Philoctetes

Enter Odysseus, Neoptolemus; in the background, a Sailor.

Odysseus

Son of Achilles, Neoptolemus, Sprung from the noblest of the Grecian host, This is the beach of Lemnos, sea-girt isle, A land untrod, untenanted, where once, As bidden by the chiefs, I put ashore The Malian, son of Poeas, grievously Afflicted by his foot’s envenomed wound. For us there was no peace at sacrifice Or at libations, but the whole camp rang With his discordant screams and savage yells, Moaning and groaning. But what skills it now To tell this tale? No time for large discourse That might betray our presence and undo The plot I’ve laid to catch him presently. To work! it rests with thee to play thy part, And help me to discover hereabouts A cave with double mouth by nature made To catch on either side the winter sun, Or by the breeze that through the archway blows Invite in summer’s heat to gentle sleep; And lower down, a little to the left, A spring, if still it flows, thou art like to find. Go warily to work and bring me word, Whether he still is there or further gone. That done, thy part will be to listen, mine To instruct, that both may gain our common end.

Neoptolemus

What is thy hest?

Odysseus

Thou must cajole and cheat The soul of Philoctetes by fair words, And when he asks thee who and whence thou art, “Achilles’ son,” make answer; hide not this. But add, “I am sailing homewards and have left The fleet in dudgeon, wroth against the chiefs Who first prevailed on me to quit my home, Because without me Troy could ne’er be taken, And then upon my coming basely spurned My righteous title to Achilles’ arms, And gave them to Odysseus.” At my name Heap on me every scoff and scorn and taunt; It will not hurt me, but if thou should’st fail ’Twill sorely vex the Argives one and all. This man’s artillery we needs must have; No hope to capture Troy-town otherwise. Why thou canst hold free converse with the man Securely and I cannot, thou shalt learn. Thou wast not bound by oath or pledge to sail Nor wast thou with the fleet that first embarked; But naught of this, if taxed, can I deny. Therefore, if, bow in hand, he counters me, I die, and shall involve thee in my death. How to possess us of those matchless arms⁠— There is the puzzle; set thy wits to that. I know, my son, thy honest nature shrinks From glozing words and practice of deceit; But (for ’tis sweet to snatch a victory) Be bold to-day and honest afterwards. For one brief hour of lying follow me; All time to come shall prove thy probity.

Neoptolemus

Son of Laertes, what upon my ear Grates in the telling, I should hate to do. Such is my nature; any taint of guile I loathe, and such, they tell me, was my sire.

Sirs, who are ye and whence, who have landed here Upon this harbourless and desolate shore? What countrymen and of what race? If I Might make conjecture by your garb and mien, Ye are Greeks⁠—a sight most welcome to my eyes; But I would hear your voices. Shrink not back In horror at my savage aspect; speak; Pity a lonely, friendless, stricken man Thus stranded; if indeed as friends ye come, Make answer, I entreat ye; fair reply I may expect from you, as you from me.

Neoptolemus

Well, I will answer first thy question, Sir; Thou hast conjectured rightly, we are Greeks.

Philoctetes

O welcome utterance! Ah, how good to hear Those accents, long unheard, from one like thee! What quest, my son, what venture brought thee here, What breeze compelled thy canvas? Happy breeze! Speak, tell me all, that I may know my friend.

Neoptolemus

My home’s the wave-lapped Scyros, and I sail Homewards; my name is Neoptolemus, My sire Achilles. Now thou knowest all.

Philoctetes

Son of a sire most dear, and land most dear, Old Lycomedes’ foster-child, what quest Has brought thee hither, from what port didst sail?

Neoptolemus

Hither I sailed direct from Ilium.

Philoctetes

From Ilium? Surely thou wast not on board When first our expedition sailed for Troy.

Neoptolemus

What, wert thou partner in that enterprise?

Philoctetes

Dost thou not know with whom thou speak’st, my son?

Oh! in thy father’s, in thy mother’s name, By all the sanctities of home, my son, Leave me not, I adjure thee, here alone, Abandoned to such ills as thou hast seen And others worse whereof thou hast been told. Think of me as a stowaway! well I know The irksomeness of such a passenger. Bear it! to true nobility of soul All shame is shameful, honour honourable. And it would smirch thine honour to decline This task, my son; to do it, bring thee fame And glory, if ye carry me alive To Oeta. Come, ’tis but a day’s annoy. Take heart of courage; stow me where thou wilt⁠— The hold, the bows, the stern, no matter where⁠— Wherever I shall least offend my mates. By Zeus, the god of suppliants, O consent, O hearken! at thy knees I fall, albeit A cripple maimed and helpless. Leave me not An outcast in a land where no man dwells; But either take me safe to thine own home, Or to Euboea and Chalcodon’s realm, Whence I may cross to Oeta (’tis not far) And the Trachinian passes and the stream Of broad Spercheius, and behold once more My father. Ah! these weary years I’ve feared He must be dead, for messages full oft I sent by those who passed my way, entreating That he would fetch me in his own ship home.

Neoptolemus

Thou feelest thine old malady again?

Philoctetes

No, a mere twinge; I think ’tis passing now⁠— O God!

Neoptolemus

Why groan aloud and call on God?

Philoctetes

To save me and deliver me.⁠ ⁠… Ah me!

Neoptolemus

What ails thee? Wilt not tell me? Wilt not speak? That something troubles thee is very plain.

Philoctetes

My son, I am lost, undone! Impossible To hide it longer from you; lost, undone! It stabs me, stabs me through and through and through. Ah me! ah me! ah me! For heaven’s sake, if thou hast a sword at hand, Draw it, my son, strike swiftly, at a stroke Cut off this foot, no matter if it kill me; Quick, quick, my son!

Neoptolemus

What is this sudden fit That makes thee moan so and bewail thyself?

Philoctetes

Thou knowest, boy.

Neoptolemus

What is it?

Philoctetes

Thou knowest.

Neoptolemus

Nay, What ails thee?

Philoctetes

Knowest thou not? Ah me! Ah me!

Neoptolemus

The burden of thy pain is terrible.

Philoctetes

Yea, terrible, past words. O pity me.

Neoptolemus

What shall I do?

Philoctetes

Fear me not, leave me not: My ailment loves to play the truant, stray Awhile, and then come home again, belike Tired with its holiday.

Neoptolemus

Alas! poor wretch, Wretched indeed in all thy suffering proved. Wilt lean on me? Shall I take hold of thee?

Philoctetes