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.
[1] Euripides: Hippolytus, translated by Gilbert Murray.
[2] From the translation of Iphigenia in Tauris by Gilbert Murray.
A Greek temple was not a place where people met to worship, and it was never intended to hold a very large number of people. The religious ceremonies were carried on in the great spaces outside the temples, and sacrifices were offered on the altars which were always in the open air. The temple was the dwelling-place of the god and the treasury where the gifts brought by the worshippers were kept.
Greek temples varied in size, but they were all built on the same general plan. The whole building was looked upon as the home of the god, and so the chamber in which the statue was placed was the central point, and all the other parts of the building were so constructed that they harmonized with the main purpose of the temple. Just as a Greek play had only one story in it and no other episodes were allowed to distract the attention of the audience from the working out of the plot, so a Greek temple expressed one thought and nothing in the architecture was allowed to disturb it.
The earliest form of temple was the shrine, an oblong building with a portico, which had at first only two pillars in front, but which were later extended into a row of pillars across the whole front of the building. Then a portico was built at both ends of the temple, and lastly, in some temples a row of columns was built all round the building, with a double row in the portico at each end. Above the portico was a triangular gable called the pediment, which was usually filled with sculpture.
The Greeks used three kinds of columns in their buildings. The Doric column was the simplest; it had no base and tapered very slightly up to the capital which consisted of a thick slab of stone. The Doric was the type most often used by the Greeks, and in its simplicity and perfection of form it symbolized the finest Greek spirit. The Ionic column stood on a base; it was more slender than the Doric, and the capital consisted of two very graceful spirals. The Ionic was a lighter type of column than the Doric and was used a great deal by the Greeks in Asia Minor. A third type was introduced later, called the Corinthian. The capitals of this column were richly carved in the form of leaves, but the Greeks never liked it as much as the simpler and more graceful types, and it was not very much used until Roman times. All the columns were fluted.
The Greeks never used ornament for the sake of ornament. The column was used as a support and ornament was felt to be entirely out of place on it, but the decoration on the capital served a purpose. As the eye followed the fluting upwards to where the vertical line met the horizontal, the simple decoration of the capital served to make the transition from one line to the other less abrupt. In Greek architecture no part of a building that bore any strain was ornamented, and wherever ornament was used it was always in harmony with the general purposes of the building.
These were the main characteristics of Greek temples. Hie greatest Athenian temples were on the Acropolis, the ancient citadel of Athens, which had been transformed by Pericles into a dwelling-place for Athena.
The fittest place for a temple or altar was some site visible from afar, and untrodden by foot of man, since it was a glad thing for the worshipper to lift up his eyes afar off and offer up his prayer.
Socrates.[1]
The Acropolis was approached by a flight of steps leading to the Propylaea or Entrance Porch. Six great Doric columns stood at the entrance, and opening out to right and left of the main hall were other porticoes, the walls of which were decorated with paintings showing the deeds of ancient heroes. The roof was of white marble, and standing at this entrance one could catch a glimpse of the sea in the distance. Tradition held that it was on this spot that Aegeus stood to watch for the ship that should being back Theseus, and that it was from this high rock that he cast himself down in despair when he saw the ship returning with black sails, a sign, as he thought, that his son was dead.
To the right of the Propylaea, in the south-west corner of the Acropolis, was the little temple of Athena Nike, Athena of Victory. In this temple the goddess herself represented Victory, so she had no wings, which were always given by the Greeks to statues of Victory, and the temple came to be known as that of the Wingless Victory. A wonderful view is to be had from this temple, and the site for it was chosen, because from where it stands Salamis is in sight, and it was to be forever a thank-offering to Athena for the victory gained there over the barbarian foe.
Passing through the Propylaea, one came out upon the Acropolis, where rising up in majesty was the great bronze statue of Athena Promachos, Athena the Warrior Queen, Foremost in Fight, who went out to war with the armies of Athens and brought them home victorious. Pheidias, the great Athenian sculptor who had made the image of Zeus in the temple at Olympia, had made this statue, using for it the bronze which had been found amongst the Persian spoils after the battle of Marathon. The goddess stood upright, clad in armour and holding a spear in her hand. The tip of this spear was gilded, and it was said that sailors as they drew near the land could see it gleaming in the sunshine, and when they saw it they knew that home was near.
A little further, on the north side of the Acropolis, was the Erechtheum, called after the mythical King of Athens, Erechtheus. It was a very beautiful temple, and one of the porches has always been known as the Porch of the Maidens, because instead of being supported by columns, it is supported by the figures of six maidens. When the figure of a woman is used for this purpose, it is called in architecture a Caryatid.
A temple to Athena had always stood on this spot since memory began, and it was hallowed by all kinds of associations. Near the temple was the sacred olive tree of Athena, and within its walls was the old and most holy wooden statue of Athena, said to have dropped from heaven. It was in this temple that the goddess was worshipped in a more intimate way, for this was Athena Polias, the Guardian of the City and the Home. It was for this ancient wooden statue that specially chosen Athenian maidens wove the beautiful robe called the peplos, which was carried at the time of the festival held every four years to the temple and presented to the goddess.
THE PARTHENON, 5th Century B.C.
THE PARTHENON,
5th Century B.C.
But greater than all else on the Acropolis was the Parthenon, created by Ictinus the architect, and Pheidias the sculptor. This most beautiful Greek temple in the world stood on the south side of the Acropolis. It was a Doric building surrounded by forty-six great pillars, and to the Athenian this building was the very soul of Athens. Elsewhere on the Acropolis it was Athena the goddess who was worshipped: Athena the Warrior, Athena the Guardian of the City, and in one place, though without a temple, Athena the Inspirer of all Arts and Crafts. But here in the Parthenon Athena was more than the goddess, she symbolized Athens itself, all the achievements of Athens in war and peace, and the spirit that guided the Athenians.