Four Tragedies and Octavia

by Seneca

  *

  The titles and sequence of the Senecan plays differ in the two principal groups of manuscripts. The group ‘E’ (Codex Etruscus) has: Hercules, Troades, Phoenissae, Medea, Phaedra, Oedipus, Agamemnon, Thyestes, Hercules. The group ‘A’ (various sources) has; Hercules Furens, Thyestes, Thebais (for Phoenissae), Hippolytus (for Phaedra), Oedipus, Troas, Medea, Agamemnon, Octavia, Hercules Oetaeus.

  From the absence of Octavia from ‘E’, and for other reasons, it is believed that this group has prior authority; although it has been suggested that ‘A’ represents an edition of the plays issued shortly after the death of Seneca, while ‘E’ represents the collection as it existed in his lifetime, excluding, for obvious reasons, Octavia.

  In any case, it is clear that the authenticity of Octavia is a matter of considerable doubt. There is no reason why Seneca, in the interval between A.D. 62 and his death, should not have amused himself by composing this grim commentary on contemporary events in the form of ancient tragedy. But equally another writer, with some acquaintance with Seneca’s style and thought, could have borrowed his pen to produce a passable imitation of a Senecan tragedy, with perhaps a mischievous pleasure in showing Seneca himself involved in the kind of scene which he had so often composed for his actors. The play could evidently not have appeared in its final form (so far as it is final, being as it stands rather imperfectly articulated into acts and choral interludes) before the death of Nero, three years after that of Seneca. One is strongly tempted to assume that Seneca knew more than nothing about it.

  E.F.W.

  October 1965

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

  Extracts from the Elizabethan translations of Seneca’s tragedies are quoted, by kind permission of Messrs Constable and Co. Ltd, in the form in which they appear in Charles Whibley’s edition of Newton’s collection of translations (Tudor Translations, Constable, 1927).

  THYESTES

  THE crime which doomed the House of Pelops to a series of feuds and violent acts from generation to generation was that of Tantalus, a son of Zeus, who served his son Pelops as food at a banquet of the gods. Restored to life by Zeus, Pelops obtained a wife and a kingdom by treachery, and on his death after many other ruthless acts of conquest his throne became a bone of contention between his sons Atreus and Thyestes. Agreements to share the kingdom, or to rule it alternately, were broken more than once; each brother enjoyed periods of prosperity and suffered periods of banishment.

  At the time of the play’s action, Atreus is in possession and is plotting to entrap his brother by a false show of reconciliation. Thyestes, with his three sons, returns from exile, to be the victim of an atrocity recalling, but surpassing, the crime of their first ancestor. The curse on the house was to live on, the feuds to be repeated in the persons of Agamemnon, son of Atreus, and Aegisthus, son of Thyestes (by his own daughter Pelopia) and in the murder of Clytaemnestra by her son Orestes.

  No Greek tragedy on the subject of Thyestes is extant, though a fragment of a Thyestes by Sophocles survives. Seneca may have been indebted to a predecessor, L. Varius Rufus, whose tragedy Thyestes was performed in 29 B.C. at the games celebrating the victory of Actium.

  DRAMATIS PERSONAE

  GHOST OF TANTALUS

  FURY

  ATREUS, King of Argos

  A MINISTER

  THYESTES, brother of Atreus

  YOUNG TANTALUS, son of Thyestes

  PLISTHENES (mute), his second son

  THIRD SON (mute)

  A MESSENGER

  CHORUSof Argive elders

  *

  Scene: at the palace of Mycenae

  ACT ONE

  Ghost of Tantalus, Fury

  GHOST: Who hales me from my miserable rest

  Among the dead below, where my starved mouth

  Gapes for the food that runs out of its reach?

  What god bids Tantalus return again

  To this abode he never should have seen?

  Is there some punishment in store for me

  Worse than to stand dry-mouthed in running water,

  Worse than the everlasting yawn of hunger?

  Is there another stone of Sisyphus

  Whose slippery weight my shoulders must support;

  A turning wheel upon whose spokes my limbs

  Must be extended; or a punishment

  Like that of Tityos, whose hollowed bowels

  Are open caverns where foul birds of prey

  Feed on his flesh – each night replenishing

  The losses of the day, to bring tomorrow

  A rich repast for each returning fiend?

  To what new torture have I been assigned?

  O, thou unknown implacable dispenser

  Of torments to the dead, if there can be

  Yet more intolerable penalties –

  Such as the keeper of hell’s gaol himself

  Would loathe to look on, such as would affright

  Grim Acheron – to fill my soul with terror,

  Find one for me! For from my loins is sprung

  A generation whose iniquities,

  Whose crimes, of horror never known till now,

  Make all their predecessors’ sins look small

  And me an innocent. Does any place in hell

  Still lack a tenant? I can furnish one

  From my posterity. While stands the house

  Of Pelops, Minos never will be idle.

  FURY: On with your task, abominable ghost:

  Let loose the Furies on your impious house.

  Let evil vie with evil, sword with sword;

  Let anger be unchecked, repentance dumb.

  Spurred by insensate rage, let fathers’ hate

  Live on, and the long heritage of sin

  Descend to their posterity. Leave none

  The respite for remorse; let crimes be born

  Ever anew and, in their punishment,

  Each single sin give birth to more than one.

  Let those proud brothers each forfeit his throne,1

  And be recalled to it again from exile –

  In this strife-riven house Fortune herself

  Will never know which way to turn between them.

  The high shall be brought low, the weak made strong,

  The kingdom tossed by ceaseless waves of chance.

  Let there be culprits banished for their crimes,

  And when restored, by mercy of the gods,

  Returning to their crimes, to make their names

  Hateful to all mankind and to themselves.

  Vengeance shall think no way forbidden her;

  Brother shall flee from brother, sire from son,

  And son from sire; children shall die in shames

  More shameful than their birth; revengeful wives

  Shall menace husbands, armies sail to war

  In lands across the sea, and every soil

  Be soaked with blood; the might of men of battle

  In all the mortal world shall be brought down

  By Lust triumphant. In this house of sin

  Brothers’ adultery with brothers’ wives

  Shall be the least of sins; all law, all faith,

  All honour shall be dead. Nor shall the heavens

  Be unaffected by your evil deeds:

  What right have stars to twinkle in the sky?

  Why need their lights still ornament the world?

  Let night be black, let there be no more day.

  Let havoc rule this house; call blood and strife

  And death; let every corner of this place

  Be filled with the revenge of Tantalus!

  Behold, the pillars shall be wreathed with flowers,

  The porches garlanded with festive bay,

  The fires heaped high to give you worthy welcome.

  Then shall a Thracian tragedy1 be played

  With larger numbers.… Is the uncle’s hand

  Ready?… Why does he pause?… When will he strike?

  Thyestes does n
ot know his children’s fate.…

  Now light the fire and make the cauldron boil!…

  Divide the bodies into little pieces!…

  Splash blood on the paternal hearth! Draw up,

  And serve the banquet! Here will be one guest

  Not unaccustomed to such villainies.

  See, I am giving you a holiday

  And a rich feast to satisfy your hunger.

  Fill your lean belly, Tantalus; and see,

  There will be wine mingled with blood to drink.

  I fear I have devised a meal so strange

  That you will run away from it. No, stay!

  Where are you off to?

  GHOST: To the lake, the river,

  The elusive water and the laden tree

  Whose fruits avoid my lips. O let me go

  Back to my lightless bed, my prison cell!

  Or if my punishment has been too light,

  There is another river, Phlegethon –

  Let me go there, let me be left to stand

  Midstream in waves of everlasting fire.

  Hear me, all souls condemned by Fate’s decree

  To serve your penance: you that cowering sit

  Under a vaulted cave, whose imminent fall

  Is your eternal terror; you that face

  The jaws of hungry lions, or beleaguered

  By bands of raving Furies quake with fear;

  You that half-burnt ward off a hail of torches –

  Hear me! This is the voice of Tantalus,

  Who comes in haste to join you. Learn from me,

  And be content with your afflictions. When,

  Ah, when may I escape this upper world?

  FURY: Not till you have put chaos in your house

  And with your coming set its kings at war.

  Fill them with evil lust for battle, shake

  Their raving souls with storms of insane strife.

  GHOST: It is my place to suffer punishment,

  Not be myself a punishment to others.

  Am I commanded now to issue forth

  Like noxious vapour boiling from the ground

  Or some foul pestilence to spread destruction

  Over the face of earth? Am I employed

  To do a deed of monstrous wickedness

  Against my grandsons? Father of all gods! –

  My father, though in shame – let my loud tongue

  Itself be sentenced to extremest pain

  For this audacity, yet it will speak:

  My sons, I warn you! Do not soil your hands

  With sinful slaughter, keep your altars clean

  Of blood aspersed in impious sacrifice.

  I shall stand by you and avert that sin….

  Ah, wouldst thou, fiend, brandish thy fearful whip

  Before my face, and fright me with the serpents

  Writhing about thy horrid head? My belly

  Aches with the agony of my old hunger

  Awakened at thy bidding. In my blood

  A fire of thirst is raging, leaping flames

  Consume my vital parts.… Lead on, I follow.

  FURY: So… so… cast wide thy spell of madness… here,

  And here, on every part of this doomed house….

  With this… this… fury be they all possessed,

  And envy, thirsting for each others’ blood.

  So… now the house has felt your coming in –

  It quaked from top to bottom with the touch

  Of your corrupting hand. Enough, well done.

  Now take your way back to the lower depths,

  Back to your river. The offended earth

  Protests under your tread: see how the springs

  Recede and shrink, the river beds are dry,

  The scarce clouds ravaged by a scorching wind.

  All trees are drained of colour, branches bare,

  Fruit fallen; and the seas, that washed the shores

  So close on either side the narrow Isthmus,

  Have fled so far apart, the land between,

  Now broader, barely hears their distant roar.

  The lake of Lerna is dried up, Alpheus

  Has closed his sacred river, and Phoroneus1

  Is scarcely to be seen; Cithaeron’s height

  Stands naked of its cloak of snow; in Argos

  The elders fear the drought of days gone by.

  Behold, the very Lord of Heaven, the Sun

  Is loth to drive his chariot forth, nor cares

  To hasten on the day that soon must die.

  CHORUS

  If any god loves our Achaean Argos,

  Pisa, for chariots known, the twofold harbours

  On the twin seas of the Corinthian Isthmus –

  If any god looks down upon the far-seen

  Heights of Taygetus, where snows of winter

  Massed in deep drifts by Scythia’s wild north-easter

  Melt to the summer winds that sailors wait for –

  If any loves the cooling stream, Alpheus,

  Running beside the famed Olympian circus –

  May such a god, we pray,

  Regard us with an eye of peace,

  And turn all harm away –

  Forbid the ever-repeated alternation

  Of crime with crime, spare us a new succession

  Of young blood baser than older generations,

  Of children apter in sin than were their fathers.

  Grant that at last the impious brood descended

  From thirsting Tantalus may tire of outrage.

  Evil has gone too far – law’s rule is powerless,

  Even the common bounds of sin exceeded.

  Treachery conquered Myrtilus1 the traitor;

  The sea betrayed him as he betrayed his master,

  Drowned him, and kept his name, to make a story

  Known, to their cost, by all Ionian seamen.

  Tantalus’ infant son2 was infamously

  Put to the sword, while running to kiss his father,

  Slaughtered, a baby victim upon the altar,

  By his own father’s hand, and cut to pieces,

  Served as a dish to grace the godly tables.

  The consequence of this repast was hunger,

  Hunger and thirst for all eternity;

  What fitter penalty

  Could any fate decree

  For the provider of that bestial banquet!

  Tantalus stands fainting, gasping,

  Empty-mouthed, with food abundant

  Over the sinner’s head suspended

  Out of his reach, a prey elusive

  As the wild birds that Phineus1 hunted.

  Trees all around him bend their laden branches

  Stooping and swaying with the fruits they offer

  In playful mockery of his empty mouthings.

  Time and again deluded, now the sufferer,

  Famished and desperate with his long torture,

  Will not attempt to touch them, turns his head down,

  Clenches his teeth and swallows down his hunger –

  Only to see the riches of the orchard

  Lowered to meet him, juicy apples dancing

  On bending branches, goading again his hunger

  Till he must shoot out hands to clutch… but useless –

  Soon as he moves, expecting disappointment,

  Up to the sky go all the swinging branches,

  Out of his reach flies that autumnal richness.

  Thirst follows, an agony equal to the hunger;

  His blood burns hotly, fiery torches

  Dry his veins; he stands demented

  Straining to reach the running river

  Close at his side; at once the water

  Turns and deserts its empty channel,

  Runs from him as he tries to follow,

  Leaving, where once a torrent sped,

  Dust for his drink from its deep bed.

  ACT TWO

  Atreus, Minister

  ATREUS: A
m I a coward, sluggard, impotent,

  And – what I count the worst of weaknesses

  In a successful king – still unavenged?

  After so many crimes, so many sleights

  Committed on me by that miscreant brother

  In violation of all sacred law,

  Is there no more to do but make vain protests?

  Is this your anger, Atreus? All the world

  By now should be resounding to your arms,

  The sea to east and west bearing your fleets;

  Fire should be blazing over field and city,

  The glint of naked sword on every side.

  The thunder of our horsemen must be heard

  On every quarter of the Argive land.

  The woods must give the enemy no cover,

  The mountain tops no site for fortresses.

  The people of Mycenae, man by man,

  Must take the field and sound the trump of war.

  And be it known that whosoever here

  Protects or shelters our detested foe,

  His penalty is ignominious death.

  Ay, may this mighty house of noble Pelops

  Fall even on my head, if in its fall

  It crush my brother too. Awake, my heart,

  And do such deeds as in the time to come

  No tongue shall praise, but none refuse to tell.

  Some black and bloody deed must be attempted,

  Such as my brother might have wished were his.

  You cannot say you have avenged a crime

  Unless you better it.1 But how to find

  An act of vengeance terrible enough

  To bring him down? Is he resigned or cowed?

  Is he a man to celebrate success

  With modesty, or calmly brook eclipse?

  Not he; I know that man’s rebellious temper;

  Nothing will move him; but he can be broken.

  Therefore, before he can collect his forces

  Or steel his courage, I shall go for him,

  Not let him come for me, and find me resting.

  Let him destroy me now or be destroyed;

  The gage of action lies upon the field

  For him to seize who can be quick to take it.

  MINISTER: You do not fear your people’s disapproval?

  ATREUS: Of the advantages of monarchy

  The greatest is that subjects are compelled

  Not only to endure but to approve

  Their master’s actions.