Ten Plays. Euripides
Ay, and to help this house more than is right.
APOLLO. The reason is, I cannot bear a friend’s distress.
DEATH. Wilt rob me of this second corpse likewise?
APOLLO. Come! I did not take the other from thee by violence.
DEATH. Then how is it he lives above the earth and not beneath?
APOLLO. He gave his wife instead, her whom now thou art come to fetch.
DEATH. Yea, and I will bear her hence to the nether world.
APOLLO. Take her and go, for I do not suppose I can persuade thee.
DEATH. To slay my rightful victim? Why, that is my appointed task.
APOLLO. Nay, but to lay thy deadly hand on those who soon would die.
DEATH. I see thy drift, thy eager plea.
APOLLO. Is it then possible that Alcestis should attain old age?
DEATH. It is not possible; I too, methinks, find a pleasure in my rights.
APOLLO. Thou canst not anyhow take more than one life.
DEATH. When young lives die I reap a higher honour.
APOLLO. Should she die old, a sumptuous funeral will she have.
DEATH. Phoebus, the law thou layest down is all in favour of the rich.
APOLLO. What mean’st thou? art so wise, and I never knew it?
DEATH. Those who have wealth would buy the chance of their dying old.
APOLLO. It seems then thou wilt not grant me this favour.
DEATH. Not I; my customs well thou knowest.
APOLLO. That I do, customs men detest and gods abhor.
DEATH. Thou canst not realise every lawless wish.
APOLLO. Mark me, thou shalt have a check for all thy excessive fierceness; such a hero shall there come to Pheres’ halls, by Eurystheus sent to fetch a team of steeds from the wintry world of Thrace; he, a guest awhile in these halls of Admetus, will wrest this woman from thee by sheer force. So wilt thou get no thanks from me but yet wilt do this all the same, and earn my hatred too.
[Exit.]
DEATH. Thou wilt not gain thy purpose any the more for all thy many words; that woman shall to Hades’ halls go down, I tell thee. Lo! I am going for her, that with the sword I may begin my rites, for he whose hair this sword doth hallow is sacred to the gods below.
[Exit.]
[Enter CHORUS.]
SEMI-CHORUS I. What means this silence in front of the palace? why is the house of Admetus stricken dumb?
SEMI-CHORUS II. Not one friend near to say if we must mourn our queen as dead, or if she liveth yet and sees the sun, Alcestis, daughter of Pelias, by me and all esteemed the best of wives to her husband.
SEMI-CHORUS I. Doth any of you hear a groan, or sound of hands that smite together, or the voice of lamentation, telling all is over and done? Yet is there no servant stationed about the gate, no, not one. O come, thou saving god, to smooth the swelling waves of woe!
SEMI-CHORUS II. Surely, were she dead, they would not be so still.
SEMI-CHORUS I. Maybe her corpse is not yet from the house borne forth.
SEMI-CHORUS II. Whence that inference? I am not so sanguine. What gives thee confidence?
SEMI-CHORUS I. How could Admetus let his noble wife go unattended to the grave?
SEMI-CHORUS II. Before the gates I see no lustral water from the spring, as custom doth ordain should be at the gates of the dead, no shorn lock lies on the threshold, which, as thou knowest, falls in mourning for the dead, no choir of maidens smites its youthful palms together.
SEMI-CHORUS I. And yet this is the appointed day.
SEMI-CHORUS II. What meanest thou by this?
SEMI-CHORUS I. The day appointed for the journey to the world below.
SEMI-CHORUS II. Thou hast touched me to the heart, e’en to the soul.
CHORUS. Whoso from his youth up has been accounted virtuous, needs must weep to see the good suddenly cut off. ’Tis done; no single spot in all the world remains whither one might steer a course, either to Lycia{1} or to the parched abodes{2} of Ammon to release the hapless lady’s soul; on comes death with step abrupt, nor know I to whom I should go of all who at the gods’ altars offer sacrifice. Only the son of Phoebus,{3} if he yet saw this light of day—Ah! then might she have left the dark abode and gates of Hades and have come again, for he would raise the dead to life, till that the thunderbolt’s forked flame, hurled by Zeus, smote him. But now what further hope of life can I welcome to me? Our lords have ere this done all they could; on every altar streams the blood of abundant sacrifice; yet our sorrows find no cure.
[Enter MAID.]
Lo! from the house cometh a handmaid weeping; what shall I be told hath chanced? Grief may well be pardoned, if aught happeneth to one’s master; yet I fain would learn whether our lady still is living or haply is no more.
MAID. Alive, yet dead thou may’st call her.
CHORUS. Why, how can the same person be alive, yet dead?
MAID. She is sinking even now, and at her last gasp.
CHORUS. My poor master! how sad thy lot to lose so good a wife!
MAID. He did not know his loss, until the blow fell on him.
CHORUS. Is there then no more a hope of saving her?
MAID. None; the fated day comes on so fast.
CHORUS. Are then the fitting rites already taking place o’er her body?
MAID. Death’s garniture is ready, wherewith her lord will bury her.
CHORUS. Well let her know, though die she must, her fame ranks far above any other wife’s beneath the sun.
MAID. Far above! of course it does; who will gainsay it? What must the woman be who hath surpassed her? For how could any wife have shown a clearer regard for her lord than by offering in his stead to die? Thus much the whole city knows right well; but thou shalt hear with wonder what she did within the house. For when she knew the fatal day was come, she washed her fair white skin with water from the stream, then from her cedar chests drew forth vesture and ornaments and robed herself becomingly; next, standing before the altar-hearth she prayed, “Mistress mine, behold! I pass beneath the earth; to thee in suppliant wise will I my latest prayer address; be mother to my orphans, and to my boy unite a loving bride, to my daughter a noble husband. Let them not die, as I, their mother, perish now, untimely in their youth, but let them live their glad lives out, happy in their native land.” To every altar in Admetus’ halls she went and crowned them and prayed, plucking from myrtle boughs their foliage, with never a tear or groan, nor did her coming trouble change the colour of her comely face. Anon into her bridal bower she burst, and then her tears brake forth and thus she cried, “O couch whereon I loosed my maiden state for the man in whose cause I die, farewell! no hate I feel for thee for me alone hast thou undone, dying as I die from fear of betraying thee and my lord. Some other wife will make thee hers, more blest maybe than me, but not more chaste.” And she fell upon her knees and kissed it, till with her gushing tears the whole bed was wet. At last, when she had had her fill of weeping, she tore herself from the bed and hurried headlong forth, and oft as she was leaving the chamber turned she back and cast herself once more upon the couch; while her children were weeping as the clung to their mother’s