by Seneca
When the fleet is launched we will be scattered,
all over the world.
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She will stay covered up in the dear earth of our home.
helen You will envy her even more when you know your future.
andromache Is part of my suffering still unknown to me?
helen They have shaken out the urn and assigned a master
for each captive.
andromache Who gets me as their concubine? Tell me!
Who is my master?
helen The boy from Scyros* won you with the first lot.
andromache Cassandra was lucky, her madness — and
Phoebus, her god —
made her exempt from this lottery.
helen
No, the king of kings* got her.
hecuba Did anybody want to have Hecuba for his own?
helen You fell to the Ithacan. He does not want you. You will not
live long.
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hecuba To give a queen to a king! Whoever supervised
this unfair lottery was stupid, crazy, cruel.
We captives were assigned by an unlucky god.
The judge is a sadist, he stamps on the wretched:
he has no idea how to pick out our masters; barbarian,
he makes unfair decisions in our time of trouble.
Who would make Hector’s mother sleep with Achilles’ sword?
They give me to Ulysses! Now comes defeat, now comes
captivity, now I am overwhelmed by total ruin.
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trojan women
This master is a greater shame than slavery. Will he
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who got Achilles’ spoils* get Hector’s too? That barren island
locked in by brutal waters will not hold my tomb.
Take me, take me, Ulysses. I am ready to follow my master:
my destiny will follow me. There will be no tranquil seas,
the ocean will grow wild with whirling winds. My followers
are war and fire; my sufferings, and Priam’s.
Until those troubles come, this is your punishment:
I got your lot, I stole your prize from you.
But now look, here comes Pyrrhus, running fast;
his face is grim. Pyrrhus, why hesitate? Come,
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strike at my breast with your sword, and join together
the in-laws of Achilles. Go on! You are used to killing
old people,
and you like my family’s blood.* — Then grab her,
drag her away,
pollute the gods with murder, even pollute the dead.
I will curse you — but how? I pray that you get
the seas you deserve for this sacrifice; and that
the whole Greek fleet, the thousand ships,
suffer the curse I will inflict upon the boat I ride.
chorus How sweet for those in pain, that others also suffer!
What pleasure is the nations’ loud lamenting!
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Grief and tears bite more gently
when misery finds company.
Pain is cruel: always, always,
pain seeks many victims,
happy not to be alone.
Nobody resists the painful fate
shared by everyone.
People will not think themselves unhappy, though they are,
if nobody is happy.
Eliminate the rich, and the landed gentry,
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with their estates ploughed by a hundred oxen.
Poor people will no longer feel oppressed.
All wretchedness is relative.
How sweet for someone in the midst of ruin
to look around and see no happy face.
If your boat sets out to sea alone
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trojan women
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and you are washed naked into the harbour,
you moan and complain of your fate.
It is easier to bear the storms of fortune
if you see a thousand other ships
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drowned in the waves and the beaches
strewn with wrecked ships, while the violent wind
keeps back the swelling waves of the sea.
Phrixus grieved for the fall of Helle,*
when the ram with the golden fleece, leader of the flock
bore up brother and sister together
on his shining back, and cast him down
into the middle of the sea. They checked their tears,
Pyrrha and her husband,* when they saw
sea and only sea, the only people
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left upon earth of all humanity.
When the fleet sets out from here, it will melt
our friendship, scatter our tears,
when the sailors hear the trumpet’s order to set sail,
and winds and oars will speed their way
as they plunge into the ocean and the shore recedes.
What will our feelings be, poor pitiful wretches,
when all the land grows small and the sea grows big,
when even Ida’s height is hard to see?
Then a boy and his mother will turn to each other,
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pointing to the place where Troy lies fallen,
far in the distance, and say as they point:
‘There is Troy, where the smoke creeps high
into the sky in dirty clouds.’
By this signal the Trojans will recognize their home.
ACT FIVE
messenger What cruel fate! How harsh, terrible, pitiful!
The god of war has seen no crime more savage
in twice-five years of war. In my tears, I hardly know
whose suffering to begin with: yours, or yours, my lady.
hecuba If you weep for anybody’s pain, you weep for mine. 1060
Other people suffer singly; I suffer a mass destruction.
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trojan women
All death is mine. All grief is Hecuba’s.
messenger The girl has been slaughtered, the boy has been
thrown from the walls.
But both of them bore their deaths with a noble spirit.
andromache Tell us every detail of the double murder,
all the abominable crime. Agony likes dragging out
every single wound. Go on, tell us the whole story.
messenger One tall tower still survives from Troy,
a haunt of Priam’s. There he used to sit,
to judge the war and rule his regiments,
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from its high battlements. On that very tower
he comforted his grandson in his arms,
while Greeks ran terrified from Hector’s sword and fire.
The old man showed the child the father’s fights.
This tower, once renowned, the glory of the wall,
is now a cruel crag, surrounded on all sides
by soldiers and their leaders. The whole rabble
assembled there, abandoning their ships.
Some went up a distant hill to get a better view,
others crowded to a high rock, on whose peak
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they stretched up on their tiptoes, trying to see.
People climbed the trees: pine, laurel, and beech:
the whole wood quivered with suspended men.
Some choose the edge of a sheer mountain cliff,
while others perch on burned-out buildings, others on the rubble
of the ruined walls, and one man — what an obscenity! —
sits to watch — barbarian! — on Hector’s tomb.
Through this packed crowd the Ithacan strides,
dragging along by the hand the little boy,
grandson of Priam. The boy goes readily
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towards the high
walls. When he stood on the top of the tower
he looked around him with a keen, fierce face,
no fear in his heart. So the cub of a massive lioness
though small and delicate, unable yet to bite,
already growls and makes his threats,
snapping his milk-teeth, swollen up with pride:
just so the boy, in the grip of his enemy, showed
a proud ferocity which moved the crowd,
and leaders, even Ulysses. The only one
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trojan women
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who did not weep was he for whom they wept.
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While Ulysses performed the prophet’s prayers,
and summoned savage gods, of his free will
the boy jumped down to Priam’s kingdom.*
andromache Colchis* never saw such horrors, Scythian nomads
never did such things, nor the lawless people
who live by the Caspian Sea. Busiris* never stained
his altars with children’s blood, cruel though he was.
Diomedes* never fed his animals
on child-size limbs. — But who will cover your body*
and bury it?
messenger There is no body left
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after so steep a plunge. His bones are broken,
smashed by his fall. His weight as it crashed to the ground
obliterated his fine face and body. No sign left
of how he once looked like his famous father.
His neck was snapped off as he hit the rock.
His head cracked open and the brains burst out.
His corpse is mangled, shapeless.
andromache
Still so like his father!*
messenger When the boy toppled headlong from the walls,
Greeks wept to watch the crime they had done themselves,
then that same crowd turned back to further wickedness,
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and to Achilles’ tomb. On its far side
beat the soft waves of the river Rhoteum;
the other side is bounded by the plain,
where gentle slopes enclose a central space,
like a theatre. The whole shore thronged
with an enormous crowd. Some of them believe
this killing can set free the fleet from calm. Others
are happy at an enemy child mown down. But mostly,
the fickle mob hates the crime, but watches anyway.
Even the Trojans
crowd to see their own death, terrified
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they watch the final scene of Troy’s destruction:
when suddenly, as at a wedding, comes a torchlit procession,
and out comes the Maid of Honour: Helen, with her head
bowed down by sorrow. The Trojans pray: ‘May Hermione*
suffer with a wedding like this: may hateful Helen herself,
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trojan women
return to her own husband in just this way.’ Now horror
stuns both Greeks and Trojans. The girl looked down
modestly, but her cheeks were bright, and at the last
she was more beautiful than ever before,
just as the light of the sun is often sweeter
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as it sets and the stars are taking up their places
and doubtful day is pressed by the neighbouring night.
The whole crowd was dumbfounded: indeed, people
have more respect for things about to die. Some notice her beauty,
others her youth, while some are moved to think
of Fortune’s mutability. All are affected
by her courage in meeting death. She walks before Pyrrhus.
Everybody quivers with pity and wonder. As soon as she reached
the top of the mound, and the young man stood up there
high on the top of his father’s tomb, the brave young girl
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did not step back. She stood there strong and fierce,
with a fixed frown as she turns to face the blow.
Everyone is moved to see such courage.
And look, another wonder: Pyrrhus is slow to kill.
As soon as he drove his sword deep into her body,
she died at once, and suddenly blood burst out
from the massive wound. But even in death
she did not lose her spirit. She fell down face-first, furious,
as if to burden the earth that buries Achilles.
Both sides were weeping, but the Trojans wept
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fearfully, while the winners made their lament ring loud.
This was the way the sacrifice went. The spilt blood
did not pool or flow over the ground: immediately
the savage funeral mound drank all the blood.
hecuba Go home, go home, you Greeks; you are safe now
to go home.
Your fleet may safely spread its sails and set to sea,
just as you wished. The boy and girl are dead.
The war is over. Where can I go to cry?
Where can this old woman vomit out the rest of her days?
Should I weep for my daughter and grandson, should
I weep for my husband,
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or my country? For everything, or for myself ? Only death
can answer my prayers. Death comes roughly to babies and virgins,
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trojan women
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always pouncing, wild thing. I am the only one
feared and avoided by death. When swords and spears and
torches
surrounded me, and I spent the night in search of death,
death fled from me. No enemy, no city’s sack, no fire
could kill me, though I stood so near to Priam.
messenger Hurry, captured women, hurry to the sea.
Already the sails are unfurling on the prow, the fleet is moving.
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HERCULES FURENS
Juno was jealous of Hercules, who was the most powerful
and heroic illegitimate son of Jupiter. She caused him to be
enslaved by Eurystheus, king of Argos, who forced him to
perform twelve almost impossible labours. As the play opens,
Hercules is finishing the last of the twelve labours: capturing
the guard-dog of Hades, Cerberus, and bringing him back
to the upper world. Hercules’ family — his wife Megara,
and his father Amphitryon — are suffering under the threats
of a tyrant, Lycus, who has killed Megara’s father Creon,
and seized control of the kingdom while Hercules is away.
Hercules returns in triumph from the underworld; but mad-
ness sent by Juno turns his victory upside-down. Hercules,
in the final scene of the play, recovers his senses and has to
decide how to respond to what he has done.
* * *
dramatis personae
juno, goddess, wife and sister of Jupiter
amphitryon, father of Hercules
megara, wife of Hercules, daughter of Creon
lycus, a tyrant
hercules
theseus, king of Athens, friend of Hercules
chorus
* * *
ACT ONE
juno I am sister of the Thunderer — only his sister.*
I have abandoned Jupiter to all his other girls.
Like a widow, I left the temples of high heaven;
exiled, I gave up my place in the sky to those whores.
I have to live on earth. Concubines live in heaven.
High in the sky the constellation of the Bear,*
up in the frozen north guides Argive fleets;
over there, where
springtime days grow long,
shines the Bull* who carried Europa over the waves;
and there is the league of the Pleiades,* who wander
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all through the sky, and threaten sailors and sea.
Here is Orion,* brandishing his sword at the gods,
and here, the stars of golden Perseus.*
Here, the sparkling stars of Gemini,*
and those whose birth made the wandering island stop.*
Not only Bacchus* and his mother have achieved
a place in heaven; my disgrace is everywhere,
since Ariadne’s crown* shines over earth.
But these are old complaints. A single savage country,
Thebes, is swarming with adulteresses;
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how many Theban stepchildren I have! — But imagine
Alcmena* beats me to the sky and takes my place,
and her son, too, gets his promised star—
the night he was conceived,* the world stopped day,
and the sun dawned late from the eastern sea,
ordered to keep back his bright light drowned in ocean —
my hate will never end; my passionate heart
will whip up everlasting anger; wild resentment
will drive out peace and wage eternal war.
What war? Whatever monstrous thing earth brings to birth — 30
earth, his enemy — or sea, or air:
terrible, strange, diseased, awful, and wild —
all are subdued and broken. He wins!* Trouble makes him
stronger,
and he enjoys my rage. He turns my hate
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hercules furens
to his own glory. When I act the tyrant queen,
I give him room to prove himself a hero,
and his father’s son. All countries touched by the light
of sunrise and sunset, the two dark-painted peoples,*
all revere his dauntless courage. The whole world
tells stories of his godhead. I have no monsters left.
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Hercules finds it easier to do what I command
than I to make the orders. He is glad to obey.
What new and savage forms of domination
could harm this tough young man? Remember, for his weapons
he wears the things he used to fear, which he laid low.
His armour is the Lion and the Hydra.* All the world
was not enough for him. He breaks Hell’s gate,
defeats the king and brings his prizes back to earth.*
Coming back is easy; the laws of the dark land are broken.