[The palace of Theseus at Trozen, with its gates stage center.
Flanking the palace gates are cult statues of Artemis and Aphrodite.
Phaedra, accompanied by her old servant, her childhood Nurse, is
wheeled out of the palace on her sickbed by several female
attendants.]
NURSE [half to herself and half to Phaedra while fussing about her]:
Nothing but trouble and pain!
I can't do anything right.
Here's the fresh bright sunlight that you wanted,
and now that you've been brought,
sick-bed and all, outside,
you're already starting to get that gloomy look.
I suppose you'll be demanding
to go right back inside,
though "Take me out" was all you've said all day.
You can't be satisfied
with how things are, but always
go stumbling after something you don't have.
It's better to be sick
than have to tend the sick:
the sick just lie there; tending's work and worry.
Well, worry and work are life,
there's nothing we can do.
We weren't put in this world to be at peace.
PHAEDRA [to her attendants, who perform her orders as she speaks them]:
Help me sit up. Cradle my head: my own body fails me.
Hold me up by my arms, beautiful, useless arms. My hair
feels like a massive weight in this netting. Undo it to fall down my back.
NURSE [trying to get her to lie back down again]:
Hush, dear, don't thrash around,
it will only make it worse.
You have to bear your troubles royally.
We've got to learn to accept
whatever the gods may send.
Show me life, and I'll show you things that hurt.
PHAEDRA [rising out of bed with sudden strained energy, with gestures
echoing the wishes she utters]:
Oh to bend my lips to the grassy meadow's cool pure stream,
to drink and lay my body to rest beneath black poplars there!
NURSE: Child, what rant is this?
Good heavens, don't let fly
delirious words in public to shock the people.
PHAEDRA: Take me away to the mountain, oh by the gods! in the
pines, where the hounds
of prey pant hot breath out as they close on the dappled deer!
When, when will I cry to the hounds and brandish the tipped spear,
and fling the Thessalian lance past my golden windstream of hair?
NURSE: Darling, you're not yourself.
What's hunting to do with you?
And why this thirsting after a woodland spring?
Look, here's a watered slope
along the city's towers
which ought to furnish all the drink you need.
PHAEDRA: Artemis Queen of the salt lagoon and the race-course's
rattling gallop,
may I too dwell in thy precinct, taming the whinnying high bred steeds!
NURSE [leading her back to the bed]:
Now what craziness?
A moment ago you were off
to the mountain, hunting down wild animals,
and now a sudden passion
to break in prancing fillies
and ride them over the sandy shore's high ground.
We'd need an expert seer
to prophesy what god
has veered your mind disastrously off course.
PHAEDRA [sinking into bed, suddenly exhausted]:
Oh I'm unhappy – what have I done – how have I lost my senses? –
I must have been out of my mind – some god sent those cruel illusions.
Nanny, cover me up again – I'm ashamed of what I've said –
cover me up so I can cry, hide my guilty face.
Things are suddenly clearer now, all too unbearably clear.
Unbearable clearness wounds, whirling confusion tortures – no:
better to die; let awareness itself fade into that long night.
NURSE [partially covering her head with a cloth from the bed]:
I'll cover you. I wish
my shroud were covering me.
[openly addressing the audience]
I've learned this much from having lived so long:
we human beings should mold
our loves out gently, not
allowing them to sink deep in our souls.
Affections should be easy
to rouse and to dissolve.
To feel another's anguish as your own,
as I feel this poor girl's,
will make your own life torment.
They say expecting too much of yourself
will far more likely bring
a sick, unhappy fall
than make you happy. That's why I advise
restraint in everything,
not going to extremes,
as everyone with any sense agrees.
--
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Jon Corelis www.geocities.com/jgcorelis/
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