ALCESTIS chose to die for her husband. We are often told that soldiers die for their country, that reformers and men of science lay down their lives for us. Who commands them? Whence, and how do they receive the command?
The story of Alcestis has been retold many times. When her husband, Admetus, King of Thessaly, was mortally ill, a message came from Apollo saying that he would live if someone volunteered to die in his stead. Alcestis assumes the sacrifice and dies. The mighty Hercules happened to arrive at the palace during the funeral; he descended into the underworld, strove with Death, and brought her back to life. The second act of my play retells this story. There is, however, another legend involving King Admetus. Zeus, the father of gods and men, commanded Apollo to descend to earth and to live for one year as a man among men. Apollo chose to live as a herdsman in the fields of King Admetus. This story serves as the basis of my first act. My third act makes free use of the tradition that Admetus and Alcestis in their old age were supplanted by a tyrant and lived on as slaves in the palace where they had once been rulers.
On one level, my play recounts the life of a woman—of many women—from bewildered bride to sorely tested wife to overburdened old age. On another level it is a wildly romantic story of gods and men, of death and hell and resurrection, of great loves and great trials, of usurpation and revenge. On another level, however, it is a comedy about a very serious matter.
These old legends seem at first glance to be clear enough. One would say that they had been retold for our edification; they are exemplary. Yet on closer view many of them—the stories of Oedipus, of the sacrifice of Isaac, of Cassandra—give the impression of having been retained down the ages because they are ambiguous and puzzling. We are told that Apollo loved Admetus and Alcestis. If so, how strangely he exhibited it. It must make for considerable discomfort to have the god of the sun, of healing and song, housed among one’s farm workers. And why should divine love impose on a devoted couple the decision as to which should die for the other? And why (though the question has been asked so many millions of times) should the omnipotent friend permit some noble human beings to end their days in humiliation and suffering?
Following some meditations of Søren Kierkegaard, I have written a comedy about the extreme difficulty of any dialogue between heaven and earth, about the misunderstandings that result from the “incommensurability of things human and divine.” Kierkegaard described God under the image of “the unhappy lover.” If He revealed Himself to us in His glory, we would fall down in abasement, but abasement is not love. If He divested Himself of the divine attributes in order to come nearer to us, that would be an act of condescension. This is a play about how Apollo searched for a language in which he could converse with Admetus and Alcestis and with their innumerable descendants; and about how Alcestis, through many a blunder, learned how to listen and interpret the things that Apollo was so urgently trying to say to her.
Yet I am aware of other levels, and perhaps deeper ones that will only become apparent to me later.
The Alcestiad
CHARACTERS
APOLLO
DEATH
FIRST WATCHMAN
ALCESTIS
AGLAIA
TEIRESIAS
BOY
ADMETUS
FIRST HERDSMAN
SECOND HERDSMAN
THIRD HERDSMAN
FOURTH HERDSMAN
RHODOPE
HERCULES
SECOND WATCHMAN
EPIMENES
CHERIANDER
AGIS
FIRST GUARD
SECOND GUARD
THIRD GUARD
FOURTH GUARD
SERVANTS
PEOPLE OF THESSALY
SETTING
The rear court of the palace of Admetus, King of Thessaly.
ACT I
No curtain, except at the end of Act III and after The Drunken Sisters. All three acts of The Alcestiad take place in the rear court of the palace of Admetus, King of Thessaly, many centuries before the Great Age of Greece. Each act begins at dawn and ends at sunset of the same day.
The palace is a low, squat house of roughly dressed stone, with a flat roof. There is a suggestion of a portico, however, supported by sections of the trunks of great trees. The palace doors are of wood and a gilded ox skull is affixed to each of them. Before these doors is a platform with low steps leading down to the soil floor of the courtyard.
The front of the palace fills the left three-quarters of the back of the stage. The rest of the stage is enclosed by clay-brick walls. In the wall to the right is a large wooden gate leading to the road outside and to the city of Pherai. The wall on the left is less high; a small door in it leads to the servants’ quarters.
From the front center of the stage a path leads down (descending to the right) to what in a conventional theatre would be the orchestra pit. At the bottom of this path is a “grotto”—a spring with practical flowing water; a bronze door to the Underworld, overhung by vines, but large enough for actors to pass through. Here is also (not seen, only assumed) the snake Pytho.
First streaks of dawn.
Gradually a light rises to brilliancy, revealing Apollo standing on the roof of the palace. He wears a costume of gold with a long, dark blue mantle over his right shoulder. A blue light begins to glow from the entrance to Hell, down by the spring. Death—in a garment of large black patches, in which he looks like a bat or a beetle—comes waddling up the path and sniffs at the gate left and at the palace gate.
Throughout the scene Apollo gazes off toward the rising sun—cool, measured, and with a faint smile on his lips.
APOLLO (Like a “Good morning”): Death!
DEATH: Aaah! You are here! The palace of Admetus has an honored guest! We are to have a wedding here today. What a guest! Or have you come to steal the bride away, illustrious Apollo?
APOLLO: Death, you live in the dark.
DEATH: I do, I do. Have you come, Lord Apollo, to show us some great sign, some wonder today?
(The Night Watchman, sounding his rattle and carrying a waxed parchment lantern, comes around the palace, up center.)
WATCHMAN (Singsong): The watch before dawn, and all is well in the palace of Admetus the Hospitable, King of Thessaly, rich in horses. (Starting to go off left) Dawn. The day of the wedding—of the greatest of all weddings. (Exit left into the servants’ quarters)
DEATH: I was asking, Lord Apollo, if you had come to show us some great wonder. (Pause) Yes? No? “Yes,” I hope. When the gods come near to men, sooner or later someone is killed. Am I to welcome some admired guest in my kingdom today? Am I to have King Admetus or the Princess Alcestis?
APOLLO: No.
DEATH: I shall watch and hope. (He waddles to the center) In which of your powers and capacities are you here today, may I ask? As healer? (Pause) As bringer of light and life? (Pause) As singer?
APOLLO (Still gazing off; casually): They are all one and the same. I have come to set a song in motion—a story—
DEATH: —A story!
APOLLO: A story that will be told many times . . .
DEATH: Ah! A lesson! Will there be a lesson in it for me?
APOLLO: Yes.
DEATH (Beating with his flippers on the ground): No!
APOLLO: Yes. You are to learn something.
DEATH (Scuttling about in rage): No! There is no lesson you can teach me. I am here forever, and I do not change. It’s you Gods of the Upper Air that need lessons. And I’ll read you a lesson right now. (Shrilly) Leave these human beings alone. Stay up on Mount Olympus, where you belong, and enjoy yourselves. I’ve watched this foolishness coming over you for a long time. You made these creatures and then you became infatuated with them. You’ve thrown the whole world into confusion and it’s getting worse every day. All you do is to torment them—who knows better than I? (He waddles back to the top of the path, shaking himself furiously) They will never understand your language. The more you try to say something, the more yo
u drive them distraught.
APOLLO: They have begun to understand me. At first they were like the beasts—more savage, more fearful. Like beasts in a cage, themselves the cage to themselves. Then two things broke on their minds and they lifted their heads: my father’s thunder, which raised their fears to awe; and my sunlight, for which they gave thanks. In thanks they discovered speech, and I gave them song. These were signs and they knew them. First one, then another, knew that I prompted their hearts and was speaking.
DEATH: Yes, they’re not like they used to be: “Apollo loves Thessaly. Apollo loves the house of Pherai.” Go back to Olympus, where you belong. All this loving . . . It’s hard to tell which is the unhappier—you or these wretched creatures. When you try to come into their lives you’re like a giant in a small room: with every movement you break something. And whom are you tormenting today? The king? Or his bride?
APOLLO: You.
DEATH: Me? Me? So you’ve decided to love me, too? No, thank you!
(He flaps all his flippers, scrambles down the path, then scrambles up again; shrilly) You can’t trouble me, and you can’t give me any lessons. I and my Kingdom were made to last forever. How could you possibly trouble me?
APOLLO: You live in the dark and you cannot see that all things change.
DEATH (Screaming): Change! There’ll be no change.
(He looks around in apprehension) It’s getting light. And this story you’re starting today is about a change? A change for me?
APOLLO: For you and for me.
DEATH (Disappearing into his cave, with one last sneering scream): For you!
(The light on Apollo fades and he disappears. The Watchman returns on his rounds. He shakes his rattle, then blows out the lamp.)
WATCHMAN: Dawn. Dawn. And all is well in the palace of Admetus the Hospitable, King of Thessaly, rich in horses.
(Descends toward audience) It is the day of the wedding, the greatest of all weddings, and all is not well. Why can’t she sleep—the princess, the bride, our future queen? Eight, ten times during the night, I’ve found her here—wandering about, looking at the sky. Sometimes she goes out into the road, as though she were waiting for a messenger. She stands here and raises her arms—whispers: “Apollo! A sign! One sign!” Sign of what? That she is right to marry King Admetus? Eh! Where will she find clearer signs than those written on his face? Oh, I have lived a long time. I know that a bride can be filled with fears on the night before her wedding. But to be afraid of our Admetus who has won her hand in such a wonderful way that all Greece is amazed. Oh, my friends, take an old watchman’s advice. Don’t meditate upon the issues of life at three in the morning. At that hour no warmth reaches your heart and mind. At that hour—huuu—you see your house in flames and your children stretched out dead at your feet. Wait until the sun rises. The facts are the same—the facts of a human life are the same—but the sunlight gives them a meaning. Take the advice of a night watchman. Now I want a drink of water. (He descends to the spring and greets the snake Pytho) Good day to you, Pytho, old friend. It will be a great day for you, too. You shall have a part in the marriage banquet—a great sheep, or half an ox. Now come! Leave my hands free to make the offering.
(He lets the water slip through his cupped hands. And mumbles the ritual: “You sources of life—earth, air, fire and water . . .” Then he scoops once more and drinks. He addresses the audience.)
Look, friends. Do you see this cave under the vines? This is one of the five entrances into Hell, and our good Pytho is here to guard it. No man has ever entered it, and no man has ever come out of it. That’s what it is—merely one of the ten thousand things we do not understand.
(He drinks again. Shriek of a slain animal.)
Well, the great day has begun. They are slaughtering the animals for the feast. The cooks are building great fires. The meadows are filled with the tents of kings and of chiefs who have come to celebrate the wedding of King Admetus, and of the Princess Alcestis, daughter of Pelias, King of Iolcos.
(He starts up the path. Alcestis, in white, glides out of the palace doors. Animal cries.)
Hsst! There she is again!
(He hides on the path below the level of the stage. Alcestis comes to the center of the stage, raises her arms, and whispers:)
ALCESTIS: Apollo! A sign! One sign!
(She goes out the gate, right, leading to the road.)
WATCHMAN (Softly to the audience, mimicking her): Apollo! One sign!
(Animal cries. Aglaia, the old nurse, comes out quickly from the palace. She looks about, sees the Watchman.)
AGLAIA (Whispers): Where is the princess? (He points) All night—this restlessness, this unhappiness! “Apollo! One sign!”
WATCHMAN: “Apollo! One sign!”
(Alcestis comes in from the gate, in nervous decisiveness.)
ALCESTIS: Watchman!
WATCHMAN: Yes, Princess?
ALCESTIS: Find my drivers. Tell them to harness the horses for a journey. Aglaia, call together my maids; tell them to get everything ready.
AGLAIA: A journey, Princess—on your wedding day, a journey?
ALCESTIS (Who has swept by her; from the palace steps): Aglaia, I have no choice in this. I must go. Forgive me. No, hate me; despise me—but finally forget me.
AGLAIA: Princess, the shame—and the insult to King Admetus.
ALCESTIS: I know all that, Aglaia. Aglaia, when I have gone, tell the king—tell Admetus—that I take all the shame; that I do not ask him to forgive me, but to despise me and forget me.
AGLAIA: Princess, I am an old woman. I am no ordinary slave in this house. I nursed the child Admetus and his father before him.
(To the Watchman) Watchman, leave us alone. (Exit Watchman) You do not know King Admetus. In all Greece and the Islands you would not find a better husband.
ALCESTIS: I know this.
AGLAIA: You will find men who are more warlike, more adventurous, stronger perhaps—but not one more just, more . . . more beloved.
ALCESTIS: All this I know, Aglaia. I, too, love Admetus. Because of that I am doubly unhappy. But there is One I love more.
AGLAIA: Another? Another man? Above Admetus? Then go, Princess, and go quickly. We have been mistaken in you. You have no business here. If you have no eyes; if you have no mind; if you cannot see—(Harshly)—Watchman! Watchman! Everything will be ready for your journey, Princess. But go quickly.
ALCESTIS: No, Aglaia, not another man. The thing that I love more than Admetus is . . . is a God. Is Apollo.
AGLAIA: Apollo?
ALCESTIS: Yes. Since a young girl I have had only one wish—to be his priestess at Delphi.
(She despairs of expressing herself. Then suddenly cries, with passion:) I wish to live in the real. With one life to live, one life to give—not these lives we see about us: fever and pride and . . . and possessionship—but in the real; at Delphi, where the truth is.
AGLAIA: But the God has not called you? (Pause) The God has not sent for you?
ALCESTIS (Low; in shame): No.
AGLAIA: And this real—it is not real enough to be the wife of Admetus, the mother of his children, and the Queen of Thessaly?
ALCESTIS: Any woman can be wife and mother; and hundreds have been queens. My husband. My children. To center your life upon these five or six, to be bound and shut in with everything that concerns them . . . each day filled—so filled—with the thousand occupations that help or comfort them, that finally one sinks into the grave loved and honored, but as ignorant as the day one was born—
AGLAIA: —Ignorant?
ALCESTIS: Knowing as little of why we live and why we die—of why the hundred thousand live and die—as the day we were born.
AGLAIA (Dryly): And that you think you can learn at Delphi? But the God has not called you.
ALCESTIS (In shame): I sent offerings . . . messages . . . offerings . . . (Pause) I was my father’s favorite daughter. He wished me never to marry, but to remain with him until his death. But suitors came t
o seek my hand from all Greece. He imposed upon them an impossible task. He required of them that they yoke together a lion and a boar and drive them thrice about the walls of our city of Iolcos. They came from all Greece: Jason came, and Nestor; Hercules, son of Zeus, came; and Atreus. And all failed. Month after month the new suitors failed and barely escaped with their lives. My father and I sat at the city gates and my father laughed. And I smiled—not because I wished to live with my father, but because I wished for only this one thing: to live and die as a priestess of Apollo at Delphi.
AGLAIA: And then Admetus came. And he drove the lion and the boar—like mild oxen he drove them about the city; and won your hand, Princess.
ALCESTIS: But I loved Apollo more.
AGLAIA: Yes. But it was Apollo who made this marriage.
ALCESTIS: We cannot know that.
AGLAIA: The sign you are asking for, Princess, is before you—the clearest of signs. (Drastically) You have not been called to Delphi: you cannot read the simplest words of the God.
(Alcestis shields her face) Now listen to what I am telling you: were you not amazed that Admetus was able to yoke together the lion and the boar? Where Atreus failed, and Hercules, son of Zeus? I will tell you how he did it: in a dream, the God Apollo taught him how to yoke together a lion and a boar. (Alcestis takes two steps backward) First, he saw and loved you. Before he returned to Iolcos that second time—after his first failure—he fell ill. Love and despair brought him to the point of death—and I nursed him. Three nights he lay at the point of death. And the third night, I was sitting beside him—his agony and his delirium—and I heard, I saw, that in a dream Apollo was teaching him to yoke together a lion and a boar. (Alcestis gazes at her) This is true. I swear it is true.
ALCESTIS: True, yes—but we have heard enough of these deliriums and dreams, fevers and visions. Aglaia, it is time we asked for certainties. The clear open presence of the God—that is at Delphi.
The Collected Short Plays of Thornton Wilder, Volume II Page 15
