But the times change, and I can see a day
When all thine happiness shall fade away;
And yet, be merry, strive not with the end,
Thou canst not change it; for the rest, a friend
This year hath won thee who shall never fail.”[[28]]
It is on this note of divine favour that the Alcestis of Euripides opens. In the golden interval since Apollo took his flight from Pheræ toward the setting sun, life had sped joyously for Admetus and his lovely queen. The hint of ill to come which had dropped from the god’s lips was to the king but a fleck on a fair horizon, the measure of pain that every man must bear—some day. But it was too remote for present heeding. Why fret away the day of youth because of sorrow and death that must come to all alike at the end? So he lived merrily, as the god had counselled, his fruitful land at peace with all the world, and his doors flung wide to the stranger and the suppliant. The little cloud was quite forgotten.
Alcestis was happy too, with a difference. Deep under the bright surface of her life, the warning of the god lay hidden. It never rose to disturb her husband’s boyish gaiety, nor to trouble with its shadow the sunny eyes of her little ones. But it was not lulled to sleep. Alcestis could not palter with reality. In quiet times the black thing was called up from its hiding place, and faced and fought. There was many an hour of anguish before it was finally conquered, since youth and beauty and happiness are precious. But from the moment when Alcestis learned that love was greater than them all—when she pledged her soul to take upon herself the evil that was coming to her husband, life grew calm and fair again. There was little outward sign to mark the struggle: only a gentle gravity crept into her sweetness, and her voice grew tenderer still to husband and to babes. And she too clutched the hope, since she was human after all, that the thing she feared was still far away.
Very soon, however, and with bewildering suddenness, the little cloud gathered into storm. The fiat went out from the Moiræ that Admetus was to die—now, in the glory of youth and strength, a goodly prize to enrich the House of Hades. One favour only they would grant, at the supplication of Apollo for his mortal friend—that the king might live if father or mother or wife would consent to die for him. Admetus, unprepared for an ordeal which must shake so slight a nature to its roots; and with all his kindly social virtues rent by the shock, forgot his manhood. The old people clung feverishly to their remnant of dear life; and Alcestis knew that this was the moment when the compact that she had made with her own soul must be ratified to the powers below. She gave her word to the Fates that she would die for her husband.
Now the appointed day has come; and before the palace of Admetus a grim contest is in progress. Guarding the door with his splendid presence is the great Sun-god himself, making a last stand against Hades, lord of the dead, who has come in person from the Underworld to claim his victim. He may not use force against this shadowy king; but with all the strength of persuasion he pleads for Alcestis’ life. “My heart is heavy for my friend’s mischance,” he says; and tries to touch the obdurate spirit by the thought of this noble wife’s youth and goodness. But Death will yield no jot to his entreaty; and as Apollo reluctantly gives place to him, vanquished for the moment, he flings a threat at the great Enemy.
“Surely thou shalt forbear, though ruthless thou,