Sophocles (Collins)/Chapter 6
CHAPTER VI.
THE MAIDENS OF TRACHIS.
This play, like many of the Greek tragedies, takes its name not from the plot or the hero, but from the personages of the Chorus—that very important element in the Greek drama. The vague title tells nothing to an English reader, but every Athenian knew, at least by name, the little Thessalian town of Trachis, nestling at the foot of Mount Œta, not far from the famous pass of Thermopylæ; and many, like Plutarch, had visited the spot, and seen for themselves what tradition had consecrated as the tomb of Dejanira. But what, after all, mattered to them the title of the play, even if Trachis had been as distant as Babylon, when its subject was perhaps the best-known story in all mythology?
Hercules in his wanderings had come to Pleuron in Ætolia. There he saw and fell in love with Dejanira, the king's daughter, whose hand was sought by a suitor of a strange sort—the river-god Achelous. This potent rival had, as she tells us, wooed her in various shapes (none of them, it must be confessed, attractive),—now coming as a bull, now as a scaly dragon, now in human form, with a bull's head, "with streams of water flowing from his shaggy beard." Hercules wrestled with Achelous, while the maiden looked on at a prudent distance; and the river-god, after being nearly strangled and losing one of his horns, gave way, and the victor bore away his bride in triumph. On their way homewards they came to the river Evenus, where the centaur Nessus dwelt, who was wont to carry travellers across. Hercules himself breasted the stream, and reached the further bank in safety, carrying his lion's skin, his bow, and the famous arrows which had been dipped in the poison of the hydra. Hearing a cry, he looked back, and saw Nessus offering violence to Dejanira, as he was bearing her across. Ovid—who has told the whole story—describes the prompt vengeance of the hero, as the centaur tries to fly. "Think not, thou," exclaims Hercules—
"With all the speed of all thy hoofs to 'scape!
My wounds are swifter than my feet!' The act
Followed the word, and through his flying back
Impelled before his breast the barb outstood.
And as he plucked it thence, from either wound
Mingled with Lerna's venom gushed the blood,
And steeped his mantle's fold. 'Not unavenged,'
He muttered, 'will I perish!' and to her
He would have ravished gave the robe, yet warm
With poisoned gore, and bade her with that gift
At need assure her husband's wavering love."[1]
Dejanira herself comes forward, and, as the single actor was wont to do in the earlier drama, tells the audience the history of her troubles. All these years of her married life, though her husband has treated her kindly, and children have been born to her, she has known little peace of mind. Hercules was constantly absent, fulfilling the labours imposed on him by Eurystheus. He was seldom at Trachis, and saw his children as rarely as "the husbandman who visits his distant fields at seed-time and at harvest." For fifteen months he has now been away from home, and his wife is sorely troubled at heart; for on his last departure he had made disposition of his wealth, and left with her a tablet, on which was engraved an oracle to the effect that the next year would be the crisis of his life—bringing him either death or rest from all his toils. But month after month has passed, and still Dejanira has heard nothing of her husband, and she fears the worst.
Then her eldest son Hyllus enters, and bids his mother be of good cheer, for Hercules is even now close at hand, in the island of Eubœa, which could almost be seen from Trachis. There, as rumour said, he was making war on the town of Eurytus; and there, at the suggestion of Dejanira, Hyllus sets out, like Telemachus, to obtain more certain tidings of his father.
The Chorus enter—young girls from the town of Trachis; and in their opening song they endeavour to console and reassure their neighbour with warm sympathy. They beseech the Sun-god to tell them where the hero is at that moment.
"Thou flaming Sun! whom spangled Night,
Self-destroying, brings to light,
Then lulls to sleep again;
Bright Herald, girt with beaming rays,
Say, where Alcmena's offspring strays;
Say, lurks he on the main?
Or lays his head to rest
On Europe or on Asia's breast?
In pity deign reply,
Thou of the lordly eye!
His bride, erst won by desperate fray,
Muses where lies his dangerous way;
Like some sad bird, her soul is set
On constancy and vain regret;
Sleep never seals those eyes, where woe
Lies all too deep for tears to flow,
While thought and boding Fancy's dread
Flit ever round her lonely bed.
Oft when the northern blast,
Or southern winds unwearied rave,
Ye see the ocean cast
In quick succession wave on wave;
So to whelm old Cadmus' son,
Rush redoubled labours on,
Thick as round the Cretan shore
The swoln and turbid billows roar:
Yet his step from Pluto's halls
Still some unerring God recalls.
My Queen! disdain not thou to brook
My chidings kind, and soft rebuke,
Nor cast away, in morbid mood,
The cheering hope of future good.
For universal nature's lord,
Saturn's great, son, by all adored,
Enjoyment willed not to bestow
On human lot, unmixed with woe:
Grief and delight, in endless change,
Bound man in mazy circles range,
Like never-setting stars, that roll
In ceaseless courses round the pole.
Soon spangled night must yield to day,
Soon wealth, soon trouble flits away;
In turn, so fixed the eternal plan,
Bliss and bereavement wait on man.
My Queen! on hope thy soul be stayed,
Nor yield thee to despair;
When hath not Jove his children made
His providential care?"—(A.)
But Dejanira, though she appreciates their kindness, is but half-convinced by the words of the Chorus. They are but young girls, she says, and know little of the sad experiences of a wife and mother. Night after night she has started up in an agony of terror, lest she should be bereaved of the "noblest man on earth;" and that mysterious tablet causes her grave misgivings.
Suddenly comes a messenger with good news. Hercules is not only alive, but is on the point of returning home after victory, and has sent his herald Lichas with the captives on before him. Then Lichas himself enters, and behind him follow a train of women, the unfortunate prizes of the war. Dejanira turns eagerly to the herald. "Tell me," she asks, "O dearest of messengers, what I most wish to know,—shall I receive Hercules again alive?" "Yes," is the answer; "I left him alive and strong, and smitten of no disease." Dejanira is made happy by the answer—so happy, that she fears some fresh disaster. She cannot help contrasting her own joy with the forlorn and helpless state of these captive women. Heaven grant, is her prayer, such sorrow may never come on her or hers!
Then her attention is caught by one of the captives standing somewhat apart from the others, and a woman's instinct impels her to ask of Lichas the name and history of this pale and graceful stranger—
"For, more than all, my own heart pities her,
And, more than all, her soul is quick to feel."—(P.)
But Lichas professes ignorance. He knows nothing of this maiden, except that she has done nothing but weep and wring her hands ever since she left her home on the "windy heights" of Œchalia; and she has been possessed by a dumb spirit, and will answer no questions. And then he leads his retinue off the stage.
Then the same old messenger who had preceded the herald enters again. He is, as M. Girardin terms him, an "indiscreet Iago,"[2] whose meddlesome loquacity produces graver mischief than the machinations of a hardened villain. With a mysterious and important air he begs an audience; he tells his mistress that Lichas has deceived her; that this fair and graceful maiden is none other than Iole, the daughter of Eurytus; and that it was love of her which had impelled Hercules to attack and storm Œchalia. Such is the whole truth, concludes this ancient mischief-maker, which it has been his painful duty to tell—at all costs.
Lichas now comes to ask his mistress if she has any parting message for Hercules; and Dejanira confronts him with his falsehood. He protests and denies, and repeats his former story. Then Dejanira, with a woman's duplicity, bids him speak out and fear nothing. She knows the ways of men—she knows the power of love—she knows the amorous temper of her husband:—
"Has he not,
Our Hercules, of all the men that lived,
Wedded most wives, and yet not one of them
Has had from me or evil speech or taunt?
Nor will she have; though she in love for him
Should melt and pine—for lo! I pitied her
When first I saw her, for her beauty's sake:
For it, I knew, had wrecked her life's fond hope,
And she, poor soul, against her will, had wrought
The ruin of her fatherland, and brought
Its people into bondage. Let all this
Go to the winds. For thee, I bid thee, I,
Be false to others, but to me be true."—(P.)
Lichas is completely deceived by this speech, and is persuaded that Dejanira will resign herself quietly to her fate. Accordingly he confirms what the messenger had already told her; but, like a good servant, he makes out the best case he can for his master.
"Well then, dear mistress, since I see that thou,
Being human, hast a human heart, and know'st
No stubborn purpose, I will tell thee all,
The whole truth, nought concealing. All is so
As this man tells thee. Strong desire for her
Did seize on Heracles, and so her land,
Œchalia, was laid waste by armed host,
And brought full low. And this (for I must tell
His doings also) he nor bade conceal
Nor yet denied; but I myself, dear lady,
Fearing to grieve thy heart with these my words,
Did sin, if thou dost count it as a sin.
And now, since thou dost know the whole of things
For his sake and for thine, full equally
Treat the girl kindly, and those words of thine
Thou saidst of her, be firm and true to them;
For he whose might prevails in all things else,
In all is conquered by his love for her."—(P.)
Then he takes his leave. Dejanira bethinks herself of some means by which she may recall the waning affections of her husband, and she remembers that she has still preserved the blood which had flowed from the wound of Nessus, but has never yet used it, though the Centaur had assured her it would prove a resistless love-charm. After taking counsel with the Chorus, who advise her to make experiment before putting her project into action, she smears an embroidered robe with the blood, and intrusts it to Lichas, with strict charge that none should wear it before Hercules himself:—
"Nor must the light of sunshine look on it,
Nor sacred shrine, nor flame of altar hearth,
Before he stands, conspicuous, showing it
On day of sacrifice, in sight of gods.
For so I vowed, if I should see him safe
At home, or hear his safety well assured,
To clothe him with this tunic, and send forth
The glorious worshipper in glorious robe."—(P.)
But hardly has Lichas departed, carrying with him the fatal gift, than Dejanira enters again in an agony of alarm. She had, according to the Centaur's instructions, kept the blood in a bronze vessel "untouched by foe or sunlight"—even when she smeared it on the robe, it had been in a dark chamber within the house; but she had thrown the wisp of wool which she had used for the purpose on the ground in the sunshine. There it had melted and crumbled into dust in a strange fashion—
"And from the earth where it had lain, there oozed
Thick clots of foam, as when in vintage bright
Rich must is poured upon the earth from vine
Sacred to Bacchus; and I know not now
Which way of thought to turn, but see too well
That I have done a deed most perilous."—(P.)
Why, she reasons, should the Centaur have wished her well? No—the philtre must have been given with a purpose, and her husband will die of that "black poison" in which his own arrows have been steeped.
And at that moment Hyllus rushes in, and charges her with being his father's murderess. He has just come from witnessing the agony which had convulsed Hercules in the midst of his triumphal sacrifice to Jove. The blaze of fire from the altar had excited the latent and deadly power of the venom in which the robe had been steeped; maddened with pain, the hero had seized on Lichas, the unlucky bringer of the present, and had dashed his brains out against the rocks; then he had burst away from his attendants, and—Ovid gives even a more vivid picture of the giant's sufferings than Sophocles—
"And filled all leafy Œta with his groans,
Striving to rend away the deadly robe
That with it rent the skin, and horribly
Or to his limbs inseparably glued
Refused to part, or, as it parted, bare
From the big bones the quivering muscle tore!
And in that poisonous heat his very blood,
Like white-hot steel in cooling water plunged,
Seethed hissing in his veins;—the greedy fire
Devoured his inmost vitals;—audible snapped
The crackling sinews; and from every limb
The lurking venom broke in livid sweat,
And sucked the melting marrow from his bones."[3]
Then Hyllus, in compliance with his prayer, had placed him in a ship, and he was even now on his way to Trachis. But may all the curses of the gods fall on his mother's head, he concludes, for
"Murdering the noblest man of all the earth,
Of whom thou ne'er shalt see the like again."
Dejanira had listened in silence, both to the tale of her husband's agony, and to the cruel reproaches of her son. All her happiness had been bound up with the wellbeing of Hercules. She had loved him with devoted affection, in spite of his long absences and his countless amours; and now by her own thoughtless act she has destroyed this idol of her heart, and has plunged the man whom she so faithfully loved into bodily torment such as she could not have devised even for her bitterest enemy. She is powerless to avert or to heal the sufferings which she has so unwittingly inflicted; and the voice of conscience within tells her that she can give but one real proof of her affection. It is the resolve which forms the refrain in the pathetic epistle which Ovid imagines her to have written to her husband—
"Impia, quid dubitas, Deianira, mori?"[4]
And so, without answering her son, she leaves the stage, and soon her nurse comes to tell the maidens that all is over. After wandering restlessly from room to room, mourning for the evil fate which had come upon her, she had thrown herself upon the bed of Hercules, and there ended her sorrow by a mortal wound from his sword; and then Hyllus, learning her innocence too late, had embraced the insensate body, with idle tears and kisses.
As the Chorus are lamenting her cruel death, the tramp of approaching steps is heard, and Hyllus and some attendants are seen carrying a litter, on which the huge frame of Hercules lies stretched. The convulsive pains which had so cruelly tortured him are lulled for the moment, and he is plunged in a death-like stupor; but he is roused by his son's voice, and with consciousness his agony revives, and he groans aloud in his despair. "Will none, he asks, smite him with the sword, and give him the death he longs for? Then his thoughts turn to her who has wrought these sufferings, and it angers him to think that the gigantic strength, which, Samson-like, had overcome all forms of death, and had tamed even the lion in his wrath, should have fallen victim to the snares of a Delilah—
"For she a woman, woman-like in mind,
Not of man's strength, alone, without a sword,
She hath destroyed me.....
.....Come, my son, be bold,
And pity me, in all ways pitiable,
Who like a girl must weep and shriek in pain;
And yet lives there not one, who, ere it came,
Could say that he had seen this man thus act,
But ever I bore pain without a groan."—(P.)
Let Hyllus, therefore, if he loves him, bring this false woman near him, that he may slay her before he dies himself.
Then Hyllus tells him of the fatal mistake of Dejanira, and how fatally the mistake had been atoned. When Hercules hears that the robe had been dipped in the Centaur's blood, he recognises the will of the gods, and bows to his fate. It had been foretold to him long before, that, like Macbeth, he should die by the hand of "none of woman born"—
"And thus the centaur monster, as was shown,
Though dead did slay me, who till now did live."
This knowledge seems to teach him resignation. He utters no more groans or cries of anguish, but conjures Hyllus to bear his body to the top of Œta, and there to place it on a pile of wood, and kindle the flames himself:—
"Let no tear
Of wailing enter in, but do thy deed,
If thou art mine, without a tear or groan;
Or else, though I be in the grave, my curse
Shall rest upon thee grievous evermore."—(P.)
One more demand he makes (according to our ideas, a revolting request)—Hyllus must take Iole to wife. The son, after much reluctance, promises obedience; and so the drama ends. Ovid tells us how one of these commands was obeyed—how the pile was reared; how calm, "as though at a banquet," the hero spread his lion's skin over it and reclined thereon; how the roaring flames rose upwards and around him—
"And as some serpent casts his wrinkled skin
Rejuvenate, and with new burnished scales
Delighted basks, so, of these mortal limbs
Untrammelled, all the Hero's nobler part
In nobler shape and loftier stature rose
Renewed, august, majestic, like a God!
Whom with those four immortal steeds that whirl
His chariot-wheels, the Sire omnipotent
Upbore sublime above the hollow clouds,
And set amid the radiant stars of Heaven."[5]