveal mere petulance and harshness, but it also represents
i
I
i .
in regard to Antigone's motive an incipient shift from a
i
!
i
subjective emotionalism to a belief that is more objective.
In effect, she is saying that to bury Polyneices is a noble
!
deed and that the doer of the deed must be equally noble and
!
i
believe sincerely that the nobility of the deed transcends
jobedience to the State.
j
j This suggestion of a belief, more objective than her
emotionalism is substantiated a moment later and clarified
i
i
jsomewhat when she says: crot 6* si 6omei/ xa Qetov evtip,’
axLp.&aaa* £Xe (76-77). This statement, negative in refer-
snce to Ismene, suggests a positive assertion of Antigone's
belief, not so fully expressed or developed as it Will be
when she confronts Creon.(450-457), but nevertheless we do
!
i
- * - 3Cf. Kirkwood, p. 120.
55
get a glimpse of it.'*'"1 Its objectivity lies in the fact
that, stated completely, it assumes the nature of a creed or
a faith which is not personal to Antigone but exists and has
existed for others even prior to the present situation,
jsince there is stress in the prologue on Antigone's devotion
to her family and her desire to prove her nobility, and
these emotions are revealed before the slight expression of
her faith, it can be reasonably assumed that she grasps at
this belief to support her emotions. Nevertheless, she
genuinely believes the laws of the gods to be a higher obli
gation, and her emotions reciprocally strengthen this be
lief.
i In the lines just before this brief suggestion of her
faith Antigone makes an attempt to rationalize a motivation
for the burial:
. . . kcxAov j a o u t o u t o Tioiouaq 0avetv.
< p C A .T i. fiex’ o c ' l i t o u H e la o |ia i, cpCXou iiera ,
| o c u a T c a v o u p y r i a a Q ’ . s t t e i tuX e Ccov x p o v o t ;
| ov 5el i j l * apeaweiv tolq xatoo tcov sv0a6s.
j
ewet yap asl netoo\iai . . . (72-76)
In comparison with the strength of her emotionalism and the
14Cf. Kirkwood, p. 26 7.
; 56
I
|
jvalidity of her faith this rationalization seems feeble.
[Based upon a motive of profit rather than upon any ethical
i
l
jvalue, it implies that if the dead wanted her to do anything
! j
‘ evil in the world of the living, she would consent. Here,j
' j
in Antigone's failure to use reason well, can be seen the j
i
|foreshadowing of a later passage (904-920) where she demon-
I !
I
i 16
jstrates again an inability to rationalize her motivation.
When Ismene, unable to dissuade her sister, advises her
{to act in secrecy and says that she herself will remain si-
I
jlent (84-85), Antigone replies: oiijlol HaTau&oc’ ttoAA6v
:sX0tcov earji oiy&a’, eav n-T] tool wtipu^Q rade (86-87).
■This rather strange and startling response gives a further
! i c
j ■ L3Ivan M. Linforth, "Antigone and Creon,1 1 University of
California Publications in Classical Philology. XV, No. 5
1(1961), 186, makes this comment on Antigone's reasoning in
;vv. 72-76: "The overwhelming sense of her present duty has
pushed her to an irrational but lofty defense of it."
j ^R. E. Wycherley, "Sophocles' Antigone 904-920," CP.
jXLII (1947), 51-52, comments on the similarity of these two
[passages. Cf. Charles S. Levy, "Antigone's Motives: A Sug
gested Interpretation," TAPA. LXIV (1963), 140-141.
•^Antigone' s use of the word XTlpu£T)Q (87) parallels
her description of Creon's edict as a Kfjpuyjia (8). He has
proclaimed one thing, and she in open opposition wants Is-
mene to proclaim another. Goheen, p. 20, notes the paral
lelism between Hr)pv%riQ and nripuyiia, but he feels that
iAntigone in using xr|pu^r)Q in reference to Ismene is only
disassociating herself from her sister and placing Ismene in
the ranks of Creon.
I
(indication, though brief and unclarified at this point, of
|
jthe course Antigone will pursue: not only will she bury her
]
brother, but she will have it known that she has buried him,
for if she effected the burial and remained anonymous, she
[would satisfy only her deep devotion to her family and her
[religious belief; her desire to prove her nobility would,
i
!
'however, be frustrated, for apparently proof of nobility
|
[depends upon the recognition of others. Such an attitude
\
jtoward nobility would seem egotistical and selfish, if in
i
[Antigone's mind the performance of the burial reflected
[glory only on herself. But the burial will also bring glory
to her family. She has mentioned in her opening speech the
19
evils deriving from Oedipus (2); Ismene has enumerated
these evils in somewhat greater detail (49-57): their
!
[father was guilty of parricide and incest, their mother of
incest, and their brothers of fratricide. Antigone and
i is
j J. Cowser, "The Shaping of the Antigone," Proceedings
of the Classical Association. XXXVI (1939), 39, agrees that
ivv. 86-87 express Antigone's open rebellion against the
[state. Kirkwood, p. 120, interprets these verses only as an
expression of Antigone's hostility and bitterness toward
Ismene. Linforth, p. 187, believes that these verses reveal
only the zealous fanaticism of Antigone, that "she scorns to
hide her deed and escape the consequences."
l^See Jebb, p. 9, n. a& 2.
58
Ismene are the only members of their family who have not
i
[committed acts of sacrilege and sin. Given the opportunity
|
jto perform a noble deed, Antigone in winning glory for her-
I
!
jself will ameliorate the reputation of her family, but only
on condition that she is recognized as responsible for the
burial. Related in this way to each other, her incentive to
iprove her nobility and her desire for glory likewise origi-
!
i
jnate in her devotion to her family.
!
i
| To recapitulate briefly, the prologue has revealed four
motives for Antigone's contemplated action: (1) her devo
tion to her family; (2) her desire to prove her nobility;
i
i
i
j(3) her desire for glory, a motive that is corollary to the
I
I t . . . 20
|second motive; (4) and her religious faith. Her reasoning
i
that she owes more to the dead than to the living, because
jshe will abide with the dead for a much longer time (72-76),
j
;is just a poor and unsuccessful attempt to rationalize what
j
she has already been motivated to do.
The prologue has disclosed through Antigone1s motives
two of the major themes of the play: (1) the opposition to
? n
wKnox, p. 28, writes of Antigone's motives: "Antigone
justifies her defiance of public opinion and the polis in
terms of euyevsua (38), the claims of noble birth, of
hXeoq (502), her desire for glory, of euoe|3si(x (924, 943)
her religious feelings."
59
I the State of the individual and the family; (2) the opposi-
i
jtion of the "unwritten laws" of religious custom to the
[edicts of the State. Both of these themes have been set in
| |
jmotion by Antigone's opposition not to Creon but to Creon1s j
[edict. The posing of Antigone herself against Creon has not;
! • i
i i
jas yet produced a theme or even the suggestion of one. By |
[the conclusion of the prologue we know a great deal about
Antigone but almost nothing about Creon, except that he has
issued a proclamation forbidding the burial of Polyneices.
i
[Until his motives are known, it should not even be assumed
that he has placed the laws of the State above the laws of
j
f
[the gods. There is the suggestion, however, as was noted
(p. 52 above), that since he is Polyneices1 uncle, he has
jissued an edict that may conflict with his obligation as a
i
relative.
\ In regard to the use of time in the prologue, from
|
Ismene' s phrase ev vuhti Trj vuv (15) it is made known that
the action of the prologue transpires at night. Jebb, how-
21
ever, insists that the prologue begins at daybreak, giving
22
to Ismene's words the meaning of "last night." A. T. von
2;1-Jebb, p. 8, n. a& 1-99.
22Jebb, p. 11, n. 15ff. Knox, p. 180, n. 43, points
IS. Bradshaw, on the other hand, while admitting that vuv has
|
Ibeen used by some authors to indicate the recent past,
Istates that there are almost fifty examples in which Sopho
cles uses vuv with the definite article and a noun, "and in
23
all of them vuv refers to the present." Bradshaw goes on
to add (p. 203): "It is then highly probable . . . that the
jphrase e v v u h t i ttj v u v is intended to indicate that this is
a night scene," and
it is not difficult to explain how some of the earlier
critics failed to recognize that the action of the
Antiaone begins in darkness. They were deluded by the
old misinterpretation of Aristotle into attempting to
force every tragedy into the fetters of the "Unity of
Time" . . . (p. 203)
The Antigone. moreover, is not the only Greek tragedy whose
action begins at night. Clearly, the action of the pro
logues to the Agamemnon. to Euripides‘ Rhesus. Iohigenia in
24
Aulis. and Electra also take place at night.
The performing time of the prologue is equivalent to
out that "Jebb's 'last night1 is supported by parallels like
v u k t o q Tfjo&s, v u x t l -nJj&E, etc. which do not contain the
precise vuv. ev ^(j-epot would mean 'this present day,' cf.
OT 351-352, Aj.. 801-802."
23"The Watchman Scenes in the Antigone," Classical
Quarterly. XII, No. 2 (November 1962), 203.
24see Knox, pp. 180-181, n. 43.
the time to which the action refers. In this sense time is
used quite realistically. Since, however, the action takes
place at night and is witnessed by the audience in daylight
I i
! i
i * f
I — a good instance of the magical make-believe of the theatre!
| — in this respect time, used referentially and consequently
i
jquite artificially, lessens the realism.
The characters, too, as personages of legend rather
than of life, tend away from the realistic. For this rea
son, while the point of view is that of the audience and
Represents a most realistic use of this element, it loses
i
the full effect of realism'. The language as well, since it
is verse, is quite removed from realism. The prologue has
jestablished a frame of reference that leans heavily toward
[
I
jthe artificial.
i
i
Parodos (100-161)
j
| The frame of reference grows more artificial with the
!
[entrance song of the Chorus, song and dance implying an in-
j
[direct recognition of an audience. Such a recognition has
the effect of designating that the play is not a representa
tion of life but an illusion, the foundation for which has
already been laid in the prologue. The opening verses of
the parodos (100-104) indicate that there has been a change
62
25
m time from night to dawn. With this advance in time
the tone of the play changes from the darkness to which
Antigone's plotting seems most appropriate to the daylight
in which the Chorus' exaltation in the recent victory seems
equally fitting. The joy of the Theban Elders affords a
further contrast to the despair and anger of Antigone. The
consistency of the frame of reference serves both to empha
size these contrasts and yet at the same time to bind the
26
parodos to the prologue. The victory hymn of the Chorus
acts as another unifying factor, sustaining the intensity
and excitement generated by Antigone's emotionalism.
The Elders, summoned by Creon, introduce in their song
a theme of hybris, declaiming that Zeus, who hates the
boasts of proud tongues, has put down the Argive enemy (127-
133). From the view of the Chorus this statement is rele-
Ivant only to the Argive host, but to the reader, aware of
i
i
.what has taken place in the prologue, it suggests more. As
it has been pointed out above, no theme was directly
^Bradshaw, p. 203, writes: "If it is realized that
the prologue takes place at night, the parodos appears in
its true light— the light of dawn. Clearly this ode begins
as a hymn to the sun which has only just risen." Cf. Knox,
p. 180, n. 43.
^®Cf. Kirkwood, pp. 202-203.
jestablished in the prologue from the counterposing of the
i
j
jcharacters of Antigone and Creon, but with the Chorus' in
troduction of this theme the reader is made to wonder for a
moment if Creon or Antigone is going to be guilty of hybris j
i
[ I
27
or if either of them is already guilty. The Chorus has
I
]not established this theme in the parodos with reference to
!
!
Creon and Antigone, but it has prepared the way for it.
| First Episode (162-331)
First part (162-222) .
| Creon's opening speech (162-210) has been likened to an
i 28
jinaugural address, the first part stating in generalities
ithe principles with which he intends to rule, the second
f
1(191-210) announcing specifically his edict against
; 27g. m . Adams, Sophocles the Playwright (Toronto,
|l957), p. 45, states that we already know that Creon is a
man of hybris and therefore this theme in the parodos is
^relevant only to him. I feel, however, that at this point
jthis theme may be relevant either to Antigone or Creon. We
do not know so early in the play what Creon's motives are,
so as to be able to attribute hybris to him. In fact, from
what we have seen of Ismene's view of Antigone, it is more
likely that at this point Antigone may be the one who is
guilty of hybris. Adams' interpretation is probably due to
jhis only viewing the play synoptically instead of also ex
periencing it as it unfolds.
^Linforth, p. 188; Knox, p. 84.
i 64
t
i
jPolyneices and his reasons for it. His first remark (162-
I
!
|163) attributes the salvation of the city to the gods, a
(platitudinous sentiment, no doubt, but nevertheless pious.
Next, he explains to the Chorus that he has summoned them
[
jabove all others, because they have, always .been loyal to the
1
ruling family of Thebes, and now, since the deaths of the
sons of Oedipus, he as next of kin is the ruler (164-174).
After this introduction Creon states his principles: to
pursue the best interests of the city (178-179); to consider
ho cpt^ov (183) more important than his own country (182-
183); not to be silent, if he sees ruin approaching (ctteC-
XOUOav 186) the citizens instead of safety (185-186); to
consider no man who is hostile to the State a qnAov to him-
i
i
!self (187-188), knowing that such friendships cannot be true
29
friendships if they endanger the State (188-190).
Creon’s speech is a statement of patriotism and prin
ciple that would reassure any body of citizens, especially
one that had recently experienced a rebellion that had al
most wrecked the State. It seems reasonable and logical
29jebb, p. 45, n. ad 189f., gives this explanation of
t o u q cpCXouq tto touixeSa: "We make the friends (whom we
really make): since friends made at the cost of endangering
or wrecking the ship of State cannot properly be considered
friends at all."
i 65
j
Ithat the first concern of a ruler should be the welfare of
!
i
I
Ithe State and its citizens. In fact, Demosthenes, in the
j
Icentury after the Antigone was written, quotes vv. 175-190
I 30
in his attack on Aeschines. A thought quite similar to
j
n&* e o t I v r) aw C o u c a , x a l tooOttjq eni/ tuX eovteq opQfjq t o u q
pCX.ovQ 7toLOUne0a (189-190) is attributed to Pericles by
31
Thucydides. The parallel is so close that one might
think that Thucydides (or Pericles) had Creon's lines in
mind, but as Jebb points out, the similarity is probably
coincidental and "what is really common to poet and histor-
32
ian is the general sentiment of Periclean Athens." There
jseems to be nothing in the first part of Creon1s speech to
I 33
jwhich the Chorus could take exception.
I 30Demosthenes, 19. 247. See Ehrenberg, p. 59, n. 1,
jfor his view of the manner in which Demosthenes uses this
quotation. Cf. Knox, p. 181, n. 52.
31Thucydides, 2. 60. syo) yapjf)yoOiiatj ixoX-Ly tjXeCo)
^ujiitaaav op0oujievr)v u)cpeA.£LV t o u q CSucotoq r j Ka0’ EwaaTov t S v
•jioA-Ctwv Euirpaybuaav a0poav 6e c^aAAonevnv. KaXwQ |j , £ v y&p
cpspoixEvog dvfip t o Ha0’ sauTOv 6La90ELpo(i£vri^ xffq TtaTpC&OQ
ou6ev ?)OOov ^uvauo^XuTai, ncmoxvx&v 5e ev eutuxouo^ ttoXXo)
p.aXkov 6Laauj£ETai.
32Jebb, pp. 45-46, n. agL 189f.
33Bowra, pp. 68-69, reveals an inconsistency in his
attitude toward the first part of Creon1s speech. Of
Creon's principles he writes: "They are the legitimate
commonplaces of a patriot and would be accepted as such.
This part of Creon's speech, however, is more than just
an inaugural address and has a twofold significance of which
i
jonly the reader is completely aware. To the Chorus, having
|
[no knowledge of the edict or of what has transpired in the
prologue, his speech is simply a statement of general prin
ciples; to the reader, aware of his edict and of what has
They help to create a good impression of him at his first
appearance. . . . The maxims flow too easily to carry much
weight. Creon advances them with such glibness that we soon
suspect him of trying to make a good impression or wonder if
he does not deceive himself." Adams, p. 46, has this to say
of Creon's principles: "In themselves his precepts are
sound, but they have no relevance to an act automatically
condemned as hybristic ..." Again, Adams makes the mis
take of viewing Creon at this point in the play with the
synoptic view that only knowledge of the entire play can
give (see n. 27 above). Of course, Creon has been proven
wrong by the end of the play and guilty of hybris, but to
consider him hybristic in his opening speech is to view the
characters in black and white, to make Creon a villain and
the play a melodrama instead of a tragedy. Cf. Moses Hadas,
Introduction to Classical Drama (New York, 1966), p. 47.
Karl Reinhardt, Soohokles. 3rd ed. (Frankfurt, 1947), p. 78,
|says of Creon1s speech: "Nicht ein Prinzip, Moral oder
!Idee, redet durch seinen Mund, er ist ein Mensch in seinen
Kreis gebannt und sein Grenzen bis zur Blindheit unterwor-
fen." It is difficult to reconcile Reinhardt's view that
Creon's speech contains neither a single principle, moral,
nor idea with the fact that Demosthenes uses verses 175-190
as a rebuke to Aeschines (see n. 30, p. 65 above) and that
Thucydides attributed a similar sentiment to Pericles (see
n. 31, p. 65 above). D. W. Lucas, The Greek Tragic Poets,
2nd ed. (New York, 1964), p. 141, agrees with my interpreta
tion of the first part of Creon's speech: "The manifesto
which is the prelude to his decree that the traitor shall
not be buried would be acceptable to the wisest and most
benevolent of kings."
taken place in the prologue, his speech is also an attempt
34
to justify the edict.
j Creon's attribution of the salvation of the city to the
r
r
[gods, which appears to be just a pious platitude to the
Chorus, suggests to the reader that the new ruler has not
set the welfare of the State above the laws of the gods. In
his statement that he will consider no cpCA.ov above his
country (182-183) the Chorus understands the word as
"friend," but the reader takes it to mean "relative" as
well, reminded of Antigone's use of cptXouQ (10). Creon's
i
j
remark that he would not be silent if he saw ruin approach
ing (aTsCxo^aav 185) the citizens instead of safety recalls
to the reader Antigone's words, that the evils belonging to
enemies are marching (OTeCxov^a) against friends (10).
Finally, with the repetition of tpCXov (187) and again of
jcptXouQ (190) the reader is once more reminded of the spe-
!
icific problem that was only intimated in the prologue, that
!
|
jCreon's role of ruler might conflict with his obligation as
'Polyneices' uncle. Within eight lines Creon has used a form
of the word cpCXog three times, indicating that he has fully
recognized what was barely suggested in the prologue as a
^^Cf. Linforth, p. 189? cf. also Knox, p. 87.
68
!
I
(possible difficulty for him, though, of course, to the
!
jchorus his words have been simply an avowal of general prin-
ciples. Only after he has announced his edict to the Chorus
!
can they look back upon his general principles as specific !
i
(justifications. i
i
It might be well at this point to consider, before
examining the rest of Creon1s speech, how far he has suc
ceeded, at least from the reader's view, in justifying his
1
(edict. The answer, such as it is, is not a matter of liter
ary criticism but of literary scholarship, and lies in the
[
(knowledge common to the contemporary Athenian audience. It
is a literary fact that must be understood as the audience
of that time understood it. The answer involves knowledge
35
of the Athenian law concerning the burial of traitors.
The Athenian custom in regard to the burial of enemy
idead is quite clear. After the battle of Marathon, the
Athenians, as Pausanias tells us, buried the Persian dead,
i
i
(believing it to be necessary in accordance with religious
36
observance that a corpse be hidden in the ground. This
religious observance is defended several times in The
•^Cf. Linforth, pp. 190-191.
36pausanias, 1. 32. 5.
! 69
i
! ' 37
Suppliants of Euripides. But Polyneices was not just one
of the enemy dead. He was also a traitor, and we must look
i
to the Athenian law concerning the burial of traitors, if we
are to learn the attitude that the Athenian audience had
i
toward Creon’s edict. Thucydides tells us that after the
death of Themistocles "it is said that his bones were
brought home by his relatives and buried in Attica but with-
!
out the knowledge- of the Athenians, because it was not per
mitted that he be buried in Attic soil since he had been
!
i
jexiled for treason" (1. 138). Xenophon quotes the following
i
^Athenian law: "If anyone betrays the city or steals sacred
property, if, after he has been tried in court, he is con
demned, he shall be refused burial in Attica, and his prop-
38
erty shall be confiscated by the State."
| Ivan Linforth questions the validity and purpose of
jcreon’s decree and wonders "how he will benefit the State by
jdenying burial to Polyneices" (p. 189). He conjectures that
i
jperhaps the edict might serve as a warning to others who
jmight follow Polyneices1 example and take up his cause, but
he admits that there is no evidence for this, and reasons
37Euripides, Suppliants. 19; 311; 378; 526; 528,
38xenophon, Hellenics. 1. 7. 22.
70
that in all probability such a decree would only incense the
adherents of Polyneices and "provoke them to an uprising
instead of averting danger" (pp. 189-190). He concludes
that Creon by his decree has "acted in a moment of bitter
anger" and in his speech to the Chorus "now seeks to give
his actions a color of justice" (p. 190). There is, how
ever , absolutely no evidence in the text that Creon pro
claimed his edict "in a moment of bitter anger." The con
jecture that the edict might serve as a warning to others,
jthough Linforth himself places no credence in it, is never-
i
theless correct. The evidence for it lies outside the play
in the audience1s knowledge of the Athenian law pertaining
to the burial of traitors. If we want to know the purpose
jof Creon1s edict, then we must ask what is the purpose of
i
this law. Obviously, such a law is designed not only to
punish traitors but also by this punishment to deter others
from becoming traitors, just as our laws that administer
capital punishment are framed with the intention of punish
ing and deterring. Whether others were prevented by the
edict from becoming traitors we shall never know, for while
Antigone is seen as the sole transgressor, she is not the
political traitor that the decree was designed to deter.
The reader, however, need trouble himself only about the
i 71
i
■edict's purpose, not about its validity or effectiveness,
1
■since the play itself is concerned not with the edict's
I 39
effectiveness, but only with its justice.
It is clear that Creon according to Athenian law is
i
i
[entirely within his rights as ruler of the State to forbid
burial to Polyneices. The question still remains whether
Polyneices' uncle is right not to bury his nephew. In a
40
sense this is a problem play, much like the nature of a
Roman controversia. and could be phrased in this way: the
[law declares that the ruler of a State should forbid burial
| 39Ehrenberg, pp. 58-59, has a rather inconsistent view
•that is difficult to understand. He writes of Creon's de
cree: "If his decree were only the result of tyrannical ar
bitrariness, it would not mean very much, and Antigone would
not be the great tragedy it is. . . . There is room enough
to doubt whether it was in any way in the interest of the
State to leave Polyneices unburied." If there is room for
[this doubt, then there is also room to think, contrary to
what Ehrenberg has already said, that Creon's edict was the
result of tyrannical arbitrariness, and if not that, then
simply the result of unintelligence. If Creon is unintelli
gent, the greatness which Ehrenberg attributes to the Antig
one would be destroyed just as much as by his being tyran
nically arbitrary. Bradshaw, p. 209, concurs with my view
of the decree: "He [Creon] has inherited a tottering throne
and is desperately anxious to establish it firmly and to
suppress OTacriQ. He makes his fatal decree in order to
iemonstrate that traitors, no matter how noble, will be mer
cilessly punished and loyal men honoured. This is to be his
principle for securing stable government."
40cf. Linforth, p. 191.
| 72
jto traitors; another law— -an unwritten law— insists that
i
i
Relatives are obligated to bury their kinsmen? if the de-
i
ceased relative of the ruler of a State has been a traitor,
should the ruler bury him or not? Of course, this specific
i
jsituation in itself has little significance for us and could
i
hardly have been of vital importance even to the Athenian
audience, since such a problem could scarcely occur with any
frequency. Still, the question that arises from this situa
tion, whether the State has the right to supersede the in
dividual, family, and religious obligations, has universal
i
j
jsignif icance. Creon's answer to his dilemma is to be found
i
|in the second part of his speech.
With the phrase nal vtjv a&eXcpa T a j v d s (191) Creon links
jhis decree to the principles that he has just set forth,
I
j
declaring that Eteocles should be given every honor of bur-
iial (194-197), but that Polyneices should be neither buried
I
with honors nor mourned, and his body should be left to be
eaten by birds and dogs (203-216). He gives four reasons to
41
justify his edict (199-202): (1) Polyneices wished to
burn the city of his fathers; (2) to burn the shrines of his
^•^•See Jebb, p. 47, n. ad. 199ff., for his interpretation
of yrjv TiaTpqxxv nai 0souq touq eyyevEiQ . . . TtpijaaL.
I 73
I
j
jancestral gods; (3) to taste of kindred blood; (4) to lead
!
I
jothers off into slavery. All of Creon1s reasons portray
Polyneices as the worst kind of traitor. When he says in
jconclusion that the wicked and the just will never be hon- !
! i
ored alike by him, one recognizes the intent of punishment |
I
and deterrence of the Athenian law regarding the burial of J
traitor,.42
i
In his second reason, that Polyneices wished to burn
the shrines of his ancestral gods, the reader gets an ink
ling of how Creon solves his dilemma, the problem that was
'suggested in the prologue by Antigone's use of the word
I ^
PIA.OUQ and by Creon's repetition of the same word m the
first part of his speech. He implies that the gods would
not honor a man who had intended to destroy their shrines,
a rationalization that he expresses later in greater detail,
jwhen he addresses the Chorus in the presence of the Guard
|
(282-289). His rationalization appears equitable, but it
remains to be seen whether it is sound. Thus Creon justi
fies his edict on two counts: the State's advantage, which
is supported by the authority of Athenian law, and his
4^Cf. Jebb, p. 48, n. a^. 208, for his discussion of
rcpoe^oua’.
; 74
I
rationalization that the will of the gods has exonerated him
43
from familial obligations.
In contrast to Antigone's emotionalism, Creon1s motive
i
i
as the ruler of the State is based solely on reason. Unlikej
I 44 !
Antigone's religious belief, his faith is also reasoned.
j ^Kirkwood, p. 267, concurs that Creon thinks he is
acting in accordance with divine sanction. Ehrenberg, how
ever, p. 54, disagrees: "Creon's maxims, if taken at their
face value, are morally sound but reveal the complete lack
bf any divine sanction. He lives in a world in which the
igods have no say, a world of purely human and political
Standards." It is impossible to agree with Ehrenberg in
view of the fact that Creon with his very first words at
tributes the salvation of the city to the gods (162-163),
infers that the gods would not honor Polyneices with burial
1(199-201), and later makes the same inference at greater
llength (282-289).
| 44^alter Jens, "Antigone— Interpretationen," Satura:
Fruchte aus der antiken Welt (1952), p. 45, recognizes that
Oreon's speech is a foil to what has happened in the pro
logue, but he fails to see the validity of Creon's motives.
His sympathies are already entirely with Antigone, due, no
'doubt, to his viewing the play from its conclusion rather
jthan as it unfolds. He writes: "Auf der Folie des Vorge-
'schehens— Antigone auf dem Weg um den Bruder zu bestatten—
jstreifen Kreons Worte das Grausig-Lacherliche. Das Licht
Ivon vorn macht aus der in sich gultigen Rede eine Farce."
[Jens, it seems-, has completely ignored the fact of the
jAthenian burial law concerning'traitors. Gilbert Norwood,
Greek Tragedy (New York, n.d.), p. 137, on the other hand,
admits both the validity of Creon's motives and the neces
sity that they appear to be valid: "The principle upheld by
Antigone, and that upheld by Creon, are prima facie of equal
validity. The poet may, possibly, agree with Antigone rath
er than with the king, but the . . . belief, that the prin
cess is splendidly right and her oppressor ignobly wrong,
stultifies the play; it would become not tragedy but crude
| 75
|
The establishment of Creon's motives and their sharp con
trast with those of Antigone have given rise to another
major theme, produced not like the others through Antigone's
j I
ppposition to the edict but through the counterposing of the
characters of the two principals: the opposition of emotion
and reason. The theme of the individual and the family.ver
sus the State remains unchanged, but that of. the opposition
J
of religion has been altered somewhat and can be seen at
jthis point in the play only from Antigone's view. Prom
i
Creon's standpoint his difference with Antigone is not based
!
!
on an assumption that the laws of the State are more binding
j
than the laws of the gods, but it is founded upon a different.
|
j
interpretation of religious creed. The theme of hybris,
I
i
introduced by the Chorus in the parodos, has not been clari-
|
ified or augmented. It is still a question whether Antigone
or Creon or both will be guilty.
In the short exchange between the Chorus and Creon at
the conclusion of his speech (211-222), another theme is
initiated, though not developed— that of tyranny. The
Chorus meekly concedes that Creon has the right to ordain
both for the living and the dead (213-214). But does he
melodrama." Cf. Lucas, pp. 140-141.
' 45
;really have this right? We are confronted here not only
|with the literary fact of the Athenian attitude toward one-
1
i
ban rule but also with our own democratic feelings. It is
not that Creon is an evil or unjust man but that tyranny
I
itself as a form of one-man rule has an inherent weakness.
jit remains for this theme to be developed through the rest
j
|
jof the play.
I
I
| The closing lines of the first part of the first epi
sode form a bridge to the second part. Creon enjoins the
I
|
Chorus not to side with those who may violate his orders
i
;(219), a remark that suggests a degree of insecurity on his
jpart. When the Chorus assures him that no man is so foolish
•as to love death (220), Creon admits to the Chorus for the
jfirst time what is already known to the reader through the
S
prologue (35-36), that death indeed will be the penalty
|(221). He adds that the hope of gain, however, has often
lied men to destruction (221-222). In this remark, too,
!
jthere is a further intimation of the insecurity of a tyrant,
i ^Kitto, Form and Meaning, p. 151, writes of this re
sponse of the Chorus: "Ordinary Greek sentiment would cer
tainly reject this as a political theory; it was indeed the
reason why tyranny was hated, that the tyrant claimed to
impose what law he willed ..." Cf. Linforth, p. 190.
I 77
j
jthat some may resent one-man rule or that someone may wish
j
jto seize the tyranny for himself. At this moment the Guard
l
I
lappears and announces that Polyneices has been buried.
|
Second part (223-331)
|
With the entrance of the Guard one of the major diffi
culties in the play begins, the question of the double bur
ial. G. M. Kirkwood tends to minimize the importance of the
problem and writes:
j Events before, as in Oedipus Tyrannus. and even events
| after, as in Philoctetes (the fulfillment of Philocte-
| tes' destiny, which we are told will come about) and in
| Oedinus at Colonus (Oedipus' future gift of protection
to Athens), may be within the drama; events contemporary
j with the action may be outside. (p. 70)
|
jit is not our concern in the Antigone to discuss whether
j
events before the action of the play or after it are within
i
[the drama or not, but it seems of the greatest pertinence
[that events contemporary to the action should be considered
within the drama. Otherwise, where can one draw the line
[between what is within the drama and what is outside it? If
we could consider the two burials as outside the drama, as
Kirkwood would have us, what is to prevent us from regarding
the deaths of Antigone and Haemon as also outside the drama?
Kirkwood, after broaching this point, admits, however,
78
iwith an inconsistency unusual for him, at least this much:
j"On the first [burial] depends Creon's initial interview
with the guard, an incident of great value for our under-
j i
I
'standing of Creon" (p. 70). The significance of the two
jburials is even greater than this. As we shall try to show,
j
I
|the proper interpretation of the burials is important to our
|
understanding of both the meaning of the play and the moti-
jvations of Creon and Antigone.
|
| It will be clearer perhaps if the burials are consid
ered one at a time in the order in which they occur, though
it will be necessary to substantiate some of the points of
i
the first burial with certain particulars from the second.
|The problem of the first burial is whether Antigone or the
! 46
jgods buried Polyneices. Three sources in the play give
46w. h . D. Rouse, "The Two Burials in Antigone." CR,
XXV (1911), 40-42, claims that Ismene effected the first
burial. He bases his theory on the assumption that Antigone
has no motive to return for the second burial. Consequent
ly, what in the play is the second burial is for Antigone
the first. Unknown to her, Ismene has buried Polyneices,
^nd Antigone has gone to the corpse to effect what has al
ready been accomplished. This theory claims few advocates
today. Nevertheless, it will be considered in connection
with the second burial, since it involves Antigone1s motive
for returning to the body. J. E. Harry, "Studies in Sopho
cles," Univ. of Cincinnati Studies, ser. 2, VII (1911), 20-
25, also advocates this theory. Kirkwood, p. 71, writes of
this interpretation: "It is almost unbelievable that two
reputable critics, independently and almost simultaneously,
79
rise to the theory that the gods effected the first burial:
(1) the translation of Ismene's phrase ev vuhtI tt) vuv (16)
as "in the night past" results in the belief that the action
! 47
|of the prologue takes place at dawn; (2) the Guard's re
port strangely lacks evidence of how the burial could have
been accomplished through human agency: there was no sign
i
j
jof a pickaxe, no earth thrown up; the earth was hard and
jdry, unbroken and unmarked by the wheels of a cart; there
I
' 48
jwas no trace of the performer of the deed (249-258); (3)
j
the Chorus sees in the Guard's story the workings of a di
vine agency: ava^, efiot xoi pf| xi Hal SerjXocTov/ Toupyov
|to6’ t ) ^uvvota (3ouA.euei TiaXai (278-279).
!
{proposed this fantastic interpretation, acceptable neither
jas literary criticism nor as criminal investigation." Cf.
Kitto, Form and Meaning, pp. 140-141.
4^See Jebb, p. 8, n. ad 1-99; p. 11, n. ad I5ff.
48Vv. 249-258:
ouk oi6*. ehsi yap oCJte tou ysvijjSog rjv.
7tXfiy|j.' , ou 6LKeX.XT}Q £K(3oA/r). OTUtai 0eri\cxTov/ Toupyov to6,j t \ £uvvoia
poiAsuet naXcxi (278-279), divine agency working with An-
6 7
tigone. A. B. Drachmann was the first to raise the point
65Cf. Kirkwood, p. 71, n. 34.
66Form and Meaning, pp. 152-155.
^^Form and Meaning, pp. 139, 155-156.
that a light covering of dirt could not keep animals from a
68
dead body. Professor Kitto agrees with him in this but
sees in the illogicality the hand of the gods, for only they
could make a thin layer of dirt serve as protection against
69
anxmals. As long as there is some evidence of divine
agency in the burial, whether the gods accomplished it or
Antigone with the aid of the gods, the effect on Creon's
characterization and the play is the same. If Professor
jKitto's interpretation is sound, the Chorus' inference is at
least partially correct, and Creon, either because of his
i
impiety or lack of intelligence, must still be viewed as
failing to heed what the Chorus has observed. The weak
nesses, moreover, that such a characterization contributes
jto the play persist, unmitigated.
The Guard's veracity cannot be questioned in that part
of his report where he says that there was no sign that any
beast or dog had come close to the corpse and torn it (257-
258). It is not the sort of thing he could exaggerate or
lie about. He could be proven false too easily. A. T. von
6 8
"The Composition of Sophocles' Antigone." trans.
H. A. Siepmann, CR, XXIII (1909), 212-216; appeared first in
Hermes. XLIII (1908).
P i Q
Form and Meaning, p. 156.
j 96
jS. Bradshaw, however, offers several natural explanations to
dissipate the miraculous nature of the layer of dirt:
Even a light covering of dust is enough to keep off
carrion birds, which identify their food by sight (they
do not in any case operate at night), and curs scaven-
i ging on a battlefield littered with dead bodies (1080-
3) will certainly leave to the last the one which is
covered with dust and lying in the neighborhood of
watchmen. (p. 204)
While these reasons are plausible, they are not decisive.
They seem to demand from both the fifth-century Athenian and
the reader of today too intimate a knowledge of biology.
jThe validity of Professor Kitto's theory and of Bradshaw's
jexplanations seems equally weighted. With little preference
jone could choose either, though the choice would greatly
jaffect the play. The deciding factor against Professor
!
Kitto's theory is again the characterization of the Guard.
I
Since Professor Kitto's theory, though differing in
jdetail from Professor Adams', imputes the same qualities to
Creon and the same weaknesses to the play, the effect of the
Guard's characterization as a sly man, desperate to save
himself, would be completely nullified; the characterization
itself would have no purpose, and the typical messenger
would have served as well. It is this factor that adds
conclusiveness to Bradshaw's plausible, if esoteric,
[explanations .
f
i
| The view of the first burial, offered in this study,
agrees essentially with the details of Bradshaw's interpre
tation: namely, that the burial took place at night, that
^Brief mention should be made of several other inter
pretations of the first burial. I. Errandea, "La Doble Vi-
'sita de Antigona al Cadaver de su Hermano Polinices," Estu-
dios Clasioos- III (1955), 111-120, mistakenly believes that
jthe action of the prologue takes place at dawn. Consequent
ly, he feels that Antigone when she speaks to Ismene has al
ready accomplished the burial, but since it was incomplete,
[she asks Ismene for assistance to accomplish a more satis-
ifactory one. When Ismene refuses, Antigone goes to the body
land is apprehended by the Guard. There is nothing in the
[prologue to substantiate this interpretation. It seems that
jErrandea has simply forced this theory to account for both
the time of the prologue and Antigone's motive for returning
to the body. A. 0. Hulton, "The Double Burial of the Antig
one. " Mnemosvne. XVI (1963), 284, believes that vv. 434-435
{give adequate proof that Antigone accomplished the first
burial. Here, during his second appearance, after he has
{captured Antigone, the Guard says: KCXL T&Q ts TUpocrSev t&q
rue vuv riXeyxo^Ev/ "reposelq * anxxpvoQ 5* ou6evoq KaSComuo.
This is hardly substantial proof, for the Greek does not
necessarily mean that she remained silent and denied noth
ing, disdaining to say anything to her captors. Cf. Adams,
p. 49. Cf. Jebb, pp. 86-87, n. ad. 434f. K. A. Rockwell,
"Antiaone: the Double Burial Again," Mnemosvne. XVII (1964),
156-157, suggests that there was no second burial and that
the guard caught Antigone during the first burial. Seeing
that his captive was the royal princess, he experienced both
pity and dismay and let her go. However, when his own life
was threatened, he arrested her, covering up his previous
dereliction of duty by inventing a second burial. This fan
tastic interpretation needs no comment. In fact, Rockwell
himself admits that he does not believe in it, asserting
that it smacks more of the Arabian Mights than of Greek
tragedy. He offers it only as a possibility.
ithe guards were on duty at the time, and that Antigone alone
I
jperformed the burial. Bradshaw, however, having failed to
i
i
<
jgive consideration to the purpose and manner of the Guard's
j
jcharacterization, has not refuted the interpretations of
| i
[Professors Adams and Kitto but has offered only a plausible
i
jalternative. This study, on the other hand, through a de
tailed examination of the function of the Guard's charac
terization has clarified and supported Bradshaw's interpre
tation and has finally put to rest those theories that claim
that the gods alone, or Antigone with the aid of the gods,
performed the first burial.
| Now that Antigone alone has been shown to have accom-
i
plished the burial, and the play has been rid of some appar-
I
jent weaknesses, it still remains to examine Creon's speech
i
|(280-314) which the Chorus has provoked with their false
^inference from the Guard's description. The fact that their
j
remark immediately arouses Creon to the point of anger indi
cates that they have struck at the very heart of his justi
fication for the edict. In his previous speech he had given
as one justification the fact that Polyneices had wished to
i
burn the shrines of his ancestral gods (199-200). He had
Reasoned from this an interpretation of the will of the gods
[that had freed him from his familial obligation. For him
99
to admit now that the Chorus 1 remark contained truth would
be to realize that he had misinterpreted that will and that
once more he was faced with the dilemma of a ruler who,
though he had issued in the interests of the State an edict
against the burial of a traitor, was obligated to bury that
traitor because of kinship. Now for the first time he re
veals fully the reasoning behind his religious interpreta
tion:
| XeyeLQ yap oux a v sx T a , &aCp.ovocc; Xeyoov
i
| x p o v o ia v Zo%eiv t o u &e t o u vsxp ou Tiepl .
I
I XOTepOV foiepTl^ajVTEQ £U£pyeTT]V
expuittov auTov, o c t t i q djj.cpi,xCovaQ
vaotQ T cvpcbaoov t|\0 e xdva0f)(j.aTa
x a i yfjv sxsCvcov x a i v 6(i o u q &iaax£&a)v;
IT ) TOUQ XaX O U Q T (.JAWVTOCQ ELCJOpqCQ 0EOUQ ;
OUX EOT iv . (282-289)
| Creon had said before that the hope of gain had often
led men to destruction (221-222), barely hinting that there
were some in the city who opposed him. Now he states defi
nitely and at greater length that there is opposition to
him (289-294); he expounds on the corruption of bribery and
the evils produced by money (294-301).
In regard to the burial, that it was performed through
human agency and not by the gods. Creon1s reasoning has____
I 100
proved him correct. Concerning the motive and person in
volved he has been mistaken, though, it must be admitted,
jhis mistake is perfectly natural, if one considers that he
!
]
jis the ruler of a state that has been shaken by a recent
I
jcrisis and is still tottering. By the end of the First Epi-|
I !
1
!sode Creon's motives are clear and fully developed. The
j
prologue revealed all of Antigone's motives, though it
treated expansively only her devotion to her family; the
jother motives will receive further development when she
jfaces Creon. Only the position of the Chorus remains to be
clarified before the two antagonists confront each other.
| First Stasimon (332-375)
: The admiration among scholars for the beauty and
|
jsplendor of this stasimon, that has often been called an
"ode to man," is almost universal, but the disagreement
about its meaning and relevance to the play is considerable.
A. J. A. Waldock, for example, feels that the ode is simply
used to fill in the necessary interval of time between the
first episode and the second:
The guard has left on his quest for the culprit; in a
few moments of dramatic time he will return with Antig
one; there is an interval, therefore, to be managed.
The obvious way is to charm the audience which is what
Sophocles proceeds to do. The two chief facts about
the ode are these: in itself it is extremely beautiful
I 101
71
and its relevance to the play is nil.
If what Waldock says is true, then we must admit that during
the time which this ode consumes, the dramatic significance
of the play has been interrupted and for the time being the
!
play's organic unity of form and meaning has lapsed. What
iwe are faced with, then, in this ode— according to Waldock's
interpretation— is merely a piece of decoration embellishing
72
the play.
j While Albin Lesky does not go so far as Waldock in his
i
estimate of this stasimon, he attributes to it a signifi
cance and relevance that are only tangential to the play:
Scholars have often tried to connect this ode with some.
I particular part of the action. This is in fact one of
! the passages in which the Attic tragedian speaks from
the stage of the Dionysiac theatre to the Athens of his
day. . . . At the time when the Antigone was performed
] the movement to destroy the very roots of the respect
| for law in all spheres of life was already articulate.
(pp. 104-105)
From what Lesky goes on to say, it is clear that he sees
this ode as a sort of tragic parabasis, a direct statement
from Sophocles to the Athenian audience regarding the dan
gers inherent in the contemporary Sophistic movement, a kind
i
I 71
Sophocles the Dramatist (Cambridge, 1951), p. 112.
j 72Cf. Aristotle, Poetics, 1456a. ________________
! 102
j
of warning against submitting everything to the standard of
reason (p. 104).
i
; Without even considering for the moment the validity of
i
jLesky's view of the meaning of this ode we must admit that
jthe play's frame of reference will hardly sustain such a
i
I
jdirect manner of communication from author to audience. It
is true that the frame leans toward the artificial, but
there has been no direct recognition of the audience up to
this point, nor has the groundwork for such a recognition
been prepared. Consequently, the frame of reference is not
bo artificial as to allow such a direct communication, and
|
j i f we admit that there is such a communication, then we must
|
also admit that the frame of reference-has been broken, the
|
play has been interrupted, and the unity of its form and
meaning has been suspended by what has often been termed
"preaching."
G. M. Kirkwood views this ode as paralleling the mood
of the preceding episode. Just as the episode, opening with
Creon1s speech, progresses from calm and orderliness to
knger and disturbance at its conclusion, so does the ode:
Its [the ode's] relevance to the context lies precisely
in its repetition of the emotional development of the
episode. The end of the ode is meant to reintroduce
and to amplify this spirit of disquiet and confusion.
Just who is the disturber of order and right, who it______
103
is that has been led to "evil ways"— Creon or the burier
of the body— is deliberately left in doubt. The most
j important dramatic contribution of the ode is its intro-
| duction of serious and unresolved doubts. (p. 207)
J While Kirkwood succeeds in lending direct relevance to
jthe first stasimon, his success is based on a distortion and
i
simplification both of the material that precedes the ode
and of the ode itself. The link between the first episode
and the first stasimon is, as one might reasonably expect,
the first lines of the ode: izoKka m 6siva hou5ev av0pdmou
iSeivoTepov tteXel (332-333). It is precisely Kirkwood's
jfailure to recognize the importance of the manner and agency
of the first burial (see pp. 77-78 above) that causes him to
overlook the basic meaning of 6elvov in the context of the
ode. While he readily admits that most of the ode deals
with "the orderly and clever accomplishments of civiliza
tion" (p. 206), he chooses to translate 6elvov as "wonder-
73
ful" rather than as "clever." It is quite correct that
# 74
&£ivov means "wonderful," "strange," and "terrible," but
^ K i r k w o o d , p. 206. 'Drachmann, p. 212, emphasizes the
notion of inventiveness in 6eivov. E. Schlesinger, "Dei-
notes," Philolocrus. XCI (1936), 59-66, maintains that the
ode is permeated by the idea of man's cleverness, an ability
that is essentially amoral.
74p. Friedlander, "Polla ta Deina." Hermes. LXIX
(1934), 56-63, interprets Ssivov to mean "gewaltiq." but he
104
in view of the fact that the burier of the body has accom
plished the burial while the guards were on duty, that the
guards themselves were so amazed that they accused each
other, and that the Chorus, marvelling at the burial,
i
wrongly suspected divine agency, surely the central meaning
o f &e i . vi6 v i n t h i s c o n t e x t m u s t b e " c l e v e r " a n d m u s t a l l u d e
to the person who effected this extraordinary burial; and
j u s t a s s u r e l y t h e o t h e r m e a n i n g s o f 6 e l v o v m u s t b e c o n -
75
sidered subsidiary.
I Kirkwood tries to give further substantiation to his
'interpretation by his view of the final antistrophe;
lis hard pressed to explain the theme of man's cleverness
[that he sees running through the ode.
^Linforth, p. 196, translates the first three words of
the ode, "Many are the causes for alarm." Of the entire ode
he writes, p. 198; "The language of the chorus is general
from beginning to end. In the account of man's achievements
we can safely say that there is no overt reference to anyone
in particular. No one in the play has shown any inventive
ness or ingenuity such as are there described." Linforth
fails to perceive the cleverness of the burier of the body,
because he makes the mistake of thinking that the burial was
accomplished before the guards took up their post (see n.
53, p. 83 above). As a result, Linforth, p. 199, gives only
a general meaning and tangential relevance to the ode:
"After their [the Chorus'] momentary satisfaction over the
restored safety of the city, they are led to think of the
danger which constantly threatens human society from man's
evil propensities."
105
v6(jlouq yspoupoov x^o^cx;
0eSv t* evopnov &Cxav
d(|)L7CoA.i,Q aitoXLQ oto) to ( j l t ) hcxX ov
^UVSCTTl TC\|iaQ X^P<'V*
uriT* ejaol TtapeaTuoQ ye-
VOLTO |i-f|T’ LCfOV CppOVUJV
OQ t&6’ epSoi, (368-375).76
yirkwood asks (p. 206):
| Who in the play is the evildoer? Is it the burier of
| the body? Since the chorus have already expressed a
| measure of disapproval of Creon's edict and have sug-
i gested that the gods had a hand in the burial, it seems
impossible that they are now, only a little later, con
demning the act. . . . Such inconsistency in choral
attitude would contradict the procedure that we have
seen Sophocles following regularly, and I do not think
that this chorus need to be taken to be an exception.
Contrary to what Kirkwood has said, the Chorus up to
this point in the play has expressed no disapproval of
77
jcreon's edict. Their response to the edict is simply a
^Jebb's reading, yspatpcov (368), seems preferable
from the context to Traps Cpcov, the reading chosen by Dain,
the editor of our text. For Jebb's defense of his reading
see Jebb, pp. 76-77, n. a& 368.
7 7 in reference to the Chorus' reaction to Creon's
edict Kirkwood writes, p. 126: "From the beginning they
have qualms about Creon's edict." Also, Kirkwood, p. 189:
"In Antigone there is a distinct, if slight, dramatic value
in the chorus's lukewarm reception of Creon's edict (211-
214) . .
106
jstatement of the accepted conditions under which people live
i 78
in a tyranny. It should be most carefully distinguished
that the disapproval of one-man rule implicit in their words
is not in the mind of the Chorus but in that of the present-
|
day reader and fifth-century Athenian audience (see pp. 75-
76 above).
Is the Chorus, moreover, inconsistent in its attitude,
as Kirkwood suggests, and to what extent is it inconsistent
in condemning the burier of the body as an evildoer, when a
little before they intimated that the burial seemed to be
j
jthe work of the gods? Their intimation that the gods ef-
j
jfected the burial is not, however, uttered as a firm belief
i
|
but as a suggested possibility to explain the extraordinary,
i
[a suggestion which the reader with a proper understanding of
l
|
the burial knows to be wrong and which Creon is right to
reject. Kirkwood regards their utterance concerning the
burial as a positive statement of belief rather than as a
suggested possibility, simply because he fails to perceive
how the characterization of the Guard in conjunction with
78Vv. 211-214:
Sou tqcOt* &peonei, Tiau Msvouhscoq, ,
t 6 v Trjfis Suavouv w al t o v su|asvfj TtoA.su*
vo|aa) 6 s Y* I v e o t i aou
HOCU T C O V 0avOVTO)V X&TCOCFOl £{0| 1£V TUSpU.
/
i 107
jhis report is used to elicit from the Chorus a suggestion
I
which, in turn, is utilized to provoke Creon to a speech
that fully reveals his religious belief.
In addition, if this choral ode does not adhere to the
procedure that Sophocles normally follows (unless Kirkwood's
interpretation is accepted), then we should admit that it is
an exception rather than force upon it a meaning that is
more consistent with the other plays of the writer than with
l
the play, in which it appears; for it is preferable as a
method— if it is necessary to choose— to interpret any part
of a play in its own context rather than in accordance with
a theory of probability that is inferred from the writer's
other plays, particularly when that theory is based upon
79
such a small fraction of the writer's total output.
"Sophocles," as Kitto remarks, "did not write to formulas
n 80
■ ■ •
Victor Ehrenberg's view of this ode represents a com
bination of the interpretations of Kirkwood and Lesky (pp.
61-66). Seeing in the ode, as Kirkwood does, a statement of
7Q
'■'See Kells, p. 47, for his arguments against proving
by parallels instead of by context.
8QGreek Tragedy, p. 159-.
108
jserious and unresolved doubts, Ehrenberg writes:
j
! The chorus is not taking sides but combatting any daring
| deed (ToX^aQ x&Pl-v* 374), the unknown's breach of Cre-
| on's decree as well as the decree itself. If this is
; right, we have to accept the song primarily as the utter
ance of a bewildered and pious chorus. (p. 63)
j j
jusing the same substance of thought as Lesky, but referring
i
j
ithe meaning of the ode to Creon rather than looking upon it
|
|as a direct communication from author to audience, Ehrenberg
i
jadds:
|
t
| Creon is involved. He is one of those, only especially
| important because of his position and power, who put
| their own reason and their own moral standards above
the law. Thus he makes the State absolute, putting
State law above divine law, and then identifies the
State with its ruler.... Human reason which the
Sophists helped to install on the throne of the realm
of the mind is also the means by which the State was
identified with its ruler. Thus the absolutism of
State and ruler is established by the predominance of
rational principles. (pp. 65-66)
i
I
!
iEhrenberg, however, has failed to note that the Chorus is
not singing about man's reason but about his cleverness.
This oversight invalidates his interpretation of the ode.
It also invalidates -Lesky's view of the substance of thought
in the ode, even if his interpretation had not been previ
ously rejected for the violence it does to the play's frame
I
of reference (see p. 102 above).
It was observed in the parodos that the Chorus had
109
i
introduced a theme of hybris in reference to the Argive host
and that the reader, aware of what had taken place in the
prologue j , had seen in this incipient theme an undetermined
relevance to either Creon or Antigone {see pp. 62-63 above).1
I
|Now in the opening line of the first stasimon with the
I :
j i
Chorus' allusion to the cleverness of the burier of the I
! ;
body (332),, who as yet is unknown to the Chorus, the reader,
cognizant of who has performed the burial, sees in the allu
sion relevance to Antigone. Using this allusion to the un
iknown burier of the body as a point of departure for their
song, the Chorus then sings of man's wonderful and clever
achievements (334-361): his ability to sail the sea, to
tame the earth with his ploughs and make it serve him; his
cunning in hunting and fishing and domesticating wild ani
mals; his skill in teaching himself speech, thought, and the
ways of civilized life; and his cleverness in combating the
81
rigors of harsh weather.
With the words "Ai&oc jiovov/ cpeu^LV oiw etzolZ. exixi
®^-This exalted statement of man's achievements is
reminiscent of the myth of Protagoras (see Plato, Protagor
as. 320D-322E), but, as Ehrenberg, p. 61, points out, there
is a difference in the fact that in the myth man's accom
plishments are due to the help of Prometheus, while in
Sophocles' ode man alone is responsible for his achieve
ments .
(361), the Chorus descends from pure generalizations to a
generalization that may be taken more specifically as an
allusion to the unknown burier of the body. In effect, they
are saying that, though the performer of the burial has been
jextremely clever, man cannot surmount death which, both the j
Chorus and the reader have learned, is the penalty for
transgressing Creon's edict (220-221). As the ode draws to
a close, this combination of generalizations and specific
I
allusions to the performer of the burial continues. After
Icommenting that man's cleverness sometimes brings him to
i
igood and sometimes to evil (366-367), the Chorus, growing
i
i
increasingly more specific in its allusions to the burier of
j
the body, concludes its song with this thought: "He who
;
f
honors the laws of the land and the sworn justice of the
gods stands high in his city. He who rashly participates in
sin has no city. May he never share my hearth and thoughts
whoever does this" (368-375). With this statement the
Chorus takes its stand with Creon, approving his edict and
voicing disapproval of its transgressor, whom the reader
knows to be Antigone.
On the other hand, if one believes, as Professor Kitto
j
does, that the gods had a hand in the first burial and that
Creon, acting impiously, has set his own will above the
precepts of the gods, one can see in this ode an ironic
significance in the difference between what the Chorus ex
presses and the reader knows: while the Chorus unwittingly
alludes to Antigone as the evildoer, the reader who, like
Professor Kitto, thinks Creon has set his will above the will.
82
of the gods understands Creon as the evildoer. Since,
however, we have demonstrated that the gods played no part
in the burial and that Creon, rejecting the Chorus' false
jinference that the burial seemed to be the work of the gods,
I
has not set his will above divine will, the ironic
op
^Form and Meaning, p. 157: "The chorus can reflect on
the act of disobedience without knowing whose it is; and the
fact that we ourselves do know enables Sophocles to invest
the ode with a grave and revealing irony. . . . The obvious
implication is that these two— the law of the land and the
pike of the gods— are, if not identical, then at least in
harmony; wg. know that in the present case they are not. The
jchorus has in mind the unknown lawbreaker who has buried the
body; wg. know that the words fit Creon, and no one else in
the play." Cf. Adams, pp. 48-49. Jens, p. 48, also sees an
ironic significance in the ode: "Kreon hat ins Leere ge-
troffen und bedroht durch seine Blindheit die Ordnung der
Polis. Ihn meint das Chorlied, wenn es den cctcoX i q ver-
flucht. In noch extremeren Masse als Kreon spricht der Chor
Vordergriindiges und Hintergrundiges zugleich aus. Vorder-
griindig, auf die Situation bezogen, meint er mit dem octtoA. i q ,
jden er verflucht, den Freuler, der das konigliche Gebot
jiibertrat. Hintergrundig aber meint Kreon, den Freuler, der
das Gebot der Gotter mifiachtete."
| 112
i
! 83
jsignificance that Professor Kitto sees is lacking.
| Nevertheless, there is irony in this ode of another
i
!
jkind that does lie in the difference between what the Chorus
expresses and the reader knows. The Chorus in alluding to
jthe burier of the body as an evildoer (368-375) has in mind
the sort of culprit that Creon has outlined: someone who
has been bribed by those who oppose Creon and aim to shake
the stability of the State (289-301). The reader knows the
culprit is Antigone, who has acted only out of devotion to
her family, a desire to prove her nobility, and a religious
faith. This ironic significance is promptly substantiated
after the conclusion of the ode in the words that the Chorus
uses (376-383) to introduce the next episode. In interpret
ing the first stasimon too little attention has been paid to
! 84
jthese verses. The chorus, having just taken their stand
O O
JBowra, p. 86, agrees with my interpretation of this
ode: "The Chorus refer to the yet unidentified person who,
despite a legal order, has buried Polyneices. They take
their stand with Creon and, as they believe,.with law and
order . . . In effect they condemn Antigone, though they do
not know that she is the culprit." Goheen, p. 54, also
takes this line: "In the main, the Chorus' role and atti
tudes are those of a loyal supporter of Creon's authority.
It has accepted his leadership previously, and the conclud
ing lines of the ode appear to repudiate again the unknown
breaker of Creon's edict (372-375)."
84Vv. 376-383:
113
with Creon, having just denigrated the evildoer, believing
him to be the sort of culprit that Creon has described, is
amazed and shocked to see the Guard returning with Antigone
85
jas his prisoner. Now the Chorus perceives what the reader
has known all along, and the ironic significance implicit in
the choral ode because of the difference between the Chorus *
and the reader's knowledge is underlined by the shock and
amazement with which the Chorus at last shares common knowl
edge with the reader.
It was noted at the conclusion of the first episode
that the moment for the confrontation of Antigone and Creon
|was prepared and ripe, except for the fact that it still
I
remained for the Chorus' attitude toward the performance of
the burial to be clarified. The first stasimon has clari
fied that attitude and has shown it to be identical to that
6aip,6vt,ov Tepag aiaquvofi)
To6e xuq e L&wq avTiAoyrjaa)
tt) v&* oux elvai iratS* ’Avtiyovtiv;
Q 6u< jtt] voq Hat &uc?Tf|vov
T O X T p o g O L h n t o & a ,
t C h o t* 5 ov 6fj thou 6s y* aTTLOTOucfav
tolq PaaiAsCoL0 ayouai vojioiq
nat sv acppoauvr} Ha0s\6vTSQ;
®5In Aristotelian terms this moment is a fine example
of a simultaneous "recognition" and "reversal." The Chorus'
recognition of Antigone as the burier of the body completely
refutes their previous conception of the unknown evildoer.
jof Creon. In addition, though the ode consumes only a few
minutes of playing or reading time, it must represent sever
al hours of referential time, enough, at least, to allow the
Guard to return to the corpse, to watch for a fairly ex
tended period, so that it was necessary for the guards to
keep each other awake with threats (413-414), to apprehend
i
jAntigone, and to return with her. Since, moreover, the
!
jreader was ready for the confrontation between the two main
characters by the conclusion of the first episode, the
choral lyric by postponing their meeting has served to
heighten the tension and suspense in the reader's anticipa
tion of their encounter.
Second Episode (376-581)
First part (376-440)
The problem of the second burial is a question of mo-
i
jtive. When the Guard returns with Antigone as. his prisoner,
j
the reader, if he considers the first burial symbolic, has
good cause to wonder why Antigone revisited the body after
she had already accomplished her purpose. Because of this
apparent lack of motivation for the second burial, both
W. H. D. Rouse and J. E. Harry have subscribed to the theory
that Ismene effected the first burial and that Antigone,
115
unaware of what her sister has done, goes to the body,
thinking to bury it for the first time.^
The only positive evidence within the play that can be
used to support this theory is Ismene's statement: Sl&paxa
Toftpyov, SLTtep f)&' 6uOppO0eL,/ HaV ^U|i.£TLdXU> Hal cpepa) tfjQ
cxCtCcxq (536-537). The evidence against accepting these
verses as proof of her action is weighty. (1) The prologue
has informed the reader of Antigone's intention to bury her
brother and has revealed Ismene to be too timorous even to
assist her, let alone do it by herself. If Ismene is to be
given credit for the first burial, then we must admit that
1
i
the prologue has been extremely misleading.
(2) The Guard in his report of the capture of Antigone
describes her in this fashion:
I s ! 7E0UQ OpOCTOCL KaVOCHGOKUE L TTlHpOCQ
8p01voq o£i)v cpQoyyov, coq otov KEvfjc;
i
| euvf}Q veoaa&v opcpavov ( 3\lcp^ Kexoc,'
i
! outo) 6e xa^'rT)» t|H^ov u>q 6pqc vemuv,
Yoololv e£<£[j.u)£ev, Ik 6* apat; Ktxxac;
•flpaxo xouau ToOpyov I^Etpyaa^EVOuQ (423-428)
The strong simile of a bird seeing its nest bereft of its
8^Rouse, pp. 40-43; Harry, pp. 20-25.
| 116
nestlings seems to indicate that Antigone had been robbed of
something she already possessed: the accomplishment of the
jburial. To believe that these words merely show Antigone's
I
{anguish on viewing the corpse for the first time and her
i
outrage at being denied the right to bury it would deprive
the simile of its meaning and force. One might argue, how-
i
jever, even granting the meaning and force of the simile,
I
[that the Guard is interpreting Antigone's feelings, and
these might not be her true feelings at all. Still, there
i
|is no reason to distrust the words of the Guard as in his
report of the first burial. Returning with Antigone as his
i
{prisoner, he has absolved himself from all blame; his life
i
t ’
jis free from any threat. In fact, he feels himself lucky to
i
!
be entrusted with this mission (397). It is interesting to
I
i
note, moreover, that the Guard in his report of the capture
of Antigone (407-440)— in contrast to his first scene with
Creon— has the featureless and colorless impersonality of
87
the usual messenger. It seems there is no reason not to
accept the Guard's words as a valid description of Antigo
ne's feelings.
(3) When Ismene declares that she has buried the body,
87Cf. Kirkwood, p. 123, n. 23.
| 117
* 88
jwhy does she add the words eiTtep ^6* 6^oppo0EL (536)? If
'she actually performed the burial, why does she feel it
89
necessary to appeal for Antigone's sanction?
(4) If Ismene had performed the first burial, and An
tigone only the second, then a confusing situation would
arise in the culmination of the play: one sister would go
free, and the other would be punished, though both had com
mitted the same act. The reader would have the right to
expect some significance in this fact in addition to a more
complex development of Ismene's character and a greater use
1
I
i
iof her role in the play. Instead, she disappears from the
drama at verse 581 and is only mentioned again in verses
769-771.90
It is apparent that the arguments against accepting the
theory of Ismene as the first person to bury Polyneices are
91
too numerous and strong to be denied. Decisive and abso
lute refutation, however, whether the burial is considered
^®See Kirkwood, p. 71, n. 36, for the proper meaning of
einep.
®^Cf. Kirkwood, p. 71.
90Cf. Kitto, Form and Meaning, p. 142.
91cf. Kitto, Form and Meaning, pp. 140-142; cf. also
'tfaldock, pp. 125-127.
symbolic or actual, rests upon finding a suitable reason for
Antigone's return to the body, the apparent lack of which
initially caused Professors Rouse and Harry to evolve their
theory,
J. L. Rose is among those scholars who believe the
92
burial to be symbolic. He follows the line first proposed
by Tycho von Wilamowitz who, though he could see no reason
for Antigone's revisiting the corpse (p. 31), claimed that
|the second burial produced an exciting and theatrical effect
f i
t
that benefited the play as a whole (pp. 33-34). If we ac-
|
jcept the validity of Wilamowitz's interpretation, then we
must admit that the second burial represents a glaring in
stance of faulty dramaturgy, for generally we use his argu-
j
ment to condemn plays rather than to praise them. For a
j
i
playwright to create an unmotivated scene simply for its
exciting effect would be to destroy the organic unity that
i
!
the play demands. If characterization and story-incident do
not work reciprocally on each other, the credibility of a
work is lost and our understanding of the work is
9^"The Problem of the Second Burial in Sophocles' An
tigone. " CJ. XLVII (March 1952), 219-221; others who claim
that the burial is symbolic are: Lesky, p. 104; Hulton, pp.
284-285; Tycho von Wilamowitz, p. 31; Jebb, p. 86, n. a£av
h o v i v i t a X u v a g H a c p a v ia T e u a c o g ct XP1 ^
(245-247)96
95Jebb, p. 86, n. a& 429.
9oW. Schmid in Schmid-Stahlin, Geschichte der crrie-
chischen Literatur (Munich, 1959), I. ii, p. 349, n. 3,
maintains that 5i(|)Ca h o vug means that no libations were
121
The words, MdcpayiOTeucraQ Sc XP1 ^ ) (247), seem to indicate that
the xoat were poured. Still, Jebb tries to explain these
w o r d s b y s a y i n g t h a t p r o b a b l y o f f e r i n g s o f f l o w e r s a n d w o o l
97
a r e m e a n t . I t i s l i k e l y , h o w e v e r , t h a t t h e G u a r d i n h i s
d e t a i l e d d e s c r i p t i o n o f t h e c o n d i t i o n o f t h e e a r t h (249-256)
w o u l d h a v e m e n t i o n e d t h e o b v i o u s p r e s e n c e o f f l o w e r s a n d
w o o l , s i n c e s u c h d e t a i l s w o u l d o n l y a d d t o t h e e x t r a o r d i n a r y
e f f e c t h e w i s h e d t o p r o d u c e a n d w o u l d c e r t a i n l y h a v e b e e n
m o r e i n e v i d e n c e t h a n l i b a t i o n s t h a t h a d b e e n a b s o r b e d b y
t h e &L<|)tcx h o v i q . M o r e v e r , w h e n t h e G u a r d r e t u r n s t o h i s
p o s t a n d t h e d u s t i s r e m o v e d f r o m t h e b o d y (407-410), t h e r e
i s n o m e n t i o n o f t h e r e m o v a l o f f l o w e r s a n d w o o l , w h i c h
s u r e l y w o u l d h a v e b e e n r e m o v e d i f t h e y h a d b e e n p r e s e n t .
j
U n q u e s t i o n a b l y , t h e n , t h e p h r a s e H a c p a y L a T E U G o c Q a XP^) m u s t
98
jmean that the libations were poured at the first burial,
jand Jebb's suggested explanation of Antigone's reason for
i
I
r e t u r n i n g t o t h e c o r p s e m u s t b e r e j e c t e d .
poured. We see the same phrase, however, in the Guard's
description of the second burial (429), and on this occasion
it is absolutely certain that the Xoa^ were poured (430-
431). Therefore, it is possible to consider the words &i(|)Ca
h o v i q an ornamental epithet. Cf. Bradshaw, p. 208.
97Jebb, p. 46, n. M 245ff.
9®Cf. Bradshaw, p. 208; also cf. Messemer, pp. 516-517.
! 122
i
j
J. Cowser, another advocate of the symbolic nature of
the burial, attributes Antigone's second visit to her open
defiance of Creon, which she has proclaimed to Ismene in the
prologue (86-87) (pp. 39-40). It seems highly improbable,
as it is in good characterizations, that Antigone, having
fulfilled her motive of devotion to her family with the
first burial, self-consciously sets herself on course to
fulfill another of her motives, as if mechanically counting
her motives and checking them off as they are realized. If,
moreover, the only reason for her return is her wish to be
i
jcaptured, then why does she not simply give herself up in
stead of carrying libations to the grave and repeating the
burial? Cowser himself is hesitant to push his interpreta
tion too far:
I .
j
We cannot say that the double burial was introduced in
order to convince us that Antigone was a defiant rebel;
it seems rather that the rebellious aspects of her deed
are brought to light to justify the double burial, which
Sophocles must have found it necessary to introduce for
other reasons.99
What these other reasons were Cowser fails to say, and we
are still left without a satisfactory explanation of
^^Cowser, p. 40. Cf. Messemer, pp. 515-516 for his
comments on Cowser's article.
123
Antigone's return to the body,
A. 0. Hulton, following Jebb's line, writes (pp. 284-
285): "Why the libation was not poured the first time re
mains unexplained, but is by no means inexplicable. Antigo
ne may well have been prudent enough to consider two short
visits safer than one. This explanation, with all due re
spect to Hulton, is patently untenable. If Antigone had had
that much concern for her safety, she would certainly have
chosen to go to the body at night, as she had before, rather
than in broad daylight. But this is beside the point, for
it has already been pointed out that the libations were
poured the first time (see p. 121 above).
For scholars who consider the burial symbolic, the
lifficulties of arriving at a plausible explanation for
Antigone's second visit are apparent. Perhaps proof that
i
j
jthe burial should be regarded as actual rather than symbolic
|
may allow for the disclosure of the explanation we are seek
ing. Let us try to establish this proof with three facts:
(1) the lack of historical and cultural evidence regarding
a symbolic rite of burial in fifth-century Greece; (2) the
lack of such evidence in the text of the p l a y ; (3) the
- ^-°^Cf. Messemer, pp. 518-520. Many of the points
presence of evidence in the text of the actuality of the
burial.
(1) Jebb, as we have seen (p. 120 above), uses Horace's
Carmen (I. 28. 35) as supporting evidence that the burial of
Polyneices is symbolic. It seems odd, otit of place, and
certainly inconclusive to refer to a Latin poet of the Au
gustan Age as authority for a Greek burial custom of the
Fifth Century. Nor does there appear to be any earlier au
thority than Horace other than the play with which we are
101
dealing. The Horatian ode is too distant in time and
iculture to be used as authority for a symbolic burial in the
Antigone; and the burial in the Antigone. where its very
nature is questioned, can hardly be used as authority for
itself. The lack of historical and-cultural evidence makes
the argument for a symbolic burial seem extremely weak.
(2) Though there is absolutely no mention of three
handfuls of dust in the text of the play, nevertheless some
Horatian commentators have not been reluctant to refer to
expressed above on the lack of evidence for a symbolic
burial are to be found in Messemer's article.
lOlSee Messemer, p. 519.
125
102
the Antigone to explain Horace s phrase: the words that
they quote are xoa^cfu xpLcniov&o 101 tov vexuv oxecpei (431).
But it is one thing to scatter three handfuls of dust on a
corpse and quite another to crown it with thrice-poured
103
lihations. In addition, the Guard, on his discovery of
the first burial, uses the word r)(pavi,0TO (255) to tell how
104
the dust covered the body. Herodotus employs this same
word to depict how a band of Persians vanished in a sand
storm (III. 26). If the corpse of Polyneices is hidden from
sight, even though, as the Guard says, the covering is X.E7ixf|
(256), the body must assuredly be covered with more than
three handfuls of dust.
One could argue, of course, that the language the Guard
uses to describe the first burial cannot be trusted impli
citly, since he tends to exaggerate to absolve himself of
blame (see p. 93 above); and also that later, when he
-^^E. C. Wickham, Horace (New York, 1912), n. on Carm.
I. 28. 36: 1 1 ter: The sacred and complete number; cp. Soph,
of Antigone pouring the dust sic on Polyneices' body,
Tpi,cm:6v&oi,cri tov vewov axetpei. Ant. 430" (431 in Bude
text). Also cf. Page, Palmer, and Wilkins, 0. Horati Flacci
Opera (London, 1910), n. on Carm. I. 28. 36.
103Qf> Messemer, p. 520.
104Messemer, p. 520, particularly stresses this point.
126
returns with Antigone as his prisoner, declaring that the
guards had swept away all the dust that covered the body
(409-410), he speaks these words merely to substantiate his
105
first exaggeration. In the first place, however, if the
burial is symbolic and the accomplishment of it with three
handfuls of dust is sufficient to thwart and enrage Creon,
the Guard would have no need or reason to exaggerate by
using the word T|(pdcvicjto . Second, as supporting evidence
that T)cp&viaT0 should be taken at its face value, the fact
that the Guard on his return with Antigone has completed his
mission with total success makes it seem highly doubtful
that he would take the pains at this moment to fabricate
that the guards had bared the hidden body, simply because he
wished to make good a previous exaggeration. Third, as has
been mentioned above (see p. 116 above), the Guard's rhesis
describing the second burial reveals him not as the highly
characterized individual whom we saw in his first scene with
Creon but as the conventional and colorless messenger whose
words are to be trusted. It is apparent, then, that the
text lacks evidence to support the theory that the burial is
105jiessemer, who does not interpret the first burial
from the characterization of the Guard, does not argue this
point,
127
symbolic.
It would be idle to conclude, however, from the lack of
historical, cultural, and textual evidence of a symbolic
burial that the burial should be regarded as actual; for,
unless positive evidence to that effect can be found, the
choice would still be open to scholars to view the burial in
whichever light they wished, symbolic or actual. Fortunate
ly, here the text is helpful.
(3) Numerous references to the burial are followed im
mediately in each instance by the mention of defilement by
birds and beasts. Antigone is the first to speak of de
filement: o l c o v o u q yXvKbv/ 0T)craup6v etaopwai TipOQ x & P i ' V
( 3opag (29-30). Next Creon mentions it: eav 6* ocQaTCTOv, xai
Tupog otcovfiov S e i i o c q / naX itpog nuvaiv e & e0t o v aCH^a0e:v'u, l6euv
(205-206). Then the Guard speaks of it: ar||j.sta 5’ o u t s
0T|PO Q O U T E TO U HUVGOV/ E X 0 O V T O Q , OU 07Ua0(XVTOQ E ^ E C p a C v E T O
(257-258). Haemon, purporting to be the voice of the popu
lace of Thebes, says that the city approves of Antigone's
act (692-695), that she did not allow her brother's body to
be defiled by birds and dogs:
106Antia. 29f.; 205-206; 257-258; 696-698; 1015-1018.
128
rjT L Q t o v oa>Tf)Q a v T a 6 e A .< p o v e v c p o v a i Q
iteT C T u h :' a S a T t T o v ijlt)6 * WM-TjOTcSv h u v c o v
e u a a * 6 \ e a 0 o u v x r|0 ' u n ; ’ o i & dv&v t u v o q
(696-698)
Finally, Teiresias, expressing the ultimate horror that has
brought sickness upon the State, speaks of the defilement of
Polyneices1 body:
Kal raura ttJq afjQ'eK q>pevoQ voaei te6A.lq*
fkonol yap t ) [ j , l v ko%apat ts tkxvteXe lc;
7UA.f)pSLQ OICDV&V T E M a i KDVffiv (3 o p a Q
t o u 5uc|i6pou TusTiTcoTcxQ O C S C t c o u yovou
(1015-1018)
The fact that not just Antigone or Creon speaks of de
filement but that most of the characters of the play mention
it gives undeniable significance to this evidence. The
thought of defilement is prominent in their minds. From
this evidence it is clear that Creon1s edict is meant to
dishonor Polyneices not only by depriving him of burial in
his native soil but also by leaving his corpse to be eaten
107
by birds and dogs, an eventuality which no symbolic
107Creon1s aim to defile Polyneices1 body is reminis
cent of Achilles1 desire to desecrate the corpse of Hector.
Linforth, p. 192, observes this similarity and points out
that in the Iliad "the practice of mutilation and defilement
is completely discredited." Linforth, p. 193, also notes
the similarity of the situation in the Aiax: "Aiax. like
129
burial could prevent.
This question, too, should be asked: why, after the
first burial, do the guards bother to remove the covering of'
dust from the corpse? J. Cowser points out that the removal'
of the dust cannot invalidate a symbolic burial (p. 39).
t
The answer is obvious: the first burial had been complete
and effective; up to the time that the dust was removed no
i
animal had violated the corpse; the guards remove the dust I
i
simply to ensure that the body will be devoured by animals.
Why does Antigone cry out as if robbed when she sees that
the body has been bared (423-425)? Why does she call down j
!
curses on those who did the deed (427—428)? -It is plain j
j
that she is shocked to see her work undone. Immediately, ,
she proceeds to repeat the burial (429-431). Yet everyone
who holds the theory of a symbolic burial agrees that once
the burial has been performed there is no need to repeat
Polyneices, was a traitor to his friends. He had tried to
murder the Achaean chiefs, and they refuse him burial, de
claring that ’his body shall be thrown out on the yellow
;sands to be the food of sea-birds.' But in the end they
yield to the noble mediation of Odysseus: 'Do not, in the
name of the gods, make bold to cast this man out unburied
thus ruthlessly . . . You would destroy, not him, but the
;laws of the gods. It is not right to do injury to a man
when he is dead, even though you hate him'" [Ajax- 1332ff.].
130
X08
it. The fact that she covers the body with dust again,
just as she had on the first occasion, offers plausible
testimony that she herself believes the burials to be ac-
109
tual. Even if one regards the evidence for an actual
i
i
burial as not absolutely conclusive, still it is overwhelm
ing by contrast with the complete lack of evidence for a
symbolic burial and indicates that the burial should be con
sidered actual.
Now that this point has been established, we can resume
our pursuit of a reason for Antigone's return to the corpse.
From the nature of the burial her reason appears apparent:
just as Creon is determined to dishonor the body by denying j
it burial and leaving it to be defiled by birds and dogs, so
Antigone is moved to honor her brother with burial and to
protect his corpse from defilement. While this reason is
certainly basic to the play and in complete accord with the
-*-^®Jebb, p. 86, n. .asL 429, attempting to support his
belief in a symbolic burial, writes: "... perhaps the
rite was considered complete only if the xoa^ were poured
while the dust still covered the corpse." This statement,
as Jebb implies, is just a conjecture and rests upon no
authority.
■*-®9Why Antigone came prepared with libations will be
considered in the discussion of her reason for visiting the
corpse of her brother a second time.
131
motives we have ascribed to her— devotion to her family,
, desire to prove her nobility, desire for glory, and piety
toward the gods— we must not use these motives alone as an
explanation of her reason for revisiting her brother's body.
We must recognize that this explanation is incomplete and
that the second burial is still not soundly motivated until
we can show why Antigone chose to revisit the corpse in
broad daylight (415) when she had accomplished her purpose
so successfully the first time at night. In other words,
why did she not wait until night to return to the body?
This question, to our knowledge, has never been asked. The
answer to it will complete our understanding of Antigone's
reason for revisiting the body of her brother.
Max Pohlenz makes an interesting and extremely instruc
tive mistake when in reference to Antigone's first covering
of the body he speaks of "Kreons Befehl, sie wieder zu ent-
i
fernen." At no point in the play does Creon say this.
Instead, his command to the Guard is to find the criminal
(306-307). Nevertheless, Creon's inteption is so obvious to
the guards that before they take up their watch again they
sweep off the dust that covers the body (409-410) without
1 10
195 Pie griechische Tragodie (Leipzig and Berlin, 1930),
132
ever being told to do so. If the guards understand Creon's
intention so well, even when he has not mentioned it, then
surely Antigone, too, must be aware that when the guards
A reconstruction of the second burial that takes cogni
zance of the facts (1) that the burial is actual, (2) that
iAntigone wishes to protect her brother's body from defile
ment, (3) and that she knows that the guards will uncover
reason she revisits her brother1s corpse in daylight rather
|than at night. Antigone's awareness of what the guards will
i
i
^do causes her a twofold anxiety: how long will the body,
unprotected by a covering of dust, escape the depredations
of animals; and how soon can she safely return to the corpse
to restore the protective covering? She knows that the
burial must be repeated, even before she makes her second
1 11
^-^Antigone, of course, cannot know that the guards did
not immediately sweep away the dust on their discovery of
the burial but waited until the Guard had made his report to
Creon. Still, she is correct in her surmise that the cover
ing of dust cannot remain on the body for any extended
length of time after the discovery of the burial. A plaus
ible explanation of why the guards did not immediately re
move the dust is that they wished to preserve the evidence
in-F H-he burial to substantiate the Guard's report which Creon
jhave discovered the burial, they will remove the dust.
the body soon after she has buried it
111
will disclose the
have wanted to verify.
133
visit to the corpse. That is her reason for coining pre
pared with libations, as she had on the first occasion. She
also knows that she must act soon. The urgency for speed is
proven when Teiresias, later in the day, declares that birds
and dogs have defiled the body of Polyneices (1016-1018).
Still later in the day, the Messenger says that Creon and
his followers buried what remained of the body, which had
been torn by dogs (1196-1202).
The Guard in his second report to Creon describes how a
dust storm which hid everything from sight arose at noon and
lasted a long while (415-422). The prolonged length of the
dust storm offers Antigone her first opportunity to reach
the body, undetected, since her performance of the burial at
night. She must realize, of course, that even if the second
burial is successful and she is not apprehended, the guards
will uncover the body and she will have to repeat the bur
ial. In fact, she will have to continue to repeat the bur-
112
ial as often as the guards remove the dust. In this
lip
• ‘ ■ ■ ‘ ■^Norwood, p. 140, is quite correct when he writes:
"If Creon is resolved, she cannot 'bury' Polyneices." Nor
wood, however, is wrong when he adds: "... this gruesome
contest could continue indefinitely." Inevitably, since
guards are on duty near the corpse, Antigone will be cap
tured, if not the second time, then the third or the fourth.
sense, though the burial is actual, it is ultimately in
effectual and represents a hastily conceived and executed
token burial. But as Antigone told her sister, when Ismene
accused her of desiring to accomplish the impossible (90),
she would do everything within the limits of her power (91).
Unfortunately for Antigone, though the dust storm has
allowed her to approach the corpse unobserved, the moment
she reaches the body the storm passes as suddenly as it had
begun, and the guards perceive her (422-423). Her cry as if
robbed, when she beholds the bared body (423-427), cannot be
one of surprise, since she had expected to find the corpse
in this state. Rather it is a cry of shock and anguish
which it is characteristic of human nature on encountering
a disaster to feel with full impact, even when that event
has been anticipated. The curses she calls down upon the
guards (427-428) exemplify the natural reaction she has
toward those who have been responsible for evoking her feel
ing of shock and anguish.
It is apparent, moreover, that Antigone knows that she
has been observed. Before repeating the burial and the
libations she laments aloud over the body (hccvcxhu) xue u , 423;
also, yooolv e^ujjico^EV 427), whereas she had performed the
first burial in silence to ensure its success and to avoid
! 135
i ■
1 113
jdetegtion. Now that she knows she has been seen there is
no longer any need for silence. Thus she performs the three
principal funeral offices of lament, burial, and liba-
114
tions. The change in Antigone from intensely expressive
emotion and distress to complete lack of dismay when the
guards seize her is easily explained. Knowing that she must
repeat the burial as many times as the guards remove the
dust, she realizes that eventually she must be captured, and
consequently she is not surprised. The shock which one
would normally feel on being captured, even though appre
hension had been expected, is dissolved by two stronger emo
tional factors: her feeling of satisfaction that she has
Brads haw, p. 208, points out that Antigone's failure
to perform a hgohutoq during the first burial is in no way
inconsistent with her attitude that she wants all to know
her as the doer of the deed (86-87): "Antigone had to re
main silent, if she was to avoid detection by the watchmen.
She had to avoid detection to carry out her chief task— the
actual burial."
Struck, "Der zweimalige Gang der Antigone zur
Leiche des Polyneices," Gymnasium. LX (1953), 330-331, dem
onstrates that Creon's edict is not merely a denial of bur
ial: in vv. 26-30 burial and lamentation are forbidden; the
words cxv toutwv tl 6pa (35) imply the same prohibition.
Struck further maintains that tdccpu) HTepC^Eiv (204) means
more than mcp(») HaAi3(Jxxi (28), implying the offerings of liba
tions. "Also jede Totengabe und Totenklage wird mit mq TOUTOUQ ito6ei (519). Creon chooses not to argue
this point of religion but clings to his principle that the
150
good should be distinguished from the evil (520), to which
Antigone responds with an unanswerable question of religious
significance: t l q o l 5 e v eI h & tc o0 e v e^ayf] Ta6s (521).125
Again, it is obvious and perhaps surprising that in
this stichomythia when Antigone resorts to a religious mo
tive to defend the burial, Creon once more, just as he had
in his first attack on Antigone (473-495), fails to express
his own reasoned religious principle, that the gods would
not honor a man who had wished to burn their temples (199-
201; 282-289). Here, it cannot be argued as before (p. 145
above) that he is responding only to her defiant attitude,
i
|as he had earlier, for he has deigned to try to reason with
her, offering as an argument against her devotion to her
family his precept that the good should be distinguished
from the evil. The fact that he has twice failed to ex
press his religious motive is, as we shall see later,
■^25;Kirkwood, p. 125, is not quite correct when he
writes: "In the stichomythia that follows [508-525], the
ideas about reverence, good and evil, friend and foe, are
shown to be in different realms of thought." When Creon
uses the intention of his decree as an attack on Antigone's
devotion to her family, the argument is in the same realm of
thought. Only when Antigone toward the conclusion of the
stichomythia (519, 521) switches to her religious motive,
and Creon, failing to answer this, continues to advocate the
intention of the State's decree, can their ideas be said to
be in "different realms of thought."
151
significant.
Such an argument as theirs, in which for the most part
only conflicting basic premises are employed, can have no
resolution. In anger Creon terminates their profitless
quarrel, saying: E|iou 6s ^covtoq ovn ap^Ei yuvfi (525). The
thought of being bested by a woman has occurred to Creon
before. In his first speech of denunciation (473-496) he
has said to Antigone: r j vuv sytb |aev ouh avf[p, auTrj 6*
&VT)p,/ EL TOUT’ cppevocq
0ebg ayet TtpOQ atav (622-624),
Linforth does not see these words as paralleling the
172
thought at the close of the first antistrophe and as perti
nent to Antigone. In the view of the Chorus, since they
believe Antigone has shown folly of speech and frenzy of
i
i
thought, surely they mean that she is the one who has con
sidered evil to be good. As a further refutation of Lin-
forth's interpretation, since the Chorus at no point in the
play has approved of Antigone1s deed or has disagreed with
Creon, it seems inconsistent and highly improbable that they
3
are now condemning Creon.
G. M. Kirkwood sees the two halves of this ode as sep
arate lyrical systems that have only a tenuous connection
with each other (pp. 207-208, 268-269). His view of the
form of this stasimon, if true, would unintentionally con
demn the poem for its lack of unity and cohesiveness. While
he does agree that the first lyrical system (582-6 03) in
cludes mention of divinity, the Labdacids, and Antigone
JBowra, p. 89, and Waldock, p. 115, though they do not
consider the formal structure of the second stasimon, agree
that this ode represents a condemnation of Antigone. Adams,
p. 51, thinks that while the Chorus intends to condemn An
tigone, unconsciously their words pertain to Creon, since he
is the one who, Adams believes, is guilty of hybris. Adams,
having taken a synoptic view of the play, has seen Creon as
hybristic from the very beginning of the drama. Therefore,
he sees an ironic relevance to Creon in this ode (cf. p. 6 3,
n. 27 above).
173
(p. 268), he interprets the substance of thought in the
second system (604-625) as ambiguous; "Sophocles does not
care to have his chorus, at this stage, openly condemn Creon
or charge him or anyone else in the play with evil behavior"
(p. 269). In view of the corresponding patterns of thought
that have been shown to exist in both halves of this ode,
Kirkwood's interpretation seems untenable.
In the parodos the Chorus raised briefly the theme of
hybris (see pp. 62-63 above), which had for the reader,
jthough not for the unwitting Chorus, an undetermined' rele-
i
j
vance to either Creon or Antigone, since the reader had
knowledge of the edict and of what had transpired in the
prologue. In the first stasimon the Chorus had condemned
the unknown burier of the body whom the reader knew to be
Antigone. Now that the Chorus’ knowledge of events coin
cides with that of the reader, they have proceeded in the
4
second stasimon to condemn Antigone.
At the close of the second episode Creon remained on
^The Chorus had asked Creon in the preceding episode if
he would deprive his son of this woman (574). If any doubt
remains in the reader1s mind whether this question was a
mild remonstrance against Creon for his attitude toward An
tigone or a show of concern for Haemon (see p. 158, n. 134
and p. 160 above), their condemnation of Antigone in this
ode should definitely settle this doubt.
174
stage. His presence during the second stasimon has sig
nificance both for the structure and meaning of the play.
We have seen that one of the advantages of the two burials
was to prevent Creon's role from appearing foreshortened,
once Antigone disappears from the stage (see p. 139 above).
It was an advantage, moreover, as was noted, that could not
be appreciated at that moment but only later, when the en
tire structure of the play had been experienced (see p. 139
above). Structurally, his presence on stage during this ode
serves the same purpose and advantage, but this advantage,
5
too, cannot be appreciated at this moment.
Combined with this advantage and purpose, Creon's
presence on the stage keeps the meaning of the play from
shifting entirely to Antigone when the Chorus is singing
about her. His presence is a constant reminder to the read
er and especially the audience, since he is seen but not
heard, that the problems in the action of the play are now
wholly his. Antigone's problems are over? she has only to
endure the reality of death. Creon, on the other hand, must
still find the means to kill a relative without risking
^In fact, this advantage is one of the reasons Creon
remains on stage until the close of the fifth episode. Cf.
Kitto, Form and Meaning, pp. 146-147.
175
pollution and impiety (see pp. 152-163 above). He must also
face his son Haemon who is betrothed to the condemned.^
Third Episode (626-780)
The dialogue in this episode falls into a clearly
marked pattern: (1) the introduction of Haemon by the
^Kitto, Form and Meaning, p. 165, sees only an ironic
^significance in Creon1 s. presence on stage during this ode:
"The chorus, throughout, is thinking of Antigone; but we
jean divine, as in the second ode, that it is not Antigone
but Creon whom the words really fit— and somewhere behind
jthe dance we can see Creon, 'the man whom god will ruin,'
standing motionless. The irony is to be seen as well as
felt." We have shown that the irony that Kitto sees in the
second ode is entirely lacking (see pp. 110-112 above). But
bven if one had accepted his view of the irony in that ode,
one might wonder now why Creon had not remained on stage at
jthat time, since the only reason for his presence in the
third ode, according to Kitto, is to reveal the same sort
of irony. Only because of Kitto's interpretation of the
first burial, where he claims the gods assisted in it— a
potion which the Chorus suggests and Creon rejects— can
Kitto look upon Creon as villainous and impious and, conse
quently, see in both these odes an ironic significance.
Since we have shown that the gods did not aid in the first
burial (see pp. 97-100 above) and that Creon was right to
reject the Chorus' suggestion, we cannot view him as trans
gressing the will of the gods. Though our sympathies by the
second stasimon are completely with Antigone (see p. 166
above), nevertheless Creon has not yet been proven wrong.
Accordingly, the words which the Chorus sings in this ode,
jwhich, as Kitto agrees, express their thoughts regarding An-
jtigone, should be understood to mean Antigone without having
for the reader and audience any ironic relevance to Creon.
From a synoptic view of ..the play there might be an intima
tion of irony in this ode (cf. p. 172, n. 3 above), but
professor Kitto never views the play synoptically.
jChorus (626-630); (2) a short interchange between Creon and
(
i
jHaemon (631-638); (3) a long speech by Creon (639-680),
'punctuated by a short comment from the Chorus (681-682);
I
1(4') Haemon’s speech (683-723) which balances almost exactly
J
the length of Creon1s, followed by another brief comment
from the Chorus (724-725); (5) an intense argument between
father and son (726-765) in which most of the dialogue is in
stichomythia (730-757); (6) a concluding interchange between
the Chorus and Creon (766-780), closing with Creon’s words
| s
(773-780).
(1) There is an air of warning for restraint and pity
on Creon’s part in the Chorus' introduction of Haemon as the
youngest and last of his sons (iraC6( j o v t
cp£pop,ai m 6’ opffiv (801-802), surely
must mean that just as Haemon has been carried beyond the
ordinances of obedience and loyalty by his love, so they,
too, filled now with pity for Antigone, are carried beyond
consideration of these same ordinances. Jebb, p. 147, n.
lad 797f., and p. 148, n. a^ 801f., takes the same view.
Goheen, however, pp. 135-136, n. 32, argues otherwise: "Our
knowledge of exact and varied significations of the word
thesmos (generally: law) is inadequate. But from the form
of expression there appears to be some element of contrast
between the thesmoi alone in these lines and hoi meaaloi
thesmoi (the great laws) two lines above. Otherwise the
repetition must seem confusing or simply pointless." Quite
to the contrary, however, it would be confusing and point
less if, when the Chorus is moved to pity for Antigone and
says two verses later that they, too. are carried beyond
'consideration of the ordinances, they should be referring to
different ordinances from those which Haemon transgressed
under the power of love. Cf. Linforth, p. 222.
197
I
but at the same time they mitigate this blame, realizing
that he is acting in obedience to another law, just as high,
21
that of love.
In the first stasimon the Chorus condemned the unknown
burier of the body, and their censure assumed the form of
social criticism; in the second stasimon they condemned
Antigone, and their censure took the form of theological
criticism. Both society and theology are the spheres in
which Creon's thoughts move. In the short third stasimon
the Chorus, influenced by their increasing concern for Hae
mon, abandons these spheres of thought and, commenting on
love, turns to the realm of pure and natural feeling. The
rift between them and Creon has begun to widen. They have
not, of course, condemned Creon1s actions or his princi
ples, but their sympathy has been for Haemon. In recogniz
ing his love for Antigone they have seen in her devotion to
her family the same force of natural love, with the result
that they have been brought close to the point of pitying
her. By moving into the realm of feeling they have begun
to approach the attitude of the reader, whose sympathies are
with Antigone, though he does not know whether she is
21Cf. Linforth, p. 222.
22
morally right (see p. 166 above).
198
pp
^Waldock, p. 115, views this ode as apposite to the
play but claims that it "is hardly more than a lyrical in
terlude." He does not say in what way it is apposite, but
if it is apposite in the way we have interpreted it, it can
hardly be considered just an interlude but must be regarded
as dramatically significant. Kirkwood, pp. 208-209, taking
the same view of this ode as he has of the first two stasima
(see pp. 102-103 and 172-173 above), perceives in it a pur
poseful ambiguity. He fails to see the shifting pattern of
jcondemnation of the unknown burier in the first stasimon on
social grounds, the condemnation of Antigone in the second
pn theological grounds, and, finally, in this ode the con
fusion in the Chorus' feelings as manifested by their approv
al of Creon, their sympathy for Haemon, and their incipient
pity for Antigone. Kitto, Form and Meaning, p. 167, does
pot consider the relationship of this ode to the previous
Stasima: "What the Chorus may itself be thinking is one
matter ? what its words convey to the audience is another.
We cannot fail to suspect that it is Creon who has set him
self in opposition to this god [Eros], and the sequel will
^onfirm this suspicion." After the quarrel between Haemon
and Creon in the third episode it can scarcely be a suspi
cion in the reader's mind that Creon has set himself against
jthe god of love. It is a confirmed fact of which both the
reader and the Chorus are well aware. Adams, p. 53, real
izes the dramatic importance of this ode but takes a some
what exaggerated view of it: "The old men [the Chorus] re
late it [the ode] to the scene they have just witnessed:
it was eros that caused this bitter strife of kinsmen. They
are right, of course? although the quarrel between Creon and
Haemon developed along political lines, the real cause of
the breach was assuredly the love of Haemon for Antigone.
But to us the ode has a far wider relevance. Eros was also
fcsmene's motive in seeking to share Antigone's fate? above
^11, it was the whole motive of Antigone." Adams' claim
phat this ode has a wider relevance for the reader than the
thorus intends seems improbable, at least in the way that he
means it. At this point in the play, now that Ismene has
been acquitted, it seems highly doubtful that the reader is
thinking of her. In addition, while it is true that the
Chorus in singing of Eros alludes to Antigone's devotion to
199
The fact that Creon is present on stage, standing in
silence while the Chorus sings, serves, as it has before
(see pp. 173-174 above), to keep his role from being fore-
23
shortened m the play. In addition, the very fact of his
physical presence emphasizes both the hold that he still has
on the Chorus' approval of his principles and the Chorus1
increasing divergence from him in their feelings.
her family (791-792), Adams overstates the case when he says
that it is her whole motive. We must not forget the relig
ious motive she has expressed (76-77, 450-457). The only
^vider relevance that this ode has for the reader is that he
begins to see the Chorus' feelings in regard to Antigone
beginning to approach his own sympathies. Linforth, p. 221,
jdoes not view this ode as advancing the play but sees it
only as a comment on the previous episode.
^ L i n f o r t h , 220, believes Creon is not on stage dur
ing this stasimon: "Creon has departed at the conclusion of
the second episode, presumably to give orders for the exe
cution of the sentence. He has been present continuously
since Antigone was brought before him, and he has had no
opportunity to take the necessary measures. We must under
stand that he does this during the singing'of the following
stasimon." Linforth fails to notice that at v. 760 Creon
orders Antigone to be brought forth, an action which the
supernumeraries on stage could easily perform without Cre
on 1s having to enter the palace. His instructions for the
execution, moreover, are given in vv. 773-776. Jebb, p.
145, also does not believe that Creon is on stage during
this ode. He has Creon exit at the conclusion of the third
episode and then fails to indicate his re-entrance in the
fourth episode. Kitto, Form and Meaning, pp. 146-147, be
lieves that Creon remains continuously on stage from the
second episode through the close of the fifth episode.
| 200
i Fourth Episode (801-943)
|
This episode offers one of the most crucial and diffi
cult problems of the play in verses 904-920 of Antigone's
final speech. The apparent inconsistency with Antigone's
character that this passage reveals has led many scholars to
24
reject these verses as spurious. Opinions on the artistic
merit of the passage vary widely: one scholar calls it "the
25
finest borrowing in literature"; another considers it "a
26
stupid device." The best and perhaps the only way to
settle this question of the passage's genuineness and its
consistency with the rest of the play is to consider it at
the point in the drama where it occurs and to examine it in
relationship to what has preceded it in the play and, es
pecially, in the fourth episode as it unfolds.
The third stasimon leads directly into a kommos between
Antigone and the Chorus which constitutes the beginning of a
^Jebb, p. 164, n. a& 904-920; Linforth, p. 229; Denys
L. Page, Actors1 Interpolations in Greek Tragedy (Oxford,
1934), pp. 86-89; Whitman, pp. 92-93; Waldock, p. 142, be
lieves that this passage is either an actor's interpolation,
or that Sophocles later interpolated it, or that Sophocles
in writing these verses lost "his grip" for the moment.
^Kitto, Greek Tragedy, p. 128.
^^Linforth, p. 227.
201
long musical movement which continues, unbroken except for
the speeches of Creon and Antigone (883-928), to the opening
of the fifth episode. At the sight of Antigone, as she
enters, the Chorus utters their first expression of pity for
iher and cannot hold back their tears, seeing her about to
enter the bridal chamber of death (801-805). We have ob
served in the preceding ode that the Chorus through their
feeling for Haemon had been brought to the verge of pitying
Antigone, having recognized in her devotion to her family
the same force of love that had moved Haemon to plead for
jher (see p. 195 above). Now the sight of her finally re-
27
luces them to pity.
If the appearance of Antigone at last moves the Chorus
to pity, we can imagine that her bearing is no longer that
Df the self-righteous and defiant rebel whom they saw in the
^The Chorus' words are:
Nuv 6* T}&T)* hocutoq OeciJ-wv
e£a) cpepO|juxi t&&* 6pcov, toxetv 6*
oumeti TrnvaQ &uva|j,oci Sanputov (801-803)
In the light of these verses it is difficult to understand
Knox's view, p. 66: "The Chorus shows no sympathy ..."
Goheen, p. 37, points out with reference to these verses
that the Chorus is sympathetic. Adams, pp. 53-54, writes of
the Chorus’ sympathy: "There is a change in the chorus al
so. They are now carried beyond their 0ea|ioC— the law of
loyalty to the throne— and weep and, filled with pity, try
to comfort her." Cf. Linforth, p. 222.
202
second episode. As we shall see, the motives which orig-
j
jinally led her to the performance of the burial can no
2 8
longer sustain her against the reality of imminent death.
The instinct of self-preservation, which her personal and
religious motives had previously overcome, now asserts it-
i 29
self with irresistible force.
Antigone begins her lament, referring to the fact that
she is not to be put to death but to be walled off from the
sunlight, so that she will be led by Hades, while still
j
jalive, to the underworld to become the bride of Acheron
^Georges Meautis, "La psychologie de 1'Antigone de
Sophocle," Rivista de filologia. LXVI (1940), 25-27, attrib
utes Antigone1s changed attitude in this episode to the
psychological difference between imagination and reality.
Linforth writes, p* 222: "The tension under which she has
^cted has been resolved. In its place comes an inevitable
'sense of helplessness before the horror of death."
^Many scholars have claimed that Antigone acts only
from instinct: Norwood, p. 139; Kitto, Form__and Meaning,
p. 149; Adams, p. 44; Kirkwood, p. 165; Levy, pp. 138-139.
Antigone's motives, however, both personal and religious,
are emotional rather than instinctual. This extremely loose
use by scholars of the word "instinct" would not matter, if
true instinct did not assume importance in the characteriza
tion of Antigone. In the fourth episode we see a conflict
between her most basic instinct, self-preservation, and her
emotions and religious belief. Unless the term "instinct"
is used with accuracy, the differentiation of the conflict
ing aspects of Antigone's character, at this point in the
play, may be lost.
203
(806-816). The Chorus replies:
ouhoOv hXeivti wal emxivov exovo*
eq to&’ anspxsi heu0oq vshuguv,
oute cp0uvaaiv nXriYEiaa vocroiq
otjte ^Lcpscov knixEipcL A.axoOa* ,
aKk* oa>T6vop.og, ££oaa | j . 6vt| 5r)
0VT)T5jv ’A l&t) v Mam3f|aEL (817-822)
With these words the Chorus, both recalling the claim that
Antigone had made before Creon that she had won noble glory
by burying her brother (502-504) and thinking of Haemon1s
report that the people praise her (692-699), tries to con-
3
sole her with the thought that she has won glory and fame.
30jebb makes no comment on ouhouv mXeivti mcxl ETcaivov
EXOta’ (817), but Knox, pp. 176-177, n. 8, sees a problem
in this verse: "The Chorus can scarcely be referring either
Jto the praise which Haemon claims the citizens gave to An-
jtigone's action, for all too clearly they do not share that
opinion— they reproach her sharply for her 'rashness' (853)
and uphold the claim of the state's power (Mpdtoq, 873)."
Knox, not having considered the third stasimon in his book,
fails to see that the Chorus' sympathy and their sense of
moral right are not in accord. He suggests oumouv as the
proper reading instead of oumouv. This reading would
hardly be compatible with the sympathy and tears that the
Chorus has just expressed (801-805). Georges Meautis,
Soohocle, Essai sur le heros traaique. (Paris, 1957), p. 211,
suggests that the Chorus' remark is a bitter sarcasm, but
this view, too, can hardly be reconciled with the sympathy
expressed in verses 801-805 and would make the Chorus' tears
seem "crocodile tears." Dain-Mazon, p. 63, offer a differ
ent solution: "II probable, d'autre part, que les
204
The proof of her nobility and the attainment of glory,
however, motives that had impelled her to bury Polyneices,
no longer satisfy her or alleviate the threat of death. She
responds more to the Chorus' last words, that, unwasted by
illness, struck by no sword, she alone of mortals will de-
31
scend to Hades while still living (819-822). This thought
vieillards du choeur ne promettraient pas louange et gloire
ja Antigone mourante (817) si Sophocle avait ete le premier
ja imaginer le personnage et son conflit avec Creon. II
jserait meme surprenant s'ils se fussent exprimes ainsi s'il
js'etait agi d'une simple legende locale peu familiere au
public athenien." To address to Antigone and the audience
buch an allusion to her fame on the Attic stage is inadmis
sible. It would rupture the play's frame of reference and
distract from the dramatic seriousness of the moment. Lin
forth, p. 222, thinks of the future fame that Antigone will
receive in story: "Thus strangely to pass alive to the
hiding place of the dead will win her fame and praise, the
ichorus responds, thinking of the story that will be told of
her self-chosen death." This view seems improbable, since,
■as Knox points out, p. 177, "sxoua* refers to Antigone now,
jas she goes to her death." Jebb's silence on verse 817
beems justified. The Chorus' words are uttered as consola-
jtion for Antigone, expressing the thought that, though she
goes to her death, she has gained the glory and praise that
she desired.
33-Jebb, p. 151, n. a& 821f., sees auTOVO(j.OQ (821) as
referring to Antigone's defiance of Creon's edict: "No one
constrained her to do the act. She'knew that death would be
the consequence, and she chose it." It seems highly doubt
ful, however, that the Chorus in attempting to console An
tigone would, in the same breath, choose this moment to
chide her, especially so soon after their sympathetic out
burst of tears. M. A. Bayfield, The Antigone of Sophocles
(New York, 1935), n. a^ 821, gives a more appropriate in
terpretation of auTOVO|j,OQ: "Such a victim enters the tomb,
205
reminds her of a demigod who had suffered a similar fate,
and she tries to strengthen and increase in herself the
sense of her own glory by comparing herself to the fabled
Niobe who had been imprisoned in a rock (823-833). The
Chorus, which has never condoned her presumption to defy
Creon1s edict, will not allow her, even at this moment, the
presumption of likening herself to a demigod. They reply:
xk\& 0e6q tol xou 0eoyevvnQ./ rjtiEiQ be 3potoV hou 0vt)To-
32
yevELQ (834-835). Still wishing, however, to console her,
they soften this reproach and add that, nevertheless, she
has won great renown to have shared in life and death the
fate of a demigod (836-838) .
Antigone cannot endure the slightest diminution of her
glory. She exclaims:
otfiO L ye\ciiM-cxi,. T l (ie* TupOQ 0e£5v 7raTpa>-
w v , ovh ouA.oiievotv ^ P p C ^ e l q
aAA’ ETt.CcpavTov (839-841)?
independent, 'mistress of herself.' She can take as much or
as little of the food as she will: she can die when and how
she chooses."
32jebb, ,p. 153, n. a& 834-838, sees no reproach in
these words: "The Chorus desire to console Antigone. There;
is no element of reproof in their words here." Knox, p. 66,
disagrees: "The chorus reproves her for her presumption."
He adds, however: "Then they sympathetically excuse her
exaggeration." Cf. Linforth, p. 223._____________
| 206
jit is obvious that the fulfillment of her desire for glory
has no power to comfort her in the presence of death. It is
even questionable, if the Chorus had allowed her this com
parison with Niobe, that it would have been enough to sus
tain her. Driven to the extremity of despair, she apostro
phizes the city, the wealthy men of Thebes, the spring of
Dirce, and the ground of Thebes itself to bear witness that
she goes to her rocky tomb, unwept by friends and condemned
by unjust laws (842-849). In view of the fact that the
Chorus has shed tears at the sight of Antigone, as she came
i
jon stage, her use of the word 6ch?uxutoq (847) is surely an
i
|
exaggeration indicative of her self-pity. But such an emo
tion, under the circumstances, seems quite natural and
understandable.
The Chorus, at Antigone 1s reference to the laws (847),
replies that she has gone to the utmost limits of rashness
and struck heavily against the throne of justice (853-855).
Their attitude clearly shows that, though they have ex
pressed sympathy for her, to them, as to Creon, her defiance
of his edict constitutes her crime. With the words TtocTpcpov
b’ shtivsiq xlv* a0A.ov (856) they refer to the sentiment
which they expressed in the second stasimon (see p. 168
above), that the doom incurred by the dead continues to fall
207
on the living (594-598).
At the mention of her father, Antigone bitterly recites
the horrors that have befallen her father and mother (857-
866), a recital that recalls Ismene's similar statement,
early in the play (49-57), when she used the woes of their
ill-starred family in her attempt to dissuade Antigone from
joining their fate by trying to bury Polyneices. Now An
tigone admits that through her brother she has been made to
join that fate (867-871).
The Chorus, still trying to comfort her, says: cfepeiv
lev e{)Ge$ei6 l t i q (872). This expression is the first in
dication that the Chorus reverences her deed. Not only have
they shown sympathy for her, granted her the glory which she
had initially desired, but now they have shown respect for
her religious piety. They quickly qualify their words, how
ever, adding that she was wrong to defy the power of Creon
(872-875). All that remains now of their original and full-
hearted agreement with Creon is their defense of his right
and, in his person, the State's right to ordain for the
33
living as well as the dead (211-214), the main principle
JJIt can be argued, of course, that from the beginning
the Chorus agreed with Creon only on the principle that it
was unlawful to defy the will of the ruler. Nevertheless,
208
that Creon himself had insisted upon in his quarrels with
Antigone and Haemon. The gap between the Chorus and the
King has continued to widen. Antigone, despite this admis
sion from the Chorus of respect for her piety, still incon
solable, concludes the kommos, lamenting pathetically and
self-pityingly that she goes on her journey unwept, unmar
ried, and unbefriended (876-881).
Linforth, at the end of his description of this kommos,
declares that the Chorus' attitude toward Antigone has been
harsh:
From the chorus Antigone receives no consolation. Their
tactless words only intensify her loneliness. Their
attitude is coldly judicial; they do not even give her
the comfort of acknowledging that Creon1s decree was un
just. She has no word of approval of her heroic deed
from anyone. (p. 224)
iSome of Linforth's own words, however, in his detailed
it is an undeniable fact that they offered no objection when
breon stated his religious principle that the gods would
never honor such a man as Polyneices with burial (280-289).
p?heir failure to raise an objection at the time could per
haps be excused on the grounds of their fear of angering
breon; but in the first stasimon, when Creon is not present,
jfchey condemn the unknown burier of the body, declaring: "He
who honors the laws of the land and the sworn justice of the
:jods stands high in the city. He who rashly participates in
sin has no city. May he never share my hearth and thoughts
whoever does this (368-375)." This statement assuredly
cffers positive evidence that the Chorus at that point in
the play agreed with Creon's principles of government and
c e l i q i o n . _______________________________________________
209
analysis of this kommos seem to refute his conclusion or, at
least, to make it inconsistent with some of his observa
tions:
When the leader sees her, knowing that she is on her way
to death, he is deeply moved. As the chorus in the pre
vious ode had observed that Haemon was so dominated by
the power of love that he departed from the moral obli
gation of respect to his father, so now the leader con
fesses that he himself is moved to forget the moral ob
ligation of respect to Creon and cannot restrain his
tears. (p. 222)
When the Chorus says to Antigone csfieiv p,sv euge^eta tlq
(872), Linforth calls this remark "a somewhat grudging ex
pression of approval" (p. 224). But there is no indication
that their approval is grudging, for there was no need for
them to speak these words at all, unless they were trying to
console her. Their approval is not grudging but only quali
fied by their next words, that Antigone was wrong to defy
the lawful power of the king (873-875). It is true, how
ever, as Linforth says, that "from the chorus Antigone re
ceives no consolation." But this is not due to the fact
that the Chorus does not try to console her, but simply to
the fact that she is inconsolable.
Creon has had enough of lamentations and now orders
Antigone to be taken to her rocky tomb, declaring that since
she is to be entombed alive, his hands are free of her
210
death (883-890). Antigone, still thinking of her family,
hopes that her arrival in the realm of the dead will be
welcomed by them, since with her own hands she has performed
the burial rites for each of them (891-903). This thought
is somewhat reminiscent of her previous and poorly reasoned
rationalization in the prologue (74-75), that she owes more
to the dead than to the living, since she will dwell with
the dead for a longer time (see pp. 54-55 above). As she
refers successively to each member of her family whom she
has buried (898-900), when she comes to the name of Poly-
neices (902), her hope, so similar to her rationalization in
i
the prologue (74-75), does not sustain her. Nor.is she com
forted by that other rationalization which she had expressed
in the second episode, that death is a gain since she is
encompassed by evils (462-465), for she does not even allude
to it. Now, having found no solace against death in the
fulfillment of her desire for glory and proof of her nobil
ity, nor in the Chorus' approval of her piety, nor in her
previous rationalizations, she falls back upon reason again,
trying to rationalize anew her devotion to Polyneices. It
is a futile attempt to rationalize a fundamental and natural
emotion:
hocCtoi a ’ syob ’TL|j,r)cra, toiq v sTfjweTo,
PCcx tto? v , lto5 v tov6* av t|p 6 ht]v txovov.
t l v o q vojiou 6r) Tauxa upb<; x&PLV Aeya);
TtoaiQ (xsv otv ( 10^ HaT0avovTog aXkoq rjv,
Mai tioclq an' akXov cpooTOQ, e t toOS’ T^frrcXaHOV*
HTjTpbg 6* ev "Atbou Hat TiaTpoq heheuOotolv
ouh eot * abeXcpoQ ootlq ’ av (3A.aOTot tdote .
Totcpbe he v '£°1 ' cf* eKTcpoTtH^oao’ eyib
v6[lcc>, KpsovTt toout* sbo^’ anapTdvetv
na't b e tv a T o \|m v i & H aatyvnT ov n a p a .
Kat vuv dye t he S^a xepwv o$t< j o A.a(3&v
aA.eHTpov, d v u fie v a to v , oute tou ydpou
HepoQ Xaxovoav o u te TcaL&stou TpocpfjQ,
aW'Sb* epriixog 7tp6g cptXoov t ) 5ua(iopoQ
£toa* sic, OavovTtov ep yojiat naTaonacpaQ
(904-920)
Walter Agard believes these verses to be genuine and
claims that they reveal Antigone to have an unnatural pas-
34
sion for Polyneices. He bases his belief on two points.
(1) "It is obviously more than religious duty that impels
her to bury the body. She loves him passionately (Antiaone
34l,Antiaone 904-920," Classical Philology. XXXII
(1937), 263-265.
212
48, 'my own'; 73, 'I shall lie in death beloved, with him,
my dear one'; 81, 'my dearest brother'; 503, 'my own broth
er1)" (p. 264). In answer to Agard, Antigone says in verse
48, a\\’ ovbev auTcji tS5v e(io)V \i’ eupyeuv (isra,. There is
nothing indicative of an unnatural passion in her use of the
word £(AU)V. In fact, the plural of the word would seem to
indicate that she is thinking of Polyneices simply as one of
the members of her family. In verses 7 3 and 81 the key word
is cpuAoc;. Ismene uses this same word in reference to Hae
mon: w cpuA-TocO’ "Au(iov, ( oq a’ ocTU(ia£eu tcocttip (572). Agard
himself, moreover, unlike Jebb (see p. 155, n. 132 above),
attributes this verse to Ismene (p. 264). If Ismene can
address Haemon as cpCX'TotS*, surely Antigone can use the same
word without implying any sexual connotations. Antigone's
use, moreover, of the word ocUTadeXcpov can have no special
sexual significance, since she addresses Ismene with this
very word in the opening verse of the play. If these argu
ments against Agard's interpretation of these citations were
not sufficient to condemn his view of Antigone's feelings
for her brother, her own words offer conclusive refutation:
cpuXri ( ie v t ^ e u v m T p u , u p oacpuA.ru; 6 e a o u ,
(xf(Tep, |j .[ 3 C o u q
xoag e&ama* vuv be, HoXuveihbq, t o aov
6e(jiaQ xcep uaTeAAouaa to ids' dp\?u[xau
(898-903)
Here Antigone reveals not just devotion to Polyneices but an
impartial devotion to the burying of each member of her
family.
(2) Agard further suggests that Antigone is antagonis
tic to marrying Haemon, due to her repugnance to marriage in
general because of her mother's tragic experience. He tries
to substantiate this view by pointing out that in verses
824-901 there are five references to the fact that Antigone
will never marry (p. 265). Since his first point has been
refuted above, Agard's second point collapses, because now
the five references to the fact that Antigone will never
marry are readily and easily understood as referring to the
35
fact that death is depriving her of marriage with Haemon.
Bowra also believes this disputed passage to be genuine
and sees in it no inconsistency with the motives Antigone
35Edmund Wilson, "Sophocles, Babbitt and Freud," The
Shores of Light (New York, 1952), pp. 468-475, was the first
jto suggest this interpretation of Antigone as abnormal. Cf.
Waldock, pp. 104-109, for his arguments against Wilson's and
Agard's views.
214
has previously expressed: "What Antigone means is that she
feels a closer relationship to her brother than she ever
could to children or husband and is willing to do for him
after death what she would not do for them" (p. 94). While
Bowra admits that this sentiment seems strange to us today, j
he believes it represents an attitude of fifth-century
Greece:
The devotion of brother and sister, the special affinity
between them, would not seem unreal to a Greek audience
. . . If a brother is closer than a son, he is also
closer than a husband? for he has more of the same blood,
and in such calculations it is the degree of consanguin
ity that counts. (p. 94)
To support this view, Bowra cites as evidence the Meleager
legend and the Intaphrenes story in Herodotus, III, 119 (p-.
94) which Sophocles undoubtedly borrowed and paralleled in
his Antigone.
The Meleager legend, of course, cannot be evidence for
a fifth-century attitude any more than the bare substance of
the legend of Orestes. It is the plays of Aeschylus, Sopho
cles, and Euripides in their use of the Orestes legend that
reveal fifth-century attitudes. In the same sense, the fact
that Althea kills her son Meleager because he has murdered
her brothers in no way’ discloses the fifth-century sentiment
toward consanguinity. As for the Intaphrenes story, Bowra
215
never troubles to ask why Herodotus bothered to include it.
The most apparent reason for its inclusion is its oddity,
not its revelation of a common Greek attitude. Waldock puts
it well, when he writes:
It is obvious, of course, that it [the story] exists
for the paradox. It lives because it is surprising,
because it tickles the fancy with its strangeness.
This is precisely why it came into being, because it
reports an oddity in life. (p. 137)
The validity, however, of Bowra1s evidence as substan
tiation of his view of the fifth-century attitude toward
consanguinity is actually beside the point, because Antigone
j
is not really evaluating by a standard of consanguinity whom
she should and should not bury. Her standard of measurement
is availability: the rarer something is, the more valuable
it is. For example, according to her reasoning, if her
brother had died but her father and mother still lived? and
if her only aunt and uncle and their one child had perished,
she would choose to bury her cousin rather than her brother,
simply because, with her father and mother still living, she
36
could have more brothers but no more cousins. It may be
^Waldock, p. 134, explains Antigone's sophism well:
"She would not have done it for a husband or a child? and
she might not even have done it for a brother if there had
been other living brothers in the background. Irreplace-
216
well, if we wish to consider verses 904-920 genuine, to
recognize the oddity in her thought, to accept it as similar
to the oddity in Herodotus' story, and to see if we can make
37
this oddity compatible with Antigone's character.
If we can visualize Antigone's demeanor at this moment,j
perhaps the manner in which she delivers these verses will
give us a clue to their meaning and make them comprehensible
and consistent with her character. The kommos has revealed
Antigone to be completely inconsolable and despairing. The
Chorus has been unable to cheer her either with their ac-
i
I
knowledgment that she has won the glory which she had de
sired or with their approval of her piety. Nor have her two
previous rationalizations had the strength to sustain her
against death. Under these circumstances, it would be
highly improbable for Antigone to speak verses 904-920 in a
ability, that is to say, is her standard: a relative be
comes important precisely in the degree in which he or she
is a rarity."
*3 * 7
'L. A.' MacKay, "Antigone, Coriolanus, and Hegel,"
TAPA. XCIII (1962), 171, takes the same view of this dis
puted passage as Bowra and sees in it the expression of the
fifth-century attitude regarding consanguinity. Lesky, p.
L08, also sees in verses 904-920 an expression of the impor
tance of consanguinity: "We should not underrate the value,
for Greek minds, of this rational exposition of the signifi
cance of sisterly love." Cf. Knox, pp. 104-107; cf. Goheen,
78.
| 217
i
forthright and defiant tone full of conviction. At this
moment she is, not an heroic, but a pathetic figure. In
stead of speaking with assurance, confidence, and convic
tion, she is puzzled and, searching to find a motive for her
deed that will support her in the face of death, she deliv
ers these verses questioningly, falteringly, and perhaps
38
even brokenly.
One of Jebb's reasons for rejecting verses 904-920 is
that he found verses 909-912 unworthy of Sophocles: "They
[the verses ] are a tolerably close metrical version— and a
very poor one, too— of the reason given by the wife of Inta-
phernes for saving her brother rather than her husband or
39
one of her children." Verses 909-912 clearly represent
the heart of Antigone's rationalization. If the composition
of these verses had the elegance and polish that are typical
of Sophocles' verse, and which Jebb demands, one might easi
ly be led to believe that Antigone advances this rationali-
38Knox, p. 67, comments on verses 904-920: "She makes
her long last speech, not in lyrical song but in spoken iam
bics, the medium of reflection, discussion, analysis. She
tries to reason out her own motives, to clarify for herself,
now that the consequences are irrevocable, the motive and
nature of her action."
39Jebb, p. 260; see also Jebb, p. 164, n. ad. 904-920;
p. 165, n. ad 909ff.
218
zation with full assurance of its validity instead of ex-
40
pressing it questionmgly and tentatively. The very
oddity of the composition of the verses serves to parallel*
emphasize* and underline both the manner of her delivery and
the oddity of her thought* seeming to indicate to the reader!
and the audience to take special note of the sophistry and
lack of logic in her reasoning.
Is the thought expressed in this passage inconsistent
with Antigone's character? It is certainly inconsistent* as
41
Jebb notes* with her motive of obedience to divine law
which she asserts in verses 450-460. Wycherley* however*
has pointed out (p. 51) that a similar lack of logic occurs
in verses 74-75, where Antigone* attempting to rationalize a
motive for the burial* claims that she owes a greater al
legiance to the dead than to the living* since she must
Spend a longer time with the dead (see pp. 55-56 above).
^^Wycherley makes this comment on the quality of the
composition of these verses, p. 52: "Finally* a word about
the minor difficulties of language found in the passage . . .
Those who condemn the passage have generally used these dif
ficulties to provide a supplementary argument* without re
garding them as fatal in themselves . . . May they not* in
fact, be cited in evidence for the defense? Antigone is
distracted and her arguments faulty; her language naturally
halts and stumbles."
^Jebb, p. 164* n. ad 904-920.
219
The consistency between these two passages reveals that
faulty reasoning is not inconsistent with Antigone's charac
ter, for in the two instances where she tries to. rationalize
42
a motive for burying Polyneices she reasons poorly. Rea
son is not her forte but Creon's. Antigone personifies
emotion, and when her personal and emotional motives— her
desire for glory and her devotion to her family— do not sus
tain her against death, she grasps at reason like the straw
of the proverbial drowning man. This passage (904-920) by
its very oddity is a brilliant and emphatic reminder that
the emotion of devotion to family, which is fundamental to
Antigone's character, cannot be understood in terms of rea-
43
son, simply because it is such a pure and basic emotion.
^Besides these two rationalizations, the only other
rationalization that Antigone offers in the play occurs in
verses 461-468. Here, however, she is not trying to reason
a motive for performing the burial but only a motive that
will sustain her against death after the fact of the burial
(see pp. 143-144 above).
^Kitto, Form and Meaning, pp. 170-171, sees Antigone
as expressing in verses 904-920 an inconsistency which he
excuses as due to the stress of her circumstances: "Antig
one is neither a philosopher nor a devote, but a passionate
impulsive girl, and we need not expect consistency from one
such, when for doing what to her was her manifest duty she
is about to be buried alive . . Norwood, too, p. 139,
views Antigone's reasoning in verses 904-920 as revealing an
inconsistency in her character: "Indeed, the 'difficulty'
exists only in the minds of those who attribute inconsist-
220
While Kirkwood does not think that the thought ex
pressed in verses 904-920 is inconsistent with or inappro
priate to Antigone's character (pp. 164-165), he feels that
the passage "is altogether too obscure in manner, too little
explained in terms of clear development of mood, to be
dramatically first rate" (p. 165), and he ascribes its pres
ence in the play "more to Sophocles' desire for certain
effects of structure and of pathos than to an effort in
subtle psychological study" (p. 166). In answer to these
objections, to those who are acquainted with the Intaphernes
story in Herodotus, the manner of the passage in the Antig
one . far from being obscure, is at once familar and easily
recognizable; the mood of the passage, as described in our
interpretation, fits exactly the mood of the kommos that
ency in a character to incompetency in the playwright. But
while illogical people exist it is hard to see why a drama
tist should not depict them." Adams' interpretation, p. 54,
while it does not go into the details of Antigone's reason
ing or consider the apparent inconsistency in Antigone's
character, essentially agrees with my view: "She is think
ing of the husband she was to have had and the children she
might have had, and she is trying to tell herself that her
brother meant more to her than these could have meant. The
pathos of her thinking this is the explanation of its pres
ence. And if the syntax is somewhat confused in places, we
know well enough how adept Sophocles was in breaking syntax
to display emotion." Adams, however, fails to cite other
instances where Sophocles indulges in this sort of realism.
221
immediately precedes it; unquestionably, moreover, while the
passage is full of pathos, at the same time it reveals in a
subtle and psychological way both the difficulty, if not the
impossibility, of rationalizing a basic emotion and the
failure of Antigone, whose character is fundamentally emo
tional, to use reason well.
44
Jebb bracketed verses 904-920 on three counts: (1)
the apparent inconsistency of motive expressed in verses
904-920 with the motive of divine law asserted in verses
450-460; (2) the lack of logic in the substance of thought
in verses 904-920; (3) the poor quality of the composition
of verses 9 09-912. The interpretation offered above has met
all of these objections. Denys Page, however, basing his
arguments on Jebb's objections, thinks that verses 904-920
are probably an actor's interpolation (pp. 86-89). While
it is true that in answering Jebb's view we have also ans
wered Page's, there can be no absolute refutation of the
theory of these verses as an actor's interpolation, since
almost any questionable passage in a Greek tragedy could be
attributed to the interpolation of an actor. Against such
a theory the probability of the genuineness of verses 904-
44See Jebb, p. 164, n. ad 904-920.
222
920 is the most that can be established.
The fact that Aristotle quotes verses 911-912 (Rhetor
ics . III. 16. 19) and unquestionably had the whole passage
45
in his text is not conclusive proof of genuineness, but it
must be admitted "that our authority for this passage is
better than what we have for most of the rest of the play—
a manuscript written fifteen centuries after the perform-
46
ance." Nor can the fact that Wycherley has pointed out a
similarity in thought between verses 904-920 and verses 74-
75 be considered a proof of genuineness (p. 51). This simi
larity argues only for the consistency and congruity of the
two passages. There is, however, in Page's own terms a
weakness in his argument. He stresses, even more than Jebb,
the strained and unusual syntax in verses 909-912 (pp. 86-
87). Nevertheless, despite the nature of this syntax, Page
believes that "he would be a remarkably acute spectator who,
hearing these lines spoken for the first time, rapidly too
and with great passion, divined then: and there the weakness
and incongruity" (p. 89). Without even considering the
fact that our interpretation has taken the view that these
45See Jebb, p. 164, n. ad 904-920.
46Knox, p. 104.
223
words were spoken not rapidly, nor passionately, but fal-
teringly and questioningly (see pp. 216-217 above), surely
an Athenian audience, accustomed to the typical elegance and
polish of Sophocles' style, would have been attracted by the
unusual syntax to notice the oddity of the thought. If we
believe that these words were spoken falteringly and ques
tioningly, then the oddity becomes even more apparent.
In arguing against Page's theory, one should ask why
anyone would wish to consider this passage an actor's inter
polation. The answer is obvious: such a person does not
consider these verses top-drawer Sophocles and therefore
reasons that they must have been introduced by an inferior
artist. If, however, our interpretation, which has shown
these verses to be quite appropriate and even brilliant, is
acceptable, then the motive for believing this passage to be
an actor's interpolation disappears. In view of our inter
pretation of this passage and of our arguments for its gen
uineness, Page's theory seems improbable and somewhat far
fetched.^
47Whitman, pp. 92-93, believes, like Page, that verses
904-920 are an actor's interpolation. Waldock, pp. 141-142,
believes that these verses are either an actor's interpola
tion or "if Sophocles really wrote them, then either he
lost, for a few seconds, his grip (was striving for some-
224
| Antigone's rationalization (904-920) of her devotion to
her family fails both to convince her of the reason she
buried her brother and to bolster her against death. Having
been unconsoled by the Chorus' acknowledgment of the glory
she has won (817-822), by their approval of her piety (872),
and by her own rationalization, she turns now to the gods.
Here, too, she finds no solace and wonders why she should
look to them, since her piety has earned her the reputation
of impiety (922-924). No longer is she even sure that her
deed is pious in the eyes of heaven, for now she says that
i
if her death is pleasing to the gods, when she has suffered
it, she will come to know her sin (925-926); on the other
hand, if her judges have sinned, she wishes that they may
suffer no less evil than they have done to her (927-928).
Hnsure of herself, of the rightness of her conduct, incon
solable, Antigone, in a manner typical of her emotionalism,
is left with only a curse to threaten those who judge her.
At the conclusion of her speech, the dialogue returns
to song which continues, unbroken, into the fourth stasimon.
The Chorus comments on her curse, seeing in it the same
thing we cannot quite see), or he observed the chance for
this rather piquant effect, and thought the lapse from truth
no great harm."
225
defiance (929-930) that had characterized her in the second
episode. Creon orders the guards to take her away and delay
no longer (931-932). Antigone makes a final appeal to her
city, her gods, and the princes of Thebes to witness what
48
she is suffering because she reverenced piety. Antigone
faces death not heroically, but lamenting and wailing pa-
49
thetically. The prologue and second episode revealed her
heroism. This episode has disclosed her to be a woman,
human and frail. Her humanity and frailty, by contrast,
make her earlier heroism seem all the greater.
^®The words T^v suae fKctv aePCcrocaa (943) do not refute
her earlier uncertainty of the piety of her act (923-926);
they merely mean that she is suffering death because she
reverenced what she thought was piety. Jebb, p. 164, trans
lates verses 942-943: "See what I suffer, and from whom,
Ibecause I feared to cast away the fear of heaven."
^ K i r k w o o d writes of Antigone1s departure for death,
p. 127: "Antigone, after some evidence of human frailty in
her kommos and in her last iambic speech (891-943), leaves
to face death with pride and self-confidence (937-943)."
It is difficult to reconcile Kirkwood's view with the tone
of lament and wailing in verses 937-943. Also, it seems
highly unlikely and extremely inconsistent that Antigone,
after despairing and lamenting throughout the episode,
should suddenly, and for no apparent reason, become proud
and self-confident in the last seven verses. All that I
can think of to account for Kirkwood's view is that he
looks upon a typical Sophoclean hero as intransigent and is
trying to make Antigone fit this mold.
226
Fourth Stasimon (947-987)
The fact that there are many and various interpreta
tions of this ode would seem to indicate that it is a par-
50
ticularly difficult stasimon to understand. The poem
deals with the imprisonment of three mythological figures:
Danae, Lycurgus, and Cleopatra. Kirkwood believes that this
motif of imprisonment constitutes a lyrical finale to the
previous scene:
After the stirring kommos and the departure of Antigone
there is no place for further dramatic development of
this theme. The ode is a transformation of the pathos
| of events into lyrical terms that fulfill and give res
pite from the tragic action. Then the plot is renewed
with the Teiresias scene.^
5®Goheen writes of the difficulty of interpreting this
ode, p. 64: "This ode has proved tantalizing to many read
ers, for its relation to the action seems particularly vague
and ambiguous." Kirkwood has this to say of the difficul
ties that the poem offers, p. 210: "It is a striking poem;
but as dramatic material, with relevance to the play, it has
often seemed intransigent, because critics have tried to
extract from it a kind of relevance that it does not have."
Cf. Kitto, Form and Meaning, p. 171.
^Kirkwood, p. 211. Waldock, p. 117, takes a similar
view of this ode: "It [the ode] appears to be a lyrical
embroidery of the reminiscent or associative sort; Antigone
is to be immured in a cavern; well, a natural opportunity is
given to recall other cases of the kind. Choric relevance
can vary greatly: it is possible for it to be close and
precise; but again it can be a loose formality." Linforth's
interpretation is also quite similar to that of Kirkwood and
itfaldock, p. 233: "The Stasimon is an interlude and con-
tributes nothing to the plot."________________________________
227
Our interpretations of the three previous stasima,
which, in each instance, have regarded the role of the Chor
us as that of a dramatic actor, have shown that each stasi
mon has clarified the Chorus1 attitude toward the preceding
action and at the same time has added new and dramatic rele
vance to the play (see p. 197 above). The attitude of the
Chorus has progressed from condemnation of the unknown bur-
ier of the body in the first stasimon to condemnation of
Antigone in the second, until by the close of the third
stasimon the Chorus has been brought, through their concern
for Haemon, to the point of pitying Antigone (see p. 197
above). In the fourth episode the Chorus expressed this
pity in their attempts to console her (see p. 201 above).
The divergence of the Chorus 1 feelings from those of
Creon was slight near the close of the second episode (see
p. 160 above), but it has been growing with increasing
rapidity, until by the close of the fourth episode they have
shown such sympathy for Antigone that they have all but
approved of her deed, censuring still only her defiance of
Creon1s edict (see pp. 207-208 above). In view of the close
dramatic relationship of each stasimon to its preceding
episode and the progressive change in the Chorus' feelings
toward Antigone, it would be reasonable to expect in the
228
fourth stasimon a similar dramatic relationship and a fur
ther clarification of the Chorus' changing attitude. If we
accepted Kirkwood's interpretation of this ode as "a res
pite from the tragic action," it would be not only a respite
but, in the light of our interpretations of the previous
episodes and stasima, it would be an actual interruption of
52
the play.
All scholars agree that Creon is on stage during this
ode, but none, to our knowledge, has seen fit to admit An
tigone's presence. Her farewell in verses 937-943 is taken
|
literally to mean that she leaves the stage at once. Never
theless, the text clearly shows that the Chorus in this ode
52
Kirkwood has consistently seen the Chorus of the
Antigone as a commentator on the action rather than as a
participating actor (cf. pp. 102-103, 172-173, and 198, n.
22 above). Aristotle states that the Chorus should be re-
jgarded as one of the actors and should share in the action,
not as in Euripides, but as in Sophocles fPoetics. 1456a).
While one cannot accept Aristotle as the final and irrefu
table authority on Greek tragedy, nevertheless it is inter
esting that a man who saw and read more Greek tragedies than
we shall ever have the opportunity to know, should make such
a remark, particularly with reference to Sophocles. One
might profit and gain considerable insight by trying to un
derstand, at least, from the extant plays of Sophocles how
Aristotle came to such a conclusion. Kirkwood's view of
these four stasima in the Antigone makes the Chorus seem
more like an encumbrance to the play than an integral and
necessary part.
229
addresses Antigone twice (949, 987). Their second address
T ~
(0) toxl, 987) is especially emphatic, occurring as the last
two words in the stasimon. Jebb chooses to ignore any sig
nificance in these instances of personal address: "As An
tigone spoke the verses ending at 943, the guards were in
the act of leading her forth. The choral ode may have begun
before she had vanished; but she is not to be conceived as
53
strll present when she is apostrophised (947, 987)." Jebb
gives no explanation for his view, and one can only assume
that Antigone's farewell speech (937-943) indicated to him
a departure that would consume only as much playing time as
it would take the guards to lead her directly and promptly
from the stage.
There is no need, however, to insist upon such a prompt
departure or to believe that Antigone has left the stage at
or near the beginning of the ode. The very fact that at the
conclusion of Creon1s speech (928) and before the end of the
fourth episode music and song are resumed indicates that the
frame of reference has become more artificial even before
the ode begins. With this increase in artificiality, the
strictures of time and action which a more realistic frame
53Jebb, p. 169, n. a^ 944-947.
230
demands are removed, so that it is quite possible for the
movements on stage to become extremely slow, stylized, and
perhaps, in the case of Antigone, even choreographed. We
have observed, moreover, in the fourth episode that Antigone
has appeared distraught and inconsolable. It is unlikely,
then, that her movements in leaving the stage would be bold,
heroic, and quick. It is more probable that she is being
led from the stage by the guards in a slow and stylized
manner as the Chorus begins its song. Their final address
to Antigone probably occurs just at the moment she leaves
the stage or immediately after.
j
Once it is admitted that Antigone is on stage during
the fourth stasimon, the ode becomes easily intelligible and
reveals a twofold dramatic relevance to the action of the
play. (1) Throughout the fourth episode the Chorus has
tried to console Antigone. The mention in their song of
Danae represents a further attempt to comfort her. Danae,
who had been guilty of no wrongdoing, had been imprisoned,
54
later freed, and had achieved great fame. The Chorus is
suggesting to Antigone that if she is truly innocent, no
54See Hyginus, Fabula. 63; Apollodorus, II. 4.. 1;
Horace, Carmina. III. 16. 1.
231
5 5
harm will come to her. Their allusion to Lycurgus, who
had defied Dionysus and had been punished with madness, im
prisonment, and death, suggests that if Antigone is guilty,
she will suffer punishment deservedly. The Chorus, however,
j
is quick to realize the naivete of the concept of justice
that they are trying to generalize from these two illustra
tions: that the innocent are always saved and the guilty
56
punished. With their allusion to Cleopatra, who, though
innocent, had suffered imprisonment without release, their
attempt to comfort Antigone ends up.futile and abortive.
I
Their endeavors to arrive at a concept of justice that will
console her has achieved only a Job-like generalization that
sometimes the innocent are rescued and freed, sometimes the
guilty are punished, and sometimes the innocent suffer pun
ishment undeservedly and without release. Resignation and
the barest glimmer of hope, if she is innocent, are all the
comfort they can give her.
One could argue, perhaps, believing Antigone to be
absent from the stage, that the Chorus in addressing her
^See Homer, Iliad. VI, 130-140? Hyginus, Fabulae. 132,
142. Servius, In Aeneidos. III. 14? Apollodorus, III. 5. 1.
^®See Diodorus Siculus, IV. 44. 3.
232
twice is merely thinking of her and, in view of their sym
pathy, trying to comfort themselves. But the appearance of
y * * *
co nai (987) at the very conclusion of the ode seems to in
dicate that if the Chorus is only thinking of her and try-
!
ing to comfort themselves, there would be no need for such
an emphatic expression of personal address. In addition, it
is more consistent with the Chorus' attitude toward Antigone
in the fourth episode for them to be comforting her rather
than themselves. Antigone, after all, is the one in need of
comfort,' not the Chorus.
(2) The Chorus' use of these three mythological fig
ures, as well as being a profitless attempt to console An-
!
tigone, reveals with equal importance a significant change
in their attitude. Danae is innocent, Lycurgus guilty, and
Cleopatra innocent. May not Antigone be innocent like
[Danae, or guilty like Lycurgus, or innocent and suffering
[undeservedly like Cleopatra? No longer is the Chorus sure
57
that Antigone has done wrong. Now that they are no longer
c n
'Bowra, p. 105, though he does not see this ode as an
attempt on the Chorus' part to comfort Antigone, does agree
that the Chorus is revealed as changing in attitude toward
Antigone: "The Chorus have begun to waver. For the moment
jthey temporize and cannot make up their minds. They have
jweakened . . . and their weakening makes them more ready to
accept the message of the gods when it comes." Kitto, Form
233
certain that she is morally wrong, the divergence between
the Chorus and Creon has reached its greatest extreme.
Their last tie with him has been almost removed. The moral
rectitude of his edict is no longer a certainty in their
i
minds but a question. The sympathies of the reader and
and Meaning, p. 172, takes a view of this ode that is simi
lar to Bowra's: "This is the way in which Sophocles invites
us to take our farewell of Antigone. Is she innocent, like
Danae, or guilty, like Lycurgus, or . . . the victim of al
most inconceivable cruelty?" Adams' interpretation of this
ode, p. 51, is not clearly stated: "The old men's attempt
to comfort Antigone gives way to a last attempt to find some
explanation for what is happening to her; and that is no
better than a repetition." Adams makes no mention of An
tigone 's presence on stage during the ode, and one cannot
tell from his words, when he speaks of "the old men's at
tempt to comfort Antigone," whether he is referring this at
tempt to the previous episode or the ode. I. Errandea, "El
estasimo cuarto de Antigona," Emerita. XX (1952), 108-121,
believes that the three imprisonments, mentioned in the ode,
foreshadow various punishments that will befall Creon. In
our view, any portion of a play must do more than foreshadow
what is to come, if it is to be comprehensible to reader or
audience at that point in the play where it occurs (cf. p.
i&8 above). The Chorus, moreover, is neither wise nor pre
scient enough to imagine what will happen to Creon, and if
this ode is mere foreshadowing, then it cannot be attributed
to the Chorus' feelings and thoughts as a character in the
play but must be ascribed to a direct communication from
author to audience. The frame of reference that the play
has established will not sustain such a direct communication
from author to audience (cf. p. 102 above). In addition,
the foreshadowing of events to come, if it could be under
stood by the reader, would have the effect of destroying the
suspense in not knowing what will happen. Goheen, pp. 65-
67, attempts to combine Errandea's and Bowra's interpreta
tions, but his acceptance of Errandea's view is untenable
because of the nature of the play's frame of reference.
234
jaudience, as we observed (p. 166 above), were entirely with
question at that point in the play, as it still is, whether
she or Creon was morally right. At last, with the uncer
tainty which the Chorus has expressed in this ode regarding
this question of moral rectitude, their attitude toward An
tigone has become identical to that of the reader and audi
ence .
The presence of Antigone and Creon on stage during this
stasimon works to the advantage of the play's form, serving
jthe double purpose of keeping both their roles from appear
ing foreshortened when Antigone leaves the stage for the
fLast time at the close of this ode. The use of music from
the beginning of the third stasimon (781) to the close of
the fourth (987), with the exception only of the speeches of
Creon and Antigone (883-928), heightens the pathos of An
tigone's departure for death and culminates in a climax
equal in intensity to that which was achieved solely through
dramatic means at the close of the second episode (see pp.
160-161 above).
by the close of the second episode. It was just a
CHAPTER V
THE ANTIGONE (988-1352)
Fifth Episade___(_9_8_8^1114l
It is obvious that the question whether it was right
for Antigone to bury Polyneices or for Creon to forbid the
burial cannot be resolved without divine intervention (cf.
p. 151 above). The sudden appearance of the blind seer
Teiresias marks this intervention and the beginning of the
play's resolution.
At first the King and the Seer greet each other with
remarks of mutual respect and trust (988-995). After the
polite formalities of greeting are finished, Teiresias
prefaces the purpose of his visit with an admonition that
Sreon once again stands on the razor's edge of fortune
(996). This warning strikes terror into Creon's heart, and
he asks the Seer what he means (997). There follows a truly
frightening description of the omens which Teiresias has
observed: he had heard the birds screaming and had known
235
236
that they were tearing and fighting each other in murderous
combat (1002-1004); in fear he had tried to burn sacrifices
on the altars, but the flesh had not burned but had merely
smoked and sputtered (1005-1009). He had concluded from
these signs that Creon1s policy had brought a sickness on
the city (1015)-, for the altars and hearths of the city had
been polluted by the flesh torn by birds and dogs from the
corpse of Polyneices (1016-1018), and the gods were no
longer accepting prayer and sacrifice (1019-1020). The
birds, moreover, having tasted of the dead man's blood, were
i
no longer giving clear signs (1021-1022). Creon's act, it
seems, has disturbed and revolted both heaven and nature.
An order that was regarded as natural to the world of na
ture and to the gods has been upset.^ In words that are
reminiscent of Haemon's plea (710-724), moderate, reason
able, and reassuring, Teiresias advises Creon to admit his
error, not to be stubborn, and to fulfill the will of the
^Kitto, Form and Meaning, writes, p. 174: "What Creon
has done, in refusing the burial, is an offence against
Nature herself, against the laws of the gods, against the
constitution of the universe— they are the same thing."
Goheen writes, p. 89: "In the scene of peripety the de
pendence of genuine "law" upon "nature," their interdepend
ence within a cosmic unity of things, is imaged concretely
and extensively in the first part of Teiresias' warning."
237
gods by burying Polyneices (1023-1030). The Seer concludes
his speech, assuring Creon that it is a good thing to learn
from someone who counsels well, has his best interests at
heart, and speaks for his gain (1031-1032).
Since Teiresias is an earthly representative of the
gods and the medium through which divine will is made
known, Creon cannot oppose him as he had Antigone, advancing
the intention of his decree, which distinguishes the right
eous from the evil by honoring the former and punishing the
latter (see pp. 149-150 above). Nor can he oppose Teiresias
with the argument which he employed against Haemon, that the
State belongs to the ruler (see p. 184 above). For Creon to
put forward such arguments now would amount to declaring
that the will of the ruler takes precedence over that of the
gods, a concept in which he himself, in fact, has never
asserted belief. Teiresias has spoken not out of self-
interest, like Antigone and Haemon. His sole concern, like
Creon's, is for the welfare of the State, and he has re
ported religious matters that pertain to that welfare. Thus
Creon is forced to answer him in terms of religion, and if
he is to maintain his own will over what the Seer reports to
be the will of the gods, he must prove Teiresias wrong.
¥et in the eyes of all the Seer's authority in questions of
238
religion is far greater than the King's. Therefore, before
giving his own religious interpretation, Creon must first
attack and undermine the authority of the Seer.
Teiresias' use of the word Ksp&OQ (1032) at the close
of his speech is the key that triggers Creon to explode with
accusations of false reports which he claims Teiresias has
given under the influence of bribery (1035-1039), words that
remind us of the charges of bribery that he had levelled at
the Guard early in the play (293-314). Having attacked
Teiresias' reputation and authority, Creon now offers his
jown religious view. He does not state his reasoned relig-
I
ious belief for forbidding the burial of Polyneices but
chooses rather to answer Teiresias' report that the flesh
of Polyneices' corpse has defiled the altar of the gods:
i
. . . T&cpa) 6* S H E LVOV OUXU KpU(J)ETE
ou&’ ei 0eA.oua* ot Zr]vbg ocietol [ 3opav
CpepELV VIV dcpTT&CoVTEQ &q AlOQ ©pOVOUQ,
ou6> (oq jxCaa|ia touto j i t ) xpeaaq, sy(b
0&7txeiv TOxpr)cra) meuvov* eu y&P olS* otu
0eouq iiiaCvsLV ouxiq avOpamauv a0£VEi
(1039-1044)
Bernard Knox views the thought expressed in these
verses as a blasphemous defiance of the gods: "The words
239
of Creon must have caused a shudder in the audience? he
violently and blasphemously repudiates that Zeus on whom he
called when he was sure that the gods were on his side, and
who has now, through the prophet, made clear his displeas
ure" (p. 109). Bowra, on the other hand, while he believes
that the thought expressed in this passage is not blas
phemous, at the same time feels that, under the circumstan
ces, what is normal and reverent religious belief becomes
2
blasphemy m Creon's mouth. But can a religious belief
jthat amounts to doctrine be reverent on one occasion and
| -
blasphemous on another? Jebb furnishes us with the answer
to this question of blasphemy by drawing a distinction be
tween the pollution of a sacred place and the defilement of
a . god:
The idea of religious | i . La ( J| ! a was that a mortal had con
tracted some impurity which disqualified him for commun
ion with the gods. The tainting of an altar cut off
such communion by bringing uncleanness to the very place
where men sought to be cleansed. Creon excitedly imag
ines a seemingly worse profanation and then excuses his
apparent impiety by a general maxim which all would ad
mit: "no man can pollute the gods."3
2Bowra, p. 1 0 8 , to support his belief that Creon's ut
terance is not blasphemous, cites Euripides' Hercules Furens
tC 6 ’ , ov n a C v e i a S v r i T o q a>v T a t w v G e w v { 1 2 3 2 ) .
3Jebb, p. 186, n. .a& 1044.
240
Accordingly, Creon is quite right and pious when he says,
"No man can defile the gods" (1044). His rationalized as
sumption, however, that the gods would not bury such a man
as Polyneices, constitutes blasphemy, since it is this as
sumption that has resulted in the pollution of the altars.
It is exceedingly ironic that what sounds like blasphemy
(1039-1044) is really pious reverence, while what has ap
peared to be a reasonable, though questionable, assumption
is actually blasphemous.
Creon, moreover, has now expressed two contradictory
interpretations of religious belief that at last have dis
closed an inconsistency in his reasoning. His previously
rationalized assumption that the gods would not honor such
a man as Polyneices with burial had reduced the gods to the
level of man by implyipg that if Creon were a god, he would
reason in this fashion. Now he has declared that the estate
of the gods is so superior to that of man that it is im
possible for a mortal to defile them. If the gods are so
far above the nature and condition of man that it is im
possible for a man to defile them, then it is an illogical
as well as a blasphemous assumption on Creon1s part that
gods and men are so much alike that they reason similarly.
Creon cannot have it both ways. One of his beliefs must be
241
wrong, and from Teiresias1 report we know that it is Creon1s
rationalized belief regarding the burial of Polyneices. The
conviction which has been growing steadily in the reader's
mind that Creon has unconsciously rationalized his religious
|
belief to support his policies (see p. 192 above) has now
been fully confirmed by this inconsistency in his reasoning.
Not only has Creon, through the use of reason, perverted
religious belief to serve his views of the welfare of the
State and to free himself from a familial obligation, but
now Teiresias' report of pollution has driven Creon to
transgress, in defense of his policy, the consistency that
logical reasoning demands.
Teiresias' interpretation of the will of the gods, has
attacked Creon's policy that forbids the burial of Poly
neices; Creon has impugned the Seer's honesty (1035-1039),
{Nevertheless, in the stichomythia that follows (1048-1053)
!
they are slow to indulge in mutual re-criminations and in
sults, still maintaining some respect for each other. Tei
resias defends his honesty, declaring that the giving of
good counsel is worth more than wealth (1050). Creon re
joins that the greatest folly is not to be prudent (1051),
alleging in veiled language that Teiresias' desire for gain
242
4
has exceeded the bounds of good sense. In reply, the Seer
suggests that this is the very sickness from which Creon is
suffering (1052).
Still restraining himself and wishing to maintain an
appearance of respect for Teiresias, Creon says that he does
not wish to insult the Seer by replying (1053). Their quar
rel could have ended here, and their differences would have:
remained unresolved, but Teiresias, angered beyond the point
of appeasement, reminds Creon that he has already insulted
him by saying that he prophesied falsely (1054). Even now
preon makes an effort to show a modicum of respect for Tei
resias and falls back on his original accusation that proph
ets are known to -love gain, this time attempting to soften
his accusation by pronouncing it as if it were a general
aphorism (1055). This charge only renews Teiresias' anger,
and he answers in a similar vein that the breed of tyrants
loves shameful gain (1056), suggesting that Creon has ground
5
religion underfoot for his own personal advantage. This
implication restores the argument to the basic issue between
them: the difference in their interpretation of divine will
4Cf. Jebb, p. 187, n. ad 1050.
5Cf. Jebb, pp. 187-188, n. M 1056.
• 243
and their validity as interpreters. At this remark Creon's
anger rises again, but he still wishes to avoid an outright
break with Teiresias and reminds the Seer that he is speak
ing to his King (1057). Teiresias admits that he is aware
of this fact and, turning Creon's words around to defend his
own reputation, reminds Creon in turn that it has been only
through his good counsels that Creon has saved Thebes
(1058). It is impossible for Creon to deny that Teiresias
has offered good counsel in the past. Nevertheless, to
support his own interpretation of divine will, he must un
dermine the authority of the Seer. Forced to use again the
blatant insult (1055) which he has been trying to avoid, no
longer cloaking and softening the accusation by giving it
the appearance of an aphorism, Creon now insists in a per
sonal and direct charge that the Seer, though wise, has a
love for evil deeds (1059).
At last Teiresias, driven to the heights of anger by
this affront, utters that which he had hoped there would be
no need to mention (1060). He prophesies for Creon a fate
of dire ruin and grief. The Seer foretells that in the im
mediate future Haemon, though he does not mention him by
name, will die as payment for his father's sins (1065-1067),
for Creon has been wrong to immure a living soul from the
244
sunlight (1068-1069) and to keep from the gods of the under
world a corpse, unburied, unhonored, and unhallowed (1070-
1071). In his first speech Teiresias had made no reference
to Antigone. His whole concern had been for the burial of
Polyneices, the omission of which had brought pollution upon
the State, but now for the first time referring to Antigone
(1068-1069), he adds to Creon's sins the fact that he has
entombed a living soul.
In addition, Teiresias proclaims that the hatred of all
the cities that had participated in Polyneices' expedition
will be aroused by Creon's failure to bury the enemy dead
who had fallen in the battle (1080-1083). This is the first
obvious indication given to the reader that Creon has re
fused to bury not only Polyneices1 corpse but the bodies of
his Argive allies as well. A hint of this, however, had
been given early in the play in Antigone's words, 7tp6q touq
pCA-OUQ OTeCxovxa t&v sxQp&v warn (10). Now her thought
becomes even clearer. This fact regarding the Argive dead,
which here receives prominence and clarity for the reader,
was probably understood throughout the course of the play by
the Athenian audience which was familiar with the legend of
245
6
the war of the Epigoni. It matters little, however, wheth
er this fact is known throughout the play to the modern-day
reader, for it adds nothing to the drama nor alters it in
any way except to underscore, at this point, the complete
ness of Creon's iniquity and offense (see pp. 68-69 above).
After he has delivered his prophecy, Teiresias departs
as abruptly as he had appeared. The Chorus reminds Creon
that Teiresias has never prophesied falsely (1091-1094).
Creon cannot deny this (1095); he is perplexed and fright
ened ( 1095-1096 ) . Whichever course hi. follows, whether he
yields or insists upon his own will, he has only something
to lose (1096-1097): if he yields, he feels that his pres
tige as ruler is diminished; if he persists in his will,
6See Jebb, pp. 191-192, n. a& 1080-1083.
^Kirkwood, pp. 65-6 7, has failed to notice that Antig-
lone’s words, Tipbg touq cpCXouq atetxovm sxQpwv mochoc,
have alluded to Creon's interdiction against the burial of
the Argive dead; consequently, he believes that verses 1080-
1083 present entirely new information; nevertheless, he
makes a similar point in his comment on the effect that
[these verses have on the play: "To mention [early in the
play] the general interdiction of burial would have dissi
pated our sense of the enormity of Creon's treatment of
[Polyneices in particular and would have distracted our at
tention a little from this one important fact, the fate of
[Polyneices. But now, when it is very much to the point to
[have everything crashing upon Creon's head, it is useful for
Sophocles to bring in this other fact." Cf. Kitto, Form and
Meaning, p. 174.________________________________________________
246
great and terrible personal loss will befall him. The
Chorus suggests that he listen to wise counsel (1098). In
despair, Creon asks them what he should do and promises to
obey whatever they advise him (1099). Creon, who as ruler
|
of the State has acted in accordance with abstract and im
personal principles of reason that supported his concept of
divine will, the State, the ruler, and the citizen, has been
driven to the realm of personal and natural sentience. Pre
viously, the only emotions he had exhibited were the pride
and anger which he had displayed in his first scene with the
Guard and in his quarrels with Antigone, Haemon, and Teire-
g
sias. Now at last he has experienced fear.
This is the moment for which the reader has waited and
for which the Chorus has not even dared to hope. The read
er's sympathies have been entirely with Antigone from the
close of the second episode (see p. 166 above), the Chorus'
from the close of the fourth stasimon (see pp. 232-234
above). Asked for advice, the Chorus quickly enjoins Creon
to free Antigone and bury Polyneices (1100-1101). Creon
hesitates for just another moment, reluctant to yield
(1102), but at the Chorus' persistent urging (1103-1104), he
^Cf. Linforth, p. 237.
247
relinquishes his original purpose and will, acknowledging
that it is futile to fight against necessity (1105-1106).
As he leaves the stage, he admits for the first time, though
grudgingly, that he has been wrong; 6s5oiMa yb.p iif| xobg
jiaSeatSTag v o\iovq/ apL crxov r j a m ^ o v x a xov Ptov xeXstv (1113-
1114).
The intervention of divine will, as reflected in Tei
resias, has proved Antigone's religious faith right and
Creon's rationalized belief wrong. It should be noted care
fully, however, that neither Teiresias nor the Chorus has
conceded Antigone's right to defy the State. As far back in
the play as the fourth episode the Chorus had expressed ap
proval of Antigone's piety (892), but at the same time they
had clearly disapproved of her defiance of the State (873-
875, see p. 209 above). In the fourth stasimon their regard
of Antigone had even softened to the extent that they had
implied that perhaps she was being punished unjustly and
that Creon's edict lacked moral rectitude (see pp. 232-233
above), but even then they had failed to admit that it was
within her rights to oppose the will of the State.
Fifth Stasimon (1115-1154)
The final ode, a hyporcheme, is an invocation and
248
prayer to Dionysus, the god with whom the city is most
closely associated. The appeal of the Chorus to the god to
come to the city to lift the plague (1141) is exultant and
joyous. Though there is neither a reference nor an allusion
to Antigone in the Chorus’ final ode, the exuberance and
joyousness of their prayer indicate their feeling that all
will soon be set aright and that the action with which the
play has been involved will terminate happily and in accord
with their sympathies. Since Creon, in the previous epi
sode, has agreed to bury Polyneices and to free Antigone,
and since nothing seems to stand in the way of the success
ful accomplishment of both actions, there is no reason at
this moment for the Chorus to have any misgivings that they
may be disappointed in their expectation.
Adams, however, sees only the effect of irony in this
ode of hope and exultance: "In the ensuing hyporcheme there
is the usual irony that the chorus think . . . that all will
now be well, whereas we know that somehow Creon will fail
9
and his doom descend upon him." . Professor Adams, however,
has oversimplified the reader's experience with this ode.
i
9
Adams, p. 56. Lrnforth, p. 238, takes a similar view
of this ode. Cf. Bowra, p. 111.
The reader who has had no previous experience with the play
is at this point as ignorant of its outcome as the Chorus
itself. Since his feelings toward Antigone are the same as
those of the Chorus (see p. 234 above), his identification
with the Chorus in their song of expectation and joy is com
plete. For this reader there is absolutely no irony in this
10
ode. On the other hand, the reader who has previously
read the play experiences this ode in a more complex fash
ion, his experience taking place on two levels. He identi
fies himself with the Chorus' hope and joy, but his aware
ness that Creon is doomed to fail prevents his identifica
tion from being complete. His feeling of hope and joy is
less strong than that of the Chorus and of the reader who
has not read the play. For this reader— for him alone—
given the perspective of knowing the conclusion of the play,
lOsome might object that familiarity with a well-known
myth or legend upon which a Greek tragedy was based would
give a reader foreknowledge of the outcome of a play before
he had even read or viewed it; consequently, this fore
knowledge, gained from the myth or legend, would allow him
to perceive irony in certain incidents as the play devel
oped. This is unquestionably true in some Greek tragedies—
the Agamemnon and Oedipus Rex, for example, just to name two
— but there is considerable evidence that the legend of An
tigone was not a familiar one and that much of the material
lin the play was not based upon legend at all but invented by
Sophocles himself. See Bowra, p. 64; Whitman, p. 83’ Lucas,
b. 143.
250
there is irony in this ode of joy and expectation.^
Together with the parodos, the final ode forms a frame
that embraces the intervening stasima. The Chorus' hymn of
victory in the parodos looked to the immediate past {see p.
62 above). The four stasima that followed revealed the
Chorus' gradually changing attitude toward Antigone, their
increasing divergence from Creon, and their ultimate identi
fication with the feelings of the reader and audience. Just
as the parodos looked to the past, so the final stasimon
12
'looks to the immediate future.
!
Exode (1155-1352)
A messenger enters and announces to the Chorus that all
has been lost and that Creon, having suffered the worst mis
fortunes, is but a breathing corpse (1155-1171). When the
Chorus inquires what burden of grief the Messenger brings
(1172), he informs the Elders that Haemon has perished by
his own hand (1175, 1177). At this moment Eurydice, the
wife of Creon and the mother of Haemon, makes her entrance
bo pray to the goddess Pallas (1183-1184). She has
-L-k^f. Linforth, p. 238.
l^Cf. Linforth, p. 238.
251
overheard the Messenger's words and wishes further clarifi
cation (1183-1191). The Messenger in a lengthy speech
(1192-1243) reports that Creon and his attendants had first
buried Polyneices and then gone to the cave where Antigone
had been immured. There they had found that Antigone had
hanged herself; Haemon, who had preceded Creon to the cave,
at the sight of his father had made an unsuccessful attempt
to kill him and had then committed suicide.
The Messenger's report raises three related problems of
interpretation. (1) Did Creon in burying Polyneices first
and then proceeding to the cave of Antigone reverse the
order of events as he had expressed it in his intentions to
the Chorus (1108-1112)? (2) Would Creon have been in time
to save Antigone if he had gone to the cave first? (3)
Since Creon, though obdurate at first, had ultimately obeyed
Teiresias, why does he suffer catastrophe and punishment?
(1) In the previous episode Teiresias had warned that
one born of Creon's loins would die because Creon had
wrongfully lodged a living soul in a grave and had prevented
the corpse of Polyneices from being buried (1066-1071). A
moment later the Chorus had enjoined Creon to free Antigone
and bury Polyneices (1100-1101). The order of events in
both Teiresias' warning and the Chorus' words of advice had
252
placed the freeing of Antigone before the burial of Poly-
13
neices. Creon, from the description which the Messenger
has given, has reversed the order of events suggested by
Teiresias and the Chorus.
Jebb regards this reversal of events as a flaw in the
dramaturgy of the play, though not a serious one (p. xx).
With sound critical judgment he writes: "A fatal delay must
not seem to be the result. merely of negligence or of ca
price" (p. xix). He attributes the cause of this blemish to
the undeniable fact that for the Messenger to have reported
the burial after the incidents at the cave would have been
anticlimactic (p. xix). Though Jebb can explain, at least
to his own satisfaction, the reason for this apparent blem
ish, he cannot expunge it except to say that Greek drama,
because of its interest in rhetorical effect, is not so con
sistent or clear as modern drama in matters which, though
part of the play, occur offstage (p. xix). But surely this
is a more serious blemish than Jebb is willing to admit,
for if he is correct about this reversal of the order of
events, we have an important dramatic effect improperly and
arbitrarily motivated, which constitutes a flagrant
•^cf, Bowra, p. 111.
253
inconsistency between characterization and story incident
* 14
(cf. p. 118 above).
Of course, this kind of flaw only exists if Creon has
given some indication that he agreed with Teiresias and the
Chorus on the sequence of events. Jebb believes that he has
indicated this: "The Chorus puts Creon1s duties in the nat
ural order: 'free the maiden from her rocky chamber and
make a tomb for the unburied dead' (1100)? and Creon.seems
to feel that the release, as the more urgent task, ought to
lave precedence" (p. xviii). But does Creon feel this? The
Chorus certainly does, and we— the reader and audience— do.
^Kirkwood, p. 258, n. 17, agrees with Jebb that if
(Creon had not reversed the order of events, the Messenger's
report would be "wretchedly anticlimactic." Kirkwood, how
ever, unlike Jebb, finds in the reversal of the order of
events "a good dramatic reason" and does not even see a flaw
[in it. Waldock, pp. 129-132, believes the sequence of
events, as Creon performed them, to be "a matter of struc
tural convenience," claiming that "the reverse order was, of
Icourse, unthinkable— the drama would have lapsed towards ab-
urdity." Agreeing with Jebb, however, that the play's
ptructure is blemished, Waldock goes on to say: "The inner
reasons, then, for the sequence are plain. But how does it
look from our side? It will not stand up to much critical
pressure. We do not know why Creon changed his mind— or, if
lie had not changed his mind, why he hit on the extraordinary
tdea of proceeding first to the body of Polyneices. The
jtruthsis that there is n& reason— no presentable, dramatic
reason. . . . There is no motive within the play for the
act." Adams, pp. 56-57, believes that Creon intended to
free Antigone first and then changed his mind.
F
254
What Jebb, however, describes as the "natural order" may
seem natural to us and to the Chorus, but before we admit
the presence of this blemish in the structure of the play,
we should be certain that this order seems natural to Creon.
Accordingly, we must be careful not to allow our feelings
and anxiety for Antigone to dictate what we think the struc-
ture of the play ought to be, but we must be sure to permit
the structure to develop from within the play as a result of
the constituent elements that compose it, in this instance,
particularly the elements of (a) language, (b) story inci
dent, and (c) characterization.
Let us examine the problem first from the standpoint
of language. (a) When the Chorus advised Creon "to free the
maiden and bury the dead," he replied:
2)5' d)Q e % < x> a u E i x o i n / av‘ l t * o t o x o v e q
01 T* OVTEQ OL T* &7I0VTEQ, CX^CvaQ XEpO^V
d p i i a a O * e X o v t e q e Lq etc6 x i . o v t o t i o v .
Eycb 6 ’ , E7TEL&T) 6o^0C £ 7 l£ a T p d c p T ) ,
a u T O Q t1 E&riaa xcu Ttapoov ExXucroiaat.
(1108-1112)
There is no question about the meaning of verses 1108-1110.
Jebb himself admits that they relate only to the burial of
255
15
Polyneices. He believes verse 1112 pertains to Antigone
and renders it: "I will be present to unloose her, as I my
self bound her." From Creon's statement of the order of
events as he sees it, it is evident, at least from the se
quence of the verses, that he is thinking first of burying
Polyneices. If there were any antithesis between the phras
es l t ’ i t ’ o t o x o v e q/ ot t * o v t e q (1108-1109) and eycb 6*
(1111), one might reasonably argue that Creon believed the
release of Antigone to be "the more urgent task," but such
an antithesis does not exist, and even Jebb denies its ex
istence: "The sense is not: 'do you go and bury Polynei
ces, while 1 release Antigone.' Creon takes part in both
17
tasks." In the text itself both the fact that Creon
speaks first of burying Polyneices and the fact that there
is no antithesis between what his attendants will do and
what he will do argue, at least from the standpoint of lan
guage, against Jebb's assumption that Creon's foremost
thought is to save Antigone.
(b) It is upon the implications in the story incidents
15Jebb, p. 197, n. ad 1109.
16Jebb, p. 197; cf. Linforth, p. 241.
• * - 7Jebb, p. 197, n. ad 1111.
256
that Jebb relies for his belief that Creon is thinking first
of rescuing Antigone: "If she dies, his son must die
(1066). Therefore, while he glances at the burial rites by
telling his men to bring axes, he describes his own part by
18
his most urgent task— the release." While it is true that
Creon has realized from Teiresias' warning (1066-1071) that
19
if Antigone dies, his son will die, nevertheless he has no
reason to fear that Antigone is in any immediate danger. A
delay of a few minutes or even of several hours could hardly
i 20
be expected to endanger her life. In the natural course
of events she could live, though immured, for at least a day
or two. Consequently, the pressing and immediate urgency to
release Antigone, which Jebb sees, is not really present.
18Jebb, p. 197, n. M 1111.
^Haemon had said to Creon during their quarrel: f] 6'
ouv OaveLTOU wat Oavoua’ o?y.EL Tivd (751). Haemon's "an
other" had been ambiguous and Creon had understood it as a
son's threat against his father's life (see p. 186 above).
Teiresias' warning (1066-1071), however, had clarified the
ambiguity, and now Creon must realize that Haemon had meant
himself. The description in verses 1206-1230 of Creon's
apprehension when he hears cries of wailing as he approaches
the cave in which Antigone is immured gives further substan
tiation of his awareness of the nexus between the fates of
Haemon and Antigone. Cf. Adams, p. 57.
on
cuCf. Krtto, Form and Meaning, p. 175? McKay, p. 169?
Linforth, pp. 240-241.
257
Still, one might raise the objection that if, as it actual
ly appears, Creon has expressed a preference to bury Poly
neices first, the Chorus, which has been deeply concerned
for Antigone and has told him "to free the maiden and bury
the dead,1 1 in that order, might have been expected to remon
strate and to remind him not to postpone rescuing her. This
objection, however, is easily removed: the Chorus, too,
realizes that Antigone is in no immediate danger, and their
statement of the desired order of events is simply a natural
expression of their uppermost feeling at the moment and not
an imperative injunction to Creon. As a result, when Creon
in his reply to them reverses the order of events, there is
no need for them to be alarmed. In the excitement, more
over, of Creon's sudden conversion it is even possible that
his reversal of the order of events escapes their notice.
Certainly the joy and exaltation which they express in the
fifth stasimon give no indication that they have misgivings
or fears about the future.
21
Jebb and those who agree with him, it appears, have
allowed their anxiety for Antigone, born of a knowledge of
later events in the play, to mislead them in interpreting
21See Kirkwood, p. 258, n. 17; Waldock, pp. 129-132;
Adams, pp. 56-57.______________________________ _____________
258
Creon's reply to the Chorus. Neither in the language of the
text nor in the implications of the story incidents is there
any evidence in Creon1s reply that he agrees with the Chorus
on the natural order of events. Therefore, Creon's execu
tion of the two tasks follows exactly the sequence of his
intentions as he expressed them to the Chorus.
(c) Although we have demonstrated that Creon has nei
ther changed his mind nor contradicted himself in burying
Polyneices first and then setting out to release Antigone,
nevertheless the dramaturgical blemish which Jebb noted
still partially remains unless we can show that the order of
the tasks, as Creon performed them, is properly motivated.
The answer lies in Creon's character. Throughout the play
Creon's first and sole concern has been for what he believes
to be the welfare of the State. To this end, employing
rational principles rather than the normal sentience common
to human beings, he has guided his actions. To support his
policy, he has even used reason to the extent of rationaliz
ing a religious belief which now he knows to be wrong. Con
cern for the State and a penchant for using reason are the
two chief components of his character that have been shown
to us. Teiresias, moreover, in his first lengthy speech
(998-1032) to Creon made no mention of Antigone and only
259
emphasized that Creon's failure to bury Polneices had
brought a sickness upon the State (1015). In accordance
with his character, Creon, motivated as usual by his concern
for the State rather than by a more personal and humane con-
i *
cern for the living, reasons that Antigone, to all appear
ances, is in no imminent danger and proceeds first to the
burial of Polyneices in order to lift the sickness from the
22
city. In fact, if Creon had acted otherwise and had first
set about releasing Antigone, this order of events would
have been inconsistent with his character and would have
represented a real blemish in the play. In the Messenger's
report it is obvious, as it has been pointed out (see p. 252
above), that the order of events helps make his speech rhe
torically effective and that if the sequence had been re
versed, the latter part of his speech would have been anti-
climactic; but it is equally true that the order in which
Creon performs his two tasks is soundly motivated, consis
tent with his character, and consonant with the expression
of his intentions to the Chorus.
(2) Relevant to Creon's choice of actions is the ques
tion whether he would have been in time to save Antigone, if
22cf. Linforth, p. 240; McKay, p. 169; Bowra, p. 111,.
260
he had not chosen to bury Polyneices first. William Chase
Greene believes that Antigone's death, which results also in
the death of Haemon, could have been averted if Creon had
23
gone to release her before burying Polyneices. If Pro
fessor Greene is correct, we would be able to see a plau
sible, simple, and direct relationship between Antigone's
death and the order of events which the nature of Creon's
character has dictated. But the evidence in the play does
not allow us to assume that this is the significance of
Creon's performance of the events. A considerable time, of
course, is spent by Creon and his attendants in giving a
full burial to Polyneices: they offer prayers, wash what
remains of the body, gather firewood, and finally after
burning Polyneices' remains raise a burial mound (1198-
1204). We do not know, however, exactly how much time these
burial rites consumed. Nor do we know the precise moment
when Antigone committed suicide. In her despair she may
^ Moira: Fate, Good, and Evil in Greek Thought (New
jXork and Evanston, 1963), p.:.92: "Antigone . . . could have
been saved at the last minute but for Creon's misguided
bungling." Greene adds, p. 147: "Even now Creon could save
Antigone if he hastened to the tomb.. . . But in his new
jood intention Creon delays to perform the rites of Poly-
ueices, and arrives at the tomb too late." Adams, p. 57,
also believes that it was possible for Creon to save Antig
one .
261
24
even have killed herself immediately upon being immured.
Also, though Haemon was at the cave when Creon arrived, we
have no way of knowing at what moment Haemon started for the
cave, nor by how much his arrival preceded his father's, nor
i
j
how long Antigone was dead when Haemon reached the cave.
There is neither evidence that Creon could have saved An
tigone, nor is there evidence to contradict this possibili
ty. There exists only the tantalizing ambiguity of two al
ternatives: (a) perhaps Creon could have saved Antigone;
(b) on the other hand, even if he had gone to the cave
25
first, she might have been dead by the time he arrived.
If, moreover, the interpretation of Professor Greene
were valid, while it would be consistent with and appro
priate to the play, it would add nothing new, for to make
the order of events directly responsible for Antigone's
death would be merely for the play to repeat and reinforce
^Cf. Linforth, p. 240.
Jebb, p. xix, agrees that there is no way of ascer
taining whether Antigone could have been saved. Linforth,
p. 240, believes that Antigone could probably not have been
saved: "The only mischance was that she acted too quickly,
not that Creon acted too slowly." MacKay, p. 169, agrees
with Linforth: "Sophocles gives us no reason to suppose
that any haste on Creon's part would have sufficed to save
Antigone. Haemon had not waited, and he came too late."
262
what scarcely needs repetition: namely, that Creon's char
acter is accountable for Antigone's death. Both the pro
mulgation and enforcement of his edict, which are the direct
consequences of his character, have already made this point.
Furthermore, to force upon the order of events such an in
terpretation would make Antigone's death, in the structure
of the play, quite melodramatic.
Is there, then, any new significance in the ambiguity
which the play poses? The ambiguity actually works in two
ways. (a) With respect to the structure of the drama, the
fact that it is indeterminable whether Creon could have
saved Antigone by going first to the cave absolves the play
of melodrama. (b) With respect to the meaning of the play,
this ambiguity must unquestionably leave Creon with a feel
ing of uncertainty that is more painful than certitude. For
the remainder of his life he will be tormenting himself with
the unanswerable question whether he could have saved An
tigone. The torment of uncertainty is a punishment he must
endure until his death, and perhaps this is his greatest
punishment and the one that will alter his character the
most, presumably for the better: Creon, who has always
reasoned and acted swiftly and surely, will never again be
able to think and act with absolute certainty that he is
; 263
right.
(3) The suicide of Haemon, which comes as a direct re
sult of Antigone's death and represents a large measure of
Creon's punishment, raises an interesting and difficult
j
problem. Teiresias had declared that Creon stood on the
razor's edge of fortune (996), a warning that seemed to in
dicate that if Creon heeded the Seer's counsel, he still had
the opportunity to avoid committing irreparable damage and
suffering personal ruin. At first, Creon was stubborn and
recusant, but when Teiresias prophesied terrible punishment
from the gods, Creon yielded quite quickly. Since Creon
ultimately obeyed Teiresias, why is the prophecy fulfilled
with the death of Haemon and the punishment of Creon? Or
was it already too late for Creon to set matters right and
escape dire punishment when Teiresias had warned him that he
stood on the razor's edge of fortune?
Bowra believes that Creon's initial obduracy is respon
sible for the fulfillment of the prophecy:
Teiresias has delivered his warning; Creon has rejected
it. The inevitable nemesis follows. The evil that might
have been avoided must come to pass. . . . If Creon had
heeded the warning, he would have escaped the penalty.
Teiresias foretells it only when he knows that Creon is
obdurate. (p. 108)
This interpretation rests upon the supposition that in some
264
way the gods had communicated to Teiresias that if Creon
yielded to him at once, nothing would befall him, but if he
opposed Teiresias even for a short while, though he ulti
mately yielded, the prophecy would be fulfilled.
Linforth thinks that the fulfillment of the prophecy
was inevitable whether Creon yielded to Teiresias immedi
ately, a bit later, or not at all (p. 236). He believes
that the opportunity Teiresias offered Creon in his initial
warning (996) was merely the chance to improve his character
or spirit:
In the first speech [998-1032], Teiresias promises good
for Creon if he will yield to the evidence of the bad
omens.... This would seem to imply that the terrible
things predicted in the second speech [1064-1090] might
be averted. But since the outcome is inevitable, and
since Teiresias knows that it is, his promise of good
to Creon must contemplate only the reform in his spirit
which Teiresias urges upon him with great force at the
end of his first speech [1031-1032]. If he will yield
he will be a better man, saved from himself, though not
from the consequences of what he has done. (p. 236)
Both Bowra's and Linforth's interpretations are plau
sible enough in themselves, but neither is acceptable be
cause each contradicts a point that the play has stressed
with particular emphasis in the fifth episode. Creon's
rationalized religious belief that the gods would not honor
Polyneices with burial because he had come to burn their
temples was an attempt on Creon1s part to give a rational
explanation of the manner in which divine will works. Tei
resias 1 report of the omens has proved Creon's reasoning
blasphemous and wrong. On the other hand, Antigone's relig
ious belief, which is emotional and traditional, has been
proven pious and correct. By implication, since Creon's
belief is wrong and Antigone's right, reason itself has been
denigrated as a means to account for the manner in which
divine will operates. The interpretations of Bowra and
Linforth attempt to give rational explanations of how divine
will works. In this sense both of these interpretations
contradict the spirit and meaning of the play. Creon, of
course, must be punished. He has sinned against the gods
with his edict? ignoring Haemon's pleas, he has shown a com
plete disregard for the human emotion of love, both Haemon's
i
i
for Antigone and what was proper for himself as a father;
condemning Antigone, he has exhibited a pitiless contempt
for human life. We are not permitted to glimpse why divine
will functions in the manner that it does; we are only shown
that it takes effect to the full.
When the Messenger has finished his report (1241),
Burydice without a word withdraws into the palace. Her
silent departure gives rise to apprehensive fears in the
266
Messenger and the Chorus (1244-1266). The Messenger .enters
the palace to see if there is an ominous meaning to Eury-
dice's silence. At this moment the Chorus marks the ap
proach of Creon, whose sorrowful demeanor is all too clear
(1257-1260). His attendants are carrying the body of Hae
mon (1257-1258). The Chorus immediately condemns Creon,
commenting that his troubles are not the fault of a stran
ger's madness but of his own sins (1259-1260).
The remainder of the play except for the choral tag at
the conclusion (1348-1352) is a long musical kommos between
Creon, the Chorus, and the Messenger (1261-1347). Overcome
with grief, Creon bemoans the death of his son, admitting
that it has been his own doing, not Haemon's, that has
caused his suicide (1261-1269). When the Messenger returns
from within the palace to the stage and prefaces his next
announcement with foreboding remarks (1278-1280), Creon is
so numbed by anguish and guilt that he cannot even imagine
that anything worse can befall him (1281). His sorrow is
already full, but grief is poured upon grief when he learns
from the Messenger that Eurydice has died (1282-1283).
Creon does not know as yet why' she has died. The screw is
given one more turn when, as the doors of the palace are
flung open to reveal Eurydice1s corpse, the Messenger
267
discloses that Eurydice has stabbed herself to death, curs
ing Creon with her last breath as the murderer of her sons
(1301-1305).^ At this Creon longs for someone to strike
him dead (1306-1311). Creon's life is now but a living
death to him (1322). Professing his guilt and his foolish
ness, he begs to be led away (1339-1346).
Creon's kommos is significantly parallel to Antigone's
in the fourth episode (806-882), both exhibiting a state of
extreme emotional distress. As she suffered, so now he has
suffered. His suffering, however, is greater, for hers has
ended, while his will continue, a factor that gives some
measure of satisfaction to the reader as recompense for
Antigone's, Haemon's and Eurydice's innocence and death.
Emotion has pervaded every motive and action of Antigone.
Creon's kommos has revealed that he has made a painful
journey, has gone full circle from the precinct of reason to
Antigone1s realm of emotion. He has been reduced to the
Q / r
^The other son was Megareus. When the Argives were
attacking the city, Teiresias had prophesied that Thebes
could npt be saved unless one of the Cadmean race, born from
the dragon's teeth, should die. Creon and his two sons were
the only remaining pure-blooded descendants. To save the
city, Megareus killed himself. See Jebb, pp. 230-231, n.
M 1303.
268
27
human nature that has marked Antigone.
We have observed in the previous episode that it was
only fear engendered by Teiresias1 prophecy that had made
Creon admit that he was wrong (See pp. 245-246 above). But
it takes more than threatening words, even when they are
uttered by a prophet, to change a man's character; for we
also observed that Creon, true to himself, went about bury
ing Polyneices and rescuing Antigone, concerned first for
the welfare of the State and only secondly for Antigone's
salvation, employing his customary reasoning to assure him
self that Antigone was in no immediate danger (see pp. 258-
259 above). If words do not change a man's character,
events do. Whereas before we saw Creon display only the
emotions of pride, anger, and fear (see pp. 245-246 above),
now, deprived of his son and wife through his own doing, he
experiences the emotions of penitence, guilt, self-pity,
love for what he has lost, terrible anguish, and
p 7
^'Kirkwood, p. 191, agrees that the two kommoi are par
allel? he feels, however, p. 127, that Antigone in her kom-
mos faces death "with pride and self-confidence," while
"Creon is completely broken." We have shown, however, that
Antigone does not face death heroically but pathetically and
with wailing and lament (see p. 225 above). It seems that
the parallelism between the two kommoi is even closer than
Kirkwood has remarked.
269
humiliation— a veritable gamut of human emotions. The man
of reason, the cold and impersonal ruler, interested only in
the welfare.of the State, has been tempered by his suffering
to the condition of a human being who, guided by his per
sonal emotions as well as his reason— and often caught in a
conflict between them— will never again be able to act with
disregard for the emotions of others or with certainty that
his actions are right (cf. p. 262 above).
As Creon is led into the palace, the Chorus concludes
the play:
7iCiAAa) to 9povsLv eu6ai|j,ovCaQ
itpooTov TJTOxpxet’ XP^l Y* 0 eo{;q
p,r)&ev dasTETeuv' jj.eyd\oL &e \6yot,
\ i e y 6 i k o i c , 7iX.r)ydQ tSv uinepauxcov
(XTtOTE lOOCVTEQ
yrjpa to cppovEiv E6L&a^av. (1348-1352)
The Chorus, while condemning Creon, admits that he has been
28
set on the path toward wisdom.
OQ
Cf. Kirkwood, pp. 126-217; Bowra, p. 66; Adams, p.
58.
CHAPTER VI
THE PLAY AS A WHOLE
Themes
With the cessation of the interplay and integration of
the drama's constituent elements— language, characteriza
tion, story-incident, time, and point of view— all subjected
to the limitations imposed by the play’s mode, the reader's
and viewer's experiencing of the drama has come to an end.
It remains still to assess the nature of this experience, to
consider, in short, the final products of the play's ele
ments: its themes and form.
To recapitulate for a moment, most of the themes have
been posed as a series of oppositions: (1) religion and the
I 1 2
State; (2) reason and emotion; (3) the individual (and the
^See pp. 59, 75, and 164 above.
^See pp. 75, 164, and 165 above.
270
271
3
family) and the State. In addition, there are two other
themes that are not posed as oppositions but as questions:
(4) whether tyranny is a good form of government or has an
4
inherent weakness in it; (5) whether Creon or Antigone is
5
guilty of hybris.
(1) Relevant to the theme of religion and the State,
nowhere has Creon asserted that the will of the State should
take precedence over divine will. In fact, his reasoned
religious belief, which he has used to justify his edict to
the Chorus (282-289), has identified divine will with that
6
of the State. It xs only with the appearance of Teiresias
that it becomes apparent that Creon has been mistaken. Con
sequently, the theme of religion and the State cannot be
^See pp. 58-59, 75, and 164 above.
^See pp. 75-76, 165, and 192 above.
^See pp. 63 and 165 above.
6See pp. 73-74 and 99 above. Bowra, pp. 70-71, fails
to consider Creon1s reasoned religious belief and believes
that he has set the will of the State above that of the
gods: "From a Greek point of view Creon errs because he
assumes that reasons of state justify him in denying their
iue to the gods. He neglects the distinction between what
is due to them and what is due to men, between what is holy
and what is merely just." Kirkwood, however, p. 267, agrees
that Creon believes he is acting in accordance with divine
tfill.
272
viewed from Creon's standpoint as a true opposition but only
as a false relationship which he has established.
Creon being a tyrant, his will is the State's will,
and, accordingly, his view of divine will represents the
State's view. His mistake was to invent an interpretation
of religious belief which supported the State's policy in
stead of making the action of the State accord with accepted
religious custom. The resolution of this theme, with re
spect to Creon, asserts the principle that it is not for the
State to interpret religious belief but to accept that which
has become traditional. Creon himself admits as much when
he says: 6 e 5 o i h o c y&P touq KaSeOTSmg v o j x o d q / apicnrov r j
3<|)£ovTa tov pCov t e A.e l v (1113-1114).
7
Since Creon, though he has his own religious belief,
never argues questions of religion with Antigone and always
answers the assertion of her religious faith with the ra
tionale of his edict that traitors and rebels should be
8
punished and dishonored, it is only from the standpoint of
Antigone that we can clearly see the theme of religion and
the State as a true opposition. In the actual exchange of
^See pp. 75, 99, 145, and 163 above.
®See p. 150 above.
273
words between them, Creon1s argument is basically politi-
9 10
cal, Antigone's basically religious. Her statement of
her religious motive (450-460) for burying Polyneices di
ll
rectly pits religion against the State, and the play has
definitely proved her action right on religious grounds.
The theme of religion and the State has been clearly
resolved in three ways: (a) from Creon1s standpoint it has
been shown that the State does not have the right to impose
an interpretation of religious belief that is contrary to
traditional tenets; (b) from Antigone's standpoint it has
been shown that when there is a discrepancy between the
I
State's will and accepted religious custom, religion should
prevail; (c) taken together, these two resolutions categor
ically imply a third: the belief that the moral authority
of accepted religious creed is of a higher order than the
12
moral authority imposed by the State.
9See pp. 145, 149 above.
l^See pp. 141-142 above.
•^See p. 142 above.
•^This doctrine, which has come down through the ages,
sometimes ignored, at other times heeded, has always been a
significant question and frequently a problem. Even in a
democracy, such as ours, which insists upon the separation
of Church and State, when there is a conflict between the
274
(2) Creon's concern has been for the welfare of the
State. His motives for effecting this welfare belong to the
realm of reason: (a) his edict, which, to deter others from
becoming traitors, dishonors the corpse of Polyneices and
13
forbids its burial; (b) his rationalized religious belief
that both supported his edict and freed him from the obliga-
14
tion to bury a kinsman. As soon as Teiresias has made
known the will of the gods, we can see that Creon has gross-
15
ly miscalculated. Reason has led him to err: He has
spoken blasphemously in saying that the gods would not honor
Polyneices with burial and has acted sacrilegiously in for-
I
bidding that burial.
Antigone's concern has been for the honoring and burial
of her brother's corpse. Her motives belong to the realm of
emotion: (a) devotion to her family; (b) a traditional
religious faith; (c) a desire to gain glory and so prove
State's will and accepted religious belief, the State has
usually yielded, granting to religion special dispensations
and exemptions. Whenever the State has not yielded, resis
tance and ensuing problems have arisen.
■^See pp. 68-73 above.
l4See pp. 74, 98, and 164 above. Cf. Goheen, pp. 82-
83.
^See pp. 240-241 above.
275
16
that she possesses a nobility worthy of her lineage.
Twice she has tried to rationalize a motive for the burial
17
of Polyneices and each time she has failed miserably.
Motivated by her emotions, Antigone has been led to do what
is religiously correct.
It would be idle, however, to conclude that the play
resolves the theme of reason and emotion by professing that
emotions should always be considered the best guide to ac
tion. It is obvious that in this capacity reason has rarely
needed defenders and has almost always been regarded with
general approval. Rather, the play resolves this theme as
a warning that reason is not always the best and the only
guide to proper action and that human emotion should not be
overlooked. It is a warning which, while it has vital mean
ing for the reader of today, must have had just as much
significance for the contemporary Athenian audience that
lived in the floodtide of a sophistic movement that wor-
18
shipped reason as the arbiter of thought and action.
See pp. 58 and 163 above.
l7See pp. 55-56 and 219 above.
18The Antigone was produced in 443 or 441 B.C. For the
date of the play see T. B. L. Webster, An Introduction to
Sophocles (Oxford, 1936), p. 2. Cf. Jebb, pp. xliii-xlvii.
276
(3) The theme of the opposition of the individual and
the family to the State poses more difficulties. Its reso
lution is not nearly so well defined as that of the theme of
reason and emotion. Though Antigone has been proven right
on religious grounds to have buried Polyheices, nowhere has
the play asserted that she was right to defy the State.
While the Chorus has reverenced Antigone’s deed (872), at
the same time they have disapproved of her defiance of
19
Creon's edict (872-875). Teiresias, too, though he states
that Creon was wrong to forbid the burial of Polyneices and
to bury Antigone alive (1069-1071), never condones Antigo
ne's defiance of the edict. In fact, he disregards this
20
issue entirely, making no mention of it. While it is true
that the burial of Polyneices turns out to be the correct
and expedient action for the State to take, it is equally
true that if it had not been, Antigone would still have
tried to bury her brother. Antigone's. concern is solely for
the family and the precepts of religious faith. With regard
21
to the polls she is completely apolitical. Her defiance
■*-^See p. 207 above.
20Cf. Linforth, p. 256.
2^Cf. Knox, p. 114.
277
of Creon from the political point of view is an anarchistic
act against the State.
On the other hand, when the Chorus says that it is for
Creon to ordain for the living and the dead (210-214), this
statement, whether we like it or not, represents the tradi-
22
tional view of the ruler's prerogatives in a tyr.anny.
Accordingly, Creon is within his political rights to prevent
the burial. But what are the rights of the individual and
family when their will is opposed to that of the State, es
pecially when the edict of the State has been proven to be
wrong? In other words, when the State has issued an edict
that is not morally right, is the individual justified in
23
acting contrary to that edict? The evidence offered by
the play indicates that Creon's edict was wrong on religious
grounds, though it was his right and prerogative to issue
such an edict; the evidence also indicates that Antigone was
eight on religious grounds to bury her brother but wrong to
CO
ccSee p. 75 above.
23negel saw Creon1s and Antigone's actions in this
light: "In the view of the Eternal Justice, both were
wrong, because they were one-sided; but at the same time
both were right" (quoted in Jebb, p. xxi. The passage to
|vhich Jebb refers may be found in G. W. Hegel, Vorlesuncren
uber die Philosophie der Religion. Samtliche Werke [Leipzig,
|l884], 13. 56.). Cf. MacKay, p. 194.
278
24
transgress the State's edict. An explication such as this
hardly represents a clear-cut resolution of the theme of the
individual and the State but seems merely to restate the
theme more fully. The theme of tyranny, however, as we
25
shall see, is closely related, and its resolution implies
additional, though not complete, resolution to the theme of |
the individual and the State.
(4) In the first episode the Chorus introduces the
theme of tyranny with these words:
Eol tocut* dpeaKet,, tol Mevoi,Kea)Q, ,
TOV Trj&E &uaV0VV HCXl t6v £U|J,EVfj 7EOA.E i
v6( i a ) 5e rnvu tcou y* eveaxC aot,
hocY tcov QavovTcov x^TCocfoi £ < i 5 | j . £ v nepi
26
(211-214)
This statement merely acknowledges the nature of tyranny as
a form of government. Any resentment that these words evoke
^^olfgang Schadewaldt, "Sophokles, Aias und Antigone,"
Neue Weg zur Antike. VIII (1929), 93-97, concurs in this
view. Cf. Kirkwood, p. 53; Knox, pp. 114-115. Several
scholars, however, think that Antigone is entirely in the
right and Creon entirely in the wrong: Jebb, pp. xxi-xxii;
Lucas, p. 139; Bowra, p. 66; Whitman, pp. 88-90.
^See p, 192 above.
2^see pp. 75-76 above.
279
from the reader lies outside the drama in the political
attitudes that he brings to the play. It is not until the
second episode, in the quarrel between Antigone and Creon,
that the theme of tyranny evokes resentment from within the
play. Here where Antigone is shown risking her life for her
beliefs, while Creon, seemingly, is risking nothing for. his,
27
all our sympathies are with her and against Creon. Here,
moreover, the reader1s resentment of tyranny is purely emo
tional.
!
In the third episode, while more is added to this emo
tional resentment by the quarrel between Haemon and Creon,
at the same time the situation produces from within the play
an intellectual resentment of tyranny. Haemon's words (705-
709, 737, 739) portray the concept of democratic government;
Creon's words (663-671, 736, 738) picture the nature of
tyranny. The very fact that neither the reader nor Creon
himself, even if he were willing to relent, can ascertain
whether Haemon represents the will of the populace reveals
28
an inherent fault in tyranny as compared with democracy.
It is not that Creon is a good or evil tyrant, but simply
27
See p. 166 above.
^®See pp. 181-183 above.
280
29
that tyranny itself is evil.
It Is this attitude toward the theme of tyranny that
supplies additional resolution to the theme of the individ
ual and the State. Under a tyranny the individual, when
opposed to the will of the State, has no rights, but under a
democratic government Creon's voice alone would not have
represented the State's will. Individuals like Antigone and
those of the citizenry who agreed with her would have had a
voice in the expression of that will. As a result, under
democratic conditions, it is quite possible; though not a
certainty, that an edict such as Creon's either would not
have been issued or Antigone would not have been punished so
severely for having transgressed it.
(5) Now that we have seen the resolution of all the
themes except that of hybris, the answer to the question
whether Creon or Antigone is guilty of hybris becomes fairly
obvious. (a) Since tyranny itself by its very nature is
portrayed as hybristic, Creon just by the fact of his being
a tyrant is guilty on this score. We have seen his hybris
in his quarrels with Antigone and Haemon. (b) Creon's con
cept of the family, of the blind obedience that a son owes
^9See p. 183 above.
281
his father, denies normal and human familial emotion and is
completely analogous to his concept of the relationship of
. . 30
the ruler and the citizen to the State. Just as his con
cept of the State is hybristic, so is his concept of the
family. It is through the family, moreover— through the
loss of his son and wife— that retribution ultimately
31
strikes him. (c) His total blindness and lack of sensi
tivity to the power of emotions in others— in Antigone and
32
Haemon— are also part of his hybris. (d) Creon's complete
reliance on reason to invent a religious belief rather than
accept the traditional one has even led him to blasphemy:
his rationalized assumption that the gods would not honor a
man with burial who had come to burn their temples has
33
lowered the estate of the gods and equated them with men.
It is apparent that Creon is guilty of hybris on many
counts. Antigone is guilty only on one: her defiance of
3®See p. 184 above.
3^-A. C. Bradley, "Hegel's Theory of Tragedy," Oxford
[Lectures on Poetry (Bloomington, 1961), p. 74, writes:
"Creon has violated the sanctity of the family, and in re
turn sees his own home laid in ruins."
■30
Cf. Kitto. - Form and Meaning, p. 167.
33See p. 240 above.
| 282
34
the State both in attitude and action. Both characters
are guilty of hybris, but the extent of Creon's hybris is
greater.
Form
Many scholars have called the Antigone a diptych play,
some using the term pejoratively and others merely descrip-
35
tively. The term was apparently devised to cover those
plays that offer a problem in unity of form, because they
i
1 36
[seem to fall into two parts. The Antigone is regarded as
|
[one of these plays, inasmuch as Antigone, who begins the
drama and plays a role equal in prominence to Creon1s, is
37
never seen again after the close of the fourth stasimon,
while from this point on the part of Creon is considered
dominant.
3^See pp. 144-145 and 277-278 above.
•^See Kirkwood, pp. 42-54; Kitto. Greek Tragedy, p.
116; Adams, p. 42; Waldock, pp. 51-60; Webster, pp. 102-103.
36see Kirkwood, p. 42.
3?To my, knowledge, the interpretation offered by this
study is the only one that has Antigone on stage during the
fourth stasimon. See pp. 226-234 above. All other inter
pretations have Antigone leave the stage at the close of the
fourth episode.
283
Waldock sees this shift in emphasis not as a direct
breaking of the play into two parts but as a gradual and
imperceptible movement which, nevertheless, robs the drama
of power (pp. 50, 122-123). He believes Antigone to be the
main character and the play properly named (p. 123). Like
Waldock, Adams also sees a shift of interest in the play
which, however, he does not feel damages the drama (p. 43).
At the same time, while Professor Adams considers Creon to
be the main character (pp. 42-43), he believes that Sopho
cles "gave his work the name of the character that mattered
to him most" (p. 43). L. A. Post, also, considers Creon the
main character and believes that the treatment of Antigone's
role harms the play: "It is a mistake for a dramatist to
make a character who is killed off early in the play so in
teresting that the rest of the play is inevitably dulled by
38
comparison." Professor Kitto, too, thinks that Creon is
the main character:
The centre-piece is unmistakeably Creon. We may prefer
to make it Antigone, but if we do, Sophocles' design
becomes in some degree unintelligible; in particular,
it becomes hard to understand why Antigone's body is
not brought back.^9
38From Homer to Menander (Berkeley, 1951), p. 102.
39Form and Meaning, p. 176. Kitto's view of this
284
It is apparent from the opinions cited above that the
whole problem of unity of form in the Antigone revolves
around the question whether Creon or Antigone is the main
character. Is there any reason, however, why a Greek trag
edy cannot have two main characters of equal significance?
It almost seems as if the scholars mentioned above, while
avoiding the pitfall of trying to ascertain the "tragic
40
hero," have been left with the overtones of that pitfall
•which have led them to insist upon a single main character.
Why can we not consider the Antigone to be a play about a
burial, the conflicting attitudes of Antigone and Creon
toward that burial, and what happens to each of them because
of these attitudes? In our attempt to demonstrate the
play's unity of form we shall try to show that as characters
problem of the play's form is slightly different in his
Greek Tragedy, p. 130: "The last part of the Antigone makes
no sense until we realise that there is not one central
character but two, and that of the two, the significant one
to Sophocles was always Creon."
4®See John Jones, On Aristotle and Greek Tragedy (New
York, 1962), pp. 12-18, for his arguments against the empha
sis that has been placed on singling out the tragic hero in
each drama. Jones believes that the traditional Hero con
cept is one which Aristotle .had not really intended and
which Romanticism has read into the Poetics. Kitto, Form
and Meaning, p. 233, writes: "The centre of a play is not
necessarily a Tragic Hero."
285
Antigone and Creon are of equal weight and importance.
The fact that the play takes its name from Antigone is
hardly justification for considering her and her alone as
the main character. Titles can frequently be misleading.
One has only to reflect on Aeschylus' Agamemnon to realize
that the title of a play is no criterion for selecting its
leading character. Here, surely, Clytemnestra has a far
42
more dominant role than Agamemnon. In Sophocles' own
Philoctetes Neoptolemus can scarcely be regarded as a sec-
43
'ondary figure. If the title of a play, moreover, always
i
Indicated the main character, surely Euripides' Alcestis is
^Kirkwood, p. 51, essentially takes this view of the
play: "There can be no shadow of doubt that Sophocles
wanted to create two opposing forces of about equal weight
lin the drama. . . . Antigone's fate only attains completely
jexplicit meaning in relation to Creon's fate." Bowra, p.
,65, also recognizes the play's unity of form in much the
isame manner: "Its [the play's] subject is the conflict be
tween Creon and Antigone, and it does not end until this
reaches its final stage with Creon's humiliation." At the
same time Bowra's regard of the characters, p. 65, is am
biguous, or at the very least ambiguously expressed: "The
play is rightly called Antigone? for she is the most impor
tant character in it; but, so far as the composition is con
cerned, it deals with Creon even more than with her. His
personality pervades the whole and holds it together after
she has left the stage."
^Cf. Jones, p. 18.
A "3
Cf. Norwood, pp. 161-162; see Kirkwood, pp. 58-59.
286
44
misnamed, for Admetus is obviously the protagonist. Or to
take an example from Shakespeare, in Julius Caesar Brutus
plays the dominant role. In fact, with regard to the titles
of Greek tragedies we know neither who assigned the titles
45
nor when they were assigned. If Sophocles' Antigone had
been called The Burial, it seems highly improbable that any
one today would find fault with such a title. Consequently,
(1) if another title could serve the play just as well, (2)
•*
if we do not know when the title was given to the play or by
whom, (3) and if we have examples of other Greek tragedies
in which the title does not name the leading character, it
is illogical and presumptuous to use the title of the A&-
tiaone as supporting evidence that Antigone has the play's
principal role.
One argument that has been used in an attempt to prove
Creon the leading character is that he speaks more than half
46
again as many verses as Antigone. The Chorus, however,
44cf. W. K. Prentice, Those Ancient Dramas Called
Tragedies (Princeton, 1942), p. 85.
45Cf. Knox, p. 2.
46Antigone speaks approximately 200 lines, and Creon,
350. Cf. Kitto, Greek Tragedy, p. 124; Linforth, p. 251.
287
delivers more verses than Antigone and as many as Creon?
yet no one thinks that the Chorus . is the main character, or
that even in a secondary role it has more importance than
Antigone. Therefore, the number of verses alone that have
been assigned to a role does not always and necessarily de
termine the leading character. What does determine the
principal role is the extent to which a character claims the
reader's and audience's thoughts, concern, and attention—
visual as well as non-visual— together with the number of
verses assigned to the role.
Antigone dominates the prologue, Creon the first epi
sode. In the first stasimon the Chorus supports Creon1s
I
|
edict and condemns the unknown burier of the body, who the
47
reader and audience are well aware is Antigone. Thus the
first stasimon divides the interest between Creon and An
tigone. The two characters share the second episode equal
ly. During the second stasimon, while the Chorus is con
demning Antigone, Creon, but not Antigone, is on stage. His
presence offsets the subject of the ode, which concerns
Antigone, and maintains a balance in the importance of the
48
two roles. Thus through verse 630, nearly one-half of the
4^See p. 112 above. 48See p. 174 above.
288
play, the two roles are of equal weight.
Creon and Haemon share and dominate the third episode.
Though Antigone is not present, the quarrel between father
and son basically pertains to her, with the result that
while the attention of the reader and audience is focused
upon Creon and Haemon, their concern is for Antigone.
Still, it must be admitted that in the third episode Creon's
role begins to assume a somewhat greater importance than
Antigone's. In the third stasimon, the Chorus' song about
love, particularly with reference to Haemon1s love for An-
49
tigone, causes us to think of her, but Creon's silent
presence on stage equalizes the importance of her role in
50 . .
this ode, since she is still absent from the stage. An
tigone, however, completely dominates the fourth episode in
her kommos with the Chorus, not only by the pity which she
draws from the Chorus and audience but also by the actual
number of verses that she speaks. Of the 144 verses in this
episode, Antigone delivers 112. Creon, who is on stage
51
throughout the episode, remains silent through the first
eighty-four verses and speaks only twelve verses in the
4^See pp. 195-197 above.
53-See p. 199, n. 23 above.
'if)
See p. 199 above.
289
entire episode. Antigone's absolute dominance of this epi
sode compensates for the greater importance that Creon1s
role had assumed in the third episode. In the fourth stasi-
52
mon, moreover, both Creon and Antigone are on stage, but
since the words of the Chorus are addressed to her, a slight
edge in importance must be given to her role in this ode.
Thus, relevant to the question whether Creon or Antigone is
the main character, at verse 987— three-quarters through the
play— once more we can speak of the two roles as being ap
proximately equal in weight and importance.
!
Though Antigone does not appear again after the close
of the fourth stasimon, Creon1s dominance of the last quar
ter of the play is not so complete as it appears on first
sight. Teiresias shares the fifth episode with him equally.
Antigone, though not mentioned by name, is referred to by
Teiresias (1068-1069), the Chorus (1100-1101), and Creon
(1111-1112). She is uppermost in the thoughts of the Chor-
53
us, the reader, and audience. After Creon has departed at
the conclusion of this episode, the exultance and joy of the
Chorus in the ensuing stasimon are mainly for Antigone, for
ishe has been their chief concern.
^See pp. 228-229 above. ^3See p. 246 above.
290
Creon, after the fifth episode, only appears again
(1257) when the exode (1155-1352) is half over. The first
half of the exode is devoted mainly to the two speeches of
the Messenger (1155-1171, 1192-1243). His first and shorter
speech (1155-1171) pertains only to the King, but his second
and longer speech pertains as much to Antigone as to Creon.
When Creon finally makes his appearance, he engages in a
>
kommos with the Chorus (1261-1347) t,hat lasts up to the
final choral tag (1348-1352).
Waldock claims that in the last hundred verses of the
play Antigone is forgotten (p. 122). While it is true that
in these verses, which comprise Creon's kommos, there is no
reference to, or any mention at all of Antigone;, neverthe
less, the very fact that the verses are expressed in the
form of a kommos serves to remind us of the play's other
kommos— Antigone's (802-886). The significant parallelism
54
m meaning of the two kommoi has already been pointed out.
The form of the second kommos not only accentuates the mean
ing it expresses but at the same time by its parallelism in
form recalls the meaning of the first kommos, thus prevent
ing us from forgetting Antigone. This parallelism is
^See p. 267 above.
291
perhaps one of the finest examples of how form affects and
complements meaning. It is this use of form that obviates
the shift of interest from Antigone to Creon, which Waldock
55
sees .
Professor Kitto's view of Creon as the central charac
ter, which rests upon the fact that Antigone's body is not
56
brought back when Creon returns, can also be answered by
the form of Creon1s last hundred verses. Creon's kommos, as
it has been pointed out, does not let us forget the meaning
expressed in Antigone's kommos nor, naturally, Antigone her
self. This reminder of Antigone is sufficient, but, of
course, it can be argued that the reminder would have been
much stronger if her body had been brought back. The fact
is, however, that such a reminder would have been too
strong. At this moment in the play the reader and audience
are relishing with satisfaction Creon's despair, because
their sympathy and concern have been directed toward Antig
one. To see Antigone's corpse would have vitiated the sat
isfaction we experience in Creon's grief by diverting our
feelings to greater sorrow for Antigone. We are reminded
of her to just the right degree, enough to remember her, but
^See p. 283 above. ^See p. 283 above.
292
not so much as to lessen the satisfaction derived from
Sreon's lament.
In keeping with the analysis of the play's form pre
sented above, if we consider the extent to which Creon and
Antigone claim the reader's and audience's thoughts, atten
tion, and concern and not just the number of verses assigned
to each role, there seems so little basis to choose one or
the other as the main character, that it seems simply logi
cal and reasonable to believe that the play has two leading
characters. Since, moreover, there is no shift of interest
to Creon that excludes our interest in Antigone, the play
sustains its unity of form. The Antigone is, indeed, a play
iabout a burial and only reaches its completion when we have
learned what has befallen each of its two principals, the
I 57
proponent and opponent of the burial.
rn i ^
Aristotle, Poetics. 1 4 5 0 a , writes: r| y a p Tpayuj&Ca
|j.C|rnaLC s a t i v o u h avQpwmov a\A .a Ttpa^ecoQ. ■ c f . p . 2 8 5 , n .
41 above.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
293
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