I Choose the Wrong Clothes
by Glen Draeger

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Hello Future Dramatists,

Take a wild guess concerning where I took H.G. only a few days ago. No, no, I didn't visit Spiderman in one of his comics. No, not the future, unlike Io, I have no desire to know what happens to me in the future—I'm much more concerned about the present. If it was a bad future I think I'd take it much harder than Prometheus—but then, I'm not a god, I'm just guy who owns a time machine.

Anyway, I traveled to ancient Greece. This created one immediate problem. I studied some ancient Greek in college, but I did not remember much of it, so I took it upon myself to learn the language before I visited the time period and place where the famous Greek Dramatist, Aeschylus, lived, worked, wrote and fought. This was not easy and I spent many a sleepless night drinking tea and studying the language until I felt that I would be able to communicate adequately.

I've had a few problems with H.G. recently. I tried, last week, to take it into the H.G. Wells' novel, The Time Machine so I could travel on the time machine in the novel. I don't know what happened, but I think the presence of another time machine in a time machine novel may have altered the structure of reality, both in the novel and right here in my backyard. The characters wouldn't talk to me and the tomatoes in my garden are looking mighty strange.

The sales guy I bought the thing from told me I just needed to bring H.G. in for service—big mistake. Next thing I know they're telling me I need a new nuclear reactor, an updated computer, a better rudder and couple of air bags. It's a new law—all time machines now require air bags. He replaced my broken cupholder for free. Anyway, to make a long story short I had to sell one of my space ships just to pay for everything—fortunately, it wasn't my best one.

I arrived in ancient Greece in the year 460 B.C. on the south shore of Sicily in a town called Gela. Aeschylus died here in about 455 B.C. I wrapped myself in a sheet, threw on some sandals and headed toward the home of the first great Greek tragedian, that is, he wrote plays that are considered tragedies—Shakespeare did the same thing. What's a tragedy, you ask? The American Heritage Dictionary defines it as, " A drama or literary work in which the main character is brought to ruin or suffers extreme sorrow, especially as a consequence of a tragic flaw, a moral weakness, or an inability to cope with unfavorable circumstances." I've heard it called, too simplistically yet somewhat accurately, a play in which everyone dies at the end. The other two great Greek tragedians are Euripides and Sophocles. If you want Greek comedy read Aristophanes. Anyway, I found Aeschylus sitting on a tree stump writing.

"What are you working on?" I asked in as friendly manner as possible. I had Fezzik on a leash and he was difficult to control, particularly while trying to keep my sheet on.

Aeschylus looked at me warily for a moment, then decided, I guess, that any man who could barely keep his toga on was probably not a threat. "A new play," he said, "Prometheus Bound, the first in my new trilogy."

Aeschylus wrote over 70 plays but only 7 survive and Prometheus Bound is the only play that survives from that trilogy. I've decided to attempt to be a little more subtle and not tell these authors I'm from the future. One of these times it'll probably get me in trouble, so I asked, "Is it going to be a tragedy?"

"Of course!" he said. "All my literary prizes have come from my tragedies. One of my prizes was for my play Persians, about the Persian invasion."

I noticed at this point that Aeschylus had had a strange look on his face the entire time we were talking. He looked at my face as if something was bothering him.

"Is something wrong?" I asked.

"It's your face," he said. "No Athenians wear facial hair the way you do."

Aeschylus had a full beard, neatly trimmed to a point. I have a mustache—no beard. I've since learned that no Greeks of that time period ever wore just a mustache and during Aeschylus's time they all wore beards. I'm not good at lying under pressure so I just ignored his comment and asked, "Did you fight in any battles?"

"There's another thing, too," he said, ignoring my question. "Your clothing. What is it?"

"It's a toga," I said proudly—then I realized, much too late, that togas are from Ancient Rome—not Greece. The Ancient Greek men wear tunics, that is, two squares of cloth that are draped loosely over the body. Though white, they don't look like togas. My clothing was off by about 400 years and I couldn't exactly tell him that togas would be very fashionable in Rome in about four centuries, so, again, I ignored the comment.

"I've heard that you fought in some important battles. Is that true?" I asked.

"Of course!" he said as if I'd asked a stupid question. "I fought the Persians twice at the battles of Artemisium and Salamis. I also fought in the Battle of Marathon ten years before the Persians. I was wounded in that one."

"That was about 480 B.C.," I said trying to impress him with my knowledge.

"480 what?" he asked.

"B.C.," I said, pleased that he did not know. These guys and gals always seem to be so much smarter than me. "You know, before Christ."

"Before whom?"

"Before Christ . . ." I said slowly as I realized that Christ wouldn't be born for another 460 years. Remember, before you're too hard on me, I hadn't slept in about 5 days so I could learn Greek. I did that so I could talk to him in order to report to you. Is that dedication, or what? Anyway, I saw no way to get out this predicament so I resorted to changing the subject while at the same time appealing to his ego. "I've heard," I said quickly as if nothing had happened, "some people call you a great innovator. Why is that?" The Ancient Greeks are not bashful about explaining how great they are. Vanity, not humility, is their predominant trait. Luckily, I happened to know that and my strategy worked.

Aeschylus replied in the tone of a master addressing a novice. "When I started watching plays they consisted of one actor and a chorus. The actor would play many roles and the chorus would sing and dance and comment on the action of the play. Well, I decided to add a second actor. This allowed for much greater freedom, particularly for dialogue and tension in the play. I reduced the role of the chorus and added more actors. This play I'm working on now will require 7 actors besides the chorus."

"That's impressive," I said.

"Not only that, I always wanted the sets to be more realistic—to give people a sense of awe. I have used stage machinery and stage settings to help my audiences feel like they're really in the action of the play. I even design costumes."

"And you even act in your own plays."

"Of course I do," he said somewhat perturbed, "all dramatists do."

"What are you trying to do in your plays?"

"One thing I want to do is shed some light on divine justice, you know, Theodicy."

I hate it when they use words I don't know. "Theodicy?"

"Yes, 'justifying the gods' ways to men.'"

"Milton tried to do that."

"Milton?"

Oops. Another major faux pas. Milton lived about 2000 years after Aeschylus. "Just a friend of mine—an obscure poet, you've probably never met. So what do you think about the gods?"

"What most of us think. They don't like us much, particularly don't like it when we do great things and that's why they cause great men to become infatuated."

"What do you mean by 'infatuated'?"

"It means they behave foolishly or act unreasonably. That usually comes in the form of impiety or pride and it causes them to fall from whatever great height they have reached into the depths of despair. This is tragic, but man's downfall is seen as just because he brought it on himself."

"Is that why we kind of like to see great men fall?"

"Yes, I think so. The gods use men by employing their desire for vengeance to bring down the great ones."

"Is that fair?"

"Zeus is just—not fair," he said matter-of-factly.

I didn't know how to respond to that—except to be thankful that I am not a great man. Then I said, "In Prometheus Bound you present Zeus as a tyrant. This is rather controversial when you consider that most Greeks consider him the supreme god."

Aeschylus studied me for a moment. He seemed to be considering very carefully what he planned to say next as if something had frightened him. "I plan to write it that way, that's true, but I'm not necessarily depicting the gods as they actually are, only how some might view them based upon the circumstances of life, which, I'm sure you'll agree, are not always pleasant. You could say it's more a comment on life than about the gods themselves and if I've offended any gods I can assure you that that was not my intention." He stared at me. "Who are you?" he asked.

All I could think of were those lines from the movie, The Princess Bride, so I responded, "No one of consequence."

"I must know," he said.

"Get used to disappointment—I mean, I'm sorry, I can't tell you and you wouldn't believe me if I did. Thank you for your time."

Fezzik and I left Aeschylus on his tree stump—a little stumped (sorry, I couldn't help myself) by my foreknowledge, but, nonetheless, doing fine—apparently very fine, because Prometheus Bound is one of his most popular plays.

I gotta go. I gotta get some sleep.

Regards (yawn),

Mr. (yawn) Draeger (zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz)

Sources:

Aeschylus, Prometheus Bound and Other Plays, translated by Philip Vellacott, Penguin Classics, London, England, first published 1961.

Durant, Will. The Story of Civilization: 2: The Life of Greece. Simon and Schuster, New York, 1966, pp. 291-293, 298.

The New Encyclopaedia Britannica, Encyclopaedia Britannica, Inc., Chicago, Ill., 1988, 15th edition, Vol. 1, pp. 122-23 & Vol. 20, pp. 390-92.

©2005-2012 Glen Draeger (all rights reserved)
Millstone Education: World Literature / http://www.millstoneeducation.com/worldLit