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BEST BROADCASTS OF 1938-39
Mantle. — A holiday spirit has settled over Athens. It is late in the afternoon, and the warm March sunshine blends with the revelry of these pleasure-mad Athenians assembled here for the plays produced at the annual religious festival in honor of the wine god, Dionysus. . . . Whole families anticipate this afternoon’s performance of “The Trojan Women.” Business is suspended; the law decrees that debts may not be collected during the festival season when thousands of visitors are here in Athens. . . . Strange to relate, prisoners, released temporarily from jail, are seated here with their guards. The stone seats rise in a great semicircle from the open space on the ground level, called the orchestra. In the center of the orchestra is an altar erected to the god, Dionysus. Every available seat is now occupied, and those who could not afford to pay the entrance fee have been admitted as guests of the state. At this moment the leading actors and members of the chorus are entering the orchestra level from the scene building which forms a background for the action of the play.
The scene is a space of waste groimd, except for a few huts right and left where the captive Trojan women selected for the victorious Greek soldiers are housed. After a long war the Greeks have taken Troy by storm. The women are held captive, their husbands are dead, their children taken from them, and they are waiting to be shipped off to slavery. Far in the background Troy, the wall in ruins, is slowly burning. In front, near the audience, an aged woman, Hecuba, the Trojan Queen, lies prostrate on the ground, grieving for the King, her husband, who was cut down before her eyes in their home as he climg to the altar; her sons, too, are dead, and she, a queen, is to be a slave to the conquerors. The day begins to dawn. . . . Hecuba, Queen of the Trojans, makes a feeble attempt to rise. . . .
Music. — Up and fade.
Hecuba. — Up from the ground . . . O weary head, O breaking neck,
This is no longer Troy. And we are not the lords of Troy.
Endure. The ways of fate are the ways of the wind. Drift with the stream . . . drift with fate.
Sorrow, my sorrow.
What sorrow is there that is not mine, grief to weep for ?
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