The Bacchae (1280-1327)

Ah! What do I see? What is this that I carry in my hands?

Look at it and learn more clearly.

I see the greatest grief, wretched that I am.

Does it seem to you to be like a lion?

No, but I, wretched, hold the head of Pentheus.

Yes, much lamented before you recognized him.

Who killed him? How did he come into my hands?

Miserable truth, how inopportunely you arrive!

Tell me. My heart leaps at what is to come.

You and your sisters killed him.

Where did he die? Was it here at home, or in what place?

Where formerly dogs divided Actaeon among themselves.

And why did this ill-fated man go to Kithairon?

He went to mock the god and your revelry.

But in what way did we go there?

You were mad, and the whole city was frantic with Bacchus.

Dionysus destroyed us—now I understand.

Being insulted with insolence, for you did not consider him a god.

And where is the body of my dearest child, father?

I have traced it with difficulty and brought it back.

Are its joints laid properly together?

What part did Pentheus have in my folly?

He, like you, did not revere the god, who therefore joined all in one ruin, both you and this one here, and thus destroyed the house and me,

, who am bereft of my male children and see this offspring of your womb, wretched woman, most miserably and shamefully slain. He was the hope of our line—you, child, who supported the house, son of my daughter,

an object of fear to the city; seeing you, no one wished to insult the old man, for you would have given a worthy punishment. But now I, great Kadmos, who sowed and reaped

a most glorious crop, the Theban people, will be banished from the house without honor. Dearest of men—for though you are dead I still count you among my dearest, child—no longer will you embrace me, calling me grandfather, touching my chin with your hand, child, and

saying: Who wrongs you, old man, who dishonors you? Who vexes and troubles your heart? Tell me, father, so that I can punish the one who does you wrong. But now I am miserable, while you are wretched, your mother is pitiful, and wretched too are your relatives.

If anyone scorns the gods, let him look to the death of this man and acknowledge them.

I grieve for you, Kadmos. Your daughter’s child has a punishment deserved indeed, but grievous to you.