As usual in Euripides, the central character of this play is a woman, and a woman most unsparingly yet lovingly studied.  Iphigenia is no mere ‘sympathetic heroine.’  She is a worthy member of her great but sinister house; a haggard and exiled woman, eating out her heart in two conflicting emotions:  intense longing for home and all that she had loved in childhood, and bitter self-pitying rage against ‘her murderers.’  The altar of Aulis is constantly in her thoughts.  She does not know whether to hate her father, but at least she can with a clear conscience hate all the rest of those implicated, Calchas, Odysseus, Menelaus, and most fiercely, though somewhat unjustly, Helen.  All the good women in Euripides go wild at the name of Helen.  Iphigenia broods on her wrongs till she can see nothing else; she feels as if she hated all Greeks, and lived only for revenge, for the hope of some day slaughtering Greeks at her altar, as pitilessly as they slaughtered her at Aulis.  She knows how horrible this state of mind is, but she is now “turned to stone, and has no pity left in her.”  Then the Greeks come; and even before she knows who they really are, the hard shell of her bitterness slowly yields.  Her heart goes out to them; she draws Orestes against his will into talk; she insists on pitying him, insists on his pitying her; and eventually determines, come what may, that she will save at least the one stranger that she has talked with most.  Presently comes the discovery who the strangers are; and she is at once ready to die with them or for them.

As for the scene in which Iphigenia befools Thoas, my moral feelings may be obtuse, but I certainly cannot feel the slightest compunction or shock at the heavy lying.  Which of us would not expect at least as much from his own sister, if it lay with her to save him from the altars of Benin or Ashanti?  I suspect that the good people who lament over “the low standard of truthfulness shown by even the most enlightened pagans” have either forgotten the days when they read stories of adventure, or else have not, in reading this scene, realised properly the strain of hairbreadth peril that lies behind the comedy of it.  A single slip in Iphigenia’s tissue of desperate improvisations would mean death, and not to herself alone.  One feels rather sorry for Thoas, certainly, and he is a very fine fellow in his way; but a person who insists on slaughtering strangers cannot expect those strangers or their friends to treat him with any approach to candour.

The two young men come nearer to mere ideal heroes de roman than any other characters in Euripides.  They are surprisingly handsome and brave and unselfish and everything that they should be; and they stand out like heroes against the mob of cowardly little Taurians in the Herdsman’s speech.  Yet they have none of the unreality that is usual in such figures.  The shadow of madness and guilt hanging over Orestes makes a difference.  At his first entrance, when danger is still far off, he is a mass of broken nerves; he depends absolutely on Pylades.  In the later scenes, when they are face to face with death, the underlying strength of the son of the Great King asserts itself and makes one understand why, for all his madness, Orestes is the chief, and Pylades only the devoted follower.