Bakkhai

  bakkhai

  also by anne carson

  available from new directions

  The Albertine Workout

  Antigonick

  Glass, Irony & God

  Nox

  bakkhai

  i wish i were two dogs then i could play with me

  (translator’s note on euripides’ bakkhai)

  Dionysos is god

  of the beginning

  before the beginning.

  What makes

  beginnings special?

  Think of

  your first sip of wine

  from a really good bottle.

  Opening page

  of a crime novel.

  Start

  of an idea.

  Tingle of falling in love.

  Beginnings have their own

  energy,

  ethics,

  tonality,

  colour.

  Greenish-bluish-purple

  dewy and cool

  almost transparent,

  as a ripe grape.

  Tone of alterity,

  things just about to change,

  already looking different.

  Energy headlong

  and heedless

  and shot

  like a beam. Ethics

  fantastically selfish.

  He is a young god.

  Mythologically obscure,

  always just arriving

  at some new place

  to disrupt the status quo,

  wearing the start of a smile.

  The Greeks called him “foreign”

  and staged his incursion

  into polis after polis

  in stories like the one

  in Euripides’ Bakkhai.

  A shocking play.

  Lecturing in Japan

  Stephen Hawking was asked

  not to mention that the universe

  had a beginning

  (and so likely an end)

  because it would affect

  the stockmarket.

  Speculation aside,

  we all need a prehistory.

  According to Freud,

  we do nothing but repeat it.

  Beginnings are special

  because most of them are fake.

  The new person you become

  with that first sip of wine

  was already there.

  Look at Pentheus

  twirling around in a dress,

  so pleased with his girl-guise

  he’s almost in tears.

  Are we to believe

  this desire is new?

  Why was he keeping

  that dress in the back

  of his closet anyhow?

  Costume is flesh.

  Look at Dionysos,

  plucked prematurely

  from his doomed mother’s womb

  and sewn up

  in the thigh of Zeus

  to be born again later.

  Life is a rehearsal

  for life.

  Here’s a well-known secret

  about Dionysos:

  despite all those legends

  of him as “new god”

  imported to Greece from the east,

  his name is already

  on Linear B tablets

  that date to 12th-century BC.

  Previousness

  is something a god can manage

  fairly well (“time”

  a fiction for him)

  but mortals

  less so.

  Look at those poor passionate women

  who worship this god,

  the Bakkhai,

  destroyers of livestock

  and local people

  and Pentheus the king.

  They had a prior existence once.

  The herdsman describes them

  lying at peace in the mountains

  “calm as buttons on a shirt.”

  This is the world before men.

  Then the posse arrives

  and violence begins.

  What does this tell us?

  The shock of the new

  will prepare its own unveiling

  in old and brutal ways.

  Dionysos does not

  explain or regret

  anything. He is

  pleased

  if he can cause you to perform,

  despite your plan,

  despite your politics,

  despite your neuroses,

  despite even your Dionysian theories of self,

  something quite previous,

  the desire

  before the desire,

  the lick of beginning to know you don’t know.

  If life is a stage,

  that is the show.

  Exit Dionysos.

  cast

  Dionysos

  Teiresias

  Kadmos

  Pentheus

  Guard

  Herdsman

  Servant

  Agave

  and

  Bakkhai

  bakkhai

  PROLOGUE

  [enter Dionysos]

  Dionysos:

  Here I am.

  Dionysos.

  I am

  son of Zeus, born by a lightning bolt out of Semele

  – you know this story —

  the night Zeus split her open with fire.

  In order to come here I changed my form,

  put on this suit of human presence.

  I want to visit the springs of Dirke,

  the river Ismenos.

  Look there — I see

  the tomb of my mother,

  thunderstruck Semele,

  and her ruined house still smoking

  with the live flame of Zeus.

  I’m glad

  my grandfather Kadmos named this place sacred,

  I’m glad

  he keeps it clean.

  I myself

  planted it all round with vines

  in the clear key of green.

  The story so far:

  I crossed Lydia, Phrygia, Baktria, Media, Arabia and the whole coastland of Asia

  to come here

  to this Greek city

  to make myself known:

  my rituals, my dances, my religion, my livewire self!

  I am something supernatural —

  not exactly god, ghost, spirit, angel, principle or element —

  There is no term for it in English.

  In Greek they say daimo —

  can we just use that?

  So,

  I set all Asia dancing

  and then I came here

  first

  of all the cities of Greece:

  I came to thrill you, Thebes.

  Don’t doubt I will.

  Here’s what you’ll need:

  fawnskin,

  thyrsos,

  absolute submission.

  My mother’s sisters failed to understand this — they’ve

  been going around saying

  Dionysos wasn’t born of Zeus,

  Kadmos just made that up

  after Semele slept with a perfectly ordinary person.

  It was wrong of them to say such things.

  I have stung them fr
om their homes,

  they are gone mad upon the mountains.

  The whole bursting female seed-pod of Thebes is gone mad.

  I’ve put them in Dionysian uniform

  and they sit beneath pine trees

  staring at their own green hands.

  So they will learn,

  so Thebes must learn,

  to call me son of Zeus

  and call me

  daimon.

  Now Thebes has a new leader.

  Kadmos appointed him.

  He’s Kadmos’ grandson. Name is Pentheus.

  This man is against me.

  He does not acknowledge me in libation or prayer.

  But I am a god. I’ll show him. Him and all his Thebans.

  Then I’ll be on my way to another land in visible triumph.

  But if Thebes comes forth in anger

  to drive my Bakkhic women from the mountains

  I shall lead them as an army into battle.

  That’s why I’ve changed to mortal form —

  how do I look?

  Convincingly human?

  O dear women! My cadre, my sisterhood, my fellow travellers —

  you who left your distant lives

  to wander all the way from Lydia with me —

  lift up your tambourines!

  bang loud your drums!

  Surround Pentheus’ house with noise and let the city see you!

  I’ll go to Mt Kithairon

  and get them dancing there.

  [enter Bakkhai]

  ENTRANCE SONG OF THE BAKKHAI

  From Asia I come,

  from Tmolos I hasten,

  to this work that I love,

  to this love that I live

  calling out

  Bakkhos!

  Who is in the road?

  Who is in the way?

  Stay back,

  stand quiet.

  I shall sing Dionysos —

  I shall make the simplest sentence explode with his name!

  O

  blessed is he who,

  blessedly happy is he who

  knows the holy protocols, who

  makes his life pure, who

  joins his soul in congregation

  on the mountains of Bakkhos!

  Honouring the Mother

  and the mysteries

  with his thyrsos,

  his ivy,

  his submission to the god.

  Come, Bakkhai!

  Come Bakkhai,

  bring your god home!

  Bring Bromios down from the mountains of Phrygia

  into the wide dancing streets of Greece!

  Bromios,

  the one whose

  mother shimmered into fire

  at the moment of his birth

  when Zeus’ lightning bolt blew her apart

  and Zeus sewed the infant into his own thigh

  with golden stitches,

  secret and safe

  until the appointed time.

  Then he was born

  a god

  with horns on his head

  and snakes in his hair —

  that’s why

  the Bakkhai

  like to play with wild things even now.

  O Thebes! garland yourself

  in all the green there is —

  ivy green,

  olive green,

  fennel green,

  growing green,

  yearning green,

  wet sap green,

  new grape green,

  green of youth and green of branches,

  green of mint and green of marsh grass,

  green of tea leaves, oak and pine,

  green of washed needles and early rain,

  green of weeds and green of oceans,

  green of bottles, ferns and apples,

  green of dawn-soaked dew and slender green of roots,

  green fresh out of pools,

  green slipped under fools,

  green of the green fuse,

  green of the honeyed muse,

  green of the rough caress of ritual,

  green undaunted by reason or delirium,

  green of jealous joy,

  green of the secret holy violence of the thyrsos,

  green of the sacred iridescence of the dance —

  and let all the land of Thebes dance!

  with Dionysos leading,

  to the mountains!

  to the mountains!

  where the mob of women waits!

  They’ve forsaken their shuttles,

  they’ve left their looms,

  they’ve dropped their aprons

  and taken up their stations

  on Dionysos’ mountain!

  He has stung them out of their minds.

  Do you hear that pounding?

  Do you hear the kettledrum?

  The Korybants invented it

  to mingle with the sweet shrill voice of the flute

  and they gave it to the Mother,

  who gave it to the Satyrs,

  who gave it to us.

  We dance to a drumbeat adoring our god.

  He loves the drum!

  He is sweet upon the mountains

  when he runs from the pack,

  when he drops to the ground,

  hunting goatkill blood

  and rawflesh pleasure,

  longing for the mountains of home!

  Bromios, leader of the dance!

  EUOI!

  His ground flows with milk,

  flows with wine,

  flows with nectar of bees.

  Like smoke of incense streaming aloft

  his pinetorch blazes.

  He darts.

  He runs.

  He dances.

  He touches them to fire if they lag

  and rouses them with shouts if they wander,

  and all the while his long hair streaming on the wind

  and all the while his low voice pulsing into them,

  Run, Bakkhai!

  Run, Bakkhai!

  You amazing golden creatures!

  Sing Dionysos!

  Sing glorying your god

  in the thunder of drums!

  To the mountains! To the mountains!

  EUOI!

  EUOI!

  Look,

  there she goes,

  lost in joy,

  like a colt from its mother frisking free,

  the creature

  of Bakkhos!

  [enter Teiresias]

  Teiresias:

  You at the gates!

  Call Kadmos out — go on, tell him Teiresias is here,

  he’ll know why.

  We have an agreement, one old man with another,

  to try out this Dionysian business together —

  fawnskin, thyrsos, garlands in the hair — the complete regalia.

  [enter Kadmos from palace]

  Kadmos:

  I knew it was you, my old wise friend,

  I heard your voice.

  Look, I’ve got my gear on too — the costume of the god!

  Now the important thing is

  to promote Dionysos

  every way we can,

  he’s my daughter’s son after all.

  So where are we headed?

  I’m ready to dance or trance or toss our white heads

  or whatever comes next.

  You lead the way, Teiresias, you’re the wise one.

  I’m merely enthusiastic!

&
nbsp; Isn’t it fun to forget our old age?

  Teiresias:

  Yes well, what is it they say,

  you’re as young as you feel?

  Kadmos:

  We must get to the mountain.

  Should we call a cab?

  Teiresias:

  That doesn’t sound very Dionysian.

  Kadmos:

  Good point. Let’s walk. We can lean on each other.

  Teiresias:

  The god will guide us, it won’t be hard.

  Kadmos:

  We’re the only ones in the city going?

  Teiresias:

  The only ones who have any sense.

  Kadmos:

  No more delay then, take my hand.

  Teiresias:

  Here we go, arm in arm.

  Kadmos:

  I don’t believe in despising the gods,

  a mere human myself.

  Teiresias:

  And I don’t believe in philosophizing about it.

  We know he’s a daimon,

  we know there are certain traditions pertaining to that,

  traditions as old as time,

  why analyze further?

  What wisdom is in it?

  Will they say I look silly dancing around with ivy in my hair?

  Well yes, but so what?

  Dionysos didn’t specify his worshippers be young or old —

  he wants reverence from all.

  Kadmos:

  You can’t see this, Teiresias, but here’s Pentheus

  coming

  and he has a wild look.

  Wonder what’s got into him.

  [enter Pentheus]

  Pentheus:

  I was out of the country but I kept hearing rumours

  of trouble in our city.

  Of women leaving home.

  Of fake Bakkhic revels deep in the mountains.

  Of women gone crazy for someone they call

  “Dionysos”

  whoever that is —

  they say “daimon” followed by a nervous hush.

  There’s a lot of wine involved and creeping off into corners with men.

  Meanwhile they call themselves a prayer group!

  Obviously it’s just sex. I’ve put most of them in jail.

  A few escaped — Agave,

  my own mother, for example, is still at large.

  I’ve got the police on it.

  Soon have them all locked up —

  put a stop to this Bakkhic nonsense.

  But people are talking about a certain Lydian stranger hanging around too.

  A sort of magician.

  Huckster.

  Swoony type,

  long hair, bedroom eyes, cheeks like wine.

  He mingles with the young girls night and day,

  claiming to show them some sort of mystic thing,

  claiming this Dionysos is a son of god

  and was sewn up in the thigh of Zeus —