ACT III
Scene I
Andromache, An Old Man.
Andromache. Why tear your hair, my Phrygian followers,
Why beat your breasts and mar your cheeks with tears?
The grief is light that has the power to weep. 420
Troy fell for you but now, for me long since
When fierce Achilles urged at speed his car,
And dragged behind his wheel my very self;
The axle, made of wood from Pelion's groves,
Groaned heavily, and under Hector's weight 425
Trembled. O'erwhelmed and crushed, I bore unmoved
Whate'er befell, for I was stunned with grief.
I would have followed Hector long ago,
And freed me from the Greeks, but this my son
Held me, subdued my heart, forbade my death, 430
Compelled me still to ask the gods a boon,
Added a longer life to misery.
He took away my sorrow's richest fruit—
To know no fear. All chance of better things
Is snatched away, and worse are yet to come; 435
'Tis wretchedness to fear where hope is lost.
Old Man. What sudden fear assails thee, troubled one?
Andromache. From great misfortunes, greater ever spring;
Troy needs must fill the measure of her woes.
Old Man. Though he should wish, what can the god do more?440
Andromache. The entrance of the bottomless abyss
Of gloomy Styx lies open; lest defeat
Should lack enough of fear, the buried foe
Comes forth from Dis. Can Greeks alone return?
Death certainly is equal; Phrygians feel 445
This common fear; a dream of dreadful night
Me only terrified.
Old Man. What dream is this?
Andromache. The sweet night's second watch was hardly passed,
The Seven Stars were turning from the height;
At length there came an unaccustomed calm 450
To me afflicted; on my eyes there stole
Brief sleep, if that dull lethargy be sleep
That comes to grief-worn souls; when, suddenly,
Before my eyes stood Hector, not as when
He bore against the Greeks avenging fire, 455
Seeking the Argive fleet with Trojan torch;
Nor as he raged with slaughter 'gainst the Greeks,
And bore away Achilles' arms—true spoil,
From him who played Achilles' part, nor was
A true Achilles. Not with flame-bright face 460
He came, but marred with tears, dejected, sad,
Like us, and all unkempt his loosened hair;
Yet I rejoiced to see him. Then he said,
Shaking his head: 'O faithful wife, awake!
Bear hence thy son and hide him, this alone 465
Is safety. Weep not! Do you weep for Troy?
Would all were fallen! Hasten, seek a place
Of safety for the child.' Then I awoke,
Cold horror and a trembling broke my sleep.
Fearful, I turned my eyes now here, now there. 470
Me miserable, careless of my son,
I sought for Hector, but the fleeting shade
Slipped from my arms, eluded my embrace.
O child, true son of an illustrious sire;
Troy's only hope; last of a stricken race; 475
Too noble offspring of an ancient house;
Too like thy father! Such my Hector's face,
Such was his gait, his manner, so he held
His mighty hands, and so his shoulders broad,
So threatened with bold brow when shaking back 480
His heavy hair! Oh, born too late for Troy,
Too soon for me, will ever come that time,
That happy day, when thou shalt build again
Troy's walls, and lead from flight her scattered hosts,
Avenging and defending mightily, 485
And give again a name to Troy's fair land?
But, mindful of my fate, I dare not wish;
We live, and life is all that slaves can hope.
Alas, what place of safety can I find,
Where hide thee? That high citadel, god-built, 490
Is dust, her streets are flame, and naught remains
Of all the mighty city, not so much
As where to hide an infant. Oh, what place
Of safety can I find? The mighty tomb,
Reared to my husband—this the foe must fear. 495
His father, Priam, in his sorrow built,
With no ungenerous hand, great Hector's tomb;
I rightly trust a father. Yet I fear
The baleful omen of the place of tombs,
And a cold sweat my trembling members bathes. 500
Old Man. The safe may choose, the wretched seize defense.
Andromache. We may not hide him without heavy fear
Lest some one find him.
Old Man. Cover up the trace
Of our device.
Andromache. And if the foe should ask?
Old Man. In the destruction of the land he died,— 505
It oft has saved a man that he was deemed
Already dead.
Andromache. No other hope is left.
He bears the heavy burden of his name;
If he must come once more into their power
What profits it to hide him? 510
Old Man. Victors oft
Are savage only in the first attack.
Andromache. [To Astyanax] What distant, pathless land will keep thee safe,
Or who protect thee, give thee aid in fear?
O Hector, now as ever guard thine own,
Preserve the secret of thy faithful wife, 515
And to thy trusted ashes take thy child!
My son, go thou into thy father's tomb.
What, do you turn and shun the dark retreat?
I recognize thy father's strength of soul,
Ashamed of fear. Put by thy inborn pride, 520
Thy courage; take what fortune has to give.
See what is left of all the Trojan host:
A tomb, a child, a captive! We succumb
To such misfortunes. Dare to enter now
Thy buried father's sacred resting-place; 525
If fate is kind thou hast a safe retreat,
If fate refuse thee aid, thou hast a grave.
Old Man. The sepulcher will safely hide thy son;
Go hence lest thou shouldst draw them to the spot.
Andromache. One's fear is lightlier borne when near at hand,530
But elsewhere will I go, since that seems best.
Old Man. Stay yet a while, but check the signs of grief;
This way the Grecian leader bends his steps.
Scene II
Andromache, Ulysses with a retinue of warriors. [The old man withdraws.]
Ulysses. Coming a messenger of cruel fate,
I pray you deem not mine the bitter words 535
I speak, for this is but the general voice
Of all the Greeks, too long from home detained
By Hector's child: him do the fates demand.
The Greeks can hope for but a doubtful peace,
Fear will compel them still to look behind 540
Nor lay aside their armor, while thy child,
Andromache, gives strength to fallen Troy.
So prophesies the god's interpreter;
And had the prophet Calchas held his peace,
Hector had spoken; Hector and his son 545
I greatly fear: those sprung of noble race
Must needs grow great. With proudly lifted head
And haughty neck, the young and hornless bull
Leads the paternal herd and rules the flock;
And when the tree is cut, the tender stalk 550
Soon rears itself above the parent trunk,
Shadows the earth, and lifts its boughs to heaven;
The spark mischance has left from some great fire,
Renews its strength; like these is Hector's son.
If well you weigh our act, you will forgive, 555
Though grief is harsh of judgment. We have spent
Ten weary winters, ten long harvests spent
In war; and now, grown old, our soldiers fear,
Even from fallen Troy, some new defeat.
'Tis not a trifling thing that moves the Greeks, 560
But a young Hector; free them from this fear;
This cause alone holds back our waiting fleet,
This stops the ships. Too cruel think me not,
By lot commanded Hector's son to seek;
I sought Orestes once; with patience bear 565
What we ourselves have borne.
Andromache. Alas, my son,
Would that thou wert within thy mother's arms!
Would that I knew what fate encompassed thee,
What region holds thee, torn from my embrace!
Although my breast were pierced with hostile spears, 570
My hands bound fast with wounding chains, my side
By biting flame were girdled, not for this
Would I put off my mother-guardianship!
What spot, what fortune holds thee now, my son?
Art thou a wanderer in an unknown land, 575
Or have the flames of Troy devoured thee?
Or does the conqueror in thy blood rejoice?
Or, snatched by some wild beast, perhaps thou liest
On Ida's summit, food for Ida's birds?
Ulysses. No more pretend. Thou mayst not so deceive 580
Ulysses; I have power to overcome
A mother's wiles, although she be divine.
Put by thy empty plots; where is thy son?
Andromache. Where is my Hector? Where the Trojan host?
Where Priam? Thou seek'st one, I seek them all. 585
Ulysses. What thou refusest willingly to tell,
Thou shalt be forced to say.
Andromache. She rests secure
Who can, who ought, nay, who desires to die.
Ulysses. Near death may put an end to such proud boast.
Andromache. Ulysses, if thou hop'st through fear to force590
Andromache to speak, threat longer life;
Death is to me a wished-for messenger.
Ulysses. With fire, scourge, torment, even death itself,
I will compel thy heart's deep-hidden thought;
Necessity is stronger far than death. 595
Andromache. Threat flames, wounds, hunger, thirst, the bitter stings
Of cruel grief, all torments, sword plunged deep
Within this bosom, or the prison dark—
Whatever angry, fearful victors may;
Learn that a loving mother knows no fear. 600
Ulysses. And yet this love, in which thou standst entrenched
So stubbornly, admonishes the Greeks
To think of their own children. Even now,
After these long ten years, this weary war,
I should fear less the danger Calchas threats, 605
If for myself I feared—but thou prepar'st
War for Telemachus.
Andromache. Unwillingly
I give the Grecians joy, but I must give.
Ulysses, anguish must confess its pain;
Rejoice, O son of Atreus, carry back 610
As thou art wont, to the Pelasgian host
The joyous news: great Hector's son is dead.
Ulysses. How prove it to the Greeks?
Andromache. Fall on me else
The greatest ill the victor can inflict:
Fate free me by an easy, timely death, 615
And hide me underneath my native soil!
Lightly on Hector lie his country's earth
As it is true that, hidden from the light,
Deep in the tomb, among the shades he rests.
Ulysses. Accomplished then the fate of Hector's race; 620
A joyous message of established peace
I take the Greeks. [He turns to go, then hesitates.
Ulysses, wouldst thou so?
The Greeks have trusted thee, thou trustest—whom?
A mother. Would a mother tell this lie
Nor fear the augury of dreaded death? 625
They fear the auguries, who fear naught else.
She swears it with an oath—yet, falsely sworn,
What has she worse to fear? Now call to aid
All that thou hast of cunning, stratagem,
And guile, the whole Ulysses; truth dies not. 630
Watch well the mother; see—she mourns, she weeps,
She groans, turns every way her anxious steps,
Listens with ear attentive; more she fears
Than sorrows; thou hast need of utmost care.
[To Andromache.] For other mothers' loss 'tis right to grieve;635
Thee, wretched one, we must congratulate
That thou hast lost a son whose fate had been
To die, hurled headlong from the one high tower
Remaining of the ruined walls of Troy.
Andromache [aside]. Life fails, I faint, I fall, an icy fear640
Freezes my blood.
Ulysses [aside]. She trembles; here the place
For my attack; she is betrayed by fear;
I'll add worse fear. [To his followers.
Go quickly; somewhere lies,
By mother's guile concealed, the hidden foe—
The Greeks last enemy of Trojan name. 645
Go, seek him, drag him hither. [After a pause as though the child were found.] It is well;
The child is taken; hasten, bring him me.
[To Andromache.] Why do you look around and seem to fear?
The boy is dead.
Andromache. Would fear were possible!
Long have I feared, and now too late my soul 650
Unlearns its lesson.
Ulysses. Since by happier fate
Snatched hence, the lad forestalls the sacrifice,
The lustral offering from the walls of Troy
And may not now obey the seer's command,
Thus saith the prophet: this may be atoned, 655
And Grecian ships at last may find return,
If Hector's tomb be leveled with the ground,
His ashes scattered on the sea; the tomb
Must feel my hand, since Hector's child escapes
His destined death.
Andromache [aside]. Alas, what shall I do? 660
A double fear distracts me; here my son,
And there my husband's sacred sepulcher,
Which conquers? O inexorable gods,
O manes of my husband—my true god,
Bear witness; in my son 'tis thee I love, 665
My Hector, and my son shall live to bear
His father's image! Shall the sacred dust
Be cast upon the waves? Nay, better death.
Canst thou a mother bear to see him die,—
To see him from Troy's tower downward hurled? 670
I can and will, that Hector, after death,
Be not the victor's sport. The boy may feel
The pain, where death has made the father safe.
Decide, which one shall pay the penalty.
Ungrateful, why in doubt? Thy Hector's here! 675
'Tis false, each one is Hector; this one lives,
Perchance th' avenger of his father's death.
I cannot save them both, what shall I do?
Oh, save the one whom most the Grecians fear!
Ulysses. I will fulfill the oracle, will raze 680
The tomb to its foundations.
Andromache. Which ye sold?
Ulysses. I'll do it, I will level with the dust
The sepulcher.
Andromache. I call the faith of heaven,
Achilles' faith, to aid; come, Pyrrhus, save
Thy father's gift. 685
Ulysses. The tomb shall instantly
Be leveled with the plain.
Andromache. This crime alone
The Greeks had shunned; ye've sacked the holy fanes
Even of favoring gods, ye've spared the tomb.
I will not suffer it, unarmed I'll stand
Against your armored host; rage gives me strength, 690
And as the savage Amazon opposed
The Grecian army, or the Mænad wild,
Armed with the thyrsus, by the god possessed,
Wounding herself spreads terror through the grove,
Herself unpained, I'll rush into your midst, 695
And in defending the dear ashes die. [She places herself before the grave.
Ulysses [angrily to the shrinking soldiers.
Why pause? A woman's wrath and feeble noise
Alarms you so? Do quickly my command.
[The soldiers go toward the grave, Andromache throws herself upon them.
Andromache. The sword must first slay me.—Ah, woe is me,
They drive me back. Hector, come forth the tomb; 700
Break through the fate's delay, and overwhelm
The Grecian chief—thy shade would be enough!
The weapon clangs and flashes in his hand;
Greeks, see you Hector? Or do I alone
Perceive him?
Ulysses. I will lay it in the dust. 705
Andromache [aside]. What have I done? To ruin I have brought
Father and son together; yet, perchance,
With supplications I may move the Greeks.
The tomb's great weight will presently destroy
Its hidden treasure; O my wretched child, 710
Die wheresoe'er the fates decree,—not here!
Oh, may the father not o'erwhelm the son,
The son fall not upon his father's dust!
[She casts herself at the feet of Ulysses.
Ulysses, at thy feet a suppliant
I fall, and with my right hand clasp thy knees; 715
Never before a suppliant, here I ask
Thy pity on a mother; hear my prayer
With patience; on the fallen, lightly press,
Since thee the gods lift up to greater heights!
The gifts thou grantst the wretched are to fate 720
A hostage; so again thou mayst behold
Thy wife; and old Laertes' years endure
Until once more he see thee; so thy son
Succeed thee and outrun thy fairest hopes
In his good fortune, and his age exceed 725
Laertes', and his gifts outnumber thine.
Have pity on a mother to whose grief
Naught else remains of comfort.
Ulysses. Bring forth the boy, then thou mayst ask for grace.
Andromache. Come hither from thy hiding-place, my son,730
Thy wretched mother's lamentable theft.
Scene III
Ulysses, Andromache, Astyanax.
Andromache. Ulysses, this is he who terrifies
The thousand keels, behold him. Fall, my son,
A suppliant at the feet of this thy lord,
And do him reverence; nor think it base, 735
Since Fortune bids the wretched to submit.
Forget thy royal race, the power of one
Renowned through all the world; Hector forget;
Act the sad captive on thy bended knee,
And imitate thy mother's tears, if yet 740
Thou feelest not thy woes. [To Ulysses.] Troy saw long since
The weeping of a royal child: the tears
Of youthful Priam turned aside the threats
Of stern Alcides; he, the warrior fierce
Who tamed wild beasts, who from the shattered gates 745
Of shadowy Dis a hidden, upward path
Opened, was conquered by his young foe's tears.
'Take back,' he said, 'the reins of government,
Receive thy father's kingdom, but maintain
Thy scepter with a better faith than he;' 750
So fared the captives of this conqueror;
Study the gentle wrath of Hercules!
Or do the arms alone of Hercules
Seem pleasing to thee? Of as noble race
As Priam's, at thy feet a suppliant lies, 755
And asks of thee his life; let fortune give
To whom she will Troy's kingdom.
Ulysses. Indeed the mother's sorrow moves me much!
Our Grecian mothers' sorrow moves me more,
To cause whose bane this child would grow a man. 760
Andromache. These ruins of a land to ashes burned
Could he arouse? Or could these hands build Troy?
Troy has no hope, if such is all remains.
We Trojans can no longer cause thee fear.
And has the child his father's spirit? Yes, 765
But broken. Troy destroyed, his father's self
Had lost that courage which great ills o'ercame.
If vengeance is your wish, what worse revenge
Than to this noble neck to fit the yoke?
Make him a slave. Who ever yet denied 770
This bounty to a king?
Ulysses. The seer forbids,
'Tis not Ulysses who denies the boon.
Andromache. Artificer of fraud, plotter of guile,
Whose warlike valor never felled a foe;
By the deceit and guile of whose false heart 775
E'en Greeks have fallen, dost thou make pretense
Of blameless god or prophet? 'Tis the work
Of thine own heart. Thou, who by night mak'st war,
Now dar'st at last one deed in open day—
A brave boy's death. 780
Ulysses. My valor to the Greeks
Is known, and to the Phrygians too well known.
We may not waste the day in idle talk—
Our ships weigh anchor.
Andromache. Grant a brief delay,
While I, a mother, for my son perform
The last sad office, satiate my grief, 785
My mother's sorrow, with a last embrace.
Ulysses. I would that I might pity! What I may,
Time and delay, I grant thee; let thy tears
Fall freely; weeping ever softens grief.
Andromache. O pledge of love, light of a fallen house,790
Last of the Trojan dead, fear of the Greeks,
Thy mother's empty hope, for whom I prayed—
Fool that I was—that thou mightst have the years
Of Priam, and thy father's warlike soul,
The gods despise my vows; thou ne'er shalt wield 795
A scepter in the kingly halls of Troy,
Mete justice to thy people, nor shalt send
Thy foes beneath thy yoke, nor put to flight
The Greeks, drag Pyrrhus at thy chariot wheels,
Nor ever in thy slender hands bear arms; 800
Nor wilt thou hunt the dwellers in the wood,
Nor on high festival, in Trojan games,
Lead forth the noble band of Trojan youth;
Nor round the altars with swift-moving steps,
That the reëchoing of the twisted horn 805
Makes swifter, honor with accustomed dance
The Phrygian temples. Oh, most bitter death!
Ulysses. Great sorrow knows no limit, cease thy moans!
Andromache. How narrow is the time we seek for tears!
Grant me a trivial boon: that with these hands 810
His living eyes be bound. My little one,
Thou diest, but feared already by thy foes;
Thy Troy awaits thee; go, in freedom go,
To meet free Trojans.
Astyanax. Mother, pity me!
Andromache. Why hold thy mother's hands and clasp her neck,815
And seek in vain a refuge? The young bull,
Thus fearful, seeks his mother when he hears
The roaring of the lion; from her side
By the fierce lion driv'n, the tender prey
Is seized, and crushed, and dragged apart; so thee 820
Thy foeman snatches from thy mother's breast.
Child, take my tears, my kisses, my torn locks,
Go to thy father, bear him these few words
Of my complaint: 'If still thy spirit keeps
Its former cares, if died not on the flames 825
Thy former love, why leave Andromache
To serve the Grecians? Hector, cruel one,
Dost thou lie cold and vanquished in the grave?
Achilles came again.' Take then these locks,
These tears, for these alone I have to give, 830
Since Hector's death, and take thy mother's kiss
To give thy father; leave thy robe for me,
Since it has touched his tomb and his dear dust;
I'll search it well so any ashes lurk
Within its folds. 835
Ulysses. Weep no more, bear him hence;
Too long he stays the sailing of the fleet.
Scene IV
Chorus of Trojan Women.
What country calls the captives? Tempe dark?
Or the Thessalian hills? or Phthia's land
Famous for warriors? Trachin's stony plains,
Breeders of cattle? or the great sea's queen, 840
Iolchos? or the spacious land of Crete
Boasting its hundred towns? Gortyna small?
Or sterile Tricca? or Mothone crossed
By swift and frequent rivers? She who lies
Beneath the shadow of the Œtean woods, 845
Whose hostile bowmen came, not once alone,
Against the walls of Troy?
Or Olenos whose homes lie far apart?
Or Pleuron, hateful to the virgin god?
Or Trœzen on the ocean's curving shore? 850
Or Pelion, mounting heavenward, the realm
Of haughty Prothous? There in a vast cave
Great Chiron, teacher of the savage child,
Struck with his plectrum from the sounding strings
Wild music, stirred the boy with songs of war. 855
Perchance Carystus, for its marbles famed,
Calls us; or Chalcis, lying on the coast
Of the unquiet sea whose hastening tide
Beats up the strait; Calydna's wave-swept shore;
Or stormy Genoessa; or the isle 860
Of Peparethus near the seaward line
Of Attica; Enispe smitten oft
By Boreas; or Eleusis, reverenced
For Ceres' holy, secret mysteries?
Or shall we seek great Ajax' Salamis? 865
Or Calydon the home of savage beasts?
Or countries that the Titaressus laves
With its slow waters? Scarphe, Pylos old,
Or Bessus, Pharis, Pisa, Elis famed
For the Olympian games? 870
It matters not what tempest drives us hence,
Or to what land it bears us, so we shun
Sparta, the curse alike of Greece and Troy;
Nor seek the land of Argos, nor the home
Of cruel Pelops, Neritus hemmed in 875
By narrower limits than Zacynthus small,
Nor threatening cliffs of rocky Ithaca.
O Hecuba, what fate, what land, what lord
Remains for thee? In whose realm meetst thou death?