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It’s curious that the story of Eurydice and Orpheus is so much better known to us than the story of Alcestis and Admetus, when in classical Greece it seems to have been the other way round. We have no record of Eurydice’s name, even, until an obscure work called Lament for Bion, which was probably written in the first century BCE. It was once thought to be by a slightly earlier poet, Moschos, but is now generally agreed to be by an unknown southern-Italian writer.23 It is perhaps three hundred and fifty years after Alcestis was first performed in Athens, three hundred years since Phaedrus found Orpheus’ love for his wife to be wanting in Plato’s Symposium. But only now does Eurydice have a name, when this poet explains that Persephone allows Orpheus Eurydice’s return.24 Her story certainly begins in Greece, and it’s impossible to say for certain when she acquired her name. But our first example of it is from this poet, whose name in turn is unknown to us. Pseudo-Apollodorus also mentions Eurydice by name in his Bibliotheca25 a couple of centuries later. Again, as with the earlier versions of her story, she dies when she is bitten by a snake. Orpheus wins her back with his lyre-playing, as usual, but this time it’s Pluto rather than Persephone who imposes the condition of not looking back. And he is even more demanding than his wife: in this version, Orpheus cannot look at Eurydice until they have made it all the way to his house.
We can see hints and echoes of these multiple ancient versions of Orpheus and Eurydice’s story in some of their many operatic incarnations. Gluck’s 1774 opera, Orphée et Eurydice, has more than a touch of Alcestis to it. It is a reworking of the composer’s earlier version with a libretto by Ranieri de’ Calzabigi, who would also later write the libretto for Gluck’s Alceste. The opera initially follows the story we know so well: Eurydice’s death, Orpheus’ descent to the Underworld, the return, the look, the second loss of Eurydice. But then, touched by their devotion and despair, the god of love appears and reunites them once again. Love is triumphant, as the libretto says. And unlike Alcestis, this Eurydice never has to wonder if her husband might not love her as much as she loves him: he loves her enough to follow her to Hades, loves her enough to panic and fail, and then loves her enough for the gods themselves to intervene. A truly happy ending.
Meanwhile, in Philip Glass’ bonkers 1993 opera, Orphée, based on Cocteau’s 1950 film of the same name, the proviso about not looking back at Eurydice until long after they have left the Underworld is picked up and played with still further. In the ENO’s 2019 production,26 as in the film, Orpheus and Eurydice couldn’t look at each other even once they were back in their home. The story of tragic lovers takes an unexpected swerve into slapstick. Eurydice hides behind doors, Orpheus ducks under tablecloths, all to avoid the fatal gaze. They fail – of course; how could they not? – and Eurydice is reclaimed by the Underworld. In Offenbach’s 1858 operetta, Orpheus in the Underworld, Eurydice doesn’t even merit having her name in the title: an echo of those earliest Greek versions of her story when she goes unnamed. And yet, the opera focuses more on Eurydice than her husband, not least because she gets to dance the can-can in Hades in Act Four.27
It’s easy to see why composers have been drawn to the character of Orpheus, rather than his wife Eurydice. Who wouldn’t want to take on the challenge of trying to create the music that made the rocks and trees want to follow Orpheus, that brought the dead from the darkest reaches of Hades to hear him play? It is the ultimate story about the power of music to change hearts and minds. Even if, for Eurydice, it changes very little and certainly not for the better.
In Ana?s Mitchell’s Hadestown, which had its London premiere in 2018,28 we see what happens in an inventive American take on the story. Orpheus is a tormented composer who has found what he believes is a special melody. He meets Eurydice as she is trying to cope with the pressures of poverty: no warm clothes, not enough to eat. There are musical and stylistic hints that this is the Depression, but it is never placed too specifically in time. The pair fall in love and they seem set for happiness. But Orpheus’ absorption in his music means he fails to notice that his wife is still hungry and cold, and that the quest for the perfect tune is not keeping them warm. Eurydice is seduced by the basso profondo Hades and makes a voluntary trip to the heavily industrialized Hadestown, before realizing she has made a mistake and is now trapped. Orpheus finally notices he has lost her, and follows her to Hadestown before trying to use his melody to reclaim her. It resonates for Hades and Persephone, reminding them of who they were when they first fell in love. Persephone wants the lovers to be reunited, and intercedes with her husband. But this Hades is as wily as any, and the couple are separated once again when Orpheus cannot resist looking back. The inevitability of tragedy is made explicit in the final moments, when Hermes reminds us that Orpheus and Eurydice’s story is ‘an old song, it’s an old song from way back when’。 The tone of the musical is triumphantly modern but the story’s appeal is that it has been told over and over again and always ends the same way. Still, Hermes says, ‘But here’s the thing/To know how it ends/And still begin to sing it again/As if it might turn out this time.’ There’s comfort in stories which don’t change, even the sad ones.