In 1968 Ursula K. LeGuin published The Wizard of Earthsea, the first volume in the Earthsea trilogy, followed by The Tombs of Atuan in 1971 and The Farthest Shore in 1972. Although Le Guin has since returned to the land of Earthsea in other writings, the trilogy focuses on the central character, a wizard named Ged, whose exploits unfold in a series of confrontations between the land of the living and of the dead. In the first volume, the young Ged uses a forbidden spell to summon a spirit from the land of the dead. Another wizard exerts all his power to send the spirit back. As that wizard then lies dying, we glimpse his journey from life into death:

The death of a great mage, who has many times in his life walked on the dry steep hillsides of death’s kingdom, is a strange matter: for the dying man goes not blindly, but surely, knowing the way. (63)

We learn more about “the hillsides of death’s kingdom” when Ged later attempts to heal a dying child. His spirit follows the child’s spirit, “running fast and far ahead of him down a dark slope, the side of some vast hill.” Ged realizes he has come too far, and he struggles up the hill and over the low wall that divides life and death:

Either he must go down the hill into the desert lands and lightless cities of the dead, or he must step across the wall back into life. (81)

Ged returns into life, but he will indeed later go down into those lightless cities, in The Farthest Shore, third novel in the trilogy.

As The Farthest Shore begins, Earthsea is stricken by a strange disaster. Magicians no longer remember their spells, singers no longer remember their songs, and there is gloom and madness everywhere. It turns out that a wizard named Cob, seeking immortality, has opened up a breach between the world of the living and the dead so that he can freely pass back and forth, never dying. The hole he has created is sucking out the forces of life itself which power the wizards’ spells and and inspire the singers’ songs. It is up to Ged, now the greatest wizard of his age, to find Cob and close the breach.

On his journey Ged is accompanied by a boy, Arren, whose presence fulfills an ancient prophecy. For centuries, the throne of the King of Earthsea had been empty, awaiting the one “who has crossed the dark land living and come to the far shores of the day” (17). These “far shores of the day” by which Ged and Arren reach the land of the dead — and which give the novel its title — lie at the western edge of the world, on the island of Selidor, a “beautiful and desolate place” (158), where there are no homes of men or of animals. As Ged and Arren walk the island of Selidor, looking for Cob, the desolation of the place prompts Arren to exclaim that Selidor is “as dead as the land of death itself” (165). Ged swiftly corrects him:

Look at this land; look about you. […] The hills with living grass on them, and the streams of water running . . . rising cold out of the earth where no eyes sees it, running through the sunlight and darkenss to the sea. (165)

In contrast to the springs of the living land, the land of the dead will be a dry place, unwatered by the streams of being.

Ged and Arren follow Cob into the land of the dead, descending the sloping hillside, and crossing over the wall, going farther than Ged had gone in pursuit of the dying child long ago. They enter the cities of the dead:

The marketplaces were all empty. There was no buying and selling there, no gaining and spending. Nothing was used; nothing was made. (172)

The dead show no signs of their dying or their death: “quiet were their faces, freed from anger and desire, and there was in their shadowed eyes no hope” (173). There is no song or any other craft in the realm of the dead, and those who loved each other in life do not know each other now.

Leaving behind the cities, Ged and Arren then follow the Dry River, which runs beneath the Mountains of Pain, until they find the door that Cob has opened between the worlds, which is at the dry spring of that dry river, the “mouth of dust, the place where a dead soul, crrawling into earth and darkness was born again, dead” (183). Using all his magic powers, Ged closes the door. Ged and Arren lack the strength to go back to the low wall on the hillside, so they must try to climb over the mountains themselves. When Ged collapses, Arren picks him up and carries him towards the summit. From that summit, he sees the shore of that westernmost island, Selidor, where they had left their bodies behind to make this journey among the dead. Arren then awakes, but Ged’s spirit has still not returned to his body. The journey had been a dream, but it was none the less real for having been a dream: Arren’s  thirst is that of someone who had been a long time in the dry land. After a while, Ged too finally awakens, and they travel back to the inner islands of Earthsea, and to the royal island of Havnor, where Arren is crowned king, having fulfilled the ancient prophecy.

Ged and Arren have brought nothing and no one out of the kingdom of the dead, only themselves — but they did close the gap in the world, so that the springs of life are no longer flowing out of Earthsea. In LeGuin’s imaginary world, the land of the living and the land of the dead must be kept separate. Death is something to be feared, indeed, but the land of the dead is not a place of punishment; rather, it is part of the natural balance of the world, the balance of light and dark, of water and dust, of waking and sleeping. This hero’s journey has won Arren a kingdom, but we also see the toll paid on such a journey, as Ged has lost his powers of magic. Ged had suspected this would be the price he would pay for having long ago used a forbidden spell to summon one of the dead into the land of the living. That was the terrible mistake he had made as a “Wizard of Earthsea,” and only by making this journey beyond “The Farthest Shore” was he able to set things right again, at last.

Works Cited

• Le Guin, Ursula K. A Wizard of Earthsea. 1968. Bantam, 1975.
• Le Guin, Ursula K. The Farthest Shore. 1972. Bantam, 1975.

The Biblical basis for the story is scanty indeed. The descent of Jesus into the underworld forms part of the ancient Apostles’ Creed, where Jesus is said to have “gone down to those beneath” (Latin, descendit ad ínferos). There is a Biblical echo of this statement in Ephesians 4:9: “he descended into the lower parts of the earth” (Latin Vulgate, descendit in inferiores partes terrae). The Latin adjective inferus simply means “lower, below, underneath,” as you can see in the English word “inferior.” Yet in ancient Roman culture, the “underneath world” was already regarded as the abode of the dead, so that the plural form of the adjective, inferi, often stood simply for “the dead.” In English, this same Latin root even gives us the word “inferno,” which has lost its sense of “below,” and instead now refers to any kind of terrible “fire,” not limited to the fires of hell.

The fullest written account of the “Harrowing of Hell” is not found in the Bible, however, but in the non-canonical Gospel of Nicodemus, a text which probably dates back in some form to around the 3rd century or even earlier. Here we read how Jesus, after his crucifixion, descended into hell and brought salvation to the souls of the dead who were prisoners there. The story begins with a dialogue between Hades and Satan, who have heard word that Jesus is coming,  which prompts a debate about the power of Jesus. Hades is afraid, because he has heard of the miracles  Jesus has performed on earth. Satan, on the other hand, has heard that Jesus was crucified as a common criminal; he is certain that they will be able to bind and  subdue Jesus when he arrives in their realm.

When Jesus arrives, Hades bids his servants to bolt and lock the doors, but to no avail; Jesus shatters the gates and enters. He seizes Satan and binds him in iron chains, then consigning him into Hades’s keeping until the second coming. Jesus next turns his attention to the patriarchs. He raises up Adam, along with all the prophets and the saints. Together, they all depart up out of Hades, and ascend into Paradise. (You can read a full account in the Gospel of Nicodemus online.) The “Harrowing of Hell” portion of that Gospel was widely circulated in other compilations of religious literature, most notably in the Golden Legend of the lives of the saints, compiled by Jacob of Voragine in the 13th century.

The literary versions of the “Harrowing of Hell” in turn gave rise to many  works of art, including the “mystery play” tradition of medieval religious drama. Most commonly, however, people would learn about Jesus’s descent into the underworld from the artwork which decorated the churches and cathedrals of Europe. In the remainder of this article, I would like to look at ten different visual depictions of the story, to see what details we can observe in each artist’s rendering of the scene.

Let’s start with a modern Orthodox  icon. In this very simple depiction, Jesus has broken through the doors to hell which he tramples underfoot (notice the locks all broken asunder), and he rescues Adam and Eve. As often, Adam is shown as an old man, while Eve is young. The traditional name for this scene in the Orthodox tradition is the “Anastasis,” the “Raising Up” as you can see written in the icon itself:

Anastasis (modern Greek Orthodox icon) | View larger image »

While Adam and Eve are clothed in this icon, they are often shown in the nude, as in this 15th-century wood carving, late 15th century by Veit Stoss from the Mariacki Altarpiece in Cracow, Poland. Notice also here the presence of demons, who are tormenting the dead:

Detail of the High Altar of St Mary, c. 1477-1489
Church of St. Mary, Cracow | View larger image »

To emphasize that he has only lately been crucified, some depictions emphasize Christ’s wounded hands and feet, as in this 16th-century painting now housed in the Museum of Lille:

16th-century painting (Musée des Beaux-Arts, Lille) | View larger image »

While Jesus is often shown trampling the doors to hell underfoot, sometimes he is trampling a demon underfoot, as in this early 14th-century sculpture. Notice also how the scene is paired with the entombment of Christ to the left:

14th-century sculpture (now in the Louvre Museum, Paris) | View larger image »

Some depictions combine both the door underfoot and the demon, as in this marvelous piece of 15th-century stained glass in the Church of St. Ethelbert, Hessett, Suffolk. Notice the flames licking out from under the door!

Stained glass from Church of St. Ethelbert, 15th-century
Hessett, Suffolk | View larger image »

In addition to the demons you might see trampled underfoot or harassing the dead souls, you can also find demons standing off to the side, observing the events, as here in Andrea da Firenze’s famous 14th-century fresco from Santa Maria Novella in Florence, Italy. Here you can see Jesus rescuing a whole crowd of souls from the underworld:

Fresco by Andrea da Firenze, 14th century
Santa Maria Novella, Florence, Italy | View larger image »

Here is a detailed view of those demons as they watch the proceedings:

Another character who often figures in representations of the harrowing of hell is the “good thief,” Saint Dismas, who was  crucified with Jesus. Jesus promises Dismas that “today you will be with me in paradise” (Luke 23:43). Not surprisingly, then, Dismas is also seen journeying with Jesus down into the underworld on their way to paradise. For example, you can see Dismas standing behind Jesus in this woodcut from 1510  by Albrecht Durer:

Woodcut Albrecht Durer, 1510 | View larger image »

If you look carefully behind Adam and Eve, you can see Dismas bearing the cross in this mosaic from the Church of San Marco in Venice:

Mosaic, Church of San Marco (15th-century)
Venice, Italy | View larger image »

Sometimes Jesus is also accompanied by angels who battle the demons as he leads the soul out from their captivity, as in this painting by Tintoretto from 1568:

Painting by Tintoretto, 1568 | View larger image »

As you can see from the quite attractive nude depiction of Eve in Tintoretto’s painting, the story of the Harrowing of Hell provided Renaissance artists a rare opportunity to paint female nudes in a work of religious art. This is carried to extremes, as you can see, in Bronzino’s elaborate crowd scene, painted in 1552 and found in the Refectory of Santa Croce in Florence:

Painting by Bronzino, 1552 | View larger image »
Refectory of Santa Croce, Florence, Italy (source)

You will observe a remarkable contrast if you compare Bronzino’s R-rated scene to the extremely modest Orthodox icon with which we began this survey, an admittedly brief survey which only begins to hint at the wide range of iconographic styles in which this story has been depicted. As Jesus makes this underworld journey in the imaginations of these many artists over the centuries, he joins the ranks of heroes such as Orpheus and Heracles who also journeyed into the realms of the dead, breaking down the doors between that world and this one in order to rescue the souls who have been imprisoned on the other side. Although this is a not a story about Jesus that you will read about in the Bible, it is nevertheless a very famous one, as told both in words and, even more importantly, in images.

Relief Representing Hermes, Eurydice, and
Orpheus. Circa 500-400 BCE. Source »

Orpheus’s failed attempt to rescue Eurydice from the underworld is one of the most popular and moving stories to survive from ancient Greece and Rome. The oldest extant written version of the story is found in Virgil’s Georgics (29 BCE), around four hundred years after the sculpture at Naples was created. In Virgil, Orpheus descends to the underworld and persuades the gods with songs on his lyre. They allow Eurydice to return with him on one condition: he must lead her out of the underworld without looking back himself. At the last moment, as they were nearing the light of day, he looked back — and lost her forever.

Those familiar with this version of the story often identify the scene in the sculpture at Naples with the moment Orpheus turned back. Let’s briefly look at two examples among many occurrences of this, one from an academic and one from a poet. First, archaeology professor Frank Bigelow Tarbell in his A History of Greek Art (1910) writes:

Tenderly, sadly, [Orpheus and Eurydice] look their last at one another, while Hermes, guide of departed spirits, makes gentle signal for the wife’s return. In the chastened pathos of this scene we have the quintessence of the temper of Greek art in dealing with the fact of death. (Tarbell 205)

Second, many authors, artists, and poets have created works drawing on the myth of Orpheus over the centuries. The German poet Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926) provides possibly the most extensive work of this kind in the twentieth century (Segal 118). Rilke most likely saw all three of these sculptures during his lifetime (Freedman 207), and his poem “Orpheus. Eurydice. Hermes” (1904) was probably inspired by viewing the one in Naples (Strauss 172):

[…] If only he might
turn once more (if looking back
were not the ruin of all his work) […]
the quiet pair, mutely following him:
the god of errands and far messages, […]
the beating wings at his ankle joints;
and on his left hand, as entrusted: her

[…] suddenly
the god stopped her and, with anguish in his cry,
uttered the words: ‘He has turned round’ […]

For Tarbell, Rilke, and countless others, viewing this sculpture recalled to their minds the myth of Orpheus’s failure to return from Hades with Eurydice to which they had already been introduced. But looking back through what little evidence we have about the myth of Orpheus’s descent to the underworld, it is not at all clear that Orpheus failed in the version of the myth in existence at the time the sculpture was created. Euripides’s play Alcestis (438 BCE), written around the same time that the sculpture at Naples was created, contains the oldest surviving literary evidence concerning the outcome of Orpheus’s descent to the underworld. Admetus makes a passing reference to Orpheus when talking about his own love for his recently-deceased wife Alcestis:

Had I the lips of Orpheus and his melody
to charm the maiden daughter of Demeter and
her lord, and by my singing win you back from death,
I would have gone beneath the earth […]
[…] I would have brought you back
to life. (357f.)

This play does not explicitly state that Orpheus successfully brought his wife back to life: it merely states that Orpheus’s song charmed the gods of the underworld. It does not even mention that he descended to the underworld in order to rescue a woman. Even so, this reference would be horribly out of place if Orpheus had attempted but failed such a rescue. Admetus wished that he could sing like Orpheus so that he could bring his wife back from the dead, and many scholars see this reference as proof that a version of the story in which Orpheus successfully returned would have been familiar to Euripides’s audience (Robbins 16).

Plato mentioned Orpheus in the following century in the dialogue Symposium, his great work in praise of love (written around 360 BCE). Plato had one of his characters criticize Orpheus:

But Orpheus […] [the gods] sent empty away, and presented to him an apparition only of her whom he sought, but herself they would not give up, because he […] did not dare […] to die for love, but was contriving how he might enter Hades alive. (Symposium 179d)

In this version, Orpheus’s descent to the underworld is now clearly associated with an attempt to rescue a woman — though Plato does not give her name. Orpheus’s mission is admittedly a failure, but it seems that Orpheus returned successfully with what the gods gave him (the phantom of his wife). Instead, Orpheus failed to persuade the gods to give him what he sought. This substitution of a phantom for his real wife turns Orpheus’s otherwise-successful return into a failure; this substitution only makes sense as a variant of a version in which Orpheus did successfully return with her.

Around 330 BC, still three hundred years before Virgil, the poet Hermesianax of Colophon wrote three books of elegiac poetry dedicated to his mistress Leontion. Only a fragment of these books survive: one hundred lines or so were quoted in Athenaeus, an author writing in Egypt over five hundred years later. This fragment includes a version of Orpheus’s descent in which Orpheus returned successful. Athenaeus introduces the story with these words: “Hermesianax […] gives a catalogue of love affairs in the following manner”:

Armed only with the lyre, [Orpheus] brought back [the Thracian Agriope] from Hades. […] Yet Orpheus, though girded for the journey all alone, dared to sound his lyre beside the wave, and he won over the gods of every shape. […] By his song, Orpheus persuaded the mighty lords that Agriope should recover the gentle breath of life. (Athenaeus XIII)

The wife of Orpheus in this version of the story finally has a name (Agriope), though it is different than the name to be found in Virgil three hundred years later. Hermesianax celebrated the power of love, citing Orpheus’s successful rescue of his beloved from the underworld as evidence.

These three pieces of evidence show that it is a real possibility that the sculptor of the bas-relief at Naples was not intending to depict a failed attempt by Orpheus to rescue Eurydice from Hades. If this were the case, I would imagine that the sculptor intended to portray the moment of Orpheus’s triumph: still holding his lyre, Hermes brings his wife to him so that he might lead her out of the underworld. It is difficult to say with any certainty, though. While a non-narrative work of art has an undeniably strong connection to its corresponding narrative that evokes powerful resonances and reactions in its viewers, these responses can vary greatly from person to person. The fact that Plato, Hermesianax, and Virgil would all have experienced this same sculpture quite differently reveals just how complicated that connection can be.

This is one of the fascinating aspects of how myths work. Storytellers alter and shape the stories they tell to suit their own purposes: they might change a significant detail they find objectionable, or they might alter some minor details to shift the emphasis. Over time stories grow and evolve as the needs of the storytellers and their audiences change, taking on an organic life of their own. A story might affect an artist (like the fifth-century scultpor of the bas-relief at Naples)  in one way, while his work might affect a future storyteller (like Rilke) in a completely different way.

Works Cited

• Tarbell, Frank Bigelow. A History of Greek Art. Macmillan: 1910.
• Segal, Charles. Orpheus: The Myth of the Poet. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins, 1989.
• Freedman, Ralph. Life of a Poet: Rainer Maria Rilke. Evanston: Northwestern, 1998. (You can view this reference online.)
  
• Rilke, Rainer Maria. “Orpheus. Eurydice. Hermes.” New Poems. 1907. (You can read the full text of this poem online [PDF].)
• Euripides. Alcestis.
• Robbins, Emmett. “Famous Orpheus?” Orpheus: The Metamorphoses of a Myth. Edited by John Warden. University of Toronto, 1982.
• Plato. Symposium. Translated by Ben Jowett. (You can read the full text of this dialogue online.)
• Athenaeus. The Deipnosophists. (You can read the full text online.)
  

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