EURIPIDES BACCHAE
Translated by Ian Johnston, Vancouver Island University
TRANSLATOR’S NOTE
In the following text, I’ve translated Euripides’s Bacchae, aiming to make it accessible and engaging. The stage directions and footnotes are my own additions to assist readers. In this translation, possessives of words ending in -s usually follow the common form, adding -’s, as in Zeus’s, which adds a syllable when spoken. Occasionally, for rhythm, I use a simple apostrophe, as in Bacchus’, keeping the word to two syllables instead of three, unlike Bacchus’s. There’s a significant gap in Euripides’s original manuscript, and I’ve included a reconstructed section for the missing portion, enclosed in square brackets, based on what’s generally understood about the lost content. Euripides was an Athenian tragic playwright who lived around four hundred eighty to four hundred six BC. Of his many works, only nineteen survive. The Bacchae, his final play, was written after he left Athens for the royal court of Macedon and was first performed a year after his death, in four hundred five BC.
In the following text, I’ve translated Euripides’s Bacchae, aiming to make it accessible and engaging. The stage directions and footnotes are my own additions to assist readers. In this translation, possessives of words ending in -s usually follow the common form, adding -’s, as in Zeus’s, which adds a syllable when spoken. Occasionally, for rhythm, I use a simple apostrophe, as in Bacchus’, keeping the word to two syllables instead of three, unlike Bacchus’s. There’s a significant gap in Euripides’s original manuscript, and I’ve included a reconstructed section for the missing portion, enclosed in square brackets, based on what’s generally understood about the lost content. Euripides was an Athenian tragic playwright who lived around four hundred eighty to four hundred six BC. Of his many works, only nineteen survive. The Bacchae, his final play, was written after he left Athens for the royal court of Macedon and was first performed a year after his death, in four hundred five BC.
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 followed him from Asia, also called Maenads or Bacchants.
SOLDIERS and ATTENDANTS: around Pentheus.
Scene: the Greek city of Thebes, outside the royal palace. Dionysus, appearing as a young man, stands alone with the palace behind him, its main doors facing the audience. He speaks directly to the audience.
DIONYSUS.
I have arrived here in the land of Thebes—I, Dionysus, son of Zeus, born to him from Semele, Cadmus’s daughter, delivered by a fiery midwife—Zeus’s 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’s 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 the 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 is 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’s daughters in their company as well. For this city must learn, 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.
I have arrived here in the land of Thebes—I, Dionysus, son of Zeus, born to him from Semele, Cadmus’s daughter, delivered by a fiery midwife—Zeus’s 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’s 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 the 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 is 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’s daughters in their company as well. For this city must learn, 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.]
DIONYSUS.
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’s palace, let Cadmus’s city see you, while I go, in person, to the clefts of Mount Cithaeron, to my Bacchae, to join in their dancing.
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’s palace, let Cadmus’s city see you, while I go, in person, to the clefts of Mount Cithaeron, to my Bacchae, to join in 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.
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.
Who is 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.
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.
On Bacchae! Bacchae, move! Bring home Bromius, our god, son of god, great Dionysus, from Phrygian mountains to spacious roads of Greece—Hail Bromius!
His mother dropped him early, as her womb, in forceful birth pangs, was struck by Zeus’s 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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
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 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 to make ourselves a thyrsus, to put on fawn skins and crown our heads with garlands of these ivy branches.
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 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 to 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 is 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. O 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.
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 is 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. O 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.
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?
Shall we go up the mountain in a chariot?
TIRESIAS.
The god would not then get complete respect.
The god would not then get complete respect.
CADMUS..
So I’ll be your nursemaid—one old man will take charge of another one?
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.
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 honor Bacchus?
Of all the city, are we the only ones who’ll dance to honor Bacchus?
TIRESIAS
Yes, indeed, for we’re the only ones whose minds are clear. As for the others, well, their thinking’s wrong.
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 lengthy wait. Take my hand.
There’ll be a lengthy wait. Take my hand.
TIRESIAS [holding out his hand]..
Here. Take it—make a pair of it and yours.
Here. Take it—make a pair of it and yours.
CADMUS.
I’m a mortal, so I don’t mock the gods.
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 honors from us all, to be praised communally, without division.
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 honors 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 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?
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 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 honoring 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 not in the city, 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’s 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.
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 honoring 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 not in the city, 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’s 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?
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.
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 is 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 family into disrepute?
That is 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 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’s 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 devious 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 power 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 brandishing 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 honored. 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.
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’s 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 devious 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 power 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 brandishing 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 honored. 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 honoring this Dionysus, a great god, you show your moderation.
Old man, you’ve not disgraced Apollo with your words, and by honoring 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 honor. 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 honor to this god.
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 honor. 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 honor 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.
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.
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’s 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.
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’s 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 tranquility. 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 is not 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. O Bromius, Bromius, inspired god who leads the Bacchae, lead me away to lovely Peira, where Muses dwell, or to Olympus’s sacred slopes, where Graces live, Desire, too, where it’s lawful and appropriate to celebrate our rites with Bacchus. This god, a 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.
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 tranquility. 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 is not 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. O Bromius, Bromius, inspired god who leads the Bacchae, lead me away to lovely Peira, where Muses dwell, or to Olympus’s sacred slopes, where Graces live, Desire, too, where it’s lawful and appropriate to celebrate our rites with Bacchus. This god, a 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 color 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.
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 color 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]
Untie his hands. I’ve got him in my nets. He’s not fast enough to get away from me.
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’s 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.
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.
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.
I know it. It’s around the town of Sardis.
DIONYSUS.
I’m from there. My homeland is Lydia.
I’m from there. My homeland is Lydia.
PENTHEUS.
Why do you bring these rituals to Greece?
Why do you bring these rituals to Greece?
DIONYSUS.
Dionysus sent me—the son of Zeus.
Dionysus sent me—the son of Zeus.
PENTHEUS.
Is there some Zeus there who creates new gods?
Is there some Zeus there who creates new gods?
DIONYSUS.
No. It’s the same Zeus who wed Semele right here.
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?
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.
I saw him—he saw me. He gave me the sacred rituals.
PENTHEUS.
Tell me what they’re like, those rituals of yours.
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.
That information cannot be passed on to men like you, those uninitiated in the rites of Bacchus.
PENTHEUS.
Do they benefit those who sacrifice?
Do they benefit those who sacrifice?
DIONYSUS.
They’re worth knowing, but you’re not allowed to hear.
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.
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.
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?
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.
He was what he wished to be, not made to order.
PENTHEUS.
Again you fluently evade my question, saying nothing whatsoever.
Again you fluently evade my question, saying nothing whatsoever.
DIONYSUS.
Yes, but then a man can seem totally ignorant when speaking to a fool.
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?
Is Thebes the first place you’ve come to with your god?
DIONYSUS.
All the barbarians are dancing in these rites.
All the barbarians are dancing in these rites.
PENTHEUS.
I’m not surprised. They’re stupider than Greeks.
I’m not surprised. They’re stupider than Greeks.
DIONYSUS.
In this, they are much wiser. But their laws are very different, too.
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?
When you dance these rites, is it at night or during daylight?
DIONYSUS.
Mainly at night. Shadows confer solemnity.
Mainly at night. Shadows confer solemnity.
PENTHEUS.
And deceive the women. It’s all corrupt!
And deceive the women. It’s all corrupt!
DIONYSUS.
One can do shameful things in daylight, too.
One can do shameful things in daylight, too.
PENTHEUS.
You must be punished for these evil games.
You must be punished for these evil games.
DIONYSUS.
You, too—for foolishness, impiety toward the god.
You, too—for foolishness, impiety toward the god.
PENTHEUS.
How brash this Bacchant is! How well prepared in using language!
How brash this Bacchant is! How well prepared in using language!
DIONYSUS.
What punishment am I to suffer? What harsh penalties will you inflict?
What punishment am I to suffer? What harsh penalties will you inflict?
PENTHEUS.
First, I’ll cut off this delicate hair of yours.
First, I’ll cut off this delicate hair of yours.
DIONYSUS.
My hair is sacred. I grow it for the god.
My hair is sacred. I grow it for the god.
PENTHEUS.
And give me that thyrsus in your hand.
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.
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.
We’ll lock your body up inside, in prison.
DIONYSUS.
The god will personally set me free whenever I so choose.
The god will personally set me free whenever I so choose.
PENTHEUS.
That only works if you call him while among the Bacchae.
That only works if you call him while among the Bacchae.
DIONYSUS.
He sees my suffering now—and from nearby.
He sees my suffering now—and from nearby.
PENTHEUS.
Where is he then? My eyes don’t see him.
Where is he then? My eyes don’t see him.
DIONYSUS.
He is where I am. You cannot see him because you don’t believe.
He is where I am. You cannot see him because you don’t believe.
PENTHEUS [to his attendants]
Seize him. He’s insulting Thebes and me.
Seize him. He’s insulting Thebes and me.
DIONYSUS.
I warn you—you should not tie me up. I’ve got my wits about me. You’ve lost yours.
I warn you—you should not tie me up. I’ve got my wits about me. You’ve lost yours.
PENTHEUS.
But I am more powerful than you, so I’ll have you put in chains.
But I am 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.
You’re quite ignorant of why you live, what you do, and who you are.
PENTHEUS.
I am Pentheus, son of Agave and Echion.
I am Pentheus, son of Agave and Echion.
DIONYSUS.
A suitable name. It suggests misfortune.
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 here 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.
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 here 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.
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 everyone 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, O 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. O 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.
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 everyone 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, O 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. O 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!
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’s voice! It’s calling me. But from what direction?
Who’s that? Who is it? It’s Dionysus’s 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!
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, O Bromius!
Io! Io! Lord and master! Come join our company, Bromius, O Bromius!
DIONYSUS [From inside]
Sacred lord of earthquakes, shake this ground.
Sacred lord of earthquakes, shake this ground.
[The earthquake tremors resume.]..
CHORUS VOICE
Ai! Soon Pentheus’s palace will be shaken into rubble.
Ai! Soon Pentheus’s palace will be shaken into rubble.
Dionysus is in the house—revere him.
We revere him, we revere him.
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’s palace—consume it all!
Let fiery lightning strike right now—burn Pentheus’s palace—consume it all!
CHORUS.
Look! Do you not 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. O maenads—throw your bodies on the ground, down, down, for our master, Zeus’s son, moves now against the palace—to demolish it.
Look! Do you not 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. O maenads—throw your bodies on the ground, down, down, for our master, Zeus’s 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’s power as he rattles Pentheus’s palace. Get up now. Be brave. And stop your trembling.
Ah, my barbarian Asian women, do you lie there on the ground prostrate with fear? It seems you feel Dionysus’s power as he rattles Pentheus’s palace. Get up now. Be brave. And stop your trembling.
CHORUS LEADER.
How happy I am to see you once again—our greatest light in all the joyful dancing! We felt alone and totally abandoned.
How happy I am to see you once again—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’s gloomy dungeon?
Did you feel despair when I was sent away, cast down in Pentheus’s 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?
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.
No trouble. I saved myself with ease.
CHORUS LEADER.
But didn’t he bind up your hands in chains?
But didn’t he bind up your hands in chains?
DIONYSUS.
In this business, I was playing with him—he thought he was tying me up, the fool! He did not 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, level with 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.
In this business, I was playing with him—he thought he was tying me up, the fool! He did not 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, level with 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.
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?
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.
Hold on. Calm down. Don’t be so angry.
PENTHEUS.
How did you escape your chains and get here?
How did you escape your chains and get here?
DIONYSUS.
Did I not say someone would release me—or did you miss that part?
Did I not say someone would release me—or did you miss that part?
PENTHEUS.
Who was it? You’re always explaining things in riddles.
Who was it? You’re always explaining things in riddles.
DIONYSUS.
It was the one who cultivates for men the richly clustering vine.
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.
Ah, this Dionysus. Your words are a lovely insult to your god.
DIONYSUS.
He came to Thebes with nothing but good things.
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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
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, ruler of this land of Thebes, I’ve just left Cithaeron, that mountain where the sparkling snow never melts away.
PENTHEUS.
What is this important news you’ve come with?
What is 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.
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.
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 cords. 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. O 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’s mother, Agave—take her away from these Bacchic celebrations, do the king a favor?” 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’s 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, “O 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 have seen ribs and cloven hooves tossed everywhere—some hung up in branches, dripping blood and gore. And bulls, proud beasts tillTHEN, 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’s streams, that fertile land which yields its crops to Thebes. Like fighting troops, they raided Hysiae and Erythrae, below rocky Cithaeron, destroying everything, snatching children from their homes. Whatever they carried on 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 beings that vine which puts an end to human grief. Without wine, there’s no more Aphrodite—or any other pleasure left for men.
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 cords. 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. O 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’s mother, Agave—take her away from these Bacchic celebrations, do the king a favor?” 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’s 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, “O 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 have seen ribs and cloven hooves tossed everywhere—some hung up in branches, dripping blood and gore. And bulls, proud beasts tillTHEN, 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’s streams, that fertile land which yields its crops to Thebes. Like fighting troops, they raided Hysiae and Erythrae, below rocky Cithaeron, destroying everything, snatching children from their homes. Whatever they carried on 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 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.
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.
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.
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.
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?
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.
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.
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!
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].
It’s useless trying to argue with this stranger—whatever he does or suffers, he won’t shut up.
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.
My lord! There’s still a chance to end this calmly.
PENTHEUS.
By doing what? Should I become a slave to my own slaves?
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.
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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
You there, bring me my weapons.
[To Dionysus].
And you, no more talk! Keep quiet!
And you, no more talk! Keep quiet!
DIONYSUS.
Just a minute!
Just a minute!
[Moving up to Pentheus].
How would you like to gaze upon those women sitting together in the mountains?
How would you like to gaze upon those women sitting together in the mountains?
PENTHEUS.
I’d like that. Yes, for that I’d pay in gold—and pay a lot.
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?
Why is that? Why do you desire it so much?
PENTHEUS.
I’d be sorry to see the women drunk.
I’d be sorry to see the women drunk.
DIONYSUS
Would you derive pleasure from looking on, viewing something you find painful?
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.
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.
But even if you go there secretly, they’ll track you down.
PENTHEUS.
You’re right. I’ll go there openly.
You’re right. I’ll go there openly.
DIONYSUS.
So you’re prepared, are you, to make the trip? Shall I lead you there?
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.
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.
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?
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.
If they see you as a man, they’ll kill you.
PENTHEUS.
Right again. You always have the answer.
Right again. You always have the answer.
DIONYSUS.
Dionysus taught me all these things.
Dionysus taught me all these things.
PENTHEUS.
How can I best follow your suggestion?
How can I best follow your suggestion?
DIONYSUS.
I’ll go inside your house and dress you up.
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.
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?
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?
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.
I’ll fix up a long hair piece for your head.
PENTHEUS.
All right. What’s the next piece of my outfit?
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.
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?
What else? What other things will you provide?
DIONYSUS.
A thyrsus to hold and a dappled fawn skin.
A thyrsus to hold and a dappled fawn skin.
PENTHEUS.
No. I can’t dress up in women’s clothes!
No. I can’t dress up in women’s clothes!
DIONYSUS.
But if you go fighting with these Bacchae, you’ll cause bloodshed.
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.
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.
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?
But how will I make it through the city without the Thebans noticing me?
DIONYSUS.
We go by deserted streets. I’ll take you.
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 in the house. I’ll think about what’s best.
Well, anything’s easier to accept than being made a fool by Bacchic women. Let’s go in the house. I’ll think about what’s best.
DIONYSUS.
As you wish. Whatever you do, I’m ready.
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.
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 is 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.
My women! That man is 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.
O 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 honor 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 harbor, whoever overcomes great hardship is likewise another happy man. Various men outdo 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.
O 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 honor 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 harbor, whoever overcomes great hardship is likewise another happy man. Various men outdo 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.
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 overstated female way, enjoying the role.]
DIONYSUS.
You look just like one of Cadmus’s daughters.
You look just like one of Cadmus’s 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.
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.
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?
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.
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, practicing my Bacchanalian dance.
I must have worked it loose inside the house, shaking my head when I moved here and there, practicing my Bacchanalian dance.
DIONYSUS.
I’ll rearrange it for you. It’s only right that I should serve you. Straighten up your head.
I’ll rearrange it for you. It’s only right that I should serve you. Straighten up your head.
[Dionysus begins adjusting Pentheus’s hair and clothing.]
PENTHEUS.
All right then. You can be my dresser, now that I’ve transformed myself for you.
All right then. You can be my dresser, now that I’ve transformed myself for you.
DIONYSUS.
Your belt is loose. And these pleats in your dress are crooked, too, down at your ankle here.
Your belt is 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.
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.
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?
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.
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.
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?
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 balanced. But now it’s working in you as it should.
If you have desire, you’ll have the power. Before this, your mind was not well balanced. 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?
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 utterly destroy those places where the nymphs all congregate, where Pan plays his music on his pipes.
As long as you don’t utterly destroy 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.
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.
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.
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.
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 center of our land of Thebes. I’m the only man in all the city who dares to undertake this enterprise.
Lead on—through the center 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.
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.
That will be my mother.
DIONYSUS.
For everyone, you’ll have become someone to celebrate.
For everyone, you’ll have become someone to celebrate.
PENTHEUS.
That’s why I’m going.
That’s why I’m going.
DIONYSUS.
You’ll be carried back . . .
You’ll be carried back . . .
PENTHEUS [interrupting].
You’re pampering me!
You’re pampering me!
DIONYSUS [continuing].
. . . in your mother’s arms.
. . . in your mother’s arms.
PENTHEUS.
You’ve made up your mind to truly spoil me.
You’ve made up your mind to truly spoil me.
DIONYSUS.
To spoil you? That’s true, but in my own way.
To spoil you? That’s true, but in my own way.
PENTHEUS.
Then I’ll be off to get what I deserve.
Then I’ll be off to get what I deserve.
[Exit Pentheus.]
DIONYSUS [speaking in the direction Pentheus has gone].
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’s 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.
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’s 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.
Up now, you hounds of madness, go up now into the mountains, go where Cadmus’s 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? O my Bacchae, who has come? From whom was this man born? He’s not born of woman’s blood—he must be some lioness’s whelp or spawned from Libyan gorgons.”
Up now, you hounds of madness, go up now into the mountains, go where Cadmus’s 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? O my Bacchae, who has come? From whom was this man born? He’s not born of woman’s blood—he must be some lioness’s 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 earth-born seed of Echion.
Let justice manifest itself—let justice march, sword in hand, to stab him in the throat, that godless, lawless man, unjust earth-born seed of Echion.
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, honoring gods day and night, eradicating from our lives customs lying beyond what’s right.
Let justice manifest itself—let justice march, sword in hand, to stab him in the throat, that godless, lawless man, unjust earth-born seed of Echion.
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’s 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 . . .
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.
Do you bring us news? Has something happened, something about the Bacchae?
Do you bring us news? Has something happened, something about the Bacchae?
SECOND MESSENGER.
Pentheus, child of Echion, is dead.
Pentheus, child of Echion, is dead.
CHORUS.
O my lord Bromius, now your divine greatness is here made manifest!
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?
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.
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?
Do you think Thebes lacks sufficient men to take care of your punishment?
CHORUS.
Dionysus, O Dionysus, he’s the one with power over me—not Thebes.
Dionysus, O 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 do.
That you may be forgiven, but to cry aloud with joy when such disasters come, women, that’s not something you should do.
CHORUS.
Speak to me, tell all—how did death strike him down, that unrighteous man, that man who acted so unjustly?
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 harnesses. 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’s 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’s flesh, while Autonoe and all the Bacchae, the whole crowd of them, attacked as well, all the women howling out together. As long as Pentheus was still alive, he kept on screaming. 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 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.
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 harnesses. 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’s 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’s flesh, while Autonoe and all the Bacchae, the whole crowd of them, attacked as well, all the women howling out together. As long as Pentheus was still alive, he kept on screaming. 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 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 honor 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.
Let’s dance to honor 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, mother of Pentheus, on her way home, her eyes transfixed. Let’s now welcome her, the happy revels of our god of joy!
Wait! I see Agave, mother of Pentheus, 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 . . .
Asian Bacchae . . .
CHORUS.
Why do you appeal to me?
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.
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.
I see it. As your fellow dancer, I’ll accept it.
AGAVE.
I caught this young lion without a trap, as you can see.
I caught this young lion without a trap, as you can see.
CHORUS.
What desert was he in?
What desert was he in?
AGAVE.
Cithaeron.
Cithaeron.
CHORUS.
On Cithaeron?
On Cithaeron?
AGAVE.
Cithaeron killed him.
Cithaeron killed him.
CHORUS.
Who struck him down?
Who struck him down?
AGAVE.
The honor of the first blow goes to me. In the dancing, I’m called blessed Agave.
The honor of the first blow goes to me. In the dancing, I’m called blessed Agave.
CHORUS.
Who else?
Who else?
AGAVE.
Well, from Cadmus . . .
Well, from Cadmus . . .
CHORUS.
From Cadmus what?
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.
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? O you unhappy woman!
What? You want me to eat that with you? O 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.
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.
His hair makes him resemble some wild beast.
AGAVE.
Bacchus is a clever huntsman—he wisely set his maenads on this beast.
Bacchus is a clever huntsman—he wisely set his maenads on this beast.
CHORUS..
Yes, our master is indeed a hunter.
Yes, our master is indeed a hunter.
AGAVE.
Have you any praise for me?
Have you any praise for me?
CHORUS.
I praise you.
I praise you.
AGAVE.
Soon all Cadmus’s people . . .
Soon all Cadmus’s people . . .
CHORUS.
. . . and Pentheus, your son . . .
. . . and Pentheus, your son . . .
AGAVE.
. . . will celebrate his mother, who caught the beast, just like a lion.
. . . will celebrate his mother, who caught the beast, just like a lion.
CHORUS.
It’s a strange trophy.
It’s a strange trophy.
AGAVE.
And strangely captured, too.
And strangely captured, too.
CHORUS.
You’re proud of what you’ve done?
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.
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.
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
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