No More Learning

In the final scene she is
silent; necessarily and rightly silent, for all tradition knows that those
new-risen from the dead must not speak. It will need a long _rite de
passage_ before she can freely commune with this world again. It is a
strange and daring scene between the three of them; the humbled and
broken-hearted husband; the triumphant Heracles, kindly and wise, yet
still touched by the mocking and blustrous atmosphere from which he
sprang; and the silent woman who has seen the other side of the grave.
It was always her way to know things but not to speak of them.

The other characters fall easily into their niches. We have only to
remember the old Satyric tradition and to look at them in the light of
their historical development. Heracles indeed, half-way on his road from
the roaring reveller of the Satyr-play to the suffering and erring
deliverer of tragedy, is a little foreign to our notions, but quite
intelligible and strangely attractive. The same historical method seems to
me to solve most of the difficulties which have been felt about Admetus's
hospitality. Heracles arrives at the castle just at the moment when
Alcestis is lying dead in her room; Admetus conceals the death from him
and insists on his coming in and enjoying himself. What are we to think of
this behaviour? Is it magnificent hospitality, or is it gross want of
tact? The answer, I think, is indicated above.

In the uncritical and boisterous atmosphere of the Satyr-play it was
natural hospitality, not especially laudable or surprising. From the
analogy of similar stories I suspect that Admetus originally did not know
his guest, and received not so much the reward of exceptional virtue as
the blessing naturally due to those who entertain angels unawares. If we
insist on asking whether Euripides himself, in real life or in a play of
his own free invention, would have considered Admetus's conduct to
Heracles entirely praiseworthy, the answer will certainly be No, but it
will have little bearing on the play. In the _Alcestis_, as it stands, the
famous act of hospitality is a datum of the story. Its claims are admitted
on the strength of the tradition. It was the act for which Admetus was
specially and marvellously rewarded; therefore, obviously, it was an act
of exceptional merit and piety. Yet the admission is made with a smile,
and more than one suggestion is allowed to float across the scene that in
real life such conduct would be hardly wise.

Heracles, who rose to tragic rank from a very homely cycle of myth, was
apt to bring other homely characters with him. He was a great killer not
only of malefactors but of "keres" or bogeys, such as "Old Age" and "Ague"
and the sort of "Death" that we find in this play. Thanatos is not a god,
not at all a King of Terrors. One may compare him with the dancing
skeleton who is called Death in mediaeval writings. When such a figure
appears on the tragic stage one asks at once what relation he bears to
Hades, the great Olympian king of the unseen. The answer is obvious.
Thanatos is the servant of Hades, a "priest" or sacrificer, who is sent to
fetch the appointed victims.

The other characters speak for themselves. Certainly Pheres can be trusted
to do so, though we must remember that we see him at an unfortunate
moment. The aged monarch is not at his best, except perhaps in mere
fighting power. I doubt if he was really as cynical as he here professes
to be.

* * * * *

In the above criticisms I feel that I may have done what critics are so
apt to do. I have dwelt on questions of intellectual interest and perhaps
thereby diverted attention from that quality in the play which is the most
important as well as by far the hardest to convey; I mean the sheer beauty
and delightfulness of the writing. It is the earliest dated play of
Euripides which has come down to us. True, he was over forty when he
produced it, but it is noticeably different from the works of his old age.
The numbers are smoother, the thought less deeply scarred, the language
more charming and less passionate. If it be true that poetry is bred out
of joy and sorrow, one feels as if more enjoyment and less suffering had
gone to the making of the _Alcestis_ than to that of the later plays.




ALCESTIS



CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY


ADMETUS, _King of Pherae in Thessaly_.
ALCESTIS, _daughter of Pelias, his wife_.
PHERES, _his father, formerly King but now in retirement_.
TWO CHILDREN, _his son and daughter_.
A MANSERVANT _in his house_.
A HANDMAID.

The Hero HERACLES.
The God APOLLO.
THANATOS _or_ DEATH.
CHORUS, _consisting of Elders of Pherae_.


"_The play was first performed when Glaukinos was Archon, in the 2nd
year of the 85th Olympiad_ (438 B. C. ). _Sophocles was first,
Euripides second with the Cretan Women, Alcmaeon in Psophis, Telephus and
Alcestis. . . . The play is somewhat Satyric in character. _"



ALCESTIS


_The scene represents the ancient Castle of_ ADMETUS _near Pherae
in Thessaly. It is the dusk before dawn_; APOLLO, _radiant in the
darkness, looks at the Castle. _


APOLLO.
Admetus' House! 'Twas here I bowed my head
Of old, and chafed not at the bondman's bread,
Though born in heaven. Aye, Zeus to death had hurled
My son, Asclepios, Healer of the World,
Piercing with fire his heart; and in mine ire
I slew his Cyclop churls, who forged the fire.
Whereat Zeus cast me forth to bear the yoke
Of service to a mortal. To this folk
I came, and watched a stranger's herd for pay,
And all his house I have prospered to this day.
For innocent was the Lord I chanced upon
And clean as mine own heart, King Pheres' son,
Admetus. Him I rescued from the grave,
Beguiling the Grey Sisters till they gave
A great oath that Admetus should go free,
Would he but pay to Them Below in fee
Another living soul. Long did he prove
All that were his, and all that owed him love,
But never a soul he found would yield up life
And leave the sunlight for him, save his wife:
Who, even now, down the long galleries
Is borne, death-wounded; for this day it is
She needs must pass out of the light and die.
And, seeing the stain of death must not come nigh
My radiance, I must leave this house I love.
But ha! The Headsman of the Pit, above
Earth's floor, to ravish her! Aye, long and late
He hath watched, and cometh at the fall of fate.

_Enter from the other side_ THANATOS; _a crouching black-haired and
winged figure, carrying a drawn sword. He starts in revulsion on
seeing_ APOLLO.


THANATOS.
Aha!
Why here? What mak'st thou at the gate,
Thou Thing of Light? Wilt overtread
The eternal judgment, and abate
And spoil the portions of the dead?
'Tis not enough for thee to have blocked
In other days Admetus' doom
With craft of magic wine, which mocked
The three grey Sisters of the Tomb;
But now once more
I see thee stand at watch, and shake
That arrow-armed hand to make
This woman thine, who swore, who swore,
To die now for her husband's sake.


APOLLO.
Fear not.
I bring fair words and seek but what is just.

THANATOS (_sneering_)
And if words help thee not, an arrow must?

APOLLO.
'Tis ever my delight to bear this bow.

THANATOS.
And aid this house unjustly? Aye, 'tis so.

APOLLO.
I love this man, and grieve for his dismay.

THANATOS.
And now wilt rob me of my second prey!

APOLLO.
I never robbed thee, neither then nor now.

THANATOS.
Why is Admetus here then, not below?

APOLLO.
He gave for ransom his own wife, for whom . . .

THANATOS (_interrupting_).
I am come; and straight will bear her to the tomb.

APOLLO.
Go, take her. --I can never move thine heart.

THANATOS (_mocking_).
To slay the doomed? --Nay; I will do my part.

APOLLO.
No. To keep death for them that linger late.

THANATOS (_still mocking_).
'Twould please thee, so? . . . I owe thee homage great.

APOLLO.
Ah, then she may yet . . . she may yet grow old?

THANATOS (_with a laugh_).
No! . . . I too have my rights, and them I hold.

APOLLO.
'Tis but one life thou gainest either-wise.

THANATOS.
When young souls die, the richer is my prize.

APOLLO.
Old, with great riches they will bury her.

THANATOS.
Fie on thee, fie! Thou rich-man's lawgiver!

APOLLO.
How? Is there wit in Death, who seemed so blind?

THANATOS.
The rich would buy long life for all their kind.

APOLLO.
Thou will not grant me, then, this boon? 'Tis so?

THANATOS.
Thou knowest me, what I am: I tell thee, no!

APOLLO.
I know gods sicken at thee and men pine.

THANATOS.
Begone! Too many things not meant for thine
Thy greed hath conquered; but not all, not all!

APOLLO.
I swear, for all thy bitter pride, a fall
Awaits thee. One even now comes conquering
Towards this house, sent by a southland king
To fetch him four wild coursers, of the race
Which rend men's bodies in the winds of Thrace.
This house shall give him welcome good, and he
Shall wrest this woman from thy worms and thee.
So thou shalt give me all, and thereby win
But hatred, not the grace that might have been.
[_Exit_ APOLLO. ]

THANATOS.
Talk on, talk on! Thy threats shall win no bride
From me. --This woman, whatsoe'er betide,
Shall lie in Hades' house. Even at the word
I go to lay upon her hair my sword.
For all whose head this grey sword visiteth
To death are hallowed and the Lords of death.

[THANATOS _goes into the house. Presently, as the day grows lighter,
the_ CHORUS _enters: it consists of Citizens of Pherae, who speak
severally. _]


CHORUS.

LEADER.
Quiet, quiet, above, beneath!

SECOND ELDER.
The house of Admetus holds its breath.

THIRD ELDER.
And never a King's friend near,
To tell us either of tears to shed
For Pelias' daughter, crowned and dead;
Or joy, that her eyes are clear.
Bravest, truest of wives is she
That I have seen or the world shall see.

DIVERS CITIZENS, _conversing_.
(The dash -- indicates a new speaker. )

--Hear ye no sob, or noise of hands
Beating the breast? No mourners' cries
For one they cannot save?
--Nothing: and at the door there stands
No handmaid. --Help, O Paian; rise,
O star beyond the wave!

--Dead, and this quiet? No, it cannot be.
--Dead, dead! --Not gone to burial secretly!

--Why? I still fear: what makes your speech so brave?
--Admetus cast that dear wife to the grave
Alone, with none to see?

--I see no bowl of clear spring water.
It ever stands before the dread
Door where a dead man rests.
--No lock of shorn hair! Every daughter
Of woman shears it for the dead.
No sound of bruised breasts!

--Yet 'tis this very day . . . --This very day?
--The Queen should pass and lie beneath the clay.
--It hurts my life, my heart! --All honest hearts
Must sorrow for a brightness that departs,
A good life worn away.

LEADER.
To wander o'er leagues of land,
To search over wastes of sea,
Where the Prophets of Lycia stand,
Or where Ammon's daughters three
Make runes in the rainless sand,
For magic to make her free--
Ah, vain! for the end is here;
Sudden it comes and sheer.
What lamb on the altar-strand
Stricken shall comfort me?

SECOND ELDER.
Only, only one, I know:
Apollo's son was he,
Who healed men long ago.
Were he but on earth to see,
She would rise from the dark below
And the gates of eternity.
For men whom the Gods had slain
He pitied and raised again;
Till God's fire laid him low,
And now, what help have we?

OTHERS.
All's done that can be. Every vow
Full paid; and every altar's brow
Full crowned with spice of sacrifice.
No help remains nor respite now.

_Enter from the Castle a_ HANDMAID, _almost in tears. _

LEADER.
But see, a handmaid cometh, and the tear
Wet on her cheek! What tiding shall we hear? . . .
Thy grief is natural, daughter, if some ill
Hath fallen to-day. Say, is she living still
Or dead, your mistress? Speak, if speak you may.

MAID.
Alive. No, dead. . . . Oh, read it either way.

LEADER.
Nay, daughter, can the same soul live and die?

MAID.
Her life is broken; death is in her eye.

LEADER.
Poor King, to think what she was, and what thou!

MAID.
He never knew her worth. . . . He will know it now.

LEADER.
There is no hope, methinks, to save her still?

MAID.
The hour is come, and breaks all human will.

LEADER.
She hath such tendance as the dying crave?

MAID.
For sure: and rich robes ready for her grave.

LEADER.
'Fore God, she dies high-hearted, aye, and far
In honour raised above all wives that are!

MAID.
Far above all! How other? What must she,
Who seeketh to surpass this woman, be?
Or how could any wife more shining make
Her lord's love, than by dying for his sake?
But thus much all the city knows. 'Tis here,
In her own rooms, the tale will touch thine ear
With strangeness. When she knew the day was come,
She rose and washed her body, white as foam,
With running water; then the cedarn press
She opened, and took forth her funeral dress
And rich adornment. So she stood arrayed
Before the Hearth-Fire of her home, and prayed:
"Mother, since I must vanish from the day,
This last, last time I kneel to thee and pray;
Be mother to my two children! Find some dear
Helpmate for him, some gentle lord for her.
And let not them, like me, before their hour
Die; let them live in happiness, in our
Old home, till life be full and age content. "
To every household altar then she went
And made for each his garland of the green
Boughs of the wind-blown myrtle, and was seen
Praying, without a sob, without a tear.
She knew the dread thing coming, but her clear
Cheek never changed: till suddenly she fled
Back to her own chamber and bridal bed:
Then came the tears and she spoke all her thought.
"O bed, whereon my laughing girlhood's knot
Was severed by this man, for whom I die,
Farewell! 'Tis thou . . . I speak not bitterly. . . .
'Tis thou hast slain me. All alone I go
Lest I be false to him or thee. And lo,
Some woman shall lie here instead of me--
Happier perhaps; more true she cannot be. "
She kissed the pillow as she knelt, and wet
With flooding tears was that fair coverlet.
At last she had had her fill of weeping; then
She tore herself away, and rose again,
Walking with downcast eyes; yet turned before
She had left the room, and cast her down once more
Kneeling beside the bed. Then to her side
The children came, and clung to her and cried,
And her arms hugged them, and a long good-bye
She gave to each, like one who goes to die.
The whole house then was weeping, every slave
In sorrow for his mistress. And she gave
Her hand to all; aye, none so base was there
She gave him not good words and he to her.
So on Admetus falls from either side
Sorrow. 'Twere bitter grief to him to have died
Himself; and being escaped, how sore a woe
He hath earned instead--Ah, some day he shall know!

LEADER.
Surely Admetus suffers, even to-day,
For this true-hearted love he hath cast away?

MAID.
He weeps; begs her not leave him desolate,
And holds her to his heart--too late, too late!
She is sinking now, and there, beneath his eye
Fading, the poor cold hand falls languidly,
And faint is all her breath. Yet still she fain
Would look once on the sunlight--once again
And never more. I will go in and tell
Thy presence. Few there be, will serve so well
My master and stand by him to the end.
But thou hast been from olden days our friend.
[_The_ MAID _goes in_. ]

CHORUS.

THIRD ELDER.
O Zeus,
What escape and where
From the evil thing?
How break the snare
That is round our King?

SECOND ELDER.
Ah list!
One cometh? . . . No.
Let us no more wait;
Make dark our raiment
And shear this hair.

LEADER.
Aye, friends!
'Tis so, even so.
Yet the gods are great
And may send allayment.
To prayer, to prayer!

ALL (_praying_).
O Paian wise!
Some healing of this home devise, devise!
Find, find. . . . Oh, long ago when we were blind
Thine eyes saw mercy . . . find some healing breath!
Again, O Paian, break the chains that bind;
Stay the red hand of Death!

LEADER.
Alas!
What shame, what dread,
Thou Pheres' son,
Shalt be harvested
When thy wife is gone!

SECOND ELDER.
Ah me;
For a deed less drear
Than this thou ruest
Men have died for sorrow;
Aye, hearts have bled.

THIRD ELDER.
'Tis she;
Not as men say dear,
But the dearest, truest,
Shall lie ere morrow
Before thee dead!

ALL.
But lo! Once more!
She and her husband moving to the door!
Cry, cry! And thou, O land of Pherae, hearken!
The bravest of women sinketh, perisheth,
Under the green earth, down where the shadows darken,
Down to the House of Death!

[_During the last words_ ADMETUS _and_ ALCESTIS _have entered_.
ALCESTIS _is supported by her Handmaids and followed by her
two children. _]

LEADER.
And who hath said that Love shall bring
More joy to man than fear and strife?
I knew his perils from of old,
I know them now, when I behold
The bitter faring of my King,
Whose love is taken, and his life
Left evermore an empty thing.

ALCESTIS.
O Sun, O light of the day that falls!
O running cloud that races along the sky!

ADMETUS.
They look on thee and me, a stricken twain,
Who have wrought no sin that God should have thee slain.

ALCESTIS.
Dear Earth, and House of sheltering walls,
And wedded homes of the land where my fathers lie!

ADMETUS.
Fail not, my hapless one. Be strong, and pray
The o'er-mastering Gods to hate us not alway.

ALCESTIS (_faintly, her mind wandering_).
A boat two-oared, upon water; I see, I see.
And the Ferryman of the Dead,
His hand that hangs on the pole, his voice that cries;
"Thou lingerest; come. Come quickly, we wait for thee. "
He is angry that I am slow; he shakes his head.

ADMETUS.
Alas, a bitter boat-faring for me,
My bride ill-starred. --Oh, this is misery!

ALCESTIS (_as before_).
Drawing, drawing! 'Tis some one that draweth me . . .
To the Palaces of the Dead.
So dark. The wings, the eyebrows and ah, the eyes! . . .
Go back! God's mercy! What seekest thou? Let me be! . . .
(_Recovering_) Where am I? Ah, and what paths are these I tread?

ADMETUS.
Grievous for all who love thee, but for me
And my two babes most hard, most solitary.

ALCESTIS.
Hold me not; let me lie. --
I am too weak to stand; and Death is near,
And a slow darkness stealing on my sight.
My little ones, good-bye.
Soon, soon, and mother will be no more here. . . .
Good-bye, two happy children in the light.

ADMETUS.
Oh, word of pain, oh, sharper ache
Than any death of mine had brought!
For the Gods' sake, desert me not,
For thine own desolate children's sake.
Nay, up! Be brave. For if they rend
Thee from me, I can draw no breath;
In thy hand are my life and death,
Thine, my beloved and my friend!

ALCESTIS.
Admetus, seeing what way my fortunes lie,
I fain would speak with thee before I die.
I have set thee before all things; yea, mine own
Life beside thine was naught. For this alone
I die. . . . Dear Lord, I never need have died.
I might have lived to wed some prince of pride,
Dwell in a king's house.