William Etty, Odysseus, the Sirens and Circe

 

This is the statue of William Etty, a painter who was born in York outside the Art Gallery in that city.

"William Etty R.A. Born in York 1787. Elected Royal Academician 1828. Died 1849."

You can see he's in a rather decayed condition unfortunately because he stands next to a main road through the city, and is subject to constant exhaust fumes from the traffic.

This is Etty's tomb, seen from the Museum Gardens. The tomb is actually in St. Olave's churchyard, which is behind the wall. A hole had been knocked through the wall of the ruins of St. Mary's Abbey, to give this dramatic effect of a Romantic or Gothic tomb (Etty is the contemporary of Coleridge and Wordsworth, for instance.)

Lucy Evans first got me to look seriously at William Etty's work. In 1837, Etty painted 'The Sirens and Ulysses', which is now in the Manchester Art Gallery.

I've never actually seen the original. Something to bear in mind about this painting is that it is huge. It's about 4.5m wide and 3m high. An aspect of this work which I like is its directness. To signify 'corpse', Etty does not portray something which decorously indicates 'corpse', but paints a corpse. Likewise with the voluptuous women representing the Sirens.

The incident of Ulysses, or Odysseus to give him his Greek name, and the Sirens comes from The Odyssey Book 12. Odysseus and his crew have returned from visiting the Land of the Dead to the island of Aeaea, where the sorceress Circe lives. They had gone to the Land of the Dead on Circe's advice and instructions to consult the shade of the seer Tiresias about how to get home to Ithaca. Now they are back, Circe gives them a feast. Afterwards she takes Odysseus aside and gives him advice about his voyage to come:

"But Circe, taking me by the hand, drew me away
from all my shipmates there and sat me down
and lying beside me probed me for details.
I told her the whole story, start to finish,
then the queenly goddess laid my course:
‘Your descent to the dead is over, true,
but listen closely to what I tell you now
and god himself will bring it back to mind.
First you will raise the island of the Sirens,
those creatures who spellbind any man alive,
whoever comes their way. Whoever draws too close,
off guard, and catches the Sirens’ voices in the air—
no sailing home for him, no wife rising to meet him,
no happy children beaming up at their father’s face.
The high, thrilling song of the Sirens will transfix him,
lolling there in their meadow, round them heaps of corpses,
rotting away, rags of skin shrivelling on their bones ...
Race straight past that coast! Soften some beeswax
and stop your shipmates’ ears so none can hear,
none of the crew, but if you are bent on hearing,
have them tie you hand and foot in the swift ship,
erect at the mast-block, lashed by ropes to the mast
so you can hear the Sirens’ song to your heart’s content.
But if you plead, commanding your men to set you free,
then they must lash you faster, rope on rope.'"

- 'Odyssey' Bk.12, 31-60. trans. Robert Fagles

The next day they do set sail, and this is what happens:

"At those words Dawn rose on her golden throne
and lustrous Circe made her way back up the island.
I went straight to my ship, commanding all hands
to take to the decks and cast off cables quickly.
They swung aboard at once, they sat to the oars in ranks
and in rhythm churned the water white with stroke on stroke.
And Circe the nymph with glossy braids, the awesome one
who speaks with human voice, sent us a hardy shipmate,
yes, a fresh following wind ruffling up in our wake,
bellying out our sail to drive our blue prow on as we,
securing the running gear from stem to stern, sat back
while the wind and helmsman kept her true on course.
At last, and sore at heart, I told my shipmates,
‘Friends ... it’s wrong for only one or two
to know the revelations that lovely Circe
made to me alone. I’ll tell you all,
so we can die with our eyes wide open now
or escape our fate and certain death together.
First, she warns, we must steer clear of the Sirens,
their enchanting song, their meadow starred with flowers.
I alone was to hear their voices, so she said,
but you must bind me with tight chafing ropes
so I cannot move a muscle, bound to the spot,
erect at the mast-block, lashed by ropes to the mast.
And if I plead, commanding you to set me free,
then lash me faster, rope on pressing rope.’
So I informed my shipmates point by point,
all the while our trim ship was speeding toward
the Sirens’ island, driven on by the brisk wind.
But then—the wind fell in an instant,
all glazed to a dead calm ...
a mysterious power hushed the heaving swells.
The oarsmen leapt to their feet, struck the sail,
stowed it deep in the hold and sat to the oarlocks,
thrashing with polished oars, frothing the water white.
Now with a sharp sword I sliced an ample wheel of beeswax
down into pieces, kneaded them in my two strong hands
and the wax soon grew soft, worked by my strength
and Helios’ burning rays, the sun at high noon,
and I stopped the ears of my comrades one by one.
They bound me hand and foot in the tight ship—
erect at the mast-block, lashed by ropes to the mast—
and rowed and churned the whitecaps stroke on stroke.
We were just offshore as far as a man’s shout can carry,
scudding close, when the Sirens sensed at once a ship
was racing past and burst into their high, thrilling song:
‘Come closer, famous Odysseus—Achaea’s pride and glory—
moor your ship on our coast so you can hear our song!
Never has any sailor passed our shores in his black craft
until he has heard the honeyed voices pouring from our lips,
and once he hears to his heart’s content sails on, a wiser man.
We know all the pains that Achaeans and Trojans once endured
on the spreading plain of Troy when the gods willed it so—
all that comes to pass on the fertile earth, we know it all!’
So they sent their ravishing voices out across the air
and the heart inside me throbbed to listen longer.
I signaled the crew with frowns to set me free—
they flung themselves at the oars and rowed on harder,
Perimedes and Eurylochus springing up at once
to bind me faster with rope on chafing rope.
But once we’d left the Sirens fading in our wake,
once we could hear their song no more, their urgent call—
my steadfast crew was quick to remove the wax I’d used
to seal their ears and loosed the bonds that lashed me."

- ibid. 154-217.

A point to note here is that sailors are overcome by the song of the Sirens because they encounter it without warning. Odysseus survives because he is forewarned by Circe.
There are two brilliant versions of this motif subsequent to Etty's.
One is 'Ulysses and the Sirens' by Herbert James Draper (1909).

I wonder if Draper based his depiction of Ulysses on the head of Ulysses from the Polyphemus Group of the Sperlonga sculptures, which are contemporary with the emperor Tiberius.

Photo by Carole Raddato

Then there is John William Waterhouse's 'Ulysses and the Sirens' from 1891.

This seems to have been based on the Siren Vase in the British Museum (c.480-470 BCE).

Here is another shot of the design.

Here is another depiction of this motif on ancient pottery. This is by the painter Python, made c.330 BCE, found in Paestum in southern Italy, currently in the Antikensammlung in Berlin.

Photo by Marcus Cyron

Another example from Greek pottery. These are two shots of a lekythos from the late C.6th, found in Eretria in Euboea in Greece, now in the National Archaeological Museum of Athens.

Photo by Marsyas

Photo by Zde

Following are two depictions from reliefs of Odysseus tied to the mast.

Etruscan urn relief depicting Ulysses and Sirens, from Volterra, Pisa Province, Italy, C.4th BCE

Terracotta relief, C.1st CE - apparently in the Louvre although I have been unable to confirm this.

The motif in mosaic, from Dougga, C.2nd CE, Bardo National Museum, Tunis.

Photo by Carole Raddato

To see how this motif has been depicted in film, we can look at 'Ulysses' (1954), starring Kirk Douglas, Anthony Quinn and Silvana Mangano. Here is a production still with Kirk Douglas as Ulysses, tied to the mast.

It's interesting to me that one of the posters for the film references Ulysses tied to the mast, it suggests that it was a well-known image, or the producers considered it such.

Earlier in the Odyssey, in Book 10, when Odysseus and his crew first arrive on Circe's island Aeaea, and after Odysseus has done some reconnoitring and caught a stag for them to eat, he sends off part of his crew under Eurylochus to investigate Circe's palace. They are puzzled because they encounter mountain wolves and lions roaming around the palace, but instead of being ferocious they are tame. When they come to the palace itself, Circe invites them in and they all go except Eurylochus, who senses a trap. Circe gives the men a drink which they don't know is drugged, and then she strikes them with her wand and turns them all into pigs. Eurylochus reports this disaster back to Odysseus, who determines to go to Circe's palace himself to see what he can do about it. On the way, he meets Hermes:

"Leaving the ship and shore, I headed inland,
clambering up through hushed, entrancing glades until,
as I was nearing the halls of Circe skilled in spells,
approaching her palace—Hermes god of the golden wand
crossed my path, and he looked for all the world
like a young man sporting his first beard,
just in the prime and warm pride of youth,
and grasped me by the hand and asked me kindly,
‘Where are you going now, my unlucky friend—
trekking over the hills alone in unfamiliar country?
And your men are all in there, in Circe’s palace,
cooped like swine, hock by jowl in the sties.
Have you come to set them free?
Well, I warn you, you won’t get home yourself,
you’ll stay right there, trapped with all the rest.
But wait, I can save you, free you from that great danger.
Look, here is a potent drug. Take it to Circe’s halls—
its power alone will shield you from the fatal day.
Let me tell you of all the witch’s subtle craft ...
She’ll mix you a potion, lace the brew with drugs
but she’ll be powerless to bewitch you, even so—
this magic herb I give will fight her spells.
Now here’s your plan of action, step by step.
The moment Circe strikes with her long thin wand,
you draw your sharp sword sheathed at your hip
and rush her fast as if to run her through!
She’ll cower in fear and coax you to her bed—
but don’t refuse the goddess’ bed, not then, not if
she’s to release your friends and treat you well yourself.
But have her swear the binding oath of the blessed gods
she’ll never plot some new intrigue to harm you,
once you lie there naked—
never unman you, strip away your courage!’
With that
the giant-killer handed over the magic herb,
pulling it from the earth,
and Hermes showed me all its name and nature.
Its root is black and its flower white as milk
and the gods call it moly. Dangerous for a mortal man
to pluck from the soil but not for deathless gods.
All lies within their power."

- ibid. Bk. 10, 302-340.

It all turns out as Hermes advises, and we can see the moment of Odysseus rushing at Circe with his drawn sword depicted on the following vases. First -

c.450 BCE, found in Nola, southern Italy, from the Louvre

Here are close-ups of the figures.

You can see Circe is carrying her cup and wand.

The upper row of this vase show the same moment.

c.440 BCE, from the Met, New York

A close-up. You can see Circe has dropped her cup and wand. Behind Odysseus are two of his crew men gesturing to be set free, one of whom has been changed to have a pig's head and tail, the other those of a horse or mule.

There is a depiction of Circe offering her cup to Odysseus on this vase. Behind her is a man who has an animal's head and tail.

c. 490 BCE, found in Eretria, now in the National Archaeological Museum in Athens. Phot by Marsyas.

Here is Silvana Mangano as Circe in the 1954 film (she plays Penelope as well.)

Before we leave Greek vases, I want to show you one of Odysseus at sea on a raft of amphoras, being blown by Boreas, the god of the north wind. I love the naivety of the depiction of Boreas.

C.4th BCE, Ashmolean Museum. Photo by Carole Raddato.

The theme of Circe was one that John William Waterhouse returned to repeatedly. Here is 'Circe Offering the Cup to Ulysses' from 1891.

Here is 'Circe Invidiosa' from 1892. This is not a reference to the Odyssey, but to Ovid's Metamorphoses, Book 14.

 

 

Finally, here is 'The Sorceress' from c.1911-1915.

You can find a gallery of Greek Art featuring Odysseus here, and links to the photographers credited above: Category:Odysseus in ancient Greek pottery - Wikimedia Commons

The mighty and indefatigable Carole Raddato, whose photos appear several times in this piece, has a blog called Following Hadrian: FOLLOWING HADRIANI came, I saw, I photographed... follow me in the footsteps of Hadrian! . You can find many more of her photographs on that blog, and also on Flickr.

Do 'Great Men' Drive History ?

1. In November 2022, I was reading The 18^th Brumaire of Louis Bonaparte and the following famous sentence from near the beginning struck me forcefully:

 

"Men make their own history, but they do not make it as they please; they do not make it under self-selected circumstances, but under circumstances existing already, given and transmitted from the past."

 

You may say - so what ? That's blindingly obvious. But, having thought about the process of History through many specific historical sequences of events over the years, the endless controversy over whether history is primarily driven by 1) Great Individuals or primarily by 2) underlying technological, economic, ideological and social forces, bothered me. Because of course, it's a blend of both. I think a lot of modern historians incline to the second view, because the first view held sway for so long, but also because they are frightened of seeming naive, or of being regarded as power-worshippers. Conversely, some historians such as Andrew Roberts proudly incline to the first view, partly because they genuinely believe it, & partly because they take an impish delight in being deliberately old-fashioned & going against the current trend. Whereas, as I have said, it becomes obvious when you study history that it is a blend of both. I could illustrate this endlessly.

'Bonaparte, First Consul' by Antoine-Jean Gros, 1802

 

Camillo Benso, Count of Cavour

Otto von Bismarck

One example: what if there had been no Napoleon ? What course would the French Revolution have taken ? Without Napoleon's campaigns and conquests, would German unification or Italian unification have happened in the way that they did ? or happened at all ? Possibly not. The implications of either are staggering. The underlying technological, economic, ideological and social forces enabled Napoleon, but he focussed them and pointed them in a certain direction which had specific consequences, and not other potential consequences which could have happened. History is a constant series of potential branches: one is actually taken, which rules out/nullifies the other possibilities, and generates a new set of possible branches; one of those is taken, and so on ad infinitum. This process operates in the lives of all individuals as well. All the acts and decisions of everyone interact constantly. That makes up the sum total of the world. That is what history is made of. 

 

You can see that in trying to explain my observation that the historical process is a blend of both the will of great individuals and underlying social forces, I'm having to go somewhat around the houses. That is what is so exciting to me about Marx' dictum, quoted above. It is a succinct, elegant and unanswerable distillation of the point I'm trying to make. In other words, this issue is now

 

and there is no need to reinvent the wheel, and no point in trying*. The wheel has been invented, it's a perfectly good wheel, and works very well. This is one great advantage of having a culture. Certain controversies have actually been solved. If anyone ever raises the debate to me, or I read the issue being questioned - is it great individuals or the ineluctable underlying forces that drive history ? - all I have to do is point them at The 18^th Brumaire of Louis Napoleon. (written 22.11.2022)

2. Barbara Cottman once asked me "Do you see history as linear or circular ?" These are my thoughts on that subject.

Evidently it depends what you mean by the terms 'linear' and 'circular'. What I think you mean is: 'linear' means political and economic progress in their broadest sense is inevitable and always advancing overall despite setbacks; 'circular' means we take two steps forward and one back, or two steps forward and two back, or even two steps forward and three back.

History is linear in the sense that time advances irretrievably, there is no going back, one thing happens after another. It is not linear in the sense that progress overall is inevitable. Nor is regression inevitable. Nothing is inevitable except our individual death, pace Benjamin Franklin. History does not have intention, or any inner purpose. It is not heading anywhere. History in the sense of a thing that has intention does not exist, and anyone who thinks it does exist in that sense is in my opinion mistaking metaphors, figures of speech and mental shortcuts for reality: which is a very common error. Speaking technically, history is not teleological. There are many teleological accounts of how history works, where it is heading. For instance, fundamental to Christianity is a claim about the nature of history: that there is an inevitable progression from Adam and Eve in the garden of Eden, the Fall; to the possibility of redemption provided by Christ's death and resurrection; closing inevitably with the Last Judgement. Marx regards the victory of the proletariat in the class struggle as inevitable. Other commentators have regarded the expansion and ultimate triumph of liberal democracy as inevitable. The attraction of such accounts is clear: they give the individual structure, purpose and comfort. However they are in my view illusions.

Which is not to say that there is no such thing as progress. There is progress, but it is neither inevitable nor irreversible. (Written 13.3.2023).

 

*Of course the issue is not solved, nor ever can be, and of course this is an absurdly cursory treatment of it. I propose to look at this issue in much greater detail by examining the extreme positions on either side: first with a critique of Carlyle's 'On Heroes'; then with a critique of Tolstoy's views on history at the end of 'War and Peace'. Stay tuned.