by Seneca
Your brother asks you to be king with him.
THYESTES: Does he? There’s danger there; some hidden trap.
TANTALUS: Brotherly love can often live again
In hearts that once have lost it; true affection
Broken can be repaired.
THYESTES: My brother love me?
Sooner will Ocean wash the Seven Stars,
The fury of the wild Sicilian currents
Rest, the Ionian sea become a field
Of ripening corn, night’s darkness be our daylight;
Sooner will water come to terms with fire,
Wind make a peace with sea, or life with death.
TANTALUS: But what harm do you fear?
THYESTES: All kinds of harm.
Why should my fear have limits, when his power
Is boundless as his hate?
TANTALUS: How can he hurt you?
THYESTES: I know – not for myself, for you, my sons,
I know that I must fear the power of Atreus.
TANTALUS: You fear some trap, in spite of all your caution?
THYESTES: Caution is late, when you are in the trap.
Let us go on, then. But – your father speaks –
Remember this: ’tis you that lead, I follow.
TANTALUS: God will look kindly on your good intentions.
Go boldly on.
[Enter Atreus, aside]
ATREUS: The net is spread, the game is in the trap.
I see my brother, with his hateful sons
Close by his side. Vengeance is now assured.
I have Thyestes in my hands at last,
Himself and all he has.1 I am impatient,
And find it difficult to curb my wrath.
Thus does a keen-nosed Umbrian hunting-dog
In quest of game, while held in leash, silent
Follow the trail, nose to the ground, obedient
While still the scent is weak, the quarry distant;
But at close quarters with his prey, he’ll fight
With every muscle of his neck, protesting
Against restraint, and strive to slip the leash;
And when he sniffs the scent of blood, his rage
Is almost uncontrollable, but still
Must be controlled.… Look at him, how his hair
Hangs all unkempt over his ruined face;
His chin unshaved. But we must offer him
A reassuring welcome.…
Welcome, brother!
How glad I am to see you! Let me feel
That long-desired embrace.… Let us forget
The anger that has parted us; henceforth
Let love and kinship ever be our law,
All enmity condemned and put away.
THYESTES: I could plead innocent; but as you come
In this kind mood, I cannot but confess,
Freely confess, my brother, I am guilty
Of all you have believed of me. This love
Has robbed me of my plea. Only to seem
Guilty in a devoted brother’s eyes
Is guilt enough. I can but plead with tears –
Though no man ever saw me plead before –
And with these hands, that have touched no man’s feet.
Be all your anger set aside, your heart
Eased of the tumult of your indignation.
For the assurance of my trust, brother,
My innocent sons shall be your hostages.
ATREUS: Touch not my knees, but come into my arms.
And you three lads, an old man’s sentinels,
Embrace me too. Take off that ragged garment,
Brother, its sight offends me, and be dressed
In robes like mine; accept with a good will
Your part and share of our fraternal kingdom.
It cannot but be counted to my credit
That I admit my brother, safe returned,
To the enjoyment of his royal birthright.
To own a kingdom is a man’s good fortune;
To give one is an act of charity.
THYESTES: And may the gods, my brother, so reward you
As your good deed deserves. As for the crown,
That mark of royalty would scarce become
This ruined head; this sorely troubled hand
Can never hold a sceptre. Let me live
Unseen, among the humblest of your subjects.
ATREUS: This realm is wide enough to hold two kings.
THYESTES: I know that what is yours is mine, my brother.
ATREUS: What man would spurn abundant fortune’s gifts?
THYESTES: The man who knows how fast abundance ebbs.
ATREUS: May I not have this honour that I seek?
THYESTES: Your honour is assured; but what of mine?
I am determined to refuse the crown.
ATREUS: If you refuse your share, I give up mine.
THYBSTES: Well… I accept the title thrust upon me,
But on condition all my arms, my powers,
And I, shall be devoted to your service.
ATREUS: Come then, and let your venerable head
Suffer the yoke that I shall put upon it.
Then I shall offer to the gods above
The sacrifice I have prepared for them.
CHORUS
Would any man believe it possible?
Atreus, that hard, that bitter man, that man of unrepentant cruelty,
Stands checked, awed into impotence, before his brother.
Truly there is no greater power on earth
Than natural affection.
Strife between strangers may go on for ever,
But where it has bound once
The chain of love will always bind again.
Peace had been broken by a storm of strife
For causes not to be despised.
The call to arms was heard,
The tramp of horsemen and the clink of harness,
Bright steel flashed to and fro at the command
Of Mars the God of Battle, armed and angry
And thirsting for fresh blood.
Yet now
Love has conquered the sword,
Bound the contesting hands,
And brought the combatants, despite themselves,
To reconciliation.
Which of the gods has given us this peace
So soon, after such bitter strife?
Loud was the noise of civil war, but yesterday,
Throughout Mycenae. Mothers stood pale with terror
Clutching their infants; wives watched fearfully
While husbands armed, grasping reluctantly
The long-forgotten sword, now dulled
With the rust of peaceful days.
Then there were crumbling walls to be repaired,
Towers, weakening with age, to be restored,
Gates to be hurriedly locked with iron bolts;
While on the battlements the anxious guard
Watched for the night’s alarms.
Worse than war is the fearful waiting for war.
Now, stilled is the threat of the killer’s sword;
Now, silent the trumpet’s thrilling call,
Silent the bugle’s piercing note. Deep peace
Comes back to the city, and all is joy again.
So, when the north gales fall upon the Bruttian sea
And breakers roll in from the deep, the caves of Scylla
Echo their pounding beat, and sailors yet ashore
Tremble to see the swirling waters which Charybdis
Greedily swallows down and vomits up again.
Fear grips the brutish Cyclops sitting in the depths
Of Etna’s burning crater: will his father soon
Put out with his cascade the everlasting fires
That feed the furnaces of their unresting forge?
Ithaca shakes, and the ill-used Laertes
Expects to see his little kingdom drowned.
; But when the winds lay by their force,
The sea lies calmer than a lake,
The ships that feared to cross the deep
Spread their bright sails on every side,
Boats dance upon a level floor
So clear, the eye can count the fishes
Swimming beneath the waters, where
Lately the fury of the gale
Had lashed the waves, and Cyclad islands
Trembled beneath their shock.
No state of life endures; pleasure and pain
Take each their turn; and pleasure’s turn is shorter.
Time swiftly changes highest into lowest.
That king – who can give crowns away;
Before whose feet nations have bowed
In fearful homage; at whose nod
The Medes, or Indians, neighbours of the sun,
Or Dahians whom the Parthian horsemen fear,
Have sheathed their swords – himself
Fears for his crown,
Anxiously scans the signs of Fate,
Dreads treacherous Time and the swift chance
That can make all things change.
You – to whom the ruler of earth and ocean
Gives the dread power of life and death – be humble;
That overweening face does not become you.
No threat of yours that makes your subjects tremble
Is greater than that your master holds above you.
Kings of the earth must bow to a higher kingdom.
Some, whom the rising sun sees high exalted,
The same sun may see fallen at its departing.1
No man should put his trust in the smile of fortune,
No man abandon hope in a time of trouble.
The Spinner of Fate twines good and bad together,
Never lets fortune rest, keeps all things moving.
Never was man so sure of the good gods’ favour
That he could promise himself a safe tomorrow.
Under God’s hand, life’s circle is ever revolving,
The swift wheel turning.
ACT FOUR
Messenger, Chorus
MESSENGER: O that some whirling wind would carry me
Away into the sky, or wrap my head
In darkest clouds, to banish from my sight
So foul a deed! O Tantalus, O Pelops!
This house would fill even your souls with shame.
CHORUS: What is your news?
MESSENGER: What country are we in?
The land of Argos, and of Sparta, where
Two brothers1 dwelt in love and harmony,
Of Corinth, buttress ’twixt two warring seas –
Or in the wild Danubian lands that shelter
Fugitive Vandals, or the eternal snows
Of Caucasus, the nomad Scyths’ domain?
What country is it that can be the scene
Of such unspeakable abomination?
CHORUS: Whatever evil you have seen, reveal it.
MESSENGER: First let the tumult of my mind be stilled,
And fear release my body from its grip.
A picture of the brutal deed still floats
Before my eyes. Carry me far away,
Wild winds! Far from this place! Take me away
To where the journey of the daylight ends!
CHORUS: You only hold us longer in suspense;
Describe this deed you shudder at, and name
The author of it; nay, I ask not ‘who’,
But ‘which of them’. Come, speak without delay.
MESSENGER: Part of the royal house of Pelops stands
Upon the summit of the citadel,
Facing the west, and at its outer edge
It towers above the city like a mountain
Ready to crush the people, should they rise
In insolent revolt against their kings.
Within this building is a huge apartment
Spacious enough to hold a multitude,
A hall of dazzling brilliance; golden beams
Rest upon handsome many-coloured pillars.
Behind this public space, to which the people
Freely resort, extends the private palace,
Room after room, of great luxuriance.
Deep in the secret heart of this domain,
Down in a hollow, is an ancient grove,
The sanctuary of the royal house.
Here grow no trees of pleasant aspect, none
That any pruner’s knife has cultivated;
Yew and dark cypress and black ilex twine
A tangled canopy of shade; above,
A tall oak towers and dominates the grove.
This is the place in which the royal sons
Of Tantalus consult the auspices
And pray for help in danger or defeat.
The trees are hung with offerings, with horns
That called to battle, pieces of the chariot1
Won at the sea of Myrto – when the wheels
Of the defeated car were treacherously
Loosed from the axle; trophies of every crime
Committed by this family are here;
And here is hung the Phrygian crown of Pelops,
A painted cloak from a barbarian foe,
And many other spoils of victory.
A spring, under the shadow of the trees,
Forlornly drips and spreads its sluggish water
Into a sombre pool; like that dark river
Styx, by whose name the gods are known to swear
Under this ground, at dead of night, ’tis said
The gods of death are heard to utter groans;
Chains rattle in the grove, and spirits cry.
There sights are seen that mortals quake to hear of.
The ghosts of men of ancient time emerge
From their old tombs and wander in the wood;
Spectres more strange than any known elsewhere
Invade the place; flames flicker on the trees,
And neighbouring roofs appear to be on fire,
Though no fire burns within. Sometimes the grove
Is filled with sounds of barking, thrice repeated;
Sometimes gigantic phantoms haunt the palace.
Daylight brings no relief from these alarms;
The grove’s own darkness is the dark of night,
And even at high noon the ghostly powers
Retain their sway. Here worshippers
Receive responses from the oracles,
And at such times the Fates’ decrees are cried
In thundering voices from the shrine; a god
Speaks, and the cave gives forth a hollow sound.
Into this place came Atreus, like a man
Possessed with madness, with his brother’s children
Dragged at his heels. The altars are prepared.…
But oh, what words are fit to tell what happened?…
He tied the princes’ hands behind their backs,
And bound their hapless heads with purple fillets.
Incense was used, and consecrated wine,
The salt and meal dropped from the butcher’s knife
Upon the victims’ heads, all solemn rites
Fulfilled, to make this act of infamy
A proper ritual.
CHORUS: Who held the knife?
MESSENGER: He was the sacrificial priest, his voice
Boldly intoned the liturgy of death
And spoke the funeral prayers; beside the altar
He stood alone; and then laid his own hand
Upon the three appointed to be slain,
Placed them before him, and took up the knife.
He saw that all was done; and all was done
According to the rites of sacrifice.
A shudder shook the grove; the palace rocked
Over the trembling earth, and seemed to hang
As if uncertain whether it should fall
This way or that; and
on the left a star
Traced out an angry furrow in the sky.
The sacrificial wine was changed to blood;
The diadem upon the royal head
Fell, twice or three times, to the ground; tears dripped
From ivory in the temples. Every man
Was moved to horror at these prodigies;
Atreus alone, intent upon his purpose,
Remained immovable, even defiant
Against the menacing gods. Without delay
He strode up to the altar and there stood
With scowling eyes, glaring this way and that.
A hungry tiger in an Indian forest,
Coming upon two steers, will stand in doubt,
Greedy for both, which victim to attack,
Baring his teeth at one, then at the other,
Holding his ravenous appetite in check
While making up his mind. Just so was Atreus
Eyeing the victims doomed to satisfy
His impious vengeance: which shall be the first
For slaughter, which the second head to fall?
As if it mattered! But he won’t be hurried –
He wants to have his ghastly deed performed
In proper order.
CHORUS: Which was slaughtered first?
MESSENGER: The first – no one can say that Atreus failed
In duty to his ancestors! – the first
Was dedicated to his grandfather:
The first to be dispatched was Tantalus.
CHORUS: What look, what bearing did the young man show
In face of death?
MESSENGER: He held himself erect,
Unflinching; prayers, that would have died unheard,
He scorned to utter. With a savage blow
The king drove in the sword, and pressed it home
Until his hand was at the throat; the body
Stood, with the sword plucked out, as if deciding
Which way to fall, then fell against the king.
Immediately the brutal murderer
Seized Plisthenes and dragged him to the altar
To add his body to his brother’s, struck
And hacked the head off; the truncated corpse
Fell forward to the ground, and from the head
That rolled away a faint last sob was heard.
CHORUS: And after those two butcheries, what next?
A third, or did he spare the youngest child?
MESSENGER: Think of a tawny lion in Armenia
Crouching amid the vanquished carcases
Of a whole herd of oxen, jaws agape
And wet with blood, his hunger satisfied
But not his fury; he will stalk the bulls