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Before we name this other spectator, let us pause here a moment in order to recall our own impression, as previously described, of the discordant and incommensurable elements in the nature of Æschylean tragedy. Let us think of our own astonishment at the chorus and the tragic hero of that type of tragedy, neither of which we could reconcile with our practices any more than with tradition—till we rediscovered this duplexity itself as the origin and essence of Greek tragedy, as the expression of two interwoven artistic impulses, the Apollonian and the Dionysian.

Before we name this other spectator, let us pause and recall our impression of Æschylean tragedy, as described earlier. Its elements seemed to clash and resist comparison. We were astonished by its chorus and its tragic hero. We could reconcile neither with our own practices or with tradition. Then we rediscovered this duality as the origin and essence of Greek tragedy. It expressed two interwoven artistic impulses, the Apollonian and the Dionysian.

To separate this primitive and all-powerful Dionysian element from tragedy, and to build up a new and purified form of tragedy on the basis of a non-Dionysian art, morality, and conception of things—such is the tendency of Euripides which now reveals itself to us in a clear light.

Euripides’ aim is now clear to us. He wants to remove the primitive and all-powerful Dionysian element from tragedy. He wants to create a new, purified form of tragedy based on non-Dionysian art, morality, and a non-Dionysian view of things.

In a myth composed in the eve of his life, Euripides himself most urgently propounded to his contemporaries the question as to the value and signification of this tendency. Is the Dionysian entitled to exist at all? Should it not be forcibly rooted out of the Hellenic soil? Certainly, the poet tells us, if only it were possible: but the god Dionysus is too powerful; his most intelligent adversary—like Pentheus in the "Bacchæ"—is unwittingly enchanted by him, and in this enchantment meets his fate. The judgment of the two old sages, Cadmus and Tiresias, seems to be also the judgment of the aged poet: that the reflection of the wisest individuals does not overthrow old popular traditions, nor the perpetually propagating worship of Dionysus, that in fact it behoves us to display at least a diplomatically cautious concern in the presence of such strange forces: where however it is always possible that the god may take offence at such lukewarm participation, and finally change the diplomat—in this case Cadmus—into a dragon. This is what a poet tells us, who opposed Dionysus with heroic valour throughout a long life—in order finally to wind up his career with a glorification of his adversary, and with suicide, like one staggering from giddiness, who, in order to escape the horrible vertigo he can no longer endure, casts himself from a tower. This tragedy—the Bacchæ—is a protest against the practicability of his own tendency; alas, and it has already been put into practice! The surprising thing had happened: when the poet recanted, his tendency had already conquered. Dionysus had already been scared from the tragic stage, and in fact by a demonic power which spoke through Euripides. Even Euripides was, in a certain sense, only a mask: the deity that spoke through him was neither Dionysus nor Apollo, but an altogether new-born demon, called Socrates. This is the new antithesis: the Dionysian and the Socratic, and the art-work of Greek tragedy was wrecked on it. What if even Euripides now seeks to comfort us by his recantation? It is of no avail: the most magnificent temple lies in ruins. What avails the lamentation of the destroyer, and his confession that it was the most beautiful of all temples? And even that Euripides has been changed into a dragon as a punishment by the art-critics of all ages—who could be content with this wretched compensation?

In a myth written near the end of his life, Euripides urgently put a question to his contemporaries. What was the value and meaning of this tendency? Does the Dionysian have any right to exist? Should it not be forcibly rooted out of Hellenic soil? Certainly, the poet tells us, if only it were possible. But the god Dionysus is too powerful. His most intelligent opponent, like Pentheus in the "Bacchæ", falls unknowingly under his spell. And under that spell, he meets his fate. The judgment of the two old sages, Cadmus and Tiresias, also seems to be the judgment of the aging poet. The thoughts of the wisest individuals cannot overturn old popular traditions or the continually spreading worship of Dionysus. In fact, we should show at least a diplomatically cautious concern in the presence of such strange forces. Yet the god may still take offense at such lukewarm participation. He may finally turn the diplomat, in this case Cadmus, into a dragon. This is what we hear from a poet who opposed Dionysus with heroic courage throughout a long life. Yet he finally ended his career by glorifying his opponent and committing suicide. He was like someone staggering from dizziness, who can no longer bear the terrible vertigo. To escape it, he throws himself from a tower. This tragedy, the Bacchæ, protests that his own tendency cannot be put into practice. Alas, it has already been put into practice! The astonishing thing had happened: by the time the poet recanted, his tendency had already conquered. Dionysus had already been driven from the tragic stage. A demonic power speaking through Euripides had driven him out. Even Euripides was, in a sense, only a mask. The deity speaking through him was neither Dionysus nor Apollo, but an entirely newborn demon called Socrates. This is the new opposition: the Dionysian and the Socratic. The artwork of Greek tragedy was wrecked on it. What if Euripides now tries to comfort us by recanting? It is no use: the most magnificent temple lies in ruins. What good are the destroyer's lamentations and his confession that it was the most beautiful of all temples? Euripides has even been turned into a dragon as punishment by the art critics of all ages. But who could be satisfied with this wretched compensation?

Let us now approach this Socratic tendency with which Euripides combated and vanquished Æschylean tragedy.

Let us now examine the Socratic tendency Euripides used to fight and defeat Æschylean tragedy.

We must now ask ourselves, what could be the ulterior aim of the Euripidean design, which, in the highest ideality of its execution, would found drama exclusively on the non-Dionysian? What other form of drama could there be, if it was not to be born of the womb of music, in the mysterious twilight of the Dionysian? Only the dramatised epos: in which Apollonian domain of art the tragic effect is of course unattainable. It does not depend on the subject-matter of the events here represented; indeed, I venture to assert that it would have been impossible for Goethe in his projected "Nausikaa" to have rendered tragically effective the suicide of the idyllic being with which he intended to complete the fifth act; so extraordinary is the power of the epic-Apollonian representation, that it charms, before our eyes, the most terrible things by the joy in appearance and in redemption through appearance. The poet of the dramatised epos cannot completely blend with his pictures any more than the epic rhapsodist. He is still just the calm, unmoved embodiment of Contemplation whose wide eyes see the picture before them. The actor in this dramatised epos still remains intrinsically rhapsodist: the consecration of inner dreaming is on all his actions, so that he is never wholly an actor.

We must now ask ourselves: What was the ultimate aim of Euripides’ design? In its highest ideal form, it would base drama entirely on the non-Dionysian. What other kind of drama could exist if it were not born from music’s womb, in the mysterious twilight of the Dionysian? Only the dramatized epic: a form in the Apollonian realm of art, where the tragic effect is of course impossible. This does not depend on the subject of the events portrayed. Indeed, I venture to say that Goethe could not have made the suicide of an idyllic being tragically effective in his planned "Nausikaa". He intended this suicide to end the fifth act. The epic-Apollonian portrayal has an extraordinary power. It charms even the most terrible things before our eyes, through the joy of appearance and of redemption through appearance. The poet of the dramatized epic cannot merge completely with his images, any more than the epic rhapsodist can. He remains the calm, unmoved embodiment of Contemplation, whose wide eyes see the image before them. The actor in this dramatized epic remains, at heart, a rhapsodist. All his actions bear the sacred mark of inner dreaming, so that he is never wholly an actor.

How, then, is the Euripidean play related to this ideal of the Apollonian drama? Just as the younger rhapsodist is related to the solemn rhapsodist of the old time. The former describes his own character in the Platonic "Ion" as follows: "When I am saying anything sad, my eyes fill with tears; when, however, what I am saying is awful and terrible, then my hair stands on end through fear, and my heart leaps." Here we no longer observe anything of the epic absorption in appearance, or of the unemotional coolness of the true actor, who precisely in his highest activity is wholly appearance and joy in appearance. Euripides is the actor with leaping heart, with hair standing on end; as Socratic thinker he designs the plan, as passionate actor he executes it. Neither in the designing nor in the execution is he an artist pure and simple. And so the Euripidean drama is a thing both cool and fiery, equally capable of freezing and burning; it is impossible for it to attain the Apollonian, effect of the epos, while, on the other hand, it has severed itself as much as possible from Dionysian elements, and now, in order to act at all, it requires new stimulants, which can no longer lie within the sphere of the two unique art-impulses, the Apollonian and the Dionysian. The stimulants are cool, paradoxical thoughts, in place of Apollonian intuitions—and fiery passions—in place Dionysean ecstasies; and in fact, thoughts and passions very realistically copied, and not at all steeped in the ether of art.

How, then, does a play by Euripides compare with this ideal of Apollonian drama? It is like the difference between a younger rhapsodist and the solemn rhapsodist of earlier times. In Plato’s "Ion," the younger rhapsodist describes himself as follows: "When I say something sad, my eyes fill with tears. But when I say something frightening and terrible, my hair stands on end with fear, and my heart leaps." Here we no longer see the epic poet’s absorption in appearances. Nor do we see the true actor’s emotional detachment. The true actor, at the height of his performance, is entirely appearance and joy in appearance. Euripides is the actor whose heart leaps and whose hair stands on end. As a Socratic thinker, he makes the plan. As a passionate actor, he carries it out. In neither planning nor execution is he simply an artist. Euripidean drama is therefore both cool and fiery, equally capable of freezing and burning. It cannot achieve the Apollonian effect of the epic. At the same time, it has cut itself off as much as possible from Dionysian elements. So, to have any effect at all, it needs new stimulants. These can no longer come from the realm of the two unique artistic impulses, the Apollonian and the Dionysian. The stimulants are cool, paradoxical thoughts in place of Apollonian intuitions, and fiery passions in place of Dionysian ecstasies. These thoughts and passions are copied very realistically, with none of the ethereal quality of art.

Accordingly, if we have perceived this much, that Euripides did not succeed in establishing the drama exclusively on the Apollonian, but that rather his non-Dionysian inclinations deviated into a naturalistic and inartistic tendency, we shall now be able to approach nearer to the character æsthetic Socratism. supreme law of which reads about as follows: "to be beautiful everything must be intelligible," as the parallel to the Socratic proposition, "only the knowing is one virtuous." With this canon in his hands Euripides measured all the separate elements of the drama, and rectified them according to his principle: the language, the characters, the dramaturgic structure, and the choric music. The poetic deficiency and retrogression, which we are so often wont to impute to Euripides in comparison with Sophoclean tragedy, is for the most part the product of this penetrating critical process, this daring intelligibility. The Euripidian prologue may serve us as an example of the productivity of this, rationalistic method. Nothing could be more opposed to the technique of our stage than the prologue in the drama of Euripides. For a single person to appear at the outset of the play telling us who he is, what precedes the action, what has happened thus far, yea, what will happen in the course of the play, would be designated by a modern playwright as a wanton and unpardonable abandonment of the effect of suspense. Everything that is about to happen is known beforehand; who then cares to wait for it actually to happen?—considering, moreover, that here there is not by any means the exciting relation of a predicting dream to a reality taking place later on. Euripides speculated quite differently. The effect of tragedy never depended on epic suspense, on the fascinating uncertainty as to what is to happen now and afterwards: but rather on the great rhetoro-lyric scenes in which the passion and dialectics of the chief hero swelled to a broad and mighty stream. Everything was arranged for pathos, not for action: and whatever was not arranged for pathos was regarded as objectionable. But what interferes most with the hearer's pleasurable satisfaction in such scenes is a missing link, a gap in the texture of the previous history. So long as the spectator has to divine the meaning of this or that person, or the presuppositions of this or that conflict of inclinations and intentions, his complete absorption in the doings and sufferings of the chief persons is impossible, as is likewise breathless fellow-feeling and fellow-fearing. The Æschyleo-Sophoclean tragedy employed the most ingenious devices in the first scenes to place in the hands of the spectator as if by chance all the threads requisite for understanding the whole: a trait in which that noble artistry is approved, which as it were masks the inevitably formal, and causes it to appear as something accidental. But nevertheless Euripides thought he observed that during these first scenes the spectator was in a strange state of anxiety to make out the problem of the previous history, so that the poetic beauties and pathos of the exposition were lost to him. Accordingly he placed the prologue even before the exposition, and put it in the mouth of a person who could be trusted: some deity had often as it were to guarantee the particulars of the tragedy to the public and remove every doubt as to the reality of the myth: as in the case of Descartes, who could only prove the reality of the empiric world by an appeal to the truthfulness of God and His inability to utter falsehood. Euripides makes use of the same divine truthfulness once more at the close of his drama, in order to ensure to the public the future of his heroes; this is the task of the notorious deus ex machina. Between the preliminary and the additional epic spectacle there is the dramatico-lyric present, the "drama" proper.

If we have understood this much, we can now come closer to the nature of æsthetic Socratism. Euripides did not succeed in basing drama exclusively on the Apollonian. Instead, his non-Dionysian inclinations led him toward naturalism and a lack of artistry. The supreme law of æsthetic Socratism is roughly this: "to be beautiful everything must be intelligible." It parallels the Socratic proposition that "only the knowing is one virtuous." Euripides measured every element of drama against this rule and corrected each according to his principle. He applied it to language, characters, dramatic structure, and choral music. We often blame Euripides for a lack of poetic power and a decline from Sophoclean tragedy. For the most part, these are the products of his penetrating criticism and his bold pursuit of intelligibility. The Euripidian prologue can serve as an example of what this rationalistic method produced. Nothing could be more opposed to the technique of our stage. A single person appears at the start of the play and tells us who he is. He tells us what led up to the action, what has happened so far, and even what will happen during the play. A modern playwright would call this a reckless and unforgivable sacrifice of suspense. Everything that is about to happen is known in advance. Who, then, cares to wait for it to happen? Besides, there is nothing here like the excitement of seeing a prophetic dream fulfilled later in reality. Euripides thought quite differently. For him, tragedy's effect never depended on epic suspense, on the fascinating uncertainty about what would happen next. Instead, it depended on the great rhetorical and lyrical scenes. In these, the chief hero's passion and reasoning swelled into a broad, powerful stream. Everything was arranged for pathos, not for action. Whatever was not arranged for pathos was considered objectionable. But nothing interferes more with an audience's enjoyment of such scenes than a missing link in the earlier story. As long as spectators must guess what a character means, or what lies behind a conflict of desires and intentions, they cannot be completely absorbed in what the main characters do and suffer. Nor can they feel breathless pity and fear along with them. The tragedies of Æschylus and Sophocles used the most ingenious devices in their opening scenes. They gave spectators all the threads needed to understand the whole, as if by chance. This shows the noble artistry that disguises what is inevitably formal and makes it appear accidental. But Euripides thought he noticed that, during these opening scenes, spectators were unusually anxious to puzzle out the earlier story. As a result, they missed the poetic beauty and pathos of the exposition. Euripides therefore put the prologue before the exposition and gave it to a trustworthy speaker. Often a deity had to guarantee the details of the tragedy to the audience and remove every doubt about the myth's reality. This was like Descartes, who could prove the reality of the empirical world only by appealing to God's truthfulness and his inability to lie. Euripides used the same divine truthfulness again at the end of his plays to assure the audience of his heroes' future. This is the task of the notorious deus ex machina. Between the epic spectacle at the beginning and the one added at the end lies the dramatic and lyrical present, the "drama" proper.

Thus Euripides as a poet echoes above all his own conscious knowledge; and it is precisely on this account that he occupies such a notable position in the history of Greek art. With reference to his critico-productive activity, he must often have felt that he ought to actualise in the drama the words at the beginning of the essay of Anaxagoras: "In the beginning all things were mixed together; then came the understanding and created order." And if Anaxagoras with his "νοῡς" seemed like the first sober person among nothing but drunken philosophers, Euripides may also have conceived his relation to the other tragic poets under a similar figure. As long as the sole ruler and disposer of the universe, the νοῡς, was still excluded from artistic activity, things were all mixed together in a chaotic, primitive mess;—it is thus Euripides was obliged to think, it is thus he was obliged to condemn the "drunken" poets as the first "sober" one among them. What Sophocles said of Æschylus, that he did what was right, though unconsciously, was surely not in the mind of Euripides: who would have admitted only thus much, that Æschylus, because he wrought unconsciously, did what was wrong. So also the divine Plato speaks for the most part only ironically of the creative faculty of the poet, in so far as it is not conscious insight, and places it on a par with the gift of the soothsayer and dream-interpreter; insinuating that the poet is incapable of composing until he has become unconscious and reason has deserted him. Like Plato, Euripides undertook to show to the world the reverse of the "unintelligent" poet; his æsthetic principle that "to be beautiful everything must be known" is, as I have said, the parallel to the Socratic "to be good everything must be known." Accordingly we may regard Euripides as the poet of æsthetic Socratism. Socrates, however, was that second spectator who did not comprehend and therefore did not esteem the Old Tragedy; in alliance with him Euripides ventured to be the herald of a new artistic activity. If, then, the Old Tragedy was here destroyed, it follows that æsthetic Socratism was the murderous principle; but in so far as the struggle is directed against the Dionysian element in the old art, we recognise in Socrates the opponent of Dionysus, the new Orpheus who rebels against Dionysus; and although destined to be torn to pieces by the Mænads of the Athenian court, yet puts to flight the overpowerful god himself, who, when he fled from Lycurgus, the king of Edoni, sought refuge in the depths of the ocean—namely, in the mystical flood of a secret cult which gradually overspread the earth.

Thus, as a poet, Euripides gives voice above all to his own conscious knowledge. This is precisely why he holds such a notable place in the history of Greek art. As a critic and creator, he must often have felt that he should put Anaxagoras’s opening words into practice in drama: "In the beginning all things were mixed together; then came the understanding and created order." Anaxagoras, with his "νοῡς", seemed like the first sober person among drunken philosophers. Euripides may have seen his relationship to the other tragic poets in much the same way. As long as νοῡς, the sole ruler and disposer of the universe, was excluded from artistic activity, everything remained mixed together in a chaotic, primitive mess. Euripides was bound to think this way. As the first "sober" poet among them, he was bound to condemn the "drunken" poets. Sophocles said that Æschylus did what was right, though unconsciously. Euripides surely did not share this view. He would only have admitted that Æschylus did what was wrong because he worked unconsciously. The divine Plato likewise speaks mostly ironically of the poet’s creative ability, insofar as it is not conscious insight. He puts that ability on a level with the gift of the soothsayer and the dream-interpreter. He suggests that a poet cannot compose until he has become unconscious and reason has deserted him. Like Plato, Euripides set out to show the world the opposite of the "unintelligent" poet. His aesthetic principle was that "to be beautiful everything must be known." As I have said, this parallels the Socratic principle that "to be good everything must be known." We may therefore regard Euripides as the poet of aesthetic Socratism. Socrates, however, was that second spectator who did not understand the Old Tragedy and therefore did not value it. In alliance with Socrates, Euripides dared to announce a new kind of artistic activity. If the Old Tragedy was destroyed here, then aesthetic Socratism was the murderous principle. But insofar as the struggle is directed against the Dionysian element in the old art, we recognize Socrates as the opponent of Dionysus. He is the new Orpheus who rebels against Dionysus. Although destined to be torn to pieces by the Mænads of the Athenian court, he drives the overwhelmingly powerful god himself into flight. When Dionysus fled from Lycurgus, the king of Edoni, he sought refuge in the depths of the ocean. This means the mystical flood of a secret cult that gradually spread over the earth.