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Authors: Seneca
Four Tragedies and Octavia (5 page)
It would not be difficult to trace the progress of these influences in the art of Shakespeare alone. In the early poems the profusion of rhetorical ornament outruns restraint;
1
the first historical plays include experiments in Senecan declamatory or reflective monologue, and use violent action as a recurring and cumulative assault on the spectator's sensibilities (not, as in Seneca, the culmination of the drama;
Titus Andronicus
is the classic example of the distortion of the classical tragedy of revenge, drawing heavily by quotation, imitation, and reproduction, on ancient precedents, but creating only an extravaganza of atrocious deeds with no unifying shape or theme; it would have horrified Seneca.) The early comedies brought refinement of the verbal instrument and a firmer control of
dramatic form. With the âRoman' plays came perhaps a deeper understanding of the stoic attitude of self-questioning and the search for a solution of the conflict between reason and passion. And in the greatest tragedies the form, the instrument, and the theme â each owing something, however unconsciously, to the example of Seneca â cohered at last into a perfect whole; but yet not so perfect as to tidy up all the loose ends or exclude the superfluities and irrelevances which make the Elizabethan drama of life a different thing from the Roman sculptured monument of death.
*
The titles and sequence of the Senecan plays differ in the two principal groups of manuscripts. The group âE' (Codex Etruscus) has:
Hercules, Troades, Phoenissae, Medea
,
Phaedra, Oedipus, Agamemnon, Thyestes, Hercules
. The group âA' (various sources) has;
Hercules Furens, Thyestes, Thebais
(for
Phoenissae
)
, Hippolytus
(for
Phaedra), Oedipus, Troas
,
Medea, Agamemnon, Octavia, Hercules Oetaeus
.
From the absence of
Octavia
from âE', and for other reasons, it is believed that this group has prior authority; although it has been suggested that âA' represents an edition of the plays issued shortly after the death of Seneca, while âE' represents the collection as it existed in his lifetime, excluding, for obvious reasons,
Octavia
.
In any case, it is clear that the authenticity of
Octavia
is a matter of considerable doubt. There is no reason why Seneca, in the interval between
A.D
. 62 and his death, should not have amused himself by composing this grim commentary on contemporary events in the form of ancient tragedy. But equally another writer, with some acquaintance with Seneca's style and thought, could have borrowed his pen to produce a passable imitation of a Senecan tragedy, with perhaps a mischievous pleasure in showing Seneca himself
involved in the kind of scene which he had so often composed for his actors. The play could evidently not have appeared in its final form (so far as it is final, being as it stands rather imperfectly articulated into acts and choral interludes) before the death of Nero, three years after that of Seneca. One is strongly tempted to assume that Seneca knew more than nothing about it.
E.F.W.
October 1965
Extracts from the Elizabethan translations of Seneca's tragedies are quoted, by kind permission of Messrs Constable and Co. Ltd, in the form in which they appear in Charles Whibley's edition of Newton's collection of translations (Tudor Translations, Constable, 1927).
T
HE
crime which doomed the House of Pelops to a series of feuds and violent acts from generation to generation was that of Tantalus, a son of Zeus, who served his son Pelops as food at a banquet of the gods. Restored to life by Zeus, Pelops obtained a wife and a kingdom by treachery, and on his death after many other ruthless acts of conquest his throne became a bone of contention between his sons Atreus and Thyestes. Agreements to share the kingdom, or to rule it alternately, were broken more than once; each brother enjoyed periods of prosperity and suffered periods of banishment.
At the time of the play's action, Atreus is in possession and is plotting to entrap his brother by a false show of reconciliation. Thyestes, with his three sons, returns from exile, to be the victim of an atrocity recalling, but surpassing, the crime of their first ancestor. The curse on the house was to live on, the feuds to be repeated in the persons of Agamemnon, son of Atreus, and Aegisthus, son of Thyestes (by his own daughter Pelopia) and in the murder of Clytaemnestra by her son Orestes.
No Greek tragedy on the subject of Thyestes is extant, though a fragment of a
Thyestes
by Sophocles survives. Seneca may have been indebted to a predecessor, L. Varius Rufus, whose tragedy
Thyestes
was performed in 29
B.C
. at the games celebrating the victory of Actium.
GHOST OF TANTALUS
FURY
ATREUS
,
King of Argos
A MINISTER
THYESTES
,
brother of Atreus
YOUNG TANTALUS
,
son of Thyestes
PLISTHENES
(
mute
),
his second son
THIRD SON
(
mute
)
A MESSENGER
CHORUS
of Argive elders
*
Scene: at the palace of Mycenae
Ghost of Tantalus, Fury
GHOST:
Who hales me from my miserable rest
Among the dead below, where my starved mouth
Gapes for the food that runs out of its reach?
What god bids Tantalus return again
To this abode he never should have seen?
Is there some punishment in store for me
Worse than to stand dry-mouthed in running water,
Worse than the everlasting yawn of hunger?
Is there another stone of Sisyphus
Whose slippery weight my shoulders must support;
A turning wheel upon whose spokes my limbs
Must be extended; or a punishment
Like that of Tityos, whose hollowed bowels
Are open caverns where foul birds of prey
Feed on his flesh â each night replenishing
The losses of the day, to bring tomorrow
A rich repast for each returning fiend?
To what new torture have I been assigned?
O, thou unknown implacable dispenser
Of torments to the dead, if there can be
Yet more intolerable penalties â
Such as the keeper of hell's gaol himself
Would loathe to look on, such as would affright
Grim Acheron â to fill my soul with terror,
Find one for me! For from my loins is sprung
A generation whose iniquities,
Whose crimes, of horror never known till now,
Make all their predecessors' sins look small
And me an innocent. Does any place in hell
Still lack a tenant? I can furnish one
From my posterity. While stands the house
Of Pelops, Minos never will be idle.
FURY:
On with your task, abominable ghost:
Let loose the Furies on your impious house.
Let evil vie with evil, sword with sword;
Let anger be unchecked, repentance dumb.
Spurred by insensate rage, let fathers' hate
Live on, and the long heritage of sin
Descend to their posterity. Leave none
The respite for remorse; let crimes be born
Ever anew and, in their punishment,
Each single sin give birth to more than one.
Let those proud brothers each forfeit his throne,
1
And be recalled to it again from exile â
In this strife-riven house Fortune herself
Will never know which way to turn between them.
The high shall be brought low, the weak made strong,
The kingdom tossed by ceaseless waves of chance.
Let there be culprits banished for their crimes,
And when restored, by mercy of the gods,
Returning to their crimes, to make their names
Hateful to all mankind and to themselves.
Vengeance shall think no way forbidden her;
Brother shall flee from brother, sire from son,
And son from sire; children shall die in shames
More shameful than their birth; revengeful wives
Shall menace husbands, armies sail to war
In lands across the sea, and every soil
Be soaked with blood; the might of men of battle
In all the mortal world shall be brought down
By Lust triumphant. In this house of sin
Brothers' adultery with brothers' wives
Shall be the least of sins; all law, all faith,
All honour shall be dead. Nor shall the heavens
Be unaffected by your evil deeds:
What right have stars to twinkle in the sky?
Why need their lights still ornament the world?
Let night be black, let there be no more day.
Let havoc rule this house; call blood and strife
And death; let every corner of this place
Be filled with the revenge of Tantalus!
    Behold, the pillars shall be wreathed with flowers,
The porches garlanded with festive bay,
The fires heaped high to give you worthy welcome.
Then shall a Thracian tragedy
1
be played
With larger numbers.⦠Is the uncle's hand
Ready?⦠Why does he pause?⦠When will he strike?
Thyestes does not know his children's fate.â¦
Now light the fire and make the cauldron boil!â¦
Divide the bodies into little pieces!â¦
Splash blood on the paternal hearth! Draw up,
And serve the banquet! Here will be one guest
Not unaccustomed to such villainies.
    See, I am giving you a holiday
And a rich feast to satisfy your hunger.
Fill your lean belly, Tantalus; and see,
There will be wine mingled with blood to drink.
I fear I have devised a meal so strange
That
you
will run away from
it
. No, stay!
Where are you off to?
GHOST
:Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â To the lake, the river,
The elusive water and the laden tree
Whose fruits avoid my lips. O let me go
Back to my lightless bed, my prison cell!
Or if my punishment has been too light,
There is another river, Phlegethon â
Let me go there, let me be left to stand
Midstream in waves of everlasting fire.
Hear me, all souls condemned by Fate's decree
To serve your penance: you that cowering sit
Under a vaulted cave, whose imminent fall
Is your eternal terror; you that face
The jaws of hungry lions, or beleaguered
By bands of raving Furies quake with fear;
You that half-burnt ward off a hail of torches â
Hear me! This is the voice of Tantalus,
Who comes in haste to join you. Learn from me,
And be content with your afflictions. When,
Ah, when may I escape this upper world?
FURY
: Not till you have put chaos in your house
And with your coming set its kings at war.
Fill them with evil lust for battle, shake
Their raving souls with storms of insane strife.
GHOST
: It is my place to suffer punishment,
Not be myself a punishment to others.
Am I commanded now to issue forth
Like noxious vapour boiling from the ground
Or some foul pestilence to spread destruction
Over the face of earth? Am I employed
To do a deed of monstrous wickedness
Against my grandsons? Father of all gods! â
My father, though in shame â let my loud tongue
Itself be sentenced to extremest pain
For this audacity, yet it will speak:
My sons, I warn you! Do not soil your hands
With sinful slaughter, keep your altars clean
Of blood aspersed in impious sacrifice.
I shall stand by you and avert that sinâ¦.
    Ah, wouldst thou, fiend, brandish thy fearful whip
Before my face, and fright me with the serpents
Writhing about thy horrid head? My belly
Aches with the agony of my old hunger
Awakened at thy bidding. In my blood
A fire of thirst is raging, leaping flames
Consume my vital parts.⦠Lead on, I follow.
FURY
: So⦠so⦠cast wide thy spell of madness⦠here,
And here, on every part of this doomed houseâ¦.
With this⦠this⦠fury be they all possessed,
And envy, thirsting for each others' blood.
So⦠now the house has felt your coming in â
It quaked from top to bottom with the touch
Of your corrupting hand. Enough, well done.
Now take your way back to the lower depths,
Back to your river. The offended earth
Protests under your tread: see how the springs
Recede and shrink, the river beds are dry,
The scarce clouds ravaged by a scorching wind.
All trees are drained of colour, branches bare,
Fruit fallen; and the seas, that washed the shores
So close on either side the narrow Isthmus,
Have fled so far apart, the land between,
Now broader, barely hears their distant roar.
The lake of Lerna is dried up, Alpheus
Has closed his sacred river, and Phoroneus
1
Is scarcely to be seen; Cithaeron's height
Stands naked of its cloak of snow; in Argos
The elders fear the drought of days gone by.
Behold, the very Lord of Heaven, the Sun
Is loth to drive his chariot forth, nor cares
To hasten on the day that soon must die.
If any god loves our Achaean Argos,
Pisa, for chariots known, the twofold harbours
On the twin seas of the Corinthian Isthmus â
If any god looks down upon the far-seen
Heights of Taygetus, where snows of winter
Massed in deep drifts by Scythia's wild north-easter
Melt to the summer winds that sailors wait for â
If any loves the cooling stream, Alpheus,
Running beside the famed Olympian circus â
    May such a god, we pray,
    Regard us with an eye of peace,
    And turn all harm away â
Forbid the ever-repeated alternation
Of crime with crime, spare us a new succession
Of young blood baser than older generations,
Of children apter in sin than were their fathers.
Grant that at last the impious brood descended
From thirsting Tantalus may tire of outrage.
Evil has gone too far â law's rule is powerless,
Even the common bounds of sin exceeded.
Treachery conquered Myrtilus
1
the traitor;
The sea betrayed him as he betrayed his master,
Drowned him, and kept his name, to make a story
Known, to their cost, by all Ionian seamen.
Tantalus' infant son
2
was infamously
Put to the sword, while running to kiss his father,
Slaughtered, a baby victim upon the altar,
By his own father's hand, and cut to pieces,
Served as a dish to grace the godly tables.
The consequence of this repast was hunger,
Hunger and thirst for all eternity;
    What fitter penalty
    Could any fate decree
For the provider of that bestial banquet!
    Tantalus stands fainting, gasping,
    Empty-mouthed, with food abundant
    Over the sinner's head suspended
    Out of his reach, a prey elusive
    As the wild birds that Phineus
1
hunted.
Trees all around him bend their laden branches
Stooping and swaying with the fruits they offer
In playful mockery of his empty mouthings.
Time and again deluded, now the sufferer,
Famished and desperate with his long torture,
Will not attempt to touch them, turns his head down,
Clenches his teeth and swallows down his hunger â
Only to see the riches of the orchard
Lowered to meet him, juicy apples dancing
On bending branches, goading again his hunger
Till he must shoot out hands to clutch⦠but useless â
Soon as he moves, expecting disappointment,
Up to the sky go all the swinging branches,
Out of his reach flies that autumnal richness.
Thirst follows, an agony equal to the hunger;
    His blood burns hotly, fiery torches
    Dry his veins; he stands demented
    Straining to reach the running river
    Close at his side; at once the water
    Turns and deserts its empty channel,
    Runs from him as he tries to follow,
    Leaving, where once a torrent sped,
    Dust for his drink from its deep bed.