Philoktetes | Page 6

a cave with two mouths. That is his house. That is his rocky sleeping-place.
CHORUS
Where is he now, the unlucky man?
NEOPTOLEMOS
It is clear to me that he claws his way to find food nearby. He struggles now to bring down birds with his arrows, to fuel this wretched way of life. He knows no balm to heal his wounds.
CHORUS
I pity him for all his woes, for his distress, for his loneliness, with no countryman at his side; he is accursed, always alone, brought down by bitter illness; he wanders, distraught, thrown off balance by simple needs. How can he withstand such ceaseless misfortune?
O, the violent snares laid out by the gods! O, the unhappy human race, living always on the edge, always in excess. He might have been a well-born man, second to none of the noble Greek houses. Now he has no part of the good life, and he lies alone, apart from others, among spotted deer and shaggy, wild goats. His mind is fixed on pain and hunger. He groans in anguish, and only a babbling echo answers, poured out from afar, in answer to his lamentations.
NEOPTOLEMOS
None of this amazes me. It is the work of divine Fate, if I understand rightly. Savage Chryse set these sufferings on him, the share of sufferings he must now endure. His torments are not random. The gods, surely, must heap them on him, so that he cannot bend the invincible bow until the right time comes, decreed by Zeus, and as it is promised, Troy is made to fall.
CHORUS
Be quiet, boy.
NEOPTOLEMOS
What is it?
CHORUS
A clear groan--- the steadfast companion of one walking in pain. Where is it? Now comes a noise: a man writhes along his path, from afar comes the sigh of a burdened man--- the cry has carried.
Pay attention, boy.
NEOPTOLEMOS
To what?
CHORUS
To my second explanation. He is not so far away. He is inside his cave. He is not walking abroad to his panpipe's doleful song, like a shepherd wandering with his flocks. Rather he has bumped his wounded leg and shouts as if to someone far away, as if to someone he has seen at the harbor. The cry he makes is terrible.
PHILOKTETES
You there, you strangers: who are you who have landed from the sea on an island without houses or fair harbor? From what country should I think you, and guess it correctly? You look Greek to me. You wear Greek clothes, and I love to see them. I want to hear you speak my tongue. Do not shun me, amazed to face a man who has become so wild. Pity one who is damned and alone, wasted away by his sufferings. Speak. Speak, if you come as friends. Answer me. It is unreasonable not to answer each other's questions.
NEOPTOLEMOS
We are Greeks. You wanted to know.
PHILOKTETES
O, beloved tongue! I understand you! That I should hear Greek words after so many years! Who are you, boy? Who sent you? What brought you? What urged you here? What lucky wind? Answer. Let me know who you are.
NEOPTOLEMOS
My people are from wavebound Skyros, an island. I am sailing homeward. I am called Neoptolemos, Achilles's son. Now you know everything.
PHILOKTETES
Son of a man whom I once loved, son of my beloved country, nursed by ancient Lykomedes--- what business brought you here? Where is it that you sail from?
NEOPTOLEMOS
I sail from Troy.
PHILOKTETES
What? You sail away from Troy? You were not there with us at the start.
NEOPTOLEMOS
Did you take part in that misery?
PHILOKTETES
Then you do not know who stands before you?
NEOPTOLEMOS
I have never seen you before. How could I know you?
PHILOKTETES
You do not know my name? The fame my woes have given me? The men who brought me to my ruin?
NEOPTOLEMOS
You see one who knows nothing of your story.
PHILOKTETES
Then I am truly damned. The gods must surely hate me for not even a rumor to have come to Greece of how I live here. The wicked men who abandoned me keep their secret, then, and laugh, while the disease that dwells within me grows, and grows stronger. My son, child of great Achilles, you may yet have heard of me somehow: I am Philoktetes, Poias's son, the master of Herakles's weapons. Agamemnon, Menelaos, and Odysseus marooned me here, with no one to help me, as I wasted away with a savage disease, struck down by a viper's hideous bite.
After I was bitten, we put in here on the way from Chryse to rejoin the fleet and they cast me ashore. After our rough passage, they were glad to see me fall asleep on the seacliffs, inside this cave. Then they went off, leaving with me rags and breadcrumbs, and few of each. May the same soon befall them.
Think of it, child: how I awoke to find them gone and myself left alone. Think of how I