Four Tragedies and Octavia

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,