Six Tragedies

by Seneca

  why do you take this care to bring the seasons,

  shaking out the deep sky’s everlasting changes,

  so that now the white, cold frosts

  make bare the trees,

  and now the shadows return to the groves,

  and now Leo the lion, mane blazing with heat,

  bakes Ceres’ wheat with his blast,

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  and then the year makes moderate its strength?

  How can you be so powerful, controlling

  the weights of the mighty world

  as they trace out their orbits,

  measuring them with so much care,

  and yet neglect mankind, abandon us?

  How can you forget to bless us

  or even to do us harm?

  Fortune rules chaotically over human life,

  she scatters her gifts without looking, preferring the worse.

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  Wicked desires win, good people lose,

  deceit is king in the lofty palace.

  * * *

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  phaedra

  The people give power to corrupt politicians,

  they cultivate people they hate.

  Self-discipline and goodness win no prizes.

  Poverty afflicts the faithful husband,

  while crime helps lecherous cheats to gain control.

  Chastity is useless, a false idol.

  ACT FOUR

  chorus But why is this messenger rushing towards us,

  and why is his face so sad and wet with tears?

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  messenger Curse my cruel fate! How hard to be a slave!

  Why do you summon me to bring bad news?

  theseus Do not be frightened to tell me of death and destruction.

  Speak boldly: my heart is ready for any pain.

  messenger My tongue is hesitant to cause you grief.

  theseus Speak! Our house is already shaken: what is it now?

  messenger Hippolytus — I can hardly bear it — he is dead.

  theseus I knew my son was dead. He died some time ago.

  Now the rapist is dead as well. How did he die?

  messenger When he stormed out of the city in his rage,

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  running as far and as fast as his feet could go,

  he went up to the ridge-way and quickly he yoked his horses.

  They clattered their hoofs but he strapped their tame heads in

  the bridle.

  He muttered to himself, and cursed his native land.

  Often he called to his father to come and help him,

  as he loosened the reins and fiercely shook them.

  Then all of a sudden the depths of the ocean resounded,

  the noise rang up to the sky. No wind blew on the water,

  no part of the silent sky had caused the sound;

  a tempest of its own had roused the quiet sea.

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  Auster is not so fierce as it ruffles the Sicilian sea;

  when Corus takes control of the Ionian bay

  it does not swell so wildly, though waves shake the rocks,

  and the white foam scatters on the top of Leucate.*

  A massive tsunami wave rose up from the sea

  and swollen with the monster, the water dashed on the shore.

  * * *

  phaedra

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  No ships were to be wrecked by this disaster:

  it threatened the land. The vast, heavy mass of water

  rolled towards shore, weighted down in its swollen belly

  by something strange. What land will show the stars

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  a brand new face? Will the Cyclades add a new island?

  The water rushed over the rocks which are sacred to Asclepius,*

  and over the crags of Sciron,* famous for his crimes,

  and hid the promontory of land* hemmed in by double sea.

  As we stood aghast at the flood, see, all of a sudden

  the sea gave a roar, and the cliffs all around were singing;

  the peak of the wave was dripping with the ocean spray,

  it foamed and drooled out water, back and forth it gushed,

  as if through the waves of the ocean a giant whale

  were diving, blasting water from his spout.

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  The wall of water was shattered and collapsed,

  as a terrifying creature was washed to the shore; the sea

  tried to escape the monster by rushing to land,

  but bellowing aloud, the creature followed the water.

  It was a bull. How huge he was! His bulk

  loomed high as he lifted his blue back from the water;

  a green mane flowed from his gigantic head;

  his ears were hairy, his eyes flashed multicoloured;

  he was the type of animal the sea-born king would own,

  lord of a savage herd. At times his eyes

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  spurt fire, at other times they shine blue light;

  his sturdy back was ridged with muscle and his nostrils

  flared as he huffed and puffed great draughts of air;

  green mosses stuck to his underside and dewlap,

  while his vast flanks were covered with red seaweed.

  Finally the monster gathers his huge rear from the water,

  dragging his vast and scaly folds of flesh,

  like the Leviathan of the distant seas

  that shatters and engulfs swift-sailing ships.

  The earth was shaking, all the frightened flocks

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  ran away over the fields, and the herdsmen failed

  to follow their own cattle. All the beasts

  fled from the forests, and every hunter shuddered,

  chilled by fear. Only Hippolytus was unafraid;

  he reined in his terrified horses, giving them comfort

  * * *

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  phaedra

  by speaking to them in the voice they knew so well.

  There is a path cut deep in the hills, winding

  steeply to Argos running near the coast;

  here the massive monster lurked and prepared his assault.

  He paws the ground and gathers his strength, as a warm-up 1060

  for his rage; then he leaps headlong, starts to gallop,

  hardly touching the ground with his hoofs as he flies,

  until he stops in front of the trembling horses, and scowls.

  Your son jumps up to meet him, wild and fierce,

  his face impassive as he cries aloud:

  ‘This horrible illusion cannot break my spirit!

  My father’s job is conquering wild bulls.’*

  But all at once the horses disobey him —

  they gallop away and pull the chariot off the path,

  guided only by their frenzied fear, which leads them

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  off in all directions careering across the rocks.

  But as a helmsman keeps fast hold of his ship

  to stop it tipping as the waves swell higher,

  using his skill to cheat the ocean — so Hippolytus

  steers his speeding chariot: now he pulls at the reins,

  to tighten the bit on the horses’ mouths; now he urges them on

  with a whirl of the lash. But the monster is his shadow,

  at times keeping pace, then moving out of his way

  to meet him head-on. Terror surrounds the horses.

  Now they can run no further: the bristly monster

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  lowers his horns and charges them full-on.

  Then the horses are stricken with total panic, their hooves

  clattering,

  as they fight to break free from their master’s control and

  shake off the yoke,

  then rearing up, they throw his body to the ground.

  He fell down flat on his face, and was tangled up

  in the strong ropes o
f the harness; the more he struggled

  the more he bound the net around himself.

  The horses realized what had happened, and feeling their chariot

  lightened by lack of a master, they followed their fear and ran.

  Just as when heaven’s horses felt their burden changed:

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  resentful that a false Sun got the power of day —

  * * *

  phaedra

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  Phaethon* who could not keep the path — they threw him from

  the sky.

  Hippolytus bloodied the countryside: his shattered skull

  bounced down the rocks, and thorns tore off his hair;

  his beautiful face was ruined by the hard, stone ground.

  His unlucky loveliness was lost in all these wounds.

  The chariot wheels rolled over his still-twitching limbs.

  At last a charred branch from a tree-trunk pierced him

  right in the middle of his groin, and held him fast.

  The horses pause a little way away from their gored master, 1100

  attached to his wounded body; then all at once they break,

  making an end of their owner and delay. The thickets cut

  the half-dead corpse, and thorns with their sharp brambles;

  parts of the body were stuck to every tree.

  The servants of the dead man wandered through the fields,

  where Hippolytus left tracks of blood,

  dragged and dismembered over such a distance.

  The dogs keened as they sniffed for their master’s scent.

  However hard the mourners tried, they could not

  recover all the bits of body. Does beauty come to this?

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  A man who used to share his father’s royal power,

  his noble heir apparent, shining like the stars,

  is now a set of scattered body-parts, picked up

  for the funeral pyre.

  theseus

  If only we could escape

  the link of nature, chaining parents to their blood!

  We follow nature even against our will.

  I wanted to kill him for his crimes, but now I mourn his loss.

  messenger One cannot sincerely weep over getting what one

  wanted.

  theseus Yes, one can. I think the pinnacle of misfortune

  is to be forced by chance to want things one should loathe. 1120

  messenger Well, but if you hate him, why are you crying?

  theseus Because I killed him, not because I lost him.

  chorus How many chances turn the wheels of human life!

  Fortune keeps her temper with the lowly,

  the blows of heaven are weaker on the weak:

  peace and obscurity keep simple people safe,

  and those who live in hovels live to a ripe old age.

  * * *

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  phaedra

  High roofs must bear the buffets of the winds:

  struck by the east wind, struck by the southerly,

  struck by Boreas threatening from the north

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  and stormy Corus from the west.

  Thunderbolts rarely strike

  in rainy valleys:

  deep-rumbling Jupiter’s weapons shake

  the mighty Caucasus and the Trojan woods

  sacred to the Mother Goddess.* Jupiter is afraid

  for heaven and attacks those that lie near it.

  The low-slung cottages of peasants

  are never shaken so roughly.

  His thunder strikes at kings.

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  Time flies on fickle wings,

  mobile Fortune makes no promises

  to anyone.

  This man, who had returned to see the light of the world,

  and shining day, as he left death’s door behind,

  is sad and mournful now at his return,

  and finds the welcome of his native land

  feels worse than Hell itself.

  Athena, worshipped by the Athenian race,

  your Theseus has escaped the marshy Styx;

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  he sees the heavens and the upper world.

  Chaste goddess, you owe nothing to your greedy uncle:

  the books are balanced* for the infernal king.

  ACT FIVE

  chorus What is that sound of weeping from the palace?

  What crazy thing is Phaedra up to with a sword?

  theseus Have you gone mad with grief ? What are you doing?

  What is the meaning of this sword, this screaming?

  Why are you beating your breast for the corpse of a man you

  hate?

  phaedra Me, me, O cruel master of the ocean,

  attack me, and to me send all your sea-dark monsters:

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  the creature hidden deepest in the buried ocean womb,

  * * *

  phaedra

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  the monster folded in the deepest waves

  from the most distant waters of the world.

  Cruel Theseus, when you come home, you always

  bring disaster.* Your father and your son

  have paid for your returning with their lives.

  You always destroy your home, in love or hatred for your

  wives.*

  Hippolytus, can I look at your face in this condition?

  Did I make you look this way? What savage Sinis

  or Procrustes tore your limbs, or what fierce Cretan bull,*

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  half-man, his head that of a horned ox, bellowing loud

  to fill the empty spaces of the Labyrinth?

  Ah, where is your beauty gone, your lovely eyes

  which were my stars? Can you really be lying there dead?

  Just for a little while, be here, and listen to me!

  I will not say inappropriate things. I swear by this hand,

  I will avenge your death, I will stab my wicked heart,

  I will set Phaedra free of life and guilt together.

  And I will follow you blindly through the waves

  through the lakes of Tartarus, the Styx, and the fiery river.* 1180

  I want to do right by the dead:* I have torn my hair

  and cut off a lock as a gift for you: here, take it.

  You and I were not allowed to link our lives together;

  but we can join our deaths. Phaedra, if you are chaste,

  die for your husband. If unchaste, for your love. Can I return

  to a marriage bed polluted by such crime? The ultimate sin:

  to take my holy pleasure on sheets washed by revenge.

  No: only death can cure such evil love,

  only death can give me back my wounded honour.

  Death, I run to you; forgive me, and embrace me.

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  Listen, Athens, and listen, Theseus — father

  worse than a murderous stepmother: my story was all false.

  My crazy heart drank in the cruel plot;

  I lied. You have punished your son for a fiction;

  an innocent young man lies dead on the charge of rape.

  Truly, you were chaste and pure. Have your real character back.

  This righteous sword will pierce my own bad heart.

  My blood is shed as an offering for this virtuous dead man.

  theseus His stepmother teaches me what a parent ought to do

  * * *

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  phaedra

  when robbed of his own child: hide myself down in Hell.

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  Pale gates of Avernus and Chasms of Taenarus,*

  waters of Lethe, beloved by the wretched, and stagnant

  Cocytus,*

  now seize this sinner and drown me in eternal misery.

  Come now, all you monsters of the sea, come vast ocean,

  come all strange creatures hidden in the folds of Proteus,*

  and hurl
me into the deepest sea. My crime was too successful.

  Father,* you have always been too quick to help my anger.

  I do not deserve an easy death, when my son’s was so horribly

  strange:

  I scattered his fragments over the fields. While I was so stern

  to punish a fabricated crime, I committed a real one.

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  I have filled the stars and seas and underworld ghosts with

  my sin;

  all three kingdoms* know me; there is no more space.

  Did I come back for this? Did the path to the sky lie open,

  so that I could experience these two violent deaths,

  and so, bereft of both my wife and child,

  I might heap both their corpses on a single pyre?

  Hercules, this black light was your gift to me;

  give it back to Hades, and restore to me

  the death you stole. — But I am too wicked; no point

  in asking for that death I left behind.

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  I caused a cruel, unprecedented murder.

  Now I must ask just punishment for myself.

  Should a pine tree be bent to the ground, then catapult back

  my body, ripped apart on separate branches?*

  Or should I hurl myself headlong from the Scironian rocks?

  I have seen worse: the pain of criminals

  encircled by the liquid flame of Phlegethon.

  I know what punishment I will get, and where.*

  Sinners, give way to me: let the heavy rock

  weigh down my neck and weary hands — the rock

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  which Sisyphus has been pushing since ancient times.

  Let the water mock me as it flows just past my lips.

  Let the savage vulture leave Tityos and fly

  over to my liver, ever-regrown for fresh pain.

  And you, father of my own dear Pirithous,

  * * *

  phaedra

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  rest: let the wheel which never stops its turning

  whirl round and round my limbs instead of yours.*

  Gape open, Earth, and take me, terrible Chaos,

  take me: this is a better way for me to visit Hell:

  I go to find my son. Do not worry, King of the Dead:

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  my motives are pure. Take me into your eternal home;

  I will not leave again. — The gods do not listen to my prayer.

  But if I were asking for help in a crime, how kind they

  would be!

  chorus Theseus, there is infinite time for tears.

  Now bury your son with all due rites, and quickly,

  hiding his mangled, torn, and scattered limbs.