Four Tragedies and Octavia

by Seneca

  To put fresh heart into the conquered Trojans,

  Doubtful unrest and a precarious truce

  Remain to plague the Greeks; fear at their backs

  Will never let them lay their weapons down.

  ANDROMACHE: Is this the teaching of your prophet Calchas?

  ULYSSES: Without the teaching of our prophet Calchas,

  We heard as much from Hector; and his power

  To terrify lives in his son; true stock

  Grows in the likeness of its ancestors.

  You’ll see a young calf running with the herd,

  Before his horns have sprouted, and tomorrow,

  With neck upreared and head held high, he’s king

  And leader in his father’s place. A sapling

  Sprung from a broken trunk grows up in no time

  Tall as its parent, spreading a canopy

  Across the sky and throwing shade on earth.

  The embers of a dead fire, carelessly

  Left unquenched, will spring to life again.

  I know that grief is no impartial judge;

  But if you weigh the matter honestly,

  You cannot find it in your heart to blame

  The veteran of ten winters and ten summers

  Who dreads more war, new battles, and a Troy

  Not laid to rest for good. A future Hector –

  That is the one great bugbear of the Greeks.

  You must relieve them of that fear. Our ships

  Are at the water’s edge; only one thing

  Delays their sailing; for this cause alone

  The whole fleet waits. Pray do not think me heartless,

  For coming to demand the son of Hector;

  The lot fell upon me; I would as soon

  Have gone to fetch Orestes. Will you not bear

  The same loss that your conqueror had to bear?1

  ANDROMACHE: Alas, my son, if only you were now

  Within your mother’s reach – if I could know

  Where you are now, or what has happened to you

  Since you were stolen from me! Nothing now

  Can turn me from a mother’s duty – no,

  Not though my breast were pierced with enemy spears,

  My hands bound fast with searing chains, my body

  Enclosed in hottest fire. My son, where are you?

  What fate has come upon you? Are you wandering

  Lost in the countryside? Or have you perished

  In the vast conflagration of our home?

  Has some brute victor gloated in his triumph

  Over your blood? Has some wild beast devoured you

  And left your mangled corpse as carrion

  For birds of Ida?

  ULYSSES: Let us have no lies.

  You cannot easily deceive Ulysses.

  I have outwitted mothers’ stratagems –

  And goddesses’ too – ere now. Give up these tricks.

  Where is your son?

  ANDROMACHE: Ay, where is Hector? Where

  Is Priam? Where are all the Trojan dead?

  You ask for one; I ask, where are they all?

  ULYSSES: Then, if not willingly, under compulsion

  You shall be made to speak.

  ANDROMACHE: Nothing can harm

  One who can die, must die, and longs to die.

  ULYSSES: A nearer sight of death can stop proud mouths.

  ANDROMACHE: If you would rule Andromache by fear,

  Deny her death, not life: death is my prayer.

  ULYSSES: Then let us have the scourge, and fire, and torture

  Of every kind, till suffering compels you

  To tell the truth which you are trying to hide.

  Pain will dig out the secrets of your heart.

  Necessity can master mother-love.

  ANDROMACHE: Show me your fire, your scourge, your instruments

  Of foulest torture – hunger, raging thirst,

  All pains there are, swords in this flesh, a prison’s

  Rank darkness – all that rage, and fear, can dare!

  ULYSSES: Vain hope – to hide what you must soon reveal.

  ANDROMACHE: A mother on her mettle knows no fear.

  ULYSSES: You take your proud stand on a parent’s love;

  That same love, let me tell you, prompts us Greeks

  To guard our children too. After ten years

  Of weary war, ten years away from home,

  I should be less alarmed by Calchas’ warnings

  If only for myself I feared the outcome;

  But this means war for my Telemachus.

  ANDROMACHE: Then here is good news for the Greeks, Ulysses;

  Give it I must, though much against my will.

  Grief can no longer keep her burden secret.

  The sons of Atreus shall rejoice; and you,

  The Greeks’ familiar messenger of joy,

  Tell the glad tidings: Hector’s son is dead.

  ULYSSES: Can they believe it true – upon your oath?

  ANDROMACHE: Yes. As I pray for every penalty

  My conqueror can exact, and that my death

  May be an easy one, my body lie

  Buried in my own land, and that the soil

  Of his own land lie light on Hector’s head –

  So do I take my oath my son is lost

  To the light of day and lies among the dead,

  Entombed with all the obsequies of death.

  ULYSSES: Then Fate is satisfied, the seed of Hector

  Exterminated, peace secured for ever.

  I shall be glad to tell the Greeks this news….

  But wait – Ulysses may convince the Greeks;

  What is convincing him? A mother’s word?

  Yet it were strange a mother should invent

  So sad a story and not fear to speak

  The ominous word of death. Omens are real

  To those who have no worse to fear. This woman

  Has sworn an oath that all she says is true;

  If she is not afraid of perjury,

  She must have something worse to fear – but what?

  Now is the time for all your art, my man;

  Now use your craft and skill, now show yourself

  The real Ulysses. Truth cannot be lost.

  Observe that mother carefully; she mourns,

  She weeps and groans; and see how restlessly

  She moves this way and that, paying attention

  With anxious ears to any passing word.

  That means she’s more afraid than sorrowful.

  I must be artful with her….

  Madam,

  Most times it would be proper to console

  A sorrowing parent’s grief. But you, poor mother,

  Must be called happy that you have no son.

  He was to die a cruel death – thrown headlong

  From yonder tower, the only one remaining

  Upright amid the ruins of your city.

  ANDROMACHE: My limbs grow weak and shiver; heart fails;

  My blood is cold as ice….

  ULYSSES: Yes, she is frightened.

  This is the clue that I must follow, fear

  Reveals the mother’s guile; she must fear more….

  Away, men, quickly! Find this enemy

  Cunningly hidden from us by his mother,

  This final menace to our nation. Find him

  And dig him out, wherever his covert is,

  And bring him here to us.… You’ve caught him? Good!

  Let’s have him here at once!…

  You tremble?

  You looked that way? Surely the boy is dead?

  ANDROMACHE: Would that I still had any cause to tremble!

  Only long habit now makes me afraid;

  Old lessons are not easily forgotten.

  ULYSSES: So – since it seems the sacrificial rite

  Owed to these walls has been anticipated,

  Since the poor child has met a kindlier fate

  And
cannot now obey our prophet’s orders,

  This is what Calchas further asks: that we,

  To obtain a blessing for our home-going ships,

  Shall be allowed to pull down Hector’s tomb

  From top to bottom, and disperse his ashes

  Over the sea. The boy has cheated us

  Of his appointed death; we must lay hands

  Upon this sacred resting-place.

  ANDROMACHE [aside]: Alas,

  What can I do? Two fears divide my heart –

  Fear for my son, and for the hallowed dust

  Of my lost husband. Which will be the stronger?

  Hear me, ye pitiless gods – and hear me, husband’s

  Dear soul, now verily among the gods –

  All that I love in my dear son is Hector.

  O let him live, that I may see again

  My Hector’s face!… Yet must I see your ashes

  Dug from the grave and drowned? Your broken bones

  Flung piecemeal on the ocean?… Rather than that,

  Let the child die. Am I his mother, then,

  And can I see him sent to infamous death?

  Am I to see him tossed from that high tower?

  Yes, I shall bear it; I shall have the strength

  To bear it – but not see my Hector’s bones

  Ill-treated by his conquerors.… And yet

  He is now safe in the hands of Fate – the other

  Can still feel pain.… One must be saved – ah, which? –

  You must decide. Can there be any doubt

  Where duty lies? Hector, your husband, calls.…

  Nay, you are wrong; there are two Hectors here;

  And one of them still breathes, and still may live

  To avenge his father’s death. Save both, you cannot.

  It must be one of them. Then, O my soul,

  Let him be saved, who is the Argive fear.

  ULYSSES: I shall obey the order of the prophet

  And have this tomb destroyed.

  ANDROMACHE: Have we not paid

  A ransom for the tomb?

  ULYSSES: Still I shall do it;

  We’ll have the sepulchre thrown down and dragged

  From its high mound.

  ANDROMACHE: O heaven’s powers, protect us!

  Achilles, keep your word! Pyrrhus, defend

  Your father’s gift!

  ULYSSES: This monument will soon

  Be levelled to the ground.

  ANDROMACHE: Worse sacrilege

  Than any yet committed by the Greeks.

  Temples you have despoiled, even of gods

  That served your purpose, but your violence

  Has spared the dead. I will not let you do it;

  Armed though you are, I’ll fight you with bare hands;

  Passion will give me strength. If Amazons

  Could quell your troops of Argives; if a Maenad

  Could march out in her madness, god-possessed,

  Armed with a thyrsus, to amaze the woodlands

  And strike, with power she never knew was hers,

  And never feel a wound herself; so I

  Will charge into the battle to defend

  This sepulchre and die beside its dust.

  ULYSSES: What are you waiting for, men? Do you fear A woman’s angry cries and useless rage?

  Do as I tell you instantly.

  ANDROMACHE: No, no!

  Destroy me rather with your swords, here, here!…

  O Hector, Hector, break your prison of death!

  Throw off the earth and overpower Ulysses!

  Your ghost has power enough. Greeks, do you see him?

  Do you see Hector now, the sword he grasps,

  The firebrands whirling? Does none see him but I?

  ULYSSES: Down with it all to the ground.

  ANDROMACHE: Have you the heart

  To bury son and husband in one ruin?

  Could you not ask the Greeks for mercy? Oh!

  The tomb’s huge weight will crush the one within!

  Oh let him die, poor child, as best he can,

  In any place but this – let not the son

  Be crushed beneath his father’s bones, or father

  Be bruised beneath the son!

  Here at your knees,

  I fall to pray, Ulysses; at your feet

  My hand, that has touched no man’s feet before.

  Have pity for a mother; hear her prayers

  With patience and with kindness; as the gods

  Have raised you up, so the more gently lay

  Your hand upon the fallen. What charity

  You lend to the unfortunate, you lend

  To your own fortune. Therefore, as you pray

  For safe return to your own chaste wife’s bed;

  As for your aged father’s life you pray,

  That he may live to have you home again;

  And for your son, that he may take your place,

  Exceeding all your hopes in grace and nature,

  Older than any of his ancestors,

  And greater than his father; so have pity,

  Have pity on a mother: nothing else

  Remains to comfort me in my affliction.

  ULYSSES: Show us your son – then let us hear your prayers.

  ANDROMACHE: Come from your hiding-place.…

  Poor little thing, that your fond mother

  Tried to steal away.…

  He is here, you see, Ulysses –

  The bane of your thousand ships.…

  Offer your hand.

  Kneel at your master’s feet;

  Touch them and worship him.

  You need not be ashamed to accept what Fate

  Puts upon the unfortunate.

  You may think no longer now

  Of your royal ancestors,

  Forget your grandfather’s domain

  Of all the world.

  Put Hector out of mind.

  Play now the prisoner’s part

  On bended knee.

  And weep – though your own fate

  Be not yet real to you –

  Weep, child,

  As you see your mother weep.…

  An earlier Troy once saw a child,

  A king, in tears; when the young Priam

  Made Hercules relent from cruelty.

  There was that angry man, whose strength

  Could overpower any beast,

  Who broke into the doors of death

  And found a way back from the dark –

  Yet one small enemy’s tears defeated him.

  ‘Take up the reins, my boy,’ he said.

  ‘Sit in your father’s place: be king;

  And be a better king.’ So was it

  To be in that man’s power.

  The lenient ire of Hercules

  Should be your lesson;

  Or is it only his armed strength

  You look for now?

  You have a suppliant at your feet

  As worthy as his ancestor,

  And for his life he pleads.

  As for the throne of Troy, with that let Fortune

  Do what she will.

  ULYSSES: I am not deaf to a grieved mother’s plea;

  But all the mothers of Greece concern me more.

  With that child’s life great grief must grow for them.

  ANDROMACHE: You think that he will bring to life again

  All this – this smoking ruin of a city?

  Will his two hands rebuild the towers of Troy?

  If that is Troy’s one hope, she has no hope.

  Troy, fallen as she is, can never be

  A Troy which any man can fear again.

  You think his father’s courage will inspire

  This child? A father tumbled in the dust!

  And even had he lived, the end of Troy

  Would soon have quenched that courage; no man’s courage

  Outlives defeat. If we must pay the debt,

  What greater price
can you demand but this –

  The yoke of service on his royal neck;

  Make him your slave; can that be too much mercy

  For royalty to ask?

  ULYSSES: Not from Ulysses;

  But it is more than Calchas will allow.

  ANDROMACHE: O arch-contriver of deceit and crime!

  Whose open valour never killed a foe;

  Whose cunning wiles have been the cause of death

  To your own people. Now you put the blame

  Upon the prophet and the innocent gods?

  Not so, this outrage is your own invention.

  The famous fighter in the dark has found

  Courage to dare a deed alone in daylight –

  Courage enough to kill a child.

  ULYSSES: The Greeks

  Know all about the courage of Ulysses,

  And Trojans more than enough. But time is short;

  We cannot spend the whole day bandying words;

  Our anchors are aweigh; we must be gone.

  ANDROMACHE: Yet grant me just a little time, to pay

  A mother’s last attentions to her son –

  One last embrace to fill my hungry grief.

  ULYSSES: I only wish I could have mercy on you;

  But yet, as much as is within my duty

  I can allow, a few more moments’ grace.

  Make what lament you wish; it lightens sorrow.

  ANDROMACHE: Alas, beloved treasure of our house

  That is no more, last of the Trojan dead,

  The dreaded enemy of Greeks, my own

  Last hope now lost – ah, how I fondly prayed

  Your fame might be the equal of your father’s

  In deeds of war, your years of life be long

  As your grandfather’s. God has refused those prayers.

  You should have been the holder of the sceptre,

  King in Troy’s royal hall; you should have been

  The people’s lawgiver, and conqueror

  Of nations; should have scourged the flying Greeks

  And dragged the corpse of Pyrrhus in the dust.

  That cannot be. Now we shall never see

  Your little hand holding a little weapon,

  As you join bravely in the hunt for beasts

  Across the glades; no solemn feast days now

  Will see you riding in the Trojan Games, 1

  Prince of our youth, leading the flying squadrons.

  There’ll be no dancing in the age-old rites

  Around our altars, no more nimble leaping

  When the wild music of curved horns salutes

  Our Trojan temples. Ah, what a death, more cruel

  Than any stroke of Mars! A scene more tragic

  Than our great Hector’s death these walls must watch.

  ULYSSES: Now, mother, it is time to check these tears;