Chapter I: Part 1

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THE TROJAN WOMEN

THE ATHENIAN DRAMA
FOR ENGLISH READERS

A Series of Verse Translations of the Greek
Dramatic Poets, with Commentaries and
Explanatory Notes.

=Crown 8vo, cloth, gilt top, 7s. 6d. each net.
Each Volume Illustrated from ancient
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AESCHYLUS: _The Orestean Trilogy._ By Prof. G. C. WARR. With an
Introduction on _The Rise of Greek Tragedy_, and 13 Illustrations.

SOPHOCLES: _Oedipus Tyrannus_ and _Coloneus_, and _Antigone_. By Prof.
J. S. PHILLIMORE. With an Introduction on _Sophocles and his Treatment
of Tragedy_, and 16 Illustrations.

EURIPIDES: _Hippolytus_; _Bacchae_; _Aristophanes' 'Frogs.'_ By Prof.
GILBERT MURRAY. With an Appendix on _The Lost Tragedies of Euripides_,
and an Introduction on _The Significance of the Bacchae in Athenian
History_, and 12 Illustrations. [_Second Edition._

ALSO UNIFORM WITH THE ABOVE

THE HOMERIC HYMNS. A New Prose Rendering by ANDREW LANG, with Essays
Critical and Explanatory, and 14 Illustrations.

THE PLAYS OF EURIPIDES

Translated into English Rhyming Verse, with Explanatory Notes, by Prof.
GILBERT MURRAY. Crown 8vo, cloth, 2s. each net.

_The Trojan Women._
_Electra._ [_In the Press._

_Hippolytus._ Third Edition. } Paper Covers, Impl. _Bacchae._ } 16mo, 1s. each net.

THE

TROJAN WOMEN

OF

EURIPIDES

TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH RHYMING VERSE
WITH EXPLANATORY NOTES BY

GILBERT MURRAY, M.A., LL.D.

EMERITUS PROFESSOR OF GREEK IN THE UNIVERSITY
OF GLASGOW; SOMETIME FELLOW OF
NEW COLLEGE, OXFORD

LONDON
GEORGE ALLEN, 156, CHARING CROSS ROAD
1905

[All rights reserved]

Printed by BALLANTYNE HANSON & CO.
At the Ballantyne Press

INTRODUCTORY NOTE

Judged by common standards, the _Troaedes_ is far from a perfect play; it is scarcely even a good play. It is an intense study of one great situation, with little plot, little construction, little or no relief or variety. The only movement of the drama is a gradual extinguishing of all the familiar lights of human life, with, perhaps, at the end, a suggestion that in the utterness of night, when all fears of a possible worse thing are passed, there is in some sense peace and even glory. But the situation itself has at least this dramatic value, that it is different from what it seems.

The consummation of a great conquest, a thing celebrated in paeans and thanksgivings, the very height of the day-dreams of unregenerate man--it seems to be a great joy, and it is in truth a great misery. It is conquest seen when the thrill of battle is over, and nothing remains but to wait and think. We feel in the background the presence of the conquerors, sinister and disappointed phantoms; of the conquered men, after long torment, now resting in death. But the living drama for Euripides lay in the conquered women. It is from them that he has named his play and built up his scheme of parts: four figures clearly lit and heroic, the others in varying grades of characterisation, nameless and barely articulate, mere half-heard voices of an eternal sorrow.

Indeed, the most usual condemnation of the play is not that it is dull, but that it is too harrowing; that scene after scene passes beyond the due limits of tragic art. There are points to be pleaded against this criticism. The very beauty of the most fearful scenes, in spite of their fearfulness, is one; the quick comfort of the lyrics is another, falling like a spell of peace when the strain is too hard to bear (cf. p. 89). But the main defence is that, like many of the greatest works of art, the _Troaedes_ is something more than art. It is also a prophecy, a bearing of witness. And the prophet, bound to deliver his message, walks outside the regular ways of the artist.

For some time before the _Troaedes_ was produced, Athens, now entirely in the hands of the War Party, had been engaged in an enterprise which, though on military grounds defensible, was bitterly resented by the more humane minority, and has been selected by Thucydides as the great crucial crime of the war. She had succeeded in compelling the neutral Dorian island of Melos to take up arms against her, and after a long siege had conquered the quiet and immemorially ancient town, massacred the men and sold the women and children into slavery. Melos fell in the autumn of 416 B.C. The _Troaedes_ was produced in the following spring. And while the gods of the prologue were prophesying destruction at sea for the sackers of Troy, the fleet of the sackers of Melos, flushed with conquest and marked by a slight but unforgettable taint of sacrilege, was actually preparing to set sail for its fatal enterprise against Sicily.

Not, of course, that we have in the _Troaedes_ a case of political allusion. Far from it. Euripides does not mean Melos when he says Troy, nor mean Alcibiades' fleet when he speaks of Agamemnon's. But he writes under the influence of a year which to him, as to Thucydides, had been filled full of indignant pity and of dire foreboding. This tragedy is perhaps, in European literature, the first great expression of the spirit of pity for mankind exalted into a moving principle; a principle which has made the most precious, and possibly the most destructive, elements of innumerable rebellions, revolutions, and martyrdoms, and of at least two great religions.

Pity is a rebel passion. Its hand is against the strong, against the organised force of society, against conventional sanctions and accepted Gods. It is the Kingdom of Heaven within us fighting against the brute powers of the world; and it is apt to have those qualities of unreason, of contempt for the counting of costs and the balancing of sacrifices, of recklessness, and even, in the last resort, of ruthlessness, which so often mark the paths of heavenly things and the doings of the children of light. It brings not peace, but a sword.

So it was with Euripides. The _Troaedes_ itself has indeed almost no fierceness and singularly little thought of revenge. It is only the crying of one of the great wrongs of the world wrought into music, as it were, and made beautiful by "the most tragic of the poets." But its author lived ever after in a deepening atmosphere of strife and even of hatred, down to the day when, "because almost all in Athens rejoiced at his suffering," he took his way to the remote valleys of Macedon to write the _Bacchae_ and to die. G. M.

THE TROJAN WOMEN

CHARACTERS IN THE PLAY

GOD POSEIDON. THE GODDESS PALLAS ATHENA.

HECUBA, _Queen of Troy, wife of Priam, mother of Hector and Paris_. CASSANDRA, _daughter of Hecuba, a prophetess_. ANDROMACHE, _wife of Hector, Prince of Troy_. HELEN, _wife of Menelaues, King of Sparta; carried off by Paris, Prince of Troy_.

TALTHYBIUS, _Herald of the Greeks_. MENELAUS, _King of Sparta, and, together with his brother Agamemnon, General of the Greeks_.

SOLDIERS ATTENDANT ON TALTHYBIUS AND MENELAUS. CHORUS OF CAPTIVE TROJAN WOMEN, YOUNG AND OLD, MAIDEN AND MARRIED.

_The Troaedes was first acted in the year_ 415 B.C. "_The first prize was won by Xenocles, whoever he may have been, with the four plays Oedipus, Lycaoen, Bacchae and Athamas, a Satyr-play. The second by Euripides with the Alexander, Palamedes, Troaedes and Sisyphus, a Satyr-play._"--AELIAN, _Varia Historia_, ii. 8.

THE TROJAN WOMEN

_The scene represents a battlefield, a few days after the battle.
At the back are the walls of Troy, partially ruined. In front of
them, to right and left, are some huts, containing those of the
Captive Women who have been specially set apart for the chief Greek
leaders. At one side some dead bodies of armed men are visible. In
front a tall woman with white hair is lying on the ground asleep._

_It is the dusk of early dawn, before sunrise. The figure of the
god_ POSEIDON _is dimly seen before the walls_.

POSEIDON.

Up from Aegean caverns, pool by pool Of blue salt sea, where feet most beautiful Of Nereid maidens weave beneath the foam Their long sea-dances, I, their lord, am come, Poseidon of the Sea. 'Twas I whose power, With great Apollo, builded tower by tower These walls of Troy; and still my care doth stand True to the ancient People of my hand; Which now as smoke is perished, in the shock Of Argive spears. Down from Parnassus' rock The Greek Epeios came, of Phocian seed, And wrought by Pallas' mysteries a Steed Marvellous, big with arms; and through my wall It passed, a death-fraught image magical. The groves are empty and the sanctuaries Run red with blood. Unburied Priam lies By his own hearth, on God's high altar-stair, And Phrygian gold goes forth and raiment rare To the Argive ships; and weary soldiers roam Waiting the wind that blows at last for home, For wives and children, left long years away, Beyond the seed's tenth fullness and decay, To work this land's undoing. And for me, Since Argive Hera conquereth, and she Who wrought with Hera to the Phrygians' woe, Pallas, behold, I bow mine head and go Forth from great Ilion and mine altars old. When a still city lieth in the hold Of Desolation, all God's spirit there Is sick and turns from worship.--Hearken where The ancient River waileth with a voice Of many women, portioned by the choice Of war amid new lords, as the lots leap For Thessaly, or Argos, or the steep Of Theseus' Rock. And others yet there are, High women, chosen from the waste of war For the great kings, behind these portals hid; And with them that Laconian Tyndarid, Helen, like them a prisoner and a prize. And this unhappy one--would any eyes Gaze now on Hecuba? Here at the Gates She lies 'mid many tears for many fates Of wrong. One child beside Achilles' grave In secret slain, Polyxena the brave, Lies bleeding. Priam and his sons are gone; And, lo, Cassandra, she the Chosen One, Whom Lord Apollo spared to walk her way A swift and virgin spirit, on this day Lust hath her, and she goeth garlanded A bride of wrath to Agamemnon's bed.

[_He turns to go; and another divine Presence becomes visible in the
dusk. It is the goddess_ PALLAS ATHENA.

O happy long ago, farewell, farewell, Ye shining towers and mine own citadel; Broken by Pallas, Child of God, or still Thy roots had held thee true.

PALLAS.

Is it the will Of God's high Brother, to whose hand is given Great power of old, and worship of all Heaven, To suffer speech from one whose enmities This day are cast aside?

POSEIDON.

His will it is: Kindred and long companionship withal, Most high Athena, are things magical.

PALLAS.

Blest be thy gentle mood!--Methinks I see A road of comfort here, for thee and me.

POSEIDON.

Thou hast some counsel of the Gods, or word Spoken of Zeus? Or is it tidings heard From some far Spirit?

PALLAS.

For this Ilion's sake, Whereon we tread, I seek thee, and would make My hand as thine.

POSEIDON.

Hath that old hate and deep Failed, where she lieth in her ashen sleep? Thou pitiest her?

PALLAS.

Speak first; wilt thou be one
In heart with me and hand till all be done?

POSEIDON.

Yea; but lay bare thy heart. For this land's sake Thou comest, not for Hellas?

PALLAS.

I would make Mine ancient enemies laugh for joy, and bring On these Greek ships a bitter homecoming.

POSEIDON.

Swift is thy spirit's path, and strange withal, And hot thy love and hate, where'er they fall.

PALLAS.

A deadly wrong they did me, yea within Mine holy place: thou knowest?

POSEIDON.

I know the sin
Of Ajax, when he cast Cassandra down . . .

PALLAS.

And no man rose and smote him; not a frown Nor word from all the Greeks!

POSEIDON.

And 'twas thine hand
That gave them Troy!

PALLAS.

Therefore with thee I stand
To smite them.

POSEIDON.

All thou cravest, even now
Is ready in mine heart. What seekest thou?

PALLAS.

An homecoming that striveth ever more And cometh to no home.

POSEIDON.

Here on the shore
Wouldst hold them or amid mine own salt foam?

PALLAS.

When the last ship hath bared her sail for home! Zeus shall send rain, long rain and flaw of driven Hail, and a whirling darkness blown from heaven; To me his levin-light he promiseth O'er ships and men, for scourging and hot death: Do thou make wild the roads of the sea, and steep With war of waves and yawning of the deep, Till dead men choke Euboea's curling bay. So Greece shall dread even in an after day My house, nor scorn the Watchers of strange lands!

POSEIDON.

I give thy boon unbartered. These mine hands Shall stir the waste Aegean; reefs that cross The Delian pathways, jag-torn Myconos, Scyros and Lemnos, yea, and storm-driven Caphereus with the bones of drowned men Shall glut him.--Go thy ways, and bid the Sire Yield to thine hand the arrows of his fire. Then wait thine hour, when the last ship shall wind Her cable coil for home! [_Exit_ PALLAS. How are ye blind, Ye treaders down of cities, ye that cast Temples to desolation, and lay waste Tombs, the untrodden sanctuaries where lie The ancient dead; yourselves so soon to die! [_Exit_ POSEIDON.

* * * * *

_The day slowly dawns_: HECUBA _wakes_.

HECUBA.

Up from the earth, O weary head!
This is not Troy, about, above--
Not Troy, nor we the lords thereof.
Thou breaking neck, be strengthened!

Endure and chafe not. The winds rave
And falter. Down the world's wide road,
Float, float where streams the breath of God;
Nor turn thy prow to breast the wave.

Ah woe! . . . For what woe lacketh here?
My children lost, my land, my lord.
O thou great wealth of glory, stored
Of old in Ilion, year by year

We watched . . . and wert thou nothingness?
What is there that I fear to say?
And yet, what help? . . . Ah, well-a-day,
This ache of lying, comfortless

And haunted! Ah, my side, my brow
And temples! All with changeful pain
My body rocketh, and would fain
Move to the tune of tears that flow:
For tears are music too, and keep
A song unheard in hearts that weep.

[_She rises and gazes towards the Greek ships far off on the shore._

O ships, O crowding faces
Of ships, O hurrying beat
Of oars as of crawling feet,
How found ye our holy places?
Threading the narrows through,
Out from the gulfs of the Greek,
Out to the clear dark blue,
With hate ye came and with joy,
And the noise of your music flew,
Clarion and pipe did shriek,
As the coiled cords ye threw,
Held in the heart of Troy!

What sought ye then that ye came?
A woman, a thing abhorred:
A King's wife that her lord
Hateth: and Castor's shame
Is hot for her sake, and the reeds
Of old Eurotas stir
With the noise of the name of her.
She slew mine ancient King,
The Sower of fifty Seeds,
And cast forth mine and me,
As shipwrecked men, that cling
To a reef in an empty sea.

Who am I that I sit
Here at a Greek king's door,
Yea, in the dust of it?
A slave that men drive before,
A woman that hath no home,
Weeping alone for her dead;
A low and bruised head,
And the glory struck therefrom.

[_She starts up from her solitary brooding, and calls to the other
Trojan Women in the huts._

O Mothers of the Brazen Spear,
And maidens, maidens, brides of shame,
Troy is a smoke, a dying flame;
Together we will weep for her:
I call ye as a wide-wing'd bird
Calleth the children of her fold,
To cry, ah, not the cry men heard
In Ilion, not the songs of old,
That echoed when my hand was true
On Priam's sceptre, and my feet
Touched on the stone one signal beat,
And out the Dardan music rolled;
And Troy's great Gods gave ear thereto.

[_The door of one of the huts on the right opens, and the Women steal
out severally, startled and afraid._

FIRST WOMAN.

[_Strophe_ 1.
How say'st thou? Whither moves thy cry,
Thy bitter cry? Behind our door
We heard thy heavy heart outpour
Its sorrow: and there shivered by
Fear and a quick sob shaken
From prisoned hearts that shall be free no more!

HECUBA.
Child, 'tis the ships that stir upon the shore . . .

SECOND WOMAN.
The ships, the ships awaken!

THIRD WOMAN.
Dear God, what would they? Overseas
Bear me afar to strange cities?

HECUBA.
Nay, child, I know not. Dreams are these,
Fears of the hope-forsaken.

FIRST WOMAN.

Awake, O daughters of affliction, wake
And learn your lots! Even now the Argives break
Their camp for sailing!

HECUBA.

Ah, not Cassandra! Wake not her
Whom God hath maddened, lest the foe
Mock at her dreaming. Leave me clear
From that one edge of woe.
O Troy, my Troy, thou diest here
Most lonely; and most lonely we
The living wander forth from thee,
And the dead leave thee wailing!

[_One of the huts on the left is now open, and the rest of the_ CHORUS
_come out severally_. _Their number eventually amounts to fifteen._

FOURTH WOMAN.

[_Antistrophe_ 1.
Out of the tent of the Greek king
I steal, my Queen, with trembling breath:
What means thy call? Not death; not death!
They would not slay so low a thing!

FIFTH WOMAN
O, 'tis the ship-folk crying
To deck the galleys: and we part, we part!

HECUBA.
Nay, daughter: take the morning to thine heart.

FIFTH WOMAN.
My heart with dread is dying!

SIXTH WOMAN.
An herald from the Greek hath come!

FIFTH WOMAN.
How have they cast me, and to whom
A bondmaid?

HECUBA. Peace, child: wait thy doom.
Our lots are near the trying.

FOURTH WOMAN.

Argos, belike, or Phthia shall it be,
Or some lone island of the tossing sea,
Far, far from Troy?

HECUBA.

And I the aged, where go I,
A winter-frozen bee, a slave
Death-shapen, as the stones that lie
Hewn on a dead man's grave:
The children of mine enemy
To foster, or keep watch before
The threshold of a master's door,
I that was Queen in Troy!

A WOMAN TO ANOTHER.

[_Strophe_ 2.
And thou, what tears can tell thy doom?

THE OTHER.
The shuttle still shall flit and change
Beneath my fingers, but the loom,
Sister, be strange.

ANOTHER (_wildly_).
Look, my dead child! My child, my love,
The last look. . . .

ANOTHER. Oh, there cometh worse.
A Greek's bed in the dark. . . .

ANOTHER. God curse
That night and all the powers thereof!

ANOTHER.
Or pitchers to and fro to bear
To some Pirene on the hill,
Where the proud water craveth still
Its broken-hearted minister.

ANOTHER.
God guide me yet to Theseus' land,
The gentle land, the famed afar . . .

ANOTHER.
But not the hungry foam--Ah, never!--
Of fierce Eurotas, Helen's river,
To bow to Menelaus' hand,
That wasted Troy with war!

A WOMAN.

[_Antistrophe_ 2.
They told us of a land high-born,
Where glimmers round Olympus' roots
A lordly river, red with corn
And burdened fruits.

ANOTHER.
Aye, that were next in my desire
To Athens, where good spirits dwell . . .

ANOTHER.
Or Aetna's breast, the deeps of fire
That front the Tyrian's Citadel:
First mother, she, of Sicily
And mighty mountains: fame hath told
Their crowns of goodness manifold. . . .

ANOTHER.
And, close beyond the narrowing sea,
A sister land, where float enchanted
Ionian summits, wave on wave,
And Crathis of the burning tresses
Makes red the happy vale, and blesses
With gold of fountains spirit-haunted
Homes of true men and brave!

LEADER.

But lo, who cometh: and his lips
Grave with the weight of dooms unknown:
A Herald from the Grecian ships.
Swift comes he, hot-foot to be done
And finished. Ah, what bringeth he
Of news or judgment? Slaves are we,
Spoils that the Greek hath won!

[TALTHYBIUS, _followed by some Soldiers, enters from the left_.

TALTHYBIUS.

Thou know'st me, Hecuba. Often have I crossed Thy plain with tidings from the Hellene host. 'Tis I, Talthybius. . . . Nay, of ancient use Thou know'st me. And I come to bear thee news.

HECUBA.

Ah me, 'tis here, 'tis here,
Women of Troy, our long embosomed fear!

TALTHYBIUS.

The lots are cast, if that it was ye feared.

HECUBA.

What lord, what land. . . . Ah me,
Phthia or Thebes, or sea-worn Thessaly?

TALTHYBIUS.

Each hath her own. Ye go not in one herd.

HECUBA.

Say then what lot hath any? What of joy Falls, or can fall on any child of Troy?

TALTHYBIUS.

I know: but make thy questions severally.

HECUBA.

My stricken one must be
Still first. Say how Cassandra's portion lies.

TALTHYBIUS.

Chosen from all for Agamemnon's prize!

HECUBA.

How, for his Spartan bride
A tirewoman? For Helen's sister's pride?

TALTHYBIUS.

Nay, nay: a bride herself, for the King's bed.

HECUBA.

The sainted of Apollo? And her own Prize that God promised Out of the golden clouds, her virgin crown? . . .

TALTHYBIUS.

He loved her for that same strange holiness.

HECUBA.

Daughter, away, away,
Cast all away,
The haunted Keys, the lonely stole's array
That kept thy body like a sacred place!

TALTHYBIUS.

Is't not rare fortune that the King hath smiled On such a maid?

HECUBA.

What of that other child
Ye reft from me but now?

TALTHYBIUS (_speaking with some constraint_).

Polyxena? Or what child meanest thou?

HECUBA.

The same. What man now hath her, or what doom?

TALTHYBIUS.

She rests apart, to watch Achilles' tomb.

HECUBA.

To watch a tomb? My daughter? What is this? . . . Speak, Friend? What fashion of the laws of Greece?

TALTHYBIUS.

Count thy maid happy! She hath naught of ill To fear . . .

HECUBA.

What meanest thou? She liveth still?

TALTHYBIUS.

I mean, she hath one toil that holds her free From all toil else.

HECUBA.

What of Andromache,
Wife of mine iron-hearted Hector, where
Journeyeth she?

TALTHYBIUS.

Pyrrhus, Achilles' son, hath taken her.

HECUBA.

And I, whose slave am I,
The shaken head, the arm that creepeth by,
Staff-crutched, like to fall?

TALTHYBIUS.

Odysseus, Ithaca's king, hath thee for thrall.

HECUBA.

Beat, beat the crownless head:
Rend the cheek till the tears run red!
A lying man and a pitiless
Shall be lord of me, a heart full-flown
With scorn of righteousness:
O heart of a beast where law is none,
Where all things change so that lust be fed,
The oath and the deed, the right and the wrong,
Even the hate of the forked tongue:
Even the hate turns and is cold,
False as the love that was false of old!

O Women of Troy, weep for me!
Yea, I am gone: I am gone my ways.
Mine is the crown of misery,
The bitterest day of all our days.

LEADER.

Thy fate thou knowest, Queen: but I know not What lord of South or North has won my lot.

TALTHYBIUS.

Go, seek Cassandra, men! Make your best speed, That I may leave her with the King, and lead These others to their divers lords. . . . Ha, there! What means that sudden light? Is it the flare Of torches?

[_Light is seen shining through the crevices of the second hut on the
right. He moves towards it._

Would they fire their prison rooms, Or how, these dames of Troy?--'Fore God, the dooms Are known, and now they burn themselves and die Rather than sail with us! How savagely In days like these a free neck chafes beneath Its burden! . . . Open! Open quick! Such death Were bliss to them, it may be: but 'twill bring Much wrath, and leave me shamed before the King!

HECUBA.

There is no fire, no peril: 'tis my child, Cassandra, by the breath of God made wild.

[_The door opens from within and_ CASSANDRA _enters, white-robed and
wreathed like a Priestess, a great torch in her hand_. _She is singing
softly to herself and does not see the Herald or the scene before her._

CASSANDRA.

[_Strophe._
Lift, lift it high:
Give it to mine hand!
Lo, I bear a flame
Unto God! I praise his name.
I light with a burning brand
This sanctuary.
Blessed is he that shall wed,
And blessed, blessed am I
In Argos: a bride to lie
With a king in a king's bed.

Hail, O Hymen red,
O Torch that makest one!
Weepest thou, Mother mine own?
Surely thy cheek is pale
With tears, tears that wail
For a land and a father dead.
But I go garlanded:
I am the Bride of Desire:
Therefore my torch is borne--
Lo, the lifting of morn,
Lo, the leaping of fire!--

For thee, O Hymen bright,
For thee, O Moon of the Deep,
So Law hath charged, for the light
Of a maid's last sleep.

[_Antistrophe._
Awake, O my feet, awake:
Our father's hope is won!
Dance as the dancing skies
Over him, where he lies
Happy beneath the sun! . . .
Lo, the Ring that I make . . .

[_She makes a circle round her with the torch, and visions appear to her._

Apollo! . . . Ah, is it thou?
O shrine in the laurels cold,
I bear thee still, as of old,
Mine incense! Be near to me now.

[_She waves the torch as though bearing incense._

O Hymen, Hymen fleet:
Quick torch that makest one! . . .
How? Am I still alone?
Laugh as I laugh, and twine
In the dance, O Mother mine:
Dear feet, be near my feet!

Come, greet ye Hymen, greet
Hymen with songs of pride:
Sing to him loud and long,
Cry, cry, when the song
Faileth, for joy of the bride!

O Damsels girt in the gold
Of Ilion, cry, cry ye,
For him that is doomed of old
To be lord of me!

LEADER.

O hold the damsel, lest her tranced feet Lift her afar, Queen, toward the Hellene fleet!

HECUBA.

O Fire, Fire, where men make marriages Surely thou hast thy lot; but what are these Thou bringest flashing? Torches savage-wild And far from mine old dreams.--Alas, my child, How little dreamed I then of wars or red Spears of the Greek to lay thy bridal bed! Give me thy brand; it hath no holy blaze Thus in thy frenzy flung. Nor all thy days Nor all thy griefs have changed them yet, nor learned Wisdom.--Ye women, bear the pine half burned To the chamber back; and let your drowned eyes Answer the music of these bridal cries!

[_She takes the torch and gives it to one of the women._

CASSANDRA.

O Mother, fill mine hair with happy flowers, And speed me forth. Yea, if my spirit cowers, Drive me with wrath! So liveth Loxias, A bloodier bride than ever Helen was Go I to Agamemnon, Lord most high Of Hellas! . . . I shall kill him, mother; I Shall kill him, and lay waste his house with fire As he laid ours. My brethren and my sire Shall win again . . . (_Checking herself_) But part I must let be, And speak not. Not the axe that craveth me, And more than me; not the dark wanderings Of mother-murder that my bridal brings, And all the House of Atreus down, down, down . .

Nay, I will show thee. Even now this town Is happier than the Greeks. I know the power Of God is on me: but this little hour, Wilt thou but listen, I will hold him back! One love, one woman's beauty, o'er the track Of hunted Helen, made their myriads fall. And this their King so wise, who ruleth all, What wrought he? Cast out Love that Hate might feed: Gave to his brother his own child, his seed Of gladness, that a woman fled, and fain To fly for ever, should be turned again! So the days waned, and armies on the shore Of Simois stood and strove and died. Wherefore? No man had moved their landmarks; none had shook Their walled towns.--And they whom Ares took, Had never seen their children: no wife came With gentle arms to shroud the limbs of them For burial, in a strange and angry earth Laid dead. And there at home, the same long dearth: Women that lonely died, and aged men Waiting for sons that ne'er should turn again, Nor know their graves, nor pour drink-offerings, To still the unslaked dust. These be the things The conquering Greek hath won! But we--what pride, What praise of men were sweeter?--fighting died To save our people. And when war was red Around us, friends upbore the gentle dead Home, and dear women's hands about them wound White shrouds, and here they sleep in the old ground Beloved. And the rest long days fought on, Dwelling with wives and children, not alone And joyless, like these Greeks. And Hector's woe, What is it? He is gone, and all men know His glory, and how true a heart he bore. It is the gift the Greek hath brought! Of yore Men saw him not, nor knew him. Yea, and even Paris hath loved withal a child of heaven: Else had his love but been as others are. Would ye be wise, ye Cities, fly from war! Yet if war come, there is a crown in death For her that striveth well and perisheth Unstained: to die in evil were the stain! Therefore, O Mother, pity not thy slain, Nor Troy, nor me, the bride. Thy direst foe And mine by this my wooing is brought low.

TALTHYBIUS (_at last breaking through the spell that has held him_).

I swear, had not Apollo made thee mad, Not lightly hadst thou flung this shower of bad Bodings, to speed my General o'er the seas! 'Fore God, the wisdoms and the greatnesses Of seeming, are they hollow all, as things Of naught? This son of Atreus, of all kings Most mighty, hath so bowed him to the love Of this mad maid, and chooseth her above All women! By the Gods, rude though I be, I would not touch her hand! Look thou; I see Thy lips are blind, and whatso words they speak, Praises of Troy or shamings of the Greek, I cast to the four winds! Walk at my side In peace! . . . And heaven content him of his bride!

[_He moves as though to go, but turns to_ HECUBA, _and speaks more gently_.

And thou shalt follow to Odysseus' host When the word comes. 'Tis a wise queen thou go'st To serve, and gentle: so the Ithacans say.

CASSANDRA (_seeing for the first time the Herald and all the scene_).

How fierce a slave! . . . O Heralds, Heralds! Yea, Voices of Death; and mists are over them Of dead men's anguish, like a diadem, These weak abhorred things that serve the hate Of kings and peoples! . . . To Odysseus' gate My mother goeth, say'st thou? Is God's word As naught, to me in silence ministered, That in this place she dies? . . . (_To herself_) No more; no more! Why should I speak the shame of them, before They come? . . . Little he knows, that hard-beset Spirit, what deeps of woe await him yet; Till all these tears of ours and harrowings Of Troy, by his, shall be as golden things. Ten years behind ten years athwart his way Waiting: and home, lost and unfriended . . . Nay: Why should Odysseus' labours vex my breath? On; hasten; guide me to the house of Death, To lie beside my bridegroom! . . . Thou Greek King, Who deem'st thy fortune now so high a thing, Thou dust of the earth, a lowlier bed I see, In darkness, not in light, awaiting thee: And with thee, with thee . . . there, where yawneth plain A rift of the hills, raging with winter rain, Dead . . . and out-cast . . . and naked . . . It is I Beside my bridegroom: and the wild beasts cry, And ravin on God's chosen!

[_She clasps her hands to her brow and feels the wreaths._

O, ye wreaths! Ye garlands of my God, whose love yet breathes About me; shapes of joyance mystical; Begone! I have forgot the festival, Forgot the joy. Begone! I tear ye, so, From off me! . . . Out on the swift winds they go. With flesh still clean I give them back to thee, Still white, O God, O light that leadest me! [_Turning upon the Herald._ Where lies the galley? Whither shall I tread? See that your watch be set, your sail be spread. The wind comes quick! . . . Three Powers--mark me, thou!-- There be in Hell, and one walks with thee now! Mother, farewell, and weep not! O my sweet City, my earth-clad brethren, and thou great Sire that begat us; but a space, ye Dead, And I am with you: yea, with crowned head I come, and shining from the fires that feed On these that slay us now, and all their seed!

[_She goes out, followed by_ TALTHYBIUS _and the Soldiers_: HECUBA,
_after waiting for an instant motionless, falls to the ground_.

LEADER OF CHORUS.

The Queen, ye Watchers! See, she falls, she falls, Rigid without a word! O sorry thralls, Too late! And will ye leave her downstricken, A woman, and so old? Raise her again!

[_Some women go to_ HECUBA, _but she refuses their aid and speaks
without rising_.

HECUBA.

Let lie . . . the love we seek not is no love . . . This ruined body! Is the fall thereof Too deep for all that now is over me Of anguish, and hath been, and yet shall be? Ye Gods . . . Alas! Why call on things so weak For aid? Yet there is something that doth seek, Crying, for God, when one of us hath woe. O, I will think of things gone long ago And weave them to a song, like one more tear In the heart of misery. . . . All kings we were; And I must wed a king. And sons I brought My lord King, many sons . . . nay, that were naught; But high strong princes, of all Troy the best. Hellas nor Troaes nor the garnered East Held such a mother! And all these things beneath The Argive spear I saw cast down in death, And shore these tresses at the dead men's feet. Yea, and the gardener of my garden great, It was not any noise of him nor tale I wept for; these eyes saw him, when the pale Was broke, and there at the altar Priam fell Murdered, and round him all his citadel Sacked. And my daughters, virgins of the fold, Meet to be brides of mighty kings, behold, 'Twas for the Greek I bred them! All are gone; And no hope left, that I shall look upon Their faces any more, nor they on mine. And now my feet tread on the utmost line: An old, old slave-woman, I pass below Mine enemies' gates; and whatso task they know For this age basest, shall be mine; the door, Bowing, to shut and open. . . . I that bore Hector! . . . and meal to grind, and this racked head Bend to the stones after a royal bed; Torn rags about me, aye, and under them Torn flesh; 'twill make a woman sick for shame! Woe's me; and all that one man's arms might hold One woman, what long seas have o'er me rolled And roll for ever! . . . O my child, whose white Soul laughed amid the laughter of God's light, Cassandra, what hands and how strange a day Have loosed thy zone! And thou, Polyxena, Where art thou? And my sons? Not any seed Of man nor woman now shall help my need. Why raise me any more? What hope have I To hold me? Take this slave that once trod high In Ilion; cast her on her bed of clay Rock-pillowed, to lie down, and pass away Wasted with tears. And whatso man they call Happy, believe not ere the last day fall!

* * * * *

CHORUS.

[_Strophe._
O Muse, be near me now, and make
A strange song for Ilion's sake,
Till a tone of tears be about mine ears
And out of my lips a music break
For Troy, Troy, and the end of the years:
When the wheels of the Greek above me pressed,
And the mighty horse-hoofs beat my breast;
And all around were the Argive spears.

A towering Steed of golden rein--
O gold without, dark steel within!--
Ramped in our gates; and all the plain
Lay silent where the Greeks had been.
And a cry broke from all the folk
Gathered above on Ilion's rock:
"Up, up, O fear is over now!
To Pallas, who hath saved us living,
To Pallas bear this victory-vow!"
Then rose the old man from his room,
The merry damsel left her loom,
And each bound death about his brow
With minstrelsy and high thanksgiving!

[_Antistrophe._
O, swift were all in Troy that day,
And girt them to the portal-way,
Marvelling at that mountain Thing
Smooth-carven, where the Argives lay,
And wrath, and Ilion's vanquishing:
Meet gift for her that spareth not,
Heaven's yokeless Rider. Up they brought
Through the steep gates her offering:
Like some dark ship that climbs the shore
On straining cables, up, where stood
Her marble throne, her hallowed floor,
Who lusted for her people's blood.

A very weariness of joy
Fell with the evening over Troy:
And lutes of Afric mingled there
With Phrygian songs: and many a maiden,
With white feet glancing light as air,
Made happy music through the gloom:
And fires on many an inward room
All night broad-flashing, flung their glare
On laughing eyes and slumber-laden.

A MAIDEN.

I was among the dancers there
To Artemis, and glorying sang
Her of the Hills, the Maid most fair,
Daughter of Zeus: and, lo, there rang
A shout out of the dark, and fell
Deathlike from street to street, and made
A silence in the citadel:
And a child cried, as if afraid,
And hid him in his mother's veil.
Then stalked the Slayer from his den,
The hand of Pallas served her well!
O blood, blood of Troy was deep
About the streets and altars then:
And in the wedded rooms of sleep,
Lo, the desolate dark alone,
And headless things, men stumbled on.

And forth, lo, the women go,
The crown of War, the crown of Woe,
To bear the children of the foe
And weep, weep, for Ilion!

* * * * *

[_As the song ceases a chariot is seen approaching from the town, laden
with spoils. On it sits a mourning Woman with a child in her arms._

LEADER.

Lo, yonder on the heaped crest
Of a Greek wain, Andromache,
As one that o'er an unknown sea
Tosseth; and on her wave-borne breast
Her loved one clingeth, Hector's child,
Astyanax . . . O most forlorn
Of women, whither go'st thou, borne
'Mid Hector's bronzen arms, and piled
Spoils of the dead, and pageantry
Of them that hunted Ilion down?
Aye, richly thy new lord shall crown
The mountain shrines of Thessaly!

ANDROMACHE.

[_Strophe_ 1.
Forth to the Greek I go,
Driven as a beast is driven.
HEC. Woe, woe!
AND. Nay, mine is woe:
Woe to none other given,
And the song and the crown therefor!
HEC. O Zeus!
AND. He hates thee sore!
HEC. Children!
AND. No more, no more
To aid thee: their strife is striven!

HECUBA.

[_Antistrophe_ 1.
Troy, Troy is gone!
AND. Yea, and her treasure parted.
HEC. Gone, gone, mine own
Children, the noble-hearted!
AND. Sing sorrow. . . .
HEC. For me, for me!
AND. Sing for the Great City,
That falleth, falleth to be
A shadow, a fire departed.

ANDROMACHE.

[_Strophe_ 2.
Come to me, O my lover!
HEC. The dark shroudeth him over,
My flesh, woman, not thine, not thine!
AND. Make of thine arms my cover!

HECUBA.

[_Antistrophe_ 2.
O thou whose wound was deepest,
Thou that my children keepest,
Priam, Priam, O age-worn King,
Gather me where thou sleepest.

ANDROMACHE (_her hands upon her heart_).

[_Strophe_ 3. O here is the deep of desire, HEC. (How? And is this not woe?) AND. For a city burned with fire; HEC. (It beateth, blow on blow.) AND. God's wrath for Paris, thy son, that he died not long ago:

Who sold for his evil love
Troy and the towers thereof:
Therefore the dead men lie
Naked, beneath the eye
Of Pallas, and vultures croak
And flap for joy:
So Love hath laid his yoke
On the neck of Troy!

HECUBA.

[_Antistrophe_ 3. O mine own land, my home, AND. (I weep for thee, left forlorn,) HEC. See'st thou what end is come? AND. (And the house where my babes were born.) HEC. A desolate Mother we leave, O children, a City of scorn:

Even as the sound of a song
Left by the way, but long
Remembered, a tune of tears
Falling where no man hears,
In the old house, as rain,
For things loved of yore:
But the dead hath lost his pain
And weeps no more.

LEADER.

How sweet are tears to them in bitter stress, And sorrow, and all the songs of heaviness.

ANDROMACHE.

Mother of him of old, whose mighty spear Smote Greeks like chaff, see'st thou what things are here?

HECUBA.

I see God's hand, that buildeth a great crown For littleness, and hath cast the mighty down.

ANDROMACHE.

I and my babe are driven among the droves Of plundered cattle. O, when fortune moves So swift, the high heart like a slave beats low.

HECUBA.

'Tis fearful to be helpless. Men but now Have taken Cassandra, and I strove in vain.

ANDROMACHE.

Ah, woe is me; hath Ajax come again? But other evil yet is at thy gate.

HECUBA.

Nay, Daughter, beyond number, beyond weight My evils are! Doom raceth against doom.

ANDROMACHE.

Polyxena across Achilles' tomb Lies slain, a gift flung to the dreamless dead.

HECUBA.

My sorrow! . . . 'Tis but what Talthybius said: So plain a riddle, and I read it not.

ANDROMACHE.

I saw her lie, and stayed this chariot; And raiment wrapt on her dead limbs, and beat My breast for her.

HECUBA (_to herself_).

O the foul sin of it! The wickedness! My child. My child! Again I cry to thee. How cruelly art thou slain!

ANDROMACHE.

She hath died her death, and howso dark it be, Her death is sweeter than my misery.

HECUBA.

Death cannot be what Life is, Child; the cup Of Death is empty, and Life hath always hope.

ANDROMACHE.

O Mother, having ears, hear thou this word Fear-conquering, till thy heart as mine be stirred With joy. To die is only not to be; And better to be dead than grievously Living. They have no pain, they ponder not Their own wrong. But the living that is brought From joy to heaviness, his soul doth roam, As in a desert, lost, from its old home. Thy daughter lieth now as one unborn, Dead, and naught knowing of the lust and scorn That slew her. And I . . . long since I drew my bow Straight at the heart of good fame; and I know My shaft hit; and for that am I the more Fallen from peace. All that men praise us for, I loved for Hector's sake, and sought to win. I knew that alway, be there hurt therein Or utter innocence, to roam abroad Hath ill report for women; so I trod Down the desire thereof, and walked my way In mine own garden. And light words and gay Parley of women never passed my door. The thoughts of mine own heart . . . I craved no more . . . Spoke with me, and I was happy. Constantly I brought fair silence and a tranquil eye For Hector's greeting, and watched well the way Of living, where to guide and where obey. And, lo! some rumour of this peace, being gone Forth to the Greek, hath cursed me. Achilles' son, So soon as I was taken, for his thrall Chose me. I shall do service in the hall Of them that slew . . . How? Shall I thrust aside Hector's beloved face, and open wide My heart to this new lord? Oh, I should stand A traitor to the dead! And if my hand And flesh shrink from him . . . lo, wrath and despite O'er all the house, and I a slave! One night, One night . . . aye, men have said it . . . maketh tame A woman in a man's arms. . . . O shame, shame! What woman's lips can so forswear her dead, And give strange kisses in another's bed? Why, not a dumb beast, not a colt will run In the yoke untroubled, when her mate is gone-- A thing not in God's image, dull, unmoved Of reason. O my Hector! best beloved, That, being mine, wast all in all to me, My prince, my wise one, O my majesty Of valiance! No man's touch had ever come Near me, when thou from out my father's home Didst lead me and make me thine. . . . And thou art dead, And I war-flung to slavery and the bread Of shame in Hellas, over bitter seas! What knoweth she of evils like to these, That dead Polyxena, thou weepest for? There liveth not in my life any more The hope that others have. Nor will I tell The lie to mine own heart, that aught is well Or shall be well. . . . Yet, O, to dream were sweet!

LEADER.

Thy feet have trod the pathway of my feet, And thy clear sorrow teacheth me mine own.

HECUBA.

Lo, yonder ships: I ne'er set foot on one, But tales and pictures tell, when over them Breaketh a storm not all too strong to stem, Each man strives hard, the tiller gripped, the mast Manned, the hull baled, to face it: till at last Too strong breaks the o'erwhelming sea: lo, then They cease, and yield them up as broken men To fate and the wild waters. Even so I in my many sorrows bear me low, Nor curse, nor strive that other things may be. The great wave rolled from God hath conquered me. But, O, let Hector and the fates that fell On Hector, sleep. Weep for him ne'er so well, Thy weeping shall not wake him. Honour thou The new lord that is set above thee now, And make of thine own gentle piety A prize to lure his heart. So shalt thou be A strength to them that love us, and--God knows, It may be--rear this babe among his foes, My Hector's child, to manhood and great aid For Ilion. So her stones may yet be laid One on another, if God will, and wrought Again to a city! Ah, how thought to thought Still beckons! . . . But what minion of the Greek Is this that cometh, with new words to speak?

[_Enter_ TALTHYBIUS _with a band of Soldiers_. _He comes forward slowly
and with evident disquiet._

TALTHYBIUS.

Spouse of the noblest heart that beat in Troy, Andromache, hate me not! 'Tis not in joy I tell thee. But the people and the Kings Have with one voice . . .

ANDROMACHE.

What is it? Evil things
Are on thy lips!

TALTHYBIUS.

'Tis ordered, this child . . . Oh,
How can I tell her of it?

ANDROMACHE.

Doth he not go
With me, to the same master?

TALTHYBIUS.

There is none
In Greece, shall e'er be master of thy son.

ANDROMACHE.

How? Will they leave him here to build again The wreck? . . .

TALTHYBIUS.

I know not how to tell thee plain!

ANDROMACHE.

Thou hast a gentle heart . . . if it be ill, And not good, news thou hidest!

TALTHYBIUS.

'Tis their will Thy son shall die. . . . The whole vile thing is said Now!

ANDROMACHE.

Oh, I could have borne mine enemy's bed!

TALTHYBIUS.

And speaking in the council of the host Odysseus hath prevailed--

ANDROMACHE.

O lost! lost! lost! . . .
Forgive me! It is not easy . . .

TALTHYBIUS.

. . . That the son Of one so perilous be not fostered on To manhood--

ANDROMACHE.

God; may his own counsel fall
On his own sons!

TALTHYBIUS.

. . . But from this crested wall Of Troy be dashed, and die. . . . Nay, let the thing Be done. Thou shalt be wiser so. Nor cling So fiercely to him. Suffer as a brave Woman in bitter pain; nor think to have Strength which thou hast not. Look about thee here! Canst thou see help, or refuge anywhere? Thy land is fallen and thy lord, and thou A prisoner and alone, one woman; how Canst battle against us? For thine own good I would not have thee strive, nor make ill blood And shame about thee. . . . Ah, nor move thy lips In silence there, to cast upon the ships Thy curse! One word of evil to the host, This babe shall have no burial, but be tossed Naked. . . . Ah, peace! And bear as best thou may, War's fortune. So thou shalt not go thy way Leaving this child unburied; nor the Greek Be stern against thee, if thy heart be meek!

ANDROMACHE (_to the child_).

Go, die, my best-beloved, my cherished one, In fierce men's hands, leaving me here alone. Thy father was too valiant; that is why They slay thee! Other children, like to die, Might have been spared for that. But on thy head His good is turned to evil. O thou bed And bridal; O the joining of the hand, That led me long ago to Hector's land To bear, O not a lamb for Grecian swords To slaughter, but a Prince o'er all the hordes Enthroned of wide-flung Asia. . . . Weepest thou? Nay, why, my little one? Thou canst not know. And Father will not come; he will not come; Not once, the great spear flashing, and the tomb Riven to set thee free! Not one of all His brethren, nor the might of Ilion's wall. How shall it be? One horrible spring . . . deep, deep Down. And thy neck . . . Ah God, so cometh sleep! . . . And none to pity thee! . . . Thou little thing That curlest in my arms, what sweet scents cling All round thy neck! Beloved; can it be All nothing, that this bosom cradled thee And fostered; all the weary nights, wherethrough I watched upon thy sickness, till I grew Wasted with watching? Kiss me. This one time; Not ever again. Put up thine arms, and climb About my neck: now, kiss me, lips to lips. . . . O, ye have found an anguish that outstrips All tortures of the East, ye gentle Greeks! Why will ye slay this innocent, that seeks No wrong? . . . O Helen, Helen, thou ill tree That Tyndareus planted, who shall deem of thee As child of Zeus? O, thou hast drawn thy breath From many fathers, Madness, Hate, red Death, And every rotting poison of the sky! Zeus knows thee not, thou vampire, draining dry Greece and the world! God hate thee and destroy, That with those beautiful eyes hast blasted Troy, And made the far-famed plains a waste withal. Quick! take him: drag him: cast him from the wall, If cast ye will! Tear him, ye beasts, be swift! God hath undone me, and I cannot lift One hand, one hand, to save my child from death . . . O, hide my head for shame: fling me beneath Your galleys' benches! . . . [_She swoons: then half-rising._ Quick: I must begone To the bridal. . . . I have lost my child, my own! [_The soldiers close round her._

LEADER.

O Troy ill-starred; for one strange woman, one Abhorred kiss, how are thine hosts undone!

TALTHYBIUS (_bending over_ ANDROMACHE _and gradually taking the Child
from her_).

Come, Child: let be that clasp of love
Outwearied! Walk thy ways with me,
Up to the crested tower, above
Thy father's wall . . . where they decree
Thy soul shall perish.--Hold him: hold!--
Would God some other man might ply
These charges, one of duller mould,
And nearer to the iron than I!

HECUBA.

O Child, they rob us of our own,
Child of my Mighty One outworn:
Ours, ours thou art!--Can aught be done
Of deeds, can aught of pain be borne,
To aid thee?--Lo, this beaten head,
This bleeding bosom! These I spread
As gifts to thee. I can thus much.
Woe, woe for Troy, and woe for thee!
What fall yet lacketh, ere we touch
The last dead deep of misery?