The Greek Plays
Page 15
to hear my need […*2
…] to Inachus,*3 for fostering me,
a hank of hair, and one to you I mourn for.
Father, I wasn’t here lamenting, stretching
my hand out as they carried you away.
(Enter from the palace a Chorus of old women in black, carrying jars. Electra is with them, also in black.)
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What’s this I see? What sort of gathering
of women in those stark black shrouds is coming
on the march? What does this tell me happened here?
Did some fresh grief fall on the house? Does this
procession pour libations for my father,
the offerings that soothe the dead below?
It must be! And that seems to be Electra,
my sister, as she walks along in grief—
just look. Zeus, grant me vengeance for the death
of my father. Bless my fight and fight beside me.
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Pylades, let’s stand back to get a clear
idea of the women’s supplication.
strophe 1
CHORUS: I have come, dispatched from the house,
conducting these libations, battering, clawing my face.
My cheeks glare with the gashes,
my nails cut their fresh furrows.
All my life, there is nowhere to graze
my heart but here, in cries of mourning.
These rents demolish the linen weave,
a snarling sound rises from the pain.
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Even the robe that falls over my breasts is stricken
by the calamity that kills all laughter.
antistrophe 1
How our hair stood on end at the shrill, clear voice
of the spirit who turns our household’s dreams to prophecy!
His rage panted out through sleep
in the dead of night. His fearful war-cry
rang at the heart of the house.
Fierce, he fell on the women’s quarters.
And from the judges of dreams, whom heaven vouches for,
the divine message rang, it echoed:
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those who went under the earth now lay their blame
with a passion of fury. Their rancor stands against the killers.
strophe 2
(indicating libation jars) Eagerly she has sent me, O Mother Earth,
to try to turn evil away with this favor he cannot favor—
the godless woman. But I am afraid
to make my speech for her.
What, after all, can ransom blood poured on the ground?
Oh, the unending anguish at this hearth!
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This house might as well be razed to its foundations!
Humankind loathes the sunless
dusk that fell like a veil on the palace
when its rulers died.
antistrophe 2
The awe that no battle, no violence, no war could overcome
before, as it shot through the ears and minds of the people,
has drawn away. A person
is afraid. Prosperity
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is a god, in human eyes, and more than a god—
but Justice, with her scale, loses sight of no one:
rushing to some in daylight, or letting
suffering wait for the loiterers
between the light and darkness;
or leaving them to sink in night’s pure lightlessness.
strophe 3
The earth—that nurtures us—was given blood to guzzle,
but the gory vengeance never washed in, never vanished.
Ruin, limitless pain in her hands, puts the offender off
until the full power of his sickness bursts against him.
antistrophe 3
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There is no cure for laying a hand on a bride
in her room. Just so, all earth’s watercourses, rushing
together over the hand that murder dirtied
would be no use to clean it.
epode
And me—I was driven out from the house of my fathers
to a slave’s share in life. It was the gods—they laid on me
what must be, whenever a siege chokes a city:
so “Yes!” and “Of course!”—in my mouth—are proper for both the just
and unjust acts of those who govern my existence.
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My mind is in their fist; I should fight down
bitter revulsion.*4 Still, I weep behind my sleeve
for my masters’ empty luck,
and my body is frozen hard with secret grief.
ELECTRA: Bond-slaves who keep the palace in good order,
since you attend me in this invocation,
help make my policy. What should I say
while pouring out these funeral offerings?
Is there a tender prayer I could address
to my father here? “I bring a cherished husband
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a message from his cherished wife”—my mother?
Or else—since this is mortal people’s custom—
“Make us a fair return for gifts of honor”?
These worthless gifts deserve what they deserve!
What about silent shame? That’s how my father
died. I could pour this out for earth to guzzle
and sling the jar away, not even looking,
and walk back home as if I’d thrown out garbage.
No, I don’t dare. But what is there to say
while pouring grain and honey on his tomb?
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Come in with me and help me plan it, friends:
the evil in this house is our shared usage.
Don’t hide what’s in your heart, in fear of someone.
The end that’s fated waits for both the free
and those who live beneath a master’s hand.
So tell me, is our thinking on one level?
CHORUS: Here, at your father’s grave—to me an altar—
I’ll give my heart a voice, as you command.
ELECTRA: Speak, in your reverence for my father’s tomb.
CHORUS: (indicating libation) Pour out, with that, the words goodwill must welcome.
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ELECTRA: Who has good will, among those close to me?
CHORUS: Yourself! And then whoever hates Aegisthus.
ELECTRA: So only I—and you—should hear my prayer?
CHORUS: Work it out on your own, then you can tell us!
ELECTRA: Who else belongs in our association?
CHORUS: Orestes isn’t here, but don’t forget him.
ELECTRA: Yes, I agree. That’s excellent advice.
CHORUS: And pray that those who’re guilty in this murder—
ELECTRA: What? Tell me what you mean—I wouldn’t know.
CHORUS: That someone—god or mortal—comes to them—
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ELECTRA: Who would that be? A judge or an avenger?
CHORUS: Simply prescribe the rite—death for a death.
ELECTRA: Could I, in reverence, ask the gods for this?
CHORUS: Why not? It’s paying back an enemy.
ELECTRA: Greatest of messengers to heaven and hell
[…]*5 the deep earth’s Hermes, call on
the spirits underground to hear my prayers,
call the protectors of my father’s palace,
and Earth herself, mother and nurturer
of everything, whose young return to her.
And I, who send the dead these holy streams,
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call to my father: “Pity me and dear
Orestes. Strike a light inside the house.
The two of us have lost our home; we’re sold
by our mother, and her ‘husband’ is our price—
Aegisthus, the accessory in your murder.
You couldn’t tell me from a slave. Orestes
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is driven from his property. They preen,
they gloat—they romp in what your suffering won.
I pray to you that blessed chance, somehow,
will bring Orestes here. And listen, Father:
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give me a life more decent than my mother’s
by far, and hands kept to their sacred duty.
These prayers are for ourselves; for our opponents,
Father, I pray that your avenger comes,
and Justice makes the killers pay with death—
I break off prayer for those good gifts to curse
these persons; but for us, come from below,
an escort for our blessings, and the gods,
and Earth, and Justice, who brings victory, help you!”
Over my prayers I pour my offerings.
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(to the Chorus) Honor him with your customary wailing,
and raise your song in reverence for the dead.
CHORUS: Let a tear sound aloud as it falls—since it goes to its destruction
for our master who was destroyed.
Let it fall in this stream of loyal weeping that is filth
and a curse to wrongdoers, that keeps them away.
Weep, now that our jars of offerings are empty.*6
Hear me, hear me, my honored master,
through your mind’s darkness.
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(prolonged keening) Let some powerful fighter come
to set the house free, and let Ares in combat threaten
with Scythian spears, let him work his broadsword at close quarters.
ELECTRA: My father has his gifts; the earth has drunk them—
(noticing Orestes’ offerings)
but what does that mean? Look! Come here and look!
CHORUS: You tell me, please. Fear’s making my heart dance.
ELECTRA: I see a severed curl laid on the tomb.
CHORUS: From whom? What man, what girl with her deep bosom?
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ELECTRA: It signals clearly—anyone could guess!
CHORUS: Explain and school me, though I’m so much older.
ELECTRA: I must have cut it from my head—who else?
CHORUS: Others who owe him mourning gifts are hostile.
ELECTRA: Really, it looks like plumage from the same bird…
CHORUS: Plumage, mane, tresses—whose? I need to know!
ELECTRA: It looks extremely similar to mine.
CHORUS: You mean this was Orestes’ smuggled gift?
ELECTRA: It gives me quite a striking sense of him.
CHORUS: But how could he have dared to make his way here?
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ELECTRA: For his father’s sake, he sent a hank of hair.
CHORUS: But what you say is nothing less to weep for—
suppose he never sees this land again?*7
ELECTRA: A wave of gall laps at my heart as well;
an arrow strikes and drives clear through my body.
Insatiable, thirsty for themselves,
my tears run, like a flood beneath a storm,
at this sight, this lock of hair. How could I picture
anyone else from Argos as its owner?
The killer didn’t cut it off, that’s certain;
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no, not my mother—not that “mother” suits
the monstrous spite she’s shown to us, her children.
But how can I affirm that this thing crowning
the tomb is from Orestes, whom I love
most among humankind? Hope fawns on me.
(cries in distress) I wish it were a messenger, whose mind
and voice kept doubt from whipping me in circles,
with clear advice: “No, turn your back on me:
it’s from an enemy’s head that I’ve been cut”—
or else, “I’m family; I can mourn with you,
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gracing the tomb and honoring our father.”
The gods whose help we call on are aware
what heavy, storming blasts are whirling us
like sailors. If we’re meant to find salvation,
a tiny seed could yield a massive trunk.
(Looking more closely at the ground)
And here—more evidence is in these footprints:
they’re just like mine, they really have the same look.
An outline drawn around our feet would match!
It’s him!—and a companion in his journey.
The traces of the heels, the shaping muscles
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tally with what my own tracks have to show.
The pangs for me, the chaos in my mind!
ORESTES: (emerging with Pylades) Announce your prayers’ fulfillment to the gods,
and pray that what’s to come will turn out well.
ELECTRA: (not recognizing him) But why? Tell me the blessing I have now.
ORESTES: Your long and earnest prayers have brought this sight.
ELECTRA: But who on earth do you suppose I called on?
ORESTES: Orestes—it’s for him that you’re tormented.
ELECTRA: And if that’s true, what answer do my prayers find?
ORESTES: It’s me. There’s no one dearer you could look for.
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ELECTRA: Stranger, is this a trick you twine around me?
ORESTES: Yes, if I ply the cord to trap myself!
ELECTRA: You find the horrors of my life amusing?
ORESTES: Well, if I do, I find my own the same.
ELECTRA: So can I speak to you as my Orestes?
ORESTES: You’re slow to know me here before your eyes,
but when you saw the lock I cut in mourning,
and then when you observed my tracks, my footprints
you started like a bird—you thought you’d found me.
Hold the curl to the spot I cut it from:
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your brother’s hair, exactly matching yours!
Look at this cloth—you made it—and your loom
struck into place these pictured animals.
Keep yourself steady; don’t go wild with joy:
I know the ruthlessness of our own family.
ELECTRA: You, dearest darling of our father’s house,
my tearful hope of rescuing our line!
Confident, brave, you’ll set the family upright.
Sweet presence, with four purposes for me:
I’m bound, first, to address you as my father.
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Then, the affection that I owe my mother
falls to you—strictest justice makes me hate her.
You are the sister brutally cut down
and the faithful brother who has honored me.
If only Power and Justice take our part—
with one more, Zeus, the greatest of the gods.
ORESTES: Zeus, Zeus! Come witness what’s been done to us.
Look at the father eagle’s young, bereaved
after he died, caught in the wreathing writhing
of a hideous viper. Desolate, they’re crushed
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by famine, famished. Still unfledged, they can’t
carry prey homeward, as their father did.
You have me here—and her as well, Electra—
before your eyes, a brood robbed of its father,
both of us banished, equally as homeless.
If you destroy the nestlings of a father
who gave you gifts and fervent worship, why
would someone like him honor you with feasting?
Destroy the eagle’s offspring, and you’ll never
again send mortals signs that they believe.
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A royal branch you let dry out can’t serve
your altars on the days for slaughtering oxen.
Save the house, lift it from the place it sprawls
to a great height—though we know how hard it fell.
CHORUS: Oh, c
hildren, saviors of your father’s home,
quiet! Someone might hear you, little ones,
and bring your news, for the sheer joy of chatter,
to those in power—whom I long to see
dead, burning in the bubbly, oozing pitch.
ORESTES: Apollo’s potent oracle will stay
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faithful to its command to meet this danger.
A lingering, shrill shriek pronounced for me
curses that now lodge in my warm heart, naming
the cost, should I not chase the guilty down
and hand them back the death they gave my father.
He said my own dear life would make this good.
Otherwise, I would bellow with repulsive
suffering, and the forfeit of my goods—
then, the explicit tally of afflictions
appeasing hateful powers beneath the earth:
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the fierce boils that assail, that gnash the skin,
the lichen growths devouring stem and root,
and the white down that blossoms on the damage.
He spoke of other raids the Furies make
in answer to the murder of a father,
shadowy arrows from the powers below
when the fallen in a family plead for vengeance:
lunacy, terror in the night at nothing
prey on a man and hound him from the city,
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his body mangled by a bronze-strung whip.
He may not share the drinking bowl or pour
glad offerings. Unseen, his father’s rage
stands between him and altars like a wall.
No one can take him in or stay with him.
Friendless, held in contempt, in time he’ll die,
pitifully shriveled, wasted from existence.
So shouldn’t prophecies like these convince me?
If not, I still must undertake this one
relief of many needs that run together:
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the god’s commands, my great grief for my father,
besides the destitution hounding me;
that way, the people of the greatest city
on earth, who gloriously conquered Troy,
won’t be two women’s henchmen—the male’s female
inside, or if he’s not, he’ll prove it soon.*9
(During the ode that follows, Orestes and Electra pour libations on the tomb and address their words to it.)
CHORUS: Powerful Fates, bring this to the end
that Zeus has sanctioned!
Come the way Justice’s steps turn.
Justice the goddess shouts: “Let an evil word