by Daisy Dunn
newly freed from the painted bridles, chanted
in Bacchic songs, responsively.
But Pentheus—
unhappy man—could not quite see the companies
of women. “Stranger,” he said, “from where I stand,
I cannot see these counterfeited Maenads.
But if I climbed that towering fir that overhangs
the banks, then I could see their shameless orgies
better.”
And now the stranger worked a miracle.
Reaching for the highest branch of a great fir,
he bent it down, down, down to the dark earth,
till it was curved the way a taut bow bends
or like a rim of wood when forced about the circle
of a wheel. Like that he forced that mountain fir
down to the ground. No mortal could have done it.
Then he seated Pentheus at the highest tip
and with his hands let the trunk rise straightly up,
slowly and gently, lest it throw its rider.
And the tree rose, towering to heaven, with my master
huddled at the top. And now the Maenads saw him
more clearly than he saw them. But barely had they seen,
when the stranger vanished and there came a great voice
out of heaven—Dionysus’, it must have been—
crying: “Women, I bring you the man who has mocked
at you and me and at our holy mysteries.
Take vengeance upon him.” And as he spoke
a flash of awful fire bound earth and heaven.
The high air hushed, and along the forest glen
the leaves hung still; you could hear no cry of beasts.
The Bacchae heard that voice but missed its words,
and leaping up, they stared, peering everywhere.
Again that voice. And now they knew his cry,
the clear command of god. And breaking loose
like startled doves, through grove and torrent,
over jagged rocks, they flew, their feet gladdened
by the breath of god. And when they saw my master
perching in his tree, they climbed a great stone
that towered opposite his perch and showered him
with stones and javelins of fir, while the others
hurled their wands. And yet they missed their target,
poor Pentheus in his perch, barely out of reach
of their eager hands, treed, unable to escape.
Finally they splintered branches from the oaks
and with those bars of wood tried to lever up the tree
by prying at the roots. But every effort failed.
Then Agave cried out: “Maenads, make a circle
about the trunk and grip it with your hands.
Unless we take this climbing beast, he will reveal
the secrets of the god.” With that, thousands of hands
tore the fir tree from the earth, and down, down
from his high perch fell Pentheus, tumbling
to the ground, sobbing and screaming as he fell,
for he knew his end was near. His own mother,
like a priestess with her victim, fell upon him
first. But snatching off his wig and snood
so she would recognize his face, he touched her cheeks,
screaming, “No, no, Mother! I am Pentheus,
your own son, the child you bore to Echion!
Pity me, spare me. Mother! I have done a wrong,
but do not kill your own son for my offense.”
But she was foaming at the mouth, and her crazed eyes
rolling with frenzy. She was mad, stark mad,
possessed by Bacchus. Ignoring his cries of pity,
she seized his left arm at the wrist; then, planting
her foot upon his chest, she pulled, wrenching away
the arm at the shoulder—not by her own strength,
for the god had put inhuman power in her hands.
Ino, meanwhile, on the other side, was scratching off
his flesh. Then Autonoë and the whole horde
of Bacchae swarmed upon him. Shouts everywhere,
he screaming with what little breath was left,
they shrieking in triumph. One tore off an arm,
another a foot still warm in its shoe. His ribs
were clawed clean of flesh and every hand
was smeared with blood as they played ball with scraps
of Pentheus’ body.
The pitiful remains lie scattered,
one piece among the sharp rocks, others
lying lost among the leaves in the depths
of the forest. His mother, picking up his head,
impaled it on her wand. She seems to think it is
some mountain lion’s head which she carries in triumph
through the thick of Cithaeron. Leaving her sisters
at the Maenad dances, she is coming here, gloating
over her grisly prize. She calls upon Bacchus:
he is her “fellow-huntsman,” “comrade of the chase,
crowned with victory.” But all the victory
she carries home is her own grief.
Now,
before Agave returns, let me leave
this scene of sorrow. Humility,
a sense of reverence before the sons of heaven
of all the prizes that a mortal man might win,
these, I say, are wisest; these are best. [Exit MESSENGER.]
HIPPOLYTUS AND HIS HORSES
Hippolytus
Euripides
Translated by Anne Carson, 2006
Euripides’ Hippolytus – first performed in 428 BC, more than two decades before his Bacchae – also explores the conflict between different aspects of the human spirit. The love goddess Aphrodite is furious because a young man named Hippolytos repudiates her while worshipping Artemis, the goddess of the hunt. In this story from Euripides’ tragedy, which is set in the town of Troezen in the Peloponnese, Aphrodite determines to punish him for his unfailing chastity. Hippolytos’ father is Theseus, the founding king of Athens, who is now married to Phaidra. A daughter of King Minos and Pasiphaë, who conceived the Minotaur when she fell in love with a bull (see Story 44), poor Phaidra succumbs to the family curse. Aphrodite (‘Cypris’) is nothing if not vengeful. Seneca’s Phaedra (first century AD) and Jean Racine’s neoclassical tragedy Phèdre (1677) would draw on the same myth. Anne Carson is a celebrated Canadian poet and classicist and her translation is wonderfully rich.
HIPPOLYTOS.
For you
this crown
from a field uncut
O queen I wove and bring—
from a virgin field where no shepherd dares to graze his animal,
no knife comes near it—
field uncut,
just a bee dozing by in spring.
And Shame
waters it with river dews.
No one can cut a flower there
except those who have
purity absolute in their nature,
untaught, all the time.
The bad are kept out.
But O
beloved queen
for your golden hair
accept this crown from a reverent hand.
For I alone of mortals have the privilege:
with you I stay, with you I talk,
I hear your voice,
although I do not see you.
So may my finish-line match my start.
[Enter (male) SERVANT from palace.]
SERVANT.
You are my prince but gods are our masters, all.
So will you accept some advice from me?
HIPPOLYTOS.
Yes. Or seem unwise.
SERVANT.
Do you know there is a law among men?
HIPPOLYTOS.
What law?
SERVANT.
To hate high pri
de and bad manners.
HIPPOLYTOS.
Of course, what proud man is not annoying?
SERVANT.
And is there some charm in being courteous?
HIPPOLYTOS.
Very much. And profit too.
SERVANT.
And would you expect the same among gods?
HIPPOLYTOS.
If mortals use gods’ laws.
SERVANT.
How is it then you refuse courtesy to a proud goddess?
HIPPOLYTOS.
Which goddess? Be careful.
SERVANT.
The goddess who stands at your gates. Aphrodite.
HIPPOLYTOS.
From afar I greet that one, since I am pure.
SERVANT.
Yet she is proud and important to men.
HIPPOLYTOS.
No god adored at night is pleasing to me.
SERVANT.
To honor gods, child, is an obligation.
HIPPOLYTOS.
Different men like different gods.
SERVANT.
I wish you good luck and good sense. You’ll need them.
HIPPOLYTOS.
Go, servants, into the house and to your supper.
Sweet after hunting is a full table.
My horses need a rubdown,
then after I’ve had my fill of food
I’ll yoke them and give them a run.
You, Aphrodite,
keep out of my way!
[Exit HIPPOLYTOS with attendants into palace.]
SERVANT.
We must not imitate the young in thoughts like these.
As becomes a slave, I shall bow
to your statue, Aphrodite be compassionate!
If someone who is stretched tight inside himself
talks reckless talk, best not to listen.
Gods should have more wisdom than men.
[Exit SERVANT into palace.]
[Enter CHORUS from both side entrances into orchestra.]
CHORUS. (Entrance song)
Water from the river Okeanos drips
down a certain rock
(so it is said) and
at its edge a stream
where pitchers are dipped.
There
someone I know
was soaking her redpurple robes
in river dew,
spreading them on flat rocks in the sun.
From her to me
first came the story of my lady
wasting herself on a bed of pain:
she hides her body
in the house,
covers her yellow hair.
Three days
(so I hear)
she is without food,
keeps her body
pure of bread, longs to
run herself aground
in a sad secret death.
Is it a god inside you, girl?
Deranged by Pan, by Hekate?
Or the holy mountain mother?
Or does Artemis, mistress of wild things,
devastate you?
For she ranges the lake
and the sand
near the sea and the wet salt places.
Or is it your husband, the king of Athens,
the highborn one—
is someone in your house coaxing him
to secret sex?
Or has some sailor out from Krete
brought to the queen
harsh news
that binds her soul to its bed with grief?
Woman has a wrongturned harmony:
some evil sad helplessness
comes to dwell in her
when she has pain or despair.
That breeze shot through my womb once.
But to Artemis of childbirth,
the heavenly one
who rules arrows,
I cried out
and praise god!
she came to me.
But here is the old Nurse at the door,
bringing Phaidra out of the house.
What is it—my soul longs to know—
what has so changed the body of my queen?
[Enter NURSE from palace with PHAIDRA on a bed
carried by (female) Servants.]
NURSE.
Ah, humans and their ailments! Gas and gloom!
What should I do for you? Or not do?
Here is your daylight, here is your bright open air,
here is your sickbed brought out of the house—
“Outside!” you said. “Take me outside!”—
but any minute you’ll rush back in.
Every joy disappoints.
What’s here doesn’t please you,
what’s far off you crave.
Better to be sick than tend the sick.
The one is simple, the other
work, work, work, work and worry.
Now every mortal life has pain
and sweat is constant,
but if there is anything dearer than being alive
it’s dark to me.
We humans seem disastrously in love with this thing
(whatever it is) that glitters on the earth—
we call it life. We know no other.
The underworld’s a blank
and all the rest just fantasy.
PHAIDRA.
Lift my body, raise my head.
I’ve gone loose in the joints of my limbs.
Take my hands, servants.
This headbinder is heavy,
take it away, let down my hair on my shoulders.
NURSE.
There, child, don’t throw yourself around so.
The disease will feel lighter
if you stay calm.
We all must suffer.
PHAIDRA.
AIAI! [cry of pain] How I long for a dewcold spring
and pure running water!
To lie back
beneath black poplars,
to sink deep in the long grass of a field!
NURSE.
Child, what are you shouting?
Don’t say such things where people can hear.
Your words ride toward madness.
PHAIDRA.
Send me to the mountains! I will go to the woods,
to the pine woods
where
hunting dogs race to the kill,
closing in on dappled deer.
How I long
to cry the hounds onward
and let fly a spear fly
from alongside my yellow hair,
floating
the weapon in my hand!
NURSE.
Why harm yourself like this?
What do you care about hunting?
What do you want with cold running springs?
Right next to the wall is a stream where you can drink.
PHAIDRA.
Queen of the salt lake,
Artemis,
lady of racetracks
where horses’ hooves pound,
how I long to be on your ground
riding,
breaking
wild northern colts!
NURSE.
Crazy talk!
One minute you’re gone to the mountains to hunt,
the next you want colts and flat beaches!
It would take a mighty prophet to say
what god is pulling back the reins on you
and riding your mind off its track.
Oh child.
PHAIDRA.
I am a sad one! What have I done?
Where have I gone from my own good mind?
I went mad, a god hurt me, I fell.
PHEU PHEU TLEMON! [cry]
Woman, hide my head again.
I am ashamed of my own words.
Hide me.
Tears fall
and my eye turns back for shame.
To think straight is agony.
But this madness is evil.
&nbs
p; Best to die unaware.
NURSE.
Yes I am covering you. But when
will death cover me?
Long life teaches many things.
Mortals must measure their love for one another,
not let it cut right through to the marrow of the soul.
Keep affections of the mind flexible, I say—
easy to let them go or pull them tight.
But when one soul feels the pain of two,
as mine for hers,
what a burden.
You know strict rules of life do more harm
than giving in to pleasure—
unhealthy, they say.
Excess is your culprit.
“Nothing too much,” that’s my advice.
And wise men agree with me.
CHORUS.
Old woman, trusted Nurse of the queen,
we see Phaidra in a bad state
but no sign of the disease.
Please tell us, what is it?
NURSE.
I don’t know. She wont say.
CHORUS.
What started it?
NURSE.
Same answer. She is silent.
CHORUS.
How weak and worn her body is.
NURSE.
Well yes, three days without food.
CHORUS.
Is she in a delusion or trying to die?
NURSE.
Who knows? She doesn’t eat, she dies.
CHORUS.
Astonishing her husband approves.
NURSE.
She hides her pain, won’t say she is ill.
CHORUS.
Does he not see the proof on her face?
NURSE.
In fact he’s away from home right now.
CHORUS.
Then won’t you use force, try to find out
what is making her sick, drifting her mind?
NURSE.
I’ve tried everything! Got nowhere!
But I’m not giving up.
You can bear witness
what kind of woman I was for my mistress in trouble.
Come, dear child, let’s both forget
what we said before: you be sweeter,
clear your brow, open your mind,
and I’ll start again trying to reason with you.
Even if your illness is something unspeakable
there are women here who could help.
Or if it’s decent for men to hear,
speak up! tell a doctor!
Silent now? What use is silence?
Correct me if I’m wrong
or agree if I’m right.
Say something! Look at me! Ah,
women, our effort is futile.
We are miles off.
She was not touched, she is not persuaded.
Well, know this—stubborn as the sea!—
if you die you betray your own children.
They will get no share of their father’s house.
I swear by the horseriding Amazon queen
whose son is master of your sons—