The tape-recorded lecture “Bitterness, Sweetness, Greece,” by Eli Siegel was studied in one of the professional classes for Aesthetic Realism consultants and associates. The following report by Len Bernstein of this lecture was part of a Dramatic Presentation at the Aesthetic Realism Foundation, a not-for-profit educational foundation, at 141 Greene St., NYC 10012, (212) 777-4490.
In a moving lecture Eli Siegel gave on May 15, 1968 titled “Bitterness, Sweetness, Greece,” we learned how people throughout history—and very much the ancient Greeks—tried to make sense of these opposites which permeate our daily lives, and how they were given beautiful and intense form in an important play written in the 5th century B.C. by Sophocles titled Philoctetes.
The story of the play is based on a legend. The Greek armada, while sailing to the Siege of Troy, stops at a small island in the Aegean to offer prayers to the gods asking for safe journey and victory over the Trojans. There, the soldier Philoctetes is bitten by a poisonous snake. The foul smell from the wound, and his cries of pain distract others from their prayers, so the Greek leaders—the Atreide—order Ulysses to carry Philoctetes, while asleep, to the neighboring island of Lemnos which is barren and uninhabited, and there he remains for 10 years. The play of Sophocles begins at this point, and through Mr. Siegel’s careful looking at it, we saw the mingling of bitterness and sweetness, hope and despair in this noble warrior who had been heartlessly abandoned.
Philoctetes, Mr. Siegel explained, is the most famous unwilling hermit, and the subject, also, of a very good sonnet by the 19th century English poet Thomas Russell, titled “Supposed to Be Written at Lemnos.” In 14 carefully structured lines, the sonnet describes the isolation of Philoctetes and the battle in him between bitterness and the desire to have a deep feeling of sweetness. The isle of Lemnos is surrounded by such dangerous waters, few ships will brave them. Longing for sounds of another person's voice, all Philoctetes hears are the screams of birds known as "sea-mews", and the crash of waves and savage howling of wind which trouble his sleep. He sees the night stars and ocean waves as mocking him in his captivity. And this courageous man, the son of Paeon, is brought to bitter tears. Here are the first 8 lines describing his situation:
On this lone isle, whose rugged rocks affright
The cautious pilot, ten revolving years
Great Paeon's son, unwonted erst to tears,
Wept o'er his wound: alike each rolling light
Of heaven he watch'd, and blamed its lingering
flight:
By day the sea-mew, screaming round his cave,
Drove slumber from his eyes, the chiding wave,
And savage howlings chased his dreams by night.
Then, in contrast, the remaining 6 lines have sweetness and hope. A white cloud, to Philoctetes, becomes a ship's sail; in every breeze is the sound of men rowing; even the waves recall places of his youth—Aetna, Trachis, and Euboea. Russell writes:
Hope still was his; in each low breeze that sigh'd
Through his rude grot, he heard a coming oar:
In each white cloud a coming sail he spied;
Nor seldom listen'd to the fancied roar
of Aetna's torrents, or the hoarser tide
That parts famed Trachis from th' Euboic shore.
Mr. Siegel then read the play as translated from the Greek by Thomas Francklin in 1834. An oracle has foretold that Troy cannot be vanquished without Philoctetes’ aid, for he possesses the bow and arrows bequeathed him by Hercules, a weapon of devastating power. And so the same Greek leaders who condemned him to this terrible solitary confinement now tell Ulysses to bring Philoctetes back with the assistance of the honorable youth Neoptolemus. Upon landing on Lemnos, Ulysses counsels Neoptolemus to feign ignorance of Philoctetes' identity, gain his trust, and then at the first opportunity steal the bow and arrows, rendering the hermit helpless. Ulysses says to Neoptolemus:
. . . I know, thy noble nature
Abhors the thought of treachery or fraud;
But what a glorious prize is victory!
Therefore be bold; we will be just hereafter.
Give to deceit and me a little portion
Of one short day, and for thy future life
Be call’d the holiest, worthiest, best of men.
Neoptolomus is shocked by this request and replies:
I came to be a helpmate to thee, not
A base betrayer; and, O king! believe me;
Rather, much rather, would I fall by virtue,
Than rise by guilt to certain victory.
“I must say,” commented Mr. Siegel, “that made the whole Greek audience feel good because virtue was defended again in the 5th century — maybe around 450 BC, when Virtue was just a girl.”
An argument ensues between Ulysses and Neoptolemus in a poetic structure known as stichomythia: swift dialogue where two characters disagree by echoing each other, one short line after another. This, Mr. Siegel explained, puts together sameness and difference, opposition and agreement. Ulysses counsels a "soft, enchanting tongue," which is false sweetness. Neoptolemus replies:
NEO. And think’st thou ‘tis not base
To tell a lie then?
ULYS. Not if on that lie
Depends our safety.
NEO. Who shall dare to tell it
Without a blush?
ULYS. We need not blush at aught
That may promote our interest and success.
NEO. But where’s the interest that should bias me?
Come he or not to Troy, imports it aught to Neoptolemus?
Neoptolemus is himself a victim of deceit. Ulysses had earlier told him that the oracle prophesied that he, Neoptolemus would be the conqueror of Troy. But now Ulysses reveals that the oracle also said Neoptolemus must fight side by side with Philoctetes for him to taste that glory. Appealing to vanity and self-interest, Ulysses tells him that if he tricks Philoctetes, “A double prize awaits thee... The glorious names of valiant and of wise." What happens next is both appalling and funny, an example, I think, of the humor that Mr. Siegel said could be found in this play. Neoptolemus—so scrupulous before—now changes with dizzying rapidity, replying: "I’ll do it. Thoughts of guilt or shame/No more appall me." This passage underscores how our desire for personal glory can have us put aside truth in a way that will make us cruel to others. And this has also been true of nations.
The followers of Neoptolemus and Ulysses are represented by the Greek Chorus which aids in the deception of Philoctetes, but also shows compassion for this man cut off "from sweet society." “Nobody here is of one mind,” Mr. Siegel commented. “Even Ulysses. The only thing that’s constant is the Aegean.”
The Chorus assumes that Philoctetes will be suspicious, and asks Ulysses for advice in a famous phrase which Mr. Siegel read from the translation by Richard Jeb:
CHO. A stranger in a strange land, what am I to hide, what am I to speak, O Master, before a man who will be swift to think evil?
“So far,” said Mr. Siegel, “the play has hardly been lyrical. Sophocles has had his feet on the ground. But the Chorus, in admitting confusion, gets to be lyrical.” The last thing we usually feel when confused is sweet tempered or lyrical, and I was moved to see that I could learn from these melodious lines of Sophocles how better to meet uncertainty with grace.
Philoctetes, upon first seeing Neoptolemus and the Chorus, is elated, but aware of how deprivation has altered his once proud form, he says:
. . . do not look
With horror on me; but in kind compassion
Pity a wretch deserted and forlorn
In this sad place. O! if ye come as friends,
Speak, then, and answer; hold some converse with me;
For this, at least, from man to man is due.
“One thing in Greece is certain,” said Mr. Siegel, “man is supposed to be friendly to man.” And he explained, "I imagine Sophocles wanted us to have a feeling of people in Greece busy doing things...and one individual suffering alone.” Philoctetes' suffering is intensified when it appears his plight has been forgotten by his countrymen. He says to Neoptolemus: "Know you not, then, the man whom you behold!" It is hard to bear when the youth answers: "How should I know whom I had never seen?"
Throughout the play are moving instances of where Philoctetes has feeling for people in the midst of his own bitter suffering. He is, said Mr. Siegel, “a study in weakness and strength, and also in complaining and courage.” For example, he is stunned to learn that mighty Achilles—the father of Neoptolemus—has been killed in the Trojan War, saying:
Is then Achilles dead?
NEO. He is, and not
By mortal hand, but by Apollo's shaft
Fell glorious.
PHI. O! most worthy of each other,
The slayer and the slain! Permit me, son,
To mourn his fate, ere I attend to thine. [He weeps.
NEO. Alas! thou need'st not weep for others' woes;
Thou hast enough already of thy own.
“That,” said Mr. Siegel, “is one of the translator Franklin’s best iambic lines. ‘Thou hast enough already of thy own.’”
Philoctetes expresses, perhaps, the greatest cause of bitterness in people, the feeling that evil is stronger than good. He says to Neoptolemus:
. . . evil never dies;
The gods take care of that: if aught there be
Fraudful and vile, tis safe; the good and just
Perish unpitied by them. Wherefore is it?
When gods do ill, why should we worship them?
Neoptolemus succeeds in stealing the bow and arrows of Philoctetes. I felt such outrage that the very people who deserted Philoctetes, when they find they still need his help, are so devious, rather than asking forgiveness for their cruelty. It must have brought Greek audiences to their feet with applause when, later in the play, Neoptolemus regrets his treachery and restores to Philoctetes his bow and arrows over the threats of an unrepentant Ulysses.
The history and literature of the world tells of the ethics of men and women—what we admire and what we despise. Mr. Siegel took one of the great plays of the world, and through his reading and comprehension of it enabled us to feel what men and women sitting in a Greek amphitheater in 500BC must have felt. And while the names of people and places of ancient times may seem far off, he showed magnificently how the Philoctetes of Sophocles, with its ethical conflicts, has enormous value for our lives today.