SCENE II

_Andromache, Ulysses with a retinue of warriors._ [_The old man withdraws._]

_Ulysses._ Coming a messenger of cruel fate, I pray you deem not mine the bitter words 535 I speak, for this is but the general voice Of all the Greeks, too long from home detained By Hector's child: him do the fates demand. The Greeks can hope for but a doubtful peace, Fear will compel them still to look behind 540 Nor lay aside their armor, while thy child, Andromache, gives strength to fallen Troy. So prophesies the god's interpreter; And had the prophet Calchas held his peace, Hector had spoken; Hector and his son 545 I greatly fear: those sprung of noble race Must needs grow great. With proudly lifted head And haughty neck, the young and hornless bull Leads the paternal herd and rules the flock; And when the tree is cut, the tender stalk 550 Soon rears itself above the parent trunk, Shadows the earth, and lifts its boughs to heaven; The spark mischance has left from some great fire, Renews its strength; like these is Hector's son. If well you weigh our act, you will forgive, 555 Though grief is harsh of judgment. We have spent Ten weary winters, ten long harvests spent In war; and now, grown old, our soldiers fear, Even from fallen Troy, some new defeat. 'Tis not a trifling thing that moves the Greeks, 560 But a young Hector; free them from this fear; This cause alone holds back our waiting fleet, This stops the ships. Too cruel think me not, By lot commanded Hector's son to seek; I sought Orestes once; with patience bear 565 What we ourselves have borne.

_Andromache._ Alas, my son, Would that thou wert within thy mother's arms! Would that I knew what fate encompassed thee, What region holds thee, torn from my embrace! Although my breast were pierced with hostile spears, 570 My hands bound fast with wounding chains, my side By biting flame were girdled, not for this Would I put off my mother-guardianship! What spot, what fortune holds thee now, my son? Art thou a wanderer in an unknown land, 575 Or have the flames of Troy devoured thee? Or does the conqueror in thy blood rejoice? Or, snatched by some wild beast, perhaps thou liest On Ida's summit, food for Ida's birds?

_Ulysses._ No more pretend. Thou mayst not so deceive 580 Ulysses; I have power to overcome A mother's wiles, although she be divine. Put by thy empty plots; where is thy son?

_Andromache._ Where is my Hector? Where the Trojan host? Where Priam? Thou seek'st one, I seek them all. 585

_Ulysses._ What thou refusest willingly to tell, Thou shalt be forced to say.

_Andromache._ She rests secure Who can, who ought, nay, who desires to die.

_Ulysses._ Near death may put an end to such proud boast.

_Andromache._ Ulysses, if thou hop'st through fear to force 590 Andromache to speak, threat longer life; Death is to me a wished-for messenger.

_Ulysses._ With fire, scourge, torment, even death itself, I will compel thy heart's deep-hidden thought; Necessity is stronger far than death. 595

_Andromache._ Threat flames, wounds, hunger, thirst, the bitter stings Of cruel grief, all torments, sword plunged deep Within this bosom, or the prison dark-- Whatever angry, fearful victors may; Learn that a loving mother knows no fear. 600

_Ulysses._ And yet this love, in which thou standst entrenched So stubbornly, admonishes the Greeks To think of their own children. Even now, After these long ten years, this weary war, I should fear less the danger Calchas threats, 605 If for myself I feared--but thou prepar'st War for Telemachus.

_Andromache._ Unwillingly I give the Grecians joy, but I must give. Ulysses, anguish must confess its pain; Rejoice, O son of Atreus, carry back 610 As thou art wont, to the Pelasgian host The joyous news: great Hector's son is dead.

_Ulysses._ How prove it to the Greeks?

_Andromache._ Fall on me else The greatest ill the victor can inflict: Fate free me by an easy, timely death, 615 And hide me underneath my native soil! Lightly on Hector lie his country's earth As it is true that, hidden from the light, Deep in the tomb, among the shades he rests.

_Ulysses._ Accomplished then the fate of Hector's race; 620 A joyous message of established peace I take the Greeks. [_He turns to go, then hesitates._ Ulysses, wouldst thou so? The Greeks have trusted thee, thou trustest--whom? A mother. Would a mother tell this lie Nor fear the augury of dreaded death? 625 They fear the auguries, who fear naught else. She swears it with an oath--yet, falsely sworn, What has she worse to fear? Now call to aid All that thou hast of cunning, stratagem, And guile, the whole Ulysses; truth dies not. 630 Watch well the mother; see--she mourns, she weeps, She groans, turns every way her anxious steps, Listens with ear attentive; more she fears Than sorrows; thou hast need of utmost care. [_To Andromache._] For other mothers' loss 'tis right to grieve; 635 Thee, wretched one, we must congratulate That thou hast lost a son whose fate had been To die, hurled headlong from the one high tower Remaining of the ruined walls of Troy.

_Andromache_ [_aside_]. Life fails, I faint, I fall, an icy fear 640 Freezes my blood.

_Ulysses_ [_aside_]. She trembles; here the place For my attack; she is betrayed by fear; I'll add worse fear. [_To his followers._ Go quickly; somewhere lies, By mother's guile concealed, the hidden foe-- The Greeks last enemy of Trojan name. 645 Go, seek him, drag him hither. [_After a pause as though the child were found._] It is well; The child is taken; hasten, bring him me. [_To Andromache._] Why do you look around and seem to fear? The boy is dead.

_Andromache._ Would fear were possible! Long have I feared, and now too late my soul 650 Unlearns its lesson.

_Ulysses._ Since by happier fate Snatched hence, the lad forestalls the sacrifice, The lustral offering from the walls of Troy And may not now obey the seer's command, Thus saith the prophet: this may be atoned, 655 And Grecian ships at last may find return, If Hector's tomb be leveled with the ground, His ashes scattered on the sea; the tomb Must feel my hand, since Hector's child escapes His destined death.

_Andromache_ [_aside_]. Alas, what shall I do? 660 A double fear distracts me; here my son, And there my husband's sacred sepulcher, Which conquers? O inexorable gods, O manes of my husband--my true god, Bear witness; in my son 'tis thee I love, 665 My Hector, and my son shall live to bear His father's image! Shall the sacred dust Be cast upon the waves? Nay, better death. Canst thou a mother bear to see him die,-- To see him from Troy's tower downward hurled? 670 I can and will, that Hector, after death, Be not the victor's sport. The boy may feel The pain, where death has made the father safe. Decide, which one shall pay the penalty. Ungrateful, why in doubt? Thy Hector's here! 675 'Tis false, each one is Hector; this one lives, Perchance th' avenger of his father's death. I cannot save them both, what shall I do? Oh, save the one whom most the Grecians fear!

_Ulysses._ I will fulfill the oracle, will raze 680 The tomb to its foundations.

_Andromache._ Which ye sold?

_Ulysses._ I'll do it, I will level with the dust The sepulcher.

_Andromache._ I call the faith of heaven, Achilles' faith, to aid; come, Pyrrhus, save Thy father's gift.

_Ulysses._ The tomb shall instantly 685 Be leveled with the plain.

_Andromache._ This crime alone The Greeks had shunned; ye've sacked the holy fanes Even of favoring gods, ye've spared the tomb. I will not suffer it, unarmed I'll stand Against your armored host; rage gives me strength, 690 And as the savage Amazon opposed The Grecian army, or the Mænad wild, Armed with the thyrsus, by the god possessed, Wounding herself spreads terror through the grove, Herself unpained, I'll rush into your midst, 695 And in defending the dear ashes die. [_She places herself before the grave._

_Ulysses_ [_angrily to the shrinking soldiers._ Why pause? A woman's wrath and feeble noise Alarms you so? Do quickly my command.

[_The soldiers go toward the grave, Andromache throws herself upon them._

_Andromache._ The sword must first slay me.--Ah, woe is me, They drive me back. Hector, come forth the tomb; 700 Break through the fate's delay, and overwhelm The Grecian chief--thy shade would be enough! The weapon clangs and flashes in his hand; Greeks, see you Hector? Or do I alone Perceive him?

_Ulysses._ I will lay it in the dust. 705

_Andromache_ [_aside_]. What have I done? To ruin I have brought Father and son together; yet, perchance, With supplications I may move the Greeks. The tomb's great weight will presently destroy Its hidden treasure; O my wretched child, 710 Die wheresoe'er the fates decree,--not here! Oh, may the father not o'erwhelm the son, The son fall not upon his father's dust!

[_She casts herself at the feet of Ulysses._

Ulysses, at thy feet a suppliant I fall, and with my right hand clasp thy knees; 715 Never before a suppliant, here I ask Thy pity on a mother; hear my prayer With patience; on the fallen, lightly press, Since thee the gods lift up to greater heights! The gifts thou grantst the wretched are to fate 720 A hostage; so again thou mayst behold Thy wife; and old Laertes' years endure Until once more he see thee; so thy son Succeed thee and outrun thy fairest hopes In his good fortune, and his age exceed 725 Laertes', and his gifts outnumber thine. Have pity on a mother to whose grief Naught else remains of comfort.

_Ulysses._ Bring forth the boy, then thou mayst ask for grace.

_Andromache._ Come hither from thy hiding-place, my son, 730 Thy wretched mother's lamentable theft.