Four Tragedies and Octavia Page 6

  Your brother asks you to be king with him.

  THYESTES: Does he? There’s danger there; some hidden trap.

  TANTALUS: Brotherly love can often live again

  In hearts that once have lost it; true affection

  Broken can be repaired.

  THYESTES: My brother love me?

  Sooner will Ocean wash the Seven Stars,

  The fury of the wild Sicilian currents

  Rest, the Ionian sea become a field

  Of ripening corn, night’s darkness be our daylight;

  Sooner will water come to terms with fire,

  Wind make a peace with sea, or life with death.

  TANTALUS: But what harm do you fear?

  THYESTES: All kinds of harm.

  Why should my fear have limits, when his power

  Is boundless as his hate?

  TANTALUS: How can he hurt you?

  THYESTES: I know – not for myself, for you, my sons,

  I know that I must fear the power of Atreus.

  TANTALUS: You fear some trap, in spite of all your caution?

  THYESTES: Caution is late, when you are in the trap.

  Let us go on, then. But – your father speaks –

  Remember this: ’tis you that lead, I follow.

  TANTALUS: God will look kindly on your good intentions.

  Go boldly on.

  [Enter Atreus, aside]

  ATREUS: The net is spread, the game is in the trap.

  I see my brother, with his hateful sons

  Close by his side. Vengeance is now assured.

  I have Thyestes in my hands at last,

  Himself and all he has.1 I am impatient,

  And find it difficult to curb my wrath.

  Thus does a keen-nosed Umbrian hunting-dog

  In quest of game, while held in leash, silent

  Follow the trail, nose to the ground, obedient

  While still the scent is weak, the quarry distant;

  But at close quarters with his prey, he’ll fight

  With every muscle of his neck, protesting

  Against restraint, and strive to slip the leash;

  And when he sniffs the scent of blood, his rage

  Is almost uncontrollable, but still

  Must be controlled.… Look at him, how his hair

  Hangs all unkempt over his ruined face;

  His chin unshaved. But we must offer him

  A reassuring welcome.…

  Welcome, brother!

  How glad I am to see you! Let me feel

  That long-desired embrace.… Let us forget

  The anger that has parted us; henceforth

  Let love and kinship ever be our law,

  All enmity condemned and put away.

  THYESTES: I could plead innocent; but as you come

  In this kind mood, I cannot but confess,

  Freely confess, my brother, I am guilty

  Of all you have believed of me. This love

  Has robbed me of my plea. Only to seem

  Guilty in a devoted brother’s eyes

  Is guilt enough. I can but plead with tears –

  Though no man ever saw me plead before –

  And with these hands, that have touched no man’s feet.

  Be all your anger set aside, your heart

  Eased of the tumult of your indignation.

  For the assurance of my trust, brother,

  My innocent sons shall be your hostages.

  ATREUS: Touch not my knees, but come into my arms.

  And you three lads, an old man’s sentinels,

  Embrace me too. Take off that ragged garment,

  Brother, its sight offends me, and be dressed

  In robes like mine; accept with a good will

  Your part and share of our fraternal kingdom.

  It cannot but be counted to my credit

  That I admit my brother, safe returned,

  To the enjoyment of his royal birthright.

  To own a kingdom is a man’s good fortune;

  To give one is an act of charity.

  THYESTES: And may the gods, my brother, so reward you

  As your good deed deserves. As for the crown,

  That mark of royalty would scarce become

  This ruined head; this sorely troubled hand

  Can never hold a sceptre. Let me live

  Unseen, among the humblest of your subjects.

  ATREUS: This realm is wide enough to hold two kings.

  THYESTES: I know that what is yours is mine, my brother.

  ATREUS: What man would spurn abundant fortune’s gifts?

  THYESTES: The man who knows how fast abundance ebbs.

  ATREUS: May I not have this honour that I seek?

  THYESTES: Your honour is assured; but what of mine?

  I am determined to refuse the crown.

  ATREUS: If you refuse your share, I give up mine.

  THYBSTES: Well… I accept the title thrust upon me,

  But on condition all my arms, my powers,

  And I, shall be devoted to your service.

  ATREUS: Come then, and let your venerable head

  Suffer the yoke that I shall put upon it.

  Then I shall offer to the gods above

  The sacrifice I have prepared for them.

  CHORUS

  Would any man believe it possible?

  Atreus, that hard, that bitter man, that man of unrepentant cruelty,

  Stands checked, awed into impotence, before his brother.

  Truly there is no greater power on earth

  Than natural affection.

  Strife between strangers may go on for ever,

  But where it has bound once

  The chain of love will always bind again.

  Peace had been broken by a storm of strife

  For causes not to be despised.

  The call to arms was heard,

  The tramp of horsemen and the clink of harness,

  Bright steel flashed to and fro at the command

  Of Mars the God of Battle, armed and angry

  And thirsting for fresh blood.

  Yet now

  Love has conquered the sword,

  Bound the contesting hands,

  And brought the combatants, despite themselves,

  To reconciliation.

  Which of the gods has given us this peace

  So soon, after such bitter strife?

  Loud was the noise of civil war, but yesterday,

  Throughout Mycenae. Mothers stood pale with terror

  Clutching their infants; wives watched fearfully

  While husbands armed, grasping reluctantly

  The long-forgotten sword, now dulled

  With the rust of peaceful days.

  Then there were crumbling walls to be repaired,

  Towers, weakening with age, to be restored,

  Gates to be hurriedly locked with iron bolts;

  While on the battlements the anxious guard

  Watched for the night’s alarms.

  Worse than war is the fearful waiting for war.

  Now, stilled is the threat of the killer’s sword;

  Now, silent the trumpet’s thrilling call,

  Silent the bugle’s piercing note. Deep peace

  Comes back to the city, and all is joy again.

  So, when the north gales fall upon the Bruttian sea

  And breakers roll in from the deep, the caves of Scylla

  Echo their pounding beat, and sailors yet ashore

  Tremble to see the swirling waters which Charybdis

  Greedily swallows down and vomits up again.

  Fear grips the brutish Cyclops sitting in the depths

  Of Etna’s burning crater: will his father soon

  Put out with his cascade the everlasting fires

  That feed the furnaces of their unresting forge?

  Ithaca shakes, and the ill-used Laertes

  Expects to see his little kingdom drowned.

 
; But when the winds lay by their force,

  The sea lies calmer than a lake,

  The ships that feared to cross the deep

  Spread their bright sails on every side,

  Boats dance upon a level floor

  So clear, the eye can count the fishes

  Swimming beneath the waters, where

  Lately the fury of the gale

  Had lashed the waves, and Cyclad islands

  Trembled beneath their shock.

  No state of life endures; pleasure and pain

  Take each their turn; and pleasure’s turn is shorter.

  Time swiftly changes highest into lowest.

  That king – who can give crowns away;

  Before whose feet nations have bowed

  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.

  ACT FOUR

  Messenger, Chorus

  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 brothers1 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 chariot1

  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