Alces. Dark—dark—mine eyes are drooping, heavy-laden.
Admet. O, I am lost if thou wilt leave me, wife!
Alces. No more—I am no more....
Farewell.[[29]]
Amid the wailing of her children, and the mournful chant of the Chorus, the body of Alcestis is carried into the house, Admetus following to prepare the funeral rites.
The scene then quickly changes, lifting the gloom of death for a moment. The mourning ode rises, in vague sweet longing for power to bring Alcestis back from the grave. And hardly has it ceased when there arrives at the palace, claiming hospitality in cheery confidence, Heracles the hero of many toils, and the destined deliverer of Alcestis. He is a creature of immense interest to the people gathered around the doors, for are not his valour and endurance known and marvelled at throughout the whole of Greece? He is weary with travel, but he hails them blithely, asking for the king; and when they ply him with questions, he tells all his errand with free good-nature. His taskmaster, Eurystheus King of Tiryns, has laid yet another labour upon him, harder and more perilous than all the rest. He is commanded to go to wintry Thrace, the land of the Bistones, and capture from King Diomedes there the fierce man-eating mares that draw his chariot. The Chorus, enthralled by his story, remind him of the prowess of the man whom he must conquer, and that he is descended from the God of War himself. But the hero replies that he will not shrink from the task; only, as he has already come far upon his journey, he needs rest and refreshment first. He comes unhesitatingly to his friend Admetus, knowing from of old his unfailing hospitality; and there is about the hero such a glow of exuberant life and strength, his history and his present adventure are things so fascinating to his hearers, that they have for the moment completely forgotten the sorrow that weighs upon their royal master. No single word of it has been uttered when Admetus himself, apprised of his friend’s arrival, comes out of the palace to welcome him.
An embarrassed silence falls upon the mourners. They know that they should have made known to Heracles at once the calamity which had befallen Pheræ in the loss of their queen. Then he could have sought the bounty of some other house, and the grief of their king need not have been intruded upon. But while they have been lost in eager talk, an attendant has called Admetus; and on him now will fall the cruel pain of announcing the death of his wife and—what will be even worse—of declining hospitality to his friend. They stand in suspense as Heracles, after the first greeting is over, exclaims in astonishment at the signs of mourning that Admetus is wearing. But as it quickly becomes evident that the king is evading the questions of his guest and does not intend to reveal to him the nature of the grief that has fallen on his home, their suspense is turned to wonder and carping. Heracles asks anxiously about children and parents and wife, even touching upon the far-famed vow of Alcestis to die for her husband. But every question is successfully parried by the king; and the guest is at last prevailed upon to enter the house, believing that only some distant kinswoman is dead, for whom perfunctory mourning and formal rites are in progress. The sense of propriety in these conventional old men is roughly shaken: they cannot see that the magnitude of the king’s sorrow has dwarfed the petty things of use and custom. Only great things remain—love and duty pre-eminent; and Admetus knows that his dear dead would not grudge this imperative present task. So, when the senators complain of his action, he gives them a simple answer:
“But had I driven him from my home and city
Who came my guest, then hadst thou praised me more?
Nay, sooth; for mine affliction so had grown