The Trachiniae

There is an old-world saying current still,
“Of no man canst thou judge the destiny
To call it good or evil, till he die.”
But I, before I pass into the world
Of shadows, know my lot is hard and sad.
E’en in my childhood’s home, while yet I dwelt
At Pleuron with my father, I had dread
Of marriage more than any Aetolian maid;
For my first wooer was a river god,
Acheloiis, who in triple form appeared
To sue my father Oeneus for my hand,
Now as a bull, now as a sinuous snake
With glittering coils, and now in bulk a man
With front of ox, while from his shaggy beard
Runnels of fountain-water spouted forth.
In terror of so strange a wooer, I
Was ever praying death might end my woes,
Before I came to such a marriage bed.
Then to my joy, though long delayed, the son
Of Zeus and of Alemena, good at need,
Grappled the monster and delivered me.
The circumstance and manner of that fight
I cannot tell, not knowing; whoso watched it,
Indifferent to the issue, might describe.
For me⁠—I sat distracted by the dread
That beauty in the end might prove my bane.
But Zeus who holds the arbitrament of war
Ordered it well, if well indeed it be.
For since, his chosen bride, I shared the home
Of Heracles, my cares have never ceased;
Terror on terror follows, dread on dread,
And one night’s trouble drives the last night’s out.
Children were born to us, but them he sees
Fen as the tiller of a distant field
Sees it at seedtime, sees it once again
At harvest, and no more. Such life was his
That kept him roaming to and fro from home,
To drudge for some taskmaster. And to-day
When he has overcome these many toils,
To-day I am terror-stricken most of all.
For since he slew the doughty Iphitus,
We have been dwelling with a stranger, here
In Trachis, banished from our home, and he⁠—
None knoweth where he bides; but this I know,
He has gone and left me here to yearn and pine.
Surely some mischief has befallen him,
(For since he went an age⁠—ten long, long months,
And other five⁠—has passed, and not a word),
Some dread calamity, as signifies
This tablet that he left me. Oh! how oft
I’ve prayed it prove no harbinger of woe.

My lady Deianira, many a time
I’ve listened to thy lamentable plaints
And groanings for the absence of thy lord.
Now, if I seem not overbold, a slave
Would lend her counsel to a free-born dame.
Why, since thou art so rich in sons, not send
One on the quest, and Hyllus most of all?
Who could assist thee better, if he cares
To ascertain the safety of his sire?
And lo, I see him in the nick of time
Approaching hotfoot. Wherefore, if I seem
To speak in season, use my rede and him.

My child, my boy! wise words in sooth may fall
From humble lips. This woman is a slave,
But her words breathe the spirit of the free.

What, mother? tell me, if it may be told.

She said that never to have gone in search
Of thy long absent father brings thee shame.

Nay, but if rumour’s true, I know of him.

Where hast thou heard, my son, that he abides?

Last season, so they say, the whole year through
He served as bondsman to a Lydian dame.

Naught would surprise me if he sank so low.

Well, that disgrace is over, so I hear.

Where is he now reported, living or dead?

He wars, or is about to war, they say,
Against Euboea and King Eurytus.

Know’st thou, my son, that when he went away
He left sure oracles anent that land?

What, mother? I ne’er heard of them before.

That either he should find his death, or when
He had achieved this final task, henceforth
Lead an unbroken life of peaceful ease.
Son, when his fate thus trembles in the scale,
Wilt thou not go to aid him? If he’s saved,
We too are saved; if lost, we perish too.

Ay, mother, I’ll away; had I but known
Of this prediction I had long been gone.
But, as it was, his happy star forbade
Excess of fear or doubt; but, now I know,
No pains I’ll spare to learn the perfect truth.

Go then, my son. However late the quest,
He who shall learn good news is well repaid! Exit Hyllus.

Doubtless ye must have heard of my distress,
And therefore come; but how my heart is racked
Ye cannot know⁠—pray God ye ne’er may know it
By suffering! Like to us, the tender plant
Is reared and nurtured in some garden close;
Nor heat, nor rain, nor any breath of air
Vexes it, but unrufiled, unperturbed,
It buds and blossoms in sequestered bliss;
So fare we till the maid is called a wife
And finds her married portion in the night⁠—
Dread terror for her husband or her child.
Only the woman who by trial knows
The cares of wedlock knows what I endure.
Many have been my sorrows in the past,
But now of one, the woefullest of all,
I have to tell. When Heracles, my lord,
On his last travel was about to start,
He left an ancient tablet in the house,
Inscribed with characters that ne’er before,
However desperate the enterprise,
He would interpret; for he aye set forth
As one about to do and not to die.
This time, as on his death bed, he prescribed
Due portion of his substance as my dower,
And to his children severally assigned
Their heritage of lands; and fixed a date,
Saying that when a year and three full moons
Had passed since he departed from his home,
He needs must die, or, if he then survived,
Live ever after an untroubled life;
So by the mouth of the two priestly Doves1
Dodona’s sacred oak had once declared.
And now, this very day, the hour has struck
For confirmation of the prophecy.
Thus from sweet slumber, friends, ye see me start
With terror at the thought of widowed days,
If he, the noblest of all men, were gone.

Hush! no ill-omened words! I see approaching
A messenger, bay-wreathed⁠—he brings good news.

Queen Deianira, let me be the first
To rid thee of thy fears. Be well assured
Alemena’s son is living; o’er his foes
Victorious he is bringing home the spoils,
To offer firstfruits to his country’s gods.

Old man, what dost thou tell me?

That anon
Thou shalt behold in presence, at thy gate,
Illustrious, crowned with victory, thy lord.

Some stranger or a native told thee this?

The herald Lichas is proclaiming it
There in the summer pastures to the crowd.
From him I heard, and sped to be the first
To bring the news and win reward and thanks.

If such his news, why comes he not himself?

That were no light task; all our Malian folk
Cluster around him, hem him on all sides,
Ply him with questions, one and all intent
To hear his news; he cannot stir a step,
Midst willing hosts a most unwilling guest,
Till all their eagerness is satisfied.
But thou shalt see him face to face anon.

Lord of the unshorn meads of Oeta, Zeus,
Though long delayed, thou giv’st me joy at last.
Women within, and ye without the gates,
Uplift your voices, hail the new-born light
That dawns to glad me when all hope had fled.

Maidens, let your joyous shout
Of triumph from the hearth ring out,
Swell the choir of men who raise
Their paean to Apollo’s praise.
Sing, man and maid,
Phoebus our aid,
Lord of the quiver,
Strong to deliver!
Hymn his sister, maid and man,
Artemis Ortygian.
Slayer of deer,
With fiery brand
In either hand,
O goddess, hear!
Hymn ye the nymphs too, her attendant band
My spirit spurns the ground;
Bid the shrill fife outsound,
My sovereign I obey.
Evoë!
The thyrsus, see,
Calls me; I must away
To join the Bacchic rout,
With Maenads dance and shout,
Once more the paean raise;
For, lady, here,
In presence clear,
My joy takes shape and stands before thy gaze.

Kind friends, I see, nor have my wistful eyes
Failed to perceive this company’s approach⁠—
Hail to thee, herald, if indeed thou bring’st
News that will gladden me, though long delayed.

Yea, lady, glad is our return and glad
Thy greeting, as befits the deed achieved.
He who speeds well a welcome fair deserves.

First tell me what I first would learn, best friend,
Shall I embrace my Heracles alive?

Surely; I left him both alive and hale,
In lusty strength and sound in every limb.

Where? upon Greek soil, tell me, or abroad?

Upon a headland in Euboea, where
He marks out altars to Cenaean Zeus,
And dedicates the fertile lands around.

In payment of some former vow, or warned
By oracles?

’Tis for a vow he made
When he went forth to conquer and despoil
Oechalia of these women whom thou see’st.

O tell me who these captives are and whose;
So piteous, to judge them by their plight.

He chose them for himself and for the gods,
When he had sacked the town of Eurytus.

Was it to take that city he delayed
All those interminable, countless days?

Not so; that time he mostly was detained
In Lydia; by his own account, not free,
But sold in bondage; nor shouldst thou resent
A tale of outrage, when the doer is Zeus.
Thus he fulfilled (these were his very words)
A year of servitude to Omphalè,
The barbarous queen. So grievous was the sting
Of his reproach, that by a mighty oath
He swore one day to enslave with wife and child
The author of this foul calamity.
Nor vain that vow. No sooner was he purged,
Than he enlisted straight an alien host,
And marched against the city of Eurytus;
For Eurytus alone of men he deemed
The guilty cause, who when he came a guest
To one by ties of ancient friendship bound,
With many a bitter taunt and bitter spite
Assailed him, saying, “Thou indeed hast shafts
Unerring, yet in feats of archery
My sons surpass thee,” or again he’d cry,
“Out on thee, slave, a freeman’s down-trod thrall.”
Once at a banquet too he cast him forth
When he was in his cups. Whereat incensed,
Encountering Iphitus upon the hill
Of Tiryns in pursuit of his strayed mares,
As the youth stood at gaze, his wits afield,
He hurled him from the craggy battlements.
That deed of violence provoked our King,
The sire of all, Olympian Zeus, who drave him
Forth to be sold, and spared him not, because
That once (his sole offence) he slew a foe
By treachery; had he slain him in fair fight,
Zeus had approved his righteous wrath, for gods
No more than men can suffer insolence.
So all those braggarts of outrageous tongue
Lie low in Hades and their town’s enslaved,
And these, the women whom thou seeest, fallen
To abject misery from their high estate,
Are to thy hands delivered. Thus my lord
Charged me, and I, his liegeman true, obey.
Doubt not himself, so soon as he has paid
Due sacrifices for his victory
To Zeus his sire, will presently be here.
This crowns and consummates my happy tale.

Now, lady, is thy joy assured, in part
Present, with promise sure for what remains.

Hearing these happy tidings of my lord
How can I but rejoice, as it is meet,
For our two fortunes run in parallels.
Yet one who thinks on change and chance must dread
Lest such success be prelude to a fall.
And a strange pity hath come o’er me, friends,
At sight of these poor wretches, motherless,
Fatherless, homeless, in an alien land,
Daughters, it well may be, of free-born sires,
And now condemned to live the life of slaves.
Never, O Zeus who turn’st the tide of war,
Never may I behold a child of mine
Thus visited, or if such lot must be,
May it not fall while Deianira lives.
Such dread, as I behold these maids, is mine.

Say, who art thou, most miserable girl,
Mother or maid? To judge thee by thy looks
Thou hast full warrant of virginity,
Yea and of high birth. Lichas, who is she?
Who was her father, and her mother? Speak.
Her most of all I pity, for she shows
Alone the sense of her calamity.

How should I know? Why question me? Perchance
She was of noblest lineage in that land.

What, of their kings? Had Eurytus a daughter?

I know not, did not question her at length.

Did’st thou not even learn her name from one
Of her companions?

No, I had my work
To do, and had no time for questioning.

Then speak to me and tell me who thou art,
Poor maid; it grieves me truly not to know.

Well, if she opens now her lips, ’twill be
Unlike her former self, for hitherto
She hath not uttered word or syllable;
But still in travail with her heavy grief
She weeps and stays not weeping since she left
Her wind-swept home. ’Tis sad and ill for her,
This melancholy, yet ’tis natural.

Leave her in peace and let her pass within,
As is her humour. Heaven forbid that I
Should add another to her present pains,
Enough God knows. Now let us all go in,
That thou may’st start at once upon thy way.
And I make all things ready in the house. Exeunt Lichas and Captives.

So be it, but first tarry here awhile
That thou may’st learn in private who are these
Whom thou dost welcome ’neath thy roof, and hear
Matters of import still untold, whereof
I have full cognisance.

What meanest thou?
Why dost thou bid me pause and stay my steps?

Stay them and listen. As my former news
Was worth the hearing, so methinks is this.

Say, shall I call the others back to hear,
Or wouldst thou speak with me and these alone?

With thee and these; the rest are well away.

See, they are gone; proceed then with thy tale.

Yon fellow spake not the straightforward truth
In aught he told thee; either now he’s false,
Or else before was no true messenger.

How say’st thou? Tell me clearly all thy mind.
These covert hints I cannot understand.

’Twas for this maiden’s sake (I heard the man,
And many witnesses were by, declare it)
That Heracles laid prostrate in the dust
Oechalia’s battlements and Eurytus.
Love was his leader, love alone inspired
This doughty deed, not his base servitude
As bondsman under Lydian Omphalè,
Nor ruth for Iphitus hurled headlong down,
As Lichas feigned, who shrank to tell of love.
So, when he failed to win her sire’s consent
To give the maiden for his paramour,
Picking some petty cause of quarrel, he
Made war upon her land (the land in which
Eurytus, as the herald said, was King)
And slew the prince her sire and sacked the town.
Now, as thou see’st, he comes and sends before him
The maiden, with set purpose, to his house,
Not as a slave⁠—how could he so intend,
Seeing his heart is kindled with love’s fire?
So I determined, Queen, to tell thee all
I had heard from Lichas; many heard it too
Who stood with me in the Trachinian throng,
And can convict him. If my words give pain,
It grieves me, but, alas, they are too true.

Ah me unhappy! in what plight I stand!
What bane have I received beneath my roof,
Unwitting, for my ruin! Is she then
A nameless maid, as he who brought her sware?

Nay, she hath name and fame, a princess born,
Iolè, daughter of King Eurytus;
This girl whose parents Lichas could not tell,
Because, forsooth, he had not questioned her.

A curse on evil doers, most on him
Who by deceit worketh iniquity!

My friends, what shall I do? this latest news
Bewilders me.

Go in and question Lichas;
Perchance, if pressed, he’ll tell thee all the truth.

There’s reason in thy counsel; I will go.

And I⁠—shall I remain, or what would’st thou
That I should do?

Remain, for here he comes
Without my summons, of his own accord.

Lady, what message shall I bear my lord?
Instruct me; I am starting, as thou see’st.

Thou cam’st at leisure, but dost part in haste,
And hast no time for further talk with me.

If thou wouldst question me, I wait thy pleasure.

Say, dost thou reverence the honest truth?

So help me Zeus, I’ll speak what truth I know.

Who is this woman then whom thou hast brought?

Euboean; of her parents I know naught.

Hark, sirrah, look me in the face: dost know
To whom thou speakest?

Who art thou to ask me?

Be pleased to answer, if thou hast the wit.

To my most gracious mistress whom I serve,
Daughter of Oeneus, spouse of Heracles,
Deianira, if I be not blind.

My question’s answered to the point. Thou sayest
She is thy sovereign.

Whom I am bound to serve.

Then tell me what should be thy punishment,
If in thy duty thou art proved to fail.

Fail in my duty? What dark riddle is this?

My words are plain, the riddling speech is thine.

I go; I was a fool to stay for thee.

Depart, but answer one brief question first.

Ask what thou wilt; thou hast a wagging tongue.

That captive whom thou broughtest here⁠—thou know’st
The maid I mean?

I know, and what of her?

Said’st thou not she thou scarce dost know by sight
Was Iolè, the child of Eurytus?

To whom and when? What witness canst thou bring
To vouch for hearing such a tale from me?

Scores of our townsfolk⁠—all the multitude
That heard thee mid the great Trachinian throng.

They may have said so, but the vulgar bruit
Of mere surmise is not strict evidence.

“Surmise,” quotha! Did’st thou not say on oath,
“I am bringing home a bride for Heracles”?

“Bringing a bride?” Dear lady, tell me, pray,
Who is this stranger?

One who heard thy tale
How a whole city fell for love of her,
That ’twas the passion kindled by her eyes,
And not the Lydian queen who sacked the town.

Send him away, good lady; ’tis not wise
To bandy folly with a brain-sick fool.

Nay, by the god, I pray, who hurls his bolts
On Oeta’s wooded heights, hold nothing back;
To no ungenerous woman wilt thou speak,
But one that knows the inconstancy of men,
Who e’en in joys delight not in one kind.
The gamester who would pit himself ’gainst Love
Is ill advised. Love rules at will the gods,
And me⁠—why not then others weak as I?
So were I mad indeed either to blame
My husband stricken with love’s malady,
Or her the partner of his dalliance:
That brings to them no shame or wrong to me.
I have more sense. But if he taught thee thus
To lie, the lesson thou hast learnt is base;
Or if thy fraud is self-taught, thou art like
To prove most cruel, meaning to be kind.
Nay, tell me the whole truth. The name of liar
Is to the free-born man a deadly brand.
And think not that thy lying will not out,
For many heard thy tale and will inform me.
Art thou afraid of me? Thy fears are vain.
’Twould vex me much not to be told the truth;
To know it hurts not. Hath not Heracles
Had loves before (no mortal more than he)
And no one of them ever had harsh word
Or taunt from me; nor shall this maid, howe’er
She dotes, consumed with passion, on my lord.
Nay, my heart bled for pity seeing her
Whose beauty was her bane; poor innocent,
Who brought to wrack and bondage her own land.
All that is past and over, let it sail
Adown the stream of time. But O, be thou,
Whate’er thou art to others, true to me.

Heed her, she counsels well, and thou shalt win
Her commendation soon, and thanks from me

Nay, then, dear mistress, since I see thou hast
A human feeling for the infirmities
Of poor humanity, I will tell thee all
Frankly and fully. ’Tis as this man saith;
The overmastering passion that inspired
The soul of Heracles was for this maid,
And for her sake he sacked Oechalia,
Her desolate home. This much in his defence
I needs must add, he ne’er himself denied
Nor bade me hide it from thee. It was I,
Fearing to wound thee, lady, I who sinned,
If such concealment should be deemed a sin.
Now, lady, that thou know’st the tale in full,
For both your sakes⁠—thine own no less than his⁠—
Suffer this maiden gladly, and abide
By the kind words thou spak’st concerning her.
For he who never yielded to a foe,
By her was vanquished and by love laid low.

This way my thoughts too, as thou bidst, inclined,
Nor will I fondly aggravate my trouble
By warring against Heaven. Let us indoors,
That thou may’st bear a message to my lord,
And, as a fit return for gifts received,
My gift withal. It were not meet that thou
Should’st leave me empty-handed, having come
Accompanied by such a goodly train. Exeunt Lichas and Deianira.

Friends, while our herald guest is in the house
Conversing with the captives, ere he leaves,
I have stolen forth to speak with you alone;
Partly to tell you what my hands have wrought,
And to command your sympathy. This maid⁠—
No maiden she but mistress now, methinks⁠—
I have harboured (as some merchant takes on board
An over-freight) to wreck my peace of mind.
And now we twain must share a common couch,
To one lord wedded. Such the recompense
That Heracles, whom I was wont to extol
As model of all virtue, makes me now
For all my faithful service as a wife.
Yet to be wroth with one like him, infect
With this love-plague, I cannot bring myself;
But then to share his bed and board with her⁠—
What wife could bear it? She’s the budding rose,
And I o’erblown and withering on the thorn.
Men cull the flower and when the bloom has fled
Fling it far from them. This then is my fear,
That Heracles will leave me the bare name
Of consort, while the younger is his wife.
But, as I said, ’tis folly to be wroth.
I have a better way to ease my pain,
A remedy that I will now reveal.
Stored in an urn of brass I long have kept
A keepsake of the old-world monster; this
The shaggy-breasted Nessus gave to me
While yet a girl, and from his wounded side
I took it as he lay at point of death;
Nessus who ferried wayfarers for hire
Across the deep Evenus in his arms,
Without the help of oar or sail. I too,
When first I went with Heracles, a bride
Assigned him by my sire, I too was borne
On his broad shoulders, and in mid-stream he
Touched me with wanton hands. I shrieked aloud,
He turned, the son of Zeus, and straight let fly
A winged shaft that, whizzing in the air,
Pierced to the lungs. Faint with approaching death
The Centaur spake: “Daughter of Oeneus old,
This profit of my ferrying at least,
As last of all I’ve ferried, shall be thine,
If thou wilt heed me. Gather with thy hands
The clotted gore that curdles round my wound,
Just where the Hydra, Lerna’s monstrous breed,
Has tinged the barbed arrow with her gall.
Thus shalt thou have a charm to bind the heart
Of Heracles, and never shall he look
On wife or maid to love her more than thee.”
So I bethought me of this philtre, friends,
Which since the Centaur’s death I had preserved
Locked in a secret place, and I have smeared
This robe as he directed while he lived.
My work is now accomplished. Far from me
Be thought of evil witch-craft or desire
To learn it; wives who try such arts I hate.
But how by love-charms I may win again
My Heracles and wean him from this maid,
This I have planned⁠—unless indeed I seem
O’erwanton; if ye think so, I desist.

If thou hast warranty thy charm will work,
We think that thou hast counselled not amiss.

No warrant, for I have not tried it yet,
But of its potency I am assured.

Without experiment there cannot be
Assurance, howsoever firm thy faith.

Well, we shall know ere long, for there I see
Lichas just starting; he is at the gate.
Only do you be secret; e’en dark deeds
If they be done in darkness bring no blame.

What are thy orders, child of Oeneus, say;
Already I have tarried over long.

Whilst thou wert talking with the maids within
I have been busied, Lichas, with thy charge,
This robe; ’twas woven by my hands, a gift
That thou must carry to my absent lord.
Instruct him straitly, when thou givest it,
That he, and none before him, put it on;
And let no sunlight, nor the altar flame
Behold it, nor the fire upon his hearth,
Till he stand forth in sight of all arrayed
For gods to see it, at some solemn feast.
For I had vowed, if ever I should see
Or hear for certain of his safe return,
To invest him in this newly-woven robe,
And so present him duly to the gods,
A votary for the sacrifice new-dight.
And as a token point him out this seal,
The impress of my signet-ring, that he
Will surely recognise. Now go thy way,
And heed the rule of messengers, nor let
Thy zeal outrun thy orders, but so act
That thou may’st win a double meed of thanks
For service rendered both to him and me.

Call me no master of the mystery
Of Hermes, if in ought I trip or fail⁠—
Deliver not this casket as it is,
And add in attestation of the gift
Thy very words.

Thou may’st be going now.
How things are in the house thou know’st full well.

I know, and will report all safe and sound.

And thou canst tell him of the captive maid⁠—
How kindly I received and welcomed her.

Yea, I was filled with wonder and delight.

What further message have I? None, I fear;
To tell him of my longing were too soon,
Before I know that he too longs for me. Exeunt Lichas and Deianira.

Maidens, I fear I have been over bold
And ill advised in all I did of late.

What mean’st thou, Deianira, Oeneus’ child.

I know not, but I tremble lest deceived
By fond hopes I have wrought a grievous harm.

Thou speak’st not of thy gift to Heracles?

’Tis so; and I would henceforth counsel none
To act in haste, unless the issue’s clear.

Tell, if thou may’st, the cause of thy alarm.

My friends, a thing has come to pass, so strange
That, if I tell it, you will deem you hear
A miracle. The flock of wool wherewith
E’en now I smeared the festal robe (’twas plucked
From a white fleece) has disappeared, untouched
By aught within the house, but self-consumed
It wasted, melting on the flags, away.
But all that chanced I will relate in full.
The precepts given me by the Centaur-beast,
What time the barb was rankling in his side,
Fixed in my memory, like some ordinance
Graven on brass indelible, I kept.
All that he then commanded me I did:
He bade me hide in some dark nook the salve,
Remote from firelight and the sun’s hot ray,
Till I had need to use it, freshly smeared.
And so I did, and, when the occasion rose,
I took a tuft of wool that I had plucked
From one of our home flock; therewith I spread
The unguent in my chamber privily;
Then folded and within its coffer laid,
Safe from the sunlight, as ye saw, my gift.
But as I passed indoors behold a sight
Portentous, well nigh inconceivable.
It chanced that I had thrown the hank of wool
Used for the smearing into the full blaze
Of sunlight; with the gradual warmth dissolved
It shrank and shrivelled up till naught was left
Save a fine powder, likest to the dust
That strews the ground when sawyers are at work⁠—
Mere dust and ashes. But from out the spot
Where lay the strewments clotted froth upwelled,
As when the spilth of Bacchus, from the grapes
New pressed and purple, on the ground is poured.
Thus I for trouble know not where to turn,
And only see a fearful thing I have done.
Why should the dying Centaur then have shown
Regard for me, the author of his death?
Impossible! no, he was cozening me,
And sought, through me, his slayer to undo.
Too late, too late, when knowledge naught avails,
My eyes are opened. I alone am doomed,
(Unless my fears prove false) to slay my lord.
I know the shaft that slew the Centaur scathed
E’en Cheiron, though a god, and any beast
It touches dies. So the black venomed gore
That from the wound of Nessus oozed must slay
Likewise my lord. Thus I, alas, must think.
Howbeit I am resolved, if fall he must,
The selfsame stroke of fate shall end my days.
What woman noble born would dare live on
Dishonoured when her fair repute is gone?

’Tis true dread perils threaten; yet ’twere well
To cherish hope till the event be known.

They who have counselled ill cannot admit
One ray of hope to fortify their soul.

Men will not look severely on an act
Unwittingly committed, as was thine.

With a good conscience one might urge this plea
Which ill becomes a partner in the crime.

’Twere better to refrain from further speech,
Unless thou wouldst address thy son; for he
Who went to seek his father is at hand.

Mother, I would that of three wishes one
Were granted me⁠—that thou wert lying dead,
Or, if alive, no mother wert of mine,
Or that thy nature might be wholly changed.

What dost thou so abhor in me, my son?

Woman, I tell thee thou hast done to death
Thy husband, yea my sire, this very day.

Ah me! what word hath passed thy lips, my son?

A word that of fulfilment shall not fail;
For what is done no mortal can undo.

What say’st thou, son? What warranty is thine
To charge me with a deed so terrible?

The evidence of my eyes; myself I saw
My father’s anguish; ’tis no hearsay charge.

Where didst thou find him? wast thou by his side?

As thou must hear it, I must tell thee all.
He had sacked the famous town of Eurytus,
And thence returning rich with spoils of war,
Had reached a sea-washed promontory, named
Cenaeum, where Euboea fronts the north.
There I first met him as he marked the bounds
Of altars and a sacred grove to Zeus,
His father. At the sight my heart was glad.
He stood addressed to offer sacrifice,
A lordly hecatomb, when Lichas came,
His own familiar herald, bringing him
Thy gift, the fatal robe; he put it on
According to thy precept; then began
His sacrifice with twice six faultless bulls,
The firstfruits of the booty; but in all
A hundred victims at the altar bled.
At first, poor wretch, with joyous air serene,
Proud of the glory of his robe, he prayed;
But when the blood-red flame began to blaze
From the high altars and the resinous pine,
A sweat broke out upon him; and the coat
Stuck to his side, and clung to every limb,
Glued, as it were, by some skilled artisan.
A pricking pain began to rack his bones.
Soon the fell venom of the hydra dire
Worked inward and devoured him. Thereupon
He called for Lichas, who, poor witless wretch,
Had in thy guilt no part or lot, demanding
Who hatched the plot and why he had brought the robe.
The youth unwitting said it was thy gift,
Thine only, and delivered as ’twas sent.
While yet he listened a convulsive spasm
Shot through his lungs. He caught him by the foot,
Just at the ankle joint, and hurled him full
Against a rock out-jutting from the foam:
His skull was crushed to fragments, and his hair
Bedaubed with blood and flecked with scattered brains.
A cry of horror from the crowd arose
At sight of one distraught and one struck dead;
And no man dared to face him, for the pain
Now dragged him down, now made him leap in air,
While with his yells and screams the rocks resound
From Locrian headlands to Euboean capes.
But when his agony had spent itself⁠—
Now writhing prone, now making loud lament,
With curses on his marriage bed and thee,
The bride he won from Oeneus for his bane⁠—
From out the cloud of smoke that compassed him
He wildly gazed and spied me in the throng
Weeping, and fixed his eye on me and spake:
“Come hither, boy, shun not my misery,
E’en if my son must share his father’s death,
But bear me hence and set me, if thou wilt,
Where none shall see me more, no matter where;
Or if thou hast no heart for this, at least
Ferry me quickly hence, lest here I die.”
So he enjoined. We laid him on the deck
In torment, groaning loud; and presently
Ye shall behold him living or just dead.

Such, mother, is the evil ’gainst my sire
That thou hast planned and wrought. Thy guilt is plain:
May Vengeance and the Erinys visit thee!
So pray I, if ’tis right, and right it is,
For I have seen thee trample on the right,
Slaying the noblest man who ever lived,
Whose peer thou never shalt behold again. Exit Deianira.

Why dost thou steal away thus silently?
Such silence sure is eloquent of guilt.

Let her depart and speed before the gale
Out of my sight. Why should the empty name
Of mother henceforth swell her vanity,
Who in her deeds shows naught of motherhood?
Let her depart in peace, and may she share
Herself the happiness she brings my sire!

Listen! I seem to hear⁠—or do I dream?⁠—
A cry of sorrow pealing through the house.
Heard you it?

Yea, a despairing wail rings out within,
Distinct; the house has suffered something strange.

Mark ye that aged crone!
With what a cloud upon her puckered brow
She comes to bring us news of grave import!

My daughters, what a crop of miseries
We are reaping from that gift to Heracles!

What new misfortune, mother, hast to tell?

Deianira has departed hence
On her last journey, yet not stirred a step.

Thou canst not mean she is dead.

My tale is told.

Poor lady, dead?

I say it once again.

Alas, poor wretch! How came she by her end?

O ’twas a gruesome deed!

Say woman, how?

By her own hand.

What rage, what fit of madness,
Whetted the felon blade, how compassed she
This death on death, herself alone the cause?

By the stroke of a dolorous sword.

Saw’st thou the horror, beldam?

I saw it; I was standing at her side.

Saw what? what did she? speak!

Herself upon herself she did the deed.

What dost thou say?

Plain truth.

Verily this new bride
Hath borne, as the fruit of her womb,
A curse, a curse to the house.

Too true; and had you been at hand to see,
The pity of it would have touched you more.

Could woman’s hand perform so bold a deed!

’Twas passing strange, but when ye hear the tale
Ye’ll bear me out. She went indoors alone,
And in the court she came upon her son
Preparing a deep litter wherewithal
To bear his sire back. Seeing him she fled,
And, crouching by the altar out of sight,
She groaned aloud, “O altars desolate!”
Then each familiar chattel in the house
She fingered tenderly, poor wretch, and wept.
Then roaming through the palace, up and down,
As one or other of her maids she met,
She gazed upon her long and wept again,
Bewailing her own fortunes and the house
Henceforth condemned to serve an alien lord.
Then she was silent, and I saw her speed
Within the bed chamber of Heracles.
I from a coign of spial, unobserved
Watched, and I saw her snatch a coverpane
And fling it on the bed of Heracles.
That done, she leapt upon it, sat her down
And loosed the floodgate of hot tears and spake:
“O bridal bed and chamber, fare ye well,
A long farewell; never again shall ye
Lap me to slumber in your soft embrace!”
That was her last word; with a sudden wrench
She tore the gold-wrought brooch above her breast
And laid her left arm and her side all bare.
I ran at once, as fast as age allowed,
In haste to warn the son of her intent.
Alack! between my going and return,
In that brief space, she had driven a two-edged sword
Home through the midriff to the very heart.

He saw and shrieked heart-stricken at the sight,
Knowing his wrath had goaded her to death.
For all too late from those about the queen
He learned that she in utter innocence
Had done according to the Centaur’s word.
Since then, poor boy, his misery has no end:
He mourned for her with sighs and sobs and groans,
He kissed her lips, he clasped her in his arms,
And prone beside her railed against himself:
“By my foul slander have I stricken her,”
He cried, “and now am I bereaved of both,
Of father and of mother, in one day.”
So fares it with us. And if any man
Counts on the morrow, or on morrows more,
He reckons rashly. Morrow is there none,
Until to-day its course has safely run.

Ah woe is me,
Woe, father, woe for thee!
Alack! I am undone,
Help know I none.

Hush, son, lest thou awake
The intolerable ache.
He lives, though nigh to death;
Hold hard thy breath.

What, is he still alive?

Hush, hush, lest thou revive
And waken from its fitful rest
The plague that racks his breast.

Beneath this weight of misery
My spirit sinks; it maddens me.

O Zeus, where am I? who
These strangers standing by,
As tortured here I lie?
Ah me! the foul fiend gnaws anew.

Did I not bid thee keep
Silence, nor scare the sleep
That over eyes and head
Awhile like balm was spread?

Nay, how can I refrain
At sight of such grim pain?

O help me, son of Heracles, for I am all too frail
To ease him; if thou lend thine aid, perchance we may prevail.

That will I, but nor thou nor I can rid him of the pain
That haunts him to the very end Such doom the gods ordain.

I shudder, friends, to hear this woeful plaint.
How great a hero, and how ill bestead!

Many and grievous, not in name alone,
The toils and burdens of these hands, these loins.
Yet trial like to this was never set me
By Heaven’s Queen or grim Eurystheus’ hate,
Such as the child of Oeneus, false and fair,
Hath fastened on my back, this hellish net
She wove to snare me, in whose coils I die.
It hugs me close, it eats into my flesh,
It sucks the channels of my breath, hath drained
My life-blood, and my whole frame wastes and withers,
Fast locked in these unutterable bonds.
And this my fall no warrior’s lance hath wrought
Nor Giant’s earth-born brood, nor savage beast,
Nor Grecian nor barbarian, nor the lands
Whither I fared to rid them of their pests;
No, but a woman, weak as all her sex,
Hath quelled me, single-handed and unarmed.
Son, show thyself thy father’s son in deed,
Mine, not thy mother’s⁠—mother in name alone.
Hale her thyself, hand her thyself to me,
The wretch, that when she meets her righteous doom
I may make trial which sight moves thee more,
A mother’s or a father’s agony.
For pity’s sake shrink not; to see me thus
(’Twould move to pity e’en a heart of stone)
Puling and weeping like a girl, unmanned.
So none can boast to have seen me, for till now
I took whate’er befell me with a smile.
And now⁠—’tis I who play the woman now.
Come closer, stand beside me; see, my son,
To what a pass ill fate hath brought thy sire.
Lo, I will lift the veil; look all of you
On this poor maimèd body, and declare
Was ever wretch so piteous as I.
Ah me!
Again the deadly spasm; it shoots and burns
Through all my vitals. Will it never end,
This struggle with the never-dying worm?
Lord of the Dead, receive me!
Smite me, O fire of Zeus!
Hurl, Father, on my head thy crashing bolt!
Again it burgeons, blossoms, blazes forth,
The all-consuming plague. O hands, my hands,
Arms, breast and shoulders, once all puissant,
Are ye the same whose thews of old subdued
The scourge of herdsmen in his savage lair,
The Nemean lion, a beast untamable;
Slew the Lenaean hydra; overcame
That twy-form multitude, half man, half horse,
Rude, lawless, savage, unapproachable,
Unmatched in might; and the Erymanthian boar;
Tamed in the nether world the monstrous whelp
Of dread Echidna, the three-headed hound
Of Hades, and the dragon-guard who watched
The golden apples at the world’s far end.
These were my toils, and others manifold,
And none could ever boast of my defeat.
Now out of joint, a thing of shreds I lie
Baffled by hands invisible, I who claim
A mother of the noblest, and for sire
The ruler of the starry heavens, Zeus.
But of one thing be sure, though I am naught
And cannot stir a step, yet even thus
I am a match for her who wrought my woe.
Let her but come that she may learn of me
This lesson to repeat to all, that I
Living and dying chastened all that’s vile.

O hapless Greece, what mourning will be thine,
If thou must lose thy mightiest warrior?

O father, since thy silence seems to invite
An answer, hear me, stricken though thou art.
I shall but ask what’s fair; O be again
Thy true self, not by pain and rage distraught;
Else wilt thou never learn how vain thy thirst
For vengeance, how unjust thy bitterness.

Say what thou wilt and end; I am too sick
To catch the drift of all thy riddling words.

’Tis of my mother I would tell thee⁠—how
She fares, and how unwittingly she sinned.

O shameless reprobate, thou dar’st to name
Thy father’s murderess, name her too to me?

Her case is such that silence were unmeet.

Unmeet in truth, because of her past crimes.

And of her deeds this day, as thou wilt own.

Speak, but I fear thy speech will prove thee base.

Hear then. She is dead, slain but an hour agone.

By whom? this portent likes me not; ’tis strange.

By her own hand, none other, was she slain.

Out on her! she hath baulked my just revenge.

E’en thou wouldst soften if thou knewest all.

A wondrous prologue! make thy meaning plain.

The sum is this: she erred with good intent.

“Good,” say’st thou, wretch? Was it good to slay thy sire?

Nay, when she saw thy new bride, she devised
A charm to win thee back, but was misled.

Could Trachis boast a wizard of such might?

The Centaur Nessus taught her long ago
How to enkindle in thy heart love’s flame.

Alas, alas! I am undone, undone,
The light of day has left me; now I see
In what extremity of fate I stand.
Go, son, thy father is no more; go summon
Thy brethren one and all, go summon too
Alemena, bride of Zeus⁠—an empty name⁠—
That from my dying lips ye all may learn
What oracles I know.

I cannot call
Thy mother; she at Tiryns by the sea
Far hence abides; and of thy children some
She took to live with her; others at Thebes,
As thou may’st learn, are lodged; but all of us
Here present, father, will obey thy hest.

Then listen thou and heed me. Now’s the hour
To prove thy breed⁠—if thou art rightly called
My son. It was foreshown me by my sire
That I should perish by no living wight,
But by a dweller in the realms of Death.
So by this Centaur beast, as was foretold,
I perish, I the living by the dead.
A later oracle, as thou shalt learn,
Meets and confirms the ancient prophecy.
’Twas in the grove whose priests, the Selli, make
The earth their bed, rude hillsmen, that I heard it
Breathed by my Father’s oak of many tongues;
Heard it, and wrote it down, my present doom,
Now at this living moment brought to pass.
Release it promised from my toils, and I
Augured a happy life, but it meant death,
For with the dead there can be no more toil.
Since, then, my weird thus plainly comes to pass,
Thou, son, must do thy part and lend thine aid.
Delay not till I goad thee in my wrath,
But aid me with a will as one who knows
The golden rule, a father to obey.

Yea, father, though the issue gives me pause
And I misdoubt thy purport, I’ll obey.

Well said, but first lay thy right hand in mine.

Wherefore impose on me this needless pledge?

Thy hand at once; obey and argue not.

Here is my hand; I do as I am bid.

Now by the head of Zeus my Father swear,

What wouldst thou have me swear? May I not know?

Swear to perform the task that I enjoin.

I will and take the oath, so help me Zeus,

And add thereto the curse on perjurers.

No need, for I shall keep it; yet I will.

Thou know’st the peak of Oeta, shrine of Zeus?

Yea, I have climbed it oft to sacrifice.

Thither thyself, thou with what friends thou wilt,
Must carry me. From the deep-rooted oak
Lop many a branch, and many a faggot hew
From the wild-olive’s lusty stock, and lay me
Upon the pyre. Kindle a torch of pine,
And fire it. Not a tear or wail or moan!
Unweeping, unlamenting must thou do
Thy part and prove thou art indeed my son.
Fail, and my ghost shall haunt thee ever more.

O father, canst thou mean it? Hear I right?

Thou hast thy charge. If thou refuse it, get
Another sire, be called no more my son.

O woe isme! What dost thou ask, that I
Should be thy murderer, a parricide?

Not so, but healer of my sufferings,
The one physician that can cure my pains.

How can I heal thy stricken frame by fire?

Well, if thou shrink from this, perform the rest.

The task of bearing thee I will not grudge.

Nor yet to heap the pyre, as I have bid?

So that I light it not with my own hands;
All else I will perform and do my part.

That will suffice. But add one other boon,
A little one, to crown the great ones given.

It shall be granted, be it ne’er so great.

Thou know’st the maiden, child of Eurytus?

Methinks thou meanest Iolè.

None else.
This is my charge to thee concerning her.
When I am dead, if thou wouldst keep the oath
Thou sworest to obey thy father’s will,
Take her to wife, let not another have her
Who by my side hath lain; but thine, my son⁠—
Thine let her be, joined in the marriage bond.
Much hast thou granted, to refuse one more,
One little boon, would cancel all the score.

Ah me! ’tis ill to quarrel with one sick⁠—
But who could bear to see him in this mind?

Thy murmuring augurs disobedience;

What her, the sole cause of my mother’s death,
And worse, the cause of this thy grievous plight!
Who, were he not possessed of fiends, would do it?
Better, my father, I with thee should die
Than live united with our direst foe.

The boy, it seems, is not inclined to heed
A father’s dying prayer; but heaven’s curse
Awaits full sure a disobedient son.

I fear thy frenzy soon will show itself.

Yea, for thou wakenest my pain that slept.

O what a coil of dread perplexities!

Because thou wilt not deign to heed thy sire.

What, must I learn impiety from thee?

’Tis piety to glad a father’s heart.

I have thy warrant then for what I do?

I call the gods to witness it is just.

Then I consent and hesitate no more.
Let heaven attest this act of thine, for I
Cannot be blamed for filial piety.

Thou endest well. Now crown thy gracious words
With action; haste and lay me on the pyre
Before the spasms and fever-fit return.

Ho, haste and lift me. Thus I find repose
The end and consummation of my woes.

Since, father, this thou straitly dost command,
Naught hinders the fulfilment of thy will.

Rouse, arm thyself, O stubborn heart,
Before again the plague upstart;
Set on thy lips a curb of steel,
Thy mouth let stony silence seal;
Go meet thy doom without a cry,
A victim, happy thus to die.

Lift him, men, nor take amiss
That I bear a part in this.
We are blameless, but confess
That the gods are pitiless.
Children they beget, and claim
Worship in a father’s name,
Yet with apathetic eye
Look upon such agony.
What is yet to be none knows,
But the present’s fraught with woes,
Woes for us, for them deep shame;
And of all beneath the sun
Worse than he hath suffered none.

Come, maidens, come away!
Horrors have ye seen this day,
Dire death and direr fall:
And Zeus hath wrought it all. Exeunt omnes.