Four Tragedies and Octavia (16 page)

Knows how to spare a prisoner in my power.

Let us have Calchas here, the interpreter

Of heaven's will; let someone bring him hither.

If the Fates ask, I will not fail to give.

    [
Enter Calchas
]

Calchas, you loosed the knot that held our fleet

Back from this war; your skill unlocks the sky;

Your art can read the message of the Fates

In flesh of beasts, the thunder of the heavens,

The flaming passage of a shooting star –

And many a time I have paid heavily

For your pronouncements. Calchas, tell me now

What our god wills; instruct us by your wisdom.

CALCHAS
: For fate's permission to depart, the price

Is as before. A young girl must be given

In sacrifice on the Thessalian's tomb.

She must be dressed as a Thessalian bride –

Or Mycenean, or Ionian –

Pyrrhus himself must give the bride away

To his father, so that she be duly wedded.

That is not all our ships are waiting for:

A debt is to be paid in nobler blood

Than that of Priam's daughter. One more victim

The Fates demand; and he must fall to death

From the top of Troy… Priam's grandson… Hector's son.

That done, your thousand ships may take the sea.

Is it the truth, or but an idle tale

    To give false comfort to our fears,

That the soul lives on when the body is laid to rest,

    When the wife has sealed the husband's eyes,

        When the last sun has set,

When the ashes are shut into the solemn urn?

Do we in vain give up our life to death?

Has the poor mortal still more time to live?

        Or do we wholly die?

        Does nothing remain of us,

After the breath has fled and the spirit of life

Gone, to be mingled with the air above us,

After the fire has been laid to the naked body?

Swift as the feet of Pegasus, Time will gather

        All to itself–

    All that the sun looks down upon,

        From east to west;

    All that the blue sea touches

With its morning and its evening tides.

Onward we speed to our fate –

As fast as the twelve signs speeding through the sky,

As the stars' king turning the cycle of the years,

    As Hecate, running her chequered course –

        Onward we speed.

    To reach the river, by whose name

    The gods themselves take oath, that is

        To be no more.

As smoke from burning fire floats away,

    A quickly vanishing dark smudge;

As clouds, one moment lowering, are dispersed

        By cold north winds;

So will this spirit, this master of our being,

        Pass away.

There is nothing after death; and death is nothing –

Only the finishing post of life's short race.

Ambitious, give up your hopes; anxious, your fears.

Vast Chaos, and the hungry mouth of Time,

    Consume us all.

Death is inseparable; it destroys the body,

    And does not spare the soul.

For Taenarus – the realm of the grim king –

The jealous hound that guards the infernal gate –

    These are all idle tales, fables,

    The stories of a troubled dream.

You ask, where will you be when you are dead?

        Where the unborn are.

ANDROMACHE
: O women of Troy, now do you pull at your hair,

And beat your sorrowful breasts? Now do you flood

Your cheeks with weeping? Have we endured so little –

Is weeping enough? It is only now you have seen

The fall of Troy; I saw it long ago,

When the murderer dragged the body – my own dear body–

At his chariot-wheels; when the load of Hector's weight

Made those wheels creak and groan. That was my hour

Of utter downfall and destruction.

For what has happened since, I have no feeling;

My senses are all dead and numbed by pain.

I should by now have given the Greeks the slip

And gone the way my husband went – to death –

But for this child, who puts restraint on me;

He will not let me die; for his sake now

I must still ask the mercy of the gods,

And must prolong my time of suffering.

For him I must deny myself that comfort,

Which is the only comfort in great sorrow,

Freedom from fear. All hope of better things

Is lost; the way to worse lies open still.

When hope is gone, fear is ten times more fearful.

ELDER
: Is some new fear yet added to your griefs?

ANDROMACHE
: Out of our great calamity still greater

Calamity is grown. Troy falls, but yet

We have not seen her end.

ELDER
:                                 Can the gods wish

Greater disaster to fall on us, and what

Can they contrive?

ANDROMACHE
:        The doors of deepest death

Have been unlocked, the caves of darkness opened;

As if we vanquished had not feared enough,

Our buried enemies from the pit of hell

Are coming back to earth; nor is the way

From death to life allowed to Greeks alone –

No, death treats all alike. And while one ghost
¹

Is spreading terror through all Troy, another

Night-haunting vision fills my dreams with dread.

ELDER
: What vision? Tell us what it is you fear.

ANDROMACHE
: The first half of the night had passed in peace,

The Seven Stars turned their shining wain for home,

When I found rest, such as I had not known

For long in my despair, and for a while

My weary cheeks were soothed with sleep – if senses

Dazed beyond feeling can be said to sleep.

Suddenly Hector stood before my eyes –

But not the man who stormed the Grecian camp,

Attacked their ships with brands from Ida's woods,

Spread havoc in their ranks, fought a pretender

Bearing Achilles' arms and won them from him.
²

Gone was the light of battle from his eyes;

His face was weary and dispirited,

A face too like my own, ravaged with grief,

Half hidden under unkempt hair. But yet

It was a joy to see him. ‘Wake,' he said,

Shaking his head at me. ‘Wake, faithful wife,

And save our son from danger. You must hide him.

No other way can save him. Do not weep.

You weep for Troy's fall? Would that it were over!

Come, lose no time, but get our son and heir

Away at once to any place but this.'

Frozen with fear and horror I awoke.

It was not of my son that I thought first;

I looked for Hector, turning frightened eyes

This way and that, but the deluding ghost

Slipped silently away from my embrace.

    And now, my son – true son of your great father,

Phrygia's one hope, all that our shattered house

Has left, sole offspring of our ancient blood,

Last of our old, our too illustrious line:

Child in your father's image – ah, too like;

This was my Hector's face, his walk, his carriage;

These were his brave strong hands, his rising shoulders,

His stern commanding brow, the hair he shook

About his tossing head. O little son,

You have been born too soon for Troy, too late

To be your mother's comfort. Shall we see

That happy day – will the time ever come,

When you will be Troy's saviour and avenger,

To set our city on her feet once more,

And bring her scattered people home again,

And to restore her name to Phrygia,

Our fatherland? I dare not make that prayer,

Knowing my fate; enough to pray for life,

All that a prisoner can ask.

                                           But now,

Alas, where can I hide you? Where can fear

Find refuge? Troy's great citadel,

The envy and the wonder of the world,

With all her treasure and her mighty walls

Which gods had built, is now a mound of dust;

Fire has consumed it; of the whole vast city

There now remains no fragment large enough

To hide a little child. What place will serve

To baffle the pursuit?… My husband's tomb –

A hallowed place, which even the enemy

Must reverence…. His father Priam spent all

To make it huge and handsome – the old king

Was prodigal in grief… I'll put the child

Into his father's care… what better place?…

Ah, but my limbs grow cold with sweat; I fear

The ominous presence of this place of death.

ELDER
: When out of danger you can pick and choose;

In time of trouble seize what help there is.

ANDROMACHE
: Is there not danger, hide him where we may,

The place may be betrayed?

ELDER
:                                    Let no one see.

ANDROMACHE
: What if the enemy come searching for him?

ELDER
: He perished in the city's fall. Many

Have owed their lives to rumours of their death.

ANDROMACHE
: There is small hope for him; his noble birth

Lies heavy on his head. He will be caught;

And then what good will hiding him have done?

ELDER
: The conqueror is never again so cruel,

Once his first rage is spent.

ANDROMACHE
:                    O son, what place

Is far and inaccessible enough

To keep you safe? Where can we turn for help

In our extremity? Who will protect us?

Hector! Defend your loved ones now, as ever!

This is your loving wife – guard thou

The treasure she has stolen – keep him safe

With your dear ashes – let him live again!…

Son, go into the tomb… ah, you shrink back;

You do not like to hide? It shows your breeding;

You are ashamed to be afraid. But now

You must forget your manly pride, forget

Your courage of former days; now you must wear

The nature that misfortune puts upon you.

You see… all that is left of us… we three –

A tomb, a child, a captive woman… no,

We cannot fight against our fate. Be brave,

And go into this holy place in which

Your father rests. If Fortune can be kind

To those who suffer, you will live; if not,

Here is your grave.
¹

    [
The boy enters the tomb
]

ELDER
:                            He is safe behind the gates.

Now go; and keep away, lest by your fear

You cause his hiding-place to be discovered.

ANDROMACHE
: One may fear less when one is near the danger.

But if you wish it, I will go away.

ELDER
: But wait… be silent and refrain from mourning.

Our enemy, the villainous Cephallenian,
²

Is on his way.

ANDROMACHE
: Open, O earth! O husband,

Command the earth to open to its centre

And hide my treasure in the Stygian deep!

Ulysses comes, and, by his crafty looks

And walk, he has some evil plot in mind.…

ULYSSES
: Sent as the instrument of cruel Fate,

Let me first say that though I speak the words

You must not think them mine; this is the voice

Of all the Greek commanders: Hector's son

Still stands between them and their long-sought homes,

And him the Fates demand. While there remains

A son of Hector and Andromache

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