GEORGE HOLMES HOWISON THREE DRAMAS OF EURIPIDES BY WILLIAM CRANSTON LAWTON BOSTON AND NEW YORK HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY Copyright, 1889, Bt WILLIAM CRANSTON LAWTON. w All rights reserved. The Riverside Press, Cambridge, U. S. A. Electrotyped aud Printed by H. O. Houghton & Company. 7a 2- o To Cfoe JlUmorp of mp jltot&er 851013 The present volume of essays is intended as a contribution to literature, not to classical philo- logy. The writer's appeal is not to Greek schol- ars, except for unsparing criticism wherever he has missed the meaning 1 of his original. His chief desire is to make this group of ancient dramas in- telligible and interesting to the wider circle of men and women who are lovers of good literature. In- cidentally, indeed, he could not refrain from striv- ing to enforce the central article of his own creed : that in the drama, as in all the other creative arts, we may demand from the artist not a mere mirror of life in its more vulgar aspects, but rather aid in shaping and imitating our own loftiest and noblest ideals. A series of essays upon the same plays has al- ready appeared in the " Atlantic Monthly ; " but besides many additions and changes in the original portions, the entire dramas are here given in trans- lation, instead of a series of selected passages. The text is so printed that the versions alone may be read by those who prefer to listen to the clas- sical dramatist without interruption. Critical read- vi PREFACE. ers will doubtless notice certain differences in the treatment, especially of the choric portions, in the three plays. It may be well to state here that the attempt to imitate the original rhythms in such pas- sages has been definitely abandoned. The Medea represents most nearly the translator's present ideas as to the proper relation of a version to the Greek text. Responsible and laborious duties un- expectedly assumed within the last few months have, however, precluded any radical recasting of the other dramas. If encouraged by the reception of his work, the author contemplates a similar vol- ume on each of the other tragic poets, as well as a selection from Euripides' later plays. The Prome- theus, Persians, and Antigone, are already trans- lated. While disclaiming all pretension to original re- search, the writer desires to acknowledge his debt to the long line of commentators and illustrators of the classic drama. Perhaps the two from whom he has learned most are Nicolaus Wecklein and John Addington Symonds. It may be those names were never in such juxtaposition before, and they suggest the remark, that we of farthest Hesperia — if we can have but one of the two — can better afford to renounce the encyclopaedic learning of PREFACE. vii the Germans than that English tradition of hu- manistic culture which is our birthright. But the value of this book, as of every other, de- pends in the last analysis upon the spirit in which it is written, the views of life and life's opportuni- ties which it reveals ; and therefore an infinitely heavier indebtedness has been acknowledged, too late, in its dedication. Those who knew the heroic woman whose departure has left desolate the hap- piest of New England homes, the many who loved in her the ideal of womanhood, will understand how inevitable is her children's desire to consecrate to her memory all their work, and their entire earthly existence. Even his love for the beautiful crea- tions of the classic poets her son owes first of all to the wondrous instinct of motherhood. Almost the first books put into his childish hands, and read at her knee, were the poems of Homer and Virgil. The only reason for repining over the slow years through which this first creature of his brain has taken shape is that he cannot now lay it in her hands, nor turn to her for sympathy in failure or success. WILLIAM CRANSTON LAWTON. Cambridge, Mass., November, 1889. CONTENTS. PAGE On the Origin and Spirit of Attic Tragedy . . 1 The Alkestis 21 The Medea 95 The Hxppolytos 179 Epilogue 255 THREE DRAMAS OF EURIPIDES. ON THE ORIGIN AND SPIRIT OF ATTIC TRAGEDY. The poetic faculty is essentially the same in all times, and is always twofold. The poet's peculiar gift is the power of expression. It is twofold, be- cause we all lead a dual existence, an inward and an outward life. Every thoughtful being meditates much on the mysteries of his own nature, and also gives earnest study to the external life of man among men. Many reach definite convictions as to the soul within them, or as to the organized ex- istence of society. Of these many, a few have the power of clear and imaginative utterance ; and they either voice the aspirations of the human soul, and thus become the world's lyric poets, or they draw out before us their conception of society, revealing the interdependence and influence of men on one another, and are dramatic poets, the poets of ac- tion. If there be any truth in this fundamental dis- tinction, the lyric poets of all lands and ages will stand in the closest kinship and sympathy with one 2 THREE DRAMAS OF EURIPIDES. another ; nor shall we, in succeeding ages, feel that there is anything far away or foreign in their though i. ^o far as their voices are real utterances of. human loiiging and passion, they will always appeal «a directly from soul to soul as they did in their own lifetime, for the longings and passions of the heart of man must always be the same. And a moment's reflection will show us how exactly true this is. Who needs or demands to know anything of the times or circumstances of Omar or Saadi, of Sappho or Anacreon, of Beranger or Burns ? Tell us but the words they speak. They are uttered directly to us, — to all hearts that love and dread, hope and repine. " Bards of passion and of mirth, Ye have left your souls on earth ! " With the dramatic poet, however, this is not equally true. He shows us upon his broad canvas men and women costumed, speaking, and acting. He draws men as he sees them about him, the men of his own century. Therefore his creations will often appear strange and outlandish to us. We can understand them only when we know thoroughly the age which produced them ; although of course for that very study of the age the drama may be among our best guides. Then, too, the prizes for which men once contended may seem to us ignoble or worthless. It may not be easy to look at the outward world through Greek or even through German eyes. To be sure, if the char- acters are anything more than talking puppets, ATTIC TRAGEDY. 6 their humanity will be stronger than their nation- ality. The greater the poet, the more clearly we shall see what is human and universal in his men and women, through the veils of race and creed and circumstances : but yet he has always a right to insist that we shall endeavor to place ourselves, as it were, among his audience, and accept his characters, so far as we may, with the setting and the background for which he wrought them. Moreover, the dramatist — the word is used in the narrower technical sense, no longer including the great dramatic writers, from Homer to George Eliot, whose works were cast in other forms — is peculiarly bound and limited by conventions and traditions. This is the more important in the case of Euripides, because it should be frankly acknow- ledged at the outset, that he was not only fettered by the conventions of the stage and the traditional religion of his race, but failed to harmonize his work fully with these limitations, against which he seems to have chafed nearly all his life. The present volume aims to present in English dress a group of Euripidean plays, with only so much explanation and comment as may put the reader essentially in the position of the original Athenian auditors : at least so far as our fragment- ary knowledge of the antique world still renders this possible. If a man were asked casually what he supposed to be the origin of the drama, he might very prob- 4 THRICE DRAMAS OF EURIPIDES. ably reply, that it springs up naturally anywhere out of the imitative instinct in humanity : that it is only a more or less elaborate attempt to " hold the mirror up to nature." If it were further asked whether the drama is an expression of man's re- ligious aspiration, he might smile, — or in a less enlightened community perhaps even frown, — and reply that the apostles of modern creeds at any rate have not recognized the theatre as an ally, but rather are divided upon the question of regarding it as their deadliest foe. And yet, a historical examination would essen- tially modify every one of these impressions. The drama has not, in fact, sprung up spontaneously in any modern or mediaeval people. The theatre of every civilized race has taken its original sugges- tion directly or indirectly either from a revival of the classics, or from the mystery-plays of the Mid- dle Ages. These latter were a reminiscence, how- ever dim and feeble, of the Latin drama. And the Roman theatre, in its turn, was in the beginning merely a transfer of Greek plays, by Greeks, from Greece. Like everything else which stirs in our world, then, except the great monotheistic creeds, our modern stage is really Hellenic in its origin, and can only be fully understood as a development from Attic tragedy and comedy. Besides this un- broken historical connection, the drama of Western Europe has of course also been influenced in num- berless ways ever since the revival of learning by the direct study of the Attic masters. ATTIC TRAGEDY. Ft The dramatic art had its birth, then, in Athens, in the fifth century B. c. ; not quite " when Art was still religion," as Longfellow sings of Al- brecht Diirer's days, but rather, when all the sister-arts had each her fitting place as the hand- maids of religion : were so many forms of expres- sion for pious aspiration. For, like the architect, the sculptor, and the painter, the dramatist made it his loftiest desire and honor to glorify the sanc- tuary, and grace the festivals, of his people's gods. We cannot comprehend the spirit and aims of Athenian tragedy or comedy at all, unless we re- member that it developed gradually out of the choric song and dance at the festival of Bacchos the wine-god : or to call him by his proper name, Dionysos. He is indeed not merely the god of wine, but of fertility and of the life-element in na- ture, and therefore, although his worship was ap- parently introduced into Greece much later than that of the great Olympian divinities, he acquired an unrivaled prominence in Athens, at any rate, as the favorite rustic deity : the popular god. In- deed, the increasing honors paid to him in Athens particularly were probably closely connected with the gradual triumph of democratic ideas. He is closely connected with Demeter, the great Earth, mother of all life. With her worship Dionysos in one of his forms was intimately associated in what appear to have been the most highly spirit- ualized and symbolic of all Greek ceremonials : the Eleusinian mysteries. The wild grief and 6 THREE DRAMAS OF EURIPIDES. frantic joy which alternated at his festivals, and out of which tragedy and comedy arose, may pos- sibly have originated in the sorrow and rejoicing of primeval man over the apparent death and sub- sequent resurrection of nature with each revolving year. It is perhaps significant that tragedies were always performed at his Winter festival, but com- edy amid the rejoicings of the vintage time. The original element in the Athenian theatre was not the stage, but the orchestra, where the chorus — originally costumed as satyrs, the favor- ite attendants of the rustic god — danced and sang about the altar of Dionysos. These choric songs had apparently been developed through suc- cessive generations to a high degree of perfection, before the idea of interrupting them with recita- tion or conversation was reached. Originally these chants doubtless always celebrated the praises of the mighty wine-god himself. The first innovation may have been when one of the chorus gave in recitative a narrative account of some mythical adventure of the god : such an adventure, perhaps, as the one related in the graceful Homeric Hymn to Dionysos. Later an interlocutor was intro- duced, who, perhaps from an independent posi- tion, conversed with the leader of the chorus in the intervals of the chant. This embryonic " first actor" was introduced, we are told, by Thespis, and may at first have represented Bacchos him- self. The idea of dramatic dialogue was now almost ATTIC TRAGEDY. 7 readied, and the addition of a second actor, which is credited to iEschylos, seems only the next step in a natural development. This was, however, the really decisive innovation, because it rendered possible a dialogue between the two actors, in which the chorus was merely a listener ; and hence the dramatic element began to push the original melic and choric performance more and more into a subsidiary position. iEschylos, therefore, is the true father of the drama. Beyond three actors the great writers of tragedy probably never ventured. The choric element was always regarded in their time as the central and essential portion of the whole, and the prize was assigned to the wealthy citizen who equipped the chorus, or to the tribe which he represented, not to the poet who wrote the libretto. It is a signifi- cant fact that this prize was regularly a tripod, that is, a distinctly religious object ; which the recipient was permitted and expected to dedicate to the god, either within the precincts of the great Dionysiac theatre itself, or beside the highway which wound about the base of the Acropolis from the city market-place to the theatre. From the number of such monuments this highway was called the " Street of the Tripods." It is interesting to know that one of these dedi- catory monuments still remains in quite good pres- ervation. All visitors in Athens will remember the so-called Lantern of Diogenes, which owes its preservation to having been built into a mediaeval 8 THREE DRAMAS OF EURIPIDES. monastery, and which was used, according to local tradition, as a study by the poet Byron during his brief stay in Athens. This little structure is of circular form. Its six Corinthian columns are about fourteen feet in height, and stand upon a quadrangular pedestal of about the same elevation. Surmounting the entablature — to which we will return presently — is a low cupola, upholding a triangular basis. Upon this basis the tripod once stood, — but stands no more. (The barbarian in- vaders left very little bronze unmelted.) All the details are beautifully elaborated, and the little monument is one of the loveliest remains of the later period of Attic art. The entablature consists of two members, archi- trave and frieze. Cut into the architrave, which rests directly upon the columns, is an inscription stating that Lysicrates was the choragos — the wealthy citizen who equipped the chorus — when a victory was gained by a chorus of boys in the archonship of Euainetos (b. c. 335) ; that is to say, seventy years after the death of Sophocles and Euripides, and three years after the final extinc- tion of Athenian freedom by Philip of Macedon's victory at Chseronea. Just above the architrave, and resting upon it, is the tiny frieze, less than a foot high. Upon this is sculptured in bas-relief a contest between Bacchants and robbers. The form of the frieze necessarily breaks up the fight into a series of groups. Bacchos is seen sitting, and fondling a ATTIC TRAGEDY. 9 lion or panther. Most curious of all are several figures of robbers, half transformed into dolphins and leaping into the sea. That is, more than two generations after the great tragic writers passed away, a Bacchic myth is still the fitting subject for the frieze of a choric prize-monument. It is, moreover, a very old myth which is here preserved, though with some necessary artistic variations, as will be seen by a careful comparison with the Homeric Hymn to Dionysos which I mentioned above, and of which I will now give a translation. These so-called Homeric Hymns are not as old as the Iliad and Odyssey, but they are in very similar dialect and metrical form, and some of them are probably as early as any extant Greek composi- tions except the poems of Homer and Hesiod. They were in fact a set of preludes used by the rhapsodes, the professional declaimers of epic poetry, and are addressed to the various gods at whose festivals, or in whose honor, the recitations were held. It is probably safe to say that the Hymn to Dionysos is older than the earliest Greek drama which we possess. DIONYSOS, OR THE PIRATES. Glorious Semele's child I will summon to mind, Di- onysos ; How he appeared on the brink of the sea forever-unrest- ing. On a projecting crag, assuming the guise of a stripling 10 THREE DRAMAS OF EURIPIDES. Blooming in youth ; and in beauty his dark hair floated about him. Purple the cloak he was wearing across his vigorous shoulders. Presently hove in sight a band of Tyrrhenian pirates. Borne in a well-rowed vessel along the wine-colored waters. Hither their evil destiny guided them ! When they be- held him, Unto each other they nodded : then forth they darted, and straightway Seized him and haled him aboard their vessel, exultant in spirit, Since they thought him a child of kings who of Zeus are supported. Then were they eager to bind him in fetters that could not be sundered. Yet he was held not with bonds, for off and afar did the osiers Fall from his hands and feet, and left him sitting and smiling Out of his dusky eyes ! But when their pilot beheld it, Straightway uplifting his voice he shouted aloud to his comrades : " Madmen ! Who is this god ye would seize and con- trol with your fetters ? Mighty is he ! Our well-rowed ship is unable to hold him. Verily this is Zeus, or else the archer Apollo, Or, it may be, Poseidon : — for nowise perishing mor- tals Does he resemble, but gods who make their home on Olympos ! ATTIC TRAGEDY. 11 Bring him, I pray you, again to the darksome shore and release him Straightway ! Lay not a finger upon him, lest in his anger He may arouse the impetuous gusts and the furious storm-wind." Thus he spoke, but the captain in words of anger assailed him : " Fellow, look to the wind, and draw at the sail of the vessel, Holding the cordage in hand : we men will care for the captive. He shall come, as I think, to Egypt, or may be to Cyprus, Or to the Hyperboreans, or farther, and surely shall tell us Finally who are his friends, and reveal to us all his possessions, Name us his brethren too : for a god unto us has be- trayed him." So had he spoken, and raised his mast and the sail of his vessel. Fairly upon their sail was blowing a breeze, and the cordage Tightened : and presently then most wondrous chances befell them ! First of all things, wine through the black impetuous vessel, Fragrant and sweet to the taste, was trickling : the odor ambrosial Rose in the air ; and terror possessed them all to be- hold it. Presently near to the top of the sail a vine had extended, 12 THREE DRAMAS OF EURIPIDES. Winding hither and thither, with many a cluster de- pendent. Round about their mast an ivy was duskily twining, Rich in its blossoms, and fair was the fruit that had risen upon it. Every rowlock a garland wore. And when they beheld this Instantly then to the pilot they shouted to hurry the vessel Near to the land : but the god appeared as a lion among them, Terrible, high on the bow, and loudly he roared ; and amidships Made he appear to their eyes a shaggy-necked bear as a portent. Eagerly rose she erect, and high on the prow was the lion Eying them grimly askance. To the stern they darted in terror. There about their pilot, the man of wiser perception, Dazed and affrighted they stood ; and suddenly leaping upon them, On their captain he seized. They, fleeing from utter destruction, Into the sacred water plunged, as they saw it, together, Turning to dolphins. The god, for the pilot having compassion, Held him back, and gave him happiness, speaking as follows : " Have no fear, O innocent supplicant, dear to my spirit. Semele's offspring am I, Dionysos the leader in revels, Born of the daughter of Cadmos, to Zeus in wedlock united." ATTIC TRAGEDY. 13 Greeting, child of the fair-faced Semele ! Never the minstrel Who is forgetful of thee may fashion a song that is pleas- ing! This hymn, then, besides being one of the earliest allusions to Dionysos in Greek literature, is of peculiar interest to us as it preserves a legend which evidently continued to be a favorite one in Athens, at least far into the fourth century, b. C. In the year 1862 the great Dionysiac theatre itself was excavated. Its present appearance is well-known from photographs, and I have not space to describe it in detail. It has in fact been so largely remodeled in later classical times that it throws little light on the unsettled questions in re- gard to theatre-construction in the best age. Thus the stage we now see there is brought so far for- ward as to cut off the entrance for the chorus from the side into the orchestra. Indeed, the German investigators are now engaged in demonstrating that in the times of the three great dramatists the Athenian theatre had no elevated stajje at all. But I mention the theatre now only to speak of a single feature. The front row of seats, nearest the orchestra, consists of fine marble chairs in- scribed with the titles of various official persons for whom they were reserved. Nearly all the per- sons thus honored are priests ; the central and by far the most beautiful of these chairs is inscribed IEPEI22 AIONY20Y EAEYOEPE^S, "for the priest 14 THREE DRAMAS OF EURIPIDES. of Dionysos of Eleutherai " (the site of the god's chief temple). The inscription, judging from the form of the letters, is probably four hundred years later than the age of Pericles, and it is not likely that this chair itself stood in the theatre as it was originally constructed in the fifth cen- tury. But it serves my purpose all the better, to point out the striking fact that even long after Greece was a Roman province, the theatre was still not a mere place of amusement, but a sanctu- ary of Dionysos. It is a pity we cannot believe that this very chair held the portly form of Dionysos' chief priest at the Lenaean festival of January, 405 B. c, when the famous comedy, The Frogs, was performed. The two great tragic writers of the age, Sophocles and Euripides, had just died ; and in this play Bacchos himself, inconsolable over their loss, is represented as making a journey, though in great trepidation, to Pluto's realm, to beg that one poet may be restored to him. The great god is represented as a ridicu- lous coward, and has other failings attributed to him which hardly seem to indicate any reverence or respect on Aristophanes' part. At one point upon the journey, in mortal terror from a spectre, exist- ing apparently only in the fancy of his mischievous slave, who is playing upon the cowardice of the god, Dionysos turns to the fat priest who sits in state in the orchestra circle, and cries out to him to save him ! During the next f e^ lines Dionysos is evidently somewhere in hiding, until he is finally ATTIC TRAGEDY. 15 reassured ; and some commentators have supposed that he leaped from the stage, and actually took refuge under the priest's ample robes. Attic comedy violated all the proprieties and de- cencies. It represents a world of its own, utterly and grotesquely impossible ; but yet comedy also was always regarded as a distinctly religious cere- monial. The subject-matter of the thirty-two extant trag- edies is drawn from a wide circle of myths, and many of them are without the slightest allusion to Bacchos. But the dramatic contest always contin- ued to form part of the rites at his festival. The characters upon the stage were usually gods or the heroic descendants of gods. The introduction of recent subjects was rare and unpopular, as may be seen from the story told of Phrynichos, a contem- porary of iEschylos. Herodotos relates that this poet represented on the stage the capture of the Greek city Miletos by the Persians, an event which had occurred only a few years before, and that the Athenians, after weeping copiously as a tribute to his genius, fined him heavily for " remind- ing them of sorrows of their own." The Persians of ^Eschylos, though likewise founded upon the recent battle by Salamis, is an- other exception which proves the rule ; for the spirit in which it is composed makes us realize, even better than does the highly dramatic story of Herodotos, how soon the great struggle with 16 THREE DRAMAS OF EURIPIDES. Xerxes had come to be regarded by contemporary- Greeks as a holy war, only decided in their favor, against desperate odds, by the manifest interposi- tion of the immortal gods. The Persians is a drama as far removed from the ordinary level of human life as the Prometheus itself. It may be remarked in passing that no Greek, not even Themistocles, is mentioned by name in the play, the scene being laid, not on the battle-field at all, but at the Persian court. The play in fact represents only the moral effect of the tidings of disaster at the Oriental cap- ital. It is evident that Greek tragedy was from its origin by no means a merely realistic picture of actual life. Moreover, the immense size of the open-air Athenian theatre, the uniform dress of the few actors, who played successive parts with a mere change of masks, the tragic buskin which in- creased the natural height some eighteen inches, — all this must have prevented anything like an elab- orate delineation of individual character. It will have occurred to the reader already that the revival of a Greek tragedy precisely as it was performed in Periclean Athens would be a perilous attempt, and would probably produce an effect far from tragic upon a modern audience. Indeed the laugh- ter-loving satirist Lucian, who lived some six centu- ries later than Euripides, and who occupies toward the theology and traditions of Greek paganism very much the position of Cervantes toward the cus- toms of chivalry, is never weary of poking fun at ATTIC TRAGEDY. 17 the mask and buskin, the stiffness and pomp, of the tragic stage. And yet we may be sure that in some way the exquisite taste of an age which has left us such perfect literary, architectural, and plastic masterpieces gave true dignity and propri- ety also to these dramatic performances. The truth appears to be, that the Attic tragedy would have seemed to us hardly more than a solemn recitation in costume, little more realistic than the declama- tion of the Homeric poems by the rhapsodes, which was also a favorite accompaniment of the state fes- tivals. There was probably little scenery, as we under- stand the word. The action usually took place be- fore a palace or temple, which was represented at the back of the stage ; and this setting was rarely changed in the course of the play, except that some- times the doors were thrown open, to disclose a scene or tableau within the edifice. To .ZEschylos and Sophocles, at any rate, the tragic representation was a stately religious cere- monial. The choice of subject, the spirit in which the drama was regarded by poet and spectator, the prominence of the choric and musical features, might rather remind us of an oratorio than of a modern play. There are only three Attic writers of tragedy who are much more than names to us. They all belong to the great fifth century, and they fitly represent the three great periods of that century. iEschylos is of the heroic generation who beat back 18 THREE DRAMAS OF EURIPIDES. the Persian at Marathon, Salamis, and Plata?a. Sophocles is one of the brightest stars in the galaxy about Pericles. And Euripides is to a great extent the representative of the terrible break- ing-up with which the century closes : the downfall of Athens' political greatness, the decay of living faith in a divine providence, the lower morality and debased social conditions. John Addington Symonds, in his valuable book on the Greek poets, compares these three tragic authors with the trio of painters, Giotto, Raphael, Correggio. In the first, the ideas struggling for expression are almost too great for the somewhat crude and undisciplined powers of the artist ; in the second, thought and utterance are in perfect harmony ; the third arrives late, to find the noblest themes already adequately used, and, with powers of expression only too facile, often seems to be cast- ing about for worthy subjects upon which to employ them. It was the misfortune of Euripides, that his con- temporary Aristophanes, the greatest comic play- wright and satirist who ever lived, and yet a furi- ous conservative, saw — or pretended to see — in Euripides the completest type of all that was hate- ful and harmful in the spirit of the new age. The world ever since has been too ready to echo Aris- tophanes' jibes and sneers, and to put Euripides aside, with scanty attention, as the poet of the decadence. ^Eschylos and Sophocles, if not so well known as a lover of Greek literature might desire, ATTIC TRAGEDY. 19 are at least known and honored in their best work. iEschylos' masterpiece was probably the group of dramas on Prometheus. The surviving- play of this trilogy has been translated into vigorous Eng- lish by Mrs. Browning and also by Augusta Web- ster, not to mention less successful masculine at- tempts. The drama of Sophocles best known and most read in modern times is the Antigone, a wor- thy example of his noblest style. All the extant plays of 2Eschylos and Sophocles have been repeat- edly rendered into English by competent hands. Of Euripides this is by no means true. The number of students is evidently increasing who believe the youngest of the three great tragic poets to have been a rare and precious genius, and, on the whole, a high-minded and aspiring artist, upon whom too little attention has been bestowed. It is moreover easier for modern men to become earnestly interested in him. What the ancients most condemned in Euripides, especially his dissat- isfaction with the national conception of the gods, and his tendency away from the divine and heroic myths toward more simply human subjects, — these very traits bring him nearer to our sympathies ; and perhaps if we sum up in a phrase the impres- sion which the three great tragic poets make upon modern men, we may call iEschylos Titanic, Soph- ocles sculpturesque, and Euripides, as the Brown- ings and others have named him already, the hu- man. He has, doubtless, serious faults. At least, no 20 THREE DRAMAS OF EURIPIDES. one ever studies him closely without being driven at times into a feeling of earnest opposition to him. I am no indiscriminate eulogist of the third great dramatist. I only say, like Themistocles, " Strike, but hear ! " He is at least well worth knowing. THE ALKESTIS. The Alkestis, the Medea, and the Hippolytos are the three earliest dramas which have been pre- served, though even they are by no means essays from a 'prentice hand. Euripides' first appearance as a dramatist was in the year 455 b. c, and he continued to produce rapidly for half a century, until his death in 406. The Alkestis was per- formed in 438, seventeen years after his earliest attempt. The Medea was played in 431, the Hip- polytos in 428. These three are not only unsur- passed in interest and power by his other extant plays, but are in all likelihood as satisfactory ex- amples as could have been chosen to represent the poet's earlier art. At any rate, we must accept thankfully the precious relics of the ancient world which the capricious centuries have permitted to drift down to our time, and not linger too sadly over the treasures which lie buried beyond recovery under " the tide whose waves are years." The scholiast, the unknown Greek annotator of the play, mentions that the Alkestis was performed fourth in the series of four dramas presented to- gether by the poet. That is a most important statement, as a glance in retrospect will show. 22 THREE DRAMAS OF EURIPIDES. The members of the original chorus at the Bac- chic festivals were dressed as satyrs. This was ap- propriate in the worship of a god who personified the chief of the rude natural powers. As the sub- jects of tragedy widened to include other myths than those of Dionysos, the need of a fitting chorus for each play was felt, and finally gratified. Ac- cordingly, in the Persians the chorus consists of aged noblemen of the court ; in the Prometheus, of ocean-nymphs sympathizing with the sufferer who is chained upon the cliff ; and so on. But the con- servatism of the populace demanded a retention in some form of their capering favorites. Accord- ingly, it seems, a compromise was effected, and even the grave JEschylos followed his trilogy of connected dramas with a lighter afterpiece suited to the satyr-chorus. Although in Sophocles' time the three serious dramas presented at once were as a rule no longer connected in plot, yet the custom of offering three tragedies and a satyric afterpiece continued. Only one such afterpiece has come down to us, the Cyclops of Euripides. This has been translated into English by the poet Shelley, and will be found among his collected works. It will be seen that it is not a comedy. The Greek comedy was of a totally different type, and had a wholly distinct history. The satyrs are somewhat frolicsome, and, in the Greek original, occasionally vulgar ; but the characters upon the stage, Odys- seus, for instance, are not undignified nor in any way ridiculous. THE ALKESTIS. 23 The Alkestis, then, is an after-piece, though by- no means of the usual character. It is apparently either a bold experiment on the popular good will, or else it was written at a time when the rude satyr- drama proper was passing quite out of fashion. There are some scenes in our play which certain commentators are pleased to call comic, though I hope my readers will not agree with them. The finale is a happy one certainly, and the touch of the poet throughout the latter half is light. It be- longs to the same special class of romantic dramas, neither tragic nor comic, with As You Like It, Merchant of Venice, The Winter's Tale. Espe- cially with the last scene of The Winter's Tale, it may be very profitably compared. And now, for the plot. Apollo's mortal son, Asclepios, had incurred the displeasure of Zeus by raising the dead to life, and had perished by the divine thunderbolt. In return, Apollo slew the Cyclops, who forged the fatal missile, and in con- sequence was banished from heaven, and reduced to servitude on earth, under the good young king Admetos, of Pherai in Southern Thessaly. Aided by the divine archer, this prince has won the lovely Alkestis of Iolcos away from a host of suitors, fulfilling her father's mad demand, that his future son-in-law should appear in a chariot drawn by a lion and a boar. Artemis, whose altars the young bridegroom in his bliss had forgotten to honor, sent a coil of terrible serpents to appall them in the nuptial-bower. But Apollo appeased 24 THREE DRAMAS OF EURIPIDES. his sister, and rescued his beloved master and friend. Finally Apollo has given a most won- drous proof of his power, by averting the death of Admetos on the day appointed by the Fates. This play describes the remarkable occurrences of that day. We do not know how much of this myth was familiar to the Athenian audience. Homer has only a passing mention of Admetos and Alkestis, as the parents of Eumelos, who in the Iliad is a young warrior, in our play a little child. This I mention partly because it dates these events — after a fashion — as occurring a few years before the Trojan war. The poet at once unfolds his story in outline in the prologue. The ancient dramatist does not rely upon novelties or surprises in the plot. Usually, indeed, the myth was so familiar that no important variation would have been tolerated. The play begins, apparently in the early morn- ing of the eventful day, with the appearance of Apollo, coming forth from the palace of Admetos, before which the action takes place. He has per- haps reassumed something of his divine beauty and splendor, as he seems to be at the end of his term of servitude- He speaks, addressing the palace. PROLOGUE. afollo (appearing from the palace). Home of Admetos, wherein I have borne To accept a menial's fare, although a god ! THE ALKESTIS. 25 Zeus was the cause, who slew Asclepios, My son, with lightnings hurled against his breast. Thereat of coui-se enraged, I slew the Cyclops Who forged the holy flame ; for this my sire In penance made me serve a mortal man. Hither I came, and for my host have watched The kine, and saved his house until to-day ; — For I, upright, found in him an upright man, The son of Pheres, whom I have saved from death, Cheating the Fates : — the goddesses declared Admetos might escape from present death, Bartering another life to those below. He tested all his kin in turn : his sire, The aged mother too that gave him birth, And found not one was willing, — save his wife, — To die for him, and see the light no more. And she, upheld in arms, with failing strength Goes through the house, for on this very day She is doomed to perish, and depart from life. — And lest pollution come to me within, I leave the shelter of this well-loved hall. Enter Death. At this moment the god beholds, approaching the palace, the grisly phantom from whose pollution he is fleeing, and remarks upon his coming in lines which serve as an introduction for Death (Tha- natos) upon the stage. — And yonder, near at hand, I see, is Death, Priest of the dead, who now to Hades' realm Shall lead her down. Prompt to the time he comes, Watching the day when she is doomed to die. Death bursts into a vehement complaint against ^ 26 THREE DRAMAS OF EURIPIDES. his arch-enemy, whom he instantly suspects of some plot to cheat him once more of his due. DEATH. Ah! Ah! Why art thou at the gates, and why lurkest thou here, O Phoibos ? Thou wrongest the shades of their due, Setting off for thine own, and barring my way ! Not content to have rescued Admetos from fate, Beguiling the Moirai with crafty device, Over her too thou watchest with arrows and bow Who has promised to die in his stead to release Her husband, — the daughter of Pelias ! Now begins a rapid interchange of epigrammatic single-line speeches, of which our play is especially full, and which Mr. Lowell somewhere likens to the thrust and parry of a pair of skillful fencers. APOLLO. Fear not ! Wise reasons, and the right, are mine. DEATH. If right be thine, what need then of the bow ? APOLLO. It is my custom ever thus to walk. DEATH. Ay, and unrighteously to aid this house ! APOLLO. I grieve me for the sorrows of my friend. DEATH. And wilt thou part me from this second prey ? APOLLO. 'T was not by force I rescued him from thee. DEATH. Why is he then above, not under ground ? THE ALKESTJS. 27 APOLLO. His wife has ransomed him, for whom thou 'rt come. DEATH. Ay, and will lead her down beneath the earth. APOLLO. Take her and go ! I know not how to win thee — DEATH. To slay those whom I should ? That is my task ! APOLLO. Nay, to take those to whom Death needs must come. (The meaning is, that death is inevitable for the old indeed, but not for the young.) DEATH. I understand thy words, and thy desire. APOLLO. Can then Alkestis nowise reach old age ? DEATH. It cannot be. I too enjoy my dues. APOLLO. 'T is but a single soul that thou canst take. DEATH. If men die young, my glory is the more ! APOLLO. If she die old, the rites shall sumptuous be. DEATH. Phoibos, thy law were made to aid the rich ! APOLLO. What is 't thou sayst ? I knew not thou wert wise ! DEATH. They who had means would purchase length of years. APOLLO. — It does not please thee, then, to grant this boon ? 28 THREE DRAMAS OF EURIPIDES. DEATH. Indeed it does not, and thou knowst my ways, — APOLLO. Hateful to men, and by the gods abhorred ! DEATH. Not all thou shouldst not have shalt thou secure ! Apollo (aside, departing). Ay, but thou shalt be checked, although so fierce, So migh ty a hero comes to Pheres' home, Sent by Eurystheus on the quest for steeds Unto the wintry fields of Thrace ; and he, Being entertained within Admetos' halls, Shall wrest by force this lady from thy grasp. And so thou shalt receive no thanks from us, But yet shalt do our will, and win our hate ! death (aside, departing). By many words thou shalt not gain the more. The lady shall go down to Hades' realm. I pass to consecrate her with my sword. He from whose head this brand hath shorn a hair, Is thus devoted to the gods below ! [Exeunt, Death entering the palace. Here ends the prologue, which technically in- cludes everything previous to the entrance of the chorus. From this point onward, the supernatural ele- ment fades more and more into the background, while the poet appeals to those purely human emo- tions in which he evidently took most delight. One object, no doubt, in beginning his drama with such a scene as this, was to satisfy the vague j r et jealous and easily startled orthodoxy of his pop- THE ALKEST1S. 29 ular audience. At the same time, he was quite aware that his more thoughtful hearers would con- trast the helplessness of Apollo at this crisis with the successful prowess of the thoroughly human Heracles : for we must insist on ascribing to the agnostic poet, the friend and favorite author of the arch-skeptic Socrates, as earnest and deadly an in- tent against the very existence of some of his own characters as can be found in Lucian -himself. If these attacks are in general cautiously and even timidly veiled under a pretense of pious orthodoxy, the fate of Socrates may guide us to the true rea- son. The Parodos, or entrance-song of the chorus, is in the Alkestis not purely lyrical, but intermingled with passages of lively recitative. Moreover, the chorus of Pheraean citizens is evidently divided into two groups, who, probably through their lead- ers' mouths, carry on a conversation with each other. During this scene they are anxiously watching the royal palace, and there is doubtless some movement and pantomimic acting to indicate their solicitude, carried on however with such re- serve and dignity as characterize the old men in the Panathenaic procession upon the Parthenon frieze. There can be no doubt that the fondness of the Athenians for rich and varied color was abun- dantly gratified, here as elsewhere. Indeed it is in this matter of color, more than in anything else, that recent discoveries make it necessary to correct 30 THREE DRAMAS OF EURIPIDES. the traditional ideas of the Occident in regard to Greek taste in art. The opening lines are in the lively or anapaestic recitative, — which was used in the first speech of Thanatos, and is generally employed in the more excited dialogue instead of the slower iambics. PARODOS. Enter Chorus, from the city. CHORUS A. Pray why is there silence in front of the hall, And why is the home of Admetos so still ? CHORUS B. Not one of the friends of the house is at hand, Who would tell us if we are to mourn for the queen As dead, or if living she looks on the sun, Alkestis, the daughter of Pelias, who seems To me, and to all men that dwell in the land, The noblest of wives To have proven herself to her husband. The following stanza was sung, as the metre shows. CHORUS A. Is there a sound of sighing heard. Or beating hands within the halls, Or wailing as if all were done ? Not even a servant of the house Is standing now beside the gates. Paian, comforter in grief, Woidd thou might st now appear! Paian is an epithet of Apollo as the god of healing:. The dialogue is resumed. THE ALKESTIS. 31 CHORUS B. They would not be silent if she were dead ! CHORUS A. From the palace she surely has not been borne ! CHORUS B. Why so ? I am troubled. What cheers then thee ? CHORUS A. Without mourners Admetos would never have held The rites for his noble lady ! The second semi-chorus now sing a stanza of precisely the same metrical structure as the former one. The two were undoubtedly set to the same music. Such companion stanzas are known as a strophe and antistrophe. CHORUS B. Nor do I see before the gates The vase of water, as is fit At gates where men are lying dead. ~"~No hair lies shorn before the door, That falls in mourning for the lost ; Nor do I hear the doleful beat Of youthful women's hands. CHORUS A. And this is the day of her doom ! CHORUS B. What is it thou sayst ! CHORUS A. On which she shall pass to the under-world ! CHORUS B. Thou hast touched my heart, thou hast touched my soul ! 32 THREE DRAMAS OF EURIPIDES. CHORUS A. It is fitting, when good men are wasting away, That all should grieve "Who ever were nohle accounted ! The chorus have now, apparently, taken up their permanent position in the centre of the orchestra. Here stood the Thymele, originally the altar of Dionysos. They chant the closing stanzas of the Parodos. SEMI-CHORUS. No place oh earth is found Where one a ship may send, Not even to Lykian lands Nor to the desert seat Of Amnion's oracle, And save the doomed life. Implacable fate is drawing near, And at the altars of the gods I know not unto whom, Of priests to turn for aid. In the next stanza there is an allusion to Ascle- pios, Apollo's son. SEMI-CHORUS. If only on the light The son of Phoibos looked With living eyes to-day ! Then would she come to us, Leaving the dark abode And gates of Hades' realm. The dead he raised, ere on him fell, Zeus-hurled, the lightning's fiery bolt: — THE ALKESTIS. 33 But now, xvhat hope of life Is left for me to seek ? CHORUS. Already our lords have every rite performed : At every divinity's altars Have offerings dripping with blood been made ; Nor is there a cure for our sorrows. The first Episode follows the Parodos. It is as simply planned as possible. It consists merely in the appearance, from the palace, of a maid- servant, who, after satisfying the anxious inquiries of the chorus, reenters to announce their arrival. FIRST EPISODE. CHORUS. But yonder comes a servant from the house, With streaming eyes : — what hap am I to hear ? Enter Maidservant. To grieve, if aught of ill hefall our lords, Is pardonable ; but if thy mistress be Alive, or dead already, we fain would know. MAIDSERVANT. Living, — and dead, — 't is in thy power to say. CHORUS. How can the same one be alive and dead ? MAIDSERVANT. She sinks already, and her life is breaking. CHORUS. O noble soul, how noble she thou losest ! The loyal old man's first thought is even now for his king ; but the maid, true to her brave and lov- ing mistress, responds : 34 THREE DRAMAS OF EURIPIDES. MAIDSERVANT. My master knows not, till he mourns, her worth. CHORUS. Is there no longer hope to save her life ? MAIDSERVANT. None, for the destined day has summoned her. CHORUS. And are the fitting preparations made ? MAIDSERVANT. The adornments for the funeral are ready. CHORUS. Well, she must know she dies the first in fame And best of wives by far beneath the sun. Even this seems but cold praise to the maidser- vant, who eagerly replies : MAIDSERVANT. And how not best ? Who pray shall vie with her ? What must the woman be who would surpass her ? Or who shall better prove she loves her lord Than by her willingness to die for him ? This all our city knows, but thou shalt hear With wonder what she has done within her halls. For when she knew the fatal day was come, She bathed in river water her white flesh, And from her chests of cedar choosing forth Raiment and ornament she decked her fair, And standing prayed before the hearthstone thus : " Goddess, — for I pass beneath the earth, — Here at the last, a suppliant, I entreat Rear thou my children, and on him bestow A loving wife, on her a noble spouse. And may they not, as I their mother die, THE ALKESTIS. 35 Untimely fall, but in their native land, And fortunate, fill out a happy life." And all the shrines throughout Admetos' halls She sought, and decked with boughs, and prayed thereto, Breaking the foliage of the myrtle twigs. Nor wept, nor groaned ; the sorrow near at hand Changed not the lovely color of her face. Then hastened to her marriage-chamber and bed ; There she indeed shed tears, and thus she spoke : " O couch, where I put off my maiden zone For this my husband, for whose sake I die, Farewell. I hate thee not : thou hast destroyed Me only ; slow to leave my spouse and thee I die. To thee another wife will come, Not truer, though perchance more fortunate." And knelt, and kissed, and with the gushing tears That from her eyelids fell the bed was moist. When she was sated with her many tears, In headlong haste she hurried from the spot, But often turned her as she left the room, And darted toward her nuptial couch once more. Her children, clinging to the mother's robe, Were weeping ; taking in her arms she kissed The two in turn, as though about to die. And all the servants wept throughout the halls, Pitying their mistress ; and she gave her hand To everyone ; not one was there so base But she did greet him, and by him was hailed. Such are the sorrows in Admetos' home. Death would have made an end ; but now, escaped, He suffers pain never to be forgot. 36 THREE DRAMAS OF EURIPIDES. CHORUS. And does Admetos in his grief lament, Since from his noble spouse he needs must part ? MAIDSERVANT. He weeps, embracing his dear wife, and prays She may be spared : asking what cannot be ; For she, enfeebled, pines and wastes away, A pitiable burden in his arms. And yet, although the breath of life is low, Upon the sunlight still she fain would look. But I am going, and will announce your presence. Not all are so devoted to their kings As faithfully in grief to hold to them ; — But thou art to my lords a friend of old. In spite of the absolute simplicity and natural- ness of this brief scene, or perhaps indeed for that very reason, it is most successful in the purpose for which it is evidently intended, and our warmest sympathy is aroused for the heroic queen, just be- fore she herself comes forth upon the stage. Es- pecially is it a touch of genius when the brave motherly soul pours forth her most earnest prayers at the shrine of Hestia (the Romans' Vesta), the protectress of home. After the maid returns to the palace, the chorus sing the first Stasimon, or regular lyrical inter- mezzo. It consists of a despairing prayer to Apollo, and almost a dirge for the queen. THE ALKESTIS. 37 FIRST STASIMON. Alas ! What, Zeus, ivhence our aid in ivoe ? What rescue from calamities, falling now upon our kings ? Will someone appear with tidings, or Donning at once our robes of black Ought we to shear our locks away ? Certain is it, friends, certain! Ay, and yet Let us pray unto the gods ; mightiest is the power di- vine. Paian, lord ! Discover for Admetos some escape from woe! We do beseech thee, grant it, since already This thou didst, and now Bring us salvation again from deaths And repel bloodthirsty Hades ! Alas ! Woe is mine ! bitter, bitter woe ! Pheres 1 child, how great thy loss, being of thy wife bereft ! A reason, enough and more, is this Why thou shouldst seek to end thy life, Hither by highhung noose or sword ! Surely, since a dear, best-beloved wife Lying low upon her bier thou this very day shalt see. Behold ! Behold ! She is coming from the house, and with her comes her lord ! land of Pherai, cry aloud lamenting Her, the noblest wife, Who fading p>asses under earth, To Hades, the rider beneath us ! 38 THREE DRAMAS OF EURIPIDES. The palace-doors are now again about to swing open, and the two actors employed in the simple action of the drama are to appear again in the characters of Alkestis and Admetos. This would be the fitting place to introduce some apology for a wellknown weakness of the plot, — the cowardice and selfishness of King Admetos. But the truth is, I detest him so heartily that I am unwilling to say anything for him. He is utterly lacking in the chief essentials for any man who aspires to rule over men, — unselfishness and courage. He is a craven, and no king. But when Euripides omits to make any direct effort to defend his royal hero, we must not has- tily ascribe it to inability or dislike. The poet prob- ably did not feel that Admetos needed any special apology. If he had elaborated one, it would doubt- less have been upon the ground that the king's life was infinitely more valuable than any other man's, and certainly than any woman's, could be. The ingenuity of the modern imitators of the Alkestis has been largely devoted to palliating the cowardice of Admetos. The favorite device is to let Alkestis make the arrangement, through Apollo, to die in the stead of her husband, without the knowledge of the latter, who is powerless to reverse the compact when he learns of it. But as for Eu- ripides, he either had no idea of making a heroic figure in any sense out of his Admetos, or, as I rather incline to believe, he did not regard des- perate eagerness to save one's own life as a fatal weakness. THE ALKESTIS. 39 With all the dignity and decorous reserve of the figures which pass before us on the Greek stage and in Greek history, there is something curiously naked and frank, at times, in their avowal of natu- ral motives and passions. We who inherit in part the manners and phrases of chivalry must not be too sure that the springs of our own actions are always loftier, merely because it is no longer con- ventional openly to avow the coarser motives. In this case the truth was stated to us as bluntly as possible in the prologue : ' ' He tested all his kin in turn : his sire, The aged mother too that gave him birth ! " SECOND EPISODE. One of the old men who compose the chorus re- marks : CHORUS. I never will say that wedlock brings More joy than grief ; the events of the past Have given me proof, and now I behold Our ruler's disaster, who, being bereft Of the noblest of wives, shall know upon earth Mere death in life hereafter. Alkestis now comes forth, supported by her maidens, and attended not only by her husband, but by their little son and daughter. She is in a highly excited, almost an ecstatic mood, and the lyric out- bursts in which she bewails her untimely fate are in strong contrast with the calmer recitative in which her husband insists that he is still the chief suf- ferer. 40 THREE DRAMAS OF EURIPIDES. Her opening words will remind ns, if we may turn to a German parallel, of the greeting which Maria Stuart sends to the clouds that sail south- ward toward the sunny homeland of France. ALKESTIS. Helios, and light of day ! Clouds in the lofty sky, eddying, hurrying onward ! ADMETOS. He sees us both, two hapless mortals, who In naught have wronged the gods, that thou shouldst die! ALKESTIS. Earth, and my palace-home ! Haunts of my childish years, land of my fathers, Iolcos ! ADMETOS. Rouse thee, unhappy one ! Desert us not. Pray to the mighty gods to pity us. ALKESTIS. The two-oared skiff I can see, and the ghostly ferry- man Charon, Resting his hand on the pole ; and he calls to me, " Why dost thou linger ? Make haste ! thou detainest us Jiere I " So urging he hurries me on ! ADMETOS. Ah me ! a bitter voyage for me is this Whereof thou speak'st ! What agony is ours ! ALKESTIS. He is leading me, — dost thou not see f — to the court of the dead he is leading ! Hades the winged ! and gazes with grim brows fashing upon me ! THE ALKESTIS. 41 What ivouldst thou? Release me! Alas! What a journey in sorrow I go! ADMETOS. Piteous for them that love thee, most of all Me and my children, who this grief shall share. Alkestis now addresses her attendants, in a some- what calmer tone. ALKESTIS. Unhand me, I pray you, unhand me ; Lay me down, my force is spent. Hades is near at hand, And o'er my eyelids Mack night is creeping. Children ! ah, never more, Never more your mother lives. ADMETOS. Ah me ! how bitter the word I hear ; More heavy than death in every shape ! Endure not to leave me, I pray by the gods ; By thy children whom thou shalt as orphans desert ! But up, and be strong ! For if thou art to perish no longer I live ! My living or dying on thee depends, So precious to me thy devotion. To this rather rhetorical plea Alkestis gives little heed, but, summoning all her strength and self- control, makes a moving appeal for her children. It will be noticed that she has no touch of world- weariness, but realizes fully the magnitude of the sacrifice she makes. In this speech she shows per- fect confidence in her husband's kindly heart, very little in his constancy and strength. She herself 42 THREE DRAMAS OF EURIPIDES. has ruled him, and she foresees that her successor will probably sway him no less easily, for good or ill. ALKESTIS. Admetos, how it fares with me thou seest, And ere I die I fain would speak with thee Of my desires. Revering thee I die, Giving my life that thou mayst see the day ; — Not forced to die for thee, but free to wed Whatever prince of Thessaly I would, And dwell within a happy royal hall. I did not wish to live, bereft of thee, With orphaned children. Having youth's fair gifts, In which I took delight, I grudged them not. Yet they who did beget and bear thee quailed, (Though they were come to fitting age for death,) To die with honor and to save their child. Thou wert their only son ; no hope was theirs, When thou wert dead, to get them other children. Then I and thou had lived our life to end ; Thou hadst not sorrowed, parted from thy wife, Nor reared thy children orphaned. But all this Some god has ordered that it shall be so. Amen ! Yet prove thy thanks to me for it ; — ■ A recompense I shall not ask of thee, (For there is nothing valued more than life,) And only justice, thou 'It confess, for thou Lovest these children even as I, — or shouldst ! Accept them as the masters of my house, Nor wed a second mother for my offspring, Who, not so kind as I, in wrath will lay Her hand upon these children, thine and mine. THE ALKESTIS. 43 So prithee do not that, I do entreat. No kinder than an adder in her hate To former children is a second wife. — My son has in his sire a mighty tower ; But thou, — how shalt thou bloom to maidenhood, My child ? How wilt thou find thy father's wife Tow'rd thee ? May she not give thee an evil name In thy sweet youth, and so prevent thy marriage ! Thy mother may not dress thee as a bride, Herself, nor in thy travail give thee cheer, Present where naught is as a mother sweet. — For I must perish : not upon the morrow Nor on the third day comes this woe to me : At once I pass to those that are no more. Hail, and farewell ! My husband, thou mayst boast To have wed a noble wife ; you, children mine, That you are of a noble mother born. chorus. Be cheered. I do not fear to speak for him. He will do this, unless he lose his wits. After these customary two lines of reassuring com- monplace from the chorus, Admetos begins an equally long reply. This speech may be character- ized as peculiarly Euripidean. The poet devotes all the resources of his imagination and ingenuity to the chief speech of his most ignoble character, just when our sympathies are most completely with- drawn from him. Here if anywhere is the poet's effort to defend his unkingly monarch. ADMETOS. It shall be so, it shall be ! Fear not ! thou Wert mine in life, and shalt in death alone 44 TIIREE DRAMAS OF EURIPIDES. Be called my wife : and no Thessalian dame Instead of thee shall hail me as her lord. There lives no woman of so high descent, Nor yet so beautiful ; and as for children, ^JThese two suffice : in them I pray the gods To find the joy I may not have in thee. Not for a year I '11 mourning wear for thee, But while my life shall last, O wife of mine, Detesting her who bore me, and my sire, Who in word, not act, have shown their love for me, But thou hast paid what was most dear to thee, And saved my life. Have I not cause to grieve, Of such a helpmeet being in thee bereft ? Symposia now and feasts shall have an end, Garlands and music, that my palace filled ; For I could never touch the lyre again, Nor have the heart to sing to Libyan pipes, Since thou dost take from me the joy of life. And by the cunning hands of artists wrought, Thy countei'f eit shall lie within my bed ; And I, beside it and embracing it, Calling thy name, shall seem within my arms To hold my wife, although I hold her not. A cold delight, methinks ; yet from my soul A load were lifted so. And in my dreams Thou 'It come to bless me ; for 't is sweet to see Our loved ones, even in visions, while we may. If Orpheus' voice and gift of song were mine, So that Demeter's daughter, or her lord, I might beguile and lead thee forth from Hades, I would descend ; and neither Pluto's hound, Nor Charon with his pole, the guide of souls, Should check me, till I brought thee back to day. 777 £ ALKESTIS. 45 But now, await me there when I shall die. Make ready our abode, to dwell with me. For I will bid our children here to lay My body in the cedarn coffin where Thou too art laid ; not even in death would I Be parted from my only faithful one. —- CHORUS. And I, as friend with friend, will share with thee Thy bitter mourning for her, as is fit. ALKESTIS. My children, you yourselves have surely heard Your father say he will not bring to you Another mother, nor dishonor me. ADMETOS. And now I say it, and will keep my word. ALKESTIS. Upon thy word, take from my hands my children. ADMETOS. I take from well-loved hands a precious gift. ALKESTIS. Be now a mother to them in my stead. ADMETOS. Their need in truth is great, bereft of thee. The death-scene follows at once, and no doubt made a striking series of statuesque groupings upon the stage, accompanied by the mute expres- sions of sympathy from the chorus in the orches- tra. Such a scene upon the stage is unusual in a Greek drama, but in this case it seems to be elab- orated expressly to introduce an opportunity for emotional acting. AVe miss even the covering of 46 THREE DRAMAS OF EURIPIDES. the face just before death, which was almost de- manded by Hellenic feelings of propriety. ALKESTIS. Children ! when I should live, I pass below ! ADMETOS. Alas ! What shall I do, deprived of thee ? ALKESTIS. The dead are nothing. Time will comfort thee. ADMETOS. Oh, take me, by the gods I pray, with thee ! ALKESTIS. Nay, it suffices that I die for thee. ADMETOS. Heaven ! of what a comrade thou dost rob me ! ALKESTIS. Ah yes, my darkened eyes are heavier grown. ADMETOS. 1 perish, if indeed thou leavest me ! ALKESTIS. Thou must account me as one that is no more. ADMETOS. Do not desert thy children ! Lift thy face ! ALKESTIS. Reluctantly I say, Farewell, my children ! ADMETOS. Look on them ! Look on them ! ALKESTIS. I am no more ! ADMETOS. Wilt thou leave us ? ALKESTIS. Farewell ! [Dies THE ALKEST1S. 47 ADMETOS. Ah me ! my loss ! CHOKUS. She is gone ! Admetos' wife is now no more ! The moment Alkestis expires, the elder child, Eumelos, begins a lyric lament, which is believed to have been actually sung' from behind the scenes, while the part of the orphaned prince was acted by a "mute" boy. EUMELOS. Alas! woe is mine/ My mother now is passed Beneath the earth, and lives no more, My father, in the light ! Deserting my young life, She leaves me orphaned here — For see ! Her lids are closed ; Her arms beside her hang ! Oh hear me, my mother, hear me, I pray ! I call to thee, Thy little nestling, Clinging closely to thy face! ADMETOS- To one who neither sees nor hears ; so ye And I are smitten by a heavy woe. EUMELOS. My father, I alone am left, my mother gone, Upon a lonely way, a child. Ah, cruel is the fate That falls on me ! nor less To thee, my sister, too, The lot of suffering comes. To sorrow xvert thou wed, 48 THREE DRAMAS OF EURIPIDES. To sorrow, my father ! not to old age With her thou 'It come. Too soon she perished, Slaying with her all our house. CHORUS. Admetos, this calamity must needs Be borne, for not the first or last of men Art thou to lose an honorable wife. And know that death is unto all men due. ADMETOS. I know it well . . . nor unawares this grief Befalls ; the knowledge long hath made me pine. And already Admetos is sufficiently calm to issue his commands regarding the funeral and the mourning for the queen. But — for I now shall carry forth my dead — Attend ; and, tarrying, raise the chant unto The god below to whom no wine is poured. And all Thessalians over whom I rule I bid to share the mourning for this lady, With shaven hair, and raiment all of black. And all who chariots drive, or single steeds, Shall shear the tresses from their coursers' necks. Nor pipe nor lyre shall sound throughout the town, Until twelve moons have rounded to their full. I shall not bury dearer dead, nor one More loving toward me. I should honor her, Since she alone has perished in my stead. [Alkestis is carried into the palace, followed by Admetos and the children. The chorus, left alone in the orchestra, now sing THE ALKESTIS. 49 the second Stasimon. Like all the choral passages of this play, but unlike those of many Euripidean dramas, the ode has the closest connection with, and appropriateness to, the moment in the plot where it is inserted. SECOND STASIMON. CHORUS. Daughter of Pelias, hail ! I pray that contented in Hades' dwelling, In the sunless abode, a home thou find est ! And Hades shall know it, the black-tressed god, and the Ancient who sitteth Holding the tiller and oar, Ferry-man of shadows, That the bravest by far ofivomen surely On Acheron's turbid stream to-day Passes across in the two-oared bark. Often the minstrel of thee Shall sing, to the seven-stringed shell of the tortoise, Or in dirges without the lyre shall praise thee, In Sparta whenever recurring comet h the feast of Carneia, When in the first of the month Nightlong shines the moonlight, Or in Athens, a city rich and famous : So noble a theme thy death hath left Unto the bards of the after-time. 50 THREE DRAMAS OF EURIPIDES. Would that to me H were granted, Would I had power to lead thee From Hades' abode to daylight, O'er Oocytes' waters, With oars that dip in the stream below ! For alone, best of women, Thou, devoting Thy life, thy husband's soul hast rescued Out of Hades. Light upon thee, Lady, L pray that the earth may be laid ; and if Ever another thy husband shall woo may he live de- tested By myself and by thy children ! Neither the mother offered For her son to perish, Nor even the aged father, Though they were his parents. Although their hair was already gray, To save his life they dared not. Thou hast perished Ln youth for him, and left the sunlight. Oh that L could find a helpmeet Loving as thou, for the rarest of portions Were it on earth, and no grief would she bring to me all our lifetime, While we spent our years together. The third Episode begins with the sudden and unexpected appearance of Heracles. He is not even descried and announced by the chorus pre- vious to his entrance ; but the traditional club and lion-skin are without doubt a sufficient introduc- THE AL REST IS. 5 1 tion to the audience. It will be remembered that through the craft of Hera, Heracles, although the favorite mortal son of Zeus, is subject to the tyranny of Eurystheus ; and for him he is now fulfilling one of his famous tasks. The dialogue which now begins is between Hera- cles and the leader of the chorus. The chorus is, as the reader will have perceived, a sort of con- temporary audience for the action upon the stage. It represents the average moral sense of the com- munity in which the events of the drama are sup- posed to occur; and hence, in most cases, the average moral sense of Greeks in general. The chorus, however, hardly ever interferes with what is done on the stage, but merely sympathizes in and comments upon it. THIRD EPISODE. Heracles (entering). Strangers who dwell in this Pheraean land, Shall I within his palace find Admetos ? CHOBU8. He is indeed within, Heracles ; But tell what need led thee to Thessaly, And turned thy steps to the Pheraean town. HERACLES. For King Eurystheus I fulfill a task. CHORUS. And whither goest thou ? On what wandering bound ? HERACLES. To seek the steeds of Thracian Diomede. 52 THREE DRAMAS OF EURIPIDES. CHORUS. How canst thou that ? Dost thou not know the man ? HERACLES. Not I ; nor ever to Bistonia came. CHORUS. Without a fight thou canst not take the steeds. HERACLES. The tasks appointed I may not renounce. CHORUS. Thyself wilt perish, or return his slayer ! HERACLES. Already have I run that desperate race ! CHORUS. And if thou quell the king, what gain is thine ? HERACLES. To the Tirynthian lord I '11 lead the steeds. CHORUS. To curb their jaws is not an easy task. HERACLES. And do their nostrils send out fire for breath ? CHORUS. The flesh of men they crush with eager jaws ! HERACLES. That were fit food for prowling beasts, not steeds ! CHORUS. Their mangers thou mayst see defiled with blood ! HERACLES. Of whom does he who feeds them boast him son ? CHORUS. Of Ares, lord of Thracia's golden shield. Heracles' next" words sound quite like a sigh of repining over his hard earthly lot, and may remind THE ALKEST1S. 53 us how thoroughly human a figure he is in this drama. HERACLES. The task thou tellest well befits my lot, — That evermore is grim and arduous, — If I must close in battle with the sons Of Ares : with Lyc