Euripides

“ 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. ”

“ And, lo! this great bronze-fronted shield, the dread Of many a Greek, that Hector held in fray, O never in God's name—so did she pray— Be this borne forth to hang in Pêleus' hall Or that dark bridal chamber, that the wall May hurt her eyes; but here, in Troy o'erthrown, Instead of cedar wood and vaulted stone, Be this her child's last house. . . . And in thine hands She bade me lay him, to be swathed in bands Of death and garments, such as rest to thee In these thy fallen fortunes; seeing that she Hath gone her ways, and, for her master's haste, May no more fold the babe unto his rest. ”

“ 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 ”

“ Thine are we all. Oh, ere thy bosom break . . . Hecuba.
Lo, I have seen the open hand of God; And in it nothing, nothing, save the rod Of mine affliction, and the eternal hate, Beyond all lands, chosen and lifted great For Troy! Vain, vain were prayer and incense-swell And bulls' blood on the altars! . . . All is well. Had He not turned us in His hand, and thrust Our high things low and shook our hills as dust, We had not been this splendour, and our wrong An everlasting music for the song Of earth and heaven! Go, women: lay our dead In his low sepulchre. He hath his meed Of robing. ”

“ 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. ”

“ As the coilèd 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 Eurôtas 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 ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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: [Pg 32] 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. ”

“ 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. ”

“ Is it all in vain that our Trojan princes have been loved by the Gods? Ganymêdês pours the nectar of Zeus in his banquets, his face never troubled, though his motherland is burned with fire! And, to say nothing of Zeus, how can the Goddess of Morning rise and shine upon us uncaring? She loved Tithônus, son of Laomedon, and bore him up from us in a chariot to be her husband in the skies. But all that once made them love us is gone! ”

“ Shall I thrust aside Hector's belovèd 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! ”

“ 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. ”

“ She cometh first, who bare the seed and well Of springing sorrow, when to life she brought Paris: and that old King, who quenchèd not Quick in the spark, ere yet he woke to slay, The firebrand's image.—But enough: a day Came, and this Paris judged beneath the trees Three Crowns of Life, three diverse Goddesses. The gift of Pallas was of War, to lead His East in conquering battles, and make bleed The hearths of Hellas. Hera held a Throne— If majesties he craved—to reign alone From Phrygia to the last realm of the West. ”

“ No fierce Eastern crown Is o'er your lands, no spear hath cast them down. O, it was well for Hellas! But for me Most ill; caught up and sold across the sea For this my beauty; yea, dishonourèd For that which else had been about my head A crown of honour. . . . Ah, I see thy thought; The first plain deed, 'tis that I answer not, How in the dark out of thy house I fled . . . There came the Seed of Fire, this woman's seed; Came—O, a Goddess great walked with him then— This Alexander, Breaker-down-of-Men, This Paris, Strength-is-with-him ”

“ 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! ”

“ 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.
[Pg 42]
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. ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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 [Pg 41] Of Pallas, and vultures croak And flap for joy: So Love hath laid his yoke On the neck of Troy! Hecuba. ”

“ 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. ”

“ Alas! and if thou cravest still to be As one set above gods, inviolate, 'Tis but a fruitless longing holds thee yet.
[Pg 59]
Leader.
O Queen, think of thy children and thy land, And break her spell! The sweet soft speech, the hand And heart so fell: it maketh me afraid. Hecuba.
Meseems her goddesses first cry mine aid Against these lying lips! . . . Not Hera, nay, Nor virgin Pallas deem I such low clay, To barter their own folk, Argos and brave Athens, to be trod down, the Phrygian's slave, All for vain glory and a shepherd's prize On Ida! ”

“ To the common mind, in spite of all its horrors, there is still something glorious in war. Preachers have preached against it in vain; economists have argued against its wastefulness in vain. The imagination of a great poet alone can finally show to the imagination of the world that even the glories of war are an empty delusion. Euripides shows us, as the centre of his drama, women battered and broken by inconceivable torture—the widowed Hecuba, Andromache with her child dashed to death, Cassandra ravished and made mad—yet does he show that theirs are the unconquered and unconquerable spirits. ”

“ Poseidon had indeed built the wall for Laomedon, but Laomedon had cheated him of his reward—as afterwards he cheated Heracles, and the Argonauts and everybody else! So Poseidon hated Troy. Troy is chiefly defended by the barbarian Ares, the oriental Aphrodite, by its own rivers Scamander and Simoïs and suchlike inferior or unprincipled gods.
Yet traces of the other tradition remain. Homer knows that Athena is specially worshipped in Troy. He knows that Apollo, who had built the wall with Poseidon, and had the same experience of Laomedon, still loves the Trojans. ”

“ 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 [14] , 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. ”

“ 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 unslakèd 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. ”

“ She doth not use To seek for other loves, being wed with Zeus. And maiden Pallas . . . did some strange god's face Beguile her, that she craved for loveliness, Who chose from God one virgin gift above All gifts, and fleëth from the lips of love? Ah, deck not out thine own heart's evil springs By making spirits of heaven as brutish things And cruel. The wise may hear thee, and guess all! And Cypris must take ship—fantastical! Sail with my son and enter at the gate To seek thee! Had she willed it, she had sate At peace in heaven, and wafted thee, and all Amyclae with thee, under Ilion's wall. ”

“ 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.
[Pg 21]
Fourth Woman.
Argos, belike, or Phthia shall it be, Or some lone island of the tossing sea, Far, far from Troy? Hecuba. ”

“ A throb of human sympathy as if with one of our sisters of to-day comes to us at the end, when the city is destroyed and its queen would throw herself, living, into its flames. To be of the action of this play the imagination needs not to travel back over three thousand years of history. It can simply leap a thousand leagues of ocean.
If ever wars are to be ended, the imagination of man must end them. ”

“ Nay, if Right be come at last, What shalt thou bring but comfort for pains past, And harbour for a woman storm-driven: A woman borne away by violent men: And this one birthright of my beauty, this That might have been my glory, lo, it is A stamp that God hath burned, of slavery! ”