he might escape if he could find some volunteer to die for him.  His father and mother, from whom the service might have been expected, refused to perform it.  His wife, Alcestis, though no blood relation, handsomely undertook it and died.  But it so happened that Admetus had entertained in his house the demi-god, Heracles; and when Heracles heard what had happened, he went out and wrestled with Death, conquered him, and brought Alcestis home.

Given this form and this story, the next question is:  What did Euripides make of them?  The general answer is clear:  he has applied his usual method.  He accepts the story as given in the tradition, and then represents it in his own way.  When the tradition in question is really heroic, we know what his way is.  He preserves, and even emphasizes, the stateliness and formality of the Attic stage conventions; but, in the meantime, he has subjected the story and its characters to a keener study and a more sensitive psychological judgment than the simple things were originally meant to bear.  So that many characters which passed as heroic, or at least presentable, in the kindly remoteness of legend, reveal some strange weakness when brought suddenly into the light.  When the tradition is Satyric, as here, the same process produces almost an opposite effect.  It is somewhat as though the main plot of a gross and jolly farce were pondered over and made more true to human character till it emerged as a refined and rather pathetic comedy.  The making drunk of the Three Grey Sisters disappears; one can only just see the trace of its having once been present.  The revelling of Heracles is touched in with the lightest of hands; it is little more than symbolic.  And all the figures in the story, instead of being left broadly comic or having their psychology neglected, are treated delicately, sympathetically, with just that faint touch of satire, or at least of amusement, which is almost inseparable from a close interest in character.

What was Admetus really like, this gallant prince who had won the affection of such great guests as Apollo and Heracles, and yet went round asking other people to die for him; who, in particular, accepted his wife’s monstrous sacrifice with satisfaction and gratitude?  The play portrays him well.  Generous, innocent, artistic, affectionate, eloquent, impulsive, a good deal spoilt, unconsciously insincere, and no doubt fundamentally selfish, he hates the thought of dying and he hates losing his wife almost as much.  Why need she die?  Why could it not have been some one less important to him?  He feels with emotion what a beautiful act it would have been for his old father.  “My boy, you have a long and happy life before you, and for me the sands are well-nigh run out.  Do not seek to dissuade me.  I will die for you.”  Admetus could compose the speech for him.  A touching scene, a noble farewell, and all the dreadful trouble solved—­so conveniently solved!  And the miserable self-blinded old man could not see it!