by Seneca
may all the iron of the world be used for harmless farmwork, 930
and may the sword be buried. May no rough storms
shake the ocean. May fire not flash from heaven,
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from angry Jupiter’s hand. May no river, fattened on snow,
flood across the fields and ruin all the crops.
May there be no more poisons: may no plant
swell up in the night-time, heavy with that juice.
May no cruel tyrants rule the world. But if, even now,
earth still intends to produce more evil, if even now
horror is in the works — then let it be mine. — But what is this?
Darkness gathers at noon! The sun is overcast
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but by no cloud. What makes day run away,
driving it back to the east? Why does strange night
bring forth its black face? Why do so many stars
fill up the sky by day? Look, my first labour,
the Lion* shines across the sky, grows hot
consumed by rage, his teeth ready to bite.
Now he prepares to pounce on another star: threatening,
he stands there, vast jaws gaping, breathes out fire and glows
shaking his mane on his shoulders. He is ready to leap
over all the stars of sickly autumn, freezing winter,
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in a single leap, hunting the Bull, the star of spring,
to jump and break his back.
amphitryon
What is this sudden trouble?
Son, why are you frowning and shaking your face to and fro,
why do you strain your eyes to see an illusory sky?
hercules I have tamed the whole of earth, the sea has
ceased to swell,
the kingdom of the dead has felt my power;
heaven has so far escaped: a labour worth my hand.
I will be carried up to the heights of the universe,
up to the aether; the stars are my father’s promise to me.—
What if there is resistance? I am too big for earth,
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she sends me back to heaven. Look, the whole assembly,
all the gods are calling me, they open wide the doors;
but one goddess says no. Open heaven, take me back!
Or shall I batter down the door of this stubborn world?
Why the hesitation? I will set free Saturn from his chains,*
I will set my grandfather against the wicked reign
of my treacherous father. Let the Titans make war,
I will whip them up to fight. I will carry mountains, forests,
my hands will seize the clifftops, thronged with Centaurs.
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I will build two mountains into a path to the sky:
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Pelion will see its Chiron under Ossa,
Olympus, set up in third place, will reach the heavens—
thanks to me.
amphitryon No more of these terrible plans!
Your great, heroic mind has fallen sick;
restrain yourself from this insane idea!
hercules What is this? The wicked Giants take up arms.
Tityos* has escaped from Hell, the wound in his chest
still gapes open, but how near he stands from heaven!
Cithaeron topples, high Pallene shakes,
Tempe’s valleys wither. One giant grabs Mount Pindus;
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another, Oeta, while Mimas* goes into a terrible rage.
The Fury with her flaming torch swishes her whip,
and bringing burning brands straight from the fire
she thrusts them in my face. Cruel Tisiphone,
fenced in with snakes, slams shut the gate with her stick,
taking the place of the watchdog who was stolen.—
But look, my enemy’s children are skulking here,
the nasty seedlings of the tyrant Lycus. I hate your father;
I will send you back to him with my own hands. Let fly
light arrows from the bow. This onslaught really is
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Herculean.
amphitryon Mad! He self-destructs! How will it end?
He has curved together the ends of his mighty bow,
he opens his quiver, he launches the arrow, it flies
with a swoosh — now it pierces all the way through the neck,
and comes out the other side.
hercules
I have to drag out the others,
all the hidden children. What am I waiting for?
I still have to fight a bigger war: at Mycenae,
my hands must tear those walls the Cyclops built.*
Throw down the bolt, swing wide the palace doors,
burst through the bars, knock down the entrance-way.
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Let there be light on all the palace: here I see
the son that wicked father hid away.
amphitryon Poor
thing!
He cries for mercy, holding on to your knees
with his tiny hands. What a dreadful crime, what a sight!
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He grabs the crying child, and whirls him round
two or three times in the air, and cracks his head,
bursting his brains which spatter all over the roof.
Poor Megara enfolds her baby in her arms,
rushing like a madwoman to escape.
hercules Fine, go hide in thundering Jupiter’s arms;
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my hands will find you out wherever you are.
amphitryon Poor woman, where are you going? What hiding-
place can you find?
No place is safe when Hercules attacks.
So do not run; embrace him, plead with him
and try to calm him down.
megara
Husband, I beg you, stop!
You know me — Megara. This is your child;
he looks just like you. Can you see? He reaches for you.
hercules Now I have you, stepmother! Time for your payback!
Set Jupiter free from his slavish, degraded marriage.
But before the mother, I will kill this monstrous baby.
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amphitryon Crazy! What are you doing? Shedding
your own blood!
The toddler, horror-struck at his father’s fiery face,
dies unwounded, terrified to death.
Now he bashes his heavy club at his wife:
he breaks her bones, he tears her head from her body
annihilating it. Can I bear to watch? I am old;
I should not be alive. If grief is bitter, here is
death ready-made. Drive your sword into my heart,
or turn on me that club besmeared with blood
from so many monsters. Get rid of this fake ‘father’
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who shames your name, in case I obstruct your fame.
chorus Why do you seek death of your own accord, old man?
Are you crazy? What are you doing? Run away,
and save the hands of Hercules from this one last crime.
hercules Good! The house of that evil king is demolished.
These animals I killed, I dedicate
to you, wife of great Jove. I gladly kept my promise,
just as you deserved. Argos will pay even more.
amphitryon Son, you have not yet atoned. Finish the sacrifice.
Another victim stands by the altar: Look!
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Neck bowed, he waits for you. Here I am, I am ready, I want it.
Slaughter me. — What is this? I cannot see straight;
grief makes my eyes weak. Or do I
see
Hercules’ hands tremble? He is falling asleep,
his head sinks down, his neck is bowed and weary.
Now his knees collapse, he falls to the ground,
like an ash cut down in the forest, or a mass of bricks hurled out
into the sea to build a pier. Are you still alive?
Or has the madness which killed your family killed you too?
He is just asleep: I can see the movement of breath.
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He needs to rest a while: deep sleep can overcome
the sickness of his heart, and comfort him.
Slaves, take his weapons away, in case the madness comes back.
chorus Heaven, grieve,
and you, great Father of high heaven,
and fertile earth,
and the fluctuating waves of the sea,
and you above all, who pour your light
over the world and the spreading ocean
whose shining face puts night to flight: flaming Sun —
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Hercules has seen as much as you —
the east and west where you rise and set,
and known both of your homes.
Gods, release his heart from all these monsters, such great
horrors;
turn his mind around to better thoughts.
And you, Sleep, master of trouble, rest of the soul,
best part of human life,
winged child of starry night,
gentle brother of cruel Death,
you mix falsehoods with truth,
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accurate prophet and the worst of all,
O peace of the world, harbour of life,
rest from the light and friend of the night,
visitor to kings and slaves alike,
you force the human race, fearful of death,
to practise for the longer night.
Comfort this weary man, be gentle to him,
let heavy numbness weight him down and hold him;
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sleep can bind this body, never tamed before:
and do not leave his fierce heart until
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his mind returns again to its old ways.
Look, as he sprawls on the ground,
nightmares whirl his wild heart:
the terrible sickness he suffered is not defeated yet.
He usually lays his weary head on his sturdy club;
his empty hand is reaching for its weight,
with a useless sweep of the arm.
The storm is not yet quiet in his heart,
as when a violent wave whips up the sea,
and even when the wind calms down,
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the waters swell.
Banish the tide of madness from his soul;
bring back the man’s heroic sense of duty.
Or if his mind is still aroused by madness, keep it so,
wandering in the dark as it began.
Only being mad
can keep you pure.
The closest thing to having innocent hands
is ignorance of your crimes.
Now let Hercules’ hands
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thump on his chest;
shower vengeful blows
on the shoulders that carried the world.
Let heaven hear his mighty groans
and the queen of the Dark World,
and Cerberus, who wears a collar of huge chains
hear it as he barks in his infernal cavern.
Let the deep ring out with his mournful cries,
and the spreading waves of the wide sea,
and the air — which in better days
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has felt your weapons.
A chest so thronged with suffering
must not be beaten lightly;
let all three kingdoms sound with a single grief.
Strong arrows, that hung so long
to decorate his neck,
and heavy quiver,
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blast down blows on his untamed back;
let his oakwood club beat his strong shoulders,
and the stout stick load up his torso with its cruel knots.
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May all his weapons weep such agonizing pain.
Go, you poor unlucky little boys,
marked by the shadow of your father’s labour,
you will never grow to share your country’s glory,
never strike a blow to cast out cruel tyrants,
never learn to exercise your limbs
in the wrestling-grounds of Argos,
growing strong with boxing-gloves or fighting hand-to-hand —
ready to aim light darts from Scythian quivers
and fire them with sure hands,
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and pierce the unsuspecting deer as they run away,
and the lion-cub whose mane has not yet grown.
Go, you ghosts, to the gates of the Styx;
go on, poor innocents,
whose father’s murderous madness
destroyed on the threshold of life.
Go and see the angry kings of Hell.
ACT FIVE
hercules What is this place, what kingdom is this, what part of
the world?
Where am I? In the land of the rising sun, or beneath
the pole of the frozen north? Is this the distant country
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that lies between the western sea and Ocean?*
What air am I breathing? What land do my tired feet tread?
Certainly I have come back: but why do I see
these bloody bodies and the house upturned?
Perhaps my mind is forming images of Hell?
Even after my return, I see the hordes of ghosts.
I am ashamed to speak, I am afraid; something,
I intuit some disaster, but what — I do not know.
Father, where are you? Where is my brave wife,
and all our children? Hey — on my left side
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the lion’s skin is gone! It served me as a cloak
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and as a bed: for me, it was soft enough.
Where is it? Where are my arms? Where is my bow?
Who could take them from me while I live?
Who stole such treasures? Who was unafraid
of Hercules, even asleep? I want to see my conqueror:
up, courage. My father must have left heaven
and got a new son — who? At whose conception
did the night last even longer than for mine?*
What horror is here? My children’s bloody bodies,
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murdered, and my wife dead. What Lycus has seized power?
Who has dared commit such crimes against Thebes,
when Hercules is back? O fellow-countrymen,
inhabitants of the Argive fields and of the lands
beaten by the double sea, the realm of Pelops,
come to help, reveal to me the wicked murderer.
My rage is turned on everyone: whoever does not show me
my enemy, is my enemy. — You defeated a hero: why hide?
Go on, make more conquests: try the fierce horses
of the bloody Thracian, or the herd of Geryon,
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or the lords of Libya;* now is the time to fight.
Look, here I am, stripped bare; you can use my own weapons
to attack me, unarmed. — But why do Theseus
and my father avoid my eyes and hide their faces?
Stop crying! Tell me, who has murdered them,
all my family at once? Father, why so quiet?
Theseus, tell me! Come on, by your faith!
Neither speaks, they look ashamed, and hide
the
ir faces, their furtive tears. In such disaster
what place is there for shame? Was it the tyrant
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of Argos,* or did a troop get up in arms
against me for the death of Lycus, come to wreak destruction?
I beg you, by the glory of my labours,
father, and the power of your name —
second only to Jove — tell me: who ruined my home?
Who is my destroyer?
amphitryon
Let it go. Do not speak of these horrors.
hercules What, no revenge?
amphitryon
Revenge often does harm.
hercules Who could lie back and take such terrible things?
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amphitryon One who feared even worse.
hercules
What could be feared
worse or more hard to bear than this, my father?
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amphitryon How little you yet know about the tragedy!
hercules Pity me, Father! I hold out my hands in prayer:
what is this? He retreats from my hands? This is a clue:
where does this blood come from? Why is this arrow
dripping with children’s blood? It was dipped in the
Hydra’s poison . . .
Now I see my arrows, I need not ask who did it.
Who could bend the bow, or whose right arm
could flex the string — hard even for myself ?
Father, tell me now. Did I commit this crime?
They will not speak. I did.
amphitryon
The grief is yours,
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the guilt your stepmother’s. Bad luck is not your fault.
hercules Now, Father, thunder from the whole of heaven;
forget me, but belatedly avenge
your grandsons. Let the starry sky resound,
let both poles send darts of fiery flames.
Bind me to the Caspian rock, tear me apart,
and let the hungry vulture peck my liver.
Why are the rocks of Prometheus empty? Why is the Caucasus,
sheer and barren cliff, home to wild beasts and birds,
empty now? Or take me to Scythia,
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where the Symplegades* close in upon the sea,
tie my hands stretched out across the deep,
and when the rocks begin to clash against each other,
spurting up the ocean to the sky,
I will block the mountains with my restless bulk.
Or should I make a pyre, heap up treetrunks and logs,
and burn my body, tainted with blood I should have loved?
Yes, that is the way: send Hercules back to Hell.
amphitryon His mind is not yet free from its wild frenzy,
