THE ALCESTIS OF ALFIERI.
The Alcestis of Alfieri is said to have been the last tragedy he composed, and is distinguished to a remarkable degree by that tenderness of which his former works present so few examples. It would appear as if the pure and exalted affection by which the impetuosity of his fiery spirit was ameliorated during the latter years of his life, had impressed its whole character on this work, as a record of that domestic happiness in whose bosom his heart at length found a resting-place. Most of his earlier writings bear witness to that “fever at the core,” that burning impatience of restraint, and those incessant and untameable aspirations after a wider sphere of action, by which his youth was consumed; but the poetry of Alcestis must find its echo in every heart which has known the power of domestic ties, or felt the bitterness of their dissolution. The interest of the piece, however, though entirely domestic, is not for a moment allowed to languish; nor does the conjugal affection, which forms the mainspring of the action, ever degenerate into the pastoral insipidity of Metastasio. The character of Alcestis herself, with all its lofty fortitude, heroic affection, and subdued anguish, powerfully recalls to our imagination the calm and tempered majesty distinguishing the masterpieces of Greek sculpture, in which the expression of mental or bodily suffering is never allowed to transgress the limits of beauty and sublimity. The union of dignity and affliction impressing more than earthly grandeur on the countenance of Niobe, would be, perhaps, the best illustration of this analogy.
The following scene, in which Alcestis announces to Pheres, the father of Admetus, the terms upon which the oracle of Delphos has declared that his son may be restored, has seldom been surpassed by the author, even in his most celebrated productions. It is, however, to be feared that little of its beauty can be transfused into a translation, as the severity of a style so completely devoid of imagery, must render it dependent for many incommunicable attractions upon the melody of the original language.
ACT I.—Scene II.
Alcestis, Pheres.
Alc. Weep thou no more! O monarch, dry thy tears!
For know, he shall not die; not now shall fate
Bereave thee of thy son.
Phe. What mean thy words?
Hath then Apollo—is there then a hope?
Alc. Yes! hope for thee—hope by the voice announced
From the prophetic cave. Nor would I yield
To other lips the tidings, meet alone
For thee to hear from mine.
Phe. But say! oh! say,
Shall then my son be spared?
Alc. He shall, to thee.
Thus hath Apollo said—Alcestis thus
Confirms the oracle—be thou secure.
Phe. O sounds of joy! He lives!
Alc. But not for this,
Think not that e’en for this the stranger Joy
Shall yet revisit these devoted walls.
Phe. Can there be grief when from his bed of death
Admetus rises? What deep mystery lurks
Within thy words? What mean’st thou? Gracious heaven!
Thou, whose deep love is all his own, who hear’st
The tidings of his safety, and dost bear
Transport and life in that glad oracle
To his despairing sire; thy cheek is tinged
With death, and on thy pure ingenuous brow,
To the brief lightning of a sudden joy,
Shades dark as night succeed, and thou art wrapt
In troubled silence. Speak! oh, speak!
Alc. The gods
Themselves have limitations to their power
Impassable, eternal—and their will
Resists not the tremendous laws of fate:
Nor small the boon they grant thee in the life
Of thy restored Admetus.
Phe. In thy looks
There is expression, more than in thy words,
Which thrills my shuddering heart. Declare, what terms
Can render fatal to thyself and us
The rescued life of him thy soul adores?
Alc. O father! could my silence aught avail
To keep that fearful secret from thine ear,
Still should it rest unheard, till all fulfill’d
Were the dread sacrifice. But vain the wish;
And since too soon, too well it must be known,
Hear it from me.
Phe. Throughout my curdling veins
Runs a cold, deathlike horror; and I feel
I am not all a father. In my heart
Strive many deep affections. Thee I love,
O fair and high-soul’d consort of my son!
More than a daughter; and thine infant race,
The cherish’d hope and glory of my age;
And, unimpair’d by time, within my breast,
High, holy, and unalterable love
For her, the partner of my cares and joys,
Dwells pure and perfect yet. Bethink thee, then,
In what suspense, what agony of fear,
I wait thy words; for well, too well, I see
Thy lips are fraught with fatal auguries,
To some one of my race.
Alc. Death hath his rights,
Of which not e’en the great Supernal Powers
May hope to rob him. By his ruthless hand,
Already seized, the noble victim lay,
The heir of empire, in his glowing prime
And noonday, struck:—Admetus, the revered,
The bless’d, the loved, by all who own’d his sway—
By his illustrious parents, by the realms
Surrounding his—and oh! what need to add,
How much by his Alcestis?—Such was he,
Already in th’ unsparing grasp of death
Withering, a certain prey. Apollo thence
Hath snatch’d him, and another in his stead,
Though not an equal—(who can equal him?)
Must fall a voluntary sacrifice.
Another, of his lineage or to him
By closest bonds united, must descend
To the dark realm of Orcus in his place,
Who thus alone is saved.
Phe. What do I hear?
Woe to us, woe!—what victim?—who shall be
Accepted in his stead?
Alc. The dread exchange
E’en now, O father! hath been made; the prey
Is ready, nor is wholly worthless him
For whom ’tis freely offer’d. Nor wilt thou,
O mighty goddess of th’ infernal shades!
Whose image sanctifies this threshold floor,
Disdain the victim.
Phe. All prepared the prey!
And to our blood allied! Oh, heaven!—and yet
Thou had’st me weep no more!
Alc. Yes! thus I said,
And thus again I say, thou shalt not weep
Thy son’s, nor I deplore my husband’s doom.
Let him be saved, and other sounds of woe
Less deep, less mournful far, shall here be heard,
Than those his death had caused.—With some few tears,
But grief, and mingled with a gleam of joy,
E’en while the involuntary tribute lasts,
The victim shall be honour’d who resign’d
Life for Admetus.—Would’st thou know the prey,
The vow’d, the willing, the devoted one,
Offer’d and hallow’d to th’ infernal gods,
Father!—’tis I.
Phe. What hast thou done? Oh, heaven!
What hast thou done? And think’st thou he is saved
By such a compact? Think’st thou he can live
Bereft of thee?—Of thee, his light of life,
His very soul!—Of thee, beloved far more
Than his loved parents—than his children more—
More than himself? Oh no! it shall not be?
Thou perish, O Alcestis! in the flower
Of thy young beauty!—perish, and destroy
Not him, not him alone, but us, but all,
Who as a child adore thee! Desolate
Would be the throne, the kingdom, reft of thee.
And think’st thou not of those whose tender years
Demand thy care?—thy children! think of them!
O thou, the source of each domestic joy,
Thou, in whose life alone Admetus lives,
His glory, his delight, thou shalt not die
While I can die for thee! Me, me alone,
The oracle demands—a wither’d stem,
Whose task, whose duty, is for him to die.
My race is run—the fulness of my years,
The faded hopes of age, and all the love
Which hath its dwelling in a father’s heart,
And the fond pity, half with wonder blent,
Inspired by thee, whose youth with heavenly gifts
So richly is endow’d;—all, all unite
To grave in adamant the just decree,
That I must die. But thou, I bid thee live!
Pheres commands thee, O Alcestis—live!
Ne’er, ne’er shall woman’s youthful love surpass
An aged sire’s devotedness.
Alc. I know
Thy lofty soul, thy fond paternal love;
Pheres, I know them well, and not in vain
Strove to anticipate their high resolves.
But if in silence I have heard thy words,
Now calmly list to mine, and thou shalt own
They may not be withstood.
Phe. What canst thou say
Which I should hear? I go, resolved to save
Him who with thee would perish;—to the shrine
E’en now I fly.
Alc. Stay, stay thee! ’tis too late.
Already hath consenting Proserpine,
From the remote abysses of her realms,
Heard and accepted the terrific vow
Which binds me, with indissoluble ties,
To death. And I am firm, and well I know
None can deprive me of the awful right
That vow hath won.
Yes! thou mayst weep my fate,
Mourn for me, father! but thou canst not blame
My lofty purpose. Oh! the more endear’d
My life by every tie—the more I feel
Death’s bitterness, the more my sacrifice
Is worthy of Admetus. I descend
To the dim shadowy regions of the dead
A guest more honour’d....
In thy presence here
Again I utter’d the tremendous vow,
Now more than half fulfill’d. I feel, I know,
Its dread effects. Through all my burning veins
Th’ insatiate fever revels. Doubt is o’er.
The Monarch of the Dead hath heard—he calls,
He summons me away—and thou art saved,
O my Admetus!
In the opening of the third act, Alcestis enters, with her son Eumeles, and her daughter, to complete the sacrifice by dying at the feet of Proserpine’s statue. The following scene ensues between her and Admetus.
Alc. Here, O my faithful handmaids! at the feet
Of Proserpine’s dread image spread my couch;
For I myself e’en now must offer here
The victim she requires. And you, meanwhile,
My children! seek your sire. Behold him there,
Sad, silent, and alone. But through his veins
Health’s genial current flows once more, as free
As in his brightest days: and he shall live—
Shall live for you. Go, hang upon his neck,
And with your innocent encircling arms
Twine round him fondly.
Eum. Can it be indeed,
Father, loved father! that we see thee thus
Restored? What joy is ours!
Adm. There is no joy!
Speak not of joy! Away, away! my grief
Is wild and desperate. Cling to me no more!
I know not of affection, and I feel
No more a father.
Eum. Oh! what words are these?
Are we no more thy children? Are we not
Thine own? Sweet sister! twine around his neck
More close; he must return the fond embrace.
Adm. O children! O my children! to my soul
Your innocent words and kisses are as darts,
That pierce it to the quick. I can no more
Sustain the bitter conflict. Every sound
Of your soft accents but too well recalls
The voice which was the music of my life.
Alcestis! my Alcestis!—was she not
Of all her sex the flower? Was woman e’er
Adored like her before? Yet this is she,
The cold of heart, th’ ungrateful, who hath left
Her husband and her infants! This is she,
O my deserted children! who at once
Bereaves you of your parents.
Alc. Woe is me!
I hear the bitter and reproachful cries
Of my despairing lord. With life’s last powers,
Oh! let me strive to soothe him still. Approach,
My handmaids, raise me, and support my steps
To the distracted mourner. Bear me hence,
That he may hear and see me.
Adm. Is it thou?
And do I see thee still? and com’st thou thus
To comfort me, Alcestis? Must I hear
The dying accents thus? Alas! return
To thy sad couch—return! ’tis meet for me
There by thy side for ever to remain.
Alc. For me thy care is vain. Though meet for
thee—
Adm. O voice! O looks of death! are these, are these,
Thus darkly shrouded with mortality,
The eyes that were the sunbeams and the life
Of my fond soul? Alas! how faint a ray
Falls from their faded orbs, so brilliant once,
Upon my drooping brow! How heavily,
With what a weight of death thy languid voice
Sinks on my heart! too faithful far, too fond.
Alcestis! thou art dying—and for me!
Alcestis! and thy feeble hand supports
With its last power, supports my sinking head,
E’en now, while death is on thee! Oh! the touch
Rekindles tenfold frenzy in my heart.
I rush, I fly impetuous to the shrine,
The image of yon ruthless Deity,
Impatient for her prey. Before thy death,
There, there, I too, self-sacrificed, will fall.
Vain is each obstacle—in vain the gods
Themselves would check my fury. I am lord
Of my own days—and thus I swear——
Alc. Yes! swear,
Admetus! for thy children to sustain
The load of life. All other impious vows,
Which thou, a rebel to the sovereign will
Of those who rule on high, mightst dare to form
Within thy breast, thy lip, by them enchain’d,
Would vainly seek to utter. Seest thou not,
It is from them the inspiration flows
Which in my language breathes? They lend me power,
They bid me through thy strengthen’d soul transfuse
High courage, noble constancy. Submit,
Bow down to them thy spirit. Be thou calm;
Be near me. Aid me. In the dread extreme
To which I now approach, from whom but thee
Should comfort be derived? Afflict me not,
In such an hour, with anguish worse than death.
O faithful and beloved, support me still!
The choruses with which this tragedy is interspersed are distinguished for their melody and classic beauty. The following translation will give our readers a faint idea of the one by which the third act is concluded.
Alc. My children! all is finish’d. Now, farewell!
To thy fond care, O Pheres! I commit
My widow’d lord: forsake him not.
Eum. Alas!
Sweet mother! wilt thou leave us? From thy side
Are we for ever parted?
Phe. Tears forbid
All utterance of our woes. Bereft of sense,
More lifeless than the dying victim, see
The desolate Admetus. Farther yet,
Still farther, let us bear him from the sight
Of his Alcestis.
Alc. O my handmaids! still
Lend me your pious aid, and thus compose
With sacred modesty these torpid limbs
When death’s last pang is o’er.
Chorus.
Alas! how weak
Her struggling voice! that last keen pang is near.
Peace, mourners, peace!
Be hush’d, be silent, in this hour of dread!
Our cries would but increase
The sufferer’s pang; let tears unheard be shed,
Cease, voice of weeping, cease!
Sustain, O friend!
Upon thy faithful breast,
The head that sinks with mortal pain opprest!
And thou assistance lend
To close the languid eye,
Still beautiful in life’s last agony.
Alas, how long a strife!
What anguish struggles in the parting breath,
Ere yet immortal life
Be won by death!
Death! death! thy work complete!
Let thy sad hour be fleet,
Speed, in thy mercy, the releasing sigh!
No more keen pangs impart
To her, the high in heart,
Th’ adored Alcestis, worthy ne’er to die.
Chorus of Admetus.
’Tis not enough, oh no!
To hide the scene of anguish from his eyes;
Still must our silent band
Around him watchful stand,
And on the mourner ceaseless care bestow,
That his ear catch not grief’s funereal cries.
Yet, yet hope is not dead,
All is not lost below,
While yet the gods have pity on our woe.
Oft when all joy is fled,
Heaven lends support to those
Who on its care in pious hope repose.
Then to the blessed skies
Let our submissive prayers in chorus rise.
Pray! bow the knee, and pray!
What other task have mortals, born to tears,
Whom fate controls with adamantine sway?
O ruler of the spheres!
Jove! Jove! enthroned immortally on high,
Our supplication hear!
Nor plunge in bitterest woes
Him, who nor footstep moves, nor lifts his eye
But as a child, which only knows
Its father to revere.