The Trojan Women of Euripides. Euripides

the prophet, bound to deliver his message, walks outside the regular ways of the artist.

      For some time before the Troädes was produced, Athens, now entirely in the hands of the War Party, had been engaged in an enterprise which, though on military grounds defensible, was bitterly resented by the more humane minority, and has been selected by Thucydides as the great crucial crime of the war. She had succeeded in compelling the neutral Dorian island of Mêlos to take up arms against her, and after a long siege had conquered the quiet and immemorially ancient town, massacred the men and sold the women and children into slavery. Mêlos fell in the autumn of 416 B.C. The Troädes was produced in the following spring. And while the gods of the prologue were prophesying destruction at sea for the sackers of Troy, the fleet of the sackers of Mêlos, flushed with conquest and marked by a slight but unforgettable taint of sacrilege, was actually preparing to set sail for its fatal enterprise against Sicily.

      Not, of course, that we have in the Troädes a case of political allusion. Far from it. Euripides does not mean Mêlos when he says Troy, nor mean Alcibiades' fleet when he speaks of Agamemnon's. But he writes under the influence of a year which to him, as to Thucydides, had been filled full of indignant pity and of dire foreboding. This tragedy is perhaps, in European literature, the first great expression of the spirit of pity for mankind exalted into a moving principle; a principle which has made the most precious, and possibly the most destructive, elements of innumerable rebellions, revolutions, and martyrdoms, and of at least two great religions.

      Pity is a rebel passion. Its hand is against the strong, against the organised force of society, against conventional sanctions and accepted Gods. It is the Kingdom of Heaven within us fighting against the brute powers of the world; and it is apt to have those qualities of unreason, of contempt for the counting of costs and the balancing of sacrifices, of recklessness, and even, in the last resort, of ruthlessness, which so often mark the paths of heavenly things and the doings of the children of light. It brings not peace, but a sword.

      So it was with Euripides. The Troädes itself has indeed almost no fierceness and singularly little thought of revenge. It is only the crying of one of the great wrongs of the world wrought into music, as it were, and made beautiful by "the most tragic of the poets." But its author lived ever after in a deepening atmosphere of strife and even of hatred, down to the day when, "because almost all in Athens rejoiced at his suffering," he took his way to the remote valleys of Macedon to write the Bacchae and to die.

      G. M.

THE TROJAN WOMEN

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CHARACTERS IN THE PLAY

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      The God Poseidon.

      The Goddess Pallas Athena.

      Hecuba, Queen of Troy, wife of Priam, mother of Hector and Paris.

      Cassandra, daughter of Hecuba, a prophetess.

      Andromache, wife of Hector, Prince of Troy.

      Helen, wife of Menelaüs, King of Sparta; carried off by Paris, Prince of Troy.

      Talthybius, Herald of the Greeks.

      Menelaus, King of Sparta, and, together with his brother Agamemnon, General of the Greeks.

      Soldiers attendant on Talthybius and Menelaus.

      Chorus of Captive Trojan Women, young and old, maiden and married.

      The Troädes was first acted in the year 415 B.C. "The first prize was won by Xenocles, whoever he may have been, with the four plays Oedipus, Lycaön, Bacchae and Athamas, a Satyr-play. The second by Euripides with the Alexander, Palamêdês, Troädes and Sisyphus, a Satyr-play."—Aelian, Varia Historia, ii. 8.

THE TROJAN WOMEN

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      The scene represents a battlefield, a few days after the battle. At the back are the walls of Troy, partially ruined. In front of them, to right and left, are some huts, containing those of the Captive Women who have been specially set apart for the chief Greek leaders. At one side some dead bodies of armed men are visible. In front a tall woman with white hair is lying on the ground asleep.

      It is the dusk of early dawn, before sunrise. The figure of the god Poseidon is dimly seen before the walls.

      Poseidon.

      Up from Aegean caverns, pool by pool

      Of blue salt sea, where feet most beautiful

      Of Nereïd maidens weave beneath the foam

      Their long sea-dances, I, their lord, am come,

      Poseidon of the Sea. 'Twas I whose power,

      With great Apollo, builded tower by tower

      These walls of Troy; and still my care doth stand

      True to the ancient People of my hand;

      Which now as smoke is perished, in the shock

      Of Argive spears. Down from Parnassus' rock

      The Greek Epeios came, of Phocian seed,

      And wrought by Pallas' mysteries a Steed

      Marvellous, big with arms; and through my wall

      It passed, a death-fraught image magical. The groves are empty and the sanctuaries

      Run red with blood. Unburied Priam lies

      By his own hearth, on God's high altar-stair,

      And Phrygian gold goes forth and raiment rare

      To the Argive ships; and weary soldiers roam

      Waiting the wind that blows at last for home,

      For wives and children, left long years away,

      Beyond the seed's tenth fullness and decay,

      To work this land's undoing.

       And for me,

      Since Argive Hera conquereth, and she

      Who wrought with Hera to the Phrygians' woe,

      Pallas, behold, I bow mine head and go

      Forth from great Ilion and mine altars old.

      When a still city lieth in the hold

      Of Desolation, all God's spirit there

      Is sick and turns from worship.—Hearken where

      The ancient River waileth with a voice

      Of many women, portioned by the choice

      Of war amid new lords, as the lots leap

      For Thessaly, or Argos, or the steep

      Of Theseus' Rock. And others yet there are,

      High women, chosen from the waste of war

      For the great kings, behind these portals hid;

      And with them that Laconian Tyndarid,

      Helen, like them a prisoner and a prize.

       And this unhappy one—would any eyes

      Gaze now on Hecuba? Here at the Gates

      She lies 'mid many tears for many fates

      Of wrong. One child beside Achilles' grave

      In secret slain, Polyxena the brave,

      Lies