Hercules: Celebrity Strongman or Kindly Deliverer?

BY J. LARAE FERGUSON

When Christoph Willibald Gluck’s French Alceste premiered in Paris on 23 April 1776, the work met with mixed responses. Although the French audience loved the first and second acts for their masterful staging and thrilling presentation, to them the third act seemed unappealing, a mere tedious extension of what had come before it. Consequently, Gluck and his

French librettist Lebland Du Roullet returned to the drawing board. Within a mere two weeks, however, their alterations were complete. The introduction of the character Hercules, a move which Gluck had previously contemplated but never actualized, transformed the denouement and eventually brought the opera to its final popular acclaim.

Despite Gluck’s sagacious wager that adding the character of Hercules would give to his opera the variety demanded by his French audience, many of his followers then and now admit that something about the character does not fit, something of the essential nature of the drama is lost by Hercules’ abrupt insertion. Further, although many of Gluck’s supporters maintain that his encouragement of Du Roullet to reinstate Hercules points to his acknowledged desire to adhere to the original Greek tragedy from which his opera takes its inspiration1, a close examination of the relationship between Gluck’s Hercules and Euripides’ Heracles brings to light marked differences in the actions, the purpose, and the characterization of the two heroes.

1 Patricia Howard, for instance, writes that “the difference between Du Roullet’s libretto and Calzabigi’s suggests that Gluck might have been genuinely dissatisfied at the butchery Calzabigi effected on Euripides, and his second version was an attempt not so much at a more French drama as at a more classically Greek one.” Patricia Howard, “Gluck’s Two Alcestes: A Comparison,” Musical Times 115 (1974): 642.

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By their speedy interposition of the character Hercules into the third act of Alceste, Gluck and

Du Roullet not only stray far from the original Eurpidean vision of this character, but they also discard a certain unified grandeur and simplicity which their opera formerly boasted.

From the moment Gluck and Du Roullet’s Hercules enters the drama, he presents himself as a dignified celebrity ready to receive homage and bestow favor. He arrives onstage in the second scene of the third act, well over halfway through the drama, and announces himself with an unmistakable description:

Après de longs travaux entrepris pour la gloire, l’implacable Junon me laisse respirer.

After lengthy travail undertaken for glory, Implacable Juno allows me to breathe.

Showing their immediate recognition of the well-known hero famed not only for his daring exploits but also for his perpetual persecution at the hands of the queen of the gods, the entire chorus responds with the exclamation of his name, “Hercules!” In his reply, Hercules passes quickly from his expectation of hospitality to his consciousness of the mourning going on around him:

A l’amitié je puis donc me livrer et jouir un moment de fruit de la victoire. Mais que voisje? Pourquoi répandezvous des larmes?

In friendship I may now give myself to enjoying for a moment the fruits of victory. But what do I see? Why do you shed tears?

The chorus explains to him that Alcestis has determined to sacrifice herself for her husband, and

Hercules immediately promises to fight the powers of death and rescue the queen.

Compared with this illustrious, sophisticated, and impetuous Hercules, the Heracles of

Euripides arrives at the house of his friend in a surprisingly unassuming manner and does not

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even hear of Alcestis’ death until he has had time to rest and to refresh himself. Unlike his

French counterpart, this Heracles appears before the audience not as a surprise, but as the fulfillment of a prediction uttered by the god Apollo in the first scene of the drama. Heracles’ speech on entering the scene, however, reflects a certain humility that coincides with the surprise his arrival creates for the other characters and contrasts sharply with the flamboyance of Gluck and Du Roullet’s Hercules. After quietly slipping on stage, he attracts the notice of the chorus with a simple question:

ξένοι, Φεραίας τῆσδε κωμῆται χθονός, Ἄδμητον ἐν δόμοισιν ἆρα κιγχάνω;

My friends, people of Pherae and the villages hereby, tell me, shall I find Admetus at home?2

Instead of announcing himself as the universally known and well-beloved Hercules of the Ten

Labors, he enters as a humble intruder, simply looking for lodging at the home of his friend. He continues to converse with the chorus about everyday, humdrum matters, and the audience soon recognizes that this Hercules has not yet acquired his legendary fame. Rather, he informs the chorus that he is currently in the middle of his labors, on his way to do “a piece of work” for

Eurystheus.3 In his article, “Heracles’ Entrance: An Illustration of Euripidean Method,” W. W. de Grummond brings out the pertinence of Heracles’ conversation: “Bravery is Heracles’ business, and what might be thought of as breathtaking, romantic adventure is here set in the light of everyday affairs--a perspective which is very pertinent to the denouement of the

2 Euripides, “Alcestis,” trans. Richmond Lattimore, in Greek Tragedies, 2nd ed. vol. 3, ed. David Grene and Richmond Lattimore (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1991), lines 476-7. 3 Ibid., 481.

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drama.”4 By presenting himself as merely an ordinary traveler on his way to complete his current assignment, Heracles firmly establishes the “extraordinary in the ordinary” from the moment of his entrance onto the stage.

Further, by the express wish of Admetus, Heracles remains in the dark concerning the death of Alcestis until he has had time to relax and get himself thoroughly drunk, at which time the servant who has been assigned to his care comes on stage complaining about his guest’s raucous behavior and making abundantly clear his disgust for Heracles’ undignified and insensitive behavior. Heracles himself follows and offers the servant a drunken lecture on the transience of mortal life and the consequent necessity to “eat, drink, and be merry” while the chance remains. In conscientious indignation, the servant responds by informing Heracles of the truth that Admetus has hidden from him. Shocked and ashamed, Heracles discusses with himself how he may help his friend and repay him for his sincere desire to keep his sorrow from tainting the pleasure of his guest’s visit. Heracles settles on finding Alcestis’ grave mound, wrestling with Death, and forcing him to allow the queen to return to her family.

The characterization of Heracles offered by this scene presents multiple contrasts with that of Gluck and Du Roullet. The first and most obvious of these lies in the utterly undignified behavior of the hero during his drinking bout, described in detail by the annoyed servant:

ποτῆρα δ᾽ ἐν χείρεσσι κίσσινον λαβὼν πίνει μελαίνης μητρὸς εὔζωρον μέθυ, ἕως ἐθέρμην᾽ αὐτὸν ἀμφιβᾶσα φλὸξ οἴνου. στέφει δὲ κρᾶτα μυρσίνης κλάδοις, ἄμουσ᾽ ὑλακτῶν:

4 W. W. de Grummond, “Heracles’ Entrance: An Illustration of Euripidean Method,” Eranos 81 (1983): 86.

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[He] took a cup with ivy on it in both hands and drank the wine of our dark mother, straight, until the flame of the wine went all through him, and heated him, and then he wreathed branches of myrtle on his head and howled, off key.5

Although on the surface these lines appear merely to display the vulgar self-indulgence of their subject, a careful examination of the details of the description reveals that Heracles’ drunken binge not only eliminates any hint of his typical, almost mystical heroic aura, but it also connects him unmistakably to a very different sort of hero: the god Dionysus. Heracles demands to be served wine, the special drink of the god, and swallows it “straight,” or unmixed with water in the typical Greek fashion. This heavy drinking sends him into a Bacchic ecstasy in which he encircles his head with the myrtle leaves of a Dionysian reveler and breaks forth in unrestrained song. Despite his ridiculous appearance, this connection to the god of life and of mirth proves most poignant in light of the rest of the play and will be discussed in greater detail below.

Additionally, Heracles’ raucous drinking binge imbues his decision to save Alcestis from her death with a self-awareness and humble gratitude absent from the operatic hero’s easy and immediate promise. Shaken by his own thoughtless, ignorant insensitivity, Euripides’ character waits until he is alone on stage to make his plans. In his short monologue, Heracles reveals that the impetus for his decision comes from the kindness and forbearance of his friend that caused Admetus to protect his guest from his own sorrow, even allowing that guest to indulge heedlessly every appetite at his own expense. Heracles’ humble acknowledgement of

5 Euripides, “Alcestis,” lines 756-60.

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his own indebtedness finds no parallel in the declarations of Gluck and Du Roullet’s Hercules.

Although in a few instances he casually mentions his friendship with Admetus, his salvation of

Alcestis seems unmotivated by any human impulse beyond a certain distant pity for the tears of her people. He responds to their mourning with a straightforward declaration of his ability to save their queen and hardly any mention of a reason for this action:

Au pouvoir de la mort je saurai la ravir. Reposez-vous sur un ami sensible, reposez-vous sur ce bras invincible!

The power of death I will snatch away. Rest on a sensitive friend, rest on this invincible arm!

In these two lines, Hercules only vaguely implies a possible motive for his decision with his claim to be a “sensitive” friend, and by immediately proceeding into an aria boasting of his irresistible power over the infernal deities, he strongly de-emphasizes the suggestion that a friendly affection for Admetus stands foremost in his thoughts. Gluck and Du Roullet’s

Hercules acts out of, at best, charity, at worst, personal vanity and delight at the chance to show off his physical prowess.

Neither of these options, however, aligns with the starkly impersonal nature of the operatic Hercules, for due to the speed with which they inserted him into the drama, Gluck and

Du Roullet never develop the persona of Hercules to a depth of characterization comparable with their other two leading roles. Many critics have filled numerous pages on the subject of the improved characterization of the protagonists in the French Alceste, particularly in comparison with their Italian counterparts. For instance, in her article, “Gluck’s Two Alcestes: a

Comparison,” Patricia Howard focuses on the complexity and added nuance which give the character of Alcestis increased pathos and believability. Contrasting with Calzabigi’s Italian

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Alcestis, which Howard describes as “innately egotistical” and “in love with the idea of martyrdom,” the French Alcestis truly loves her husband.6 When making her decision to die for

Admetus, she humbly renounces so romantic a term as “sacrifice”:

Non, ce n’est point un sacrifice... Pourrai-je vivre sans toi, cher Admète?

No, it is not a sacrifice... Can I live without you, dear Admetus?

Rather than merely a stoic martyr or morbid lover of death, this Alcestis is infused with human passions and desires. Unfortunately for her, she loves her husband so well as to give her own life willingly to save his, yet this same love makes her loath to leave him in her own death.

Separation from him by either his death or hers turns out to be equally painful. By situating their heroine in the midst of such a cruel dilemma, Gluck and Du Roullet give Alcestis the power to reach out to her audience and demand their sympathy and commiseration.

Moreover, as Julian Rushton points out in his article, “In Defence of the French

‘Alceste,’” the very credibility in the eyes of the audience of Alcestis’ love for her husband points to a marvelous amelioration of the character of the French Admetus in comparison with that of his Italian counterpart. In Rushton’s own words, “It is no mean feat of Gluck’s to make

Admetus seem worth dying for.”7 Even in Euripides’ play, Admetus typically comes across as a self-centered coward, terrified of death and begging for someone else to die in his stead.

Consistent with this characterization, the principal aria of the Italian Admetus, “Misero! e che farò,” focuses on his own confusion and guilt and is filled with self-pity. In order to complete

6 Howard, “Two Alcestes,” p. 643. 7 Julian Rushton, “In Defense of the French ‘Alceste,’” Musical Times 122 (1979): 739.

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their marvelous transformation of this character, Gluck and Du Roullet eliminate this aria from their opera, replacing it instead with the passion-filled “Alceste, au nom des Dieux.” As evidenced by this beautiful aria, the French Admetus has come to return the love of his wife to such a degree as to reverse his original fear of death. In what Rushton calls “a moving plea for his own extinction,” Admetus makes clear that he would now rather give up his own life than lose his precious wife.8 No longer the selfish, patriarchal king expecting everyone else to sacrifice for his own convenience, the French Admetus is filled with the true love of a man for his wife. In the very soul of Admetus, Gluck and Du Roullet have worked a metamorphosis unparalleled in any other of their characters.

Next to such marvelously complex and empathetic protagonists, Hercules falls utterly flat. He appears out of nowhere and acts almost without motivation. While neither the chorus nor Apollo, who from his first oracular appearance is presented as completely impersonal and inhuman, would ever profess psychological nuance and individuality, by returning to the crucial “savior” role which he occupied in Euripides’ drama, Hercules demands a depth of characterization comparable to the two other leading roles in the opera. The speed with which

Gluck and Du Roullet added him to the cast unfortunately made serious development of his character impracticable.

Not only is the Hercules of the French Alceste lacking in empathetic characterization, but his famous (or infamous) rescue of Alcestis from the gates of the underworld has also lost both the beautiful mysticism of Euripides and the dignified symmetry of Calzabigi. In Euripides’

8 Ibid.

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drama, Alcestis breathes her last onstage and before the eyes of the audience. For an ancient

Greek audience in particular, the extremely unusual experience of watching the protagonist die onstage would make her death absolutely unquestionable. When, therefore, in the last scene of the play, Heracles returns to the stage leading her back to life, he has literally performed an act of resurrection. The miraculous nature of this deed looks back to the suggestions of Dionysian role-playing in Heracles’ earlier behavior. Ironically, although Euripides’ Heracles appeared in his first scenes as simple, unknown, and even rather ridiculous, these very qualities allowed him to assume the mysterious role of one who can mediate between the expected and the unexpected, the natural and the supernatural, life and death. In the ancient Greek mind, this role of liminality was epitomized in Dionysus, the god most particularly associated with the enjoyment of human life and with the conquering of death through his connection with the

Eleusinian mysteries. The ambiguity in the character of Heracles and the pure delight of his early revelry together have fitted him to become what F. W. Sternfeld terms “another Dionysus, a symbol of the power of life.”9 Further, as Niall W. Slater’s article, “Dead Again: (En)gendering

Praise in Euripides’ Alcestis,” points out, every aspect of Euripides’ reunion scene serves to emphasize the mystery and ambiguity surrounding the return of Alcestis to her husband.

Likely veiled and dressed in white, even her costume would indicate “an ambiguity between funeral and marriage,”10 a common ironic parallel in Greek tragedy. Coupled with Heracles’ earlier assumption of the role of Dionysus, the last scene of Euripides’ drama becomes a mystical ceremony of resurrection and marriage, in short, a celebration of human life.

9 F. W. Sternfeld, “Expression and Revision in Gluck’s Orfeo and Alceste,” in Essays Presented to Egon Wellesz, ed. Jack A Westrup (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1966), 123. 10 Niall W. Slater, “Dead Again: (En)gendering Praise in Euripides’ Alcestis,” Helios 27.2 (2000): 107.

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In contrast to this quiet scene of restoration, Gluck and Du Roullet situate their rescue of

Alcestis before the very gates of the underworld itself. Alcestis herself never actually dies.

Instead, in a scene much more dreadful and grandiose than anything of which Euripides could boast, Alcestis and Admetus meet before the gates of hell and engage in an intense musical dialogue, each begging to be allowed to sacrifice himself or herself for the other. Suddenly,

Hercules bursts onto the stage, assuring Admetus that he will rescue Alcestis from the infernal deities by the strength of his arm:

Ami, leur rage est vaine, comptez sur ma valeur! Cédez, troupe inhumaine, craignez mon bras vengeur!

Friend, their rage is in vain; count on my worthiness! Yield, inhuman troop; fear my avenging arm!

Hercules continues to repeat his threats until the chorus of infernal gods eventually gives in, joining him in his final declaration that “le fils de Jupiter de l’enfer est vainqueur” (“the son of

Jupiter conquers hell”). At this moment, Hercules hands the queen over to her husband, and

Apollo appears onstage to decree that Hercules’ bravery has earned him a place among the gods.

While the addition of this scene apparently fulfilled the popular appetite of Gluck’s audience for spectacle, excitement, and variation, it has entirely lost the beautiful mystery encapsulated in the corresponding scene of Euripides’ tragedy. First, by their attempts to heighten the drama, Gluck and Du Roullet have reduced Hercules’ heroism to mere brute strength. Apollo’s completely unnecessary prediction of Hercules’ future assumption of divinity names only his “courage” as the reason for his divine promotion. By attempting to make their

Hercules renowned and sophisticated and to derive his heroic status from mere physical

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strength and valor, Gluck and Du Roullet have eliminated the simple and beautiful mysticism of his rescue of Alcestis. Moreover, their decision to place the entire rescue scene onstage, thrilling the audience with the terror of the struggle before the infernal gates, sacrifices the vision of Euripides to modern convention. In his article, “Alcestis in Ancient Drama and Early

Opera,” Francis Joseph Guentner maintains that “these ‘infernal scenes’ were as popular (and necessary) in early opera as were ‘storm scenes’ or ‘military scenes’ in nineteenth-century opera.”11 Gluck and Du Roullet’s inclusion of this scene, absent in Euripides’ drama, makes clear that despite all their attempts at reform, in the end they found themselves incapable of escaping fully from the demands of the popular will.

Finally, with Hercules reinstated in the role of savior, the French Alceste has lost an architectural symmetry which gave the Italian version, despite its flaws, a unity and dignity not to be trivialized. As Sternfeld argues, Calzabigi cleverly balanced the action of the plot by bookending his version with the two oracles of Apollo: one demanding a substitute to die for

Admetus, one releasing Alcestis from that sacrificial role. This parallel structure underscored the wholeness of the drama and its professed return in the end to “things as they ought to be.”

Further, Sternfeld quotes the Italian librettist as justifying his choice to make Apollo Alcestis’ deliverer by his desire to allow the god “to work the miracle out of gratitude.”12 Many would argue that this admirable intention is lost in the unfortunate ambiguity of the oracles themselves.13 The French alternative, however, can hardly be called an improvement. By

11 F. J. Guentner, “Alcestis in Ancient Drama and Early Opera,” Classical Bulletin 43.7 (1966): 12. 12 Sternfeld, “Expression and Revision,” p. 123. 13 Rushton, for instance, protests that “the spectator is more likely to associate the oracle with the voices of the Infernal Ones” than with Apollo himself. Rushton, “In Defense,” p. 740.

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throwing Hercules into the last act, with no attempt at working him into the drama from the beginning, Gluck and Du Roullet provide no longer merely one unsatisfactory deus ex machina, but two. Not having taken the time to develop Hercules as a character, they leave him as merely what Sternfeld calls “another device of salvation.”14 With Hercules as savior, Apollo’s intervention is no longer necessary, and one end of the opera’s central framework has become overloaded. The parallelism which once supported the unity and purpose of the opera has crumbled.

In a letter to Du Roullet dated 1 July 1775, Gluck himself wrote, “An opera such as

[Alceste] is no entertainment, but a very serious occupation for whoever listens to it.”15

Unfortunately, when the popular opinion of his French audiences demanded a more entertaining ending for his opera, Gluck capitulated. His decision to appease his general audience, using the character Hercules to add excitement and variation, proved rather to diminish the overall quality of his opera than otherwise. By adding Hercules to the third act literally “at the last minute,” Gluck and Du Roullet sacrificed the coherence of the opera’s original form and lost the beautiful mystery of the Euripidean vision of the character. Rather than a tired yet friendly visitor who enjoys a bit of revelry and turns out to be able to restore life as it should be, the Hercules of Gluck’s French Alceste has become merely a celebrity strongman, incapable of feeling or inspiring the pathos that defines a good character, both on the stage and in real life.

14 Sternfeld, “Expression and Revision,” p. 123. 15 Gluck to Du Roullet, Vienna, 1 July 1775, in Patricia Howard, Gluck: An Eighteenth-Century Portrait in Letters and Documents (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995), 147.

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