University of Virginia Library

Scene I.

—Pheræ—A Public Place. A crowd assembled. A band of youths and maidens preparing for the festival of Apollo. A march.
[Enter Admetus and Alcestis, attended.
Youths.
(strewing laurel).
Hail, great Admetus!

Maidens.
(strewing myrtle).
Fair Alcestis, hail!

Both.
All hail, beloved life of this our land!
Our head and heart, on this glad day, all hail!

Admetus.
Thanks, gentle friends.

Alcestis.
We thrive upon your love.

Admetus.
Where is our laurel-bearer?

A Youth.
Here, my Lord!

Admetus.
Come to the front. And you, fair girls, whose throats,
Nature's white organ-pipes, look beautiful
With their yet-voiceless music, after him
Marshal your virgin ranks; the shawms behind.
So—wait my signal. We'll enrich the day
With our glad hymns. How swells my heart, Alcestis,
This long-expected morn! Looks not the god
From his bliss-flaming car, whose radiance fills
The crystal courts of dawn, and drinks its mist
From the blue deep, with most auspicious eye
Upon our rites. This day I live indeed!

Alcestis.
What did'st thou yesterday?

Admetus.
I crawled till now
O'er the rude field of life, a careful grub,
Gathering the food of greatness; but to-day
Achievement's wings, bursting their larval shell,
Flash in the dew of the morn.

Alcestis.
O far, and high,
And happy be their flight! But cheapen not
The worth of our lived lives—the toils, the dangers,
The woes, despairs, defeats, that we have known,
And made so dear by sharing. That fair past,
Bought with our deedful days, is all our own,
The unpurchased future slave to no man's power.

Admetus.
I have no quarrel with the past, yet praise it
But as the past. The future's sunny peak,
Spied through its cloudy climbing, fills my gaze
With forward-looking joy.

Alcestis.
Ah! dear, the gods,
Who love us best, give not their gifts for nought—
They must be paid twice over.

Admetus.
Once with sorrow—
That's done, so now with joy. Therefore rejoice,
And pay them! Grace my triumph with the light
Of thy sweet face, that healed with tenderest hope
My day of failure, and I'm thewed more strong
To grapple with prosperity's evil brood,
Dangerous to-day, than when I fronted first
Life's perilous forehead; stronger by ten lives
Than even ten years ago, when—thou rememberest?
I tamed for thee, to draw thy nuptial car,
The lion and the bull. We have tamed since then
The earth, my Queen, and men more fell than beasts.

Alcestis.
In prime my brother. 'Twas a gentle deed—
Acastus needed taming. Yes, in sooth,
Those were sad years—those wars.

Admetus.
Two ghastly years
Of foolish war, to tear thee from me! Well,
They bound us all the tighter, thee and me;
And for Acastus' self his own defeat
Was nobler victory. We triumphed then
Not vainly o'er his arms but o'er his heart.

Alcestis.
Those wars were in Apollo's years.

Admetus.
Ay, still
The glorious god by our Thessalian streams
Pastured my breeding flocks. In those rude times
He made our little nook of the jarring world
Like a close wood that shrouds the nightingale
When tempest rends the heaven; or as a dell
A glow-worm's lamp charms from the waste of night.

Alcestis.
He sang us golden songs.

Admetus
He taught me wisdom,
Sweet as the Muses' singing, when their feet
Wander among the brooks and cloistered pines
Of Helicon; so sweet that in my soul,
It kindled hopes undying. While my ear
Holds its faint echoes even, I shine full-armed
In tranquil power—all great and glorious things
Seem possible for the world. Thou knowest how often
To my care-weighted pillow sleep has brought
Some virtuous word of it, for joy whereof
I have waked wondering.

Alcestis.
Are thy dreams not mine,
Even as thine own?

Admetus.
Thou art my wife indeed,
Dearer than life-blood. Well, thy king of dreams
Looks to thee now for his ambition's crown;
And with glad cheer I ask thy aid to-day,
To hold in mirth this sovran festival—
This dream come true. How long have we aspired
Yon ten-years-building temple of the god
To consecrate; to hear his oracle
Speak from the cavern cloven by the stroke
Of that caducean rod he drove our flocks
To pasture with, ere from his glorious hand,
In payment for the lyre, dark Hermes took it,
To drive the dead in Hades!

Alcestis.
I am thine
In triumph as defeat.

Admetus.
Have I not loved
Before all gods Apollo and the Nine;
Served them with genial rites; sequestered them
A garden from the wilderness of the world,
And taught all climes their worship? Io Pæan!
Bright Pythian, am I not become thy lyre,
And what barbarian hand shall rend my strings?

Alcestis.
Thou hast indeed in this rough world wrought wonders;
So great that sometimes—pardon me, sweet love,
Such word on such a day; my love, that yearns
To be thy glory's shield, creates perchance
Its visionary fears where none should cry—
But sometimes I have feared the jealousy
Of Zeus himself.

Admetus.
The wrath of Zeus? There speaks the core of thy fear?
O for twelve years of life, and let him blast me
With all his thunderbolts, my work shall stand,
And mortals bless my name!

Alcestis.
Ah! dear Admetus,
Tempt not his wrath. Think on the piteous fate
Of demi-gods he hath struck. Apollo's self
Could but avenge, not save, his mighty son,
The healer Æsculapius. Other gods
Live in the mutable world than bright Apollo,
And brook not slighting. Think how oft his peers
Have filled with tears of rage his radiant eyes,
Bacchus for Orpheus, Zeus for Phaethon,
And other griefs he hath borne.

Admetus.
Twelve years of life,
To outdo my dreams, and I'll defy the thunder.
But I have honoured Zeus and all the gods;
They have no cause for jealousy. Come, my love,
Give to festivity thy ill-boding heart,
And doom me life to-day, if death to-morrow.
Come; the great image, where our fostering god
Lives, breathes and moves in gold and ivory,
A flame of glorious youth, a joy, a terror,
A power to save or slay—so cunningly
The dædal hand of Cresilas hath carved
The vision of his soul—awaits unveiling;
And then thou shalt behold such gracious games,
Such wrestling, running, whirling the swift disc,
Such ardent striving of our beauteous youth,
That thou wilt say we have peopled Thessaly
With demi-gods; and after thou shalt hear
Nine laurelled bards, the best of Greece, contend,
Singing the fate of Linus, lyre against lyre.

Alcestis.
Our songtide swells to its rich May. I have heard
Glycon shall have the vote.

Admetus.
The women love him,
And plot his crowning; but our old Chrysippus,
His eyes aglow with an immortal fire,
Vows to outsing himself. 'Twill be rare singing.
Come then! How, as we move, the people's smile
Follows us still, as sunflowers seek the light.
This is to be a king! Trust me, Alcestis,
I do believe that were my life at pawn,
The meanest here would give his own in fee,
To ransom me.

Alcestis.
That were bare duty in him;
Yet death's a dreadful word—a dreadful word,
Even for the wretch who drags his load of pain
Through the world's weary places. How much more
For men whom thou hast given the wine of life
To drink in many a comfortable cup!
Will they give back thy gifts?

[The sun becomes gradually darkened.
Voices in the Crowd.
Alas! a portent!

Admetus.
What mean these cries? What stirs the wavering crowd,
That they turn pale and stare?

Alcestis.
O, my dear Lord,
Look what a shade eats up the bounteous sun!
The light of Hades dims the fields; the flocks
Huddle together trembling; the scared birds
Fly wild; the lark drops like a plummet, dumb;
The hawk cowers like the sparrow! What is this?
O, if Zeus arms to smite thee, clasp me close,
And let us stand one undistinguished mark
For his stern thunder!

Admetus.
Nay, my dearest love,
Comfort thy fluttering heart. I fear no evil.
O men of Pheræ! wherefore stand ye so,
With knees that knock each other? Shame upon you!
O fearful herds, not men, where are your souls;
Your human magnanimity, that should keep
Its balanced calm, though heaven came ruining down,
And all the gods, riding the thunderstorm,
Should threaten earth with chaos! Learn to die,
When die ye must, with such heroic grace
As fits the victor in some glorious game,
And have the gods for praisers. Here's no dying,
Though darkness comes ere noon. Ye dread no ill,
When night by night Apollo's fiery steeds
Plunge in the western wave, and stable there,
In the cerulean caverns of the deep,
To wake renewed next morn; and there's a cave
In the blue fields of heaven, where, year by year,
Leaving his stithy in the nether glooms,
Hephæstus forges for the Lord of Day
His golden chariot-wheels. What wonder then
That on this sacred morn his chariot pauses
A moment in that cave, while those swift hands
Fix the far-flashing fellies? Wait awhile,
And ye shall mark that radiant car come forth
In twofold brightness. Come, reform your ranks!
We'll hail it with a hymn, then to the temple. [Enter a Priest of Apollo.

What bodes this pale vancourier of fate?
Speak thy news low, as for my private ear;
Scare not the crowd with omens.

Priest.
O great King,
May heaven avert such omens from thy head,
And from thy people!

Admetus.
What's the matter now,
That it hath set thee gasping, like a calf
Hurt with the steel of death?

Priest.
O, my good Lord,
The image of the god—

Admetus.
Well, hath it spoken,
That thou should'st look so ghastly?

Priest.
Nay, my Lord,
The oracle hath spoken.

Alcestis.
And spoken ill?

Admetus.
What of this image, and this oracle?

Priest.
Even as we waited for the virgins' song,
Bright herald of thy coming, this wan gloom
Came creeping o'er the temple; and thereon
A moaning wind from the oracular cave
Swept through the house of the god, and reft away
The linen veil, thine own revealing hand
Should shortly have withdrawn; and, like the sun
From out a cloud, that wonder dawned on us;
But it wept tears of blood! The gory drops
Stained the fair ivory cheeks, and heavily
Fell in warm rain even to the sandalled feet,
Curdling upon the marble pedestal.

Alcestis.
What may this mean?

Admetus.
What says the oracle?

Priest.
My tongue scarce dares to phrase it, uttering ill.

Admetus.
My ear dares hear what ill thy tongue can utter.

Priest.
Sinew thy heart to hear; for death is dreadful.

Alcestis.
Death!

Admetus.
Ha! thy word, it seems, imports my death.
If so, speak plainly.

Alcestis.
Death!

Priest.
Thy death, O King!

Alcestis.
O no, no, no! mine, mine, or any one's,
So not the King's! This oracle, whose voice
We have waited, as a mother for her babe's,
To murder us thus! Will the just gods so blast
The hope of the young world? O not the King's!
Thou hast mistook, old man.

Priest.
Alas! dear Lady,
Would that it bore mistaking! When the Fates
Cast up their doom, not Zeus himself shall dare
To meddle with their mind; and now, even now,
Stern Atropos, with dull averted eyes,
Opens all wide the inexorable shears,
Which closed shall cut Admetus' golden thread.
Two hours before yon mourning orb goes down,
Thy life must stagnate in a three days' trance,
Which only death shall end. Thus saith the oracle.
So my black news is told.

Alcestis.
O I grow faint!

[She faints.
Admetus.
Thy news has killed my Queen before myself.
Go some of you and fetch my chariot here,
To bear her to the palace. Sweet Alcestis!
Rise up, my love, and help thy Lord to die.
Go thou, see to these rites—what ceremonies
May fitly be performed, perform. The games
Shall hold, though I die viewing them.
[Exit Priest.
Alcestis!
Heart of my life, look up! Day's blessed star
Comes flaming forth once more, and tenderly
Kisses thy clustering tresses. O, for shame,
To lose one moment of this latest hour
That we may live together!

Alcestis.
Ah! too weak,
Too weak to be thy wife! This sudden woe!
What shall I do for thee?

Admetus.
Be strong, be strong!
Help me to die as doth befit a king;
And reign thou in my stead. 'Tis hard to bear
This envy of the Fates. Twelve years, twelve years!
And I had smiled in Hades' wintry eyes,
Leaving a nation fledged, a sceptre firm
In my son's capable hand; but now I feel them
Chill, chill; but 'tis not fear. I trust Eumelus
For noble nurture to the gods and thee.
All may be well without me. We're grown old,
And ripe for death, when we consign the world
To wreck without our steering.

Alcestis.
My fair world
Is wrecked already.

Admetus.
Nay, not wrecked, not wrecked—
Dear, I have much to say and much to do,
Ere this sun set—of minutes to make hours.

Alcestis.
Is there no hope in heaven? O bright Apollo,
Is there no hope!

Admetus.
None, none—what should there be?
Poison me not with hope, nor drug thyself.
To business, come! I must dismiss this crowd
That stares and wonders still. O, ye Pheræans,
Let calm words calm the trouble of your minds!
Behold how faithfully the genial sun
Has kept my promise, and through cloudless heaven
Showers twofold radiance from his golden wheels!
The flocks again feed tranquilly; the lark
Mounts with a blissful hymn; and will your veins
Hold longer than these creatures' of the field
The ice of a vain fear? Shout to your god
Harmonious greeting! Form your ranks again,
And onward to the temple. Come, your hymn!

[Exeunt Youths and Maidens processionally, singing.
Admetus.
(to crowd)
Follow the singers, friends. What now the gods
Reveal imports no danger to the state.
I am your bulwark, and what falls on me
My shoulders can sustain. A brief farewell;
We meet you at the arena. Come, my love!

[Exeunt.