Four Tragedies and Octavia

by Seneca

  Mortals on earth, comes from a power above.

  Lachesis measures out the portions

  Spun from her distaff, and no other hand

  Can turn the spindle back.

  All creatures move on their appointed paths;

  In their beginning is their end.

  God cannot change these things; they must go on,

  Cause and effect in one unbroken chain.

  For each of us, the order of our life

  Goes on; no prayer can alter it.

  Fear of his fate is many a man’s undoing;

  Many a man has come upon his fate

  Just where he thought to hide from it.

  OEDIPUS: All’s done – well done – my father is repaid.

  This darkness is my peace. To what god’s mercy

  Owe I this blackness that enshrouds my head?

  By whose decree are all my sins forgiven?

  Escaped from your accusing witness, day,

  Thank not your own hand, slayer of your father;

  Daylight itself has run away from you;

  This face is the true face of Oedipus.

  CHORUS: Here comes Jocasta, crazed… on hurrying feet…

  Demented… like Agave in her madness

  When she had torn her son’s head from his shoulders

  And knew what she had done. She hesitates…

  She wants to speak to her afflicted husband,

  Yet is afraid to speak. She is appalled

  But pity overcomes her shame.… She speaks,

  But haltingly.

  JOCASTA: What shall I call you? Son?

  You shake your head. Surely you are my son.

  Are you ashamed to hear it? Speak, my son.

  Will you not speak? Why do you turn away

  Your empty eyes?

  OEDIPUS: Who is it that forbids me

  Darkness, and who would give me eyes again?

  That is my mother’s voice; it is my mother!

  Then we have done our work in vain. We two

  Must never meet again; we are accursed.

  Let wide seas separate us, let the breadth

  Of earth keep us apart; and if there be

  Another earth below, where other stars

  Look down, under a sun beyond our ken,

  Be that the place for one of us.

  JOCASTA: Blame Fate;

  No man is blamed for what Fate does to him.

  OEDIPUS: Peace, mother; spare my ears, I do beseech you

  By the last remnant of this ruined body,

  By the ill-fated offspring of my blood,

  By all that in the union of our names

  Was good or evil.

  JOCASTA: Art thou dead, my soul?

  As thou hast shared the guilt, canst thou not share

  The punishment? Unclean, thou hast confounded

  All that is noble in the state of man!

  Die! Let a sword expel thy impious life!

  Never could I, so curs’d in motherhood,

  Pay the full forfeit for my sins – not though

  The father of the gods who shakes the world

  Should strike me with his fiery thunderbolts.

  It must be death, and I must find a way.…

  Come then, have you a hand to help your mother?

  If you could kill your father… this remains

  For you to do.… Then let me take his sword,

  The sword that killed my husband – no, not husband,

  Father-in-law.… Where shall I strike? My breast?

  Where plant the weapon – in my naked throat?…

  You know where you must strike – no need to choose –

  Strike here, my hand, strike at this teeming womb

  Which gave me sons and husband!…

  CHORUS: She is dead.

  Her hand dies where it struck, the sword falls out

  Expelled by the strong rush of blood.

  OEDIPUS: Now hear me,

  Guardian and god of truth, Fate’s messenger!

  One death, my father’s, did the fates demand;

  But now I have slain twice; I am more guilty

  Than I had feared to be; my crimes have brought

  My mother to her death. Phoebus, you lied!

  I have done more than was set down for me

  By evil destiny.… Now set your feet

  Upon the dark road faltering, step by step,

  With cautious fingers feeling through the night.

  Onward, away… foot after stumbling foot.…

  Away, begone this instant!… But beware –

  Not that way, lest you fall upon your mother.

  See, I am going, I am leaving you;

  Lift up your heads, you that are weak and worn

  With sickness and have scarce the heart to live.

  There will be brighter skies when I am gone;

  All those who on their sickbeds still have life

  To cling to, shall have purer air to breathe.

  Go, friends, and bring relief to those laid low.

  When I go from you, I shall take away

  All the infections of mortality

  That have consumed this land. Come, deadly Fates,

  Come, all grim spectres of Disease, black Plague,

  Corruption and intolerable Pain!

  Come with me! I could want no better guides.

  Exeunt

  OCTAVIA

  THE action takes place at Rome in the year A.D. 62 and extends over two days, during which the emperor Nero brings to a head his quarrel with his wife Octavia, condemns her to exile and death, and marries his mistress Poppaea. The play contains much retrospective reference to the misfortunes of Octavia’s family – she was the daughter of the emperor Claudius and his third wife Messalina – and to the previous crimes of Nero. In A.D. 48 Messalina, divorced, was put to death by the orders of Claudius; in A.D. 54 Claudius was poisoned, reputedly with the complicity of his fourth wife Agrippina, mother of Nero. In A.D. 55 Nero contrived the murder of Britannicus, the brother of Octavia and supplanted heir of Claudius; and in A.D. 59 he devised a plan to murder his mother, the principal obstacle to his divorce, by a prearranged shipwreck; this failing, she was dispatched by the sword of an assassin.

  Seneca, who had been recalled from exile to be tutor to the young Nero and was now one of his principal advisers, appears as an ineffective counsellor of moderation; and the Ghost of Agrippina rises to threaten calamity upon the new marriage.

  The sympathies of the Chorus lie mainly with Octavia, though a group, perhaps of women attending on Poppaea, at one point expresses admiration for the usurper.

  DRAMATIS PERSONAE

  OCTAVIA, wife of Nero

  OCTAVIA’S NURSE

  SENECA, minister to Nero

  NERO, Emperor of Rome

  A PREFECT

  POPPAEA, mistress and afterwards wife of Nero

  POPPAEA’S NURSE

  MESSENGER

  CHORUS of Roman citizens

  *

  Scene: Rome, at the palace of Nero

  OCTAVIA

  OCTAVIA: Resplendent Dawn is driving from the sky

  The wandering stars, the giant Sun

  Lifts up his golden hair to bring

  Bright day back to the universe.

  And what must I do, overcome

  By ills so many and so great,

  But tell again the oft-told tale

  Of my distresses, shed more tears

  Than the sea-haunting Halcyons

  Or the bird-daughters of Pandion?1

  Greater than theirs my misery.

  Hear me, my mother, for whose fate

  My tears must ever fall, from whom

  All my afflictions spring.

  O mother, hear your daughter’s cry,

  If in the house of death

  Any perception still remains.

  Would that the age-old spinner of my fate

  Had cut my thread before that day

  On whi
ch I wept to see

  Your wounded side, your face besmeared with blood.

  How hateful was the light of day,

  Of every day thenceforth to this,

  A light more dreaded than the darkest night;

  While I have had to live

  Under a vile stepmother’s rule,

  To bear her spiteful enmity

  And angry looks.

  She was my vengeful Fury, she

  Lighted my marriage chamber

  With Stygian torches, she destroyed

  My hapless father’s life;

  Whom once the whole world, beyond Ocean’s bounds,

  Obeyed; whose captains put to rout

  The Britons, till that day unknown and free.

  And thou art dead, my father,

  Struck down by a wife’s wickedness,

  Thy house and family a tyrant’s slaves,

  A tyrant’s prisoners.

  *

  NURSE:1 Does any man in envious amazement

  Gape at the specious glories and vain joys

  Of hollow monarchy – here let him learn

  How Fortune’s practised hand, that once upheld

  And thrust into success, has now thrown down

  The dynasty of Claudius; whose power

  Ruled the whole world; at whose command the Ocean

  Lost its long freedom and was forced to bear

  His ships upon its tide. Here was the man

  Who first made British necks to bow; whose fleets

  In countless numbers covered unknown seas;

  Who lived unharmed among barbaric tribes

  And on tempestuous waters; and who died,

  Slain by a wicked wife. As she too died

  By malice of her son; whose brother2 died

  By poison. Here his sister, and his wife –

  For she is both – rails at her sorry lot

  With rage that cannot let her grief be hid.

  Her cruel husband’s private company

  She loathes and shuns; he burns with equal fire

  Of venomous hatred. Little consolation

  Can all my duty and devotion bring

  To her poor soul; her unremitting grief

  Disdains my counsel; her proud indignation,

  Beyond control of reason, grows the more

  The more she suffers. Ah, what evil deeds

  My fear foresees – which may the gods forbid!

  OCTAVIA: No other fate can equal mine,

  No other suffering compare,

  Not though I should remember thine,

  Ill-starred Electra; thy despair

  For father slain was not forbidden;

  Thou hadst a brother, whom thy care

  And trustful love had saved and hidden,

  To avenge the crime. I do not dare

  To mourn two parents lost, nor pray

  For brother dead; in whom the fair

  Hope I might have of brighter day,

  And comfort in my sorrow, were.

  Alone I live to weep my heavy fate,

  Last lingering shadow of a name so great,

  NURSE: It is the voice of my unhappy child

  That falls upon my ears.

  Can these old feet forbear

  To hurry to her room?…

  OCTAVIA: Ah, let me weep upon your breast,

  Dear nurse, my ever faithful confidant in grief.

  NURSE: Poor soul, what day will ever bring

  An end to so much sorrow?

  OCTAVIA: Only the day

  That sends me to the Stygian darkness.

  NURSE: Far be that ominous day!

  OCTAVIA: Not your desire, dear nurse, but Fate

  Now rules my destiny.

  NURSE: Your lot is hard, but God

  In mercy yet will give

  A brighter morrow to your darkness.

  Will you not try to win your husband’s love

  By gentleness and service?

  OCTAVIA: ‘Twere easier to appease

  A lion’s wrath, a tiger’s rage,

  Than my imperious husband’s heart.

  All sons of noble blood

  He hates, all gods and men

  He scorns alike; he knows not how to use

  His own good fortune and the place he won

  By his vile parent’s crimes;

  For which – though he repudiate

  The gift of empire so bestowed

  By that fell mother, though he have rewarded

  Her gift with death – yet after death

  That woman till the end of time

  Must bear that epitaph.

  NURSE: Nay, check those angry words,

  Speak not so rashly, child.

  OCTAVIA: Ah, were these torments such as could be borne,

  And were my patience strong enough to bear them,

  Nothing but death could end my misery.

  My mother and my father vilely slain,

  My brother lost – now bowed beneath this weight

  Of grief and bitterness and woe, I live

  Under my husband’s hate, my servant’s scorn.

  No day is joy to me, no hour not filled

  With terror – not the fear of death alone,

  But violent death. O Gods, let me not suffer

  A criminal’s death, and I will gladly die.

  Is it not penance worse than death, to see,

  As I must see, the black and angry looks

  Of my imperious master, to accept

  My enemy’s kiss, to fear his lightest nod

  Whose kindness would be pain unbearable

  After the crime of my dear brother’s death,

  When he, the perpetrator of that crime,

  Now holds the sceptre that was rightly his,

  Secure in Fortune’s favour? Many a time,

  When sleep has come to soothe my weary limbs

  And close these ever-weeping eyes, my brother’s

  Spirit in woeful form has come before me.

  Sometimes his helpless hands aim angry blows

  With smoking torches at his brother’s face;

  Sometimes he flees in panic to my chamber,

  And while I cling to him, the enemy

  Comes on, to thrust his sword through both our sides.

  Terror and dread then shake me from my sleep

  And start again the miseries and fears

  That fill my wretched life. To add to this,

  His haughty concubine goes proudly decked

  In stolen riches of the royal house;

  And for her sake it was that he, my husband,

  Sent his own mother on a ship of death

  To meet her death; but when she had outlived

  The shipwreck and the peril of the sea,

  He slew her with a sword – the ocean’s waves

  Were not so cruel as this murderous son.

  If such things can be done, what hope of life

  Remains for me? Now in her victory

  With hate inflamed my hated rival waits

  To dispossess me of my marriage-bed;

  And for the price of her adulterous love

  Demands the head of Nero’s lawful wife.

  O Father, hear my prayer! Come back from death

  And save thy child! Or let the earth be rent

  And Stygian gulfs laid open to receive me

  Swiftly in their embrace.

  NURSE: That prayer is vain.

  In vain you seek your father’s spirit; now

  In the grave he cares no longer for his own;

  Else how could he have let another’s son1

  Usurp his own son’s place? How could he stoop

  To that unlawful lamentable marriage,

  Taking his brother’s daughter2 for his wife?

  That was the fount of all this wickedness,

  This tale of murder and conspiracy,

  Blind lust for power and savage thirst for blood.

  When your betrothed Silanus3 paid the price,


  Upon your father’s wedding day – struck down;

  Lest to be husband of the prince’s daughter

  Might give him too much power… what wickedness!

  A young man sacrificed to please a woman!

  Falsely condemned, compelled to spill his blood

  In his own hearth-gods’ sight. Alas the day!

  The enemy had gained possession now

  And forced his entrance to our house; one stroke

  Of your stepmother’s guile had made him son

  And son-in-law – this infamous young man,

  Master of every evil art, whose mother

  Kindled the marriage torch to make you his

  Unwilling timorous bride. One victory

  Inflamed her lust for more; the holy seat

  Of worldwide empire now she dared to covet.

  What tongue could tell the many shapes of sin,

  The impious hopes, the smooth conspiracies

  Conceived in this one woman’s breast – a woman

  Stepping from crime to crime to gain a throne.

  Then pure Fidelity in terror fled

  And left this palace empty for the feet

  Of vengeful Fury, whose infernal fires

  Ravaged this holy hearth, all nature’s laws

  And human right remorselessly confounding.

  A wife compounded poison for her husband,

  And died thereafter by her son’s foul deed.

  And thou, Britannicus, unhappy child,

  Art dead and ever to be mourned, bright star

  Of all the world, and of the royal house

  The one strong pillar; now, alas, pale shadow

  And dusty ash. His vile stepmother wept –

  Ay, even she – when I gave up his corpse

  To the cremating fire and when that face,

  The likeness of the winged God himself,

  And that fair body perished in the flames.

  OCTAVIA: Let him destroy me too – or I shall kill him!

  NURSE: You were not born with strength for such a thing.

  OCTAVIA: My pain, my rage, my grief, my suffering,

  My agony will give me strength enough.

  NURSE: Rather, use gentleness to tame your husband.

  OCTAVIA: To make him give me back my murdered brother?

  NURSE: No, but to save your life, and to rebuild

  With your own blood your father’s ruined house.

  OCTAVIA: The royal house will soon receive new blood;

  I share in my unhappy brother’s doom.

  NURSE: Take courage from your faithful people’s love.

  OCTAVIA: Comfort, not remedy, their love can give me.

  NURSE: The people’s power is great.