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Greek tragedy had a fate different from that of all her older sister arts: she died by suicide, in consequence of an irreconcilable conflict; accordingly she died tragically, while they all passed away very calmly and beautifully in ripe old age. For if it be in accordance with a happy state of things to depart this life without a struggle, leaving behind a fair posterity, the closing period of these older arts exhibits such a happy state of things: slowly they sink out of sight, and before their dying eyes already stand their fairer progeny, who impatiently lift up their heads with courageous mien. The death of Greek tragedy, on the other hand, left an immense void, deeply felt everywhere. Even as certain Greek sailors in the time of Tiberius once heard upon a lonesome island the thrilling cry, "great Pan is dead": so now as it were sorrowful wailing sounded through the Hellenic world: "Tragedy is dead! Poetry itself has perished with her! Begone, begone, ye stunted, emaciated epigones! Begone to Hades, that ye may for once eat your fill of the crumbs of your former masters!"

Greek tragedy had a different fate from all her older sister arts. An irreconcilable conflict drove her to suicide, so she died tragically. Her older sisters, by contrast, all passed away peacefully and beautifully in ripe old age. If a happy ending means departing life without a struggle and leaving behind beautiful offspring, the older arts had one. Slowly they fade from sight. Before their dying eyes, their even more beautiful offspring already stand, impatiently raising their heads with a bold air. The death of Greek tragedy, on the other hand, left an immense void that was deeply felt everywhere. In the time of Tiberius, certain Greek sailors once heard a startling cry on a lonely island: "great Pan is dead". In much the same way, cries of sorrow now seemed to ring through the Hellenic world: "Tragedy is dead! Poetry itself has perished with her! Away, away, you stunted, emaciated followers! Away to Hades, so that you may finally eat your fill of the crumbs from your former masters!"

But when after all a new Art blossomed forth which revered tragedy as her ancestress and mistress, it was observed with horror that she did indeed bear the features of her mother, but those very features the latter had exhibited in her long death-struggle. It was Euripides who fought this death-struggle of tragedy; the later art is known as the New Attic Comedy. In it the degenerate form of tragedy lived on as a monument of the most painful and violent death of tragedy proper.

But when a new art finally emerged, it revered tragedy as its ancestor and master. People were horrified to see that it did bear its mother’s features. But those were the very features tragedy had shown during its long struggle to die. It was Euripides who fought this death struggle of tragedy. The later art is known as the New Attic Comedy. In it, tragedy lived on in a degenerate form, a monument to the painful and violent death of tragedy proper.

This connection between the two serves to explain the passionate attachment to Euripides evinced by the poets of the New Comedy, and hence we are no longer surprised at the wish of Philemon, who would have got himself hanged at once, with the sole design of being able to visit Euripides in the lower regions: if only he could be assured generally that the deceased still had his wits. But if we desire, as briefly as possible, and without professing to say aught exhaustive on the subject, to characterise what Euripides has in common with Menander and Philemon, and what appealed to them so strongly as worthy of imitation: it will suffice to say that the spectator was brought upon the stage by Euripides. He who has perceived the material of which the Promethean tragic writers prior to Euripides formed their heroes, and how remote from their purpose it was to bring the true mask of reality on the stage, will also know what to make of the wholly divergent tendency of Euripides. Through him the commonplace individual forced his way from the spectators' benches to the stage itself; the mirror in which formerly only great and bold traits found expression now showed the painful exactness that conscientiously reproduces even the abortive lines of nature. Odysseus, the typical Hellene of the Old Art, sank, in the hands of the new poets, to the figure of the Græculus, who, as the good-naturedly cunning domestic slave, stands henceforth in the centre of dramatic interest. What Euripides takes credit for in the Aristophanean "Frogs," namely, that by his household remedies he freed tragic art from its pompous corpulency, is apparent above all in his tragic heroes. The spectator now virtually saw and heard his double on the Euripidean stage, and rejoiced that he could talk so well. But this joy was not all: one even learned of Euripides how to speak: he prides himself upon this in his contest with Æschylus: how the people have learned from him how to observe, debate, and draw conclusions according to the rules of art and with the cleverest sophistications. In general it may be said that through this revolution of the popular language he made the New Comedy possible. For it was henceforth no longer a secret, how—and with what saws—the commonplace could represent and express itself on the stage. Civic mediocrity, on which Euripides built all his political hopes, was now suffered to speak, while heretofore the demigod in tragedy and the drunken satyr, or demiman, in comedy, had determined the character of the language. And so the Aristophanean Euripides prides himself on having portrayed the common, familiar, everyday life and dealings of the people, concerning which all are qualified to pass judgment. If now the entire populace philosophises, manages land and goods with unheard-of circumspection, and conducts law-suits, he takes all the credit to himself, and glories in the splendid results of the wisdom with which he inoculated the rabble.

This connection between the two explains why the poets of the New Comedy were so passionately devoted to Euripides. So we are no longer surprised by Philemon’s wish. He would have had himself hanged at once, just to visit Euripides in the lower regions. He only needed to be assured that the dead generally kept their wits. But what did Euripides have in common with Menander and Philemon? What appealed to them so strongly as worthy of imitation? To answer as briefly as possible, without claiming to cover everything, we need only say this: Euripides brought the spectator onto the stage. The Promethean tragic writers before Euripides made their heroes from very different material. They were far from intending to bring the true mask of reality onto the stage. Anyone who has recognized this will also understand Euripides’ completely different approach. Through Euripides, the ordinary individual pushed his way from the spectators’ benches onto the stage itself. The mirror had once reflected only great and bold traits. Now it showed a painful precision, faithfully reproducing even nature’s flawed features. Odysseus, the typical Hellene of the Old Art, became the Græculus in the hands of the new poets. As the good-naturedly cunning domestic slave, the Græculus now stands at the center of dramatic interest. In Aristophanes’ "Frogs," Euripides takes credit for using his household remedies to rid tragic art of its pompous bulk. The change is clearest in his tragic heroes. The spectator now virtually saw and heard his own double on the Euripidean stage. He was delighted that his double could speak so well. But this was not his only pleasure. He even learned from Euripides how to speak. Euripides boasts of this in his contest with Æschylus. He claims that people learned from him to observe, debate, and draw conclusions skillfully and with the cleverest sophistry. In general, it may be said that Euripides made the New Comedy possible by revolutionizing everyday speech. It was no longer a secret how ordinary people could represent and express themselves on stage, or what sayings they could use. The ordinary citizens on whom Euripides built all his political hopes were now allowed to speak. Before this, the demigod in tragedy and the drunken satyr, or demiman, in comedy had shaped the language. Thus, Aristophanes’ Euripides boasts that he portrayed the common, familiar, everyday lives and dealings of the people. Everyone is qualified to judge these matters. Now the entire populace philosophizes, manages land and goods with unprecedented care, and conducts lawsuits. Euripides takes all the credit and glories in the splendid results of the wisdom he injected into the rabble.

It was to a populace prepared and enlightened in this manner that the New Comedy could now address itself, of which Euripides had become as it were the chorus-master; only that in this case the chorus of spectators had to be trained. As soon as this chorus was trained to sing in the Euripidean key, there arose that chesslike variety of the drama, the New Comedy, with its perpetual triumphs of cunning and artfulness. But Euripides—the chorus-master—was praised incessantly: indeed, people would have killed themselves in order to learn yet more from him, had they not known that tragic poets were quite as dead as tragedy. But with it the Hellene had surrendered the belief in his immortality; not only the belief in an ideal past, but also the belief in an ideal future. The saying taken from the well-known epitaph, "as an old man, frivolous and capricious," applies also to aged Hellenism. The passing moment, wit, levity, and caprice, are its highest deities; the fifth class, that of the slaves, now attains to power, at least in sentiment: and if we can still speak at all of "Greek cheerfulness," it is the cheerfulness of the slave who has nothing of consequence to answer for, nothing great to strive for, and cannot value anything of the past or future higher than the present. It was this semblance of "Greek cheerfulness" which so revolted the deep-minded and formidable natures of the first four centuries of Christianity: this womanish flight from earnestness and terror, this cowardly contentedness with easy pleasure, was not only contemptible to them, but seemed to be a specifically anti-Christian sentiment. And we must ascribe it to its influence that the conception of Greek antiquity, which lived on for centuries, preserved with almost enduring persistency that peculiar hectic colour of cheerfulness—as if there had never been a Sixth Century with its birth of tragedy, its Mysteries, its Pythagoras and Heraclitus, indeed as if the art-works of that great period did not at all exist, which in fact—each by itself—can in no wise be explained as having sprung from the soil of such a decrepit and slavish love of existence and cheerfulness, and point to an altogether different conception of things as their source.

New Comedy could now address an audience prepared and enlightened in this way. Euripides had become, as it were, its chorus-master. Only now it was the chorus of spectators that had to be trained. Once this chorus had learned to sing in the Euripidean key, a chesslike form of drama arose: New Comedy, with its endless triumphs of cunning and cleverness. But Euripides, the chorus-master, was praised without end. Indeed, people would have killed themselves to learn still more from him, had they not known that tragic poets were just as dead as tragedy. But with tragedy, the Hellene had given up his belief in his immortality. He had given up not only the belief in an ideal past, but also the belief in an ideal future. The words from the well-known epitaph, "as an old man, frivolous and capricious," also apply to Hellenism in its old age. The passing moment, wit, lightheartedness, and whim are its highest gods. The fifth class, that of the slaves, now comes to power, at least in feeling. And if we can still speak at all of "Greek cheerfulness," it is the cheerfulness of the slave. He has nothing important to answer for, nothing great to strive for, and cannot value anything in the past or future above the present. This appearance of "Greek cheerfulness" deeply repelled the profound and formidable minds of Christianity's first four centuries. To them, this womanish flight from seriousness and terror was contemptible. So was this cowardly contentment with easy pleasure. Both also seemed to them specifically anti-Christian. And we must credit the influence of this appearance with the peculiar feverish color of cheerfulness that clung so persistently to the image of Greek antiquity for centuries. It was as if there had never been a Sixth Century, with its birth of tragedy, its Mysteries, its Pythagoras and Heraclitus. Indeed, it was as if the artworks of that great period did not exist at all. For none of those works, taken on its own, can possibly be explained as growing from such a decayed and slavish love of life and cheerfulness. Each points instead to a wholly different view of things as its source.

The assertion made a moment ago, that Euripides introduced the spectator on the stage to qualify him the better to pass judgment on the drama, will make it appear as if the old tragic art was always in a false relation to the spectator: and one would be tempted to extol the radical tendency of Euripides to bring about an adequate relation between art-work and public as an advance on Sophocles. But, as things are, "public" is merely a word, and not at all a homogeneous and constant quantity. Why should the artist be under obligations to accommodate himself to a power whose strength is merely in numbers? And if by virtue of his endowments and aspirations he feels himself superior to every one of these spectators, how could he feel greater respect for the collective expression of all these subordinate capacities than for the relatively highest-endowed individual spectator? In truth, if ever a Greek artist treated his public throughout a long life with presumptuousness and self-sufficiency, it was Euripides, who, even when the masses threw themselves at his feet, with sublime defiance made an open assault on his own tendency, the very tendency with which he had triumphed over the masses. If this genius had had the slightest reverence for the pandemonium of the public, he would have broken down long before the middle of his career beneath the weighty blows of his own failures. These considerations here make it obvious that our formula—namely, that Euripides brought the spectator upon the stage, in order to make him truly competent to pass judgment—was but a provisional one, and that we must seek for a deeper understanding of his tendency. Conversely, it is undoubtedly well known that Æschylus and Sophocles, during all their lives, indeed, far beyond their lives, enjoyed the full favour of the people, and that therefore in the case of these predecessors of Euripides the idea of a false relation between art-work and public was altogether excluded. What was it that thus forcibly diverted this highly gifted artist, so incessantly impelled to production, from the path over which shone the sun of the greatest names in poetry and the cloudless heaven of popular favour? What strange consideration for the spectator led him to defy, the spectator? How could he, owing to too much respect for the public —dis-respect the public?

I just claimed that Euripides brought the spectator onto the stage to make him better able to judge the drama. This might make it seem that the old tragic art always had a false relationship with the spectator. And one might be tempted to praise Euripides’ radical effort to establish a proper relationship between the artwork and the public. One might even see it as an advance on Sophocles. But “public” is only a word. It is not a uniform and unchanging group. Why should the artist have to accommodate a power whose strength lies merely in numbers? Suppose his gifts and ambitions make him feel superior to every one of these spectators. How could he respect their combined judgment more than that of the most gifted individual spectator among them? In fact, Euripides was a Greek artist who treated his public with arrogance and self-sufficiency throughout his long life, if ever there was one. Even when the masses threw themselves at his feet, he openly attacked his own artistic tendency with lofty defiance. It was the very tendency with which he had won over the masses. If this genius had shown the slightest reverence for the public and its uproar, his own crushing failures would have broken him long before the middle of his career. These considerations make one thing clear. Our formula, that Euripides brought the spectator onto the stage to make him truly competent to judge, was only provisional. We must seek a deeper understanding of his tendency. By contrast, it is surely well known that Æschylus and Sophocles enjoyed the full favor of the people throughout their lives and indeed long after them. In the case of these predecessors of Euripides, then, there could be no question of a false relationship between artwork and public. What drove this highly gifted artist, so constantly compelled to create, away from their path? It was a path lit by the sun of the greatest names in poetry and the cloudless sky of popular favor. What strange concern for the spectator led him to defy the spectator? How could he, out of too much respect for the public, show disrespect for the public?

Euripides—and this is the solution of the riddle just propounded—felt himself, as a poet, undoubtedly superior to the masses, but not to two of his spectators: he brought the masses upon the stage; these two spectators he revered as the only competent judges and masters of his art: in compliance with their directions and admonitions, he transferred the entire world of sentiments, passions, and experiences, hitherto present at every festival representation as the invisible chorus on the spectators' benches, into the souls of his stage-heroes; he yielded to their demands when he also sought for these new characters the new word and the new tone; in their voices alone he heard the conclusive verdict on his work, as also the cheering promise of triumph when he found himself condemned as usual by the justice of the public.

Euripides provides the solution to the riddle just posed. As a poet, he undoubtedly felt superior to the masses, but not to two of his spectators. He brought the masses onto the stage, but revered these two spectators as the only competent judges and masters of his art. Following their directions and advice, he transferred an entire world of feelings, passions, and experiences into the souls of his stage heroes. Until then, this world had been present at every festival performance as the invisible chorus on the spectators' benches. He also answered their demands by seeking new words and a new tone for these new characters. Only in their voices did he hear the final verdict on his work. And when the public passed its usual judgment and condemned him, their voices alone offered him the cheering promise of triumph.

Of these two, spectators the one is—Euripides himself, Euripides as thinker, not as poet. It might be said of him, that his unusually large fund of critical ability, as in the case of Lessing, if it did not create, at least constantly fructified a productively artistic collateral impulse. With this faculty, with all the clearness and dexterity of his critical thought, Euripides had sat in the theatre and striven to recognise in the masterpieces of his great predecessors, as in faded paintings, feature and feature, line and line. And here had happened to him what one initiated in the deeper arcana of Æschylean tragedy must needs have expected: he observed something incommensurable in every feature and in every line, a certain deceptive distinctness and at the same time an enigmatic profundity, yea an infinitude, of background. Even the clearest figure had always a comet's tail attached to it, which seemed to suggest the uncertain and the inexplicable. The same twilight shrouded the structure of the drama, especially the significance of the chorus. And how doubtful seemed the solution of the ethical problems to his mind! How questionable the treatment of the myths! How unequal the distribution of happiness and misfortune! Even in the language of the Old Tragedy there was much that was objectionable to him, or at least enigmatical; he found especially too much pomp for simple affairs, too many tropes and immense things for the plainness of the characters. Thus he sat restlessly pondering in the theatre, and as a spectator he acknowledged to himself that he did not understand his great predecessors. If, however, he thought the understanding the root proper of all enjoyment and productivity, he had to inquire and look about to see whether any one else thought as he did, and also acknowledged this incommensurability. But most people, and among them the best individuals, had only a distrustful smile for him, while none could explain why the great masters were still in the right in face of his scruples and objections. And in this painful condition he found that other spectator, who did not comprehend, and therefore did not esteem, tragedy. In alliance with him he could venture, from amid his lonesomeness, to begin the prodigious struggle against the art of Æschylus and Sophocles—not with polemic writings, but as a dramatic poet, who opposed his own conception of tragedy to the traditional one.

Of the two spectators, one is Euripides himself, Euripides as thinker, not as poet. Like Lessing, he had an unusually large reserve of critical ability. If it did not create his artistic impulse, it at least constantly enriched it. With this gift and all the clarity and skill of his critical thought, Euripides sat in the theater. He tried to make out each feature and line in his great predecessors’ masterpieces, as if they were faded paintings. And what happened to him was just what someone familiar with the deepest mysteries of Æschylean tragedy would have expected. In every feature and line, he noticed something beyond measure. Each had a deceptive clarity, yet also a mysterious depth, indeed an endlessness, in its background. Even the clearest figure always had a comet’s tail attached to it. This seemed to suggest what was uncertain and inexplicable. The same twilight shrouded the drama’s structure, especially the meaning of the chorus. And how doubtful the solutions to the ethical problems seemed to him! How questionable the treatment of the myths! How uneven the distribution of happiness and misfortune! Even in the language of the Old Tragedy, much struck him as objectionable or at least puzzling. In particular, he found too much pomp for simple matters. There were too many figures of speech and grand ideas for such plain characters. So he sat in the theater, thinking restlessly. As a spectator, he admitted to himself that he did not understand his great predecessors. But if he thought understanding was the true root of all enjoyment and creativity, he had to look around and ask questions. Did anyone else think as he did and also admit that tragedy contained something beyond measure? Most people, including the best among them, responded only with a distrustful smile. None could explain why the great masters were still right despite his doubts and objections. In this painful situation, he found that other spectator, who did not understand tragedy and therefore did not value it. Allied with him, Euripides could venture out of his isolation and begin a tremendous struggle against the art of Æschylus and Sophocles. He fought not with polemical writings, but as a dramatic poet. He set his own conception of tragedy against the traditional one.