Four Tragedies and Octavia

by Seneca

  But now that spirit has been broken in me,

  And broken by that thing which, in another,

  Might well have caused it – by the gift of Fortune.

  Priam has made me proud – and made me fearful.

  Why then should I think kingship anything

  But name, o’erlaid with shallow gilt, a brow

  Adorned with a mock diadem? A chance,

  A moment, may sweep all these things away –

  And, like as not, without the aid of ships

  Numbered in thousands, or a ten years’ war;

  Not all find Fortune’s hand so long suspended.

  If I may speak my mind – forgive me, Argos –

  I own I wanted to see Phrygia conquered,

  Conquered and punished; but reduced to ruin,

  Razed to the ground – I would have spared her that.

  Would that I had! No power on earth can curb

  The invader’s lust, no hand restrain the licence

  Of victory let loose upon the night.

  If anything of what we did that night

  Could have been called inhuman or unseemly,

  It was the work of anger, and of darkness –

  Itself a spur to cruelty – the work

  Of the triumphant sword, whose appetite,

  Once it has tasted blood, outruns all reason.

  If anything of ruined Troy can live,

  Then let it live; vengeance enough, and more,

  Has been exacted. A princess to die,

  A sacrificial victim, to imbrue

  The ashes of the dead – a brutal murder

  Called by the name of marriage – never! No!

  That I will not allow. For upon me

  The guilt of all comes back. Who, having the right

  To ban wrongdoing, bans it not, commands it.

  PYRRHUS: So shall Achilles’ soul not have its due?

  AGAMEMNON: It shall. All men on earth shall sing his praise

  And lands unknown shall hear of his great name.

  If blood must flow to give his ashes rest,

  Let there be slaughtered finest Phrygian cattle;

  Shed blood for which no mother’s eyes need weep.

  Where is such custom known? Where is man’s life

  Poured out in payment to the human dead?

  Your duty is to shield your father’s name

  From hatred and dishonour, not ask us

  To serve him with an act of brutal vengeance.

  PYRRHUS: Oh, you are puffed with pride, now that success

  And safety have set up your confidence.

  You did not use to be so bold, when danger

  Was drumming the alarm – great king of kings!

  No doubt your thoughts have turned to love again;

  Some new-found mistress fires your passion. Why

  Should you so often be the only one

  To win a prize? Well, I shall give Achilles,

  With my own hands, the victim he demands.

  If you refuse to give her up, I’ll find

  Another, a better gift, a gift more worthy

  To be the gift of Pyrrhus. This right hand

  Has too long paused from shedding kingly blood.

  Priam needs company.

  AGAMEMNON: Pyrrhus deserves,

  I’ll not deny, the credit for that deed,

  His noblest exploit in the war, the murder

  Of Priam, his father’s suppliant.

  PYRRHUS: I know

  Who were his suppliants, and his enemies.

  Priam at least made his appeal in person;

  You would not dare to make your own request;

  You skulked in safety, you were too afraid

  To meet your enemy; the king of Ithaca,

  And Ajax, had to do the asking for you.1

  AGAMEMNON: Your father was no coward, I suppose,

  That day when Greeks were dying all around him,

  Their ships in flames, and he lay indolent,

  Far from all thought of battle, lazily

  Strumming sweet music on a tinkling lyre.

  PYRRHUS: The songs Achilles sang, you may be sure,

  Daunted great Hector more than all your armour

  Which scared him not a jot; in that dread hour

  Peace reigned in the Thessalian camp.

  AGAMEMNON: And there

  Was peace, I think, for Hector’s father too.2

  PYRRHUS: It is a lordly act to spare a king.

  AGAMEMNON: And yet you raised your hand to kill a king?

  PYRRHUS: It may be mercy to grant death, not life.

  AGAMEMNON: And now in mercy you would have a maiden

  Slaughtered upon a tomb?

  PYRRHUS: Since when have you

  Thought it a crime to sacrifice a maiden?

  AGAMEMNON: A king must put his country above his children.

  PYRRHUS: No law forbids a prisoner’s punishment.

  AGAMEMNON: Where law does not forbid, shame may forbid.

  PYRRHUS: The victor has the right to please himself.

  AGAMEMNON: Who has most right, should least indulge his pleasure.

  PYRRHUS: Dare you say that to those who for ten years

  Endured your tyranny – till Pyrrhus freed them?

  AGAMEMNON: Is this the breed of Scyros?

  PYRRHUS: Scyros breeds

  No brother-feuds.

  AGAMEMNON: An island in the sea!

  PYRRHUS: Our mother sea! For Atreus and Thyestes –

  We know their noble lineage.

  AGAMEMNON: And yours?

  Son of a girl raped by a boy Achilles,

  A stripling –

  PYRRHUS: An Achilles, by his birthright

  Lord of all spheres of heavenly dominion –

  The sea through Thetis, the infernal world

  Through Aeacus, the heavens through Jupiter.

  AGAMEMNON: Whom Paris killed –

  PYRRHUS: Whom no immortal god

  Dare challenge to his face.

  AGAMEMNON: I could find punishment to stop that tongue

  And curb that insolence. But my sword too

  Knows how to spare a prisoner in my power.

  Let us have Calchas here, the interpreter

  Of heaven’s will; let someone bring him hither.

  If the Fates ask, I will not fail to give.

  [Enter Calchas]

  Calchas, you loosed the knot that held our fleet

  Back from this war; your skill unlocks the sky;

  Your art can read the message of the Fates

  In flesh of beasts, the thunder of the heavens,

  The flaming passage of a shooting star –

  And many a time I have paid heavily

  For your pronouncements. Calchas, tell me now

  What our god wills; instruct us by your wisdom.

  CALCHAS: For fate’s permission to depart, the price

  Is as before. A young girl must be given

  In sacrifice on the Thessalian’s tomb.

  She must be dressed as a Thessalian bride –

  Or Mycenean, or Ionian –

  Pyrrhus himself must give the bride away

  To his father, so that she be duly wedded.

  That is not all our ships are waiting for:

  A debt is to be paid in nobler blood

  Than that of Priam’s daughter. One more victim

  The Fates demand; and he must fall to death

  From the top of Troy… Priam’s grandson… Hector’s son.

  That done, your thousand ships may take the sea.

  CHORUS

  Is it the truth, or but an idle tale

  To give false comfort to our fears,

  That the soul lives on when the body is laid to rest,

  When the wife has sealed the husband’s eyes,

  When the last sun has set,

  When the ashes are shut into the solemn urn?

  Do we in vain give up our life to death?
<
br />   Has the poor mortal still more time to live?

  Or do we wholly die?

  Does nothing remain of us,

  After the breath has fled and the spirit of life

  Gone, to be mingled with the air above us,

  After the fire has been laid to the naked body?

  Swift as the feet of Pegasus, Time will gather

  All to itself–

  All that the sun looks down upon,

  From east to west;

  All that the blue sea touches

  With its morning and its evening tides.

  Onward we speed to our fate –

  As fast as the twelve signs speeding through the sky,

  As the stars’ king turning the cycle of the years,

  As Hecate, running her chequered course –

  Onward we speed.

  To reach the river, by whose name

  The gods themselves take oath, that is

  To be no more.

  As smoke from burning fire floats away,

  A quickly vanishing dark smudge;

  As clouds, one moment lowering, are dispersed

  By cold north winds;

  So will this spirit, this master of our being,

  Pass away.

  There is nothing after death; and death is nothing –

  Only the finishing post of life’s short race.

  Ambitious, give up your hopes; anxious, your fears.

  Vast Chaos, and the hungry mouth of Time,

  Consume us all.

  Death is inseparable; it destroys the body,

  And does not spare the soul.

  For Taenarus – the realm of the grim king –

  The jealous hound that guards the infernal gate –

  These are all idle tales, fables,

  The stories of a troubled dream.

  You ask, where will you be when you are dead?

  Where the unborn are.

  ACT THREE

  Andromache, an Elder, Astyanax, Ulysses

  ANDROMACHE: O women of Troy, now do you pull at your hair,

  And beat your sorrowful breasts? Now do you flood

  Your cheeks with weeping? Have we endured so little –

  Is weeping enough? It is only now you have seen

  The fall of Troy; I saw it long ago,

  When the murderer dragged the body – my own dear body–

  At his chariot-wheels; when the load of Hector’s weight

  Made those wheels creak and groan. That was my hour

  Of utter downfall and destruction.

  For what has happened since, I have no feeling;

  My senses are all dead and numbed by pain.

  I should by now have given the Greeks the slip

  And gone the way my husband went – to death –

  But for this child, who puts restraint on me;

  He will not let me die; for his sake now

  I must still ask the mercy of the gods,

  And must prolong my time of suffering.

  For him I must deny myself that comfort,

  Which is the only comfort in great sorrow,

  Freedom from fear. All hope of better things

  Is lost; the way to worse lies open still.

  When hope is gone, fear is ten times more fearful.

  ELDER: Is some new fear yet added to your griefs?

  ANDROMACHE: Out of our great calamity still greater

  Calamity is grown. Troy falls, but yet

  We have not seen her end.

  ELDER: Can the gods wish

  Greater disaster to fall on us, and what

  Can they contrive?

  ANDROMACHE: The doors of deepest death

  Have been unlocked, the caves of darkness opened;

  As if we vanquished had not feared enough,

  Our buried enemies from the pit of hell

  Are coming back to earth; nor is the way

  From death to life allowed to Greeks alone –

  No, death treats all alike. And while one ghost1

  Is spreading terror through all Troy, another

  Night-haunting vision fills my dreams with dread.

  ELDER: What vision? Tell us what it is you fear.

  ANDROMACHE: The first half of the night had passed in peace,

  The Seven Stars turned their shining wain for home,

  When I found rest, such as I had not known

  For long in my despair, and for a while

  My weary cheeks were soothed with sleep – if senses

  Dazed beyond feeling can be said to sleep.

  Suddenly Hector stood before my eyes –

  But not the man who stormed the Grecian camp,

  Attacked their ships with brands from Ida’s woods,

  Spread havoc in their ranks, fought a pretender

  Bearing Achilles’ arms and won them from him.2

  Gone was the light of battle from his eyes;

  His face was weary and dispirited,

  A face too like my own, ravaged with grief,

  Half hidden under unkempt hair. But yet

  It was a joy to see him. ‘Wake,’ he said,

  Shaking his head at me. ‘Wake, faithful wife,

  And save our son from danger. You must hide him.

  No other way can save him. Do not weep.

  You weep for Troy’s fall? Would that it were over!

  Come, lose no time, but get our son and heir

  Away at once to any place but this.’

  Frozen with fear and horror I awoke.

  It was not of my son that I thought first;

  I looked for Hector, turning frightened eyes

  This way and that, but the deluding ghost

  Slipped silently away from my embrace.

  And now, my son – true son of your great father,

  Phrygia’s one hope, all that our shattered house

  Has left, sole offspring of our ancient blood,

  Last of our old, our too illustrious line:

  Child in your father’s image – ah, too like;

  This was my Hector’s face, his walk, his carriage;

  These were his brave strong hands, his rising shoulders,

  His stern commanding brow, the hair he shook

  About his tossing head. O little son,

  You have been born too soon for Troy, too late

  To be your mother’s comfort. Shall we see

  That happy day – will the time ever come,

  When you will be Troy’s saviour and avenger,

  To set our city on her feet once more,

  And bring her scattered people home again,

  And to restore her name to Phrygia,

  Our fatherland? I dare not make that prayer,

  Knowing my fate; enough to pray for life,

  All that a prisoner can ask.

  But now,

  Alas, where can I hide you? Where can fear

  Find refuge? Troy’s great citadel,

  The envy and the wonder of the world,

  With all her treasure and her mighty walls

  Which gods had built, is now a mound of dust;

  Fire has consumed it; of the whole vast city

  There now remains no fragment large enough

  To hide a little child. What place will serve

  To baffle the pursuit?… My husband’s tomb –

  A hallowed place, which even the enemy

  Must reverence…. His father Priam spent all

  To make it huge and handsome – the old king

  Was prodigal in grief… I’ll put the child

  Into his father’s care… what better place?…

  Ah, but my limbs grow cold with sweat; I fear

  The ominous presence of this place of death.

  ELDER: When out of danger you can pick and choose;

  In time of trouble seize what help there is.

  ANDROMACHE: Is there not danger, hide him where we may,

  The place may be betrayed?

  ELDER: Let no
one see.

  ANDROMACHE: What if the enemy come searching for him?

  ELDER: He perished in the city’s fall. Many

  Have owed their lives to rumours of their death.

  ANDROMACHE: There is small hope for him; his noble birth

  Lies heavy on his head. He will be caught;

  And then what good will hiding him have done?

  ELDER: The conqueror is never again so cruel,

  Once his first rage is spent.

  ANDROMACHE: O son, what place

  Is far and inaccessible enough

  To keep you safe? Where can we turn for help

  In our extremity? Who will protect us?

  Hector! Defend your loved ones now, as ever!

  This is your loving wife – guard thou

  The treasure she has stolen – keep him safe

  With your dear ashes – let him live again!…

  Son, go into the tomb… ah, you shrink back;

  You do not like to hide? It shows your breeding;

  You are ashamed to be afraid. But now

  You must forget your manly pride, forget

  Your courage of former days; now you must wear

  The nature that misfortune puts upon you.

  You see… all that is left of us… we three –

  A tomb, a child, a captive woman… no,

  We cannot fight against our fate. Be brave,

  And go into this holy place in which

  Your father rests. If Fortune can be kind

  To those who suffer, you will live; if not,

  Here is your grave.1

  [The boy enters the tomb]

  ELDER: He is safe behind the gates.

  Now go; and keep away, lest by your fear

  You cause his hiding-place to be discovered.

  ANDROMACHE: One may fear less when one is near the danger.

  But if you wish it, I will go away.

  ELDER: But wait… be silent and refrain from mourning.

  Our enemy, the villainous Cephallenian,2

  Is on his way.

  ANDROMACHE: Open, O earth! O husband,

  Command the earth to open to its centre

  And hide my treasure in the Stygian deep!

  Ulysses comes, and, by his crafty looks

  And walk, he has some evil plot in mind.…

  ULYSSES: Sent as the instrument of cruel Fate,

  Let me first say that though I speak the words

  You must not think them mine; this is the voice

  Of all the Greek commanders: Hector’s son

  Still stands between them and their long-sought homes,

  And him the Fates demand. While there remains

  A son of Hector and Andromache