Iphigenia Phaedra Athaliah Page 3

  The technical mastery of Racine’s work is so palpable that it is almost superfluous to describe it. Supreme economy of means is combined with extreme care in their selection, and the details are put together in such a way that every move can be seen to have been prepared and rendered plausible. Suspense is rapidly built up to an almost unbearable degree, and simultaneously a moving depth of tragedy is achieved.

  Much has been made of the proprieties as a deadening factor in Racine’s work. And it is true that no one screams or gesticulates in these plays. Action is only described, and nothing is allowed to ruffle the surface of formal politeness. For a modern audience, used to naturalist excesses and ‘frankness’, such restraint is unsettling. Yet it is an integral part of the fabric, and not merely a pointless convention imposed on Racine by the age. His tragedies are played out at Court, where dissimulation is essential, not only for success but also for survival. Given the dangers which can arise from a situation where the king wields absolute power, one revelation (such as that A loves B) is enough to launch a disastrous series of catastrophes. Not for nothing do the words ‘stratagem’, ‘conceal’, ‘hide’, ‘declare’, ‘reveal’, ‘break silence’, ‘burst out’ crop up at every turn of his plays. Agrippina’s plan (in Britannicus) to recover the control of her errant son, Nero, might well serve as a motto of the playwright’s works:

  Bare, if we can, the secrets of his soul. (127)

  Given this framework, it is inevitable that the force driving most of the plays forward should be the disclosure of firmly held secrets.

  In the same way, language is often used to allow the truth to be guessed at rather than to express it directly. There is a constant tension between the hidden feelings of the characters and their spoken words. In such circumstances, it is natural that irony should be a frequent weapon in Racine’s armoury. Thus, in Iphigenia, when the heroine asks her father whether the whole family is to be at the forthcoming sacrifice, he replies to his daughter (who is, though she does not realize it, to be the person sacrificed):

  … Yes. You will be there. (578)

  Nor is the secret of Racine’s craftsmanship to be sought in the famous unities of time, place, and subject. His great rule was, as he said himself, ‘to please’. No doubt the concentration of the action into the space of one day (the daylight, that is, and not twenty-four hours) contributes powerfully to the sense of urgency that drives the action headlong down the slope to death. The place always has its significance. For example, it is a camp in the war play, Iphigenia, and the harem of the Sultan in Bajazet. But the real tragedy is performed in the hearts of the protagonists. When Giraudoux tells us that the characters are all piled on top of one another in the same house and therefore get on each other’s nerves, that the same sounds echo in their dreams and that their linen goes to the same laundry, he is talking nonsense. For there are no sleeping apartments or arrangements, no laundries in Racine – in fact none of the ordinary activities such as letter writing or settling bills which might distract the characters from the only business in hand, which is how to go to disaster as rapidly as possible in the five acts allowed them.

  The picture of Racine would not be complete without a word, however inadequate, on his incredible mastery of language. His style is simple, but concentrated, direct, and vigorous. In his Greek plays, where he draws skilfully on the rich storehouse of ancient mythology and legend, it is superbly evocative. But there are lines which, across three centuries, would still pass unnoticed in an everyday conversation:

  My daughter? And who says she’s coming here? (Iphigenia, 179)

  or:

  And who asked you to mind my family? (Iphigenia, 1349)

  The secret of the greatness of Racine as a poet, as of all great art, is probably that the style reflects the power, subtlety, and insight that form the strands of his work. Only a genius could produce tragedies that reach into the deepest corners of the human heart with such an incredibly restricted and simple vocabulary, such constant restraint, such an absence of facile effects.

  Such, then, is Racine. This outline gives only the general picture of the man and his achievement. To appreciate to the full his richness and variety, the reader must turn to the more detailed analysis prefaced to each of the plays.

  NOTE ON THE TERMS ‘ROMANESQUE’ AND ‘BAROQUE’

  ‘ROMANESQUE’ is the term employed by French critics to describe a type of non-classical literature current in the seventeenth century, whereas romantique is associated with the Romantic school of the nineteenth. Romanesque literature specialized in romances and in fanciful and complicated tales. Its ethos was chivalrous, and its favourite subjects were martial prowess and courtly love.

  The term baroque has been widely applied in critical writing to literature as well as painting. It connotes a love of the grandiose, of the theatrical, and of high-flown oratory and violent gesture. It is associated broadly with the Counter-Reformation and with the revival of the nobility’s influence.

  RACINE’S PLAYS

  The Thebaid

  1664

  Alexander

  1665

  Andromache

  1667

  The Litigants

  1668

  Britannicus

  1669

  Berenice

  1670

  Bajazet

  1672

  Mithridates

  1673

  lphigenia

  1674

  Phaedra

  1677

  Esther

  1689

  Athaliah

  1691

  IPHIGENIA

  A Tragedy

  INTRODUCTION TO IPHIGENIA

  IPHIGENIA is the drama of a king placed in an impossible position – and saved by a miracle at the last moment. The formula – maximum suspense with a happy ending – was by no means new in Racine’s day, nor has its popularity diminished with the advent of the cinema and television. It goes far to explain why Iphigenia was Racine’s most popular play in his own day.

  The suspense centres on the fate of King Agamemnon’s daughter – Iphigenia, whose life is demanded by an oracle. Will she die, or will she somehow escape? Her father is the overlord of the vast Greek armada assembled, at the port of Aulis, to sail against Troy on the eastern shore of the Aegean Sea. He might therefore be expected to defend his daughter effectively. But the force is a heterogeneous one – made up of some twenty kings and their followers. And Agamemnon is merely the elective commander. His nomination, as usual in such cases, has aroused bitter jealousies among the unsuccessful candidates. His power rests, therefore, as he occasionally admits, on a precarious basis.

  But this is not all. Most of the princelings taking part in the expedition do so because they are bound by an oath. For the aim of the armada is to recapture Helen, the beautiful wife of Menelaus (Agamemnon’s brother) whom Paris, son of Priam (King of Troy), has abducted. As suitors for Helen’s hand, these princelings had formerly sworn to avenge any insult to the honour of the successful wooer. But no such oath was taken by young Achilles, one of the most powerful of the Greek leaders. He has joined the campaign only because he has been promised the hand of Iphigenia. If there is any hitch in the projected marriage, Achilles’ loyalty, too, will become uncertain. And this is exactly what happens.

  Even a man of iron would quail when urged to sign his daughter’s death sentence; and Agamemnon is, on the contrary, weak, wavering, and easily influenced. His natural inclination is to save his flesh and blood. But, just to make sure that he does not call off the expedition, he is flanked by two formidable figures for whom he is no match. These two are Ulysses and Calchas, and they form, so to speak, the war party. They are determined to maintain the honour of the Greek arms, even at the cost of Iphigenia’s life. Agamemnon is as putty when exposed to the eloquence of the wily Ulysses, while Calchas, the high priest, is known to possess the power to rouse the army to a frenzy against its titular commander.

  Even before the curtain rises, the king has been torn this way and that by the conflicting forces of ambition and paternal love. His first impulse, on learning of the oracle, is to ‘curse the gods’,

  And there and then despatch […] the army home. (70)

  But Ulysses summons up ‘his cruel skill’, and paints a rosy picture of

  The sovereignty of Asia pledged to Greece. (76)

  To make matters worse, the gods pursue the king in his dreams. Finally, he yields, and

  In tears commanded that [his] daughter die. (90)

  But, in order to lure his daughter from the palace in Mycenae, his capital, to her death at the camp, he has to ‘use a baleful stratagem’. He therefore

  Borrow[s] her lover young Achilles’ style (93)

  (Achilles was absent from Aulis at the time), and announces to Iphigenia that she must hasten to Aulis, for her fiancé is anxious to marry her before he sets sail for Troy. But hardly has he given the necessary orders when he changes his mind.

  As the play begins, he stumbles into the half dawn, bleary-eyed and distraught. He has decided that: [She] ‘shall not die’. And he orders his old retainer, Arcas, to intercept the girl and her mother Clytemnestra, and turn them back, on the pretext that Achilles has proved fickle. To make this astonishing news more convincing, Arcas is encouraged to hint that

  … this change

  Of heart is due to young Eriphile,

  Whom [Achilles] himself captive from Lesbos brought. (153–5)

  Needless to say, all the other leaders are ignorant of Agamemnon’s latest stratagem. If either Achilles or Ulysses should learn the truth, the fat would be in the fire. As it happens, the king’s luck is decidedly out. Achilles returns much sooner than expected from his native Thessaly. And, as Arcas leaves on his mission, the y
oung warrior enters followed by Ulysses. All he knows of the whole imbroglio is that Iphigenia is on her way to the camp and

  Soon will link her destiny with [his]. (178)

  Ulysses and Agamemnon both try to dissuade him from his thoughts of marriage at the present time. Achilles reacts violently. Finally, Agamemnon, driven into a corner, has to confess that:

  Heaven, watching over Troy, by angry signs

  Forbids the Greeks to find a way to it. (217–18)

  The expedition must be abandoned. At this point, both Achilles and Ulysses express horror, for different reasons. The latter, much too cunning to raise the delicate issue until Agamemnon is alone, merely utters a short cry of surprise. But Achilles gives way to his dismay. Unaware that Iphigenia’s death is the price of his glory at Troy, he presses the king, with his usual martial ardour, to take a more courageous line, even though his own life, as the Fates have foretold,

  At Troy will in its flower be harvested. (226)

  As soon as he has left, Ulysses brings all his wonted eloquence to bear. Agamemnon’s vanity, as ever, is touched, and he weakens. But, with a typical mixture of cunning and disingenuousness, he keeps open a reserve exit. If his daughter does not arrive in the camp, he suggests (well knowing that Arcas has gone off to ensure that very contingency), such a turn of events should be interpreted as a kindly omen, and the idea of the sacrifice abandoned.

  Hardly are the words spoken than another servant, Eurybates, enters with the news that Iphigenia and her mother are here. Arcas, it is clear, has failed in his mission. This time, Ulysses presses home his case for meeting the oracle’s wishes. And, to clinch matters, he conjures up – always his trump card – the vision of the Greek fleet returning garlanded to Aulis

  In glorious triumph, destined to resound,

  Undying, down the centuries to come. (387–8)

  The king weakens and gives in. But, as usual, in the hope of some unexpected turn of events, he inserts his escape clause. Ulysses must keep the high priest Calchas silent. The point is not without importance, for Calchas does not in fact speak out. This reticence enables Agamemnon to plan a further escape for his daughter, and also misleads Eriphile into thinking (quite wrongly) that the king is sparing Iphigenia solely because Achilles has sprung to her defence.

  When Iphigenia does arrive in the camp, she is naturally distressed to find her father so remote and preoccupied. And she is dumbfounded on learning from her mother Clytemnestra (who, too late, has just been handed Arcas’s message) that Achilles, after sending for her from Argos, has now spurned her. However, just as the outraged mother is leaving for home, she runs into Achilles, who reassures her as to his intentions. The two are reconciled; but shortly afterwards comes the sensational revelation, on the part of Arcas, that Agamemnon wishes to take his daughter to the sacrifice and not to the wedding ceremony. Clytemnestra rushes off to demand an explanation of her husband. Achilles, furious at having been used as a pretext for what he regards as murder, is with difficulty restrained by Iphigenia from challenging Agamemnon, who, she reminds him gently, is her father. The queen returns distraught to report that Agamemnon has had her refused access to the altar. Iphigenia manages to persuade Achilles to let her plead with her father, but first he assures Clytemnestra:

  I shall, to serve you, take all needful steps. (1079)

  Agamemnon soon appears on the scene to inquire why his daughter is so slow in coming to the altar. He realizes at once that his secret has been betrayed by Arcas. But, in a moving speech, Iphigenia reassures him.

  Be not dismayed. No one is false to you.

  When you command me, you will be obeyed. (1175–6)

  With restraint, but also with subtle cruelty, she pleads for her life, not for her own sake but for that of a mother and a fiancé. Agamemnon, his ruses laid bare, has no choice but to admit the truth. But, he pleads, he has tried his utmost to save her, and has every time been thwarted by the maleficence of the gods. Besides, even if he wanted, the army would revolt against a refusal to make the necessary sacrifice. Therefore, he says:

  My daughter, you must yield. Your hour has come.

  Think of your noble breeding and your birth.

  …

  And shame the gods who send you to your doom. (1241–4, 1246)

  Clytemnestra is not convinced by her husband’s apologia. And she opens the floodgates of her invective. Her wretched husband’s trials are not by any means over. He still has to contend with Achilles, who protests to his commander with more violence than tact. Touched in his most sensitive spot – his vanity – Agamemnon for once reacts like a king, and – paradoxically – with the most down-to-earth expressions:

  And who asked you to mind my family? (1349)

  In any case, adds the king, it is all your fault.

  My heart, to save her, opened you the way.

  But all you ask for, all you seek, is Troy.

  I blocked the path to your aspiréd goal.

  This is your will. Her death unbars it. Go. (1365–9)

  Achilles’ wrath knows no bounds, and he attacks Agamemnon as if they were on the field of battle. The king remains unmoved:

  Flee then. Go back home to your Thessaly.

  I free you from the fetters of your vow. (1402–4)

  Others will come who are more disciplined and who

  … by their exploits forcing destiny,

  Will hail the day ordained for Ilium’s fall. (1405–6)

  Achilles departs, but not before uttering the warning:

  To reach the heart that you intend to pierce,

  This is the path your blows will have to take. (1423–4)

  Left alone, no longer affected by his daughter’s plea, Agamemnon takes a hard line. To spare her life would seem like surrendering to Achilles’ bluster.

  He questions my prestige. That tips the scales. (1430)

  He sends for his guards to lead Iphigenia off. Yet, hardly have they appeared than he wavers. And in the end he changes his mind, for the fifth and last time. His crowning argument is typically oblique.

  [Achilles] loves her. She will live for someone else. (1460)

  He hands her over to her mother, and urges them to flee.

  But they must make haste. Fortunately,

  Calchas, Ulysses, have not spoken yet. (1475)

  At this point, the sub-plot links up with the plot to create an explosion. Eriphile – a maiden of mysterious but presumably noble origin – has been captured by Achilles at Lesbos and sent to Mycenae, where she has been befriended by Iphigenia. Despite every reason to the contrary, she has fallen masochistically in love with her captor (who, among other things, has caused her father’s death) and revels in the recollection of her abduction by the blood-stained conqueror. When Achilles invaded the island, she was at the time on her way to Troy, where the secret of her birth was to be revealed to her. She now seizes the opportunity to accompany Iphigenia to Aulis on the pretext that she will be able to consult the omniscient Calchas, but in reality in the hope that

  Some one of [her] mishaps might spread to them. (520)

  (i.e. Achilles and Iphigenia).

  Yet Eriphile, with the lucidity of the damned, realizes that

  nothing will happen to her rival: