1965' - TDL

KNOWLEDGE, OPIKION, A;,D TRAGEDY: A SURVEY FRCM

^TThIC ORIGINS TO ELIZABETHAN TRAGEDY

by

ROBERT LEE LITTLEFIELD, B.A., M.A.

A DISSERTATION

IN

ENGLISH

Submitted to the Graduate Faculty of Texas Technological College in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for

the Degree of

DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY

APPROVED

Accepted

May, 1965' (J

^0> I

/ 7^ o ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

(LoP' ^ 'Appreciation is gratefully acknowledged to Dr. Joseph

McCullen, chairman of the committee, for his kind assist­

ance in directing this dissertation. My sincere thanks

also to other members of the committee, Dr. Roger Brooks,

Dr. Alan Gunn, and Dr. Lowell Blaisdell, for their help­

ful criticism.

ii

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Acknowledgments ii

Preface iv

Chapter I The Mythic Origins 1

Chapter II The Greek Logos 12

Chapter III The Roman Despair 54

Chapter IV The Medieval Interlude fS/f

Chapter V The Elizabethan Triumph Ill

Conclusion 132

Bibliography 139

111

Preface

According to James Joyce, art may be divided into

three forms. Progressing in importance from one to the

next are the lyrical, the epical, and the dramatic.^ Of

the dramatic forms,- critics, since the time of Aristotle,

have agreed that tragedy provides the supreme experience,

for, of all literary genres, tragedy most nearly reflects

the human condition.

The importance and the complexity of tragedy have

given rise to much speculation concerning tragic motiva­

tion. Whence comes the conflict which sustains tragedy?

Is there any recurring pattern, any common problem which

influences the substance of tragedy in spite of changes

from age to age? Is there a single thread which runs

throughout the fabric of tragedy, throughout dramatic

action, climax, catastrophe, and finally catharsis?

Although a host of critics, dealing with the litera­

ture of all ages, have hinted at the impact which the

clash of knowledge and opinion has upon tragic motivation,

none has ever really explored the problem. It is the pur­

pose of this study to show that tragedy springs from the

tragic hero's imperfect knowledge of the truth. Such de-

Ijames Joyce, Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (New York: The Viking Press, 1916), pp. ZT^-^lTT*

IV

V

ficient knowledge arises from several sources: from fusing

and thereby confusing knowledge and opinion; from.being

unaware that good and evil coexist in all things; and

from lacking the understanding that good and evil, in cer­

tain situations, produce contrary effects. It will be

shown that the price of acquiring wisdom is always suffer­

ing; on the other hand, the rewards of gaining wisdom are

always spiritual triumph and a strong, new faith.

In dealing with representative plays from the Peri-

clean and Elizabethan periods, an attempt has been made to

show that the direct source of tragedy is man's inadequate

knowledge. The degree to which this thesis is applicable

to other tragedies written during these two great moments

of drama depends upon the extent to which such tragedies

adhere to the humanistic tradition.

Throughout the survey, emphasis has been placed upon

man's propensity for error and upon man's long struggle to

separate opinion from knowledge in the hope of arriving at

a proper basis for faith.

CHAPTER I

THE MTHIC ORIGINS

The study of knowledge in relation to tragedy may

properly begin some centuries before the emergence of

Greek drama. Aristotle pointed out that tragedy grew

out of the dithyramb, sung in honor of the god, Dio-

nysius. During the last century scholars have shown

that the dithyramb sprang from ancient ritual, designed

to insure annually the fertility of the earth. The

purpose of this chapter will be to explore the mythic

origin of tragedy and to determine its relationship to

the problem of knowledge.

Fear of the unknown and a need for physical secur­

ity were probably great driving forces in the mind of

primitive man, who found himself born into a world of

sinister uncertainties. More particularly, ancient man

needed to conceive a world picture which would make

meaningful all of his experiences and provide him a

definite orientation in the midst of the frightening

forces of nature. Ignorant of the real causes of nat­

ural phenomena but desirous of knowledge to dispel that

ignorance, he took refuge in mimetic ritual in an attempt

to influence and control, at least partially, the great

cycle in nature.

1

Throughout the tide of human history man's attempts

to arrive at certain knowledge have been characterized

by three factors: a degree of factual observation, a

great deal of assumption, and some faith. The ingredient

of faith is essential to knowledge, since no knowledge

has virtue beyond the amount of faith men have in it.

As he watched the seasons revolve, man could equate the

spectacle with his own life and death. His assumption

that the gods had a specific interest in man's affairs

implied the further assumption that symbolic actions

would influence the gods. It will be shown that such

assumptions, taken for knowledge, influenced the develop­

ment of tragedy.

The origin of mimetic ritual is clouded and may

never be fully known. Susanne Langor surmises that the

ritual arose from man's contemplation of sacra, or sac­

red objects, and from his penchant for supplication.

Primitive thought was likely not far removed from the

dream level. Functioning as dream-symbols, certain

objects have a strong, emotional effect on the waking

mind. Charms worn by ancient Greek women going to the

altar and the scarab possessed by the ancient Egyptians

were actually dream-symbols treasured in waking life.

In contemplating the realistic presence of these sacra,

one may see how the dream is changed into reality by the

3

imaginative process. Viewing the sacra apparently induced

within the individual a certain intellectual excitement

touching the entire gamut of human emotions. The nature

of the reaction to the sacra was self-expressive; and when

groups of people formalized their reactions, the result

was ritual.1 An analysis of the ritual shows that it

comprehends knowledge, opinion, and faith. By contem­

plating facts, seen in terms of cause and effect, man laid

the groundwork for opinions which would later appear in

the guise of myth and ritual. With the application of

faith, fact and opinion were fused; consequently, so long

as man's faith was intact, the ritual remained valid.

A second, more obvious aspect of the origin of mimesis

was that of supplication. The suppliant's conception

became extremely vivid when he suggested and recommended

an act to the only Being who could perform it. In their

eagerness to express their desire, the suppliants naturally

broke into pantomime. The process is described by Langor

as follows:

Representations of the act mingle with gestures of entreaty. And just as

ISusanne Langor, Philosophy in a New Key (New York: The New American Library of WorldTiterature, 195^) > pp. 132-13/f

the expressive virtue of sacra is con­ceived as physical virtue, so the sym­bolic power of mimetic rites is presently regarded as causal efficacy: hence, the world-old belief in a sympathetic magic.2

In such a process of institutionalizing opinion, one may

witness the power of faith.

According to Sir James Fraser, sympathetic magic is

based upon the assumption that "like produces like or

that an effect resembles its cause."3 Closely related

to this assumption was the associated assumption that

the animal and vegetable world were more intimately con­

nected than they really are, that the principle of life

and fertility, whether animal or vegetable, was one and

indivisible. Consequently, anything that produced fer­

tility in the animal world could also produce fertility

in the vegetable world. This belief implies a faith in

the unity of nature, a belief which assumes the force of

knowledge.

Observing the natural scene about him and as yet

unaware of the universal laws that govern nature, ancient

man arrived at the conclusion that his own actions would

be repeated by greater actors upon a greater stage. Pur-

2ibid., p. 135.

3sir James G. Fraser, The Golden Bough (New York: The Macmillan Company, 195^}1 pp. 12-13.

5

suing the belief that his own well-being was closely re­

lated to that of nature, he feared that the same forces

which rendered the earth barren each year threatened his

own life. He, therefore, performed rituals and chanted

incantations to make the sun shine, to make the wind blow,

and to make the earth fertile.^ And however erroneous his

opinions were with regard to the process of achieving har­

mony with nature, his assumption as to the importance of

discovering such a harmony was, in itself, sound knowledge.

Consequently, his assumption was, in a sense, a valid one.

With the passage of time and the concomitant acquisi­

tion of new knowledge, man came to disbelieve that his own

puny efforts had actually produced the great natural chan­

ges that he had hitherto imagined. Rather, he assumed the

causes to be somewhat deeper. In a more advanced concep­

tion, he began to equate the coming of spring with the ac­

tivities of an entity at first dimly conceived of as the

"Luck of the Year" or Eniatos Daimon.5 At one stage of

his religious evolution, this imagined Being was thought

to be theriomorphic and assumed the shape of a bull, snake,

or goat. Gradually, through steps which have been care-

4ibid., p. 373.

5jessie L. Weston, From Ritual to Romance (New York: Doubleday and Company, Incorporated,"T957)» P* 36.

6

fully traced, the Being assumed anthropomorphic aspects.^

In this period of wavering faith, later to be reflected in

humanistic tragedy, one may observe a search for more ac­

curate knowledge of things and a further development of

the mingling of knowledge and opinion.

One of the most ancient of these anthropomorphic

beings, perhaps the prototype of the many gods who were

to come later, was Tammuz, who dates back to 3000 B. C.

While this god was himself subject to decline and death,

it was upon his life and reproductive energies that the

life and energies of Nature depended.7 Ishtar, goddess

of love, loved Tammuz, who was subsequently killed by a

boar. Before Ishtar restored Tammuz to life, the earth

became a desert, all fertility having been suspended.

With the restoration of the god, the earth once again

bloomed, and each year the process had to be repeated

before the earth revived.° Similarly with the later Greek

legend of Adonis, in which Astarte, goddess of passion and

fecundity, found it necessary each year to ransom her

^See Jane Harrison's Themis, A Study of the Social Origins of Greek Religion (2d. ed., Cambricfge: THe University Press, 1927}, i*

^Weston, 0£. cit., p. 41-

Horner H. Smith, Man and His Gods (New York: Gros-sett's Universal Library, I^^STT^P*^^"^*

7

lover with tears, else he and nature should not annually

be restored.^

The assumption that the god was anthropomorphic en­

abled man to visualize clearly his being and to assign to

him detailed characteristics. Like man, the god was sub­

ject to the vicissitudes of disease, maiming, and old age;

and since the life of nature depended upon his reproductive

powers, care was taken to prevent the god's growing old

and dying. To avert the danger, the man-god had to be

killed as soon as he showed signs that his powers were

about to fail. By killing the god, one might transfer the

god's soul to a vigorous successor before the soul had a

chance to be damaged by old age.^^

In a later phase of the ritual the god went through

a symbolic, rather than an actual, death and resurrection.

Dionysus, an important figure in this development, was

supposed to have been torn to pieces each spring and the

pieces scattered in the dust, after which his body arose

in a triumphal conquest of death. The belief that the god

possessed some of man's frailties may imply that man had

progressed to an awareness of the need for Intellectual

9ibid., p. 123.

lOpraser, 0£. cit., pp. 309-310.

and spiritual rejuvenation. The death and re-birth of the

god implies a passing from ignorance to enlightment, the

spectacle of which further suggests a close affinity with

catharsis.

To ascribe the ancient rituals of primitive peoples

as efforts merely to control nature is perhaps to over­

simplify. Although there is in man's acts much of the

will to control, at the same time there is much of sub­

mission to the inevitable. For instance, there was no

ritual designed to prevent the coming of winter. In the

spring, the rituals were not designed to bring forth an

immediate bountiful harvest; therefore, to some extent,

the rites dedicated the people to their necessary tasks.

Such dedication would, of course, have a causal effect on

the outcome of the harvest. Carl Jung has pointed out

that the fertility rites would transform and direct the

otherwise wasted instinctive energies of ancient peoples

into active labor, controlled and beneficial.^^ This

stage in the evolution of the myth represents an important

step forward in man's quest for knowledge. Revealed is an

increased awareness of things external to man and a growth

• Joseph Campbell, The Hero with a Thousand Faces (New York: Pantheon Books, IT^TT, p. 3^4.

l^Quoted by Victor White, God and the Unconscious (New York: The World Publishing~Uo.7n[9STT, p. 234.

9

in self-knowledge, that is, a need for greater humility and

less pride. Such knowledge, put to successful practice in

the ancient ritual, might be termed "ironic."

It has been shown that it became necessary to kill the

god to prevent his soul's being weakened by old age or

disease. Fraser has given numerous instances of the cus­

tomary practice of laying upon the backs of gods the accu­

mulated misfortunes and sins of a people in order to leave

those people innocent and happy. The two practices, at

one time separate, were combined conveniently to form the

concept of the divinity as scapegoat.^3

Underlying the dying-god principle was the assumption,

almost world-wide during primitive times, that it was

necessary for one to perish so that the whole nation should

survive. A remarkable example of this assumption may be

seen in the words of the High Priest Caiaphas in referring

to the solution of the problem posed by Jesus of Nazareth:

"It is expedient for you that one man should die for the

people, and that the whole nation should perish not"; and

the comment is made that "he spoke not of himself, but

being the high priest for that year, he prophesied that

Jesus should die for that nation." (John 11:50-51). The

13Fraser, 0£. cit., pp. 667-66S.

10

suggestion is strong that it was this belief that decided

the authorities to put Jesus to death.

In the ritual of the dying god then, one may discern

the primary ingredients of tragedy. Manifest in the ritual

is the combination of what is observed and what is assumed,

that is, knowledge and opinion. Primitive man could ob­

serve the orderly and continuous passing of the days and

the seasons; therefore, he assumed that some sort of nat­

ural order prevailed in spite of his own seemingly irra­

tional existence. Furthermore, he believed that to under­

stand this order would help him both to control and to

submit to it. Because of his proclivity to imbue the uni­

verse with his own characteristics, he assumed his gods to

be anthropomorphic and thereby subject to debilitation and

death—hence the mimetic rite designed to prevent such

catastrophes. With the addition of the scapegoat concept

to a later phase of ritual development, the stage was set

for tragedy. Paradoxically, the destruction of the scape­

goat, like the destruction of the tragic hero, is an ex­

pression not of despair but rather of human life. In both

ritual and tragedy the motif is always "The King is dead;

long live the King."

From the assumption that man has adequate knowledge

to placate and partially control the gods there is only

a short step to be taken to Greek tragedy—that of assuming

11

that man's knowledge is equal to or greater than that of

the gods. Such an assumption can be made only when one's

belief is based on egotistical opinion, therefore on ig­

norance of the truth.

CHAPTER II

THE GREEK LOGOS

It was not until the fifth century B.C. that just

gods ruled over the Greek universe. In the pre-Homeric

world, while the god was conceived in terms of agricul­

tural fertility, the question of a moral god did not a-

rise. When the god was dead, the people were anxious

lest the new god should by some mistake fail to be bom

and all the crops perish. In the later developments of

Greek thought, men began to view the government of the

world as evil and the lot of mankind as almost untoler-

able.

Even in these dark centuries, however, there is evi­

dence that the Greeks had faith in something above the

world's government, in a principle called Moira, or Des­

tiny. Though not an anthropomorphic being, Moira never­

theless intervened when either the relative liberty of

men or the virtual unlimited liberty of the gods created

disorder. Beyond the jurisdiction of men and gods, Moira

assured a kind of harmony in the universe. The very con­

ception of such a principle strongly suggests that a fun­

damental rationalism exists in the world and further

assumes an order that is stable, and, perhaps finally,

knowable. It is significant that the Greek word for

"universe," that is, "cosmos" means also "order" and

12

13

"beauty."! Faith in Moira appears to be the first step in

the process of moving the divine world nearer the realm of

the human, of humanizing the gods, and finally in asserting

the dignity and vast potential of man. The process was

completed in the fifth century B. C , and it ushered in a

period of humanism which provided the soil from which the

first great tragedies sprang.

To Homer and Hesiod must go the credit for creating

an atmosphere out of which tragedy would eventually emerge.

According to these men, the gods were anthropomorphic, ac­

tually characterized by extensions of the human personality

and subject to human weaknesses, love, hate, and jealousy.

"Zeus," said Hesiod "whose wisdom was everlasting" actually

hated the five generations of men whom he created ("The

Creation," Works and Days). In the Theogony. although

Hesiod pictures Zeus with all of his human proclivities,

his marital infidelities, and outbursts of uncouth vio­

lence, the situation is somewhat different. Zeus repre­

sents an intelligent, guiding principle in earthly affairs.

Ultimately, he strives to bring about justice upon the

earth, to punish lawlessness and deceit.

The plays of Aeschylus deal with the evolution of the

^Andre Bonnard, Greek Civilization, trans. A. Lytton Sells (New York: The Macmillan Company, 1962), I, I48.

14

gods and the growing importance of man. Prometheus Bound,

the first and only surviving play of a trilogy, focuses

upon the nature of Zeus and Prometheus. The conflict be­

tween them directly concerns man.

As the play begins, Prometheus or Forethought, crea­

tor of the human race, is brought in as the captive of Zeus.

Describing his crime, the prisoner says:

I hunted out and stored in fennel stalk the stolen source of fire that hath proved to mortals a teacher in every art and a means to mighty ends.^

An interesting motive for Prometheus' decision to steal

fire has been suggested by Gilbert Murray. Having molded

man out of clay, Prometheus then determined to put the

fire of life within him, making him more nearly like a

god, "knowing both good and evil." By giving man an at­

tribute of the divine, Prometheus augments his crime.^

Prometheus must now suffer for his offense so that " . . .

he may be lessened to brook the sovereignty of Zeus and

forbear his championship of man."^

The evil nature of Zeus and wretched state of mankind

.#

^Aeschylus Prometheus Bound i trans. Herbert Weir Smyth, ed. T. E. Page, ejb al (London: William Heinemann Ltd., 1963), p. 227.

^Gilbert Murray, Aeschylus, the Creator of Tragedy (Oxford: at the Clarendon Press, 1550}, p. 22.

^Aeschylus 0£. cit., p. 215.

15

are clearly revealed in the attitude of Zeus, ruler of

mankind, toward Prometheus, champion of mankind. Besides

having hidden away fire from men and having plagued the

race with innumerable evils, Zeus had occasionally enter­

tained the notion of doing away with man altogether. In

the seemingly unequal contest the crucified Prometheus,

armed only with immortality and an indomitable will, faces

Zeus, evil and omnipotent.^ Rejected by the gods, placed

far beyond man's reach, he appears desolate as he addresses

a lyric song to the forces of nature. Especially does he

appeal to his mother Earth (also called Justice) and to

the sun:

0 universal mother earth I And thou, 0, all-seeing orb of the sun I To you, I call! Behold what I, A god, endure of evil from the gods.^

Nature, represented by the daughters of Ocean and by the

sky (and by implication the earth and the sun), sympa­

thizes with Prometheus; goodness and wisdom are in con­

flict with brute force.

At the heart of the tragedy Aeschylus reviews man's

progress. Upon mankind, whom he found in a piteous state,

Prometheus conferred wondrous benefits.

5lbid., pp. 215-217.

^Ibid., p. 225.

16

But hearken to the miseries that beset mankind- how that they were witless erst and I made them to have sense and to be endowed with reason.7

Then, a bit later appears this observation:

...though they had eyes to see, they saw to no avail; they had ears, but understood not; but like to shapes in dreams, throughout their length of days, without all purpose thev wrought all things in confusion.8

The long list of man's achievements which follow includes

the building of housesj the domestication .of animals, and

the acquiring a knowledge of mathematics, astronomy, writ­

ing, and medicine. His conclusion: "Nay, hear the whole

matter in a word, —every human art possessed by man comes

from Prometheus."9 in the process of revealing to man his

genius, Prometheus identifies himself with man's spirit.

Consequently, man is glorified, and Aeschylus would appear

to share Prometheus' pride in having raised man from ig­

norance of the world's laws to a new state of knowledge.

At the play's end, Prometheus, in spite of his secret,

is overthrown but not vanquished. Still strong is his

7lbid., p. 255.

^Ibid.

9ibid., p. 259.

17

faith, faith in Moira, more powerful than Zeus, to prevail

over the irrational evil of Zeus and restore order and

harmony to the universe.^^

Although the two other plays in this connected trilogy

have been lost, enough is known to indicate the resolution

of the conflict. Zeus ultimately learns Prometheus' secret:

should Zeus consummate his love for Thetis, he will father

a son who will destroy him. Zeus gives up his plans to

seduce Thetis and releases Prometheus. In performing these

acts of renunciation, Zeus averts throwing the world into

fresh disorder and reveals himself worthy of remaining the

lord of the universe. Prometheus' character is changed

also; he lays aside his anger and pride and willingly bows

down to the new Zeus. By means of these two self-conquests,

the two gods limit their power with the view of serving

order and harmony.

It has been suggested that the Zeus of Prometheus

Bound represents beneficence and wisdom, that is, differing

aspects of the deity. Seen from this point of view, the

end of the trilogy shows these two forces, power and wis­

dom, to be in conflict separately; however, when they are

united into a single nature, that nature becomes all-wise

lOibid., pp. 307-315.

Id

and all-powerful. Possibly, Aeschylus wished to show that

a god who possessed either brute power without wisdom or

else wisdom without adequate power would not be deserving

of man's faith.• '*- Gilbert Murray has seen in Zeus a god

who possesses the power of thought and the power of learn­

ing by experience. Different from previous estimates of

Zeus, the god learns and acts according to his new know­

ledge. The gods, not men, are perfectible.^^

Clearly then, since the Greeks created the gods in

their own image, both gods and men shared the same limi­

tations bom of a lack of knowledge. But out of the suf­

fering of both gods and men comes self-criticism, humility,

and new knowledge.

The theological problem dealt with in Prometheus

Bound is given fuller treatment in the Oresteia. Zeus, as

pictured throughout the trilogy by the chorus, is a friend,

a refuge, a god who has ordained that man may gain wisdom

through suffering. Opposed to Zeus are the Furies, repre­

senting the ancient blood laws of a older, more primitive

Zeus. Symbolical of an old, mechanical justice, they

l^Whitney Jennings Gates and Charles Theophilus Murphy (eds.), Greek Literature in Translation (New York: Longman's Green and Company, 1961}, p. 136.

12Murray, 0£. cit., p. 10^.

19

demand an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. Because

of Atreus' crime a grim destiny appears to be bent on the

destruction of his descendants. Such a destiny is the

work not of gods, but of men, who have caused it to come

into existence and who have nurtured its continuance with

their crimes.

In the end, Orestes, last of the Atreidae, is recon­

ciled with divine goodness and justice. His suffering has

not been in vain.

What the chorus says of Zeus' wisdom is ultimately

proved. Early in the Agamemnon, however, their words are

unconvincing:

...Zeus, who leadeth mortals the way of understanding, Zeus who hath stablished as a fixed ordinance 'wisdom cometh by suffering.' 13

But throughout the Agamemnon sin is punished always with

further sin, either with the consent of Zeus or by his or­

der. The trouble with such a system is that there is no

end to violence; one act automatically produces another.

Sent to punish the Trojans for Paris' crime, Agamemnon

commits a series of crimes: the sacrifice of Iphigenia,

the sacking of Troy, the stealing of Cassandra, and the

13Aeschylus Agamemnon ii trans. Herbert Weir Smyth, ed. Hugh Lloyd-Jones (London: William Heinemann Ltd., 19o3), p. 19.

20

trodding upon the sacred carpet. His actions reveal that

Agamemnon is sadly lacking in self-knowledge, especially

that concerning his limitations. His blindness causes him

to be unaware of his duty toward his daughter, his wife,

his fellowman, and his gods.

In the scene between Agamemnon and Clytemnestra, with

Cassandra in the background, Aeschylus creates dramatic

irony by the juxtaposition of knowledge and opinion. Aga­

memnon, flushed with victory, assumes that he knows the

will of the gods and boasts that he has fulfilled their

will:

Argos...I greet, and the gods that dwell therein who have helped me to my safe return and to the iustice I exacted from Priam's town.l4

Later, he insists that he is able to discriminate between

semblance and reality.15 For the moment Clytemnestra

keeps secret her real thoughts but later reveals them.

Agamemnon's wrongs stem from his pride (hybris); conse­

quently, he is afflicted by infatuation (ate). Upon such

people the wrath of Zeus (nemesis) is visited personally.

After she murders Agamemnon, the Queen implies that she

has been the instrument of that wrath. She swears an

14lbid., p. 69.

15lbid., p. 71.

21

oath:

...this is the righteous sanction of my oath: By Justice exacted for my child. By Ate, by the Avenging Spirit, unto whom I sacrificed yon man, hope doth not tread for me the halls of fear...16

Ironically, Cassandra, the only one who possesses true know­

ledge, is considered mad.

Whereas in the Agamemnon Zeus had been revealed as the

author of a blind, retributive revenge which set up an end­

less chain of violence; in the Choephoi, the god appears to

be even more irrational. Zeus appears to support two con­

flicting forces. Apollo, acting on the authority of Zeus,

orders Orestes to murder Clytemnestra and Aegisthus. Re­

luctantly, Orestes obeys. But Orestes' murder of his own

mother incites the revolt of the Furies, who are obedient

servants of Zeus. The dilemma in which Orestes finds him­

self will be resolved in the last play of the trilogy.

Meanwhile, the sight of the Furies fills Orestes with dis­

may. He is not unlike Job, who cries out against a god

who punishes the faithful. But Orestes' despair, like

that of Job, is born not of true knowledge but of opinion.

Thus, as the Eumenides begins, the divine world

seems, in human eyes, to be tragically divided against

itself. On one hand, surely no justice exists if Orestes,

a man of good faith and honorable intent, may not be

I6ibid., pp. 127-129.

22

absolved of a crime which the god, Apollo, ordered him to

commit. On the other hand, there is no justice if Orestes

is freed and man does not pay for his evil deeds. Gilbert

Norwood sees a need for the divine world to effect a recon­

ciliation with itself.

We are to imagine that we witness the events of a time when Zeus himself has not attained to full stature. His face is set toward the perfection of righteousness, but development awaits within him ... the jar between the Furies and Apollo, or more ultimately between the earth powers and Zeus shows that neither party is perfectly right.17

Yet, in spite of Professor Norwood's insistence that the

divine world is evolving toward a state of true justice,

it appears that Aeschylus is implying-that the heavens are

actually just and that man's progress toward enlightenment

is beset with suffering, especially so, since man presumes

upon limited knowledge, or opinion. Man's very struggling

toward the truth, virtuous in itself, engenders a variety

of opinion and suggests the absence of certain knowledge.

To lack certain knowledge is to court tragedy.

With the establishment of the Areopagus at the con­

clusion of the Eumenides, Zeus' divine plan becomes appar­

ent. In obedience to Zeus' orders, Athena abolishes the

ancient duties of the Furies; henceforth, as Eumenides,

l7Gilbert Norwood, Greek Tragedy (Boston: J. W. Luce, 1920), pp. 114-115.

23

they will function as champions of true justice, beneficent

spirits who protect Athens, avert civil strife, and insure

peace.

They become no longer a mechanical Law of Retribution which operates blind­ly; but a Law which thinks and feels and seeks real Justice.1^

The revolt of the Furies has been successful; in the end

their rights are recognized and expanded. The unfolding

of Zeus' wisdom has merely awaited the fullness of time.

Man now knows that Moira and Zeus are really one, that the

divine world, so seemingly remote, is much nearer the world

of man than had been imagined. The worth of mankind, with

his new responsibilities, has been emphasized. But the

newly revealed proximity of human and divine increases the

probability of tragedy. For even the best that man can

know of either the divine world or the human world is more

opinion than fact. An exception to this rule concerns

man's certain knowledge that he must bear the responsibil­

ity for his actions. Herein lies the heart of tragedy:

man acts upon inadequate knowledge because his nature is

flawed by pride, presumptuousness, ambition, or some other

blindness. Consequently, the tragic protagonist, struggling

blindly through ignorance, suffers and learns. His new

l^urray, 0£. cit., pp. 203-204.

24

knowledge is centered on an awareness that his knowledge

is limited; moreover, it reminds him of a need for faith

if the tragic experience achieves full fruition.

Through the Chorus of Furies, Zeus gives his blessing

to man:

...may no deadly blight draw nigh to kill the fruit: may the earth foster the teeming flocks with twin increase at the appointed time; and ever may the rich produce of the earth pay the god's gift of lucky gain.19

Athena, too, echoes the sentiment.

Zeus' greatest gift to man is that of wisdom which

may be gained only through suffering. Out of wisdom comes

happiness. Athenians, now armed with a new wisdom and

fortified with a new faith, rejoice at man's new destiny.

In a general sense the struggle in Oedipus Rex arises

from the conflict between human ignorance and divine know­

ledge. The gift of wisdom is reserved for the gods. Oed­

ipus' conduct is based upon few facts and much egotistical

opinion. The play charts his tortuous journey from an

abyss of ignorance to a new plateau of knowledge.

It is significant that Oedipus confuses what he knows

and what he wrongly assumes that he knows. Aware that he

has been reared in Corinth, he knows that an oracle has

19ibid.,pp. 361-363.

25

predicted that one day he will be guilty of parricide and

incest. Having fled from Corinth in an effort to escape

the prophecy, he has killed several men following an argu­

ment at a place where three roads meet. Then, because he

has correctly answered the Sphinx's riddle, a grateful

populace has made him king of Thebes, and has given him,

as a further prize, the widowed queen Jocasta, who is the

mother of his four children. During his ten-year reign he

has ruled both wisely and well. Such certain knowledge

has helped to lead the king into erroneous presumption.

But Oedipus's faith, equally as important as knowledge

(since faith may be a means to truth) has also led him

astray. In this case faith is a deceiver since it is based

precariously upon appearance.

What Oedipus wrongly believes he knows sprang origin­

ally from fearful desire, desire to evade the prophecy of

Apollo. But successfully to escape the god's pronounce­

ment would imply a bewildering conclusion: that divine

knowledge is less than human knowledge since man, by means

of his reason, can change the future. The question to be

determined is: who is god? That is, who possesses know­

ledge?

A series of events has apparently proved the godlike

wisdom of Oedipus: his successful flight from his "parents,"

his intelligent solving of the Sphinx's riddle, and his

26

wise conduct of state affairs.

That Oedipus holds himself in high esteem is obvious

in his very first speech. Speaking to the Suppliants to

whom he has come to listen personally, he refers to him­

self as "I, Oedipus, your world-renowned king."20 The

priest of Zeus reflects the king's opinion. Although Oed­

ipus cannot be ranked with gods, he is "Oedipus, our peer­

less king" and "the first of men."21 Recalling that the

king previously delivered the city, the Priest asks that

Oedipus perform the same task again.

In this first scene one of several contradictions about

Oedipus is revealed. He believes in Apollo, but he does

not believe in Apollo. Convinced that Apollo's prophetic

wisdom concerning his own affairs has been inadequate, the

king has, however, dispatched Creon to question the oracle

about the city's difficulties. In a later scene Jocasta

is equally irrational. Shortly after expressing her dis­

trust in the divine, she appears with objects to supplicate

and placate her gods. Neither realizes that at once to

have faith and not to have faith reveals that both have

long since taken refuge in egotistical opinion.

20sophocles Oedipus the King i trans. F. Storr, ed. T. E. Page, et al. (London: William Heinemann Ltd., 1963), p. 7.

21ibid., p. 9.

27

Should the audience be tempted to see Oedipus as the

innocent pawn of a cruel god, the Chorus interposes, early

in the play, and chants professions of faith in the deities,

Zeus, Artemis, and Athena.22 indeed, throughout the action,

the Chorus is unchanging in its certainty of the goodness

and wisdom of the deity. At the same time, the Chorus con­

tinues to express its love for and loyalty to the king.

Never does the Chorus set Oedipus and the gods in opposi­

tion. Through the Chorus Sophocles appears to affirm that

beyond the world of paradoxical appearances lies another,

one of permanent, unchanging reality.

Nowhere in the play do the two worlds of appearance

and reality clash so dramatically as they do in the scene

between Teiresias and the king. Oedipus and the members

of the Chorus, each being dependent upon physical sight as

a means to knowledge, are ignorant of the truth. Teiresias

says truly "...ye all are witless."23 To Teiresias' reluc­

tance to tell the truth Oedipus reacts impatiently, then

angrily. The blind seer's accusation is met with a coun­

ter-accusation. But Teiresias speaks with a courage born

of perfect knowledge, as he says, "Yea, I am free, strong

22ibid., passim, pp. 19-23.

23ibid., p. 33.

2^

in the strength of truth."24; whereas, Oedipus' accusations,

reflecting pride and opinion based upon ignorance, lack any

real force. The dramatic irony of the situation rises to

a high pitch when the king scornfully contrasts Teiresias'

ignorance with his own superior knowledge. First, he

taunts the old man, who, "in ear, wit, eye, in everything

art blind."25 The king's opinion of the blind seer is re­

flected in these words: "Offspring of endless Night, thou

hast no power O'er me / or any man who sees the sun."26

In emphasizing the contrast between spiritual awareness

and spiritual blindness, a symbolic method of revelation,

Sophocles heightens the dramatic intensity of the play.

Oedipus' cynical reaction to Teiresias' statement that

Apollo alone, not the seer, is responsible for the king's

doom, is dramatically ironic. Where was Teiresias when

the Sphinx held Thebes in her grip? Oedipus boasts of his

intelligence:

. . .Ij.came The simple Oedipus; 1 stopped her mouth By mother wit, untaught of auguries.27

24ibid., p. 35.

25ibid.. p. 37.

26ibid.

27ibid., p. 39.

29

Again, faith is of primary importance in the conflict.

The superior knowledge of the blind seer is derived through

intuition; whereas, Oedipus' scant knowledge comes from ob­

servation and the use of human reason, each limited as a

means of truth. Oedipus' faith in his own reason is iron­

ical; he is yet unaware that Apollo has created the situa­

tion involving Thebes and the Sphinx, has supplied him with

the answer to the riddle, and has been the source of the

king's seeming prosperity. Teiresias rightly observes that

the accuser is guilty of his own accusations.

...thou hast not spared To twit me with my blindness-thou hast eyes, Yet see'St not in what misery thou art fallen. Nor where thou dwellest nor with whom for mate.^°

Oedipus' principal fault lies in his exalted opinion of

himself. Unaware of the limitation of his knowledge, he

presumes upon ignorance and indulges in pride. He has ig:-r

nored one of the most important Greek doctrines, one which

could be seen for centuries written on the walls of the

temple at Delphi: Know thyself. To know oneself is to know

something of all men and to realize that man's knowledge is

a small thing compared with divine knowledge. To know one­

self is to recognize a law greater than oneself.

In the end Oedipus' struggle does culminate in his

2^Ibid., p. 41.

30

attuning himself with the divine law.' By blinding himself,

he renders visible the ignorance of foolish man, who judges

his prosperity by appearance. Teiresias, the blind man,

saw with the Invisible; Oedipus, the sighted man, remained

plunged in darkness, the truth about his being clouded by

the deceptions of the outer world. In taking away his

physical sight, Oedipus reveals the futility of man's dis­

covering truth through the human senses, and he comes into

possession of an inner light of his own, one enabling him

to bear the sight of the world as it really is. At the

same time he affirms his liberty.

Apollo, friends, Apollo, he it was That brought these ills to pass

But the right hand that dealt the blow Was mine, none other.29

In the last scene of the play a new Oedipus appears.

When Oedipus contributed to his own misfortune, he willed

what the god had willed. Now finally his faith is restored

in Apollo. His earlier seeming greatness was founded upon

good fortune, measurable by external standards. His true

greatness is that based upon misfortune, of ordeals truly

borne, of the sadness which Oedipus has made his own. With

new knowledge, he replies to destiny and turns the enter­

prise of his enslavement into the instrument of his libera-

^^Ibid., p. 123.

31

tion. The outcome is at once the triumph of faith and

knowledge over opinion. The question of god's identity

has been answered. Whether the answer can be accepted

depends upon man's ability to employ such knowledge, in

a spirit of humility, towards restraining man's self-

assertiveness.

Elements of the dying-god myth may be discerned in

Oedipus Rex. Like the crowning of the god in the spring,

the coming of Oedipus to Thebes was attended with rejoic­

ing. The reign of Oedipus, like the reign of the god in

the myth during the spring and summer, was a fruitful one.

With the arrival of winter, however, the scapegoat and sin-

bearer must be sacrificed so that the community might be

saved.^ Echoed in the final banishment of Oedipus is the

ancient assumption that it is necessary that one perish for

the nation to survive. Similarily, as Christians,see in the

crucifixion of Christ a necessary antecedent to the resur­

rection and the birth of new hope for men, so too in the

final disposition of Oedipus, a city is resurrected and

hope is bom of suffering. In both myth and tragedy the

ancient paradox is reiterated: out of the physical destruc­

tion of the hero come man's spiritual triumph and renewed

30Francis Ferguson, The Idea of the Theater (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1949), p. 39.

32

faith in the value of human life.

During most of the fifth century B. C. the majority

of Greek thinkers had been occupied with the external

world and with the affair between gods and man. Primarily

responsible for a new orientation of philosophy during the

last part of the century was Socrates with his emphasis

upon the inner nature of man and the limits of human know­

ledge .

A very early comment about the nature of human know­

ledge concerns the pre-Hesiodic myth of Pandora. The six­

teenth century Italian scholar, Hieronymo Cardanus, re­

counts the story which he attributes to "an ancient poet."31

According to the story, Jupiter, having created the world

and all life therein, determined to establish order and a

respect for the gods by formulating a system of rewards

and punishments for man. The god ordered Vulcan to fashion

two vessels of bronze, and in one he enclosed good things;

in the other he placed evil things. Both good and evil

things were winged. However, the goddess Pandora,"...greedy

to look into the vessels,"32 allowed both good and evil

things to fly out. To the heavens flew the good things;

3lHieronymo Cardanus, Cardanus Comforte trans. Thomas Bedingfeld (London: Thomas Marche, 1573)i pp. Aiii-Av.

32ibid.

33

to Tartarus flew the evil. Remaining in the vessel of

evils was unwinged hope, and in the vessel of goods, un-

winged suspicion. Upon hearing of Pandora's action, Jupi­

ter angrily threw the vessels down to earth, whereupon men

embraced them in the belief that they possessed both good

and evil. Yet, says Cardanus

...in dede neyther good nor euyl fel to any mortal man, sauing that they yt hapned vpon the better barrel found in themselues opinio of good with suspicion, & the other opinion of euill wt some hope.33

The poet suggests that a knowledge of absolute good and ab­

solute evil is beyond mortal man; man's knowledge, therefore,

is severely restricted since he may opine only, never truly

know. Cardanus agreed:

I perceive that in this lyfe is nothing found yt may lustly be called good or euyll. 'I do allowe of these phylosophers as wyse, who thought that al thinges consisted in opinion.34

Because man may never really possess absolute good, he may

logically be suspicious of the seeming permanence of that

which he considers good. Contrariwise, since man may not

possess absolute evil, he may reasonably hope that the

seeming permanence of an evil situation is more apparent

than real. The idea that, behind this physical world of

33ibid.

3^Ibid.

34

seeming lies an invisible world of permanence, leads to

Socrates and Plato.

Socrates' theory concerning the limits of human know­

ledge has been recorded in Plato's Apolo^jy. The first step

toward any kind of certainty consisted in following the

slogan graven on the temple of Apollo at Delphi, "Know

Thyself." Having taken this advice, Socrates concluded

that he knew only that he knew nothing. Unwilling to doubt

the truth of the oracle's declaration that no one was wiser

than Socrates, the philosopher examined the so-called wise

men of the day and discovered that they did indeed possess

technical knowledge unknown to him. The defect in the wis­

dom of these men became apparent when each assumed that

because he had technical knowledge, by analogy, he also

had knowledge concerning "high matters," of answers to the

external questions relevant to man's nature and existence.

Socrates could but conclude that he was better off without

the combination of their small knowledge and their great

ignorance. The followers of Socrates were also in error,

for they imagined the philosopher to possess the wisdom

which he found lacking in others. But Apollo's meaning

was clear: Socrates possessed a certain wisdom, for the

alone had intellectual humility.35 He who truly knows

35piato The Apology i trans. Harold North Fowler, ed. T. E. Page, et al (London: V/illiam Heinemann Ltd., 19o0), passim, pp. OT-*^.

35

himself cannot be guilty of pride, the antithesis of the

cardinal virtues representing the ideal of the controlled

personality: courage, temperance, justice, and wisdom.

Plato's own notions are much more involved. Plato

believed that the senses often deceive us and tell us

nothing about the real nature of things around us. Com­

pletely untrustworthy as a guide to truth is opinion, based

as it is on sensation, hearsay, and habit. True knowledge

exists in a super-sensory world and may be perceived only

by the highest part of the soul—reason. By the proper

use of reason one may perceive the invisible order exist­

ing behind the perplexing kaleidoscope of changing panora­

ma, which is all our senses perceive.

The creation and ordering of the universe is seen in

the Timaeus. Plato saw in the constitution of the universe

two contradictory principles. First, there is the harmon­

ious, changeless pattern for whoever had the mind to under­

stand. There was also the short-lived, changing mass of

concrete objects perceptible to the senses. Such is our

physical world, never at rest, always in the process of

dying or being bom—always becoming something else. All

objects are flawed by ugliness, decay, and deformities.

Plato asks

What is that which is Existent always and has no Becoming? And what is that which is Becoming always and never is

36

Existent? Now the one of these is ap­prehensible by thought with the aid of reasoning, since it is ever uniformly existent; whereas the other is an ob­ject of opinion with the aid of unrea­soning sensation, since it becomes and perishes and is never really existent.36

The universe was created by god, the perfect ruler of the

spiritual world. Beholding the sphere of non-being, later

called matter, he found it lifeless, dark and chaotic.

God, being all good, desired all things to be like himself,

good and not evil. After viewing the spiritual world of

Ideas about him, he fashioned a physical world after the

spiritual model, combining spirit with matter and therefore

breathing into this matter intelligence and soul.37 Then

he created earth, stars, time, various gods, and all sorts

of lesser creatures to inhabit the universe.3°

Finally he poured the last of the matter into the

vessel in which he had mixed the world's soul, and from

this mixture he created a host of human souls, whom he

distributed among the stars. But these human souls were

not content to live long in this blissful state; their

kinship to the earth drew them to desire bodies, which the

36piato Timaeus vii trans. Rev. R. G. Bury, ed. T. E. Page, et al. (London: William Heinemann Ltd., 1961), p. 49.

37ibid., p. 55.

3^Ibid., passim, pp. 59-91.

37

Creator ordered to be made from earth, air, fire, and

water. For a lifetime then, the soul is joined to a body

and is constituted with lower appetites and passions.39

In the Phaedrus Plato pictures vividly the earthy,

concupiscent element in man. Kan's soul is contrasted

with an angel's soul which is represented by a charioteer,

a chariot, and two white horses. Reason, the charioteer,

maintains perfect control over the horses, which rise upon

command toward the heights where dwell the eternal Ideas,

pure Beauty and pure Justice. Man's soul is also repre­

sented as two winged horses, one athirst for glory, virtue,

and truth; but the other is black, evil, representing the

lower passions in man. The black horse is difficult to

manage and tends to pull the chariot down. For most human

souls the struggle to rise is too hard, and most of them

get only a momentary glance of true Beauty, Wisdom, and

Justice. Then the souls fall and lose their wings; there­

after, they are clad in a human body. Occasionally a soul

will remember what it has seen and feel its wings growing

again. Sometimes a soul will see on the earth a likeness

of that which he glimpsed in the world of Ideas. VJhen

39ibid., p. 91.

3S

this happens, the soul is filled with an uncomprehending

wonderment because it does not perceive the reason for its

reaction. Learning is often remembering what one knew in

another life, but few understand this fact.^^

Only a few are true philosophers, that is, "lovers of

wisdom" as Plato calls them in the Republic. Most men love

sights and sounds; such men

...delight in beautiful tones and colors and shapes and in everything that art fashions out of these, but their thought is incapable of apprehending and taking delight in the nature of the beautiful in itself.41

Men who love the seemingly beautiful on this earth are un­

concerned even when they are forced to admit that none of

the beautiful things they prize is completely free of ugli­

ness. It is only the true lover of beauty who is never

content with what the eye can see, who strives always by

means of reason to discern the pure essence of things and

tp "distinguish the Idea from the objects that participate

in the Idea..."^2

^^Plato Phaedrus trans. Harold North Fowler, eds. T. E. Page, et al. (London: William Heinemann Ltd., I960),passim., pp. 47X^4^.

^Ipiato The Republic trans. Paul Shorey, eds. T. E. Page, eib al. (London: William Heinemann Ltd., 1963), v, 519.

42 Ibid.

39

Plato's theory of knowledge, ignorance, and opinion

is found in his explanation of the three stages of being.

There are two extremes: one is absolute, unchangeable, pure

being or the Idea; the other is that of complete non-being

or nothingness. In between is our world of material objects,

that neither perfectly are or are not. These stages of

being reflect three stages of knowledge. The first is true

knowledge, by which we know clearly what we can of the

world of Ideas. The second is total ignorance, the state

as regards non-being. The third is that of opinion, the

inadequate, uncertain knowledge we have of the impermanent

world of matter. Those who find themselves in the latter

group are "lovers of opinion," that is, "dokophilists,"

and cannot tolerate the existence of absolute beauty.^3

In his allegory of the cave Plato illustrates most

vividly man's struggle with opinion and knowledge. Deep

within the cave men are chained in such a position that

they see only the far end. Behind them is a fire, and

between them and the fire a wall. On the other side of

the wall men walk up and down, lifting above the wall

images of all forms of life. What they see is a shadow of

the imitation of the real; what they hear is an echo, re-

43ibid., p. 535.

40

fleeted from the back of the wall. They deny the existence

of all else. Should one of these prisoners be freed and

forced to pass through the several steps of unreality to

the outside, or reality, the process would be extremely

painful. After his ordeal of becoming used to motion, fire­

light, moonlight, the sight of all physical objects outside

the cave, and finally the sun itself (the final step in

knowledge), the prisoner would yearn to communicate to his

companions in the cave all of the incredible beauties that

he had discovered and to disabuse their minds of delusion.

Yet any attempt to reveal the truth would be met with re­

sistance, for the men in the cave would consider the truth

ridiculous.

...would he not provoke laughter, and would it not be said of him that he had returned from his journey aloft with his eyes ruined and that it was not worth while even to attempt the ascent? And if it were possible to lay hands on and to kill the man who tried to release them and lead them up, would they not kill him?44

Plato's belief that man is too much a prisoner of his

senses is relative to man's propensity to tragic struggle.

To arrive at even a modicum of truth, man must struggle

44ibid., vii, pp. 119-129.

41

painfully against the senses which keep one prisoner in the

realm of appearance. By means of reason one may draw near

the true world. Reason, the highest part of the soul, re­

jects the evidence of the senses, and after arduous reflec­

tion and study, brings man intuitive knowledge of ideal

forms, from which are fashioned the objects he takes as

real.^5

To the human being, absolute knowledge is denied.

Only after man has quit- his body may his soul, finally un­

fettered, "...behold the actual realities with the eye of

the soul alone."46 He who would come nearest to knowledge

will do so when he has the least possible intercourse or

communion with the body. One should purify oneself a-

gainst the nature of the body since "...it cannot be that

the impure attain the pure."47 Thus while Plato points

out the importance of knowing and the difficulty of knowing,

he does not suggest the impossibility of knowing. Plato

had faith in man's soul to take cognizance of truth since

it once lived in the presence of eternal essences and now

45ibid., pp. 131-137.

46piato Phaedo trans. Harold North Fowler, eds. T. E. Page, et al.(London: William Heinemann Ltd., I960), p. 231.

47ibid., p. 233.

42

yearns always to return.

Like Plato, Aristotle believed that a man's happiness

or misery was directly related to knowledge. In his

Nicomachean Ethics Aristotle insists that the supreme good

to be attained by man is happiness, and that this supreme

good is an end in itself since it leads to no further desire

or activity.^° Happiness is available to all except the

morally hopeless "...since it can be attained through some

process of study or effort by all persons whose capacity

for virtue has not been stunted or maimed."49 Not dependent

upon chance, happiness, a kind of virtuous activity of the

soul, demands a thoroughly virtuous life.^^ He who would

be happy must know the nature of virtue, of which there are

two kinds:

Wisdom or intelligence and Prudence are intellectual. Liberality and Temper-ence are moral virtues. When describing a man's moral character we do not say that he is wise or intelligent, but gen­tle or temperate; but a wise man is also praised for his disposition, and praise­worthy dispositions we term virtues .5 ^

4BAristotle The Nicomachean Ethics trans. H. Rackham, eds. T. E. Page, et aTl (London: William Heinemann Ltd., 1962), i. 7. 1-5.

49ibid., 9. 4.

50ibid., 7. 16.

51ibid., 13. 20.

43

Aristotle affirms that man may best acquire moral virtues

by practice and habit. What is right in matters of moral

conduct is generally a mean between two extremes.^^ The

mean is "...prescribed by the right principle."53 The

practically wise man's speculations lead him to this "right

principle" which informs him that the best life may be

attained by certain actions which are intermediate between

two extremes. The man who possesses virtue (defined in the

0. E. D. as "excellence" and "manliness") also possesses

the "...disposition which renders him a good man and also

which will cause him to perform his function well."5^

Renaissance writers often equated the notion of virtue with

that of power, that is, power to make ia right choice and

power to act upon that choice. Not to act upon one's

right choice rendered making the choice futile. An example

of a tragic hero's inability to act is seen in Shakespeare's

Antony and Cleopatra. Early in the play, Antony, realizing

his plight for the first time, momentarily makes a choice.

"These strong Egyptian fetters I must break,/ Or lose myself

52ibid., ii. 2. 6-7.

53ibid., i. 1. 1.

54ibid., ii. 7. 3.

44

in dotage."55 That Antony is unable to act upon his deci­

sion indicates that much of his manliness and excellence is

lost. At most, he possesses a "blank virtue" which Milton

disparaged.

I cannot praise a fugitive and clois­tered virtue, unexercised and unbreathed, that never sallies out and sees her adver­sary, but slinks out of the race where that immortal garland is to be run for, not without dust and heat.56

Concerning crimes committed in ignorance, Aristotle is

fairly positive. Involuntary acts committed in ignorance

may be forgiven unless one is responsible for his ignorance.

But the fact is that man i^ in part responsible for his

moral state:

If, then, as is said, our virtues are voluntary (and in fact we are in a sense ourselves partly the cause of our moral dispositions, and it is our having a certain character that makes us set up an end of a certain kind), it follows that our vices are voluntary also; they are voluntary in the same manner as our virtue.^

The tragic protagonist is one who lacks knowledge of

the nature of intellectual virtue. His misfortune is

55v/illiam Shakespeare, "Antony and Cleopatra," The Complete Works of Shakespeare ed. Hardin Craig (Dallas: Scott, i«'oresman and Company, 1951), I> iij 120-121.

^^John Milton, "Areopagitica," Complete Poems and Major Prose ed. Merritt Y. Hughes (New York: The Odyssey Freti,"33^), p. 72g.

57Aristotle, 0£. £it., iii. 5. 20.

45

brought about, not by some vice or depravity but "...rather

through some flaw in him."5^ Because of his error or frail­

ty, he acts upon opinion, not real knowledge; the fact of

his flaw is a revelation of his inadequate wisdom, most dra­

matically revealed at the moment of reversal and discovery.

A 'discovery,' as the term itself implies, is a change from ignorance to knowledge, producing either friendship or hatred in those who are destined for good fortune or ill. A discovery is most effective when it coincides with reversals, such as that involved by the discovery in the Oedipus.59

The new state of knowledge to which the tragic hero

ascends involves his knowledge of and faith in the gods, in

an ordered universe, and in man, whether individual or com­

munal.

Apart from Greek tragedy and philoso|>hy, a considera­

tion of the history of Thucydides reveals Greek thought from

yet another point of view. The historian's theory concern­

ing historiography relates directly to his theory of know­

ledge. In his opening comments he declares:

...whoever shall wish to have a clear view both of the events which have happened and of those which will some day happen again in the same or similar way - for these

5SAristotle Poetics trans. W. Hamilton Fyfe and ed. T. E. Page, et al. (London: William Heinemann Ltd., I960), 13. 2.

59ibid., 11. 2.

46

to adjudge my history profitable will be enough for me. And, indeed, it has been composed, not as a prize-essay to be heard for the moment, but as a possession for all time.60

Such a statement assumes that human nature is knowable and

that such knowledge of man may be used to explain history.

Further assumed is the notion that, although it is impor­

tant to examine man in different environments, with differ­

ent beliefs, man's nature is relatively stable; consequent­

ly, we can hope to establish a guide for the future. Judg­

ing his own work as being "a clear view" and as a "posses­

sion for all time," Thucydides expressed faith in mankind's

ability to discover truth and to utilize it for his own

advantage. Implied is faith in progress.

What Thucydides did was to attempt to chart the tragedy

of Athens, first from the point of view of a participant

in the struggle and then as an observer. 'Those primarily

responsible for the wasting away of the great city-state

were its leaders, whose ideas are reflected in marvellous

speeches throughout the history. An examination of some

of the points made in certain key speeches reveals Thucy­

dides' view of the relative wisdom of these leaders. Athens

60Thucydides History of the Peloponnesian War trans. Charles Forster Smith, eds. T. S. Page, et al. (London: William Heinemann Ltd., 1962), i. 22.

47

reached her greatest strength under Pericles; henceforth,

she wasted away by degrees until her ultimate fall to the

Peloponnese.

In Pericles' view Athens' great strength lay in her

democratic principles. A co-operative government of all

citizens, rich or poor, Athens, was famed for her moderation

and her unity. To her citizens Athens preferred liberty

and justice; to her neighbor she offered tolerance and

friendship.

It is true that our government is called a democracy, because its admin­istration is in the hands, not of the few but of the many: yet while as re­gards the law all men are on an equality for the settlement of their private dis­putes, as regards the value set on them it is as each man is any way distinguished that he is preferred to public honors, not because of personal merits...for we do not feel resentment at our neighbor if he does as he likes, nor yet do we put on sour looks, which, though harmless, are painful to behold...61

Pericles' policy of moderation extended to his military

decisions. Faced with the aggression of the Peloponnese,

Pericles counseled a defensive war to be waged with courage

and with unity.

For he told the Athenians that if they would maintain a defensive policy, attend to their navy, and not seek to extend their sway during the war, or do

6libid., ii, 37.

4^

anything to imperil the existence.of the state, they would prove superior.^^

With the death of Pericles the Athenians embarked upon

a disastrous course. Abandoning faith in those very things

which had contributed to their greatness—moderation, unity,

tolerance—they followed in the opposite direction.

But they not only acted contrary to his advice in all these things but also in matters that apparently had no connec­tion with the war they were led by private ambition and private greed to adopt poli­cies which were injurious as to themselves and to their allies; for these policies, so long as they were successful, merely brought honor or profit to individual cit-

i izens, but when they failed proved detri­mental to the state in the conduct of the war."3

Evidence that a new policy began to be followed during

the fourth and fifth years of the war may be seen in the

speeches of Cleon, a rising young politician, concerning

Mytilene, an allied city which had attempted revolt. After

putting down the rebellion, the Athenians first determined

to execute the entire male population of Mytilene and to

make slaves of the women and children. But before the decree

could be carried out, it was determined to put the question

to an assembly vote. Cleon supported the original decision,

a cruel and monstrous design which would condemn an entire

62ibid., ii, 65.

63Ibid.

49

city to a fate merited only by the guilty.^^ Cleon's speech

on the subject reveals that he had lost faith in moderation

and in reason. Declaring that the Mytilenians were guilty,

not of rebellion but of aggression, Cleon held that the

rebels had been treated too well in the past. Behind this

conclusion lay the assumption that human nature is as sure­

ly made arrogant by consideration, as it is awed by firm-

ness.^5 Unlike Athenians, the Mytilenians were so inhuman

as to be incapable of feeling compassion; consequently,

none should be extended to them.^" The entire tone of the

speech suggests that the Mytilenians were evil and that

their very existence was intolerable. Moreover, to treat

them as criminals would be expedient. Therefore, he con­

cluded,

...chastize them as they deserve, and give to your other allies plain warning that whoever revolts shall be punished with death.67

Although saner counsels finally prevailed in the treat­

ment of the Mytilenians, during the tenth year of the war

the Athenians embarked upon a frankly aggressive, expansion­

ist ic policy. The debate with the Melians reveals how ab­

stract principles of justice were abandoned for the sake of

64ibid., III, 36.

65lbid., 39.

66ibid., 40.

LfBRARY

50

power and expediency. Sent to annex the neutral island of

Melas, the Athenians gave the Melians two choices: either

be annexed or be destroyed. Finding no hope in being annexed

and at most a faint hope in resisting, the Melians chose the

latter course—and failed.^^ Although the Athenians won

this battle as well as many others, they were to discover

that following a policy of "might means right" would be dis­

astrous .

That Athens preferred a war of conquest and supported

those leaders who were aggressive may be seen in the debate

preceding the Sicilian invasion. Opposing the project was

Nicias, a supporter of moderation. However, the Athenians

sided with Alcibiades, a brilliant but corrupt politician,

who instilled false hopes in his followers.

Nicias stressed the folly of attacking the Sicilians

when they had not yet defeated the Lacedaemonians. To

divide one's naval power was dangerous, and to defeat a

nation which could not be ruled except with great difficul­

ty was foolish. Finally Nicias was suspicious of the motives

of the youthful Alcibiades and others who saw in the defeat

of Sicily a means of improving their individual fortunes.

Nicias warned his countrymen against radicals who brand as

cowards those who vote against the war. He reminded them

6aibid., V, 85-116.

51

that few victories are won by foresight. In conclusion,

he urged that the Siceliots be left alone, to enjoy their

own possessions and settle their own quarrels.^^

The reply made by Alcibiades contains few facts and

considerable assumption. The empire has been gained, he

insisted, by Athenian readiness to assist all of her allies

who need help. To prevent being attacked, a nation often

should strike the first blow. The precise size of the em­

pire could not be exactly set. In such a position,

...it is necessary to plot against some and not let go our hold upon others, because there is danger of coming our­selves under the empire of others, should . we not ourselves hold empire over other people.70

By sailing off to Sicily, Athenians would humble the pride

of the Peloponnese, who would see how scornful Athenians

were of peace. Rejecting the "do-nothing policy" of Nicias

would result in one of two things: at least the ruin of

the Syracusans or, more likely, conquest of all Hellas. On

the other hand, inaction meant decay, ruin.71

Thucydides' conclusion appears directly related to

knowledge ?.and opinion. The tragedy of Athens came about

69ibid., vi, 13.

70ibid., vi. Id.

71ibid.

52

partly because its leaders departed from the Greek Golden

Mean—a policy of moderation. The vision of its leaders,

following the death of Pericles, was clouded by pride, ex­

tremism, righteous revenge, and ambition. Curiously, the

city which had produded so much great humanistic tragedy

became a victim of its own folly. Lack of faith in men

and reason gave way to cynicism and arbitrariness.

Whether the Greeks dealt with the affair between man

and gods or with man's own limitations, they emphasized

the importance of knowing, along with the difficulty of

knowing. The beginning of wisdom lay in the realization

that man's knowledge is pitifully small contrasted with

that of divine knowledge. The process of acquiring know­

ledge was always accompanied by suffering. Aeschylean

characters struggled through generations of error and suf­

fering before they were aligned with the divine world;

Oedipus agonized before he saw how inadequate physical

sight was in determining truth; Plato's men in the cave

showed man's propensity for error leading to consequent

tragedy. To the Greeks ignorance was of an even greater

importance than sin was to the Hebraic mind. The effect

of ignorance and sin on the two cultures was similar; each

prevented the establishment of order, comparable to right­

eousness. Acting upon presumed knowledge or righteousness

53

was to court tragedy. Seeming good could well be disguised

evil.

Along with the difficulty of knowing, the Greeks

stressed the importance of faith. Even during the centuries

before Homer, Greeks had faith in a knowable harmony and

order in the universe, Moira, a faith later revealed in the

emphasis upon Logos, the rational principle behind the uni­

verse. Socrates had faith that the gods had perfect know­

ledge and that intellectual humility, achievable by man,

was the first step in acquiring wisdom. Whereas Plato laid

a basis of faith in the ideal, Aristotle urged moderation,

valid to the extent that man has faith in it. Finally, the

great tragedians, apart from their faith in the justness

and goodness of the gods, were confident in the nobility of

man whose ignorance made it necessary for him to suffer in

order to learn. In his struggling from ignorance to know­

ledge man yet revealed his great dignity, his mighty pas­

sions, and his supreme fortitude.

CHAPTER III

THE ROMAN DESPAIR

Following the brilliant age of Pericles, the Greek

spirit underwent a decided change. During the Fourth Cen­

tury before Christ, the Greek mind, still possessing its

creative vigor, attempted to respond to the collapse of

those institutions in which it had had most faith: the

Greek religion and the polls, or city state. Two great

philosophies arose to fill the void: on one hand, the

Cynic and Stoic schools; on the other, the Epicurean.

Like these philosophies, the later popular movement

known as the Hellenistic Age was based upon man's aware­

ness of failure. Gilbert Murray has shown that the entire

epoch was curiously touched with a kind of morbidity accom­

panied by spiritual exaltation. This later era saw human

government fail in its attempt to educate and purify a bar­

baric world led finally only to the corruption of those

ideals which Greece had sought to spread. The resultant

loss of hope led to individualism.

This sense of failure, the progres­sive loss of hope in the world, in sober calculation, and in organized human ef­fort, threw the later Greek back upon his soul, upon the pursuit of personal holi­ness, upon emotions, mysteries and reve­lations, upon the comparative neglect of

54

55

this transitory and imperfect world for the sake of some dream-world which would subsist without sin or corruption, the same, yesterday, today, and forever.1

The Greek sense of failure was heightened by the eco­

nomic chaos which afflicted the period. Modem scholar­

ship has disclosed that life for the common man was especial­

ly burdensome at this time and that any hope for betterment

in the world appeared negligible. Progressively, large

numbers of people were hindered from sharing economic or

political control. To reconcile themselves with the oppres­

sive tenor of their lives, men saw two general possibili­

ties: either to create an invisible new reality and there­

fore to deny the apparent reality of the physical world, or

to affirm the non-existence of evil and thus to imply that

physical matter is so insignificant that it has nothing to

do with those questions which concern man most profoundly.2

In one philosophy happiness lay in withdrawal; in the other,

that of confrontation.

Representing the first of the two was Epicurus, who

founded his school of philosophical materialism in 306 B. C.

He taught that the world was created not from design, but

Icilbert Murray, Five Stages of Greek Religion (New York: Doubleday and Company, Incorporated, 1951), p. 4.

2Moses Hadas, A History of Greek Literature (New York: Colombia University">ress, 1967), p. 2457"^

56

by chance, and that it consisted of a fortuitous concatena­

tion of atoms and void. As to the gods, who are also com­

posed of atoms, they are unconcerned with man. When death

overtakes man, his atoms disperse; that is all. Not having

anything to fear either from the gods or from death, man is

independent and consequently at liberty to choose his pleas­

ure in his own way.^

Epicurean philosophy is replete with advice for living

moderately but pleasurably. Pleasure was the highest good

—under certain conditions. One should not pursue pleasure

too vigorously, lest he encounter pain. Also, the type of

pleasure was important. So-called "dynamic pleasures"

could produce pain: for instance, sexual love should be

avoided because it is accompanied by fatigue and depres­

sion; drinking and gluttony would most surely be followed

by disease. Mild pleasure such as that which arises from

friendship was desirable. He encouraged eating moderately

and simply:

I am thrilled with pleasure in the body when I live on bread and water, and I spit on luxurious pleasures, not for their own sake, but because of the in­conveniences that follow them.**-

3Epicurus "Letter to Herodotus," trans. Cyril Bailey The Stoic and Epicurean Philosophers, ed. Whitney Jennings Gates (New York: Random House, 1940), passim., pp. 3-15.

4ibid., "Fragments" 43. 37.

57

Implicit in Epicureanism is faith in man's ability to

justify his existence. Such faith tends to emphasize the

dignity of the individual. At the same time the Epicurean

evinced no hope that man could arrive at true knowledge;

therefore, he did not concern himself with the problem. He

sought, rather, a simple means to make man happy, through

the enjoyment of mild pleasure, the only good. His explana­

tion of the physical nature of the universe represented

merely a convenient structure upon which to support his

conduct. The Epicurean's answer to adversity suggests his

faith that man can discover a way to avoid it.

It was the Cynic, Antisthenes,a disciple of Socrates

who, in the Fifth Century B. C , prepared the soil for

Stoicism. The Cynic assumed that the world was fundamental­

ly evil. To live the good life, man must necessarily with­

draw from the world. The fruits of civilization — govern­

ment, private property, marriage, slavery, luxury, and all

of the artificial pleasures of the senses — were more than

worthless. To ignore all externals was to be emancipated

from fear; to discover virtue, one must look within. In

their attempt to "exceed" nature, they were overpowered by

the subjective tendency.5 Their loss of faith in the ex-

5James Hastings, Encyclopaedia of Religion and Ethics (New York: Charles Scribner's Sons,"T951)j III> 382.

53

temal world, which they viewed as a welter of unexplain-

able evil, was replaced by a new faith, gained subjective­

ly, in man's inner strength to overcome adversity. Con­

sequently, knowledge of the external world was impossible.

An aspect of Greek thought which closely resembled

Cynicism, though somewhat more extreme, was Gnosticism.

The belief may be traced back to Pythagoras and Plato, who

had insisted that the higher nature of man needs to be de­

livered of the flesh by spiritual enlightenment. Pythagoras

saw man as a kind of fallen deity, subject to all the frail­

ties of error and death and in need of regeneration." Plato,

as has been shown, saw reality beyond the visible world,

whence the soul, by reason of its virtue, would win its way.

Like the later Christians, the Gnostics offered a so­

lution. That which was evil about the earth was its mater­

ial substance; the same was true about man. But the divine

element in man could, by means of secret knowledge, escape

from this evil and discover a way to bliss.7 In the Fourth

Gospel the apostle John uses the idea of knowledge signifi-

cantly.°

^Diogenes Laertius Lives of Eminent Philosophers I trans. R. D. Hicks, ed. T. E. Page, et al. (London: William Heinemann Ltd., 1953), iii, 32-34.

7Hastings, 0£. cit., XI, 362.

3The Gospel According to Saint John I.

59

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. (Verse 1)

In him was life: and the life was the light of man. (Verse 4)

And the Word was made flesh, and dwelt among us, (and we beheld his glory, the glory of the only begotten of th(B Fa­ther,) full of grace and truth. (Verse 14)

While the Greeks used the term "Word" or Logos to

refer to the rational principle behind existence, John spoke

of the divine mediator of creation. The use of this term

suggests the possibility that a human being may read and

understand this rational principle. An extremely interest­

ing parallel of this concept may be seen in the famous

"Hymn to Zeus" by Cleanthes (331-232 B. C.).9 Joyously

proclaiming Zeus as ". . . all powerful," and "Author of

Nature," the poet speaks of the god that, —

...into harmony thou canst turn such discords And make of chaos order; for hate with thee is love. And thus by thee all things of good and evil are joined To make thy eternal Word, —still un-perceived by those Who blindly shun this truth. (11. 19-23)

Those who are ignorant, those who are borne hither and yon

"in the wake of vanity" suffer for their lack of insight

9cieanthes, "Hymn to Zeus," The Oxford Book of Greek Verse in Translation, trans. Michael Backwill, eds., T^ E. Higham and C M . Bowra, (Oxford: at the Clarendon Press, 1953), pp. 533-535.

60

into the nature of the god. The poet prays that all will

be delivered of their lack of knowledge:

Save men from all their ignorance and its distress. Scatter it from their hearts, and in In their quest for wisdom Grant them success; for in wisdom thou art powerful

And rulest justly. (11. 36-39)

As important as Epicureanism and Gnosticism were to

the ancient world, no doctrine was as influential as that

of Stoicism. Following the fall of Alexander, it swept

over Greece and later dominated Roman thought until finally

it was superseded by Christianity. Founded by Zeno in the

third century B. C , the doctrine derived its name from the

Greek word stoa or "porch" from which Zeno is said to have

lectured.1^

Although early Stoicism was fraught with many meta­

physical difficulties and paradoxes, the moral theory had

wide rational and emotional appeal to its earliest adher­

ents. When the passing of time saw the paradoxes become

increasingly intolerable to reason, efforts were made to

repair the inconsistencies. For some time various doctrines

were borrowed from this or that school \intil the Stoicism

lOwhitney Jennings Gates, "General Introduction," The Stoic and Epicurean Philosophers (New York: Random House, 1940J, P- XX.

61

of the first century B. C. consisted of a conglomerate of

patch-work beliefs. Not until a century later was Epictetus

able to remove extraneous accretions of doctrine and to

return to the essence of original Stoicism. Epictetus re­

mains as one of the most important sources of man's present

knowledge of that philosophy.^-^

Like the Platonists, the Stoics supported the theory

of the self-sufficiency of the universe. But unlike the

Platonists, they could not accept the notion thai the cosmos

was dualistic. For if the whole were good, the universe

must be monotheistic. God was good. It follows that a

universe created by God must, of necessity, be good.l^

The Stoics conceived the universe in terms of a machine,

philosophically a materialistic monotheism. In the begin­

ning all things were fire, but the world has slowly evolved

to its present state; in the future the process would be

repeated. The regularity with which the machine worked

suggested that it must be permeated with some kind of divin-

Even though their view of the universe was one of

mechanistic determinism. Stoics believed that the will was.

lllbid., pp. xxl^-xxii.

12Hastings, 0£. cit., XI, 362.

13Ibid.

62

in a sense, free. A good universe could not be tainted

with evil. Epictetus observed "As a mark is not set up

for men to miss it, so there is nothing intrinsically evil

in the world."14 in the sphere of morals, virtue was deemed

the highest good. To attain the highest good, one must live

according to reason. To live so, one must accept all events

which occur as being either good or indifferent. He who

interprets anything as evil is guilty of making an erron­

eous judgment and does not live "according to nature." To

call anything evil is to misinterpret it, to employ one's

"impressions" incorrectly. It was here that the Stoic

dealt with the idea of free will. All things in the uni-;

verse are determined; nevertheless, the individual has it

in his power to use or misuse his "impressions"; or, to

put it another way, one may control his reactions to events

though one may not control the occurence of those events.

Seek not to have things happen as you would choose them, but rather choose that they should happen as they do.15

To conclude that no evil exists is to use one's impressions

correctly, to live "according to nature" in the noblest

sense. Certainly indifferent things exist, and such things

l^Epictetus "The Manual of Epictetus" in Gates, 0£. cit., trans. Cyril Bailey, 475. 2?.

15Epictetus "Discourses," 0£. cit., i. 12.

63

one may identify by concluding that they are not "in his

power." In themselves indifferent things are neither good

nor evil; hence, the only evil possible lies in the mis­

interpretations of impressions; that is, that something

indifferent is good or evil, or that something good is

evil.^6

Epictetus, like Lucretius before him, attacked man's

fears since he held that the elimination of such fears

would insure that internal calm and peace of mind which is

the final desideratum. Attainment of the ideal was possi­

ble only if one kept in mind that which is in one's power

and that which is not. Hastings has suggested the Stoical

assumption: "What man ought is derived from what man is."lT

The most inspiring of Epictetus' passages are those

exhorting man to self-control and those which insist that

God is in each man. Still, a kind of pessimism permeates

the entire whole, so that one is not greatly surprised

when Epictetus occasionally suggests that, after all, if

one is weary of life, he may depart it when he will.^3

There is little doubt that Epictetus' ideas influenced

the thought and character of the Emperor Marcus Aurelius.

The special appeal which Stoicism had for the emperor lay

l6oates, 0£. cit., p. xxi.

17Hastings, 0£. cit.,XI, 363.

l3Epictetus, "Discourses," 0£. cit., i. 25.

64

partly in the chaotic conditions of the period. During his

reign, disaster followed disaster. He was plagued with

wars against barbarian enemies, with a tottering economic

structure, with a violent internal revolt, and finally with

a devastating plague that swept through the empire.19

It is not remarkable that the doctrines of the two

greatest Roman Stoics were in large measure identical, since

the disciples of Epictetus were the emperor's mentors.

There are the same aspiration to serenity, the same counsel

to live independent of pleasure and pain, the same adjura­

tion of indifference to fame and friends, and a similar

urging to conformity with the nature of things, assumed, in

each instance, to be good. The slight difference seems to

be one of tone: the conformity of Epicurus is that of

obedience to Nature — of a ruler who felt the burden of

office.20

Marcus Aurelius emphasized the universal brotherhood

of man. The belief rested on the assumption that the cos­

mos was a vast machine, ultimately good, the parts of which

were intimately connected and interrelated. In the same

fashion human beings were joined together as brothers, all

locates, ££. cit., p. xiii.

20irwin Edman, "Introduction," Marcus Aurelius and His Times (New York: Walter J. Black, 1945), pTTI

65

fellow members of the same world city:

. . . my nature is reasonable and social. As Antonius, my city and my fatherland is Rome; as a man, the Universe. All then that benefits these cities is alone my good.21

In spite of Marcus Aurelius' attempts to be optimistic,

he betrays throughout the Meditations his difficult struggle

to adhere to the cardinal dogmas of Stoicism, especially

to keep faith with the belief that the universe really con­

tained no evil. When he faced his chaotic world, torn as

it was with war, disease, and uncertainty, he must have

found it difficult to resolve the anomaly between his

theories and what he saw. No wonder, then, that he occa­

sionally manifests a sadness, almost a defeatism, in spite

of himself.

Just as the performance in the amphitheatre and such places pall upon you, being forever the same scenes, and the similarity makes the spectacle nauseating, so you feel in the same way about life as a whole; for all things, up and down, are the same and follow the same. How long will it last?^^

The pessimism which plagued Romans is vividly revealed

in descriptions of Roman military glory. One must imagine

the conquering hero returning to Rome in triumph. He is

2lMarcus Aurelius Meditations trans. Meric Casaubon, (London: J. M. Dent and Sons, Limited, 1961), 6. 44. (See also 4. 4.)

22ibid., 6. 46.

66

dressed in magnificent robes, and riding beside him in his

splendid chariot is a slave who holds his crown above the

hero's head, a crown sparkling with rubies and emeralds.

The pride of Rome, he, however, does not lead the proces­

sion. Foremost in the procession are the senators, followed

by trumpeters, which are in turn followed by the spoils of

war. Next come white sacrificial bulls and then manacled

prisoners, men, women, and children, their wounds showing,

their faces twisted with despair, since their throats are

to be cut before the procession arrives at the Temple of

Jupiter. Next in line come lictors, musicians, and choris­

ters swinging censers. Finally, at the very rear, almost

obscured by the blue smoke of the censers, comes the con­

queror. Parading his power down the Campus Martins to the

Via Sacra on his way to the Capitol, the triximphant general

appears to be the god of war incarnate. Yet amid all the

splendor and honor provided by Rome, the conqueror is the

butt of obscene taunts and coarse jests. Constantly swar­

ming around his chariot, making obscene gestures are satyrs

and painted clowns dressed as wantons. They wear crowns

of gold; whereas, the victor wears only a crown of laurels.

One satyr, dressed in woman's clothes and treated with ex­

treme ceremony by the clowns, curses the general more vo­

ciferously than all the rest. Occasionally, she even

67

screams in his face.23

Meanwhile, in his chariot the conqueror remains tense

and nervous. Behind him stands a slave wearing a golden

crown and holding the crown of Jupiter Carolinus above the

victor's head. At brief intervals he whispers to the

general, "0 conqueror look behind you, and remember you are

mortal." After the prisoners are murdered (there being no

place for them at the sacrifice) and the oxen are sacrificed,

the victor entertains his friends magnificently. Later he

is led home with great pomp.24

Because the ceremony elaborated for the conquering

hero was re-created over and over again for many genera­

tions, it apparently had extraordinary significance. With

every effort to exalt the conqueror there was a correspon­

ding effort to debase him. The first citizen of the land,

he yet passed through a humiliating ordeal. While he wore

red paint on his face, a sign of his divinity, he was the

object of obscene jests, designed apparently to remind him

of his humanity. Robert Payne has described the seeming

paradox in this way:

. . . what is . . . surprising is that a public slave, and not a priest, is deputed to whisper warnings into his ! ear. The general who gives the order

23Robert Payne, Hybris, A Study of Pride (New York: Harper and Brothers, l^bO), pp. 41-42.

24ibid., p. 42.

63

for slaughter by a slave, the proudest is placed next to the humblest, and like the warning death's head in the medieval memento mori, the slave reminds the con­queror of the limping Fates who come up from behind and cut the thread of life.

In the Roman world, even at the moment of the greatest triumphs, we are made aware of the presence of inchoate fears, which tug remorselessly at the Roman soul.25

Payne concludes from his analysis of their culture that

the Romans were burdened by a primal fear and a sense of

guilt.26

Until the end of Rome's domination of classical cul­

ture, her philosophy having become more and more pessimis­

tic, the possibility for creating great tragedy became in­

creasingly remote. Faith that man could ascertain any mean­

ing or order in the immediate world gradually disappeared.

Greek thought which had once discerned an ordered universe

ultimately became sceptical of its own accomplishments.

Famham observes:

At last the main philosophies of the Greek tradition surrendered the world. They tended to find it a welter of unex-plainable evil, and in various ways they

25ibid., pp. 42-43.

26ibid., pp. 45-46.

69

discovered the good, the true, and the beautiful elsewhere, in realms which tracedv could not touch 2? tragedy could not touch.'

For the Stoic no tragedy was possible. The Stoic hero

could struggle only to know that evil was non-existent.

What men called adversity was founded upon baseless opinion,

and man could not participate in tragedy if none existed.

To dramatize the non-existent would be to court the absurd.2°

An examination of Seneca's dramatic works reveals that

they were tragedies in name only, not in essence. Possibly

nowhere else is this more glaringly revealed than in his

Oedipus. In sharp contrast to the Sophoclean version the

Senecan hero does not grow in knowledge. If anything, he

becomes increasingly ignorant. Throughout the play he cur­

ses Apollo and boasts that the prophecy was not precisely

fulfilled.

As the play begins, the audience is introduced to an

Oedipus altogether different from the character created by

Sophocles. Instead of the proud Greek hero ("I, Oedipus,

renowned of all") a morbid, melancholy king appears. La­

menting the fact that Fate often hides numerous ills behind

a smiling face, he deplores the unenviable role which kings

are forced to play. He implies that ambitious effort is

27willard Famham, The Medieval Heritage of Elizabethan Tragedy (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1936), p.4.

70

foolish, since Fate tends to strike down those in high

places. In his very first speech he shows his lack of

faith in ambitious effort, a Stoical notion which nulli­

fies the tragic struggle.

Many worries assail the king. He feels innocent, but

he cannot forget the god's curse upon him; in addition, he

wonders whether he is somehow the author of the new dis­

aster which is plaguing the city. Vainly, he prays for

death. Unlike his prototype, this Oedipus is not a noble

creature, not the "best of mortals." Even Jocasta notes

his lack of greatness as she chides him for augmenting his

worries with unmanly lamentations.^^ Oedipus denies that

he is guilty of any fear; after all, he has proved his

bravery in daring to answer the riddle of the Sphinx. He

theorizes that the Sphinx's shade is wasting Thebes in

vengeance for her death.

While the audience awaits Creon's news from the oracle,

the chorus of Theban elders appears on stage and in a long

declamatory passage deplores the fallen states of Oedipus

and of Thebes. The wretched state of the king is empha­

sized in his own words to Creon, whose news Oedipus fear­

fully awaits:

My trembling soul Strives 'neath a double load; for joy

^^Lucius Annaeus Seneca Oedipus, trans. Frank Justus Miller, The Complete Roman Drama (New York: Random House, 1942), Iir674-S77, iTTl

71

and grief Lie mingled in dark obscurity. I shrink from knowing what I long to know. (II, ii)

The Oedipus who repeats the foregoing is a far cry from

his Sophoclean predecessor.

The means by which Seneca's Oedipus receives the news

of his guilt reveals that either the author did not under­

stand Sophocles' commentary on man's knowledge or else that

he did not consider the subject to be significant. Upon

learning from Creon the general reason for the god's dis­

pleasure, Oedipus sends for Teiresias, who directs that

sacrifices and the burning of incense be administered at

the altar. Manto, daughter of Teiresias, describes the

bloody ceremony. Seneca apparently saw in this scene, and

elsewhere, an opportunity to engage in long declamations

full of weird necromancy. The scene ends with the confes­

sion by Teiresias that he does not know the identity of

Laius' murderer; Creon must go and attempt to conjure up

the ghost of Laius, who may declare his murderer. In dis­

allowing a confrontation between spiritual sight and phy­

sical blindness, on one hand, and spiritual blindness and

physical sight, on the other, Seneca omitted an opportun­

ity to contrast divine knowledge with human knowledge and

consequently to reveal the folly of determining truth

merely from physical appearance. Moreover, the later self-

blinding of Oedipus loses most of its symbolic force and

72

tends to become, at best, melodramatic.

In the last act of the play, just before the final

appearance of Oedipus, the chorus appears and importunes

acceptance of the negative. Stoical doctrine of determin­

ism:

By fate we're driven; then yield to fate No anxious, brooding care can change The thread of destiny that falls From that grim spindle of the Fates Whate'er we mortals suffer here, Whate'er we do, all hath its birth In that deep realm of mystery. Stem Lachesis her distaff whirls. Spinning the threads of mortal men. But with no backward-turning hand. All things in ordered pathways go; And on our natal day was fixed Our day of death. Not God himself Can change the current of our lives. Which bears its own compelling force Within itself. Each life goes on In order fixed and absolute Unmoved by prayer. (V, ii)

The Oedipus who emerges at the play's end has suffered

physical defeat but does not enjoy spiritual triumph. In­

stead of having attuned himself with divine law, he remains

scornful of Apollo.

0 fate-revealer, thee I do upbraid. Thou god and guardian of the oracles.

(V, iii)

Oedipus insists that he had been doomed to slay only his

father but that having caused his mother's death, he is

guilty of double parricide. His bitter words "0 lying

73

Phoebus, now have I outdone the impious fates" reveals his

lack of faith in the justice of things. He is certain only

that his absence will cleanse the city; he bids the "blast­

ing Fates," "mad Despair," and "all pestilential humors"

to come away with him so that the city may live again. In

his last words Oedipus revives the ritual of the dying god.

The suggestion is strong that Seneca is closer in spirit

to the pre-Greek world than he was to that of the Periclean

age.

It has been generally shown that two great schools of

thought attempted to fill the void caused by the denial of

the Olympian religion. Epicureanism and Stoicism fought

against the growth of superstition and were for a time

successful. But, as Murray points out, man's mind cannot

be permanently enlightened by its being cleared of super­

stition. He reasons:

There is an infinite supply of other superstitions always at hand; and the mind that desires such things — that is, the mind that has not trained itself to the hard discipline of reasonableness and hon­esty, will, as soon as the devils are cast out, proceed to fill itself with their re­lations.30

During the Hellenistic age, when Greek thought spread

swiftly, though superficially, over semi-barbarous popula­

tions whose minds were not properly disciplined, men turned

3PMurray, 0£. cit.. p. 126.

74

toward a religion as anthropomorphic as that of the early

Greeks. Zeus and Apollo would not reward the evil nor

punish the good; neither would man do these things. The

answer they arrived at was that Chance or Fortune willed

the outcome of events. The relatively insignificant Greek

goddess Tyche became the extremely important Goddess

Fortuna.

The reason for the sudden and enormous spread of the

worship of Fortuna seems clear. A stable society tends

generally to reward the just and to punish the unjust, that

is, to lay stress on the visible chains of causation. But

in the violent and unstable Hellenistic period the way to

escape destruction seemed to be to placate Fortuna, the

strongest of the prevailing powers under the moon.31

The task of making the irrational and unpredictable

Fortuna into a reasonable and beneficent force was the prob­

lem to which Boethius addressed himself. Boethius' achieve­

ment was that of transforming the blind goddess into a

fictional figure embodying man^s limited hopes of temporal

prosperity as well as his fear of adversity. His ethical

doctrine is based upon his faith in the liberating power

of the human mind, which is able to estimate correctly the

31ibid., pp. 127-123.

75

limited, and consequently ephemeral, value of material sat­

isfactions. His solution is based upon his concept of the

difference between human and divine knowledge. His doc­

trine was to be authoritative for centuries to come.

The Consolation of Philosophy begins on a gloomy note

as the author complains that his sad hour came when " . . .

that faithless Fortune favored me with her worthless

gifts."32 To Lady Philosophy Boethius describes his unhappy

state and protests the lack of justice in the world: those

who seek to do good are punished; whereas, evil men are

rewarded.33 The poet beseeches God to make things harmon­

ious on the earth even as they are in heaven:

Ruler of all things, calm the roil­ing waves, and, as You rule the immense heavens, rule also the earth in stable accord.34

Lady Philosophy suggests that Boethius' difficulty lies

within him, that he is ignorant of the purpose of things.

He does not know that the world is not subject to the acci­

dents of chance; actually, it is governed by divine reason.

Knowledge will dispel his fears. Ignorance is his enemy:

32Ancius Manlius Severinus Boethius, The Consolation of Philosophy, trans. Richard Green (Indianapolis and New York: The Bobbs-Merrill Company, 1962), i. Poem 1.

33lbid., Prose 4.

34lbid., Poem 5.

76

It is the nature of men's minds that when they throw away the truth they em­brace false ideas, and from these comes the cloud of anxiety which obscures their vision of truth.35

Finally, she admonishes him to fly from opinion, that

is, hope and sorrow, which cloud the mind and bind man to

the earth.36

In Book II Lady Philosophy observes that Boethius has

new knowledge which can be put to good use — the knowledge

of Fortune's changeable nature. Now he will have no illu­

sions about the future.37 Fortime would defend herself

with logical arguments. She would say that she has done

no one an injury. Man is born naked and lacks everything;

therefore, he can never lose anything since he has never

really possessed anything. What he thought he owned was

really the possession of Fortune all the time. The wise

man is he who, when he accepts Fortune's gifts, will agree

to give up those gifts when Fortune so chooses. The blind

goddess takes pleasure in raising the low to a high place

and in lowering those who are on top. Her very mutability

should give Boethius hope that his unhappy state will im­

prove. °

35ibid., Prose 6.

36ibid., Poem 7.

37ibid., Prose 4.

3^Ibid., Prose 2.

77

Happiness, says Philosophy, cannot depend upon uncer­

tain things, such as Fortune's gifts. True happiness comes

from within, founded upon the rational self-possession of

one's self. To attain to such a state is to place oneself

beyond the reach of Fortune.39

In Book III Philosophy explores the subject of true

happiness and the supreme good. After having shown how

man in his ignorance wrongly strives after unsatisfactory

and transitory goals in the form of riches, honor, power,

fame, and bodily pleasures, Philosophy suggests that man

should first invoke the aid of God who is the source of

all true felicity.^0 -phe book ends with Philosophy's in­

sistence that since God is the supreme good and is also

the ruler of the universe. He must necessarily direct all

things toward the good.41

Again in Book IV Boethius complains of the seemingly

puzzling fact that evil can be allowed to trample virtue

underfoot. To this complaint Philosophy replies that evil

cannot, in the absolute sense, exist. Evil is nothing, a

negation of pure being; therefore, the ability to do evil

is a weakness, not a power. Plato was right when he said

39lbid., Prose 4.

40ibid., iii. Prose 9.

41lbid., Prose 12.

7a

good always brings rewards and evil brings punishments.42

Evil men merely appear to be triumphant, and the surface

appearance of chaos is more seeming than real.

All sudden and rare events bewilder the unstable and the uninformed. But if the cloudy error of ignorance is swept away, such things will seem strange no longer.43

To Boethius' insistent query as to the nature of the

hidden cause of things, so clear to Lady Philosophy and so

inexplicable to the author. Lady Philosophy admits that the

subject is the greatest of all mysteries, one that can

hardly be explained. The problem involves the relations

between Providence and Fate, between divine foreknowledge

and the freedom of man's will. Providence is the divine

reason itself, by which all things are ordered; Fate is

that order and disposition as man may see it in the un­

folding of events in time. Beholding the operations of

Fate, man tends to become confused, for human judgment may

not discern the providential order which governs those

operations.^^ Since God's Providence is wise and good,

all fortune must ultimately be good. One should keep in

mind the ultimate justness of things. That fortune which

42ibid., iv. Prose 2.

43lbid., Poem 5.

44ibid., Prose 6.

79

seems difficult either tests one's virtue and consequently

affirms one's wisdom, or else it corrects and punishes

vice. One should have faith and adhere to-the principle

of moderation in all things.^5

In Book V. Philosophy deals with the question of

chance. If when we say a "chance" event, we mean an event

whose causes are neither foreseen nor unexpected, then

chance does not exist. What people call "chance" is actu­

ally an unexpected event brought about by a sequence of

causes. In God's world all is order; and, as the old phil­

osophers truly said, nothing can come of nothing.^^

Boethius then raises the question of the possibility

of human choice in a world governed by divine Providence.

If the outcome of human events can depend upon the free

choices of men, these outcomes must be uncertain; therefore,

how can God, who knows all things, know these?. But God

does have this knowledge, and man has free will. Boethius

can see no way out of the dilemma.^7

Philosophy concludes that the confusion is caused by

the fact that man, with his limited knowledge, cannot

45lbid., Prose 7.

46ibid., V, Prose 1.

47lbid., Prose 3.

ao understand the perfection of divine knowledge. God's know­

ledge is not limited; man's knowledge is.4a Boethius had

tried to reconcile the problem in one way only, that of

proving that foreknowledge was not fore ordination. He had

concluded that a necessity was implied. To answer the

question. Fortune introduces an analogy: one does not cause

an event to occur merely by observing that event. Simi­

larly, God observes men's actions without causing them.

She insists that

. . . when God knows that something will happen in the future, and at the same time knows that it will not happen through necessity, this is not opinion but knowledge based on truth.49

The secret lies in resolving the time element, as it con­

cerns God, into terms which man can understand. In God's

mind the past, present, and future are seen as an eternal

present. What eternity is to God, the present moment is

to man. Thus God's foreknowledge of men's actions is like

man's observation of an event. It follows that God's fore­

knowledge does not imply foreordination.50

Philosophy holds that there are two kinds of necessity.

One kind is implied in the mere observance of an act. Such

4aibid., Prose 5.

49ibid., Prose 6.

50ibid.

al

a necessity does not extend beyond the fact that the act

observed makes necessary that the act be true. This is

called "conditional necessity" and involves universal laws

governing such things as the death of men and the rising

of the sun. From this irrestible necessity there is no

escape.51

The conclusion is that the human will remains inviolate

and that God's laws are just. Lady Philosophy counsels

resistance to vice and the cultivation of virtue. Man

should have faith that one's hopes and prayers are not

directed to God in vain.

Lift up your soul to worthy hopes, and offer humble prayers to heaven. If you will face it, the necessity of vir­tuous action imposed upon you is very great, since all your actions are done in the sight of a Judge who sees all things.52

That which Famham has properly called "The Greco-

Roman Surrender" was due primarily to the loss of faith in

the Homeric gods and to the despair caused by the disappear­

ance of the city-state aggravated by economic chaos. Since

man's life is tolerable only if he retains faith either in

some thing or some one, mortal or divine, man was thrown

back upon his own soul in desperation.

51lbid.

52ibid.

32

The Epicureans believed that a certain kind of pleas­

ure was the only good. Consequently all men desire this

pleasure, and all men ought to seek it. The happy man

would strive to eliminate his fears, eradicate his pain,

and pursue mild pleasure. His knowledge need not extend

beyond these simple rules. True knowledge, that is, know­

ledge of the gods and knowledge of the universe, were beyond

man; consequently, he should not concern himself with that

which is impossible to know. The gods, who were uncon­

cerned with man, lived tranquilly and serenely in their

own world. Man's great hope lay in emulating them.

The Stoic's faith was based upon his assumption that

God was the omnibeneficent, omniscient creator of the uni­

verse. No real evil could exist. All of the workings of

nature were pre-determined and were essentially good.

What men call adversity is merely opinion. The happy man

would align his own will with the divine will and accept

as good all which happens. The Stoic could not conceive

of nobility of action in terms of a hero's struggle against

tragic odds. On the contrary, such struggle was foolish.

Ideally, the hero would identify himself with divine reason

by losing himself in God.

The god which Boethius imagined was decidedly anthro­

pomorphic, a fact which tended to bring man and his Deity

closer together. His God was a God of love who manifested

33

himself in all creation. Boethius retained the old Stoic

notion that all fortune is really good and that human know­

ledge cannot comprehend the depths of divine knowledge.

However, man's knowledge is adequate; for, by means of his

reason, man may comprehend the greatness of god and seek

faith which is the instrument of his salvation. The gloom

created by philosophers during the later classical period

was partially dispelled by Boethius.

CHAPTER IV

THE MEDIEVAL INTERLUDE

That the dominant philosophies of the early centuries

of the Christian era were based upon man's awareness of

failure has been shown. In a universe governed by chance

or mechanical necessity, paganism had all too frequently

concluded that the gods, if indeed they existed, were

either oblivious of man's plight or else malicious toward

mankind. Into this philosophical vacuum came Christianity

and a new hope for man.

Yet primitive Christianity immediately faced a most

perplexing problem. The new religion tended to substitute

divine determinism for pagan fata)lism, and the question of

man's free will appeared to remain, as before, unresolved.

To admit of man's individuality and freedom in the face of

God's omniscience and omnipotence. Christian philosophy

had to be extended.

Although the early church fathers were aware of the

need to refute pagan fatalism by means of belief in an all-

wise, loving God, they were hard pressed to maintain their

faith in man's free will. Just how difficult this struggle

was may be seen in the writings of Saint Augustine, Chris­

tian spokesman for the early Middle Ages.

Based upon the notion of divine illumination, the

philosophy of Augustine is God-centered. Augustine's

34

35

thinking is not bounded by reason. Of necessity, he said,

faith must precede understanding. In his introductory

comment in On The Trinity, he avows that his purpose is

. . . to guard against the sophis­tries of those who disdain to begin with faith, and are deceived by a crude and perverse love of reason.1

In developing his theory of the nature of evil, Augus­

tine assumed that all of God's creations were good and

that no intrinsic evil could be attached to such creations.

Evil has no real being and may be defined merely as a pri­

vation or want of goodness. Such gradations are needed to

account for the harmony which God chose to introduce into

the universe.

. . . no nature at all is evil, and this is the name for nothing but the want of good. But from things earthly to things heavenly, from the visible to the invis­ible, there are some things better than others; and for this purpose they are ^ unequal, in order that they might exist.^

To him who cannot understand such reasoning, Augustine

would suggest that man cannot hope to comprehend God's

perfect wisdom.3

To explain moral evil, Augustine turned to the will

itself, as being the source. Because of Adam's sin, man

ISaint Augustine, "On the Trinity," Basic Writings of Saint Augustine, trans. A. W. Haddan, ed. Whitney J. Gates jfew York: Random House, 1943) II. ii. 1.

2jbid., The City of God, trans. M. Dodds, II, xi. 22.

3ibid., 21.

36

was born in ignorance and with a defective will. Man wrong­

ly believes that he controls his will. It was in such a

state that Adam found himself after the fall, before God

had extended grace to him. Here man is able only to sin.

When God does give man grace, man discovers that he is in

another state in which he is able not to sin — the state

of Adam before the fall.^ In the perfect state, man is

unable to sin; for he is dead, and by the grace of God has

eternal life.5

Unable to control his will, a good which comes from

God, man is powerless to act rightly. To explain his

reasoning, Augustine suggests that one imagine a man with­

out a will. To such a man the concept of righteous action

has no meaning, for to act rightly comprehends the possi­

bility not to act rightly. Certainly God could not create

a man who would be incapable of righteous action. Men,

therefore, have wills which are capable of choosing rightly

of wrongly.^

Saint Augustine had his own private definition of

freedom of the will. He contended that man's will was free

only when the action chosen was good. When evil action is

4ibid., xiv. 21.

5lbid., xxii. 21.

^Ibid.

37

chosen, the will is not free; rather, it is enslaved by

some evil, perhaps passion. To enjoy what Augustine refers

to as "positive freedom" is to have escaped from the evils

of this world:

If ye continue in ray word, then ye are my disciples indeed; and ye shall know the truth and the truth shall make you free. (John VIII, 31, 32.)

Born with a defective will, man cannot establish con­

tact with God unless he receives God's grace. But grace is

a free gift which man, a sinner, cannot, by his own merit,

deserve.7 Still, sinners are the only possible recipients.

The question arises: how then are men elected to receive

God's grace? Augustine insists that God in his infinite

wisdom makes the decision; man cannot hope to penetrate

the mystery.

Augustine apparently believed that allowing man the

means to save himself would, in effect, make God less than

omnipotent; moreover, there would be no room for God's

mercy. Yet it seems clear that to give to God the sole

responsibility of electing or not-electing is also to make

the act of not electing a source of evil, something which

Augustine could not, of course, admit. Curiously, Augustine

7Saint Augustine, "Retractions," The Problem of Free Choice, trans. Don Mark Portifex, Ancient Christian Writers, ids. Johannes Quasten and Joseph C. Plumpe (Westminster, Md.: Newman Press, 1946), i. 9. 225.

33

does not emphasize man's need for knowledge, and one must

conclude that men, living under such a pitiless theology,

cannot logically be held responsible for his state, whether

prosperous or adverse.

The path which Christianity took to discover justifica­

tion for its faith in man's freedom of will was a long and

difficult one. Eight centuries were to pass before the

appearance of a theologian of sufficient stature to guide

Christianity away from the New-Platonism of Augustine. It

was Saint Thomas Aquinas, who insisted that if man were to

assume responsibility for his errors, then he must be given

the power of truly free choice. Such a power would be his

own, but it would come from God. Although he appropriated

and developed many of Augustine's ideas. Saint Thomas

Aquinas deviated on a point necessary to the establishment

of a basis for tragedy. He re-defined the province of

knov/ledge and the power of will in man. In a certain defect

of the will, that is, a lack of goodness in the will, lies

the metaphysical root of evil of action. Every being, as

such, is good. But the will, like imperfect man, also

lacks perfect goodness.^ In the freedom given to the will

3saint Thomas Aquinas, "Summa Theologia," Basic Writ­ings of Saint Thomas Aquinas, Dominican Translation of Saint Thomas Aquinas, ed. Anton C. Pegis (New York: Random House, 1944), 1- 1* 5. 3.

39

to act or not to act, one may see the cause for the creation

of evil. Even so, the defect itself, dependent upon free­

dom, is not itself an act and as yet does not create evil.

It is only when the will actually acts that evil is created.

One may consider that two moments are involved.

Evil has a deficient cause in voluntary beings otherwise than in natural things. For the natural agent produces the same kind of effect as itself, unless it is impeded by some exterior thing; and this amounts to some defect in it. Hence evil never follows in the effect unless some other evil pre­exists in the agent or in the matter . . . But in voluntary beings the defect of the action comes from an actually deficient will inasmuch as it does not actually sub­ject itself to its proper rule. This defect, however, is not a fault; but fault follows upon it from the fact that the will acts with this defect.9

In propounding negation, man needs himself — and him­

self alone. He uses his freedom not to consider the rule;

hence, the very moment of non-consideration of the rule

suggests the spiritual element of sin. At this moment, the

texture of being gives way. Nothingness, by its very

nature, leads to nothingness.10

From Augustine to Thomas Aquinas, one sees a shift from

Neo-Platonisra to Aristotelianism. In his theology, Thomas

9lbid., 1. 49. 1. (By "its proper rule" Saint Thomas refers to perfect reason and divine knowledge, both of which are beyond man.)

lOibid., 1. 5. 3.

90

Aquinas manifests an awareness of the principles of science.

He sees the material universe as one of law and order, and

he appears to urge men to use human reason for the purpose

of discovering order in life. He supports the idea that

man's intellect may justify faith and consequently confer

new glory upon God.H

When Thomas Aquinas gave equal credence to the material

reality of the universe as well as to God!s immaterial real­

ity, he opened the door to extremism. On one hand, the

mystic could insist that all existence is spirit; on the

other, the materialist could argue that all is spiritless

matter. Opposing the view that the only reality is God

(and good) was the contrary view that that which is real

is the absence of God (and evil).

Thus, Thomistic Christianity in abandoning the ascetic integrity of Augustian New-Platonism was deserting a secure fortress to fight in dangerous open country. It was exposing itself to, even using the methods of, a force which was fated to grow stronger, to cause desertion from the religious ranks, and eventually to find its own logical integ­rity in materialistic monism.12

Yet here in the middle ground where spirit and matter,

or good and evil, continually threaten to destroy each other,

one sees the tragic mind function at its best. In such a

llFamham, 0£. cit., p. 124.

12ibid., pp. 125-126.

91

realm man adds his weight first to one side and then to the

other, all the while discovering that the contest is nobly

creative rather than hopelessly nihilistic." It is the true

tragic world, no less for the Periclean age than for the

Elizabethan, and it is to the credit of Saint Thomas Aquinas

that he helped to prepare the intellectual climate for

Shakespearean tragedy.^3

Another step in the creation of such a climate may be

seen in Boccaccio's D£ Casibus Virorum Illustrium (I365-

1370). In this long collection of stories, which recount

the crushing blows of Fortune administered to illustrious

personages throughout the ages, Boccaccio treats of the

problem of knowledge. Boccaccio would show how God (or

Fortune) has power over those in high places; then he would

reveal to princes the virtue of wisdom and moderation by

holding up to them those instances of misfortune which are

provoked by pride, egotism, and ambition.1^

To Boccaccio, princes were objects of scorn, creatures

for whom he had neither sympathy nor respect. There was,

he insisted in his "Epistle to Mainardo," no living king.

13Ibid.

l^Boccaccio, "Preface to His First Version," De Casibus Virorum Illustrium, quoted in Lydgates Fall of Princes, ed. Dr. rienry Sergen (London: Published for The Early English Text Society, by Humphrey Milford, Oxford University Press, Amer. House, Warwick House, E. C , 1924), Part I, xlvii.

92

nor emperor, nor pope to whom he wished to dedicate his

book. Because of their vices — pride, avarice, luxurious-

ness, idleness, and many other faults — all virtue was

lost; indeed, by their woeful examples they had corrupted

the common people.^^ By dispensing knowledge to princes,

Boccaccio apparently hoped to bring goodness and order out

of an evil and chaotic situation.

Although Boccaccio emphasizes, over and over, man's

powerlessness in an irrational world of chance, and while

he does not state explicitly that by following moderation

and discretion man may escape misfortune, he hints that

certain benefits may be obtained.1^

In his first story Boccaccio observes that, because

of man's disobedience and vainglory. Fortune came into

being in this world. With Fortune came all other mis­

fortunes, and finally inevitable death. By nature, then,

man's life is tragic, and it is futile to struggle against

destiny. Man's hope of regaining his lost Paradise in the

life after death lies in his following the precepts of

Christ.17

15ibid., pp. xlix-1.

l6Boccaccio, D^ Casibus Virorum Illustrium, 2nd ed., 1st version. (Printed at Paris for Jean Gaurmant and Jean Petit, early loth century, N. D.), trans. Willard Famham, op, cit., pp. 34-35. (All quotations from the De Casibus comeTrom Famham, neither the original Latin nor any other English translation being available).

17Fortunae ludibrium, Fol. i verso, Famham, p. 35.

93

Boccaccio's treatment of the notion of Fortune in Book

III is reminiscient of Stoical philosophy. The fight be­

tween boastful Poverty and Fortune ends in the defeat of

Fortune. As the spoils of victory, poverty demands and is

granted the following: that hereafter Misfortune be chained

to a stake in a public place so that he would forever be

unable to touch any man unless that man were foolhardy

enough to break Misfortune's chains. Good Fortune, however,

would be allowed to go an3rwhere.l^ The moral seems to be

clear: he who grapples with the world unchains Misfortune

and courts disaster. The unaspiring life is best; or, as

the Stoic said, lightning tends to hit the highest tree.

He who would be wise would learn that with ambition comes

danger.

In the stories concerning Pompey and Alcibiades Boc­

caccio appears to betray an admiration for heroic struggle

in spite of the fact that he insists that the two heroes

have unbound Misfortune from the stake. Alcibia,des is un­

done when he becomes overconfident of victory; Pompey is a

victim of treachery; but both have such splendid characters

that Boccaccio appears to be shocked when Fortune destroys

them.^9

13Famham, pp. 36 - 37.

19ibid., pp. 97-93. (Folio Iii verso)

94

Further evidence that Boccaccio admired worldly fame

is suggested in the humorous dialogue with Fortune in Book

VI. Having again inveighed against Fortune regarding her

fickle nature, Boccaccio suddenly seeks her assistance in

completing his book so that his own renown may be eternal.

The situation is highly ironical, for both Boccaccio and

Fortune understand that Boccaccio is guilty of doing that

which he has been warning others not to do.^^

Boccaccio's conclusion is also not in keeping with

his central thesis. He sums up by saying that one should

love God and strive after virtue; however, he insists

that one should seek honor, praise, and fame. To do these

things is to show that one is worthy of the elevation

which one achieves. Should one then fall from the heights,

one may correctly blame fickle Fortune and not himself

for his doom.21

Though he does not always say as much, it appears

that Boccaccio guardedly admits that men is at least par­

tially responsible for his endeavors and that character

flaws contribute to human misfortunes.

20lbid., p. 101.

21ibid., pp. 101-102

95

Important to the development of Renaissance tragedy

were the contributions made by Chaucer.

In the Monk's Tale Chaucer continues to adhere to

Boccaccio's theory of tragedy but is less prone to attri-

bute character flaws to man's misfortune. His definition

of tragedy is simple:

Tragedie is to serve a certeyn storie As olde bookes maken us memorie Of hym that stood in greet prosperitee, And is yfallen out of heigh degree Into myserie, and endeth wrecchedly.22

As he begins his tale, the Monk warns man about trusting

in fortune.

For certein, whan that Fortune list to flee. There may no man the cours of hire withholde. Lat no man truste on blynd prosperitee

Be war by thise ensamples trewe and olde.^3

Having defined tragedy as the story of man's fall

from prosperity, and having warned man not to trust in

fortune, Chaucer goes on to show, in most of his stories,

how fortune overturns both virtuous and vicious alike.

Sampson, who "was announced" by an angel and consecrated

22Geoffrey Chaucer, "The Prologue of The Monk's Tale," The Works of Geoffrey Chaucer, ed. F. N. Robinson, second eSXtion (Boston: Houghton Mifflin Company, The Riverside Press, 1957), B. 3163-3167- (All references to Chaucer are from this edition.)

23Geoffrey Chaucer, The Monk's Tale, B. 3135-3133.

96

by God, was destroyed because he revealed the secret of

his strength to his wife. Adam was for "mysgovemaunce"

driven out of high prosperity to labor, hell, and misfor­

tune. Rarely does Chaucer indicate any connection between

the flaws of men and their downfalls, and the feeling per­

sists that misfortune has no rational cause. The excep­

tion to the general rule is seen in the case of Hercules,

who is guiltless of any sin:

Ful wys if he that kan humselven knowe ! Beth war, for whan that Fortune list to glose, Thanne wayteth she her man to overthrowe By swich a wey as he wolde leest suppose.

(B. 3329-3332)

Chaucer suggests that wisdom arises from self-knowledge

and that such self-knowledge would prevent one's being

lulled into a false sense of security by fortune's flat­

tery.

So, too, at the end of his tale, the Monk cautions

men against trusting Fortune: Tragedies noon oother raaner th3mg Ne kan in syngyng crie ne biwaille But that Fortune alwey wole assaille With unwar strook the regnes that been proude; For whan men trusteth hire, thanne wol she faille And covere hire brighte face with a clowde.

(B. 3951-3956)

The wise man would then not enter the world of heroic action

and lay himself open to the blows of Fortune. Like Boccac­

cio, Chaucer here recommends the humble life.

97

In Troilus and Criseyde Chaucer comes nearer to human­

istic tragedy, at least in the sense that the poet attri­

butes Troilus' earthly disappointments to lack of knowledge.

As the soul of Troilus rises to the eighth sphere, he has

a moment of clear vision. Surveying the scene below, he

feels at first loathing for the wretched world with all of

its vsinity. Then his new knowledge turns loathing into

joy as he surveys the entire course of events in the life

which he has just departed.

And in hymself he lough right at the wo Of him that wepten for his deth so faste; And dampned al oure werk that foloweth so The blynde lust, the which that may nat laste24

Like Plato, Chaucer seems to insist that man is a prisoner

of his senses, that ansolute knowledge is denied to man

while he lives. But whereas Plato would appeal to reason

which, by rejecting the evidence of the sense, would aid

one to draw near the true world, Chaucer recommends Chris­

tian faith and love as the means by which one may escape

being blinded by this world's vanity. Each reiterated

man's propensity to tragic struggle, and each insisted

upon the need for special knowledge.

More even than with Boccaccio or Chaucer, Lydgate

insisted that Fortune caused man's tragedy. Lydgate's

24Geoffrey Chaucer, Troilus and Cressida, V, 1321-1324.

93

Fortune, much like Chaucer's, is irrational, and each opines

that man's struggle in the mundane world is vain. Speaking

as a monk, Lydgate appears to say that the wise man is he

who abandons the heroic struggle. Oedipus, for instance,

was morally a blameless man. His only fault was that he

was successful in worldly affairs. Lydgate warns:

Who cljnnbeth hiest, his fal is lowest dou A mene estat is best, who koude it knowe, Tween hih presumying and bowyg dou to lowe.25

Lydgate is not sure of the root of Oedipus' tragedy, but

he gives his opinion:

In this mateer, pleyn thus I deeme Off no cunnyng but off ppynyoun: Though he wer crownyd with sceptre and diademe To regne in Thebes the stronge myhti town. That sum aspect can from hevene doun, Infortunat, freward and ful off rage. Which ageyn kynde deyned this mariage.

(11, 3494-3500)

In general Lydgate is incapable of tracing explicitly

man's misfortunes to some flaw in his character, although

he takes a firm stand against domestic vices, warning a-

gainst murder, tyranny, ingratitude, pride, covetousness,

and vulgar materialism. At the same time he often implies

that men reap what they sow, here in this life. One of the

25Lydgate, "The Misfortunes of Oedipus," Lydgate's Fall of Princes ed. Dr. Henry Bergen (London: Oxford Uni­versity Press, 1924)

99

few instances in which he departs from allowing Fortune to

control man's destiny or from merely implying that men

suffer for sins, is seen in his Book V. Here he directly

asserts the formula for prosperity and adversity:

Noble Princis. . . Remembreth pleynli, yif ye be virtuous. Ye shall persevere in long prosperite, Wher the contrairie causeth adversite As this stoic afforn doth specefie Of antiochus . . .

(11. 1614-1620)

By the time Lydgate has completed his translation, he

readily repeats the above assertion. Grace and prosperity

follow virtue (Book IX, 11. 3544-3546), and in his very

last line, remembering those who find themselves undone by

Fortune, now weeping, now singing, he concludes: "Who will

encrece bi vertu must ascende" (1. 3623).

The morality play, which, it is generally agreed,

represents an important step in the development of Eliza­

bethan tragedy, touches upon the problem of knowledge from

a Christian point of view. Appearing in the early fifteenth

century, the plays consisted primarily of medieval drama­

tized sermons in which virtues and vices struggled for the

possession of man's soul; the later, more artistic plays,

pictured man, blinded by ignorance and sin, working out

his spiritual salvation by the light of Christian knowledge.

It is significant that in the better morality plays.

100

it is earthly man and not saintly or perfect man, who is

pictured in a world of good and evil and given free choice

to determine his destiny. In Everyman, for example, God

declares that all of His creatures have forgotten His sac­

rifice. Love of worldly goods has rendered man ignorant.

Such is man's condition:

Lyu3mge without drede in worldely prosperyte Of ghostly syght the people be so blynde, Drowned in synne, they know me not for theyr God In worldely ryches is all theyr mynde.26

Told by Death that he must die that very day, Everyman

attempts to make his reckoning. The painful truth dawns

on him. Life, which Everyman had thought was given him,

was in fact, lent to him only briefly. Then, as his friends,

one after the other, abandon him — Fellowship, Kindred,

Cousin — Everyman begins to look like the hero of the

humanist tragedy. He tends toward despair when he learns

that Goods " . . . that I loved best" (1. 472), like his

own life, was also given him as a temporary loan.

Good Deeds, so burdened with sin that she may not rise

from the ground, at least gives good counsel: her sister.

Knowledge, will help Everyman to provide a reckoning. In

26Everyman, Chief Pre-Shakesperean Dramas ed. Joseph Quincy Adams (Cambridge: Houghton Mifflin Company, The Riverside Press Cambridge, 1924), 11. 24-2?, p. 2, 9.

101

following Knowledge's advice, Everyman shows that he has

abandoned the seeming good for true good. Confession read­

ily accepts Everyman because, as she says, " . . . with

Knowledge ye come to me" (1. 555). When Good Deeds arises,

now cleansed from sin, Everyman weeps " . . . for very

swetenes of love" (1. 635), and is cheerful even as he

learns that Discretion, Five-Wits, Strength, and Beauty,

and indeed Knowledge will not attend him into the grave.

After communion and extreme unction are administered,

Everyman triumphantly enters the grave, accompanied by

Good-Deeds, who will be his witness. Knowledge announces

that Everyman has been saved:

Now hath he suffred that we all shall endure The Good-Dedes shall make all sure. Now hath he made endynge. Methynketh that I here aungelles synge. And make grete ioy and melody Where Euerymannes soule receyued shall be

(11. 333-393)

Everyman is saved because he does not despair of God's mer-

c y. In following the good counsels of Good Deeds and Know­

ledge, Everyman demonstrates that his knowledge of God is

adequate and that he can act positively from such knowledge.

That morality plays could easily merge into tragedy

is shown in Marlowe's Dr. Faustus. In this play the alle­

gorical figures of the good and bad angels contend for the

possession of Faustus' soul. Unlike Everyman, who avoids

tragedy, Faustus is author of his own tragedy because his

102

knowledge is inadequate.

In the "Prologue" the Chorus comments ironically on

Faustus' actual knowledge and upon the hero's false opinion

of his knowledge. At Wittenberg whence he did "profit in

divinity," Faustus only nibbled the fruits of learning:"The

fruitful plot of scholarism graz'd."27 And though Faustus

has not profound knowledge, he has been " . . . grac'd with

doctor's name" (1. 17) and has excelled all others in dis­

puting theological matters (11. 13-19). The effect of

lines 15-20 is clear: Faustus' knowledge is scanty. Then,

to emphasize the point, the Chorus reveals Faustus' pride

concerning his "wisdom," a sure sign of ignorance:

Till swollen with cunning, of a self-conceit. His waxen wings did mount above his reach And melting heavens conspir'd his over­throw: (11. 20-22)

Then, believing himself "glutted with learning's golden

gifts" (1. 24) Faustus seeks forbidden knowledge:

Nothing so sweet as magic is to him, Which he prefers before his chiefest bliss. (11. 25-26)

In Scene I Faustus rejects traditional studies and

further reveals his ignorance. Asserting that he will be

27christopher Marlowe, "The Tragical History of Dr. Faustus," English Drama 1530-1624. ed. C. F. Tucker Brooke and Nathaniel Burton Paradise, (Boston: D. C. Heath and Company, 1933) 1. 16, p. 171.

103

a "divine in show," he protests the value of his studies.

Since the end of the study of logic is to dispute well and

since he has learned to do so, he rejects this study be­

cause it provides him no "greater miracle" (1. 9). He

scorns the study of medicine, more important then the study

of philosophy (Ubi desinit philosophus, ibi incipit

medicus) (p. 16) because his learning has enabled him neither

to make man immortal nor to raise up the dead (11. 24-25).

Significantly Faustus abandons the study of divinity and,

in doing so, reveals his fragmentary Biblical knowledge.

Repelled by the harshness of the quotation "The reward of

sin is death" (I. i. 33) he avoids mention of the rest of

the verse which gives hope to those free from sin: "but

the gift of God is eternal life, through Jesus Christ our

Lord" (Rom. vi, 23). Similarly, he emphasizes the verse,

"If we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and

there is no truth in us" (11. 40-41), but he refrains from

quoting the next verse which offers a remedy for sin: "If

we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us

our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness" (I

John 1, 9). From these verses Faustus is led to conclude

that because man must sin, he must die everlasting; there­

fore the whole Christian scheme is deterministic: "What

will be, shall be - - Divinity adieu I" (1. 45)

Glibly and scornfully, Faustus has shown that he is

104

woefully ignorant of the principles of Elizabethan learn­

ing, principles designed to provide man with the basis for

a happy life:

These principles included the pur­suit of self-knowledge, faith in man's spiritual destiny, acceptance of re­sponsibilities to society, and proof of wisdom in conduct. In brief,- the end of learning was to prepare individ­uals for better service to both God and the state.23

The cause of Faustus' ignorance is pride which blinds

him to the truth about himself and about God. To discover

the truth about these things, man should look without and

within. Typical of Renaissance thinking is the following

admonition designed to rid man of his presumptuousness.

(By looking into heaven and feeling our own ignorance, vanity, and corrup­tion) . . . we are ledde and induced to know, that in God onely consisteth and reflteth the true light of wisdome, firmeness of vertue and certaine fulness of all good things, and the purity of Justice and Righteousnesse. From whence we learne that the knowledge of our­selves, not onely provoketh and inciteth every man to know God, but also leadeth them by the hand to finde him out . . . man never attaineth to the true knowledge of himself, untill with the eyes of faith, he beholds the face of God, and from be­holding it, look into the depths of his owne heart . . . For pride is naturally borne with us . . . so we are still of opinion, that there is much wisdome.

23joseph T. McCullen, "Dr. Faustus and Renaissance Learning," Modern Language Review 1956, LI, 7.

105

righteousnesse, and holinesse in us, untill by manifest and evident argu­ments we are made to see our own ig­norance. . . 29

Unaware that he is guilty of pride (since pride blinds

man to the fact that he is proud), Faustus does not realize

that he is alienating himself from God. Renaissance human­

ists knew that the first step in the removal of pride was

Christian humility just as the first step toward the attain­

ment of true wisdom was that of achieving intellectual

humility. The two following quotations emphasize the power

which humility possesses:

The only and chief remedy against pride is humilitie; for as by pride wee are banished from the presence of god so by humilitie wee are recalled unto him againe, because without humilitie, no other vertue whatsoever is acceptable in his sight.30

La Primaudaye recalled the lesson taught by Socrates:

To end this discourse, and to beat down and supress all human presumption, it shall not be amiss to insert that which Socrates said of himselfe, which was, that hee knew but one thing, that is, hee knew nothing, therein speaking trulier then he thought he had done. For a man adorned and instructed with and in so many notable sciences as he was, should be moved nevertheless to confess that he knew nothing in regard and comparison

29peter de La Primaudaye, The French Academie, trans, T. B. (London, 1633), p. 903.

30TWO Guides to a Good Life (;sometimes attributed to Bishop HiTl) (Printed by W. laggard, London, I6O4), C2.

106 of that whereof he was ignorant; namely, in moral and natural sciences, although he had applied his mind and whole study thereunto: how much more ought hee (that by reason should be far wiser than Socrates) to confesse and acknowledge that he knoweth nothing, if he hath not the understanding of devine science requisite for the salvation of his soule?31

Near the end of his opening soliloquy, Faustus reveals

his misguided intentions: he will seek forbidden knowledge

for an evil purpose. His pride has caused him to seek to

be a god.

All things that move between the quiet poles Shall be at my command. Emperors and kings Are but obey'd in their several provinces Nor can they raise the wind nor rend the clouds; But his dominion that exceeds in this Stretcheth as far as doth the mind of man. A sound physician is a mighty god: Here, Faustus, try they brains to gain a deity. (I, 54-61)

Ignoring the Good Angel's warning to lay aside blas­

phemous studies of magic in favor of reading the scriptures,

Faustus is entranced with the Evil Angel's promise of power: Be thou on earth as Jove is in the sky; Lord and commander of these elements.

A bit later, after having gloried vicariously in

thoughts of his future enterprises, Faustus repeats his

disdain of philosophy, law, physic, and divinity, concluding

3lLa Primaudaye, 0£. cit., p. 904

107

"'Tis magic, magic, that hath ravished me." (I, 103).

Faustus' course is now set.

Conjuring up Mephistophilis appears to intensify

Faustus' passion for power, now aggravated by a desire to

drown himself in voluptuousness. So violent is his passion

that he remains unmoved by the terrifying cry of pain

uttered by Mephistophilis, whose anguish has made him

temporarily forget himself. Having tasted the joys of

heaven and now having found himself deprived of eternal

bliss, Mephistophilis is ". . . tortured by ten thousand

hells" (III, 32-34). Impulsively he says:

0 Faustus I leave these frivolous demands. Which strike a terror to my fainting soul.

(Ill, 35-36)

But Faustus eagerly offers his soul so that he may " . . .

live in all voluptuousness" (1. 96). As he anxiously awaits

Lucifer's reply, he will pass the time in delightful antic­

ipation of things to come. Now that I have obtained what I desire, I'll live in speculation of this'art Till Mephistophilis return again.

(11 116-113)

When Faustus appears somewhat later in Scene V, his

passion is intensified. The voice he hears warning him to

abandon magic and to turn once more to God makes him hesi­

tate for only a brief moment, after which his faith crum­

bles and he admits he serves a new god.

103

Ay, and Faustus will turn to God again. To God?—He loves thee not— The God thou serv'st is thine ovm appetite. Wherein is fix'd the love of Belzebub

(V, 9-12)

In the brief scene with the angels Faustus reveals the

inadequacy of his spiritual knowledge: "Contrition, prayer,

repentance I VThat of them?" (V, 16) He tends to believe the

Evil Angel, who insists that these things are illusions

which make men foolish (V, 13-19). That the opposite is

true and that Faustus' worldly learning has caused him to

confuse appearance with reality would have been obvious to

Renaissance scholars, who differentiated clearly between

the two kinds of Prudence:

The first kind of Prudence may be said to be that ripeness of knowledge which men have in worldly matters, and so Machevile may be said to be a wiseman, but such wisdom is accounted foolishnesse before God, I Cor. 3, 19. And in the end intangles the owners in their owne craf-tinesse, as appears by the desperate end of Achitophell, 2 Sam. 17, 23.

The second kind of Prudence, is that knowledge which is had in devine matters touching the understanding of God's word, and the mysterie of our salvation, which is called true wisdom; . . .32

It is Faustus, then, who is foolishly excited by the pros­

pect of wealth, promised by the Evil Angel. Moreover, in

his excitement he does not comprehend the significance of

such things as Mephistophilis' comments concerning Lucifer

32TWO Guides to a Good Life, 0£. cit., G 3.

109

and the pains of hell, or the miraculous congealing of his

own blood, or the appearance of the words "Homo, fuge" on

his arm. An indication of the evil depth to which he has

descended is seen in his blasphemous parody of the climax

of Christ's passion, Consummatum est (V, 73) (St. John XIX,

30).

An element which helps to sustain the dramatic inten­

sity of the play up to the end is the possibility that

Faustus can at any time" atone for his sins. That all is

not yet lost is revealed in Faustus' encounter with the Old

Man. Aware, as Faustus is not, of the power of God's mer­

cy and of the danger inherent in despair, the Old Man cries

out:

I see an angel hoveres o'er thy head. And, with a vial full of precious grace. Offers to pour the same into thy.soul: Then call for mercy and avoid dispair.

(XIII, 74-77)

But Faustus cannot humble himself in order to seek penance.

Not only does he not understand God's mercy, he also does

not know himself, a requisite in the process of attaining

salvation.

...this common and vulgar sentence Nosceteipsum, know thyself, is reputed and taken to come down from heaven, in regard of the excellencie thereof, because it is necessary for man to know his own ignorance, povertie and mysterie that hee may thereby humble himselfe, and seek for his owne good without him­self e, and by that means be let unto

110

God, wherein consisteth his sole felic-itee. On this point dependeth the be­ginning, the middle, and the end of all true wisdome, nothing being more certaine, than that the knowledge of God and of ourselves, are things conjoined together, and in such maner united one unto the other, by many wayes that it cannot be easily descerned which goeth before and produceth the other.32

Faustus' slothfulness and his inadequate knowledge

have succeeded in paralyzing his will and alienating him­

self from God. The sudden burst of anguished truth.

See, see v/here Christ's blood streams in the firmament I

One drop would save my soul—half a drop;

ah, my Christ I (XIV, 137-133)

is smothered first by Faustus' sudden fear of Lucifer and

then by an even greater terror of God's wrath. Having lost

faith in Christ, Faustus, in despair, is seen to commit the

unpardonable sin of permanent impenitence. Inadequate

knowledge of the true function of knowledge, of himself,

and of Christian theology—v:ith slothfulness—have combined

to destroy Faustus.

32La Primaudaye, 0£. cit., p. 902.

CHAPTER V

THE ELIZABETHAN TRIUlViPH

The Renaissance belief concerning the difficulty of

knowing derived largely from the classical and Scholastic

tradition, with later clarification being made by Sceptics.

Common to all of these schools of thought was the belief

that perfect knowledge was not of this world. Men shared

faith in an invisible, transcendent reality, but they

viewed the physical world as impermanent, incomplete, and

transitory. If, in trying to gain knowledge, man imposed

his imperfect senses on an impermanent world, he could

hope to get little more than a distorted picture of truth.

His best hope lay in imposing divine reason upon the limit­

ed knowledge provided by the senses.

Sceptics insisted that the human mind, ever prone to

error, could never arrive at absolute certainty."'- Men,

says Montaigne, resemble ears of wheat which rise up, proud

and erect, when they are empty, and which, when they are

full and swollen in ripeness, grow humble and lower their

heads. So, too, learned men who have found in their ex­

tensive studies nothing but vanity, finally renounce their

presumptiveness and recognize their natural condition.2

^Michel de Montaigne "The Apology of Raymond Sebonde," The Complete Essays of Montaigne trans. Donald M. Frame JWe\f York:. Doubleday and Sons, I960), II, 247.

2ibid., p. 135. Ill

112

Montaigne's metaphor brings to mind the Socratic belief

that a wise man is noted for his intellectual humility,

this humility being born of the knowledge of the difficulty

of knowing.

One major obstacle barring man's way to the truth in­

volved the mind itself. Properly stimulated, one's imag­

ination could create its own subjective "reality" and

blind man to true, objective reality. Montaigne observed

that "A strong imagination creates the event . . ."3

Because all men feel the effect of the imagination, Mon­

taigne did not think it strange that those men who gave

the imagination a free hand and encouraged it could actu­

ally suffer terror and death.^ Quoting an old Greek maxim,

Montaigne also wisely observed that men are often made

miserable by their opinions of things, not be the things

themselves.5 If that which man calls "evil" and "torment"

is not in fact evil or torment, then it is man's imagina­

tion Which confers these qualities upon things. Again, if

the essence of that which man fears could enter unaided

into man's mind, then this essence would lodge unchanged

3Michel de Montaigne, "Of the Power of the Imagination," I, 92.

4lbid.

5Michel de Montaigne, "That the Taste of Good and Evil Depends in Large Part on the Opinions We Have of Them,"I,43.

113

in all men's minds. Such, however, is not the case:

But the diversity of the opinion we have of these things shows clearly that they enter us by mutual agreement; one man perchance lodges them in him­self in their true essence, but in a thousand other men they are given a new and contrary essence.^

If the Renaissance man was aware of the potential power

which the imagination could unloose upon the mind, he was

no less conscious that both good and evil, always present

in man and indeed in all being, were so subtly interwoven

that each often resembled the other. Kilton was echoing a

Renaissance belief when he observed.

Good and evil we know in the field of this world grow up together almost inseparable: and the knowledge of good is so involved with the knowledge of evil, and in so many cunning resemblances hardly to be discerned, that those con­fused seeds which were imposed on Psyche as an incessant labor to be culled out and sort asunder were not more intermixt. It was out of the rind of one apple tasted that the knowledge of good and evil, as two twins cleaving together, leaped forth into the world.7

In insisting upon the co-existence of good and evil in all

things, Milton suggests the complexity, rather than the

simplicity, of that with which man must deal.

Finally, man must deal with another curious fact con­

cerning the nature of things: evil may sometimes give birth

^Ibid., pp. 42-43.

7john Milton, "Areopagitica," Complete Poems and Major prose ed. Merritt Y. Hughes, (Nev/ York: The Odyssey Press, I557T, p. 723.

114

to good, and danger may call forth courage; contrariwise,

a superabundance of good, or misapplied virtue, can make

it easy for vice to flourish. It is no accident that

Elizabethan vnriters employed the device of paradox to des­

cribe contradictory situations involving good and evil.

In the following analysis of Romeo and Juliet, two

points of view, both involving the problem of knowledge,

will be employed. It is hoped that such an analysis will

provide insights into the play heretofore not adequately

emphasized.

First, because of the long feud, the powerfully stim­

ulated imaginations of the two families have created new

"realities," subjectively true but objectively false. Each

family is unaware that it is troubled not by the other fam­

ily but by its opinion of that family. The confusion of

appearance with reality provides the source of the tragedy.

First to discover that the so-called Montague-Capulet

"hatred" is an imagined one are Romeo and Juliet. Tybalt

never makes this discovery, and the heads of the two houses

see the truth only at the play's end.

The second point of analysis involves the complex

nature of good and evil. In men, indeed, in all existence,

good and evil continually co-exist. In all being there is

no quality either purely good or purely evil; consequently,

the qualities found in things are diverse and many-faceted.

115

(As Plato observed, absolute good exists only in the in­

visible realm of "ideas" of "spirit.") To this phenomenon

must be added the paradox that, under certain conditions,

good and evil are ..mutually productive.

Analysis of Romeo and Juliet

Appearance and Reality

The first line of the "Prologue," provides the audience

with a truth which the Capulets and Montagues cannot see.

False opinion blinds them to the fact that they are "Two

households, both alike in dignity,"^ and that the "ancient

grudge" is not between villains and saints but between

human beings very much alike. The Chorus' subsequent state­

ment that only the deaths of the lovers could remove the

strife between the two families suggests the power of opin­

ion and the difficulty of perceiving truth.

The conflict between the two groups of servants, pre­

sented in the first scene of the play, introduces a mixed

tone. It is serious in that the quarrel brings conflict

into the streets, portending possible bloodshed. It is •:. ;

comic in that the servants have little stomach for fight­

ing although they assume that they must fight if ". . . the

law is on my side" (I, i, 54). The fact that they opine

%illiam Shakespeare, "The Tragedy of Romeo and Juliet," The Complete Works of Shakespeare, ed. Hardin Craig (Chicago: S^tt, t'oresman and~Trompany, 195T), p. 395. Other quotations are identifies (parenthetically) by act, scene, and line in the text of this paper.

116

that they must fight, yet are not deeply involved with

emotions such as hatred, actually emphasizes the intellec­

tual problem: no one knows that there is an occasion to

fight, but most imagine there is. Opinion thus generated

becomes, from the outset, the obvious basis of action,

potentially tragic. That such an opinion requires culti­

vation if it is to be sustained can be seen in the words

of Samson, who, after exchanging a few rough jests with

Gregory, remarks, apropos of nothing: "A dog of the house

of Montague moves me" (I, i, 10). In the brief dialogue

which follows, Gregory attempts to justify the pose first

assumed by Samson.

Gre. The quarrel is between our masters and us their men .

Sam. 'Tis all one, I will show myself a tyrant: when I have fought with the men, I will be cruel with the maids and cut off their heads.

(I, i, 24-29)

The ensuing fight spreads to include Benvolio, who de­

sires peace, and Tybalt, whose hatred of all Montagues

matches his hatred of peace. Even though Benvolio is only

a nephew to Romeo, Tybalt's imagination is so stimulated

to rage by any sight suggesting the Montague family that,

when Tybalt glimpses Benvolio with drawn sword, Tybalt is

seized with.fury. Tyb. What, art thou drawn among these

heartless hinds? Turn thee, Benvolio, look upon thy death.

117

Ben. I do but keep the peace: put up thy sword. Or manage it to part these men with me.

Tyb. What, drawn and talk of peace? I hate the word, As I do hate hell, all Montagues, and thee: Have at thee coward I

(I, i, 72-73)

To Tybalt's twisted mind, peace, hell, and Montagues are

indistinguishable evil. Unreality appears real. Tybalt's

confusion of appearance and reality is given special force

by his improper use of the term "coward" to describe Ben­

volio. The truth is that Benvolio is a peacemaker who dis­

plays no fear or want of courage in the face of danger.

Tybalt's inflamed imagination betrays him into mistaking

peacemaking for cowardice.

Again, at the Capulet's ball Tybalt furiously reacts

to the name of Montague. The very presence of Romeo con­

jures up thoughts of murder. Tybalt reasons that since

all Montagues are innately evil, Romeo's attending the

ball could have been motivated by nothing other than evil. This by his voice should be a Montague. Fetch me my rapier, boy. V/hat dares the slave Come hither, covered with an antic face. To fleer and scorn at our solemnity? Now by the stock and honor of my kin To strike him dead I hold it not a sin.

(I, V, 56-61) •

Tybalt's instantaneous urge to kill, prompted by his warped

assumption of what constitutes his duty and honor, further

113

suggests his tenuous grasp upon reality. He ignores old

Capulet's remonstrance:

Content thee, gentle coz, let him alone; He bears him like a portly gentleman; And to say truth, Verona brags of him To be a virtuous and well-governed youth:

(I, V, 67-70)

Intended to soothe the fiery Tybalt, the words of old Capu-

let produce the opposite effect. Tybalt swears vengeance,

". . .this intrusion shall / Now seeming sweet convert to

bitter gall" (I, v, 93-94).

Tybalt's antipathy, now directed against Romeo in par­

ticular, continues unabated throughout their final meeting.

Still rankled at Romeo's visit to the house of Capulet,

Tybalt seeks out his supposed enemy and says bitterly,

Romeo the hatred that I bear thee can afford No better term than this-thou art a villain.

(Ill, i, 64-65)

By this time Romeo has matured philosophically to the extent

that he realizes that Tybalt does not hate him personally; rather, Tybalt hates his own distorted image of Romeo.

Romeo denies being a villain^ and says truly, "I see that

9it has been suggested that the use of the term "vil­lain" in this play reveals more about the character using it than it does about the one to whom it is applied, that avoidance of using the term indicates maturity. In this scene Tybalt uses the term three times (11. 64, 67, 76); Romeo uses it once (III, 1, 130), and it indirectly seals his fate; Juliet uses it many times up to her maturity scene (III, iii, 71-106) and never again. See Lawrence E. Bowlin^^, "The Thematic Framework of Romeo and Juliet," PKU, 1949, LXIV, 210-211.

119

thou know'st me not" (III, i, 63). Mercutio, who has long

been annoyed by Tybalt's foppishness, fails to understand

the truth in Romeo's statement: Tybalt is not really insul­

ting Romeo, but rather his own opinion of Romeo. Romeo

himself is not involved. But since Mercutio is convinced

of Romeo's "vile submission" and because he is angered by

Tybalt's arrogance, Mercutio challenges Tybalt and dies.

The shock of Mercutio's death momentarily blurs Romeo's

clear vision. Romeo's sudden, explosive language,

Away to heaven, respective lenity. And fire-eyed fury be my conduct now I

(III, i, 123-129)

followed by his reference to Tybalt as "villain," clearly

indicates that Romeo, too, has briefly abandoned reality.

Now Romeo sees Tybalt in terms of evil. Appearance and

reality having become confused, Romeo kills Tybalt and

seals his own doom. Ironically, a moment later when Romeo's

moment of unreality has passed, Romeo correctly pronounces

judgment upon himself: "0, I am fortune's fool I" (III, i,

141).

Significantly Mercutio glimpses the truth just before

he dies. Three times he cries out "A plague o' both your

houses'." (Ill, i, 95, 102, 111); and he concludes with a

final remonstrance:

They have made worms meat of me: I have it And soundly too: your houses'.

(Ill, i, 112-113)

120

The blame must be shared by the two houses; forgotten is

the fact that a Capulet has been the instrument of Mercutio's

undoing.

The arrival of Lady Capulet some moments after the

fight provides yet another example of a character's being

made miserable by opinion of a thing rather than the thing

itself. The Benvolio she envisions is a creature of her

troubled imagination. Rejecting Benvolio's calm and truth­

ful account of the fight; she re-creates the event and

accuses Benvolio of falsehood.

He (Benvolio) is a kinsman to the Montague; Affection makes him false; he speaks not true: Some twenty of them fought in this black strife. And all those twenty could but kill one life. I beg for justice, which thou, prince, must give; Romeo slew Tybalt, Romeo must not live.

(Ill, i, 131-136)

Ultimately Paris, too, falls victim to the power of

his imagination. Throughout most of the play, Paris is

seen as a sane and noble young man, a "gentle youth" as

Romeo calls him (V, iii, 59). His brief association with

the Capulets, however, has apparently led him to opine as

they do, for he is tortured by his opinion of the Montagues.

Seeing Romeo at the tomb, he immediately concludes that

this "haughty Montague" has come to do shame to the bodies

of Juliet and Tybalt. Paris' use of the epithets "vile

121

Montague" and "condemned villain" mirrors the confusion in

his mind. The truth of Romeo's gentle entreaties cannot

penetrate the mask of opinion which obscures Paris' reason.

The final meeting between the heads of the two families

contrasts sharply with their first encounter. Confronted

with the truth of their folly, they stand humbly on a new

plateau of knowledge. They cannot deny the truth of the

rebuke delivered by the Prince:

Where be these enemies? Capulet I Montague 1' See what a scourge is laid upon your hate. That heaven finds means to kill your joys with love. (V, iii, 291-293)

While saddened by the turn of events, especially the

deaths of the two lovers, the old men are no longer tortured

by their opinions of each other. False opinion has dis­

appeared and with it the ancient feud, source of the trag*

edy. Out of physical destruction has come spiritual tri­

umph based upon knowledge and a new faith.

Good and Evil

Reference to the complex and paradoxical aspects of

good and evil, usually described in terms of paradox, are

found throughout Romeo and Juliet. However, for the pur­

pose of analysis, emphasis will be placed upon the char­

acters of Romeo and Juliet and their growing awareness of

the complexity of things. Their progress toward maturity

122

can be described in terms of their progress from innocencel^

to knowledge.

Surely the most eloquent commentary concerning the

paradox inherent in man as well as in all nature, wherein

good and evil co-exist, is made by Friar Lawrence. Noting

the curious fact that womb becomes tomb,

The earth that's nature's mother is her tomb; What is her burying grave that is her womb,

(II, iii, 9-10)

the friar observes that no man is totally good or purely

evil. It is beyond man to arrive at any absolutes in this

life. In man, in nature itself, good and evil are combined;

the important consideration is degree. Good is a relative

quality, and the goodness of a thing depends upon its

proper application. Otherwise, good becomes evil. Contrari­

wise, the reaction to vice could produce good:

For naught so vile that on the earth doth live. But to the earth some special good doth give. Nor aught so good that strained from that fair use Revolts from true birth stumbling or abuse: Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied; And vice sometimes by action dignified. V7ithin the infant rind of this small flower Poison hath residence and medicine power:

lOThe term ''innocence" is used not in the Puritan sense of meaning freedom from knowledge of evil. Rather it is used in the Greek sense of having inadequate knowledge of the complexity of things, a vacuous unfortunate state opposed to the Greek ideal "to know."

123

To this, being smelt, with that part cheers each part; Being tasted, slays all senses with the heart. Two such opposed kings encamp them still In man as well as herbs, grace and rude will; And where the worser is predominant, Full soon the canker death eats up that plant. (II, iii, 17-30)

A hint of the paradoxical nature of the tragedy, seen

in its totality, is found in the "Prologue." In stating

that the lovers "Do with their death bury their family

strife" (1.3), Shakespeare appears to say that out of the

physical death of good comes the death of spiritual evil

and the consequent rebirth of spiritual good.

Until - his experience with Rosalind, whom he wrongly

fancies he loves, Romeo has theoretically never encountered

complexity. Upset and puzzled when his affections are

spumed, Rome.o believes wrongly that an unnatural situation

exists; therefore, he creates an unnatural existence to

cope with the problem. By day he keeps within and " . . .

makes for himself an artificial night" (I, i, 146); only

at night does he venture abroad. Rosalind already knows

that Romeo is in love with the idea of love, that is, with

the highly idealized object of his imagination; moreover,

the audience is presently made aware of the authenticity of

Romeo's "love" when^Romeo describes his feelings in the

extravagant language of the sonneteer. His speech is full

s

124

of inappropriate imagery; the superabundance of oxymoron

alone attests to the superficiality of Romeo's feelings:

Why then, 0 brawling love I 0 loving hate I 0 anything, of nothing first create I 0 heavy lightness I serious vanity ! Mis-shapen chaos of well-seeming forms ! Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health I (I, i, 131-135)

The irony is that Romeo unconsciously touches upon truth.

Love is certainly paradoxical, something in which good and

evil come together.

Once again, by indirection, Shakespeare utilizes ma­

terial which appears to be primarily emotional but which

actually furthers an intellectual perception of the basic

problem: a clash of opinion and knowledge. Mercutio's

satiric bantering with the seemingly love-sick Romeo not

only prevents the dramatic action from bogging down in

utter sentimentality but also makes the perceptive spec­

tator or reader the more aware of the co-existence of good

and evil, a fact frequently ignored by those who merely

opine, but grasped by those who, like Friar Lawrence, know.

Romeo's learning process begins when he first beholds

Juliet. Earlier he has reacted to Benvolio's advice, "Ex­

amine other beauties" (I, i, 234), with disbelief. To ex­

amine other beauties would be, in the opinion of Romeo, to

enhance Rosalind's beauty by comparison:

Show me a mistress that is passing fair. What doth her beauty serve, but as a note Where I may read who pass'd that passing fair? (I, i, 240-242)

125

The impetus which has impelled Romeo to attend the Capulet

ball arose out of Romeo's unhappy experience with Rosalind.

Directly out of seeming unhappiness then has come happiness.

Having learned this first lesson, Romeo is not troubled (as

Juliet is) at the prospect of being love with an enemy's

name.

Only upon one occasion is Romeo troubled by a name -

his own. When Friar Lawrence informs Romeo of the Prince's

sentence, Romeo approaches despair. To Romeo the situation

in which he finds himself is totally evil. Friar Lawrence's

insistence that things are not so simple as they seem, that

there is much good in the sentence, is rejected by Romeo.

To the priest's admonition "This is dear mercy and thou

seest it not" (III, iii, 23), Romeo disagrees, "'Tis torture

and not mercy-"' (III, iii, 29). But the friar knows that

the wisdom provided by philosophy can protect one from the

harshness of banishment.

I'll give thee armour to keep off that word; Adversity's sweet milk, philosophy. To comfort thee though thou art banished.

(Ill, iii, 54-56)

In Romeo's opinion, however, philosophy is inadequate to

the task since philosophy cannot do the impossible.

Yet 'banished'? Hang up philosophy Unless philosophy can make a Juliet Displant a town, reverse a prince's doom. It helps not, it prevails not: talk no more. (Ill, iii, 57-60)

126

Yet philosophy does triumph as a consequence of the friar's

long speech to Romeo. Central to his speech is the holy

father's reference to Romeo's ignorance, to his inability

to see all sides of the situation. Lacking clear vision,

Romeo is less than a man, one whose reason is lost in un­

reasonable fury:

Thy wit, that ornament to shape and love. Mis-shapen in the conduct of them both Like powder in a skilless soldier's flask Is set a-fire by thine own ignorance And thou dismember'd with thine own defense. (Ill, iii, 130-134)

The friar continues, fearful that Romeo cannot see his sit­

uation in its totality.

What, rouse thee, man I thy Juliet is alive. For whose dear sake thou wast but lately dead; There thou art happy: Tybalt would kill thee, But thou slew'St Tybalt; there thou art happy too: The law that threaten'd death becomes thy friend And turns it to exile; there art thou happy: A pack of blessings lights upon thy back; Happiness courts thee in her best array; But, like a misbehaved and sullen wench. Thou pout'St upon thy fortune and thy love: Take heed, take heed, for such die miserable Go, get thee to thy love, as was decreed, Ascend her chamber, hence and comfort her,

(III, iii, 135-147)

Romeo's first reaction to the Prince's sentence has been

immature and hysterical, motivated as it is by ignorance.

127

With new knowledge supplied by the friar, Romeo, buoyed up

with new hope, calmly determines to act upon the good

father's advice. So reasonable is Friar Lawrence's argu­

ment that even the old nurse is impressed. Her impetuous

compliment,

0 Lord, I could have stay'd here all the night To hear good counsel: 0 what learning is'. (Ill, iii, 159-160)

sums up the general Renaissance belief regarding the power

of knowledge in action.

Having learned much about the wholeness and complexity

of things from Friar Lawrence, Romeo never again entertains

simple and partial views. Romeo has been shocked to find

unhappiness arising from his affection for Rosalind, an

affection which should have produced felicity. But by the

time Romeo visits the apothecary, he is no longer aston­

ished to find good and evil or other contrasting qualities

contrarily mixed in one substance. Indeed Romeo now tends

to think in terms of paradox. Only the immature tend to

see good as eternally glorious and poison as something

dark and evil. Gold can be more poisonous than poison, and

poison may be more beneficial than gold in that it may

transport one out of a wretched existence. "There is thy

gold," says Romeo to the apothecary,

worse poison to man's souls Doing more murders in this loathesome world

123

Than these poor compounds that thou may'St not sell I sell thee poison; thou hast sold me none. Farewell: buy food and get thyself in flesh Come cordial and not poison, go with me To Juliet's grave; for there must I use

thee. (V, i, 30-36)

Romeo's thinking more nearly resembles that of Friar Law­

rence, who has insisted that poison and medicine might well

reside in the same flower.

Unlike Romeo, whose experience has prepared him to

accept the fact that he could love an enemy, Juliet is con­

fused by the possibility of discovering love in one whom

she has been taught to hate. Told by the nurse that Romeo

is a Montague, Juliet exclaims: My only love sprung from my only hate I Too early seen unknown and known too late I Prodigious birth of love it is to me That I must love a loathed enemy.

(I, v, 140-143)

Juliet does not yet know that Romeo is a "supposed foe,"

which the chorus makes mention of in the "Prologue" to Act

II. Moreover, she is yet unaware that the transcending

power of love will reveal the truth to the lovers by "Tem­

pering extremities with extreme sweet" (1. 14).

In the balcony scene Juliet begins her progress toward

understanding. Her first discovery is that she has been

hating a name, not people: "'Tis but thy name that is my

enemy" (II, ii, 33). Overjoyed at this new knowledge.

129

Juliet proceeds to oversimplify the situation in a new

direction. Referring to Romeo as "fair saint" (II, ii, 61),

"gentle Romeo" (II, ii, 93), "f^ir Montague" (II, ii, 93),

and "god of my idolatry" (II, ii, II5), Juliet wishes

finally to chant Romeo's name:

Else would I tear the cave where Echo lies. And make her airy tongue more hoarse than mine With repetition of my Romeo's name.

(II, ii, 162-164)

Juliet's use of such terms reveals ironically one aspect of

the problem of knowledge. Far from being a saint, Romeo is

after all only a man, with man»s faults. Her use of highly

idealistic terms suggests that she does not yet comprehend

the complexity of things.

In Act III truth finally comes to Juliet. Still

thinking of Romeo as a "fair saint," Juliet is shocked by

the nurse's news that Romeo has killed Tybalt. Lapsing

momentarily into her old way of thinking, she suddenly

sees Romeo as evil disguised by a fair seeming exterior.

0 serpent heart, hid with a flowering face I Did ever dragon keep to fair a cave? Beautiful tyrant I fiend angelical I Dove-feather'd raven I wolvish-ravehing lamb ! Despised substance of divinest show I Just opposite of what thou justly seem'St, A damned saint an honorable villain I

130

0 nature, what hadst thou to do in hell V/hen thou didst bower the spirit of a fiend In mortal paradise of such sweet flesh '.

(Ill, ii, 73-32)

Juliet's departure from reason is only momentary. Moments

later she is able to admit that good and evil co-exist in

Romeo. This new knowledge gained, she refers to Romeo

merely as "my husband." Tybalt is no longer her "villain

cousin"; instead, he is merely Tybalt. In this scene

Juliet reaches full maturity, for never again is she

blinded by simplicity.

In the tomb Romeo's imperfect understanding of the

true situation which has brought the two lovers together

leads him to abandon hope of any prospect for their being

reunited to enjoy their love on earth. But one after the

other, each of the lovers perceives the ultimate in know­

ledge of good and evil: that death, normally thought of as

man's greatest enemy, can provide the means whereby they

may arrive at the good toward which love has impelled them.

This good is a union, inseparable and eternal. With the

poison, which he has termed a "cordial," Romeo drinks a

toast to his love:

Thou desperate pilot now at once run on The dashing rocks thy sea-sick weary bark I Here's to my love I (V, iii, 117-119)

Similarly, Juliet sees the poison as a "restorative" (V, iii,

166) and not poison; moreover, her instrument of death is a

131

"happy dagger" (V, iii, 169). Death, life's greatest

enemy, represents the lovers' only hope; consequently, they

welcome death.

Finally, during the reconciliation scene, old Montague

and old Capulet, who have agonizingly learned a lesson from

their offspring, share common knowledge of good and evil.

Both men realize that their reasons for feuding were imag­

inary: they represented appearance, not reality. Each

regards the other as "brother," not "villain." Each under­

stands that the love, or acceptance, thus effected is a

real good which has been bom of their supposed hate.

Although the cost has been fearful, its being tantamount

to ending each family, the old men appear to accept as good

the evil of death that has taken their heirs. They will

erect monuments not only to ehe memory of the lovers but

also the importance of knowledge symbolized by their

troubled lives and needless deaths. In possession of new

knowledge, old Montague and old Capulet understand, humbly

accept, and transcend the situation.

CONCLUSION

Since ancient times man has been preoccupied with the

problem of knowledge. Primary elements in this problem

have always been observation, opinion, and faith. When

primitive man witnessed the orderly procession of days,

seasons, and years, he believed that he perceived a rational

principle ordering existence. Combining this observation

with opinion, the offspring of hope and fear, early man

engaged in mimetic ritual for certain reasons: to aid his

god who was the principle of life in his struggle with the

opposing principle of death; and at once to control and to

submit to divine forces. The concept of the scapegoat

which grew out of the dying-god myth assured the re-birth

of the god and the regeneration of the seasons. Their

thinking becoming increasingly complex, primitive men be­

came aware of paradox: death, life's great enemy, could

assure the coming of new life; physical destruction could

give birth to spiritual triumph. From mythic origins, then,

came the seeds of paradox which would in time provide the

bloom of tragedy.

During the great Periclean age, Greeks became acutely

aware of the obstacles barring man from knowledge. From

the human point of view the Prometheus of Aeschylus seems

to have right on his side; but such a view, based on false

132

133

opinion, clashes with divine standards of justice and

morality. Failure to understand that ultimately the heav­

ens will be just, Aeschylus seems to say, is unjustifiable

human pride; for the Zeus who emerges from the conflict is

both wise and powerful. Moreover, being better aligned

with Moira, he is more deserving of man's faith. The

added ingredient in the Oresteia is the spectacle of the

scapegoat Orestes, who, though he must suffer because of

ancestral and personal guilt, emerges with new knowledge

and new faith.

That man's attempt to perceive knowledge solely

through his sense is futile is nowhere more vividly shown

than in Sophocles' Oedipus Rex. v;hat little knowledge that

man has should be employed in a spirit of humility. Be­

cause man is not the measure of all things, he should re­

strain his self-assertiveness. In portraying the triumph

of faith and knowledge over mere opinion, Sophocles, like

Aeschylus, points to the complex and paradoxical nature of

good and evil: out of blight that is Oedipus' life emerges

a new Oedipus and a new Thebes.

Man's inaccessibility to absolute truth, implied in

Cardanus' version of the Pandora myth, is frequently em­

phasized in Plato's works. Socrates, too, in displaying

faith in a transcendent reality remote from mankind.

134

suggested intellectual humility as the first step in acquir­

ing what little wisdom man may possess. All were struck by

mankind's propensity for error and by the contrast between

human and divine knowledge. Aristotle, while agreeing

generally with the principles outlined by his predecessors,

was somewhat less mystical. Although man cannot approach

the ideal, he can at least gain a measure of happiness and

knowledge by seeking to live the virtuous life, the ideals

of which are moderation, justice, courage, humility, and

reason. The entire Greek experience taught that man was

an inherently ignorant creature who could improve his state

only by means of suffering; however, such suffering could

call forth the best that man was capable of; his dignity,

his nobility, his great passion, and fortitude.

When faith in the old gods of Homer disappeared,

philosophers of the Hellenic period retreated into subjec­

tivity. Convinced that knowledge of the cosmos was beyond

man, the Epicureans ignored what they believed was unob­

tainable. The ideal state of man was one of mental certi­

tude, they believed; and they had faith in man's ability to

attain this state. The happy man should have knowledge

enough to limit the scope of his ambition: first he must

withdraw as much as possible from the irrational physical

world; secondly, he should enjoy mild pleasure. Like the

135

Epicurean, the Stoic too abandoned hope in comprehending

the physical world and the ways of God. Unlike the Epi­

curean, however, the Stoic had faith that God and there­

fore all of God's works were good. Believing that what­

ever happens is good and that man cannot control his fated

destiny, the Stoic concluded that man's happiness lay in

his ability to control his reactions to events. Knowledge

lay in man's acceptance of the operations of nature. Such

a philosophy allowed men no hope for betterment in the

future, and it ruled out the possibility for tragic- action.

Pessimistic as such philosophies were, they did not

approach the nadir of despair attained by the worshippers

of Fortune. Members of this cult, at one time widespread

in the Roman world, believed that the universe was a welter

of unexplainable evil; consequently, they worshipped the

irrational. Their assumption that there existed no logical

rules of causation made the question of knowledge super­

fluous .

In spite of the prominence of such philosophies, the

fact remains that there were always men who believed in the

order and harmony of the universe. Representative of these

men was Cleanthes who affirmed the existence of the Logos,

the cosmic rational principle which men can understand.

Concurring with Cleanthes' faith in man's ability to know

136

was Boethius whose attack against Fortune clearly revealed

that philosopher's faith that men's reason is adequate to

comprehend God's goodness. With faith, said Boethius, man

could look beyond deceptive appearance and perceive the

broad outlines of reality. Like Aristotle, Boethius em­

phasized the need for virtuous living.

Christian doctrine, as practiced throughout most of

the Middle Ages, bore the imprint of Saint Augustine's in­

terpretations. Augustine did not attach great importance

to the acquisition of human knowledge since he believed

that the question of man's election was in God's, not man's,

hands. This Christian fatalism, which differed little from

pagan fatalism, dominated Christian thinking for some eight

centuries. It remained for Saint Thomas Aquinas, who, in

extending Christian theology, gave man a measure of free

will and some responsibility for his actions. In stressing

the belief that man's knowledge may justify faith. Saint

Thomas Aquinas conferred upon man a new dignity. In aban­

doning Augustinian Neo-Platonism for Thomistic Aristotel­

ianism, Christian thinkers inadvertantly opened the door

which would one day admit Shakespearean tragedy.

Belief in the value of human knowledge was a belief

shared by Boccaccio, Lydgate, and Chaucer. At various

times each admits that he dispenses prudent advice to great

137

men in order to assist them in wresting goodness and order

out of evil and chaos. Great men could avoid the pitfalls

of pride, egotism, and ambition by turning to Christian

love and humility. In pointing out the dangers which attend

those who engege in heroic struggle and who exert ambitious

effort, these writers inveighed against the very type of

conflict out of which great tragedy arises.

Nearer in essence to the tragic spirit but still lack­

ing the form thereof were the morality plays, which later

merged into tragedy. The hero in Everyman, for instance,

is at first confronted with an essentially tragic situation.

Told of his imminent death, abandoned one by one by his

friends, Everyman approaches despair. But the hero is

saved because he heeds the advice of Knowledge; and, his

will and faith still strong, he repents and is delivered

from the forces of evil. A contrary story is told in Mar­

lowe's Faustus, a play which retained features of the

morality play. Lacking knowledge of the function of know­

ledge, lacking knowledge of himself and. of Christian the­

ology as well, Faustus presumptuously believes that the

contrary is true. Deluded by the simplicity of things,

Faustus becomes aware of the truth, of the complexity of

things, only when it is too late. Finally, his will weak­

ened by sloth, Faustus commits the unpardonable sin and is

doomed.

133

Utilizing ideas taken from both the Classical and

Christian traditions. Renaissance writers emphasized the

importance of knowing along with the difficulty of knowing.

Sceptics, like Montaigne, insisted that the human mind is

highly prone to error. An over-stimulated imagination,

for example, can create its own subjective "reality," which

may bear no resemblance at all to truth, or objective real­

ity. Troubled then by the appearance of things rather than

by the things themselves, man may choose a destructive plan

of action. A second problem further involved man's simpli­

city of mind - the nature of good and evil. The mind tends

to see all men and all things as either totally good or

totally evil; the truth is that both good and evil co-exist

in all being, and the important consideration is degree.

Finally, that which is primarily good or primarily evil

will not always necessarily produce good and evil respec­

tively. The wise man knows that good and evil are rela­

tive, that the application of good and evil can determine

the nature of the consequences. False opinion based upon

ignorance of the truth provides the motivation for tragic

action in Romeo and Juliet.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

General References

Bonnard, Andre. Greek Civilization. Vol. I. Translated by A. Lytton Sells. New York: Macmillan Co., 1962.

Bowling, Lawrence E. "The Thematic Framework of Romeo and Juliet." Publication of the Modern Language AssocTa^ tToHT"Lxiv (1949). na^iT. ^"—^

Famham, Willard. The Medieval Heritage of Elizabethan Tragedy. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1936.

Ferguson, Francis. The Idea of the Theater. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1949.

Fraser, Sir James G. The Golden Bough. New York: The Macmillan Company, 1958.

Hadas, Moses. A History of Greek Literature. New York: Colombia University Press, 1962.

Harrison, Jane. Themis, A Study of the Social Origins of Greek Religion. 2d ed. Cambridge: The University Press, 1927.

Hastings, James. Encyclopaedia of Religion and Ethics. Vols. Ill, XI. New York: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1951.

Irwin, Edman. "Introduction." Marcus Aurelius and His Times. New York: Walter J. Black, 1945.

Langor, Susanne. Philosophy in a New Key. New York: The New American Library of V/orld Literature, 1953.

McCullen, Joseph T. "Dr. Faustus and Renaissance Learning," Modem Language Review, LI (1956), 7.

Murray, Gilbert. Aeschylus, the Creator of Tragedy. London: at the Clarendon Press, 1940.

, Five Stages of Greek Religion. New York: Double-day and Company, Incorporated, 1951•

Norwood, Gilbert. Greek Tragedy. Boston: J.W. Luce, 1920.

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Gates, VJhitney Jennings and Murphy, Charles Theophilus.(eds.) Greek Literature in Translation. New York: Longman's, Green and Co., 19^.

Gates, William Jennings (ed.). "General Introduction." The Stoic and Epicurean Philosophers. New York: Random House, 1940.

Payne, Robert. Hybris, a Study of Pride. New York: Harper and Brothers, I960.

Smith, Homer H. Man and His Gods. New York: Grossett's Universal Library, 1952.

Weston, Jessie L. From Ritual to Romance. New York: Doubleday and Company, 1957.

Primary Sources

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— • P onietheus Unbound. Vol. I. Translated by Henry "Weir Smyth and edited by"T.*E. Page, et al. (The Loeb Classical Library.) London: William Heine­mann Ltd., 1963.

Aristotle. The Nicomachean Ethics. Translated by H. Rackham and edited by T. E. Page, et al. (The Loeb Classical Library.) London: William Heinemann Ltd., 1962.

Poetics. Translated by W. Hamilton Fyfe and edited by T. E. Page, et al. (The Loeb Classical Library.) London: William Heinemann Ltd., I960.

Augustine, Saint. The City of God. Translated by M. Dodds and edited by WKItney J. Oates. Basic Vfritings of Saint Augustine. Vol. II. New York: Random House~1943

"On the Trinity." Translated by A. W. Haddan and edited by Whitney J. Oates. Basic Writings of Saint Augustine. Vol. II. New York: Random House, 1943.

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Seneca, Lucius Amaeus. Oedipus. Translated by Frank Justus Miller. The Complete Roman Drama. New York: Random House, i9i;rr

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