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It is an indisputable tradition that Greek tragedy in its earliest form had for its theme only the sufferings of Dionysus, and that for some time the only stage-hero therein was simply Dionysus himself. With the same confidence, however, we can maintain that not until Euripides did Dionysus cease to be the tragic hero, and that in fact all the celebrated figures of the Greek stage—Prometheus, Œdipus, etc.—are but masks of this original hero, Dionysus. The presence of a god behind all these masks is the one essential cause of the typical "ideality," so oft exciting wonder, of these celebrated figures. Some one, I know not whom, has maintained that all individuals are comic as individuals and are consequently un-tragic: from whence it might be inferred that the Greeks in general could not endure individuals on the tragic stage. And they really seem to have had these sentiments: as, in general, it is to be observed that the Platonic discrimination and valuation of the "idea" in contrast to the "eidolon," the image, is deeply rooted in the Hellenic being. Availing ourselves of Plato's terminology, however, we should have to speak of the tragic figures of the Hellenic stage somewhat as follows. The one truly real Dionysus appears in a multiplicity of forms, in the mask of a fighting hero and entangled, as it were, in the net of an individual will. As the visibly appearing god now talks and acts, he resembles an erring, striving, suffering individual: and that, in general, he appears with such epic precision and clearness, is due to the dream-reading Apollo, who reads to the chorus its Dionysian state through this symbolic appearance. In reality, however, this hero is the suffering Dionysus of the mysteries, a god experiencing in himself the sufferings of individuation, of whom wonderful myths tell that as a boy he was dismembered by the Titans and has been worshipped in this state as Zagreus:¹⁵ whereby is intimated that this dismemberment, the properly Dionysian suffering, is like a transformation into air, water, earth, and fire, that we must therefore regard the state of individuation as the source and primal cause of all suffering, as something objectionable in itself. From the smile of this Dionysus sprang the Olympian gods, from his tears sprang man. In his existence as a dismembered god, Dionysus has the dual nature of a cruel barbarised demon, and a mild pacific ruler. But the hope of the epopts looked for a new birth of Dionysus, which we have now to conceive of in anticipation as the end of individuation: it was for this coming third Dionysus that the stormy jubilation-hymns of the epopts resounded. And it is only this hope that sheds a ray of joy upon the features of a world torn asunder and shattered into individuals: as is symbolised in the myth by Demeter sunk in eternal sadness, who rejoices again only when told that she may once more give birth to Dionysus In the views of things here given we already have all the elements of a profound and pessimistic contemplation of the world, and along with these we have the mystery doctrine of tragedy: the fundamental knowledge of the oneness of all existing things, the consideration of individuation as the primal cause of evil, and art as the joyous hope that the spell of individuation may be broken, as the augury of a restored oneness.

It is an indisputable tradition that early Greek tragedy dealt only with the sufferings of Dionysus. For some time, Dionysus himself was its only stage hero. But we can say with equal confidence that Dionysus remained the tragic hero until Euripides. In fact, all the celebrated figures of the Greek stage, including Prometheus and Œdipus, are masks of this original hero, Dionysus. A god stands behind all these masks. That is the essential reason for the typical "ideality" of these celebrated figures, which so often inspires wonder. Someone, I do not know who, has argued that all individuals are comic as individuals and therefore cannot be tragic. From this, we might infer that the Greeks generally could not tolerate individuals on the tragic stage. And they do seem to have felt this way. More generally, Plato distinguished the "idea" from the "eidolon," or image, and valued the idea above the image. This distinction and judgment are deeply rooted in the Hellenic character. Using Plato's terms, we would have to describe the tragic figures of the Hellenic stage somewhat as follows. The one truly real Dionysus appears in many forms. He wears the mask of a struggling hero and is caught, as it were, in the net of an individual will. As the god appears before us, speaking and acting, he resembles an individual who makes mistakes, struggles, and suffers. He appears with the precision and clarity of an epic because of Apollo, the interpreter of dreams. Through this symbolic appearance, Apollo interprets the chorus's Dionysian state to it. In reality, however, this hero is the suffering Dionysus of the mysteries. He is a god who experiences the sufferings of individuation within himself. Wonderful myths tell how the Titans dismembered him as a boy, and how he has been worshipped in this state as Zagreus:¹⁵ This suggests that his dismemberment, the distinctly Dionysian suffering, is like a transformation into air, water, earth, and fire. We must therefore regard individuation as the source and original cause of all suffering, and as something objectionable in itself. From the smile of this Dionysus sprang the Olympian gods. From his tears sprang man. As a dismembered god, Dionysus has a dual nature. He is both a cruel, barbaric demon and a gentle, peaceful ruler. But the epopts hoped for a new birth of Dionysus. We must understand this hoped-for birth as the end of individuation. It was for this coming third Dionysus that the epopts sang their stormy hymns of jubilation. Only this hope casts a ray of joy over a world torn apart and broken into individuals. The myth symbolizes this in Demeter, who is sunk in eternal sadness. She rejoices again only when told that she may once more give birth to Dionysus. These views already contain all the elements of a profound and pessimistic outlook on the world. Alongside them, they also contain the mystery doctrine of tragedy: the fundamental knowledge that all existing things are one, the view of individuation as the original cause of evil, and art as the joyful hope that the spell of individuation may be broken and as a sign that oneness may be restored.

It has already been intimated that the Homeric epos is the poem of Olympian culture, wherewith this culture has sung its own song of triumph over the terrors of the war of the Titans. Under the predominating influence of tragic poetry, these Homeric myths are now reproduced anew, and show by this metempsychosis that meantime the Olympian culture also has been vanquished by a still deeper view of things. The haughty Titan Prometheus has announced to his Olympian tormentor that the extremest danger will one day menace his rule, unless he ally with him betimes. In Æschylus we perceive the terrified Zeus, apprehensive of his end, in alliance with the Titan. Thus, the former age of the Titans is subsequently brought from Tartarus once more to the light of day. The philosophy of wild and naked nature beholds with the undissembled mien of truth the myths of the Homeric world as they dance past: they turn pale, they tremble before the lightning glance of this goddess—till the powerful fist¹⁶ of the Dionysian artist forces them into the service of the new deity. Dionysian truth takes over the entire domain of myth as symbolism of its knowledge, which it makes known partly in the public cult of tragedy and partly in the secret celebration of the dramatic mysteries, always, however, in the old mythical garb. What was the power, which freed Prometheus from his vultures and transformed the myth into a vehicle of Dionysian wisdom? It is the Heracleian power of music: which, having reached its highest manifestness in tragedy, can invest myths with a new and most profound significance, which we have already had occasion to characterise as the most powerful faculty of music. For it is the fate of every myth to insinuate itself into the narrow limits of some alleged historical reality, and to be treated by some later generation as a solitary fact with historical claims: and the Greeks were already fairly on the way to restamp the whole of their mythical juvenile dream sagaciously and arbitrarily into a historico-pragmatical juvenile history. For this is the manner in which religions are wont to die out: when of course under the stern, intelligent eyes of an orthodox dogmatism, the mythical presuppositions of a religion are systematised as a completed sum of historical events, and when one begins apprehensively to defend the credibility of the myth, while at the same time opposing all continuation of their natural vitality and luxuriance; when, accordingly, the feeling for myth dies out, and its place is taken by the claim of religion to historical foundations. This dying myth was now seized by the new-born genius of Dionysian music, in whose hands it bloomed once more, with such colours as it had never yet displayed, with a fragrance that awakened a longing anticipation of a metaphysical world. After this final effulgence it collapses, its leaves wither, and soon the scoffing Lucians of antiquity catch at the discoloured and faded flowers which the winds carry off in every direction. Through tragedy the myth attains its profoundest significance, its most expressive form; it rises once more like a wounded hero, and the whole surplus of vitality, together with the philosophical calmness of the Dying, burns in its eyes with a last powerful gleam.

It has already been suggested that the Homeric epic is the poem of Olympian culture. Through it, that culture sang its own song of triumph over the terrors of the war of the Titans. Now, under the dominant influence of tragic poetry, these Homeric myths are recreated. Through this reincarnation, they show that Olympian culture too has since been overcome by a deeper view of things. The proud Titan Prometheus has warned his Olympian tormentor of a future threat. Unless he allies himself with Prometheus in time, his rule will one day face the greatest danger. In Æschylus, we see Zeus, terrified and fearful of his end, allied with the Titan. Thus the former age of the Titans is brought out of Tartarus and into the light of day once more. The philosophy of wild, naked nature looks with the undisguised face of truth at the myths of the Homeric world as they dance past. They turn pale and tremble before this goddess’s lightning gaze. Then the powerful fist¹⁶ of the Dionysian artist forces them into the service of the new deity. Dionysian truth takes over the whole domain of myth as a symbol of its knowledge. It reveals this knowledge partly in the public worship of tragedy and partly in the secret celebration of the dramatic mysteries. Yet it always does so in the old mythical dress. What power freed Prometheus from his vultures and transformed myth into a vehicle for Dionysian wisdom? It is the Heracleian power of music. Music finds its fullest expression in tragedy and can give myths a new and profound significance. We have already described this as music’s most powerful capacity. For every myth is destined to slip into the narrow confines of some supposed historical reality. A later generation then treats it as an isolated fact with a claim to historical truth. The Greeks were already well on their way to cleverly and arbitrarily recasting their entire youthful dream of myth as a youthful history of practical events. For this is how religions tend to die. Under the stern, intelligent eyes of orthodox dogmatism, a religion’s mythical foundations are organized into a complete set of historical events. People begin anxiously defending the credibility of the myth. At the same time, they resist any further natural growth and flourishing of the myths. The feeling for myth dies out, and religion’s claim to historical foundations takes its place. The newborn genius of Dionysian music now seized this dying myth. In its hands, myth bloomed once more, with colors it had never shown before. Its fragrance awakened a longing anticipation of a metaphysical world. After this final blaze of glory, it collapses and its leaves wither. Soon the mocking Lucians of antiquity seize the discolored, faded flowers that the winds carry off in every direction. Through tragedy, myth reaches its deepest meaning and its most expressive form. It rises once more like a wounded hero. In its eyes, all its remaining vitality and the philosophical calm of the dying burn with one last powerful gleam.

What meantest thou, oh impious Euripides, in seeking once more to enthral this dying one? It died under thy ruthless hands: and then thou madest use of counterfeit, masked myth, which like the ape of Heracles could only trick itself out in the old finery. And as myth died in thy hands, so also died the genius of music; though thou couldst covetously plunder all the gardens of music—thou didst only realise a counterfeit, masked music. And because thou hast forsaken Dionysus. Apollo hath also forsaken thee; rout up all the passions from their haunts and conjure them into thy sphere, sharpen and polish a sophistical dialectics for the speeches of thy heroes—thy very heroes have only counterfeit, masked passions, and speak only counterfeit, masked music.

What were you thinking, impious Euripides, when you tried once more to captivate this dying being? It died under your ruthless hands. Then you made use of a counterfeit, masked myth. Like the ape of Heracles, it could only dress itself up in the old finery. Just as myth died in your hands, so did the genius of music. Though you greedily plundered all the gardens of music, you produced only counterfeit, masked music. And because you abandoned Dionysus, Apollo has abandoned you too. Stir up all the passions from their hiding places and summon them into your realm. Sharpen and polish sophistical arguments for your heroes’ speeches. Even so, your heroes have only counterfeit, masked passions, and speak only counterfeit, masked music.