moment, save to note in passing that it is at least as old as Attic
Drama. We have little clue to the political significance, if any, of the
many references to the status of women which are to be found in the
plays of Euripides; and it does not matter. The broad fact is clear,
that the poet was profoundly interested in womanhood: that he had
studied feminine character with care and sympathy; and that he felt and
strove to reveal something of the evil which must result to the race
when the woman is treated unjustly. Hence we have the _Troades_, a drama
which looks steadily at the horrors of war from the standpoint of the
women who suffer because of it. Hence too, there is an Iphigenia
exerting all the energies of an acute mind to rescue her brother from
imminent danger; a Medea, transformed from a tender mother into a
destroying Fury by Jason’s infidelity; a Phædra literally consumed by
love which she will not declare; and an Alcestis, type of enduring
feminine courage, placed side by side with the weak amiability of
Admetus.
The character of Admetus is of some importance in the story we are now
to consider, and hence has received a great deal of attention. It has
been interpreted variously. On the one hand he is made to appear
improbably base, a poltroon who was not only willing that his wife
should die in his stead, but who hurried her to the tomb with indecent
haste, to avoid the awkward questions of her relatives. On the other
hand, he is shown as incredibly virtuous, a man whom the gods delighted
to honour—with this doubtful gift of life at another’s cost—and who
could not, from very piety, refuse it. But the Admetus of Euripides is
not found in either of these two extremes. He is a much more real figure
poised somewhere along a middle line between the two; an average man,
compounded of good and bad: a warm friend, a tender husband, generously
hospitable and of evident charm of nature; but with a fatal weakness of
will. Thus, in the common level which the balance shows, he is much more
convincing as a man, and for the purpose of the dramatist, an excellent
foil to his heroic wife.
In the lovely poem by William Morris on this subject, there is a picture
of King Admetus which glows with just the charm that such a nature might
possess. The poem, which is called _The Love of Alcestis_, relates that
part of the legend which precedes the climax treated by Euripides. It
tells of the coming of the god Apollo to Thessaly, to serve as an
unknown herdsman to Admetus, King of Pheræ, for nine long years; of
Admetus’ wooing of the young daughter of Pelias, King of Iolchos, and of
the impossible condition (fulfilled, however, by the divine herdsman’s
aid) that whoever would wed with Alcestis must fetch her for her bridal
in a chariot drawn by a lion and a boar. It tells, too, of the god’s
help in foiling the spells of Artemis over the bride; of the happy
wedded life; and of the departure of Apollo, leaving with the royal
couple what seemed at first a priceless boon—the promise that when
Admetus came to die, another life should be accepted by the Fates in his
stead.
This is the man whose gracious serenity first won the love of the god
when, banished from Olympus, he came to serve as a thrall:
_Young, strong, and godlike, lacking naught at all
Of gifts that unto royal men might fall
In those old simple days....
... Little like a king,
As we call kings, but glad with everything,
The wise Thessalian sat and blessed his life,
So free from sickening fear and foolish strife._[28]
He stretched an eager hand to the young stranger who knelt at his feet,
begging hospitality, and promising rich rewards.
_“Rise up, and be my guest,” Admetus said.
“I need no gifts for this poor gift of bread,
The land is wide and bountiful enow.”_[28]
From that moment, there was a tender comradeship between the king and
his new herdsman, which only grew stronger with time. Now and then,
strange tokens made Admetus wonder about his guest’s identity; but he
refrained from questioning him, and it was not until the last day of the
appointed service that the revelation came. The king’s sweet bride had
been won ere then; brought home to Pheræ in an ivory chariot which the
stranger had marvellously provided, drawn by a lion and a boar; and the
circle of their happiness seemed complete. But one soft evening when the
sun was sinking, the herdsman drew the king out of the palace; and
together they climbed the hill to watch the sun go down. There fell on
Admetus a sense of sadness, and soon he was aware of a wonderful change
in the figure at his side. He dared not raise his eyes, for he was
conscious of glory which might not be looked upon. Awe filled him, and
now he knew the meaning of his sadness. This mysterious guest who had
been so strong and wise and kind a friend, was leaving him. As he stood
trembling, in dread and sorrow, the dear voice that he loved fell on his
ear once more, thrilling him with its music:
“_Fear not! I love thee ...
And now my servitude with thee is done,
And I shall leave thee toiling on thine earth,
This handful, that within its little girth
Holds that which moves you so, O men that die;
Behold, to-day thou hast felicity,
But the times change, and I can see a day
When all thine happiness shall fade away;
And yet, be merry, strive not with the end,
Thou canst not change it; for the rest, a friend
This year hath won thee who shall never fail._”[28]
It is on this note of divine favour that the _Alcestis_ of Euripides
opens. In the golden interval since Apollo took his flight from Pheræ
toward the setting sun, life had sped joyously for Admetus and his
lovely queen. The hint of ill to come which had dropped from the god’s
lips was to the king but a fleck on a fair horizon, the measure of pain
that every man must bear—some day. But it was too remote for present
heeding. Why fret away the day of youth because of sorrow and death that
must come to all alike at the end? So he lived merrily, as the god had
counselled, his fruitful land at peace with all the world, and his doors
flung wide to the stranger and the suppliant. The little cloud was quite
forgotten.
Alcestis was happy too, with a difference. Deep under the bright surface
of her life, the warning of the god lay hidden. It never rose to disturb
her husband’s boyish gaiety, nor to trouble with its shadow the sunny
eyes of her little ones. But it was not lulled to sleep. Alcestis could
not palter with reality. In quiet times the black thing was called up
from its hiding place, and faced and fought. There was many an hour of
anguish before it was finally conquered, since youth and beauty and
happiness are precious. But from the moment when Alcestis learned that
love was greater than them all—when she pledged her soul to take upon
herself the evil that was coming to her husband, life grew calm and fair
again. There was little outward sign to mark the struggle: only a gentle
gravity crept into her sweetness, and her voice grew tenderer still to
husband and to babes. And she too clutched the hope, since she was human
after all, that the thing she feared was still far away.
Very soon, however, and with bewildering suddenness, the little cloud
gathered into storm. The fiat went out from the Moiræ that Admetus was
to die—now, in the glory of youth and strength, a goodly prize to enrich
the House of Hades. One favour only they would grant, at the
supplication of Apollo for his mortal friend—that the king might live if
father or mother or wife would consent to die for him. Admetus,
unprepared for an ordeal which must shake so slight a nature to its
roots; and with all his kindly social virtues rent by the shock, forgot
his manhood. The old people clung feverishly to their remnant of dear
life; and Alcestis knew that this was the moment when the compact that
she had made with her own soul must be ratified to the powers below. She
gave her word to the Fates that she would die for her husband.
Now the appointed day has come; and before the palace of Admetus a grim
contest is in progress. Guarding the door with his splendid presence is
the great Sun-god himself, making a last stand against Hades, lord of
the dead, who has come in person from the Underworld to claim his
victim. He may not use force against this shadowy king; but with all the
strength of persuasion he pleads for Alcestis’ life. “My heart is heavy
for my friend’s mischance,” he says; and tries to touch the obdurate
spirit by the thought of this noble wife’s youth and goodness. But Death
will yield no jot to his entreaty; and as Apollo reluctantly gives place
to him, vanquished for the moment, he flings a threat at the great
Enemy.
“_Surely thou shalt forbear, though ruthless thou,
So mighty a man to Pheres’ halls shall come,
Sent of Eurystheus forth, the courser-car
From winter-dreary lands of Thrace to bring.
Guest-welcomed in Admetus’ palace here,
By force yon woman shall he wrest from thee.
Yea, thou of me shalt have no thank for this,
And yet shalt do it, and shalt have mine hate._“[29]
The prophecy contains a gleam of wild hope; but Death passes on
unheeding, and there gather slowly before the doors the friends who have
been summoned to mourn for the dying queen. They are awed by the hush
that lies upon the house, and hardly know how to interpret it. Perhaps
it means that Alcestis is already dead, they conjecture; and that the
funeral train has left the palace. Yet this can hardly be.
_Would the king without pomp of procession have yielded the Grave the
possession
Of so dear, of so faithful an one?_[29]
No, they would rather surmise that Alcestis is living still; and as one
of the queen’s maids comes out, they beg eagerly for news. The girl
tells them through tears that her mistress does indeed still live, but
that the end is very near. Even now, in quiet courage, the queen is
performing all the needful rites.
_For when she knew that the appointed day
Was come, in river-water her white skin
She bathed, and from the cedar chests took forth
Vesture and jewels, and decked her gloriously,
And stood before the hearth and prayed....
To all the altars through Admetus’ halls
She went, with wreaths she hung them, and she prayed,
Plucking the while the tresses of the myrtle,
Tearless, unsighing, and the imminent fate
Changed not the lovely rose-tint of her cheek.
Then to her bower she rushed, fell on the bed,
And there, O there she wept....
And the babes clinging to their mother’s robes
Were weeping: and she clasped them in her arms,
Fondling now this, now that, as one death-doomed.
And all the servants ‘neath the roof were weeping,
Pitying their lady. But to each she stretched
Her right hand forth; and none there was so mean
To whom she spake not and received reply._[29]
The maid goes on to tell of Admetus’ grief. Clasping his wife in his
arms, he begs her not to leave him. But she is growing rapidly weaker,
and his entreaties hardly pierce the darkness that is settling down on
mind and body. She craves for air and light, just to look once more on
the glorious sun, and feel the breath of heaven. As Admetus carries her
out, followed by their two young children, she utters one bitter cry of
regret for all the beauty that she must leave:
“_O Sun, and the day’s dear light,
And ye clouds through the wheeling heaven in the race everlasting
flying!...
O Land, O stately height
Of mine halls, and my bridal couch in Iolkos my fatherland lying!_“[29]
Then the presence of imminent death rises on her fading sight. She sees
the sinister Ferryman Charon beckoning with impatient finger, and she
hears him calling her to hasten.
“_Hades is near, and the night
Is darkening down on my sight.
Darlings, farewell: on the light
Long may ye look:—I have blessed ye
Ere your mother to nothingness fleet._“[29]
There has been no word of farewell to Admetus yet; and now she gathers
strength for the last thing that must be said to him. Perhaps she has
been waiting, all through his evident grief and broken words of
devotion, for some hint of awakening to a nobler spirit. Perhaps she has
longed, in hope that she knew to be vain, for one word of remorse, one
flash of protest, though it were too late, against the sacrifice that
she is making. But Admetus gives no sign; he is absorbed in his own
suffering; and we seem to hear, all through the solemn charge which the
dying lips lay upon him, a note of pain.
“_Admetus—for thou seest all my plight—
Fain would I speak mine heart’s wish, ere I die.
I, honouring thee, and setting thee in place
Before mine own soul still to see this light,
Am dying, unconstrained to die for thee....
Yet she that bare, he that begat, forsook thee,
Though fair for death their time of life was come,
Yea, fair to save their son and die renowned.
... For these thy babes thou lovest
No less than I, if that thy heart be right,
Suffer that they have lordship in mine home:
Wed not a stepdame to supplant our babes,
Whose heart shall tell her she is no Alcestis,
Whose jealous hand shall smite them, thine and mine....
For I must die, nor shall it be to morn,
Nor on the third day comes on me this bane,
Straightway of them that are not shall I be.
Farewell, be happy. Now for thee, my lord,
Abides the boast to have won the noblest wife,
For you, my babes, to have sprung from noblest mother._“[29]
Admetus promises all, and more, than she asks. He will never wed again,
but will mourn her always. There shall be no more revelry in Pheræ; he
will not touch his lyre again, nor sing. Her death has robbed his life
of mirth; and all his longing will be to come to her.
“_Yet there look thou for me whenso I die:
Prepare a home, as who shall dwell with me.
For in the selfsame cedar-chest, wherein
Thou liest, will I bid them lay my bones
Outstretched beside thee: ne’er may I be severed,
No, not in death, from thee, my one true friend._“[29]
The eager protestations bring some comfort to her passing spirit, and
she tenderly commends the children to him. Then:
ALCES. _Dark—dark—mine eyes are drooping, heavy-laden._
ADMET. _O, I am lost if thou wilt leave me, wife!_
ALCES. _No more—I am no more...._
_Farewell._[29]
Amid the wailing of her children, and the mournful chant of the Chorus,
the body of Alcestis is carried into the house, Admetus following to
prepare the funeral rites.
The scene then quickly changes, lifting the gloom of death for a moment.
The mourning ode rises, in vague sweet longing for power to bring
Alcestis back from the grave. And hardly has it ceased when there
arrives at the palace, claiming hospitality in cheery confidence,
Heracles the hero of many toils, and the destined deliverer of Alcestis.
He is a creature of immense interest to the people gathered around the
doors, for are not his valour and endurance known and marvelled at
throughout the whole of Greece? He is weary with travel, but he hails
them blithely, asking for the king; and when they ply him with
questions, he tells all his errand with free good-nature. His
taskmaster, Eurystheus King of Tiryns, has laid yet another labour upon
him, harder and more perilous than all the rest. He is commanded to go
to wintry Thrace, the land of the Bistones, and capture from King
Diomedes there the fierce man-eating mares that draw his chariot. The
Chorus, enthralled by his story, remind him of the prowess of the man
whom he must conquer, and that he is descended from the God of War
himself. But the hero replies that he will not shrink from the task;
only, as he has already come far upon his journey, he needs rest and
refreshment first. He comes unhesitatingly to his friend Admetus,
knowing from of old his unfailing hospitality; and there is about the
hero such a glow of exuberant life and strength, his history and his
present adventure are things so fascinating to his hearers, that they
have for the moment completely forgotten the sorrow that weighs upon
their royal master. No single word of it has been uttered when Admetus
himself, apprised of his friend’s arrival, comes out of the palace to
welcome him.
An embarrassed silence falls upon the mourners. They know that they
should have made known to Heracles at once the calamity which had
befallen Pheræ in the loss of their queen. Then he could have sought the
bounty of some other house, and the grief of their king need not have
been intruded upon. But while they have been lost in eager talk, an
attendant has called Admetus; and on him now will fall the cruel pain of
announcing the death of his wife and—what will be even worse—of
declining hospitality to his friend. They stand in suspense as Heracles,
after the first greeting is over, exclaims in astonishment at the signs
of mourning that Admetus is wearing. But as it quickly becomes evident
that the king is evading the questions of his guest and does not intend
to reveal to him the nature of the grief that has fallen on his home,
their suspense is turned to wonder and carping. Heracles asks anxiously
about children and parents and wife, even touching upon the far-famed
vow of Alcestis to die for her husband. But every question is
successfully parried by the king; and the guest is at last prevailed
upon to enter the house, believing that only some distant kinswoman is
dead, for whom perfunctory mourning and formal rites are in progress.
The sense of propriety in these conventional old men is roughly shaken:
they cannot see that the magnitude of the king’s sorrow has dwarfed the
petty things of use and custom. Only great things remain—love and duty
pre-eminent; and Admetus knows that his dear dead would not grudge this
imperative present task. So, when the senators complain of his action,
he gives them a simple answer:
“_But had I driven him from my home and city
Who came my guest, then hadst thou praised me more?
Nay, sooth; for mine affliction so had grown
No less, and more inhospitable I;
And to my ills were added this beside,
That this my home were called ‘Guest-hating Hall.’
Yea, and myself have proved him kindliest host
Whene’er to Argos’ thirsty plain I fared._“[29]
But now there comes in sight a procession bearing burial gifts, headed
by the old parents of the king. At their entrance there is an abrupt
change of tone, a descent from the ideal standpoint, and a violent clash
of character which make for acrid realism in the scene which follows. It
is one of mutual recrimination between father and son, each blaming the
other for the cowardice which the onlooker can perceive in both. As the
procession halts before his door, Admetus drops to the dead level of
existence from the height of great emotion. He hates the formal troop of
mourners: the gifts by which they seek to honour the peerless spirit of
his wife: the trite phrases of consolation which are belied in the
uttering by the hardness of voice and eye. He hates the very presence of
his father, reminding him, as it does, that they both of them alike have
cowered for safety under the sacrifice of a woman. And when, in the
selfishness of an unlovely old age, Pheres praises the act of Alcestis
because it leaves him the protection of his son, the wrath and shame in
the heart of Admetus break out into unreasonable railing against his
father.
“_Thou grieve!—Thou shouldst have grieved in my death hour!
Thou stoodst aloof—the old, didst leave the young
To die:—and wilt thou wail upon this corpse?_“[29]
The retort is obvious, and pointed with caustic truth: Pheres does not
spare his son, and although there is fierce malignance in his speech,
there is justice in it too.
“_Shamelessly thou hast fought against thy death:
Thy life is but transgression of thy doom,
And murder of thy wife._“[29]
The torrent of scorn that he pours upon Admetus: the merciless exposure
of his timidity, the gibes at his base love of life, cannot but sweep
away the moorings which held the king to his self-respect. But pride and
anger struggle fiercely against humiliation; and the unseemly quarrel
rages on, despite voices interposed in a vain effort at conciliation,
until the funeral train emerges from the palace. Then father and son,
shamed to silence, follow the body of Alcestis to its burial, while the
Chorus chants:
“_Alas for the loving and daring!
Farewell to the noblest and best!
May Hermes conduct thee down-faring
Kindly, and Hades to rest
Receive thee! If any atonement
For ills even there may betide
To the good, O thine be enthronement
By Hades’ bride._“[29]
Meantime Heracles, with mind at perfect ease concerning the fortunes of
his host, had been feasting and making merry within the palace. Rooms
apart had been assigned to him; precautions had been taken that he
should not be disturbed by the sounds of mourning, and the servants had
been warned not to betray to him what was passing. So in all good faith
he had given himself up to jollity, scandalizing the man who waited on
him until the honest fellow could bear it no longer, and flung himself
sulkily out of the house. He is followed soon by Heracles himself, who
cannot comprehend the reason for the servant’s gloom and chides him
good-humouredly. Why such excessive grief for a woman alien-born? he
asks. Surely such sullen service is not worthy either of master or of
guest.
At first the man is reticent, fearing to offend the king. But pressed by
Heracles, he presently reveals that it is not a stranger who is dead,
but the queen herself; and that even now the funeral train is returning
from the grave.
Heracles is overwhelmed with sorrow for his friend and contrition for
his own untimely revelling. For a few moments he stands heaping
reproaches on himself, and on the servants for their silence; but he is
not long inactive. The generosity of Admetus fires his own heart; and
his thought leaps impetuously to an act of tremendous daring. He will
face the power of Death himself, and wrest Alcestis from him. He puts
rapid questions to the man concerning the place of burial, calls up
every resource of energy and endurance, and nerves himself for his grim
task by a determination to requite Admetus worthily.
“_... I must save the woman newly dead,
And set Alcestis in this house again,
And render to Admetus good for good.
I go. The sable-vestured King of Corpses,
Death, will I watch for, and shall find, I trow,
Drinking the death-draught hard beside the tomb.
... I doubt not I shall lead
Alcestis up, and give to mine host’s hands,
Who to his halls received, nor drave me thence,
Albeit smitten with affliction sore,
But did it, like a prince, respecting me._“[29]
[Illustration:
HERCULES’ STRUGGLE WITH DEATH FOR ALCESTIS
_Lord Leighton_
_By permission of the Fine Art Society, Ltd._
]
As Heracles departs in search of Alcestis’ tomb, the mourners are seen
approaching, led by Admetus, alone. A profound change has come upon the
king. His ignoble anger has vanished: no word more is heard of the
petulant reproach of his parents: nothing of the old arrogant claim on
life which had blinded his soul and hardened his heart. Humbled now, and
remorseful, he sees that death were infinitely preferable to life at the
price that he has paid. Something had given him sight as he stood beside
Alcestis’ tomb. He had tried to cast himself down to die beside her; but
friends had restrained him, and now as he stands before the home that he
dare not enter, he makes a pitiful confession—
“_Friends, I account the fortune of my wife
Happier than mine, albeit it seems not so.
For nought of grief shall touch her any more,
And glorious rest she finds from many toils.
But I, unmeet to live, my doom outrun,
Shall drag out bitter days: I know it now.
How shall I bear to enter this my home?_“[29]
The bystanders try to persuade him to go in, but he lingers through the
beautiful choral ode that is raised in praise of Alcestis. They sing of
the worship and honour that will be paid at her tomb as at a shrine; and
as the long hymn is drawing to a close, Heracles is seen to be
returning, leading a woman closely veiled. The king, standing in quiet
despair, utters no word of greeting to his guest, and the Chorus wait in
silent wonder for an explanation. A strange awe falls upon them; and
Heracles, beginning in gentle gravity to reproach the king for want of
confidence in him, turns presently to the veiled figure at his side.
Will the king take and guard this maid for him, until he shall return
from Thrace? She is a prize awarded him for great toil, and Admetus will
do well to care for her.