Troades: Act III

Andromache: What do ye here, sad throng of Phrygian dames?Why tear your hair and beat your wretched breasts?Why stream your cheeks with tears? Our ills are lightIf we endure a grief that tears can soothe.You mourn a Troy whose walls but now have fall'n;Troy fell for me long since, when that dread carOf Peleus' son, urged on at cruel speed,With doleful groanings 'neath his massive weight,Dragged round the walls my Hector's mangled corse.Since then, o'erwhelmed and utterly undone,With stony resignation do I bearWhatever ills may come. But for this child,Long since would I have saved me from the GreeksAnd followed my dear lord; but thought of himDoth check my purpose and forbid my death.For his dear sake there still remaineth causeTo supplicate the gods, an added care.Through him the richest fruit of woe is lost--The fear of naught; and now all hope of restFrom further ills is gone, for cruel fateHath still an entrance to my grieving heart.Most sad his fear, who fears in hopelessness.An Old Man: What sudden cause of fear hath moved thee so?

Andromache: Some greater ill from mighty ills doth rise.The fate of fallen Troy is not yet stayed.

Old Man: What new disasters can the fates invent?

Andromache: The gates of deepest Styx, those darksome realms(Lest fear be wanting to our overthrow),Are opened wide, and forth from lowest DisThe spirit of our buried foeman comes.(May Greeks alone retrace their steps to earth?For death at least doth come to all alike.)That terror doth invade the hearts of all;But what I now relate is mine alone--A terrifying vision of the night.

Old Man: What was this vision? Speak and share thy fears.

Andromache: Now kindly night had passed her middle goal,And their bright zenith had the Bears o'ercome.Then came to my afflicted soul a calmLong since unknown, and o'er my weary eyes,For one brief hour did drowsy slumber stealIf that be sleep--the stupor of a soulForespent with ills: when suddenly I sawBefore mine eyes the shade of Hector stand;Not in such guise as when, with blazing torchHe strove in war against the Grecian ships,Nor when, all stained with blood, in battle fierceAgainst the Danai, he gained true spoilFrom that feigned Peleus' son; not such his faceAll flaming with the eager battle light;But weary, downcast, tear-stained, like my own,All covered o'er with tangled, bloody locks.Still did my joy leap up at sight of him;And then he sadly shook his head and said:"Awake from sleep and save our son from death,O faithful wife. In hiding let him lie;Thus only can he life and safety find.Away with tears--why dost thou mourning makeFor fallen Troy? I would that all had fall'n.Then haste thee, and to safety bear our son,The stripling hope of this our vanquished home,Wherever safety lies."So did he speak,And chilling terror roused me from my sleep.Now here, now there I turned my fearful eyes.Forgetful of my son, I sought the armsOf Hector, there to lay my grief. In vain:For that elusive shade, though closely pressed,Did ever mock my clinging, fond embrace.O son, true offspring of thy mighty sire,Sole hope of Troy, sole comfort of our house,Child of a stock of too illustrious blood,Too like thy father, thou: such countenanceMy Hector had, with such a tread he walked,With such a motion did he lift his hands,Thus stood he straight with shoulders proudly set,And thus he oft from that high, noble browWould backward toss his flowing locks.--But thou,O son, who cam'st too late for Phrygia's help,Too soon for me, will that time ever come,That happy day, when thou, the sole defense,And sole avenger of our conquered Troy,Shalt raise again her fallen citadel,Recall her scattered citizens from flight,And give to fatherland and PhrygiansTheir name and fame again?--Alas, my son,Such hopes consort not with our present state.Let the humble captive's fitter prayer be mine--The prayer for life.Ah me, what spot remoteCan hold thee safe? In what dark lurking-placeCan I bestow thee and abate my fears?Our city, once in pride of wealth secure,And stayed on walls the gods themselves had built,Well known of all, the envy of the world,Now deep in ashes lies, by flames laid low;And from her vast extent of temples, wallsAnd towers, no part, no lurking-place remains,Wherein a child might hide. Where shall I chooseA covert safe? Behold the mighty tombWherein his father's sacred ashes lie,Whose massive pile the enemy has spared.This did old Priam rear in days of power,Whose grief no stinted sepulture bestowed.Then to his father let me trust the child.--But at the very thought a chilling sweatInvades my trembling limbs, for much I fearThe gruesome omen of the place of death.

Old Man: In danger, haste to shelter where ye may;In safety, choose.

Andromache: What hiding-place is safeFrom traitor's eyes?Old Man: All witnesses remove.

Andromache: What if the foe inquire?

Old Man: Then answer thus:"He perished in the city's overthrow."This cause alone ere now hath safety foundFor many from the stroke of death--beliefThat they have died.

Andromache: But scanty hope is left;Too huge a weight of race doth press him down.Besides, what can it profit him to hideWho must his shelter leave and face the foe?

Old Man: The victor's deadliest purposes are first.

Andromache: What trackless region, what obscure retreatShall hold thee safe? Oh, who will bring us aidIn our distress and doubt? Who will defend?O thou, who always didst protect thine own,My Hector, guard us still. Accept the trustWhich I in pious confidence impose;And in the faithful keeping of thy dustMay he in safety dwell, to live again.Then son, betake thee hither to the tomb.Why backward strain, and shun that safe retreat?I read thy nature right: thou scornest fear.But curb thy native pride, thy dauntless soul,And bear thee as thine altered fates direct.For see what feeble forces now are left:A sepulcher, a boy, a captive band.We cannot choose but yield us to our woes.Then come, make bold to enter the abode,The sacred dwelling of thy buried sire.If fate assist us in our wretchedness,'Twill be to thee a safe retreat; if lifeThe fates deny, thou hast a sepulcher.

Old Man: Now do the bolted gates protect their charge.But thou, lest any sign of fear proclaimWhere thou hast hid the boy, come far away.

Andromache: Who fears from near at hand, hath less of fear;But, if thou wilt, take we our steps away.

Old Man: Now check thy words awhile, thy mourning cease;For hither bends the Ithacan his course.

Andromache [with a final appealing look toward the tomb]:Yawn deep, O earth, and thou, my husband, rendTo even greater depths thy tomb's deep cave,And hide the sacred trust I gave to theeWithin the very bosom of the pit.Now comes Ulysses, grave and slow of tread;Methinks he plotteth mischief in his heart.

Ulysses: As harsh fate's minister, I first imploreThat, though the words are uttered by my lips,Thou count them not my own. They are the voiceOf all the Grecian chiefs, whom Hector's sonDoth still prohibit from that homeward voyageSo long delayed. And him the fates demand.A peace secure the Greeks can never feel,And ever will the backward-glancing fearCompel them on defensive arms to lean,While on thy living son, Andromache,The conquered Phrygians shall rest their hopes.So doth the augur, Calchas, prophesy.Yet, even if our Calchas spake no word,Thy Hector once declared it, and I fearLest in his son a second Hector dwell;For ever doth a noble scion growInto the stature of his noble sire.Behold the little comrade of the herd,His budding horns still hidden from the sight:Full soon with arching neck and lofty front,He doth command and lead his father's flock.The slender twig, just lopped from parent bough,Its mother's height and girth surpasses soon,And casts its shade abroad to earth and sky.So doth a spark within the ashes left,Leap into flame again before the wind.Thy grief, I know, must partial judgment give;Still, if thou weigh the matter, thou wilt grantThat after ten long years of grievous war.A veteran soldier doeth well to fearStill other years of slaughter, and thy TroyStill unsubdued. This fear one cause aloneDoth raise--another Hector. Free the GreeksFrom dread of war. For this and this aloneOur idle ships still wait along the shore.And let me not seem cruel in thy sight,For that, compelled of fate, I seek thy son:I should have sought our chieftain's son as well.Then gently suffer what the victor bids.

Andromache: Oh, that thou wert within my power to give,My son, and that I knew what cruel fateDoth hold thee now, snatched from my eager arms--Where thou dost lie; then, though my breast were piercedWith hostile spears, and though my hands with chainsWere bound, and scorching flames begirt my sides,Thy mother's faith would ne'er betray her child.O son, what place, what lot doth hold thee now?Dost thou with wandering footsteps roam the fields?Wast thou consumed amid the raging flames?Hath some rude victor reveled in thy blood?Or, by some ravening beast hast thou been slain,And liest now a prey for savage birds?

Ulysses: Away with feignéd speech; no easy taskFor thee to catch Ulysses: 'tis my boastThat mother's snares, and even goddesses'I have o'ercome. Have done with vain deceit.Where is thy son?

Andromache: And where is Hector too?Where agéd Priam and the Phrygians?Thou seekest one; my quest includes them all.

Ulysses: By stern necessity thou soon shalt speakWhat thy free will withholds.

Andromache: But safe is she,Who can face death, who ought and longs to die.Ulysses: But death brought near would still thy haughty words.

Andromache: If 'tis thy will, Ulysses, to inspireAndromache with fear, then threaten life;For death has long been object of my prayer.

Ulysses: With stripes, with flames, with lingering pains of deathShalt thou be forced to speak, against thy will,What now thou dost conceal, and from thy heartIts inmost secrets bring. NecessityDoth often prove more strong than piety.

Andromache: Prepare thy flames, thy blows, and all the artsDevised for cruel punishment: dire thirst,Starvation, every form of suffering;Come, rend my vitals with the sword's deep thrust;In dungeon, foul and dark, immure; do allA victor, full of wrath and fear, can doOr dare; still will my mother heart, inspiredWith high and dauntless courage, scorn thy threats.

Ulysses: This very love of thine, which makes thee bold,Doth warn the Greeks to counsel for their sons.This strife, from home remote, these ten long yearsOf war, and all the ills which Calchas dreads,Would slight appear to me, if for myselfI feared: but thou dost threat Telemachus.

Andromache: Unwillingly, Ulysses, do I giveTo thee, or any Grecian, cause of joy;Yet must I give it, and speak out the woe,The secret grief that doth oppress my soul.Rejoice, O sons of Atreus, and do thou,According to thy wont, glad tidings bearTo thy companions: Hector's son is dead.

Ulysses: What proof have we that this thy word is true?

Andromache: May thy proud victor's strongest threat befall,And bring my death with quick and easy stroke;May I be buried in my native soil,May earth press lightly on my Hector's bones:According as my son, deprived of light,Amidst the dead doth lie, and, to the tombConsigned, hath known the funeral honors dueTo those who live no more.

Ulysses [joyfully]: Then are the fatesIndeed fulfilled, since Hector's son is dead,And I with joy unto the Greeks will go,With grateful tale of peace at last secure.But stay, Ulysses, this rash joy of thine!The Greeks will readily believe thy word;But what dost thou believe?--his mother's oath.Would then a mother feign her offspring's death,And fear no baleful omens of that word?They omens fear who have no greater dread.Her truth hath she upheld by straightest oath.If that she perjured be, what greater fearDoth vex her soul? Now have I urgent needOf all my skill and cunning, all my arts,By which so oft Ulysses hath prevailed;For truth, though long concealed, can never die.Now watch the mother; note her grief, her tears,Her sighs; with restless step, now here, now there,She wanders, and she strains her anxious earsTo catch some whispered word. 'Tis evident,She more by present fear than grief is swayed.So must I ply her with the subtlest art.When others mourn, 'tis fit in sympathyTo speak with kindred grief; but thou, poor soul,I bid rejoice that thou hast lost thy son,Whom cruel fate awaited; for 'twas willedThat from the lofty tower that doth remainAlone of Troy's proud walls, he should be dashed,And headlong fall to quick and certain death.

Andromache [aside]: My soul is faint within me, and my limbsDo quake; while chilling fear congeals my blood.

Ulysses [aside]: She trembles; here must I pursue my quest.Her fear betrayeth her; wherefore this fearWill I redouble.--Go in haste, my men,And find this foe of Greece, the last defenseOf Troy, who by his mother's cunning handIs safe bestowed, and set him in our midst.'Tis well! He's found. Now bring him here with haste.Why dost thou start, and tremble? Of a truthThy son is dead, for so hast thou declared.

Andromache: Oh, that I had just cause of dread. But now,My old habitual fear instinctive starts;The mind ofttimes forgets a well-conned woe.

Ulysses: Now since thy boy hath shunned the sacrificeThat to the walls was due, and hath escapedBy grace of better fate, our priest declaresThat only can our homeward way be wonIf Hector's ashes, scattered o'er the waves,Appease the sea, and this his sepulcherBe leveled with the ground. Since Hector's sonHas failed to pay the debt he owed to fate,Then Hector's sacred dust must be despoiled.

Andromache [aside]: Ah me, a double fear distracts my soul!Here calls my son, and here my husband's dust.Which shall prevail? Attest, ye heartless gods,And ye, my husband's shades, true deities:Naught else, O Hector, pleased me in my son,Save only thee; then may he still surviveTo bring thine image back to life and me.--Shall then my husband's ashes be defiled?Shall I permit his bones to be the sportOf waves, and lie unburied in the sea?Oh, rather, let my only son be slain!--And canst thou, mother, see thy helpless childTo awful death given up? Canst thou beholdHis body whirling from the battlements?I can, I shall endure and suffer this,Provided only, by his death appeased,The victor's hand shall spare my Hector's bones.--But he can suffer yet, while kindly fateHath placed his sire beyond the reach of harm.Why dost thou hesitate? Thou must decideWhom thou wilt designate for punishment.What doubts harass thy troubled soul? No moreIs Hector here.--Oh, say not so; I feelHe is both here and there. But sure am IThat this my child is still in life, perchanceTo be the avenger of his father's death.But both I cannot spare. What then? O soul,Save of the two, whom most the Greeks do fear.

Ulysses [aside]: Now must I force her answer.From its baseWill I this tomb destroy.

Andromache: The tomb of himWhose body thou didst ransom for a price?

Ulysses: I will destroy it, and the sepulcherFrom its high mound will utterly remove.

Andromache: The sacred faith of heaven do I invoke,And just Achilles' plighted word: do thou,O Pyrrhus, keep thy father's sacred oath.Ulysses: This tomb shall soon lie level with the plain.

Andromache: Such sacrilege the Greeks, though impious,Have never dared. 'Tis true the sacred fanes,E'en of your favoring gods, ye have defiled;But still your wildest rage hath spared our tombs.I will resist, and match your warriors' armsWith my weak woman's hands. Despairing wrathWill nerve my arm. Like that fierce Amazon,Who wrought dire havoc in the Grecian ranks;Or some wild Maenad by the god o'ercome,Who, thrysus-armed, doth roam the trackless gladesWith frenzied step, and, clean of sense bereft,Strikes deadly blows but feels no counter-stroke:So will I rush against ye in defenseOf Hector's tomb, and perish, if I must,An ally of his shade.

Ulysses [to attendants]: Do ye delay,And do a woman's tears and empty threatsAnd outcry move you? Speed the task I bid.

Andromache [struggling with attendants]:Destroy me first! Oh, take my life instead!Alas, they thrust me back! O Hector, come,Break through the bands of fate, upheave the earth,That thou mayst stay Ulysses' lawless hand.Thy spirit will suffice.--Behold he comes!His arms he brandishes, and firebrands hurls.Ye Greeks, do ye behold him, or do I,With solitary sight, alone behold?

Ulysses: This tomb and all it holds will I destroy.

Andromache [aside, while the attendants begin to demolish thetomb]: Ah me, can I permit the son and sireTo be in common ruin overwhelmed?Perchance I may prevail upon the GreeksBy prayer.--But even now those massive stonesWill crush my hidden child.--Oh, let him die,In any other way, and anywhere,If only father crush not son, and sonNo desecration bring to father's dust.A humble suppliant at thy knees I fall,Ulysses; I, who never yet to manHave bent the knee in prayer, thy feet embrace.By all the gods, have pity on my woes,And with a calm and patient heart receiveMy pious prayers. And as the heavenly powersHave high exalted thee in pride and might,The greater mercy show thy fallen foes.Whate'er is given to wretched suppliantIs loaned to fate. So mayst thou see againThy faithful wife; so may Laërtes liveTo greet thee yet again; so may thy sonBehold thy face, and, more than that thou canst pray,Excel his father's valor and the yearsOf old Laërtes. Pity my distress:The only comfort left me in my woe,Is this my son.

Andromache [goes to the tomb and calls to Astyanax]:Come forth, my son, from the place of thy hidingWhere thy mother bestowed thee with weeping and fear.

Here, here is the lad, Ulysses, behold him;The fear of thy armies, the dread of thy fleet!My son, thy suppliant hands upraise,And at the feet of this proud lord,Bend low in prayer, nor think it baseTo suffer the lot which our fortune appoints.Put out of mind thy regal birth,Thy agéd grandsire's glorious ruleOf wide domain; and think no moreOf Hector, thy illustrious sire.Be captive alone--bend the suppliant knee;And if thine own fate move thee not,Then weep by thy mother's woe inspired.That older Troy beheld the tearsOf its youthful king, and those tears prevailedTo stay the fierce threats of the victor's wrath,The mighty Hercules. Yea he,To whose vast strength all monsters had yielded,Who burst the stubborn gates of hell,And o'er that murky way returned,Even he was o'ercome by the tears of a boy."Take the reins of the state," to the prince he said;"Reign thou on thy father's lofty throne,But reign with the scepter of power--and truth."Thus did that hero subdue his foes.And thus do thou temper thy wrath with forbearance.And let not the power of great Hercules, only,Be model to thee. Behold at thy feet,As noble a prince as Priam of oldPleads only for life! The kingdom of TroyLet fortune bestow where she will.

Ulysses [aside]: This woe-struck mother's grief doth move me sore;But still the Grecian dames must more prevail,Unto whose grief this lad is growing up.

Andromache [hearing him]: What? These vast ruins of our fallentown,To very ashes brought, shall he uprear?Shall these poor boyish hands build Troy again?No hopes indeed hath Troy, if such her hopes.So low the Trojans lie, there's none so weakThat he need fear our power. Doth lofty thoughtOf mighty Hector nerve his boyish heart?What valor can a fallen Hector stir?When this our Troy was lost, his father's selfWould then have bowed his lofty spirit's pride;For woe can bend and break the proudest soul.If punishment be sought, some heavier fateLet him endure; upon his royal neckLet him support the yoke of servitude.Must princes sue in vain for this poor boon?Ulysses: Not I, but Calchas doth refuse thy prayer.

Andromache: O man of lies, artificer of crime,By whom in open fight no foe is slain,But by whose tricks and cunning, evil mindThe very chiefs of Greece are overthrown,Dost thou now seek to hide thy dark intentBehind a priest and guiltless gods? Nay, nay:This deed within thy sinful heart was born.Thou midnight prowler, brave to work the deathOf this poor boy, dost dare at length aloneTo do a deed, and that in open day?

Ulysses: Ulysses' valor do the Grecians knowFull well, and all too well the Phrygians.But we are wasting time with empty words.The impatient ships are tugging at their chains.

Andromache: But grant a brief delay, while to my sonI pay the rites of woe, and sate my griefWith tears and last embrace.

Ulysses: I would 'twere mineTo spare thy tears; but what alone I may,I'll give thee respite and a time for grief.Then weep thy fill, for tears do soften woe.

Andromache [to Astyanax]: O darling pledge of love, thou only stayOf our poor fallen house, last pang of Troy;O thou whom Grecians fear, O mother's hope,Alas too vain, for whom, with folly blind,I prayed the war-earned praises of his sire,His royal grandsire's prime of years and strength:But God hath scorned my prayers.Thou shalt not liveTo wield the scepter in the royal courtsOf ancient Troy, to make thy people's laws,And send beneath thy yoke the conquered tribes;Thou shalt not fiercely slay the fleeing Greeks,Nor from thy car in retribution dragAchilles' son; the dart from thy small handThou ne'er shalt hurl, nor boldly press the chaseOf scattered beasts throughout the forest glades;And when the sacred lustral day is come,Troy's yearly ritual of festal games,The charging squadrons of the noble youthThou shalt not lead, thyself the noblest born;Nor yet among the blazing altar fires,With nimble feet the ancient sacred danceAt some barbaric temple celebrate,While horns swell forth swift-moving melodies.Oh, mode of death, far worse than bloody war!More tearful sight than mighty Hector's endThe walls of Troy must see.

Ulysses: Now stay thy tears,For mighty grief no bound or respite finds.

Andromache: Small space for tears, Ulysses, do I ask;Some scanty moments yet, I pray thee, grant,That I may close his eyes though living still,And do a mother's part.Lo, thou must die,For, though a child, thou art too greatly feared.Thy Troy awaits thee: go, in freedom's pride,And see our Trojans, dead yet unenslaved.

Astyanax: O mother, mother, pity me and save!

Andromache: My son, why dost thou cling upon my robes,And seek the vain protection of my hand?As when the hungry lion's roar is heard,The frightened calf for safety presses closeIts mother's side; but that remorseless beast,Thrusting away the mother's timid form,With ravenous jaws doth grasp the lesser prey,And, crushing, drag it hence: so shalt thou, too,Be snatched away from me by heartless foes.Then take my tears and kisses, O my son,Take these poor locks, and, full of mother love,Go speed thee to thy sire; and in his earSpeak these, thy grieving mother's parting words:"If still thy manes feel their former cares,And on the pyre thy love was not consumed,Why dost thou suffer thy AndromacheTo serve a Grecian lord, O cruel Hector?Why dost thou lie in careless indolence?Achilles has returned."Take once againThese hairs, these flowing tears, which still remainFrom Hector's piteous death; this fond caressAnd rain of parting kisses take for him.But leave this cloak to comfort my distress,For it, within his tomb and near his shade,Hath lain enwrapping thee. If to its foldsOne tiny mote of his dear ashes clings,My eager lips shall seek it till they find.

Ulysses: Thy grief is limitless. Come, break away,And end our Grecian fleet's too long delay.

Chorus: Where lies the home of our captivity?On Thessaly's famed mountain heights?Where Tempe's dusky shade invites?Or Phthia, sturdy warriors' home,Or where rough Trachin's cattle roam?Iolchos, mistress of the main,Or Crete, whose cities crowd the plain?Where frequent flow Mothone's rills,Beneath the shade of Oete's hills,Whence came Alcides' fatal bowTwice destined for our overthrow?But whither shall our alien course be sped?Perchance to Pleuron's gates we go,Where Dian's self was counted foe;Perchance to Troezen's winding shore,The land which mighty Theseus bore;Or Pelion, by whose rugged sideTheir mad ascent the giants tried.Here, stretched within his mountain cave,Once Chiron to Achilles gaveThe lyre, whose stirring strains attestThe warlike passions of his breast.What foreign shore our homeless band invites?Must we our native country deemWhere bright Carystos' marbles gleam?Where Chalcis breasts the heaving tide,And swift Euripus' waters glide?Perchance unhappy fortune callsTo bleak Gonoëssa's windswept walls;Perchance our wondering eyes shall seeEleusin's awful mystery;Or Elis, where great heroes stroveTo win the Olympic crown of Jove.Then welcome, stranger lands beyond the sea!Let breezes waft our wretched band,Where'er they list, to any land;If only Sparta's curséd state(To Greeks and Trojans common fate)And Argos, never meet our view,And bloody Pelops' city too;May we ne'er see Ulysses' isle,Whose borders share their master's guile.But thee, O Hecuba, what fate,What land, what Grecian lord await?