CLYTEMNESTRA
[414] Tell what calamity has swallowed up my ships, or what mishap by sea has dispersed the chiefs.
EURYBATES
[416] A tale bitter in the telling thou demandest; thou biddest me mix the unlucky message with the glad. My sick mind shrinks from speech and shudders at the thought of such disasters.
CLYTEMNESTRA
[419] Tell on; who shrinks from knowledge of his calamities but aggravates his fear; troubles half seen do torture all the more.
EURYBATES
[421] When all Pergamum fell ‘neath the Doric fire, the spoil was divided and in eager haste all sought the sea. And now the warrior eases his side of the sword’s weary load, and unheeded lie the shields along the high sterns; the oar is fitted to the warrior’s hands, and to their eager haste all tarrying seems over long. Then, when the signal for return gleamed on the royal ship, and the loud trumpet-blast warned the glad rowers, the king’s gilded prow, leading, marked out the way, and opened up the course for a thousand ships to follow.
[431] A gentle breeze at first steals into our sails and drives our vessels onward; the tranquil waves, scarce stirring, ripple beneath soft Zephyr’s breathing, and the sea reflects the splendour of the fleet, hiding the while beneath it. ’Tis sweet to gaze on the bare shores of Troy, sweet to behold deserted Sigeum’s wastes. The young men all haste to bend the oars, with strokes together, aid winds with hands and move their sturdy arms with rhythmic swing. The furrowed waters quiver, the vessel’s sides hiss through the waves and dash the blue sea into hoary spray. When a fresher breeze strains the swelling sails, the warriors lay by their oars, trust ship to wind and, stretched along the benches, either watch the far-fleeing land as the sails retreat, or rehearse their wars – brave Hector’s threats, the chariot and his ransomed body given to the pyre, Hercean Jove sprinkled with royal blood. Then, too, the Tyrrhene fish plays to and fro in the smooth water, leaps over the heaving seas with arching back, and sports around, now dashing about in circles, now swimming by our side, now gaily leading and again following after; anon the band in sheer wantonness touch the leading prow, now round and round the thousandth ship they swim.
[456] Meanwhile all the shore is hid and the plains sink from view, and dimly the ridges of Ida’s mount appear; and now, what alone the keenest eye can see, the smoke of Ilium shows but a dusky spot. Already from the yoke Titan was freeing his horses’ weary necks; now to the stars his rays sink low, now day goes headlong down. A tiny cloud, growing to a murky mass, stains the bright radiance of the setting sun, and the many coloured sun-set has made us doubt the sea.
[465] Young night had spangled the sky with stars; the sails, deserted by the wind, hung low. Then from the mountain heights there falls a murmur deep, whose threatening, and the wide-sweeping shore and rocky headlands send forth a moaning sound; the waves, lashed by the rising wind, roll high – when suddenly the moon is hid, the stars sink out of sight, skyward the sea is lifted, the heavens are gone. ’Tis doubly night; dense fog o’erwhelms the dark and, all light withdrawn, confuses sea and sky. From all sides at once the winds fall on and ravage the sea, from its lowest depths upturned, West wind with East wind striving, South with North. Each wields his own weapons, with deadly assault stirring up the deep, while a whirlwind churns the waves. Strymonian Aquilo sends the deep snow whirling, and Libyan Auster stirs up the sands of Syrtes; nor stand the strife with Auster: Notus, heavey with clouds, blows up, swells waves with rain, while Eurus attacks the dawn, shaking Nabataean realms, and eastern gulfs. What wrought fierce Corus, thrusting forth his head from ocean? The whole sky he tears from its foundations, and you might think the very gods falling from the shattered heavens, and black chaos enveloping the world. Flood strives with wind and wind backward rolls the flood. The sea contains not itself, and rain and waves mingle their waters. Then even this comfort fails their dreadful plight, to see at least and know the disaster by which they perish. Darkness weighs on their eyes, and ’tis the infernal night of awful Styx. Yet fires burst forth, and from the riven clouds gleams the dire lightning flash, and to the poor sailors great is the sweetness of that fearful gleam; even for such light they pray.
[497] The fleet itself helps on its own destruction, prow crashing on prow and side on side. One ship the yawning deep sucks into the abyss, engulfs and spews forth again, restored to the sea above; one sinks of its own weight, another turns its wrecked side to the waves, and one the tenth wave o’erwhelms. Here, battered and stripped of all its ornament, one floats, with neither sails nor oars nor straight mast bearing the high sailyards, a broken hulk, drifting wide on the Icarian sea. Reason, experience, are of no avail; skill yields to dire calamity. Horror holds their limbs; the sailors all stand stupefied, their tasks abandoned; oars drop from hands. To prayer abject fear drives the wretches, and Trojans and Greeks beg the same things of the gods. What can near doom accomplish? Pyrrhus envies his father, Ulysses Ajax, the younger Atrides Hector, Agamemnon Priam; whoever at Troy lies slain is hailed as blessed, who by deeds of arms earned death, whom glory guards, whom the land he conquered buries. “Do se and wave bear those who have dared naught noble and shall a coward’s doom o’erwhelm brave men? Must death be squandered? Whoe’er of heaven’s gods thou art, not yet with our sore troubles sated, let thy divinity be at last appeased; o’er our calamities e’en Troy would weep. But if thy hate is stubborn, and ’tis thy pleasure to send the Greek race to doom, why wouldst have those perish along with us, for whose sake we perish? Allay the raging sea: this fleet bears Greeks but it bears Trojans too.” They can no more; the sea usurps their words.
[528] But lo! disaster on disaster! Pallas, armed with the bolt of angry Jove, threatening essays whate’er she may, not with spear, not with aegis, not with Gorgon’s rage, but with her father’s lightning, and throughout the sky new tempests blow. Ajax alone, undaunted by disaster, keeps up the struggle. Him, shortening sail with straining halyard, the hurtling lightning grazed. Another bolt is levelled; this, with all her might, Pallas launched true, with hand back drawn, in imitation of her father. Through Ajax it passed, and through his ship, and part of the ship with it, and Ajax it bore away. Then he, nothing moved, like some high crag, rises flame-scorched from the briny deep, cleaves the raging sea, with his breast bursts through the floods and, holding to his wrecked vessel with his hand, drags flames along, shines brightly midst the darkness of the sea and illumines the waves. At last, gaining a rock, in mad rage he thunders: “’Tis sweet to have conquered all things, flood and flame, to have vanquished sky, Pallas, thunderbolt and sea. If led not in terror of the god of war; both Hector at once and Mars did I with my sole arm withstand; nor did together with their Phrygians, I conquered; – and shall I shrink from thee? Another’s weapon with weakling hand thou hurlest. What, if he himself should hurl –? When in his madness he would be daring more, father Neptune, pushing with his trident, o’erwhelmed the rock, thrusting forth his head from his waves’ depths, and broke off the drag. This in his fall Ajax bears down with him, and now he lies, by earth and fire and billows overcome.
[557] But us shipwrecked mariners, another, worse ruin challenges. There is a shallow water, a deceitful shoal full of rough boulders, where treacherous Caphereus hides his rocky base beneath whirling eddies; the sea boils upon the rocks, and ever the flood seethes with its ebb and flow. A precipitous headland o’erhangs, which on either hand looks out upon both stretches of the sea. Hence thou mayst descry thine own Pelopian shores, and Isthmus which, backward curving with its narrow soil, forbids the Ionian sea to join with Phrixus’ waves; hence also Lemnos, infamous for crime, and Calchedon, and Aulis which long delayed the fleet. Seizing this summit, the father of Palamedes with accursed hand raised from the high top a beacon-light and with treacherous torch lured the fleet upon the reefs. There hang the ships caught on jagged rocks; some are broken to pieces in the shallow water; the prow of one vessel is carried away, while a part sticks fast upon the rock; one ship crashes with another
as it draws back, both wrecked and wrecking. Now ships fear land and choose the seas. Towards dawn the storm’s rage is spent; now that atonement has been made for Ilium, Phoebus returns and sad day reveals the havoc of the night.
CLYTEMNESTRA
[579] Shall I lament or rejoice me at my lord’s return? I do rejoice to see him home again, but o’er our realm’s heavy loss am I forced to grieve. At last O father, that dost shake the high-resounding heavens, restore to the Greeks their gods appeased. Now let every head by crowned with festal wreaths, let the sacrificial flute give forth sweet strains, and the white victim at the great altars fall.
[586] But see, a mournful throng with locks unbound, the Trojan women are here, while high above them all, with proud step advancing, Phoebus’ mad priestess waves the inspired laurel branch.
[Enter band of Trojan women led by CASSANDRA.]
CHORUS OF TROJAN WOMEN
[589] Alas, how alluring a bane is appointed unto mortals, even dire love of live, though refuge from heir woes opes wide, and death with generous hand invites the wretched, a peaceful port of everlasting rest. Nor fear nor storm of raging Fortune disturbs that calm, nor bolt of the harsh Thunderer. Peace so deep fears no citizens’ conspiracy, no victor’s threatening wrath, no wild seas ruffled by stormy winds, no fierce battle lines or dark cloud raised by barbaric squadrons’ hoofs, no nations falling with their city’s utter overthrow, while the hostile flames lay waste the walls, no fierce, ungovernable war. All bonds will he break through, who dares scorn the fickle gods, who on the face of dark Acheron, on fearful Styx can look, unfearful, and is bold enough to put an end to life. A match for kings, a match for the high gods will he be. Oh, how wretched ’tis to know not how to die!
[612] We saw our country fall on that night of death, when you, ye Doric fires, ravished Dardania’s homes. She, not in war conquered, not by arms, not, as aforetime, by Hercules’ arrows, fell; her, not Peleus’ and Thetis’ son o’ercame, nor he, well-beloved by overbrave Pelides, when in borrowed arms he shone and drove Troy’s sons in flight, a false Achilles; nor, when Pelides’ self through grief gave o’er his fierce resentment, and the Trojan women, from the ramparts watching, feared his swift attack, did she lose amid her woes the crowning glory of suffering conquest bravely; for ten long years she stood, fated to perish by one night’s treachery.
[627] We saw that feigned gift, measureless in bulk, and with our own hands trustfully dragged along the Greeks’ deadly offering; and oft on the threshold of the gate the noisy footed monster stumbled, bearing within its hold hidden chiefs and war. We might have turned their guile against themselves, and caused the Pelasgians by their own trick to fall. Oft sounded their jostled shields, and a low muttering smote our ears, when Pyrrhus grumbled, scarce yielding to crafty Ulysses’ will.
[638] All unafraid, the Trojan youth joy to touch the fatal ropes. Companies of their own age here Astyanax leads, there she, to the Thessalian pyre betrothed, she leading maids, he youths. Gaily do mothers bring votive offerings to the gods; gaily do fathers approach the shrines; each wears but one look the city o’er; and, what never we saw since Hector’s funeral, Hecuba was glad. And now, unhappy grief, what first, what last, wilt thou lament? Walls by divine hands fashioned, by our own destroyed? Temples upon their own gods consumed? Time lacks to weep such ills – thee, O great father, the Trojan women weep. I saw, I saw in the old man’s throat the sword of Pyrrhus scarce wet in his scanty blood.
CASSANDRA
[659] Restrain your tears which all time will seek, ye Trojan women, and do you yourselves grieve for your own dead with groans and lamentations; my losses refuse all sharing. Cease then your grief for my disasters. I myself shall suffice for the woes of mine own house.
CHORUS
[664] ’Tis sweet to mingle tears with tears; griefs bring more smart where they wound in solitude, but ’tis sweet in company to bewail one’s friends; nor shalt thou, though strong, heroic, and inured to woe, avail to lament calamities so great. Not the sad nightingale, which from the vernal bough pours forth her liquid song, piping of Itys in ever changing strains; not the bird which, perching on Bistonian battlements, tells o’er and o’er the hidden sins of her cruel lord, will e’er be able, with all her passionate lament, worthily to mourn thy house. Should bright Cycnus’ self, haunting midst snowy swans Ister and Tanaïs, utter his dying song; should halcyons mourn their Ceyx midst the light wave’s lapping, when, though distrustful, boldly they trust once more to the tranquil ocean, and anxiously on unsteady nest cherish their young; should the sad throng which follows the unmanned men bruise their arms along with thee, the throng which, by the shrill flute maddened, smite their breasts to the tower-crowned mother, that for Phrygian Attis they may lament, – not so, Cassandra, is there measure for our tears, for what we suffer has outmeasured measure.
[693] But why dost tear off the holy fillets from thy head? Methinks the gods should be most reverenced by unhappy souls.
CASSANDRA
[695] Now have our woes o’ermastered every fear. Neither do I appease the heavenly gods by any prayer, nor, should they wish to rage, have they wherewith to harm me. Fortune herself has exhausted all her powers. What fatherland remains? What father? What sister now? Altars and tombs have drunk up my blood. What of that happy throng of brothers? Gone, all! in the empty palace only sad old men are left; and throughout those many chambers they see all women, save her of Sparta, widowed. That mother of so many kings, queen of the Phrygians, Hecuba, fruitful for funeral-fires, proving new laws of fate, has put on bestial form: around her ruined walls madly she barked, surviving Troy, son, husband – and herself!
CHORUS
[710] The bride of Phoebus suddenly is still, pallor o’erspreads her cheeks, and constant tremors master all her frame. Her fillets stand erect, her soft locks rise in horror, her labouring heart sounds loud with pent murmuring, her glance wanders uncertain, her eyes seem backward turned into herself, anon they stare unmoving. Now she lifts her head into the air higher than her wont, and walks with stately tread; now makes to unlock her struggling lips, now vainly tries to close them on her words, a mad priestess fighting against the god.
CASSANDRA
[720] Why, O Parnassus’ sacred heights, do ye prick me with fury’s goads anew, why do you sweep me on, bereft of sense? Away! O Phoebus, I am no longer thine; quench thou the flames set deep within my breast. For whose sake wander I now in madness? for whose sake in frenzy rave? Now Troy has fallen – what have I, false prophetess, to do?
[726] Where am I? Fled is the kindly light, deep darkness blinds my eyes, and the sky, buried in gloom, is hidden away. But see! with double sun the day gleams forth ,and double Argos lifts up twin palaces! Ida’s groves I see; there sits the shepherd, fateful judge midst mighty goddesses. – Fear him, ye kings, I warn you, fear the child of stolen love; that rustic foundling shall overturn your house. What means that mad woman with drawn sword in hand? What hero seeks she with her right hand, a Spartan in her garb, but carrying an Amazonian axe? – What sight is that other which now employs mine eyes? The king of beasts with his proud neck, by a base fang lies low, an Afric lion, suffering the bloody bites of his bold lioness. – Why do ye summon me, saved only of my house, my kindred shades? Thee, father, do I follow, eye-witness of Troy’s burial; thee, brother, help of the Phrygians, terror of the Greeks, I see not in thine old-time splendour, or with thine hands hot from the burning of the ships, but mangled of limb, with those arms wounded by the deep-sunk thongs; thee, Troilus, I follow, to early with Achilles met; unrecognisable the face thou wearest, Deiphobus, the gift of thy new wife. ’Tis sweet to fare along the very Stygian pools; sweet to behold Tartarus’ savage dog and the realms of greedy Dis! To-day this skiff of murky Phlegethon shall bear royal souls, vanquished and vanquisher. Ye shades, I pray; thou stream on which the gods make oath, thee no less I pray: for a little withdraw the covering of that dark world, that on Mycenae the shadowy throng of Phrygians may look forth. Behold, poor souls; t
he fates turn backward on themselves.
[759] They press on, the squalid sisters, their bloody lashes brandishing; their left hands half-burned torches bear; bloated are their pallid cheeks, and dusky robes of death their hollow loins encircle; the fearsome cries of night resound, and a huge body’s bones, rotting with long decay, lie in a slimy marsh. And see! that spent old man, forgetting thirst, no longer catches at the mocking waters, grieving at death to come; but father Dardanus exults and walks along with stately tread.
CHORUS
[775] Now has her rambling frenzy spent itself, and falls, as before the altar with sinking knees falls the bull, receiving an ill-aimed stroke upon his neck. Let us lift up her body. But lo! at last his own gods, wreathed with victorious bay, Agamemnon comes; his wife with joy has gone forth to meet him, and now returns, joining her steps in harmony with his.
[Enter AGAMEMNON. He has been met and greeted by his wife, who enters with him and goes on alone into the palace.]
AGAMEMNON
[782] At length am I returned in safety to my father’s house. O dear land, hail! To thee many barbaric nations have given spoil, to thee proud Asia’s Troy, long blest of heaven, has yielded. – Why does the priestess there faint and fall tottering with drooping head? Slaves, lift her up, revive her with cool water. Now with languid gaze she again beholds the light. [To CASSANDRA.] Awake to life! that longed for haven from our woes is here; this is a festal day.
CASSANDRA
[791] ’Twas festal, too, at Troy.
AGAMEMNON
[792] Let us kneel before the altar.
CASSANDRA
[792] Before the altar my father fell.
AGAMEMNON
[793] To Jove let us pray together.
CASSANDRA
[793] Hercean Jove?
AGAMEMNON
[794] Dost think thou lookst on Ilium?
CASSANDRA
Masters of the Theatre Page 17
