have no happiness,
and you can’t see your homeland.
It’s rumored, my lady, all through the cities
that you will be handed to barbarian beds,
and your own man is dead
in the salt and the waves,
and he’ll never again bring joy to the palace
of home, or bronze-plated Athena.*17
epode
HELEN: (weeping)
What man of Asia
230
or who from the country of Greece
cut the pine
that brought tears to Troy?
From that wood Priam’s son
made the boat of destruction
and sailed with barbarian oarsmen
to my home and my hearth
on a quest for the curse of my beauty,
to take me as wife,
and with him sailed Aphrodite, the trickster, the killer,
who brought death to the Greeks.
240
I’ve had so much bad luck!
But Hera, Queen Hera, whom Zeus holds in his arms,
on her golden throne
sent swift-footed Hermes,
the child of Maia.
I was gathering fresh roses
in my dress, to go
to bronze-plated Athena.
He seized me and took me
through the air to this bad land,
and created the conflict, the war and the misery,
setting the Greeks against the children of Priam.
250
So my name has a false reputation
by the streams of the Simois.
CHORUS: You’re suffering. I know that. Still you should
bear life’s necessities as best you can.
HELEN: Why am I partnered with bad luck? Dear friends,
since birth I’ve been an odd anomaly.
A woman who was neither Greek nor foreign,
Leda, produced an egg, with Zeus as father,
or so they say: a pouch of chicks, all white.
A weird beginning! My whole life’s been strange,
260
because of Hera, and because of beauty.
I wish I could go back to being ugly,
my beauty wiped away from me like paint.
I wish the Greeks forgot my misadventures
and only kept good thoughts of me in mind.
It’s hard to face it when the gods have hurt us
even one time—but once is bearable.
I’m tangled up in multiple misfortunes.
270
First, I’m dishonored—though I’ve done no wrong.
It’s worse than really being bad, to suffer
the punishment for things you never did.
Second, the gods transferred me from my country,
into this alien culture. Now deprived
of friends, I’ve lost my freedom: I’m a slave!
Among barbarians, all are slaves but one.
My fortunes hung upon a single anchor:
my husband, who might someday come to save me.
But now he’s dead and I have no more hope.
280
My mother’s dead, and I her murderer—
wrongly so called, and yet that wrong is mine.
My daughter, too, our household’s pride and mine,
is growing gray without a man, still virgin,
and my twin brothers, so-called sons of Zeus
are dead. I’ve had bad luck of every kind
and died in circumstance, though not in fact.
The worst of all is this: if I went home
to Sparta, they would bolt the gates against me,
thinking that I was Helen back from Troy
without my Menelaus. If he’d lived
290
we would have known each other by the signs
that no one else knows. That won’t happen now:
he’s lost forever. Why do I go on living?
What is my future? Shall I escape my troubles
by marriage with a foreigner, and sit
at his rich table? No! A husband who
disgusts his wife, makes even her body revolting.
It’s shameful to suspend yourself in air,
300
by hanging—even slaves look down upon it.
Cutting your throat is dignified and fine,
and quick—it doesn’t take too long to die.>*18
This is how far I’ve sunk in suffering!
Since other women benefit from beauty,
but beauty is the thing that ruined me.
CHORUS: Helen, do not assume this man, this stranger,
whoever he may be, told all the truth.
HELEN: Well, but he clearly said my husband’s dead.
CHORUS: Clear declarations often turn out false.
310
HELEN: And conversely, sometimes those words are true.
CHORUS: You always seem to be expecting trouble.
HELEN: Yes: dread surrounds me and I fear the worst.
CHORUS: What is your attitude to those inside?
HELEN: All friends—except the one who hunts my hand.
CHORUS: Here’s what you do: first leave the tomb’s protection.
HELEN: What are you telling me? Where is this going?
CHORUS: Go in the house and ask Theonoë,
the sea-nymph’s daughter, who knows everything,
about your husband—if he’s still alive
320
or if he’s left the light. And when you know,
rejoice or weep, according to the facts.
Until you know the truth, what is the use
of grieving? No, just do as I have said.
who’ll tell you everything. When you can see
the truth inside the house, why look elsewhere?>*19
I also want to go inside with you,
and hear the priestess speak, along with you,
since women always ought to work together.
(The dialogue now switches to lyric meter.)
330
HELEN: Friends, I accept your advice.
Come in, come into the house,
to see what adventures
I’ll meet in these halls.
CHORUS: I want to! You don’t need to tell me.
HELEN: Oh, what a day! Oh, what I’ve been through!
And after all this, what will I be told?
A story of tears.
CHORUS: Don’t grieve in advance, my love:
no need to be prophet of pain.
340
HELEN: What has my poor husband endured?
Is he still seeing the light and the chariot of the sun,
and the pathways of stars?
Or has his time arrived at last, and does he lie
among the dead, below the earth?
CHORUS: Just hope for the best,
whatever that is.
HELEN: I call on you, I swear by you,
350
Eurotus, green with water reeds,
if this report is true,
my husband’s really dead,
then what’s so difficult to understand?
I’ll stretch a noose of death
around my neck,
or with a sword I’ll seek to die,
slaughtered as the blood pours from my throat:
I’ll drive the iron inside my flesh, to win
the game of death—a sacrifice to them,
360
that triple team of goddesses, and to the son of Priam,
who sat there on that day, beside his cattle-pens
beneath Mount Ida.
CHORUS: May your troubles turn away!
I wish you better luck.
HELEN: O, Troy! Unhappy city, ruined
through deeds that were not done: how
terribly you suffered.
My gifts from Aphrodite bore
so much blood, so much weeping,
grief on grief and pain on pain.
Mothers lost their children,
girls cut their hair
for their dead brothers
beside the waters of the Scamander.
370
The land of Greece cried out and keened
with wails and lamentation.
They beat their faces, and ripped their tender cheeks
with fingernails that scraped
till they were wet with blood.
You lucky girl, Callisto! Long ago
you left the bed of Zeus on all four paws, a bear!
More fortunate than me,*20
since you got free of sorrow
through the shape of that shaggy bear.*21
380
Lucky, too, the Titan child of Merops.*22
Artemis drove her from the dance, transformed
into a doe with golden horns—because of her beauty.
But mine: my lovely body ruined, yes, it ruined
the citadel of Troy, and those damned Greeks.
(Enter Menelaus.)
MENELAUS: O Pelops! In that famous chariot race
in Pisa, when you raced with Oenomaus,
if only you had died that very day,
390
before you fathered Atreus, my father,
who had two famous sons by Aerope:
Menelaus—me!—and Agamemnon.
I think, and I’m not boasting here, I led
the greatest army in that fleet to Troy.
I was no tyrant leading them by force;
I led those Greek young men as volunteers.
Now we can count the numbers of the dead,
and those who made it safely from the sea
are bringing home the names of those who died.
400
But I’ve been lost upon the surging waves
of gray and salty ocean, since the time
I sacked the towers of Troy. I long for home,
but I don’t think the gods will grant my wish.
I’ve sailed to all the landing-points of Libya
and found no welcome. When I’m near my country
winds always blow me back; no friendly breeze
puffs in my sail to let me reach my homeland.
And now I’m shipwrecked. I have lost my friends.
I’ve washed up here; against the rocks, my ship
410
was smashed to millions of smithereens.
Only the keel was left of that fine structure,
on which I barely managed to survive
along with Helen—whom I dragged from Troy.
I do not know the name of where I am,
or who lives here—I am ashamed to meet them,
because they’ll see the shabby clothes I’m wearing.
I want to hide my history: I’m embarrassed.
It’s worse to fall from happiness to pain
than always be unlucky—then it’s normal.
420
But I’m in desperate straits. I have no food
and nothing good to wear. That’s obvious,
since I am wrapped in rags ripped from the wreck.
The ocean seized my clothes: my bright white cloak
and royal robes are gone. I hid my wife,
who started all this trouble, in a cave.
I forced my comrades, those that still survived,
to guard my marriage bed from further harm.
I’m traveling alone; I hope to find
provisions I can take back to my friends.
430
Look at this palace! What fine walls and friezes!
What splendid gates! A rich man must live here.
From such a wealthy house it seems quite likely
that I’ll get something for my men. The poor
can’t help me even if they wanted to.
Hey there! Is there a guard? Come out, and tell
the people in the house about my troubles!
OLD WOMAN: Who’s at the gate? Be off, don’t linger there,
beside our courtyard entrance! You’ll annoy
my masters. If you stay, you’ll die! You’re Greek.
440
No Greeks are welcome in my masters’ home.
MENELAUS: Old woman, there’s no need to talk so roughly.
I’m listening to you. Don’t get riled up.
OLD WOMAN: Away with you, you foreigner! My job
is to keep Greeks from coming near this house.
MENELAUS: Whoa there! Don’t threaten me! No fists! Don’t shove me!
OLD WOMAN: It’s your fault. You’re not listening to me.
MENELAUS: Just go inside and say this to your masters—
OLD WOMAN: If I did that it would be worse for you.
MENELAUS: A shipwrecked stranger should be seen as sacred.
450
OLD WOMAN: Go to another house! You can’t stay here.
MENELAUS: I need to get inside. Do what I say!
OLD WOMAN: You are a nuisance! We’ll soon shove you out.
MENELAUS: I’m lost! Where is my famous army now?
OLD WOMAN: Were you important somewhere? Here, you’re not.
MENELAUS: Oh, god! It isn’t fair, this disrespect!
OLD WOMAN: Why are you crying? Who would pity you?
MENELAUS: Because I used to have so much good luck.
OLD WOMAN: Then why not leave? Your friends can watch you cry.
MENELAUS: What is this place? Is this a royal palace?
460
OLD WOMAN: The house of Proteus. The land is Egypt.
MENELAUS: Egypt? Oh, no! Is that where I have sailed to?
OLD WOMAN: The sparkling Nile: what’s wrong with it, to you?
MENELAUS: I wasn’t criticizing. I’m just sad.
OLD WOMAN: Well, so are lots of people, not just you.
MENELAUS: Is there a person here that you call master?
OLD WOMAN: This is his tomb. His son now rules the land.
MENELAUS: Where might he be? Inside, or is he out?
OLD WOMAN: He’s out. And anyway, he hates all Greeks.
MENELAUS: Then might I learn the reason for this hatred?
470
OLD WOMAN: Helen the child of Zeus is in this house.
MENELAUS: She what? What do you mean? Say that again!
OLD WOMAN: The child of Tyndareus, the girl from Sparta.
MENELAUS: But when? My wife was stolen from the cave?
OLD WOMAN: It was before the Greeks arrived in Troy.
Now, stranger, leave the house. We’re busy here—
there’s trouble in the palace at the moment.
You came at a bad time, and if the master
480
catches you, you’ll be killed. And there’s your welcome!
I personally am friendly to the Greeks;
I spoke like this because I fear my master.
(Exit Old Woman.)
MENELAUS: What shall I say? Or do? I’m hearing things
that pile on top of all my former pain.
Since if I seized my wife from Troy, and brought her
with me and kept her guarded in a cave,
some other woman must be living here,
who’s not my wife, but just the same in name.
The woman said she was the child of Zeus.
490
Is there some man who has the name of Zeus
beside the Nile? There’s only one in heaven.
Is there a Sparta somewhere else, not just
beside the reedy waters of Eurotas?
There’s only one man named Tyndareus.
Is there another country that’s called Sparta,
and Troy? I don’t know what to say! I guess
the world is large, and many men must have<
br />
the same names. Also cities. Also women.
There’s nothing so surprising about that.
500
I won’t be put off by that slave’s threats;
no man is so barbaric in his mind
as not to give me food, hearing my name.
My name is known across the world, because
of Troy’s great fire—that Menelaus lit.
I’ll wait to see the king. I have two ways
of staying safe. If he’s a savage man
I’ll hide myself and go back to the wreck.
But if he’s gentle I will ask for things
to help me in my present time of need.
510
This is the lowest depth of all my troubles:
being a king, to have to beg for food
to stay alive, from other kings. I have to!
There is a saying, not mine but it’s good:
nothing is stronger than necessity.
CHORUS: I heard from the oracle girl
what I hoped I would learn when I went to the palace:
Menelaus has not yet
been covered in earth.
He has not gone down through the shadows of darkness;
520
he’s still on the waves of the sea.
He hasn’t yet come to the harbors
of his homeland, exhausted
by wandering, begging,
unhappy and friendless,
traveling to all kinds of places,
as he rows on the ocean
away from the land of Troy.
(Enter Helen.)
HELEN: Here I am, back beside this tomb. I’ve got
good news from Theonoë: and she always
530
knows the whole truth. She says he’s still alive!
My husband sees the light! It shines on him!
She says he’s drifted over many seas,
all over everywhere, worn out by wandering,
but when his trouble’s over, he’ll come here.
One thing she didn’t say: if he’ll survive.
I didn’t ask if she could clarify;
I was too happy hearing he’d survived.
She said he’s somewhere near this land; he’s shipwrecked,
with just a few companions. O, my husband!
540
When will you come? I’d be so glad to see you!
(She sees Menelaus.)
But who is this? Has that unholy son
of Proteus made plans to ambush me?
I’ll canter like a foal or like a maenad
to clutch the altar! This man looks so rough,
so wild, as if he’s on the hunt to seize me.
MENELAUS: You there! Wait up! Stop all that desperate struggle
to reach the base and pillars of the tomb
and its burnt offerings! Why are you running?
Your looks gave me a shock. In fact, I’m speechless!
550
HELEN: Women! It’s criminal! He’s keeping me
The Greek Plays Page 83