by Seneca
carry out your orders.
andromache
Me, kill me first with your swords.
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They are pushing me aside. Oh, break through the chains of fate,
Hector, push up the earth. Make Ulysses tame:
you can do it, even as a ghost. — He is shaking his weapons,
he is hurling torches! Do you see Hector, Greeks?
Or am I the only one?
ulysses
I will destroy it all.
andromache What are you doing? You will ruin your son and
your husband,
mother, in a single disaster. — Perhaps you can win over
the Greeks with pleas. The vast weight of that tomb
will instantly crush the boy I hid inside. Poor baby,
let him die anywhere else — not crushed by his own father,
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nor father smothered by son. — I come to kneel and beg you,
Ulysses. I have never knelt to any man.
I kneel before your feet. Have mercy on me, please!
I am a mother, a good person; please be kind,
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listen to my prayers. The higher gods have raised you,
the more you should be gentle to the fallen.
A gift to the unlucky is a gift to fate.
So may you see again your holy marriage bed,
so may Laertes still extend his years, until
he sees you back. So may your son greet you,
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turned out a better man than all your prayers could hope;
may he outdo his grandfather in years, father in brains.
Have pity on a mother. My child is
my only comfort in disaster.
ulysses
First bring him out. Then ask.
andromache Come out here* from your hiding-place,
sad trick of your poor mother.
Here he is, Ulysses, the terror of a thousand ships.
Hold up your arms, lie down before his feet,
and grovel to your master.
Nothing fortune forces on us in our time of trouble
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is real humiliation.
Forget your royal heritage,
the old king’s power, which was famed
through all the world. Forget about Hector;
behave like a prisoner, and bend your knees;
if death does not yet feel real to you,
copy your mother’s tears.
Troy has already seen, in olden times,
a boy-king weeping: Priam, when he was little,
turned aside the threats of fierce Hercules.*
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Hercules was so savage, even wild beasts
cowered at his enormous strength;
he even broke the gateway up from Hell
and made his dark way back;
the tears of a little boy defeated him.
‘Take up the reins,’ he said, ‘be king;
sit high on your father’s throne,
take his sceptre but rule in better faith.’
That was how that victor treated prisoners.
Let Hercules teach you to be angry gently.
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Or do you only like Hercules’ arms?
A suppliant lies at your feet, no less distinguished
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than that other one. He begs for his life.
Let fortune take the throne of Troy,
wherever it will.
ulysses Certainly I feel moved by a frightened mother’s sorrow,
but more moved by Greek mothers, who will suffer
terribly, if that little boy grows up.
andromache Can this boy raise these ruins, this wreck of a city,
turned to dust? Can these hands build Troy again?
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If this is all the hope of Troy, there is no hope.
Could anybody fear the Trojans now,
lying in ruin? Can his father inspire him?
His father was dragged in the dirt. Even that father
would have surrendered after Troy’s sack: disaster
destroys dignity. If you want revenge — what worse
is left to want? — clamp a servile yoke on his royal neck.
Let the boy be a slave. Can anyone refuse a king this favour?
ulysses It is not I but Calchas who refuses this request.
andromache Schemer, always plotting wicked tricks!
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You did not kill a single person by brave fighting,
but by your lies and evil cleverness
you killed even Greeks.* Will you put the blame on the priest
and the guiltless gods? This crime comes from you.
You prefer fighting by night;* in the daytime by yourself
at last you are not afraid — to kill a child.
ulysses The courage of Ulysses is well known to Greeks,
and all-too familiar to Trojans. There is no time
to waste on pointless speeches. The fleet is weighing anchor.
andromache Wait, let me have a moment more, to give
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my son a mother’s final care; just one last time
to hold him in my arms, my hungry sorrow’s food.
ulysses I wish I could be merciful. I cannot.
But I will give all that I can: a little time.
Fill up your heart with tears; tears lighten grief.
andromache My darling boy, the jewel of a fallen house,
last Trojan death, last terror to the Greeks,
your father’s empty hope, madly I prayed for you:
‘May you be praised in battle like your father, and achieve
your grandfather’s prime.’ But the gods refused my prayer.
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Now you will never stand tall in the royal court, or wield
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trojan women
the Trojan sceptre, never forge laws for your people,
never bring the conquered nations under your yoke.
You will not rout and kill the Greeks, drag Pyrrhus in the dust,
you will not carry child-size weapons in your delicate hands
or boldly hunt wild beasts which scurry everywhere
throughout the forests. Nor, on the proper day,
will you perform the holy rite of Trojan Games,*
the young prince leading the swift band of troops.
Nor, at the altars, running on quick feet
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as the curved horn plays its exciting music,
will you honour foreign temples with an ancient dance.*
O form of death, more terrible than death!
These walls will see something even more sad
than mighty Hector’s murder.
ulysses
Mother, stop crying now.
Great sorrow does not stop of its own accord.
andromache Ulysses, I only want a bit more time to weep.
Let me have these few tears, let me close with my own hands
these living eyes. Yes, you are small to die
but you are still a source of fear. Your Troy awaits you.
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Go, go, walk free; go see the free Trojans.
astyanax Mother, help me!
andromache
Why do you cling to my breast
and grab your mother’s arms? They cannot help you.
A baby calf, when it hears the lion’s roar
huddles its trembling body against its mother;
but that fierce lion hurls the mother away
seizes the smaller prey in its huge jaws,
crunches it, carries it off. So will our enemy
carry you from my arms. Take from me, little one,
kisses and tears and hair torn out, and full of me
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a short complaint: ‘If ghosts can still have feelings
for those they cared for once, and love’s fire does not die,
how can you let Andromache become a Greek man’s slave,
cruel Hector? Are you lying there, lazy and idle?
Achilles has come back.’ Now take again my hair,
take tears, all I have left, after my husband’s funeral.
Take kisses; you can give them to your father.
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trojan women
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Leave your mother for her comfort only this:
the cloak that used to touch this tomb of mine,
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and the ghosts I love. If it still hides any dust,
I will nuzzle it out with my lips.
ulysses
These tears go on forever.
Seize her; she is holding up the Argive fleet.
chorus Where will we poor slave women find to live?
Shady Tempe, mountains of Thessaly,
or Iolchas, mistress of the mighty ocean?
or little Gyrtone, or barren Trice,
or Mothone refreshed with little brooks?
Or a place more fitted to yield soldiers,
Phthia, or stony Trachis, best
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breeding ground for a strong herd,
overshadowed by Mount Oeta’s woods,
source of that fatal bow, which came to ruin Troy
twice over?*
Sparsely populated Olenos,
Pleuron, enemy to the virgin goddess,
or Troezen, curving on the ocean?
Pelion, proud kingdom of Prothoos,
the third step to heaven? This was the place
where Chiron,* tutor to that boy — already fierce —
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lay at full stretch in the cave hollowed out from the mountain,
strumming the ringing chords with his pick,
as he sharpened the boy’s aggression — already intense —
by singing of war.
Will it be Carystos, home of the coloured marbles,
or Chalcis, where Euripus always rushes
to the shore of the restless sea?
Calydnae, calm whatever the weather,
or Gonoessa, where it is always windy,
or Enispe, shuddering at the North Wind,
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or Crete which stretches to a hundred cities?
Peparethos off the coast of Attica,
or Eleusis, proud home of the Mysteries?*
Not Salamis, land of true Ajax,
or Calydon known for its savage boar,
or the countries washed by Titaressos
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trojan women
as its slow waters trickle downwards?
Bessa, Scarphe, ancient Pylos,
Pharis, Jupiter’s Pisa, or Elis
with its garlands of victory?
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Let the cruel gusts carry us poor girls
anywhere, let them give us to any old land,
anywhere but the ones that brought destruction
to Troy and to Greece: let it not be Sparta,
let it not be Argos, or fierce Pelops’ Mycenae,
little Neritos, littler Zacynthos,
or dangerous Ithaca,* whose hidden rocks deceive.
What fate awaits you, or what master,
Hecuba? Where will he lead you, as a spectacle?
Whose will be the kingdom where you die?
860
ACT FOUR
helen Helen calls the banns for weddings fraught with tears,
deadly weddings, full of mourning, slaughter, blood.
I find myself compelled to hurt the Trojans
even after their ruin. My instructions are to report
the false marriage of Pyrrhus, and provide
the Greek clothes and accessories. My cleverness
and tricks will trip up Paris’ sister. She will be fooled.
Actually I think it is better for her like this.
The best way to die is without the fear of death.
Why hesitate to do as you were told? The instigator
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deserves the blame for a crime he forced on me.
Trojan Princess, a kinder god begins to look at us
in our affliction. He blesses you with a happy wedding.
You could have hoped for no better match, not even
when Troy was safe, or when your father lived.
The greatest hero of the Greeks, whose lands
stretch out enormous over Thessaly,
wants your hand in holy matrimony.
All the naiads of the sea, with their queen Tethys,
and Thetis, calming goddess of the stormy waves,
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will be your family. Peleus and Nereus
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trojan women
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will welcome you as daughter-in-law, the gift of Pyrrhus.
Take off your dirty clothes, put on a party dress,
forget you are a captive. Brush out your tangled hair,
let expert hands arrange it beautifully.
Perhaps this lucky chance will raise you up
to an even higher throne. Many have done well by capture.
andromache This was the only pain we ruined Trojans lacked:
happiness. Smoke pours from flattened Pergamum.
What a time for a wedding! Would anybody dare to refuse?
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Who would hesitate to get married, if Helen advised it?
You are an abomination, an infection, a pollution
to both our nations. Can you see these leaders’ tombs,
and the bones stripped bare that lie all over the fields,
unburied, on the ground? Your wedding scattered them.
The blood of Europe and of Asia flowed for you,
while you were lazily watching your husbands at their duel,
wondering who to pick. Go on, deck out the marriage bed.
Who needs torches, or the traditional wedding brand?
Who needs fire? Troy lights up this new wedding ahead
of time.
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Come on, Trojan women, celebrate Pyrrhus’ marriage;
do it the right way — with moans and groans of grief.
helen Great misery is irrational, inflexible,
and sometimes hates even the ones who share it.
But still, I can defend my own position
before a hostile judge, since I have suffered more.
Andromache may weep for Hector, Hecuba
for Priam; but my grief is secret, I alone
must weep for Paris. Is it so very hard
to be enslaved? I have borne that burden longer,
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a captive for ten years. Is Troy sacked, the old gods gone?
Yes, it is hard, to lose your native land,
harder to fear it. At least in your great suffering,
you have each other. Both sides rage against me.
For a long time nobody knew which woman each man
would choose.
My master dragged me away on the spot, he did not pause
for the drawing of lots. Was I the cause of war,
and of the Trojan massacre? Well, believe it,
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trojan women
if a Spartan ship ever came to invade your seas.
But if the Trojan rowboats stole me as a prize,
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and the goddess in her victory gave me to the judge,
then pity Paris. My case is to be heard
before an angry judge: the decision will be made
by Menelaus. Now, Andromache, stop crying
just for a while. Persuade her. I myself can scarcely
hold back my tears.
andromache
It must be bad, if even Helen weeps.
But why is she crying? Tell us what tricks or crimes
the Ithacan is weaving. Is the plan to hurl the girl
from the top of Mount Ida, or to drop her from the crag
of the highest citadel? Maybe she is to be tossed
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into the ocean, over this sheer cliff,
where the city rises over the curving bay?
Tell us what it is your lying face keeps hidden.
Any bad news is better than that Pyrrhus should be family,
son-in-law to Hecuba and Priam. Tell us, spit it out,
what punishment you plan. Spare us this at least:
deception. You see women ready for their deaths.
helen I wish the priest had ordered that I, too,
should break with the sword my wasted time in the light,
or that I should accompany you, killed by the raging
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hand of Pyrrhus, on Achilles’ grave,
poor Polyxena — whom Achilles orders
as his gift, to be slaughtered on his ashes,
so he may be a bridegroom in the Elysian fields.
andromache See! Her great soul is glad to hear of her death.
She wants the fancy royal clothes, and lets
the hand comb through her hair. She used to think
the marriage death; now she thinks death is marriage.
But her poor mother, hearing the news, is stunned;
her mind is overwhelmed by grief, she faints. Get up,
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poor woman, lighten your heart, make yourself strong;
how slender is the chain her life hangs on.
A tiny thing can make Hecuba happy.
She breathes and lives. Death runs from the wretched first.
hecuba Is Achilles still alive to hurt Trojans?
Is he still waging war? How weak Paris was!
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Even Achilles’ ash and tomb are thirsty for our blood.
Only lately I was surrounded by a happy brood.
I got tired with sharing all those kisses,
a mother to such a big flock. Now she is the only one left,
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my hope, my friend, my comfort, and my rest,
she is the only child of Hecuba. Only by her
can I be still called ‘Mother’. Unlucky life of mine,
slip away now at last, and spare me just this death.
Her face is wet with weeping, and all of a sudden
she burst into tears; her face is defeated.
Daughter, be happy, rejoice. How Cassandra and Andromache
would have wished for this marriage of yours.
andromache It is us, us us, Hecuba, whom you should weep for.