Euripides

“ Must thou heap thy bed
With gold of murdered men, to buy to thee
Thy strange man's arms? Justice! Why is not he
Who cast Orestes out, cast out again?
Not slain for me whom doubly he hath slain,
In living death, more bitter than of old
My sister's? Nay, when all the tale is told
Of blood for blood, what murder shall we make,
I and Orestes, for our father's sake?
Clytemnestra.
Aye, child; I know thy heart, from long ago.
Thou hast alway loved him best. 'Tis oft-time so:
One is her father's daughter, and one hot
To bear her mother's part. I blame thee not . . . ”

“ 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. ”

“ That sister is the central figure of the tragedy. A woman shattered in childhood by the shock of an experience too terrible for a girl to bear; a poisoned and a haunted woman, eating her heart in ceaseless broodings of hate and love, alike unsatisfied—hate against her mother and stepfather, love for her dead father and her brother in exile; a woman who has known luxury and state, and cares much for them; who is intolerant of poverty, and who feels her youth passing away. ”

“ Girt with thine own dead armies, wake, O wake!
Electra.
With all that died at I lion for thy sake . . .
Old Man.
⁠And hate earth's dark defilers; help us now!
Electra.
Dost hear us yet, O thou in deadly wrong,
Wronged by my mother?
Old Man.
⁠Child, we stay too long.
He hears; be sure he hears!
Electra.
⁠And while he hears,
I speak this word for omen in his ears:
"Aegisthus dies, Aegisthus dies." . . . Ah me,
My brother, should it strike not him, but thee,
This wrestling with dark death, behold, I too
Am dead that hour. Think of me as one true,
Not one that lives. ”

“ 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! . . . ”

“ Clytemnestra.
Not so, not so. I will but pleasure thee.
Electra.
I answer then. And, mother, this shall be
My prayer of opening, where hangs the whole:
Would God that He had made thee clean of soul!
Helen and thou—O, face and form were fair,
Meet for men's praise; but sisters twain ye were,
Both things of naught, a stain on Castor's star.
And Helen slew her honour, borne afar
In wilful ravishment: but thou didst slay
The highest man of the world. And now wilt say
'Twas wrought in justice for thy child laid low
At Aulis? . . .Ah, who knows thee as I know? ”

“ O Queen o'er Argos thronèd high,
⁠O Woman, sister of the twain,
⁠God's Horsemen, stars without a stain,
Whose home is in the deathless sky,
⁠Whose glory in the sea's wild pain,
Toiling to succour men that die:
Long years above us hast thou been,
⁠God-like for gold and marvelled power:
⁠Ah, well may mortal eyes this hour
Observe thy state: All hail, O Queen!
Enter from the right Clytemnestra on a chariot, accompanied by richly dressed Handmaidens.
Clytemnestra.
Down from the wain, ye dames of Troy, and hold
Mine arm as I dismount. . . . ”

“ Far off; there might be pity for thy son?
Clytemnestra.
I dare not! . . . Yes, I fear him. 'Tis mine own
Life, and not his, comes first. And rumour saith
His heart yet burneth for his father's death.
Electra.
Why dost thou keep thine husband ever hot
Against me?
Clytemnestra.
⁠'Tis his mood. And thou art not
So gentle, child!
Electra.
⁠My spirit is too sore!
Howbeit, from this day I will no more
Hate him.
Clytemnestra (with a flash of hope) .
⁠O daughter!—Then, indeed, shall he,
I promise, never more be harsh to thee!
Electra. ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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. ”

“ Straight yonder, where Aegisthus makes his prayer!
Electra.
Then seek my mother's presence, and declare
My news.
Old Man.
⁠Thy very words, child, as tho' spoke
From thine own lips!
Electra.
⁠Brother, thine hour is struck.
Thou standest in the van of war this day.
Orestes (rousing hirmelf) .
Aye, I am ready. . . . I will go my way,
If but some man will guide me.
Old Man.
⁠Here am I,
To speed thee to the end, right thankfully.
Orestes (turning as he goes and raising his hands to heaven) .
Zeus of my sires, Zeus of the lost battle,
Electra. ”

“ Electra.
God love thee for the sweetness of thy word!
Orestes.
God love the twain of us, both thee and me.
Electra.
He lives! Poor brother! In what land weareth he
His exile?
Orestes.
⁠Not one region nor one lot
His wasted life hath trod.
Electra.
⁠He lacketh not
For bread?
Orestes.
⁠Bread hath he; but a man is weak
In exile.
Electra.
⁠What charge laid he on thee? Speak.
Orestes.
To learn if thou still live, and how the storm,
Living, hath struck thee.
Electra.
⁠That thou seest; this form
Wasted . . .
Orestes. ”

“ There should be likeness in a brother's tread
And sister's? His is stronger every way.
Old Man.
But hast thou nothing . . . ? If he came this day
And sought to show thee, is there no one sign
Whereby to know him? . . . Stay; the robe was thine,
Work of thy loom, wherein I wrapt him o'er
That night, and stole him through the murderers' door.
Electra.
Thou knowest, when Orestes was cast out
I was a child. . . . If I did weave some clout
Of raiment, would he keep the vesture now
He wore in childhood? Should my weaving grow
As his limbs grew? . . . 'Tis lost long since. No more! ”

“ Would hold two queens!—O wild are woman's eyes
And hot her heart. I say not otherwise.
But, being thus wild, if then her master stray
To love far off, and cast his own away,
Shall not her will break prison too, and wend
Somewhere to win some other for a friend?
And then on us the world's curse waxes strong
In righteousness! The lords of all the wrong
Must hear no curse!—I slew him. ”

“ 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) . ”

“ He showed to thee, but darkness! Which do thou
Endure, as man must, chafing not. And now
Fare forth where Zeus and Fate have laid thy life.
⁠The maid Electra thou shalt give for wife
To Pylades; then turn thy head and flee
From Argos' land. 'Tis never more for thee
To tread this earth where thy dead mother lies.
Andy lo, in the air her Spirits, bloodhound eyes,
Most horrible yet Godlike, hard at heel
Following shall scourge thee as a burning wheel,
Speed-maddened. ”

“ What wouldst thou? Speak; the old fear nevermore
Need touch thee.
Electra.
⁠To let loose upon the dead
My hate! Perchance to rouse on mine own head
The sleeping hate of the world?
Orestes.
⁠No man that lives
Shall scathe thee by one word.
Electra.
⁠Our city gives
Quick blame; and little love have men for me.
Orestes.
If aught thou hast unsaid, sister, be free
And speak. ”

“ Of the friends of Argos whom
Durst I have sought, to aid me to the doom
I craved?—Speak if thou wouldst, and fear not me,
If yet thou deemst him slain unrighteously.
Leader.
Thy words be just, yet shame their justice brings;
A woman true of heart should bear all things
From him she loves. And she who feels it not,
I cannot reason of her, nor speak aught.
Electra.
Remember, mother, thy last word of grace,
Bidding me speak, and fear not, to thy face.
Clytemnestra. ”

“ Finds thee. . . . And should I wait thy word, to endure
A little for thine easing, yea, or pour
My strength out in thy toiling fellowship?
Thou hast enough with fields and kine to keep;
'Tis mine to make all bright within the door.
'Tis joy to him that toils, when toil is o'er,
To find home waiting, full of happy things.
Peasant.
If so it please thee, go thy way. The springs
Are not far off. And I before the morn
Must drive my team afield, and sow the corn
In the hollows.—Not a thousand prayers can gain
A man's bare bread, save an he work amain. ”

“ So is the self-conscious recognition of her "bitter burning brain" that interprets all things in a sort of distortion.—Observe, too, how instinctively she turns to the peasant for sympathy in the strain of her emotion. It is his entrance, perhaps, which prevents Orestes from being swept away and revealing himself. The peasant's courage towards two armed men is striking, as well as his courtesy and his sanity. He is the one character in the play not somehow tainted with blood-madness. ”