The Greek Plays
Page 92
like a bow or wheel or measuring compass.
So the stranger bent the mountain tree trunk,
round to the earth—a superhuman deed.
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He settled Pentheus in a bough of the tree,
and smoothly, so the rider would not fall,
let go: the branch swept up between his hands,
towering straight and high to upper heaven,
with my master sitting on its back.
But hoping to see them, he himself was seen.
At first, he was invisible up high.
The stranger vanished, but there was a voice
shouting from the sky; in my opinion
it was Dionysus. “Girls, I bring you
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the man who mocked both you and me, and laughed
at these, my holy rituals. Take revenge!”
No sooner said, than light of magic fire
shot up and stretched between the earth and heaven.
The air was silent; in the woody glade
not a leaf stirred, no creature made a sound.
The women heard the voice, but not distinctly,
so up they stood and looked around again.
He called again, and when the women heard
the clear command of Dionysus, off they shot
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quick as a flock of doves, their feet a whir
of running motion: all of them, Agave
his mother, and her sisters, Cadmus’ daughters,
and all the maenads. Over the gushing brooks
and crags they leaped, inspired by the god.
When they saw my master in the tree,
first they climbed a towering rock, then hurled
stones at him with all their might, and branches
of fir trees, which they used as javelins.
Others tossed their thyrsus through the air
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at Pentheus, their poor target. But they missed.
For he was higher than their zeal could reach;
poor man, his seat had now become a trap.
At last they struck the tree roots with a blast
like thunder, but with crowbars made of wood.
They struggled mightily, to no avail.
Then called Agave: “Maenads, join in a circle!
Seize the trunk and we will catch this beast
that climbs up there, this spy that wants to tell
the secret ways we dance to please the god.”
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Hands without number grasped the tree and felled it.
From high aloft, high up, down to the ground
he fell, with desperate, infinite cries of loss:
Pentheus. He knew now the end was near.
His mother, priestess of the sacrifice,
was first to fall on him. He hoped to show her
who he was: he ripped his headband off,
to stop her killing him: poor, poor Agave.
Touching her cheek, “Mother,” he said, “I am
your child, Pentheus, son of Echion.
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Mother, pity me! Don’t kill me, Mother.
I made mistakes, but I am still your child.”
But she was foaming at the mouth, her eyes
rolled all around; her mind was mindless now.
Held by the god, she paid the man no heed.
She grabbed his left arm just below the elbow:
wedging her foot against the victim’s ribs
she ripped his shoulder off—not by mere force;
the god made easy everything they touched.
On his right arm worked Ino, ripping flesh;
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Autonoë and the mob of maenads gripped him,
screaming as one. While he had breath, he cried,
but they were whooping victory calls. One took
an arm, a foot another, boot and all.
They stripped his torso bare, staining their nails
with blood, then tossed the balls of flesh around.
Pentheus’ body lies in fragments now:
on the hard rocks, and mingled with the leaves,
buried in woodland, hard to find. His mother
stumbled across his head: poor head! She grabbed it,
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and fixed it on her thyrsus, like a lion’s,
to wave in joyful triumph at her hunt.
Unlucky victory! Over the mountain she ran,
down through Cithaeron, leaving behind her sisters
dancing with the maenads. Now she’s come
inside the city walls. She’s shouting: “Bacchus!
You shared the hunt with me, you share the prize!
Together we have won this victory!”
Tears are the prize the god has won for her.
I’m leaving this disaster scene before
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Agave’s homecoming. Respect religion
and practice self-restraint; that is, I think,
the best and wisest thing for any mortal.
CHORUS:*76 Let us dance together for the god!
Let us shout together for the fall
of Pentheus, the son of dragon seed.
He wore the women’s dress,
he took the fennel wand, the lovely thyrsus,
as the bull was guiding him to doom.
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Daughters of Cadmus, worshippers with us,
you have turned our song of triumph
to cries of grief, to tears.
Here’s a good game: try to embrace your child
when your hands are dripping with his blood.
But now I see Agave, running to the palace,*77
Pentheus’ mother, with her rolling eyes:
Welcome the celebrants of the Lord of Noise!
(Enter Agave.)
strophe
AGAVE:*78 Maenads from the East!
CHOR.: No, don’t push me to look!
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AGAVE: Look: I’ve brought down something from the hills, fresh-killed, a curling sprout: what a lucky hunt!
Here’s a lovely present for our house.
CHORUS: I see it, and I’ll take you as my partner in the dance; a celebration.
AGAVE: I caught this cub without even a net,
this wild young lion cub.
Just look at it!*79
CHORUS: Where did you get it? Out in the wilds?
AGAVE: Cithaeron.
CHOR.: Cithaeron?
AGAVE: I killed him.
CHORUS: Who struck the blow?
AGAVE: I was the first, the first to win the prize.
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Lady Luck’s my title, all the dancers call me that.
CHORUS: Who else?
AGAVE: You know Cadmus?
CHORUS: What about Cadmus?
AGAVE: All his daughters
grabbed the animal. But I was first!
Yes, this was a lucky, lucky hunt!
antistrophe
Now share the feast!
CHOR.: What, me? Me, share? What horror!
AGAVE: The calf is young: look, his cheeks
have only just begun to sprout soft hair.
CHORUS: Yes, that hair does look just like a wild beast’s fur.
AGAVE: Dionysus is a master hunter:
wisely he hurled his maenads
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at this beast.
CHORUS: Yes, the Lord is a hunter.
AGAVE: So, you praise me?
CHOR.: Yes, I praise you.
AGAVE: And soon the Thebans—
CHORUS: And your child, Pentheus—?
AGAVE: —will praise his mother!
For catching this lion cub, my hunting prize.
CHORUS: No ordinary prize.
AGAVE: No ordinary hunt!
CHORUS: Are you happy?
AGAVE: I am full of joy.
In this hunt, I have achieved
things great beyond great, and plain to see.<
br />
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CHORUS:*80 Then, poor Agave, show the citizens
the victory prize you’ve carried from this hunt.
AGAVE: Beautiful Thebes, with such majestic towers!
Citizens, you’ve come to see the beast
we caught, we daughters of the old king Cadmus,
not using the thonged javelins of Thessaly,*81
or nets, but just the sharp and pointed nails
of our white hands. After this deed of ours,
no hunter armed with spears can boast his kill.
I caught this creature with my hands alone,
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and with bare hands I tore his limbs apart.
Where is my father? Go, slaves, call him here.
And where is Pentheus, my son? He must
set up a ladder firm against the house,
and nail this lion’s head up there on the frieze,
this prize of mine, the spoils of my hunt.
(Enter Cadmus, accompanied by slaves carrying a covered stretcher.)
CADMUS: What a wretched burden: here’s the corpse
of my poor Pentheus. Slaves, come, bring it here,
set it before the house. I labored hard
searching and searching for the pieces, scattered
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on Mount Cithaeron’s slopes and in the woods:
no easy search, they lay so far apart.
I heard the dreadful things my daughters did,
when I had left the maenads and returned
through the town walls, with old Tiresias.
Then I turned back, back to the hills, to get
the body of the boy the maenads killed.
I saw there Autonoë, who once bore
poor Actaeon; and I saw Ino, too,
hovering by the trees, still stung to frenzy.
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Poor things! Then someone told me that Agave
was running here, still crazy. It was true.
(Sees Agave.)
I see her now. It’s not a happy sight.
AGAVE: You must be very proud of us now, Father!
Your daughters are the best by far, the best
of all humanity—especially me!
I left the loom and shuttle, and I rose
to greater things: I hunt with my bare hands.
Now, as you see, I’m carrying in my arms
this prize I’ve caught. I’ll hang it on your house.
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But first, dear Father, wouldn’t you like to hold it?
Feel the joy of my successful hunt,
and call our friends to feast. Yes, you are lucky!
You’re blessed by these accomplishments of mine.
CADMUS: Pain! This passes bearing.*82 I can’t look:
poor daughter, you hold slaughter in your arms.
You’ve made a lovely killing for the gods,
and call the Thebans to a feast, and me.
I have to weep, for you and for myself.
The god, the Lord of Thunder, our own kinsman,
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was just, too just: he has destroyed us all.
AGAVE: Old men are always grumpy, full of scowls.
I hope my son will grow up good at hunting,
taking after me, his huntress mother,
when he joins Theban youths to go in quest
of animals in the wild. All he can do
is fight the gods.*83 Father, it’s your job
to give him good advice. Go, someone, call him!
Bring him to see me, see my happiness!
CADMUS: Ah, daughter! When you see what you have done,
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your grief will pass all grief. But if you stay
forever in this state of mind you’re in,
you can’t be happy, but you’re not unhappy.
AGAVE: What’s wrong with how things are? What isn’t good?
CADMUS: First, turn your head and look up at the sky.
AGAVE: All right. But why do you want me to look there?
CADMUS: Does it seem the same to you, or different?
AGAVE: It’s brighter than before, it’s clearer now.
CADMUS: Do you still feel troubled and excited?
AGAVE: I don’t know what you mean. But I suppose
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I am aware; my mind is somehow changing.
CADMUS: Can you listen then, and answer clearly?
AGAVE: Yes, Father. What were we saying? I forget.
CADMUS: What household did you come to as a bride?
AGAVE: You gave me to the so-called Snake-Son: Echion.
CADMUS: You had a baby with your husband: named?
AGAVE: Pentheus, he’s the son we had together.
CADMUS: Whose head, then, are you holding in your arms?
AGAVE: A lion’s head; the hunters told me so.
CADMUS: Now look more closely; easy enough to look.
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AGAVE: Oh, what’s this I see? What’s this I’m holding?
CADMUS: Look carefully, you’ll understand it better.
AGAVE: I see horror—agony. I see my ruin.
CADMUS: You don’t see a lion anymore?
AGAVE: No. I’m holding my own Pentheus’ head.
CADMUS: I’ve been in mourning long before you knew.
AGAVE: Who killed him? How did he get here, in my hands?
CADMUS: The truth is painful when the time is wrong.
AGAVE: Tell me! My heart is thumping. Tell me now!
CADMUS: You killed him, and your sisters. You’re the one.
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AGAVE: What? Where did he die? At home, or where?
CADMUS: Where once the hounds ripped Actaeon between them.
AGAVE: But why did this poor man go to Cithaeron?
CADMUS: He went to mock your maenads and your god.
AGAVE: How did we flock there? What was going on?
CADMUS: You were possessed; all Thebes was in a frenzy.
AGAVE: Bacchus destroyed us. Now I understand.
CADMUS: He had been insulted: you denied him.
AGAVE: Where is the body of my darling boy?
CADMUS: Here’s what there is; I searched as best I could.
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AGAVE: Is it all laid out nicely, limb to limb?
[…
…
…]
AGAVE: What did my folly have to do with Pentheus?
CADMUS: He was like you: not worshipping the god.
That’s why the god blamed all of you alike,
you and this boy; so he destroyed our house,
and me. Now I, who have no son, have seen
my only male descendant—from your womb,
poor daughter—seen him killed, so horribly.
Boy, you gave our darkened house its light,
pillar of our family, my grandson;
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you terrified the city. No one dared
insult me in old age, when they saw you.
You took revenge on anyone who tried.
But now I shall be exiled from my home:
I, great Cadmus, who once founded Thebes,
who sowed and harvested that splendid crop.*84
My dearest, darling boy—even now you’re dead,
child, you’re still the one I love the most.
Now you will no longer stroke my beard,
and hold me in your arms, child, saying, “Grandpa,
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Who has hurt you, who has done you wrong?
Who has troubled your old heart? Tell me,
so I can punish anyone who hurts you,
Grandpa”—Now: what pain for me, and you,
and for your wretched mother; our poor family!
If anyone does not respect the gods,
look at the death of Pentheus, and believe.
CHORUS: I’m sorry for you, Cadmus. Your child’s son
deserved this; it was just—but sad for you.
<
br /> AGAVE: Father, do you see? My life is overturned—
[…]
[…]
[…]*
DIONYSUS: (no longer in disguise, speaking from the palace roof after entering from above)
[…]*85
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You will become a serpent, and your wife
will also change her shape and be a snake,
your wife Harmonia, human child of Ares.*86
And as the prophecy of Zeus foretold,
you and your wife will drive an oxcart, leading
tribes of barbarians. With your vast army
you’ll sack a set of cities. But when they
reach Delphi, they are doomed: no journey home.*87
But Ares will protect you and Harmonia,
and make you live forever with the gods.*88
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I speak not as a mortal, but the son
of Zeus. If you had not refused to see
what wisdom means, you could have had a god,
the son of Zeus, as ally, and been happy.
CADMUS: I beg you, Dionysus! We did wrong.
DIONYSUS: Too late you’ve known me; earlier, you failed.
CADMUS: I recognize it. Still, you are too harsh.
DIONYSUS: I was insulted—I, who was born a god.
CADMUS: In anger gods should not resemble mortals.
DIONYSUS: My father Zeus long since decided this.
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AGAVE: (to Cadmus) Ah, Father, now we have no choice but exile.
DIONYSUS: Then why delay the things that are decreed?
CADMUS: Daughter, what a terrible disaster
for all of us, poor girl, you and your sisters,
and me, poor me: I must, in my old age,
go live with strangers. And, the god foretells,
I’ll lead a motley army of barbarians
to Greece, and as a snake, I’ll bring my wife,
Harmonia, Ares’ daughter, also turned
into a snake, against the tombs and altars
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of the Greeks; so says the oracle.
Nor will my suffering cease: I will not cross
Acheron;*89 I’ll find no peace in death.
AGAVE: Father, I, too, have lost my home, and you!
CADMUS: Poor child, why do you cling to me and hold me?
You’re like the swan that shelters its white father.
AGAVE: I’m exiled from my home; where can I turn?
CADMUS: I don’t know, my child. Your father is no help.
AGAVE:*90 Goodbye to my home. Goodbye to my house,
goodbye to the town of my father.
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Unlucky I leave you, expelled from the rooms where I lived.*91
CADMUS: Go now, my child, go to Lord Aristaeus.*92
AGAVE: I weep for you, Father.
CAD.: And I for you, child.
And I weep for your sisters.
AGAVE: Our master, our lord Dionysus