ACT III

[_Enter_ Andromache, _leading the little_ Astyanax.]

_Andromache:_ What do ye here, sad throng of Phrygian dames? Why tear your hair and beat your wretched breasts? 410 Why stream your cheeks with tears? Our ills are light If we endure a grief that tears can soothe. You mourn a Troy whose walls but now have fall'n; Troy fell for me long since, when that dread car Of Peleus' son, urged on at cruel speed, With doleful groanings 'neath his massive weight, Dragged round the walls my Hector's mangled corse. 415 Since then, o'erwhelmed and utterly undone, With stony resignation do I bear Whatever ills may come. But for this child, Long since would I have saved me from the Greeks And followed my dear lord; but thought of him Doth check my purpose and forbid my death. For his dear sake there still remaineth cause 420 To supplicate the gods, an added care. Through him the richest fruit of woe is lost-- The fear of naught; and now all hope of rest From further ills is gone, for cruel fate Hath still an entrance to my grieving heart. Most sad his fear, who fears in hopelessness. 425

_An Old Man:_ What sudden cause of fear hath moved thee so?

_Andromache:_ Some greater ill from mighty ills doth rise. The fate of fallen Troy is not yet stayed.

_Old Man:_ What new disasters can the fates invent?

_Andromache:_ The gates of deepest Styx, those darksome realms (Lest fear be wanting to our overthrow), 430 Are opened wide, and forth from lowest Dis The spirit of our buried foeman comes. (May Greeks alone retrace their steps to earth? For death at least doth come to all alike.) That terror doth invade the hearts of all; But what I now relate is mine alone-- 435 A terrifying vision of the night.

_Old Man:_ What was this vision? Speak and share thy fears.

_Andromache:_ Now kindly night had passed her middle goal, And their bright zenith had the Bears o'ercome. Then came to my afflicted soul a calm 440 Long since unknown, and o'er my weary eyes, For one brief hour did drowsy slumber steal If that be sleep--the stupor of a soul Forespent with ills: when suddenly I saw Before mine eyes the shade of Hector stand; Not in such guise as when, with blazing torch He strove in war against the Grecian ships, 445 Nor when, all stained with blood, in battle fierce Against the Danai, he gained true spoil From that feigned Peleus' son; not such his face All flaming with the eager battle light; But weary, downcast, tear-stained, like my own, All covered o'er with tangled, bloody locks. 450 Still did my joy leap up at sight of him; And then he sadly shook his head and said: "Awake from sleep and save our son from death, O faithful wife. In hiding let him lie; Thus only can he life and safety find. Away with tears--why dost thou mourning make For fallen Troy? I would that all had fall'n. 455 Then haste thee, and to safety bear our son, The stripling hope of this our vanquished home, Wherever safety lies." So did he speak, And chilling terror roused me from my sleep. Now here, now there I turned my fearful eyes. Forgetful of my son, I sought the arms Of Hector, there to lay my grief. In vain: For that elusive shade, though closely pressed, 460 Did ever mock my clinging, fond embrace. O son, true offspring of thy mighty sire, Sole hope of Troy, sole comfort of our house, Child of a stock of too illustrious blood, Too like thy father, thou: such countenance My Hector had, with such a tread he walked, With such a motion did he lift his hands, Thus stood he straight with shoulders proudly set, And thus he oft from that high, noble brow Would backward toss his flowing locks.--But thou, O son, who cam'st too late for Phrygia's help, Too soon for me, will that time ever come, That happy day, when thou, the sole defense, 470 And sole avenger of our conquered Troy, Shalt raise again her fallen citadel, Recall her scattered citizens from flight, And give to fatherland and Phrygians Their name and fame again?--Alas, my son, Such hopes consort not with our present state. Let the humble captive's fitter prayer be mine-- 475 The prayer for life. Ah me, what spot remote Can hold thee safe? In what dark lurking-place Can I bestow thee and abate my fears? Our city, once in pride of wealth secure, And stayed on walls the gods themselves had built, Well known of all, the envy of the world, Now deep in ashes lies, by flames laid low; 480 And from her vast extent of temples, walls And towers, no part, no lurking-place remains, Wherein a child might hide. Where shall I choose A covert safe? Behold the mighty tomb Wherein his father's sacred ashes lie, Whose massive pile the enemy has spared. This did old Priam rear in days of power, 485 Whose grief no stinted sepulture bestowed. Then to his father let me trust the child.-- But at the very thought a chilling sweat Invades my trembling limbs, for much I fear The gruesome omen of the place of death. 490

_Old Man:_ In danger, haste to shelter where ye may; In safety, choose.

_Andromache:_ What hiding-place is safe From traitor's eyes?

_Old Man:_ All witnesses remove.

_Andromache:_ What if the foe inquire?

_Old Man:_ Then answer thus: "He perished in the city's overthrow." This cause alone ere now hath safety found For many from the stroke of death--belief That they have died.

_Andromache:_ But scanty hope is left; Too huge a weight of race doth press him down. Besides, what can it profit him to hide 495 Who must his shelter leave and face the foe?

_Old Man:_ The victor's deadliest purposes are first.

_Andromache:_ What trackless region, what obscure retreat Shall hold thee safe? Oh, who will bring us aid In our distress and doubt? Who will defend? O thou, who always didst protect thine own, 500 My Hector, guard us still. Accept the trust Which I in pious confidence impose; And in the faithful keeping of thy dust May he in safety dwell, to live again. Then son, betake thee hither to the tomb. Why backward strain, and shun that safe retreat? I read thy nature right: thou scornest fear. 505 But curb thy native pride, thy dauntless soul, And bear thee as thine altered fates direct. For see what feeble forces now are left: A sepulcher, a boy, a captive band. We cannot choose but yield us to our woes. Then come, make bold to enter the abode, The sacred dwelling of thy buried sire. If fate assist us in our wretchedness, 510 'Twill be to thee a safe retreat; if life The fates deny, thou hast a sepulcher.

[_The boy enters the tomb, and the gates are closed and barred behind him._]

_Old Man:_ Now do the bolted gates protect their charge. But thou, lest any sign of fear proclaim Where thou hast hid the boy, come far away.

_Andromache:_ Who fears from near at hand, hath less of fear; 515 But, if thou wilt, take we our steps away.

[Ulysses _is seen approaching._]

_Old Man_: Now check thy words awhile, thy mourning cease; For hither bends the Ithacan his course.

_Andromache_ [_with a final appealing look toward the tomb_]: Yawn deep, O earth, and thou, my husband, rend To even greater depths thy tomb's deep cave, 520 And hide the sacred trust I gave to thee Within the very bosom of the pit. Now comes Ulysses, grave and slow of tread; Methinks he plotteth mischief in his heart.

[_Enter_ Ulysses.]

_Ulysses:_ As harsh fate's minister, I first implore That, though the words are uttered by my lips, 525 Thou count them not my own. They are the voice Of all the Grecian chiefs, whom Hector's son Doth still prohibit from that homeward voyage So long delayed. And him the fates demand. A peace secure the Greeks can never feel, And ever will the backward-glancing fear 530 Compel them on defensive arms to lean, While on thy living son, Andromache, The conquered Phrygians shall rest their hopes. So doth the augur, Calchas, prophesy. Yet, even if our Calchas spake no word, Thy Hector once declared it, and I fear Lest in his son a second Hector dwell; 535 For ever doth a noble scion grow Into the stature of his noble sire. Behold the little comrade of the herd, His budding horns still hidden from the sight: Full soon with arching neck and lofty front, He doth command and lead his father's flock. 540 The slender twig, just lopped from parent bough, Its mother's height and girth surpasses soon, And casts its shade abroad to earth and sky. So doth a spark within the ashes left, Leap into flame again before the wind. Thy grief, I know, must partial judgment give; 545 Still, if thou weigh the matter, thou wilt grant That after ten long years of grievous war. A veteran soldier doeth well to fear Still other years of slaughter, and thy Troy Still unsubdued. This fear one cause alone 550 Doth raise--another Hector. Free the Greeks From dread of war. For this and this alone Our idle ships still wait along the shore. And let me not seem cruel in thy sight, For that, compelled of fate, I seek thy son: I should have sought our chieftain's son as well. Then gently suffer what the victor bids. 555

_Andromache:_ Oh, that thou wert within my power to give, My son, and that I knew what cruel fate Doth hold thee now, snatched from my eager arms-- Where thou dost lie; then, though my breast were pierced With hostile spears, and though my hands with chains Were bound, and scorching flames begirt my sides, 560 Thy mother's faith would ne'er betray her child. O son, what place, what lot doth hold thee now? Dost thou with wandering footsteps roam the fields? Wast thou consumed amid the raging flames? Hath some rude victor reveled in thy blood? 565 Or, by some ravening beast hast thou been slain, And liest now a prey for savage birds?

_Ulysses:_ Away with feignéd speech; no easy task For thee to catch Ulysses: 'tis my boast That mother's snares, and even goddesses' I have o'ercome. Have done with vain deceit. 570 Where is thy son?

_Andromache:_ And where is Hector too? Where agéd Priam and the Phrygians? _Thou_ seekest one; _my_ quest includes them all.

_Ulysses:_ By stern necessity thou soon shalt speak What thy free will withholds.

_Andromache:_ But safe is she, Who can face death, who ought and longs to die.

_Ulysses:_ But death brought near would still thy haughty words.

_Andromache:_ If 'tis thy will, Ulysses, to inspire 575 Andromache with fear, then threaten life; For death has long been object of my prayer.

_Ulysses:_ With stripes, with flames, with lingering pains of death Shalt thou be forced to speak, against thy will, What now thou dost conceal, and from thy heart Its inmost secrets bring. Necessity 580 Doth often prove more strong than piety.

_Andromache:_ Prepare thy flames, thy blows, and all the arts Devised for cruel punishment: dire thirst, Starvation, every form of suffering; Come, rend my vitals with the sword's deep thrust; In dungeon, foul and dark, immure; do all 585 A victor, full of wrath and fear, can do Or dare; still will my mother heart, inspired With high and dauntless courage, scorn thy threats.

_Ulysses:_ This very love of thine, which makes thee bold, Doth warn the Greeks to counsel for their sons. 590 This strife, from home remote, these ten long years Of war, and all the ills which Calchas dreads, Would slight appear to me, if for myself I feared: but thou dost threat Telemachus.

_Andromache:_ Unwillingly, Ulysses, do I give To thee, or any Grecian, cause of joy; Yet must I give it, and speak out the woe, The secret grief that doth oppress my soul. 595 Rejoice, O sons of Atreus, and do thou, According to thy wont, glad tidings bear To thy companions: _Hector's son is dead_.

_Ulysses:_ What proof have we that this thy word is true?

_Andromache:_ May thy proud victor's strongest threat befall, And bring my death with quick and easy stroke; 600 May I be buried in my native soil, May earth press lightly on my Hector's bones: According as my son, deprived of light, Amidst the dead doth lie, and, to the tomb Consigned, hath known the funeral honors due To those who live no more. 605

_Ulysses_ [_joyfully_]: Then are the fates Indeed fulfilled, since Hector's son is dead, And I with joy unto the Greeks will go, With grateful tale of peace at last secure. [_Aside._] But stay, Ulysses, this rash joy of thine! The Greeks will readily believe _thy_ word; But what dost thou believe?--his mother's oath. Would then a mother feign her offspring's death, And fear no baleful omens of that word? They omens fear who have no greater dread. 610 Her truth hath she upheld by straightest oath. If that she perjured be, what greater fear Doth vex her soul? Now have I urgent need Of all my skill and cunning, all my arts, By which so oft Ulysses hath prevailed; For truth, though long concealed, can never die. Now watch the mother; note her grief, her tears, 615 Her sighs; with restless step, now here, now there, She wanders, and she strains her anxious ears To catch some whispered word. 'Tis evident, She more by present fear than grief is swayed. So must I ply her with the subtlest art. [_To_ Andromache.] When others mourn, 'tis fit in sympathy To speak with kindred grief; but thou, poor soul, I bid rejoice that thou hast lost thy son, 620 Whom cruel fate awaited; for 'twas willed That from the lofty tower that doth remain Alone of Troy's proud walls, he should be dashed, And headlong fall to quick and certain death.

_Andromache_ [_aside_]: My soul is faint within me, and my limbs Do quake; while chilling fear congeals my blood. 625

_Ulysses_ [_aside_]: She trembles; here must I pursue my quest. Her fear betrayeth her; wherefore this fear Will I redouble.-- [_To attendants._] Go in haste, my men, And find this foe of Greece, the last defense Of Troy, who by his mother's cunning hand Is safe bestowed, and set him in our midst. [_Pretending that the boy is discovered._] 'Tis well! He's found. Now bring him here with haste. 630 [_To_ Andromache.] Why dost thou start, and tremble? Of a truth Thy son is dead, for so hast thou declared.

_Andromache:_ Oh, that I had just cause of dread. But now, My old habitual fear instinctive starts; The mind ofttimes forgets a well-conned woe.

_Ulysses:_ Now since thy boy hath shunned the sacrifice That to the walls was due, and hath escaped 635 By grace of better fate, our priest declares That only can our homeward way be won If Hector's ashes, scattered o'er the waves, Appease the sea, and this his sepulcher Be leveled with the ground. Since Hector's son Has failed to pay the debt he owed to fate, 640 Then Hector's sacred dust must be despoiled.

_Andromache_ [_aside_]: Ah me, a double fear distracts my soul! Here calls my son, and here my husband's dust. Which shall prevail? Attest, ye heartless gods, And ye, my husband's shades, true deities: 645 Naught else, O Hector, pleased me in my son, Save only thee; then may he still survive To bring thine image back to life and me.-- Shall then my husband's ashes be defiled? Shall I permit his bones to be the sport Of waves, and lie unburied in the sea? Oh, rather, let my only son be slain!-- 650 And canst thou, mother, see thy helpless child To awful death given up? Canst thou behold His body whirling from the battlements? I can, I shall endure and suffer this, Provided only, by his death appeased, The victor's hand shall spare my Hector's bones.-- But he can suffer yet, while kindly fate 655 Hath placed his sire beyond the reach of harm. Why dost thou hesitate? Thou must decide Whom thou wilt designate for punishment. What doubts harass thy troubled soul? No more Is Hector here.--Oh, say not so; I feel He is both here and there. But sure am I That this my child is still in life, perchance To be the avenger of his father's death. But both I cannot spare. What then? O soul, 660 Save of the two, whom most the Greeks do fear.

_Ulysses_ [_aside_]: Now must I force her answer. [_To_ Andromache.] From its base Will I this tomb destroy.

_Andromache:_ The tomb of him Whose body thou didst ransom for a price?

_Ulysses:_ I will destroy it, and the sepulcher From its high mound will utterly remove. 665

_Andromache:_ The sacred faith of heaven do I invoke, And just Achilles' plighted word: do thou, O Pyrrhus, keep thy father's sacred oath.

_Ulysses:_ This tomb shall soon lie level with the plain.

_Andromache:_ Such sacrilege the Greeks, though impious, Have never dared. 'Tis true the sacred fanes, E'en of your favoring gods, ye have defiled; 670 But still your wildest rage hath spared our tombs. I will resist, and match your warriors' arms With my weak woman's hands. Despairing wrath Will nerve my arm. Like that fierce Amazon, Who wrought dire havoc in the Grecian ranks; Or some wild Maenad by the god o'ercome, Who, thrysus-armed, doth roam the trackless glades With frenzied step, and, clean of sense bereft, 675 Strikes deadly blows but feels no counter-stroke: So will I rush against ye in defense Of Hector's tomb, and perish, if I must, An ally of his shade.

_Ulysses_ [_to attendants_]: Do ye delay, And do a woman's tears and empty threats And outcry move you? Speed the task I bid. 680

_Andromache_ [_struggling with attendants_]: Destroy me first! Oh, take my life instead! [_The attendants roughly thrust her away._] Alas, they thrust me back! O Hector, come, Break through the bands of fate, upheave the earth, That thou mayst stay Ulysses' lawless hand. Thy spirit will suffice.--Behold he comes! His arms he brandishes, and firebrands hurls. Ye Greeks, do ye behold him, or do I, With solitary sight, alone behold? 685

_Ulysses:_ This tomb and all it holds will I destroy.

_Andromache_ [_aside, while the attendants begin to demolish the tomb_]: Ah me, can I permit the son and sire To be in common ruin overwhelmed? Perchance I may prevail upon the Greeks By prayer.--But even now those massive stones Will crush my hidden child.--Oh, let him die, In any other way, and anywhere, 690 If only father crush not son, and son No desecration bring to father's dust. [_Casts herself at the feet of_ Ulysses.] A humble suppliant at thy knees I fall, Ulysses; I, who never yet to man Have bent the knee in prayer, thy feet embrace. By all the gods, have pity on my woes, And with a calm and patient heart receive My pious prayers. And as the heavenly powers 695 Have high exalted thee in pride and might, The greater mercy show thy fallen foes. Whate'er is given to wretched suppliant Is loaned to fate. So mayst thou see again Thy faithful wife; so may Laërtes live To greet thee yet again; so may thy son Behold thy face, and, more than that thou canst pray, 700 Excel his father's valor and the years Of old Laërtes. Pity my distress: The only comfort left me in my woe, Is this my son.

_Ulysses:_ Produce the boy--and pray.

_Andromache_ [_goes to the tomb and calls to_ Astyanax]: Come forth, my son, from the place of thy hiding 705 Where thy mother bestowed thee with weeping and fear.

[Astyanax _appears from the tomb_. Andromache _presents him to_ Ulysses.]

Here, here is the lad, Ulysses, behold him; The fear of thy armies, the dread of thy fleet! [_To_ Astyanax.] My son, thy suppliant hands upraise, And at the feet of this proud lord, Bend low in prayer, nor think it base 710 To suffer the lot which our fortune appoints. Put out of mind thy regal birth, Thy agéd grandsire's glorious rule Of wide domain; and think no more Of Hector, thy illustrious sire. Be captive alone--bend the suppliant knee; 715 And if thine own fate move thee not, Then weep by thy mother's woe inspired. [_To_ Ulysses.] That older Troy beheld the tears Of its youthful king, and those tears prevailed To stay the fierce threats of the victor's wrath, 720 The mighty Hercules. Yea he, To whose vast strength all monsters had yielded, Who burst the stubborn gates of hell, And o'er that murky way returned, Even he was o'ercome by the tears of a boy. 725 "Take the reins of the state," to the prince he said; "Reign thou on thy father's lofty throne, But reign with the scepter of power--and truth." Thus did that hero subdue his foes. And thus do thou temper thy wrath with forbearance. 730 And let not the power of great Hercules, only, Be model to thee. Behold at thy feet, As noble a prince as Priam of old Pleads only for life! The kingdom of Troy Let fortune bestow where she will. 735

_Ulysses_ [_aside_]: This woe-struck mother's grief doth move me sore; But still the Grecian dames must more prevail, Unto whose grief this lad is growing up.

_Andromache_ [_hearing him_]: What? These vast ruins of our fallen town, To very ashes brought, shall he uprear? Shall these poor boyish hands build Troy again? 740 No hopes indeed hath Troy, if such her hopes. So low the Trojans lie, there's none so weak That he need fear our power. Doth lofty thought Of mighty Hector nerve his boyish heart? What valor can a fallen Hector stir? When this our Troy was lost, his father's self Would then have bowed his lofty spirit's pride; For woe can bend and break the proudest soul. 745 If punishment be sought, some heavier fate Let him endure; upon his royal neck Let him support the yoke of servitude. Must princes sue in vain for this poor boon?

_Ulysses:_ Not I, but Calchas doth refuse thy prayer.

_Andromache:_ O man of lies, artificer of crime, 750 By whom in open fight no foe is slain, But by whose tricks and cunning, evil mind The very chiefs of Greece are overthrown, Dost thou now seek to hide thy dark intent Behind a priest and guiltless gods? Nay, nay: This deed within thy sinful heart was born. Thou midnight prowler, brave to work the death 755 Of this poor boy, dost dare at length alone To do a deed, and that in open day?

_Ulysses:_ Ulysses' valor do the Grecians know Full well, and all too well the Phrygians. But we are wasting time with empty words. The impatient ships are tugging at their chains.

_Andromache:_ But grant a brief delay, while to my son 760 I pay the rites of woe, and sate my grief With tears and last embrace.

_Ulysses:_ I would 'twere mine To spare thy tears; but what alone I may, I'll give thee respite and a time for grief. Then weep thy fill, for tears do soften woe. 765

_Andromache_ [_to_ Astyanax]: O darling pledge of love, thou only stay Of our poor fallen house, last pang of Troy; O thou whom Grecians fear, O mother's hope, Alas too vain, for whom, with folly blind, I prayed the war-earned praises of his sire, His royal grandsire's prime of years and strength: But God hath scorned my prayers. 770 Thou shalt not live To wield the scepter in the royal courts Of ancient Troy, to make thy people's laws, And send beneath thy yoke the conquered tribes; Thou shalt not fiercely slay the fleeing Greeks, Nor from thy car in retribution drag Achilles' son; the dart from thy small hand 775 Thou ne'er shalt hurl, nor boldly press the chase Of scattered beasts throughout the forest glades; And when the sacred lustral day is come, Troy's yearly ritual of festal games, The charging squadrons of the noble youth Thou shalt not lead, thyself the noblest born; Nor yet among the blazing altar fires, 780 With nimble feet the ancient sacred dance At some barbaric temple celebrate, While horns swell forth swift-moving melodies. Oh, mode of death, far worse than bloody war! More tearful sight than mighty Hector's end The walls of Troy must see. 785

_Ulysses:_ Now stay thy tears, For mighty grief no bound or respite finds.

_Andromache:_ Small space for tears, Ulysses, do I ask; Some scanty moments yet, I pray thee, grant, That I may close his eyes though living still, And do a mother's part. [_To_ Astyanax.] Lo, thou must die, For, though a child, thou art too greatly feared. Thy Troy awaits thee: go, in freedom's pride, 790 And see our Trojans, dead yet unenslaved.

_Astyanax:_ O mother, mother, pity me and save!

_Andromache:_ My son, why dost thou cling upon my robes, And seek the vain protection of my hand? As when the hungry lion's roar is heard, The frightened calf for safety presses close 795 Its mother's side; but that remorseless beast, Thrusting away the mother's timid form, With ravenous jaws doth grasp the lesser prey, And, crushing, drag it hence: so shalt thou, too, Be snatched away from me by heartless foes. Then take my tears and kisses, O my son, Take these poor locks, and, full of mother love, 800 Go speed thee to thy sire; and in his ear Speak these, thy grieving mother's parting words: "If still thy manes feel their former cares, And on the pyre thy love was not consumed, Why dost thou suffer thy Andromache To serve a Grecian lord, O cruel Hector? Why dost thou lie in careless indolence? 805 Achilles has returned." Take once again These hairs, these flowing tears, which still remain From Hector's piteous death; this fond caress And rain of parting kisses take for him. But leave this cloak to comfort my distress, For it, within his tomb and near his shade, Hath lain enwrapping thee. If to its folds 810 One tiny mote of his dear ashes clings, My eager lips shall seek it till they find.

_Ulysses:_ Thy grief is limitless. Come, break away, And end our Grecian fleet's too long delay.

[_He leads the boy away with him._]

* * * * *

_Chorus:_ Where lies the home of our captivity? On Thessaly's famed mountain heights? Where Tempe's dusky shade invites? 815 Or Phthia, sturdy warriors' home, Or where rough Trachin's cattle roam? Iolchos, mistress of the main, Or Crete, whose cities crowd the plain? 820 Where frequent flow Mothone's rills, Beneath the shade of Oete's hills, Whence came Alcides' fatal bow Twice destined for our overthrow? 825 But whither shall our alien course be sped? Perchance to Pleuron's gates we go, Where Dian's self was counted foe; Perchance to Troezen's winding shore, The land which mighty Theseus bore; Or Pelion, by whose rugged side Their mad ascent the giants tried. Here, stretched within his mountain cave, 830 Once Chiron to Achilles gave The lyre, whose stirring strains attest The warlike passions of his breast. 835 What foreign shore our homeless band invites? Must we our native country deem Where bright Carystos' marbles gleam? Where Chalcis breasts the heaving tide, And swift Euripus' waters glide? Perchance unhappy fortune calls 840 To bleak Gonoëssa's windswept walls; Perchance our wondering eyes shall see Eleusin's awful mystery; 845 Or Elis, where great heroes strove To win the Olympic crown of Jove. 850 Then welcome, stranger lands beyond the sea! Let breezes waft our wretched band, Where'er they list, to any land; If only Sparta's curséd state (To Greeks and Trojans common fate) And Argos, never meet our view, And bloody Pelops' city too; 855 May we ne'er see Ulysses' isle, Whose borders share their master's guile. But thee, O Hecuba, what fate, What land, what Grecian lord await? 860