Part 6

CLYTEMNESTRA Old men of Argos, lieges of our realm, Shame shall not bid me shrink lest ye should see The love I bear my lord. Such blushing fear Dies at the last from hearts of human kind. From mine own soul and from no alien lips, I know and will reveal the life I bore, Reluctant, through the lingering livelong years, The while my lord beleaguered Ilion’s wall.

First, that a wife sat sundered from her lord, In widowed solitude, was utter woe— And woe, to hear how rumour’s many tongues All boded evil—woe, when he who came And he who followed spake of ill on ill, Keening Lost, lost, all lost! thro’ hall and bower. Had this my husband met so many wounds, As by a thousand channels rumour told, No network e’er was full of holes as he. Had he been slain, as oft as tidings came That he was dead, he well might boast him now A second Geryon of triple frame, With triple robe of earth above him laid— For that below, no matter—triply dead, Dead by one death for every form he bore. And thus distraught by news of wrath and woe, Oft for self-slaughter had I slung the noose, But others wrenched it from my neck away. Hence haps it that Orestes, thine and mine, The pledge and symbol of our wedded troth, Stands not beside us now, as he should stand. Nor marvel thou at this: he dwells with one Who guards him loyally; ’tis Phocis’ king, Strophius, who warned me erst, Bethink thee, queen, What woes of doubtful issue well may fall! Thy lord in daily jeopardy at Troy, While here a populace uncurbed may cry “Down with the council, down!” bethink thee too, ’Tis the world’s way to set a harder heel On fallen power. For thy child’s absence then Such mine excuse, no wily afterthought. For me, long since the gushing fount of tears Is wept away; no drop is left to shed. Dim are the eyes that ever watched till dawn, Weeping, the bale-fires, piled for thy return, Night after night unkindled. If I slept, Each sound—the tiny humming of a gnat, Roused me again, again, from fitful dreams Wherein I felt thee smitten, saw thee slain, Thrice for each moment of mine hour of sleep.

All this I bore, and now, released from woe, I hail my lord as watch-dog of a fold, As saving stay-rope of a storm-tossed ship, As column stout that holds the roof aloft, As only child unto a sire bereaved, As land beheld, past hope, by crews forlorn, As sunshine fair when tempest’s wrath is past, As gushing spring to thirsty wayfarer. So sweet it is to ’scape the press of pain. With such salute I bid my husband hail! Nor heaven be wroth therewith! for long and hard I bore that ire of old. Sweet lord, step forth, Step from thy car, I pray—nay, not on earth Plant the proud foot, O king, that trod down Troy! Women! why tarry ye, whose task it is To spread your monarch’s path with tapestry? Swift, swift, with purple strew his passage fair, That justice lead him to a home, at last, He scarcely looked to see. For what remains, Zeal unsubdued by sleep shall nerve my hand To work as right and as the gods command.

AGAMEMNON Daughter of Leda, watcher o’er my home, Thy greeting well befits mine absence long, For late and hardly has it reached its end. Know, that the praise which honour bids us crave, Must come from others’ lips, not from our own: See too that not in fashion feminine Thou make a warrior’s pathway delicate; Not unto me, as to some Eastern lord, Bowing thyself to earth, make homage loud. Strew not this purple that shall make each step An arrogance; such pomp beseems the gods, Not me. A mortal man to set his foot On these rich dyes? I hold such pride in fear, And bid thee honour me as man, not god.

Fear not—such footcloths and all gauds apart, Loud from the trump of Fame my name is blown; Best gift of heaven it is, in glory’s hour, To think thereon with soberness: and thou— Bethink thee of the adage, Call none blest Till peaceful death have crowned a life of weal. ’Tis said: I fain would fare unvexed by fear.

CLYTEMNESTRA Nay, but unsay it—thwart not thou my will!

AGAMEMNON Know, I have said, and will not mar my word.

CLYTEMNESTRA Was it fear made this meekness to the gods?

AGAMEMNON If cause be cause, ’tis mine for this resolve.

CLYTEMNESTRA What, think’st thou, in thy place had Priam done?

AGAMEMNON He surely would have walked on broidered robes.

CLYTEMNESTRA Then fear not thou the voice of human blame.

AGAMEMNON Yet mighty is the murmur of a crowd.

CLYTEMNESTRA Shrink not from envy, appanage of bliss.

AGAMEMNON War is not woman’s part, nor war of words.

CLYTEMNESTRA Yet happy victors well may yield therein.

AGAMEMNON Dost crave for triumph in this petty strife?

CLYTEMNESTRA Yield; of thy grace permit me to prevail!

AGAMEMNON Then, if thou wilt, let some one stoop to loose Swiftly these sandals, slaves beneath my foot: And stepping thus upon the sea’s rich dye, I pray, Let none among the gods look down With jealous eye on me—reluctant all, To trample thus and mar a thing of price, Wasting the wealth of garments silver-worth. Enough hereof: and, for the stranger maid, Lead her within, but gently: God on high Looks graciously on him whom triumph’s hour Has made not pitiless. None willingly Wear the slave’s yoke—and she, the prize and flower Of all we won, comes hither in my train, Gift of the army to its chief and lord. —Now, since in this my will bows down to thine, I will pass in on purples to my home.

CLYTEMNESTRA A Sea there is—and who shall stay its springs? And deep within its breast, a mighty store, Precious as silver, of the purple dye, Whereby the dipped robe doth its tint renew. Enough of such, O king, within thy halls There lies, a store that cannot fail; but I— I would have gladly vowed unto the gods Cost of a thousand garments trodden thus, (Had once the oracle such gift required) Contriving ransom for thy life preserved. For while the stock is firm the foliage climbs, Spreading a shade what time the dog-star glows; And thou, returning to thine hearth and home, Art as a genial warmth in winter hours, Or as a coolness, when the lord of heaven Mellows the juice within the bitter grape. Such boons and more doth bring into a home The present footstep of its proper lord. Zeus, Zeus, Fulfilment’s lord! my vows fulfil, And whatsoe’er it be, work forth thy will!

CHORUS Wherefore for ever on the wings of fear Hovers a vision drear Before my boding heart? a strain, Unbidden and unwelcome, thrills mine ear, Oracular of pain. Not as of old upon my bosom’s throne Sits Confidence, to spurn Such fears, like dreams we know not to discern. Old, old and gray long since the time has grown, Which saw the linkèd cables moor The fleet, when erst it came to Ilion’s sandy shore; And now mine eyes and not another’s see Their safe return.

Yet none the less in me The inner spirit sings a boding song, Self-prompted, sings the Furies’ strain— And seeks, and seeks in vain, To hope and to be strong!

Ah! to some end of Fate, unseen, unguessed, Are these wild throbbings of my heart and breast— Yea, of some doom they tell— Each pulse, a knell. Lief, lief I were, that all To unfulfilment’s hidden realm might fall.

Too far, too far our mortal spirits strive, Grasping at utter weal, unsatisfied— Till the fell curse, that dwelleth hard beside, Thrust down the sundering wall. Too fair they blow, The gales that waft our bark on Fortune’s tide! Swiftly we sail, the sooner all to drive Upon the hidden rock, the reef of woe.

Then if the hand of caution warily Sling forth into the sea Part of the freight, lest all should sink below, From the deep death it saves the bark: even so, Doom-laden though it be, once more may rise His household, who is timely wise.

How oft the famine-stricken field Is saved by God’s large gift, the new year’s yield! But blood of man once spilled, Once at his feet shed forth, and darkening the plain,— Nor chant nor charm can call it back again.

So Zeus hath willed: Else had he spared the leech Asclepius, skilled To bring man from the dead: the hand divine Did smite himself with death—a warning and a sign.

Ah me! if Fate, ordained of old, Held not the will of gods constrained, controlled, Helpless to us-ward, and apart— Swifter than speech my heart Had poured its presage out! Now, fretting, chafing in the dark of doubt, ’Tis hopeless to unfold Truth, from fear’s tangled skein; and, yearning to proclaim Its thought, my soul is prophecy and flame.