The Greek drama began as a religious observance in honour of Dionysus. To the Greeks this god personified both the spring and the vintage, the latter a very important time of year in a vine-growing country, and he was a symbol to them of that power there is in man of rising out of himself, of being impelled onwards by a joy within him that he cannot explain, but which makes him go forward, walking, as it were, on the wings of the wind, of the spirit that fills him with a deep sense of worship. We call this power enthusiasm, a Greek word which simply means the god within us.
From very early times, stories of his life were recited at the religious festivals held in honour of Dionysus, and then stories of the other gods and of the ancient heroes were told as well. It was from these beginnings that the drama came. Originally, the story was told in the form of a song, chanted at first by everyone taking part in the festival, and later by a chorus of about fifty performers, and at intervals in the song the leader would recite part of the story by himself. By degrees the recitation became of greater importance than the song; it grew longer, and after a time two people took part in it and then three; at the same time the chorus became smaller and of less importance in the action of the drama, until at last it could consist of only fifteen performers.
A Greek drama was in many ways much simpler than a modern drama. There were fewer characters, and usually only three speaking actors were allowed on the stage at once. There was only one story told and there was nothing to take the attention of the audience away from this. The Chorus, though it no longer told the story, was very important, for it set the atmosphere of the play, and lyrics of haunting loveliness hinted at the tragedy that could not be averted, because of terrible deeds done in the past, or if, indeed, there might be any help, the imagination was carried forward on wings of hope. The Chorus also served another purpose. In a modern drama, when the tragedy of a situation becomes almost too great for the audience to bear, relief is often found in some comic, or partly comic, episode which is introduced to slacken the tension. Shakespeare does this constantly. But comic episodes were felt to be out of place in a Greek drama, and therefore when a tragic scene had taken place, the Chorus followed it by a song of purest poetry. In one play of Euripides, a terrible scene of tragedy was followed by a song in which the Chorus prayed for escape from such sorrows on the wings of a bird to a land where all was peace and beauty. They sang:
Could I take me to some cavern for mine hiding,
In the hill-tops where the Sun scarce hath trod;
Or a cloud make the home of mine abiding,
As a bird among the bird-droves of God.
And the song goes on to carry the imagination to a spot
Where a voice of living waters never ceaseth
In God's quiet garden by the sea,
And Earth, the ancient life-giver, increaseth
Joy among the meadows, like a tree.[1]
In the great Greek dramas, the Chorus is a constant reminder that, though they cannot understand or explain them, there are other powers in the world than the wild passions of men.
The great dramatic festival in Athens was held in the spring in the theatre of Dionysus, to the south-east of the Acropolis. The theatre in Athens never became an everyday amusement, as it is today, but was always directly connected with the worship of Dionysus, and the performances were always preceded by a sacrifice. The festival was only held once a year, and whilst it lasted the whole city kept holiday. Originally, admission to the theatre was free, but the crowds became so great and there was such confusion and sometimes fighting in the rush for good seats, that the state decided to charge an admission fee and tickets had to be bought beforehand. But even then there were no reserved seats, except for certain officials who sat in the front row. In the time of Pericles, complaints were made that the poorer citizens could not afford to buy tickets, and so important was the drama then considered, that it was ordered that tickets should be given free to all who applied for them.
An Athenian audience was very critical, and shouts and applause, or groans and hisses showed its approval or disapproval of the play being acted. Several plays were given in one day, and a prize was awarded to the best, so the audience was obliged to start at dawn and would probably remain in the theatre until sunset. Let us go with an Athenian audience and see a play which was first performed in the latter half of the fifth century B.C.
The theatre is a great semi-circle on the slope of the Acropolis, with rows of stone seats on which about eighteen thousand spectators can sit. The front row consists of marble chairs, the only seats in the theatre which have backs, and these are reserved for the priests of Dionysus and the chief magistrates. Beyond the front row, is a circular space called the orchestra, where the Chorus sings, and in the centre of which stands the altar of Dionysus. Behind the orchestra, is the stage on which the actors will act, at the back of which is a building painted to look like the front of a temple or a palace, to which the actors retire when they are not wanted on the stage or have to change their costumes. That is the whole theatre and all its stage scenery. Overhead is the deep blue sky, the Acropolis rises up behind, and the olive-laden hills are seen in the distance. Much will have to be left to the imagination, but the very simplicity of the outward surroundings will make the audience give all their attention to the play and the acting.
When the play begins, there will only be three actors on the stage at once. They will wear very elaborate costumes, and a strange-looking wooden sole called a cothurnus or buskin, about six inches high, on their shoes, to make them look taller and more impressive, and over their faces a curious mask with a wide mouth, so that everyone in that vast audience will hear them. There will be no curtain and the play is not divided into different acts. When there is a pause in the action, the Chorus will fill up the time with their song. If it is tragedy, we shall not see the final catastrophe on the stage, but a messenger will appear who will give us an account of what has happened. All this is very different from the way in which a modern play is given, but some of the greatest dramas the world possesses were written by Athenian dramatists and acted on this Athenian stage more than two thousand years ago.
On this occasion the play we are to see is "Iphigenia in Tauris," written by Euripides, one of the greatest of the Athenian dramatists.
The legends and traditions from which most of the Greek plays took their plots were, of course, well known to the Athenians. They were stories commemorating some great event, or explaining some religious observance, but naturally these legends were differently treated by different dramatists, each of whom brought out a different side of the story to enforce some particular lesson which he wished to bring home to the people, and this is especially true of the legends like that of Iphigenia connected with the Fall of Troy.
In the opening speech of this play, Iphigenia very briefly tells her story up to the moment when the play begins. Just as the Greeks had been ready to sail for Troy, they were wind-bound at Aulis. The wise men were consulted as to the meaning of this, and how the gods who must in some way have been offended, might be appeased, so that fair winds might send them on their way. Calchas, the seer, told them that Artemis demanded the sacrifice of Iphigenia, daughter of Agamemnon, King of Argos, the great leader of the host, and her father sent for her accordingly. The maiden was at home with her mother, and the messenger who was sent to Argos to bring her was charged to say that her father desired to wed her to the hero Achilles. She came and the sacrifice was offered, but at the supreme moment, Artemis carried Iphigenia away and placed her in the land of the Tauri, a wild and barbarous tribe, as their priestess. These Tauri had an image of Artemis in a temple, to which they sacrificed all strangers who were cast on their shores, and it was the duty of the priestess to consecrate each victim before he was slain. Here, performing this rite, had Iphigenia lived for more than ten years, but never yet had a Greek come to this wild land. She knew, of course, nothing of what had happened at Troy or afterwards; she did not know that on his return home her father had been slain by Clytemnestra his wife, or that Orestes, her brother, had avenged that death by slaughtering his own mother, after which deed he had wandered from place to place pursued by the relentless torment of the Furies. Bitter against the Greeks for having willed her sacrifice at Aulis, Iphigenia says of herself that she is "turned to stone, and has no pity left in her," and she half hopes that the day will come when a Greek shall be brought to her to be offered in his turn to the goddess.
In the meantime, Orestes, tormented beyond endurance by the Furies, had gone to the Oracle of Apollo, to ask how he might be purified from his sin, and Apollo had told him to go to the land of the Tauri and bring back to Attica the image of Artemis his sister, so that it might no longer be stained by the blood of the human sacrifices. And so it comes about that Orestes is the first Greek who will be brought to Iphigenia for sacrifice to Artemis. It is at this moment that the play opens.[2]
CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY
IPHIGENIA.
ORESTES, her brother.
PYLADES, friend to Orestes.
THOAS, King of Tauris.
A HERDSMAN.
A MESSENGER.
CHORUS of captive Greek Women, handmaids to Iphigenia.
THE GODDESS, PALLAS ATHENA.
The scene shows a great and barbaric Temple on a desolate sea-coast. An altar is visible stained with blood. There are spoils of slain men hanging from the roof. Iphigenia, in the dress of a priestess, comes out of the Temple, and in a speech that serves really as a Prologue to the play, she tells her story. At the end of her speech, which is haunted throughout by a sense of exile and homesickness, she describes a strange dream she has just had, which she interprets as meaning that Orestes, her brother, is dead. She then goes into the Temple.
Voice.
Did some one cross the pathway? Guard thee well.
Another Voice.
I am watching. Every side I turn my eye.
(Enter Orestes and Pylades. Their dress shows they are travellers. Orestes is shaken and distraught.)
Orestes.
How, brother? And is this the sanctuary
At last, for which we sailed from Argos?
Pylades.
For sure, Orestes. Seest thou not it is?
Orestes.
The altar, too, where Hellene blood is shed.
Pylades.
How like long hair those blood-stains, tawny red!
Orestes.
And spoils of slaughtered men—there by the thatch.
Pylades.
Aye, first-fruits of the harvest, when they catch
Their strangers!—'Tis a place to search with care.
(He searches while Orestes sits.)
During this search, Orestes, in a speech addressed to Apollo, explains why they are there, and expresses hopelessness at their ever accomplishing the will of the god, and even suggests their turning back. But Pylades encourages him and bids him take courage, for, he says,
Danger gleams
Like sunshine to a brave man's eyes, and fear
Of what may be is no help anywhere.
Orestes.
Aye, we have never braved these leagues of way
To falter at the end. See, I obey
Thy words. They are ever wise. Let us go mark
Some cavern, to lie hid till fall of dark.
God will not suffer that bad things be stirred
To mar us now, and bring to naught the word
Himself hath spoke. Aye, and no peril brings
Pardon for turning back to sons of kings.
(They go out towards the shore.)
After they are gone, enter gradually the women of the Chorus. These are Greek women who have been taken captive in war by King Thoas, and so they are friendly to the exiled and lonely Iphigenia, for they are just as homesick as she is. They come now in obedience to a call from her to assist in mourning for Orestes, who, she is convinced by her dream, is dead.
Chorus.
Peace! Peace upon all who dwell
By the Sister Rocks that clash in the swell
Of the Friendless Seas.
* * * *
From Hellas that once was ours,
We come before thy gate,
From the land of the western seas,
The horses and the towers,
The wells and the garden trees,
And the seats where our fathers sate.
Leader.
What tidings, ho? With what intent
Hast called me to thy shrine and thee,
O child of him who crossed the sea
To Troy with that great armament,
The thousand prows, the myriad swords?
I come, O child of Atreid Lords.
(Iphigenia, followed by attendants, comes from the Temple.)
Iphigenia.
Alas! O maidens mine,
I am filled full of tears:
My heart filled with the beat
Of tears, as of dancing feet,
A lyreless, joyless line,
And music meet for the dead.
For a whisper is in mine ears,
By visions borne on the breath
Of the Night that now is fled,
Of a brother gone to death.
Oh sorrow and weeping sore,
For the house that no more is,
For the dead that were kings of yore
And the labour of Argolis!
Iphigenia and the Chorus then lament together over the ruin and loss that has befallen the House of Agamemnon. Suddenly the Leader of the Chorus stops them.
Leader.
Stay, yonder from some headland of the sea
There comes, methinks a herdsman, seeking thee.
(Enter a Herdsman. Iphigenia is still on her knees.)
Herdsman.
Daughter of Clytemnestra and her King,
Give ear! I bear news of a wondrous thing.
Iphigenia.
What news, that so should mar my obsequies?
Herdsman.
A ship hath passed the blue Symplegades,
And here upon our coast two men are thrown,
Young, bold, good slaughter for the altar-stone
Of Artemis.
(She rises.)
Make all the speed ye may;
'Tis not too much. The blood-bowl and the spray!
Iphigenia.
Men of what nation? Doth their habit show?
Herdsman.
Hellenes for sure, but that is all we know.
Iphigenia.
No name? No other clue thine ear could seize?
Herdsman.
We heard one call his comrade "Pylades."
Iphigenia.
Yes. And the man who spoke—his name was what?
Herdsman.
None of us heard. I think they spoke it not.
Iphigenia.
How did ye see them first, how make them fast?
Herdsman.
Down by the sea, just where the surge is cast,—
Iphigenia.
The sea? What is the sea to thee and thine?
Herdsman.
We came to wash our cattle in the brine.
Iphigenia.
Go back, and tell how they were taken; show
The fashion of it, for I fain would know
All.—'Tis so long a time, and never yet,
Never, hath Greek blood made this altar wet.
The herdsman tells his tale of how the men were taken prisoners. Iphigenia hears in silence and at the end of it says:
'Tis well. Let thy hand bring them, and mine own
Shall falter not till here God's will be done.
(Exit Herdsman.)
Iphigenia then gives way to her feelings. There are strangers to be sacrificed; to that she is accustomed, but these men are Greeks. Yet she herself suffered bitter things at the hands of the Greeks; should she not avenge these? By degrees, however, as she thinks of her youth, of her home, she melts, and at length withdraws into the Temple, raging against the cruel deed that she must do, and not at all sure that she can nerve herself to do it.
The coming of these Greeks has brought Greece vividly back to the thoughts of the Chorus. All Greeks loved the sea and were seafarers, and the arrival of these two adventurous men reminds these exiled women of their home, and in their imagination they see the ship cross the sea, until it touches the Friendless and cruel shore.
Chorus.
But who be these, from where the rushes blow
On pale Eurotas, from pure Dirces,
That turn not neither falter,
Seeking Her land, where no man breaketh bread,
Her without pity, round whose virgin head
Blood on the pillars rusts from long ago,
Blood on the ancient altar.
A flash of the foam, a flash of the foam,
A wave on the oar-blade welling,
And out they passed to the heart of the blue;
A chariot shell that the wild waves drew.
Is it for passion of gold they come,
Or pride to make great their dwelling?
* * * * *
Through the Clashing Rocks they burst:
They passed by the Cape unsleeping
Of Phineus' sons accurst:
They ran by the star-lit bay
Upon magic surges sweeping,
Where folk on the waves astray
Have seen, through the gleaming grey,
Ring behind ring, men say,
The dance of the old Sea's daughters.
The guiding oar abaft
It rippled and it dinned,
And now the west wind laughed
And now the south west wind;
And the sail was full in flight,
And they passed by the Island White:
Birds, birds, everywhere,
White as the foam, light as the air;
And ghostly Achilles raceth there,
Far in the Friendless Waters.
A sail, a sail from Greece,
Fearless to cross the sea,
With ransom and with peace
To my sick captivity.
O home, to see thee still,
And the old walls on the hill!
Dreams, dreams, gather to me!
Bear me on wings over the sea;
O joy of the night, to slave and free,
One good thing that abideth!
Leader.
But lo, the twain whom Thoas sends,
Their arms in bondage grasped sore
Strange offering this, to lay before
The Goddess! Hold your peace, O friends.
Onward, still onward to this shrine
They lead the first-fruits of the Greek.
'Twas true, the tale he came to speak,
That watcher of the mountain kine.
O holy one, if it afford
Thee joy, what these men bring to thee,
Take thou their sacrifice, which we,
By law of Hellas, hold abhorred.
(Enter Orestes and Pylades, bound, and guarded by Taurians. Re-enter Iphigenia.)
Iphigenia.
So be it.
My foremost care must be that nothing harms
The temple's holy rule.—Untie their arms.
That which is hallowed may no more be bound.
You, to the shrine within! Let all be found
As the law bids, and as we need this day.
(Orestes and Pylades are set free; some Attendants go into the Temple.)
Ah me!
What mother then was yours, O strangers, say,
And father? And your sister, if you have
A sister: both at once, so young and brave
To leave her brotherless! Who knows when heaven
May send that fortune? For to none is given
To know the coming nor the end of woe;
So dark is God, and to great darkness go
His paths, by blind chance mazed from our ken.
Whence are ye come, O most unhappy men?
From some far home, methinks, ye have found this shore
And far shall stay from home for evermore.
Orestes asks Iphigenia not to make their fate worse by dwelling on it, nor to pity them. They know where they are and the cruel custom of the land.
Iphigenia.
Say first—which is it men call Pylades?
Orestes.
'Tis this man's name, if that will give thee ease.
Iphigenia.
From what walled town of Hellas cometh he?
Orestes.
Enough!—How would the knowledge profit thee?
Iphigenia.
Are ye two brothers of one mother born?
Orestes.
No, not in blood. In love we are brothers sworn.
Iphigenia.
Thou also hast a name: tell me thereof.
Orestes.
Call me Unfortunate. 'Tis name enough.
Iphigenia.
I asked not that. Let that with Fortune lie.
Orestes.
Fools cannot laugh at them that nameless die.
Iphigenia.
Why grudge me this? Hast thou such mighty fame?
Orestes.
My body, if thou wilt, but not my name.
Iphigenia.
Nor yet the land of Greece where thou wast bred?
Orestes.
What gain to have told it thee, when I am dead?
Iphigenia.
Nay: why shouldst thou deny so small a grace?
Orestes.
Know then, great Argos was my native place.
Iphigenia.
Stranger! The truth!—From Argos art thou come?
Orestes.
Mycenae, once a rich land, was my home.
Iphigenia.
'Tis banishment that brings thee here—or what?
Orestes.
A kind of banishment, half forced, half sought.
Iphigenia.
Wouldst thou but tell me all I need of thee!
Orestes.
'Twere not much added to my misery.
Iphigenia.
From Argos!—Oh, how sweet to see thee here!
Orestes.
Enjoy it then. To me 'tis sorry cheer.
Iphigenia.
Thou knowest the name of Troy? Far doth it flit.
Orestes.
Would God I had not; nay, nor dreamed of it.
Iphigenia.
Men fable it is fallen beneath the sword?
Orestes.
Fallen it is. Thou hast heard no idle word.
Iphigenia.
Fallen! At last!—And Helen taken too?
Orestes.
Aye; on an evil day for one I knew.
Iphigenia.
Where is she? I too have some anger stored—
Orestes.
In Sparta! Once more happy with her lord!
Iphigenia.
Oh, hated of all Greece, not only me!
Orestes.
I too have tasted of her wizardry.
Iphigenia.
And came the armies home, as the tales run?
Orestes.
To answer that were many tales in one.
Iphigenia.
Oh, give me this hour full! Thou soon wilt die.
Orestes.
Ask, if such longing holds thee. I will try.
Iphigenia.
A seer called Calchas! Did he ever come?
Orestes.
Calchas is dead, as the news went at home.
Iphigenia.
Good news, ye gods!—Odysseus, what of him?
Orestes.
Not home yet, but still living, as men deem.
Iphigenia.
Curse him! And may he see his home no more.
Orestes.
Why curse him? All his house is stricken sore.
Iphigenia.
How hath the Nereid's son, Achilles, sped?
Orestes.
Small help his bridal brought him! He is dead.
Iphigenia.
A fierce bridal, so the sufferers tell!
Orestes.
Who art thou, questioning of Greece so well?
Iphigenia.
I was a Greek. Evil caught me long ago.
Orestes.
Small wonder, then, thou hast such wish to know.
Iphigenia.
That war-lord, whom they call so high in bliss—
Orestes.
None such is known to me. What name was his?
Iphigenia.
They called him Agamemnon, Atreus' son.
Orestes.
I know not. Cease,—My questioning is done.
Iphigenia.
'Twill be such joy to me! How fares he? Tell!
Orestes.
Dead. And hath wrecked another's life as well.
Iphigenia.
Dead? By what dreadful fortune? Woe is me!
Orestes.
Why sighest thou? Had he any link with thee?
Iphigenia.
I did but think of his old joy and pride.
Orestes.
His own wife foully stabbed him, and he died.
Iphigenia.
O God!
I pity her that slew—and him that slew.
Orestes.
Now cease thy questions. Add no word thereto.
Iphigenia.
But one word. Lives she still, that hapless wife?
Orestes.
No. Her own son, her first-born, took her life.
Iphigenia.
O shipwrecked house! What thought was in his brain?
Orestes.
Justice on her, to avenge his father slain.
Iphigenia.
Alas!
A bad false duty bravely hath he wrought.
Orestes.
Yet God, for all his duty, helps him not.
Iphigenia.
And not one branch of Atreus' tree lives on?
Orestes.
Electra lives, unmated and alone.
Iphigenia.
The child they slaughtered—is there word of her?
Orestes.
Why, no, save that she died in Aulis there.
Iphigenia.
Poor child! Poor father, too, who killed and lied.
Orestes.
For a bad woman's worthless sake she died.
Iphigenia.
The dead King's son, lives he in Argos still?
Orestes.
He lives, now here, now nowhere, bent with ill.
Iphigenia.
O dreams, light dreams, farewell! Ye too were lies.
* * * * *
Leader.
We too have kinsmen dear, but, being low,
None heedeth, live they still or live they not.
Iphigenia. (With sudden impulse.)
Listen! For I am fallen upon a thought,
Strangers, of some good use to you and me.
* * * * *
Stranger, if I can save thee, wilt thou bear
To Argos and the friends who loved my youth
Some word? There is a tablet which, in ruth
For me and mine ill works, a prisoner wrote,
Ta'en by the king in war. He knew 'twas not
My will that craved for blood, but One on high
Who holds it righteous her due prey shall die.
And since that day no Greek hath ever come
Whom I could save and send to Argos home
With prayer to any friend: but thou,
I think, dost loathe me not; and thou dost know
Mycenae and the names that fill my heart.
Help me! Be saved! Thou also hast thy part,
Thy life for one light letter—
(Orestes looks at Pylades.)
For thy friend,
The law compelleth. He must bear the end
By Artemis ordained, apart from thee.
Orestes.
Strange woman, as thou biddest let it be,
Save one thing. 'Twere for me a heavy weight
Should this man die. 'Tis I and mine own fate
That steer our goings. He but sails with me
Because I suffer much. It must not be
That by his ruin I should 'scape mine own,
And win thy grace withal. 'Tis simply done.
Give him the tablet. He with faithful will
Shall all thy hest in Argolis fulfil.
And I—who cares may kill me. Vile is he
Who leaves a friend in peril and goes free
Himself. And, as it chances, this is one
Right dear to me; his life is as my own.
Iphigenia.
O royal heart! Surely from some great seed
This branch is born, that can so love indeed.
God grant the one yet living of my race
Be such as thou! For not quite brotherless
Am even I, save that I see him not,
Strangers—Howbeit, thy pleasures shall be wrought.
This man shall bear the message, and thou go
To death. So greatly thou wilt have it so.
Orestes then asks somewhat of the ritual by which Iphigenia will consecrate the victim, and where he will be buried. Iphigenia promises that he shall be duly buried according to the Greek customs, and then she goes into the temple to get the tablet. During her absence Orestes and Pylades have a long argument as to which shall bear the tablet to Argos, and which remain in the island to be sacrificed. It is finally decided that Pylades shall go back to Greece and Orestes shall remain.
(Enter Iphigenia from the Temple.)
Iphigenia.
Go ye within; and have all things of need
In order set for them that do the deed.
There wait my word.
(Attendants go in.)
Ye strangers, here I hold
The many-lettered tablet, fold on fold.
Yet—one thing still.
Iphigenia then tells Pylades that she is afraid that, once safe and free, he will forget the promise made when he was in danger of his life, and so she makes him swear in the name of Zeus, that he will faithfully bear the message. She, on her side, in the name of Artemis, swears that she will in very truth set him free. Pylades then reminds her that he might be shipwrecked and so lose the tablet, and asks that in that case he may be relieved from his vow. But Iphigenia, in her desperate longing for deliverance refuses this, and instead, says that she will tell him what is written in the tablet. If it should be lost, he must then bear the message by word of mouth.
Pylades.
For thy sake and for mine 'tis fairer so.
Now let me hear his name to whom I go
In Argolis, and how my words should run.
Iphigenia. (Repeating the words by heart.)
Say: "To Orestes, Agamemnon's son
She that was slain in Aulis, dead to Greece
Yet quick, Iphigenia sendeth peace:"
Orestes.
Iphigenia! Where? Back from the dead?
Iphigenia.
'Tis I. But speak not, lest thou break my thread.—
"Take me to Argos, brother, ere I die,
Back from the Friendless Peoples and the high
Altar of Her whose bloody rites I wreak."
Orestes. (aside.)
Where am I Pylades? How shall I speak?
Iphigenia.
"Else one in grief forsaken shall, like shame
Haunt thee."
Pylades. (aside.)
Orestes!
Iphigenia. (overhearing him.)
Yes: that is the name.
Ye gods above!
Pylades.
Why callest thou on God
For words of mine?
'Tis nothing. 'Twas a road
My thoughts had turned. Speak on.—No need for us
To question; we shall hear things marvellous.
Iphigenia.
Tell him that Artemis my soul did save,
I wot not how, and to the altar gave
A fawn instead; the which my father slew,
Not seeing, deeming that the sword he drew
Struck me. But she had borne me far away
And left me in this land.—I charge thee, say
So much. It is all written on the scroll.
Pylades.
An easy charge thou layest on my soul,
A glad oath on thine own. I wait no more,
But here fulfil the service that I swore.
Orestes, take this tablet which I bear
To thine own hand, thy sister's messenger.
Orestes.
I take it, but I reck not of its scrip
Nor message. Too much joy is at my lip.
Sister! Beloved! Wildered though I
My arms believe not, yet they crave for thee.
Now, filled with wonder, give me my delight!
(He goes to embrace her. She stands speechless.)
Leader.
Stranger, forbear! No living man hath right
To touch that robe. The Goddess were defiled!
Orestes.
O sister mine, O my dead father's child,
Agamemnon's child; take me and have no fear,
Beyond all dreams 'tis I thy brother here.
Iphigenia.
My brother? Thou?—Peace! Mock at me no more.
Argos is bright with him and Nauplia's shore.
Orestes.
Unhappy one! Thou hast no brother there.
Iphigenia.
Orestes—thou? Whom Clytemnestra bare?
Orestes.
To Atreus' firstborn son, thy sire and mine.
Iphigenia.
Thou sayest it: Oh, give me some proof, some sign!
Old things of home are remembered between the two, and at length Iphigenia is convinced.
Iphigenia. (falling into his arms)
Beloved! Oh, no other, for indeed
Beloved art thou! In mine arms at last,
Orestes far away.
Then follows a scene in which Iphigenia gives herself up to one emotion after another, and when Orestes reminds her that they are not yet safe, she suggests one wild plan after another.
Iphigenia.
And now, what end cometh?
Shall Chance yet comfort me,
Finding a way for thee
Back from the Friendless Strand,
Back from the place of death—
Ere yet the slayers come
And thy blood sink in the sand—
Home unto Argos, home?
Hard heart so swift to slay
Is there to life no way?—
No ship!—And how by land?—
A rush of feet
Out to the waste alone.
Nay: 'twere to meet
Death, amid tribes unknown
And trackless ways of the waste—
Surely the sea were best.
Back by the narrow bar
To the Dark Blue Gate!—
Ah God, too far, too far!—
Desolate! Desolate!
What god or man, what unimagined flame,
Can cleave this road where no road is, and bring
To us last wrecks of Agamemnon's name
Peace from long suffering?
But Iphigenia has not yet learnt all, and at length Orestes tells her why he is there. He repeats the words of Apollo:
"Go seek the Taurian citadel:
Seize there the carven Artemis that fell
From heaven, and stablish it on Attic soil.
So comes thy freedom,"
And he continues:
"Sister, in this toil
Help us!—If once that image I may win
That day shall end my madness and my sin:
And thou, to Argos o'er the sundering foam
My many-oared barque shall bear thee home.
O sister, loved and lost, O pitying face,
Help my great peril; help our father's race.
For lost am I and perished all the powers
Of Pelops, save that heavenly thing be ours!"
This news somewhat sobers Iphigenia. She is confronted now with a very different thing from saving her brother's life. That had just now seemed almost impossible, but compared to this new demand, it seemed almost easy. This is an act of madness; it will be considered a most fearful act of sacrilege to steal the image of Artemis, yet Orestes asks for her help to do it. And then there is herself and her own hopes! She might perhaps succeed in saving his life and fleeing with him, but to steal the statue and then go with him is a task beyond any hope of accomplishment. What shall she do? She deliberately decides that she will save his life and give him the statue, and then she herself will confront the angry King and give her life for her brother.
Iphigenia.
I must wait then and be slain:
Thou shalt walk free in Argolis again,
And all life smile on thee.—Dearest, we need
Not shrink from that. I shall by mine own deed
Have saved thee. And a man gone from the earth
Is wept for. Women are but little worth.
But Orestes refuses to accept the sacrifice.
Orestes.
I stand with thee
One-hearted here, be it for life or death,
And either bear thee, if God favoureth,
With me to Greece and home, or else lie here
Dead at thy side.
* * * * *
Iphigenia.
To steal for thee the image, yet not die
Myself! 'Tis that we need.
They then begin to discuss every possible means of escape, and at last an idea comes to Iphigenia. She will tell the King that Orestes has come from Greece with his mother's blood upon him, and that therefore it would be a great offence to sacrifice him to the goddess. Before he is sacrificed, he must be cleansed in the waves of the sea. But his very presence has denied the image of the goddess, and so that, too, must be taken to the shore and purified. Pylades shares in the guilt of his friend and will accompany him to the shore, and Iphigenia will go down with the image. The rest must be the work of Orestes, and he must arrange that they are taken on board his ship and so escape. It is a dangerous and a daring plan, but there is no hope anywhere else.
Iphigenia, Orestes and Pylades will thus be saved, if saving be possible, but what of the Chorus, of these Greek women, companions of the exile and loneliness of Iphigenia? They are indeed "true of heart and faithful found," for with no hope of going home themselves, ignored even by Iphigenia in this tremendous moment of her own hope, they loyally promise secrecy about all that concerns the plot. Yet they, too, crave for home and they give voice to their longings. They see in imagination the Greek land. Once again the misery of their capture and enslavement comes before them, but they rise above their sorrow as they sing of what it will mean to Iphigenia to cross the sea, to behold her home once again, and to reach the land of freedom.
Chorus.
Bird of the sea rocks, of the bursting spray,
O halcyon bird,
That wheelest crying, crying, on thy way;
Who knoweth grief can read the tale of thee:
One love long lost, one song for ever heard
And wings that sweep the sea.
Sister, I too beside the sea complain,
A bird that hath no wing.
Oh, for a kind Greek market-place again,
For Artemis that healeth woman's pain;
Here I stand hungering.
Give me the little hill above the sea,
The palm of Delos fringed delicately,
The young sweet laurel and the olive-tree
Grey-leaved and glimmering;
* * * * *
Ah, the old tears, the old and blinding tears
I gave God then,
When my town fell, and noise was in mine ears
Of crashing towers, and forth they guided me
Through spears and lifted oars and angry men
Out to an unknown sea.
They bought my flesh with gold, and sore afraid
I came to this dark East
To serve, in thrall to Agamemnon's maid,
This Huntress Artemis, to whom is paid
The blood of no slain beast;
Yet all is bloody where I dwell, Ah, me!
Envying, envying that misery
That through all life hath endured changelessly.
For hard things borne from birth
Make iron of man's heart, and hurt the less.
'Tis change that paineth; and the bitterness
Of life's decay when joy hath ceased to be
That makes all dark the earth.
Behold,
Two score and ten there be
Rowers that row for thee,
And a wild hill air, as if Pan were there,
Shall sound on the Argive sea,
Piping to set thee free.
Or is it the stricken string
Of Apollo's lyre doth sing
Joyously, as he guideth thee
To Athens, the land of spring;
While I wait wearying?
Oh, the wind and the oar,
When the great sail swells before,
With sheets astrain, like a horse on the rein;
And on through the race and roar,
She feels for the farther shore.
Ah me,
To rise upon wings and hold
Straight on up the steeps of gold
Where the joyous Sun in fire doth run,
Till the wings should faint and fold
O'er the house that was mine of old.
Or watch where the glade below
With a marriage dance doth glow,
And a child will glide from her mother's side
Out, out, where the dancers flow:
As I did, long ago.
Oh, battles of gold and rare
Raiment and starred hair,
And bright veils crossed amid tresses tossed
In a dusk of dancing air!
O Youth and the days that were!
(Enter King Thoas, with Soldiers.)
Thoas.
Where is the warden of this sacred gate,
The Greek woman? Is her work ended yet
With these two strangers? Do their bodies lie
Aflame now in the rock-cleft sanctuary?
Leader.
Here is herself, O King, to give thee word.
(Enter, from the Temple, Iphigenia, carrying the Image on high.)
Thoas.
How, child of Agamemnon! Hast thou stirred
From her eternal base, and to the sun
Bearest in thine own arms, the Holy One?
Iphigenia.
Back, Lord! No step beyond the pillared way.
Thoas.
But how? Some rule is broken?
Iphigenia.
I unsay
That word. Be all unspoken and unwrought!
Thoas.
What means this greeting strange? Disclose thy thought.
Iphigenia.
Unclean the prey was that ye caught, O King.
Thoas.
Who showed thee so? Thine own imagining?
Iphigenia.
The Image stirred and shuddered from its seat.
Thoas.
Itself?—Some shock of earthquake loosened it.
Iphigenia.
Itself. And the eyes closed one breathing space.
Thoas.
But why? For those two men's blood-guiltiness?
Iphigenia.
That, nothing else. For, oh! their guilt is sore.
Thoas.
They killed some of my herdsmen on the shore?
Iphigenia.
Their sin was brought from home, not gathered here.
Thoas.
What? I must know this.—Make thy story clear.
Iphigenia. (She puts down the Image and moves nearer to Thoas.)
The men have slain their mother.
Thoas.
God! And these
Be Greeks!
Iphigenia.
They both are hunted out of Greece.
Thoas.
For this thou hast brought the Image to the sun?
Iphigenia.
The fire of heaven can cleanse all malison.
Thoas.
How didst thou first hear of their deed of shame?
Iphigenia.
When the Image hid its eyes, I questioned them.
Thoas.
Good. Greece hath taught thee many a subtle art.
Iphigenia.
Ah, they too had sweet words to move my heart.
Thoas.
Sweet words? How, did they bring some news of Greece?
Iphigenia.
Orestes, my one brother, lives in peace.
Thoas.
Surely! Good news to make thee spare their lives—
Iphigenia.
My father too in Argos lives and thrives.
Thoas.
While thou didst think but of the goddess' laws!
Iphigenia.
Do I not hate all Greeks? Have I not cause?
Thoas.
Good cause. But now—What service should be paid?
Iphigenia.
The Law of long years needs must be obeyed.
Thoas.
To work then, with thy sword and hand-washing!
Iphigenia.
First I must shrive them with some cleansing thing.
Thoas.
What? Running water, or the sea's salt spray?
Iphigenia.
The sea doth wash all the world's ills away.
Thoas.
For sure. 'Twill make them cleaner for the knife.
Iphigenia.
And my hand, too, cleaner for all my life.
Thoas.
Well, the waves lap close by the temple floor.
Iphigenia.
We need a secret place. I must do more.
Thoas.
Some rite unseen? 'Tis well. Go where thou wilt.
Iphigenia.
The Image likewise must be purged of guilt.
Thoas.
The stain hath touched it of that mother's blood?
Iphigenia.
I durst not move it else, from where it stood.
Thoas.
How good thy godliness and forethought! Aye,
Small wonder all our people holds thee high.
Iphigenia.
Dost know then what I fain would have?
Thoas.
'Tis thine to speak and it shall be.
Iphigenia.
Put bondage on the strangers both.—
Thoas.
Why bondage? Whither can they flee?
Iphigenia.
Put not thy trust in any Greek.
Thoas. (To attendants)
Ho, men! Some thongs and fetters, go!
Iphigenia.
Stay; let them lead the strangers here, outside the shrine—
Thoas.
It shall be so.
Iphigenia.
And lay dark raiment on their heads—
Thoas.
To veil them, lest the Sun should see.
Iphigenia.
And lend me some of thine own spears.
Thoas.
This company shall go with thee.
Iphigenia.
Next, send through all the city streets a herald—
Thoas.
Aye; and what to say?
Iphigenia.
That no man living stir abroad.
Thoas.
The stain of blood might cross their way.
Iphigenia.
Aye, sin like theirs doth spread contagion.
Thoas. (To an attendant)
Forth, and publish my command—
Iphigenia.
That none stir forth—nor look—
Thoas.
Nor look. How well thou carest for the land!
Iphigenia.
For one whom I am bound to love.
Thoas.
Indeed, I think thou hat'st me not.
Iphigenia.
And thou meanwhile, here at the temple, wait, O King, and—
Thoas.
Wait for what?
Iphigenia.
Purge all the shrine with fire.
Thoas.
'Twill all be clean before you come again.
Iphigenia.
And while the strangers pass thee close, seeking the sea—
Thoas.
What wouldst thou then?
Iphigenia.
Put darkness on thine eyes.
Thoas.
Mine eyes might drink the evil of their crime?
Iphigenia.
And, should I seem to stay too long—
Thoas.
Too long? How shall I judge the time?
Iphigenia.
Be not dismayed.
Thoas.
Perform thy rite all duly. We have time to spare.
Iphigenia.
And God grant this cleansing end as I desire!
Thoas.
I join thy prayer.
Iphigenia.
The door doth open.
* * * * *
(She takes up the Image again.)
There passeth here a holy thing; begone,
I charge thee, from the road.
* * * * *
Begone and tremble from this road: fly
swiftly, lest ye be defiled.
O Queen and Virgin, Leto-born, have pity!
Let me cleanse this stain,
And pray to thee where pray I would: a
clean house shall be thine again,
And we at last win happiness. Behold, I
speak but as I dare;
The rest—Oh, God is wise, and thou, my
Mistress, thou canst read my prayer.
(The procession passes out. Thoas and the bystanders veiled; Attendants in front, then Iphigenia with the Image, then veiled soldiers, then Orestes and Pylades bound, the bonds held by other veiled soldiers following them. Thoas goes into the Temple.)
Here follows a song from the Chorus which fills the interval during which the cleansing ceremonies are supposed to be taking place. At the end of the song there enters a messenger running.
Messenger.
Ho, watchers of the fane! Ho, altar-guard,
Where is King Thoas gone? Undo the barred
Portals, and call the King! The King I seek.
Leader.
What tidings—if unbidden I may speak?
Messenger.
The strangers both are gone, and we beguiled,
By some dark plot of Agamemnon's child:
Fled from the land! And on a barque of Greece
They bear the heaven-sent shape of Artemis.
Leader.
Thy tale is past belief.—Go, swiftly on,
And find the King. He is but newly gone.
Messenger.
Where went he? He must know of what has passed!
Leader.
I know not where he went. But follow fast And seek him. Thou wilt light on him ere long.
Messenger.
See there! The treason of a woman's tongue!
Ye are all in the plot, I warrant ye!
Leader.
Thy words are mad! What are the men to me?
Go to the palace, go!
Messenger. (Seeing the great knocker on the Temple door.)
I will not stir
Till word be come by this good messenger
If Thoas be within these gates or no.—
(Thundering at the door.)
Ho, loose the portals! Ye within! What ho!
Open, and tell our master one doth stand
Without here, with strange evil in his hand.
(Enter Thoas from the Temple.)
Thoas.
Who dares before this portal consecrate
Make uproar and lewd battering of the gate?
Thy noise hath broke the Altar's ancient peace.
Messenger.
Ye gods! They swore to me—and bade me cease
My search—the King was gone. And all the while—
Thoas.
These women? How? What sought they by such guile?
Messenger.
Of them hereafter! Give me first thine ear
For greater things. The virgin minister
That served our altar, she hath fled from this
And stolen the dread Shape of Artemis,
With those two Greeks. The cleansing was a lie.
Thoas.
She fled? What wild hope whispered her to fly?
Messenger.
The hope to save Orestes. Wonder on!
Thoas.
Orestes—how? Not Clytemnestra's son?
Messenger.
And our pledged altar-offering. 'Tis the same.
Thoas.
O marvel beyond marvel! By what name
More rich in wonder can I name thee right?
Messenger.
Give not thy mind to that. Let ear and sight
Be mine awhile; and when thou hast heard the whole
Devise how best to trap them ere the goal.
Thoas.
Aye, tell thy tale. Our Tauric seas stretch far,
Where no man may escape my wand of war.
The Messenger gives Thoas an excited account of what has happened, ending by saying that if he send out pursuers immediately, he may even yet seize the fugitives. Thoas gives his orders.
Thoas.
Ho, all ye dwellers of my savage town
Set saddle on your steeds, and gallop down
To watch the heads, and gather what is cast
Alive from this Greek wreck. We shall make fast,
By God's help, the blasphemers.—Send a corps
Out in good boats a furlong from the shore;
So we shall either snare them on the seas
Or ride them down by land, and at our ease
Fling them down gulfs of rock, or pale them high
On stakes in the sun, to feed our birds and die.
Women: you knew this plot. Each one of you
Shall know, before the work I have to do
Is done, what torment is.—Enough! A clear
Task is afoot. I must not linger here.
While Thoas is moving off, his men shouting and running before and behind him, there comes a sudden blasting light and thunder-roll, and Athena is seen in the air confronting them. This sudden appearance of a god to solve a problem at the end of a play is known as the deus ex machina, and there was actually some kind of machine by which the god appeared as if suspended in the air.
Athena.
Ho, whither now, so hot upon the prey,
King Thoas? It is I that bid thee stay,
Athena, child of Zeus. Turn back this flood
Of wrathful men, and get thee temperate blood.
Apollo's word and Fate's ordained path
Have led Orestes here, to escape the wrath
Of Them that hate. To Argos he must bring
His sister's life, and guide that Holy Thing
Which fell from heaven, in mine own land to dwell.
So shall his pain have rest, and all be well.
Thou hast heard my speech, O King. No death from thee
May snare Orestes between rocks and sea:
Poseidon for my love doth make the sore
Waves gentle, and set free his labouring oar.
And thou, O far away—for, far or near
A goddess speaketh and thy heart must hear—
Go on thy ways, Orestes, bearing home
The Image and thy sister. When ye come
To god-built Athens, lo, a land there is
Half hid on Attica's last boundaries,
A little land, hard by Karystus' Rock,
But sacred. It is called by Attic folk
Halae. Build there a temple, and bestow
Therein thine Image, that the world may know
The tale of Tauris and of thee, cast out
From pole to pole of Greece, a blood-hound rout
Of ill thoughts driving thee. So through the whole
Of time to Artemis the Tauropole
Shall men make hymns at Halae. And withal,
Give them this law. At each high festival,
A sword, in record of thy death undone,
Shall touch a man's throat, and the red blood run—
One drop, for old religion's sake. In this
Shall live that old red rite of Artemis.
And thou, Iphigenia, by the stair
Of Brauron in the rocks, the Key shall bear
Of Artemis. There shalt thou live and die,
And there have burial.
* * * * *
Ye last, O exiled women, true of heart
And faithful found, ye shall in peace depart,
Each to her home: behold Athena's will.
Orestes,
Begone. Lead forth thy sister from this shore
In peace; and thou Thoas, be wroth no more.
Thoas.
Most high Athena, he who bows not low
His head to God's word spoken, I scarce know
How such a one doth live. Orestes hath
Fled with mine Image hence.—I bear no wrath.
Nor yet against his sister. There is naught,
Methinks of honour in a battle fought
'Gainst gods. The strength is theirs. Let those two fare
Forth to thy land and plant mine Image there.
I wish them well.
These bondwomen no less
I will send free to Greece and happiness,
And stay my galleys' oars, and bid this brand
Be sheathed again, Goddess, at thy command.
Athena.
'Tis well, O King. For that which needs must be
Holdeth the high gods as it holdeth thee.
Winds of the north, O winds that laugh and run,
Bear now to Athens Agamemnon's son;
Myself am with you, o'er long leagues of foam
Guiding my sister's hallowed Image home.
(She floats away.)
Chorus.
Some women.
Go forth in bliss, O ye whose lot
God shieldeth, that ye perish not!
Others.
O great in our dull world of clay,
And great in heaven's undying gleam,
Pallas, thy bidding we obey:
And bless thee, for mine ears have heard
The joy and wonder of a word
Beyond my dream, beyond my dream.
The play is over, and the sun is setting, so we, with the rest of the Athenians, must wend our way homewards. As we look up at the temples on the Acropolis, bathed in the golden evening light, we feel no surprise at the joy beyond their dreams of the lonely, exiled Greek women, who had heard the joy and wonder of the word that bade them return to a land of such surpassing loveliness.
