Act IV

[Enter Helen.]

HELEN.
[aside]
Whatever wedlock, bred of evil fate,
Is full of joyless omens, blood and tears,
Is worthy Helen's baleful auspices.
And now must I still further harm inflict
Upon the prostrate Trojans: 'tis my part
To feign Polyxena, the royal maid,
Is bid to be our Grecian Pyrrhus' wife,
And deck her in the garb of Grecian brides.
So by my artful words shall she be snared,
And by my craft shall Paris' sister fall.
But let her be deceived; 'tis better so;
To die without the shrinking fear of death
Is joy indeed. But why dost thou delay
Thy bidden task? If aught of sin there be,
'Tis his who doth command thee to the deed.
[To Polyxena.]
O maiden, born of Priam's noble stock,
The gods begin to look upon thy house
In kinder mood, and even now prepare
To grant thee happy marriage; such a mate
As neither Troy herself in all her power
Nor royal Priam could have found for thee.
For lo, the flower of the Pelasgian lords,
Whose sway Thessalia's far-extending plains
Acknowledge, seeks thy hand in lawful wedlock.
Great Tethys waits to claim thee for her own,
And Thetis, whose majestic deity
Doth rule the swelling sea, and all the nymphs
Who dwell within its depths. As Pyrrhus' bride
Thou shalt be called the child of Peleus old,
And Nereus the divine.
Then change the garb
Of thy captivity for festal robes,
And straight forget that thou wast e'er a slave.
Thy wild, disheveled locks confine; permit
That I, with skilful hands, adorn thy head.
This chance, mayhap, shall place thee on a throne
More lofty far than ever Priam saw.
The captive's lot full oft a blessing proves.

ANDROMACHE.
This was the one thing lacking to our woes--
That they should bid us smile when we would weep.
See there! Our city lies in smouldering heaps;
A fitting time to talk of marriages!
But who would dare refuse? When Helen bids,
Who would not hasten to the wedding rites?
Thou common curse of Greeks and Trojans too,
Thou fatal scourge, thou wasting pestilence,
Dost thou behold where buried heroes lie?
And dost thou see these poor unburied bones
That everywhere lie whitening on the plain?
This desolation hath thy marriage wrought.
For thee the blood of Asia flowed; for thee
Did Europe's heroes bleed, whilst thou, well pleased,
Didst look abroad upon the warring kings,
Who perished in thy cause, thou faithless jade!
There! get thee gone! prepare thy marriages!
What need of torches for the solemn rites?
What need of fire? Troy's self shall furnish forth
The ruddy flames to light her latest bride.
Then come, my sisters, come and celebrate
Lord Pyrrhus' nuptial day in fitting wise:
With groans and wailing let the scene resound.

HELEN.
Though mighty grief is ne'er by reason swayed,
And oft the very comrades of its woe,
Unreasoning, hates; yet can I bear to stand
And plead my cause before a hostile judge,
For I have suffered heavier ills than these.
Behold, Andromache doth Hector mourn,
And Hecuba her Priam; each may claim
The public sympathy; but Helena
Alone must weep for Paris secretly.
Is slavery's yoke so heavy and so hard
To bear? This grievous yoke have I endured,
Ten years a captive. Doth your Ilium lie
In dust, your gods o'erthrown? I know 'tis hard
To lose one's native land, but harder still
To fear the land that gave you birth. Your woes
Are lightened by community of grief;
But friend and foe are foes alike to me.
Long since, the fated lot has hung in doubt
That sorts you to your lords; but I alone,
Without the hand of fate am claimed at once.
Think you that I have been the cause of war,
And Troy's great overthrow? Believe it true
If in a Spartan vessel I approached
Your land; but if, sped on by Phrygian oars,
I came a helpless prey; if to the judge
Of beauty's rival claims I fell the prize
By conquering Venus' gift, then pity me,
The plaything of the fates. An angry judge
Full soon my cause shall have--my Grecian lord.
Then leave to him the question of my guilt,
And judge me not.
But now forget thy woes
A little space, Andromache, and bid
This royal maid--but as I think on her
My tears unbidden flow.

[She stops, overcome by emotion.]

ANDROMACHE.
[in scorn]
Now great indeed
Must be the evil when our Helen weeps!
But dry thy tears, and tell what Ithacus
Is plotting now, what latest deed of shame?
Must this poor maid be hurled from Ida's heights,
Or from the top of Ilium's citadel?
Must she be flung into the cruel sea
That roars beneath this lofty precipice,
Which our Sigeum's rugged crag uprears?
Come, tell what thou dost hide with mimic grief.
In all our ills there's none so great as this,
That any princess of our royal house
Should wed with Pyrrhus. Speak thy dark intent;
What further suffering remains to bear?
To compensate our woes, this grace impart,
That we may know the worst that can befall.
Behold us ready for the stroke of fate.

HELEN.
Alas! I would 'twere mine to break the bonds
Which bind me to this life I hate; to die
By Pyrrhus' cruel hand upon the tomb
Of great Achilles, and to share thy fate,
O poor Polyxena. For even now,
The ghost doth bid that thou be sacrificed,
And that thy blood be spilt upon his tomb;
That thus thy parting soul may mate with his,
Within the borders of Elysium.

ANDROMACHE.
[observing the joy with which Polyxena receives these tidings]
Behold, her soul leaps up with mighty joy
At thought of death; she seeks the festal robes
Wherewith to deck her for the bridal rites,
And yields her golden locks to Helen's hands.
Who late accounted wedlock worse than death,
Now hails her death with more than bridal joy.
[Observing Hecuba.]
But see, her mother stands amazed with woe,
Her spirit staggers 'neath the stroke of fate.
[To Hecuba.]
Arise, O wretched queen, stand firm in soul,
And gird thy fainting spirit up.
[Hecuba falls fainting.]
Behold,
By what a slender thread her feeble life
Is held to earth. How slight the barrier now
That doth remove our Hecuba from joy.
But no, she breathes, alas! she lives again,
For from the wretched, death is first to flee.

HECUBA.
[reviving]
Still dost thou live, Achilles,
for our bane?
Dost still prolong the bitter strife? O Paris,
Thine arrow should have dealt a deadlier wound.
For see, the very ashes and the tomb
Of that insatiate chieftain still do thirst
For Trojan blood. But lately did a throng
Of happy children press me round; and I,
With fond endearment and the sweet caress
That mother love would shower upon them all,
Was oft forespent. But now this child alone
Is left, my comrade, comfort of my woes,
For whom to pray, in whom to rest my soul.
Hers are the only lips still left to me
To call me mother. Poor, unhappy soul,
Why dost thou cling so stubbornly to life?
Oh speed thee out, and grant me death at last,
The only boon I seek. Behold, I weep;
And from my cheeks, o'erwhelmed with sympathy,
A sudden rain of grieving tears descends.

ANDROMACHE.
We, Hecuba, Oh, we should most be mourned,
Whom soon the fleet shall scatter o'er the sea;
While she shall rest beneath the soil she loves.

HELEN.
Still more wouldst thou begrudge thy sister's lot,
If thou didst know thine own.

ANDROMACHE.
Remains there still
Some punishment that I must undergo?

HELEN.
The whirling urn hath given you each her lord.

ANDROMACHE.
To whom hath fate allotted me a slave?
Proclaim the chief whom I must call my lord.

HELEN.
To Pyrrhus hast thou fallen by the lot.

ANDROMACHE.
O happy maid, Cassandra, blest of heaven,
For by thy madness art thou held exempt
From fate that makes us chattels to the Greeks.

HELEN.
Not so, for even now the Grecian king
Doth hold her as his prize.

HECUBA.
[to Polyxena]
Rejoice, my child.
How gladly would thy sisters change their lot
For thy death-dooming marriage.
[To Helen.]
Tell me now,
Does any Greek lay claim to Hecuba?

HELEN.
The Ithacan, though much against his will,
Hath gained by lot a short-lived prize in thee.

HECUBA.
What cruel, ruthless providence hath given
A royal slave to serve unkingly men?
What hostile god divides our captive band?
What heartless arbiter of destiny
So carelessly allots our future lords,
That Hector's mother is assigned to him
Who hath by favor gained th' accursed arms
Which laid my Hector low? And must I then
Obey the Ithacan? Now conquered quite,
Alas, and doubly captive do I seem,
And sore beset by all my woes at once.
Now must I blush, not for my slavery,
But for my master's sake. Yet Ithaca,
That barren land by savage seas beset,
Shall not receive my bones.
Then up, Ulysses,
And lead thy captive home. I'll not refuse
To follow thee as lord; for well I know
That my untoward fates shall follow me.
No gentle winds shall fill thy homeward sails,
But stormy blasts shall rage; destructive wars,
And fires, and Priam's evil fates and mine,
Shall haunt thee everywhere. But even now,
While yet those ills delay, hast thou received
Some punishment. For I usurped thy lot,
And stole thy chance to win a fairer prize.
[Enter Pyrrhus.]
But see, with hurried step and lowering brow,
Stern Pyrrhus comes.
[To Pyrrhus.]
Why dost thou hesitate?
Come pierce my vitals with thy impious sword,
And join the parents of Achilles' bride.
Make haste, thou murderer of agéd men,
My blood befits thee too.
[Pointing to Polyxena.]
Away with her;
Defile the face of heaven with murder's stain,
Defile the shades.--But why make prayer to you?
I'll rather pray the sea whose savage rage
Befits these bloody rites; the selfsame doom,
Which for my ship I pray and prophesy,
May that befall the thousand ships of Greece,
And so may evil fate engulf them all.

CHORUS.
'Tis sweet for one in grief to know
That he but feels a common woe;
And lighter falls the stroke of care
Which all with equal sorrow bear;
For selfish and malign is human grief
Which in the tears of others finds relief.

Remove all men to fortune born,
And none will think himself forlorn;
Remove rich acres spreading wide,
With grazing herds on every side:
Straight will the poor man's drooping soul revive,
For none are poor if all in common thrive.

The mariner his fate bewails,
Who in a lonely vessel sails,
And, losing all his scanty store,
With life alone attains the shore;
But with a stouter heart the gale he braves,
That sinks a thousand ships beneath the waves.

When Phrixus fled in days of old
Upon the ram with fleece of gold,
His sister Helle with him fared
And all his exiled wanderings shared;
But when she fell and left him quite alone,
Then nothing could for Helle's loss atone.

Not so they wept, that fabled pair,
Deucalion and Pyrrha fair,
When 'midst the boundless sea they stood
The sole survivors of the flood;
For though their lot was hard and desolate,
They shared their sorrow--'twas a common fate.

Too soon our grieving company
Shall scatter on the rolling sea,
Where swelling sails and bending oars
Shall speed us on to distant shores.
Oh, then how hard shall be our wretched plight,
When far away our country lies,
And round us heaving billows rise,
And lofty Ida's summit sinks from sight.

Then mother shall her child embrace,
And point with straining eyes the place
Where Ilium's smouldering ruins lie,
Far off beneath the eastern sky:
"See there, my child, our Trojan ashes glow,
Where wreathing smoke in murky clouds
The distant, dim horizon shrouds;
And by that sign alone our land we know."