The Tragedies of Euripides, Volume I. — Reading Companion
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vailed with his spear, I miserable increased vigorously as some young branch, by the nurture I received at the hands of the Thracian, my father's friend. But after that both Troy and the life of Hector were put an end to, and my father's mansions razed to the ground, and himself falls at the altar built by the God, slain by the blood-polluted son of Achilles, the friend of my father slays me, wretched man, for the sake of my gold, and having slain me threw me into the surf of the sea, that he might possess the gold himself in his palace. But I am exposed on the shore, at another time on the ocean's surge, borne about by many ebbings and flowings of the waves, unwept, unburied; but at present I am hastening on my dear mother's account, having left my body, borne aloft this day already the third,[3] for so long has my wretched mother been present in this territory of the Chersonese from Troy. But all the Grecians, holding their ships at anchor, are sitting quiet on the shores of this land of Thrace. For Achilles the son of Peleus, appearing above his tomb, stayed all the army of the Grecians as they were directing homeward their sea dipped oars; and asks to receive my sister Polyxena as a dear victim, and a tribute of honor to his tomb. And this he will obtain, nor will he be without this gift from his friends; and fate this day leads forth my sister to death. But my mother will see the two corses of her two children, both mine and the unhappy virgin's; for I shall appear on a breaker before the feet of a female slave, that I wretched may obtain sepulture; for I have successfully entreated those who have power beneath to find a tomb, and to fall into my mother's hands. As much then as I wish to have shall be mine; but I will withdraw myself out of the way of the aged Hecuba, for she is advancing her step beyond the tent of Agamemnon, dreading my phantom. Alas! O my mother, who, from kingly palaces, hast beheld the day of slavery, how unfortunate art thou now, in the degree that thou wert once fortunate! but some one of the Gods counterpoising your state, destroys you on account of your ancient prosperity.
HEC. Lead onward, ye Trojan dames, the old woman before the tent; lead onward, raising up one now your fellow-slave, but once your queen; take me, bear me, conduct me, support my body, holding my aged hand; and I, leaning on the bending staff of my hand,[4] will hasten to put forward the slow motion of my joints. O lightning of Jove! O thou gloomy night! why, I pray, am I thus disquieted in the night with terrors, with phantoms? O thou venerable Earth, the mother of black-winged dreams, I renounce the nightly vision, which regarding my son who is preserved in Thrace, and regarding Polyxena my dear daughter, in my dreams have I beheld, a fearful sight, I have learned, I have understood. Gods of this land, preserve my son, who, my only son, and, [as it were,] the anchor of my house, inhabits the snowy Thrace under the protection of his father's friend. Some strange event will take place, some strain will come mournful to the mournful. Never did my mind so incessantly shudder and tremble. Where, I pray, ye Trojan dames, can I behold the divine spirit of Helenus, or Cassandra, that they may interpret my dreams? For I beheld a dappled hind torn by the blood-stained fang of the wolf, forcibly dragged from my bosom, a miserable sight. And dreadful this vision also; the spectre of Achilles came above the summit of his tomb, and demanded as a tribute of honor one of the wretched Trojan women. From my daughter then, from my daughter avert this fate, ye Gods, I implore you.
Euripides' tragedies, as rendered by Theodore Alois Buckley, repeatedly hinge on a character's sudden displacement. In the excerpt from Hippolytus, the chorus mourns that the hero is "sent forth to another land on account of his father's rage," and the messenger later describes how Hippolytus, after accepting banishment, yokes his chariot and drives into a deserted shore where a monstrous bull from the sea destroys him. This pattern of exile followed by a violent, often maritime catastrophe recurs across the volume: Medea is cast out from Corinth, Hecuba becomes a slave, and Iphigenia is led to Aulis under false pretenses of marriage.
The translation itself is deliberately literal, aiming to preserve the Greek word order and rhetorical figures. Buckley's preface notes that the first six plays were "carefully revised according to Dindorf's text," and his footnotes frequently point out textual cruces or variant readings. Readers should expect a scholarly rather than poetic English, with explanatory notes that assume some familiarity with Greek drama.
Choral Lament as Structural Anchor
In every play, the chorus provides a lyrical counterpoint to the action, often describing landscapes that mirror the protagonist's emotional state. In Hippolytus, the chorus sings of "the sands of the neighboring shore, and mountain wood, where with the swift-footed dogs he wont to slay the wild beasts." This pastoral memory contrasts sharply with the later scene on the "wave-beaten shore" where the messenger reports Hippolytus' death. Similarly, in Medea, the chorus of Corinthian women comments on the injustice of Medea's exile, while in Hecuba, the chorus of captive Trojan women laments the fall of Troy. Buckley's translation preserves the choral odes in full, often with line numbers and brief glosses on mythological references.
Recurring Imagery of the Sea and Shore
The sea functions as both a boundary and a source of divine punishment. In Hippolytus, Theseus calls upon his father Neptune, "the ruler of the ocean," to destroy his son, and the messenger describes a "voice like the subterraneous thunder of Jove" coming from the sea before the bull appears. In Iphigenia in Aulis, the Greek fleet is becalmed at Aulis, and the sacrifice is demanded to allow the ships to sail. In Iphigenia in Tauris, the sea separates Iphigenia from her homeland, and the plot revolves around escape by ship. Buckley's notes often explain geographical references, such as the "Saronic Sea" or "Henetian steeds," grounding the imagery in real locations.
Movement Between Palace and Wilderness
Euripides structures his plays around a spatial opposition between the domestic sphere (the palace or house) and an external, often hostile landscape. In Hippolytus, the action moves from the palace to the "desert country" and the shore. In Medea, the protagonist shifts from the house to the public space before the palace, and finally to the chariot of the sun. In Hecuba, the queen moves from the Greek camp to the tomb of Achilles. Buckley's translation marks these shifts with stage directions (e.g., "Enter from the palace") and the chorus often comments on the transition. The pattern emphasizes the isolation of the central figure as they leave the safety of home.
Buckley's Scholarly Apparatus and Textual Choices
Theodore Alois Buckley, a Christ Church scholar, aimed at a "literal" translation that would serve students reading the Greek original. His preface states that the translations are "based upon the same text" (Dindorf's) with exceptions noted at the foot of the page. The footnotes are predominantly critical, discussing variant readings or explaining difficult passages. For example, in Hippolytus, a note on line 42 glosses "Limna" as a place near Troezen. Buckley also includes an introduction summarizing Euripides' life and education, noting his study under Anaxagoras and Protagoras. Readers should be aware that the translation prioritizes accuracy over poetic flow, and the notes assume a reader who can consult the Greek.
Because this volume collects ten separate plays, readers may benefit from approaching each tragedy as an independent work while noting the recurring motifs of exile, divine vengeance, and choral commentary. Buckley's literal style and critical notes make this edition particularly useful for those studying the Greek text or comparing translations. The plays are arranged in the order given on the title page, beginning with Hecuba and ending with Iphigenia in Tauris, but they can be read in any sequence.
There is a particular ache in Euripides’ wandering choruses, those exiled women who can only mourn in unison, that stayed with me long after I closed the volume. It surfaced again, unexpectedly, while leafing through A Select Collection of Old English Plays, Volume 10 — Reading Companion. The language is rougher, the gods less talkative, yet the same quiet hopelessness seems to linger in the margins, waiting to be remembered.
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