For as long as she’s alive, Phaedra is afraid — afraid of her own desire, afraid of public opinion, and afraid of Hippolytus’ response. Hippolytus does react angrily when the Nurse betrays his stepmother’s secret longing. Moreover, the emotion has a specific effect on him: anger (ὀργή) sharpens his mind like a whetstone to a knife.[1] While the imagery suggests sharpness as enhancement, it also emphasizes the threat of Hippolytus’ mind, especially in light of Phaedra’s subsequent condemnation of “every would-be friend who drives the knife in, thinking it will help!” (766)[2] Theseus’ anger (ὀργή), too, is a dangerous weapon that he wields against his own son, condemning him to a slow and painful death. The consequences of the emotion thus ripple outwards: anger has an effect on whoever experiences it and, by the end of the play, transforms the community at large. In this essay, I will discuss how anger both drives and supports the action of Euripides’ Hippolytus by examining characters who experience and enact the emotion. By tracing the role of anger, we will be able to raise questions about responsibility and blame. After all, even though Aphrodite’s fury (ὀργή) is what sets the events of the play in motion, the anger of two characters helps it along: Hippolytus’ and Theseus’.
At first glance, these two characters might appear to be opposites. On the one hand, Hippolytus is a young man who spends his time outside the city, hunting in the woods — a bastard child, inexperienced with women due to his disinterest. Theseus, on the other hand, is a mature man, king of both Troezen and Athens, son of a god and a king, and notoriously interested in women. Although these are not trivial differences, father and son are alike in fundamental ways, as their anger will reveal. To state the obvious first, however, they are both males. Considering that this play raises questions of propriety for both women and men — as evinced by Phaedra’s anxious preoccupation with her uxorial reputation and Aphrodite’s condemnation of Hippolytus’ insistent virginity — gender should be kept in mind throughout. Furthermore, even though the play begins with Phaedra and the problem of her desire, the relationship between Hippolytus and Theseus becomes central to the play.[3] Not only is anger at the heart of their interactions but it also drives both characters, and with them, the plot. First then, I now turn to the “paragon of wise restraint” (1056), Hippolytus.
From the very beginning of the play, Hippolytus’ restraint seems to be exclusive to one emotion — for even if eros were not considered an emotion, it is certainly a passion. Hippolytus himself does not express this exclusivity, of course: he is proud of his restraint as if he exerted it over all emotions. The text subverts this claim throughout, however. In fact, during his first scene, Hippolytus imprudently dismisses Aphrodite despite his servant’s concern. When excusing his master’s impiety towards the goddess, the servant tells the her statue to disregard the boy’s disrespect because he is just being an “intense, hotheaded youth” (137-138). By looking at the Greek terminology (σπλάγχνονἔντονονφέρων; 118), Boris Nikolsky has argued that the servant is actually referring to Hippolytus’ “angriness” — a characteristic that describes not just a present instantaneous state but also a permanent trait due to his youth.[4] Indeed, he reacts with this same boyish quick temper when the Nurse reveals Phaedra’s desire.
It is necessary to remember that Phaedra knows that she is suffering by the will of Aphrodite and is resolved to die rather than risk disgracing her household with her “disease.” (457-463) The Nurse only manages to make her to reconsider by suggesting that they might still find some drug to soothe the desire, to put an end to the disease — and, most importantly, without anything to be ashamed of (569-572). Though readings differ, it seems to me that Phaedra does not intend to fulfill her yearning (hence her anger at the Nurse’s betrayal). It is clear, however, that Hippolytus never considers this might be the case. Instead, he attacks women as an evil without which mankind would be free to live in peace (686-688). The violence of his invective is described by Phaedra as akin to flaying (646) and lacerating (765) — and unjust at that. In his anger, Hippolytus does not even consider that Phaedra might be innocent. Why would he, given his misogyny? Anger warps his understanding of the situation and then lends him a dangerous edge. Phaedra believes that anger will compel him to act to her detriment and so acts first — preemptively. In the end then, the son resembles the father.
For Theseus, too, acts harshly and hastily in his anger. Having read the accusation Phaedra left with her body, he is consumed by grief and calls a terrible fate down on his son: he asks Poseidon, his godly father, to destroy the boy before the day is over. The Chorus’ entreaties make clear that the king’s condemnation is a product of anger as well as grief: if only he gave up his anger (ὀργή), Theseus could do what is best for his household (1000-1003). By then it is too late, however, and the curse has been cast. As Artemis rebukes him, Theseus did not grant Hippolytus the benefit of doubt nor wait for whatever evidence could be presented in his defense (1481). Their subsequent scene is thus set up as a trial with a predetermined verdict. It is important to note that at least Hippolytus gets a trial, however. This is one of the privileges of his gender: to be able to speak and be heard, if not believed. Phaedra, condemned by Hippolytus’ anger as Hippolytus is by his father’s, is not even granted the chance to explain herself. In her own anger, she did not seem to expect the opportunity either.
Even after Poseidon’s curse is fulfilled, Hippolytus has a second chance to set the record straight. He is carried onto the stage on a couch, like Phaedra when she, too, was suffering. His body, wrecked and wasted, is more of a testament to anger than to eros, however — not just his own (which drove Phaedra to suicide) or his father’s (which led to his own death) but to Aphrodite’s. Artemis confirms this impression, telling Hippolytus that “Cypris’ plans, her anger (ὀργή), splintered your poor body” (1584). Before her interjection, Hippolytus was berating his father for wanting to kill him, curse or no, because he was angry (ὠργισμένος). Artemis corrects this impression, identifying the cause of the family’s misfortunes as the anger of a goddess — anger that engender anger in turn. Indeed, it would continue to do so if Artemis were not there to put a stop to it. She urges Hippolytus not to hate his father (1607) so he ends their dispute only because she asks him to (1616), absolving Theseus of blood-guilt (1625). In this way, anger is revealed to be not only the catalyst for specific actions but also the rationale underpinning the entire plot.
Even though Aphrodite’s prologue suggested this from the very beginning, she avoids using the term anger (ὀργή). Instead, she explains herself as exacting “vengeance” (δίκη) on someone who claims that she is the “very worst” of all divinities (14) and refuses to honor her.[5] It is only as the play progresses that we begin to discern that anger — righteous or not — is the logic behind her revenge. First, the Nurse tells Phaedra that “the goddess has sent her anger (ὀργή) crashing down” on her (481-482) and, ultimately, Artemis confirms it. Thus, a suggested conclusion might very well be — not “if only Hippolytus had not dishonored Aphrodite” — but rather “if only Aphrodite had not gotten angry.” In the end, anger raises the question of blame.
A modern reader might condemn these characters for acting out of anger, perhaps even arguing in favor of thinking clearly in an era where we tend to consider certain passions as impediments. From this perspective, we would hold Hippolytus responsible for Phaedra’s suicide and Theseus responsible for Hippolytus’ death. The ancient Greeks, on the other hand, had a different cultural understanding of a passion like anger. Rather than damning, its experience could sometimes excuse someone from blame, or at the very least, mitigate its burden. Even though not all angers were considered equal, we can turn to courtroom speeches like Demosthenes’ Against Meidias, in which the case of a certain Polyzelus is cited as an example of how anger (ὀργή) — both the instantaneous emotion and the corresponding temper — could exculpate.[6] Euripides seems to be complicating this idea, however, by having both divine anger and human anger at play. On the one hand, Hippolytus and Theseus can be exculpated from their angry actions if responsibility for them is transferred to Aphrodite. On the other, Aphrodite herself also acted as she did out of anger. Are we meant to excuse the goddess for the destruction of Athens’ royal house? Artemis seems to suggest not, planning to exact a price on her for Hippolytus’ death (1588). The price, however, is the killing of another mortal.
Hippolytus, dying a slow and gruesome death for all to see, groans indignantly at this injustice, “If only mortal men could curse the gods!” He does not consider for an instant that he is the one in the wrong, even though such recognition typically happens in tragedy.[7] Even in pain, he calls upon Zeus to witness how he is being sent down to Hades — he who has always been better than others (1530). Moreover, he laments his piety and his labors of kindness as useless (1535). “How easily you take your leave of me,” he tells Artemis (1615). It is unclear whether this was intended as a resentful accusation or as an accepting acknowledgement. Gods are, after all, not human. And yet, they seem to feel like humans. It seems to me as if Euripides is calling into question the integrity of an established understanding of passion: damning or exculpatory, if it does not or cannot hold unilaterally, then how well does it really serve the community?
Notes
[1]LSJ s.v. θήγω [2] Euripides, “Hippolytus,” in Alcestis; Medea; Hippolytus, trans. Diane Svarlein (Indianapolis/Cambridge: Hackett Publishing Company, Inc., 2007). With exception of the Greek, which is identified by line numbers as they appear in the Loeb, the rest of the line numbers referenced within this essay correspond to Svarlein’s translation. [3] After her death, Phaedra stops being named and essentially fades into irrelevance — an excellent example as to why women in tragedy are never an end unto themselves. For more on this, see Froma Zeitlin, in “Playing the Other: Theater, Theatricality, and the Feminine in Greek Drama,” in Nothing to do with Dionysus?, eds. John J. Winkler and Froma Zeitlin, (Princeton University Press, 1990), p. 69. [4] Boris Nikolsky, “Involuntary Faults, Exculpation and Forgiveness,” in Misery and Forgiveness in Euripides: Meaning and Structure in Hippolytus (Swansea: Classical Press of Wales, 2015), p. 12, points out that σπλάγχνον is an organ associated in the psychophysiological notions of the Greeks with emotions – above all, with anger, [5] It is possible to interpret Hippolytus’ dismissal of Aphrodite as a [6] Nikolsky, “Involuntary Faults, Exculpation and Forgiveness,” p. 5. [7] See, for example, Sophocles’ Oedipus Tyrannus.
Bibliography
Euripides. “Hippolytus.” In Alcestis; Medea; Hippolytus, translated by Diane Svarlein, 122-192. Indianapolis/Cambridge: Hackett Publishing Company, Inc., 2007. Gregory, Justina. “Hippolytus.” In Euripides and the Instruction of the Athenians, 51-84. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1991. Accessed May 1, 2020. www.jstor.org/stable/10.3998/mpub.13027.6. Nikolsky, Boris. “INVOLUNTARY FAULTS, EXCULPATION AND FORGIVENESS.”In Misery and Forgiveness in Euripides: Meaning and Structure in the Hippolytus, 1-26. Swansea: Classical Press of Wales, 2015. Accessed April 30, 2020. doi:10.2307/j.ctvvn9s3.5. Zeitlin, Froma. “Playing the Other: Theater, Theatricality, and the Feminine in Greek Drama.” In Nothing to Do with Dionysus?: Athenian Drama and Its Social Context,edited by John J. Winkler and Froma Zeitlin, 63–96. Princeton University Press,1990.