Four Tragedies and Octavia

by Seneca

  We must revive her first. No, let her hair,

  Torn and disordered, stay as it is, for proof

  Of the terrible thing she has suffered. Carry her

  Indoors.… Come back to life, dear mistress.… Nay,

  You need not beat your breast, and turn away

  As if to avoid our eyes; an accident

  Cannot stain innocence, without intention.

  CHORUS

  Swift was his flight as the wildest gale,

  Swifter than Corus cloud-compelling,

  Swifter than flames of fire that stream

  From a star that flies before the wind.

  What though thy beauty, youth, be set beside all

  Beauty of ancient time in fame’s account, where

  Olden days are remembered; all the brighter

  Then shall thy beauty seem; never so brightly

  Shines the full-circled moon, her crescent closing

  Into an orb of fire, her chariot speeding

  Through the long night, when Phoebe’s face resplendent

  Dims every smaller star. The star of evening,

  Hesperus, has such grace, bringing the darkness

  At the approach of night, up from his sea-bath

  Rising refreshed; so beautiful is the Day Star

  ’Ending the darkness.

  Bacchus, from India thyrsus-dancing,

  Ageless for ever, hair unshorn,

  A vine-leaf wand thy tiger-tamer,

  Thy horned head delicately turbaned –

  Nothing hast thou more beautiful

  Than the crisp curls of young Hippolytus.

  What is thy beauty worth? All the world knows

  Whom Phaedra’s sister loved, who loved not thee.1

  O beauty, but a dubious boon

  Art thou to man, brief gift of little stay,

  Lent for a while and all too soon

  Passing away…

  Passing… as the fields’ spring glory

  Fades in the summer’s heat, when fiercely

  Burns the high sun at noon, when night’s

  Wheels roll too rapidly. As lilies

  Languish and their leaves grow pale,

  The head must lose the glory of its hair,

  The glowing cheek of youth

  Be ravaged by the hand of time.

  Each day that passes takes its toll

  Of body’s beauty. Beauty cannot stay;

  Would any wise man trust so frail a thing?

  Then use it while you may.

  Time is the enemy, silently

  Working beneath; worse after worse,

  Hour follows hour away.

  And would you fly to empty places?

  Beauty will be no safer there,

  Where few feet walk. Hide in the forest,

  And at high noon a wanton rout

  Of sporting Naiads will surround you;

  Such as trap comely youths in rivers;1

  Dryads, who chase the woodland Pans,

  Will lie in wait to wake your slumbers.

  Or else the Moon, whose birth

  The old Arcadians saw, older than she,

  Will spy you from her starry height

  And leave her chariot of light

  To run untended.2 Did we not see her blush

  A while ago? Yet there was no dull cloud

  Veiling her face. We were alarmed to see

  Our lady thus disturbed; we thought

  Thessalian spells had been at work

  To draw her down; we beat our gongs;

  And it was you she pined for, you

  That stopped the Moon; to look on you

  The goddess of the night had paused in her career.

  Ah, would you spare that face from winter’s frost,

  Let it less often greet the summer’s sun,

  Purer than Parian marble then

  Would be its loveliness. That firm,

  That manly bearing – what a grace is there,

  What grave old wisdom in that solemn brow!

  That neck is not less lovely than Apollo’s,

  Whose flowing tresses, unconfined,

  Flow down, as robe and ornament,

  Over his shoulders; yet your rougher crown

  Of short and tousled hair becomes you well.

  There is no god so brutal, so ferocious,

  But you would be a match for him, so great

  Your strength, your body’s bulk. Young still,

  You have a broader chest than warring Mars

  And arms like Hercules.

  If you should choose to ride,

  You’d show a defter hand upon the rein

  Than Castor’s, mastering his Spartan Cyllarus.1

  Finger a bowstring, draw with all your might,

  Your shaft will surely fly

  Farther than the most expert Cretan archer

  Can shoot his slender reed;

  Or, like the Parthian, shoot your arrows high

  Into the air; not one will fail

  To bring a bird down; every one

  Will find its mark in living flesh

  And snatch its prize out of the sky.

  Rare is the man – look in the roll of time –

  To whom great beauty has not been great cost.

  May kind gods spare you, that your beauty live

  To pass into the house of age

  Where at the end all beauty must be lost.

  ACT THREE

  Nurse, Theseus, Phaedra

  CHORUS: Is there no end to the audacity

  Of an impetuous woman, crazed with passion?

  The youth is guiltless and the queen intends

  To charge him with a heinous crime. What infamy!

  For evidence she’ll show her tangled hair,

  Her tear-stained face, her whole head’s beauty marred.

  She has her plot prepared by every art

  Known to her sex.…

  But who is this that comes,

  With kingly mien and head borne high? His face

  Is like the face of young Peirithous,

  But for the bloodless pallor of his cheeks,

  And the unsightly hair, matted and stiff.

  Theseus it is! He has returned to earth!…

  THESEUS: From my long sojourn in eternal night’s

  Dark universe, the spacious prison-house

  Of souls departed, now at last escaped

  I scarce know how to suffer with my eyes

  This long-desired light. Four years of harvest

  Triptolemus1 has granted to Eleusis –

  Four equinoxes under Libra passed,

  While I have been held captive by a task

  Of strange necessity and doubtful issue,

  Bearing the pains of death and life at once;

  For, being as dead, I still retained of life

  The sense of suffering. I owe my freedom

  To Hercules, who brought me back to earth

  When he returned with the dog Cerberus

  Captured and carried off from hell. But now

  My strength is spent, my former powers exhausted,

  My steps unsteady. A laborious journey

  It was indeed, from Phlegethon below

  To this world far above – running from death

  And following Hercules.

  But what is this?

  Do I hear cries of lamentation? What?

  Who can tell me? Can there be grief and sorrow

  And tears to meet me at my door? Fit welcome,

  In truth it may be, for a guest from hell.

  NURSE: Phaedra your wife is fixed in her resolve

  To die; she will not listen to our tears;

  She is at the door of death.

  THESEUS: Why, for what cause?

  Why should she die? Her husband has come home.

  NURSE: The very reason hastening her death.

  THESEUS: That riddle must contain some serious matter,

  Speak out, and tell me what it i
s that ails her.

  NURSE: She will tell no one. Secretly she grieves;

  Whatever pain is driving her to death,

  She means to take it with her. Come, sir, come;

  There is no time to lose.

  THESEUS: Unbar the doors

  Of the royal house.

  [Doors are opened and Phaedra is seen]

  Dear consort of my bed,

  Is this your welcome for your lord’s return,

  Your greeting to your long-awaited husband?

  Put down that sword! Allay my fears. Tell me

  What trouble drives you to escape from life.

  PHAEDRA: Ah, noble Theseus – by your royal sceptre,

  Your living children, and your life restored,

  And by my body that shall soon be ashes –

  Do not forbid my death.

  THESEUS: Why must you die?

  PHAEDRA: To tell the cause is to destroy the purpose.

  THESEUS: No one shall hear your reason, but myself.

  PHAEDRA: Chaste wives least trust their secrets to their husbands.

  THESEUS: Your secret will be safe with me; speak out.

  PHAEDRA: A secret is best kept when shared with no one.

  THESEUS: We shall protect you from all means of death.

  PHAEDRA: Death cannot hide from one who means to die.

  THESEUS: Is it to expiate some sin? What sin?

  PHAEDRA: My being alive.

  THESEUS: Are my tears nothing to you?

  PHAEDRA: To die lamented is to die content.

  THESEUS: Nothing will move her silence. The old nurse

  Shall tell – we’ll have her bound and scourged

  Till she reveal all that my wife withholds.

  Put chains upon her! See if the whip will draw

  The secret out of her.

  PHAEDRA: No! I will tell you.

  THESEUS: Well?… Can you only turn your face away

  So woebegone… hiding under your sleeve

  The tears that now begin to flood your cheeks?

  PHAEDRA: O be my witness, God, Creator, Father

  Of all the gods in heaven! And Thou, bright flame

  Of heavenly light, progenitor of my house!

  Besieged with pleadings, I resisted them;

  Threatened with swords, my will was never weakened;

  Yet violence was used upon my body.

  For this, my blood must wash my honour clean.

  THESEUS: Tell me, what man has stolen my good name?

  PHAEDRA: The last whom you would think of.

  THESEUS: I must know.

  PHAEDRA: Learn from this sword, which the adulterer

  Left, in alarm, fearing a hue and cry.

  THESEUS: O God, what crime, what monstrous villainy

  This shows me! In this polished ivory hilt

  The intricate engraved designs proclaim

  The rank of the Athenian royal house.…

  Which way did he escape?

  PHAEDRA: These servants saw him

  Running away as quickly as he could

  In great alarm.

  THESEUS: By all the sanctity

  Of human faith, by Him who rules the heavens,

  And Him who moves the seas, the second realm –

  Whence came this foul infection, this corruption

  Into our blood? Could this man have been bred

  On Grecian soil, or in the Scythian Taurus,

  The Colchian Phasis? Every stock returns

  To its ancestral type, degenerate blood

  Retains the nature of its primal source.

  This is that warrior people’s native1 vice –

  To abrogate legitimate love, and sell

  Chaste women’s bodies in the public market.

  Vile race, that never bowed to the control

  Of more enlightened laws! Even the beasts

  Abhor forbidden union, instinct teaches

  Proper respect for laws of generation.

  So much for that cold look, that mask of gravity!

  That uncouth style of dress, that affectation

  Of old time-honoured ways, modest behaviour

  And stern rigidity of character!

  O base deceit, keeping true feelings close –

  Fair face without, and foul intent within!

  Lechery masked by modesty, assurance

  Cloaked by reserve, sin screened by sanctity!

  Liars praise truth, and weaklings feign endurance!

  Was it for me, you wild man of the woods,

  With your untouched, untamed virginity –

  Was it for me your first assault was destined?

  Was it my bed you chose, so impiously,

  For this inauguration of your manhood?

  How gladly now I thank the heavenly gods

  That I had put Antiope to death

  With my own hand, and did not leave her here,

  Your mother, at your mercy, while I travelled

  Down to the Stygian pit. Escape me, will you,

  And flee to distant lands unknown to man?

  Take refuge, if you will, beyond the Ocean

  At earth’s extremest edge; go and inhabit

  Worlds that lie upside-down beneath our feet;

  Traverse the perilous tracts of arctic north

  And hide in its remotest wastes; outrun

  The reach of winter, pass the bounds of snow,

  Leave the loud wrath of Boreas behind,

  Fly faster than his ice-cold breath can follow –

  Yet you shall pay for your iniquities.

  Run where you may, I shall be on your heels;

  Hide anywhere, and I shall hunt you down.

  No place can be so far, so closed, so private,

  So unexplored, so inaccessible –

  We shall explore it. Nothing shall bar our way;

  You know where I have lately been. If weapons

  Cannot be aimed at you, my curses can

  And will be. Neptune granted me, his son,

  Three prayers which he would honour, and by oath

  Upon the name of Styx confirmed his promise.

  Fulfil it now, great Ruler of the Sea!

  Unwelcome though it be, grant me this boon:

  Grant that the day shall never dawn again

  Upon Hippolytus; let my young son

  Go down to meet his father’s enemies

  The spirits of the dead. To me, thy son,

  O father, render this abhorrent service,

  This last of thy three promised gifts; which I

  Would not have claimed, but for the hateful need

  Which now compels me. I forebore to claim it

  Even when I was in the pit of hell,

  Braving the wrath of Dis and the dread hand

  Of the infernal king. Can you refuse,

  O father, now to make your promise good?…

  Not yet? Is there no sound upon the waters?

  Summon the winds, and cover up the night

  With black clouds; pluck the stars, the sky, away;

  Empty the sea, fetching from farthest Ocean

  The billowy multitudes at thy command!

  CHORUS

  O Nature, whence all gods proceed;

  And Thou, King of Olympian light,

  Whose hand makes stars and planets speed

  Round the high axis of the night:

  If thou canst guide with ceaseless care

  The heavenly bodies in their train,

  To make the woods in winter bare

  And in the springtime green again,

  Until the summer’s Lion burns

  To bring the ripening seed to birth

  And every force of nature turns

  To gentleness upon the earth –

  Why, if such power is in thy hand

  To balance by an ordered plan

  The mass of things, why dost thou stand

  So far from the affairs of man?

  Thou dost not care to he
lp the good

  Nor punish men of evil mind.

  Man lives by chance, to Fate subdued,

  And evil thrives, for Fate is blind.

  Vile lust has banished purity,

  Vice sits enthroned in royal state;

  Mobs give to knaves authority

  And serve them even while they hate.

  Poor is the prize sour virtue gains,

  Want lies in wait for honesty,

  Sin reigns supreme. What good remains

  In shame, what worth in dignity?

  ACT FOUR

  Messenger, Theseus

  CHORUS: Why does a messenger come hurrying hither

  With tears of sorrow watering his cheeks?

  MESSENGER: A hard and cruel fate is mine, heavy

  The burden of my service. Why was I

  Chosen to bring the news I dare not tell?

  THESEUS: Speak out, and have no fear; tell all the worst

  That has befallen us. I am prepared.

  MESSENGER: My tongue wants words to tell this grievous woe.

  THESEUS: Say what last stroke has crushed our fallen house.

  MESSENGER: Weep for Hippolytus, for he is dead!

  THESEUS: My son is dead, I knew already; now

  A miscreant has died. Say how he died.

  MESSENGER: With desperate steps he hurried from the town

  As fast as any way could take him. Quickly

  He yoked his restive steeds and bridled them

  With buckled curbs. Then, muttering all the while,

  Cursing his native land, and crying aloud

  His father’s name, wildly he drove away,

  With flying reins and whirling lash. At once

  A peal of thunder broke across the sea,

  Which rose to meet the stars. No wind disturbed

  The salty surface, the untroubled sky

  Uttered no sound; the storm that shook the sea,

  So calm till then, was native to itself,

  But fiercer than the rage of southern Auster

  Lashing the straits of Sicily; and wilder

  Than the Ionian waters tossing high

  When northern Corus reigns, when rocks are shaken

  By mighty billows, and the head of Leucas

  Whitened by the spray. The whole great main

  Was piled into a towering mass; the ocean,

  Big-bellied with a monster, rolled to land.

  This was no ship-destroying cataclysm,

  Its fury was directed at the shores,

  Whereon the waves came tumbling thick and fast.

  And what was this strange burden that the tide

  Bore in its swelling womb? Was some new island

  Raising its head to light? Was this the birth