Four Tragedies and Octavia

by Seneca

Or halts, a pitiful throng, where the seven gates

  Are not enough for the grave-bound multitude,

  Till there stands a mounting pile of death, funeral jostling funeral.

  The pestilence struck first at the slow-footed sheep;

  There was death in the ripe grass on which they grazed.

  A priest stood ready to sever a victim’s neck;

  His hand was raised to strike unerringly,

  When the bull, his horns a-glitter with gold, sank limply to the ground.

  When its throat was opened with a heavy axe, there was no blood;

  Only a noisome ooze from the black gash left its mark on the blade.

  A race-horse faltered and fell, in the middle of the course,

  Throwing its rider over its bowed shoulders.

  Out in the fields the cattle lie abandoned,

  A whole herd dying and their bull’s strength ebbing away.

  There is no herdsman to tend what is left of the stock;

  He has lain down to die among the sick animals.

  Wolves no longer hold any terror for the stags;

  The angry lion’s roar is no longer heard;

  The shaggy bear has no spirit for the fight.

  The serpent in the grass is powerless,

  His venom lost, dried up in his shrivelled skin.

  The woods, whose leafy heads should be throwing deep shadows across the hills,

  Are gone; gone is the rich green carpet of the country-side;

  Gone is the vine that was bent with fullness of the gift of Bacchus.

  There is nothing on which our pestilence has not fallen.

  Out of the depths of Erebus their prison

  The Furies have rushed upon us with the fire of hell.

  Phlegethon, River of Fire, has burst his banks,

  The River of Hades is mingled with the River of Cadmus.

  Black Death has opened his ravenous mouth to devour us;

  His mighty wings are spread to cover us.

  And the guardian of the angry waters, with his boat that takes all in –

  Even he, the indefatigable age-old ferryman,

  Is almost weary of pulling at his never-resting oar,

  For ever carrying fresh multitudes across the river.

  Some say the Hound of Hell has broken his iron chains

  And is at large in our land; that the earth has roared.

  Phantoms, of more than human size, have been seen in the woods;

  Twice the forest of Thebes has been shaken, its snow scattered to the ground;

  Twice the River of Dirce has boiled with blood;

  The silence of night has been broken by the baying of Actaeon’s hounds.

  Strange and terrible forms of death we have seen,

  Symptoms more painful than the death itself.

  Slow torpor paralyses the helpless limbs,

  The face is flushed, or lightly marked with spots;

  A fiery vapour burns in the temple of the body

  And causes the cheeks to swell with blood; eyes stare,

  And the demon fire eats away the flesh.

  There is ringing in the ears, dark blood

  Breaking the veins and welling from the pinched nostrils;

  Often a strident groan racking the body to its centre.

  Sometimes they desperately clutch and embrace cold stones;

  Yes, and some of you I have seen,

  When your guardian himself has collapsed and the house is your own,

  Rush out to a well to assuage your thirst with draughts of water.

  Multitudes kneel at the altars, praying for death –

  The only prayer the gods are quick to answer.

  They crowd to the temples – not to pray for mercy,

  But in very haste to offer up their lives

  To feed the insatiable gods.

  But who comes here, hurrying towards the palace?1

  Is it the noble and gallant Creon? Or is it

  Another delusion of our tormented minds?…

  It is Creon, returned in answer to all our prayers.

  ACT TWO

  Oedipus, Creon, Tiresias, Manto

  OEDIPUS: Fear makes me tremble; to what end does fate

  Now point? Conflicting thoughts divide my heart.

  When good and evil lie so close together,

  The doubting mind must fear the truth it seeks.…

  Brother of my wife, if you have help for us

  In our afflictions, speak without delay.

  CREON: Dark and uncertain is the oracle.

  OEDIPUS: Uncertain help is none, to those in peril.

  CREON: It is the custom of the Delphic god

  To wrap his secrets up in dark enigmas.

  OEDIPUS: Say what you heard; however dark it be,

  Oedipus is the man for solving riddles.

  CREON: The god’s instruction is that we avenge

  The murdered king; let banishment atone

  For Laius’s death; not until that is done

  Will day once more ride brightly in the sky

  Or the world’s air be clean and safe to breathe.

  OEDIPUS: Who was he, then? Who killed the noble king?

  Does Phoebus name him? Tell us, and he shall pay.

  CREON: God grant it may not be a sin to tell

  What dreadful things I have both seen and heard.

  My blood runs cold; I am still numb with horror.…

  Humbly I entered Phoebus’ holy shrine;

  And as I raised my hands in the due rite

  Of supplication to the deity,

  The twin peaks of Parnassus, white with snow,

  Gave out an angry roar. The laurel grove

  Rustled its leaves, and swayed above my head;

  The sacred spring Castalia ceased to flow.

  Apollo’s priestess shook her flying hair,

  Entranced in the possession of the god;

  Before she had approached the cave, loud sounds

  Had rent the air above us, and a voice,

  Louder than any human voice, thus spoke:

  ‘Kind stars shall shine again on Cadmus’s city

  When he that is her guest, the fugitive,

  Is seen no more upon the banks of Dirce;

  King’s murderer is he, known to Apollo

  From the hour of his birth. Thy glory, murderer,

  Shall not be long; with thee thou shalt bring war,

  And war shalt leave to thy posterity,

  In sin returning to thy mother’s womb.’

  OEDIPUS: I am ready to obey the god’s command

  And do what should already have been done

  For the departed king’s remains; who knows

  What treacherous hands might not have dared to touch

  This holy sceptre? Who, if not a king,

  Should guard a king? Dead men get no respect

  From those who feared them in their lives.

  CREON: Worse fears

  Made us forget our duty to the dead.

  OEDIPUS: What fear could keep you from your pious duties?

  CREON: Fear of the Sphinx and her dread voice of doom.

  OEDIPUS: Now for this crime atonement shall be made

  As heaven commands. We pray to every god

  That looks with favour upon royalty:

  Thou, giver of laws to the high heavens, and Thou,

  Great glory of the shining universe,

  Thou ruler of the twelve signs in their courses,

  Whose swiftly moving chariot measures out

  The long procession of the centuries;

  Thou, sister Phoebe, following by night

  Thy brother’s footsteps; Thou, lord of the winds,

  Driving thy sea-green steeds across the deep;

  Thou, governor of the house of darkness – hear us!

  Grant that the man whose hand slew Laius

  May find no rest, no home, no friendly hearth,

  No hospitable land to shield his exile;
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  Marriage unclean and misbegotten sons

  Darken his days; may he with his own hand

  Shed his own father’s blood; may he commit –

  The worst that can be wished for him – the crimes

  That I have fled from. He shall find no pardon;

  I swear it by the throne to which, a stranger,

  I have but now succeeded, and by that

  Which I have left behind me; by the gods

  With whom I dwelt; by Neptune’s parted seas

  That lightly wash the two coasts of my country.

  Be Thou my witness too, at whose command

  The priestess speaks the oracles of Cirrha:1

  As I for my own father make this prayer,

  That peace be with him in his lengthening years,

  That he may reign secure on his high throne

  Until his life’s last day; that Merope

  May ever be his wife and his alone;

  So do I swear that no reprieve of mine

  Shall ever save the culprit from my hands.

  But do you know where the foul deed was done?

  How was he slain? Was it in open fight

  Or by some treacherous plot?

  CREON: While on his way

  Towards the groves of the Castalian shrine,

  He rode along a thickly wooded path

  Near to the place at which the road divides

  Into three ways across the plain. The first

  Runs into Phocis,1 land beloved by Bacchus,

  From which Parnassus rises from the fields

  Into a gentle slope, until it soars

  Sky-high with double peak. The second road2

  Leads to the land of Sisyphus that lies

  Between two seas, and on to Olenus.

  The third winds through a pass by straggling pools

  To ford the cold Ilissos.3 At this point,

  Fearing no danger in a time of peace,

  The king was ambushed by a band of thieves

  Who did the deed, and left no witness to it.…

  Here, opportunely, comes Tiresias,

  Moved by the message of the oracle

  To make what haste his aged feet can manage.

  His daughter Manto guides the blind old man.…

  OEDIPUS: Servant of gods, Apollo’s deputy,

  Expound this oracle, and name the man

  Whose punishment the avenging powers demand.

  TIRESIAS: You must not think it strange, most noble king,

  If I am slow to speak, or ask for time.

  More things are true than a blind man can know.

  But where my country, or where Phoebus, calls me,

  There I will follow. Had I youth and strength,

  I would receive the power of the god

  In my own person; we must find a way

  To probe Fate’s secrets. Let a snow-white bull

  And heifer not yet broken to the yoke

  Be brought before the altars. You, my child,

  Guide to your sightless father, must report

  The indications of the sacrifice

  Which will reveal the future to our eyes.

  [The sacrifice is supposed to proceed]

  MANTO: A perfect victim stands before the altar.

  TIRESIAS: Invoke the gods to witness, in due form;

  Pour oriental incense on the altar.

  MANTO: I have heaped incense on the sacred fire.

  TIRESIAS: How is the flame? Does it consume the banquet?

  MANTO: It blazed up quickly and as quickly died.

  TIRESIAS: Did it stand clear and bright, a single tongue

  Rising until its crest dissolved in air?

  Or does it curl and waver to one side

  Drifting into a scattered cloud of smoke?

  MANTO: It was no single kind of flame, but varied,

  As when a rainbow, shot with many colours,

  Spans with its painted arch a tract of sky

  To warn us of the rain. It would be hard

  To say what colour is or is not there;

  First with a touch of blue, mottled with gold,

  Then red as blood; then dying into blackness.

  But now I see the flame fighting again,

  Dividing into two; one sacrifice

  Becomes two warring fires. O horrible!

  The wine-libation turning into blood.…

  Dense clouds of smoke enveloping the king,

  Settling around his face… the light of day

  Lost in black fog. Father, what does it mean?

  TIRESIAS: What can I say, so many troubled thoughts

  Mazing my mind? I know not which to tell.

  Evil is here, but deeply hidden yet.

  When gods are angry, they are wont to show it

  By no uncertain signs. What can we think

  Of something which they wish to show and yet

  Wish not to show? When they disguise their anger?

  Something is here that shames the gods. Make haste,

  Bring up the victims; let the salted meal

  Be thrown upon their necks. How do they bear

  The touch of hands, the sprinkling of the meal?

  MANTO: The bull has raised its head, and when they placed it

  Facing the east, it seemed to fear the daylight,

  And shied at the sun’s rays.

  TIRESIAS: There – did they fall,

  Each at the first stroke, to the ground?

  MANTO: The heifer

  Breasted the coming stroke; the bull was wounded

  Twice, and is staggering this way and that,

  Weakened, and loth to lose its struggling life.

  TIRESIAS: Does the blood spurt strongly from a little wound,

  Or well up slowly from the deep-cut flesh?

  MANTO: The first is bleeding freely where the wound

  Is open at the breast; the other shows

  Thin smears of blood around the injured parts.

  As if receding from the wounds themselves,

  Dark blood is pouring from the eyes and mouth.

  TIRESIAS: Such evil portents in the sacrifice

  Are greatly to be feared. Tell me what signs

  You see in the entrails.

  MANTO: Father, what is this?

  Instead of gently quivering as they should,

  They make my whole hand shake; there is fresh blood

  Proceeding from the veins. The heart is shrunken,

  Withered, and hardly to be seen; the veins

  Are livid; part of the lungs is missing,

  The liver putrid, oozing with black gall.

  And here – always an omen boding ill

  For monarchy – two heads of swollen flesh

  In equal masses rise, each mass cut off

  And covered with a fine transparent membrane,

  As if refusing to conceal its secret.

  On the ill-omened side the flesh is thick

  And firm, with seven veins, whose backward course

  Is stopped by an obstruction in their way.

  The natural order of the parts is changed,

  The organs all awry and out of place.

  On the right side there is no breathing lung

  Alive with blood, no heart upon the left;

  I find no folds of fat gently enclosing

  The inner organs; womb and genitals

  Are twisted and deformed. And what is this –

  This hard protuberance in the belly? Monstrous!

  A foetus in a virgin heifer’s womb,

  And out of place – a swelling in the body

  Where none should be. It moves its limbs and whimpers

  Twitching convulsively its feeble frame.

  The flesh is blackened with the livid gore.…

  And now the grossly mutilated beasts

  Are trying to move; a gaping trunk rears up

  As if to attack the servers with its horns.…

  The entrails seem to run out
of my hands.

  That sound you hear is not the bellowing

  Of cattle, not the cry of frightened beasts;

  It is the fire that roars upon the altars,

  The hearth itself that quakes.

  OEDIPUS: Now, prophet, tell

  The meaning of the signs that have appeared

  In this most ominous sacrifice; your words

  Will have no terror for my ears.

  In his worst hour a man can be most calm.

  TIRESIAS: You may in time wish to call back again

  This evil hour from which you seek escape.

  OEDIPUS: Tell me the thing the gods would have me know;

  Tell me upon whose hands the king’s blood lies.

  TIRESIAS: Neither the birds which soar into the sky,

  Nor any entrails plucked from living flesh,

  Can now reveal that name. Another way

  Remains for us to try. The king himself

  Must be evoked from everlasting night;

  He must be summoned up from Erebus

  To name his slayer. Earth must be unlocked,

  The unforgiving ruler of the dead

  Must hear our prayers, the people of the Styx

  Must be fetched hither. You must name a man

  To whom this sacred task can be entrusted;

  That you, holding the office of a king,

  Should look upon the dead, our law forbids.

  OEDIPUS: Creon, this task is yours; you are the next,

  After myself, to whom our country turns.

  TIRESIAS: Now, while we go to unlock the prison-gates

  Of the infernal Styx, let all the people sing

  Their hymns of praise to Bacchus.

  CHORUS

  Women, shake loose your hair; let the dangling ivy bind

  Your brows; let the wand of Bacchus wave in your dancing hands.

  Bacchus, bright star of heaven, come,

  Come to your chosen city Thebes,

  Come to the worshippers

  Who lift their suppliant hands to you.

  Show us the light of your pure face;

  Break with your starbright eyes the clouds

  That cover us; banish grim death

  And menacing fate.

  We love your hair with spring flowers crowned,

  Your head with Tyrian turban bound,

  Your smooth brow wreathed with ivy berries,

  Loosed be your locks and flying free

  Or in a knot confined.

  This was the guise in which you grew

  To manhood, when you had to hide

  From Juno’s wrath, with golden hair