Hippolytus or Phaedra: Act II

Chorus: Speak, nurse, the news thou bring'st. How fares the queen?Do her fierce fires of love know any end?

Nurse: I have no hope that such a maladyCan be relieved; her maddened passion's flamesWill endless burn. A hidden, silent fireConsumes her, and her raging love, though shutWithin her heart, is by her face betrayed.Her eyes dart fire; anon, her sunken gazeAvoids the light of day. Her restless soulCan find no pleasure long in anything.Her aimless love allows her limbs no rest.Now, as with dying, tottering steps, she goes,And scarce can hold her nodding head erect;And now lies down to sleep. But, sleepless quite,She spends the night in tears. Now does she bidMe lift her up, and straight to lay her down;To loose her locks, and bind them up again.In restless mood she constantly demandsFresh robes. She has no care for food or health.With failing strength she walks, with aimless feet.Her old-time strength is gone; no longer shinesThe ruddy glow of health upon her face.Care feeds upon her limbs; her trembling stepsBetray her weakness, and the tender graceOf her once blooming beauty is no more.Her eyes, which once with Phoebus' brilliance shone,No longer gleam with their ancestral fires.Her tears flow ever, and her cheeks are wetWith constant rain; as when, on Taurus' top,The snows are melted by a warming shower.But look, the palace doors are opening,And she, reclining on her couch of gold,And sick of soul, refuses one by oneThe customary garments of her state.

Phaedra: Remove, ye slaves, those bright and gold-wrought robes;Away with Tyrian purple, and the websOf silk whose threads the far-off eastern tribesFrom leaves of trees collect. Gird high my robes;I'll wear no necklace, nor shall snowy pearls,The gift of Indian seas, weigh down my ears.No nard from far Assyria shall scentMy locks; thus loosely tossing let them fallAround my neck and shoulders; let them streamUpon the wind, by my swift running stirred.Upon my left I'll wear a quiver girt,And in my right hand will I brandish freeA hunting-spear of Thessaly; for thusThe mother of Hippolytus was clad.So did she lead her hosts from the frozen shoresOf Pontus, when to Attica she came,From distant Tanaïs or Maeotis' banks,Her comely locks down flowing from a knot,Her side protected by a crescent shield.Like her would I betake me to the woods.

Chorus: Cease thy laments, for grief will not availThe wretched. Rather seek to appease the willOf that wild virgin goddess of the woods.

Nurse [to Diana]: O queen of forests, thou who dwell'st aloneOn mountain tops, and thou who only artWithin their desert haunts adored, convert,We pray, to better issue these sad fears.O mighty goddess of the woods and groves,Bright star of heaven, thou glory of the night,Whose torch, alternate with the sun, illumesThe sky, thou three-formed Hecate--Oh, smile,We pray, on these our hopes; the unbending soulOf stern Hippolytus subdue for us.Teach him to love; our passion's mutual flameMay he endure. May he give ready earTo our request. His hard and stubborn heartDo thou make soft to us. Enthral his mind.Though stern of soul, averse to love, and fierce,May he yet yield himself to Venus' laws.Bend all thy powers to this. So may thy faceBe ever clear, and through the rifted cloudsMayst thou sail on with crescent shining bright;So, when thou driv'st thy chariot through the sky,May no Thessalian mummeries prevailTo draw thee from thy nightly journey down;And may no shepherd boast himself of thee.Lo, thou art here in answer to our prayer;I see Hippolytus himself, alone,Approaching to perform the yearly ritesTo Dian due.Why dost thou hesitate?Both time and place are given by fortune's lot.Use all thy arts. Why do I quake with fear?It is no easy task to do the deedEnjoined on me. Yet she, who serves a queen,Must banish from her heart all thought of right;For sense of shame ill serves a royal will.

Hippolytus: Why dost thou hither turn thine agéd feet,O faithful nurse? Why is thy face so sad,Thy brow so troubled? Truly is my sireIn safety, Phaedra safe, and their two sons.

Nurse: Thou need'st not fear for them; the kingdom standsIn prosperous estate, and all thy houseRejoices in the blessings of the gods.But Oh, do thou with greater kindness lookUpon thy fortune. For my heart is vexedAnd anxious for thy sake; for thou thyselfWith grievous sufferings dost bruise thy soul.If fate compels it, one may be forgivenFor wretchedness; but if, of his own will,A man prefers to live in misery,Brings tortures on himself, then he deservesTo lose those gifts he knows not how to use.Be mindful of thy youth; relax thy mind.Lift high the blazing torch on festal nights;Let Bacchus free thee from thy weighty cares;Enjoy this time which speeds so swiftly by.Now is the time when love comes easily,And smiles on youth. Come, let thy soul rejoice.Why dost thou lie upon a lonely couch?Dissolve in pleasures that grim mood of thine,And snatch the passing joys; let loose the reins.Forbid that these, the best days of thy life,Should vanish unenjoyed. Its proper hueHas God allotted to each time of life,And leads from step to step the age of man.So joy becomes the young, a face severeThe agéd. Why dost thou restrain thyself,And strangle at their birth the joys of life?That crop rewards the farmer's labor mostWhich in the young and tender sprouting-timeRuns riot in the fields. With lofty topThat tree will overspread the neighboring grove,Which no begrudging hand cuts back or prunes.So do our inborn powers a richer fruitOf praise and glory bear, if liberty,Unchecked and boundless, feed the noble soul.Thou, harsh, uncouth, and ignorant of life,Dost spend thy youth to joy and love unknown.Think'st thou that this is man's allotted task,To suffer hardships, curb the rushing steeds,And fight like savage beasts in bloody war?When he beheld the boundless greed of death,The mighty father of the world ordainedA means by which the race might be renewed.Suppose the power of Venus over menShould cease, who doth supply and still renewThe stream of life, then would this lovely worldBecome a foul, unsightly thing indeed:The sea would bear no fish within its waves,The woods no beasts of prey, the air no birds;But through its empty space the winds aloneWould rove. How various the forms of deathThat seize and feed upon our mortal race:The wrecking sea, the sword, and treachery!But say that these are lacking: still we fallOf our own gravity to gloomy Styx.Suppose our youth should choose a mateless life,And live in childless state: then all this worldOf teeming life which thou dost see, would liveThis generation only, and would fallIn ruins on itself. Then spend thy lifeAs nature doth direct; frequent the town,And live in friendly union with thy kind.

Hippolytus: There is no life so free, so innocent,Which better cherishes the ancient rites,Than that which spurns the crowded ways of menAnd seeks the silent places of the woods.His soul no maddening greed of gain inflamesWho on the lofty levels of the hillsHis blameless pleasures finds. No fickle breathOf passing favor frets him here, no stingOf base ingratitude, no poisonous hate.He fears no kingdom's laws; nor, in the questOf power, does he pursue the phantom shapesOf fame and wealth. From hope and fear alikeIs he removed. No black and biting spiteWith base, malicious tooth preys on him here.He never hears of those base, shameful thingsThat spawn amid the city's teeming throngs.It is not his with guilty heart to quakeAt every sound; he need not hide his thoughtsWith guileful words; in pride of sinful wealthHe seeks to own no lordly palace proppedUpon a thousand pillars, with its beamsIn flaunting arrogance incased with gold.No streams of blood his pious altars drench;No hecatombs of snowy bullocks standForedoomed to death, their foreheads sprinkled o'erWith sacred meal; but in the spacious fields,Beneath the sky, in fearless innocence,He wanders lord of all. His only guile,To set the cunning snare for beasts of pray;And, when o'erspent with labors of the chase,He soothes his body in the shining streamOf cool Ilissus. Now swift Alpheus' banksHe skirts, and now the lofty forest's deep,Dense places treads, where Lerna, clear and cool,Pours forth her glimmering streams.Here twittering birds make all the woods resound,And through the branches of the ancient beechThe leaves are all a-flutter in the breeze.How sweet upon some vagrant river's bank,Or on the verdant turf, to lie at length,And quaff one's fill of deep, delicious sleep,Whether in hurrying floods some copious streamPours down its waves, or through the vernal flowersSome murmuring brook sings sweetly as it flows.The windfall apples of the wood appeaseHis hunger, while the ripening berries pluckedFrom wayside thickets grant an easy meal.He gladly shuns the luxuries of kings.Let mighty lords from anxious cups of goldTheir nectar quaff; for him how sweet to catchWith naked hand the water of the spring!More certain slumber soothes him, though his couchBe hard, if free from care he lay him down.With guilty soul he seeks no shameful deedsIn nooks remote upon some hidden couch,Nor timorous hides in labyrinthine cell;He courts the open air and light of day,And lives before the conscious eye of heaven.Such was the life, I think, the ancients lived,Those primal men who mingled with the gods.They were not blinded by the love of gold;No sacred stone divided off the fieldsAnd lotted each his own in judgment there.Nor yet did vessels rashly plow the seas;But each his native waters knew alone.Then cities were not girt with massive walls,With frequent towers set; no soldier thereTo savage arms his hands applied, nor burstThe close-barred gates with huge and heavy stonesFrom ponderous engines hurled. As yet the earthEndured no master's rule, nor felt the swayOf laboring oxen yoked in common toil;But all the fields, self-fruitful, fed mankind,Who took and asked no more. The woods gave wealth,And shady grottoes natural homes supplied.Unholy greed first broke these peaceful bonds,And headlong wrath, and lust which sets aflameThe hearts of men. Then came the cruel thirstFor empire; and the weak became the preyOf strong, and might was counted right. At firstMen fought with naked fists, but soon they turnedRough clubs and stones to use of arms. Not yetWere cornel spears with slender points of iron,And long, sharp-pointed swords, and crested helms.Such weapons wrath invented. Warlike MarsProduced new arts of strife, and forms of deathIn countless numbers made. Thence streams of goreStained every land, and reddened every sea.Then crime, o'erleaping every bound, ran wild;Invaded every home. No hideous deedWas left undone: but brothers by the handOf brothers fell, parents by children's hands,Husbands by wives', and impious mothers killedTheir helpless babes. Stepmothers need no words;The very beasts are kind compared with them.Of all these evils woman was the cause,The leader she. She with her wicked artsBesets the minds of men; and all for herAnd her vile, lustful ways, unnumbered townsLie low in smoking heaps; whole nations rushTo arms; and kingdoms, utterly o'erthrown,Drag down their ruined peoples in their fall.Though I should name no other, Aegeus' wifeWould prove all womankind a curséd race.Nurse: Why blame all women for the crimes of few?

Hippolytus: I hate them all. I dread and shun and curseThem all. Whether from reason, instinct, blindAnd causeless madness, this I know--I hate.And sooner shall you fire and water wed;Sooner shall dangerous quicksands friendly turnAnd give safe anchorage; and sooner farShall Tethys from her utmost western boundsBring forth the shining day, and savage wolvesSmile kindly on the timid does, than I,O'ercome, feel ought but hate to womankind.

Nurse: But oft doth love put reins on stubborn souls,And all their hatred to affection turns.Behold thy mother's realm of warlike dames;Yet even they the sway of passion know.Of this thy birth itself is proof enough.

Hippolytus: My comfort for my mother's loss is this,That now I'm free to hate all womankind.

Nurse: As some hard crag, on every side unmoved,Resists the waves, and dashes backward farThe opposing floods, so he doth spurn my words.But hither Phaedra comes with hasty step,Impatient of delay. What fate is hers?Or to what action doth her madness tend?But see, in sudden fainting fit she falls,And deathlike pallor overspreads her face.Lift up thy face, speak out, my daughter, see,Thine own Hippolytus embraces thee.

Phaedra [recovering from her faint]: Who gives me back to griefs,and floods againMy soul with heavy care? How well for meHad I sunk down to death!

Hippolytus: But why, poor soul,Dost thou lament the gift of life restored?

Phaedra [aside]: Come dare, attempt, fulfil thine own command.Speak out, and fearlessly. Who asks in fearSuggests a prompt refusal. Even nowThe greater part of my offense is done.Too late my present modesty. My love,I know, is base; but if I persevere,Perchance the marriage torch will hide my sin.Success makes certain sins respectable.Come now, begin.Bend lower down thine ear,I pray; if any comrade be at hand,Let him depart, that we may speak alone.Hippolytus: Behold, the place is free from witnesses.

Phaedra: My lips refuse to speak my waiting words;A mighty force compels my utterance,A mightier holds it back. Ye heavenly powers,I call ye all to witness, what I wish--

Hippolytus: Thy heart desires and cannot tell its wish?

Phaedra: Light cares speak out, the weighty have no words.

Hippolytus: Into my ears, my mother, tell thy cares.

Phaedra: The name of mother is too proud and high;My heart dictates some humbler name than that.Pray call me sister--slave, Hippolytus.Yes, slave I'd be. I'll bear all servitude;And shouldst thou bid me tread the driven snows,To walk along high Pindus' frozen peaks,I'd not refuse; no, not if thou shouldst bidMe go through fire, and serried ranks of foes,I would not hesitate to bare my breastUnto the naked swords. Take thou the powerWhich was consigned to me. Make me thy slave.Rule thou the state, and let me subject be.It is no woman's task to guard this realmOf many towns. Do thou, who in the flowerOf youth rejoicest, rule the citizensWith strong paternal sway. But me receiveInto thy arms, and there protect thy slaveAnd suppliant. My widowhood relieve.

Hippolytus: May God on high this omen dark avert!My father will in safety soon return.

Phaedra: Not so: the king of that fast-holding realmAnd silent Styx has never opened backThe doors of earth to those who once have leftThe realms above. Think'st thou that he will looseThe ravisher of his couch? Unless, indeed,Grim Pluto has at last grown mild to love.

Hippolytus: The righteous gods of heaven will bring him back.But while the gods still hold our prayers in doubt,My brothers will I make my pious care,And thee as well. Think not thou art bereft;For I will fill for thee my father's place.

Phaedra [aside]: Oh, hope of lovers, easily beguiled!Deceitful love! Has he not said enough?I'll ply him now with prayers.Oh, pity me.Hear thou the prayers which I must only think.I long to utter them, but am ashamed.

Hippolytus: What is thy trouble then?

Phaedra: A trouble mine,Which thou wouldst scarce believe could vex the soulOf any stepdame.

Hippolytus: Speak more openly;In doubtful words thy meaning thou dost wrap.

Hippolytus: Surely with a modest loveFor Theseus thou dost burn.

Phaedra: Hippolytus,'Tis thus with me: I love those former looksOf Theseus, which in early manhood onceHe wore, when first a beard began to showUpon his modest cheeks, what time he sawThe Cretan monster's hidden lurking-place,And by a thread his labyrinthine wayRetraced. Oh, what a glorious sight he was!Soft fillets held in check his flowing locks,And modesty upon his tender faceGlowed blushing red. His soft-appearing armsBut half concealed his muscles' manly strength.His face was like thy heavenly Phoebe's face,Or my Apollo's, or 'twas like thine own.Like thee, like thee he was when first he pleasedHis enemy. Just so he proudly heldHis head erect; still more in thee shines outThat beauty unadorned; in thee I findThy father all. And yet thy mother's sternAnd lofty beauty has some share in thee;Her Scythian firmness tempers Grecian grace.If with thy father thou hadst sailed to Crete,My sister would have spun the thread for theeAnd not for him. O sister, wheresoe'erIn heaven's starry vault thou shinest, thee,Oh, thee I call to aid my hapless cause,So like thine own. One house has overthrownTwo sisters, thee the father, me the son.Behold, as suppliant, fallen to thy knees,A royal princess kneels. Without a spotOf sin, unstained and innocent, was I;And thou alone hast wrought the change in me.See at thy feet I kneel and pray, resolvedThis day shall end my misery or life.Oh, pity her who loves thee--

Hippolytus: God in heaven,Great ruler of all gods, dost thou this sinSo calmly hear, so calmly see? If nowThou hurlest not thy bolt with deadly hand,What shameful cause will ever send it forth?Let all the sky in shattered ruins fall,And hide the light of day in murky clouds.Let stars turn back, and trace again their courseAthwart their proper ways. And thou, great starOf stars, thou radiant Sun, let not thine eyesBehold the impious shame of this thy stock;But hide thy face, and to the darkness fleeWhy is thy hand, O king of gods and men,Inactive? Why by forkéd lightning's brandsIs not the world in flames? Direct thy boltsAt me; pierce me. Let that fierce darting flameConsume me quite, for mine is all the blame.I ought to die, for I have favor foundIn my stepmother's eyes.Did I seem oneTo thee to do this vile and shameful thing?Did I seem easy fuel to thy fire,I only? Has my virtuous life deservedSuch estimate? Thou, worse than all thy kind!Thou woman, who hast in thy heart conceivedA deed more shameful than thy mother's sin,Whose womb gave monstrous birth; thou worse than she!She stained herself with vilest lust, and longConcealed the deed. But all in vain: at last,Her two-formed child revealed his mother's crime,And by his fierce bull-visage proved her guilt.Of such a womb and mother art thou born.Oh, thrice and four times blesséd is their lotWhom hate and treachery give o'er and doomTo death. O father, how I envy thee!Thy stepdame was the Colchian; but this,This woman is a greater curse than she.

Phaedra: I clearly see the destiny of my house:We follow ever what we should avoid.But I have given over self-control;I'll follow thee through fire, through raging sea,O'er ragged cliffs, through roaring torrents wild--Wherever thou dost go, in mad pursuitI shall be borne. Again, O haughty one,I fall in suppliance and embrace thy knees.

Hippolytus: Away from my chaste body with thy touchImpure! What more? She falls upon my breast!I'll draw my sword and smite as she deserves.See, by her twisted locks, I backward bendHer shameless head. No blood more worthilyWas ever spilled, O goddess of the bow,Upon thy altars.

Phaedra: Now, Hippolytus,Thou dost fulfil the fondest wish of mine;Thou sav'st me from my madness; greater farThan all my hopes, that by the hands I love,By thine own hands, I perish ere I sin.

Hippolytus: Then live, be gone! Thou shalt gain naught from me.And this my sword, defiled by thy base touch,No more shall hang upon my modest side.What Tanaïs will make me clean again?Or what Maeotis rushing to the sea,With its barbaric waves? Not Neptune's self,With all his ocean's waters could availTo cleanse so foul a stain. O woods! O beasts!

Nurse [in soliloquy, while Phaedra seems to have fallen in afainting fit]:Now is her fault discovered. Soul of mine,Why dost thou stand in dumb amaze? This crimeWe must throw back upon the man himself,And charge him with a guilty love, ourselves.Sin must be hid by sin. The safest wayIs to go straight forward on the course you fear.Who is to know, since no one saw the deed,Whether we dared, ourselves, or suffered ill?Help! Help! ye dames of Athens! Faithful bandOf slaves, bring aid! Behold Hippolytus,With vile adultery, attacks the queen!He has her in his power! He threatens death!At point of sword he storms her chastity!There, he has gone in haste, and left behindHis sword in trembling, panic-stricken flight.This proof of guilt we'll keep. But first restoreThe stricken queen to life. Let all remainJust as they are, her locks disheveled, torn,To show how great a wrong she has endured.Back to the city bear her now. Revive,My mistress. Why dost seek to harm thyselfAnd shun thy comrades' eyes. For be thou sureNot circumstance but will can make impure.

Chorus: He fled away like the storm-blast wild,More swift than cloud-compelling winds;And swifter than the comet's torch,When, driven before the wind, it speedsWith long-drawn, trailing fires.Let fame, that boasts of her olden times,Compare with thine all ancient charms:Beyond compare does thy beauty shine,Clear and bright as the full-orbed moon,When, with waxing hours in splendor joined,Night long she speeds her shining car,And her ruddy face so brightly gleams,That the fires of the lesser stars are dimmed.He is fair as the messenger of night,When he leads the evening shadows in,Himself new bathed in the ocean's foam;Or when, the darkness put to flight,He heralds the dawn--bright Lucifer.And thou of the thyrsus, Indian Bacchus,With the flowing locks of endless youth,With thine ivy-clad spear the tigers driving,And thy turban set on thy hornéd head:Not thus will thy glorious locks outshineThe unadorned hair of Hippolytus.And admire not thy beauty over much,For fame has spread the story far,How Phaedra's sister preferred to thee,O Bromius, a mortal man.Ah beauty, a doubtful boon art thou,The gift of a fleeting hour! How swiftOn flying feet thou glidest away!So flowery meadows of the springThe summer's burning heat devours,When midday's raging sun rides high,And night's brief round is hurried through.As the lilies languish on their stems,So pleasing tresses fail the head;And swiftly is the radiance dimmedWhich gleams from the tender cheeks of youth!Each day hath its spoil from the lovely form;For beauty flees and soon is gone.Who then would trust a gift so frail?Nay, use its joys, while still thou mayst;For silent time will soon destroy thee,And hours to baser hours steal on.Why seek the desert wilds? Thy formIs no more safe in pathless ways.If in the forest's depths thou hide,When Titan brings the noonday heat,The saucy Naïds will surround thee,Who are wont in their clear springs to snareThe lovely youth; and 'gainst thy sleepThe wanton goddesses of groves,The Dryads, who the roving PansDrive in pursuit, will mischief plot.Or else that glowing star, whose birthThe old Arcadians beheld,Will see thee from the spangled sky,And straight forget to drive her car.Of late she blushed a fiery red,And yet no staining cloud obscuredHer shining disk. But we, in fearFor her troubled face, clashed cymbals loud,Deeming her harried by the charmsOf Thessaly. But for thee aloneWas all her toil; thou wast the causeOf her long delay; for, seeing thee,The night's fair goddess checked her course.If only winter's blasts would beatLess fiercely on that face of thine;If less it felt the sun's hot rays,More bright than Parian marble's gleamWould it appear. How beautifulThe manly sternness in thy face,Thy brow's dark frowning majesty!Compare with Phoebus' that fair neck.His hair o'er his shoulders flowing free,Unbound by fillet, ornamentsAnd shelters him. A shaggy browBecomes thee best; thee, shorter locks,In tossing disarray. 'Tis thineThe rough and warlike gods to meetIn strife, and by thy mighty strengthTo overcome them. Even now,The muscles of a HerculesThy youthful arms can match. Thy breastIs broader than the breast of Mars.If on a horny-footed steedThou'rt pleased to mount, not Castor's selfMore easily could hold in checkThe Spartan Cyllarus.Take thong in hand; with all thy strengthDischarge the javelin: not so far,Though they be trained to hurl the dart,Will Cretans send the slender reed.Or if it please thee into air,In Parthian style, to shoot thy darts,None will descend without its bird,Fixed deep within the throbbing breast;From out the very clouds thy preyThou wilt regain.By few has beauty been possessed(The voice of history proclaims)Without some loss or suffering.But thee, unharmed, may God pass byMore merciful, and may thy form,Now famous for its beauty, showAt last the marks of ugly age.What crime would woman's fury leave undared?She plans against this harmless youth some fraud.Behold her scheme! For by her tumbled hair,All torn, she seeks sure credence for her tale.She wets her cheeks with tears; and every artThat woman's shrewdness knows, does she employ.But who is that who comes with grace of kingsDisplayed upon his face, his lofty headHeld high in kingly pride? In countenance,How like the young Pirithoüs he seems,Were not his cheeks too deadly pale and wan,And if his hair fell not in locks unkempt.Behold, 'tis Theseus' self returned to earth.