by Aeschylus
O Earth, bring father up to watch me fight.
ELECTRA:
O Persephone, give us power - lovely, gorgeous power!
ORESTES:
Remember the bath - they stripped away your life, my father.
ELECTRA:
Remember the all-embracing net - they made it first for you.
ORESTES:
Chained like a beast - chains of hate, not bronze, my father !
ELECTRA:
Shamed in the schemes, the hoods they slung around you!
ORESTES:
Does our taunting wake you, oh my father?
ELECTRA:
Do you lift your beloved head?
ORESTES:
Send us justice, fight for all you love,
or help us pin them grip for grip. They threw you-
don’t you long to throw them down in turn?
ELECTRA:
One last cry, father. Look at your nestlings
stationed at your tomb - pity
your son and daughter. We are all you have.
ORESTES:
Never blot out the seed of Pelops here.
Then in the face of death you cannot die.
The LEADER comes forward again.
LEADER:
The voices of children - salvation to the dead!
Corks to the net, they rescue the linen meshes
from the depths. This line will never drown!
ELECTRA:
Hear us - the long wail we raise is all for you!
Honour our call and you will save yourself.
LEADER:
And a fine thing it is to lengthen out the dirge;
you adore a grave and fate they never mourned
But now for action - now you’re set on action,
put your stars to proof.
ORESTES:
So we will.
One thing first, I think it’s on the track.
Why did she send libations? What possessed her,
so late, so salve a wound past healing?
To the unforgiving dead she sends this sop,
this . . . who am I to appreciate her gifts?
They fall so short of all her failings. True,
‘pour out your all to atone an act of blood,
you work for nothing’. So the saying goes.
I’m ready. Tell me what you know.
LEADER:
I know, my boy,
I was there. She had bad dreams. Some terror
came groping through the night, it shook her,
and she sent these cups, unholy woman.
ORESTES:
And you know the dream, you can tell it clearly?
LEADER:
She dreamed she bore a snake, said so herself and . . .
ORESTES:
Come to the point - where does the story end?
LEADER:
... she swaddled it like a baby, laid it to rest.
ORESTES:
And food, what did the little monster want?
LEADER:
She gave it her breast to suck—she was dreaming.
ORESTES:
And didn’t it tear her nipple, the brute inhuman-
LEADER :
Blood curdled the milk with each sharp tug ...
ORESTES:
No empty dream. The vision of a man.
LEADER:
. . . and she woke with a scream, appalled,
and rows of torches, burning out of the blind dark,
flared across the halls to soothe the queen,
and then she sent the libations for the dead,
an easy cure she hopes will cut the pain.
ORESTES:
No,
I pray to the Earth and father’s grave to bring
that dream to life in me. I’ll play the seer -
it all fits together, watch!
If the serpent came from the same place as I,
and slept in the bands that swaddled me, and its jaws
spread wide for the breast that nursed me into life
and clots stained the milk, mother’s milk,
and she cried in fear and agony - so be it.
As she bred this sign, this violent prodigy
so she dies by violence. I turn serpent,
I kill her. So the vision says.
LEADER:
You are the seer for me, I like your reading.
Let it come! But now rehearse your friends.
Say do this, or don’t do that -
ORESTES:
The plan is simple. My sister goes inside.
And I’d have her keep the bond with me a secret.
They killed an honoured man by cunning, so
they die by cunning, caught in the same noose.
So he commands,
Apollo the Seer who’s never lied before.
And I like a stranger, equipped for all events,
go to the outer gates with this man here,
Pylades, a friend, the house’s friend-in-arms.
And we both will speak Parnassian, both try
for the native tones of Delphi.
Now, say none
at the doors will give us a royal welcome
(after all the house is ridden by a curse),
well then we wait . . . till a passer-by will stop
and puzzle and make insinuations at the house,
‘Aegisthus shuts his door on the man who needs him.
Why, I wonder - does he know? Is he home?’
But once through the gates, across the threshold,
once I find that man on my father’s throne,
or returning late to meet me face to face,
and his eyes shift and fall-
I promise you,
before he can ask me, Stranger, who are you?’ -
I drop him dead, a thrust of the sword, and twist!
Our Fury never wants for blood. His she drinks unmixed,
our third libation poured to Saving Zeus.
Turning to ELECTRA.
Keep a close watch inside, dear, be careful.
We must work together step by step.
To the chorus.
And you,
better hold your tongues, religiously.
Silence, friends, or speak when it will help.
Looking towards PYLADES and the death-mound and beyond.
For the rest, watch over me, I need you -
guide my sword through struggle, guide me home!
As ORESTES, PYLADES and ELECTRA leave, the women reassemble for the chorus.
CHORUS:
Marvels, the Earth breeds many marvels,
terrible marvels overwhelm us.
The heaving arms of the sea embrace and swarm
with savage life. And high in the no man’s land of night
torches hang like swords. The hawk on the wing,
the beast astride the fields
can tell of the whirlwind’s fury roaring strong.
Oh but a man’s high daring spirit,
who can account for that? Or woman’s
desperate passion daring past all bounds?
She couples with every form of ruin known to mortals.
Woman, frenzied, driven wild with lust,
twists the dark, warm harness
of wedded love - tortures man and beast!
Well you know, you with a sense of truth
recall Althaia,
the heartless mother
who killed her son,
ai! what a scheme she had -
she rushed his destiny,
lit the bloody torch
preserved from the day he left her loins with a cry-
the life of the torch paced his,
burning on till Fate burned out his life.
There is one more in the tales of hate:
remember Scylla,
the girl of slaughter
seduced by foes
to take her father’s life.
The gift of Minos,
a choker forged in gold
turned her head and Nisos’ immortal lock she cut
as he slept away his breath . . .
ruthless bitch, now Hermes takes her down.
Now that I call to mind old wounds that never heal -
Stop, it’s time for the wedded love-in-hate,
for the curse of the halls,
the woman’s brazen cunning
bent on her lord in arms,
her warlord’s power-
Do you respect such things?
I prize the hearthstone warmed by faith,
a woman’s temper nothing bends to outrage.
First at the head of legendary crime stands Lemnos.
People shudder and moan, and can’t forget-
each new horror that comes
we call the hells of Lemnos.
Loathed by the gods for guilt,
cast off by men, disgraced, their line dies out.
Who could respect what god detests?
What of these tales have I not picked with justice?
The sword’s at the lungs ! - it stabs deep,
the edge cuts through and through
and Justice drives it - Outrage still lives on,
not trodden to pieces underfoot, not yet,
though the laws lie trampled down,
the majesty of Zeus.
The anvil of Justice stands fast
and Fate beats out her sword.
Tempered for glory, a child will wipe clean
the inveterate stain of blood shed long ago -
Fury brings him home at last,
the brooding mother Fury !
The women leave. ORESTES and PYLADES approach the house of Atreus.
ORESTES:
Slave, the slave! -
where is he? Hear me pounding the gates?
Is there a man inside the house?
For the third time, come out of the halls!
If Aegisthus has them welcome friendly guests.
A voice from inside,
PORTER:
All right, I hear you . . .
Where do you come from, stranger? Who are you?
ORESTES:
Announce me to the masters of the house.
I’ve come for them, I bring them news.
Hurry,
the chariot of the night is rushing on the dark !
The hour falls, the traveller casts his anchor
in an inn where every stranger feels at home.
Come out!
Whoever rules the house. The woman in charge.
No, the man, better that way.
No scruples then. Say what you mean,
man to man launch in and prove your point,
make it clear, strong.
CLYTAEMNESTRA emerges from the palace, attended by ELECTRA.
CLYTAEMNESTRA:
Strangers, please,
tell me what you would like and it is yours.
We’ve all you might expect in a house like ours.
We have warm baths and beds to charm away your pains
and the eyes of Justice look on all we do.
But if you come for higher things, affairs
that touch the state, that is the men’s concern
and I will stir them on.
ORESTES:
I am a stranger,
from Daulis, dose to Delphi, I’d just set out,
packing my own burden bound for Argos
(here I’d put my burden down and rest),
when I met a perfect stranger, out of the blue,
who asks about my way and tells me his.
Strophios,
a Phocian, so I gathered in conversation.
‘Well, my friend,’ he says, ‘out for Argos
in any case? Remember to tell the parents
he is dead, Orestes . . .
promise me please
(it’s only right), it will not slip your mind.
Then whatever his people want, to bring him home
or bury him here, an alien, all outcast here
forever, won’t you ferry back their wishes?
As it is, a bronze urn is armour to his embers.
The man’s been mourned so well . . .’
I only tell you
what I heard. And am I speaking now
with guardians, kinsmen who will care?
It’s hard to say. But a parent ought to know.
CLYTAEMNESTRA :
I, I-
your words, you storm us, raze us to the roots,
you curse of the house so hard to wrestle down!
How you range - targets at peace, miles away,
and a shaft from your lookout brings them down.
You strip me bare of all I love, destroy me,
now - Orestes.
And he was trained so well, we’d been so careful,
kept his footsteps dear of the quicksand of death.
Just now, the hope of the halls, the surgeon to cure
our Furies’ lovely revel- he seemed so close,
he’s written off the rolls.
ORESTES:
If only I were . . .
my friends, with hosts as fortunate as you
if only I could be known for better news
and welcomed like a brother. The tie between
the host and stranger, what is kinder?
But what an impiety, so it seemed to me,
not to bring this to a head for loved ones.
I was bound by honour, bound by the rights
of hospitality.
CLYTAEMNESTRA :
Nothing has changed.
For all that you receive what you deserve,
as welcome in these halls as one of us.
Wouldn’t another bear the message just as well?
But you must be worn from the long day’s journey-
time for your rewards.
To ELECTRA.
Escort him in,
where the men who come are made to feel at home.
He and his retinue, and fellow travellers.
Let them taste the bounty of our house.
Do it, as if you depended on his welfare.
And we will rouse the powers in the house
and share the news. We never lack for loved ones,
we will probe this turn of fortune every way.
ELECTRA leads ORESTES, PYLADES and their retinue into the halls; CLYTAEMNESTRA follows, while the chorus reassembles.
LEADER:
Oh dear friends who serve the house,
when can we speak out, when
can the vigour of our voices serve Orestes?
CHORUS:
Queen of the Earth, rich mounded Earth,
breasting over the lord of ships,
the king’s corpse at rest,
hear us now, now help us,
now the time is ripe-
Down to the pit Persuasion goes
with all her cunning. Hermes of Death,
the great shade patrols the ring
to guide the struggles, drive the tearing sword.
LEADER:
And I think our new friend is at his mischief.
Look, Orestes’ nurse in tears.
Enter CILISSA.
Where now, old-timer, padding along the gates?
With pain a volunteer to go your way.
NURSE:
‘Aegisthus,’
your mistress calling, ‘hurry and meet your guests.
There’s news. It’s clearer man to man, you’ll see.’
And she looks at the maids and pulls that long face
and down deep her eyes are laughing over the work
that’s done. Well and good for her. For the house
it’s the curse all over - the strangers make that plain.
But let him hear, he’ll revel once he knows.
Oh god,
the life is hard. The old griefs, the memories
mixing
, cups of pain, so much pain in the halls,
the house of Atreus . . . I suffered, the heart within me
always breaking, oh, but I never shouldered
misery like this. So many blows, good slave,
I took my blows.
Now dear Orestes -
the sweetest, dearest plague of all our lives!
Red from your mother’s womb I took you, reared you . . .
nights, the endless nights I paced, your wailing
kept me moving - led me a life of labour,
all for what?
And such care I gave it . . .
baby can’t think for itself, poor creature.
You have to nurse it, don’t you? Read its mind,
little devil’s got no words, it’s still swaddled.
Maybe it wants a bite or a sip of something,
or its bladder pinches - a baby’s soft insides
have a will of their own. I had to be a prophet.
Oh I tried, and missed, believe you me, I missed,
and I’d scrub its pretty things until they sparkled.
Washerwoman and wet-nurse shared the shop.
A jack of two trades, that’s me,
and an old hand at both . . .
and so I nursed Orestes,
yes, from his father’s arms I took him once,
and now they say he’s dead,
I’ve suffered it all, and now I’ll fetch that man,
the ruination of the house - give him the news,
he’ll relish every word.
