by Aeschylus
Now I can praise you, now I am here to mourn.
You were my father’s death, great robe, I hail you!
Even if I must suffer the work and the agony
and all the race of man -
I embrace you . . . you,
my victory, are my guilt, my curse, and still -
CHORUS:
No man can go through life
and reach the end unharmed.
Aye, trouble is now,
and trouble still to come.
ORESTES:
But still,
that you may know -
I see no end in sight,
I am a charioteer - the reins are flying, look,
the mares plunge off the track -
my bolting heart,
it beats me down and terror beats the drum,
my dance-and-singing master pitched to fury -
And still, while I still have some self-control,
I say to my friends in public: I killed my mother,
not with a little justice. She was stained
with father’s murder, she was cursed by god.
And the magic spells that fired up my daring?
One comes first. The Seer of Delphi who declared,
‘Go through with this and you go free of guilt.
Fail and -’
I can’t repeat the punishment.
What bow could hit the crest of so much pain?
PYLADES gives ORESTES a branch of olive and invests him in the robes of APOLLO, the wreath and insignia of suppliants to DELPHI.
Now look on me, armed with the branch and wreath,
a suppliant bound for the Navelstone of Earth,
Apollo’s sacred heights
where they say the fire of heaven can never die.
Looking at his hand that still retains the sword.
I must escape this blood . . . it is my own.
- Must turn towards his hearth,
none but his, the Prophet God decreed.
I ask you, Argos and all my generations,
remember how these brutal things were done.
Be my witness to Menelaus when he comes.
And now I go, an outcast driven off the land,
in life, in death, I leave behind a name for -
LEADER:
But you’ve done well. Don’t burden yourself
with bad omens, lash yourself with guilt.
You’ve set us free, the whole city of Argos,
lopped the heads of these two serpents once for all.
Staring at the women and beyond, ORESTES screams in terror.
ORESTES:
No, no ! Women - look - like Gorgons,
shrouded in black, their heads wreathed,
swarming serpents !
- Cannot stay, I must move on.
LEADER:
What dreams can whirl you so? You of all men,
you have your father’s love. Steady, nothing
to fear with all you’ve won.
ORESTES:
No dreams, these torments,
not to me, they’re clear, real - the hounds
of mother’s hate.
LEADER:
The blood’s still wet on your hands.
It puts a kind of frenzy in you . . .
ORESTES:
God Apollo!
Here they come, thick and fast,
their eyes dripping hate -
LEADER :
One thing
will purge you. Apollo’s touch will set you free
from all your . . . torments.
ORESTES:
You can’t see them
I can, they drive me on! I must move on -
He rushes out; PYLADES follows close behind.
LEADER:
Farewell then. God look down on you with kindness,
guard you, grant you fortune.
CHORUS:
Here once more, for the third time,
the tempest in the race has struck
the house of kings and run its course.
First the children eaten,
the cause of all our pain, the curse.
And next the kingly man’s ordeal,
the bath where the proud commander,
lord of Achaea’s armies lost his life.
And now a third has come, but who?
A third like Saving Zeus?
Or should we call him death?
Where will it end? -
where will it sink to sleep and rest,
this murderous hate, this Fury?
THE EUMENIDES
FOR MY DAUGHTERS
What climbs the stair?
Nothing that common women ponder on
If you are worth my hope ! Neither Content
Nor satisfied Conscience, but that great family
Some ancient famous authors misrepresent,
The Proud Furies each with her torch on high.
-W. B. YEATS, ‘To Dorothy Wellesley’
CHARACTERS
THE PYTHIA, the priestess of Apollo
APOLLO
HERMES
ORESTES
THE GHOST OF CLYTAEMNESTRA
CHORUS OF FURIES AND THEIR LEADER
ATHENA
Escorting Chorus of Athenian women
Men of the jury, herald, citizens
TIME AND SCENE: The FURIES have pursued ORESTES to the temple of APOLLO at Delphi. It is morning. The priestess of the god appears at the great doors and offers up her prayer.
PYTHIA:
First of the gods I honour in my prayer is Mother Earth,
the first of the gods to prophesy, and next I praise
Tradition, second to hold her Mother’s mantic seat,
so legend says, and third by the lots of destiny,
by Tradition’s free will - no force to bear her down -
another Titan, child of the Earth, took her seat
and Phoebe passed it on as a birthday gift to Phoebus,
Phoebus a name for clear pure light derived from hers.
Leaving the marsh and razorback of Delos, landing
at Pallas’ headlands flocked by ships, here he came
to make his home Parnassus and the heights.
And an escort filled with reverence brought him on,
the highway-builders, sons of the god of fire who tamed
the savage country, civilized the wilds - on he marched
and the people lined his way to cover him with praise,
led by Delphos, lord, helm of the land, and Zeus
inspired his mind with the prophet’s skill, with godhead,
made him fourth in the dynasty of seers to mount this throne,
but it is Zeus that Apollo speaks for, Father Zeus.
These I honour in the prelude of my prayers - these gods.
But Athena at the Forefront of the Temple crowns our legends.
I revere the nymphs who keep the Corycian rock’s deep hollows,
loving haunt of birds where the spirits drift and hover.
And Great Dionysus rules the land. I never forget that day
he marshalled his wild women in arms - he was all god,
he ripped Pentheus down like a hare in the nets of doom.
And the rushing springs of Pleistos, Poseidon’s force I call,
and the king of the sky, the king of all fulfilment, Zeus.
Now the prophet goes to take her seat. God speed me -
grant me a vision greater than all my embarkations past!
Turning to the audience.
Where are the Greeks among you? Draw your lots and enter.
It is the custom here. I will tell the future
only as the god will lead the way.
She goes through the doors and reappears in a moment, shaken, thrown to her knees by some terrific force.
Terrors -
terrors to tell, terrors all can see! -
they send me reeling back from Apollo’s house.
The strength drains, it’s very hard to stand,
crawling on all fours, no spring in the legs . . .
an old woman, gripped by fear, is nothing,
a child, nothing more.
Struggling to her feet, trying to compose herself.
I’m on my way to the vault,
it’s green with wreaths, and there at the Navelstone
I see a man - an abomination to god -
he holds the seat where suppliants sit for purging;
his hands dripping blood, and his sword just drawn,
and he holds a branch (it must have topped an olive)
wreathed with a fine tuft of wool, all piety,
fleece gleaming white. So far it’s clear, I tell you.
But there in a ring around the man, an amazing company -
women, sleeping, nestling against the benches . . .
women? No,
Gorgons I’d call them; but then with Gorgons
you’d see the grim, inhuman . . .
I saw a picture
years ago, the creatures tearing the feast
away from Phineus -
These have no wings,
I looked. But black they are, and so repulsive.
Their heavy, rasping breathing makes me cringe.
And their eyes ooze a discharge, sickening,
and what they wear - to flaunt that at the gods,
the idols, sacrilege! even in the homes of men.
The tribe that produced that brood I never saw,
or a plot of ground to boast it nursed their kind
without some tears, some pain for all its labour.
Now for the outcome. This is his concern,
Apollo the master of this house, the mighty power.
Healer, prophet, diviner of signs, he purges
the halls of others - He must purge his own.
She leaves. The doors of the temple open and reveal APOLLO rising over ORESTES; he kneels in prayer at the Navelstone, surrounded by the FURIES who are sleeping. HERMES waits in the background.
APOLLO:
No, I will never fail you, through to the end
your guardian standing by your side or worlds away!
I will show no mercy to your enemies! Now
look at these -
Pointing to the FURIES.
these obscenities! - I’ve caught them,
beaten them down with sleep.
They disgust me.
These grey, ancient children never touched
by god, man or beast - the eternal virgins.
Born for destruction only, the dark pit,
they range the bowels of Earth, the world of death,
loathed by men and the gods who hold Olympus.
Nevertheless keep racing on and never yield.
Deep in the endless heartland they will drive you,
striding horizons, feet pounding the earth for ever,
on, on over seas and cities swept by tides!
Never surrender, never brood on the labour.
And once you reach the citadel of Pallas, kneel
and embrace her ancient idol in your arms and there,
with judges of your case, with a magic spell -
with words - we will devise the master-stroke
that sets you free from torment once for all.
I persuaded you to take your mother’s life.
ORESTES:
Lord Apollo, you know the rules of justice,
know them well. Now learn compassion, too.
No one doubts your power to do great things.
APOLLO:
Remember that. No fear will overcome you.
Summoning HERMES from the shadows.
You, my brother, blood of our common Father,
Hermes, guard him well. Live up to your name,
good Escort. Shepherd him well, he is my suppliant,
and outlaws have their rights that Zeus reveres.
Lead him back to the world of men with all good speed.
APOLLO withdraws to his inner sanctuary; ORESTES leaves with HERMES in the lead. The GHOST OF CLYTAEMNESTRA appears at the Navelstone, hovering over the FURIES as they sleep.
THE GHOST OF CLYTAEMNESTRA:
You - how can you sleep?
Awake, awake - what use are sleepers now?
I go stripped of honour, thanks to you,
alone among the dead. And for those I killed
the charges of the dead will never cease, never -
I wander in disgrace, I feel the guilt, I tell you,
withering guilt from all the outraged dead!
But I suffered too, terribly, from dear ones,
and none of my spirits rages to avenge me.
I was slaughtered by his matricidal hand.
See these gashes -
Seizing one of the FURIES weak with sleep.
Carve them in your heart!
The sleeping brain has eyes that give us light;
we can never see our destiny by day.
And after all my libations . . . how you lapped
the honey, the sober offerings poured to soothe you,
awesome midnight feasts I burned at the hearthfire,
your dread hour never shared with gods.
All those rites, I see them trampled down.
And he springs free like a fawn, one light leap
at that - he’s through the thick of your nets,
he breaks away!
Mocking laughter twists across his face.
Hear me, I am pleading for my life.
Awake, my Furies, goddesses of the Earth!
A dream is calling - Clytaemnestra calls you now.
The FURIES mutter in their sleep.
Mutter on. Your man is gone, fled far away.
My son has friends to defend him, not like mine.
They mutter again.
You sleep too much, no pity for my ordeal.
Orestes murdered his mother - he is gone.
They begin to moan.
Moaning, sleeping - onto your feet, quickly.
What is your work? What but causing pain?
Sleep and toil, the two strong conspirators,
they sap the mother dragon’s deadly fury -
The FURIES utter a sharp moan and moan again, but they are still asleep.
FURIES:
Get him, get him, get him, get him -
there he goes.
THE GHOST OF CLYTAEMNESTRA:
The prey you hunt is just a dream -
like hounds mad for the sport you bay him on,
you never leave the kill.
But what are you doing?
Up I don’t yield to the labour, limp with sleep.
Never forget my anguish.
Let my charges hurt you, they are just;
deep in the righteous heart they prod like spurs.
You, blast him on with your gory breath,
the fire of your vitals - wither him, after him,
one last foray - waste him, burn him out!
She vanishes. The lead FURY urges on the pack.
LEADER:
Wake up!
I rouse you, you rouse her. Still asleep?
Onto your feet, kick off your stupor.
See if this prelude has some grain of truth.
The FURIES circle, pursuing the scent with hunting calls, and cry out singly when they find ORESTES gone.
FURIES:
- Aieeeeee - no, no, no, they do us wrong, dear sisters.
- The miles of pain, the pain I suffer . . .
and all for nothing, all for pain, more pain,
the anguish, oh, the grief too much to bear.
- The quarry’s slipped from the nets, our quarry lost and gone.
- Sleep defeats me . . . I have lost the prey.
- You - child of Zeus - you, a common thief!
- Young god, you have ridden down the powers
proud with age. You worship the suppliant,
the godless man who tears his parent’s heart -
- The matricide, you steal him away, and you a god!
- Guilt both ways, and who can call it justice?
- Not I: her charges stalk my dreams,
Yes, the charioteer rides hard,
her spurs digging the vitals,
under the heart, under the heaving breast -
- I can feel the executioner’s lash, it’s searing
deeper, sharper, the knives of burning ice -
- Such is your triumph, you young gods,
world dominion past all rights.
Your throne is streaming blood,
blood at the foot, blood at the crowning head -
- I can see the Navelstone of the Earth, it’s bleeding,
bristling corruption, oh, the guilt it has to bear -
Stains on the hearth! The Prophet stains the vault,
he cries it on, drives on the crime himself.
Breaking the god’s first law, he rates men first,
destroys the old dominions of the Fates.
He wounds me too, yet him he’ll never free,
plunging under the earth, no freedom then:
curst as he comes for purging, at his neck
he feels new murder springing from his blood.
APOLLO strides from his sanctuary in full armour, brandishing his bow and driving back the FURIES.
APOLLO:
Out, I tell you, out of these halls - fast! -
set the Prophet’s chamber free!
Seizing one of the FURIES, shaking an arrow across her face.
Or take
the flash and stab of this, this flying viper
