Priam and the Trojans were vexed almost beyond endurance by this insolent speech of Palamedes, but they observed the courtesy due to envoys. The assembly adjourned, and one of the elders of Troy, wise Antenor, son of Aesyetes and Cleomestra, escorted the foreign princes to shield them from the insults of the crowd, conducted them to his house, and lodged them there with perfect hospitality until the following morning. Then he accompanied them to the shore, where they boarded the shining ships which had taken them to Troy.
AGAMEMNON AND IPHIGENIA
While the fleet was assembling at Aulis, Prince Agamemnon whiled away the time with the chase. One day an exquisite hind, a creature sacred to Artemis, came within shooting distance. Overcome with eagerness, Agamemnon aimed at her and hit the mark, saying boastfully that Artemis herself could not have done better. Vexed by his impious act, the goddess stilled the wind and caused a deep calm to fall on the bay of Aulis, where the Argives had assembled with ships and horses and chariots. The fleet lay idly on the waters as the days crept by. In their trouble the Danai turned to Calchas, their seer, the son of Thestor, for he had already done good service to his people and had come to accompany them on their expedition as priest and prophet. “If Agamemnon, the commander-in-chief of the Argives,” so said Calchas, “sacrifices to Artemis Iphigenia, his cherished daughter, whom Clytaemnestra bore him, the goddess will be appeased. A fair wind will rise, and heaven will put no further obstacle in the way of the destruction of Troy.”
When Agamemnon heard this, his courage sank. He sent for Talthybius of Sparta, the herald of the assembled Danai, and had him proclaim to all the peoples of Greece that Agamemnon was resigning his command over the Argive host because he did not wish to burden his conscience with the murder of his child, But when his resolve was announced to the Achaeans, they threatened revolt. Then Menelaus sought out his brother in his house and pictured to him the consequences of this decision and the disgrace which would cling to him, Menelaus, if his wife remained in the hands of the enemy. He marshalled so many arguments and presented them with such eloquence that Agamemnon at last consented to the monstrous deed.
He sent a message to his wife Clytaemnestra, in Mycenae, asking her to send Iphigenia to the army in Aulis, and gave as his reason for this odd request the pretext that before the fleet sailed for the coast of Troy the girl was to be betrothed to Peleus’ young son Achilles, the glorious prince of Phthyotis, of whose secret marriage to Deidamia no one knew. Scarcely had the messenger been dispatched, however, before Agamemnon began to be tormented by qualms of conscience. In an agony of doubt and remorse at his ill-considered act, he called an old and trusted servant to him that very night and gave him a letter for Clytaemnestra. In it he had written that she should not send their daughter to Aulis, that he had changed his plan and wished to postpone the betrothal until the spring. The servant hurried off with the letter, but he never reached his destination, for before dawn, before he even rose from his bed, he was seized by Menelaus, who had observed his brother’s indecision and kept a watchful eye on all he did.
When he had read the letter, he again went to his brother, the tablet in his hand. “Nothing in the world,” he called out to him resentfully, “is worse than a wavering will! Nothing is more unjust and more untrue! Do you not recall, my brother, how eagerly you wanted the command, how you burned with ill-concealed desire to lead the army to Troy? You feigned the greatest humility toward all the Argive princes and graciously shook hands with each and every one. Your doors were never bolted. The very humblest among the people could enter, and all this show of friendliness was only for the purpose of obtaining an office you had set your heart on. But when you had it, things became quite different. Then you no longer were the friend of your old friends, as before. It was not easy to find you in your house, and you rarely showed yourself to the army. This was not the behavior of an honorable man, who should be most loyal to his friends at a time when they have the greatest need of him. But what did you do? When you had come to Aulis with the Greek host, when you waited in vain for a fair wind, when the gods turned from you, and our men began to grumble and finally cried aloud: ‘Let us sail and not wait forever in Aulis,’ how your glance roved about in dismay, how helpless you were! It was then that you turned to me to devise a way out, lest you lose that fine office you were so proud of. And when Calchas, the soothsayer, bade you offer up your daughter to Artemis, it needed small urging for you to agree. You sent a message to your wife Clytaemnestra, asking her to send Iphigenia—ostensibly that she might be betrothed to Achilles. And now you are again evading the issue. You sent another message, declaring that you cannot bear to be the murderer of your child. But why should I be astonished at such indecision! There have been thousands like you, eager to get the rudder into their hands, but slack when they discover that the privilege of guiding others entails personal sacrifice. But I say that no one is fit to lead armies or to administer a state who is not resourceful and wise and who cannot maintain these qualities in the face of all the toil and turmoil life brings with it.”
Censure such as this, and from the lips of a brother, was not calculated to calm Agamemnon’s troubled heart. “Why reproach me so violently?” he asked. “Your eyes are bloodshot with excitement. Who do you think is out to offend you? What are you so disturbed about? Your charming wife Helen? I cannot restore her to you. Why did you not guard what is yours with greater watchfulness? You seem to think it was foolish of me to try, in a saner moment, to correct a mistake made impetuously. But it seems to me that it is far greater folly to try to regain a faithless wife you are well rid of. No, I shall never commit a crime against my own flesh and blood! As for you—it were far better you meted out punishment to adulterous Helen!”
The brothers were still quarrelling when a messenger arrived to announce to King Agamemnon the coming of his daughter Iphigenia, of her mother, and his little son Orestes, who had left soon after her. Hardly had the messenger departed when Agamemnon gave himself up to such hopeless despair that Menelaus, who had been standing a little apart, approached his brother and reached for his hand. Agamemnon gave it to him while the hot tears gushed from his eyes. “There it is, brother,” he said mournfully. “The victory is yours! I am destroyed!”
But now Menelaus swore to desist from his earlier demand. He even pleaded with him not to kill his child and declared that by no means would he injure and lose a beloved brother for the mere sake of Helen. “Do not wet your face with tears!” he cried. “If—through the oracle of the gods—I have a share in your daughter, I herewith reject it and cede it to you. Do not be astonished that my impulsive spirit has shifted from fury to brotherly love. For should not a man follow his better judgment when the waves of anger have ebbed from his heart?”
Agamemnon embraced his brother, but the destiny of his daughter was still uppermost in his mind. “I thank you,” he said. “That your noble spirit would bring us together again was more than I could hope for. Nonetheless, my fate is sealed. Iphigenia must die. All of Greece demands it. Calchas and crafty Odysseus have come to an understanding with each other. They will have the people on their side, kill you and me, and then slaughter the girl. And believe me, even if we fled to Argos, they would come and drag us from within the walls and raze to the ground the old city of the Cyclopes. And so, dear brother, I beg you to do nothing except keep the truth from Clytaemnestra until our child has been offered up in obedience to the oracle.”
And now the women approached. The brothers broke off their talk and Menelaus went away, deep in sorrowful thought.
The greeting between husband and wife was brief and, on Agamemnon’s part, cold and constrained. But the young girl clasped her arms about her father and her voice was full of love and joy as she exclaimed: “O father, how I have missed you! How happy I am to see you again!” Looking at him more closely she continued: “But why are your eyes so somber and full of care? You were always so glad to see me!”
“Enough, child,” Agamemnon answered, and
his heart was full to bursting. “A king has many burdens and much to vex him.”
“But now smooth those lines from your forehead and turn loving eyes upon your daughter!” said Iphigenia. “Oh, why are they wet with tears?”
“Because we must part for very long,” her father replied.
“How happy I should be if I could be your companion on this journey!” the girl said wistfully.
“You too will go on a journey,” Agamemnon said gravely. “But before that we must sacrifice—a sacrifice at which you shall be present, my daughter.” As he uttered these words, he was almost choked by tears. Then he sent the girl, who suspected no harm, to the house where her handmaids were lodged. When she had gone, Agamemnon forced himself to spin out a tale of lies to his inquisitive wife, who was overflowing with questions about the family and the wealth of the bridegroom he had selected for their daughter. As soon as he had escaped the flood of her queries, he sought out Calchas, the soothsayer, to confer with him on the details of this sacrifice, which now seemed inevitable.
In the meantime, evil chance brought Clytaemnestra face to face with Achilles, who was on his way to Agamemnon because his men, his Myrmidons, were openly rebelling at the long delay. Since she regarded him as her future son-in-law, she did not hesitate to greet him with cordial words and make mention of the coming ceremony. But Achilles drew back in amazement. “What is this wedding you speak of?” he asked. “I, for my part, have never wooed your daughter, and Agamemnon has certainly never encouraged me to do so.” At this Clytaemnestra realized that she had been deceived. She stood before Achilles doubtful and abashed. But he, with the ready warmth of youth, tried to comfort her in her dismay. “Do not be annoyed if some one has tried to play a trick on you,” he said. “Let it rest lightly on your spirit and forgive me if I hurt you with my frank words.” He was about to take leave of her reverently and go his way, when a servant, the trusted slave of Agamemnon and Clytaemnestra, the one Menelaus had waylaid with the letter, came toward the two from the house of the commander-in-chief.
“Listen!” he whispered breathlessly. “There is something you must know at once! Iphigenia’s father intends to kill her with his own hands!” And now the mother, shaken with terror and grief, learned from the lips of the slave the secret so carefully guarded from her. She threw herself at the feet of Peleus’ young son, clasped his knees like a suppliant, and moaned:
“It does not shame me to lie in the dust before you, I, a mortal, before you, the son of gods. A mother’s love makes short work of pride. O son of a goddess, save me and my child from despair! It is to you I brought her wreathed, thinking she was to become your wife. And even now, though I know it is not true, I still think of you as her bridegroom. By all you hold sacred, by your divine mother, I beseech you to help me rescue my child. There is no altar here at which I could take refuge! My only altar is your knees. You have heard the cruel deed Agamemnon is about to commit. You see that I am defenseless, a woman in the midst of a host of violent men. But if you aid us, all will yet be well!”
Achilles raised the queen with deep reverence and said: “Be of good courage, O Clytaemnestra. I was reared in the house of a man both devout and kind. At Chiron’s hearth I saw much simple goodness. I joyfully follow the sons of Atreus when they lead on to glory, but I obey no criminal commands! And so I shall protect you, as far as is within my power. Never shall your daughter, whose name has been coupled with mine, be given up to death. If she died as a result of the ruse which brought her here to a betrothal, I should hold myself guilty; I should consider myself a coward and the son of a rascal if I allowed my name to serve your husband as a pretext to murder his child.”
“Is this, indeed, what is in your heart?” cried Clytaemnestra, beside herself with happy relief. “Shall my daughter clasp your knees as well as I? It would not be maidenly, but if it pleases you, she will come to you chaste and proud as befits a freeborn princess.”
“No!” Achilles replied quickly. “Do not bring her to me, for that might give rise to rumors and evil gossip. A great army like this, with no cares and concerns of home to fill their minds, is fond of idle talk. Only have faith in me. I have never stooped to lies. May I myself perish if I do not save your child.” With this solemn assurance the son of Peleus left Clytaemnestra, who went straight to Agamemnon, her husband. She faced him with undisguised loathing.
He, not knowing that she had discovered his secret, greeted her with the ambiguous words: “Call your daughter from the house, for flour and water and the victim which is to fall by the sword before the wedding feast is begun—all these will soon be in readiness.”
“Indeed!” cried Clytaemnestra, and her eyes flashed ominously. “Come, Iphigenia, for you are well aware of your father’s design. And bring your little brother Orestes with you.” And when the girl came she continued: “See, Agamemnon, here she stands, obedient and at your mercy. But first let me ask you a question: tell me without evasion or lies whether you have plotted to kill your daughter and mine?”
For a long time the king stood silent. At last words broke from him: “O Fate, why have you revealed my secret?”
“Now hear me to the end,” said Clytaemnestra. “I shall pour out to you all that is rankling in my heart. Our marriage began with a crime. You carried me off by force, killed my first husband, took the child I was suckling and slew it. My brothers Castor and Polydeuces had already leaped on their horses and were pursuing you with a host of armed men. But my old father Tyndareus saved you when you implored his protection, and so you became my husband. You will have to grant me that I was always true to my marriage vows, a wife you could delight in at home and be proud of before strangers. Three daughters I bore you, and one son. And now you want to rob me of my eldest, and if you were asked why, you would have to reply: ‘So that Menelaus can recover that adultress of his.’ By all the gods, I implore you not to do this thing, lest I harden my heart against you. Do not harden yours against me! You want to sacrifice your daughter? What prayer will you utter as you slay her? What boon will you ask for yourself as she dies? A return as unlucky as the outset of your voyage? Or do you, perhaps, expect me to call blessings down upon you? I could not well invoke the gods in behalf of a murderer! Why must it be your own child that falls as a victim? Why do you not say to the Achaeans: ‘If you wish the fleet to go to Troy, cast lots to decide on whose daughter is to die.’ Why should I, your faithful wife, lose my child, while he in whose cause you are going to war, Menelaus, can freely rejoice in his daughter Hermione, while his faithless wife knows that her child is safe and well in Sparta? Tell me if I have said a single word that is untrue. But if you admit that I have spoken only what is true, then do not kill your daughter! Think! Listen to the counsel of your heart!”
And now Iphigenia knelt at her father’s feet, and her voice faltered as she spoke. “Had I the magic voice of Orpheus, which could move stones, my father, I should speak eloquent words to rouse your compassion. But alas! I have no arts; I can only weep and embrace your knees with my arms instead of the olive spray. Do not let me die so young! The light of earth is sweet. Do not compel me to see what is hidden in darkness. Try to remember how you caressed me when I was still a child. I can so well recall everything you said: that you hoped to marry me to a man of noble lineage, to see me flower into womanhood and greet you joyfully whenever you returned from your quests. Have you forgotten it all? By my mother who bore me in pain, and who now suffers far greater pain at the thought of losing me, I beg you to give up your awful purpose. What have Helen and Paris to do with me? Why must I die because he came to Greece? Oh, look at me! Kiss me, that dying I may have a sign of love from you, since my words cannot move you. Behold your son, my brother! He utters no word and only pleads in silence. He is still a little boy. But I am nearly grown. Soften your heart and have pity on me. For mortals there is nothing fairer than life! To live in misery is better than to die the most glorious death.”
But Agamemnon was firm in his resolve. Re
lentless as a rock he stood and said: “I feel compassion when it is lawful for me to do so. I love my children—only a madman would not! It is with a heavy heart that I carry out this sacrifice, but carry it out I must. You see the vast fleet under my command. You see the host of heroes who surround me. They will not find the way to Troy; they will not conquer the city unless I do what the oracle bids: unless I sacrifice my child. All those assembled here are determined to put an end to the rape of Argive women. They are firm in their resolve. If I refused to obey the order of the gods, they would kill me and then slay you as well. I have reached the bounds of my power. I am not yielding to Menelaus, my brother, but to all of Greece.”
The king did not wait to hear their further pleas, but left the women to themselves. Suddenly, through their weeping, they heard the clash of weapons. “That is Achilles!” Clytaemnestra exclaimed joyfully. But Iphigenia was ill at ease and vainly tried to hide from the youth her father had falsely proclaimed as her bridegroom. Accompanied by a number of armed followers, the son of Peleus strode into the hall.
“Unhappy daughter of Leda,” he called to the queen. “The camp is in open revolt. They ask the death of your child, and all but stoned me when I raised my voice in opposition to their insistent demands.”
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