Euripides, 1

by Slavitt, David R.; Bovie, Palmer

• ISBN13: 9780812216264
• ISBN10: 0812216261
• Format: Paperback
• Copyright: 1997-12-01
• Publisher: Univ of Pennsylvania Pr

Summary

The Penn Greek Drama Series presents original literary translations of the entire corpus of classical Greek drama: tragedies, comedies, and satyr plays. It is the only contemporary series of all the surviving work of Aeschylus, Sophocles, Euripides, Aristophanes, and Menander. This volume includes translations by Eleanor Wilner with Ineacute;s Azar (Medea), Marilyn Nelson (Hecuba), Donald Junkins (Andromache), and Daniel Mark Epstein (The Bacchae).

Table of Contents

Introduction

Medea--Translated

Hecuba--Translated

Andromache--Translated

The Bacchae--Translated

Pronouncing Glossary of Names

About the Translators

Table of Contents provided by Publisher. All Rights Reserved.

Excerpts

Chapter One

Medea

Translated by

Eleanor Wilner with Ine's Azar

Cast

NURSE of Medea

TUTOR to Medea's children

CHILDREN of Medea and Jason

MEDEA

CHORUS of Corinthian women

CREON, king of Corinth

JASON, Medea's husband

AEGEUS, king of Athens

MESSENGER

NONSPEAKING

Guards

Servant

(The action of the play takes place in the Greek city-state of Corinth,

in front of the house of Medea. The Nurse enters from

the house.)

NURSE

If only the Argo had never spread its sails and flown

across the waves to distant Colchis, passing through

the dark Symplegades, those clashing rocks that lock

the blue straits to the East. If only the forest of pine

had not been felled to build the ship and hew the oars

that took the heroes to that foreign place. If only Jason

and his men had not been sent by the command of Pelias

the king, to seek the serpent-guarded Golden Fleece.

For then Medea, my mistress, would not have taken ship

for high-walled Iolchus, her heart clawed by love

for Jason. And she would not have tricked the daughters

of king Pelias into killing him, would not have made

her home with Jason and their children here in Corinth, cut off

forever from the country and the cradle of her birth.

At first, though, her life here was fortunate--with husband,

children, and the sympathy of the Corinthians

for the exile in their midst. To share everything with Jason

was her happiness. Life is an untroubled sea when

what a woman wants agrees with what her husband seeks.

But now the waters of content are roiled, all is hostile

to Medea, love is her enemy, and all that she holds dear

is sick. For Jason has deserted both his children and his wife,

and made his bed on royal sheets: he has wed the daughter

of Creon, Corinth's king.

          Medea burns with shame.

Dishonored, she calls out to the gods to witness his betrayal,

invokes that vow he swore with his own right hand;

cast aside, she cries aloud what she has given him,

and how he serves her in return. Since she learned of his

          desertion,

food has not passed her lips, she gives herself entirely up

to a terrible despair, cries out, and melts time into tears.

Lost in pain, she will not raise her eyes nor lift

her face from the ground.

          As well to move a stone, or turn

the waves back with a word, as to reach her. She speaks to

          no one,

but to herself she weeps and murmurs of her beloved father,

her lost country and her kin, of all that she betrayed for him

who now dishonors her. Her own torn heart bears witness

now to what she did when she abandoned home.

And her children--she draws back at the sight of them.

I fear what dreadful plans she may conceal; the iron

weight of wrath is far too great to be endured within.

I fear that even now she hones the sword, and means

herself to drive it through her rival's belly as she lies

on the bridal bed, or kill the king, and Jason, all--

and leave a trail of blood in the wake of her insulted

pride. She is formidable. No one who crosses her

can hope to greet the morning light victorious, and crow.

But look. Here come her boys, home from their games,

          untroubled

by their mother's griefs. That is the way with the young--

to them, grief is no more than a passing cloud.

(Enter Tutor with the two children of Medea and Jason.)

TUTOR

Aged slave, nurse and servant to the house, what are

you doing out here, lamenting to yourself? What is the good

of pouring misery back into your own ears?

Does Medea, our mistress, wish to be left entirely alone?

NURSE

Old Tutor, long time attendant to Lord Jason's sons, you know

how the loyal servant's heart is pierced when the master's luck

runs out on a bad roll of the dice. Overcome with grief,

I had to come out here to tell my lady's sorrows to the only

audience I have: the silent earth, the empty sky.

TUTOR

Is she still inconsolable? Not yet resigned?

NURSE

I wish I shared your happy ignorance. Her pain has just

begun its climb--like a building wave, it has not reached

that peak where it will break, and crash.

TUTOR

Poor fool (though I tempt the gods to speak of my betters

so), it is our mistress who is the ignorant one, old nurse;

she doesn't know that worse news follows bad.

NURSE

Tell me, old man. Don't leave me in suspense.

TUTOR

It's nothing. I have said more than I should.

NURSE

By your beard I beg you, and as your fellow slave,

I beg you--tell me. If it is a secret, I will keep it close.

TUTOR

It is something that I overheard the old men say, the ones

who sit at the gaming tables near the holy Pierian spring.

Pretending not to listen, I heard one say that Creon,

Corinth's king, was going to exile these two children

and their mother from our land. I don't know if the tale

is true or no, but I fear it may be so.

NURSE

That he is through with her, I understand; but will Jason

let them cast his own sons out like so much trash?

TUTOR

Old marriage bonds become an inconvenience when a man

moves on. I fear that Jason will no longer shield this house.

NURSE

We have not passed through one storm and another breaks.

Too soon--I hear the very timbers groan; our ruin is sure.

TUTOR

Tell no one of this news I overheard. Your mistress must

          not know.

NURSE

Children, do you hear how little your father cares for you?

I curse him--no, what am I saying? He is my master. And yet,

how be loyal to one who shows no loyalty to his own?

TUTOR

Well, he is only human, after all. He has

a new and royal bride; these boys are in his way.

Don't you know by now that men put self-love first?

NURSE

Now boys, go on inside. It's going to be all right. And you,

keep them far away from their mother in her rage; I have seen

her turn a savage look their way, and my heart quailed.

She will keep her anger chained until, a tiger, she turns

it loose unfed. Then pray it is her enemies

on whom it feeds, and not on those she loves.

MEDEA (within)

Ay! Despised, cast out, sick with sorrow,

most miserable of women, I! Aaaay! If only I could die!

NURSE

As I told you, dear ones, your mother whips her grief-tormented

heart into a fury. Go quickly into the house and stay out

of her sight. Don't come near her now. She baits her anger

with a prod. Beware her raging sorrow and her savage ways!

Quick--get inside now, fast as you can.

(Exit Tutor and children into the house.)

Laments and wailing rise from her, like smoke from a burning

house. And when fresh injury pours oil on the fire,

I fear the flames from the furnace of her sorrow-blasted

soul will sear us all. What won't she do?

MEDEA (within)

Aiee! Unhappy as I am, I can suffer this no more!

The bitterest lament cannot contain the measure of my grief.

Oh children of a hateful mother, cursed by your very birth,

may you perish with your father, may this house fall into

ruin, may its dust be swept into the bin by slaves!

NURSE

Ay! Ay me! The father's is the sin. Why must the children

share the blame? Why would you hate them? Oh children, I fear

for you; blank terror stalks my heart. For those with power

are dangerous: used to being obeyed, nothing checks

their willfulness. They swing from mood to mood, loose

cargo in a stormy hold. Let me grow old, secure and

unassuming, used to no more than my share; the middle way

is best, and keeps life on an even keel. Riches in excess

and lordly privilege aren't meant for mortals--no. When

          the gods

fall on those who have the most, they pick them to the bones.

(Chorus enters.)

CHORUS

It was her voice,

her cry, the wretched

woman of Colchis--

again I heard it. Is she still

not calm? Is there no balm

to soothe her? Old

woman, tell me the truth.

Even inside my double-gated

house I heard those chants

of lamentation;

I heard her cry--

but of what wrongs?

I can take no pleasure

in the misfortune

of this house, for I have shared

the cup of friendship there.

NURSE

The house is no more than a shell. Its former lord has gone

to a royal marriage bed. Cast away, his one-time wife,

my mistress, keeps fast in her room, and lengthens time

          with tears

and dreadful cries, and will take no comfort in the words

          of friends.

MEDEA (within)

Aiee! May a bolt of lightning strike me dead!

Why should I drag myself, a broken-legged thing,

through empty days? If death would come for me,

and free me of my hateful life, then--oh, sweet rest!

CHORUS

O Zeus, and fruitful Earth,

and lucid Sun,

attend! Did you hear

this young wife's wail

of pain?

           But you, foolish

woman--why desire

to sleep with Death?

That bed awaits us

all too soon--

what folly to invite it

out of time. And as to

husbands who desert

their wives to wed

their own advantage, Zeus

will settle that score.

Your husband does not

deserve your tears;

your grief by far

exceeds his worth.

MEDEA

O mighty Themis who sets the balance right,

and night-ruling Artemis, hear me! Do you see how

I am wronged, tied by firm oaths to an accursed husband.

May I live to see him and his new bride--her royal

house and train--ground into grit as fine as meal

fit to feed pigs, for they have wronged me without cause,

I who was never their foe.

          O father, O city of my birth,

I feel my shame--to help Jason live, I killed my brother.

NURSE

Do you hear her prayers, how she calls on Zeus' daughter,

Themis, guardian of oaths, avenger of men's broken vows?

Imperious, these prayers--no small revenge will do. Who knows

what she will undertake before this rage is spent?

CHORUS

If only she would come outside

and let us meet her--face to face;

perhaps our words could turn

her anger's tide, perhaps

we could, if not erase,

at least assuage her rage,

avert what rises from her heart,

May our good will never fail

our friends. Go now

and coax her from the house;

tell her that friends are here;

go quick, we fear her harm

to those inside. Like an army

that has begun its charge,

her grief is driving forward

toward its cause.

NURSE

I will try. Though I am doubtful I can pry her

from the fastness of her pride. Still, I will serve you, and

persuade her if I can--though she growls and glowers

like a lioness with cubs at any servant who comes close

and tries to speak.

          Would that there were songs to tame

the bitterness of mortal woe: for its relief wars are begun,

great houses ruined, the floodgates of violence opened.

Orpheus, though he could soften the hearts of beasts

and gods, had no song to quiet the furies of human grief.

Like him, our bards of old were helpless in the face

of rage; their harmonies were made to play at banquets

and at festivals where happiness abounds, where

the cakes are soaked in honey, and song's redundant.

Would that sweet music were devised--and wiser men

would tune the lyres in that more necessary key--

to mend the wounded heart, and make of lyric arts

a healing balm.

(Exit Nurse into the house.)

CHORUS

We heard the tortured

music of her cries,

how she calls for him

whom she despises now--

Jason: traitor, breaker

of vows, defiler of

their marriage bed.

We heard her call

on Themis, Goddess

of Oaths, daughter

of Olympic Zeus;

Themis, who

gives weight to the words

of men. By her good

faith, Medea came

to Hellas across the sea,

braved the swallowing

salt darkness; sailed

through the narrow straits

of the Black Sea,

passing where

few have gone.

(Medea and Nurse enter from the house.)

MEDEA

Women of Corinth, you have summoned me, and I have

come. I would not have your ill report. How easy it is

to be mistaken by the world, I know. Though there are

many who are arrogant, who do not hesitate--whether in

the open marketplace or behind their walls--to lord it over

all, yet there are those who live a quiet life, who shun

publicity, and, for diffidence and sweet reserve, they get

a reputation for indifference, for thinking themselves above

the common lot. Justice is not in the eyes of men:

judgment runs before knowledge. Before a man's true

character is known, people believe the worst; they hate

so easily and on the least of grounds--though the man

has done them not the slightest wrong. Above all,

a foreigner must not resist the general will, but be

compliant with the city's wish--though I do not mean

to praise or to excuse the citizen who is self-willed

and lacks civility. But in my case, a blow as if

from nowhere struck me down. I am destroyed: my joy

in life is done. I have but one desire: I want to die.

For he to whom my life and all were bound, has proved

the worst of men. And now disgrace is all I own.

Of all the sentient creatures of the earth, we women are

the most unfortunate. First there is the dowry: at such

exorbitant expense we have to buy a husband--pay

to take a master for our bodies. And as the seasons pass,

if he prove false, then are we twice abused. For our initial

loss (which custom celebrates) is multiplied beyond

the estimation of a cost: it is our pride that is insulted,

trampled underfoot. All our hopes and striving lean

on this one thing: whether the husband that we take

turns out good or ill. For marriage is the only choice

we have, and divorce discredits women utterly.

We leave the house we knew, the dear comfort of familiar

ways. We must enter the husband's world, accommodate

strange practices, the habits of his house, and figure out--

oh, hardest yet--how best to deal with his whims, for little

in our past prepares us for this task of satisfying him.

If after all our work to break our own will on the wheel

of his, and, with studied art, to mate desire with necessity--

if then the man has still not tired of us, does not resent

the marriage yoke: then, in the sorority of wives,

our lives are enviable.

          Otherwise, one is better off dead.

A man when he is bored at home, or irritated by

the burdens of domestic life, goes out into the streets,

or to the baths, debates philosophy for sport, diverts

himself with games and friends, and does what pleases him.

Our lives are monotone: for on one man we're forced

to fix our gaze. Men say we lead an easy life,

safe at home while they risk all at the point of a spear.

What do they know? I would rather stand three times

in battle with shield and spear than give birth once.

But though we share a woman's lot, your story and mine

diverge. You have a city and the sanctuary of a father's

house, you yet enjoy your life and bask in the warmth

and company of friends. While I, bereft of city and of kin,

am by my husband's outrage left exposed-unwanted

as a child left on a hill to the vultures and the quarreling dogs.

For I was booty carried from a foreign land, orphaned

by distance; I have no mother, no brother, no family to offer

refuge from the wreckage of my hopes. So I ask you one favor.

If I find means and opportunity to punish my faithless

husband--sisters, keep my secret. For though a woman

turn away at the sight of the blood-drenched field of war,

and shudder at the cold steel blade-when she is scorned in love,

no warrior, however fierce, has thoughts as murderous as hers.

CHORUS LEADER

I will keep your secret, Medea. Your cause is just, for you

are wronged. Your husband must be punished. I understand

your grief, and that it seeks relief, as streams flow down,

tearing aside whatever rocks may block their way.

But here comes Creon, and, in the way of kings, no doubt

he comes to bring some new edict. What can it be?

(Enter Creon with his guards.)

CREON

You, Medea, who disturb our peace with rage against

your husband--I order you to leave this land at once,

go into exile, and your children with you. At once, I say--

for this decree is mine, and I will see you gone myself,

outside the borders of this land, before I go back home.

MEDEA

Aiee! I am utterly destroyed! My enemies come full sail--

from the narrowing straits of blind misfortune, I can see no

          escape.

Is not my suffering unendurable enough? I ask you: why?

Creon, I ask you why you wish to banish me.

CREON

Well, I see no reason at all to hide the fact

that I'm afraid for my daughter, of what you might

do to her, what deadly harm, as you have all

the means--your cleverness, your skill in evil arts,

and certainly the record shows what you can do.

Stung by the loss of your husband's marriage bed, you dare

threaten to harm the bride, her husband--even me!

This is the report that many bring--well, an ounce

of prevention, and so on ... better that you should hate me now,

than I be soft, and live to repent it later.

MEDEA

Ah, Creon. This is not the first time that my reputation

hurt me, and led others to misjudge my honest aims.

A sensible man should not educate his children too much,

make them too wise, for their learning will earn them little more

than the malice of their fellows, who will accuse them

of everything malign--idleness, intrigue, whatever their envy

can invent. If you bring new ideas to fools, they will hate

you for it; whatever they fail to understand, they judge

as useless, or worse. And if your reputation outstrips

those whom the city acknowledges as its most clever men,

then you become an irritation--a thorn in order's tender skin.

I share this fate I speak of--my cleverness and education

have brought me the enmity of some, by others I am thought

withdrawn, or else too forward, too formidable--and yet,

my wisdom is but small, I cannot raise an army, or a wind,

I have no power--and still you fear me. What harm could I

do you? Creon, have no fear of me; I am no criminal to plot

against my rulers. What reason would I have? You have done

me no injustice. It is my husband that I hate, not you, nor

your good fortune. You married your daughter to the man

on whom your own heart placed the seal. A choice sincere,

and sensible; you acted well. May the marriage, may you all

prosper in the days ahead. Only let me stay here in Corinth.

For, though I am wronged, I am not wroth--I put aside

          complaint,

and I will be compliant now, and yield to my superiors.

CREON

Your words are soothing to my ear, but I dare not trust them.

I fear you only feign; beneath these yielding words,

deep in your heart, you plot to harm us. Your honeyed words

have only added force to what I first suspected.

It is easier to protect oneself against a woman in a passion--

or a man for that matter--than one wise enough to keep

her own counsel. No more argument: go at once into exile--

My decree is fixed; no enemy of mine remains in Corinth.

MEDEA

Oh, no. I beg you by your knees and by your newly wedded

          daughter!

CREON

It is no use; I can't be won. Woman, you waste your words.

MEDEA

But will you banish me and so refuse a suppliant?

CREON

Yes. Should I put you before the love I owe my own?

MEDEA

Oh fatherland! Now my thoughts are filled with you.

CREON

And mine. Next to my children, my land is nearest to my heart.

MEDEA

Oh, what a curse is love!

CREON

                   Well, it all depends.

MEDEA

Zeus, mark well who is responsible for all this grief!

CREON

Plague take you, woman--go! And rid me of this burden.

MEDEA

The suffering is mine. I have no need of more.

CREON

In a minute, my servants will throw you out by force.

MEDEA

No, no. Oh please, I beg you, Creon, not yet.

CREON

Woman, you are like a fly buzzing in my ear.

MEDEA

Your banishment I accept. It is not from that I sought reprieve.

CREON

Infuriating woman, what then? Why still cling to my hand,

using a suppliant's sacred claim to bend my will?

MEDEA

I ask for but one day, today, to make provision

for exile, for my children, whom their father abandons.

But you, a parent too, will naturally have pity on them;

you will be shepherd to my lambs. For myself, I care nothing;

exile for me is neither here nor there. It is for my children

that I sorrow, for their departure I would prepare the way.

CREON

I have not the cast of mind to play the tyrant's role,

though I have paid, and dearly so, for clemency.

I know to grant your plea is a grave mistake, and yet

I grant it. But if tomorrow's sun should find you and

your sons within this land, then, straight away, you will

be put to death. My word on this is final. Stay then

for this last day. Too little time to do the harm I feared.

(Exit Creon and guards.)

Copyright © 1998 University of Pennsylvania Press. All rights reserved.