# Sophocles (Collins)/Chapter 5

CHAPTER V.
THE DEATH OF AJAX.
Of all heroic families, perhaps none were more famous than that of the Æacidæ, to which Ajax, the hero of this tragedy, belonged, Æacus, the founder of the race, was a son of Jove, and he married a daughter of the centaur Chiron, from whom two sons were born to him, Peleus and Telamon. Peleus married the sea-nymph, "silver-footed" Thetis, and by her had Achilles; while Telamon took to wife Eribœa, who bore him Ajax. The cousins were both mighty warriors, renowned beyond all the other Greeks in the siege of Troy; but in character and appearance they were as different as Athelstane and Ivanhoe. Achilles was the true knight of chivalry, brave, graceful, and courteous, but high-spirited and passionate. Ajax was a man of war, of huge bulk and ponderous strength, taller than all the rest by the head and shoulders. More than once his single right arm had saved the army from destruction,—
"Stemming the war as stems a torrent's force Some wooded cliff far reaching o'er the plain,"—
​keeping his foes at bay, and then slowly retreating, covered by his shield of bull's hide, "huge as a tower." But he had waxed insolent in the pride of his strength, and more than once (as we are told in the play) his arrogant and impious words had provoked the anger of the gods. When he first left Salamis, his father, perhaps foreseeing the trouble which his haughty spirit was doomed to bring upon him, had given him prudent advice:—
"Seek, my son, in fight, To conquer, but still conquer through the gods."
But Ajax, like the old Norseman, "put his trust neither in idols nor demons, but in his own battle-axe," and his reply was,—
"Father, with heavenly aid a coward's hand May grasp the prize of conquest; I confide To win such trophies e'en without the gods."—(D.)
Again, in the heat of battle, when Minerva herself had urged him to turn his arms where she led the way, he had defiantly rejected her gracious offer of assistance:—
"O Queen! to other Argives lend thine aid; No hostile might shall break where Ajax stands."—(D.)
It would seem as if his sullen and haughty temper had estranged the friendship of men as well as the favour of the gods. He was certainly unpopular among his brothers in arms. To Agamemnon he was "most hateful;" Menelaus bore him no love; and the Ulysses of Homer, like the Ulysses of Shakspeare, ​despised this "beef-witted lord" for being as stolid as he was arrogant. On the death of Achilles, it was decided that the celestial armour forged by Vulcan for the hero at the prayer of Thetis should be given to the bravest warrior in the host. Only two chieftains presumed to lay claim to it on the score of their personal valour, Ajax and Ulysses. But whatever Ajax might have been in the battle-field, in council or debate he was far inferior to his rival; and the other princes, after listening to the claims urged by the two candidates, influenced partly by personal feeling, partly by the eloquence of Ulysses himself, and partly by the inspiration of Minerva, adjudged the armour to the "king of rocky Ithaca."
Ajax left the council and retired to his tent, in bitter wrath at what he considered the unjust decision of the judges; and it is on the following morning that the play opens.
The scene represents the historic plain of Troy. The sea sparkles in the distance, and the shore is fringed by a line of boats—one larger than the others in the centre of the foreground. There is only one person on the stage—a chieftain narrowly scanning, as it seems, footprints on the ground. Suddenly there is a flash of light high up in the background of the scene, and the audience see a majestic form in radiant ​armour; and by the spear in her hand, the Gorgon's head upon her shield, and, above all, by the clear-cut face and by the "azure eyes," they recognise their own virgin goddess, Pallas Athene, or, as we may call her, Minerva.
Then, in that musical and sonorous Greek of which we shall never know the true sound or accent, she addresses the warrior on the stage. Why (she asks)—why does Ulysses scan these freshly-imprinted footsteps, as though, "like a keen-scented Spartan hound," he were tracking his foe to his lair? Ulysses recognises the voice, "clear as a Tyrrhenian trumpet," and makes answer. He is on the track of his foe, the hero of the seven-fold shield. In the night just past, the herds and herdsmen have been butchered by some unknown hand, and rumour points to Ajax, who was seen
"The fields o'erleaping with a blood-stained sword."
Ulysses has come to spy out the truth, and is now ready to learn it from one whose wisdom he has proved of old.
Then Minerva tells him all,—how Ajax, burning with wrath at the loss of these much-coveted arms, had gone forth sword in hand at the dead of night, and was on the point of bursting into the tent of the Atreidæ, thirsting for their blood, when (says the goddess)
"I held him back from that accursed joy, Casting strange glamour o'er his wandering eyes, And turned him on the flocks, and where with them The herd of captured oxen press in crowds, ​Not yet divided. And on these he falls, And wrought fell slaughter of the hornèd kine, Smiting all round; and now it seemed to him That he did slay the Atreidæ with his hand, Now this, now that, of other generals. And I still urged the wild and moon-struck man With fresh access of madness, and I cast An evil net around him. After this, When he had ceased that slaughter, binding fast The oxen that still lived, and all the flocks, He leads them to his dwelling, counting them No troop of hornèd cattle, but of men; And now within he flouts his prisoners."—(P.)
Minerva is not even satisfied with having blinded the eyes and deluded the senses of the rash man who had insulted her. She wishes to humiliate her victim before her favourite hero, and loudly summons Ajax to come forth from the tent. At the second summons he appears, his eyes still glaring with a ferocious joy, carrying the scourge of cords with which he has been lashing his prisoners. No translation can express the bitter mockery with which the goddess humours his fancied triumph, "first gazing on her victim, while the depths of his mental ruin are lighted up by her irony, then turning in more benignant majesty to point the moral for her favourite."
Ajax warmly thanks Minerva for her aid. His revenge has been glorious. Not only has he reddened his sword with the blood of the Atreidæ, but he has Ulysses, his bitterest foe (it is a ram which to his mad fancy represents him), bound to a pillar within, and ​he intends presently to scourge him to death. Then he re-enters the tent to complete his vengeance.
The real Ulysses, whom Minerva has hidden in a cloud from his rival's sight, cannot resist expressing his pity that so stout a warrior should have been brought so low; but the goddess has no such compassion. It is his impious pride that has brought these evils on the victim of her wrath. Let his fate be a warning to all, and let Ulysses himself take heed:—
"Do thou, then, seeing this, refrain thy tongue From any lofty speech against the gods, Nor boast thyself, though thou excel in strength Or weight of stored-up wealth. All human things A day lays low, a day lifts up again; But still the gods love those of ordered soul, And hate the evil."—(P.)
And with these parting words the goddess is borne upwards by some ingenious mechanism, and Ulysses departs, having learnt the object of his quest, and marvelling much at the strange frenzy which had come upon his unsuccessful rival.
Music in the "Dorian mode" is heard, and the Chorus, here composed of Salaminian sailors, the faithful comrades of Ajax, enter in search of their chieftain. They have been much perplexed and disquieted by an evil rumour, tending to the dishonour of their much-loved prince.
"Tis said that, rushing to the plain, By thee the captured herds were slain To Grecian valour due; ​All that of martial spoils remain Thy hand infuriate slew. Such slanders does Ulysses bear, Such whispers breathe in every ear: His calumnies glad credence gain; As he who speaks, so they who hear, Insulting mock thy pain; He rarely errs who flings on high At gallant souls his contumely; Whilst I of lowlier lot evade The penalty by greatness paid; For envy steals with silent aim On nobler birth and loftier fame."—(D.)
Let their chief but come forth from his tent, and he will confound his enemies by his presence; at sight of him they will scatter "like a flock of birds."
Then the Chorus pause, waiting for an answer; but no word of response comes from the closed curtains of the tent of Ajax. They are alarmed by this strange silence. Can there be, after all, they ask, some truth in this dark rumour? Can Diana or the god of war have sent this curse of madness on their prince? Heaven help him, if this be so! But if Ulysses has invented the story,—"Up from thy seat," is their last appeal, "where all too long thou hast been tarrying, while the insolence of thy foes sweeps on like a breeze through wind-swept dells, mocking thee to thy heart's grief and to my abiding sorrow."
There is still no answer from Ajax, but a woman comes forth from his tent, weeping bitterly. The sailors know her well. It is Tecmessa, a captive of the ​spear, whom Ajax, according to the existing rules of war, "deigned to take for his bride." She has to tell them of "a sorrow sharp as death." The rumour is all too true, for Ajax, the valiant, the mighty, the broad-shouldered hero (and she dwells fondly on each epithet), is the victim of a heaven-sent frenzy; and then she tells them all she knows of the wild work of the previous night. When the evening lamps burnt no longer, and all was darkness and silence through the camp, Ajax had taken his sword and gone forth alone, cutting short her remonstrances with a proverb (familiar to the Greeks, but which would find little favour in our days),—
"Silence, O woman, is a woman's grace."—(D.)
After a space he had returned, driving before him the sheep and oxen. Some of these he had slain, hacking and mangling them with insensate fury; others he had bound and lashed with the scourge, laughing madly the while, and threatening his fancied enemies. Then at last reason and remorse came upon him;—
"And when he saw the tent with slaughter filled, He smote his head and groaned; and, falling down, He sat among the fallen carcasses Of that great slaughter of the flocks and herds, Tearing his hair by handfuls with his nails. And for a long, long time he speechless sat; And then with those dread words he threatened me, Unless I told him all the woeful chance, And asked me of the plight in which he stood; And I, my friends, in terror told him all, All that I knew of all that he had done. ​And be forthwith sent out a bitter cry, Such as till now I never heard from him; For ever did he hold such loud lament Sure sign of one with coward heart and base; And holding back from shrill and wailing cries, Would groan with deep, low muttering, like a bull; But now, thus fallen on an evil chance, Tasting nor food nor drink, among the herds Slain with his sword, he sits in silent calm, And looks like one on some dire mischief bent."—(P.)
This burst of anguish followed by a sullen despair is, as Tecmessa fears, more dangerous than his first frantic state of madness. What help can they, his old and true friends, bring to their king in this extremity?
But the Chorus have not time to answer her; for groan after groan comes from the closed tent, and Ajax is heard piteously calling on his child Eurysaces, and on Teucer his foster-brother, then far away, to come to him. Then Tecmessa can refrain no longer, but throws open the door of the tent, and discovers Ajax seated in gloomy silence, with his head buried in his hands, while all about him lie the carcasses of the slaughtered sheep and oxen. Disturbed by the light entering the tent, he lifts up his head and sees his faithful sailors; but they can bring him no comfort. His baffled vengeance, the insulting joy of his foes,—more than all, of that wheedling knave Ulysses, whom he pictures to himself as "laughing long and loudly for very joy of heart,"—all these thoughts rankle in his breast, and render life itself unbearable. How, he asks, can he endure the light of day? how can he look on the face of men any longer? Let his own true friends, the ​sailors of his fleet, come near and slay him with the sword. The sight of the mangled carcasses around him aggravates this sense of shame; to think that he, the hero of a hundred fights, should have dyed his sword in the blood of dumb and defenceless beasts! There is only one escape open to him now;—
"Fair death it is, to shun more shame, to die."
And he welcomes the thought. "O darkness," he continues, "my light! O gloom of Erebus, bright as day to such as me! Take me, take me to dwell with you; for I am no longer worthy to look on the race of gods or mortals for any profit that I can bring to man, since the warrior-daughter of Jove torments me to my death. Whither, then, can I fly? whither can I go and be at rest? for my glory is gone, my friends, and vengeance presses hard upon me."
Then he turns (as every hero in Sophocles turns) to Nature—to the familiar plains of Troy—and bids them all an affectionate farewell.
"O paths by the ocean waves, and caverns on the shore, and grove o'ershadowing the beach, too long, too long have ye held me here a weary while! but no longer shall ye hold me, while I have breath of life. Let him who is wise know this. O streams of Scamander, old friends of mine, never shall ye see me more; the bravest warrior of all the host that came from Greece!"
And then there crowd upon him the sweet and bitter memories of the past,—the promises of glory so ​soon cut short, — the hopes of vengeance so ruinously frustrated. How can he return to Salamis, and meet the questioning looks of his father Telamon, deprived of the meeds of valour? He is hated by the gods; he is hated by the Greek host; "yea," he says, "all Troy and these plains hate me."
"I must seek out some perilous emprise, To show my father that I sprang from him, In nature not faint-hearted. It is shame For any man to wish for length of life, Who, wrapped in troubles, knows no change for good. For what delight brings day still following day, Or bringing on, or putting off our death? I would not rate that man as worth regard, Whose fervour glows on vain and empty hopes; But either noble life or noble death Becomes the gentle born. My say is said."—(P.)
Then Tecmessa implores him, in the name of all that he regards as dearest and most sacred upon earth, not to leave her and his child desolate, to eat the bread of slavery and bear the bitter insults of his enemies.
"For very shame, Leave not thy father in his sad old age; For shame, leave not thy mother, feeble grown
With many years, who ofttimes prays the gods That thou may'st live, and to thy house return. Pity, O king, thy boy, and think if he, Deprived of childhood's nurture, live bereaved Beneath unfriendly guardians, what sore grief Thou in thy death dost give to him and me; For I have nothing now on earth save thee To which to look."—(P.)
​The Chorus—themselves moved to tears—implore Ajax to listen to this touching appeal, and to forego his deadly purpose. But Ajax, if he is touched at all, is too proud to show it. If Tecmessa loves him, let her bring his child Eurysaces,—and Eurysaces is brought. Then Ajax, taking the child upon his knee, looks tenderly on him, as Hector looked on Astyanax,—so happily unconscious of his father's misery, and scarcely heeding the carnage with which the ground was strewed; and then addressing the child as though it could understand his words, he pictures it growing up in careless innocence, "as a young plant," sheltered from all rough winds under the guardianship of Teucer, rejoicing its widowed mother's heart, and perhaps hereafter (and the warrior's heart swells at the thought) avenging his father's wrongs. "my child," he says, almost in the words of Æneas to the young Ascanius,—
"Learn of your father to be great, Of others to be fortunate."
Eurysaces, he concludes, shall inherit the famous shield—from which he takes his name: all his other arms shall be buried in his own grave. Then, with a hint that "sore wounds need sharp remedies," he bids her take the child within and fasten the tent-doors. Again Tecmessa implores him to relent—"in the name of the gods." "The gods!" bitterly repeats Ajax—what duty or allegiance does he owe the gods, who so plainly hate him? and once more he angrily orders her to leave him to himself.
​But Tecmessa still lingers—finding it, perhaps, impossible to tear herself from the presence of one whom she loves with all a woman's devoted affection—and she stays near the tent-door, clasping the hands of Eurysaces. Ajax does not look to see whether she has obeyed him; but, relapsing into profound melancholy, covers his face in his hands. And so the three remain, motionless as statues; while the Chorus, in their song, contrast the peaceful happiness of the island-home which they have left with the weary travail of the siege, and the gloom and dishonour of their king. "Blessed art thou," their chant begins, "glorious Salamis, where thou liest by the beating waves, famous in the sight of all for ever;"—and they deplore the fate which has befallen so noble a warrior—doomed to perish in his prime, though sprung from a race in which "prince after prince had lived out his span, and gone to the grave full of years and honours."
"Oh! when the pride of Græcia's noblest race Wanders, as now, in darkness and disgrace, When reason's day Sets rayless—joyless—quenched in cold decay, Better to die, and sleep The never-waking sleep, than linger on, And dare to live, when the soul's life is gone: But thou shalt weep, Thou wretched father, for thy dearest son, Thy best beloved, by inward furies torn, The deepest, bitterest curse, thine ancient house hath borne!"
​Then Ajax comes forward again. His better nature has been touched—perhaps more by the allusions to his beloved island than by any awakened tenderness for Tecmessa. He addresses the Chorus, and there is no necessity for supposing his speech to be spoken with studied artifice: if there is artifice, it is the poet's "irony." Or it may be that he "desires, half in pity and half in scorn, to disguise from his listeners a purpose too great for their sympathy." But whatever may have been the intention of the words, their purport is that his heart has been melted within him: he will atone for his rash deeds: he will purify himself from the stain of blood, that so he may find rest for his soul.
This famous farewell speech is worthy of being given in full, and the following is Mr Calverley's admirable translation:—
"All strangest things the multitudinous years Bring forth, and shadow from us all we know. Falter alike great oath and steeled resolve; And none shall say of aught, 'This may not be.' Lo! I myself, but yesterday so strong As new-dipt steel, am weak and all unsexed By yonder woman: yea I mourn for them, Widow and orphan, left amid their foes. But I will journey seaward—where the shore Lies meadow-fringed—so haply wash away My sin, and flee that wrath that weighs me down, And, lighting somewhere on an untrodden way, I will bury this my sword, this hateful thing, Deep in some earth-hole where no eye shall see— Night and hell keep it in the under-world! ​For never to this day, since first I grasped The gift that Hector gave, my bitterest foe, Have I reaped aught of honour from the Greeks. So true that byword in the mouths of men, 'A foeman's gifts are no gifts, but a curse.' Wherefore henceforward shall I know that God Is great: and strive to honour Atreus' sons. Princes they are, and should be obeyed. How else? Do not all terrible and most puissant things Yet bow to loftier majesties? The Winter, Who walks forth scattering snows, gives place anon To fruitage-laden Summer; and the orb Of weary Night doth in her turn stand by, And let shine out, with her white steeds, the Day: Stern tempest-blasts at last sing lullaby To groaning seas: even the arch-tyrant. Sleep, Doth loose his slaves, not hold them chained for ever. And shall not mankind, too, learn discipline? I know, of late experience taught, that him Who is my foe I must but hate as one Whom I may yet call friend; and him who loves me Will I but serve and cherish as a man Whose love is not abiding. Few be they Who reaching friendship's port have there found rest. But, for these things they shall be well. Go thou, Lady, within, and there pray that the gods May fill unto the full my heart's desire; And ye, my mates, do unto me with her Like honour; bid young Teucer, if he comes, To care for me, but to be your friend still. For where my way leads, thither must I go; Do ye my bidding; haply ye may hear, Though now is my dark hour, that I have peace."
The Chorus are convinced that Ajax has shaken off the sullen despair which had brooded over his spirit, ​and give vent to their delight in a passionate burst of joy, which must have been far more effective in the original music of the ode than it can ever be in an English translation, however gracefully rendered. Once more they may see the "white glory of happy days;" and they call on Pan himself to lead their dance of triumph.
"I thrill with eager delight, And with passionate joy I leap; Io Pan! Io Pan! Io Pan! Come over the waves from the height Of the cliffs of Cyllene, where sweep The storm-blasts of snow in their might! Come, come, O King, at the head Of the dance of the Gods as they tread. ****** And over Icarian wave, Coming with will to save, May Delos' king, Apollo, gloriously advance! Yes, the dark sorrow and pain Far from me Ares hath set; Io Pan! Io Pan! once more; And now, O Zeus! yet again May our swift-sailing vessels be met By the dawn with clear light in its train."—(P.)
But hardly have these joyous strains died away, when a messenger from the Greek camp enters, inquiring for Ajax. Teucer has just returned from the foray, and has with difficulty made his way through the crowd of soldiers, who assailed him with a storm of insults and threats as "the madman's brother." On his entering the council chamber, Calchas, the ​seer, had drawn him aside, and earnestly warned him to keep Ajax within doors till sunset. The wrath of Minerva would last for the space of this one day, which was destined to bring him death or life. But the warning and the message have come too late. Ajax has already gone forth, and the Chorus—realising the irony of his farewell speech to them—hurriedly summon Tecmessa, and disperse themselves to seek their prince, and stay his hand while there may yet be time.
For a moment the stage is vacant; then, by a skilful appliance of machinery, the scene changes. The sea still heaves in the distance; but, instead of the tents of the Salaminian sailors, there is seen the dark and lonely "grove by the shore," and near it stands Ajax himself, looking steadfastly at his sword, which is fixed point upwards with the hilt buried in the earth. All things, he says, are ready for the sacrifice. The sword that is to slay him—Hector's fatal gift, but his best friend now—is ready sharpened, and fixed where it may strike the surest blow. Then he invokes the gods, with whom he makes his peace by his blood. Let Zeus summon Teucer by a "swift rumour," that he may protect his body from the insults of his enemies; let Mercury guide his soul to a home of rest, after it has parted from his body "at one swift bound—without a struggle;" let the Furies avenge his wrongs, and "spare not the Greek host, but lap their fill of slaughter." Then a softer spirit comes over him, and he bids farewell to life—not with the bitter and half-affected ​disdain of Romeo and Hamlet, but affectionately appealing to the bright daylight, and to Nature, with all their pleasant memories of the past:—
"And then that mak'st high heaven thy chariot-course, Sun, when gazing on my Fatherland, Draw back thy golden rein, and tell my woes To the old man my father, and to her Who nursed me at her bosom—my poor mother! There will be wailing through the echoing walls When—but away with thoughts like these! the hour Brings on the ripening deed. Death, death! look on me— Did I say Death?—it was a waste of words; We shall be friends hereafter. 'Tis the day, Present and breathing round me, and the car Of the sweet sun, that never shall again Receive my greeting!—henceforth time is sunless, And day a thing that is not! Beautiful Light, My Salamis—my country—and the floor Of my dear household-hearth; and thou, bright Athens, Thou—for thy sons and I were boys together— Fountains and rivers, and ye Trojan plains, I loved you as my fosterers—fare ye well! Take in these words, the last earth hears from Ajax— All else unspoken; in a spectre-land I'll whisper to the Dead."—(Lord Lytton.)
And we must remember, says a French critic, that this appeal was made in a theatre with the blue heaven for its canopy, and the mountains and sea for its decorations. When he saluted for the last time the sun and the sweet light of day, the real sun was actually shedding a radiance on the features of the dying hero, and the entranced faces of the audience. ​"Salamis, sacred land of my fathers!" cried Ajax, and all the spectators could see Salamis and its glorious gulf. There it lay, sparkling in the sunshine, in the midst of the waves, which still murmur the name of Themistocles; there it lay, with all the memories which its name and sight could recall to the Athenians. "Fair and glorious Athens, sweet sister of my fatherland!" again cried the hero; and not only did he say this in Athens, but Athens was all there centred beneath his gaze.
With one last look at the sunlight, Ajax falls forwards on his sword, and his body lies concealed from the audience by the underwood of the grove. The Chorus enter hurriedly in two bands, right and left of the stage. They have wearied themselves with a vain search, far and wide, on the eastern and western sides of the camp, but they have not found their prince; and they appeal to the "children of the sea"—the nymphs and naiads of the springs—to aid their quest. Suddenly a woman's cry is heard from the grove. It is Tecmessa, who, searching nearer home, has just stumbled on the body of Ajax, as it lies "with the lifeblood streaming from the nostrils;" and they see her covering it with her robe from the eyes of his friends. Teucer enters in the midst of their grief, warned by a mysterious rumour from some god of the death of Ajax. He uncovers the body; and, gazing steadfastly at it, he too bursts into a passionate lament. As the sons of Jacob feared to return to their father without ​bringing Benjamin with them, so the foster-brother shrinks from returning alone to Salamis and facing the aged Telamon—fierce even in his gentlest mood; and he foresees, what actually happened, that he will be driven, like a slave and an outcast, from his doors. And then he moralises over the fatality of an enemy's gifts, which have brought death and dole to giver and receiver.
"Mark, by the gods, these hapless heroes' fate. Bound by the very belt which Ajax gave To the swift chariot, Hector breathed his last: He too, possessing Hector's fatal gift, By it hath perished with a mortal wound. Did not some Fury forge that sword, and Death— A stern artificer—that baldric weave? Such fates, I ween, the gods for man ordain; Yea, and all strange vicissitudes of life."—(D.)
Here it seems as if the play should end; but it is carried on into another act. To an Athenian audience, Ajax was more than a hero of tragedy: he was almost a tutelary god, the deified ancestor of one of their noblest families, to which not only Miltiades, but Alcibiades, and Thucydides the historian—perhaps actual spectators of the play—all belonged. Divine honours were paid to his tomb; and a yearly festival was held in his memory at Salamis His burial, therefore, even on the stage, had almost the sanctity of a religious rite; and Menelaus and his brother (as types of Argos and Sparta, the national enemies of Athens) appropriately "fill the posts of 'Devil's Advocates' at this process of canonisation."
​Just as Teucer is about to remove the body in order to prepare it for burial, Menelaus, accompanied by a herald, appears, and haughtily bids him leave the corpse as it lies upon the sand. "There," he says, "it shall remain, food for the birds that haunt the shore; for in his lifetime Ajax had been a worse foe to the Greeks than all the Trojans." Then follows an angry dialogue, in which the speakers, with Homeric roughness, exchange all degrees of insult, from the "reply churlish" to the "lie direct." Teucer is a fearless champion of the dead, and cares nothing for the rank of his opponent or for the consequences to himself. "Come, therefore," he replies, in a spirit as haughty as the Spartan's,—
"Come, therefore, bring with thee a host of heralds; Yea, bring the King of men himself. I care not For all thy stir, while thou art—what thou art."
Menelaus, accordingly, goes to summon his brother Agamenmon; and Teucer calls Tecmessa and Eurysaces to watch the body while he prepares the grave. Then he bids the young child sit as a suppliant, with one hand on the corpse, and holding in the other a lock of his father's hair.
"And should one In all our army tear thee from the dead, May he thus bare, unburied, basely die, An exile from his home, with all his race As utterly cut off, as I now cut This braided lock."—(P.)
The Chorus deplore the weary length of the siege, and curse the memory of him who first taught war to the ​Greeks, and thereby cut them off from all the joys of life—"garlands, and brimming wine-cups, and the flute's sweet music, and sleep, and love."
"Yes, he from love and all its joy Has cut me off, ah me! ah me! And here I linger still in Troy, By all uncared for, sad to see. Till now, from every fear by night, And bulwark against darts of foe, Ajax stood forward in his might, But now the stern god lays him low.
Ah! would that I my flight could take Where o'er the sea the dark crags frown, And on the rocks the wild waves break, And woods the height of Sunium crown, That so we might with welcome bless Great Athens and her holiness!"—(P.)
Teucer enters again, and at the same moment there is seen approaching from the Greek camp a tall chieftain of stately bearing, in resplendent armour. It is "the King of men, the commander of the host," Agamemnon himself. He addresses Teucer with studied insolence, affecting not even to understand his "barbarous tongue." "Does the son of the bondmaid," he asks, "presume to set himself up as champion of a hero no whit better than his fellow-captains? Let him bring a free-born Greek to plead his cause." Teucer replies half in anger, half in sorrow, that the valour and the good services of Ajax should so soon have faded from men's remembrance. He apostrophises ​the dead before he will even condescend to notice the taunt of the living.
"Alas! how swiftly doth man's gratitude Turn traitor to the memory of the dead! Lo, hath this prince not even one little word Of thought for thee, O Ajax, who didst oft In his behalf aforetime gage thy life?"
Then he turns indignantly to the great king—"What, does he not remember? It was Ajax who had saved the ships from destruction, when wrapped in flames. It was Ajax who had confronted Hector himself—and the 'son of the bondmaid' had then stood by his brother's side." Then he retorts the charge of mean descent on Agamemnon—sprung from the "godless Atreus," and from a mother who played her husband false. He will die himself sooner than desert the dead—and it would be more glorious, he adds, to die for his gallant foster-brother than for Helen, the faithless wife.
At this point Ulysses enters, and acts as peacemaker between the angry disputants. His shrewd sense had argued that nothing could be gained by outraging the body of the dead warrior; and he appeals to Agamemnon not to press his hatred beyond the grave—basing his appeal upon common humanity and reason—
"Unto me This man of all the host was greatest foe, Since I prevailed to gain Achilles' arms; ​But though he were so, being what he was, I would not put so foul a shame on him, As not to own I looked upon a man The best and bravest of the Argive host, Of all that came to Troia, saving one, Achilles' self. Most wrong 'twould therefore be That he should suffer outrage at thy hands; Thou wouldst not trample upon him alone, But on the laws of God."—(P.)
Agamemnon reluctantly gives way, and leaves the scene. Then Ulysses, turning to Teucer, offers him his hand in friendship, with a generosity which is in strong contrast to the bitter insolence of the son of Atreus; he offers also to assist in paying the last honours to the noble dead. But this Teucer cannot allow, "lest it displease the dead himself;" and so Ulysses departs, having, so far as he could, made his peace with the manes of his ancient enemy.
Ulysses and Ajax met once more—so says the Homeric legend—in the lower world. While all the other heroes, in "the asphodel meadow," press forward to greet their old comrade in arms who has come to visit them in the flesh, the shade of Ajax stands aloof from all the others, brooding over the injuries of his lifetime, and sullenly turns away from the proffered courtesy of his rival.
Teucer returned to Salamis, taking with him Tecmessa and Eurysaces; but, as he had foreseen, Telamon received him with angry reproaches for allowing Ajax to perish. Then Teucer set sail for Cyprus, and there he founded a city which he called Salamis, after his ​old home. Horace describes his farewell banquet, and his spirited address to the companions of his voyage:
"Where fortune bears us, than my sire more kind, There let us go, my own, my gallant crew: 'Tis Teucer leads, 'tis Teucer breathes the wind; No more despair; Apollo's word is true. Another Salamis in kindlier air Shall yet arise. Hearts, that have borne with me Worse buffets! drown, to-day, in wine your care; To-morrow we recross the wide, wide sea!"
* ↑ Lord Derby's Homer, Il. xvii. 847.
* ↑ Troilus and Cressida, act i. sc. 3. M. Taine is even more uncomplimentary. In his classification of Shakspeare's characters, he places Ajax between Caliban and Cloten among "les brutes et les imbéciles."—(Lit. Angl., ii. 206.)
* ↑ Jebb's Ajax, p. 8, note.
* ↑ Faery Queen, III. v. 45.
* ↑ Virgil, Æneid, xii. 435 (Conington's Transl.)
* ↑ Bishop Thirlwall's view of the scene is here followed.
* ↑ Jebb's Ajax, p. 88.
* ↑ Praed's Poems, ii. 349.
* ↑ Jebb's Ajax.
* ↑ Verses and Translations, p. 177.
* ↑ Translated from Girardin, Cours de Littérature Dramat., i. 29.
* ↑ Bishop Thirlwall.
* ↑ Teucer was the son of Telamon by a captive princess.
* ↑ "But yesterday the name of Cæsar might Have stood against the world: now lies he there, And none so poor to do him reverence." —Julius Cæsar, act iii. sc. 2.
* ↑ Odes, I. 7 (Conington's Transl.)