IPHIGENIA

After nearly ten years of preparation, the princes and warriors of

Greece gathered their ships and men together at Aulis, ready to make

war upon Troy. A thousand dark-hulled vessels were moored in the

harbor; and a hundred thousand brave men were on board, ready to follow

their leaders whithersoever they should order.

Chief of all that host was mighty Agamemnon, king of men. He was clad

in flashing armor, and his mind was filled with overweening pride when

he thought how high he stood among the warriors, and that his men were

the goodliest and bravest of all that host.

Next to him was Menelaus, silent and discreet, by no means skilled

above his fellows, and yet, by reason of his noble heart, beloved and

honored by all the Greeks; and it was to avenge his wrongs that this

mighty array of men and ships had been gathered together.

Odysseus came next, shrewd in counsels, earnest and active. He moved

among the men and ships, inspiring all with zeal and courage.

There, also, was young Achilles, tall and handsome, and swift of foot.

His long hair fell about his shoulders like a shower of gold, and his

gray eyes gleamed like those of the mountain eagle. By the shore lay

his trim ships--fifty in all--with thousands of gallant warriors on

board.

One day it chanced that Agamemnon, while hunting, started a fine stag,

and gave it a long chase among the hills and through the wooded dells,

until it sought safety in a grove sacred to Artemis, the huntress

queen. The proud king knew that this was a holy place, where beasts

and birds might rest secure from harm; yet he cared naught for what

Artemis had ordained, and with his swift arrows he slew the panting

deer.

Then was the huntress queen moved with anger, and she declared that the

ships of the Greeks should not sail from Aulis until the king had

atoned for his crime. A great calm rested upon the sea, and not a

breath of air stirred the sails at the mast-heads of the ships.

Day after day and week after week went by, and not a speck of cloud was

seen in the sky above, and not a ripple on the glassy face of the deep.

All the ships had been put in order, new vessels had been built, the

warriors had burnished their armor and overhauled their arms a thousand

times; and yet no breeze arose to waft them across the sea. And they

began to murmur, and to talk bitterly against Agamemnon and the chiefs.

At last Agamemnon sent for Calchas, the soothsayer, and asked him in

secret how the anger of the huntress queen might be appeased. And the

soothsayer with tears and lamentations answered that in no wise could

it be done save by the sacrifice to Artemis of the king's daughter,

Iphigenia.

Then the king cried aloud in his grief, and declared that though Troy

might stand forever, he would not do that thing; and he bade a herald

go through the camp, and among the ships by the shore, and bid every

man depart as he chose to his own country. But before the herald had

gone from his tent, behold, his brother, Menelaus, stood before him

with downcast eyes and saddest of hearts.

"After ten years of labor and hope," said he to Agamemnon, "wouldst

thou give up this enterprise, and lose all?"

Then Odysseus came also into the tent, and added his persuasions to

those of Menelaus. The king hearkened to him, for no man was more

crafty in counsel; and the three recalled the herald, and formed a plan

whereby they might please Artemis by doing as she desired. Agamemnon,

in his weakness, wrote a letter to Clytemnestra his queen, telling her

to bring the maiden, Iphigenia, to Aulis, there to be wedded to the

bravest of all the Greeks.

"_Fail not in this_," added he, "_for the godlike hero will not sail

with us unless my daughter be given to him in marriage_."

And when he had written the letter, he sealed it, and sent it by a

swift messenger to Clytemnestra at Mycenas.

Nevertheless the king's heart was full of sorrow, and when he was alone

he planned how he might yet save his daughter. Night came, but he

could not sleep; he walked the floor of his tent; he wept and lamented

like one bereft of reason. At length he sat down, and wrote another

letter:

"_Daughter of Leda, send not thy child to Aulis, for I will give her in

marriage at another time_."

Then he called another messenger, an old and trusted servant of the

household, and put this letter into his hands.

"Take this with all haste to my queen, who, perchance, is even now on

her way to Aulis. Stop not by any cool spring in the groves, and let

not thine eyes close for sleep. And see that the chariot bearing the

queen and Iphigenia pass thee not unnoticed."

The messenger took the letter and hastened away. But hardly had he

passed the line of the tents when Menelaus saw him, and took the letter

away from him. And when he had read it, he went before his brother,

and reproached him| with bitter words.

"Before you were chosen captain of the host," said he, "you were kind

and gentle, and the friend of every man. There was nothing that you

would not do to aid your fellows. Now you are puffed up with pride and

vain conceit, and care nothing even for those who are your equals in

power. Yet, for all, you are not rid of your well-known cowardice; and

when you saw that your leadership was likely to be taken away from you

unless you obeyed the commands of Artemis, you agreed to do this thing.

Now you are trying to break your word, sending secretly to your wife,

and bidding her not to bring her daughter to Aulis."

Then Agamemnon answered, "Why should I destroy my daughter in order to

win back thy wife? Let those who wish go with thee to Troy. In no way

am I bound to serve thee."

"Do as you will," said Menelaus, going away in wrath.

Soon after this, there came a herald to the king, saying, "Behold, your

daughter Iphigenia has come as you directed, and with her mother and

her little brother Orestes she rests by the spring close to the outer

line of tents. The warriors have gathered around them, and are

praising her loveliness, and asking many questions; and some say, 'The

king is sick to see his daughter, whom he loves so deeply, and he has

made up some excuse to bring her to the camp.' But I know why you have

brought her here; for I have been told about the wedding, and the noble

groom who is to lead her in marriage; and we will rejoice and be glad,

because this is a happy day for the maiden."

Then the king was sorely distressed, and knew not what to do. "Sad,

sad, indeed," said he, "is the wedding to which the maiden cometh. For

the name of the bridegroom is Death."

At the same time Menelaus came back, sorrowful and repentant. "You

were right, my brother," said he. "What, indeed, has Iphigenia to do

with this enterprise, and why should the maiden die for me? Send the

Greeks to their homes, and let not this great wrong be done."

"But how can I do that now?" asked Agamemnon. "The warriors, urged on

by Odysseus and Calchas, will force me to do the deed. Or, if I flee

to Mycenae, they will follow me, and slay me, and destroy my city. Oh,

woe am I, that such a day should ever dawn upon my sight!"

Even while they spoke together, the queen's chariot drove up to the

tent door, and the queen and Iphigenia and the little Orestes alighted

quickly, and merrily greeted the king.

"It is well that you have sent for me, my father," said Iphigenia,

caressing him.

"It may be well, and yet it may not," said Agamemnon. "I am exceeding

glad to see thee alive and happy."

"If you are glad, why then do you weep?"

"I am sad because thou wilt be so long time away from me."

"Are you going on a very long voyage, father?"

"A long voyage and a sad one, my child. And thou, also, hast a journey

to make."

"Must I make it alone, or will my mother go with me?"

"Thou must make it alone. Neither father nor mother nor any friend can

go with thee, my child."

"But when shall it be? I pray that you will hasten this matter with

Troy, and return home ere then."

"It may be so. But I must offer a sacrifice to the gods before we sail

from Aulis."

"That is well. And may I be present?"

"Yes, and thou shalt be very close to the altar."

"Shall I lead in the dances, father?"

Then the king could say no more, for reason of the great sorrow within

him; and he kissed the maiden, and sent her into the tent. A little

while afterward, the queen came and spoke to him and asked him about

the man to whom their daughter was to be wedded; and Agamemnon, still

dissembling, told her that the hero's name was Achilles, and that he

was the son of old Peleus and the sea-nymph Thetis.

"And when and where is the marriage to be?" asked the queen.

"On the first lucky day in the present moon, and here in our camp at

Aulis," answered Agamemnon.

"Shall I stay here with thee until then?"

"Nay, thou must go back to Mycenae without delay."

"But may I not come again? If I am not here, who will hold up the

torch for the bride?"

"I will attend to all such matters," answered Agamemnon.

But Clytemnestra was not well pleased, neither could the king persuade

her at all that she should return to Mycenae. While yet they were

talking, Achilles himself came to the tent door, and said aloud to the

servant who kept it, "Tell thy master that Achilles, the son of Peleus,

would be pleased to see him."

When Clytemnestra overheard these words, she hastened to the door, and

offered the hero her hand. But he was abashed and drew back, for it

was deemed an unseemly thing for men to speak thus with women. Then

Clytemnestra said, "Why, indeed, should you, who are about to marry my

daughter, be ashamed to give me your hand?"

Achilles was struck with wonder, and asked her what she meant; and when

she had explained the matter, he said:

"Truly I have never been a suitor for thy daughter, neither has

Agamemnon or Menelaus spoken a word to me regarding her."

And now the queen was astonished in her turn, and cried out with shame

that she had been so cruelly deceived. Then the keeper of the door,

who was the same that had been sent with the letter, came forward and

told the truth regarding the whole matter. And Clytemnestra cried to

Achilles, "O son of silver-footed Thetis! Help me and help my daughter

Iphigenia, in this time of sorest need! For we have no friend in all

this host, and none in whom we can confide but thee."

Achilles answered, "Long time ago I was a pupil of old Cheiron, the

most righteous of men, and from him I learned to be honest and true.

If Agamemnon rule according to right, then I will obey him; but not

otherwise. And now, since thy daughter was brought to this place under

pretence of giving her to me as my bride, I will see that she shall not

be slain, neither shall any one dare take her from me."

On the following day, while Agamemnon sat grief-stricken in his tent,

the maiden came before him carrying the child Orestes in her arms; and

she cast herself upon her knees at his feet, and caressing his hands,

she thus besought him:

"Would, dear father, that I had the voice of Orpheus, to whom even the

rocks did listen! then I would persuade thee. O father! I am thy

child. I was the first to call thee 'Father,' and the first to whom

thou saidst 'My child.'"

The father turned his face away, and wept; he could not speak for

sadness. Then the maiden went on: "O father, hear me! thou to whom my

voice was once so sweet that thou wouldst waken me to hear my prattle.

And when I was older grown, then thou wouldst say to me, 'Some day, my

birdling, thou shalt have a nest of thy own, a home of which thou shalt

be the mistress.' And I did answer, 'Yes, dear father, and when thou

art old I will care for thee, and pay thee with all my heart for the

kindness thou dost show me.' But now thou hast forgotten it all, and

art ready to slay my young life."

A deep groan burst from the lips of the mighty king, but he spoke not a

word. Then, after a deathlike silence broken only by the deep

breathings of father and child, Iphigenia spoke again: "My father, can

there be any prayer more pure and more persuasive than that of a maiden

for her father's welfare? And when, the cruel knife shall strike me

down, thou wilt have one daughter less to pray for thee." A shudder

shook the frame of Agamemnon, but he answered not a word.

At that moment Achilles entered. He had come in haste from the tents

beside the shore, and he spoke in hurried, anxious accents.

"Behold," said he, "a great tumult has arisen in the camp; for Calchas

has given out among the men that you refuse to do what Artemis has

bidden, and that hence these delays and troubles have arisen. And the

rude soldiers are crying out against you, and declaring that the maiden

must die. When I would have stayed their anger, they took up stones to

stone me--my own warriors among the rest. And now they are making

ready to move upon your tent, threatening to sacrifice you also with

your daughter. But I will fight for you to the utmost, and the maiden

shall not die."

As he was speaking, Calchas entered, and, grasping the wrist of the

pleading maiden, lifted her to her feet. She looked up, and saw his

stony face and hard cold eyes; and turning again to Agamemnon, she

said, "O father, the ships shall sail, for I will die for thee."

Then Achilles said to her, "Fair maiden, thou art by far the noblest

and most lovely of thy sex. Fain would I save thee from this fate,

even though every man in Greece be against me. Fly with me quickly to

my long-oared ship, and I will carry thee safely away from this

accursed place."

"Not so," answered Iphigenia: "I will give up my life for my father and

this land of the Greeks, and no man shall suffer for me."

Then the pitiless priest led her through the throng of rude soldiers to

the grove of Artemis, wherein an altar had been built. But Achilles

and Agamemnon covered their faces with their mantles, and stayed inside

the tent.

As the maiden took her place upon the altar, the king's herald stood

up, and bade the warriors keep silence; and Calchas put a garland of

sweet-smelling flowers about the victim's head.

"Let no man touch me," said the maiden, "for I offer my neck to the

sword with right good will, that so my father may live and prosper."

In silence and great awe, the warriors stood around, while Calchas drew

a sharp knife from its scabbard. But, lo! as he struck, the maiden was

not there; and in her stead, a noble deer lay dying on the altar. Then

the old soothsayer cried out in triumphant tones, "See, now, ye men of

Greece, how the gods have provided for you a sacrifice, and saved the

innocent daughter of the king!" And all the people shouted with joy;

and in that self-same hour, a strong breeze came down the bay, and

filled the idle sails of the waiting ships.

"To Troy! to Troy!" cried the Greeks; and every man hastened aboard his

vessel.

How it was that fair Iphigenia escaped the knife; by whom she was

saved, or whither she went--no one knew. Some say that Artemis carried

her away to the land of the Taurians, where she had a temple and an

altar; and there is a story that, long years afterward, her brother

Orestes found her there, and led her back to her girlhood's home, even

to Mycenae. But whether this be true or not, I know that there have

been maidens as noble, as loving, as innocent as she, who have given up

their lives in order to make this world a purer and happier place in

which to live; and these are not dead, but live in the grateful

memories of those whom they loved and saved.