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 godlike 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 lustre are struck, at moments, from the mass 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 circumstance 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 passage, or in the "Supplicants," after the voluntary death of Evadne. Iphis says: