Woman in the Nineteenth Century Part 35

The Achilles, in the first scene, is fine. A true Greek hero; not too good; all flushed with the pride of youth, but capable of G.o.dlike impulses. At first, he thinks only of his own wounded pride (when he finds Iphigenia has been decoyed to Aulis under the pretest of becoming his wife); but the grief of the queen soon makes him superior to his arrogant chafings. How well he says,

"_Far as a young man may_, I will repress So great a wrong!"

By seeing him here, we understand why he, not Hector, was the hero of the Iliad. The beautiful moral nature of Hector was early developed by close domestic ties, and the cause of his country. Except in a purer simplicity of speech and manner, he might be a modern and a Christian.

But Achilles is cast in the largest and most vigorous mould of the earlier day. His nature is one of the richest capabilities, and therefore less quickly unfolds its meaning. The impression it makes at the early period is only of power and pride; running as fleetly with his armor on as with it off; but sparks of pure l.u.s.tre are struck, at moments, from the ma.s.s of ore. Of this sort is his refusal to see the beautiful virgin he has promised to protect. None of the Grecians must have the right to doubt his motives, How wise and prudent, too, the advice he gives as to the queen's conduct! He will cot show himself unless needed. His pride is the farthest possible remote from vanity.

His thoughts are as free as any in our own time.

"The prophet? what is he? a man Who speaks, 'mong many falsehoods, but few truths, Whene'er chance leads him to speak true; when false, The prophet is no more."

Had Agamemnon possessed like clearness of sight, the virgin would not have perished, but Greece would have had no religion and no national existence.

When, in the interview with Agamemnon, the queen begins her speech, in the true matrimonial style, dignified though her gesture be, and true all she says, we feel that truth, thus sauced with taunts, will not touch his heart, nor turn him from his purpose. But when Iphigenia, begins her exquisite speech, as with the breathings of a lute,--

"Had I, my father, the persuasive voice Of Orpheus, &c.

Compel me not What is beneath to view. I was the first To call thee father; me thou first didst call Thy child. I was the first that on thy knees Fondly caressed thee, and from thee received The fond caress. This was thy speech to me:-- 'Shall I, my child, e'er see thee in some house Of splendor, happy in thy husband, live And flourish, as becomes my dignity?'

My speech to thee was, leaning 'gainst thy cheek, (Which with my hand I now caress): 'And what Shall I then do for thee? Shall I receive My father when grown old, and in my house Cheer him with each fond office, to repay The careful nurture which he gave my youth?'

These words are in my memory deep impressed; Thou hast forgot them, and will kill thy child."

Then she adjures him by all the sacred ties, and dwells pathetically on the circ.u.mstance which had struck even Menelaus.

"If Paris be enamored of his bride, His Helen,--what concerns it me? and how Comes he to my destruction?

Look upon me; Give me a smile, give me a kiss, my father; That, if my words persuade thee not, in death I may have this memorial of thy love."

Never have the names of father and daughter been uttered with a holier tenderness than by Euripides, as in this most lovely pa.s.sage, or in the "Supplicants," after the voluntary death of Evadne. Iphis says:

"What shall this wretch now do? Should I return To my own house?--sad desolation there I shall behold, to sink my soul with grief.

Or go I to the house of Capaneus?

That was delightful to me, when I found My daughter there; but she is there no more.

Oft would she kiss my check, with fond caress Oft soothe me. To a father, waxing old, Nothing is dearer than a daughter! Sons Have spirits of higher pitch, but less inclined To sweet, endearing fondness. Lead me then, Instantly lead me to my house; consign My wretched age to darkness, there to pine And waste away.

Old age, Struggling with many griefs, O, how I hate thee!"

But to return to Iphigenia,--how infinitely melting is her appeal to Orestes, whom she holds in her robe!

"My brother, small a.s.sistance canst thou give Thy friends; yet for thy sister with thy tears Implore thy father that she may not die.

Even infants have a sense of ills; and see, My father! silent though he be, he sues To thee. Be gentle to me; on my life Have pity. Thy two children by this beard Entreat thee, thy dear children; one is yet An infant, one to riper years arrived."

The mention of Orestes, then an infant, though slight, is of a domestic charm that prepares the mind to feel the tragedy of his after lot. When the queen says,

"Dost thou sleep, My son? The rolling chariot hath subdued thee; Wake to thy sister's marriage happily."

we understand the horror of the doom which makes this cherished child a parricide. And so, when Iphigenia takes leave of him after her fate is by herself accepted,--

"_Iphi_. To manhood train Orestes.

_Cly_. Embrace him, for thou ne'er shalt see him more.

_Iphi_. (_To Orestes_.) Far as thou couldst, thou didst a.s.sist thy friends,"--

we know not how to blame the guilt of the maddened wife and mother. In her last meeting with Agamemnon, as in her previous expostulations and anguish, we see that a straw may turn the balance, and make her his deadliest foe. Just then, came the suit of Aegisthus,--then, when every feeling was uprooted or lacerated in her heart.

Iphigenia's moving address has no further effect than to make her father turn at bay and brave this terrible crisis. He goes out, firm in resolve; and she and her mother abandon themselves to a natural grief.

Hitherto nothing has been seen in Iphigenia, except the young girl, weak, delicate, full of feeling, and beautiful as a sunbeam on the full, green tree. But, in the next scene, the first impulse of that pa.s.sion which makes and unmakes us, though unconfessed even to herself, though hopeless and unreturned, raises her at once into the heroic woman, worthy of the G.o.ddess who demands her.

Achilles appears to defend her, whom all others clamorously seek to deliver to the murderous knife. She sees him, and, fired with thoughts unknown before, devotes herself at once for the country which has given birth to such a man.

"To be too fond of life Becomes not me; nor for myself alone, But to all Greece, a blessing didst thou bear me.

Shall thousands, when their country's injured, lift Their s.h.i.+elds? shall thousands grasp the oar and dare, Advancing bravely 'gainst the foe, to die For Greece? And shall my life, my single life, Obstruct all this? Would this be just? What word Can we reply? Nay more, it is not right That he with all the Grecians should contest In fight, should die, _and for a woman_. No!

More than a thousand women is one man Worthy to see the light of day.

* * * for Greece I give my life.

Slay me! demolish Troy! for these shall be Long time my monuments, my children these, My nuptials and my glory."

This sentiment marks Woman, when she loves enough to feel what a creature of glory and beauty a true _Man_ would be, as much in our own time as that of Euripides. Cooper makes the weak Hetty say to her beautiful sister:

"Of course, I don't compare you with Harry. A handsome man is always far handsomer than any woman." True, it was the sentiment of the age, but it was the first time Iphigenia had felt it. In Agamemnon she saw _her father_; to him she could prefer her claim. In Achilles she saw a _Man_, the crown of creation, enough to fill the world with his presence, were all other beings blotted from its s.p.a.ces.

[Footnote: Men do not often reciprocate this pure love.

"Her prentice han' she tried on man, And then she made the la.s.ses o',"

is a fancy, not a feeling, in their more frequently pa.s.sionate and strong than n.o.ble or tender natures.]

The reply of Achilles is as n.o.ble. Here is his bride; he feels it now, and all his vain vaunting are hushed.

"Daughter of Agamemnon, highly blest Some G.o.d would make me, if I might attain Thy nuptials. Greece in thee I happy deem, And thee in Greece.

* * * in thy thought Revolve this well; death is a dreadful thing."

How sweet it her reply,--and then the tender modesty with which she addresses him here and elsewhere as "_stranger_"

"Reflecting not on any, thus I speak: Enough of wars and slaughters from the charms Of Helen rise; but die not thou for me, O Stranger, nor distain thy sword with blood, But let me save my country if I may.

_Achilles_. O glorious spirit! naught have I 'gainst this To urge, since such thy will, for what thou sayst Is generous. Why should not the truth be spoken?"

But feeling that human weakness may conquer yet, he goes to wait at the alter, resolved to keep his promise of protection thoroughly.

In the next beautiful scene she shows that a few tears might overwhelm her in his absence. She raises her mother beyond weeping them, yet her soft purity she cannot impart.

"_Iphi_. My father, and my husband do not hate; _Cly_. For thy dear sake fierce contest must he bear.

_Iphi_. For Greece reluctant me to death he yields; _Cly_. Basely, with guile unworthy Atreus' son."