King Admetus has a problem. A very unusual problem. With the help of Apollo, he has cheated Death. Not lower-case death, but upper-case Death—that is, Thanatos, god of death. And Death is not pleased. (I mean, if you’re going to antagonize anyone, could I highly recommend it not be the god of death? Seriously? But I digress.) So, Admetus has a problem. He has cheated Death, and now he has to pay the price. But how did he get here?
Backstory
Well, it all started with a really unhelpful wingman and the lovely princess of Iolcus, daughter of Pelias. The princess’ name was Alcestis, and she was the fairest and most sought after of all her sisters. When she came of age, many suitors came to woo her—so many, in fact, that Pelias needed to thin their ranks. He didn’t have all day to meet twiterpated suitors, after all, and he certainly wouldn’t give his daughter’s hand to any ordinary man. So, Pelias concocted a solution. His daughter’s future husband would have to have godlike strength, be fearlessly courageous, outrageously handsome, and… able to yoke a lion and a boar to the same chariot.
Basically, he wanted his future son-in-law to be a god, or at least to have god-like abilities. Why settle, after all? Standards are important.
At any rate, Pelias’ plan was successful. Many suitors opted to find a bride who wouldn’t cost them their lives (and can you really blame them?). Many others attempted, and died trying, to yoke a lion and a boar. It turns out lion wrestling is no small feat. Heracles might make it look easy, but throwing a boar into the mix is a recipe for a real circus. At least Pelias got his share of gladiatorial-style entertainment. It seemed no man would ever accomplish this challenge to earn his daughter’s hand.
Until, that is, the arrival of a young king and his weirdly god-like herdsman-cum-wingman. Admetus and Apollo were in the house.
Now, the precise nature of the relationship between Admetus and Apollo is not entirely clear. Apollo, it turns out, was taking a year long sabbatical on as a mortal as punishment from Zeus (which makes the rest of us mere mortals feel wonderful about our daily existence). During this time, he served as a cowherd for Admetus, king of Pherae, who was legendary for his fabulous hospitality—think 1200 thread Egyptian cotton and waffle breakfasts every morning. It was also during this time that Apollo might have kinda, sorta fallen in love with Admetus. And, naturally, being so enamoured with the young king, he decides to help him get married. As one does.
So, Admetus and his god wingman arrive at the palace of Pelias, where Admetus announces his intent to vie for the hand of Alcestis. Pelias probably just shrugged and summoned a servant to bring another glass of wine. This would be a show.
And it was. Because, with the help of Apollo, he did indeed manage to wrestle both a lion and a boar and yoke them to the same chariot.
“Huh,” Pelias said, watching the very sweaty and dust-covered Admetus approach. “That was… surprisingly impressive.” And, true to his word, he allowed the young king to take Alcestis in marriage.
Unfortunately, Admetus was so love drunk over his beautiful bride, that he completely forgot to sacrifice to Artemis, which was a terrible mistake. Artemis is notoriously easy to anger, and, being the goddess of the wild, you definitely don’t want to get on her bad side. Which Admetus did… so Artemis filled his marriage bed with snakes.
Now, for the guy who had yoked a lion and a boar to a chariot, snakes weren’t a big deal in and of themselves. The bigger deal was what they portended—an early death.
Enter the helpfully unhelpful wingman.
Apollo, after setting things straight with Artemis, decided to do his crush a little favour: help him cheat Death. He hosted a little drinking party with the Fates—you know, the goddesses who controlled fate—and, when they were suitably drunk, made them promise that if anyone would offer to die in Admetus’ stead, they would let him live. The Fates shrugged, agreed, and asked Apollo to top them up.
This seemed like a great idea at the time. But there were two problems with it. First, Apollo forgot to ask the god of death how he felt about this exchange. (Spoiler: Not great.) Second, no one wanted to die instead of Admetus. Neither friend nor subject, servant nor sibling. Not even his parents wanted to take his place in death.
No one, that is, except Alcestis.
Summary
This brings us to the start of Euripides’ play and the climax of Admetus’ Death-cheating problem. Many years have passed since their wedding. Alcestis lies on her deathbed, the whole house of Admetus lingers on the precipice of mourning, and in walks Thanatos, god of death—sneering, mocking Apollo for what he’s done, and sharpening his grey sword to winnow his victim’s life.
Meanwhile, Admetus kneels by his wife’s bedside, weeping as her mind drifts nearer and nearer to death. Admetus can hardly bear to watch, racked by guilt and grief, knowing that her death is on account of him:
“Oh, word of pain, oh, sharper ache Than any death of mine had brought! For the Gods’ sake, desert me not, For thine own desolate children’s sake. Nay, up! Be brave. For if they rend Thee from me, I can draw no breath; In thy hand are my life and death, Thine, my belovèd and my friend!”
But Alcestis, although the light grows dim in her eyes, thinks not of herself, but tries to comfort him. She could not have lived had he died, she says. It is better this way—for everyone. But in return for her life, she asks only one thing: that he vow never to bring wed again, lest by doing so he bring into the house a stepmother who might hate, or even harm, their children.
This Admetus swears. He further vows, at Alcestis’ insistence, that he will be the mother to their children where she cannot be. Her voice grows fainter, more distant, frailer as they speak. Admetus, clutching her hand tight in his, pleads for her not to go. But Thanatos is too close now. His victim doesn’t stand a chance. Alcestis, bidding her children and husband farewell, dies.
His children are led away sobbing, but Admetus remains kneeling for a long time. Alcestis’ hand is still warm in his, her pale face masked with sleep, as though she might at any moment awaken. But the fingers clasped around his own have lost their strength, and he knows that she is not returning to him. In a daze, Admetus rises slowly, unable to draw his eyes from his wife. Hardly aware of his own words, he orders a state of mourning throughout Thessaly, then follows the body of his wife as they carry it from the house.
The Chorus strikes up a dirge:
“Daughter of Pelias, fare thee well, May joy be thine in the Sunless Houses! For thine is a deed which the Dead shall tell Where a King black-browed in the gloom carouses; And the cold grey hand at the helm and oar Which guideth shadows from shore to shore, Shall bear this day o’er the Tears that Well, A Queen of women, a spouse of spouses.”
Then, through solemn tones of their mourning song, the Chorus hears a faint whistle—an aimless, happy whistle. They look at one another, horrified and confused. The whistle grows nearer and nearer, until up waltzes Heracles. Dust and mud spatter his lion-skin cloak, and he has a club leaning against his left shoulder.
The Chorus cringes as he asks for King Admetus. He’s on a quest to capture the horses of Diomedes of Thrace, Heracles explains, and wishes for hospitality for the night.
“The horses of Diomedes, son of Ares?” the Leader of the Chorus asks.
“Yup.”
There’s an awkward pause. Then, “You mean, the flesh eating ones. The ones that literally eat men for breakfast.”
“Yu— Wait, what?” Heracles does a double-take then blanches.
No joke. These horses eat humans. Still, Heracles being Heracles, he’s undaunted, defying those horses to just try take a bite out of Alcmena’s son! Never has he fled from any enemy! To do battle against the kings of Ares’ kind is his specialty! This labour befits his large fortune! Ever upward, pressing against—
The approach of Admetus cuts him off mid-monologue. They greet one another warmly, and Admetus, in order to make his guest feel comfortable (remember him being famed for his hospitality? Exhibit A, right here) forces a smile, dodges Heracles’ pointed questions, and pretends that woman who the city is mourning is NOT the love of his life. Nope, everything is fine here. Tooootally fine
Pro tip: Never try this.
Heracles is super happy. He didn’t really want to wander to the next kingdom before dinner, and Admetus’ bedsheets really are unbeatable.
While his boisterous guest settles in, Admetus leads the funeral processions of his own late-wife. Through his tears, he spots someone he did not wish to see. Someone he wished never to see again.
His father. The father who refused to take his son’s place in death.
His father, Pheres, offers him some completely unconsoling condolences:
“I come in sorrow for thy sorrow, son. A faithful wife indeed thou hast lost, and one Who ruled her heart. But, howso hard they be, We needs must bear these griefs… Seeing she hath died, my son, that thou mayst live Nor I be childless. Aye, she would not give My soul to a sad old age, mourning for thee.”
To say Admetus is livid is an understatement. For his father to come here, now, and offer these words of faux sympathy, during a tragedy which could have been completely avoidable, is more than he can tolerate.
“‘Fore God, among all cowards can scarce be one Like thee. So grey, so near the boundary Of mortal life, thou wouldst not, durst not, die To save thy son! Thou hast suffered her to do Thine office, her, no kin to me nor you, Yet more than kin!… Well, I counsel ye. Lose no more time. Get quick another son To foster thy last years, to lay thee on Thy bier, when dead, and wrap thee in thy pall. I will not bury thee. I am, for all The care thou hast shown me, dead.”
Their argument only escalates, until Pheres accuses his son of slaying Alcestis. He warns that her kinsmen may yet come for Admetus’ blood, and rightly so, then he storms off. Admetus shouts curses after him, but his anger dissipates with the dust of his father’s chariot. His shoulders slump, the tears springing back into his eyes, and he orders the funerary procession onward.
Meanwhile, Heracles is having a grand old time back at the palace. He has bathed, changed into clean garments, and eaten. He now twirls around his room, drunk off of Admetus’ impressively good wine, with a garland of flowers on his head. The servant who has been ordered to attend to him crouches in the corner, fighting back tears. Heracles doesn’t really help the matter, poking fun at the man’s long face and insists he lighten up with some wine.
The servant refuses. Heracles insists. The servant responds sharply. Heracles begins to wonder what his deal is. The servant tells Heracles to drink himself silly and leave the palace to its own grief. Heracles, growing angry now, demands to know precisely who has died. The servant drops his anachronistic bomb: “Alcestis, the King’s wife.”
Heracles is so overcome with shame that he almost pulls his hair out—except that he doesn’t want to damage his flower crown. Raving about how awesome he is and how great a friend Admetus is and how not scary Hades is, he storms out, leaving the servant in a kind of silent shock.
Time passes. Admetus’ grief only sharpens. He wishes he were dead, if only to escape the torture of having lost Alcestis.
“Behold, I count my wife’s fate happier, Though all gainsay me, than mine own. To her Comes no more pain for ever; she hath rest And peace from all toil, and her name is blest… I have my life. Here stands my house. But now How dare I enter in? Or, entered, how Go forth again? Go forth, when none is there To give me a parting word, and I to her?… Where shall I turn for refuge? There within, The desert that remains where she hath been…”
As he weeps, who enters but Heracles. And this time he’s not alone. He has a veiled woman beside him, who looks like she’s in the kind of stupor one is in after being rudely awoken in the middle of deep sleep. Heracles says he’s off (again) to capture some man-eating horses, and he wonders if it wouldn’t be so terrible inconvenient if Admetus provided hospitality for this beautiful woman while he’s away?
“No,” Admetus says.
“Pleeeeeease?”
Admetus refuses, declaring that he couldn’t possibly have this woman sleep in his wife’s bed and wander the same halls she did. Not now. Not Even as he speaks these words, his eyes keep flitting to the veiled woman, wondering silently at the familiarity of her form.
Heracles pleads with him to change his mind, removing the woman’s veil and insisting Admetus look at her and then decide. Admetus, recalling his vow to Alcestis, averts his eyes instead. She may come into his hall, he finally relents, but he wants nothing to do with her, or with any woman who is not his wife.
“Sure, but I think you should take her hand and lead her in yourself,” Heracles says.
Admetus gives him a blank stare. “Did you literally hear nothing I just said?”
“Oh, come on.”
“Lord, this is violence… wrong…” Admetus mutters desperately, but extends his hand without looking nonetheless.
Heracles shrugs. Violence is pretty much all he was known for anyway. He places the woman’s hand in Admetus’, who grimaces as her skin meets his.
“And now look at her,” Heracles says.
And Admetus does, her face silencing him.
It is Alcestis. His wife. Alive.
He sputters with shock, praying that this is not some sort of illusion or trickery, but Heracles reassures him. It is Alcestis, whom he, Heracles, has brought back from Hades after fighting Death himself. (No big deal.)
Admetus crumples to his knees, unable to stand through his shock, his terror, but Heracles helps him up. “Take her, embrace her,” he encourages. “And after three days of cleansing, she will fully awake to be with you.”
Overcome with happiness, Admetus takes Alcestis into his arms, weeping tears of joy, then leads her back to their home.
Personal Thoughts
I first heard of Alcestis in Alex Michaelides’ brilliant psychological thriller, The Silent Patient. In it she is used as a motif—a tragic symbol of betrayal and hurt—and depicted as a woman whose noble sacrifice for her husband is wasted on his heartless self-interest. Her silence is his condemnation. It speaks volumes of his guilt where words could not. This chilling motif adds complexity to the main narrative, in which Alicia Berenson, accused of killing her husband, refuses to speak, her silence mirroring the silence of Alcestis at the end of the play.
I was surprised to find, however, upon my own reading of Euripides’ play, that this motif is based upon a complete misinterpretation—or an intentional recasting—of Alcestis. This for three reasons:
- Perhaps most obviously, Alcestis’ silence is not the result of presumed betrayal or anger. Rather, Heracles explains that it is because she owed a debt to the lords of Hades. Once this debt has been repaid, she will once more speak. Her silence is thus a matter of ritual and sacrifice, not personal sentiment. She is silent not because she does not wish to speak, but because she cannot yet speak, not until she is cleansed and the lords of Hades appeased.
ADMETUS (in an awed whisper, looking towards ALCESTIS): Why standeth she so still? No sound, no word!
HERACLES: She hath dwelt with Death. Her voice may not be heard / Ere to the Lords of Them Below she pay / Due cleansing, and awake on the third day. (To the Attendants) So; guide her home.
- Michaelides interpretation also problematically hinges Admetus’ betrayal of Alcestis—a betrayal which never took place. Before her death, Admetus makes two vows to Alcestis: first, that he shall never marry again; second, that he shall become a “mother” to their children where she cannot. When he takes the veiled woman’s hand in the final scene of the play, it is only to lead her into his palace, where she shall be hosted until the return of Heracles from his quest. There is no permanency in her accommodation, nor is there any talk of marital or conjugal relations. Admetus, true to character, is simply serving as a good, albeit unwilling, host. His vows to Alcestis remain unbroken.
- In contrast to the narrative of The Silent Patient (SPOILERS AHEAD), in which Alicia’s husband choses to save his own life over that of his wife, there is never any indication given that Admetus requested, let alone demanded, that Alcestis die for his sake. Quite to the contrary, he wishes she would recant her decision, so that he does not need to suffer the loss of her. To Admetus, as to Alcestis, a life without the other is unbearable. Each wishes to die in the other’s stead, a complete reversal of Michaelides’ plot.
Far from a play of betrayal, rage, and bitter silence—a series of adjectives far better suited to a Shakespearean tragedy—Alcestis is about the pain of loss and the power of selfless love. It defies genre, cast like a tragedy in the form of a sartyr play with the happy ending of a comedy. Both its heroine and its hero are striking figures, Alcestis in her courage and self-sacrifice, Admetus in his unflagging loyalty and love towards her, even beyond the grave. It is a play which speaks volumes, even when Alcestis does not.
Alcestis is available to read or purchase at the following sites:
- Gutenburg: Alcestis
- Amazon: Heracles and Other Plays
You can also find The Silent Patient here: