Four Tragedies and Octavia (8 page)

In fearful homage; at whose nod

The Medes, or Indians, neighbours of the sun,

Or Dahians whom the Parthian horsemen fear,

Have sheathed their swords – himself

Fears for his crown,

Anxiously scans the signs of Fate,

Dreads treacherous Time and the swift chance

That can make all things change.

You – to whom the ruler of earth and ocean

Gives the dread power of life and death – be humble;

That overweening face does not become you.

No threat of yours that makes your subjects tremble

Is greater than that your master holds above you.

Kings of the earth must bow to a higher kingdom.

Some, whom the rising sun sees high exalted,

The same sun may see fallen at its departing.
¹

No man should put his trust in the smile of fortune,

No man abandon hope in a time of trouble.

The Spinner of Fate twines good and bad together,

Never lets fortune rest, keeps all things moving.

Never was man so sure of the good gods' favour

That he could promise himself a safe tomorrow.

Under God's hand, life's circle is ever revolving,

The swift wheel turning.

MESSENGER
: O that some whirling wind would carry me

Away into the sky, or wrap my head

In darkest clouds, to banish from my sight

So foul a deed! O Tantalus, O Pelops!

This house would fill even your souls with shame.

CHORUS
: What is your news?

MESSENGER
:                        What country are we in?

The land of Argos, and of Sparta, where

Two brothers
¹
dwelt in love and harmony,

Of Corinth, buttress 'twixt two warring seas –

Or in the wild Danubian lands that shelter

Fugitive Vandals, or the eternal snows

Of Caucasus, the nomad Scyths' domain?

What country is it that can be the scene

Of such unspeakable abomination?

CHORUS
: Whatever evil you have seen, reveal it.

MESSENGER
: First let the tumult of my mind be stilled,

And fear release my body from its grip.

A picture of the brutal deed still floats

Before my eyes. Carry me far away,

Wild winds! Far from this place! Take me away

To where the journey of the daylight ends!

CHORUS
: You only hold us longer in suspense;

Describe this deed you shudder at, and name

The author of it; nay, I ask not ‘who',

But ‘which of them'. Come, speak without delay.

MESSENGER
: Part of the royal house of Pelops stands

Upon the summit of the citadel,

Facing the west, and at its outer edge

It towers above the city like a mountain

Ready to crush the people, should they rise

In insolent revolt against their kings.

Within this building is a huge apartment

Spacious enough to hold a multitude,

A hall of dazzling brilliance; golden beams

Rest upon handsome many-coloured pillars.

Behind this public space, to which the people

Freely resort, extends the private palace,

Room after room, of great luxuriance.

Deep in the secret heart of this domain,

Down in a hollow, is an ancient grove,

The sanctuary of the royal house.

Here grow no trees of pleasant aspect, none

That any pruner's knife has cultivated;

Yew and dark cypress and black ilex twine

A tangled canopy of shade; above,

A tall oak towers and dominates the grove.

This is the place in which the royal sons

Of Tantalus consult the auspices

And pray for help in danger or defeat.

The trees are hung with offerings, with horns

That called to battle, pieces of the chariot
¹

Won at the sea of Myrto – when the wheels

Of the defeated car were treacherously

Loosed from the axle; trophies of every crime

Committed by this family are here;

And here is hung the Phrygian crown of Pelops,

A painted cloak from a barbarian foe,

And many other spoils of victory.

A spring, under the shadow of the trees,

Forlornly drips and spreads its sluggish water

Into a sombre pool; like that dark river

Styx, by whose name the gods are known to swear

Under this ground, at dead of night, 'tis said

The gods of death are heard to utter groans;

Chains rattle in the grove, and spirits cry.

There sights are seen that mortals quake to hear of.

The ghosts of men of ancient time emerge

From their old tombs and wander in the wood;

Spectres more strange than any known elsewhere

Invade the place; flames flicker on the trees,

And neighbouring roofs appear to be on fire,

Though no fire burns within. Sometimes the grove

Is filled with sounds of barking, thrice repeated;

Sometimes gigantic phantoms haunt the palace.

Daylight brings no relief from these alarms;

The grove's own darkness is the dark of night,

And even at high noon the ghostly powers

Retain their sway. Here worshippers

Receive responses from the oracles,

And at such times the Fates' decrees are cried

In thundering voices from the shrine; a god

Speaks, and the cave gives forth a hollow sound.

    Into this place came Atreus, like a man

Possessed with madness, with his brother's children

Dragged at his heels. The altars are prepared.…

But oh, what words are fit to tell what happened?…

He tied the princes' hands behind their backs,

And bound their hapless heads with purple fillets.

Incense was used, and consecrated wine,

The salt and meal dropped from the butcher's knife

Upon the victims' heads, all solemn rites

Fulfilled, to make this act of infamy

A proper ritual.

CHORUS
:             Who held the knife?

MESSENGER
:
He
was the sacrificial priest,
his
voice

Boldly intoned the liturgy of death

And spoke the funeral prayers; beside the altar

He stood alone; and then laid his own hand

Upon the three appointed to be slain,

Placed them before him, and took up the knife.

He saw that all was done; and all was done

According to the rites of sacrifice.

A shudder shook the grove; the palace rocked

Over the trembling earth, and seemed to hang

As if uncertain whether it should fall

This way or that; and on the left a star

Traced out an angry furrow in the sky.

The sacrificial wine was changed to blood;

The diadem upon the royal head

Fell, twice or three times, to the ground; tears dripped

From ivory in the temples. Every man

Was moved to horror at these prodigies;

Atreus alone, intent upon his purpose,

Remained immovable, even defiant

Against the menacing gods. Without delay

He strode up to the altar and there stood

With scowling eyes, glaring this way and that.

A hungry tiger in an Indian forest,

Coming upon two steers, will stand in doubt,

Greedy for both, which victim to attack,

Baring his teeth at one, then at the other,

Holding his ravenous appetite in check

While making up his mind. Just so was Atreus

Eyeing the victims doomed to satisfy

His impious vengeance: which shall be the first

For slaughter, which the second head to fall?

As if it mattered! But he won't be hurried –

He wants to have his ghastly deed performed

In proper order.

CHORUS
:              Which was slaughtered first?

MESSENGER
: The first – no one can say that Atreus failed

In duty to his ancestors! – the first

Was dedicated to his grandfather:

The first to be dispatched was Tantalus.

CHORUS
: What look, what bearing did the young man show

In face of death?

MESSENGER
:         He held himself erect,

Unflinching; prayers, that would have died unheard,

He scorned to utter. With a savage blow

The king drove in the sword, and pressed it home

Until his hand was at the throat; the body

Stood, with the sword plucked out, as if deciding

Which way to fall, then fell against the king.

Immediately the brutal murderer

Seized Plisthenes and dragged him to the altar

To add his body to his brother's, struck

And hacked the head off; the truncated corpse

Fell forward to the ground, and from the head

That rolled away a faint last sob was heard.

CHORUS
: And after those two butcheries, what next?

A third, or did he spare the youngest child?

MESSENGER
: Think of a tawny lion in Armenia

Crouching amid the vanquished carcases

Of a whole herd of oxen, jaws agape

And wet with blood, his hunger satisfied

But not his fury; he will stalk the bulls

This way and that, and still with flagging speed

And slackening mouth make passes at the calves:

So Atreus, still with fury unassuaged,

His sword now reeking with two victims' blood,

Fell on the third, and with no thought of mercy

For the defenceless child whom he attacked

So violently, pierced the body through;

The sword that entered by the breast was seen

Protruding from the back; the boy fell dead,

His spurting blood damped out the altar fires

And through both wounds his spirit fled away.

CHORUS
: Inhuman outrage.

MESSENGER
:                     Do you shudder now?

If this had been the end of his foul deed,

You could have called him innocent.

CHORUS
:                                                What more?

What more stupendous, more atrocious crime

Can man conceive?

MESSENGER
:            No, this was not the end,

Only a step upon the villain's way.

CHORUS
: Could he do more? He threw the bodies out

For beasts to maul – denied them funeral fire?

MESSENGER
: Denied them fire! Ah, would that that were so!

Would that he had denied them burial,

Denied them the consuming flames, left them

To be a meal for birds, a hideous banquet

For savage beasts! Well might their father pray

For what most fathers would abhor to see –

The unburied bodies of his sons. O sin

Incredible to any age of man,

And for the men of ages yet to come

A thing to be declared impossible!…

The entrails torn from the warm bodies lay

Quivering, veins still throbbing, shocked hearts beating.

Atreus picked at the pieces, scrutinized

The message of the Fates, noted the signs

In the internal organs hot with blood.

Finding no blemish in the sacrifice,

He was content, and ready to prepare

The banquet for his brother; hacked the bodies

Limb from limb – detached the outstretched arms

Close to the shoulders – severed the ligaments

That tie the elbow joints – stripped every part

And roughly wrenched each separate bone away –

All this he did himself; only the faces,

And trusting suppliant hands, he left intact.

And soon the meat is on the spits, the fat

Drips over a slow fire, while other parts

Are tossed to boil in singing copper pans.

The fire seems loth to touch the roasting flesh;

Two or three times it has to be repaired

To feed the crackling hearth, and still, reluctant

To do as it is told, burns sulkily.

The liver on the spits was heard to squeal;

Which cried the more, the bodies or the fires,

It would be hard to say. Above the flames

A pitch-black smoke ascended, and this too

Refused to rise up to the roof, but hung

A thick and noisome cloud, filling the house

With hideous vapours. Then… O patient Phoebus!

Thy light was sunk in darkness at mid-day

And thou hadst fled – thou shouldst have left us sooner!

The father bites into his children's bodies,

Chews his own flesh in his accursed mouth.

Drowsy with wine, his glistening hair anointed

With scented oil, he crams his mouth with food

Till it can hold no more. O doomed Thyestes!

This is the one good part of your misfortune:

You know not what you suffer. Not for long

Will this be true. The Lord of Heaven, the Sun

May turn his chariot back and drive away;

Black night may rise untimely from the east,

And total darkness in the midst of day

Veil this atrocious deed; but you must see

And know your own misfortune to the full.

O Father of all earth and all that lives,

Whose rising banishes the lesser lights

That make the dark night beautiful:

Why hast thou turned aside

From thy appointed path?

Why hast thou blotted out the day

And fled from heaven's centre? Why,

O Phoebus, hast thou turned thy face from us?

Vesper, the herald of the close of day,

Is not yet here to usher in the stars;

Thy wheel has not yet passed the western gate

Where, with their day's work done,

Thy steeds should be unyoked. We have not heard

The third note of the trumpet telling us

That day is over.

Ploughmen will stand amazed –

Suddenly supper-time, and oxen not yet ready to rest!

What can have forced you, Sun, from your heavenly road?

What can have made your horses bolt from their fixed course?

Are the Giants escaped from their prison and threatening war?

Has tortured Tityos found strength in his breast again to renew his old aggression?

Or has Typhoeus stretched his muscles to throw off his mountain burden?

Is Ossa to be piled on Pelion again

To build a bridge for the Phlegrean Giants' assault?
¹

Is all the order of the universe plunged into chaos?

Will there be no more East and no more West?

The mother of the daylight, dewy Dawn,

Who never fails to give the chariot-reins

Into the hands of Phoebus, now with horror sees

Her kingdom's frontiers in confusion;