ACT II Soliloquy
Now I am alone.
Oh, what a rogue and peasant slave am I!
Is it not monstrous that this player here,
But in a fiction, in a dream of passion,
Could force his soul so to his own conceit
That from her working all his visage wanned,
Tears in his eyes, distraction in his aspect,
A broken voice, and his whole function suiting
With forms to his conceit? And all for nothing—
For Hecuba!
What’s Hecuba to him or he to Hecuba
That he should weep for her? What would he do
Had he the motive and the cue for passion
That I have? He would drown the stage with tears
And cleave the general ear with horrid speech,
Make mad the guilty and appall the free,
Confound the ignorant, and amaze indeed
The very faculties of eyes and ears. Yet I,
A dull and muddy-mettled rascal, peak
Like John-a-dreams, unpregnant of my cause,
And can say nothing—no, not for a king,
Upon whose property and most dear life
A damned defeat was made. Am I a coward?
Who calls me “villain”? Breaks my pate across?
Plucks off my beard and blows it in my face?
Tweaks me by the nose? Gives me the lie i' th' throat
As deep as to the lungs? Who does me this?
Ha!
'Swounds, I should take it, for it cannot be
But I am pigeon-livered and lack gall
To make oppression bitter, or ere this
I should have fatted all the region kites
With this slave’s offal. Bloody, bawdy villain!
Remorseless, treacherous, lecherous, kindless villain!
O vengeance!
Why, what an ass am I! This is most brave,
That I, the son of a dear father murdered,
Prompted to my revenge by heaven and hell,
Must, like a whore, unpack my heart with words
And fall a-cursing like a very drab,
A scullion! Fie upon ’t, foh!
About, my brain.—Hum, I have heard
That guilty creatures sitting at a play
Have, by the very cunning of the scene,
Been struck so to the soul that presently
They have proclaimed their malefactions.
For murder, though it have no tongue, will speak
With most miraculous organ. I’ll have these players
Play something like the murder of my father
Before mine uncle. I’ll observe his looks.
I’ll tent him to the quick. If he do blench,
I know my course. The spirit that I have seen
May be the devil, and the devil hath power
T' assume a pleasing shape. Yea, and perhaps
Out of my weakness and my melancholy,
As he is very potent with such spirits,
Abuses me to damn me. I’ll have grounds
More relative than this. The play’s the thing
Wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the king.
Translated Version
Now I’m alone. Oh, what a mean low-life I am! It’s awful that this actor could force his
soul to feel made-up feelings in a work of make-believe. He grew pale, shed real tears,
became overwhelmed, his voice breaking with feeling and his whole being, even,
meeting the needs of his act—and all for nothing. For Hecuba!
What is Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba, that he would weep for her? Just imagine what
he would do if he had the cause for feeling that I do. He would drown the stage with his
tears and burst the audience’s ears with his terrible words, drive the guilty spectators
crazy, terrify the innocent ones, confuse the ignorant ones, and astound absolutely
everyone’s eyes and ears. But what do I, a grim and uncourageous rascal, do? Mope
around like a dreamer, not even bothering with plans for revenge, and I can say
nothing—nothing at all—on behalf of a king whose dear life was stolen. Am I a coward?
Is there anyone out there who’ll call me “villain” and slap me hard? Pull off my beard?
Pinch my nose? Call me the worst liar? By God, if someone would do that to me, I’d take
it, because I’m a lily-livered man—otherwise, I would’ve fattened up the local vultures
with the intestines of that low-life king a long time ago. Bloody, inhuman villain!
Remorseless, treacherous, sex-obsessed, unnatural villain! Ah, revenge! What an ass I
am. I’m so damn brave. My dear father’s been murdered, and I’ve been urged to seek
revenge by heaven and hell, and yet all I can do is stand around cursing like a whore in
the streets. Damn it! I need to get myself together here! Hmm…. I’ve heard that guilty
people watching a play have been so affected by the artistry of the scene that they are
driven to confess their crimes out loud.
Murder has no tongue, but miraculously it still finds a way to speak. I’ll have these actors
perform something like my father’s murder in front of my uncle. I’ll watch my uncle. I’ll
probe his conscience and see if he flinches. If he becomes pale, I know what to do. The
ghost I saw may be the devil, and the devil has the power to assume a pleasing disguise,
and so he may be taking advantage of my weakness and sadness to bring about my
damnation. I need better evidence than the ghost to work with. The play’s the thing to
uncover the conscience of the king.
The legend of Hecuba
Hecuba was married to Priam, king of Troy.
She has a son, Paris, who is responsible for the fall of Troy.
When Paris left Troy to find Helen, Hecuba and Cassandra both
tried to convince him to stay.
From the walls of Troy, Hecuba watched as the war raged on and
many of her sons were killed.
When the war was drawing to a close, Hecuba caught sight of
Priam struggling into his armor. Hecuba persuaded Priam to stay
with her and their daughters at the altar. Pyrrhus (Neoptolemus)
slew both Polites and Priam in plain sight of Hecuba.
In the Aeneid, Aeneas tells Dido of Priam and Hecuba's fates in the
fall of Troy.
"Hecuba." Mortal Women of the Trojan War. Stanford Press., 2010. Web. 7
Apr 2010.
<http://www.stanford.edu/~plomio/hecuba.html>.