SOPHOKLES

PHILOKTETES

Translated by Gregory McNamee

Originally published by Copper Canyon Press (Port Townsend,
Washington) in 1986.

This translation is made in loving memory of Scott Douglas
Padraic McNamee (1963-1984)

Todavia
Estoy vivo
En el centro
de una herida todavia fresca.

—-Octavio Paz

INTRODUCTION

When Sophokles produced the Philoktetes in 408 B.C., three years before his death at the age of ninety, the ancient story of the tragic archer, abundantly represented in Greek literature, achieved a dramatic and psychological sophistication of a kind never before seen on the classical stage: the theater of violent action and suddenly reversed fortunes (the Oresteia, Ajax, Hippolytos) gave way, for a brilliant moment, to a strangely quiet, contemplative drama that centered not on deeds but ideas, not on actions but words.
Foremost among Sophokles's concerns in the play, one that demanded such thoughtful consideration, is the question of human character and its origins. Indeed, the Philoktetes might well be regarded as the first literary expression of what has been termed the "nature-nurture controversy," a debate that continues to rage in the closing days of the twentieth century. In his drama, Sophokles places himself squarely among those who hold that one's character is determined not by environment or custom but by inborn nature (physis), and that one's greatest dishonor is to act, for whatever end, in ways not consonant with that essence.
The tale itself, reached in medias res, is uncomplicated: Philoktetes, to whom the demigod Herakles bequeathed his magical bow, is recruited by the Achaean generals to serve in the war against Troy. On the way to the battle, Philoktetes, in the company of Odysseus and his crew, puts in at a tiny island to pray at a local temple to Apollo, the god of war. Wandering from the narrow path to the temple, Philoktetes is bitten by a sacred serpent, the warden of the holy precinct. The wound, divinely inflicted as it is and not admitting of mortal healing techniques, festers; and Philoktetes fills his companions' days with an unbearably evil stench and awful cries. His screams of agony prevent the Greeks from offering proper sacrifices to the gods (the ritual utterance eu phemeton, from which our word "euphemism" derives, means not "speak well," as it is sometimes translated, but "keep silent," in fitting attitude of respect). Finally, in desperation, Odysseus—never known as a patient man—puts in at the desert island of Lemnos and there casts Philoktetes away.
Ten years of savage warfare pass, whereupon a captured Trojan oracle, Helenos, reveals to the Greeks that they will not be able to overcome Troy without Philoktetes (his name means "lover of possessions") and his magical bow. Ordered to fetch the castaway and escort him to the Greek battlefield, Odysseus, in keeping with his trickster nature, commands his lieutenant, Neoptolemos, the teenaged son of the newly slain Achilles, to win Philoktetes over to the Greek cause by treachery, promising the bowman a homeward voyage, when in truth he is to be bound once again into the service of those who marooned him. Neoptolemos is surprised at this turn of events, for until then he had been promised that he alone could finish his father's work and conquer Troy. Nonetheless, he accepts the orders of Odysseus and the Atreids, Agamemnon and Menelaos.
Here lies the crux of the tale, for Neoptolemos learns through the course of the Philoktetes that he is simply unable, by virtue of his noble birth, to obey the roguish Odysseus's commands: his ancestry and the nature it has given him do not permit him to act deceitfully, no matter what profit might tempt him. Odysseus, on the other hand, cannot help but behave treacherously, for in Sophokles's account it is in his base, "slavelike" nature to do so. The resolution of Neoptolemos's conflict—and for all his ambivalence, the young man is the real hero of the story—forms the dramatic heart of the play.
Edmund Wilson, in his famous essay "The Wound and the Bow," sought to read the Philoktetes as Sophokles's universal statement on the role of the artist in society: wounded, outcast, lacking some inner quality that might permit him or her to engage in the mundane events of life. Whatever the considerable merits of Wilson's analysis, argued with great sophistication and learning, in the end to read the bowman as a suffering artist seems more an act of anachronistic self-projection than the drama will admit. Instead, it is more likely that a brace of contemporary events propelled Sophokles to create the Philoktetes. The first involves a curious lawsuit that, as some ancient accounts have it, one of Sophokles's sons filed against him, charging that the old man was incapable of managing his affairs and that his estate, therefore, should be ceded to his heir. Sophokles's defense consisted entirely of a recitation from Oedipos at Kolonos, the masterpiece he was then composing. The Athenian jury instantly dismissed the son's suit, holding that no artist of such readily apparent gifts could be judged senile. Although modern scholars doubt the authenticity of this tale, it surely helps explain the tragedian's preoccupation in his final years with the origins of character, and whether a noble parent could in fact produce ignoble offspring.
The second motivation may have been Sophokles's scorn for the rising generation of Athenian aristocrats, trained by a herd of eager, expensive philosophers—those whom Sokrates reviled in his Apology—in the arts of sophistry and corruption. These young men, the scions of reputedly noble families, quickly proved themselves to be willing to bring their city to ruin rather than surrender any of the privileges of their class; they argued that greatness of character was the exclusive province of the aristocracy to which they belonged, and that no common-born man (women did not enter into the question) could ever hope to be more than a vassal, brutish by nature and situation; and they governed Athens accordingly, destroying the constitutional foundations of the city and inaugurating the reign of terror of the Thirty Tyrants, under whose year-long rule some 1500 Athenian democrats, the noblest minds of a generation, were executed. For Sophokles, these actions, from which Athens was never able to recover, made it abundantly clear that one's social class had nothing whatever to do with greatness of character—quite the reverse, it must have seemed; but by the time he had crafted the Philoktetes, the humane, mature culture that Sophokles represented so well had been condemned to death by its own children.
Kenneth Rexroth has written that in Sophokles's work "men suffer unjustly and learn little from suffering except to answer unanswerable questions with a kind of ultimate courtesy, an Occidental Confucianism that never pretends to solution. The
ages following Sophokles have learned from him the definition of nobility as an essential aristocratic irony which forms the intellect and sensibility." The Philoktetes stands as a splendid application of that ultimate courtesy, addressing timeless problems with a depth of emotion and tragic beauty that is unrivalled in the literature of the stage. (In particular, Sophokles's use of the chorus as the tormented inner voice of conscience is without peer.) It stands as one of the great accomplishments of the Greek mind, a striking depiction of the human soul's rising above seemingly insurmountable hardships to manifest its nobility. One of the fundamental documents in the history of the imagination, Philoktetes is alive, and it speaks to all of us.

GREGORY McNAMEE
Tucson, Arizona
October 1986

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This translation is based principally upon the Greek text and notes established by T.B.L. Webster in his edition of the Philoktetes (Cambridge University Press, 1970), a model of classical scholarship in every detail.
I am indebted to many friends for their help in the course of preparing this version. Jean Stallings first introduced me to the play in the original Greek; with her, Timothy Winters and Richard Jensen helped guide me through the intricacies of the text. Melissa McCormick and my family, as always, offered indispensable encouragement. I am especially grateful to Scott Mahler, Stephen Cox, and above all Thomas D. Worthen for their critical readings of the manuscript in various drafts. Last, I am grateful to Sam Hamill and Tree Swenson, vortices of imagination, without whose efforts this book would not be.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

Odysseus
Chorus
Trader (Spy)
Neoptolemos
Philoktetes
Herakles

PHILOKTETES

ODYSSEUS

This is the shore of jagged Lemnos, a land bound by waves, untrodden, lonely. Here I abandoned Poias's son, Philoktetes of Melos, years ago. Neoptolemos, child of Lord Achilles, the greatest by far of our Greek fighters, I had to cast him away here: our masters, the princes, commanded me to, for disease had conquered him, and his foot was eaten away by festering sores. We had no recourse. At our holy feasts, we could not reach for meat and wine. He would not let us sleep; he howled all night, wilder than a wolf. He blanketed our camp with evil cries, moaning, screaming.

But there is no time to talk of such things: no time for long speeches and explanations. He might hear us coming and foil my scheme to take him back.

Your orders are to serve me, to spy out the cave I found for him here—- a two-mouthed cave, exposed to the sun for warmth in the cold months, admitting cool breezes in summer's heat; to the left, nearby it, a sweet-running spring, if it is still sweet. If he still lives in this cave or another place, then I'll reveal more of my plan. Listen: both of us have been charged with this.

NEOPTOLEMOS

Lord Odysseus, what you speak of is indeed nearby.
This is his place.

ODYSSEUS

Where? Above or below us? I cannot tell.

NEOPTOLEMOS

Above, and with no sound of footsteps or talking.

ODYSSEUS

Go and see if he's sleeping inside.

NEOPTOLEMOS

I see an empty dwelling. There is no one within.

ODYSSEUS

And none of the things that distinguish a house?

NEOPTOLEMOS

A pallet of trampled leaves, as if for a bed.

ODYSSEUS

And what else? Is there nothing more inside the cave?

NEOPTOLEMOS

A wooden mug, carelessly made, and a few sticks of kindling.

ODYSSEUS

So this is the man's empty treasure-vault.

NEOPTOLEMOS

Look here. Rags lie drying in the sun, full of pieces of skin and pus from his sores.

ODYSSEUS

Then clearly he still lives here. He can't be far off. Weakened as he is by long years of disease, he can't stray far from home. He is probably out scratching up a meal or an herb he knows will relieve his pain. Send a guard to keep close watch on this place so he doesn't take me by surprise— for he'd rather have me than any other Greek.

NEOPTOLEMOS

The path will be guarded.
Now tell me the rest.

ODYSSEUS

Son of Achilles, we are here for a reason.
You must be like your father, and not in strength alone.
If any of this sounds strange to you,
no matter. You must still serve those who are over you.

NEOPTOLEMOS

What must I do?

ODYSSEUS

Entangle Philoktetes with clever words. In order to trick him, say, when he asks you, "I am Achilles's son"—there's no lie in that— say you're on your way back home, that you have abandoned the Greeks and all their ships, you hate them so. Speaking to him piously, as though to the gods of Olympos, tell him they convinced you to leave your home, by swearing that you alone could storm Troy. And when you claimed your dead father's weapons, as is your birthright, say they scorned you, called you unworthy of them, and gave them to me, although you had been demanding them. Say whatever you want to against me. Say the worst that comes to mind. None of it will insult me. If you do not match this task, you will cast endless sorrow and suffering on the Greeks. If we do not return with this poor man's bow, you will not take the holy city of Troy. You may wonder whether you can do this safely, and why he would trust you. I'll tell you why: you have come here willingly, without having been forced, and you had nothing to do with what happened before. I cannot say the same. If Philoktetes, bow in hand, should see me, I would be dead in an instant. So would you, being in my company. We must come up with a scheme. You must learn to be cunning, and steal away his invincible bow.

I know, son, that by nature you are unsuited
to tell such lies and work such evil.
But the prize of victory is a sweet thing to have.
Go through with it. The end justifies the means, they'll say.
For a few short, shameless hours, yield to me.
From then on you'll be hailed as the most virtuous of men.

NEOPTOLEMOS

Son of Laertes, what pains me to hear pains me more to do. It is not my nature, as you say, to take what I want by tricks and schemes. My father, as I hear it, was of the same mind. I will gladly fight Philoktetes, capture him, and make him our hostage, but not like this. How can a one-legged man, alone, win against us? I know I was sent to carry out these orders. I do not want to make things hard for you. But I far prefer failure, if it is honest, to victory earned by treachery.

ODYSSEUS

You are the son of a great and noble man. When I was young, I held my tongue back and let my hand do my work. Now, as you're tested by life—as men live it— you will see as I have that everywhere it is our words that win, and not our deeds.

NEOPTOLEMOS

What are your orders, apart from telling lies?

ODYSSEUS

I order you to capture him, to take him with trickery, however deceitful.

NEOPTOLEMOS

And why not by persuasion after telling him the truth?

ODYSSEUS

Persuasion is impossible. So is force.

NEOPTOLEMOS

Is he so sure of his strength?

ODYSSEUS

Yes, if he carries his unswerving arrows, black death's escorts.

NEOPTOLEMOS

Even to meet him, then, is unsafe.

ODYSSEUS

Not if you win him over by guile, as I have said.

NEOPTOLEMOS

And you do not find such lying disgusting?

ODYSSEUS

Not if a lie ends with our salvation.

NEOPTOLEMOS

How could one say such things and keep a straight face?

ODYSSEUS

What you do is for our gain.
He who hesitates is lost.

NEOPTOLEMOS

What good would it do me for him to come to Troy?

ODYSSEUS

Only Philoktetes can conquer the city.

NEOPTOLEMOS

Then I will not take it after all, as I have been promised.

ODYSSEUS

Not without his arrows, nor they without you.

NEOPTOLEMOS

Then I must have them, if what you say is true.

ODYSSEUS

You will bring back two prizes, if only you'll act.

NEOPTOLEMOS

What are they? If I know,
I will not refuse the deed.

ODYSSEUS

You will be called wise because of your trick, and brave for the sack of Troy.

NEOPTOLEMOS

Then let it be so. I will do what you order, putting aside my sense of shame.

ODYSSEUS

Do you remember all the counsel I have given?

NEOPTOLEMOS

Every word of it. I will follow it all.

ODYSSEUS

Stay here at the cave and wait for him. I will leave so he doesn't know I have been here. I will take the guard and go back to the ship; if I think you're in trouble I will send him back, disguised as a merchant sailor, a captain. Whatever story he tells you, use it to advantage. I am going now. The rest is up to you. May our guides be Hermes, who instructs us in guile, and Athena, goddess of victory, goddess of our cities, who aids me at all times.

CHORUS

I am a stranger in a foreign land. What shall I say to Philoktetes? What shall I hide? Tell me. Knowledge that surpasses all others' knowledge and greatest wisdom falls to him who rules with Zeus's divine scepter. To you, child, this ancient strength has come, all the power of your ancestors. Tell me what must be done to serve you well.

NEOPTOLEMOS

Look now, without any fear: he sleeps on the seacliff, so take courage. When he awakes it will be terrible. Muster up your courage, and aid me then. Follow my lead. Help as you can.

CHORUS

As you command, my lord Neoptolemos.
My duty to you is always first in my thoughts.
My eye is fixed on your best interests.
Now show me the place that he inhabits,
and where he sleeps.
I should know this lest he take me in ambush.
I am frightened and yet fascinated,
as though by a snake or a scorpion's lair.
Where does he live? Where does he sleep?
Where does he walk?
Is he inside or outside?

NEOPTOLEMOS

Look. You will see 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 cried, how I cursed myself, when I knew my ship had gone off with them, and not a man was left to help me overcome this illness. I could see nothing before me but grief and pain, and those in abundance.

Time ran its course. I have had to make my own life, to be my own servant in this tiny cave. I seek out birds to fill my stomach, and shoot them down. After I let loose a tautly drawn bolt, I drag myself along on this stinking foot. When I had to drink the water that pours from this spring, in icy winter, I had to break up wood, crippled as I am, and melt the ice alone. I dragged myself around and did it. And if the fire went out, I had to sit, and grind stone against stone until a spark sprang up to save my life. This roof, if I have fire, at least gives me a home, gives me all that I need to stay alive except release from my anguish.

Come, child, let me tell you of this island. No one comes here willingly. There is no anchorage here, nor any place to land, profit in trade, and be received. Intelligent people know not to come here, but sometimes they do, against their will. In the long time I have been here, it was bound to happen. When those people put in, they pitied me—- or pretended to, at least—-and gave me new clothes and a bit of food. But when I asked for a homeward passage, they would never take me with them.

It is my tenth year of hunger and the ravaging illness
that I feed with my flesh.
The Atreids and Odysseus did this to me.
May the Olympian gods give them pain in return.

CHORUS

I am like those who came here before.
I pity you, unlucky Philoktetes.

NEOPTOLEMOS

And I am a witness to your words. I know you speak truly, for I have known them, the evil Atreids and violent Odysseus.

PHILOKTETES

Do you too have a claim against the all-destroying house of Atreus? Have they made you suffer? Is that why you are angry?

NEOPTOLEMOS

May the anger I carry be avenged by this hand, so that Mycenae and Sparta, too, may know that mother Skyros bears brave men.

PHILOKTETES

Well spoken, boy.
What wrath have they incited in you?

NEOPTOLEMOS

Philoketetes, I will tell you everything, although it pains me to remember. When I came to Troy, they heaped dishonor on me, after Achilles had met his death in battle….

PHILOKTETES

Tell me no more until I am sure I've heard rightly: is Achilles, son of Peleus, dead?

NEOPTOLEMOS

Yes, dead, shot down by no living man, but by a god, so I've been told. He was laid low by Lord Apollo's arrows.

PHILOKTETES

The two were noble, the killer and the killed. I am not sure what to do now—- to hear out your story or mourn your father.

NEOPTOLEMOS

It seems to me that your woes are enough without taking on the woes of others.

PHILOKTETES

You speak rightly. Now tell me more, what they did—-that is, how they insulted you.

NEOPTOLEMOS

They came for me in their mighty warships with painted prows and streaming battle flags. Odysseus and my father's tutor were the ones. They came with a story, true or a lie, that the gods had decreed, since my father had died, that I alone could storm Troy's walls. So they said. You can be sure that I lost no time in gathering my things and sailing with them, out of love for my father, whom I wanted to see before the earth swallowed him. I had never seen him alive. And I would be proved brave if I captured Troy.

We had a good wind. In two days we made bitter Sigeion. A mass of soldiers raised a cheer, saying dead Achilles still walked among them. They had not yet buried him. I wept for my father. And then I went to the Atreids, my father's supposed friends, as was fitting, and I asked for my father's weapons and his other things. They said with feigned sorrow, "Son of Achilles, you may have the other things, but not Achilles's weapons. Those now belong to Laertes's son." I leapt up then, crying in grief and anger, and said, "You bastards, how dare you give the things that are mine to other men without asking me first?"

Then Odysseus, who happened to be there, said, "Listen, boy. What they did was right. After all, I was the one who rescued them and your father's body." Enraged, I cursed him with all the curses I could think of, leaving nothing out, curses that would be set in motion if he were truly to rob me. Odysseus is not a quarrelsome man, but what I said stung him. He replied, "Boy, you're a newcomer. You have been at home, out of harm's way. You judge me too harshly. You cannot keep a civil tongue. For all that, you will not take his weapons home." You see, I took abuse from both sides. I lost the things that were mine, and I sailed home. Odysseus, the bastard son of bastards, robbed me. But I blame him less than the generals. They rule whole cities and a mighty army. Bad men become so by watching bad teachers. I have told you all. May he who hates the Atreids be as dear to the gods as he is to me.

CHORUS

O mountainous, all-nourishing Mother Earth, Mother of Zeus, our lord, himself, you who range the golden Paktolos, Mother of pain and sorrow, I begged you, Blessed Mother, borne by bull-slaying lions, on that day when the arrogant Atreids insulted him, when they gave away his weapons to the son of Laertes. Hail, goddess, the highest object of our awe.

PHILOKTETES

You have sailed here, clearly, with a just cause of pain. Your share of grief almost matches mine. What you say harmonizes with what I know of them—- the evil doings of the Atreids and Odysseus. I know that Odysseus spins out lies with his evil tongue, which he uses to create all manner of injustice; he brings no good to pass, I know. Still, it amazes me to learn that Ajax, seeing these things, should permit them.

NEOPTOLEMOS

He is dead now, friend. If he lived, they would never have stolen the weapons from me.

PHILOKTETES

So Ajax, too, is dead.

NEOPTOLEMOS

Dead. Think of it.

PHILOKTETES

It saddens me. But the son of Tydeus, and Odysseus, whom Sisyphos, I have heard, sold to Laertes, they who merited death are still alive.

NEOPTOLEMOS

You are right, of course. They are flourishing.
They live in high glory among the Greeks.

PHILOKTETES

And my old friend, that honest man, Nestor of Pylos?
Does he still live?
He used to contain their evil with his wise counsel.

NEOPTOLEMOS

Nestor has fallen on evil times.
His son, Antilochos, who was with him, is dead.

PHILOKTETES

O! You have told me of two deaths that hurt me most. What can I hope for, now that Ajax and Antilochos are dead and in the ground, while Odysseus walks, while he should be the one who is dead?

NEOPTOLEMOS

That one is a clever wrestler. Still, even the clever stumble.

PHILOKTETES

Tell me, by the gods, how was it with Patroklos, your father's most beloved friend?

NEOPTOLEMOS

He was dead, too. I will tell you in a word what happened: War never takes a bad man on purpose, but good men always.

PHILOKTETES

You are right. Let me ask you, then, of one who is worthless, but cunning and clever with the words he uses.

NEOPTOLEMOS

You can mean only Odysseus.

PHILOKTETES

No, not him. I mean Thersites, who was never content to speak just once, although no one allowed him to speak at all. Is he alive?

NEOPTOLEMOS

I do not know him, but I have heard that he lives.

PHILOKTETES

He would be. No evil man has died. The gods, it seems, must care for them well. It pleases them to keep villains and traitors out of death's hands; but they always send good men out of the living world. How can I make sense of what goes on, when, praising the gods, I discover that they're evil?

NEOPTOLEMOS

For my part, Philoktetes, I will be more cautious. I'll keep watch on the Atreids and on Troy from afar. I will have no part of their company, where the worse is stronger than the better, where noble men die while cowards rule. I shall not acquiesce to the will of such men. Rocky Skyros will do very well for the future. I'll be content to stay at home.

Now I'll go to my ship. Philoktetes, may the gods keep you. Farewell, then, and may the gods lift this illness from you as you have long wished. Let us be off, men, to make ready for sailing when the gods permit it.

PHILOKTETES

Are you leaving already?

NEOPTOLEMOS

The weather is clearing.
Opportunity knocks but once, you know.
We must be provisioned and ready when it does.

PHILOKTETES

I beg you by your father, by your dear mother, by all you have ever loved at home: do not leave me here to live on in suffering, now that you have seen me, and heard what others have said about me. I am not important to you. Think of me anyway. I know that I will be a troublesome cargo for you, but accept that. To you and your noble kind, to be cruel is shameful; to be decent, honorable. If you leave me, it will make for an awful story. But if you take me, you'll have the best of men's praise, that is, if I live to see Oeta's fields. Come. Your trouble will last scarcely a day. You can manage that. Take me and stow me where you want, in the hold, on the prow, on the stern, anywhere that I will least offend you. Swear by Zeus, lord of suppliants, boy, that you will take me. I am trying to kneel before you, a cripple, lame. Do not leave me in this lonely place, where no one passes by. Take me to your home, or to the harbor of Euboean Chalkis. It is a short journey from there to Oeta, to the ridges of Trachis and smooth-flowing Spercheios. Show me there to my beloved father. I have long feared that he is dead, or else he would have come for me: I sent prayerful messages to him through travelers who happened along here, begging him to come himself and take me home. He is dead, then, or more likely the messengers held me in little regard, as messengers do, and hurried along to their homes. In you I have a guard and a herald. Save me. Have pity. Look how dangerously we mortals live, experiencing good, experiencing evil. If you are out of harm's way, expect horrible things, and when you live well, take extra care lest you be caught napping and be destroyed.

CHORUS

Take pity on him, lord. He has told us of many horrible torments. May such troubles fall on none of my friends. If, lord, you hate the terrible Atreids, put their treatment of him to your advantage. I would carry him, as he has asked, away with you on your swift-running ship, fleeing the gods' cruel punishment.

NEOPTOLEMOS

Be sure you are not too quick to plead, that when you have had your fill of the company that his illness will provide you, you do not stand by your words.

CHORUS

No. You will not be able to reproach me with that and still speak truly.

NEOPTOLEMOS

Then I would be ashamed to be less willing than you to serve this man. If you are sure, let us sail quickly. Make the man hurry. I won't refuse him my ship. May the gods keep us safe in leaving this land and give us safe passage where we wish to sail.

PHILOKTETES

O blessed day and dearest of men, and you, friend sailors, how can I make it clear to you, how closely you have bound me in your friendship. Let us go, my son. But first let us bow down and kiss the earth in gratitude, the earth of my home that is no home. Look inside and you will see how brave I must be by my very nature. To endure even the sight of such a place would have been too much for most men. But I have had to learn to withstand its evils.

CHORUS

Wait, and watch! Two men approach, one of our crew and a stranger to me—- let us hear from them. Then you may go inside.

TRADER

Son of Achilles, I ordered this sailor, who was guarding your ship with two other men, to tell me where you were. I came to this island not meaning to. Accident drove me to this place. I sail as captain of a cargo vessel from Ilium, to a place not far away—- Peparethos, rich in grapes and wine. I learned that these men are your companions and decided to stay until I'd spoken with you and received my reward. Perhaps you do not know your own concerns, the new things the Greeks have in store for you, no longer mere plans, but onrushing actions.

NEOPTOLEMOS

A blessing on you for thinking of me.
If I do not grow evil, your concern will keep you my friend.
Tell me more of what you said:
I want to know more of these new Greek tricks.

TRADER

Phoenix and Theseus's sons have sailed from Troy and are following you with an armed flotilla.

NEOPTOLEMOS

Do they plan to take me with violence or persuade me to return with them?

TRADER

I do not know. I tell you only what I have heard.

NEOPTOLEMOS

Are Phoenix and his friends so eager to jump when the Atreids tell them to?

TRADER

They have already jumped.
They're not wasting a second.

NEOPTOLEMOS

And Odysseus would not bring the message himself?
Does some fear now act upon his spirit?

TRADER

When I left, he and Tydeus's son were off chasing down another man.

NEOPTOLEMOS

Who is the man they now pursue?

TRADER

He is—-wait. First tell me who that man is, and tell me quietly.

NEOPTOLEMOS

The man is great Philoktetes, friend.

TRADER

Then ask no more questions. Get out of here, and quickly. Run away from this place.

PHILOKTETES

What is he saying to you, boy? Why does he bargain in the shadows, hiding his words from me?

NEOPTOLEMOS

I'm not sure what he means by all this.
But he'll have to speak openly to all of us.

TRADER

Son of Achilles, do not upbraid me before your men. I do much for them and get much in return, as a poor man must.

NEOPTOLEMOS

I am the Atreids' enemy.
He also hates them and so is my greatest friend.
You have come in friendship,
and you must speak openly.
Do not hide what you have heard.

TRADER

Think of what you're doing, boy.

NEOPTOLEMOS

I have been thinking.

TRADER

Then I will make this your responsibility.

NEOPTOLEMOS

Very well. Now speak.

TRADER

The two men you have heard of, Tydeus's son and Odysseus, hunt for Philoktetes. They are bound by oath to bring him back by persuasion or naked violence. And all the Greeks heard Odysseus swear to this, since he loudly boasted of sure success.

NEOPTOLEMOS

What can they hope to win, those men, to turn their thoughts after so many years to Philoktetes, whom they made an outcast? Do they miss him now? Or have the gods brought vengeance upon them, since they punish crime?

TRADER

I will tell you. You may not know this story. There was a seer from a noble family, one of Priam's sons, in fact, called Helenos. He was captured one night on a reconnaissance by Odysseus himself, who bears all our curses as a badge of dishonor. Odysseus tricked him, and paraded him before the whole Greek army. Helenos then poured out a flood of prophesy, especially about Troy, and how the Greeks would never take it until they were able to persuade Philoktetes to come to their aid, after he had been rescued from this place. The minute Odysseus heard him say this, he promised to fetch this man, either by persuasion or by force. If he failed, he said, they could punish him. Boy, now you know why I've urged you and those whom you care for to leave.

PHILOKTETES

Ah! He swore he would persuade me to sail off with him, the bastard? He'd sooner persuade me to come back from the grave, when I am dead, to rise up, as his father did.

TRADER

I don't know that story. I must leave you now.
May the gods help you all.