I WENT INTO WATERSTONES on my way to work and bought a copy of Alcestis. The introduction said it was
Euripides’s earliest ex- tant tragedy, and one of his least-performed works.
I started reading it on the Tube. Not exactly a page-turner. An odd play. The hero, Admetus, is condemned to death
by the Fates. But thanks to Apollo’s negotiating, he is offered a loophole—Admetus can es cape death if he can
persuade someone else to die for him.
He asks his mother and father to die in his place, and they refuse in no uncertain terms. It’s hard to know what to
make of Admetus.
Not exactly heroic behavior, and the ancient Greeks must have thought him a bit of a twit. Alcestis is made of
stronger stuff—she st eps forward and volunteers to die for her husband. Perhaps she doesn’t expect Admetus to
acc ept her offer—but he does, and Al- cestis dies and d eparts for Hades.
It doesn’t end there, though. There is a happy ending, of sorts, a deus ex machina. Heracles seizes Alcestis from
Hades and brings her triumphantly back to the land of the living. She comes alive again. Admetus is moved to tears
by the reunion with his wife. Al- cestis’s emotions are harder to read—she remains silent. She doesn’t speak.
I sat up with a jolt as I read this. I couldn't believe it.
I read the final page of the play again slowly, carefully: Alcestis returns from death, alive again. And she remains
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silent—unable or unwilling to speak of her experience. Admetus appeals to Heracles in desperation: “My wife
stands here, but why does she not speak?”
No answer is forthcoming. The tragedy ends with Alcestis being led back into the house by Admetus—in silence.
Why? Why does she not speak?