Timon of Athens: Generous or Intemperate?

It is tempting to view the eponymous main character of Shakespeare’s Timon of Athens as a good man gone bad. Shakespeare seemingly presents Timon as a generous man who finds that others are not as generous as he when he, his resources exhausted from his spree of giving, finds himself in a time of need. As a result of the hardhearted behavior of his ostensible friends, from perspective, Timon turns his philanthropy into misanthropy, retreating into the wildness to nurse his newfound hatred of mankind. It is possible, however, to see the play, rather than as a movement from love to hatred or generosity to miserliness, instead as a commentary on two different but related types of intemperance.

Immediately upon entering the stage in the first scene of the play, Timon’s first actions are to begin giving away money to those around him. He hears that someone he knows has been imprisoned because of a debt he owes and, without another question, offer the money to pay for his release and to continue supporting him even after he has been released. “‘Tis not enough to help the feeble up, but to support him after,” claims Timon. Timon then turns to offer more money to help his servant marry the woman with whom he desires to build a household.

Each of these cases appears to be an act of charity performed by Timon out of kindness. Each of them is also, however, an example of intemperate dealings in money. The man whom Timon helps to pay his way out of prison is clearly a man who has not well managed his wealth and so cannot be expected to deal honestly with Timon’s money either. Similarly, the servant Lucilius to whom Timon provides the money to marry is almost certain to end up in debt once again by marrying a woman and beginning a family it is clearly beyond his means to support.

Timon’s intemperance continues into the second scene of the play as he hosts a sumptuous banquet for the men of Athens. The exorbitance of Timon’s banquet is proclaimed by the god Cupid himself, who announces to Timon that “the five best senses / Acknowledge thee their patron; and come freely / To gratulate thy plenteous bosom.”

It is this intemperance, rather than any sort of generosity, that presents a contrast with the sort of person Timon becomes in the second half of the play. After he is denied help by his friends once he himself falls into financial need, Timon leaves civilization behind, going to live a cave. There, he discovers a large reserve of gold which he provides to Alcibiades and two prostitutes with him to help them bring on the destruction of the city of Athens, proclaiming “I am Misanthropos, and hate mankind.”

Just as Timon’s seemingly generous behavior early in the play was an example of excess, so now is Timon’s reaction to having been slighted by those he believed were his friends. He turns from a philanthropism that lacked temperance to a misanthropism equally lacking in temperance. What has not changed, however, is that deeper aspect of Timon’s personality that has motivated both his love and his hatred, namely, his intemperance.

The Good of Poverty in Aristophanes’s “Wealth”

In his “Plutus,” or “Wealth,” the Greek playwright Aristophanes presents the possibility of catastrophic consequences resulting from actions otherwise expected to be universally beneficial. In so writing, Aristophanes raises questions not only about the specific subject of the play, wealth, but also wider questions about relationship of want to need.

The play begins with Chremylus and his slave Cario in a chance encounter with the eponymous god of wealth. Discovering that wealth is a blind dotard, they determine to bring him to the temple of the god Asclepius for healing. Chremylus describes this plan as an “honest and god-fearing plan, a plan which is good and full of virtue, a plan which will serve the whole of humanity!” He explains, “If the god of Wealth regains his eyesight, he won’t be wandering aimlessly and blindly about like he does now and he’ll be able to see who’s honest and who’s not and so he’ll go to the good folk and shun all the godless crooks and all the bastards. The result? Everyone will become good and god-fearing … and rich!”

Chremylus and Cairo have concocted a scheme which they believe will result in the establishment of a utopia. Wealth, freed of his blindness and able to move about with  youthful freedom and swiftness, can now bring his gifts to all good people.. As a result, good people will be rewarded for their goodness. All people, then, desiring to partake of the bounties of Wealth, will become good.

After his healing at the temple, Wealth begins to fulfill this plan, going about to reward the good for their goodness. The result of this munificence, however, is not entirely what was expected. Rather than creating a utopian society, the abundance of wealth begins to cause the destruction of society.

Chremylus had desired that “that the good folk, the god-fearing folk, the folk who do an honest day’s work” would be those to benefit from his plan because, he says, they “should be the ones who deserve to be rich, not the dishonest, godless crooks!” Visited by the goddess Poverty, Chremylus is warned, however, that should his plan come to fruition no one will be “do[ing] an honest day’s work.” “If Wealth were to get his sight back and if he spread himself around to everyone,” Poverty warns, “who’d be doing any of the work then or even any of the thinking?” All of the workmen, including the “smiths and . . . the ship builders, . . . the tailors, the cartwheel makers, the cobblers, the brick makers, the launderers, the tanners” and those who “till the soil with the ploughs and then reap” will choose instead to “sit around idly all day, doing nothing and caring about nothing.” Without the threat of poverty, no one will exert themselves or risk their health to do work. “It is I who forces them to do all that work,” says Poverty. “Yes, me, Poverty, whom they all want to avoid and earn themselves a livelihood, it is I who’ll be making them do all that work for you!”

Once Chremylus goes through with his plan, he finds that more dire consequences follow as a result of his actions. Just after returning from the healing of Wealth, he encounters an old woman whose young lover has left her because he no longer relied upon her for her wealth. Within this single broken relationship is encapsulated the two primary relationships that uphold and perpetuate any society, the love relationship between man and woman and the relationship of respect and dependence between the young and the old. With wealth gone, there is no need for anyone to depend upon another for sustenance. The result is that lovers separate from each other and the young, no longer in need of the inheritance passed on by the old, no longer respect the elderly.

The final calamity to result from the new profusion of wealth is revealed to Chremylus by the god Hermes, who comes to inform him that Zeus is “angry [with him] because from the moment you gave Wealth his sight back, we gods received nothing from you mortals! Not a single sacrifice, not a whiff of incense, not a single leaf of bay, not a single barley cake, not one victim, nothing! Absolutely nothing!” Because there are no more wants among men, piety has abated. Men no longer rely upon, and so no longer worship, the gods.

Through his effort toward creating a utopia, Chremylus has caused the dissolution of the primary institutions necessary to the continued stability of society: work, family, and religion. Through his exploration of these unexpected consequences of Chemylus’s attempt to eradicate poverty, Aristophanes also points to the often wide chasm between human want and human need, between what people believe is best and what is really best.

Fatalism in Gilgamesh and Sophocles

Literature of the ancient world is saturated with what can be succinctly described as fatalism. Throughout, there is a definite sense that man is being perpetually driven toward a fate over which he has very little, indeed perhaps altogether no, control. This fate, of course, is death. In death, for the ancient mind, there is nothing of a redeeming or edifying character. Rather, death is a final and inevitable end of all human beings. In David R. Slavitt’s translation of Antigone, Creon, having sent the maiden Antigone away to die, wonders aloud, “Wailing? Complaining? It won’t make any difference or postpone death for even a moment. Why do people bother?” This sentiment, indicative of the character of Creon, is indicative of the nature of ancient literature generally. In the terminology of Dorothy L. Sayers, this obsession with death and destiny, and the inescapability of both, is to be identified with a fixation on the Idea, the Father of the Christian Trinity, whose presence, if not mediated through Energy and Power, Son and Spirit, becomes overbearing and oppressive. The Epic of Gilgamesh, Antigone, and Oedipus Rex will serve as examples.

In the Epic of Gilgamesh, Gilgamesh first attempts to prevent the death of his friend Enkidu and finally tries to prevent his own death; both attempts, though heroic, are in vain. After a warning in a dream, Gilgamesh ventures into the forest to battle the terrifying monster Humbaba, who is slain as Enkidu repeatedly urges Gilgamesh to “finish him off, slay him, grind him up, that I may survive.” Enkidu, however, does not survive. Instead, he quickly begins to lament the arrogance of his actions in killing Humbaba, an act that challenged the authority of the gods and claimed for humans an undue equality with them. Soon after this, his hubris is punished by the gods with a fatal illness.

Gilgamesh reacts by desperately seeking to avoid his own death. “Shall I die too? Am I not like Enkidu?” he laments, “grief has entered my innermost being, I am afraid of Death.” He runs to Ut-napishtim, the only human who has been granted immortality by the gods, and begs Ut-naphishtim to help him avoid death to which one goes, according to Gilgamesh, “never to rise, ever again.” Ut-napishtim’s response to Gilgamesh, however, is to inform him that “Death is inevitable” for everyone. “Nobody sees Death,” says Ut-napishtim

“Nobody sees the face of Death,

Nobody hears the voice of Death.

Savage Death just cuts mankind down.

Sometimes we build a house, sometimes we make a nest,

But then brothers divide it upon inheritance.

Sometimes there is hostility in the land,

But then the river rises and brings flood-water.

Dragonflies drift on the river,

Their faces look upon the face of the Sun,

But then suddenly there is nothing

The sleeping and the dead are just like each other,

Death’s picture cannot be drawn.

The primitive man is as any young man.

When they blessed me,

The Anunnaki, the great gods, assembled;

Mammitum who creates fate decreed destinies with them.

They appointed death and life.

They did not mark out days for death,

But they did so for life.”

Even after this testimony to the inevitability of death, Ut-napishtim, at the relentless urging of Gilgamesh, offers Gilgamesh two tasks by which he may secure eternal life for himself. Both tasks, however, prove fruitless for Gilgamesh.

Before the conclusion of the Epic, Gilgamesh is given one last lecture on the unavoidability of death by the ghost of Enkidu. Enkidu’s words to Gilgamesh present a series of admonitions to avoid such activities as putting on clean clothing, putting on shoes, making noise while walking, and kissing a wife or a child. In the end, Enkidu’s advice to Gilgamesh is: the only way to avoid death is to not be human. Gilgamesh is drawn along toward death by a fate that is entirely out of his control and against his will, and there is nothing that even this greatest of men can do about it. To apply the terminology of Sayers and describe Gilgamesh in Christological categories, as the presence of the Son/Energy of this Epic, Gilgamesh is the Son who refuses to submit to the will of the Father. In spite of his struggle against death, Gilgamesh finds that, in the words of Slavitt’s translation of Antigone, “the power of Fate is strange and very strong. Neither wealth nor martial valor can stand against it.”

The same theme of the Son refusing to submit to the will of the Father is discernable in Sophocles’ play Oedipus Rex. Upon learning that his fate was to “lie with my mother and bring forth children the world would hate to look at, and that I would be the murderer of the father who sired me,” Oedipus “left Corinth at once, … getting as far away as I could to prevent such terrible predictions from coming true.” It was through this self-imposed exile, however, that Oedipus stumbled into doing precisely what he had tried to avoid. Not realizing that either was his parent, he killed his father and married his mother. In running from his fate rather than confronting it, Oedipus had unwittingly run directly into it.

A different variation of the same theme is shown in Sophocles’ Antigone. Here, Sophocles presents a willing Son, “Antigone,” with a domineering and oppressive Father. Throughout the play, Creon, the Father-figure of the play, remains unwilling to waver in his stern decree that Antigone should be put to death for performing funerary rites for her brother, contrary to Creon’s desires. In his hubris, Creon even usurps the power of the gods in his claim that his decrees “apply both to the living and the dead.” Creon’s son, Haemon, attempts to reason with him, but Creon refuses to accede to Haemon and instead only hardens his determination to punish Antigone. The end result is the suicide of Antigone, Haemon, and Creon’s wife. Through his own despotism, Creon brings his entire family to ruin.

The eponymous character Antigone is the “Son” of the play, whose attitudes and activities contrast sharply with those of Creon as well as with Gilgamesh and Oedipus. Antigone chooses to do what is morally right by rendering the proper honors to her deceased brother and willingly faces the consequences of her actions. She knows full well before she disobeys Creon what the penalty will be and accepts it; speaking to her sister Ismene, who refuses to take part in Antigone’s plot, she acknowledges her responsibility and voices her willingness to submit to the consequences which will inevitably follow:

I am not trying to persuade you. No,

even if you were willing, I would not let you

join me in this now. Be what you are.

You have made your choice, as I have made mine. I will

bury my brother, and if I die, it shall be

with honor. He is my own; I will lie with my own,

not guilty of any crime, but pious, holy.

We are dead for a long time, and to death’s demands

there is no ending ever.

This willingness to submit to death and the inevitability of fate contrasts sharply with the fitful acquiescence of Gilgamesh and the nearly frantic attempts at escape by Oedipus. Antigone’s willing submission to the will of the Father lends an air of dignity in death and even works to, in a sense, redeem death.

There is a paradox in Antigone’s death in that while it remains dreadful and an object of antipathy, it nonetheless loses some of its ugliness and becomes a source of hope. Whereas the deaths of Gilgamesh and Oedipus invoke little else but terror, Antigone’s death invokes awe, a feeling which combines terror with wonder and even veneration. Both feelings are expressed, only a few lines apart, by the Second Chorister present for the condemnation of Antigone. Noting the sublime nature of Antigone’s death, the Second Chorister describes her to herself:

You go in honor and strength and your full beauty,

admired by all. No diminution by sickness

or disfiguring wounds of battle will have touched you.

Of your own free will you make your stately descent.

Only a few lines later, the same chorister verbalizes the dread and sorrow of death as well as the sense of helplessness in the face of its inevitability in another statement directed to Antigone:

You have braved all human limits and now confront

the lofty altar of Justice. Poor suffering girl!

You are punished perhaps for the crimes of your famous father.

Even this statement lamenting the demands of a fate beyond Antigone’s control, however, reveals the redemptive nature of her death. Antigone has “braved all human limits and now confront[s]” the final and mysterious end of all human life. She has, in the words of William F. Lynch, completed her “passage through the totally human.” In so doing, rather than allowing death to rob her of meaning, as did Gilgamesh and Oedipus before her, she instead imbues death with new meaning and becomes a source of meaning even in death. It is only because she is “punished perhaps for the crimes of [her] famous father” that this is redemption is possible. She is an innocent who willingly suffers for the sins of others. What St. Paul once asked might also be asserted of the death of Antigone: “O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory? The sting of death is sin; and the strength of sin is the law.” Antigone chose to fulfill the law and to willingly face the punishment brought on by the transgressions of the law committed by her forebears. In so doing, she transformed and redeemed death. In Antigone Sophocles has transcended his Father-ridden world and offered a glimpse, however slight and incomplete, of the time when “Death is swallowed up in victory.”