by Seneca
trojan women
kingdom of cruel Hades, and the guard-dog
Cerberus, fierce defender of the gate,
are fictions, tall tales, empty fairy stories,
myths, as close to truth as a bad dream.
Do you want to know where you will be after death?
Where the unborn are.
ACT THREE
andromache Why, sad Trojan chorus, do you tear your hair
and beat your breasts and wet your cheeks with tears?
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Our sorrows are slight if we can weep for them.
For you, the fall of Troy only just happened;
I felt it long ago, when that brute whipped his horses
to drag away my body,* and with a groan
Achilles’ wheels vibrated with the weight of Hector.
Since then I have been a ruin, and whatever happens,
I am numb to suffering, I bear it without feeling.
I would already have escaped the Greeks and joined my husband,
but this boy holds me here. He tames my spirit,
keeping me from death. He forces me still to pray,
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even now, to the gods. He adds time to my pain.
He has taken from me sorrow’s greatest prize:
fear of nothing. All chance of happiness
is gone, but horrors can still find a way.
Fear is worst of all when you have lost all hope.
old man What are you suddenly so frightened of ?
andromache From a bad situation a worse trouble has come:
the fate of falling Troy has not yet ended.
old man What new disasters can god find to make?
andromache The fastenings of deepest Styx and its dark lairs 430
are loose; our buried enemies are coming out of Hell—
just in case we broken ones should feel safe for a moment.
Is it only Greeks who can find a way back up?
No, death is universal: the same terror
disturbs and shakes all Phrygia. But I have my own
personal horror that haunts my mind, my private nightmare.
old man What were your dreams? You can tell me all your fears.
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andromache The gentle night had almost passed two watches
and the seven stars had almost turned the Plough.*
I was troubled, could not rest, but finally peace came,
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and a short sleep crept over my tired face —
if the numbness of a panicked mind is sleep.
When suddenly, before my eyes, stood Hector—
not as he was when he rushed to storm the Argives,
igniting those Greek ships* with Trojan torches,
nor as when he was wild with battle-lust against them,
seizing from the fake Achilles the real hero’s armour.*
He did not have that radiant face of fire;
he looked downcast and tired, heavy with tears,
like me, and matted hair covered his face.
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But how glad I was to see him! Then he shook his head
and said: ‘Wake up, and seize hold of our son,
my loyal wife. Hide him; that is our only hope.
Do not cry. Are you sad because Troy has fallen?
If only the whole city had been flattened.* Hurry, take away
our tiny little seedling, the last left of our house.’
Cold shudders and fear shook me awake,
and I was terrified as I looked all around:
desperately seeking Hector, I forgot our child.
The unreal shade slipped from my outstretched arms,
he was gone.
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O child, the certain son of a great father,
only hope for the Trojans, and for our poor family.
You are descended from an all-too-famous bloodline:
you look too much like your father. My dear Hector
had this same face. This was how he walked
and how he held himself. His hands were strong,
like yours; like you, he was tall; like you, he tossed his head
shaking the scattered hair, his eyebrows frowning sternly.
Son, you were born too late for the Trojans, too soon
for your mother.
Will that time ever come, the longed-for happy day
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when you will be the defender and avenger of Trojan soil,
when you will raise up fallen Pergamum, bring home
our exiled citizens, and restore their rightful names
to Troy and the Trojan people? But I remember my fate
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trojan women
too well to pray for much. This is all a prisoner asks:
let us live. Ah, if only! What place can be safe enough
for my fear to trust, where on earth can I hide you?
Our rich and powerful citadel, its walls the work of gods,
famed and envied throughout all the world,
is now deep dust. Fire has destroyed it all;
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from such an enormous city there is not even room
to hide a child. What secret place can I choose?
There is my darling husband’s tomb, a holy place;
the enemy respect it. Priam spent great sums
to build a huge construction — in his grief, the king
spared no expense. Good idea: I will give the boy to his father.
Cold sweat drips down my body, I feel cold.
I shudder at the omens of this place of death.
old man In safety you have choices; in danger, take your chances.
andromache But he cannot hide, without great fear
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of treachery.
old man
So let there be no witness.
andromache And if they come to find him?
old man
He died when the
city fell.
Many have been kept from death only by this:
belief in their death.
andromache
There is almost no hope.
A great weight crushes him: his noble birth.
What good is it to hide him if he gets taken after?
old man Conquerors are fiercest in the first attack.
andromache What place is inaccessible enough
to hide you safely? Who will help us in our terror?
Who can shield us? Even now, Hector, watch us,
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protect your family as always. Help my loyal theft;
taking him to your ashes, let him live.
Son, go up to the tomb. Why are you pulling back?
You reject hiding as cowardly? I recognize your breeding;
you are ashamed to show fear. But now let go of your courage,
abandon your old pride and take what fortune gives.
Look at us, all the multitude surviving from the war:
a tomb, a boy, a female prisoner. We have to yield to disaster.
Come now, be bold enough to enter the sacred tomb
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of your dead and buried father. If fate helps those in trouble, 510
you are safe; if fate refuses to let you live,
you have a tomb.
old man
He is inside, the tomb’s gate covers him;
Do not let your fear bring him back out to the open;
move back here and keep yourself away.
andromache The nearer the danger, the lighter the fear.
But yes, if you wish, we can go somewhere else.
old man Hush for a moment, quiet down your tears;
that damnable Greek chieftain, Ulysses, is coming.
andromache Crack open, Earth! And, husband, tear the land,
ripping it down to the lowes
t cavern, and bury
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in the deepest gulf of Styx, the dear one I laid down.*
Ulysses is here. His demeanour and face
are hard to read. He is weaving some cunning plan in his mind.
ulysses I represent a cruel lot. I ask this first:
that though the words are spoken by my mouth,
you must not think them mine. It is the voice
of all Greeks and their leaders, kept from their long-lost homes,
by Hector’s son. The Fates demand to take him.
Worry and mistrust in an unreliable peace
will always trouble the Greeks, fear at our backs will always 530
force us to look back, never let us drop our swords,
while your son heartens the defeated Trojans,
your child, Andromache. So says the prophet Calchas.
And even if Calchas had not said it, even so,
Hector used to say the same. I fear even his offspring.
Seeds of good stock grow up to match their birth.
Just as a young calf, in the midst of a mighty herd,
whose first horns have not even pierced his skin,
suddenly lifts his head and neck up high
the leader of his father’s folk, lord of the flock;
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so the slender sapling from a tree axed down,
in a little while grows up as big as her mother,
casting shadows on the ground and leaves to touch the sky;
so the ashes left neglected from a mighty fire
grow strong again. Yes, sorrow is no judge
of circumstance. But if you think things over carefully,
you will forgive us: after ten winters, ten harvests,
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trojan women
our soldiers have grown old, fearful of war,
frightened that slaughter will begin again, and Troy
will never lie down dead. This is our big worry:
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Hector come again. So free us Greeks from fear.
This is the only thing that keeps the ships tied up,
this is what stops the fleet. And do not think it cruel
that I, ordered by lot, demand the son of Hector.
I would have sought Orestes.* Bear it — Agamemnon did.*
andromache If only, child, you were in your mother’s arms,
if only I knew what you are going through,
separated from me, or even where you are.
If enemy arrows shot my ribcage full of holes,
if my hands were bound by biting chains, if cruel fire
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engulfed my body, I would never cease
to be a mother and to love my child. Son,
where are you? What is your fate? Are you wandering, lost,
over the fields? Or has the enormous fire
that burnt our city, taken you as well? Did the cruel
conqueror play with your blood? Or did a great wild beast
pounce to bite you, and now your bones feed Ida’s birds?
ulysses Stop pretending. It is not easy for you
to fool Ulysses. I have beaten tricky mothers before —
even divine ones.* Your schemes are useless: drop them.
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Where is your son?
andromache
Where is Hector? Where are all the Trojans?
Where is Priam? You want one: I want them all.
ulysses If you will not tell me willingly, force will make you.
Stupid to hide what soon you will have to show.
andromache Safe is the woman who can, should, wants to die.
ulysses The approach of death shakes off pomposity.
andromache If you, Ulysses, want to force Andromache by fear,
threaten her with life, for death is my desire.
ulysses Pain will compel you to tell against your will
your secret: whipping, branding, death, and torture.
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Pain will spit out the truths hidden deep inside your heart.
Generally compulsion can do more than love.
andromache Bring out your fire, your terrible instruments
of wounding and of pain, bring hunger, bitter thirst,
and all types of destruction, clamp the iron
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to flesh already burnt, bring dark and dirty dungeons;
all that the angry victor dares to do — from fear.
The heart of a brave mother has no room for fear.
ulysses This parental love, which you stubbornly insist on,
advises Greeks to think about their children.
590
After so long a war, after ten years,
I would not have such fear of Calchas’ warnings
if my fears were for me. You make ready a war for my son.
andromache I have no wish, Ulysses, to give joy to the Greeks.
But I must give it. Sorrow, tell the pains which you kept down.
Be happy, sons of Atreus; and you, as usual,
can take good news to the Greeks. Hector’s son is dead.
ulysses What proof can you give the Greeks that this is true?
andromache So may the worst threats of the conquerors
come true, and may I die a timely death,
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gently released by fate, and buried in my land,
and let our native earth rest lightly upon Hector:
so, I swear, he is out of the sun. He lies among the dead;
given to the tomb, he has the dues of death.
ulysses Since Hector’s seed is gone, fate is fulfilled,
and I will be glad to take a sure peace to the Greeks.
What are you doing, Ulysses? The Greek women trust you;
but you trust — whom? A mother? — Would a mother lie
about this, unafraid of the bad omen?
Those who have lost all other fear, fear omens.
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She pledges her faith by swearing this oath of hers.
If she is lying, what worse can she fear?
Now, my mind, it is time to summon up your cunning;
time for deceit and fraud, time to be all Ulysses:
truth never dies. Check out the mother.
She weeps, cries, wails; but still she keeps on pacing
and strains her ears to hear any voice that comes.
This woman is more terrified than mournful.
Time to be smart. — Normally, people comfort grieving parents;
I give you congratulations for the death of your son,
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the son who would have been hurled to a cruel, headlong death
from a tower, the last remaining from the fallen walls.
andromache I am fainting, I am shaking, I collapse,
my blood is overcome by ice, it begins to freeze.
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trojan women
ulysses She shivered. This is the subject I must pursue with her.
Fear uncovered the mother. I will redouble her fear.
Go, go, quick! Find the enemy, hidden by the tricks
of his mother, the last blight on the Greek name.
Wherever he is hiding, root him out, into the open.
Well done! Got him. Go on, hurry, drag him…
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—Why look round in terror? He is surely dead.
andromache If only I were frightened. Fear has long been normal.
The heart is slow to unlearn what it learnt long ago.
ulysses He owed us a death from the walls, a purification,
advised by the priest — which he missed by dying too soon,
taken by a better destiny. So Calchas says
the ships for sailing home can be cleaned this way:
by scattering Hector’s ashes on the sea,
and razing the whole tomb-
mound to the ground.
Now, because the child escaped his rightful death,
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I must lay my hands on the sacred space.
andromache What am I to do? Fear pulls my heart two ways:
my son’s life, or my dearest husband’s ash.
Which part will win? Witness, you cruel gods
and you, my real god, spirit of my husband:
what I love in my son, Hector, is only you.
Let him live, just to revive your face. —
Will the ash be flung from the tomb and hurled in the sea?
Shall I allow his bones to be drowned in the waves,
scattered upon the deep? Better let our son die.
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But I am his mother! Can I watch him murdered
so horribly? Can I see him topple over
the high battlements?—I can do it, I will bear it, yes:
just so long as my dead Hector is not tossed about
by the conqueror’s hand.—But the boy can still feel pain.
Hector is held safe somewhere by Fate.
Why do you hesitate? Decide which one to save.
Bad wife, is it not obvious? There is your Hector.
No, wrong! Both of them are Hector. This one has feelings;
maybe one day he will take revenge for his dead father.
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Both of them have to be spared. But what can I do?
Protect, Andromache, the one whom the Greeks fear.
ulysses I will obey the oracle, I will destroy the tomb.
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andromache But you sold him to us.*
ulysses
I will drag down the grave
from the high mound.
andromache
I call the faithful gods
and trustworthy Achilles: Pyrrhus, now protect
your father’s gift.
ulysses
Soon that pile will be spread
over the entire field.
andromache
Till now, Greeks did not dare
such atrocity. You violated temples to the gods,
even those that blessed you.* But your blood-lust
bypassed tombs.
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With my weak hands I will fight your armoured soldiers,
rage will give me strength. Like a fierce Amazon
slaughtering troops of Argives, or a Bacchant
who rushes through the woods, inspired by god,
armed only with her thyrsus, gone insane,
insensibly she wounds and terrifies: I too
will fall to protect my comrade: the dust of this tomb.
ulysses Are you hesitating, does a woman’s wailing
and useless passion check you? Hurry up,