Part 4
Lo, how the woman-thing, the lioness Couched with the wolf—her noble mate afar— Will slay me, slave forlorn! Yea, like some witch, She drugs the cup of wrath, that slays her lord With double death—his recompense for me! Ay, ’tis for me, the prey he bore from Troy, That she hath sworn his death, and edged the steel! Ye wands, ye wreaths that cling around my neck, Ye showed me prophetess yet scorned of all— I stamp you into death, or e’er I die— Down, to destruction! Thus I stand revenged— Go, crown some other with a prophet’s woe. Look! it is he, it is Apollo’s self Rending from me the prophet-robe he gave. God! while I wore it yet, thou saw’st me mocked There at my home by each malicious mouth— To all and each, an undivided scorn. The name alike and fate of witch and cheat— Woe, poverty, and famine—all I bore; And at this last the god hath brought me here Into death’s toils, and what his love had made, His hate unmakes me now: and I shall stand Not now before the altar of my home, But me a slaughter-house and block of blood Shall see hewn down, a reeking sacrifice. Yet shall the gods have heed of me who die, For by their will shall one requite my doom. He, to avenge his father’s blood outpoured, Shall smite and slay with matricidal hand. Ay, he shall come—tho’ far away he roam, A banished wanderer in a stranger’s land— To crown his kindred’s edifice of ill, Called home to vengeance by his father’s fall: Thus have the high gods sworn, and shall fulfil.
And now why mourn I, tarrying on earth, Since first mine Ilion has found its fate And I beheld, and those who won the wall Pass to such issue as the gods ordain? I too will pass and like them dare to die!
[_Turns and looks upon the palace door._
Portal of Hades, thus I bid thee hail! Grant me one boon—a swift and mortal stroke, That all unwrung by pain, with ebbing blood Shed forth in quiet death, I close mine eyes.
CHORUS Maid of mysterious woes, mysterious lore, Long was thy prophecy: but if aright Thou readest all thy fate, how, thus unscared, Dost thou approach the altar of thy doom, As fronts the knife some victim, heaven-controlled?
CASSANDRA Friends, there is no avoidance in delay.
CHORUS Yet who delays the longest, his the gain.
CASSANDRA The day is come—flight were small gain to me!
CHORUS O brave endurance of a soul resolved!
CASSANDRA That were ill praise, for those of happier doom.
CHORUS All fame is happy, even famous death.
CASSANDRA Ah sire, ah brethren, famous once were ye!
[_She moves to enter the house, then starts back._
CHORUS What fear is this that scares thee from the house?
CASSANDRA Pah!
CHORUS What is this cry? some dark despair of soul?
CASSANDRA Pah! the house fumes with stench and spilth of blood.
CHORUS How? ’tis the smell of household offerings.
CASSANDRA ’Tis rank as charnel-scent from open graves.
CHORUS Thou canst not mean this scented Syrian nard?
CASSANDRA Nay, let me pass within to cry aloud The monarch’s fate and mine—enough of life. Ah friends! Bear to me witness, since I fall in death, That not as birds that shun the bush and scream I moan in idle terror. This attest When for my death’s revenge another dies, A woman for a woman, and a man Falls, for a man ill-wedded to his curse. Grant me this boon—the last before I die.
CHORUS Brave to the last! I mourn thy doom foreseen.
CASSANDRA Once more one utterance, but not of wail, Though for my death—and then I speak no more.
Sun! thou whose beam I shall not see again, To thee I cry, Let those whom vengeance calls To slay their kindred’s slayers, quit withal The death of me, the slave, the fenceless prey.
Ah state of mortal man! in time of weal, A line, a shadow! and if ill fate fall, One wet sponge-sweep wipes all our trace away— And this I deem less piteous, of the twain.
[_Exit into the palace._
CHORUS Too true it is! our mortal state With bliss is never satiate, And none, before the palace high And stately of prosperity, Cries to us with a voice of fear, _Away! ’tis ill to enter here!_
Lo! this our lord hath trodden down, By grace of heaven, old Priam’s town, And praised as god he stands once more On Argos’ shore! Yet now—if blood shed long ago Cries out that other blood shall flow— His life-blood, his, to pay again The stern requital of the slain— Peace to that braggart’s vaunting vain, Who, having heard the chieftain’s tale, Yet boasts of bliss untouched by bale!
[_A loud cry from within._
VOICE OF AGAMEMNON O I am sped—a deep, a mortal blow.
CHORUS Listen, listen! who is screaming as in mortal agony?
VOICE OF AGAMEMNON O! O! again, another, another blow!
CHORUS The bloody act is over—I have heard the monarch’s cry— Let us swiftly take some counsel, lest we too be doomed to die.
ONE OF THE CHORUS ’Tis best, I judge, aloud for aid to call, “Ho! loyal Argives! to the palace, all!”
ANOTHER Better, I deem, ourselves to bear the aid, And drag the deed to light, while drips the blade.
ANOTHER Such will is mine, and what thou say’st I say: Swiftly to act! the time brooks no delay.
ANOTHER Ay, for ’tis plain, this prelude of their song Foretells its close in tyranny and wrong.
ANOTHER Behold, we tarry—but thy name, Delay, They spurn, and press with sleepless hand to slay.
ANOTHER I know not what ’twere well to counsel now— Who wills to act, ’tis his to counsel how.
ANOTHER Thy doubt is mine: for when a man is slain, I have no words to bring his life again.
ANOTHER What? e’en for life’s sake, bow us to obey These house-defilers and their tyrant sway?
ANOTHER Unmanly doom! ’twere better far to die— Death is a gentler lord than tyranny.
ANOTHER Think well—must cry or sign of woe or pain Fix our conclusion that the chief is slain?
ANOTHER Such talk befits us when the deed we see— Conjecture dwells afar from certainty.
LEADER OF THE CHORUS I read one will from many a diverse word, To know aright, how stands it with our lord!
[_The scene opens, disclosing Clytemnestra, who comes forward. The body of Agamemnon lies, muffled in a long robe, within a silver-sided laver; the corpse of Cassandra is laid beside him._
CLYTEMNESTRA Ho, ye who heard me speak so long and oft The glozing word that led me to my will— Hear how I shrink not to unsay it all! How else should one who willeth to requite Evil for evil to an enemy Disguised as friend, weave the mesh straitly round him, Not to be overleaped, a net of doom? This is the sum and issue of old strife, Of me deep-pondered and at length fulfilled. All is avowed, and as I smote I stand With foot set firm upon a finished thing! I turn not to denial: thus I wrought So that he could nor flee nor ward his doom, Even as the trammel hems the scaly shoal, I trapped him with inextricable toils, The ill abundance of a baffling robe; Then smote him, once, again—and at each wound He cried aloud, then as in death relaxed Each limb and sank to earth; and as he lay, Once more I smote him, with the last third blow, Sacred to Hades, saviour of the dead. And thus he fell, and as he passed away, Spirit with body chafed; each dying breath Flung from his breast swift bubbling jets of gore, And the dark sprinklings of the rain of blood Fell upon me; and I was fain to feel That dew—not sweeter is the rain of heaven To cornland, when the green sheath teems with grain,
Elders of Argos—since the thing stands so, I bid you to rejoice, if such your will: Rejoice or not, I vaunt and praise the deed, And well I ween, if seemly it could be, ’Twere not ill done to pour libations here, Justly—ay, more than justly—on his corpse Who filled his home with curses as with wine, And thus returned to drain the cup he filled.
CHORUS I marvel at thy tongue’s audacity, To vaunt thus loudly o’er a husband slain.
CLYTEMNESTRA Ye hold me as a woman, weak of will, And strive to sway me: but my heart is stout, Nor fears to speak its uttermost to you, Albeit ye know its message. Praise or blame, Even as ye list,—I reck not of your words. Lo! at my feet lies Agamemnon slain, My husband once—and him this hand of mine, A right contriver, fashioned for his death. Behold the deed!
CHORUS Woman, what deadly birth, What venomed essence of the earth Or dark distilment of the wave, To thee such passion gave, Nerving thine hand To set upon thy brow this burning crown, The curses of thy land? _Our king by thee cut off, hewn down! Go forth_—they cry—_accursèd and forlorn, To hate and scorn!_
CLYTEMNESTRA O ye just men, who speak my sentence now, The city’s hate, the ban of all my realm! Ye had no voice of old to launch such doom On him, my husband, when he held as light My daughter’s life as that of sheep or goat, One victim from the thronging fleecy fold! Yea, slew in sacrifice his child and mine, The well-loved issue of my travail-pangs, To lull and lay the gales that blew from Thrace. That deed of his, I say, that stain and shame, Had rightly been atoned by banishment; But ye, who then were dumb, are stern to judge This deed of mine that doth affront your ears. Storm out your threats, yet knowing this for sooth, That I am ready, if your hand prevail As mine now doth, to bow beneath your sway: If God say nay, it shall be yours to learn By chastisement a late humility.
CHORUS Bold is thy craft, and proud Thy confidence, thy vaunting loud; Thy soul, that chose a murd’ress’ fate, Is all with blood elate— Maddened to know The blood not yet avenged, the damnèd spot Crimson upon thy brow. But Fate prepares for thee thy lot— Smitten as thou didst smite, without a friend, To meet thine end!
CLYTEMNESTRA Hear then the sanction of the oath I swear— By the great vengeance for my murdered child, By Atè, by the Fury unto whom This man lies sacrificed by hand of mine, I do not look to tread the hall of Fear, While in this hearth and home of mine there burns The light of love—Aegisthus—as of old Loyal, a stalwart shield of confidence— As true to me as this slain man was false, Wronging his wife with paramours at Troy, Fresh from the kiss of each Chryseis there! Behold him dead—behold his captive prize, Seeress and harlot—comfort of his bed, True prophetess, true paramour—I wot The sea-bench was not closer to the flesh, Full oft, of every rower, than was she. See, ill they did, and ill requites them now. His death ye know: she as a dying swan Sang her last dirge, and lies, as erst she lay, Close to his side, and to my couch has left A sweet new taste of joys that know no fear.
CHORUS Ah woe and well-a-day! I would that Fate— Not bearing agony too great, Nor stretching me too long on couch of pain— Would bid mine eyelids keep The morningless and unawakening sleep! For life is weary, now my lord is slain, The gracious among kings! Hard fate of old he bore and many grievous things, And for a woman’s sake, on Ilian land— Now is his life hewn down, and by a woman’s hand. O Helen, O infatuate soul, Who bad’st the tides of battle roll, O’erwhelming thousands, life on life, ’Neath Ilion’s wall! And now lies dead the lord of all. The blossom of thy storied sin Bears blood’s inexpiable stain, O thou that erst, these halls within, Wert unto all a rock of strife, A husband’s bane!
CLYTEMNESTRA Peace! pray not thou for death as though Thine heart was whelmed beneath this woe, Nor turn thy wrath aside to ban The name of Helen, nor recall How she, one bane of many a man, Sent down to death the Danaan lords, To sleep at Troy the sleep of swords, And wrought the woe that shattered all.
CHORUS Fiend of the race! that swoopest fell Upon the double stock of Tantalus, Lording it o’er me by a woman’s will, Stern, manful, and imperious— A bitter sway to me! Thy very form I see, Like some grim raven, perched upon the slain, Exulting o’er the crime, aloud, in tuneless strain!
CLYTEMNESTRA Right was that word—thou namest well The brooding race-fiend, triply fell! From him it is that murder’s thirst, Blood-lapping, inwardly is nursed— Ere time the ancient scar can sain, New blood comes welling forth again.
CHORUS Grim is his wrath and heavy on our home, That fiend of whom thy voice has cried, Alas, an omened cry of woe unsatisfied, An all-devouring doom!
Ah woe, ah Zeus! from Zeus all things befall— Zeus the high cause and finisher of all!— Lord of our mortal state, by him are willed All things, by him fulfilled!
Yet ah my king, my king no more! What words to say, what tears to pour Can tell my love for thee? The spider-web of treachery She wove and wound, thy life around, And lo! I see thee lie, And thro’ a coward, impious wound Pant forth thy life and die! A death of shame—ah woe on woe! A treach’rous hand, a cleaving blow!
CLYTEMNESTRA My guilt thou harpest, o’er and o’er! I bid thee reckon me no more As Agamemnon’s spouse. The old Avenger, stern of mood For Atreus and his feast of blood, Hath struck the lord of Atreus’ house, And in the semblance of his wife The king hath slain.— Yea, for the murdered children’s life, A chieftain’s in requital ta’en.
CHORUS Thou guiltless of this murder, thou! Who dares such thought avow? Yet it may be, wroth for the parent’s deed, The fiend hath holpen thee to slay the son. Dark Ares, god of death, is pressing on Thro’ streams of blood by kindred shed, Exacting the accompt for children dead, For clotted blood, for flesh on which their sire did feed.
Yet ah my king, my king no more! What words to say, what tears to pour Can tell my love for thee? The spider-web of treachery She wove and wound, thy life around, And lo! I see thee lie, And thro’ a coward, impious wound Pant forth thy life and die! A death of shame—ah woe on woe! A treach’rous hand, a cleaving blow!
CLYTEMNESTRA I deem not that the death he died Had overmuch of shame: For this was he who did provide Foul wrong unto his house and name: His daughter, blossom of my womb, He gave unto a deadly doom, Iphigenia, child of tears! And as he wrought, even so he fares. Nor be his vaunt too loud in hell; For by the sword his sin he wrought, And by the sword himself is brought Among the dead to dwell.
CHORUS Ah whither shall I fly? For all in ruin sinks the kingly hall; Nor swift device nor shift of thought have I, To ’scape its fall. A little while the gentler rain-drops fail; I stand distraught—a ghastly interval, Till on the roof-tree rings the bursting hail Of blood and doom. Even now fate whets the steel On whetstones new and deadlier than of old, The steel that smites, in Justice’ hold, Another death to deal. O Earth! that I had lain at rest And lapped for ever in thy breast, Ere I had seen my chieftain fall Within the laver’s silver wall, Low-lying on dishonoured bier! And who shall give him sepulchre, And who the wail of sorrow pour? Woman, ’tis thine no more! A graceless gift unto his shade Such tribute, by his murd’ress paid! Strive not thus wrongly to atone The impious deed thy hand hath done. Ah who above the god-like chief Shall weep the tears of loyal grief? Who speak above his lowly grave The last sad praises of the brave?
CLYTEMNESTRA Peace! for such task is none of thine. By me he fell, by me he died, And now his burial rites be mine! Yet from these halls no mourners’ train Shall celebrate his obsequies; Only by Acheron’s rolling tide His child shall spring unto his side, And in a daughter’s loving wise Shall clasp and kiss him once again!
CHORUS Lo! sin by sin and sorrow dogg’d by sorrow— And who the end can know? The slayer of to-day shall die to-morrow— The wage of wrong is woe. While Time shall be, while Zeus in heaven is lord, His law is fixed and stern; On him that wrought shall vengeance be outpoured— The tides of doom return. The children of the curse abide within These halls of high estate— And none can wrench from off the home of sin The clinging grasp of fate.
CLYTEMNESTRA Now walks thy word aright, to tell This ancient truth of oracle; But I with vows of sooth will pray To him, the power that holdeth sway O’er all the race of Pleisthenes— _Tho’ dark the deed and deep the guilt, With this last blood, my hands have spilt, I pray thee let thine anger cease! I pray thee pass from us away To some new race in other lands, There, if thou wilt, to wrong and slay The lives of men by kindred hands._
For me ’tis all sufficient meed, Tho’ little wealth or power were won, So I can say, _’Tis past and done. The bloody lust and murderous, The inborn frenzy of our house, Is ended, by my deed!_
[_Enter Aegisthus._
AEGISTHUS Dawn of the day of rightful vengeance, hail! I dare at length aver that gods above Have care of men and heed of earthly wrongs. I, I who stand and thus exult to see This man lie wound in robes the Furies wove, Slain in requital of his father’s craft. Take ye the truth, that Atreus, this man’s sire, The lord and monarch of this land of old, Held with my sire Thyestes deep dispute, Brother with brother, for the prize of sway, And drave him from his home to banishment. Thereafter, the lorn exile homeward stole And clung a suppliant to the hearth divine, And for himself won this immunity— Not with his own blood to defile the land That gave him birth. But Atreus, godless sire Of him who here lies dead, this welcome planned— With zeal that was not love he feigned to hold In loyal joy a day of festal cheer, And bade my father to his board, and set Before him flesh that was his children once. First, sitting at the upper board alone, He hid the fingers and the feet, but gave The rest—and readily Thyestes took What to his ignorance no semblance wore Of human flesh, and ate: behold what curse That eating brought upon our race and name! For when he knew what all unhallowed thing He thus had wrought, with horror’s bitter cry Back-starting, spewing forth the fragments foul, On Pelops’ house a deadly curse he spake— _As darkly as I spurn this damnèd food, So perish all the race of Pleisthenes!_ Thus by that curse fell he whom here ye see, And I—who else?—this murder wove and planned; For me, an infant yet in swaddling bands, Of the three children youngest, Atreus sent To banishment by my sad father’s side: But Justice brought me home once more, grown now To manhood’s years; and stranger tho’ I was, My right hand reached unto the chieftain’s life, Plotting and planning all that malice bade. And death itself were honour now to me, Beholding him in Justice’ ambush ta’en.
CHORUS Aegisthus, for this insolence of thine That vaunts itself in evil, take my scorn. Of thine own will, thou sayest, thou hast slain The chieftain, by thine own unaided plot Devised the piteous death: I rede thee well, Think not thy head shall ’scape, when right prevails, The people’s ban, the stones of death and doom.
AEGISTHUS This word from thee, this word from one who rows Low at the oars beneath, what time we rule, We of the upper tier? Thou’lt know anon, ’Tis bitter to be taught again in age, By one so young, submission at the word. But iron of the chain and hunger’s throes Can minister unto an o’erswoln pride Marvellous well, ay, even in the old. Hast eyes, and seest not this? Peace—kick not thus Against the pricks, unto thy proper pain!
CHORUS Thou womanish man, waiting till war did cease, Home-watcher and defiler of the couch, And arch-deviser of the chieftain’s doom!
AEGISTHUS Bold words again! but they shall end in tears. The very converse, thine, of Orpheus’ tongue: He roused and led in ecstasy of joy All things that heard his voice melodious; But thou as with the futile cry of curs Wilt draw men wrathfully upon thee. Peace! Or strong subjection soon shall tame thy tongue.
CHORUS Ay, thou art one to hold an Argive down— Thou, skilled to plan the murder of the king, But not with thine own hand to smite the blow!
AEGISTHUS That fraudful force was woman’s very part, Not mine, whom deep suspicion from of old Would have debarred. Now by his treasure’s aid My purpose holds to rule the citizens. But whoso will not bear my guiding hand, Him for his corn-fed mettle I will drive Not as a trace-horse, light-caparisoned, But to the shafts with heaviest harness bound. Famine, the grim mate of the dungeon dark, Shall look on him and shall behold him tame.
CHORUS Thou losel soul, was then thy strength too slight To deal in murder, while a woman’s hand, Staining and shaming Argos and its gods, Availed to slay him? Ho, if anywhere The light of life smite on Orestes’ eyes, Let him, returning by some guardian fate, Hew down with force her paramour and her!
AEGISTHUS How thy word and act shall issue, thou shalt shortly understand.
CHORUS Up to action, O my comrades! for the fight is hard at hand. Swift, your right hands to the sword hilt! bare the weapon as for strife—
AEGISTHUS Lo! I too am standing ready, hand on hilt for death or life.
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.