The Bacchae of Euripides

Foreword

By Ben Potter

Euripides: Greek Tragedy’s Great Unsung Hero

By Ben Potter

Euripides: The Great Greek Tragedian

By Eldar Balta

The Bacchae: The Morals of Murderous Women

By Ben Potter

Oh Muses, You Sound So Heavenly

By Danielle Alexander

Dionysus the Mild: Eater of Flesh

By Ben Potter

The Bacchae

By Euripides

Translated

By Ian Johnston

Foreword

By Ben Potter

This installment of the Classical Wisdom ebook series takes us on a tour de force of blood, blasphemy, guts, gods, and raw human emotions – not to mention a few other raw ingredients – as we present for your consideration the magnum opus of the man considered by many to be the greatest of all ancient playwrights: the Bacchae (405BC) of Euripides (480-406BC).

The eagle-eyed will have noticed that Bacchae is dated a year after the death of Euripides, and though the man who gave us Medea, Electra and Hippolytus is undoubtedly a genius, he does not quite have the ability to pen tragedies from beyond the grave. No, this was written in the last years of the writer’s life and performed posthumously to a grateful and grieving Athenian audience.

Given Euripides’ popularity in the modern world, it’s difficult for us to comprehend that he was anything other than loved in his own time, but there is a lot of credible speculation that it was only the performance of Bacchae that set the seal on Euripides’ reputation, in his own era, as one of the true greats of Athenian theatre.

For this reason, Bacchae is not only an electric, macabre, and profound piece of drama in its own right, but a document of historical note – a manuscript that may have changed the way a populace thought about the man who would go down in history as the greatest playwright until the Bard of Avon put pen to parchment 2000 years later.

Those of you itching to get going and already familiar with Euripides, his life and works, the significance and setting of the Bacchae itself, and the life and lusts (blood and otherwise) of the god Dionysus and his frenzied followers (key protagonists in the play), are welcome to skip the commentary and get straight to the text itself. However, for those of you eager for a bit of context and clarity we’ve included five articles that we hope will shed some light on proceedings, and perhaps generate a bit of heat, too.

We begin with two biographies of Euripides, one by Yours Truly and another incisive analysis by Eldar Balta. From there, we introduce a spoiler-laden commentary of the Bacchae itself.

N.B. It is perhaps worth nothing that spoilers are a relatively modern idea. So ingrained were the ancient myths in their popular culture that an ancient audience member would be perfectly aware of who were the winners, losers, lovers, liars, holy and hopeless before the curtain was even raised (not that there was actually a curtain). For a modern comparison, think of a super-famous play, movie, or TV show that you haven’t seen yet – Hamlet, Macbeth, Romeo and Juliet, The Godfather, Lord of the Rings, The Sopranos, Game of Thrones… you probably know a fair amount about these plots just from friends chatting, Facebook posts, references in other art, or just overhearing people talking on the bus. The ancient viewer would have been, at the very least, this much informed about the shows they went to see. This is all a very long-winded way of telling you that, in ancient Greek theatre at least, spoilers don’t necessarily spoil your experience. As ever, make your own mind up!

After the commentary of the Bacchae, we offer you an excellent article from Danielle Alexander. Though it might not initially seem to be germane to the issue, recounting, as it does, the origin of astral bodies, it also includes the most famous story of the Bacchae (or Maenads, as they’re sometimes called) who, along with Dionysus, played a pivotal role in the fate of the biblical Lot’s progenitor, Orpheus. It is therefore a useful text for wider background knowledge about what sort of a god Dionysus was, what can be expected from those who worship him, and, crucially, what happens to those who displease him!

And we finish up by drilling down into the origin, character, influence, significance, and contradictions of the star of the show, Dionysus himself.

Enjoy!

Ben Potter

February 2022

Euripides: Greek Tragedy’s Great Unsung Hero

By Ben Potter

A lone figure, swaddled in rags sits secluded in a dank cave bent over his papyrus. The whittled reed in his hand dips rhythmically into the pot of octopus ink before adding a couple of urgent scratches to the thick page. His bushy, white beard is stained off-centre at the lower-lip, evidence of his habitual pen-chewing; but it is his mind, his mind that is stained far more indelibly. There are images of gods, war, warriors, adultery, incest, exile, blasphemy, damnation, infanticide, patricide, matricide, human-sacrifice, and worst of all, foreigners. These are the ideas, the dark and evil components of Greek tragedy, that this man, this Euripides believes are too… too… stock, too trite, too bedtime-story for the citizens of Athens. He knows that beauty is terror. “Whatever we call beautiful, we quiver before it.” (Donna Tartt)

Well… No. I’m afraid not. At least, we’ve no reason to believe that the man who produced, directed and wrote The Bacchae, Hippolytus, Medea, and Electra really was the tortured recluse, the artistic oddball, the Salinger or Kubrick of his day. We like to think this because, instead of merely putting a new spin on traditional Greek myths, he always managed to find an even more shocking way to deliver a tried and trusted tale. He could make heroes devils and devils heroes and all without forcing the audience to break their mental stride.

Yes, he may well have lived in a cave on the island of Salamis, but what better place for a writer to escape the distracting hustle and bustle of Athenian city existence? Likewise, late in life, Euripides left Athens for Macedon in self-imposed exile. Was he frustrated at a theatre-going public who didn’t appreciate him? Or was it, more likely, a lucrative retirement where his talents were rewarded not only with money, but also with praise and status?

After all it was these, praise and status, that seem to have alluded Euripides during his lifetime. Despite being considered by many today as the finest of the three great Athenian playwrights (besting Aeschylus for style and Sophocles for substance), he only won the first prize at the city’s premier dramatic contest, the Great Dionysia, four times during his lifetime, and then once posthumously.

You may be thinking ‘that’s not so bad – nobody ever won more than four Academy Awards for best director’, but if you compare his record to that of Aeschylus (13 wins) and Sophocles (20+), it seems a paltry return for a man of such insight, intensity and timeless genius.

Don’t think however, that this modest return of gongs equated to a shortage of fame. A contemporary playwright, the comedian Aristophanes, made sure everyone in Athens, even those uninterested in tragedy, knew all about Euripides.

Aristophanes, along with other exponents of Old Comedy, used rumours about Euripides as material to create a comic alter-ego who was not merely joked about, but lampooned directly whilst appearing as a character in several plays.

Common jokes were:

- That Euripides’ wife was having an affair with his lodger, who also happened to collaborate with Euripides in writing some of his plays.

- That this cuckolding created in him such bitterness that many of his plays ended up propounding a theme of misogyny.

- That he was an atheist and blasphemous towards the Greek gods.

- That he was responsible for making tragedy less lofty e.g. whilst Aeschylus uses kings, gods and heroes as characters, Euripides uses beggars, the disabled and the working-classes. And even when portraying kings they are clad in rags and slovenly.

- That his mother sold cabbages in the agora – an early example of a “yo momma” joke i.e. “yo momma so poor, she sells cabbages in the agora”.

- That he, like his contemporary Socrates, subverted the moral order of the day.

It is worth remembering that Aristophanes, like all comedians, was more concerned with laughs than with truth. Indeed, it is almost impossible to imagine that Euripides was from anything other than a high-class family and enjoyed a fine education.

Whether or not his wife was playing away, we do not know for sure, but anybody who closely studies his plays would find it hard to conclude he was a misogynist. In fact, even more than his great rivals, Euripides treats his female characters with great sensitivity and sympathy, as well as portraying them as independent and intelligent.

Moreover, it is quite likely that Euripides would have actually been in the audience when some of these zingers landed, making the impact of the joke two-fold. First, as the audience appreciated what the actor said, then second, as the audience turned as one to the embarrassed, angry, or perhaps, laughing Euripides.

One area where Aristophanes did not poke fun at Euripides was that of peace and war. The 5th century BC was a time of relentless fighting for Athens and both men used their art as a medium to criticise either politicians or the very nature of war itself. Indeed, it’s possible one reason Euripides was not a man appreciated in his own time was because of his unwillingness to slap a ‘support our troops’ sticker on the front of his programmes.

Whilst accusations he was a pacifist were perhaps a little wide of the mark, both he and Aristophanes stood out as men who used their talents to campaign against the involvement of Athens in expensive, devastating and pointless military campaigns.

Much as Euripides’ attempts to win favour with the public were to no avail, his efforts to influence popular opinion on foreign policy matters were equally fruitless. Two years after his death, Athens fell to the Spartans.

The cradle of democracy never recovered its status as the leading light of Western civilization.

Euripides’ legacy is a theatrical, not a political one. He changed theatre from a vehicle for education and moralizing to one of doubt and introspection. Whilst it is his complexities, his ambiguities and his lack of conformity that brought him up against such resistance in his own time, it is perhaps those same qualities that keep him relevant and endear him to so many today.

Euripides: The Great Greek Tragedian

By Eldar Balta

Born on Salamis Island in 480 BC to mother Cleito and father Mnesarchus, Euripides’ destiny was foretold in a prophecy given to his father. The Oracle fated that Euripides would one day hold the “crowns of victory”. Mnesarchus did not lose any time insisting that his son take on sports and athleticism, firmly believing that reaching fame in those fields was the boy’s destiny.

In the end, Euripides did crown himself with victories… but far from the track and combat fields.

Euripides led an introverted life and suffered two failed, unfaithful marriages to Melite and Choerine, with the latter bearing him three sons. Eventually he became a recluse and moved to the depths of The Cave of Euripides, a ten-chamber hole in the rock overlooking the Saronic Gulf. He spent most of his days there, collecting books, restless thoughts and writing accounts of his own life, or a perception of it, through his dark heroes and human-like Gods. There he produced notable tragedies such as: Medea, 431 BC; Hippolytus, 428 BC; Electra, c. 420 BC; The Trojan Women, c. 415 BC; and Bacchae, 405 BC.

Euripides was the youngest of the three most famous Greek tragedians: Aeschylus, Sophocles and himself. Having in mind that they all were pretty much contemporaries, the rivalry, whether direct or perceived as one from the audience, existed then as it does today.

Euripides lived in between two important wars. The first one was where Athens won against Persia at the Battle of Salamis, an important twist in the Greco-Persian wars. The second, which he did not live to see the outcome of, was the fall of Athens under Sparta, a huge defeat in the Peloponnesian wars.

It is for this reason the works of the three tragedians looked upon Athens so differently. Aeschylus was a hero at the battle of Salamis, Sophocles was old enough to witness it and feel the patriotism as a result of the victory, while Euripides was born on the day of the battle. This timeframe made his views differ widely from his older colleagues.

Unlike Aeschylus and Sophocles, Euripides was a huge critic of Athens’ senseless heists and wars. And because of this, as well as his other views on Athens, Euripides was highly criticized. Ironically, the Spartans who planned the demolition of Athens and the enslavement of its people, grew merciful after being entertained at a banquet by scenes from Euripides’ play Electra.

“They felt that it would be a barbarous act to annihilate a city which produced such men”, (Plutarch, Life of Lysander).

Euripides was a contemporary of Socrates, the philosopher sentenced to death for his critical views on Athenian democracy. Euripides was a man whose own perception of Athens was not far from Socrates’ and both of them were viewed as decadent intellectuals. There are some indications that say that Socrates was even one of the co-authors of Euripides’ plays. This explains why Athenians watched Euripides seriously, but never fully accepted his views. Perhaps, it’s no wonder why Euripides exiled himself to Macedonia at the decline of his life.

An excerpt from Aristophanes’ The Frogs and Other Plays (translated by David Barret) illustrates this:

“They sit at the feet of Socrates

Till they can’t distinguish the wood from the trees,

And tragedy goes to pot;

They don’t care whether their plays are art

But only whether the words are smart;

They waste our time with quibble and quarrels,

Destroying our patience as well as our morals,

And making us all talk rot.”

In fact, Euripides became the main fodder for comedians. Euripides, unlike Aeschylus or Sophocles, didn’t have any other job. He was a true tragedian, a dark comedian and a critic of society. Being fully aware of the consequences, Euripides chose not to comply, but rather, to continue.

However, Comedy and Tragedy live in symbiosis and without that critical, opportunistic complex, without Aristophanes mocking Euripides, we may have not heard of either of them.

Euripides introduced twists into drama, something that influenced tragedy, as well as comedy, for ages to come. He did this while exploring his characters’ feelings, their relationships and acts. He did not constrain himself, which allowed him to make breathtaking twists, teaching people to babble, to think, to see, to understand, to love, to contrive, to suspect all and consider things from every angle. Euripides’ sophistry, atheism, and immoral relativism were considered by Aristophanes as a corruption by the Athenians.

A perfect example of this is Euripides’ treatment of Medea. In some versions, the citizens of Corinth murder the children. In others, Medea accidentally kills her children. Euripides, however, decides to take it two steps further by making the mother purposefully murder her young after poisoning Jason’s new bride. Euripides’ invention of Medea’s filicide went on to become the standard.

Euripides was a fruitful writer, producing more than 92 plays in his life. He was awarded five first prizes in festivals, while Sophocles won 24, and Aeschylus 13. Still, more of Euripides’ works were preserved than the other two writers combined, proving his posthumous influence.

Euripides became one of the cornerstones of ancient literary education in the Hellenistic period, along with Homer, Demosthenes, and Menander.

Eventually, the man whose muse was responsible for the rejuvenation of European Renaissance tragedy was Euripides, and not his dramatic rivals Aeschylus or Sophocles.

Euripides died at the age of 74 (406 BC) in Macedonia after choosing a life of exile from Athens at the court of King Archelaus of Macedonia. This was never fully confirmed, however, and it is possible that he never visited Macedonia at all.

Nevertheless, we are dedicating our time to the master of twists, so we will add here one dark version of Euripides’ death from the mouths of the oldest Macedonian storytellers (Diodor):

“Euripides died in the following manner. There was a town in Macedonia called the village of the Thracians because Thracians had once settled there. At some point, a female Molossian hound belonging to Archelaus had strayed into the village. This dog the Thracians, as is their custom, sacrificed and ate. Accordingly, Archelaus fined them one talent. Since they did not have the money, they asked Euripides to get them released from their debt to the king.

Sometime later, when Euripides was resting by himself in a grove near the city and Archelaus came out to hunt, his dogs were released by their keepers and fell on Euripides. The poet was torn to shreds and eaten.

These dogs were the descendants of the dog that was killed by the Thracians. This is the origin of the Macedonian proverb, “a dog’s justice”.”

Maybe the best way to summarize Euripides’ legacy is by using the words of Bernard MacGregor Walker Knox, an English classicist, author, and critic who was the first director of the Center for Hellenic Studies in Washington D.C., USA:

“He was a problem to his contemporaries and he is one still; over the course of centuries since his plays were first produced he has been hailed or indicted under a bewildering variety of labels.

He has been described as ‘the poet of the Greek enlightenment’ and also as ‘Euripides the irrationalist’; as a religious skeptic if not an atheist, but on the other hand, as a believer in divine providence and the ultimate justice of divine dispensation.

He has been seen as a profound explorer of human psychology and also a rhetorical poet who subordinated consistency of character to verbal effect; as a misogynist and a feminist; as a realist who brought the tragic action down to the level of everyday life and as a romantic poet who chose unusual myths and exotic settings.

He wrote plays which have been widely understood as patriotic pieces supporting Athens’ war against Sparta and others which many have taken as the work of the anti-war dramatist par excellence, even as attacks on Athenian imperialism.

He has been recognized as the precursor of New Comedy and also what Aristotle called him: ‘the most tragic of poets’. And not one of these descriptions is entirely false.”

The Bacchae: The Morals of Murderous Women

By Ben Potter

N.B. Spoilers ahead

If I invited you to a bacchanalia what would you expect? Wine? Dancing? Sex? Of course you would. How about harmonizing with nature? Mass hallucination? Violence? Carpaccio? You’re beginning to think you should call and cancel, aren’t you?

Well don’t worry, it might not be as wild as you think. Then again, it might be much worse. The ancient Athenians, like you and I, did not seem to have a crystal clear idea of what constituted a bacchanalia. This reason for this is simple – it was a secret. Well, a mystery to be precise.

The shroud of secrecy that hung over these proceedings is appropriately reflected in Euripides’ The Bacchae. Appropriate because, despite a straightforward plot, The Bacchae is probably the least easy of Euripides‘ extant plays to analyse. Written in Macedon and performed posthumously in Athens, the story is simple:

Pentheus, the king of Thebes, had banned all worship of his cousin, Dionysus. Dionysus decided to wreak revenge. He sent the women of the city mad with devotion and forced them out into the glens of Mount Cithaeron. These women were his ‘Bacchae’. Pentheus wanted to arrest all the Bacchae and execute the ‘effeminate foreigner’ (Dionysus in disguise) who was exciting them. Dionysus was arrested, he escaped, and then escorted a brainwashed (and transvestitized) Pentheus into the countryside to watch the sexual exploits of the Bacchae.

Far from getting his free peep show, Pentheus was torn limb from limb by the revellers led by his crazed mother, Agave. Agave brought the head of Pentheus back to the city and everyone agreed that it had been a mistake to disrespect Dionysus.

So where lies the problem? Well, it lies in the message. Quite simply, there isn’t a great deal of consensus as to what it was.

A lot has been made of the conspicuous absence of sex in the behavior and dialogue of Dionysus. It is Pentheus who seems obsessed with this element of the dionysiac experience. And indeed, it is this obsession that leads to his death.

Before the opportunity to spy on the worshippers arises, Pentheus, though in the wrong, is strong and steadfast in his opposition to Dionysus. However, Pentheus is actually dionysiac by nature – as, of course, his blood would dictate. Failure to repress, or fully submit to this leads, first, to the loss of his authority and, ultimately, to the loss of his life.

What this treatment of the sexual element means is unclear. Was Euripides trying to convey that the worship of Dionysus was more than merely about sex? Was he pointing out that the reputation of the mystery cult in Macedon was different to that in Athens?

Another theory is that the play is a deathbed repentance of a man recanting all his years of blasphemy. However, this is hard to believe as Dionysus is portrayed as a creature of horror, violence and cruelty. Not content with justice, but desirous to carry out torture and humiliation.

We witness this when the citizens of Thebes see their addled king being marched through the streets; emasculated in women’s garb. On his return both the clothes, and the body they covered, have gone. All that is left is a severed head clutched in the hands of his frenzied mother.

Whilst there is a call for piety, it feels more born of pragmatism rather than of true belief. Cadmus, grandfather of Pentheus and Dionysus, states: “Mortals must not make light of gods – I would never do so”.

His words are given extra weight as he, along with Teiresias, are the only noble and wise characters in the play. He continues with a criticism: “Dionysus, god of joy, has been just, but too cruel”. Whilst the Chorus chime in with: “Cadmus I grieve for you. Your grandson suffered justly, but you most cruelly”.

The emphasis is not on hubris or blasphemy, but on the folly of upsetting a powerful enemy. This is tantamount to the willful abandonment of wisdom, something which many believed was at the root of key social and political problems in Athens.

Dionysus himself explicitly states: “If you all had chosen wisdom, when you would not, you would have found the son of Zeus your friend”. This is perhaps the most convincing of the possible messages. Not least because it is consistent with the lifelong views of Euripides.

This play was written far away from the war-obsessed, bereaved, bankrupt and exhausted world of Athens, at a time when the Peloponnesian War was in the process of being lost.

Whether Euripides was a bitter exile or a content expatriate we cannot know, but his distance, together with his advanced age, may have given him greater urgency and freedom.

So, was the play a warning to the city?

A warning to be pious seems disingenuous, but perhaps that is what it was. Regardless of his religious beliefs, Euripides knew most Athenians exhibited signs of true belief. Is he, therefore, using religion to manipulate the believers? In doing so, trying to highlight the folly of war, trying to bring an end to the carnage?

It is unusual to have a god, a true god – not a Heracles figure – dominate the action. Tragedy is filled with gods, but they are usually behind the scenes, pulling the strings, causing or resolving problems out of mortal control.

Religion and violence are clearly important aspects of The Bacchae. However, it is difficult to understand if the former is being used to explain, excuse, or warn against the latter. We certainly see extreme and brutal violence in Pentheus’ punishment. Also, he says he wants to ‘hunt’ the Maenads (the female followers of Dionysus) and has desires to execute the effeminate foreigner by stoning, hanging or beheading.

As Teiresias puts it: “Come Pentheus, listen to me. You rely on force; but it is not force that governs human affairs”.

Is Euripides emphasizing peace, piety or wisdom? Some traditional commentators consider the three interchangeable, each impossible to achieve without the others.

Something we must bear in mind is that Euripides knows he won’t be around much longer. He’ll no longer be there to tell people how to think; to point out the error of their ways. If he can persuade his estranged countrymen to think for themselves, to think logically, calmly and peacefully, then perhaps he can die with some hope for Athens.

More superficially, there is the idea that Euripides thinks Athenians are simply taking life too seriously. The fifth century is a time of serious thought: of democracy, logic, laws, expansion and building. Perhaps Euripides, reflecting from his position of remote tranquillity, thinks everyone should be a bit more dionysiac; should do what feels good.

We again turn to Teiresias for support: “Men have but to take their fill of wine and the sufferings of an unhappy race are banished…this is our only cure for the weariness of life”.

Or simply, sadly and quite subtly, the play might be an introspective look at the life of a lonely exile, a man who misses the acropolis and agora of Athens. Cadmus could easily have been our playwright in disguise: “What utter misery and horror has overtaken us all…in my old age I must leave my home and travel to strange lands”.

You may see this play as a belated adoption of religion, a drive for peace, the plea of an educated man desperate for his fellow citizens to think, the lament of a heartbroken exile who misses his homeland, or simply an encouragement for us too to dance, drink and be merry. Whichever way, hopefully the overriding conclusion drawn from The Bacchae is that this is a truly fascinating piece of theatre from the mind of an undeniably extraordinary individual.

Oh Muses, You Sound So Heavenly

By Danielle Alexander

When a tree falls in the forest, and nobody is around, does it make a sound? What about a musical instrument in the stars? In the evenings, can you hear the eternal whisper of its strings?

When you look up at the midnight sky, hidden amongst several larger constellations, there is the faintly twinkling Lyra—also known as the Lyre. It is located on the western edge of the Milky Way, visible in the northern hemisphere and the Tropics.

Despite its general faintness, it is easy to notice due to its brightest star, the Vega, which receives its name from ancient Indian starlore claiming this constellation is an eagle with partially opened wings. It culminates in the night sky during the evenings of early July.

The inclusion of Vega within its star cluster draws scientific interest to this constellation due to it being the first star, not including the sun, to be photographed – 167 years ago. It was pulled back into the limelight when astronomers discovered a dust cloud swirling around the star, which could indicate that an unseen planet is orbiting Vega. If for us moderns this constellation is significant, what was it to the ancients…?

There are 88 officially recognized constellations, according to the International Astronomical Union, and most of these have been documented since 150 A.D, by Ptolemy in his The Almagest. Ptolemy was drawing information from thousands of years of astronomical observations.

The Greeks absorbed astronomy and mythology from their older neighbours, the Mesopotamians, the Persians, and Egyptians, during the 6th century B.C. The Mesopotamians had all of their constellations recorded between 1300-1000 B.C., making some of the information we have today over 3,000 years old.

The oldest sources for Greek astrology can be found in the eighth century B.C. epics of Homer and Hesiod, with both mentioning two prominent constellations (Orion and the Great Bear), two-star clusters (the Pleiades and the Hyades), and two stars (Sirius and Arcturus)—but nothing more.  It was not until later that Eratosthenes, a Greek academic based at the Library of Alexandria, unintentionally created the canon of the astral mythos most commonly recognized today, and undoubtedly some of his tales originated from much older skies.

For the ancients, the stars aided in navigation, and the tracking of time and constellation movements were likely noted after following the movements and phases of the moon. Not unlike modern humans, the twinkling abyss sparked their imagination, and the star clusters had legendary tales of mythic figures attached to them.

The mythos around this constellation is undeniably Greek in origin. This is because Vega may be the modern academics’ star of focus, but this constellation also houses Arcturus, one of the only two stars mentioned in the Epics of Homer and Hesiod (the other being Sirius). The constellation around the star remained unmentioned in the early works, indicating that the story emerged between the Epics (c.800-700 B.C) and Eratosthenes (276 B.C – 194 B.C).

This does not make the story straightforward. The tale has countless variations just within the works that haven’t perished through time —it really makes you wonder how much was lost. Despite all the variants, it was agreed that this constellation depicts the lyre, a seven-stringed musical instrument.

The lyre was connected, by mythology, to the Muses.

It was originally crafted by the infant Hermes out of a tortoise shell and horns from Apollo’s cattle, each of the seven strings representing the Daughters of Atlas, of which his mother was one.

“For it was Hermes who first made the tortoise a singer”

(Homeric Hymn to Hermes, c.600 B.C, 25)

Apollo, displeased and seeking vengeance, was eventually placated by Hermes after he was gifted the lyre. It was then gifted by Apollo to his son, Orpheus. He adapted the instrument to nine strings, representing each of the Muses, of which his mother Calliope was one. Clearly, there is a pattern here…

Orpheus’ skill was unprecedented, with tales telling how his songs could move and charm wild beasts or even rocks – but this is where the tale gets twisty.

One source claims that Persephone and Aphrodite selected Calliope to solve their dispute over Adonis. The seemingly logical answer, considering the situation, of ‘each of you have him for half of the year,’ proved to be an unsuitable one.

Aphrodite, enraged at Calliope’s judgement, caused all the women of Thrace to fall in love with Orpheus. In their desperate bid to have a piece of him, they tore him limb from limb. It is said that his head tumbled from a cliff to the sea and beached on the island of Lesbos. The good people performed rites and treated the head well, and so were said to be gifted by the gods at the muses’ arts.

Most sources agree that Orpheus sought out his viper-killed wife, Eurydice, from the Underworld and used his outstanding musical skills to charm the hall of Hades. The god of the Underworld allowed Eurydice to leave with Orpheus, the only stipulation being that he must not turn around to look at her – at all, not once, not even a little. True to the ‘happily never after’ character of Greek myths, the hero turned as he left the darkness of the cave to ensure his wife still walked behind him only to see her fade forever, tragically lost.

The misfortunes of Orpheus don’t end there: during his performance in the halls of Hades, he had unintentionally spurned Dionysus, forgetting to include him whilst singing praises of all the gods.

Another, more confusing, source claims that Orpheus embraced the rays of Helios, declaring him as the ‘greatest of the gods.’ His conviction to this belief saw him climb to the summit of Mt. Pangaoin— or even Mt. Olympus itself—to play his music and sing his melodies as the sun god began his charioted journey across the morning sky.

This powerful display of piety offended Dionysus. He felt completely rejected and slighted, and thus sought his revenge by unleashing the Bassarids (Meneads/Bacchae) onto Orpheus, who tore him limb from limb and scattered the pieces.

An additional variation claims that Orpheus had simply stumbled upon the secret rites of Dionysus and suffered fatally for his misfortune, while another suggests that Orpheus was the first to love another man and thus was ripped to shreds by insulted women.

In all the various tales of body dismemberment, the consistent claim is that his body parts were scattered across the land and, eventually, gathered again by the Muses to be buried at Leibethroe.

The lyre lacked a player who seemed worthy, and so the Muses requested their father, Zeus, to place the lyre in the heavens as a memorial to Orpheus. Another version claims Apollo had also appealed for the placement of the Lyre in the stars. This was agreed due to Orpheus’ brilliance with the instrument and piety to the deity. Homeric Hymns to Hermes also state that the god who crafted the lyre was the one to place it in the heavens.

It appears that while the middle of the myth may vary, the beginning and end are ultimately similar. The lyre is always created by Hermes, then gifted by Apollo to Orpheus. It always ends with Orpheus’ death, usually unpleasantly. His death leads to the lyre lacking a suitable, skilled player, and thus is immortalised in the twinkling abyss in remembrance.

All of the variations seem to be connected in different ways, such as the Underworld for Hades and Persephone, and the rejection of Dionysus in Hades and for Helios. Helios is also connected with Apollo through solar deity attributes.

The lyre was considered a piece of art, and most Greek arts oozed mythological significance. The musical instrument, which was played similarly to a guitar and with a plectrum, was to be heard during religious rites during antiquity. However, the legendary increase from 7-9 strings contradicts archaeological evidence from 2000-300 B.C.—the strings actually decrease in number, not increase!

The tortoise is not a common zoomorphic figurine found at Greek sanctuaries and were found more in contexts relating to female deities, even when found in the Apollo sanctuary of Argos or the Hermes sanctuary of Megapolis.

There is an indication that the figurines, mostly made from terracotta but occasionally bronze too, were connected to a Bronze Age cult that used tortoises in their ritual activities, rather than the male deities of Greek myth. It seems possible that it is the ancient, arguably repressed, rites referred to in the Homeric Hymn to Hermes concerning the tortoise:

“Living you will be a charm against mischievous witchcraft, but if you die you will sing most beautifully.”

– Homeric Hymn to Hermes, c.600 B.C, 37-8

The myth of the invention of the lyre by Hermes from a tortoise shell creates an association between tortoise shell and the lyre that sees them become synonymous both in Greek and Latin literature.

The lyre connected the tortoise shell with Apollo, and the animal became sacred to the god, yet it was the lyre that was placed amongst the stars. It’s believed that this connection of Apollo and tortoise is the cause for the metamorphic transformation of the god to animal during the ‘courting’ of Dryope.

Do you hear the whisper of the strings, playing the songs of lost loves and offended gods, eternally twinkling their melodies away?

Dionysus the Mild: Eater of Flesh

By Ben Potter

N.B. Spoilers ahead

As a figure of myth and superstition even in his own time, Dionysus could well have been dismissed by the cynical as being an unworthy interpolation into the field of true religion.

However, although “he represents an enchanted world and an extraordinary experience” (Albert Henrichs), the scope of his temporal power is hard to overstate.

The twice-born Dionysus is technically, like Heracles, a demigod, though unlike the twelve-time labourer, his godliness is dominant over his humanity.

Dionysus’ bizarre incubation started when Zeus impregnated Semele, the daughter of the Cadmus, king of Thebes.

Subsequently, Zeus’ (understandably) jealous wife, Hera, concocted a plan for revenge. She convinced Semele to request that she see Zeus in all his divine glory, knowing that the sight of the god would overload Semele’s frail, human form, causing instant incineration.

From these ashes, Zeus recovered Dionysus, sewing the charred and blackened foetus up in his thigh.

Thus the King of the Gods gave birth to Dionysus (a bizarre, but not unique feat – Athena was also born from Zeus’ fractured skull). The babe was then given to his human aunt, Ino, for safekeeping.

However, Hera, her spleen not yet fully vented, sent Ino and her family into a frenzy of madness and suicide. Thus, Dionysus was passed along to the nymphs of Mount Nysa (from where he gets his name) and there his induction into all things sublime, sensational, sexual, salacious and sinister started.

He self-proselytised across Greece, Asia and India, bringing madness and death upon those who denied him. The chief example of this was the poker-faced wrath he brought upon his cousin, Pentheus, King of Thebes, made famous to us through Euripides’ The Bacchae.

Though not all tales of Dionysus are dark or depraved.

A particularly charming story about him comes from the seventh Homeric hymn which recounts his capture by pirates. The unsuspecting brigands got more than they bargained for when the god’s bonds dropped off and he turned into a lion, all while a great vine grew around the ship’s mast.

Quite understandably, the pirates all jumped overboard, only to be turned into dolphins upon hitting the water.

For this and other tales, Dionysus is “perceived as both man and animal, male and effeminate, young and old, he is the most versatile and elusive of all Greek gods” (Albert Henrichs).

Of course it is the vine motif that flashes first into our minds when we think about Dionysus.

Indeed, this aspect of his personality is represented in some of the most famous artwork of which he is the subject. For example, the seminal ‘Hermes and the infant Dionysus’ shows the older god dangling grapes over the head of the younger.

Likewise, this facet of the god was a regular feature in literature.

Among the earliest poets, it can be seen that the wine-giver holds a particular place of affection in the hearts of the poetical:

“Cut off all the grape clusters…show them to the sun for ten days…cover them for five, and on the sixth day draw off into vessels the gifts of joyful Dionysus.” (Hesiod, Works and Days).

Elsewhere, Hesiod refers to the god as ‘he of many delights’ and Homer, in the Iliad, calls him the ‘comforter of mankind’.

The following twist on that theme, from Euripides’ The Bacchae, will be of particular interest to those of us for whom Sunday is more than merely a day to watch football and mow the lawn:

“When mortals drink their fill of wine, the sufferings of our unhappy race are banished, each day’s troubles are forgotten in sleep. There is no other cure for sorrow. Dionysus, himself a god, is thus poured out in offering to the gods, so that through him come blessings on mankind”.

Though unlike Mr J.C. of Nazareth, Dionysus may well have been, quite astonishingly, a teetotaler.

Although there are some Renaissance depictions of him imbibing his own gift, in antiquity this is not the case.

That said, he is almost invariably depicted close to wine, grapes, or drunkards; his entourage of satyrs are forever indulging in inebriated dancing, fornicating and revelling in general.

And if the satyrs represent all the naughty fun and frolics that go hand in hand with overindulgence, it is the Maenads (or Bacchae), female followers of the god, who lend things a dark and sinister air.

Maenads, on their annual pilgrimage to the mountains, would pay homage to the god by inducing in each other a ritualised frenzy, often described (by others) as a madness. Though commentators have often used drink or drugs to explain this away, contemporary accounts put it down to an infusion of the god into the body; perhaps a form of intense, liberating meditation.

Both in art and literature this mania culminates in the bare-handed rending of a live animal (sparagmos) and the raw consumption of its flesh (omophagia).

The once-popular idea that this carcass was a ritualised ingestion of the god himself is no longer in vogue (though remains to be convincingly refuted). The fact that Euripides interpolates King Pentheus into the role of sacrificial animal implies that cannibalism, though ghastly, does not seem to be wholly inappropriate.

Ignoring the god/man-eating aspect, the fact that the sacrificial meat was uncooked is a perverse act in and of itself and an example of how Dionysus revels in his role as disrupter of the social order.

This too is reflected in his public festivals, of which there were at least seven annually in Athens alone. Characteristics of these celebrations were excessive and open drunkenness, obscenity, lubriciousness and transvestitism; all amidst huge, decorative phalli that lend a certain je ne sais quoi to any event.

Along with wine, intoxication and ritual madness, Dionysus was also a god of theatre – comedy and tragedy reflecting perfectly the dichotomy within his soul – as well as masks, impersonation and, almost paradoxically, the afterlife.

Indeed, this aspect should not be belittled as he constantly crops up in funeral art. The pre-Socratic philosopher, Heraclitus, went as far as to say: “Dionysus, in whose honour they rave in bacchic frenzy, and Hades are the same”.

So how are we supposed to view this internally incongruous, but undoubtedly important god?

Well, Dionysus is certainly a joke, but a joke born of lust and power, of wine and spite, of ecstasy and shame.

His beauty and brutality are so pervasive that at times he is almost the embodiment of a last request; one final moment of frenzied delight before the trapdoor opens and the noose tightens.

He is death, blood, beauty, pain, art, ecstasy, elation, and envy; a man for whom one would gladly hold a feast day, perhaps without acknowledging the dreadful truth of what could potentially be on the menu.

Euripides certainly portrays him as a creature of horror and violence; one desirous of carrying out torture and humiliation.

Perhaps as one so cruel and beautiful, powerful and appetitive, he is not merely versatile, but strikes to the heart of our own divine empathy.

After all, there is barely a man who ever existed who doesn’t have something in common with Dionysus. And it may be this, more than anything else, that fascinates and repels in almost equal measure.

The Bacchae

by Euripides

Translated

by Ian Johnston

Dramatis Personae

DIONYSUS: divine son of Zeus and Semele, also called Bromius or Bacchus.

TIRESIAS: an old blind prophet

CADMUS: grandfather of both Dionysus and Pentheus, an old man

PENTHEUS: young king of Thebes, grandson of Cadmus, cousin of Dionysus

AGAVE: mother of Pentheus, daughter of Cadmus, sister of Semele

FIRST MESSENGER a cattle herder

SECOND MESSENGER: an attendant on Pentheus

CHORUS OF BACCHAE: worshippers of Dionysus who have followed him from Asia, also called Maenads or Bacchants.

SOLDIERS and ATTENDANTS around Pentheus

Supplementary List of Characters and Places

The following names are frequently mentioned but are not speaking characters in the play.

Actaeon: hunter destroyed by his own dogs as punishment for boasting that he was a better hunter than goddess Artemis, son of Autonoe (one of Cadmus’ daughters).

Aphrodite: goddess of erotic love and sexuality.

Autonoe: sister of Agave, Ino, and Semele, daughter of Cadmus, mother of Actaeon

Cithaeron: sacred mountain close to Thebes.

Ino: daughter of Cadmus, sister of Agave and Semele

Semele: human daughter of Cadmus, mother of Dionysus, killed by Zeus’ lightning bolt.

Thebes: a major Greek city, where (according to some legends) the Greek race originated.

Tmolus: sacred mountain in Asia Minor, associated with Dionysus.

A thyrsus (pl. thyrsoi) is a hollow plant stalk, usually decorated with ivy, and carried as a symbol of Dionysus in the dancing celebrations (where it can acquire magical powers).

[Scene: The Greek city of Thebes, outside the royal palace.  Dionysus, appearing as young man, is alone, with the palace behind him, its main doors facing the audience.  He speaks directly to the audience]

DIONYSUS:  I’ve arrived here in the land of Thebes,

I, Dionysus, son of Zeus, born to him

from Semele, Cadmus’ daughter, delivered

by a fiery midwife—Zeus’ lightning flash.

Yes, I’ve changed my form from god to human,

appearing here at these streams of Dirce,

the waters of Ismarus. I see my mother’s tomb—

for she was wiped out by that lightning bolt.

It’s there, by the palace, with that rubble,

the remnants of her house, still smoldering

from Zeus’ living fire—Hera’s undying outrage

against my mother. But I praise Cadmus.

He’s made his daughter’s shrine a sacred place.

I have myself completely covered it

with leafy shoots of grape-bearing vines.

I’ve left the fabulously wealthy East,

lands of Lydians and Phrygians,

Persia’s sun-drenched plains, walled towns in Bactria.

I’ve moved across the bleak lands of the Medes,

through rich Arabia, all Asian lands,

along the salt-sea coast, through those towns

with their beautifully constructed towers,

full of barbarians and Greeks all intermingled.

Now I’ve come to Thebes, city of Greeks,

only after I’ve set those eastern lands

dancing in the mysteries I established,

making known to men my own divinity.

Thebes is the first city of the Greeks

where I’ve roused people to shout out my cries,

with this deerskin draped around my body,

this ivy spear, a thyrsus, in my hand.

For my mother’s sisters have acted badly,

something they, of all people, should avoid.

They boasted aloud that I, Dionysus,

was no child of Zeus, claiming Semele,

once she was pregnant by some mortal man,

attributed her bad luck in bed to Zeus,

a story made up (they said) to trick Cadmus.

Those sisters state that’s why Zeus killed her,

because she lied about the man she’d slept with.

So I’ve driven those women from their homes

in a frenzy—they now live in the mountains,

out of their minds.  I’ve made them put on costumes,

outfits appropriate for my mysteries.

All Theban offspring—or, at least, all women—

I’ve driven in a crazed fit from their homes.

Now they sit out there among the rocks,

underneath green pine trees, no roof overhead,

Cadmus’ daughters in their company as well.

For this city has to learn, though against its will,

that it has yet to be initiated

into my Dionysian rites. Here I plead

the cause of my own mother, Semele,

appearing as a god to mortal men,

the one she bore to Zeus.  Now Cadmus,

the old king, has just transferred his power,

his royal authority, to Pentheus,

his daughter’s son, who, in my case at least,

fights against the gods, prohibiting me

all sacrificial offerings.  When he prays,

he chooses to ignore me.  For this neglect

I’ll demonstrate to him, to all in Thebes,

that I was born a god.  Once these things here

have been made right, I’ll move on somewhere else,

to some other land, revealing who I am.

But if Thebans in this city, in their anger,

try to make those Bacchic women leave,

to drive them from the mountains forcibly,

then I, commander of these Maenads,

will fight them.  That’s why I’ve transformed myself,

assumed a mortal shape, altered my looks,

so I resemble any human being.

[Enter the Chorus of Bacchae, dressed in ritual deerskin, carrying small drums like tambourines]

But you there, you women who’ve left Tmolus,

backbone of Lydia, my band of worshippers,

whom I’ve led here from barbarian lands,

my comrades on the road and when we rest,

take up your drums, those instruments of yours

from Phrygian cities, first invented

by mother Rhea and myself.  Move round here,

beat those drums by Pentheus’ palace,

let Cadmus’ city see you, while I go,

in person, to the clefts of Mount Cithaeron,

to my Bacchae, to join their dancing.

[Exit Dionysus]

CHORUS [singing and dancing]

FIRST VOICE: From Asia, from sacred Tmolus

I’ve come to dance,

to move swiftly in my dance—

for Bromius—

sweet and easy task,

to cry out in celebration,

hailing great god Bacchus.

SECOND VOICE: Who’s in the street? Who’s there? Who?

Let him stay inside

out of our way.

Let every mouth be pure,

completely holy,

speak no profanities.

In my hymn I celebrate

our old eternal custom,

hailing Dionysus.

THIRD VOICE: O, blessed is the man,

the fortunate man who knows

the rituals of the gods,

who leads a pious life,

whose spirit merges

with these Bacchic celebrations,

frenzied dancing in the mountains,

our purifying rites—

one who reveres these mysteries

from Cybele, our great mother,

who, waving the thyrsus,

forehead crowned with ivy,

serves Dionysus.

FOURTH VOICE: On Bacchae! Bacchae, move!

Bring home Bromius, our god,

son of god, great Dionysus,

from Phrygian mountains

to spacious roads of Greece—

Hail Bromius!

FIFTH VOICE: His mother dropped him early,

as her womb, in forceful birth pangs,

was struck by Zeus’ flying lightning bolt,

a blast which took her life.

Then Zeus, son of Cronos,

at once hid him away

in a secret birthing chamber,

buried in his thigh,

shut in with golden clasps,

concealed from Hera.

SIXTH VOICE: Fates made him perfect.

Then Zeus gave birth to him,

the god with ox’s horns,

crowned with wreaths of snakes—

that’s why the Maenads

twist in their hair

wild snakes they capture.

SEVENTH VOICE: O Thebes, nursemaid of Semele,

put on your ivy crown,

flaunt your green yew,

flaunt its sweet fruit!

Consecrate yourselves to Bacchus,

with stems of oak or fir,

Dress yourselves in spotted fawn skins,

trimmed with white sheep’s wool.

As you wave your thyrsus,

revere the violence it contains.

All the earth will dance at once.

Whoever leads our dancing—

that one is Bromius!

To the mountain, to the mountain,

where the pack of women waits,

all stung to frenzied madness

to leave their weaving shuttles,

goaded on by Dionysus.

EIGHTH VOICE: O you dark chambers of the Curetes,

you sacred caves in Crete,

birthplace of Zeus,

where the Corybantes in their caves,

men with triple helmets, made for me

this circle of stretched hide.

In their wild ecstatic dancing,

they mixed this drum beat

with the sweet seductive tones

of flutes from Phrygia,

then gave it to mother Rhea

to beat time for the Bacchae,

when they sang in ecstasy.

Nearby, orgiastic satyrs,

in ritual worship of the mother goddess,

took that drum, then brought it

into their biennial dance,

bringing joy to Dionysus.

NINTH VOICE: He’s welcome in the mountains,

when he sinks down to the ground,

after the running dance,

wrapped in holy deerskin,

hunting the goat’s blood,

blood of the slain beast,

devouring its raw flesh with joy,

rushing off into the mountains,

in Phrygia, in Lydia,

leading the dance—

Bromius—Evoë!

ALL: The land flows with milk,

the land flows with wine,

the land flows with honey from the bees.

He holds the torch high,

our leader, the Bacchic One,

blazing flame of pine,

sweet smoke like Syrian incense,

trailing from his thyrsus.

As he dances, he runs,

here and there,

rousing the stragglers,

stirring them with his cries,

thick hair rippling in the breeze.

Among the Maenads’ shouts

his voice reverberates:

“On Bacchants, on!

With the glitter of Tmolus,

which flows with gold,

chant songs to Dionysus,

to the loud beat of our drums.

Celebrate the god of joy

with your own joy,

with Phrygian cries and shouts!

When sweet sacred pipes

play out their rhythmic holy song,

in time to the dancing wanderers,

then to the mountains,

on, on to the mountains.”

Then the bacchanalian woman

is filled with total joy—

like a foal in pasture

right beside her mother—

her swift feet skip in playful dance.

[Enter Tiresias, a very old blind man, dressed in clothing appropriate for the Dionysian ritual.  He goes up to the palace door and knocks very aggressively]

TIRESIAS: [shouting] Where’s the servant on the door?  You in there,

tell Cadmus to get himself out of the house,

Agenor’s lad, who came here from Sidon,

then put up the towers of this Theban town.

Go tell him Tiresias is waiting for him.

He knows well enough why I’ve come for him.

I’m an old man, and he’s even older,

but we’ve agreed make ourselves a thyrsus,

to put on fawn skins and crown our heads

with garlands of these ivy branches.

[Enter Cadmus from the palace, a very old man, also dressed in clothing appropriate for the Dionysian ritual]

CADMUS:                 My dearest friend,

I was inside the house.  I heard your voice.

I recognized it—the voice of a man truly wise.

So I’ve come equipped with all this god stuff.

We must sing his praise, as much as we can,

for this Dionysus, well, he’s my daughter’s child.

Now he’s revealed himself a god to men.

Where must I go and dance? Where do I get

to move my feet and shake my old gray head?

You must guide me, Tiresias, one old man

leading another, for you’re the expert here.

Oh, I’ll never tire of waving this thyrsus,

day and night, striking the ground.  What rapture!

Now we can forget that we’re old men.

TIRESIAS: You feel the same way I do, then.

For I’m young and going to try the dancing.

CADMUS: Shall we go up the mountain in a chariot?

TIRESIAS: The god would not then get complete respect.

CADMUS: So I’ll be your nursemaid—one old man

will take charge of another one?

TIRESIAS:           The god himself

will get us to the place without our efforts.

CADMUS: Of all the city are we the only ones

who’ll dance to honour Bacchus?

TIRESIAS:                  Yes, indeed,

for we’re the only ones whose minds are clear.

As for the others, well, their thinking’s wrong.

CADMUS: There’ll be a long wait.  Take my hand.

TIRESIAS: [holding out his hand] Here.  Take it—make a pair of it and yours.

CADMUS: I’m a mortal, so I don’t mock the gods.

TIRESIAS: To the gods we mortals are all ignorant.

Those old traditions from our ancestors,

the ones we’ve had as long as time itself,

no argument will ever overthrow,

in spite of subtleties sharp minds invent.

Will someone say I disrespect old age,

if I intend to dance with ivy on my head?

Not so, for the god makes no distinctions—

whether the dancing is for young or old.

He wants to gather honours from us all,

to be praised communally, without division.

CADMUS: Since you’re blind to daylight, Tiresias,

I’ll be your seer, tell you what’s going on—

Pentheus, that child of Echion, the one

to whom I handed over power in this land,

he’s coming here, to the house.  He’s in a rush.

He looks so flustered.  What news will he bring?

[Enter Pentheus, with some armed attendants.  At first he does not notice Cadmus and Tiresias, not until he calls attention to them]

PENTHEUS:  It so happens I’ve been away from Thebes,

but I hear about disgusting things going on,

here in the city—women leaving home

to go to silly Bacchic rituals,

cavorting there in mountain shadows,

with dances honouring  some upstart god,

this Dionysus, whoever he may be.  Mixing bowls

in the middle of their meetings are filled with wine.

They creep off one by one to lonely spots

to have sex with men, claiming they’re Maenads

busy worshipping.  But they rank Aphrodite,

goddess of sexual desire, ahead of Bacchus.

All the ones I’ve caught, my servants guard

in our public prison, their hands chained up.

All those who’re still away, I’ll chase down,

hunt them from the mountains—that includes

Agave, who bore me to Echion, Ino,

and Autonoe, Actaeon’s mother.

Once I’ve clamped them all in iron fetters,

I’ll quickly end this perverse nastiness,

this Bacchic celebration.  People say

some stranger has arrived, some wizard,

a conjurer from the land of Lydia—

with sweet-smelling hair in golden ringlets

and Aphrodite’s charms in wine-dark eyes.

He hangs around the young girls day and night,

dangling in front of them his joyful mysteries.

If I catch him in this city, I’ll stop him.

He’ll make no more clatter with his thyrsus,

or wave his hair around.  I’ll chop off his head,

slice it right from his body.  This man claims

that Dionysus is a god, alleging

that once upon a time he was sewn up,

stitched inside Zeus’ thigh—but Dionysus

was burned to death, along with Semele,

in that lightning strike, because she’d lied.

She maintained that she’d had sex with Zeus.

All this surely merits harsh punishment,

death by hanging.  Whoever this stranger is,

his insolence is an insult to me.

[Noticing Cadmus and Tiresias for the first time]

Well, here’s something totally astounding!

I see Tiresias, our soothsayer, all dressed up

in dappled fawn skins—my mother’s father, too!

This is ridiculous.  To take a thyrsus

and jump around like this. [To Cadmus] You sir,

I don’t like to see such arrant foolishness

from your old age.  Why not throw out that ivy?

And, grandfather, why not let that thyrsus go?

[Turning to address Tiresias]

Tiresias, you’re the one who’s put him up to this.

You want to bring in some new god for men,

so you’ll be able to inspect more birds,

and from his sacrifices make more money.

If your gray old age did not protect you,

you’d sit in chains with all the Bacchae

for such a ceremonial perversion.

Whenever women at some banquet

start to take pleasure in the gleaming wine,

I say there’s nothing healthy in their worshipping.

CHORUS LEADER: That’s impiety! O stranger,

have you no reverence for the gods, for Cadmus,

who sowed that crop of men born from the earth?

You’re a child of Echion—do you wish

to bring your own family into disrepute?

TIRESIAS: When a man of wisdom has good occasion

to speak out, and takes the opportunity,

it’s not that hard to give an excellent speech.

You’ve got a quick tongue and seem intelligent,

but your words don’t make any sense at all.

A fluent orator whose power comes

from self-assurance and from nothing else

makes a bad citizen, for he lacks sense.

This man, this new god, whom you ridicule—

it’s impossible for me to tell you

just how great he’ll be in all of Greece.

Young man, among human beings two things

stand out preeminent, of highest rank.

Goddess Demeter is one—she’s the earth

(though you can call her any name you wish),

and she feeds mortal people cereal grains.

The other one came later, born of Semele—

he brought with him liquor from the grape,

something to match the bread from Demeter.

He introduced it among mortal men.

When they can drink up what streams off the vine,

unhappy mortals are released from pain.

It grants them sleep, allows them to forget

their daily troubles.  Apart from wine,

there is no cure for human hardship.

He, being a god, is poured out to the gods,

so human beings receive fine benefits

as gifts from him.  And yet you mock him.  Why?

Because he was sewn into Zeus thigh?

Well, I’ll show you how this all makes sense.

When Zeus grabbed him from the lightning flame,

he brought him to Olympus as a god.

But Hera wished to throw him out of heaven.

So Zeus, in a manner worthy of a god,

came up with a cunning counter plan.

From the sky which flows around the earth,

Zeus broke off a piece, shaped it like Dionysus,

then gave that to Hera, as a hostage.

The real child he sent to nymphs to raise,

thus saving him from Hera’s jealousy.

Over time people mixed up “sky” and “thigh,”

saying he’d come from Zeus’s thigh, changing words,

because he, a god, had once been hostage

to goddess Hera.  So they made up the tale.

This god’s a prophet, too, for in his rites—

the Bacchic celebrations and the madness—

a huge prophetic powere is unleashed.

When the god fully enters human bodies,

he makes those possessed by frenzy prophets.

They speak of what will come in future days

He also shares the work of war god Ares.

For there are times an army all drawn up,

its weapons ready, can shake with terror,

before any man has set hand to his spear.

Such madness comes from Dionysus.

Some day you’ll see him on those rocks at Delphi,

leaping with torches on the higher slopes,

way up there between two mountain peaks,

waving and shaking his Bacchic wand,

a great power in Greece.  Trust me, Pentheus.

Don’t be too confident a sovereign’s force

controls men.  If something seems right to you,

but your mind’s diseased, don’t think that’s wisdom.

So welcome this god into your country.

Pour libations to him, then celebrate

these Bacchic rites with garlands on your head.

On women, where Aphrodite is concerned,

Dionysus will not enforce restraint—

such modesty you must seek in nature,

where it already dwells.  For any woman

whose character is chaste won’t be defiled

by Bacchic revelry.  Don’t you see that?

When there are many people at your gates,

you’re happy.  The city shouts your praise.

It celebrates the name of Pentheus.

The god, too, I think, derives great pleasure

from being honoured.  And so Cadmus,

whom you mock, and I will crown our heads

with ivy and will join the ritual,

an old gray team, but still we have to dance.

Your words will not turn me against the god,

for you are mad—under a cruel delusion.

No drug can heal that ailment—in fact,

some drug has caused it.

CHORUS LEADER:                   Old man,

you’ve not disgraced Apollo with your words,

and by honouring this Dionysus,

a great god, you show your moderation.

CADMUS: My child, Tiresias has given you

some good advice.  You should live among us,

not outside traditions.  At this point,

you’re flying around—thinking, but not clearly.

For if, as you claim, this man is not a god,

why not call him one?  Why not tell a lie,

a really good one?  Then it will seem

that some god has been born to Semele.

We—and all our family—will win honour.

Remember the dismal fate of Actaeon—

torn to pieces in some mountain forest

by blood-thirsty dogs he’d raised himself.

He’d boasted he was better in the hunt

than Artemis.  Don’t suffer the same fate.

Come here. Let me crown your head with ivy.

Join us in giving honour to this god.

PENTHEUS: Keep your hands off me!  Be off with you—

go to these Bacchic rituals of yours.

But don’t infect me with your madness.

As for the one who in this foolishness

has been your teacher, I’ll bring him to justice.

[To his attendants]

One of you, go quickly to where this man,

Tiresias, has that seat of his, the place

where he inspects his birds. Take some levers,

knock it down. Demolish it completely.

Turn the whole place upside down—all of it.

Let his holy ribbons fly off in the winds.

That way I’ll really do him damage.

You others—go to the city, scour it

to capture this effeminate stranger,

who corrupts our women with a new disease,

and thus infects our beds.  If you get him,

tie him up and bring him here for judgment,

a death by stoning.  That way he’ll see

his rites in Thebes come to a bitter end.

[Exit Pentheus into the palace]

TIRESIAS: You unhappy man, you’ve no idea

just what it is you’re saying.  You’ve gone mad!

Even before now you weren’t in your right mind.

Let’s be off, Cadmus.  We’ll pray to the god

on Pentheus’ behalf, though he’s a savage,

and for the city, too, so he won’t harm it.

Come with me—bring the ivy-covered staff.

See if you can help support my body.

I’ll do the same for you. It would be shameful

if two old men collapsed.  No matter—

for we must serve Bacchus, son of Zeus.

But you, Cadmus, you should be more careful,

or Pentheus will bring trouble in your home.

I’m not saying this as a prophecy,

but on the basis of what’s going on.

A man who’s mad tends to utter madness.

[Exit Tiresias and Cadmus together on their way to the mountains]

CHORUS: Holiness, queen of the gods,

Holiness, sweeping over earth

on wings of gold,

do  you hear what Pentheus says?

Do you hear the profanities he utters,

the insults against Bromius,

child of Semele, chief god

among all blessed gods,

for those who wear their lovely garlands

in a spirit of harmonious joy?

This is his special office,

to lead men together in the dance,

to make them laugh as the flute plays,

to bring all sorrows to an end,

at the god’s sacrificial feast,

when the gleaming liquid grapes arrive,

when the wine bowl casts its sleep

on ivy-covered feasting men.

Unbridled tongues and lawless folly

come to an end only in disaster.

A peaceful life of wisdom

maintains tranquillity.

It keeps the home united.

Though gods live in the sky,

from far away in heaven

they gaze upon the deeds of men.

But being clever isn’t wisdom.

And thinking deeply about things

isn’t suitable for mortal men.

Our life is brief—that’s why

the man who chases greatness

fails to grasp what’s near at hand.

That’s what madmen do,

men who’ve lost their wits.

That’s what I believe.

Would I might go to Cyprus,

island of Aphrodite,

where the Erotes,

bewitching goddesses of love,

soothe the hearts of humankind,

or to Paphos, rich and fertile,

not with rain, but with the waters

of a hundred flowing mouths

of a strange and foreign river.

Oh Bromius, Bromius,

inspired god who leads the Bacchae,

lead me away to lovely Peira,

where Muses dwell,

or to Olympus’ sacred slopes,

where Graces live, Desire, too,

where it’s lawful and appropriate

to celebrate our rites with Bacchus.

This god, son of Zeus,

rejoices in our banquets.

He adores the goddess Peace,

and she brings riches with her

and nourishes the young.

The god gives his wine equally,

sharing with rich and poor alike.

It takes away all sorrow.

But he hates the man who doesn’t care

to live his life in happiness,

by day and through the friendly nights.

From those who deny such common things

he removes intelligence,

their knowledge of true wisdom.

So I take this as my rule—

follow what common people think—

do what most men do.

[Enter a group of soldiers, bringing Dionysus with his arms tied up.  Pentheus enters from the palace]

SOLDIER: Pentheus, we’re here because we’ve caught the prey

you sent us out to catch.  Yes, our attempts

have proved successful.  The beast you see here

was tame with us.  He didn’t try to run.

No, he surrendered willingly enough,

without turning pale or changing colour

on those wine dark cheeks.  He even laughed at us,

inviting us to tie him up and lead him off.

He stood still, making it easier for me

to take him in.  It was awkward, so I said,

“Stranger, I don’t want to lead you off,

but I’m under orders here from Pentheus,

who sent me.”  And there’s something else—

those Bacchic women you locked up, the ones

you took in chains into the public prison—

they’ve all escaped.  They’re gone—playing around

in some meadow, calling out to Bromius,

summoning their god.  Chains fell off their feet,

just dropping on their own.  Keys opened doors

not turned by human hands.  This man here

has come to Thebes full of amazing tricks.

But now the rest of this affair is up to you.

[Soldier hands chained Dionysus over to Pentheus]

PENTHEUS: [Moving up close to Dionysus, inspecting him carefully]          Untie his hands.  I’ve got him in my nets.

He’s not fast enough to get away from me.

[Soldiers remove the chains from Dionysus’ hands.  Pentheus moves in closer]

Well, stranger, I see this body of yours

is not unsuitable for women’s pleasure—

that’s why you’ve come to Thebes.  As for your hair,

it’s long, which suggests that you’re no wrestler.

It flows across your cheeks   That’s most seductive.

You’ve a white skin, too.  You’ve looked after it,

avoiding the sun’s rays by staying in the shade,

while with your beauty you chase Aphrodite.

But first tell me something of your family.

DIONYSUS: That’s easy enough, though I’m not boasting.

You’ve heard of Tmolus, where flowers grow.

PENTHEUS: I know it.  It’s around the town of Sardis.

DIONYSUS: I’m from there.  My home land is Lydia.

PENTHEUS: Why do you bring these rituals to Greece?

DIONYSUS: Dionysus sent me—the son of Zeus.

PENTHEUS: Is there some Zeus there who creates new gods?

DIONYSUS: No.  It’s the same Zeus who wed Semele right here.

PENTHEUS: Did this Zeus overpower you at night,

in your dreams?  Or were your eyes wide open?

DIONYSUS: I saw him—he saw me.   He gave me

the sacred rituals.

PENTHEUS:                Tell me what they’re like,

those rituals of yours.

DIONYSUS:                     That information

cannot be passed on to men like you,

those uninitiated in the rites of Bacchus.

PENTHEUS: Do they benefit those who sacrifice?

DIONYSUS: They’re worth knowing, but you’re not allowed to hear.

PENTHEUS: You’ve avoided that question skillfully,

making me want to hear an answer.

DIONYSUS: The rituals are no friend of any man

who’s hostile to the gods.

PENTHEUS:                 This god of yours,

since you saw him clearly, what’s he like?

DIONYSUS: He was what he wished to be, not made to order.

PENTHEUS: Again you fluently evade my question,

saying nothing whatsoever.

DIONYSUS:              Yes, but then

a man can seem totally ignorant

when speaking to a fool.

PENTHEUS:                            Is Thebes

the first place you’ve come to with your god?

DIONYSUS: All the barbarians are dancing in these rites.

PENTHEUS: I’m not surprised.  They’re stupider than Greeks.

DIONYSUS: In this they are much wiser. But their laws

are very different, too.

PENTHEUS:                 When you dance these rites,

is it at night or during daylight?

DIONYSUS: Mainly at night.  Shadows confer solemnity.

PENTHEUS: And deceive the women.  It’s all corrupt!

DIONYSUS:  One can do shameful things in daylight, too.

PENTHEUS: You must be punished for these evil games.

DIONYSUS: You, too—for foolishness, impiety

towards the god.

PENTHEUS:          How brash this Bacchant is!

How well prepared in using language!

DIONYSUS: What punishment am I to suffer?

What harsh penalties will you inflict?

PENTHEUS: First, I’ll cut off this delicate hair of yours.

DIONYSUS: My hair is sacred.  I grow it for the god.

PENTHEUS: And give me that thyrsus in your hand.

DIONYSUS: This wand I carry is the god’s, not mine.

You’ll have to seize it from me for yourself.

PENTHEUS: We’ll lock your body up inside, in prison.

DIONYSUS: The god will personally set me free,

whenever I so choose.

PENTHEUS:                            That only works

if you call him while among the Bacchae.

DIONYSUS: He sees my suffering now—and from near by.

PENTHEUS: Where is he then?  My eyes don’t see him.

DIONYSUS: He’s where I am.  You can’t see him,

because you don’t believe.

PENTHEUS: [To his attendants]       Seize him.

He’s insulting Thebes and me.

DIONYSUS: I warn you—you shouldn’t tie me up.

I’ve got my wits about me.  You’ve lost yours.

PENTHEUS:  But I’m more powerful than you,

so I’ll have you put in chains.

DIONYSUS:                        You’re quite ignorant

of why you live, what you do, and who you are.

PENTHEUS: I am Pentheus, son of Agave and Echion.

DIONYSUS: A suitable name.  It suggests misfortune.

PENTHEUS: [to his soldiers]        Go now.

Lock him up—in the adjoining stables.

That way he’ll see nothing but the darkness.

There you can dance.  As for all those women,

those partners in crime you brought along with you,

we’ll sell them off or keep them here as slaves,

working our looms, once we’ve stopped their hands

beating those drum skins, making all that noise.

[Exit Pentheus into the palace, leaving Dionysus with the soldiers]

DIONYSUS: I’ll go, then.  For I won’t have to suffer

what won’t occur.  But you can be sure of this—

Dionysus, whom you claim does not exist,

will go after you for retribution

after all your insolence.  He’s the one

you put in chains when you treat me unjustly.

[The soldiers lead Dionysus away to an area beside the palace]

CHORUS: O Sacred Dirce, blessed maiden,

daughter of Achelous,

your streams once received

the new-born child of Zeus,

when his father snatched him

from those immortal fires,

then hid him in his thigh,

crying out these words,

“Go, Dithyrambus,

enter my male womb.

I’ll make you known as Bacchus

to all those in Thebes,

who’ll invoke you with that name.”

But you, o sacred Dirce,

why do you resist me,

my garland-bearing company,

along your river banks?

Why push me away?

Why seek to flee from me?

I tell you, you’ll find joy

in grape-filled vines from Dionysus.

They’ll make you love him.

What rage, what rage

shows up in that earth-bound race

of Pentheus, born to Echion,

an earth-bound mortal.

He’s descended from a snake,

that Pentheus, a savage beast,

not a normal mortal man,

but some bloody monster

who fights against the gods.

He’ll soon bind me in chains,

as a worshipper of Bacchus.

Already he holds in his house

my fellow Bacchic revelers,

hidden there in some dark cell.

Do you see, Dionysus,

child of Zeus, your followers

fighting their oppression?

Come down, my lord,

down from Olympus,

wave your golden thyrsus,

to cut short the profanities

of this blood-thirsty man.

Where on Mount Nysa,

which nourishes wild beasts,

where on the Corcyrean heights,

where do you wave your thyrsus

over your worshippers,

oh Dionysus?

Perhaps in those thick woods

of Mount Olympus,

where Orpheus once played his lyre,

brought trees together with his songs,

collecting wild beasts round him.

Oh blessed Peiria,

whom Dionysus loves—

he’ll come to set you dancing

in the Bacchic celebrations.

He’ll cross the foaming Axius,

lead his whirling Maenads on,

leaving behind the river Lydias

which enriches mortal men,

and which, they say, acts as a father,

nourishing with many lovely streams

a land where horses flourish.

[The soldiers move in to round up the chorus of Bacchae.  As they do so, the ground begins to shake, thunder sounds, lightning flashes, and the entire palace starts to break apart]

DIONYSUS: [shouting from within the palace]          Io! Hear me, hear me as I call you.

Io! Bacchae!  Io Bacchae!

CHORUS: [a  confusion of different voices in the following speeches]          Who’s that?  Who is it?  It’s Dionysus’ voice!

It’s calling me.  But from what direction?

DIONYSUS: [From inside the palace] Io! Io! I’m calling out again—

the son of Semele, a child of Zeus!

CHORUS: Io! Io! Lord and master!

Come join our company,

Bromius, oh Bromius!

DIONYSUS: [From inside] Sacred lord of earthquakes, shake this ground.

[The earthquake tremors resume]

CHORUS VOICE 1: Ai!  Soon Pentheus’ palace

will be shaken into rubble.

CHORUS VOICE 2: Dionysus is in the house—revere him.

CHORUS VOICE 3: We revere him, we revere him.

CHORUS VOICE 4: You see those stone lintels on the pillars—

they’re splitting up.  It’s Bromius calling,

shouting to us from inside the walls.

DIONYSUS: [from inside the palace]  Let fiery lightning strike right now—

burn Pentheus’ palace—consume it all!

CHORUS VOICE 5: Look! Don’t you see the fire—

there by the sacred tomb of Semele!

The flame left by that thunderbolt from Zeus,

when the lightning flash destroyed her,

all that time ago.  Oh Maenads—

throw your bodies on the ground, down, down,

for our master, Zeus’ son, moves now

against the palace—to demolish it.

[Enter Dionysus, bursting through the palace front doors, free of all chains, smiling and supremely confident.]

DIONYSUS: Ah, my barbarian Asian women,

Do you lie there on the ground prostrate with fear?

It seems you feel Dionysus’ power,

as he rattles Pentheus’ palace.

Get up now.  Be brave.  And stop your trembling.

CHORUS LEADER: How happy I am to see you—

Our greatest light in all the joyful dancing.

We felt alone and totally abandoned.

DIONYSUS: Did you feel despair when I was sent away,

cast down in Pentheus’ gloomy dungeon?

CHORUS LEADER: How could I not? Who’ll protect me

if you run into trouble?  But tell me,

how did you escape that ungodly man?

DIONYSUS: No trouble.  I saved myself with ease.

CHORUS LEADER: But didn’t he bind up your hands up in chains?

DIONYSUS: In this business I was playing with him—

he thought he was tying me up, the fool!

He didn’t even touch or handle me,

he was so busy feeding his desires.

In that stable where he went to tie me up,

he found a bull.  He threw the iron fetters

around its knees and hooves. As he did so,

he kept panting in his rage, dripping sweat

from his whole body—his teeth gnawed his lip.

I watched him, sitting quietly nearby.

After a while, Bacchus came and shook the place,

setting his mother Semele’s tomb on fire.

Seeing that, Pentheus thought his palace

was burning down.  He ran round, here and there,

yelling to his slaves to bring more water.

His servants set to work—and all for nothing!

Once I’d escaped, he ended all that work.

Seizing a dark sword, he rushed inside the house.

Then, it seems to me, but I’m guessing now,

Bromius set up out there in the courtyard

some phantom image.  Pentheus charged it,

slashing away at nothing but bright air,

thinking he was butchering me.  There’s more—

Bacchus kept hurting him in still more ways.

He knocked his house down, right to the ground,

all shattered, so Pentheus has witnessed

a bitter end to my imprisonment.

He’s dropped his sword, worn out, exhausted,

a mere mortal daring to fight a god.

So now I’ve strolled out calmly to you,

leaving the house, ignoring Pentheus.

Wait!  It seems to me I hear marching feet—

no doubt he’ll come out front here soon enough.

What will he say, I wonder, after this?

Well, I’ll deal with him quite gently,

even if he comes out breathing up a storm.

After all, a wise man ought to keep his temper.

[Pentheus comes hurriedly out of the palace, accompanied by armed soldiers]

PENTHEUS: What’s happening to me—total disaster!

The stranger’s escaped, and we’d just chained him up.

[Seeing Dionysus]

Ah ha! Here is the man—right here.

What’s going on?  How did you get out?

How come you’re here, outside my palace?

DIONYSUS: Hold on.  Calm down.  Don’t be so angry.

PENTHEUS: How did you escape your chains and get here?

DIONYSUS: Didn’t I say someone would release me—

or did you miss that part?

PENTHEUS:                                  Who was it?

You’re always explaining things in riddles.

DIONYSUS: It was the one who cultivates for men

the richly clustering vine.

PENTHEUS:                        Ah, this Dionysus.

Your words are a lovely insult to your god.

DIONYSUS: He came to Thebes with nothing but good things.

PENTHEUS: [To soldiers] Seal off all the towers on my orders—

all of them around the city.

DIONYSUS:                   What for?

Surely a god can make it over any wall?

PENTHEUS: You’re so wise, except in all those things

in which you should be wise.

DIONYSUS:                                 I was born wise,

especially in matters where I need to be.

[Enter the Messenger, a cattle herder from the hills]

DIONYSUS: But first you’d better listen to this man,

hear what he has to say, for he’s come here

from the mountains to report to you.

I’ll still be here for you. I won’t run off.

MESSENGER: Pentheus, ruler of this land of Thebes,

I’ve just left Cithaeron, that mountain

where the sparkling snow never melts away.

PENTHEUS: What this important news you’ve come with?

MESSENGER: I saw those women in their Bacchic revels,

those sacred screamers, all driven crazy,

the ones who run barefoot from their homes.

I came, my lord, to tell you and the city

the dreadful things they’re doing, their actions

are beyond all wonder.  But, my lord,

first I wish to know if I should tell you,

openly report what’s going on up there,

or whether I should hold my tongue.

Your mood changes so fast I get afraid—

your sharp spirit, your all-too-royal temper.

PENTHEUS: Speak on.  Whatever you have to report,

you’ll get no punishment at all from me.

It’s not right to vent one’s anger on the just.

The more terrible the things you tell me

about those Bacchic women, the worse

I’ll move against the one who taught them

all their devious tricks.

MESSENGER:                     The grazing cattle

were just moving into upland pastures,

at the hour the sun sends out its beams

to warm the earth.  Right then I saw them—

three groups of dancing women.  One of them

Autonoe led. Your mother, Agave,

led the second group, and Ino led the third.

They were all asleep, bodies quite relaxed,

some leaning back on leafy boughs of pine,

others cradling heads on oak-leaf pillows,

resting on the ground—in all modesty.

They weren’t as you described—all drunk on wine

or on the music of their flutes, hunting

for Aphrodite in the woods alone.

Once she heard my horned cattle lowing,

your mother stood up amid those Bacchae,

then called them to stir their limbs from sleep.

They rubbed refreshing sleep out of their eyes,

and stood up straight there—a marvelous sight,

to see such an orderly arrangement,

women young and old and still unmarried girls.

First, they let their hair loose down their shoulders,

tied up the fawn skins (some had untied the knots

to loosen up the chords).  Then around those skins

they looped some snakes, who licked the women’s cheeks.

Some held young gazelles or wild wolf cubs

and fed them on their own white milk, the ones

who’d left behind at home a new-born child

whose breasts were still swollen full of milk.

They draped themselves with garlands from oak trees,

ivy and flowering yew.  Then one of them,

taking a thyrsus, struck a rock with it,

and water gushed out, fresh as dew.  Another,

using her thyrsus, scraped the ground. At once,

the god sent fountains of wine up from the spot.

All those who craved white milk to drink

just scratched the earth with their fingertips—

it came out in streams.  From their ivy wands

thick sweet honey dripped.  Oh, if you’d been there,

if you’d seen this, you’d come with reverence

to that god whom you criticize so much.

Well, we cattle herders and shepherds met

to discuss and argue with each other

about the astonishing things we’d seen.

And then a man who’d been in town a bit

and had a way with words said to us all,

“You men who live in the holy regions

of these mountains, how’d you like to hunt down

Pentheus’ mother, Agave—take her

away from these Bacchic celebrations,

do the king a favour?”  To all of us

he seemed to make good sense.  So we set up

an ambush, hiding in the bushes,

lying down there.  At the appointed time,

the women started their Bacchic ritual,

brandishing the thyrsus and calling out

to the god they cry to, Bromius, Zeus’ son.

The entire mountain and its wild animals

were, like them, in one Bacchic ecstasy.

As these women moved, they made all things dance.

Agave, by chance, was dancing close to me.

Leaving the ambush where I’d been concealed,

I jumped out, hoping to grab hold of her.

But she screamed out, “Oh, my quick hounds,

men are hunting us.  Come, follow me.

Come on, armed with that thyrsus in your hand.”

We ran off, and so escaped being torn apart.

But then those Bacchic women, all unarmed,

went at  the heifers browsing on the turf,

using  their bare hands.  You should have seen one

ripping a fat, young, lowing calf apart—

others tearing cows in pieces with their hands.

You could’ve seen ribs and cloven hooves

tossed everywhere—some hung up in branches

dripping blood and gore.  And bulls, proud beasts till then,

with angry horns, collapsed there on the ground,

dragged down by the hands of a thousand girls.

Hides covering their bodies were stripped off

faster than you could wink your royal eye.

Then, like birds carried up by their own speed,

they rushed along the lower level ground,

beside Asopus’ streams, that fertile land

which yields its crops to Thebes.  Like fighting troops,

they raided Hysiae and Erythrae,

below rocky Cithaeron, smashing

everything, snatching children from their homes.

Whatever they carried their shoulders,

even bronze or iron, never tumbled off

onto the dark earth, though nothing was tied down.

They carried fire in their hair, but those flames

never singed them.  Some of the villagers,

enraged at being plundered by the Bacchae,

seized weapons.  The sight of what happened next,

my lord, was dreadful.  For their pointed spears

did not draw blood.  But when those women

threw the thrysoi in their hands, they wounded them

and drove them back in flight.  The women did this

to men, but not without some god’s assistance.

Then they went back to where they’d started from,

those fountains which the god had made for them.

They washed off the blood.  Snakes licked their cheeks,

cleansing their skin of every drop.  My lord,

you must welcome this god into our city,

whoever he is.  He’s a mighty god

in many other ways.  The people say,

so I’ve heard, he gives to mortal human beings

that vine which puts an end to human grief.

Without wine, there’s no more Aphrodite—

or any other pleasure left for men.

CHORUS LEADER: I’m afraid to talk freely before the king,

but nonetheless I’ll speak—this Dionysus

is not inferior to any god.

PENTHEUS: This Dionysian arrogance, like fire,

keeps flaring up close by—a great insult

to all the Greeks.  We must not hesitate.

[To one of his armed attendants]

Go to the Electra Gates.  Call out the troops,

the heavy infantry, all fast cavalry.

Tell them to muster, along with all those

who carry shields—all the archers, too,

the men who pull the bowstring back by hand.

We’ll march out against these Bacchae.

In this whole business we will lose control,

if we have to put up with what we’ve suffered

from these women.

DIONYSUS:                  You’ve heard what I had to say,

Pentheus, but still you’re not convinced.

Though I’m suffering badly at your hands,

I say you shouldn’t go to war against a god.

You should stay calm.  Bromius will not let you

move his Bacchae from their mountains.

PENTHEUS: Don’t preach to me!  You’ve got out of prison—

enjoy that fact.  Or shall I punish you some more?

DIONYSUS: I’d sooner make an offering to that god

than in some angry fit kick at his whip—

a mortal going to battle with a god.

PENTHEUS: I’ll sacrifice all right—with a slaughter

of those women, just as they deserve—

in the forests on Cithaeron.

DIONYSUS:                              You’ll all run.

What a disgrace! To turn your bronze shields round,

fleeing the thyrsoi of those Bacchic women!

PENTHEUS: [turning to one of his armed attendants, as if to go]          It’s useless trying to argue with this stranger—

whatever he does or suffers, he won’t shut up.

DIONYSUS [calling Pentheus back]          My lord! There’s still a chance to end this calmly.

PENTHEUS: By doing what?  Should I become a slave

to my own slaves?

DIONYSUS:                   I’ll bring the women here—

without the use of any weapons.

PENTHEUS:                       I don’t think so.

You’re setting me up for your tricks again.

DIONYSUS:  What sort of trick, if I want to save you

in my own way?

PENTHEUS:                You’ve made some arrangement,

you and your god, so you can always dance

your Bacchanalian orgies.

DIONYSUS:                          Yes, that’s true.

I have made some arrangement with the god.

PENTHEUS: [to one of his armed servants]          You there, bring me my weapons.

[to Dionysus]               And you,

No more talk!  Keep quiet!

DIONYSUS: Just a minute! [moving up to Pentheus]

How’d you like to gaze upon those women out there,

sitting together in the mountains?

PENTHEUS:                       I’d like that.

Yes, for that I’d pay in gold—and pay a lot.

DIONYSUS: Why is that?  Why do you desire it so much?

PENTHEUS: I’d be sorry to see the women drunk.

DIONYSUS: Would you derive pleasure from looking on,

viewing something you find painful?

PENTHEUS:                           Yes, I would—

if I were sitting in the trees in silence.

DIONYSUS:  But even if you go there secretly,

they’ll track you down.

PENTHEUS:                           You’re right.

I’ll go there openly.

DIONYSUS:                           So you’re prepared,

are you, to make the trip?  Shall I lead you there?

PENTHEUS: Let’s go, and with all speed.  I’ve got time.

DIONYSUS: In that case, you must clothe your body

in a dress—one made of eastern linen.

PENTHEUS: What! I’m not going up there as a man?

I’ve got to change myself into a woman?

DIONYSUS: If they see you as a man, they’ll kill you.

PENTHEUS: Right again. You always have the answer.

DIONYSUS: Dionysus taught me all these things.

PENTHEUS: How can I best follow your suggestion?

DIONYSUS: I’ll go inside your house and dress you up.

PENTHEUS: What? Dress up in a female outfit?

I can’t do that—I’d be ashamed to.

DIONYSUS: You’re still keen to see the Maenads, aren’t you?

PENTHEUS: What sort of clothing do you recommend?

How should I cover up my body?

DIONYSUS: I’ll fix up a long hair piece for your head.

PENTHEUS: All right. What’s the next piece of my outfit?

DIONYSUS: A dress down to your feet—then a headband,

to fit just here, around your forehead.

PENTHEUS: What else?  What other things will you provide?

DIONYSUS: A thyrsus to hold and a dappled fawn skin.

PENTHEUS: No.  I can’t dress up in women’s clothes!

DIONYSUS: But if you go fighting with these Bacchae,

you’ll cause bloodshed.

PENTHEUS:                          Yes, that’s true.

So first, we must go up and spy on them.

DIONYSUS: Hunt down evil by committing evil—

that sounds like a wise way to proceed.

PENTHEUS: But how will I make it through the city

without the Thebans noticing me?

DIONYSUS: We go by deserted streets.  I’ll take you.

PENTHEUS: Well, anything’s easier to accept

than being made a fool by Bacchic women.

Let’s go into the house.  I’ll think about what’s best.

DIONYSUS: As you wish.  Whatever you do, I’m ready.

PENTHEUS: I think I’ll go in now.  It’s a choice

of going with weapons or taking your advice.

[Exit Pentheus into the palace.  Dionysus turns to face the chorus]

DIONYSUS: My women! that man’s now entangled in our net.

He’ll go to those Bacchae, and there he’ll die.

That will be his punishment.  Dionysus,

you’re not far away.  Now it’s up to you.

Punish him.  First, make sure he goes insane

with some crazed fantasy.  If his mind is strong,

he’ll not agree to put on women’s clothes.

But he’ll do it, if you make him mad.

I want him made the laughing stock of Thebes,

while I lead him through the city, mincing

as he moves along in women’s clothing,

after he made himself so terrifying

with all those earlier threats.   Now I’ll be off,

to fit Pentheus into the costume

he’ll wear when he goes down to Hades,

once he’s butchered by his mother’s hands.

He’ll come to acknowledge Dionysus,

son of Zeus, born in full divinity,

most fearful and yet most kind to men.

[Exit Dionysus]

CHORUS: Oh, when will I be dancing,

leaping barefoot through the night,

flinging back my head in ecstasy,

in the clear, cold, dew-fresh air—

like a playful fawn

celebrating its green joy

across the meadows—

joy that it’s escaped the fearful hunt—

as she runs beyond the hunters,

leaping past their woven nets—

they call out to their hounds

to chase her with still more speed,

but she strains every limb,

racing like a wind storm,

rejoicing by the river plain,

in places where no hunters lurk,

in the green living world

beneath the shady branches,

the foliage of the trees.

What is wisdom?  What is finer

than the rights men get from gods—

to hold their powerful hands

over the heads of their enemies?

Ah yes, what’s good is always loved.

The power of the gods

is difficult to stir—

but it’s a power we can count on.

It punishes all mortal men

who honour their own ruthless wills,

who, in their fits of madness,

fail to reverence the gods.

Gods track down every man

who scorns their worship,

using their cunning to conceal

the enduring steady pace of time.

For there’s no righteousness

in those who recognize or practice

what’s beyond our customary laws.

The truth is easy to acknowledge:

whatever is divine is mighty,

whatever has been long-established law

is an eternal natural truth.

What is wisdom?  What is finer

than the rights men get from gods—

to hold their powerful hands

over the heads of their enemies?

Ah yes, what’s good is always loved.

Whoever has escaped a storm at sea

is a happy man in harbour,

whoever overcomes great hardship

is likewise another happy man.

Various men out-do each other

in wealth, in power,

in all sorts of ways.

The hopes of countless men

are infinite in number.

Some make men rich;

some come to nothing.

So I consider that man blessed

who lives a happy life

existing day by day.

[Enter Dionysus from the palace.  He calls back through the open doors]

DIONYSUS: You who are so desperately eager

to see those things you should not look upon,

so keen to chase what you should not pursue—

I mean you, Pentheus, come out here now,

outside the palace, where I can see you

dressed up as a raving Bacchic female,

to spy upon your mother’s company.

[Enter Pentheus dressed in women’s clothing.  He moves in a deliberately over-stated female way, enjoying the role]

DIONYSUS: [admiringly, as he escorts Pentheus from the doors]

You look just like one of Cadmus’ daughters.

PENTHEUS: Fancy that! I seem to see two suns,

two images of seven-gated Thebes.

And you look like a bull leading me out here,

with those horns growing from your head.

Were you once upon a time a beast?

It’s certain now you’ve changed into a bull.

DIONYSUS: The god walks here.  He’s made a pact with us.

Before his attitude was not so kind.

Now you’re seeing just what you ought to see.

PENTHEUS: How do I look?  Am I holding myself

just like Ino or my mother, Agave?

DIONYSUS: When I look at  you, I think I see them.

But here, this strand of hair is out of place.

It’s not under the headband where I fixed it.

PENTHEUS: [demonstrating his dancing steps]          I must have worked it loose inside the house,

shaking my head when I moved here and there,

practising my Bacchanalian dance.

DIONYSUS: I’ll rearrange it for you.  It’s only right

that I should serve you.  Straighten up your head.

[Dionysus begins adjusting Pentheus’ hair and clothing]

PENTHEUS:  All right then.  You can be my dresser,

now that I’ve transformed myself for you.

DIONYSUS: Your girdle’s loose.  And these pleats in your dress

are crooked, too, down at your ankle here.

PENTHEUS: [examining the back of his legs]          Yes, that seems to be true for my right leg,

but on this side the dress hangs perfectly,

down the full length of my limb.

DIONYSUS:                                Once you see

those Bacchic women acting modestly,

once you confront something you don’t expect,

you’ll consider me your dearest friend.

PENTHEUS: This thyrsus—should I hold it in my right hand,

or in my left?  Which is more suitable

in Bacchic celebrations?

DIONYSUS:                                In your right.

You must lift your right foot in time with it.

[Dionysus observes Pentheus trying out the dance step]

DIONYSUS: Your mind has changed.  I applaud you for it.

PENTHEUS: Will I be powerful enough to carry

the forests of Cithaeron on my shoulders,

along with all those Bacchic females?

DIONYSUS: If you have desire, you’ll have the power.

Before this your mind was not well adjusted.

But now it’s working in you as it should.

PENTHEUS: Are we going to take some levers with us?

Or shall I rip the forests up by hand,

putting arm and shoulder under mountain peaks?

DIONYSUS: As long as you don’t do away with

those places where the nymphs all congregate,

where Pan plays his music on his pipes.

PENTHEUS: You mention a good point.  I’ll use no force

to get the better of these women.

I’ll conceal myself there in the pine trees.

DIONYSUS: You’ll find just the sort of hiding place

a spy should find who wants to hide himself,

so he can gaze upon the Maenads.

PENTHEUS:  That’s good. I can picture them right now,

in the woods, going at it like rutting birds,

clutching each other as they make sweet love.

DIONYSUS: Perhaps.  That’s why you’re going—as a guard

to stop all that.  Maybe you’ll capture them,

unless you’re captured first.

PENTHEUS:                                Lead on—

through the centre of our land of Thebes.

I’m the only man in all the city

who dares to undertake this enterprise.

DIONYSUS: You bear the city’s burden by yourself,

all by yourself.  So your work is waiting there,

the tasks that have been specially set for you.

Follow me.  I’m the guide who’ll rescue you.

When you return someone else will bring you back.

PENTHEUS:  That will be my mother.

DIONYSUS:                            For everyone

you’ll have become someone to celebrate.

PENTHEUS: That’s why I’m going.

DIONYSUS:                        You’ll be carried back . . .

PENTHEUS: [interrupting] You’re pampering me!

DIONYSUS: [continuing]          . . . in your mother’s arms.

PENTHEUS: You’ve really made up your mind to spoil me.

DIONYSUS: To spoil you?  That’s true, but in my own way.

PENTHEUS: Then I’ll be off to get what I deserve.

[Exit Pentheus]

DIONYSUS: [speaking in the direction Pentheus has gone, but not speaking to him]

You fearful, terrifying man—on your way

to horrific suffering.  Well, you’ll win

a towering fame, as high as heaven.

Hold out your hand to him, Agave,

you, too, her sisters, Cadmus’ daughters.

I’m leading this young man in your direction,

for the great confrontation, where I’ll triumph—

I and Bromius.  What else will happen

events will show, as they occur.

[Exit Dionysus]

CHORUS 1: Up now, you hounds of madness,

go up now into the mountains,

go where Cadmus’ daughters

keep their company of worshippers,

goad them into furious revenge

against that man, that raving spy,

all dressed up in his women’s clothes,

so keen to glimpse the Maenads.

His mother will see him first,

as he spies on them in secret

from some level rock or crag.

She’ll scream out to her Maenads,

“Who’s the man who’s come here,

to the mountains, to these mountains,

tracking Cadmean mountain dancers?

Oh my Bacchae, who has come?

From whom was this man born?

He’s not born of woman’s blood—

he must be some lioness’ whelp

or spawned from Libyan gorgons.”

CHORUS: Let justice manifest itself—

let justice march, sword in hand,

to stab him in the throat,

that godless, lawless man,

unjust earthborn seed of Echion.

CHORUS 2: Any man intent on wickedness,

turning his unlawful rage

against your rites, O Bacchus,

against the worship of your mother,

a man who sets out with an insane mind,

his courage founded on a falsehood,

who seeks to overcome by force

what simply can’t be overcome—

let death set his intentions straight.

For a life devoid of grief is one

which receives without complaint

whatever comes down from the gods—

that’s how mortals ought to live.

Wisdom is something I don’t envy.

My joy comes hunting other things

lofty and plain to everyone.

They lead man’s life to good

in purity and reverence,

honouring gods day and night,

eradicating from our lives

customs lying beyond what’s right.

CHORUS: Let justice manifest itself—

Let justice march, sword in hand,

to stab him in the throat,

that godless, lawless man,

unjust earthborn seed of Echion.

CHORUS 3: Appear now to our sight, O Bacchus—

come as a bull or many-headed serpent

or else some fire-breathing lion.

Go now, Bacchus, with your smiling face

cast your deadly noose upon

that hunter of the Bacchae,

as the group of Maenads brings him down.

[Enter Second Messenger, one of Pentheus’ attendants]

SECOND MESSENGER: How I grieve for this house, in earlier days

so happy throughout Greece, home of that old man,

Cadmus from Sidon, who sowed the fields

to harvest the earth-born crop produced

from serpent Ophis.  How I now lament—

I know I’m just a slave, but nonetheless . . .

CHORUS [They sing or chant their responses to the Messenger]

Do you bring us news?

Has something happened,

something about the Bacchae?

SECOND MESSENGER:  Pentheus, child of Echion, is dead.

CHORUS: O my lord Bromius,

Now your divine greatness

is here made manifest!

SECOND MESSENGER: What are you saying?  Why that song?

Women, how can you now rejoice like this

for the death of one who was my master?

CHORUS LEADER: We’re strangers here in Thebes,

so we sing out our joy

in chants from foreign lands.

No longer need we cower here

in fear of prisoner’s chains.

SECOND MESSENGER: Do you think Thebes lacks sufficient men

to take care of your punishment?

CHORUS: Dionysus, oh Dionysus,

he’s the one with power over me—

not Thebes.

SECOND MESSENGER: That you may be forgiven, but to cry

aloud with joy when such disasters come,

women, that’s not something you should so.

CHORUS: Speak to me, tell all—

How did death strike him down,

that unrighteous man,

that man who acted so unjustly?

SECOND MESSENGER: Once we’d left the settlements of Thebes,

we went across the river Asopus,

then started the climb up Mount Cithaeron—

Pentheus and myself, I following the king.

The stranger was our guide, scouting the way.

First, we sat down in a grassy meadow,

keeping our feet and tongues quite silent,

so we could see without being noticed.

There was a valley there shut in by cliffs.

Through it refreshing waters flowed, with pines

providing shade.  The Maenads sat there,

their hands all busy with delightful work—

some of them with ivy strands repairing

damaged thyrsoi, while others sang,

chanting Bacchic songs to one another,

carefree as fillies freed from harness.

Then Pentheus, that unhappy man,

not seeing the crowd of women, spoke up,

“Stranger, I can’t see from where we’re standing.

My eyes can’t glimpse those crafty Maenads.

But up there, on that hill, a pine tree stands.

If I climbed that, I might see those women,

and witness the disgraceful things they do.”

Then I saw that stranger work a marvel.

He seized that pine tree’s topmost branch—

it stretched up to heaven—and brought it down,

pulling it to the dark earth, bending it

as if it were a bow or some curved wheel

forced into a circle while staked out with pegs—

that’s how the stranger made that tree bend down,

forcing the mountain pine to earth by hand,

something no mortal man could ever do.

He set Pentheus in that pine tree’s branches.

Then his hands released the tree, but slowly,

so it stood up straight, being very careful

not to shake Pentheus loose.  So that pine

towered straight up to heaven, with my king

perched on its back.  Maenads could see him there

more easily than he could spy on them.

As he was just becoming visible—

the stranger had completely disappeared—

some voice—I guess it was Dionysus—

cried out from the sky, “Young women,

I’ve brought you the man who laughed at you,

who ridiculed my rites.  Now punish him!”

As he shouted this, a dreadful fire arose,

blazing between the earth and heaven.

The air was still.  In the wooded valley

no sound came from the leaves, and all the beasts

were silent, too.  The women stood up at once.

They’d heard the voice, but not distinctly.

They gazed around them.  Then again the voice

shouted his commands.  When Cadmus’ daughters

clearly heard what Dionysus ordered,

they rushed out, running as fast as doves,

moving their feet at an amazing speed.

His mother Agave with both her sisters

and all the Bacchae charged straight through

the valley, the torrents, the mountain cliffs,

pushed to a god-inspired frenzy.

They saw the king there sitting in that pine.

First, they scaled a cliff face looming up

opposite the tree and started throwing rocks,

trying to hurt him.  Others threw branches,

or hurled their thyrsoi through the air at him,

sad, miserable Pentheus, their target.

But they didn’t hit him.  The poor man

sat high beyond their frenzied cruelty,

trapped up there, no way to save his skin.

Then, like lightning, they struck oak branches down,

trying them as levers to uproot the tree.

When these attempts all failed, Agave said,

“Come now, make a circle round the tree.

Then, Maenads, each of you must seize a branch,

so we can catch the climbing beast up there,

stop him making our god’s secret dances known.”

Thousands of hands grabbed the tree and pulled.

They yanked it from the ground.  Pentheus fell,

crashing to earth down from his lofty perch,

screaming in distress.  He knew well enough

something dreadful was about to happen.

His priestess mother first began the slaughter.

She hurled herself at him. Pentheus tore off

his headband, untying it from his head,

so wretched Agave would recognize him,

so she wouldn’t kill him. Touching her cheek,

he cried out, “It’s me, mother, Pentheus,

your child.  You gave birth to me at home,

in Echion’s house. Pity me, mother—

don’t kill your child because I’ve made mistakes.”

But Agave was foaming at the mouth,

eyes rolling in their sockets, her mind not set

on what she ought to think—she didn’t listen—

she was possessed, in a Bacchic frenzy.

She seized his left arm, below the elbow,

pushed her foot against the poor man’s ribs,

then tore his shoulder out.  The strength she had—

it was not her own.  The god put power

into those hands of hers.  Meanwhile Ino,

her sister, went at the other side,

ripping off chunks of Pentheus’ flesh,

while Autonoe and all the Bacchae,

the whole crowd of them, attacked as well,

all of them howling out together.

As long as Pentheus was still alive,

he kept on screaming. The women cried in triumph—

one brandished an arm, another held a foot—

complete with hunting boot—the women’s nails

tore his ribs apart.  Their hands grew bloody,

tossing bits of his flesh back and forth, for fun.

His body parts lie scattered everywhere—

some under rough rocks, some in the forest,

deep in the trees.  They’re difficult to find.

As for the poor victim’s head, his mother

stumbled on it.  Her hands picked it up,

then stuck it on a thyrsus, at the tip.

Now she carries it around Cithaeron,

as though it were some wild lion’s head.

She’s left her sisters dancing with the Maenads.

She’s coming here, inside these very walls,

showing off with pride her ill-fated prey,

calling out to her fellow hunter, Bacchus,

her companion in the chase, the winner,

the glorious victor.  By serving him,

in her great triumph she wins only tears.

As for me, I’m leaving this disaster,

before Agave gets back home again.

The best thing is to keep one’s mind controlled,

and worship all that comes down from the gods.

That, in my view, is the wisest custom,

for those who can conduct  their lives that way.

[Exit Messenger]

CHORUS:  Let’s dance to honour Bacchus,

Let’s shout to celebrate what’s happened here,

happened to Pentheus,

child of the serpent,

who put on women’s clothes,

who took up the beautiful and blessed thyrsus—

his certain death,

disaster brought on by the bull.

You Bacchic women

descended from old Cadmus,

you’ve won glorious victory,

one which ends in tears,

which ends in lamentation.

A noble undertaking this,

to drench one’s hands in blood,

life blood dripping from one’s only son.

CHORUS LEADER:  Wait!  I see Agave, Pentheus’ mother,

on her way home, her eyes transfixed.

Let’s now  welcome her,

the happy revels of our god of joy!

[Enter Agave, cradling the head of Pentheus]

AGAVE: Asian Bacchae . . .

CHORUS:                              Why do you appeal to me?

AGAVE: [displaying the head] From the mountains I’ve brought home

this ivy tendril freshly cut.

We’ve had a blessed hunt.

CHORUS:                                     I see it.

As your fellow dancer, I’ll accept it.

AGAVE:  I caught this young lion without a trap,

as you can see.

CHORUS:               What desert was he in?

AGAVE:  Cithaeron.

CHORUS:                                   On Cithaeron?

AGAVE: Cithaeron killed him.

CHORUS:                                    Who struck him down?

AGAVE: The honour of the first blow goes to me.

In the dancing I’m called blessed Agave.

CHORUS: Who else?

AGAVE:                            Well, from Cadmus . . .

CHORUS:                                     From Cadmus what?

AGAVE: His other children laid hands on the beast,

but after me—only after I did first.

We’ve had good hunting.  So come, share our feast.

CHORUS: What? You want me to eat that with you?

Oh you unhappy woman.

AGAVE: This is a young bull.  Look at this cheek

It’s just growing downy under the crop

of his soft hair.

CHORUS:            His hair makes him resemble

some wild beast.

AGAVE:                               Bacchus is a clever huntsman—

he wisely set his Maenads on this beast.

CHORUS: Yes, our master is indeed a hunter.

AGAVE: Have you any praise for me?

CHORUS:                                               I praise you.

AGAVE: Soon all Cadmus’ people. . .

CHORUS:                           . . . and Pentheus, your son, as well.

AGAVE: . . . will celebrate his mother, who caught the beast,

just like a lion.

CHORUS:                             It’s a strange trophy.

AGAVE: And strangely captured, too.

CHORUS:                         You’re proud of what you’ve done?

AGAVE: Yes, I’m delighted.  Great things I’ve done—

great things on this hunt, clear for all to see.

CHORUS: Well then, you most unfortunate woman,

show off your hunting prize, your sign of victory,

to all the citizens.

AGAVE: [addressing everyone]           All of you here,

all you living in the land of Thebes,

in this city with its splendid walls,

come see this wild beast we hunted down—

daughters of Cadmus—not with thonged spears,

Thessalian javelins, or by using nets,

but with our own white hands, our finger tips.

After this, why should huntsmen boast aloud,

when no one needs the implements they use?

We caught this beast by hand, tore it apart—

with our own hands.  But where’s my father?

He should come here.  And where’s Pentheus?

Where is my son?  He should take a ladder,

set it against the house, fix this lion’s head

way up there, high on the palace front.

I’ve captured it and brought it home with me.

[Enter Cadmus and attendants, carrying parts of Pentheus’ body]

CADMUS: Follow me, all those of you who carry

some part of wretched Pentheus.  You slaves,

come here, right by the house.

[They place the bits of Pentheus’ body together in a chest front of the palace]

I’m worn out.

So many searches—but I picked up the body.

I came across it in the rocky clefts

on Mount Cithaeron, ripped to pieces,

no parts lying together in one place.

It was in the woods—difficult to search.

Someone told me what my daughter’d done,

those horrific acts, once I’d come back,

returning here with old Tiresias,

inside the city walls, back from the Bacchae.

So I climbed the mountains once again.

Now I bring home this child the Maenads killed.

I saw Autonoe, who once bore

Actaeon to Aristeius—and Ino,

she was with her there, in the forest,

both still possessed, quite mad, poor creatures.

Someone said Agave was coming here,

still doing her Bacchic dance.  He spoke the truth,

for I see her there—what a wretched sight!

AGAVE: Father, now you can be truly proud.

Among all living men you’ve produced

by far the finest daughters.  I’m talking

of all of us, but especially of myself.

I’ve left behind my shuttle and my loom,

and risen to great things, catching wild beasts

with my bare hands.  Now I’ve captured him,

I’m holding in my arms the finest trophy,

as you can see, bringing it back home to you,

so it may hang here.

[offering him Pentheus’ head]

Take this, father

let your hands welcome it.  Be proud of it,

of what I’ve caught.  Summon all your friends—

have a banquet, for you are blessed indeed,

blessed your daughters have achieved these things.

CADMUS: This grief’s beyond measure, beyond endurance.

With these hands of yours you’ve murdered him.

You strike down this sacrificial victim,

this offering to the gods, then invite me,

and all of Thebes, to share a banquet.

Alas—first for your sorrow, then my own.

Lord god Bromius, born into this family,

has destroyed us, acting out his justice,

but too much so.

AGAVE:                 Why such scowling eyes?

How sorrowful and solemn old men become.

As for my son, I hope he’s a fine hunter,

who copies his mother’s hunting style,

when he rides out with young men of Thebes

chasing after creatures in the wild.

The only thing he seems capable of doing

is fighting with the gods.  It’s up to you,

father, to reprimand him for it.

Who’ll call him here into my sight,

so he can see my good luck for himself?

CADMUS: Alas!  Alas!  What dreadful pain you’ll feel

when you recognize what you’ve just done.

If you stay forever in your present state,

you’ll be unfortunate, but you won’t feel

as if you’re suffering unhappiness.

AGAVE: But what in all this is wrong or painful?

CADMUS: First, raise your eyes.  Look up into the sky.

AGAVE: All right.  But why tell me to look up there?

CADMUS: Does the sky still seem the same to you,

or has it changed?

AGAVE:                   It seems, well, brighter . . .

more translucent than it was before.

CADMUS: And your inner spirit—is it still shaking?

AGAVE: I don’t understand what it is you’re asking.

But my mind is starting to clear somehow.

It’s changing . . . it’s not what it was before.

CADMUS: Can you hear me?  Can you answer clearly?

AGAVE: Yes.  But, father, what we discussed before,

I’ve quite forgotten.

CADMUS:                           Then tell me this—

to whose house did you come when you got married?

AGAVE: You gave me to Echion, who, men say,

was one of those who grew from seeds you cast.

CADMUS: In that house you bore your husband a child.

What was his name?

AGAVE:                    His name was Pentheus.

I conceived him with his father.

CADMUS:                             Well then,

this head your hands are holding—whose is it?

AGAVE: It’s a lion’s.  That’s what the hunters said.

CADMUS: Inspect it carefully.  You can do that

without much effort.

AGAVE: [inspecting the head]          What is this?

What am I looking at?  What am I holding?

CADMUS: Look at it.  You’ll understand more clearly.

AGAVE: What I see fills me with horrific pain . . .

such agony . . .

CADMUS:                       Does it still seem to you

to be a lion’s head?

AGAVE:                                    No.  It’s appalling—

this head I’m holding belongs to Pentheus.

CADMUS: Yes, that’s right.  I was lamenting his fate

before you recognized him.

AGAVE:                                     Who killed him?

How did he come into my hands?

CADMUS:                                            Harsh truth—

how you come to light at the wrong moment.

AGAVE: Tell me.  My heart is pounding in me

to hear what you’re about to say.

CADMUS:                                           You killed him—

you and your sisters.

AGAVE:                                      Where was he killed?

At home?  In what sort of place?

CADMUS:                                        He was killed

where dogs once made a common meal of Actaeon.

AGAVE: Why did this poor man go to Cithaeron?

CADMUS: He went there to ridicule the god

and you for celebrating Dionysus.

AGAVE: But how did we happen to be up there?

CADMUS: You were insane—the entire city

was in a Bacchic madness.

AGAVE:                                    Now I see.

Dionysus has destroyed us all.

CADMUS: He took offense at being insulted.

You did not consider him a god.

AGAVE: Father, where’s the body of my dearest son?

CADMUS: I had trouble tracking the body down.

I brought back what I found.

AGAVE:               Are all his limbs laid out

just as they should be?  And Pentheus,

what part did he play in my madness?

CADMUS:  Like you, he was irreverent to the god.

That’s why the god linked you and him together

in the same disaster—thus destroying

the house and me, for I’ve no children left,

now I see this offspring of your womb,

you unhappy woman, cruelly butchered

in the most shameful way.  He was the one

who brought new vision to our family.

[Addressing the remains of Pentheus]

My child, you upheld the honour of our house,

my daughter’s son.  You were feared in Thebes.

No one who saw you ever would insult me,

though I was old, for you would then inflict

fit punishment.  Now the mighty Cadmus,

the man who sowed and later harvested

the most splendid crop—the Theban people—

will be an exile, banished from his home,

a dishonoured man.  Dearest of men,

even though, my child, you’re alive no more,

I count you among those closest to me.

You won’t be touching my cheek any more,

holding me in your arms, and calling me

“grandfather,” as you ask me, “Old man,

who’s injuring or dishonouring you?

Who upsets your heart with any pain?

Tell me, father, so I can punish him—

anyone who treats you in an unjust way.”

Now you’re in this horrifying state,

I’m in misery, your mother’s pitiful,

and all your relatives are in despair.

If there’s a man who disrespects the gods,

let him think about how this man perished—

then he should develop faith in them.

CHORUS LEADER:  I’m sorry for you Cadmus—you’re in pain.

But your grandson deserved his punishment.

AGAVE: Father, you see how all has changed for me.

[From being your royal and honoured daughter,

the mother of a king, I’m now transformed—

an abomination, something to fill

all people’s hearts with horror, with disgust—

the mother who slaughtered her only son,

who tore him apart, ripping out the heart

from the child who filled her own heart with joy—

all to honour this god Dionysus.

But, father, give me your permission now

to lay out here the body of my son,

prepare his corpse for proper burial.

CADMUS: That’s no easy task to undertake.

His body, all the parts I could collect,

lies here, in this chest, not a pretty sight.

My own eyes can hardly bear to see him.

But if you think you can endure the work,

then, my child, begin the appropriate rites.

AGAVE: [removing Pentheus’ limbs and placing them on the ground in front of her]

Alas, for my poor son, my only child,

destroyed by his mother’s Bacchic madness.

How could these hands of mine, which loved him so,

have torn these limbs apart, ripped out his flesh.

Here’s an arm which has held me all these years,

growing stronger as he grew into a man,

his feet . . . oh, how he used to run to me,

seeking assurance of his mother’s love.

His face was handsome, on the verge of manhood.

See the soft down still resting on these lips,

which have kissed me thousands of times or more.

All this, and all the rest, set here before us.

Oh Zeus and all you Olympian gods . . . .

[She cannot complete the ritual and collapses in grief]

It makes no sense—it’s unendurable.

How could the god have wished such things on me?

CHORUS LEADER [helping Agave get up]

Lady, you must bear what cannot be borne.

Your suffering is intense, but the god is just.

You insulted him in Thebes, showed no respect—

you’ve brought the punishment upon yourself.

CHORUS: What is wisdom?  What is finer

than the rights men get from gods—

to hold their powerful hands

over the heads of their enemies?

Ah yes, what’s good is always loved.

So all praise Dionysus,

praise the dancing god,

god of our revelry,

god whose justice is divine,

whose justice now reveals itself.

[Enter Dionysus]

DIONYSUS: Yes, I am Dionysus, son of Zeus.

You see me now before you as a god.

You Thebans learned about my powers too late.

Dishonouring me, you earn the penalty.

You refused my rites.  Now you must leave—

abandon your city for barbarian lands.

Agave, too, that polluted creature,

must go into perpetual banishment.

And Cadmus, you too must endure your lot.] Your form will change, so you become a dragon.

Your wife, Harmonia, Ares’ daughter,

whom you, though mortal, took in marriage,

will be transformed, changing to a snake.

As Zeus’ oracle declares, you and she

will drive a chariot drawn by heifers.

You’ll rule barbarians.  With your armies,

too large to count, you’ll raze many cities.

Once they despoil Apollo’s oracle,

they’ll have a painful journey back again.

But Ares will guard you and Harmonia.

In lands of the blessed he’ll transform your lives.

That’s what I proclaim—I, Dionysus,

born from no mortal father, but from Zeus.

If you had understood how to behave

as you should have when you were unwilling,

you’d now be fortunate, with Zeus’ child

among your allies.

CADMUS:                 O Dionysus,

we implore you—we’ve not acted justly.

DIONYSUS: You learn too late.  You were ignorant

when you should have known.

CADMUS:                      Now we understand.

Your actions against us are too severe.

DIONYSUS: I was born a god, and you insulted me.

CADMUS: Angry gods should not act just like humans.

DIONYSUS: My father Zeus willed all this long ago.

AGAVE: Alas, old man, then this must be our fate,

a miserable exile.

DIONYSUS:                       Why then delay?

Why postpone what necessity requires?

CADMUS:  Child, we’ve stumbled into this disaster,

this terrible calamity—you and me,

both in agony—your sisters, too.

So I’ll go out to the barbarians,

a foreign resident in my old age.

And then for me there’s that oracle

which says I’ll lead a mixed barbarian force

back into Greece.  And I’ll bring here with me

Harmonia, Ares’ daughter, my wife.

I’ll have the savage nature of a snake,

as I lead my soldiers to the altars,

to the tombs, in Greece.  But even then,

there’ll be no end to my wretched sorrows.

I’ll never sail the downward plunging Acheron

and reach some final peace.

AGAVE: [embracing Cadmus] Father, I must be exiled without you.

CADMUS:  Why do you throw your arms about me,

my unhappy child, just like some young swan

protecting an old one—gray and helpless.

AGAVE: Because I’ve no idea where to go,

once I’m banished from my father’s land.

CADMUS: Child, I don’t know.  Your father’s not much help.

AGAVE: Farewell, then, to my home.

Farewell to my native city.

In my misfortune I abandon you,

an exile from spaces once my own.

CADMUS: Go now to Aristeus’ house, my child.

AGAVE: How I grieve for you, my father.

CADMUS: And I grieve for you, my child,

as I weep for  your sisters.

AGAVE: Lord Dionysus has inflicted

such brutal terror on your house.

DIONYSUS: Yes.  For at your hands I suffered, too—

and dreadfully.  For here in Thebes

my name received no recognition.

AGAVE:  Farewell, father.

CADMUS:                  My most unhappy daughter,

may you fare well. That will be hard for you.

AGAVE: Lead on, friends, so I may take my sisters,

those pitiful women, into exile with me.

May I go somewhere where cursed Cithaeron

will never see me, nor my eyes glimpse

that dreadful mountain, a place far away

from any sacred thyrsus.  Let others

make Bacchic celebrations their concern.

[Exit Agave]

CHORUS: The gods appear in many forms,

carrying with them unwelcome things.

What people thought would happen never did.

What they did not expect, the gods made happen.

That’s what this story has revealed.

[Exeunt Chorus and Cadmus, leaving on stage the remains of Pentheus’ body]

END