Bakkhai Read online

  awful nonsense!

  The fact is

  he was burnt to bits along with his mother

  because she named Zeus as her paramour!

  How about I investigate this guy (whoever he is)?

  How about I curtail his mystic thing?

  Oh my stars,

  here’s another wonder — Teiresias in fawnskins!

  And you [laughs] — I’m sorry, grandfather, but you look like a lampshade.

  Take off that ivy!

  Was this your idea Teiresias?

  Joining the Bakkhic bandwagon in hopes of a few extra commissions?

  All that daimonic stuff is right up your alley, isn’t it?

  Lucky you’re old and harmless or

  I’d throw you in jail with the rest of them.

  You pair of duffers,

  don’t you smell something off?

  Women and wine — toxic combination!

  Daimonic my foot!

  Bakkhai:

  Might be a good idea,

  if it’s not too much bother,

  to show more respect

  for your old grandfather.

  Not to mention the gods.

  Teiresias:

  You’re bold and loud and glib, Pentheus, you should have been a lawyer.

  But you totally lack common sense.

  This “new invented daimon” you laugh at —

  take my word for it —

  he’s not one to laugh at.

  He’s going to be big.

  Here’s my view:

  two things we mortals need to make life livable:

  Demeter, on the one hand, grows all the food we eat on earth.

  She is the dry element.

  Dionysos, the wet element, gives us drink.

  He showed us how to press liquor from grapes.

  Wine is an escape from grief,

  a slip into sleep,

  a cool forgetting of the hot pains of day.

  What better cure for being human?

  And when we make libation to the gods we pour the god of wine himself —

  it’s how we pray.

  Yet this is the divinity you want to laugh at?

  Why?

  Because of some legend that Zeus sewed him up in his thigh

  with golden stitches?

  I’ll tell you what that means.

  It’s just a random homonym.

  Zeus’ guilt over his dalliance with Semele

  was understood by simple minds

  as gilt-edged stitches.

  People do this kind of thing with stories all the time —

  they hear what they want to hear.

  It doesn’t make the facts any less true.

  The facts are,

  this daimon is a prophet and you should by no means slight him.

  Yes,

  Bakkhic states of mind are laced with prophecy:

  when the god enters your body you’re suddenly speaking the future.

  He plays a vital part in warfare too — that shock of fear

  that runs right through an army before battle,

  that shock is Dionysos.

  Or that flash across the peaks of Delphi

  tossing like a great wild spark from crag to crag

  with a pine torch in each hand,

  that’s him.

  But you,

  Pentheus,

  put too much emphasis on forcing your way:

  do you really think

  violence

  is the only way to influence people?

  Think again.

  Accept this god.

  Pour his wine, dance his dances, say yes!

  Dionysos does not compel women to go mad for sex,

  their own natures determine that.

  Pure at heart is pure in life.

  But admit this,

  you love it when people throng your gates

  and call your name.

  He loves it too.

  He wants respect, that’s all.

  So go ahead, ridicule Kadmos and me,

  dressed up in our ivy

  and tossing our old white heads.

  We intend to dance for Dionysos, yes.

  It’s the right thing to do.

  You must be out of your mind to go to war with a god like this.

  Bakkhai:

  Good speech, old man, you’ve kept your Apollonian poise

  and made the right noise

  for Dionysos, an important god.

  Kadmos:

  Teiresias gives good advice, my boy.

  Come in with us, don’t put yourself outside the law.

  You’re overexcited, your thoughts are all over the place.

  But okay,

  let’s suppose for the moment this fellow is no god.

  Why not say he is anyway?

  It’s a noble lie:

  think what it does for the eminence of our family

  to call Semele the mother of a god!

  And don’t forget your poor cousin Aktaion,

  ripped apart by his own hunting dogs:

  he prided himself he was better than Artemis at hunting.

  Watch out for pride.

  My dear boy, come in with us,

  honour the god.

  Here —

  let me wreath your head in this bit of ivy —

  Pentheus:

  Don’t touch me!

  Go play your Bakkhic burlesque somewhere else,

  don’t wipe it off on me.

  And as for Professor Teiresias here,

  your intellectual guide in this folly,

  I’ll see he gets his due.

  [to his Guard]

  Go

  to Teiresias’ little outpost

  and bulldoze it.

  Throw all his prophetic paraphenalia to the winds,

  that will get him.

  Then you [to another Guard] go

  street to street through the town

  and track down this girl-faced stranger.

  Bring him to me.

  His stink is

  in our beds

  and on our women.

  I’ll have him stoned to death —

  bitter Theban aftertaste of his Dionysian dabbling!

  Teiresias:

  Pentheus, I worry about you, I really do.

  You were always hotheaded —

  now you’re sounding unhinged.

  Kadmos, we better get going.

  We should offer a special prayer to the god

  on behalf of this man —

  though he won’t thank us —

  and on behalf of the city of Thebes.

  The god might do something radical otherwise.

  Come on,

  gather up your ivy.

  We’ll keep each other upright shall we?

  Would be a bit embarrassing

  to see the two old Bakkhai go tumbling in the dust

  end over appetite!

  But so be it.

  Dionysos is god, our task is to serve him.

  Just be careful of that grandson, Kadmos,

  he’ll bring remorse to your house.

  I’m not speaking prophetically, these are facts.

  One who speaks folly is a fool.

  1st CHORAL ODE

  Bakkhai:

  Holiness

  is a word I love to hear,

  it sounds like wings to me,

  wings brushing the world, grazing my life.

  Pentheus has a harsh sound,

  a negative sound.

  He
’s a negative person.

  He’s against Dionysos,

  against rejoicing,

  against laughter,

  against flutes —

  not to mention the transcendent gladness of grapes and wine

  so beneficial to body, soul and psyche’s

  interior design.

  I’m saying

  his tongue is unbridled,

  his reasoning reckless,

  his end may be hot and hard.

  A life of quiet discretion,

  still as a summer day,

  holds a house together.

  Cleverness is not wisdom.

  Far off in the sky live the gods who never die

  but they watch us.

  They watch how far we press our limits:

  there is a morning star,

  there is an evening star,

  don’t press too far.

  I dream of a perfectly clear afternoon

  on the island where Aphrodite sits

  counting her blessings

  beside the erotic sea.

  I dream of rivers

  with a hundred mouths

  and mountains

  where the leaves turn over like silver fire.

  Take me there, Dionysos!

  O daimon!

  O Bakkhos!

  Take me

  somewhere ruled by the law of desire

  where we can dance you and dance you and never tire.

  Our god loves festivity,

  he loves serenity.

  Whether you’re high

  or low

  or rich

  or simple,

  all the same

  Dionysos will fill your soul with peace.

  It’s not about intellectual prowess,

  it’s not about true and false,

  it’s pure release.

  It’s your life

  night and day

  free of grief:

  Dionysos’ gift.

  Say no and he will hate you.

  Choose this practice,

  most people do —

  I too.

  [enter Guard]

  Guard:

  Here we are, Pentheus, mission accomplished.

  And here’s your quarry: we hunted him down.

  You called him a wild beast but we found him tame —

  didn’t panic or run for it,

  didn’t turn pale,

  just held out his hands — in fact

  he laughed,

  said “Okay tie me up!”

  and stood very patient while we put on the shackles.

  I was embarrassed.

  “Sorry, stranger” I said, “not my idea. Pentheus’ orders.”

  But here’s something else —

  those Bakkhic women,

  the ones you arrested

  and locked up in jail —

  they’ve all gone free.

  Ran off to the mountains,

  skipping and dancing and calling the name of their god.

  The fetters simply fell off their feet,

  the doors swung open.

  By no human agency.

  This fellow has come to Thebes full of miracles, hasn’t he?

  Well, it’s your problem now.

  Pentheus:

  Release his hands.

  He’s in my net, he won’t escape.

  Well,

  stranger,

  you’re not bad-looking.

  Obvious why you appeal to women — and that’s

  your main demographic in Thebes, am I right?

  With that long flowing hair I can see you’re no wrestler!

  Indoor man, am I right?

  Like to keep

  your skin white,

  out of the daylight,

  soft to the touch — whose touch is it you dream of

  in those long afternoons, those dim back bedrooms?

  But no,

  first,

  who are you?

  Where are you from?

  Dionysos:

  That’s easy. You’ve heard of the flowery hills of

  Tmolos I’m sure.

  Pentheus:

  Yes I have. The hills around Sardis.

  Dionysos:

  That’s where I’m from. Lydia my homeland.

  Pentheus:

  And what about this mystery religion of yours?

  Where’s that from?

  Dionysos:

  From Dionysos, son of Zeus.

  Pentheus:

  You have some Zeus who plucks new gods out of the air?

  Dionysos:

  The same Zeus who plucked one out of Semele, right here in Thebes.

  Pentheus:

  Did he come to you as a dream in the night or in your waking hours?

  Dionysos:

  My eyes were wide open. He teaches the mysteries personally.

  Pentheus:

  What form do these mysteries take?

  Dionysos:

  That’s a secret. Not for the uninitiated.

  Pentheus:

  And for the initiated, do they do some good?

  Dionysos:

  You cannot know that. But it is worth knowing.

  Pentheus:

  Aren’t you a shrewd manager of data! Pricking my curiosity, am I right?

  Dionysos:

  The mysteries are serious. They hate a trivializer.

  Pentheus:

  You say you saw the god face to face. How did he look?

  Dionysos:

  However he liked. I don’t control that.

  Pentheus:

  You’re cagey, you keep deflecting my questions.

  Dionysos:

  Good answers are wasted on a fool.

  Pentheus:

  So are we the first place you’ve brought your new daimon?

  Dionysos:

  Oh no, people are dancing for Dionysos pretty much everywhere else.

  Pentheus:

  Foreigners all lack sense, compared to Greeks.

  Dionysos:

  Well, there’s more than one kind of sense. It’s true they enjoy different customs.

  Pentheus:

  And are your mysteries performed at night or in the day?

  Dionysos:

  Mostly at night. Darkness is serious.

  Pentheus:

  Yes it is, seriously corrupting, for women.

  Dionysos:

  Can’t corruption be found in daylight too?

  Pentheus:

  Oh stop being clever! There’s a penalty for that!

  Dionysos:

  Stop being superficial. You slight the god.

  Pentheus:

  I can’t believe your arrogance, you casuistical Bakkhic little show-off!

  Dionysos:

  And there’s a penalty for that? What? Scare me.

  Pentheus:

  First thing would be a crewcut.

  Dionysos:

  But my hair is holy, I grew it for the god.

  Pentheus:

  And hand over that stupid thyrsos.

  Dionysos:

  Take it yourself. It belongs to Dionysos.

  Pentheus:

  Then I’ll put you in jail.

  Dionysos:

  The god will let me out.

  Pentheus:

  Sure, whenever you call him I suppose.

  Dionysos:

  He’s already here now.

  Pentheus:

  Where? I don’t see any god.

  Dionysos:

&n
bsp; Right where I am. You don’t see because you aren’t serious.

  Pentheus [to Guards]: Seize this man! He mocks me! He mocks Thebes!

  Dionysos:

  I warn you, don’t do it.

  Pentheus:

  I’m the one who gives the orders here.

  Dionysos:

  You don’t know what your life is, nor what you’re doing, nor who you are.

  Pentheus:

  I am Pentheus, son of Agave, son of Echion!

  Dionysos:

  That is the saddest name I’ve ever heard.

  Pentheus [to Guard]: Go.

  Lock him up in the stables —

  he can commune with the serious darkness in there.

  Teach the horses to dance.

  And these women of his,

  these cymbal-bangers and drum-thumpers,

  we’ll sell into slavery or put to work at our looms.

  Dionysos:

  I’m going.

  But you cannot make me suffer what I’m not destined to suffer.

  And for your insults

  you will have to answer to Dionysos,

  whom you say does not exist.

  In imprisoning us you wrong him.

  [exeunt Dionysos, Pentheus and Guard into palace]

  2nd CHORAL ODE

  Bakkhai:

  O Dirke,

  river of Thebes,

  lady river,

  virgin river,

  daughter of Acheloos the river,

  once upon a time

  you welcomed to your waters

  the infant Dionysos

  when Zeus translated him from fire

  into his own thigh

  and gave him to Thebes

  as

  Bakkhos

  born of a masculine womb.

  So why do you repudiate me now?

  Why do you turn away

  from my dances?

  One day yet,

  by the clustering grace of the vine,

  by the glowing green delirium of the vine,

  by the joyous blue blush of the vine,

  I swear

  you will come to care

  passionately

  for the god we call

  Bakkhos,

  Twiceborn,

  Dithyrambos,

  Bromios,

  Euios,

  Dionysos!

  Such anger,

  such anger

  he shows,

  that earthborn snakebegotten Pentheus,

  son of Echion, a monster without a face.

  This is no human entity,

  he comes from giants and blood.

  He pits himself against gods.

  And soon he will have me in his prison —

  I who belong to Bromios!

  Already my comrade

  is locked up in the dark.

  Do you see this, Dionysos?

  Do you see

  how

  passionately

  your prophets struggle?