Four Tragedies and Octavia (17 page)

Buried in my own land, and that the soil

Of his own land lie light on Hector's head –

So do I take my oath my son is lost

To the light of day and lies among the dead,

Entombed with all the obsequies of death.

ULYSSES
: Then Fate is satisfied, the seed of Hector

Exterminated, peace secured for ever.

I shall be glad to tell the Greeks this news….

    But wait – Ulysses may convince the Greeks;

What is convincing him? A mother's word?

Yet it were strange a mother should invent

So sad a story and not fear to speak

The ominous word of death. Omens are real

To those who have no worse to fear. This woman

Has sworn an oath that all she says is true;

If she is not afraid of perjury,

She must have something worse to fear – but what?

Now is the time for all your art, my man;

Now use your craft and skill, now show yourself

The real Ulysses. Truth cannot be lost.

Observe that mother carefully; she mourns,

She weeps and groans; and see how restlessly

She moves this way and that, paying attention

With anxious ears to any passing word.

That means she's more afraid than sorrowful.

I must be artful with her….

                                            Madam,

Most times it would be proper to console

A sorrowing parent's grief. But you, poor mother,

Must be called happy that you have no son.

He was to die a cruel death – thrown headlong

From yonder tower, the only one remaining

Upright amid the ruins of your city.

ANDROMACHE
: My limbs grow weak and shiver; heart fails;

My blood is cold as ice….

ULYSSES
:                            Yes, she is frightened.

This is the clue that I must follow, fear

Reveals the mother's guile; she must fear more….

Away, men, quickly! Find this enemy

Cunningly hidden from us by his mother,

This final menace to our nation. Find him

And dig him out, wherever his covert is,

And bring him here to us.… You've caught him? Good!

Let's have him here at once!…

                                                    You tremble?

You looked that way? Surely the boy is dead?

ANDROMACHE
: Would that I still had any cause to tremble!

Only long habit now makes me afraid;

Old lessons are not easily forgotten.

ULYSSES
: So – since it seems the sacrificial rite

Owed to these walls has been anticipated,

Since the poor child has met a kindlier fate

And cannot now obey our prophet's orders,

This is what Calchas further asks: that we,

To obtain a blessing for our home-going ships,

Shall be allowed to pull down Hector's tomb

From top to bottom, and disperse his ashes

Over the sea. The boy has cheated us

Of his appointed death; we must lay hands

Upon this sacred resting-place.

ANDROMACHE
[
aside
]:             Alas,

What can I do? Two fears divide my heart –

Fear for my son, and for the hallowed dust

Of my lost husband. Which will be the stronger?

Hear me, ye pitiless gods – and hear me, husband's

Dear soul, now verily among the gods –

All that I love in my dear son is Hector.

O let him live, that I may see again

My Hector's face!… Yet must I see your ashes

Dug from the grave and drowned? Your broken bones

Flung piecemeal on the ocean?… Rather than that,

Let the child die. Am I his mother, then,

And can I see him sent to infamous death?

Am I to see him tossed from that high tower?

Yes, I shall bear it; I shall have the strength

To bear it – but not see my Hector's bones

Ill-treated by his conquerors.… And yet

He is now safe in the hands of Fate – the other

Can still feel pain.… One must be saved – ah, which? –

You must decide. Can there be any doubt

Where duty lies? Hector, your husband, calls.…

Nay, you are wrong; there are two Hectors here;

And one of them still breathes, and still may live

To avenge his father's death. Save both, you cannot.

It must be one of them. Then, O my soul,

Let him be saved, who is the Argive fear.

ULYSSES
: I shall obey the order of the prophet

And have this tomb destroyed.

ANDROMACHE
:                           Have we not paid

A ransom for the tomb?

ULYSSES
:                        Still I shall do it;

We'll have the sepulchre thrown down and dragged

From its high mound.

ANDROMACHE
:                O heaven's powers, protect us!

Achilles, keep your word! Pyrrhus, defend

Your father's gift!

ULYSSES
:                This monument will soon

Be levelled to the ground.

ANDROMACHE
:                  Worse sacrilege

Than any yet committed by the Greeks.

Temples you have despoiled, even of gods

That served your purpose, but your violence

Has spared the dead. I will not let you do it;

Armed though you are, I'll fight you with bare hands;

Passion will give me strength. If Amazons

Could quell your troops of Argives; if a Maenad

Could march out in her madness, god-possessed,

Armed with a thyrsus, to amaze the woodlands

And strike, with power she never knew was hers,

And never feel a wound herself; so I

Will charge into the battle to defend

This sepulchre and die beside its dust.

ULYSSES
: What are you waiting for, men? Do you fear A woman's angry cries and useless rage?

Do as I tell you instantly.

ANDROMACHE
:                   No, no!

Destroy me rather with your swords, here, here!…

O Hector, Hector, break your prison of death!

Throw off the earth and overpower Ulysses!

Your ghost has power enough. Greeks, do you see him?

Do you see Hector now, the sword he grasps,

The firebrands whirling? Does none see him but I?

ULYSSES
: Down with it all to the ground.

ANDROMACHE
:                                    Have you the heart

To bury son and husband in one ruin?

Could you not ask the Greeks for mercy? Oh!

The tomb's huge weight will crush the one within!

Oh let him die, poor child, as best he can,

In any place but this – let not the son

Be crushed beneath his father's bones, or father

Be bruised beneath the son!

                                            Here at your knees,

I fall to pray, Ulysses; at your feet

My hand, that has touched no man's feet before.

Have pity for a mother; hear her prayers

With patience and with kindness; as the gods

Have raised you up, so the more gently lay

Your hand upon the fallen. What charity

You lend to the unfortunate, you lend

To your own fortune. Therefore, as you pray

For safe return to your own chaste wife's bed;

As for your aged father's life you pray,

That he may live to have you home again;

And for your son, that he may take your place,

Exceeding all your hopes in grace and nature,

Older than any of his ancestors,

And greater than his father; so have pity,

Have pity on a mother: nothing else

Remains to comfort me in my affliction.

ULYSSES
: Show us your son – then let us hear your prayers.

ANDROMACHE
: Come from your hiding-place.…

    Poor little thing, that your fond mother

    Tried to steal away.…

    He is here, you see, Ulysses –

    The bane of your thousand ships.…

    Offer your hand.

    Kneel at your master's feet;

    Touch them and worship him.

    You need not be ashamed to accept what Fate

    Puts upon the unfortunate.

    You may think no longer now

    Of your royal ancestors,

    Forget your grandfather's domain

    Of all the world.

    Put Hector out of mind.

    Play now the prisoner's part

    On bended knee.

    And weep – though your own fate

    Be not yet real to you –

    Weep, child,

    As you see your mother weep.…

    An earlier Troy once saw a child,

    A king, in tears; when the young Priam

    Made Hercules relent from cruelty.

    There was that angry man, whose strength

    Could overpower any beast,

    Who broke into the doors of death

    And found a way back from the dark –

    Yet one small enemy's tears defeated him.

    ‘Take up the reins, my boy,' he said.

    ‘Sit in your father's place: be king;

    And be a better king.' So was it

    To be in that man's power.

    The lenient ire of Hercules

    Should be your lesson;

    Or is it only his armed strength

    You look for now?

    You have a suppliant at your feet

    As worthy as his ancestor,

    And for his life he pleads.

    As for the throne of Troy, with that let Fortune

    Do what she will.

ULYSSES
: I am not deaf to a grieved mother's plea;

But all the mothers of Greece concern me more.

With that child's life great grief must grow for them.

ANDROMACHE
: You think that he will bring to life again

All this – this smoking ruin of a city?

Will his two hands rebuild the towers of Troy?

If that is Troy's one hope, she has no hope.

Troy, fallen as she is, can never be

A Troy which any man can fear again.

You think his father's courage will inspire

This child? A father tumbled in the dust!

And even had he lived, the end of Troy

Would soon have quenched that courage; no man's courage

Outlives defeat. If we must pay the debt,

What greater price can you demand but this –

The yoke of service on his royal neck;

Make him your slave; can that be too much mercy

For royalty to ask?

ULYSSES
:                Not from Ulysses;

But it is more than Calchas will allow.

ANDROMACHE
: O arch-contriver of deceit and crime!

Whose open valour never killed a foe;

Whose cunning wiles have been the cause of death

To your own people. Now you put the blame

Upon the prophet and the innocent gods?

Not so, this outrage is your own invention.

The famous fighter in the dark has found

Courage to dare a deed alone in daylight –

Courage enough to kill a child.

ULYSSES
:                                    The Greeks

Know all about the courage of Ulysses,

And Trojans more than enough. But time is short;

We cannot spend the whole day bandying words;

Our anchors are aweigh; we must be gone.

ANDROMACHE
: Yet grant me just a little time, to pay

A mother's last attentions to her son –

One last embrace to fill my hungry grief.

ULYSSES
: I only wish I could have mercy on you;

But yet, as much as is within my duty

I can allow, a few more moments' grace.

Make what lament you wish; it lightens sorrow.

ANDROMACHE
: Alas, beloved treasure of our house

That is no more, last of the Trojan dead,

The dreaded enemy of Greeks, my own

Last hope now lost – ah, how I fondly prayed

Your fame might be the equal of your father's

In deeds of war, your years of life be long

As your grandfather's. God has refused those prayers.

You should have been the holder of the sceptre,

King in Troy's royal hall; you should have been

The people's lawgiver, and conqueror

Of nations; should have scourged the flying Greeks

And dragged the corpse of Pyrrhus in the dust.

That cannot be. Now we shall never see

Your little hand holding a little weapon,

As you join bravely in the hunt for beasts

Across the glades; no solemn feast days now

Will see you riding in the Trojan Games,
¹

Prince of our youth, leading the flying squadrons.

There'll be no dancing in the age-old rites

Around our altars, no more nimble leaping

When the wild music of curved horns salutes

Our Trojan temples. Ah, what a death, more cruel

Than any stroke of Mars! A scene more tragic

Than our great Hector's death these walls must watch.

ULYSSES
: Now, mother, it is time to check these tears;