IPHIGENIA AMONG THE TAURIANS
I have taken this story entirely from two plays of Euripides, the fifth-century tragic poet. No other writer tells the story in full. The happy end brought about by a divinity, the deus ex machina, is a common device with Euripides alone of the three tragic poets. According to our ideas it is a weakness; and certainly it is unnecessary in this case, where the same end could have been secured by merely omitting the head wind. Athena’s appearance, in point of fact, harms a good plot. A possible reason for this lapse on the part of one of the greatest poets the world has known is that the Athenians, who were suffering greatly at the time from the war with Sparta, were eager for miracles and that Euripides chose to humor them.
The Greeks, as has been said, did not like stories in which human beings were offered up, whether to appease angry gods or to make Mother Earth bear a good harvest or to bring about anything whatsoever. They thought about such sacrifices as we do. They were abominable. Any deity who demanded them was thereby proved to be evil, and, as the poet Euripides said, “If gods do evil then they are not gods.” It was inevitable therefore that another story should grow up about the sacrifice of Iphigenia at Aulis. According to the old account, she was killed because one of the wild animals Artemis loved had been slain by the Greeks and the guilty hunters could win back the goddess’s favor only by the death of a young girl. But to the later Greeks this was to slander Artemis. Never would such a demand have been made by the lovely lady of the woodland and the forest, who was especially the protector of little helpless creatures.
So gentle is she, Artemis the holy,
To dewy youth, to tender nurslings,
The young of all that roam the meadow,
Of all who live within the forest.
So another ending was given to the story. When the Greek soldiers at Aulis came to get Iphigenia where she was waiting for the summons to death, her mother beside her, she forbade Clytemnestra to go with her to the altar. “It is better so for me as well as for you,” she said. The mother was left alone. At last she saw a man approaching. He was running and she wondered why anyone should hasten to bring her the tidings he must bear. But he cried out to her, “Wonderful news!” Her daughter had not been sacrificed, he said. That was certain, but exactly what had happened to her no one knew. As the priest was about to strike her, anguish troubled every man there and all bowed their heads. But a cry came from the priest and they looked up to see a marvel hardly to be believed. The girl had vanished, but on the ground beside the altar lay a deer, its throat cut. “This is Artemis’ doing,” the priest proclaimed. “She will not have her altar stained with human blood. She has herself furnished the victim and she receives the sacrifice.” “I tell you, O Queen,” the messenger said, “I was there and the thing happened thus. Clearly your child has been borne away to the gods.”
But Iphigenia had not been carried to heaven. Artemis had taken her to the land of the Taurians (today the Crimea) on the shore of the Unfriendly Sea—a fierce people whose savage custom it was to sacrifice to the goddess any Greek found in the country. Artemis took care that Iphigenia should be safe; she made her priestess of her temple. But as such it was her terrible task to conduct the sacrifices, not actually herself kill her countrymen, but consecrate them by long-established rites and deliver them over to those who would kill them.
She had been serving the goddess thus for many years when a Greek galley put in at the inhospitable shore, not under stern necessity, storm-driven, but voluntarily. And yet it was known everywhere what the Taurians did to the Greeks they captured. An overwhelmingly strong motive made the ship anchor there. From it in the early dawn two young men came and stealthily found their way to the temple. Both were clearly of exalted birth; they looked like the sons of kings, but the face of one was deeply marked with lines of pain. It was he who whispered to his friend, “Don’t you think this is the temple, Pylades?” “Yes, Orestes,” the other answered. “It must be that bloodstained spot.”
Orestes here and his faithful friend? What were they doing in a country so perilous to Greeks? Did this happen before or after Orestes had been absolved of the guilt of his mother’s murder? It was some time after. Although Athena had pronounced him clear of guilt, in this story all the Erinyes had not accepted the verdict. Some of them continued to pursue him, or else Orestes thought that they did. Even the acquittal pronounced by Athena had not restored to him his peace of mind. His pursuers were fewer, but they were still with him.
In his despair he went to Delphi. If he could not find help there, in the holiest place of Greece, he could find it nowhere. Apollo’s oracle gave him hope, but only at the risk of his life. He must go to the Taurian country, the Delphic priestess said, and bring away the sacred image of Artemis from her temple. When he had set it up in Athens he would at last be healed and at peace. He would never again see terrible forms haunting him. It was a most perilous enterprise, but everything for him depended on it. At whatever cost he was bound to make the attempt and Pylades would not let him make it alone.
When the two reached the temple they saw at once that they must wait for the night before doing anything. There was no chance by day of getting into the place unseen. They retreated to keep under cover in some dark lonely spot.
Iphigenia, sorrowful as always, was going through her round of duties to the goddess when she was interrupted by a messenger who told her that the two young men, Greeks, had been taken prisoners and were to be sacrificed at once. He had been sent on to bid her make all ready for the sacred rites. The horror which she had felt so often seized her again. She shuddered at the thought, terribly familiar though it was, of the hideous bloodshed, of the agony of the victims. But this time a new thought came as well. She asked herself, “Would a goddess command such things? Would she take pleasure in sacrificial murder? I do not believe it,” she told herself. “It is the men of this land who are bloodthirsty and they lay their own guilt on the gods.”
As she stood thus, deep in meditation, the captives were led in. She sent the attendants into the temple to make ready for them, and when the three were alone together she spoke to the young men. Where was their home, she asked, the home which they would never see again? She could not keep her tears back and they wondered to see her so compassionate. Orestes told her gently not to grieve for them. When they came to the land they had faced what might befall them. But she continued questioning. Were they brothers? Yes, in love, Orestes replied, but not by birth. What were their names? “Why ask that of a man about to die?” Orestes said.
“Will you not even tell me what your city is?” she asked.
“I come from Mycenae,” Orestes answered, “That city once so prosperous.”
“The King of it was certainly prosperous,” Iphigenia said. “His name was Agamemnon.”
“I do not know about him,” Orestes said abruptly. “Let us end this talk.”
“No—no. Tell me of him,” she begged.
“Dead,” said Orestes. “His own wife killed him. Ask me no more.”
“One thing more,” she cried. “Is she—the wife—alive?”
“No,” Orestes told her. “Her son killed her.”
The three looked at each other in silence.
“It was just,” Iphigenia whispered shuddering; “just—yet evil, horrible.” She tried to collect herself. Then she asked, “Do they ever speak of the daughter who was sacrificed?”
“Only as one speaks of the dead,” Orestes said. Iphigenia’s face changed. She looked eager, alert.
“I have thought of a plan to help both you and me,” she said. “Would you be willing to carry a letter to my friends in Mycenae if I can save you?”
“No, not I,” Orestes said. “But my friend will. He came here only for my sake. Give him your letter and kill me.”
“So be it,” Iphigenia answered. “Wait while I fetch the letter.” She hurried away and Pylades turned to Orestes.
“I will not leave you here to die alone,” he told
him. “All will call me a coward if I do so. No. I love you—and I fear what men may say.”
“I gave my sister to you to protect,” Orestes said. “Electra is your wife. You cannot abandon her. As for me—it is no misfortune for me to die.” As they spoke to each other in hurried whispers, Iphigenia entered with a letter in her hand. “I will persuade the King. He will let my messenger go, I am sure. But first—” she turned to Pylades—“I will tell you what is in the letter so that even if through some mischance you lose your belongings, you will carry my message in your memory and bear it to my friends.”
“A good plan,” Pylades said. “To whom am I to bear it?”
“To Orestes,” Iphigenia said. “Agamemnon’s son.”
She was looking away, her thoughts were in Mycenae. She did not see the startled gaze the two men fixed on her.
“You must say to him,” she went on, “that she who was sacrificed at Aulis sends this message. She is not dead—”
“Can the dead return to life?” Orestes cried.
“Be still,” Iphigenia said with anger. “The time is short. Say to him, ‘Brother, bring me back home. Free me from this murderous priesthood, this barbarous land.’ Mark well, young man, the name is Orestes.”
“Oh God, God,” Orestes groaned. “It is not credible.”
“I am speaking to you, not to him,” Iphigenia said to Pylades. “You will remember the name?”
“Yes,” Pylades answered, “but it will not take me long to deliver your message. Orestes, here is a letter. I bring it from your sister.”
“And I accept it,” Orestes said, “with a happiness words cannot utter.”
The next moment he held Iphigenia in his arms. But she freed herself.
“I do not know,” she cried. “How can I know? What proof is there?”
“Do you remember the last bit of embroidery you did before you went to Aulis?” Orestes asked. “I will describe it to you. Do you remember your chamber in the palace? I will tell you what was there.”
He convinced her and she threw herself into his arms. She sobbed out, “Dearest! You are my dearest, my darling, my dear one. A baby, a little baby, when I left you. More than marvelous is this thing that has come to me.”
“Poor girl,” Orestes said, “mated to sorrow, as I have been. And you might have killed your own brother.”
“Oh, horrible,” Iphigenia cried. “But I have brought myself to do horrible things. These hands might have slain you. And even now—how can I save you? What god, what man, will help us?” Pylades had been waiting in silence, sympathetic, but impatient. He thought the hour for action had emphatically arrived. “We can talk,” he reminded the brother and sister, “when once we are out of this dreadful place.”
“Suppose we kill the King,” Orestes proposed eagerly, but Iphigenia rejected the idea with indignation. King Thoas had been kind to her. She would not harm him. At that moment a plan flashed into her mind, perfect, down to the last detail. Hurriedly she explained it and the young men agreed at once. All three then entered the temple.
After a few moments Iphigenia came out bearing an image in her arms. A man was just stepping across the threshold of the temple enclosure. Iphigenia cried out, “O King, halt. Stay where you are.” In astonishment he asked her what was happening. She told him that the two men he had sent her for the goddess were not pure. They were tainted, vile; they had killed their mother, and Artemis was angry.
“I am taking the image to the seashore to purify it,” she said. “And there, too, I will cleanse the men from their pollution. Only after that can the sacrifice be made. All that I do must be done in solitude. Let the captives be brought forth and proclaim to the city that no one may draw near to me.”
“Do as you wish,” Thoas answered, “and take all the time you need.” He watched the procession move off, Iphigenia leading with the image, Orestes and Pylades following, and attendants carrying vessels for the purifying rite. Iphigenia was praying aloud: “Maiden and Queen, daughter of Zeus and Leto, you shall dwell where purity is, and we shall be happy.” They passed out of sight on their way to the inlet where Orestes’ ship lay. It seemed as if Iphigenia’s plan could not fail.
And yet it did. She was able indeed to make the attendants leave her alone with her brother and Pylades before they reached the sea. They stood in awe of her and they did just what she bade them. Then the three made all haste and boarded the ship and the crew pushed it off. But at the mouth of the harbor where it opened out to the sea a heavy wind blowing landward struck them and they could make no headway against it. They were driven back in spite of all they could do. The vessel seemed rushing on the rocks. The men of the country by now were aroused to what was being done. Some watched to seize the ship when it was stranded; others ran with the news to King Thoas. Furious with anger, he was hurrying from the temple to capture and put to death the impious strangers and the treacherous priestess, when suddenly above him in the air a radiant form appeared—manifestly a goddess. The King started back and awe checked his steps.
“Stop, O King,” the Presence said. “I am Athena. This is my word to you. Let the ship go. Even now Poseidon is calming the winds and waves to give it safe passage. Iphigenia and the others are acting under divine guidance. Dismiss your anger.”
Thoas answered submissively, “Whatever is your pleasure, Goddess, shall be done.” And the watchers on the shore saw the wind shift, the waves subside, and the Greek ship leave the harbor, flying under full sail to the sea beyond.
II
The story of the Theban family rivals that of the House of Atreus in fame and for the same reason. Just as the greatest plays of Aeschylus, in the fifth century, are about Atreus’ descendants, so the greatest plays of his contemporary Sophocles are about Oedipus and his children.
CADMUS AND HIS CHILDREN
The tale of Cadmus and his daughters is only a prologue to the greater story. It was popular in classical days, and several writers told it in whole or part. I have preferred the account of Apollodorus, who wrote in the first or second century A.D. He tells it simply and clearly.
When Europa was carried away by the bull, her father sent her brothers to search for her, bidding them not to return until they had found her. One of them, Cadmus, instead of looking vaguely here and there, went very sensibly to Delphi to ask Apollo where she was. The god told him not to trouble further about her or his father’s determination not to receive him without her, but to found a city of his own. He would come upon a heifer when he left Delphi, Apollo said; he was to follow her and build his city at the spot where she lay down to rest. In this way Thebes was founded and the country round about got the name of the heifer’s land, Boeotia. First, however, Cadmus had to fight and kill a terrible dragon which guarded a spring near by and slew all his companions when they went to get water. Alone he could never have built the city, but when the dragon was dead Athena appeared to him and told him to sow the earth with the dragon’s teeth. He obeyed with no idea what was to happen, and to his terror saw armed men spring up from the furrows. However, they paid no attention to him, but turned upon each other until all were killed except five whom Cadmus induced to become his helpers.
With the aid of the five Cadmus made Thebes a glorious city and ruled over it in great prosperity and with great wisdom. Herodotus says that he introduced the alphabet into Greece. His wife was Harmonia, the daughter of Ares and Aphrodite. The gods graced their marriage with their presence and Aphrodite gave Harmonia a wondrous necklace which had been made by Hephaestus, the workman of Olympus, but which for all its divine origin was to bring disaster in a later generation.
They had four daughters and one son, and they learned through their children that the wind of the gods’ favor never blows steadily for long. All of their daughters were visited by great misfortunes. One of them was Semele, mother of Dionysus, who perished before the unveiled glory of Zeus. Ino was another. She was the wicked stepmother of Phrixus, the boy who was saved from death by the ram o
f the Golden Fleece. Her husband was struck with madness and killed their son, Melicertes. With his dead body in her arms she leaped into the sea. The gods saved them both, however. She became a sea-goddess, the one who saved Odysseus from drowning when his raft was shattered, and her son became a sea-god. In the Odyssey she is still called Ino, but later her name was changed to Leucothea and her son was called Palaemon. Like her sister Semele she was fortunate in the end. The two others were not. Both suffered through their sons. Agave was the most wretched of all mothers, driven mad by Dionysus so that she believed her son Pentheus was a lion and killed him with her own hands. Autonoe’s son was Actaeon, a great hunter. Autonoe was less wretched than Agave, in that she did not herself kill her son, but she had to endure his dying a terrible death in the strength of his young manhood, a death, too, completely undeserved; he had done no wrong.
He was out hunting and hot and thirsty entered a grotto where a little stream widened into a pool. He wanted only to cool himself in the crystal water. But all unknowing he had chanced upon the favorite bathing place of Artemis—and at the very moment when the goddess had let fall her garments and stood in her naked beauty on the water’s edge. The offended divinity gave not a thought to whether the youth had purposely insulted her or had come there in all innocence. She flung into his face drops from her wet hand and as they fell upon him he was changed into a stag. Not only outwardly. His heart became a deer’s heart and he who had never known fear before was afraid and fled. His dogs saw him running and chased him. Even his agony of terror could not make him swift enough to outstrip the keen-scented pack. They fell upon him, his own faithful hounds, and killed him.
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