Part 12

CHORUS ’Twas thy word and we accept it: onward to the chance of war!

CLYTEMNESTRA Nay, enough, enough, my champion! we will smite and slay no more. Already have we reaped enough the harvest-field of guilt: Enough of wrong and murder, let no other blood be spilt. Peace, old men! and pass away unto the homes by Fate decreed, Lest ill valour meet our vengeance—’twas a necessary deed. But enough of toils and troubles—be the end, if ever, now, Ere thy talon, O Avenger, deal another deadly blow. ’Tis a woman’s word of warning, and let who will list thereto.

AEGISTHUS But that these should loose and lavish reckless blossoms of the tongue, And in hazard of their fortune cast upon me words of wrong,

And forget the law of subjects, and revile their ruler’s word—

CHORUS Ruler? but ’tis not for Argives, thus to own a dastard lord!

AEGISTHUS I will follow to chastise thee in my coming days of sway.

CHORUS Not if Fortune guide Orestes safely on his homeward way.

AEGISTHUS Ah, well I know how exiles feed on hopes of their return.

CHORUS Fare and batten on pollution of the right, while ’tis thy turn.

AEGISTHUS Thou shalt pay, be well assurèd, heavy quittance for thy pride

CHORUS Crow and strut, with her to watch thee, like a cock, his mate beside!

CLYTEMNESTRA Heed not thou too highly of them—let the cur-pack growl and yell: I and thou will rule the palace and will order all things well.

THE LIBATION-BEARERS

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

ORESTES CHORUS OF CAPTIVE WOMEN ELECTRA A NURSE CLYTEMNESTRA AEGISTHUS AN ATTENDANT PYLADES

The Scene is the Tomb of Agamemnon at Mycenae; afterwards, the Palace of Atreus, hard by the Tomb.

Orestes

L ord of the shades and patron of the realm That erst my father swayed, list now my prayer, Hermes, and save me with thine aiding arm, Me who from banishment returning stand On this my country; lo, my foot is set On this grave-mound, and herald-like, as thou, Once and again, I bid my father hear. And these twin locks, from mine head shorn, I bring, And one to Inachus the river-god, My young life’s nurturer, I dedicate, And one in sign of mourning unfulfilled I lay, though late, on this my father’s grave. For O my father, not beside thy corse Stood I to wail thy death, nor was my hand Stretched out to bear thee forth to burial.

What sight is yonder? what this woman-throng Hitherward coming, by their sable garb Made manifest as mourners? What hath chanced? Doth some new sorrow hap within the home? Or rightly may I deem that they draw near Bearing libations, such as soothe the ire Of dead men angered, to my father’s grave? Nay, such they are indeed; for I descry Electra mine own sister pacing hither, In moody grief conspicuous. Grant, O Zeus, Grant me my father’s murder to avenge— Be thou my willing champion! Pylades, Pass we aside, till rightly I discern Wherefore these women throng in suppliance.

CHORUS Forth from the royal halls by high command I bear libations for the dead. Rings on my smitten breast my smiting hand, And all my cheek is rent and red, Fresh-furrowed by my nails, and all my soul This many a day doth feed on cries of dole. And trailing tatters of my vest, In looped and windowed raggedness forlorn, Hang rent around my breast, Even as I, by blows of Fate most stern Saddened and torn.

Oracular thro’ visions, ghastly clear, Bearing a blast of wrath from realms below, And stiffening each rising hair with dread, Came out of dream-land Fear, And, loud and awful, bade The shriek ring out at midnight’s witching hour, And brooded, stern with woe, Above the inner house, the woman’s bower. And seers inspired did read the dream on oath, Chanting aloud In realms below The dead are wroth; Against their slayers yet their ire doth glow.

Therefore to bear this gift of graceless worth— O Earth, my nursing mother!— The woman god-accurs’d doth send me forth Lest one crime bring another. Ill is the very word to speak, for none Can ransom or atone For blood once shed and darkening the plain. O hearth of woe and bane, O state that low doth lie! Sunless, accursed of men, the shadows brood Above the home of murdered majesty.

Rumour of might, unquestioned, unsubdued, Pervading ears and soul of lesser men, Is silent now and dead. Yet rules a viler dread; For bliss and power, however won, As gods, and more than gods, dazzle our mortal ken.

Justice doth mark, with scales that swiftly sway, Some that are yet in light; Others in interspace of day and night, Till Fate arouse them, stay; And some are lapped in night, where all things are undone.

On the life-giving lap of Earth Blood hath flowed forth; And now, the seed of vengeance, clots the plain— Unmelting, uneffaced the stain. And Atè tarries long, but at the last The sinner’s heart is cast Into pervading, waxing pangs of pain.

Lo, when man’s force doth ope The virgin doors, there is nor cure nor hope For what is lost,—even so, I deem, Though in one channel ran Earth’s every stream, Laving the hand defiled from murder’s stain, It were vain.

And upon me—ah me!—the gods have laid The woe that wrapped round Troy, What time they led down from home and kin Unto a slave’s employ— The doom to bow the head And watch our master’s will Work deeds of good and ill— To see the headlong sway of force and sin, And hold restrained the spirit’s bitter hate, Wailing the monarch’s fruitless fate, Hiding my face within my robe, and fain Of tears, and chilled with frost of hidden pain.

ELECTRA Hand maidens, orderers of the palace-halls, Since at my side ye come, a suppliant train, Companions of this offering, counsel me As best befits the time: for I, who pour Upon the grave these streams funereal, With what fair word can I invoke my sire? Shall I aver, Behold, I bear these gifts From well-beloved wife unto her well-beloved lord, When ’tis from her, my mother, that they come? I dare not say it: of all words I fail Wherewith to consecrate unto my sire These sacrificial honours on his grave. Or shall I speak this word, as mortals use— Give back, to those who send these coronals Full recompense—of ills for acts malign? Or shall I pour this draught for Earth to drink, Sans word or reverence, as my sire was slain, And homeward pass with unreverted eyes, Casting the bowl away, as one who flings The household cleansings to the common road? Be art and part, O friends, in this my doubt, Even as ye are in that one common hate Whereby we live attended: fear ye not The wrath of any man, nor hide your word Within your breast: the day of death and doom Awaits alike the freeman and the slave. Speak, then, if aught thou know’st to aid us more.