by Seneca
Great grief, unchecked, will never make an end.
ANDROMACHE: No, let me weep, only a little longer,
Ulysses, I beseech you; let me weep
A little yet, and let me lay my hand
Upon his eyes while he still lives.… So young
To die… and yet already to be feared.…
Go now; your Troy awaits you; go, to freedom,
To join those Trojans who are free.
ASTYANAX: No! Mother!
ANDROMACHE: No, do not cling to me; these hands you clutch
Cannot protect you now. When a young calf
Hears a wild lion roar and cowers in terror
Close to its mother’s side, the angry beast
Comes on the more and scares the mother away!
He grabs the smaller prize in his huge jaws,
Crushes and carries him away; so he,
Our enemy, will snatch you from my breast.
Here are my kisses, and my tears, for you,
My son… and these torn tresses; take of me
All that you can and go to meet your father.
And take him these few words of my last cry:
‘If the departed can have any thought
Of this world’s cares, and if love does not die
In funeral fires, will you allow your wife
Andromache to be a Greek lord’s slave?
Are you so cruel? Can you lie inert,
Unheeding, while Achilles comes upon us?’…
Take, as I said, this hair, these tears, last relics
Of my poor husband’s funeral; take my kiss,
And give it to your father. Let me keep
This garment; it will be your mother’s comfort…
It has been touched by the beloved tomb,
And the beloved dead… some of his dust
May still be here… perhaps my lips can feel it.…
ULYSSES: This moaning will go on for ever! Take him!
Remove this thing that keeps the Greek fleet waiting!
CHORUS
What future home awaits us prisoners?
Hills of Thessaly, vale of Tempe,
Phthia, whence soldiers mostly come,
Stony Trachis where fine herds breed,
Iolchos, queen of the wide sea?
Or Crete, broad island of a hundred cities?
The little town of Gortynis, dry Tricce,
Mothone nestling among trickling streams
In Oeta’s woods – whose arrows
Have twice hailed ruin on Troy?
Pleuron, Diana’s enemy?
The broad bay of Troezen?
Or Olenus, where homes are few and far?
Or Pelion, great domain of Prothoüs,
Last of three steps to heaven; that was where
Chiron1 was tutor to a boy already
Eager for battle; sprawled in his mountain den,
The giant strummed his lyre and sang war-songs
To whet that early appetite for strife.
What of Carystos, quarry of coloured marble?
Or Chalcis, treading the edge of that wild sea
Tossed by the ceaseless current of Euripus?
There is Calydnae, easy to reach
In any wind – and Gonoessa,
Where the wind never stops – Enispe,
Swept by the terrible north gales.
Or Peparethos, off the Attic shore?
Eleusis, proud of mysteries
That none may speak of?
And the home of Ajax – the first Salamis;2
Calydon, famous for the fierce wild boar;
The swamps of Titaressos, a sluggish river
Meandering till it plunges under the sea.
Bessa, and Scarphe? And old Nestor’s home,
Pylos? Pharis? Jupiter’s Pisa? Elis –
Prizes of victory are well known there.
Oh, let the winds of fortune
Carry us where they will!
Make us a gift to any place they choose!
But Sparta – save us, O gods,
From Sparta, the bane of Troy,
And bane of the Greeks! Or Argos,
Or cruel Pelops’ town,
Mycenae! save us too
From little Zacynthus and its little sister
Neritos – and the dangerous treacherous reefs
Of Ithaca!
What will your fate be, Hecuba?
What master will take you away,
Into what land, for all to see?
In what king’s country must you die?
ACT FOUR
Helen, Andromache, Polyxena, Hecuba, Pyrrhus
HELEN: If marriage must be fraught with death and woe,
A time for tears and bloody murder, Helen
May well be chosen for its minister,
Since after their defeat I am still forced
To be obnoxious to the Phrygians.
On me it falls to tell the bride this lie
About her marriage with Achilles’ son;
I am to see her dressed and decorated
In Grecian fashion, find the artful words
To tempt her to her doom; by my deceit
The sister of Paris must be lured to death.
But it is well that she should be deceived;
It will be easier for her; to die,
Without the fear of death, is easy death.
So let the task be quickly done; the guilt
Of crime enforced rests only on its author.…
Dear princess of the Dardan house, at last
A good god looks more kindly on the fallen;
A happy marriage is prepared for you,
A marriage better than King Priam himself
In Troy’s best days could have obtained for you.
The man who seeks your hand in holy wedlock
Is lord and king over the wide domain
Of Thessaly, the most illustrious hero
Of the Pelasgian race. You shall be called
Child of great Tethys; all sea goddesses,
And Thetis, tranquil queen of Ocean’s main,
Will call you theirs; Peleus and Nereus,
Your husband’s grandfathers, will welcome you
A daughter to their house, for you will be
The wife of Pyrrhus. Now you must forget
Captivity; take off those ugly clothes
And dress yourself for joy. Smooth that tossed hair
And have it braided neatly by skilled hands.
The fall that you have suffered may yet place you
Upon a higher throne; captives ere now
Have profited from their captivity.
ANDROMACHE: It needed only this! The fallen Trojans’
Last indignity! A time for joy! –
With ruined Pergamum on fire around us.
A time for marriage! Who could look askance
At marriage, under Helen’s auspices?
What woman could refuse such happiness?…
Bringer of doom, disaster, and destruction
To both our peoples – look upon these graves
Of captains, and the bare unburied bones
That strew the ground! Your marriage brought them here.
The blood of Asia and the blood of Europe
Has flowed for your sake, while you sat content
To watch the spectacle of warring husbands,
And knew not which to pray for. Let us have
More marriage, then! Torches and sacred fire –
You need not look for them – Troy will provide
Flames bright enough to celebrate a marriage
Such as was never seen before. Sing, women,
Sing, women of Troy, for the marriage of Pyrrhus,
Due hymns of mourning and of lamentation!
HELEN: Great suffering, I know, can drive the mourner
Beyond the edge of reason; she will hear
No argument, and even hate the friends
Who suffer with her. Yet I ha
ve a cause
And will maintain it, even in the face
Of hostile judges; for my suffering
Is worse man yours. Andromache mourns Hector,
Hecuba weeps for Priam – but for Helen
There is no friend to share her grief for Paris,
No one must hear it; she must weep alone.
Is it so hard a thing to be a slave?
I have endured it long, a prisoner
Ten years. You have seen Ilium overthrown,
Her gods cast down? Yes, it is hard to see
One’s country lost; harder to be afraid
Of finding it again. You have your friends
For comfort in your ills; I am detested
By conqueror and conquered equally.
What masters you will serve, chance will decide;
There is no chance for me, I am already
My master’s prize. You say I was the cause
Of all this war’s disaster for the Trojans;
True – if it was a Spartan ship that ventured
Into your seas; but if I was the prize
Of Trojan hands, and given by a goddess1
In payment to the judge who favoured her –
Absolve the victim. When I come to trial,
My judge will not be merciful; the verdict
Will rest with Menelaus. Will you now
Withhold your tears awhile, Andromache,
And teach this child… alas, I do believe
I must weep too.
ANDROMACHE: Some strange thing it must be
That can make Helen weep! But what? Tell us
Ulysses’ whole abominable plot.
Must she be hurled from Ida’s highest peak,
Dropped from the summit of the citadel,
Thrown down into the sea over the edge
Of that sheer precipice where high Sigeum
Looks out across the bay? Whatever it be,
Tell us the secret that your false face hides.
No outrage could be more intolerable
Than to have Pyrrhus made a son-in-law
To Hecuba and Priam. Speak and declare
What is the penalty you have prepared
For this unhappy girl. Spare us at least
This added insult – to be tricked by lies.
Death, as you see, we are prepared to suffer.
HELEN: If I could have my wish, would I might hear
The word of the interpreter of gods
Commanding me also upon a sword
To end my hated life, or to let Pyrrhus
Roughly dispatch me at Achilles’ tomb…
To share your fate, my poor Polyxena…
You must be given to him, Achilles says,
Given in sacrifice over his ashes,
To be his bride in the Elysian fields.
ANDROMACHE: And look! O the brave spirit, she is happy
To hear the sentence of her death! Eager
To wear the royal ornament, she gladly
Allows the braiding of her hair. Marriage
On earth she would have counted death; this death
She takes for marriage. But alas, the mother…
This blow has stunned her, and her senses fail.
Stand up, unhappy Hecuba; take courage
And comfort to your sinking heart.… Her life
Hangs on a thread; only a little space
Parts Hecuba from her felicity.…
But no, she breathes; she is alive again.
Death has a way to elude the unfortunate.
HECUBA: Still does Achilles live to plague the Phrygians?
Does he fight still? Paris, you struck too lightly.
Can the dead ashes and the tomb still thirst
For Trojan blood? A time I can remember
When there were happy faces at my side,
So many children to be mother to,
They tired me out with kissing. Only one
Is left me now – only this one to pray for,
Only this one companion, comfort, rest.
She is all my family, the only voice
To call me mother. O unhappy soul,
O stubborn life, will you not pass away
And spare me this last reckoning with death?
My eyes cannot withhold their tears; the rain
Descends and drowns my cheeks.
ANDROMACHE: Yet are not we,
We, Hecuba, we rather to be mourned?
The fleet will sail and carry us away
Each to some different place. This child will rest
Beneath the soil of her dear native land.
HELEN: And when you know what lot has fallen to you,
You will be still more envious of her fate.
ANDROMACHE: Is there yet more to know?
HELEN: The lots are drawn;
The urn has given each captive to her master.
ANDROMACHE: Whose slave am I to be? Tell me his name.
HELEN: Yours was the first; the prince of Scyros has you.
ANDROMACHE: Lucky Cassandra! – whom Apollo’s word
And her crazed soul excluded from the lot.
HELEN: She is the prize of the great king of kings.
HECUBA: You can be glad, my child. You can be happy.
Well might Cassandra, and Andromache,
Envy your fate. Has anyone accepted
The gift of Hecuba?
HELEN: Against his will,
Ulysses has you – for the little time –
HECUBA: What heartless umpire of the lottery,
What blind unfeeling arbiter is he
Who can give royal slaves to royal masters!
Is some malicious god distributing
Us prisoners? Is the decision left
To some malign oppressor of the fallen,
Assigning us without discrimination
To those whom we must serve, with spiteful hand
Apportioning our fates? Is Hector’s mother
Included with the armour of Achilles,
To be Ulysses’ prize? This, then, is conquest,
This is captivity indeed, the last
Of all indignities. This is my shame –
Not slavery itself, but to be slave
To him. Shall he who won Achilles’ spoils
Have those of Hector too? Is there a place
In that bleak island amid angry seas
Fit to contain my tomb? Well, I am ready.
Lead on, Ulysses. I will follow you,
And where I go my Fates will follow me.
The sea will have no peace for you; wind, wave,
Tempest, with war and fire and all the ills
That I and Priam have suffered, will destroy you.
Till that day comes, one thing for my revenge
Suffices – that your lot is spent on me;
What better prize you hoped for, you have lost.
Now here comes Pyrrhus, walking rapidly,
With anger in his looks.… What more, then, Pyrrhus?
We are prepared. Plunge in this breast your sword,
And let the parents of your father’s bride
Be reunited. Shedder of aged blood,
Strike here! Here’s more to suit your liking.
Seize and remove your prisoner. Shame all gods
Of heaven above and all departed souls
With your vile murders. For you Greeks I pray –
What shall I pray? – that on the sea you find
Such fortune as befits this marriage rite.
And may the fate of all your Grecian fleet,
Of all your thousand ships, be like the fate
That shall befall, obedient to my prayers,
The ship that puts to sea with me on board.
CHORUS
Sorrow finds comfort in companionship;
And in the lamentations of great numbers
Is consolation; grief bites not so keenly
When many in the same plight share the m
ourning.
Jealous, jealous is grief; she likes to see
Many in her distress; she likes to know
That she is not alone condemned to suffer.
All are content to bear what all are bearing.
If none were happy, none would believe himself
Unfortunate, however great his troubles.
Take away wealth, and gold, and thriving lands
With droves of oxen at the plough – how then
The spirits of the down-pressed poor would rise!
What is misfortune but comparison?
Caught in extreme disaster, we are glad
To see no happy faces; he is the one –
The solitary voyager, escaping
Naked from rough seas into harbour – he
Is the one to moan and rail against his fate.
Tempest and shipwreck seem less terrible
To one who sees a thousand vessels sunk
In the same sea and has been swept ashore
On drifting wreckage in the teeth of gales
That fight the billows off the land.
The loss of Helle was great grief to Phrixus.1
When the great golden ram bore on his back
Brother and sister, and in ocean’s deep
Lost one of them, he wept. Not so Deucalion
And Pyrrha; when those two looked round about them
And saw the sea, nothing but sea, since they
Were the sole human creatures left alive,
They did not weep.
Our sorrowful voices will soon be swept away
Scattered as ships steer off in all directions.
Sails will be spread at the sound of the trumpet; wind
And oar will carry the crews far out to sea,
And the shore will fade from sight.
Then how will we poor women feel – the land
Growing smaller and smaller on every side, the sea
Growing larger and larger, and the heights of Ida
Vanishing far away?
Then son will say to mother, mother to son,
As they show with a pointing finger, far away,
The quarter in which Troy lies: ‘There… that is Troy,
Where the dreadful cloud of smoke curls into the sky.’
That sight will be the landmark
To show the Trojans where their homeland lies.
ACT FIVE
Messenger, Hecuba, Andromache
MESSENGER: A cruel fate! A lamentable, vile
And wicked fate! When did the eye of Mars,