Six Tragedies

by Seneca

  I would return for this, to watch a new type of wedding.

  Why hesitate, my soul? Follow your lucky strike.

  This is a tiny fraction of your triumph.

  You are still in love, mad heart, if this is enough:

  to see Jason unmarried. Look for new punishment,

  unprecedented, and prepare yourself:

  let all morality be gone, and exile shame;

  900

  that vengeance is too light which clean hands can perform.

  Spur on your anger, rouse your weary self,

  from the depths of your heart draw up your former passions

  with even greater violence. Whatever I did before,

  name it dutiful love. Come now! I will reveal

  how trivial and ordinary they were,

  those crimes I did before. With them, my bitterness

  was only practising: how could my childish hands

  do something truly great? Could the rage of a girl do this?

  Now, I am Medea. My nature has grown with my suffering. 910

  I am happy that I ripped my brother’s head away,

  I am glad I sliced his limbs, and glad I stripped my father

  of his ancestral treasure,* I am glad I set on the daughters

  to murder the old man.* Now, pain, find your new chance.

  You bring to every action a hand that knows its way.

  Where then, my anger, shall I point you? Fire what weapons

  at that traitor? My savage heart has made a plan,

  a secret one, stored deep inside, and does not dare

  reveal it yet, even to itself. Fool! I went too fast.

  I wish my enemy had had some children

  920

  by that concubine of his. — Whatever was yours by him,

  Creusa was its mother. That kind of punishment

  is what I want; yes, good. My great heart must do

  the final wickedness. Children — once my children —

  you must give yourselves as payback for your father’s crimes.

  Awful! It hits my heart, my body turns to ice,

  my chest is heaving. Anger has departed,

  the wife in me is gone, I am all mother again.

  Is this me? Could I spill my own children’s blood,

  flesh of my flesh? No, no, what terrible madness!

  930

  * * *

  medea

  99

  Let that horrible deed, that dreadful crime, be unthought of,

  even by me. Poor things! What crime have they ever done? —

  Jason is their father: that is their crime. And worse:

  Medea is their mother. Let them die; they are not mine.

  Let them die; they are mine. They did nothing wrong, they

  are blameless,

  they are innocent: I admit it. So was my brother.

  Why, my soul, do you waver? Why are my cheeks blotched

  with tears,

  why am I led in two directions, now by anger,

  now by love? My double inclination tears me apart.

  As when the wild winds make their brutal wars

  940

  and on both sides the seas lift up discordant waves,

  and the unstable water boils: even so my heart

  tosses and churns: love is chased out by rage

  and rage by love. Resentment, yield to love.

  Here to me, darling children, only comfort

  for this troubled house, bring yourselves here, embrace me,

  fold yourselves in my arms. Let your father have you safe,

  as long as your mother has you too. — But I must go in exile.

  Any minute, they will be ripped from my arms,

  weeping and wailing. Let their father lose their kisses,

  950

  their mother has already lost them. Again, my anger grows,

  my hatred boils. My ancient Fury seeks

  my reluctant hands again—anger, I follow your lead.

  I wish as many children as proud Niobe* bore

  had come from my womb, I wish I had

  twice-seven sons! I was infertile for revenge:

  but my two are just enough to pay for brother and father.

  Look! What are they doing, this violent crowd of Furies?

  Whom are they seeking, at whom are they aiming those

  flaming blows,

  at whom does the hellish army aim its bloody torches?

  960

  The great snake hisses and twists as the whip comes down.

  Whom is the head of the Furies seeking, with her

  menacing brand,

  Megaera? Whose shade comes half-invisible, his limbs

  scattered apart? It is my brother, he wants revenge.

  We will pay it: we will all pay. Fix deep your torch in my eyes,

  * * *

  100

  medea

  ravage me, burn me up, see, my whole breast is open for

  the Furies.

  Leave me, my brother, and you avenging goddesses,

  and order your ghosts to go back safe to the depths of Hell.

  Leave me to myself and use this hand, my brother,

  which has drawn the sword: we appease your spirit now,

  970

  with this sacrificial victim. — What was that sudden noise?

  They are taking up weapons against me, they want to kill me.

  I will climb up to the topmost roof of our house

  though the killing is unfinished. All of you, come with me.

  And I myself will carry away with me your body.

  Now do it, heart: you must not waste your courage

  in secret: prove to the people the things you can do.

  jason If any man is loyal, and mourns the princes’ death,

  run, gather here, let us arrest that wicked woman

  who did the dreadful crime. Come, my brave band of warriors, 980

  bring here your weapons, push her from the top of the house.

  medea Now, now I have regained my throne, my brother,

  and my father.

  The Colchians keep the treasure of the Golden Ram.

  My kingdom comes back to me, my stolen virginity returns.

  O gods, you favour me at last, O happy day,

  O wedding day! Now leave, the crime is complete:

  I am not yet revenged. Go on, while you are at it:

  Why do you hesitate now, my soul? Why are you doubtful?

  Does your powerful anger now subside? I am sorry for what

  I have done,

  I am ashamed. What, wretch, have you done? Wretch?

  Even if I regret it,

  990

  I have done it. Great pleasure steals over me against my will,

  and see! now it grows. This was all I was missing,

  that Jason should be watching. I think I have so far done nothing:

  crimes committed without him were wasted.

  jason Look, she is hovering on the outermost part of the roof.

  Somebody, bring fire, and burn her up, let her fall

  consumed by her own flames.

  medea

  Heap up a funeral pyre

  for your own sons, Jason, and strew the burial mound.

  your wife and father-in-law now have their proper rites:

  * * *

  medea

  101

  I have buried them. This son has already met his fate;

  1000

  this one will die the same, but you will watch.

  jason By all the gods, by the exile we shared,

  and by our marriage bed, which I did not betray,

  now spare this child. If wrong was done, I did it.

  I give myself to death: slaughter this guilty man.

  medea I will drive my sword into that very spot which hurts

  you most.

  Now, proud man, go off and marry virgins.

  Leave mothers alone.

  jason<
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  One boy is enough for revenge.

  medea If my hand had been able to find satisfaction in just one

  murder,

  I should have done none. Although I shall kill two,

  1010

  the number is too small to satisfy my pain.

  If my womb even now contains any pledge of our love,

  I, the mother,

  will scrape my insides with my sword, I will bring it out

  with the blade.

  jason So go on with the crime you began, I will beg you no longer.

  But at least grant respite for my sufferings.

  medea O bitter heart, enjoy slow crime, do not hurry:

  this is my day: I am using the time I was given.

  jason Hell-cat, kill me too!

  medea

  You ask me for pity? —

  Good, it is done. Rage, I had no more

  to sacrifice for you. Now wipe your swollen eyes

  1020

  ungrateful Jason. Do you not know your wife?

  This is the way I always leave a country. The way in the

  sky lies clear.

  Twin serpents lower their head, their scaly necks

  accept the yoke. Now, Daddy, take your children back.

  But I will fly amid the winds on my chariot with wings.

  jason Go, travel on up high through the deep expanse of

  the heavens,

  prove that there are no gods wherever you go.

  * * *

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  * * *

  TROJAN WOMEN

  The action is set in the city of Troy, in the aftermath of

  the ten-year war. The Greeks

  —

  led by Ulysses and

  Agamemnon — have used the trick of the wooden horse to

  break the siege, invade the city, and defeat the inhabitants.

  The wealth of Troy is looted; the Trojan men are dead,

  including the great hero Hector, killed by Achilles; the

  Trojan women are raped and enslaved, and will be taken

  home as servants and concubines by the various Greek

  soldiers. But before the Greek fleet can set sail, fate has

  decreed that two Trojan children must be killed: Astyanax,

  son of Hector and Andromache, must be thrown from the

  city walls; and Polyxena, daughter of Hecuba and Priam,

  the king and queen of Troy, must be given in ‘marriage’ to

  the dead Achilles, and then slaughtered. Seneca’s play plots

  the fulfilment of these terrible predictions.

  * * *

  dramatis personae

  hecuba, Queen of Troy

  talthybius, Greek herald

  pyrrhus, son of Achilles

  agamemnon, Greek leader

  calchas, Greek prophet

  andromache, wife of Hector

  old man

  astyanax, Andromache’s son

  ulysses

  helen

  messenger

  chorus

  [polyxena: silent part]

  * * *

  ACT ONE

  hecuba Do you believe in power? Do you rule a palace,

  and are you not afraid of the fickle gods?

  Are you naive enough to trust in happiness?

  Then look at me, and at this city, Troy. Fortune

  has never given greater proof that those who stand

  proud, have no sure footing. The pillar of mighty Asia,

  the glorious work of the gods, has toppled and lies on the ground.

  Men came long ways to fight for Troy: from where they drink

  the freezing river Tanais, which spreads to seven mouths;

  and men who feel the day’s first newborn light,

  10

  mingling the warm Tigris with the scarlet sea,

  and even the Amazons came, neighbours to Scythia,

  who gallop down the shore in hordes of virgin girls.

  But Troy has been cut down by the sword. Pergamum*

  crushes itself.

  Look! Those beautiful high walls now lie in a heap.

  Our homes are burnt. Flames circle round the palace,

  thick smoke engulfs the house of our forefathers.

  But the winners want their booty; fire cannot stop them.

  Burning Troy is torn apart: we cannot see the sky

  for the waves of smoke. As if under a dense cloud

  20

  this black day is dirty with the ash of Troy.

  We lost, but they are hungry still, and eye

  our stubborn city, slow to fall. Now at last those brutes

  forgive us for the last ten years. Even they feel horror

  at this ravaged city, and though they see Troy conquered

  they cannot yet believe the victory possible. Looters are stealing

  the treasures of Troy. The thousand ships cannot hold the plunder.

  I call as witnesses my enemies — the gods,

  and the ashes of my homeland, and my lord the king of Phrygia,*

  buried beneath your kingdom, covered by your city,

  30

  and you, the hero whose death marked Troy’s fall,*

  and you great flocks of my dead children,

  smaller ghosts: all this disaster,

  all that from her crazy mouth Cassandra*

  * * *

  106

  trojan women

  predicted would go wrong — god banned belief —

  I, Hecuba, foresaw when I was pregnant, and I spoke my fear,

  before Cassandra I was the first to prophesy in vain.*

  It was not the cunning Ithacan hero and his friend*

  whose night raid set you alight. Nor was it Sinon’s lies:*

  this fire is mine. O Troy, my marriage torch burnt you.

  40

  But why are you weeeping for the ruins of a city destroyed?

  Remember, poor old woman — ancient but alive —

  more recent causes of grief: Troy’s fall is old news.

  I have seen a horror, the killing of a king,*

  and an even greater sin, they killed him at the altars.

  Clad in full armour, savage Pyrrhus, with left hand

  twisted the king’s hair, pulling back his head,

  and plunged his dreadful sword deep in the wound.

  The king accepted the hard thrust with joy.

  The blade came out of the old man’s throat still dry.

  50

  Who would not soften and turn from cruel slaughter,

  knowing the man was at the final turn of life,

  the gods above were witness to the crime, the place was once

  the fallen city’s sanctum? Now that father of so many kings,

  Priam has no tomb: deprived of a funeral pyre

  while Troy is burning. But still the gods are not content.

  Look! They are picking lots for Priam’s daughters and son’s wives.

  I too will follow. See me. I am nothing but a prize of war.

  This man lays claim to Hector’s marriage bed,

  another chooses Helenus’ wife, another Antenor’s.

  60

  And there is somebody,* Cassandra, who wants you.

  I am the prize they fear:* only I can frighten the Greeks.

  Where are your tears? Are they stopping? My people, all you

  slave-women,

  beat your breasts with your hands, give shrieks and wails,

  a funeral for Troy. At last, let Ida ring

  with tears, that place of death, home of that terrible judge.*

  chorus You tell us to weep. We know well how to do it.

  We have been practising.

  We have been in mourning for years,

  ever since our Phrygian prince visited

  70

  Spartan Amyclae,* and the pine tree

  holy to Cybele, cut through the ocean.


  * * *

  trojan women

  107

  Ten times Mount Ida grew white with snow,

  ten times she was stripped for our pyres,

  ten crops have been cut down on the fields of Troy

  by the mower’s trembling hand,

  while every day brings tears

  serving up new reasons to cry.

  Come, time to lament.

  Unhappy Queen, lift up your hand.

  80

  We are just ordinary girls. We will follow our queen.

  When it comes to grief, we know all about it.

  hecuba I trust you, friends who shared my downfall.

  Let your hair fall free.

  Let it flow sadly down your backs

  dirty with the tepid dust of Troy.

  Fill your hands:

  this at least we can take away from our city.

  All of you, stretch out your arms, and be prepared:

  let down your dresses, hitch up the fabric,

  90

  let your bodies be naked to the belly.

  What wedding can you wait for, that you bother to cover

  your breasts,

  such self-respecting slaves?

  Let loose your dresses, kirtle them with shawls,

  set free your frenzied hands to beat and beat your breasts:

  this is the perfect way for you to look. Perfect.

  Now I recognize a Trojan company.

  Now let the old laments return again.

  Outdo the way we used to weep.

  We weep for Hector.

  100

  chorus We have all let loose our hair, already torn from

  so much dying.

  Our hair is down, untied and free,

  hot ash is sprinkled on our faces.

  Our dresses fall down from our naked shoulders

  bunched up to cover our thighs.

  Now our naked breasts demand a beating.

  Now is the time. Agony, come out in full force.

  Let the beaches of Troy ring with our cries,

  and let Echo, who lives in the cavernous mountains,

  * * *

  108

  trojan women

  give more than her usual short reply,

  110

  may she echo all Troy’s cries of pain;

  let all the ocean hear it, all the sky.

  Hands, go wild:

  beat my breasts as hard as you can.

  The usual noise is not enough for me.

  We weep for Hector.

  hecuba My hand beats my arms for you,

  for you it beats my back, already bloody,

  for you my hands attack my head,

  for you your mother’s hands have harmed