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Complete Works of Euripides

Page 27

by Euripides


  What Prince of Argos…?

  ELECTRA.

  Not the man to whom

  My father thought to give me.

  ORESTES.

  Speak; that I

  May tell thy brother all.

  ELECTRA.

  ’Tis there, hard by,

  His dwelling, where I live, far from men’s eyes.

  ORESTES.

  Some ditcher’s cot, or cowherd’s, by its guise!

  ELECTRA (struck with shame for her ingratitude).

  A poor man; but true-hearted, and to me

  God-fearing.

  ORESTES.

  How? What fear of God hath he?

  ELECTRA.

  He hath never held my body to his own.

  ORESTES.

  Hath he some vow to keep? Or is it done

  To scorn thee?

  ELECTRA.

  Nay; he only scorns to sin

  Against my father’s greatness.

  ORESTES.

  But to win

  A princess! Doth his heart not leap for pride?

  ELECTRA.

  He honoureth not the hand that gave the bride.

  ORESTES.

  I see. He trembles for Orestes’ wrath?

  ELECTRA.

  Aye, that would move him. But beside, he hath

  A gentle heart.

  ORESTES.

  Strange! A good man…. I swear

  He well shall be requited.

  ELECTRA.

  Whensoe’er

  Our wanderer comes again!

  ORESTES.

  Thy mother stays

  Unmoved ‘mid all thy wrong?

  ELECTRA.

  A lover weighs

  More than a child in any woman’s heart.

  ORESTES.

  But what end seeks Aegisthus, by such art

  Of shame?

  ELECTRA.

  To make mine unborn children low

  And weak, even as my husband.

  ORESTES.

  Lest there grow

  From thee the avenger?

  ELECTRA.

  Such his purpose is:

  For which may I requite him!

  ORESTES.

  And of this

  Thy virgin life — Aegisthus knows it?

  ELECTRA.

  Nay,

  We speak it not. It cometh not his way.

  ORESTES.

  These women hear us. Are they friends to thee?

  ELECTRA.

  Aye, friends and true. They will keep faithfully

  All words of mine and thine.

  ORESTES (trying her).

  Thou art well stayed

  With friends. And could Orestes give thee aid

  In aught, if e’er…

  ELECTRA.

  Shame on thee! Seest thou not?

  Is it not time?

  ORESTES (catching her excitement).

  How time? And if he sought

  To slay, how should he come at his desire?

  ELECTRA.

  By daring, as they dared who slew his sire!

  ORESTES.

  Wouldst thou dare with him, if he came, thou too,

  To slay her?

  ELECTRA.

  Yes; with the same axe that slew

  My father!

  ORESTES.

  ’Tis thy message? And thy mood

  Unchanging?

  ELECTRA.

  Let me shed my mother’s blood,

  And I die happy.

  ORESTES.

  God!… I would that now

  Orestes heard thee here.

  ELECTRA.

  Yet, wottest thou,

  Though here I saw him, I should know him not.

  ORESTES.

  Surely. Ye both were children, when they wrought

  Your parting.

  ELECTRA.

  One alone in all this land

  Would know his face.

  ORESTES.

  The thrall, methinks, whose hand

  Stole him from death — or so the story ran?

  ELECTRA.

  He taught my father, too, an old old man

  Of other days than these.

  ORESTES.

  Thy father’s grave…

  He had due rites and tendance?

  ELECTRA.

  What chance gave,

  My father had, cast out to rot in the sun.

  ORESTES.

  God, ’tis too much!… To hear of such things done

  Even to a stranger, stings a man…. But speak,

  Tell of thy life, that I may know, and seek

  Thy brother with a tale that must be heard

  Howe’er it sicken. If mine eyes be blurred,

  Remember, ’tis the fool that feels not. Aye,

  Wisdom is full of pity; and thereby

  Men pay for too much wisdom with much pain.

  LEADER.

  My heart is moved as this man’s. I would fain

  Learn all thy tale. Here dwelling on the hills

  Little I know of Argos and its ills.

  ELECTRA.

  If I must speak — and at love’s call, God knows,

  I fear not — I will tell thee all; my woes,

  My father’s woes, and — O, since thou hast stirred

  This storm of speech, thou bear him this my word —

  His woes and shame! Tell of this narrow cloak

  In the wind; this grime and reek of toil, that choke

  My breathing; this low roof that bows my head

  After a king’s. This raiment … thread by thread,

  ’Tis I must weave it, or go bare — must bring,

  Myself, each jar of water from the spring.

  No holy day for me, no festival,

  No dance upon the green! From all, from all

  I am cut off. No portion hath my life

  ‘Mid wives of Argos, being no true wife.

  No portion where the maidens throng to praise

  Castor — my Castor, whom in ancient days,

  Ere he passed from us and men worshipped him,

  They named my bridegroom! —

  And she, she!… The grim

  Troy spoils gleam round her throne, and by each hand

  Queens of the East, my father’s prisoners, stand,

  A cloud of Orient webs and tangling gold.

  And there upon the floor, the blood, the old

  Black blood, yet crawls and cankers, like a rot

  In the stone! And on our father’s chariot

  The murderer’s foot stands glorying, and the red

  False hand uplifts that ancient staff, that led

  The armies of the world!… Aye, tell him how

  The grave of Agamemnon, even now,

  Lacketh the common honour of the dead;

  A desert barrow, where no tears are shed,

  No tresses hung, no gift, no myrtle spray.

  And when the wine is in him, so men say,

  Our mother’s mighty master leaps thereon,

  Spurning the slab, or pelteth stone on stone,

  Flouting the lone dead and the twain that live:

  “Where is thy son Orestes? Doth he give

  Thy tomb good tendance? Or is all forgot?”

  So is he scorned because he cometh not….

  O Stranger, on my knees, I charge thee, tell

  This tale, not mine, but of dumb wrongs that swell

  Crowding — and I the trumpet of their pain,

  This tongue, these arms, this bitter burning brain;

  These dead shorn locks, and he for whom they died!

  His father slew Troy’s thousands in their pride;

  He hath but one to kill…. O God, but one!

  Is he a man, and Agamemnon’s son?

  LEADER.

  But hold: is this thy husband from the plain,

  His labour ended, hasting home again?

  Enter the PEASANT.

  PEASANT.

  Ha, who be these? St
range men in arms before

  My house! What would they at this lonely door?

  Seek they for me? — Strange gallants should not stay

  A woman’s goings.

  ELECTRA.

  Friend and helper! — Nay,

  Think not of any evil. These men be

  Friends of Orestes, charged with words for me!…

  Strangers, forgive his speech.

  PEASANT.

  What word have they

  Of him? At least he lives and sees the day!

  ELECTRA.

  So fares their tale — and sure I doubt it not!

  PEASANT.

  And ye two still are living in his thought,

  Thou and his father?

  ELECTRA.

  In his dreams we live.

  An exile hath small power.

  PEASANT.

  And did he give

  Some privy message?

  ELECTRA.

  None: they come as spies

  For news of me.

  PEASANT.

  Thine outward news their eyes

  Can see; the rest, methinks, thyself will tell.

  ELECTRA.

  They have seen all, heard all. I trust them well.

  PEASANT.

  Why were our doors not open long ago? —

  Be welcome, strangers both, and pass below

  My lintel. In return for your glad words

  Be sure all greeting that mine house affords

  Is yours. — Ye followers, bear in their gear! —

  Gainsay me not; for his sake are ye dear

  That sent you to our house; and though my part

  In life be low, I am no churl at heart.

  [The PEASANT goes to the ARMED SERVANTS at the back, to help them with the baggage.

  ORESTES (aside to ELECTRA).

  Is this the man that shields thy maidenhood

  Unknown, and will not wrong thy father’s blood?

  ELECTRA.

  He is called my husband. ’Tis for him I toil.

  ORESTES.

  How dark lies honour hid! And what turmoil

  In all things human: sons of mighty men

  Fallen to naught, and from ill seed again

  Good fruit: yea, famine in the rich man’s scroll

  Writ deep, and in poor flesh a lordly soul.

  As, lo, this man, not great in Argos, not

  With pride of house uplifted, in a lot

  Of unmarked life hath shown a prince’s grace.

  [To the PEASANT, who has returned.

  All that is here of Agamemnon’s race,

  And all that lacketh yet, for whom we come,

  Do thank thee, and the welcome of thy home

  Accept with gladness. — Ho, men; hasten ye

  Within! — This open-hearted poverty

  Is blither to my sense than feasts of gold.

  Lady, thine husband’s welcome makes me bold;

  Yet would thou hadst thy brother, before all

  Confessed, to greet us in a prince’s hall!

  Which may be, even yet. Apollo spake

  The word; and surely, though small store I make

  Of man’s divining, God will fail us not.

  [ORESTES and PYLADES go in, following the SERVANTS.

  LEADER.

  O never was the heart of hope so hot

  Within me. How? So moveless in time past,

  Hath Fortune girded up her loins at last?

  ELECTRA.

  Now know’st thou not thine own ill furniture,

  To bid these strangers in, to whom for sure

  Our best were hardship, men of gentle breed?

  PEASANT.

  Nay, if the men be gentle, as indeed

  I deem them, they will take good cheer or ill

  With even kindness.

  ELECTRA.

  ’Twas ill done; but still —

  Go, since so poor thou art, to that old friend

  Who reared my father. At the realm’s last end

  He dwells, where Tanaos river foams between

  Argos and Sparta. Long time hath he been

  An exile ‘mid his flocks. Tell him what thing

  Hath chanced on me, and bid him haste and bring

  Meat for the strangers’ tending. — Glad, I trow,

  That old man’s heart will be, and many a vow

  Will lift to God, to learn the child he stole

  From death, yet breathes. — I will not ask a dole

  From home; how should my mother help me? Nay,

  I pity him that seeks that door, to say

  Orestes liveth!

  PEASANT.

  Wilt thou have it so?

  I will take word to the old man. But go

  Quickly within, and whatso there thou find

  Set out for them. A woman, if her mind

  So turn, can light on many a pleasant thing

  To fill her board. And surely plenishing

  We have for this one day.— ’Tis in such shifts

  As these, I care for riches, to make gifts

  To friends, or lead a sick man back to health

  With ease and plenty. Else small aid is wealth

  For daily gladness; once a man be done

  With hunger, rich and poor are all as one.

  [The PEASANT goes off to the left; ELECTRA goes into the house.

  * * * * *

  CHORUS.

  O for the ships of Troy, the beat [Strophe 1.

  Of oars that shimmered

  Innumerable, and dancing feet

  Of Nereids glimmered;

  And dolphins, drunken with the lyre,

  Across the dark blue prows, like fire,

  Did bound and quiver,

  To cleave the way for Thetis’ son,

  Fleet-in-the-wind Achilles, on

  To war, to war, till Troy be won

  Beside the reedy river.

  Up from Euboea’s caverns came [Antistrophe 1.

  The Nereids, bearing

  Gold armour from the Lords of Flame,

  Wrought for his wearing:

  Long sought those daughters of the deep,

  Up Pelion’s glen, up Ossa’s steep

  Forest enchanted,

  Where Peleus reared alone, afar,

  His lost sea-maiden’s child, the star

  Of Hellas, and swift help of war

  When weary armies panted.

  There came a man from Troy, and told [Strophe 2.

  Here in the haven,

  How, orb on orb, to strike with cold

  The Trojan, o’er that targe of gold,

  Dread shapes were graven.

  All round the level rim thereof

  Perseus, on wingèd feet, above

  The long seas hied him;

  The Gorgon’s wild and bleeding hair

  He lifted; and a herald fair,

  He of the wilds, whom Maia bare,

  God’s Hermes, flew beside him.

  [Antistrophe 2.

  But midmost, where the boss rose higher,

  A sun stood blazing,

  And wingèd steeds, and stars in choir,

  Hyad and Pleiad, fire on fire,

  For Hector’s dazing:

  Across the golden helm, each way,

  Two taloned Sphinxes held their prey,

  Song-drawn to slaughter:

  And round the breastplate ramping came

  A mingled breed of lion and flame,

  Hot-eyed to tear that steed of fame

  That found Pirênê’s water.

  The red red sword with steeds four-yoked [Epode.

  Black-maned, was graven,

  That laboured, and the hot dust smoked

  Cloudwise to heaven.

  Thou Tyndarid woman! Fair and tall

  Those warriors were, and o’er them all

  One king great-hearted,

  Whom thou and thy false love did slay:

  Therefore the tribes of Heaven one day

  For
these thy dead shall send on thee

  An iron death: yea, men shall see

  The white throat drawn, and blood’s red spray,

  And lips in terror parted.

  [As they cease, there enters from the left a very old man, bearing a lamb, a wineskin, and a wallet.

  OLD MAN.

  Where is my little Princess? Ah, not now;

  But still my queen, who tended long ago

  The lad that was her father…. How steep-set

  These last steps to her porch! But faint not yet:

  Onward, ye failing knees and back with pain

  Bowed, till we look on that dear face again.

  [Enter ELECTRA.

  Ah, daughter, is it thou? — Lo, here I am,

  With gifts from all my store; this suckling lamb

  Fresh from the ewe, green crowns for joyfulness,

  And creamy things new-curdled from the press.

  And this long-storèd juice of vintages

  Forgotten, cased in fragrance: scant it is,

  But passing sweet to mingle nectar-wise

  With feebler wine. — Go, bear them in; mine eyes…

  Where is my cloak? — They are all blurred with tears.

  ELECTRA.

  What ails thine eyes, old friend? After these years

  Doth my low plight still stir thy memories?

  Or think’st thou of Orestes, where he lies

  In exile, and my father? Aye, long love

  Thou gavest him, and seest the fruit thereof

  Wasted, for thee and all who love thee!

  OLD MAN.

  All

  Wasted! And yet ’tis that lost hope withal

  I cannot brook. But now I turned aside

  To see my master’s grave. All, far and wide,

  Was silence; so I bent these knees of mine

  And wept and poured drink-offerings from the wine

  I bear the strangers, and about the stone

  Laid myrtle sprays. And, child, I saw thereon

  Just at the censer slain, a fleeced ewe,

  Deep black, in sacrifice: the blood was new

  About it: and a tress of bright brown hair

  Shorn as in mourning, close. Long stood I there

  And wondered, of all men what man had gone

  In mourning to that grave. — My child, ’tis none

  In Argos. Did there come … Nay, mark me now…

  Thy brother in the dark, last night, to bow

  His head before that unadorèd tomb?

  O come, and mark the colour of it. Come

  And lay thine own hair by that mourner’s tress!

  A hundred little things make likenesses

  In brethren born, and show the father’s blood.

  ELECTRA (trying to mask her excitement and resist the contagion of his).

  Old heart, old heart, is this a wise man’s mood?…

  O, not in darkness, not in fear of men,

  Shall Argos find him, when he comes again,

  Mine own undaunted … Nay, and if it were,

  What likeness could there be? My brother’s hair

  Is as a prince’s and a rover’s, strong

  With sunlight and with strife: not like the long

 

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