Part 20

CHORUS Lo, even for these I mourn, a double death: Yet since Orestes, driven on by doom, Thus crowns the height of murders manifold, I say, ’tis well—that not in night and death Should sink the eye and light of this our home.

There came on Priam’s race and name A vengeance; though it tarried long, With heavy doom it came. Came, too, on Agamemnon’s hall A lion-pair, twin swordsmen strong. And last, the heritage doth fall To him, to whom from Pythian cave The god his deepest counsel gave. Cry out, rejoice! our kingly hall Hath ’scaped from ruin—ne’er again Its ancient wealth be wasted all By two usurpers, sin-defiled— An evil path of woe and bane! On him who dealt the dastard blow Comes Craft, Revenge’s scheming child. And hand in hand with him doth go, Eager for fight, The child of Zeus, whom men below Call Justice, naming her aright. And on her foes her breath Is as the blast of death; For her the god who dwells in deep recess Beneath Parnassus’ brow, Summons with loud acclaim To rise, though late and lame, And come with craft that worketh righteousness.

For even o’er Powers divine this law is strong— Thou shalt not serve the wrong. To that which ruleth heaven beseems it that we bow. Lo, freedom’s light hath come! Lo, now is rent away The grim and curbing bit that held us dumb. Up to the light, ye halls! this many a day Too low on earth ye lay. And Time, the great Accomplisher, Shall cross the threshold, whensoe’er He choose with purging hand to cleanse The palace, driving all pollution thence. And fair the cast of Fortune’s die Before our state’s new lords shall lie, Not as of old, but bringing fairer doom Lo, freedom’s light hath come!

ORESTES There lies our country’s twofold tyranny, My father’s slayers, spoilers of my home. Erst were they royal, sitting on the throne, And loving are they yet,—their common fate Tells the tale truly, shows their trothplight firm. They swore to work mine ill-starred father’s death, They swore to die together; ’tis fulfilled. O ye who stand, this great doom’s witnesses, Behold this too, the dark device which bound My sire unhappy to his death,—behold The mesh which trapped his hands, enwound his feet! Stand round, unfold it—’tis the trammel-net That wrapped a chieftain; holds it that he see, The father—not my sire, but he whose eye Is judge of all things, the all-seeing Sun! Let him behold my mother’s damnèd deed, Then let him stand, when need shall be to me, Witness that justly I have sought and slain My mother; blameless was Aegisthus’ doom— He died the death law bids adulterers die. But she who plotted this accursèd thing To slay her lord, by whom she bare beneath Her girdle once the burden of her babes, Beloved erewhile, now turned to hateful foes— What deem ye of her? or what venomed thing, Sea-snake or adder, had more power than she To poison with a touch the flesh unscarred? So great her daring, such her impious will. How name her, if I may not speak a curse? A lion-springe! a laver’s swathing cloth, Wrapping a dead man, twining round his feet— A net, a trammel, an entangling robe? Such were the weapon of some strangling thief, The terror of the road, a cut-purse hound— With such device full many might he kill, Full oft exult in heat of villainy. Ne’er have my house so cursed an indweller— Heaven send me, rather, childless to be slain!

CHORUS Woe for each desperate deed! Woe for the queen, with shame of life bereft! And ah, for him who still is left, Madness, dark blossom of a bloody seed!

ORESTES Did she the deed or not? this robe gives proof, Imbrued with blood that bathed Aegisthus’ sword: Look, how the spurted stain combines with time To blur the many dyes that once adorned Its pattern manifold! I now stand here, Made glad, made sad with blood, exulting, wailing— Hear, O thou woven web that slew my sire! I grieve for deed and death and all my home— Victor, pollution’s damnèd stain for prize.

CHORUS Alas, that none of mortal men Can pass his life untouched by pain! Behold, one woe is here— Another loometh near.

ORESTES Hark ye and learn—for what the end shall be For me I know not: breaking from the curb My spirit whirls me off, a conquered prey, Borne as a charioteer by steeds distraught Far from the course, and madness in my breast Burneth to chant its song, and leap, and rave— Hark ye and learn, friends, ere my reason goes! I say that rightfully I slew my mother, A thing God-scorned, that foully slew my sire And chiefest wizard of the spell that bound me Unto this deed I name the Pythian seer Apollo, who foretold that if I slew, The guilt of murder done should pass from me; But if I spared, the fate that should be mine I dare not blazon forth—the bow of speech Can reach not to the mark, that doom to tell. And now behold me, how with branch and crown I pass, a suppliant made meet to go Unto Earth’s midmost shrine, the holy ground Of Loxias, and that renownèd light Of ever-burning fire, to ’scape the doom Of kindred murder: to no other shrine (So Loxias bade) may I for refuge turn. Bear witness, Argives, in the after time, How came on me this dread fatality. Living, I pass a banished wanderer hence, To leave in death the memory of this cry.

CHORUS Nay, but the deed is well; link not thy lips To speech ill-starred, nor vent ill-boding words— Who hast to Argos her full freedom given, Lopping two serpents’ heads with timely blow.

ORESTES Look, look, alas! Handmaidens, see—what Gorgon shapes throng up; Dusky their robes and all their hair enwound— Snakes coiled with snakes—off, off, I must away!

CHORUS Most loyal of all sons unto thy sire, What visions thus distract thee? Hold, abide; Great was thy victory, and shalt thou fear?

ORESTES These are no dreams, void shapes of haunting ill, But clear to sight my mother’s hell-hounds come!

CHORUS Nay, the fresh bloodshed still imbrues thine hands, And thence distraction sinks into thy soul.

ORESTES O king Apollo—see, they swarm and throng— Black blood of hatred dripping from their eyes!

CHORUS One remedy thou hast; go, touch the shrine Of Loxias, and rid thee of these woes.

ORESTES Ye can behold them not, but I behold them. Up and away! I dare abide no more.

CHORUS Farewell then as thou mayst,—the god thy friend Guard thee and aid with chances favouring.

Behold, the storm of woe divine That the raves and beats on Atreus’ line Its great third blast hath blown. First was Thyestes’ loathly woe— The rueful feast of long ago, On children’s flesh, unknown. And next the kingly chief’s despite, When he who led the Greeks to fight Was in the bath hewn down. And now the offspring of the race Stands in the third, the saviour’s place, To save—or to consume? O whither, ere it be fulfilled, Ere its fierce blast be hushed and stilled, Shall blow the wind of doom?

THE FURIES

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

THE PYTHIAN PRIESTESS APOLLO ORESTES THE GHOST OF CLYTEMNESTRA CHORUS OF FURIES ATHENA ATTENDANTS OF ATHENA TWELVE ATHENIAN CITIZENS

The Scene of the Drama is the Temple of Apollo, at Delphi: afterwards the Temple of Athena, on the Acropolis of Athens, and the adjoining Areopagus.

The Temple at Delphi

The Pythian Priestess

F irst, in this prayer, of all the gods I name The prophet-mother Earth; and Themis next, Second who sat—for so with truth is said— On this her mother’s shrine oracular. Then by her grace, who unconstrained allowed, There sat thereon another child of Earth— Titanian Phoebe. She, in after time, Gave o’er the throne, as birthgift to a god, Phoebus, who in his own bears Phoebe’s name. He from the lake and ridge of Delos’ isle Steered to the port of Pallas’ Attic shores, The home of ships; and thence he passed and came Unto this land and to Parnassus’ shrine. And at his side, with awe revering him, There went the children of Hephaestus’ seed, The hewers of the sacred way, who tame The stubborn tract that erst was wilderness. And all this folk, and Delphos, chieftain-king Of this their land, with honour gave him home; And in his breast Zeus set a prophet’s soul, And gave to him this throne, whereon he sits, Fourth prophet of the shrine, and, Loxias hight, Gives voice to that which Zeus his sire decrees.

Such gods I name in my preluding prayer, And after them, I call with honour due On Pallas, wardress of the fane, and Nymphs Who dwell around the rock Corycian, Where in the hollow cave, the wild birds’ haunt, Wander the feet of lesser gods; and there, Right well I know it, Bromian Bacchus dwells, Since he in godship led his Maenad host, Devising death for Pentheus, whom they rent Piecemeal, as hare among the hounds. And last, I call on Pleistus’ springs, Poseidon’s might, And Zeus most high, the great Accomplisher. Then as a seeress to the sacred chair I pass and sit; and may the powers divine Make this mine entrance fruitful in response Beyond each former advent, triply blest. And if there stand without, from Hellas bound, Men seeking oracles, let each pass in In order of the lot, as use allows; For the god guides whate’er my tongue proclaims.

Things fell to speak of, fell for eyes to see, Have sped me forth again from Loxias’ shrine, With strength unstrung, moving erect no more, But aiding with my hands my failing feet, Unnerved by fear. A beldame’s force is naught— Is as a child’s, when age and fear combine. For as I pace towards the inmost fane Bay-filleted by many a suppliant’s hand, Lo, at the central altar I descry One crouching as for refuge—yea, a man Abhorredd of heaven; and from his hands, wherein A sword new-drawn he holds, blood reeked and fell: A wand he bears, the olive’s topmost bough, Twined as of purpose with a deep close tuft Of whitest wool. This, that I plainly saw, Plainly I tell. But lo, in front of him, Crouched on the altar-steps, a grisly band Of women slumbers—not like women they, But Gorgons rather; nay, that word is weak, Nor may I match the Gorgons’ shape with theirs! Such have I seen in painted semblance erst— Winged Harpies, snatching food from Phineus’ board,— But these are wingless, black, and all their shape The eye’s abomination to behold. Fell is the breath—let none draw nigh to it— Wherewith they snort in slumber; from their eyes Exude the damnèd drops of poisonous ire: And such their garb as none should dare to bring To statues of the gods or homes of men. I wot not of the tribe wherefrom can come So fell a legion, nor in what land Earth Could rear, unharmed, such creatures, nor avow That she had travailed and brought forth death. But, for the rest, be all these things a care Unto the mighty Loxias, the lord Of this our shrine: healer and prophet he, Discerner he of portents, and the cleanser Of other homes—behold, his own to cleanse!

APOLLO Lo, I desert thee never: to the end, Hard at thy side as now, or sundered far, I am thy guard, and to thine enemies Implacably oppose me: look on them, These greedy fiends, beneath my craft subdued! See, they are fallen on sleep, these beldames old, Unto whose grim and wizened maidenhood Nor god nor man nor beast can e’er draw near. Yea, evil were they born, for evil’s doom, Evil the dark abyss of Tartarus Wherein they dwell, and they themselves the hate Of men on earth, and of Olympian gods. But thou, flee far and with unfaltering speed; For they shall hunt thee through the mainland wide Where’er throughout the tract of travelled earth Thy foot may roam, and o’er and o’er the seas And island homes of men. Faint not nor fail, Too soon and timidly within thy breast Shepherding thoughts forlorn of this thy toil; But unto Pallas’ city go, and there Crouch at her shrine, and in thine arms enfold Her ancient image: there we well shall find Meet judges for this cause and suasive pleas, Skilled to contrive for thee deliverance From all this woe. Be such my pledge to thee, For by my hest thou didst thy mother slay.