Act One: The Embassy (Scenes 1–4)

Racine's Preface

Virgil, in the third book of the Aeneid — it is Aeneas who speaks:

We skirt the shores of Epirus, and enter the harbour of Chaonia, and climb to the high city of Buthrotum . . . There, in a grove before the town, beside a false Simois, Andromache was offering the yearly gifts to the dead, and calling the shade of Hector to the empty tomb of green turf she had raised to him, with two altars, a cause for tears . . . She lowered her eyes and spoke in a low voice: "O happiest of all, the virgin daughter of Priam, bidden to die at an enemy's tomb under the high walls of Troy! She never bore the casting of the lots, nor touched, a captive, the bed of a conquering master. But I, carried over strange seas after my city burned, have borne the pride of Achilles' son, and his insolent youth, and given birth in slavery. Then he went after Leda's granddaughter Hermione, and a Spartan marriage . . . But Orestes, inflamed with great love for his stolen bride, and driven by the Furies of his crimes, caught him off his guard and cut him down at his father's altars."

Here, in a few lines, is the whole subject of this tragedy: the scene of the action, what happens there, the four principal actors, and even their characters — except that of Hermione, whose jealousy and passions are well enough marked in the "Andromache" of Euripides.

It is almost the only thing I borrow from that author. For though my tragedy has the same name as his, the subject is very different. In Euripides, Andromache fears for the life of Molossus, a son she had by Pyrrhus, and whom Hermione wants to put to death with his mother. Here there is no question of Molossus. Andromache knows no other husband than Hector, and no other son than Astyanax. I believed I was conforming in this to the idea we now have of that princess. Most of those who have heard of Andromache know her only as the widow of Hector and the mother of Astyanax. It is not thought that she should love another husband, or another son; and I doubt whether her tears would have made on the minds of my audience the impression they have made, if they had flowed for any son other than the one she had by Hector.

It is true that I have had to let Astyanax live a little longer than he did. But I write in a country where this liberty could not be ill received; for, not to speak of Ronsard, who chose this same Astyanax for the hero of his "Franciade," who does not know that our old kings were said to descend from this son of Hector, and that our old chronicles save his life after the sack of his country?

Some have complained that Pyrrhus is too violent, too fierce to a captive he loves, and that I should have softened him. I admit that he is not resigned to the will of his mistress, and that Céladon knew better than he how to love perfectly. But what can I do? Pyrrhus had not read our novels. He was violent by nature; and not all heroes are made to be Céladons. Aristotle, far from asking us for perfect heroes, wants tragic characters — whose misfortune makes the catastrophe of the tragedy — to be neither wholly good nor wholly bad. They should have a middling goodness, a virtue capable of weakness, and they should fall into misfortune through some fault that makes them pitied without making them detested.

The Characters

ANDROMACHE, widow of Hector, captive of Pyrrhus. PYRRHUS, son of Achilles, king of Epirus. ORESTES, son of Agamemnon. HERMIONE, daughter of Helen, betrothed to Pyrrhus. PYLADES, friend of Orestes. CLEONE, confidante of Hermione. CEPHISA, confidante of Andromache. PHOENIX, tutor of Achilles, and afterwards of Pyrrhus. Orestes' followers.

The scene is at Buthrotum, a city of Epirus, in a hall of Pyrrhus's palace.

Scene 1

ORESTES, PYLADES.

ORESTES. Yes — since I find again so true a friend, My fortune is about to change its face; Her anger seems already to grow mild, Now she has brought the two of us together. Who would have thought this shore, so feared by me, Would first show Pylades to Orestes' eyes? That, lost for half a year, I'd find you here, At Pyrrhus' court?

PYLADES. I thank the gods for it, Who kept me back so long from every road That led to Greece, since that unhappy day When, near Epirus, the storm parted us. How many tears I shed! How many times I feared for you new perils, for I knew That gloomy sorrow where your soul lay buried. I feared the gods would grant you, out of pity, The death you always sought. But now I see you, And — if I dare say so — a happier fate Seems to have brought you to Epirus. What Has led you here?

ORESTES. Who knows the fate that leads me? Love for a cruel woman brings me here. But who can tell what it has destined for me, Or if I come to seek my life or death?

PYLADES. Is your soul still so much a slave to love? I thought you cured of it.

ORESTES. You saw my torment. You saw Hermione, her father's promise Given to Pyrrhus, Pyrrhus who'd avenged The Greeks at Troy; you saw me leave in grief, And drag my chains from sea to sea, and seek Forgetfulness, and pity in contempt. I thought myself set free. I told myself: "She scorns me; let her go." I came back home, And found the princes of all Greece assembled. They were afraid: Pyrrhus, they heard, was sheltering Hector's last son — Astyanax, whom Ulysses Was thought to have destroyed, and whom his mother Had saved by passing off another child. They wanted an ambassador to Epirus, To claim the boy. I begged to be the one. I told myself it was for Greece. I lied. I came to see her. I have seen how vain Was all my struggle: I love her, as before.

PYLADES. Then let me tell you how things stand. Pyrrhus Loves his captive — loves Andromache, Hector's widow, who repays him only With hate. He puts off, day by day, his marriage; He is a hundred times prepared to lay His crown before her; then, in wrath, he threatens To kill her son. Hermione meanwhile, Neglected, hides her shame and weeps. She calls him False, and is ready to forgive him all. She'd go home tomorrow, I believe — If someone came to take her.

ORESTES. Then I'll ask For Hector's son. I hope the king refuses. Then I'll have reason; and I'll take Hermione. I give myself up blindly to the fate That drags me on. I'll love; I'll carry off The woman I adore — or I will die.

PYLADES. Then make your embassy. The king is coming. Press him. And whether he refuses or not, Tell him you are her kinsman; see Hermione.

Scene 2

PYRRHUS, ORESTES, PYLADES, PHOENIX.

ORESTES. Before the Greeks speak to you by my voice, Let me declare how glad I am to see The son of Achilles, conqueror of Troy. Your father's deeds are equalled by your own: Hector fell to him, and Troy fell to you. But what Achilles' son would never do — You shelter the last remnant of that Troy; You let your pity rescue Hector's son. Do you forget who Hector was? The Greeks Remember: how he set our ships on fire, How many widows mourn him, how many sons Grew fatherless by him. And will the son Not someday do as the father did? He'll come, With Trojan sails, to burn our ships again. Prevent their fear; destroy the serpent's brood While it is in the cradle. Give him up. Greece asks it, and Greece will have its way — Or turn upon Epirus all the war You once made with it.

PYRRHUS. Greece is too much troubled About so small a thing. I thought her cares Weightier; I thought that, sending me The son of Agamemnon, she had something More grand to ask. Who would have thought so great A people, after such success, should plot The death of a child? And to whom must I Give him up? Who has a claim on him? When Troy was taken, all the captives were Shared out by lot. Hecuba fell to Ulysses, Cassandra to your father: did I ask What they did with their slaves? And Andromache, And her son, were mine. I'll do with them What pleases me. Troy is ashes now; Its towers, that were once so proud, are fallen; Its walls a desert. I can't conceive Why Greece should fear that a child could ever rebuild it. If Hector's son was to be killed, it should Have been that night, when, in the sacked city, Victory and darkness, crueller than we, Drove us to murder without looking whom. Then my rage might have fallen on the child; I was not merciful that night; but now, In cold blood, when all fury is spent, Shall I deliver him to slaughter? No. Let Greece seek elsewhere for her prey. Epirus Shall save what Troy could not.

ORESTES. My lord, you know By what deceit a false Astyanax Was led to death in place of Hector's son. It is not the Trojan, it is Hector, That Greece pursues.

PYRRHUS. Then I will save him — Yes; and it is my pride. Let them make war; Let Greece pour all her armies on Epirus. I'll show them I am Achilles' son, and can Defend what's mine. Meanwhile, you may see The daughter of Helen; I know the tie of blood That binds you. After that, I keep you here No longer. Tell the Greeks I have refused.

Scene 3

PYRRHUS, PHOENIX.

PHOENIX. You send him to his mistress?

PYRRHUS. It is said That he once loved her.

PHOENIX. If that love revived? If he gave back his heart, and she her own?

PYRRHUS. Then let them love, Phoenix! Let them go together; Let her go back to Sparta. All our ports Are open to them both. How many cares She'd spare me! — But here is Andromache.

Scene 4

PYRRHUS, ANDROMACHE, CEPHISA.

PYRRHUS. Were you looking for me, Madam? May I Be allowed so sweet a hope?

ANDROMACHE. My lord, I was going to the place where they keep my son. Since you allow me, once a day, to see All that is left to me of Hector, and of Troy, I was going to weep with him a little. I have not held him in my arms today.

PYRRHUS. Ah, Madam, the Greeks, if I believe their fears, Will give you other cause for tears.

ANDROMACHE. What fear Has fallen on their hearts? Has some Trojan Escaped you?

PYRRHUS. Their hatred of Hector Is not extinguished; they fear his son.

ANDROMACHE. A child! A worthy object for their fear! A wretched child, Who does not know yet that Pyrrhus is his master, And he is Hector's son!

PYRRHUS. Such as he is, The Greeks demand his death. Agamemnon's son Has come to press it.

ANDROMACHE. And will you give a sentence So cruel? Is it because of me? Is it Because he is my son?

PYRRHUS. I have refused. They threaten war. Well, let them come; I'll fight them To keep your son, and I will not be sparing Of my own blood. But tell me, in this war — Will you deny me even a single look? Hated by Greece, besieged on every side, Must I fight your cruelty as well? I offer you my arm. Can I hope That you will take the heart that comes with it? I'll fight for you. Can I count you, at least, Among my friends, not my enemies?

ANDROMACHE. My lord, what are you doing? What will Greece say? Must so great a heart show so much weakness? Do you want this generous design To pass for the passion of a lover? Captive, always sad, a burden to myself — How can you wish Andromache to love you? What charms have eyes you have condemned to weep? No, no; respect the misery of an enemy; Save the unhappy; give a son back to his mother; Fight a hundred nations to defend him — Without asking my heart as the price of it. Protect him, if you must, against my will. That is what's worthy of Achilles' son.

PYRRHUS. Will your anger never end? Can one hate Without end, and punish without end? I have done harm, I know: Phrygia is red With blood my hand has spilt. But how your eyes Have made me pay for it! How cruelly They have avenged you! I suffer all the ills I brought on Troy: conquered, loaded with chains, Eaten up with regrets, burned with more fires Than ever I lit there. So much care, So many tears, such restless longings — ah! Was I ever so cruel as you are now? We have made each other suffer enough. Our common enemies should join us now. Only tell me to hope: I'll give you back Your son; I'll be a father to him; I'll teach him To avenge the Trojans; I'll go myself To punish the Greeks for your wrongs and mine. One look from you, and I can do it all. Your Ilium can rise again from its ashes, And I can crown your son within its walls.

ANDROMACHE. My lord, such greatness does not touch us now. I promised it to him while his father lived. No, you will never see us, sacred walls My Hector could not save! The unhappy want Less than that. It is exile I ask for. Let me go far away from Greece, and from you, And hide my son; and I will weep for my husband. Your love stirs up too much hatred against us. Go back, go back to the daughter of Helen.

PYRRHUS. How can I? You torture me! How can I give A heart you hold, and that she knows you hold? She came here to reign over my heart; Fate has brought you both here; you, to wear chains; She, to give them. And yet what have I done To please her? Everything here says the opposite: Her charms are scorned; yours are all-powerful. She would be queen; you, the captive, rule.

ANDROMACHE. And why should she not be loved? What has she done? Would she remember all your services Against her? Would Troy and Hector rise up Against her in your soul? Would she owe her love To a dead husband? And what a husband! Ah, Cruel memory! His death alone Made your father immortal; he owes his fame To Hector's blood; and you, both of you, are known Only by my tears.

PYRRHUS. Well, Madam, well — I must obey you; I must forget you; Or rather, hate you. Yes, my love has gone Too far to stop at indifference now. Think well of it: from this moment on, If my heart cannot love you with passion, It will hate you with fury. In my just rage I shall spare nothing. The son will answer for The mother's scorn. Greece asks for him; and I Am not obliged to save the ungrateful.

ANDROMACHE. Alas! Then he will die. He has no defence But his mother's tears, and his own innocence. And perhaps, in the state I'm in, his death Will hasten the end of all my sorrows. I was prolonging my life and misery For his sake; but in the end, I'll go To find his father. So, my lord, the three of us Will be united by you —

PYRRHUS. Go, Madam, Go and see your son. Perhaps, in seeing him, Your love will grow less ready to be cruel. I'll come back to know what we must hope for. Kiss him a hundred times; think, as you hold him, That you can save him. Go — and remember That I must have your answer, or his life.