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Through her words and actions, the prioress of Chaucer’s Prioress’s Tale makes it plainly evident that she is a hypocrite who does not understand her own religion. The prioress’s misconceptions about her own religion lead to an illogical condemnation of Jews, a people who could scarcely be found in England in Chaucer’s period. Her insecurities regarding her sex and confidence in the validity of her faith and also her close-mindedness prevent her from gaining any sort of meaningful knowledge of other religions and peoples. Instead, she tries to spread her bigotry and willful ignorance with an inflammatory version of a tale common in the 14th century. Her tale seeks to elevate Christian women, such as herself, by constant invocations to Mary and the denigration of Jews. Tearing down another group makes hers seem, by comparison, better. To that end, she spews vitriolic anti-Semitism in her ridiculously macabre tale.
To ensure outrage at the murder to come, and to set up her tale, the prioress first must establish the victim as a wholly sympathetic character. While no one doubts the boy’s innocence, the prioress goes to almost comic (and satirical?) lengths to also establish his near inhuman virtue. After learning that the Alma Redemptoris is about Mary, whom the boy and prioress both venerate with obsession, he declares:
“Now certes, I wol do my diligence To conne it al, er Cristemasse be went. Though that I for my prymer shal be shent, And shal be beten thryes in an houre, I wol it conne, oure Lady for to honoure.” (105–109)
This sort of dedication may be expected from a member of a religious order, such as the prioress, who clearly approves of such a sacrifice. Indeed, the boy’s willingness to suffer multiple beatings for failure to study his primer could even be described as self-flagellation. The problem is that this boy is only seven years old. No amount of indoctrination is going to make a child that young eagerly accept physical abuse in exchange for the opportunity to memorize “by rote” (88) a song. He is not even going to truly study the song and its depths. How could he? He learned of the song by hearing other boys singing it. His peers, even the older ones, have only a superficial understanding of the prayers. So, too, does the prioress. Later on, the boy survives, temporarily at least, a vicious attack. The boy explains to an abbot that “for the worship of his moder dere / Yet may I singe O Alma laude and clere” (220–221). Does it matter that he lacks all meaningful comprehension of the prayer? Not according to the prioress. He can mimic the sounds of the prayer and he worships Mary. That is more than sufficient for her. She doesn’t understand the prayer much better than he does; by her standard, he has done all that he needs to. After all, “in Chaucer's day you were ignorant, or mad, or demonic to think that God did not exist, or could be anything other than the ultimate reality” (Besserman, 60). The laity did not need to spend much time contemplating metaphysics and ethics. However, a religion that lasts requires a careful and thorough examination of its fundamentals. Incoherent mysticism can gain an ephemeral following, but for a religion to survive a millennium, smart people must dedicate time and energy to the development of cohesive, internally consistent theological concepts and tenets. The prioress fails to comprehend the complexities of Catholicism. She reduces Christian virtue to rote memory of prayers. While such memory work is at least valuable in a Christian context, it is not fundamental to the religion. But, the prioress is not concerned so much with the adherence to legitimate Christian principles but rather to the institution of the Catholic Church, of which she is a part. Her insecurities about her beliefs, a result of not thinking them over, result in her desperate need to cling to the institution. This explains her position as a prioress. She lives in her own cloistered world, leading a group of nuns who do not bother her with provocative or critical questions about the nature their religion. She is a shepherd so engrossed with the affairs of her own flock that she is incapable of understanding outsiders of any sort. Thus, the attack against the boy receives a sudden, too-broad and ultimately unthinking reaction in the tale.
The prioress goes further than mere childhood innocence; she makes the boy Christ-like. She calls the Jews the “cursed folk of Herodes” (140). This not-so-subtle epithet invokes the Biblical account of Christ’s birth and his escape from the infamous order by Herod to slay all the baby boys. The boy in this tale also suffers an untimely death for his Christianity, but at a much earlier age than Jesus. Nevertheless, the parallel between the two is still clearly present, fixed in the minds of the audience. The song itself also conjures associations between the boy and Christ. It was commonly sung during the Boy Bishop rituals, popular in England at the time, which coincided with the Mass of Holy Innocents. “In the Middle Ages, the Holy Innocents were traditionally understood as types of Christ, who was himself in turn often represented in late medieval religious writing and drama as a sacrificial child” (Patterson, 510). Thus, the boy’s Christian goodness is magnified to that of the ultimate exemplar, Christ Himself.
Having elevated the sacrificial victim to a quasi-divine status, the prioress continues her over-the-top tale by vilifying the Jews. She gives the setting as Asia Minor, a Muslim area. In the Middle Ages, Judaism and Islam were often conflated by the Christians of Western Europe. Both groups have darker skin and write using alphabets different from the Roman alphabet. To many of the less than well-traveled people of medieval England, the differences between Judaism and Islam were minor and, more importantly, irrelevant. After all, if Christianity is true, then other religions are necessarily false—at least in the popular view. The special status of the Jews, God’s “chosen people,” within a Christian culture was largely overlooked in the Middle Ages. The particular region she describes is ruled by a Christian, but with a Jewish quarter, sustained by the lord of that country “For foule usure and lucre of vileynye, / Hateful to Crist and to his compaignye” (57–58). Medieval Catholic teachings forbade Christians from usury, but that did not mean the practice disappeared. Economic enterprise requires the lending of money—and people tend to be unwilling to lend money without any sort of benefit. In short, usury is a vital component of a healthy economy. The Church condemned a requirement of the society that sustained it. To have it both ways, they simply let Jews become the bankers. According to the prioress, this makes the Jews “hateful to Crist.” This is blatant hypocrisy. The Christians condemned Jews for taking up a profession that they were simply unwilling to do themselves. This snap-judgment further reveals the Prioress’s own simplistic world-view. She uses inappropriate absolutes to describe religiosity: Christians are good; Jews are evil. What is not evident here is any attempt to understand Judaism or even Christ’s own comments regarding the Jews. She shuts out the Jews, immediately dismissing them as evil. In so doing, she destroys any possibility of gaining new insight into the religion from which hers derived.
The prioress seeks to further validate her anti-Semitic views by associating Jews with Satan. As the boy sings Alma Redemptoris through the Jewish quarter, Satan whispers into the Jew’s ears. Evidently, Jews are close friends, or at least loyal subjects, of Satan. Indeed, the dark lord “hath in Jewes herte his wasps nest” (125). This is demeaning on several levels. Not only is there the obvious association with Satan himself, but apparently the very hearts of Jews are empty, sub-human shells. Love may dwell in Christian hearts, but Jews have only a wasp’s nest. Satan goes on to admonish the Jews for allowing the boy to sing his prayer against “oure lawes” (130). This is an inflammatory creation on the part of the prioress. The “oure” is slightly problematic; some lesser manuscripts read “youre.” Either Satan is the lord of the Jews or he at least functions as a protector of their laws. In either case, the implications are the same. Jewish law, as conceived of by the prioress, is violently anti-Christian. By created this falsehood of mutual antipathy, she can better justify her own rabid anti-Semitism.
All of the evils in this tale stem from a lack of knowledge, or misinformation. Bad information ultimately stems from bad epistemology. Neither the prioress, nor any character in her stories, exhibits an understanding as to how to obtain legitimate, truthful knowledge—the kind from which progress flows. As a substitute for real knowledge, rationally ascertained and disseminated, the prioress relies on the emotional response of the audience to physical gore. Acting on direct orders from none other than Satan, the Jews conspired to kill the boy. They hired a murderer who grabs the boy on his way home from school and “kitte his throte, and in a pit him caste” (137). This highly sensational murder is told to incite a purely emotional reaction. There is nothing wrong with emotions, per se. Emotions serve as an automatic manifestation of our most sincere and innate values. However, they are not infallible. A misidentification of how a specific action applies to our values, or even of the values themselves, can result in the wrong emotional response. Emotions wield a strong power over us, but we are still fundamentally rational beings and we need not act on our emotions when reason tells us otherwise.
After the throat slitting, the tale quickly turns even more macabre and disturbing. The boy’s mother finds him and he sings the prayer loudly. Through divine intervention, he is able to overcome physical limitations. He tells the people, “Me thoghte she leyde a greyn upon my tonge” (228). The act of Mary extending the life of a fatally injured boy is theologically complex. How can someone live with a slit throat? How can that person sing? The “greyn” has no direct, logical connection to its effect. It is not a bandage or ointment. The “greyn” is not even placed that close to the wound. So what is the “greyn”? Communion wafers are placed on top of the tongue by the clergy in the Catholic Church. This “greyn” could be a literal grain or seed, or it could be a metonymy for a communion wafer. The prioress, despite her position of religious authority, operates on a very simplistic level regarding religion, just like the boy. She needs a concrete object present. The same principle applies to the sale of absolutions by a pardoner. It is too abstract to just say that by God’s grace the boy was allowed to stay alive a little longer. There are actually several layers, each progressively more concrete. God is highly abstract, Jesus less so. Mary, who is just a human being, is even more concrete. But even that is not enough. The prioress needs something she can touch. It is highly unlikely that the prioress fully grasps the concept of transubstantiation, but she clearly appreciates religious rituals. She advocates going through with the rituals, such as prayer, even if the person performing the ritual has absolutely no idea what it all really means. Her need for visuals to convey knowledge carries over into the discomforting violence of the final dozen stanzas. Not only is there the violent crime against the boy, and his supernatural singing, but also the retributive justice and dirge by the public and the boy’s mother over his death.
This odious murder of the little boy incites barbarous violence against the Jews. The prioress attempts to justify the wholesale execution of a large number of people though their often tenuous complicity in the heinous crime. The local magistrate gathers up the Jews, declaring:
“Yvel shal have that yvel wol deserve:” Therfore with wilde hors he dide hem drawe, And after that he heng hem by the lawe. (198–200)
The offending Jews are not only drawn by horses, but also hanged. More importantly, all of this is done in accordance with the law. The prioress already established that this region had a Christian ruler. It follows that the laws and punishments should reflect this Christian background. Christian theology is ostensibly based on love, which when consistently applied should not promote murder. Christ taught his subjects to “turn the other cheek” and love their “brothers.” The prioress, in being both a woman and more specifically a nun, might reasonably be expected to be a pacifist. She is not; the outraged populace in her tale wants vengeance and they get it. A calm, reasoned approach to the murder (if such a thing is possible), would be to methodically determine whom to blame. With guilt established, perhaps even a Christian argument could be made to justify execution of those involved. Instead, the entire group is mercilessly slaughtered. What follows is treacle displays of mourning for the murdered boy, then a stanza of pure hypocrisy. The prioress offers a final prayer emphasizing, of all things, mercy: “That, of his mercy, God so merciable / On us his grete mercy multiplye” (254–255). In only two lines, “mercy” appears three times. In one respect, the prioress is finally getting something right: Christianity does indeed teach mercy. However, they just had an opportunity to show mercy to the Jews, or at least humanity. Instead, they brutally murdered them. Once again, she is able to express the Christian ideas without even beginning to grasp what they mean. A request for mercy is not a meaningless string of words offered because social institutions say it’s the right time. It is a profound statement of humility before a person whose powers exceed your own or, in this case, before God Himself.
The Prioress’s Tale is one of brazen self-righteousness, gross ignorance of other cultures and religions. The title character is hopelessly solipsistic with no ability to look beyond her own carefully constructed fantasy world. As a result, she ends up blindly advocating a host of evils and lesser wrongs.
Bibliography
Besserman, Lawrence. “Ideology, Antisemitism, and Chaucer's Prioress’s Tale.” The Chaucer Review 36.1 (2001) 48-72
Patterson, Lee. “‘The Living Witnesses of Our Redemption’: Martyrdom and Imitation in Chaucer's Prioress's Tale.” Journal of Medieval and Early Modern Studies 31.3 (2001) 507-560.
[The following is a research paper for my Roman history classes completed ten minutes before class started.]
The Catilinarian Conspiracy rose in the turbulent years of the late second to mid-first century BCE. Lucius Catiline represented himself as a representative of the lower classes and a friend of liberty. He conspired against the government of Marcus Tullius Cicero and, in so doing, against the people of Rome. Consequently, Cicero becomes the defender of Rome and the savior of the people. While both men claimed to fight for justice, the Catilinarian Conspiracy was ultimately a result of political opportunism, which found its resolution in the same.
In those tumultuous years, a civil war broke out in Rome led by Sulla and Gaius Marius. Sulla was a talented general whose foreign expeditions had brought wealth and prestige to his army, whose ranks included Catiline. He sought to defend the elite status (and concomitant financial benefits) of the ruling class. He belonged to the optimates party. Marius, a novus homo (self-made “new man”) led the populares, the political party of the lower classes. Marius died in the war and Sulla became a ruthless dictator. Sulla retired after three years of dictatorship and was replaced by the consuls Marcus Aemilius Lepidus and Catulus. Lepidus, in an attempt to restore some of the popular rights abolished by Sulla, provoked some of the masses to rebellion. Catulus, upon the request of the senate, gathered a force and put down the insurrection.[i] Senators may have had more in common with their fellow aristocrats, but by rallying the cause of the more controllable masses, they could gain significant political power for themselves. “Everyone was struggling for his own power.”[ii] Among such opportunists was Catiline. The civil war had seen an increase in the importance of the masses; their allegiance was required for any sort of meaningful power. With the war over, politicians had fewer reasons to appease them. Catiline saw an opportunity and exploited it. By all accounts, he was a less than kind person. He was cruel, tortured people, and reportedly murdered his brother, brother-in-law, and a friend of Cicero, among others.[iii]
Despite his unsavory character, Catiline had the ability to inspire people to his cause. Some men, though not part of his conspiracy, ventured out to join with Catiline. One such man was Fulvius, the son of a senator, who was caught en route and ordered to be killed by his father.[iv] People who had disgraced themselves stood to gain by the implementation of a new regime, particularly one headed by such an equally unscrupulous character as Catiline. Also, some soldiers had gained immense wealth and power by fighting for Sulla. Some hoped to likewise lift themselves by association with Catiline. Moreover, farm life was difficult and gave little reward; city life was, by comparison, quite easy, and public welfare abundant. Consequently, poor, rural young men came into Rome. Furthermore, the oligarchic system of the senate and consuls excluded many people from the political process. Any attack against the senate could result in their rise to power. All of these varied groups had little to lose. Such are the people who support revolution.[v]
Catiline publicly proclaimed that he was trying to help the downtrodden Romans but his eventual plan, if carried out, would have been devastating for the citizens.[vi] Catiline was a candidate for consul in 63 BCE, competing against Cicero. He lost, but then tried again the next year, employing brazen bribery to such an extent that Cicero created a new law against it in response. Catiline, knowing this was aimed at him, planned to murder Cicero and others on election day, October 20. Cicero found out and on election day presented this plot to the senate, which, on the following day passed senatus consultum de re publica defendenda, investing the consuls with absolute power so that they might defend the republic. Cicero doubled his bodyguard and, with additional precautions, thwarted Catiline’s plans when the election finally took place. Desperate, Catiline moved forward with a larger plan of military invasion. He gathered up a collection of Sulla’s veterans from Etruria under the capable leadership of the centurion Gaius Manlius on October 27.[vii] Many senators joined in Catiline’s conspiracy. Foremost among them were Publius Cornelius Lentulus, Caius Cethegus, Lucius Cassius Longinus, Marcus Porcius Lecca, Quintus Curius, and Lucius Bestia. They met at the house of Porcius on November 6 to affirm their commitment to the conspiracy and work out details.
Lentulus, was busy in Rome trying to secure support among key people. He and his underlings, among them Publius Umbrenus, also sought the assistance of the barbarians. Specifically, and most detrimentally to their cause, Umbrenus asked the Gallic Allobroges to ally with Catiline. The tribe was heavily in debt and, as bellicose Gauls, not opposed to war. The Allobroges’ envoys had come to Rome seeking help with their financial problems. The Senate, however, had in their view failed them. Umbrenus informed the envoys of Catiline’s plans. To gain their confidence, he gave the names of some of the more illustrious conspirators, despite the fact that many of those named people were, in fact, not involved in the conspiracy. The Allobroges assented to the plan, then later reconsidered. They loved fighting and stood to gain much if the conspiracy worked. The Roman war machine was still mighty, however, and a failure would have horrible repercussions for their people. War with Rome was a gamble they were unwilling to take. Instead, they chose to tell their patron in Rome, Quintus Fabius Sanga, about the conspiracy. Sanga told Cicero, who then told the envoys to continue along with the conspiracy plans, gaining more evidence and details.[viii]
Curius had a mistress, Fulvia, whom he kept apprised of the plans; she in turn kept Cicero apprised of the plans. Acting on this knowledge, Cicero was able to save himself from two assassins sent to his house in the early hours of November 7. The next day, he gave his first oration against Catiline, delivered in the Temple of Jupiter Stator, as opposed to the typical location, the Curia Hostilia. The Temple of Jupiter Stator was a particularly significant place for Cicero to speak to the Senate. It was located at the foot of the Palatine Hill, along the intersection of the Sacra Via and the Clivus Palatinus. Furthermore, the area housed equites, armed cavalry. The temple had a legendary founding by none other than Romulus, who built the temple in response to divine aid in defeating the Sabines, who invaded the city with the assistance of a traitor.[ix] “The Temple of Jupiter Stator, then, was associated with Rome’s first great military crisis.”[x] By delivering his invective at that temple, Cicero invoked this prior crisis. He set himself up in the position of Romulus, on the side of Jupiter. Catiline, who by Sallust’s account saw himself as a defender of liberty and the republic, is consequently presented as the enemy of the state, the people, and God.
Catiline had the audacity to show up himself, and so Cicero directed his oration directly to the traitor. Cicero asked if Catiline still thought his plans were secret and viable. Clearly, the plot had been uncovered and foiled; how could Catiline possibly think he could get away with such a thing? He continued, appalled that Catiline had been allowed to live for so long. He should have been executed by a consul long ago, in Cicero’s view. Despite the enormity of Catiline’s crimes, Cicero explained that he would not execute Catiline until there was not one person who would defend him. Cicero wanted no one to be able to say Catiline died unfairly. His execution would be on the unanimous consent of respectable Romans. Cicero would, however, keep Catiline under close watch to prevent him from any further actions against the republic. Cicero then continued to denigrate Catiline by listing elements of the plot that Cicero thwarted.[xi] This further reveals Cicero’s own political opportunism. In his careful oratory, Cicero presented himself as an almost omniscient force against the evil designs of Catiline, a man he considered responsible for all the crime and atrocities in Rome.[xii]
Cicero noted that Catiline initially attacked only him but expanded to include the entire republic. Catiline sought to destroy the “temples of the immortal gods, the houses of the city and the lives of all the citizens”[xiii] The conspiracy itself involved an overly-wrought plan too complex to not fail. Once Catiline’s army made it close enough to the city, Lucius Bestia, a tribune, was to publicly protest against Cicero for provoking such a grave conflict. This protest would further be a signal to the lesser conspirators to carry out their respective orders. One group, under the leadership of Cassius was to simultaneously start twelve fires throughout the city, creating the confusion necessary to execute the remainder of the conspiracy. Various conspirators were assigned targets to assassinate, with Cicero being the principal target. Youths of the nobility involved in the conspiracy were to murder their more conservative fathers. With these sundry atrocities complete, the conspirators would leave Rome to join Catiline and his army.[xiv] These conspiratorial plans were particularly odious. Fires for the Roman people were far more disastrous than in the modern Western world. Most of the populace lived in crowded, wooden tenements. While the wealthy lived in larger estates, their property too was still close together. Rome had previously been the victim of horrific fires, which would quickly spread. The people of Rome would not easily forgive someone who planned a crime as devastating as incendiarism. Furthermore, Cicero was a well-respected consul. Catiline may have publicly been fighting for liberty of the masses, but Cicero was hardly an enemy of the people. He had gained a reputation as a friend of the people by employing his lauded rhetorical skills defending people under trial. Moreover, patriarchal Roman society logically abhorred the concept of patricide. These planned crimes were considered worse than mere murder; they violated fundamental Roman institutions and threatened republican government.
Cicero, despite public clamor for blood, exhorted Catiline to go into a voluntary exile. Cicero said that there was nothing for Catiline in Rome—that everyone feared and hated him. “Now the fatherland, which is common parent to all of us, hates and also fears you....”[xv] Catiline disgraced his name and honor through not only this latest public infamy, but also a pattern of disreputable and infectiously corrupting behavior.[xvi]
Ostensibly to avoid suspicion, Catiline offered himself over to the custody of respected citizens. He was first rejected my Marcus Lepidus, then had the effrontery to come to Cicero’s house. Cicero, who could not possibly be safe with the man who so often tried to murder him in his own house, likewise rejected the traitor. Catiline was further rejected by the praetor Quintus Metellus. Cicero asked what he should make these attempts. His rhetoric somewhat unconvincingly indicates that Catiline clearly must have felt himself deserving of being in custody to submit himself to such a course of action.[xvii]
But why did Cicero want Catiline to not only live, but also go free, where he could be a further threat? He explained that if he thought it best Catiline should die, he would not let the “gladiator” live an hour longer.[xviii] There were some senators who, in ignorance, did not believe in the conspiracy, or who strengthened it with some degree of tacit approval or perhaps an expression of some sympathy. If Cicero simply executed Catiline, some of those men might have considered the action unfair. Catiline, for all his faults, was still a member of the nobility. Unlike authentic gladiators, who were slaves, he was a citizen who theoretically should have had all the associated rights. In the interest of the preservation of the state, however, Cicero and the rest of the would-be victims were quite willing to bend the rules. By killing Catiline, Cicero could attack the “plague” of the republic, but only in part. Catiline was only one man. Even without him, there was still an army of people who had taken up arms against the republic. Cicero would have to deal with them at some point. If he let Catiline go, and Catiline joined up with his army, it would provide incontrovertible proof of the conspirators’ guilt. Moreover, when the battle came, the republic would be able to kill the plague, “and also the root and seed of all future evils”[xix] This was not a fight merely against one man. Cicero would, in his mind, become the savior of Rome. His goal was somewhat ambitious, and ultimately unattainable, in an era of massive political turmoil and unchecked ambition.
Catiline fled that night and the next day Cicero delivered his second oration. In Catiline’s absence he wrote letters to influential men asking for assistance. Quintus Catulus, disinclined to offer such aid, read the letter Catiline sent him aloud to the Senate. In it, Catiline made it clear that he felt no guilt, but rather considered himself a loyal citizen working to restore justice and honor. Unworthy men, such as Cicero, had been promoted to high positions and he saw this as an affront to the dignity of the republic.[xx] When, in the middle of November, news of Catiline’s arrival at Manlius’s camp reached the senate, that body declared Catiline and Manlius public enemies. On December 2, the conspirator’s messengers were captured at Mulvian Bridge[xxi] and on the next day, Cicero presented the evidence before the senate. He further assured the people that he, as consul, and the gods, would protect the republic. In his third oration, he praised his own actions and asked the people to remember his formidable service to the state. On December 5, the senators debated on punishment of the conspirators, even though Catiline and many of his cohorts were still with his army. Caesar argued against execution, because it would set a bad precedent.[xxii] In January of 62 BCE, Catiline’s army was forced into battle at Pistoia. He gave an impassioned rally to his troops, then, dismounting so that he might fight on equal ground with his men, entered battle. In the ferocious melee that followed, Catiline’s army was utterly destroyed and he himself died.[xxiii]
i Merivale, Charles, Caii Sallusti Crispi Catilina. Introduction
(London: Macmillian, 1974), XX–XXI.
ii Sallust Bellum Catilinae, 38.
iii Merivale, XXII–XXIII.
iv Sallust, 39.
v Sallust, 37.
vi Handford, S. A., Sallust: The Jugurthine War & The Conspiracy of
Catiline. Introduction (London: Penguin, 1963), 162.
vii Sallust, 30.
viii Sallust, 40, 41.
ix Vasaly, Ann, “Transforming the Visible: In Catilinam 1 and 3,”
Representations: Images in the World of Ciceronian Oratory
(Berkeley: U of California P, 1993), 41–43
x Vasaly, 45.
xi Cicero, In Catilinam, 1.1, 5, 7, 8.
xii Cicero, 1.18.
xiii Cicero, 1.12.
xiv Sallust, 1.42–44.
xv Cicero, 1.17: Nunc te patria, quae communis est parens omnium
nostrum, odit ac metuit.
xvi Cicero, 1.13.
xvii Cicero, 1.19.
xviii Cicero, 1.29.
xix Cicero, 1.30.
xx Sallust, 36.
xxi Sallust, 45.
xxii Sallust, 50, 51.
xxiii Sallust 57–61.
Biliography
Primary
Cicero. In Catiliam.
Sallust. Bellum Catilinae.
Secondary
Handford, S. A. Sallust: The Jugurthine War & The Conspiracy of
Catiline. Introduction. London: Penguin, 1963.
Merivale, Charles. Caii Sallusti Crispi Catilina. Introduction.
London: Macmillian, 1974.
Vasaly, Ann. Representations: Images in the World of Ciceronian
Oratory. Berkeley: U of California P, 1993.
All drama seeks to answer one critical question: what does it mean to be human? For many plays, this question also involves an analysis of man's relationship to the divine, if such a thing even exists. Both Euripides's and Sophocles's versions of Electra challenge traditional religious views and man's dependence upon the gods. Ultimately, both playwrights espouse the same virtue: individual responsibility. The means by which they do so, however, differ radically.
Both Euripides's and Sophocles's versions of Electra come across as surprisingly modern. Euripides was critical of religion and the government. He strongly opposed Athens's involvement in the Peloponnesian War. He felt that Athens was abandoning its principles and its people needed to reclaim the virtue that once embodied their city. These virtues, however, should be secular. Likewise, though Sophocles is generally considered Homeric and traditional, his Electra reads like a post-Enlightenment work. Euripides was likely an outright atheist. Sophocles held on to vague ideas more consistent with 18th century deism.
Sophocles is more direct and confrontational with his play than Euripides. Sophocles's version ends with the execution of Aegisthus. He has Orestes kill Clytemnestra first; he does not want to play up the significance of the fact that Orestes kills his own mother. The play is therefore able to end with the wholly unobjectionable killing of the adulterer and usurper, Aegisthus, for whom the audience surely feels no pity. In his final speech, Orestes declares, "I must take care that death is bitter for you. Justice shall be taken directly on all who act above the law-justice by killing. So we would have less villains" (Sophocles 187). The chorus then praises his act. Therefore, Orestes acts not merely as a son avenging his murdered father but as an executioner, carrying out the final justice against a treasonous villain. This new Orestes, defender of justice, is consequently set to assume his duties as king, ultimate defender of the state.
Another major difference is in how Orestes first presents himself to Electra. In Sophocles's version, he comes under the guise of a Phocian countryman, bearing the ashes of Orestes, who supposedly died in a grisly chariot racing accident. Paedagogus, messenger of this tragedy, explains, "… when a God sends mischief, not even the strong man may escape." Of course, there was no such divine intervention. Sophocles repeatedly has characters attribute events to the gods, but no divine figure is ever on the stage. Indeed, the will of the gods is present only in prophecies of the priests and in the inventive interpretation of the characters. When people pray to the gods, it is only because they have a specific need for divine intervention, but there is no such intervention. As has been the case in many wars, both sides think the same god or gods are on their side. Sophocles's obvious message is that the gods are not on anybody's side. His Electra is a highly deistic play, emphasizing the importance of volition. In his humanistic recasting of the story, humans are not merely pawns in a cosmic chess game. The gods may exist in some abstract manner, but the notion that anthropomorphic (or even animal-like) manifestations of squabbling deities interferes with our daily, mundane existence is absurd. In Sophocles's Electra, the gods never appear or directly intervene. People pray only when they want something. His play fairly openly mocks religious beliefs. Both Clytemnestra and Orestes believe that the god Apollo is on their side. His divine will is revealed only through human priests. A central theme is that people have a free will. Each murder is not simply the inexorable result of an absurd story from generations prior, but rather is independently decided upon by the murderers. A volitional murderer is fully responsible for his or her own actions. Thus, in his final speech, Orestes declares, "Justice shall be taken directly on all who act above the law" (Sophocles 187). We must assume in Sophocles's version that Clytemnestra and Aegisthus were not actually murdered, but justifiably executed. Euripides, by contrast, has Orestes pretend to be a comrade of Orestes, slinking around to gather information. This deception serves no real plot purpose and appears possibly as an inconsonant vestige of the story, or perhaps merely to heighten the drama. Aristotle praises recognition; a deceit, however utterly pointless to the plot, allows for the recognition thereof.
One other difference is the presence of Chrysothemis, Electra's and Orestes's sister, in Sophocles's version. Sophocles uses her to underscore the importance of free will and individual responsibility. In both versions of the play, Electra is waiting for Orestes to return to the kingdom to rectify the past wrongs. In Sophocles's version, however, Electra, impatient with Orestes, shows great initiative. She plots against Clytemnestra and Aegisthus, entreating her sister to help her. Chrysothemis has willingly submitted to the rule of the regicides and Electra condemns her for her collaboration with such loathsome degenerates. Swayed by the righteous pleas of her sister, Chrysothemis agrees to offer her assistance. Sophocles thus further emphasizes the importance of volition. Both were women, but they made the free choice to act against injustice. Moreover, the ability of Electra to persuade her sister shows how humans are not only volitional beings, but rational as well. We are capable of great achievements, with no need for the gods to tell us what is right and wrong.
Euripides's version ostensibly supports traditional roles for the sexes and the supremacy of the gods. Read literally and without knowledge of his atheistic background, the text seems to support the idea that powerless and unknowledgeable man should be humble before the gods. At the end of his play, the Dioscuri must come in and fix the situation that man has so haphazardly, and inexorably, bungled. We know, however, that Euripides did not support such a position. The key revelation in the text comes when the Dioscuri place all the blame on Apollo (63). The conclusion, and much of the rest of the play, must therefore be read ironically; the deus ex machina is absurd.
Euripides begins his play with a farmer giving a lengthy explication of the background situation. The farmer speaks as well of Agamemnon as he does as poorly of Aegisthus, but only briefly and only through implication. Clytemnestra, however, receives lengthier and explicit attention. He calls her "savage in soul" (10), before offering a limited pseudo-defense. Aegisthus wanted to kill Electra but Clytemnestra "flinched from killing a child, afraid of the world's contempt" (10). It initially seems that she has a real moral problem with killing her own children, but she really just wants to avoid the odious stares of her less-than-faithful subjects. She is a selfless queen, wholly devoted to activities that are as harmful as they are unfulfilling. The only action she takes in the entire story that could conceivably bring her-or anyone else, for that matter-happiness is her affair with Aegisthus, and that turns out badly for both. Maybe she simply sought political power. If such were the case, she would still be deriving all her value from others. She lacks any real sense of self. She has a body, but what resides in it is less than human, a "savage soul." It is significant that Euripides uses a lowly farmer to make such a crushing statement about royalty. The capacity to discern the nature of man exists in all humans, not just the powerful. This perhaps reflects his opposition to the war. The politicians, lacking regard for what is truly of value to them and their subjects, recklessly pursue meaningless conquests. Properly, people ought to take the responsibility to identify real values, and then act to achieve them. What do Clytemnestra and Aegisthus gain from regicide? What do the Athenians gain from going to war with their neighbors? A cycle of violence for which more blood must be spilled.
Euripides and Sophocles, at least in these two plays, present surprisingly similar messages. Sophocles is unambiguous and openly didactic. Euripides writes a play so flagrantly contradictory to his own views that it must be satire. If people are going to believe in divine intervention then he is going to give it to them, in an over-the-top plot resolution. The real message of both playwrights is that man is a volitional being who must accept responsibility for his own actions.
Bibliography
Euripides. Electra. Trans. Emily Townsend Vermeule. Chicago: U of
Chicago P, 1959.
Sophocles. Electra. Trans. David Grene. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1957.
[The preceding is a paper I just wrote for my Greek tragedies class that I thought too good to let lie on my computer unseen and unplagerizable.]
I did it! I stayed up all of last night and finished my research paper for my Civil War class. Unfortunately, I have an even bigger paper due Wednesday; fortunately, I have all day tomorrow to work on it.
