Nineteen plays have come down to us from ancient times under the name of Euripides. Of these all but one are tragedies; the Cyclops is his only surviving satyr-play. Indeed, it is the only complete specimen of that genre that is available to us, though thanks to the discovery of papyri we have a good idea of the shape and plot of Sophocles’ Trackers and of Aeschylus’ Fishermen. As explained in the General Introduction, the satyr-play was a form closely associated with tragedy, and at the Great Dionysia each competing tragedian would put on one satyr-play along with three tragedies. Although the satyr-play may be lighter in tone and shorter than a tragedy, the form still merited respect: after all, it was in the most obvious sense a tribute to the god of drama, Dionysus himself, the master of the satyrs. Aristotle indeed claims that tragedy itself originated from the satyric form, and if some truth underlies this claim, it may explain why the satyr-play was preserved as an integral part of the major tragic festival, although in some respects it had clearly diminished in importance and was less highly regarded by later critics. Nevertheless, despite the crudity and rumbustiousness of the half-animal satyrs, the tone of satyric drama remained less coarse and the themes less grotesque than those of contemporary comedy; the mythical setting of the plays also brought them closer to the tragedies with which they were associated. In Roman times, the poet-critic Horace in his long poem on ‘The Art of Poetry’ described Tragedy as a dignified matron who does not descend to trivial verse even though she deigns to associate, though modestly, with the cavorting satyrs (Ars Poetica 231– 3). The Greek critic Demetrius put it more crisply: the satyric drama is ‘tragedy at play’ (On Style 169).
A few comments are probably needed about the satyrs. The most important point is that they are half human and half beast in form. In early vase-painting they are sometimes half horse, but as time went on goat-legs and tails became more consistently characteristic. This marginal status is reflected in their moral outlook, for they are wild and sensual beings, unrestrained by human laws or inhibitions, yet also in some way divine, attendants upon the god of wine and wildness, and sharing something of his divinity. Similarly the elderly Silenus, sometimes represented as the father of the satyrs, is both a drunken buffoon and the god’s protector and mentor. Although in this play Silenus is a cowardly figure of fun, in other legends he is a more awesome figure and a source of divine wisdom. In all these respects we can see that the satyrs are suited to a genre that stands midway between tragic seriousness and comic frivolity.
Satyrs form the chorus, as far as we know, of all satyric dramas. Other conventional elements are discernible even in the slender remnants that survive. It seems that the plots were consistently drawn from myth, though the stories were often burlesqued. These often involved the imprisonment and escape of the satyrs from captivity; certain plots were particularly favoured, including those in which the satyrs took responsibility for or took care of some charge, such as a divine child. Another common motif was the discovery of a notable invention: fire, wine, musical instruments or other artefacts. Again the interest in the border-area between civilization and wildness is evident. Perhaps surprisingly, there seems to be no expectation that Dionysus himself will necessarily appear in the play: indeed, Euripides in the Cyclops makes much of the absence of the god and the satyrs’ consequent servitude. As in tragedy – perhaps indeed under the influence of tragedy – the range of mythical plots used by the poets in satyr-plays may have been expanded far beyond an original Dionysiac core.
The Cyclops itself is not one of the plays which we can date firmly from external evidence, but its most recent editor has made a good case for placing it very late in the poet’s career, probably after 411 BC, in the last few years of Euripides’ life.1 In that case it is probably later than the plays in this volume (of which the latest, Helen, belongs to 412), but its similar theme of escape from a savage captor makes it natural to group it with Iphigenia among the Taurians and Helen. No comments here are dependent on accepting this date.
Little need be said about the content of the play. It is obviously a creative adaptation, at times a parody, of the Cyclops story in the ninth book of Homer’s Odyssey: the arrival of the hero in search of food or loot, his withholding of his identity, the use of wine to incapacitate the giant, the trick of the pseudonym ‘Noman’, the use of the stake, and the departure in which the hero taunts the blinded monster, are all motifs derived from Homer. The adjustments and elaborations are mostly the consequence either of transferring the tale from narrative epic to the stage, or of the new context in a satyr-drama. Particularly notable is the fact that Odysseus talks in the dignified manner (and metre) of a character from tragedy, and stands in contrast with the more light-hearted and colloquial, even occasionally obscene, conversation of the other characters, especially the chorus of satyrs.
The other main character, the Cyclops Polyphemus, is a conventional ogre, though with some amusingly human and even sophisticated touches (he lectures Odysseus on human life in the manner of a fifth-century intellectual, 316ff.). Even in Homer little is done to suggest that the monster deserves more than detestation and violence (though the gentle affection that the Cyclops expresses towards his ram strikes a more attractive note [Odyssey 9.447–60]). In the Cyclops Odysseus may be a braggart, but the Cyclops is a caricature whom we delight to see outwitted. It is instructive to see how the generic context of satyric drama – a drama celebrating drink, sex, self-indulgent hedonism – neutralizes moral qualms which we would feel in other contexts, and which indeed we do feel in parallel scenes in other Euripidean dramas (such as the blinding of Polymestor in Hecabe). Even the searching and subtle mind of Euripides accepts the good-humoured scurrility and the hedonistic violence that are traditional and essential to the satyric ethos.