The Trojan women of Euripides

By selektastore , 28 April, 2024

Title: The Trojan women of Euripides

Author: Euripides

Language: English

THE TROJAN WOMEN OF EURIPIDES

TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH RHYMING VERSE WITH EXPLANATORY NOTES BY

GILBERT MURRAY, LL.D., D.LITT.
REGIUS PROFESSOR OF GREEK IN THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD

1915

THE TROJAN WOMEN

In his clear preface, Gilbert Murray says with truth that The Trojan Women, valued by the usage of the stage, is not a perfect play. "It is only the crying of one of the great wrongs of the world wrought into music." Yet it is one of the greater dramas of the elder world. In one situation, with little movement, with few figures, it flashes out a great dramatic lesson, the infinite pathos of a successful wrong. It has in it the very soul of the tragic. It even goes beyond the limited tragic, and hints that beyond the defeat may come a greater glory than will be the fortune of the victors. And thus through its pity and terror it purifies our souls to thoughts of peace.

Great art has no limits of locality or time. Its tidings are timeless, and its messages are universal. The Trojan Women was first performed in 415 B.C., from a story of the siege of Troy which even then was ancient history. But the pathos of it is as modern to us as it was to the Athenians. The terrors of war have not changed in three thousand years. Euripides had that to say of war which we have to say of it to-day, and had learned that which we are even now learning, that when most triumphant it brings as much wretchedness to the victors as to the vanquished. In this play the great conquest "seems to be a great joy and is in truth a great misery." The tragedy of war has in no essential altered. The god Poseidon mourns over Troy as he might over the cities of to-day, when he cries:

"How are ye blind,

Ye treaders down of cities, ye that cast
Temples to desolation, and lay waste
Tombs, the untrodden sanctuaries where lie
The ancient dead; yourselves so soon to die!"

To the cities of this present day might the prophetess Cassandra speak her message:

"Would ye be wise, ye Cities, fly from war!

Yet if war come, there is a crown in death
For her that striveth well and perisheth
Unstained: to die in evil were the stain!"

A throb of human sympathy as if with one of our sisters of to-day comes to us at the end, when the city is destroyed and its queen would throw herself, living, into its flames. To be of the action of this play the imagination needs not to travel back over three thousand years of history. It can simply leap a thousand leagues of ocean.

If ever wars are to be ended, the imagination of man must end them. To the common mind, in spite of all its horrors, there is still something glorious in war. Preachers have preached against it in vain; economists have argued against its wastefulness in vain. The imagination of a great poet alone can finally show to the imagination of the world that even the glories of war are an empty delusion. Euripides shows us, as the centre of his drama, women battered and broken by inconceivable torture—the widowed Hecuba, Andromache with her child dashed to death, Cassandra ravished and made mad—yet does he show that theirs are the unconquered and unconquerable spirits. The victorious men, flushed with pride, have remorse and mockery dealt out to them by those they fought for, and go forth to unpitied death. Never surely can a great tragedy seem more real to us, or purge our souls more truly of the unreality of our thoughts and feelings concerning vital issues, than can The Trojan Women at this moment of the history of the world.

FRANCIS HOVEY STODDARD.

May the first, 1915.

INTRODUCTORY NOTE

Judged by common standards, the Troädes is far from a perfect play; it is scarcely even a good play. It is an intense study of one great situation, with little plot, little construction, little or no relief or variety. The only movement of the drama is a gradual extinguishing of all the familiar lights of human life, with, perhaps, at the end, a suggestion that in the utterness of night, when all fears of a possible worse thing are passed, there is in some sense peace and even glory. But the situation itself has at least this dramatic value, that it is different from what it seems.

The consummation of a great conquest, a thing celebrated in paeans and thanksgivings, the very height of the day-dreams of unregenerate man—it seems to be a great joy, and it is in truth a great misery. It is conquest seen when the thrill of battle is over, and nothing remains but to wait and think. We feel in the background the presence of the conquerors, sinister and disappointed phantoms; of the conquered men, after long torment, now resting in death. But the living drama for Euripides lay in the conquered women. It is from them that he has named his play and built up his scheme of parts: four figures clearly lit and heroic, the others in varying grades of characterisation, nameless and barely articulate, mere half-heard voices of an eternal sorrow.

Indeed, the most usual condemnation of the play is not that it is dull, but that it is too harrowing; that scene after scene passes beyond the due limits of tragic art. There are points to be pleaded against this criticism. The very beauty of the most fearful scenes, in spite of their fearfulness, is one; the quick comfort of the lyrics is another, falling like a spell of peace when the strain is too hard to bear (cf. p. 89). But the main defence is that, like many of the greatest works of art, the Troädes is something more than art. It is also a prophecy, a bearing of witness. And the prophet, bound to deliver his message, walks outside the regular ways of the artist.

For some time before the Troädes was produced, Athens, now entirely in the hands of the War Party, had been engaged in an enterprise which, though on military grounds defensible, was bitterly resented by the more humane minority, and has been selected by Thucydides as the great crucial crime of the war. She had succeeded in compelling the neutral Dorian island of Mêlos to take up arms against her, and after a long siege had conquered the quiet and immemorially ancient town, massacred the men and sold the women and children into slavery. Mêlos fell in the autumn of 416 B.C. The Troädes was produced in the following spring. And while the gods of the prologue were prophesying destruction at sea for the sackers of Troy, the fleet of the sackers of Mêlos, flushed with conquest and marked by a slight but unforgettable taint of sacrilege, was actually preparing to set sail for its fatal enterprise against Sicily.

Not, of course, that we have in the Troädes a case of political allusion. Far from it. Euripides does not mean Mêlos when he says Troy, nor mean Alcibiades' fleet when he speaks of Agamemnon's. But he writes under the influence of a year which to him, as to Thucydides, had been filled full of indignant pity and of dire foreboding. This tragedy is perhaps, in European literature, the first great expression of the spirit of pity for mankind exalted into a moving principle; a principle which has made the most precious, and possibly the most destructive, elements of innumerable rebellions, revolutions, and martyrdoms, and of at least two great religions.

Pity is a rebel passion. Its hand is against the strong, against the organised force of society, against conventional sanctions and accepted Gods. It is the Kingdom of Heaven within us fighting against the brute powers of the world; and it is apt to have those qualities of unreason, of contempt for the counting of costs and the balancing of sacrifices, of recklessness, and even, in the last resort, of ruthlessness, which so often mark the paths of heavenly things and the doings of the children of light. It brings not peace, but a sword.

So it was with Euripides. The Troädes itself has indeed almost no fierceness and singularly little thought of revenge. It is only the crying of one of the great wrongs of the world wrought into music, as it were, and made beautiful by "the most tragic of the poets." But its author lived ever after in a deepening atmosphere of strife and even of hatred, down to the day when, "because almost all in Athens rejoiced at his suffering," he took his way to the remote valleys of Macedon to write the Bacchae and to die.

G. M.

THE TROJAN WOMEN

CHARACTERS IN THE PLAY

THE GOD POSEIDON.

THE GODDESS PALLAS ATHENA.

HECUBA, Queen of Troy, wife of Priam, mother of Hector and Paris.

CASSANDRA, daughter of Hecuba, a prophetess.

ANDROMACHE, wife of Hector, Prince of Troy.

HELEN, wife of Menelaus, King of Sparta; carried off by Paris, Prince of Troy.

TALTHYBIUS, Herald of the Greeks.

MENELAUS, King of Sparta, and, together with his brother Agamemnon,

General of the Greeks.
SOLDIERS ATTENDANT ON TALTHYBIUS AND MENELAUS.
CHORUS OF CAPTIVE TROJAN WOMEN, YOUNG AND OLD, MAIDEN AND MARRIED.

The Troädes was first acted in the year 415 B.C. "The first prize was won by Xenocles, whoever he may have been, with the four plays Oedipus, Lycaon, Bacchae and Athamas, a Satyr-play. The second by Euripides with the Alexander, Palamêdês, Troädes and Sisyphus, a Satyr-play."—AELIAN, Varia Historia, ii. 8.

THE TROJAN WOMEN

The scene represents a battlefield, a few days after the battle. At the back are the walls of Troy, partially ruined. In front of them, to right and left, are some huts, containing those of the Captive Women who have been specially set apart for the chief Greek leaders. At one side some dead bodies of armed men are visible. In front a tall woman with white hair is lying on the ground asleep.

It is the dusk of early dawn, before sunrise. The figure of the god POSEIDON is dimly seen before the walls.

POSEIDON.[1]

Up from Aegean caverns, pool by pool

Of blue salt sea, where feet most beautiful
Of Nereid maidens weave beneath the foam
Their long sea-dances, I, their lord, am come,
Poseidon of the Sea. 'Twas I whose power,
With great Apollo, builded tower by tower
These walls of Troy; and still my care doth stand
True to the ancient People of my hand;
Which now as smoke is perished, in the shock
Of Argive spears. Down from Parnassus' rock
The Greek Epeios came, of Phocian seed,
And wrought by Pallas' mysteries a Steed
Marvellous[2], big with arms; and through my wall
It passed, a death-fraught image magical.
  The groves are empty and the sanctuaries
Run red with blood. Unburied Priam lies
By his own hearth, on God's high altar-stair,
And Phrygian gold goes forth and raiment rare
To the Argive ships; and weary soldiers roam
Waiting the wind that blows at last for home,
For wives and children, left long years away,
Beyond the seed's tenth fullness and decay,
To work this land's undoing.

     And for me,

Since Argive Hera conquereth, and she
Who wrought with Hera to the Phrygians' woe,
Pallas, behold, I bow mine head and go
Forth from great Ilion[3] and mine altars old.
When a still city lieth in the hold
Of Desolation, all God's spirit there
Is sick and turns from worship.—Hearken where
The ancient River waileth with a voice
Of many women, portioned by the choice
Of war amid new lords, as the lots leap
For Thessaly, or Argos, or the steep
Of Theseus' Rock. And others yet there are,
High women, chosen from the waste of war
For the great kings, behind these portals hid;
And with them that Laconian Tyndarid[4],
Helen, like them a prisoner and a prize.
  And this unhappy one—would any eyes
Gaze now on Hecuba? Here at the Gates
She lies 'mid many tears for many fates
Of wrong. One child beside Achilles' grave
In secret slain[5], Polyxena the brave,
Lies bleeding. Priam and his sons are gone;
And, lo, Cassandra[6], she the Chosen One,
Whom Lord Apollo spared to walk her way
A swift and virgin spirit, on this day
Lust hath her, and she goeth garlanded
A bride of wrath to Agamemnon's bed.

[He turns to go; and another divine Presence becomes visible in the dusk. It is the goddess PALLAS ATHENA.

  O happy long ago, farewell, farewell,

Ye shining towers and mine old citadel;
Broken by Pallas[7], Child of God, or still
Thy roots had held thee true.
PALLAS.

     Is it the will

Of God's high Brother, to whose hand is given
Great power of old, and worship of all Heaven,
To suffer speech from one whose enmities
This day are cast aside?
POSEIDON.

     His will it is:

Kindred and long companionship withal,
Most high Athena, are things magical.
PALLAS.

Blest be thy gentle mood!—Methinks I see

A road of comfort here, for thee and me.
POSEIDON.

Thou hast some counsel of the Gods, or word

Spoken of Zeus? Or is it tidings heard
From some far Spirit?
PALLAS.

     For this Ilion's sake,

Whereon we tread, I seek thee, and would make
My hand as thine.
POSEIDON.

     Hath that old hate and deep

Failed, where she lieth in her ashen sleep?
Thou pitiest her?
PALLAS.

     Speak first; wilt thou be one

In heart with me and hand till all be done?
POSEIDON.

Yea; but lay bare thy heart. For this land's sake

Thou comest, not for Hellas?
PALLAS.

     I would make

Mine ancient enemies laugh for joy, and bring
On these Greek ships a bitter homecoming.
POSEIDON.

Swift is thy spirit's path, and strange withal,

And hot thy love and hate, where'er they fall.
PALLAS.

A deadly wrong they did me, yea within

Mine holy place: thou knowest?
POSEIDON.

     I know the sin

Of Ajax[8], when he cast Cassandra down….
PALLAS.

And no man rose and smote him; not a frown

Nor word from all the Greeks!
POSEIDON.

     And 'twas thine hand

That gave them Troy!
PALLAS.

     Therefore with thee I stand

To smite them.
POSEIDON.

     All thou cravest, even now

Is ready in mine heart. What seekest thou?
PALLAS.

An homecoming that striveth ever more

And cometh to no home.
POSEIDON.

     Here on the shore

Wouldst hold them or amid mine own salt foam?
PALLAS.

When the last ship hath bared her sail for home!

  Zeus shall send rain, long rain and flaw of driven
Hail, and a whirling darkness blown from heaven;
To me his levin-light he promiseth
O'er ships and men, for scourging and hot death:
Do thou make wild the roads of the sea, and steep
With war of waves and yawning of the deep,
Till dead men choke Euboea's curling bay.
So Greece shall dread even in an after day
My house, nor scorn the Watchers of strange lands!
POSEIDON.

I give thy boon unbartered. These mine hands

Shall stir the waste Aegean; reefs that cross
The Delian pathways, jag-torn Myconos,
Scyros and Lemnos, yea, and storm-driven
Caphêreus with the bones of drownèd men
Shall glut him.—Go thy ways, and bid the Sire
Yield to thine hand the arrows of his fire.
Then wait thine hour, when the last ship shall wind
Her cable coil for home! [Exit PALLAS.

      How are ye blind,

Ye treaders down of cities, ye that cast
Temples to desolation, and lay waste
Tombs, the untrodden sanctuaries where lie
The ancient dead; yourselves so soon to die!

[Exit POSEIDON.

* * * * *

The day slowly dawns: HECUBA wakes.

HECUBA.

Up from the earth, O weary head!

   This is not Troy, about, above—
   Not Troy, nor we the lords thereof.
Thou breaking neck, be strengthenèd!
Endure and chafe not. The winds rave
  And falter. Down the world's wide road,
  Float, float where streams the breath of God;
Nor turn thy prow to breast the wave.

Ah woe!… For what woe lacketh here?

  My children lost, my land, my lord.
  O thou great wealth of glory, stored
Of old in Ilion, year by year

We watched … and wert thou nothingness?

  What is there that I fear to say?
  And yet, what help?… Ah, well-a-day,
This ache of lying, comfortless

And haunted! Ah, my side, my brow

  And temples! All with changeful pain
  My body rocketh, and would fain
Move to the tune of tears that flow:
For tears are music too, and keep
A song unheard in hearts that weep.
  [She rises and gazes towards the Greek ships far off on the shore.

O ships, O crowding faces

  Of ships[9], O hurrying beat
  Of oars as of crawling feet,
How found ye our holy places?
Threading the narrows through,
  Out from the gulfs of the Greek,
Out to the clear dark blue,
  With hate ye came and with joy,
And the noise of your music flew,
  Clarion and pipe did shriek,
As the coilèd cords ye threw,
  Held in the heart of Troy!

What sought ye then that ye came?

  A woman, a thing abhorred:
  A King's wife that her lord
Hateth: and Castor's[10] shame
  Is hot for her sake, and the reeds
Of old Eurôtas stir
With the noise of the name of her.
She slew mine ancient King,
The Sower of fifty Seeds[11],
  And cast forth mine and me,
  As shipwrecked men, that cling
    To a reef in an empty sea.

Who am I that I sit

  Here at a Greek king's door,
Yea, in the dust of it?
  A slave that men drive before,
A woman that hath no home,
  Weeping alone for her dead;
  A low and bruisèd head,
And the glory struck therefrom.
[She starts up from her solitary brooding, and calls to the other
Trojan Women in the huts.

O Mothers of the Brazen Spear,

  And maidens, maidens, brides of shame,
  Troy is a smoke, a dying flame;
Together we will weep for her:
I call ye as a wide-wing'd bird
  Calleth the children of her fold,

To cry, ah, not the cry men heard

   In Ilion, not the songs of old,
That echoed when my hand was true
     On Priam's sceptre, and my feet
     Touched on the stone one signal beat,
   And out the Dardan music rolled;
And Troy's great Gods gave ear thereto.

[The door of one of the huts on the right opens, and the Women steal out severally, startled and afraid.

FIRST WOMAN.

[Strophe I.

How say'st thou? Whither moves thy cry,

   Thy bitter cry? Behind our door
   We heard thy heavy heart outpour
Its sorrow: and there shivered by
      Fear and a quick sob shaken
From prisoned hearts that shall be free no more!
HECUBA.

Child, 'tis the ships that stir upon the shore….

SECOND WOMAN.

The ships, the ships awaken!

THIRD WOMAN.

Dear God, what would they? Overseas

Bear me afar to strange cities?
HECUBA.

Nay, child, I know not. Dreams are these,

     Fears of the hope-forsaken.
FIRST WOMAN.

Awake, O daughters of affliction, wake

And learn your lots! Even now the Argives break
     Their camp for sailing!
HECUBA.

Ah, not Cassandra! Wake not her

   Whom God hath maddened, lest the foe
Mock at her dreaming. Leave me clear
   From that one edge of woe.
O Troy, my Troy, thou diest here
   Most lonely; and most lonely we
   The living wander forth from thee,
     And the dead leave thee wailing!

[One of the huts on the left is now open, and the rest of the CHORUS come out severally. Their number eventually amounts to fifteen.

FOURTH WOMAN.

[Antistrophe I.

Out of the tent of the Greek king

   I steal, my Queen, with trembling breath:
   What means thy call? Not death; not death!
They would not slay so low a thing!
FIFTH WOMAN.

          O, 'tis the ship-folk crying

To deck the galleys: and we part, we part!
HECUBA.

Nay, daughter: take the morning to thine heart.

FIFTH WOMAN.

My heart with dread is dying!

SIXTH WOMAN.

An herald from the Greek hath come!

FIFTH WOMAN.

How have they cast me, and to whom

A bondmaid?
HECUBA.

Peace, child: wait thy doom.

Our lots are near the trying.
FOURTH WOMAN.

Argos, belike, or Phthia shall it be,

Or some lone island of the tossing sea,
      Far, far from Troy?
HECUBA.

And I the agèd, where go I,

  A winter-frozen bee, a slave
Death-shapen, as the stones that lie
  Hewn on a dead man's grave:
The children of mine enemy
To foster, or keep watch before
The threshold of a master's door,
  I that was Queen in Troy!
A WOMAN TO ANOTHER.

[Strophe 2.

And thou, what tears can tell thy doom?

THE OTHER.

The shuttle still shall flit and change

Beneath my fingers, but the loom,
      Sister, be strange.

ANOTHER (wildly).

Look, my dead child! My child, my love,

The last look….
ANOTHER.

      Oh, there cometh worse.

A Greek's bed in the dark….
ANOTHER.

      God curse

That night and all the powers thereof!
ANOTHER.

Or pitchers to and fro to bear

   To some Pirênê[12] on the hill,
  Where the proud water craveth still
Its broken-hearted minister.
ANOTHER.

God guide me yet to Theseus' land[13],

  The gentle land, the famed afar….
ANOTHER.

But not the hungry foam—Ah, never!—

Of fierce Eurotas, Helen's river,
To bow to Menelaus' hand,
  That wasted Troy with war!
A WOMAN.

[Antistrophe 2.

They told us of a land high-born,

  Where glimmers round Olympus' roots
A lordly river, red with corn
  And burdened fruits.
ANOTHER.

Aye, that were next in my desire

  To Athens, where good spirits dwell….
ANOTHER.

Or Aetna's breast, the deeps of fire

  That front the Tyrian's Citadel:
First mother, she, of Sicily
  And mighty mountains: fame hath told
  Their crowns of goodness manifold….
ANOTHER.

And, close beyond the narrowing sea,

A sister land, where float enchanted
  Ionian summits, wave on wave,
And Crathis of the burning tresses
Makes red the happy vale, and blesses
With gold of fountains spirit-haunted
  Homes of true men and brave!
LEADER.

But lo, who cometh: and his lips

  Grave with the weight of dooms unknown:
A Herald from the Grecian ships.
  Swift comes he, hot-foot to be done
And finished. Ah, what bringeth he
Of news or judgment? Slaves are we,
  Spoils that the Greek hath won!

[TALTHYBIUS[14], followed by some Soldiers, enters from the left.

TALTHYBIUS.

Thou know'st me, Hecuba. Often have I crossed

Thy plain with tidings from the Hellene host.
'Tis I, Talthybius…. Nay, of ancient use
Thou know'st me. And I come to bear thee news.
HECUBA.

     Ah me, 'tis here, 'tis here,

Women of Troy, our long embosomed fear!
TALTHYBIUS.

The lots are cast, if that it was ye feared.

HECUBA.

     What lord, what land…. Ah me,

Phthia or Thebes, or sea-worn Thessaly?
TALTHYBIUS.

Each hath her own. Ye go not in one herd.

HECUBA.

Say then what lot hath any? What of joy

Falls, or can fall on any child of Troy?
TALTHYBIUS.

I know: but make thy questions severally.

HECUBA.

      My stricken one must be

Still first. Say how Cassandra's portion lies.
TALTHYBIUS.

Chosen from all for Agamemnon's prize!

HECUBA.

     How, for his Spartan bride

A tirewoman? For Helen's sister's pride?
TALTHYBIUS.

Nay, nay: a bride herself, for the King's bed.

HECUBA.

The sainted of Apollo? And her own

     Prize that God promised
Out of the golden clouds, her virgin crown?…
TALTHYBIUS.

He loved her for that same strange holiness.

HECUBA.

      Daughter, away, away,

      Cast all away,
The haunted Keys[15], the lonely stole's array
That kept thy body like a sacred place!
TALTHYBIUS.

Is't not rare fortune that the King hath smiled

On such a maid?
HECUBA.

      What of that other child

Ye reft from me but now?

TALTHYBIUS (speaking with some constraint).

Polyxena? Or what child meanest thou?

HECUBA.

The same. What man now hath her, or what doom?

TALTHYBIUS.

She rests apart, to watch Achilles' tomb.

HECUBA.

To watch a tomb? My daughter? What is this?…

Speak, Friend? What fashion of the laws of Greece?
TALTHYBIUS.

Count thy maid happy! She hath naught of ill

To fear….
HECUBA.

What meanest thou? She liveth still?

TALTHYBIUS.

I mean, she hath one toil[16] that holds her free

From all toil else.
HECUBA.

     What of Andromache,

Wife of mine iron-hearted Hector, where
  Journeyeth she?
TALTHYBIUS.

Pyrrhus, Achilles' son, hath taken her.

HECUBA.

     And I, whose slave am I,

The shaken head, the arm that creepeth by,
     Staff-crutchèd, like to fall?
TALTHYBIUS.

Odysseus[17], Ithaca's king, hath thee for thrall.

HECUBA.

Beat, beat the crownless head:

Rend the cheek till the tears run red!
A lying man and a pitiless
Shall be lord of me, a heart full-flown
  With scorn of righteousness:
O heart of a beast where law is none,
Where all things change so that lust be fed,
The oath and the deed, the right and the wrong,
Even the hate of the forked tongue:
Even the hate turns and is cold,
False as the love that was false of old!

O Women of Troy, weep for me!

Yea, I am gone: I am gone my ways.
Mine is the crown of misery,
The bitterest day of all our days.
LEADER.

Thy fate thou knowest, Queen: but I know not

What lord of South or North has won my lot.
TALTHYBIUS.

Go, seek Cassandra, men! Make your best speed,

That I may leave her with the King, and lead
These others to their divers lords…. Ha, there!
What means that sudden light? Is it the flare
Of torches?

[Light is seen shining through the crevices of the second hut on the right. He moves towards it.

     Would they fire their prison rooms,

Or how, these dames of Troy?—'Fore God, the dooms
Are known, and now they burn themselves and die[18]
Rather than sail with us! How savagely
In days like these a free neck chafes beneath
Its burden!… Open! Open quick! Such death
Were bliss to them, it may be: but 'twill bring
Much wrath, and leave me shamed before the King!
HECUBA.

There is no fire, no peril: 'tis my child,

Cassandra, by the breath of God made wild.

[The door opens from within and CASSANDRA enters, white-robed and wreathed like a Priestess, a great torch in her hand. She is singing softly to herself and does not see the Herald or the scene before her.

CASSANDRA.

Lift, lift it high: [Strophe.

  Give it to mine hand!
    Lo, I bear a flame
    Unto God! I praise his name.
  I light with a burning brand
This sanctuary.
Blessèd is he that shall wed,
  And blessèd, blessèd am I
  In Argos: a bride to lie
With a king in a king's bed.

  Hail, O Hymen[19] red,

  O Torch that makest one!
  Weepest thou, Mother mine own?
Surely thy cheek is pale
With tears, tears that wail
  For a land and a father dead.
  But I go garlanded:
I am the Bride of Desire:
  Therefore my torch is borne—
  Lo, the lifting of morn,
Lo, the leaping of fire!—

For thee, O Hymen bright,

  For thee, O Moon of the Deep,
So Law hath charged, for the light
  Of a maid's last sleep.

Awake, O my feet, awake: [Antistrophe.

  Our father's hope is won!
    Dance as the dancing skies
    Over him, where he lies
  Happy beneath the sun!…
Lo, the Ring that I make….

[She makes a circle round her with a torch, and visions appear to her.

Apollo!… Ah, is it thou?

  O shrine in the laurels cold,
  I bear thee still, as of old,
Mine incense! Be near to me now.

[She waves the torch as though bearing incense.

O Hymen, Hymen fleet:

  Quick torch that makest one!…
  How? Am I still alone?
Laugh as I laugh, and twine
In the dance, O Mother mine:
  Dear feet, be near my feet!

Come, greet ye Hymen, greet

  Hymen with songs of pride:
Sing to him loud and long,
Cry, cry, when the song
  Faileth, for joy of the bride!

O Damsels girt in the gold

  Of Ilion, cry, cry ye,
For him that is doomed of old
  To be lord of me!
LEADER.

O hold the damsel, lest her trancèd feet

Lift her afar, Queen, toward the Hellene fleet!
HECUBA.

O Fire, Fire, where men make marriages

Surely thou hast thy lot; but what are these
Thou bringest flashing? Torches savage-wild
And far from mine old dreams.—Alas, my child,
How little dreamed I then of wars or red
Spears of the Greek to lay thy bridal bed!
Give me thy brand; it hath no holy blaze
Thus in thy frenzy flung. Nor all thy days
Nor all thy griefs have changed them yet, nor learned
Wisdom.—Ye women, bear the pine half burned
To the chamber back; and let your drownèd eyes
Answer the music of these bridal cries!

[She takes the torch and gives it to one of the women.

CASSANDRA.

O Mother, fill mine hair with happy flowers,

And speed me forth. Yea, if my spirit cowers,
Drive me with wrath! So liveth Loxias[20],
A bloodier bride than ever Helen was
Go I to Agamemnon, Lord most high
Of Hellas!… I shall kill him, mother; I
Shall kill him, and lay waste his house with fire
As he laid ours. My brethren and my sire
Shall win again….[21]

      (Checking herself) But part I must let be,

And speak not. Not the axe that craveth me,
And more than me; not the dark wanderings
Of mother-murder that my bridal brings,
And all the House of Atreus down, down, down….

  Nay, I will show thee. Even now this town

Is happier than the Greeks. I know the power
Of God is on me: but this little hour,
Wilt thou but listen, I will hold him back!

  One love, one woman's beauty, o'er the track

Of hunted Helen, made their myriads fall.
And this their King so wise[22], who ruleth all,
What wrought he? Cast out Love that Hate might feed:
Gave to his brother his own child, his seed
Of gladness, that a woman fled, and fain
To fly for ever, should be turned again!

So the days waned, and armies on the shore

Of Simois stood and strove and died. Wherefore?
No man had moved their landmarks; none had shook
Their wallèd towns.—And they whom Ares took,
Had never seen their children: no wife came
With gentle arms to shroud the limbs of them
For burial, in a strange and angry earth
Laid dead. And there at home, the same long dearth:
Women that lonely died, and aged men
Waiting for sons that ne'er should turn again,
Nor know their graves, nor pour drink-offerings,
To still the unslakèd dust. These be the things
The conquering Greek hath won!

     But we—what pride,

What praise of men were sweeter?—fighting died
To save our people. And when war was red
Around us, friends upbore the gentle dead
Home, and dear women's heads about them wound
White shrouds, and here they sleep in the old ground
Belovèd. And the rest long days fought on,
Dwelling with wives and children, not alone
And joyless, like these Greeks.

     And Hector's woe,

What is it? He is gone, and all men know
His glory, and how true a heart he bore.
It is the gift the Greek hath brought! Of yore
Men saw him not, nor knew him. Yea, and even
Paris[23] hath loved withal a child of heaven:
Else had his love but been as others are.
  Would ye be wise, ye Cities, fly from war!
Yet if war come, there is a crown in death
For her that striveth well and perisheth
Unstained: to die in evil were the stain!
Therefore, O Mother, pity not thy slain,
Nor Troy, nor me, the bride. Thy direst foe
And mine by this my wooing is brought low.

TALTHYBIUS (at last breaking through the spell that has held him).

I swear, had not Apollo made thee mad,

Not lightly hadst thou flung this shower of bad
Bodings, to speed my General o'er the seas!
  'Fore God, the wisdoms and the greatnesses
Of seeming, are they hollow all, as things
Of naught? This son of Atreus, of all kings
Most mighty, hath so bowed him to the love
Of this mad maid, and chooseth her above
All women! By the Gods, rude though I be,
I would not touch her hand!

     Look thou; I see

Thy lips are blind, and whatso words they speak,
Praises of Troy or shamings of the Greek,
I cast to the four winds! Walk at my side
In peace!… And heaven content him of his bride!

 [He moves as though to go, but turns to HECUBA, and speaks more

gently.

And thou shalt follow to Odysseus' host

When the word comes. 'Tis a wise queen[24] thou
  go'st
To serve, and gentle: so the Ithacans say.

CASSANDRA (seeing for the first time the Herald and all the scene).

How fierce a slave!… O Heralds, Heralds!

  Yea,
Voices of Death[25]; and mists are over them
Of dead men's anguish, like a diadem,
These weak abhorred things that serve the hate
Of kings and peoples!…

     To Odysseus' gate

My mother goeth, say'st thou? Is God's word
As naught, to me in silence ministered,
That in this place she dies?[26]… (To herself) No
  more; no more!
Why should I speak the shame of them, before
They come?… Little he knows, that hard-beset
Spirit, what deeps of woe await him yet;
Till all these tears of ours and harrowings
Of Troy, by his, shall be as golden things.
Ten years behind ten years athwart his way
Waiting: and home, lost and unfriended….

     Nay:

Why should Odysseus' labours vex my breath?
On; hasten; guide me to the house of Death,
To lie beside my bridegroom!…

     Thou Greek King,

Who deem'st thy fortune now so high a thing,
Thou dust of the earth, a lowlier bed I see,
In darkness, not in light, awaiting thee:
And with thee, with thee … there, where yawneth
  plain
A rift of the hills, raging with winter rain,
Dead … and out-cast … and naked…. It is I
Beside my bridegroom: and the wild beasts cry,
And ravin on God's chosen!

[She clasps her hands to her brow and feels the wreaths.

     O, ye wreaths!

Ye garlands of my God, whose love yet breathes
About me, shapes of joyance mystical,
Begone! I have forgot the festival,
Forgot the joy. Begone! I tear ye, so,
From off me!… Out on the swift winds they go.
With flesh still clean I give them back to thee,
Still white, O God, O light that leadest me!

[_Turning upon the Herald.

Where lies the galley? Whither shall I tread?

See that your watch be set, your sail be spread
The wind comes quick[27]! Three Powers—mark me,
  thou!—
There be in Hell, and one walks with thee now!
  Mother, farewell, and weep not! O my sweet
City, my earth-clad brethren, and thou great
Sire that begat us, but a space, ye Dead,
And I am with you, yea, with crowned head
I come, and shining from the fires that feed
On these that slay us now, and all their seed!

[She goes out, followed by Talthybius and the Soldiers Hecuba, after waiting for an instant motionless, falls to the ground.

LEADER OF CHORUS.

The Queen, ye Watchers! See, she falls, she falls,

Rigid without a word! O sorry thralls,
Too late! And will ye leave her downstricken,
A woman, and so old? Raise her again!

[Some women go to HECUBA, but she refuses their aid and speaks without rising.

HECUBA.

Let lie … the love we seek not is no love….

This ruined body! Is the fall thereof
Too deep for all that now is over me
Of anguish, and hath been, and yet shall be?
Ye Gods…. Alas! Why call on things so weak
For aid? Yet there is something that doth seek,
Crying, for God, when one of us hath woe.
O, I will think of things gone long ago
And weave them to a song, like one more tear
In the heart of misery…. All kings we were;
And I must wed a king. And sons I brought
My lord King, many sons … nay, that were naught;
But high strong princes, of all Troy the best.
Hellas nor Troäs nor the garnered East
Held such a mother! And all these things beneath
The Argive spear I saw cast down in death,
And shore these tresses at the dead men's feet.
  Yea, and the gardener of my garden great,
It was not any noise of him nor tale
I wept for; these eyes saw him, when the pale
Was broke, and there at the altar Priam fell
Murdered, and round him all his citadel
Sacked. And my daughters, virgins of the fold,
Meet to be brides of mighty kings, behold,
'Twas for the Greek I bred them! All are gone;
And no hope left, that I shall look upon
Their faces any more, nor they on mine.
  And now my feet tread on the utmost line:
An old, old slave-woman, I pass below
Mine enemies' gates; and whatso task they know
For this age basest, shall be mine; the door,
Bowing, to shut and open…. I that bore
Hector!… and meal to grind, and this racked head
Bend to the stones after a royal bed;
Tom rags about me, aye, and under them
Tom flesh; 'twill make a woman sick for shame!
Woe's me; and all that one man's arms might hold
One woman, what long seas have o'er me rolled
And roll for ever!… O my child, whose white
Soul laughed amid the laughter of God's light,
Cassandra, what hands and how strange a day
Have loosed thy zone! And thou, Polyxena,
Where art thou? And my sons? Not any seed
Of man nor woman now shall help my need.
  Why raise me any more? What hope have I
To hold me? Take this slave that once trod high
In Ilion; cast her on her bed of clay
Rock-pillowed, to lie down, and pass away
Wasted with tears. And whatso man they call
Happy, believe not ere the last day fall!

* * * * *

CHORUS[28]. [Strophe.

  O Muse, be near me now, and make

  A strange song for Ilion's sake,
Till a tone of tears be about mine ears
  And out of my lips a music break
  For Troy, Troy, and the end of the years:
    When the wheels of the Greek above me pressed,
    And the mighty horse-hoofs beat my breast;
  And all around were the Argive spears
A towering Steed of golden rein—
  O gold without, dark steel within!—
Ramped in our gates; and all the plain
  Lay silent where the Greeks had been.
And a cry broke from all the folk
Gathered above on Ilion's rock:
"Up, up, O fear is over now!
  To Pallas, who hath saved us living,
To Pallas bear this victory-vow!"
Then rose the old man from his room,
The merry damsel left her loom,
And each bound death about his brow
  With minstrelsy and high thanksgiving!

[Antistrophe.

  O, swift were all in Troy that day,

  And girt them to the portal-way,
Marvelling at that mountain Thing
  Smooth-carven, where the Argives lay,
  And wrath, and Ilion's vanquishing:
    Meet gift for her that spareth not[29],
    Heaven's yokeless Rider. Up they brought
  Through the steep gates her offering:
  Like some dark ship that climbs the shore
    On straining cables, up, where stood
  Her marble throne, her hallowed floor,
    Who lusted for her people's blood.

A very weariness of joy

Fell with the evening over Troy:
And lutes of Afric mingled there
  With Phrygian songs: and many a maiden,
With white feet glancing light as air,
Made happy music through the gloom:
And fires on many an inward room
All night broad-flashing, flung their glare
  On laughing eyes and slumber-laden.
A MAIDEN.

I was among the dancers there

  To Artemis[30], and glorying sang
Her of the Hills, the Maid most fair,
  Daughter of Zeus: and, lo, there rang
A shout out of the dark, and fell
  Deathlike from street to street, and made
A silence in the citadel:
  And a child cried, as if afraid,
And hid him in his mother's veil.
  Then stalked the Slayer from his den,
The hand of Pallas served her well!
  O blood, blood of Troy was deep
  About the streets and altars then:
And in the wedded rooms of sleep,
  Lo, the desolate dark alone,
  And headless things, men stumbled on.

And forth, lo, the women go,

The crown of War, the crown of Woe,
To bear the children of the foe
  And weep, weep, for Ilion!

* * * * *

[As the song ceases a chariot is seen approaching from the town, laden with spoils. On it sits a mourning Woman with a child in her arms.

LEADER.

 Lo, yonder on the heapèd crest

   Of a Greek wain, Andromachê[31],
  As one that o'er an unknown sea
Tosseth; and on her wave-borne breast
Her loved one clingeth, Hector's child,
  Astyanax…. O most forlorn
  Of women, whither go'st thou, borne
'Mid Hector's bronzen arms, and piled
Spoils of the dead, and pageantry
  Of them that hunted Ilion down?
  Aye, richly thy new lord shall crown
The mountain shrines of Thessaly!

ANDROMACHE

                         [Strophe I.

Forth to the Greek I go,

  Driven as a beast is driven.

HEC. Woe, woe!

AND. Nay, mine is woe:

           Woe to none other given,
         And the song and the crown therefor!

HEC. O Zeus!

AND. He hates thee sore!

HEC. Children!

AND. No more, no more

           To aid thee: their strife is striven!

HECUBA.

                        [Antistrophe I.

Troy, Troy is gone!

AND. Yea, and her treasure parted.

HEC. Gone, gone, mine own

           Children, the noble-hearted!

AND. Sing sorrow….

HEC. For me, for me!

AND. Sing for the Great City,

     That falleth, falleth to be
     A shadow, a fire departed.
ANDROMACHE.

[Strophe 2.

Come to me, O my lover!

HEC. The dark shroudeth him over,

     My flesh, woman, not thine, not thine!

AND. Make of thine arms my cover!

HECUBA.

[Antistrophe 2.

O thou whose wound was deepest,

Thou that my children keepest,
Priam, Priam, O age-worn King,
Gather me where thou sleepest.

ANDROMACHE (her hands upon her heart).

[Strophe 3.

O here is the deep of desire,

HEC. (How? And is this not woe?)

AND. For a city burned with fire;

HEC. (It beateth, blow on blow.)

AND. God's wrath for Paris, thy son, that he died not long ago:

    Who sold for his evil love

    Troy and the towers thereof:
    Therefore the dead men lie
    Naked, beneath the eye
    Of Pallas, and vultures croak
      And flap for joy:
    So Love hath laid his yoke
      On the neck of Troy!
HECUBA.

[Antistrophe 3.

O mine own land, my home,

AND. (I weep for thee, left forlorn,)

HEC. See'st thou what end is come?

AND. (And the house where my babes were born.)

HEC. A desolate Mother we leave, O children, a City of scorn:

     Even as the sound of a song[32]

     Left by the way, but long
     Remembered, a tune of tears
     Falling where no man hears,
     In the old house, as rain,
       For things loved of yore:
     But the dead hath lost his pain
       And weeps no more.
LEADER.

How sweet are tears to them in bitter stress,

And sorrow, and all the songs of heaviness.
ANDROMACHE[33].

Mother of him of old, whose mighty spear Smote Greeks like chaff, see'st thou what things are here?

HECUBA.

I see God's hand, that buildeth a great crown

For littleness, and hath cast the mighty down.
ANDROMACHE.

I and my babe are driven among the droves

Of plundered cattle. O, when fortune moves
So swift, the high heart like a slave beats low.
HECUBA.

'Tis fearful to be helpless. Men but now

Have taken Cassandra, and I strove in vain.
ANDROMACHE.

Ah, woe is me; hath Ajax come again?

But other evil yet is at thy gate.
HECUBA.

Nay, Daughter, beyond number, beyond weight

My evils are! Doom raceth against doom.
ANDROMACHE.

Polyxena across Achilles' tomb

Lies slain, a gift flung to the dreamless dead.
HECUBA.

My sorrow!… 'Tis but what Talthybius said:

So plain a riddle, and I read it not.
ANDROMACHE.

I saw her lie, and stayed this chariot;

And raiment wrapt on her dead limbs, and beat
My breast for her.

HECUBA (to herself).

     O the foul sin of it!

The wickedness! My child. My child! Again
I cry to thee. How cruelly art thou slain!
ANDROMACHE.

She hath died her death, and howso dark it be,

Her death is sweeter than my misery.
HECUBA.

Death cannot be what Life is, Child; the cup

Of Death is empty, and Life hath always hope.
ANDROMACHE.

O Mother, having ears, hear thou this word

Fear-conquering, till thy heart as mine be stirred
With joy. To die is only not to be;
And better to be dead than grievously
Living. They have no pain, they ponder not
Their own wrong. But the living that is brought
From joy to heaviness, his soul doth roam,
As in a desert, lost, from its old home.
Thy daughter lieth now as one unborn,
Dead, and naught knowing of the lust and scorn
That slew her. And I … long since I drew my
  bow
Straight at the heart of good fame; and I know
My shaft hit; and for that am I the more
Fallen from peace. All that men praise us for,
I loved for Hector's sake, and sought to win.
I knew that alway, be there hurt therein
Or utter innocence, to roam abroad
Hath ill report for women; so I trod
Down the desire thereof, and walked my way
In mine own garden. And light words and gay
Parley of women never passed my door.
The thoughts of mine own heart … I craved no more….
  Spoke with me, and I was happy. Constantly
I brought fair silence and a tranquil eye
For Hector's greeting, and watched well the way
Of living, where to guide and where obey.
  And, lo! some rumour of this peace, being gone
Forth to the Greek, hath cursed me. Achilles' son,
So soon as I was taken, for his thrall
Chose me. I shall do service in the hall
Of them that slew…. How? Shall I thrust aside
Hector's beloved face, and open wide
My heart to this new lord? Oh, I should stand
A traitor to the dead! And if my hand
And flesh shrink from him … lo, wrath and despite
O'er all the house, and I a slave!

     One night,

One night … aye, men have said it … maketh tame
A woman in a man's arms…. O shame, shame!
What woman's lips can so forswear her dead,
And give strange kisses in another's bed?
Why, not a dumb beast, not a colt will run
In the yoke untroubled, when her mate is gone—
A thing not in God's image, dull, unmoved
Of reason. O my Hector! best beloved,
That, being mine, wast all in all to me,
My prince, my wise one, O my majesty
Of valiance! No man's touch had ever come
Near me, when thou from out my father's home
Didst lead me and make me thine…. And thou art
  dead,
And I war-flung to slavery and the bread
Of shame in Hellas, over bitter seas!
  What knoweth she of evils like to these,
That dead Polyxena, thou weepest for?
There liveth not in my life any more
The hope that others have. Nor will I tell
The lie to mine own heart, that aught is well
Or shall be well…. Yet, O, to dream were sweet!
LEADER.

Thy feet have trod the pathway of my feet,

And thy clear sorrow teacheth me mine own.
HECUBA.

Lo, yonder ships: I ne'er set foot on one,

But tales and pictures tell, when over them
Breaketh a storm not all too strong to stem,
Each man strives hard, the tiller gripped, the mast
Manned, the hull baled, to face it: till at last
Too strong breaks the o'erwhelming sea: lo, then
They cease, and yield them up as broken men
To fate and the wild waters. Even so
I in my many sorrows bear me low,
Nor curse, nor strive that other things may be.
The great wave rolled from God hath conquered me.
  But, O, let Hector and the fates that fell
On Hector, sleep. Weep for him ne'er so well,
Thy weeping shall not wake him. Honour thou
The new lord that is set above thee now,
And make of thine own gentle piety
A prize to lure his heart. So shalt thou be
A strength to them that love us, and—God knows,
It may be—rear this babe among his foes,
My Hector's child, to manhood and great aid
For Ilion. So her stones may yet be laid
One on another, if God will, and wrought
Again to a city! Ah, how thought to thought
Still beckons!… But what minion of the Greek
Is this that cometh, with new words to speak?

[Enter TALTHYBIUS with a band of Soldiers. He comes forward slowly and with evident disquiet.

TALTHYBIUS.

Spouse of the noblest heart that beat in Troy,

Andromache, hate me not! 'Tis not in joy
I tell thee. But the people and the Kings
Have with one voice….
ANDROMACHE.

     What is it? Evil things

Are on thy lips!
TALTHYBIUS.

     Tis ordered, this child…. Oh,

How can I tell her of it?
ANDROMACHE.

     Doth he not go

With me, to the same master?
TALTHYBIUS.

     There is none

In Greece, shall e'er be master of thy son.
ANDROMACHE.

How? Will they leave him here to build again

The wreck?…

TALTHYBIUS.

I know not how to tell thee plain!
ANDROMACHE.

Thou hast a gentle heart … if it be ill,

And not good, news thou hidest!
TALTHYBIUS.

     'Tis their will

Thy son shall die…. The whole vile thing is said
Now!

ANDROMACHE.

Oh, I could have borne mine enemy's bed!
TALTHYBIUS.

And speaking in the council of the host

Odysseus hath prevailed—
ANDROMACHE.

            O lost! lost! lost!…

Forgive me! It is not easy….
TALTHYBIUS.

             … That the son

Of one so perilous be not fostered on
To manhood—
ANDROMACHE.

             God; may his own counsel fall

On his own sons!
TALTHYBIUS.

             … But from this crested wall

Of Troy be dashed, and die…. Nay, let the thing
Be done. Thou shalt be wiser so. Nor cling
So fiercely to him. Suffer as a brave
Woman in bitter pain; nor think to have
Strength which thou hast not. Look about thee here!
Canst thou see help, or refuge anywhere?
Thy land is fallen and thy lord, and thou
A prisoner and alone, one woman; how
Canst battle against us? For thine own good
I would not have thee strive, nor make ill blood
And shame about thee…. Ah, nor move thy lips
In silence there, to cast upon the ships
Thy curse! One word of evil to the host,
This babe shall have no burial, but be tossed
Naked…. Ah, peace! And bear as best thou may,
War's fortune. So thou shalt not go thy way
Leaving this child unburied; nor the Greek
Be stern against thee, if thy heart be meek!

ANDROMACHE (to the child).

Go, die, my best-beloved, my cherished one,

In fierce men's hands, leaving me here alone.
Thy father was too valiant; that is why
They slay thee! Other children, like to die,
Might have been spared for that. But on thy head
His good is turned to evil.

     O thou bed

And bridal; O the joining of the hand,
That led me long ago to Hector's land
To bear, O not a lamb for Grecian swords
To slaughter, but a Prince o'er all the hordes
Enthroned of wide-flung Asia…. Weepest thou?
Nay, why, my little one? Thou canst not know.
And Father will not come; he will not come;
Not once, the great spear flashing, and the tomb
Riven to set thee free! Not one of all
His brethren, nor the might of Ilion's wall.
  How shall it be? One horrible spring … deep,
    deep
Down. And thy neck…. Ah God, so cometh
    sleep!…
And none to pity thee!… Thou little thing
That curlest in my arms, what sweet scents cling
All round thy neck! Belovèd; can it be
All nothing, that this bosom cradled thee
And fostered; all the weary nights, wherethrough
I watched upon thy sickness, till I grew
Wasted with watching? Kiss me. This one time;
Not ever again. Put up thine arms, and climb
About my neck: now, kiss me, lips to lips….
  O, ye have found an anguish that outstrips
All tortures of the East, ye gentle Greeks!
Why will ye slay this innocent, that seeks
No wrong?… O Helen, Helen, thou ill tree
That Tyndareus planted, who shall deem of thee
As child of Zeus? O, thou hast drawn thy breath
From many fathers, Madness, Hate, red Death,
And every rotting poison of the sky!
Zeus knows thee not, thou vampire, draining dry.
Greece and the world! God hate thee and destroy,
That with those beautiful eyes hast blasted Troy,
And made the far-famed plains a waste withal.
  Quick! take him: drag him: cast him from the wall,
If cast ye will! Tear him, ye beasts, be swift!
God hath undone me, and I cannot lift
One hand, one hand, to save my child from death….
O, hide my head for shame: fling me beneath
Your galleys' benches!…

[She swoons: then half-rising.

     Quick: I must begone

To the bridal…. I have lost my child, my own!

[The Soldiers close round her.

LEADER.
Free access
On
Author
Euripides
Subject
Trojan War -- Drama
Andromache (Legendary character) -- Drama
Hecuba, Queen of Troy -- Drama
Cassandra (Legendary character) -- Drama
Helen, of Troy, Queen of Sparta -- Drama
Rights
Public domain in the USA.
English
Source name
gutenberg
Source uri
http://www.gutenberg.org/10096