[ORESTES, accompanied by PYLADES, enters; they approach the tomb of AGAMEMNON.]
I pray to Hermes of the Underworld,
custodian of my father’s powers:
come, act as keeper and confederate.
(3) This is the day of my return from exile to this land,
<and, now I am become a man, the time has come
to claim my heritage and seek out my revenge.
My father, conqueror of Troy,
was cast down from his throne> by furtive trickery,
the action of a woman’s hand,
<which pinioned him in lowly death.
Now, Hermes, help the dead to strengthen those who live,
and set upright once more their fallen claims.
With my loyal comrade, Pylades from Phocis>,
I stand here by my father’s sepulchre,
(5) and call on him below to hear and pay me heed:
<do not lie listless in the folds of dark,
but through your son assert your power once more.
[Cutting two locks of hair.]
Now that I’ve safely reached your tomb,
I dedicate two locks of hair, kept growing for this day.>
This one, in gratitude for nurturing my life,
I offer to the river Inachus.
(7) And second this, as token of my grief,
I place here on the stony ground,
<poor substitute for funeral-tears,>
because I was not there to mourn,
(9) nor lay my hand upon your bier,
as your poor corpse was carried out for burial.
<But now, to judge from your neglected tomb,
no proper rites are offered here,
and so your memory becomes,
just as our enemies must hope, obscured.>
10 Look, look! What is this group of women coming near,
conspicuous in their funereal black?
Whatever should I make of this?
Could some renewed disaster have beset the house?
Or am I right to think they may be bringing
offerings to pour out to my father,
as propitiation for the dead below?
Yes, that must be the reason, for I think I see Electra,
my own sister—she stands out in anguished grief.
O Zeus, grant me due vengeance for my father’s death;
be my confederate.
[ELECTRA and the CHORUS, dressed in black, are by now visible.]
20 Now, Pylades, let’s stand aside from here,
so we can learn more surely why these women
are approaching for this ritual.
[They hide.]
Sent from the palace I come,
bearing these libations;
see how my cheeks are defaced,
red with laceration,
furrows fresh dug by my nails.
Linen robes in tatters
30 scream through the rips by my breast
comfortless disasters.
Hair-raising cries from a dream,
anger gasped from slumbers,
deep from within in the night
roused the women’s chambers,
as it pressed hard on the house.
God-assured soothsayers
40 cried that those under the earth
rage against their slayers.
Mother Earth, our birth,
that godless woman sent me to do
this rite that is not right,
to try to keep her troubles at bay—
her voice was terrified.
For once that blood is spilled on the ground,
what ransom can be paid?
O hearth so overwhelmed with distress,
50 and house torn down, destroyed!
An utter dark denied any sun,
black dynastic hatred,
surrounds this place in its stifling gloom,
now that its lords lie dead.
Respect that was unconquered, unbowed,
has given way, distraught:
(60) yet Justice is bound to tip her scales,
by day or dusk or night.
Blood that’s been drunk down
by the earth, our nurse,
sets in vengeful clots
that will not disperse.
For the guilty ones
ruin without cease
grips and riddles them
70 with intense disease.
Just as there’s no cure
if one breaks the seals
round a virgin bed,
so if all the streams
could make confluence
to erase the stain
from murder-bloodied hands,
they still wash in vain.
When the gods enforced my city’s doom,
falling to onslaught in war,
I was taken from my father’s home
to live in slavery here.
So it’s proper for me to approve,
whether they’re just or unjust,
those who have the control of my life—
80 and keep abhorrence suppressed.
All the same, I hide my face behind
my cloak and secretly weep
at the senseless fates my masters bind,
my blood-flow frozen in grief.
You servant women, keepers of our house,
since you are here to help me with this supplication,
please advise me over this:
what words am I to say while pouring out
these funeral offerings?
How speak, yet with good sense?
How pray sincerely to my father?
Am I to say, “I bring these offerings
from a loving wife to her beloved husband”—
90 those words from my mother?
I have no heart for that, yet nothing else to say
as I pour out this liquid on my father’s tomb.
Or should I speak the customary words:
“May you give favor in return to those
who send these offerings, a gift to match their own”?
Or should I spill them on the ground
in silence, disrespectfully—the way my father died—
and walk away with eyes averted,
like one who throws away some pot of scourings left from ritual?
100 Please share in this decision with me, friends,
considering how we nurse within the house
a common hatred.
Don’t conceal your thoughts through fear of anyone:
the same fate waits for both the free
and those subjected to another’s rule.
So speak up if you have a better plan.
Since I respect your father’s tomb as if it were an altar,
I shall, as prompted, speak out from the heart:
while you are pouring, utter words that favor
those who sympathize with us.
110 And whom should I declare among our friends?
First say yourself and anyone who hates Aegisthus.
What others should I add as on our side?
Recall Orestes—even though he is abroad.
That is advice I find most welcome.
And as for those ones guilty of the killing . . .
Explain to me, what should I say of them?
. . . Pray that some god or human comes to deal with them.
120 You mean as judge? Or bringing justice?
Declare it plainly: one to kill them in their turn.
Can it be right for me to ask the gods for this?
Of course: your enemies should pay for wrongs in kind.
<I gratefully accept your words,
and now I have the confidence to pray out loud.>
O Hermes of the Underworld, please act for me,
and tell those deities beneath the ground,
who oversee my father’s heritage, to listen to my prayers;
so too may Earth herself, who brings forth everything
and then receives her produce back again.
And as I pour these liquids to the dead,
130 I call upon my father now to pity me;
and let Orestes light a flame within our house.
For, as things are, we are like vagrants,
sold off by our mother, who has bought herself
a partner in exchange, I mean Aegisthus,
who’s confederate, joint-guilty of your murdering.
So while I am no better than a slave,
Orestes still remains a fugitive,
far from his property; and all the while
they revel in the luxuries you labored for.
Here are my prayers for us, so listen to me, father:
may Orestes come back here by some good luck;
140 and grant that I myself may be more self-controlled
than my own mother, and more virtuous in deeds.
Against our enemies I ask for vengeance
so your killers shall be duly killed in turn.
I lay this hostile curse upon their heads:
to us, though, send good fortune,
helped by Earth and Justice who brings victory.
[She pours her offerings.]
Accompanied by prayers like these,
I pour out these libations.
150 And, women, it’s your place to garland them
with lamentations, and deliver hymns
restoring victory for the dead.
Hear our teardrops falling
for our buried ruler
on this honored chamber,
shield against miasma,
where we pour libations.
Hear us, mighty sovereign,
hear us from the night.
[They cry out in lament.]
160 May he come, the warrior:
liberate this household;
aim his piercing arrows;
draw his shining sword-blade,
ready for the fight.
My father has received his due libations through the earth.
[Agitated because she has seen something.]
But now here’s something new I call on you to share.
Please tell—my heart leaps up with fear.
Here on the tomb I’ve found a lock of hair.
What man could it have come from? Or what girl?
(170) There’s no one could have cut it off except myself.
True, those who should have mourned this way are enemies.
What’s more, this one looks closely similar to . . .
Tell me whose hair it’s like.
. . . it looks so very like my own.
You mean this is a secret offering from Orestes?
It looks exactly as his hair should be.
But how could he have dared to journey here?
180 He must have sent it as a tribute to his father.
This would be just as full of sorrow, if it means
he’s never to set foot upon this land.
A surge of anguish swells within my heart as well,
as though an arrow-point had pierced me through.
As I look on this lock of hair,
a rising flood of tears drop unrestrainedly,
I can’t imagine any other Argive is responsible—
it surely cannot be the killer cut it,
190 yes, my mother (though her viciousness
toward her children hardly fits that name).
The thought that this delight comes
from the dearest person in the world—
Orestes . . . I find that wish so tempting.
Ah, if only like some messenger
it could acquire a conscious voice!
Then I would not be racked with indecision,
but be certain either to dismiss this lock
as cut off from an enemy head,
or else to think of it as kindred in my mourning,
200 homage to this tomb and honor for my father.
[She now finds footprints and goes to step in them.]
Look, here are footprints, a second kind of evidence—
and they are comparable to mine.
The heels and shaping of the soles
210 are in proportion with my own.
This is so agonizing, soul-destroying.
(201) I call upon the gods: they know what sort
of tempest-storms are whirling me about.
Yet, if it is our lot to reach safe haven,
(204) then a mighty tree may grow up from a little seed.
Then tell the gods your prayers have met fulfillment,
and pray to win success in what is still to come.
Why? What favor have the gods done for me now?
You’re face to face with him you have been praying for.
How can you know who I’ve been crying for?
I know you have been struck with wonder for Orestes.
And how have I the answer to my prayers?
It’s me. No need to search for one who’s closer.
220 Is this some trick you’re winding round me, stranger?
In that case I’d be weaving plots around myself.
I see: you want to mock me in my misery?
I’m laughing at myself, then, if I laugh at you.
You really are Orestes? Is that what I should call you?
Now that you’re looking at me in the flesh,
you find me hard to recognize,
yet when you saw this lock of hair
you were elated, and you conjured up my image
as you traced your footprints over mine.
230 Now put this curl beside where it was cut;
[He produces a decorated piece of cloth.]
and look well at this cloth, the work of your own hands,
this weaving and the figure of a lion.
[ELECTRA embraces him.]
Stay calm, don’t let yourself be overcome with joy—
because, as I am well aware, our closest kin
are bitter enemies.
You are the dearest sweetheart
of our father’s house, the wept-for hope
our bloodline’s seed might be preserved.
Trust in your strength
and you can yet possess our property.
To see your face!
You have to fill four roles for me: my father’s,
240 then my mother’s—affection I divert to you
since she is bound to have my total hatred—
and my sister’s, cruelly sacrificed.
And then you are my brother,
my one true and only strength.
May Power and Justice and almighty Zeus, as third,
stand with you by your side.
Zeus, Zeus, look down upon these things:
see here the orphaned children of the eagle father,
who was crushed to death
within the fearsome viper’s squirming coils.
250 Starvation presses heavy on the orphans
who are not full-grown enough to fetch
their father’s prey back to their nesting-place.
In that way look on me and on Electra here,
bereft, and exiles from our property.
He was so generous, Zeus, in sacrifices made to you.
If you abandon us, his eagle-chicks,
where will you get such splendid feasting from?
Just as you could not send trustworthy signs to mortals
if you made extinct the breed of eagles,
260 so, if this royal stock were wholly shriveled up,
it could not help to keep your altars
stocked on sacrificial days.
Provide for us and from its remnants make
this household great, though now it seems so low.
Hush, children, you preservers of your father’s hearth,
in case someone should hear you, and through idle talk
tell everything to those in power.
One day I hope to see them torched in bubbling pitch!
270 Apollo’s powerful oracle commanded me
to carry out this dangerous task—
it will not let me down.
It warned me loud and clear about the chilling blights
that would invade my fevered heart, were I to fail
to run to earth those guilty of my father’s death
in just the way they did themselves—
which means that I must kill them in return.
It said that otherwise I’d pay with my own life,
and threatened me with many gruesome sufferings,
describing rabid fury from the vengeful powers of earth—
280 malign afflictions, greedy cankers of the flesh
that eat at healthy tissue, and of ulcers white with mold.
It told as well of other onslaughts from Erinyes
incited by a father’s blood,
dark forces which unleash the weaponry
of fallen kin who beg for retribution.
Madness and night-panic fears convulse him,
290 hounding him from home, his body mutilated.
Such a one cannot participate in offering libations,
since a father’s wrath debars him from all sacrificial altars;
and none will share a roof with him.
In time, devoid of rights, devoid of friends,
he dies, exhausted, desiccated.
Should I believe at all in oracles like these?
Well, even if I did not, still it must be done, the deed.
For there are many urgings which combine to this one end:
besides the god’s command,
300 there is the heavy burden of my grief,
and pressure from my lack of wealth;
and I should not allow the glorious citizens of Argos,
valiant conquerors of Troy, to live on as they are,
subjected to a brace of women.
Mighty Moirai, bring fulfillment,
just as Zeus would have it. Justice,
when collecting what is owing,
shouts out: “Hate-filled language should be
310 paid with hate-filled language: so too
deadly blows should be repaid with
deadly blows.” The ancient proverb
has it: Doing leads to suffering.
Father, fateful father,
what can I say, what can I do,
reaching from so far off
to where your grave-bed fetters you?
320 Light contests with darkness;
and so lament may gladden you.
The ravening pyre,
child, does not devour
the power of the dead.
Later they’re angered;
the power which can hurt
is raised to the light.
330 Tears for the father
trace justice further.
Hear this in turn, father:
cries of children by your tomb,
doubly tearful heartache.
Your grave has welcomed exiles home.
What’s good? What brings no harm?
Disaster can’t be overthrown.
340 Even so, a god may choose to
turn your song to more propitious.
Then instead of tombside dirges
we might hear a song of triumph
as it ushers through the palace
vintage that’s been freshly blended.
I wish you had been felled at Troy,
impaled by an enemy throw.
Then you’d have left your house with fame,
your children a living so fine
350 as to turn people’s eyes in the street;
your tomb-mound raised to a sight
seen over the sea from afar—
that would have been lighter to bear.
Under the ground
our majestic lord
is valued as dear
to the dear lords there;
360 for, king in life here,
he was honored with power,
and the scepter’s sway
that all men obey.
I don’t even wish that beneath
Troy’s walls you had gone to your death,
by Scamander’s dark stream to be laid
along with the other war-dead.
I’d rather that murderous pair
had met with their doom far from here,
370 and that I’d heard they were gone,
without ever knowing this pain.
What you speak of, daughter, would be
better far than gold or fortune—
but it’s nothing more than wishing.
Yet this double scourge cracks nearer:
all your allies lie in Hades,
while usurpers live and rule with
hands polluted, bringing shame on
both the father and his children.
380 That pierces me right through
like an arrow shot.
Zeus, Zeus, send from below,
though it may come late,
punishment to fall
upon those violent brutes,
to pay my father full
all they owe in debts.
Oh for the chance to sing out,
raising my jubilant cries
over the man as he’s struck,
over the wife as she dies.
390 Why should I try to hide these
wing-beats perturbing my heart?
Bitter winds drive on my soul,
squall-blasts of furious hate.
Almighty Zeus, when shall
you bring down your hand
to split apart their skulls?
That would assure this land.
I pray that justice shall
displace what is unjust.
I ask you, Earth, to hear,
and powers below, assist.
400 There’s a rule that lays it down that
spattering of life-blood spilling
on the ground must summon further
bloodshed. Murder calls upon an
Erinys to draw on deadly
retribution for the murdered.
O you rulers of the underworld,
and you powerful curses of the dead,
see this residue of Atreus’ blood,
helpless and deprived of heritage.
Tell us which way’s best to turn, O Zeus.
Now my heart too is disturbed,
hearing this pitiful claim,
and I’m diminished in hope,
my inner parts darkened with gloom
by the dismay you reveal.
When, though, you’re strong in your call,
boldness dislodges my hurt,
urging that all will be well.
What would be most convincing for our claim?
How our mother has inflicted pain?
420 She may stroke, but cannot make us calm,
since my heart is like a savage wolf,
deadened to a mother’s touch by wrath.
I have beaten my breast
to the beat of the Arian drum;
I have sung my lament
to the strains of the Kissian dirge,
with hands clutching my hair,
and with spattering blood thick as rain,
with hands clattering down
from above, drumming loud in my brain.
430 O mother, cruel-minded,
you made his cruel interment:
a king without his people,
without his proper weeping.
So heartlessly you buried
your husband, unlamented.
You tell of gross insult:
well, she must pay the sum
for bringing this insult
against our father’s name,
with help from the gods,
with help from my strength.
Then, when I’ve done with her,
I’ll gladly suffer death.
She amputated parts
440 from him; she who did that
in that state buried him,
eager to make his fate
unbearable for you
to live with all your days.
So now you’ve learned of how
your father was disgraced.
You tell of his lowly death.
I was kept well away in disgrace,
counted as of no worth,
kenneled prisoner deep in the house,
like some dangerous cur,
where my tears of grief secretly fell.
Now you’ve heard how it was,
450 mark it deeply incised on your soul.
Yes, listen and inscribe it;
drill your ear to absorb it.
This is the way things are now:
next rouse the passion to know
the future. And join battle
with unbending mettle.
Father, I call: join our cause.
Through my tears I add my voice.
We add this cry sent from all:
hear us straight, come to this light,
460 help us face those whom we hate.
Fight meets fight, right confronts right.
Gods, carry through what is just.
I tremble to hear your prayer.
Too long has fate had to wait:
may it respond to our prayers.
O pain bred in the house,
and discordant notes
of Ruin’s bloody strokes,
lamentable woes
impossible to bear,
470 difficult to close.
The house must find a way
to redress its wound,
not helped by outside hand,
but by inbred feud.
The gods below chant out
this refrain of blood.
Listen, blessed chthonic spirits,
send your help with ready favor
to the children: let them triumph.
My father, brought low in a manner so unfitting for a king,
480 grant my request to be the master of your heritage.
My father, I have this demand as well:
to overthrow Aegisthus and to win a home.
For only then will there be feasting in your name;
or else you’ll be deprived among the dead
when they are celebrated with burnt sacrifice.
And I shall bring drink-offerings on my wedding day,
drawn from the dowry of our house.
And I’ll revere this tomb above all others.
O Earth, send up my father; let him oversee our fight.
490 Persephone, bestow on us his power in all its splendor.
Do not forget the bath where you were hacked to death.
Do not forget the trap-net they invented.
You were snared in fetters, though not bronze.
Trussed up inside a cowardly covering.
Do these humiliations rouse you from your sleep?
And are you lifting up your much-loved head?
Send Justice as an ally to your friends;
or give us strength to get a grip as strong as theirs,
if, after your defeat, you want to wrest back victory.
500 And, father, hear this final call for help:
see here these chicks of yours, perched on your tomb.
Take pity on the crying of the female and the male.
And don’t wipe out the seed of this bloodline.
And then, though dead, you won’t have wholly died.
For children keep a man’s repute still living after death;
like corks, they hold the net afloat,
and stop the flaxen web from sinking down.
Hear us: for you we raise up our lament.
If you support our claims, you will preserve yourself.
510 It is quite right you have expressed yourselves at length
to make up for the lack of mourning at this tomb.
But next, since you are firmly set on deeds,
it is high time to start, and try your fate.
You’re right. But first, to keep on track,
I need to know just why she sent libations here.
What was the point in trying—far too late—
to make amends and heal that trauma too far gone for cure?
I see no sense in offering such a futile favor to the dead.
The gifts are far too paltry for the crime—
520 for as the proverb says, “Pour everything you have
to pay for one man’s blood, it’s labor wasted.”
So if you know the reason, please enlighten me.
I know, my child, since I was there.
It was bad dreams and terrors of the night that shook
that godless woman into sending these libations.
And did you find out what this dream was all about?
She dreamt, she said, of giving birth . . . but to a snake.
Where does this story lead? How does it end?
She wrapped it tight with cloth, just like a child.
530 What sort of feeding did it want, this new-born creature?
Within her dream she offered her own breast.
But was her nipple not then punctured by its fangs?
It sucked out clots of blood mixed with her milk.
She woke in terror, screaming,
and the many household lamps, that had been blotted
by the dark, flared up to serve our mistress.
Then she sent these grave-libations in the hope
that they might work to cut out her disease.
540 Well then I pray to Earth here and my father’s tomb
to bring this dream to pass for me.
I offer this interpretation, one that fits it closely:
the snake emerged from that same place as me;
it latched onto the breast that once fed me;
it drew sweet milk yet curdled with her blood;
she screamed in horror at all this.
So it must be that, as she nourished this monstrosity,
so must she die by violence.
And I, turned snake . . . I am to kill her.
550 That is what the dream proclaims.
Yes, I approve your reading of this omen—
may it turn out true.
And now tell us, your friends, about what still remains—
who should be taking action, and who not.
The plan is simple. First Electra here should go inside.
I urge on you and her to keep our plotting secret.
That way those who slaughtered a great man by stealth
shall be themselves entrapped by stealth,
and die in the same noose,
just as Apollo told in prophecy.
560 I shall myself approach the outer gateway,
looking like a stranger, kitted out with baggage;
I’ll bring Pylades along with me,
our family’s closest ally, and we’ll imitate
the dialect that’s spoken in his land of Phocis.
And then if none of those who man the doors
will open up to us in friendly fashion—
since this house contains malignity—
we shall stay put just as we are,
so anybody passing by will speculate and say,
“Now, why’s Aegisthus keeping new arrivals at the gate,
570 if he’s indoors and knows of them?”
But if I once get past the outer gates
and find him sitting on my father’s throne,
or if he comes and gives me audience,
then, just as soon as I set eyes on him—
before he has the time to say,
“Where is the stranger from?”—
I’ll make a corpse of him, impaled on my swift blade.
Then the Erinys—hardly short of blood—
will drink a third, unblended cup.
[To ELECTRA.]
Now you go in and keep good watch
580 around the house, so things are organized to fit.
[To the CHORUS.]
And you I would advise to keep your tongue discreet,
keep silent when you should, and speak to fit the moment.
In all else, I call on Hermes to keep watch,
and make this contest of the sword go well for me.
[ORESTES and PYLADES go off.]
The earth produces
many fearsome beasts and terrors,
the sea embraces
seething shoals of dreadful monsters.
590 The sudden flashes
flaring through the earth and heavens
inflict their dangers
on both winged and walking creatures;
and there’s the damage
dealt by furious blasts of tempests.
But these are nothing
set beside harm done by people—
by men through daring
and the recklessness of women,
who partner ruin
through their dangerous emotions.
The female-ruling
600 power of illicit passion
breaks the union
that binds humans into households.
Everyone should know the tale of
how Althaea killed her son
Meleager, when she cruelly
carried through her deadly plan:
how she took the blood-red timber,
placed it on a new-lit fire,
burned the log that shared his life span
610 ever since his first birth-cry
when he issued from her belly,
matched in time with him exactly
up until his dying day.
There’s another hateful story
tells how deadly Scylla’s greed
handed into hostile clutches
him most close to her by blood.
She was tempted by the necklace,
spellbound by its golden look,
so she cut her father Nisus’
death-denying magic lock.
620 As he slept all unsuspecting,
he was sent to Hades’ dark.
The crime of the women of Lemnos
is foulest of all these deeds;
they ruthlessly murdered their husbands
deserting to other beds.
Comparing all of these ruthless
atrocities from the past,
there’s not one surpasses the coupling
this household detests the worst:
the treacherous plot of a woman
who murdered her warrior lord,
(630) and sleeps with another. I value
the wife who remains subdued.
(640) So stand up for Justice in the fight
when trampled down underfoot;
safeguard the solemn power of Zeus
from those attempting abuse.
Justice is rooted firm, and Fate
is eager to forge the blade,
bringing a child inside the gate
650 to get crimes of past blood paid.
She’ll finally claim her dues
through the brooding Erinys.
[ORESTES, accompanied by PYLADES, enters from the side, goes to the door, and knocks.]
Hello there! Slave!
Can you not hear my knocking at the outer gates?
[Knocks again.]
Is someone there?
Hey, Slave, once more—who’s there inside?
[Knocks again.]
Three times I’ve called for someone to come out—
if, that is, this palace of Aegisthus offers hospitality.
All right, all right, I hear you!
Where’s the stranger from?
Please tell the masters of the house
that I have come to bring them news.
660 And hurry up—night’s dusky chariot is drawing near,
and it’s high time for traders to be dropping anchor
in a friendly house of welcome.
Fetch out someone who’s in charge—
the mistress of the house . . .
or more appropriate would be the man,
since courtesies inhibit what can be expressed,
whereas in conversation man-to-man
one can be bold and say just what one means.
Please tell me, strangers, what you want.
We have available the kind of comforts
that are proper for a household of this standing:
670 hot baths, and beds to soothe out weariness,
and honest company.
But if there’s any further business needing
serious discussion, then that’s men’s work,
and we shall pass it on to them.
I am a Daulian from Phocis.
As I was setting out for Argos,
loaded with my baggage on my back,
I met up with a man, unknown to me and me to him.
He, when he had inquired about my destination, said
—this Strophius, as I learned that he was called—
680 he said, “Well, since you’re bound for Argos, stranger,
please remember this exactly,
and convey it to his parents: say to them,
‘Orestes is gone, dead’—
make sure you get that right.
Find if his family prefers to fetch him home,
or have him buried far away for evermore;
and bring me their instructions on this choice.
An urn of bronze already holds within its sides
the ashes of the man—he has been well lamented.”
I have told you what I heard.
I do not know if I am speaking with some relatives;
690 but it is only right to let his parents know.
Such pain! This spells complete destruction!
O you curse upon this house, so hard to overthrow,
you spy on all, including those put out of reach of harm.
From far you still bring down with your unerring arrows
all my dearest kin, and strip me bare.
And now Orestes, who was carefully avoiding paths
that brought him near the deadly quagmire. . . .
But the brightest hope that there would be
a healer for the fever-frenzy in our house . . .
set down that hope as dashed.
700 I would have wished it might have been
for some good news I’d come to be received
by hosts so prosperous as you—
since host and guest is such a warm relationship.
But all the same I would have felt it impious
not to have completely carried through
a matter such as this, once I’d agreed to it.
You’ll not be treated any less deservingly,
nor be less welcome in this house—
some other person would have brought this message.
710 But it’s time for guests who have been traveling far all day
to be made comfortable.
[To Attendant.]
Escort him and this fellow-trader
to the men’s guest rooms, and let them have
whatever’s proper for this house.
And I’ll convey these matters to the masters of the house;
we are not short of friends
with whom we can discuss this sad event.
[ORESTES and PYLADES are taken into the palace; CLYTEMNESTRA also goes in.]
When, dear fellow servants, when shall
720 we be able to proclaim our
voices fully for Orestes?
Mighty Earth and mighty grave mound
heaped upon our royal commander’s
corpse, now listen, and now help us.
Now’s the moment for Persuasion
slyly to conspire with Hermes,
and to steer this trial by sword blade.
[The old nurse, CILISSA, comes out of the palace in distress.]
730 It looks as though that stranger has been
making trouble: I can see the aged nursemaid
of Orestes here, reduced to tears.
Where are you heading from the palace gates, Cilissa,
with sorrow as your unhired fellow-traveler?
Aegisthus—the mistress has commanded me
to fetch him here as quick as possible
to meet the strangers, and to find out more
about this new report by talking man to man.
In front of servants she put on a gloomy face,
but she was laughing secretly inside.
For her, events have turned out well,
740 although disastrous for this house—
that’s what the strangers have made clear.
When that man hears the tale, he’s going to be delighted.
The old misfortune-mixture in this house of Atreus
was quite hard enough and pained me to the heart,
but never have I had to suffer such a blow as this.
I had to drain the dregs of all those other troubles,
but for dear Orestes . . .
the one who wore me out, the one I cared for
750 from the day that I received him from his mother . . .
How often I was made to get up in the night,
awakened by his piercing cries,
and had to put up with unpleasant tasks—
and all for nothing.
It has to be a nurse’s job to cater
for a creature with no words.
A little one in baby clothes can’t say
what is the matter: whether it is hunger or else thirst,
or other business—a baby’s bowels and bladder
have a willpower of their own.
I’ve had to try and prophesy—and often got it wrong,
and so become a laundress of baby clothes,
760 both nurse and washer-woman rolled in one.
I carried out this task to raise Orestes for his father’s sake.
And now I hear that he is dead.
I have to go and fetch the man
who has defiled this house.
And he’ll be all too glad to hear this news.
What kind of crew did she tell him to bring?
What do you mean? Explain more clearly.
To come with bodyguards, or on his own?
She said to bring his full-armed escort.
770 In that case, do not pass that message
to our hated master: but put on instead a cheerful front,
and tell him he should come as quickly as he can,
and that he has no need to be afraid.
The one who takes a message can contrive
to make a crooked word sound straight.
But how can you be happy with this news?
Supposing Zeus might turn our troubles round. . . .
How so? Our greatest hope Orestes is no more.
Don’t be too quick. That could turn out a poor prediction.
What? Do you know of something different?
Go, give your message in the form we’ve told you.
780 The gods take care of what they care about.
All right. I’ll do as you have said.
God willing, may all turn out for the best.
[Exit CILISSA.]
Father Zeus, now hear our pleas:
grant this house may gain success.
Bring for those who wish it well
the sight they long for in its hall.
Zeus, fulfill our prayers:
help the man inside
to crush his enemies.
790 If you help him rise,
he’ll heap recompense,
twice and thrice as high.
Ready by the chariot–
yoke he stands, the orphan colt,
son of him you highly prized—
set good rhythm to his stride.
800 You gods who guard the wealth
stored deep in the house,
now hear and sympathize;
lend strength and join our cause,
to clear away the blood
of crimes done long ago.
Bring justice, so old grudge
may no more multiply.
Revive, Apollo, here
the light of freedom’s flame,
810 and help it to shine from
behind the veil of gloom.
May Hermes join what’s just:
with slanting words awry
he may spread darkness, yet
be no more clear by day.
And then at last we’ll sing,
820 to help the house sail free,
our full-voiced female song,
our breath a following breeze.
But you be brave and true
when action takes its turn:
when she cries out, “My son,”
shout back, “My father’s son.”
That way you’ll bring to pass
830 a ruin that’s no wrong.
Put Perseus in your heart
to shear the Gorgon’s head,
and sprinkle blood to blight
for good the murder-seed.
[Enter AEGISTHUS, by himself.]
I have been summoned here, and here I am.
840 I gather that some strangers have arrived
with far from welcome news about Orestes’ death,
a blow to set the blood fresh dripping in this house,
still raw and oozing from the earlier killing.
What is this, then? Should I regard it as the actual truth?
Or is it merely women’s panic-talk,
which sends sparks flying up that then die out?
What can you tell me that might clear my mind?
We’ve heard of it. But you should go inside
and find out from the visitors yourself.
Reported news is nowhere near as good
850 as learning from the messenger direct.
I want to meet and ask him if he was himself
nearby the day Orestes died.
Or is he merely passing on a distant rumor?
He’ll not fool a mind that keeps its wits awake.
[Exit AEGISTHUS into the palace.]
Zeus, Zeus, where should I begin my
prayers and pleading? Where to end them?
860 Now the bloodstained slashing blades are
either just about to snuff forever
Agamemnon’s family,
or to light the flame of freedom,
and to pass the city’s power and
riches over to Orestes.
That’s the contest he is joining
singlehanded with a double
rival. May he be victorious.
[A death-cry is heard from inside.]
870 Ah! What’s happening? What’s the outcome?
Let us keep our distance while the issue is decided,
so we seem quite free of blame.
It’s clear the battle has now been decided.
Ah, ah! Disaster, help!
The master’s been attacked.
Ah! help! I call again.
Aegisthus lives no more!
Open the doors as quickly as you can;
unbolt the women’s quarters too.
We need a strong young man—
880 yet that won’t help the one who’s been dispatched.
Help, help! I’m calling on deaf ears,
I’m yelling pointlessly at people fast asleep.
Where’s Clytemnestra gone? What is she at?
It looks as though her neck is on the block,
about to be hacked through by Justice.
What’s going on here?
Why raise this alarm?
I say the dead are slaughtering the living.
Ah, I see the meaning of your riddle:
we’re about to die by trickery, just as we killed.
Quick, someone fetch an ax that’s good to kill a man.
890 Let’s see if we shall conquer or be conquered—
since that’s the dreadful depth that we have reached.
[ORESTES enters with PYLADES from inside.]
It’s you I’m looking for: this one has had enough.
Oh, are you dead, Aegisthus, my dear love?
You love the man? In that case you can lie
beside him in a double grave—
that way you’ll never be unfaithful, even not in death.
—Stop there, my son!
Now feel restraint, my child, before this breast of mine,
where often drowsily with toothless gums
you used to suck at the nutritious milk.
What should I do now, Pylades,
should I hold back from striking my own mother dead?
900 What then to make in future of Apollo’s
Delphic oracles, and of our sacred oaths?
Treat any human as your enemy before the gods.
I judge you win, and your advice is good.
[Turning back to CLYTEMNESTRA.]
Now come with me—I want to kill you at his side,
considering you rated him above my father still alive.
Now you can go to bed with him in death,
the man you loved, while filled with loathing
for the one you should have loved.
I nourished you when young: I want to age with you.
You killed my father, yet you think to live with me?
910 What-must-be shares responsibility, my child.
Then what-must-be lays down your death as well.
Have you no dread before a mother’s curse, my child?
No, since you bore me only to abandon me.
I sent you to an allied house—that’s not abandoning.
I was free-born, and yet you sold me off.
So where’s the price that I received for that?
I feel ashamed to put that plainly into words.
So should you be to list your father’s dallyings.
Don’t criticize the man who toiled while you sat snug.
920 It’s hard for wives when separated from their man.
The man’s hard labor keeps their women safe at home.
It seems you mean to kill your mother, then.
It’s you, not me, inflicting your own killing.
Look out: beware a mother’s rabid hunting dogs.
How could I then escape my father’s if I were to fail?
It seems I’m pointlessly lamenting to a tomb.
Because my father’s blood decrees your death.
Ah, this . . . this is the snake I bore and fed.
My horror at that dream has proved prophetic.
930 You killed as you should not have:
so now suffer what you should not.
[ORESTES takes CLYTEMNESTRA inside.]
I sorrow even for their double fate.
But now Orestes has advanced these
many bloodsheds to their crisis point,
our choice is that the bright hope of the house
should not fall utterly destroyed.
There came to the race of Priam
harsh-punishing justice at last;
there comes, though, to Agamemnon’s
palace a two-footed lion.
940 And oracles sent from Apollo
encourage the exile’s brave quest.
Let us raise up our triumph-cries
for the rescuing of our house
from the draining of its riches
by that pair of tainted leeches.
To help there came Hermes, the subtle
tactician of devious battle;
(950) alongside Justice, Zeus’ daughter,
whose anger withers the guilty.
(960) Clear we can see the light,
now the muzzle’s been unbound.
So rise, our house, stand upright,
too long you’ve lain on the ground.
Soon our ruling lord
shall come out through this door,
once pollution has
(970) been cleansed, and all made pure.
[ORESTES is revealed standing over the bodies of CLYTEMNESTRA and AEGISTHUS; his bloodstained hands hold a sword and an olive bough.]
Look, see this pair of tyrants,
killers of my father, looters of my heritage.
They were once so majestic sitting on their thrones,
and even now they still stay close,
and faithful to their promises.
They swore together to contrive my father’s death,
and swore to die together—and their oath holds good.
[Points to the robe-net that was used to trap AGAMEMNON.]
980 Now look in turn, you witnesses of these dark things,
see this contraption, shackle for my wretched father.
(997) What might I call it, striking proper terms?
A trap? A coffin-drape to wrap a corpse
from head to foot? Or, no, a net,
a snare, a shawl for snagging ankles.
It’s the sort of thing a highwayman might use,
who spends his time in tricking travelers—
(1004) with this he could enjoy dispensing death.
[To his attendants.]
(983) Stand round and stretch it out, this man-cloak;
display it so the father may look down on it—
not mine, I mean the father who is overseer of everything—
so he might come one day to witness for me
that with justice I pursued this deed,
my mother’s death.
I don’t speak of Aegisthus, since he’s simply paid
990 the penalty that’s laid down for adulterers.
But as for her . . . she who deployed this hateful thing
against her husband, him whose offspring
she had carried in her womb—
once loved, but now her deadly enemies—
what can you think of her?
She is more like a sea-snake or a viper
that could make a person putrefy by touch alone,
not even by her bite, just by audacity and malice.
I pray I never have that kind of wife to share my house:
I’d rather that the gods destroyed me childless first.
Such dreadful deeds!
She was struck down
in gruesome death.
Ah, ah!
For him still here,
pain starts to flower.
1010 Did she commit the deed, or did she not?
This cloak here is my witness,
dipped and dyed by stabbings from Aegisthus’ sword.
The seeps of blood, combined with time,
have spoiled the many colors of its ornament.
As I address this woven cloth that killed my father,
I can now lament him, and now speak in praise.
I sorrow for what has been done,
and for the anguish, and the entire dynasty.
This victory brings stains that none can envy.
There’s no one lives
all through their life
exempt from grief.
Ah, ah!
Here’s present harm,
1020 and more to come.
I’ve no idea where this will end:
I’m like a charioteer
whose horses are careering off the track.
My mind is bolting uncontrollably,
and Fear is straining at my heart
to start a song and dance in step with Rage.
So while I have my wits, I make this declaration:
I struck home with justice when I killed my mother,
that polluting, god-detested killer of my father.
My incitement to take on this action
1030 was Apollo’s Delphic oracle, which told me
I would be exempt from guilt if I did this,
while if I failed to do so . . .
I won’t describe the punishment,
for no one could fire close to such a pitch of agony.
So now, as you can see, I’m setting off,
equipped with this wreathed olive bough,
toward Apollo’s shrine, the navel of the earth,
with its undying flame, in order to escape
from inbred bloodshed.
Apollo told me to take refuge at his altar and no other.
1040 I call upon the whole of Argos to bear witness
for me in due course, and to recall
how these sad horrors came about.
But now I go, a wandering fugitive
excluded from this land.
But what you have achieved is good.
Don’t tie your speech with words that are ill-omened.
You have freed the whole domain of Argos
by your slicing off this pair of serpents’ heads.
Ah, look! These gruesome women here,
like Gorgons, with their gloomy robes,
1050 and thickly wreathed around with snakes.
I cannot stay—I have to go.
What are they, these illusions whirling you about?
Stand firm; don’t yield to fear when you have won so much.
These torments aren’t illusions. I see clearly now:
these are my mother’s rabid dogs.
This is because there’s blood still wet upon your hands:
that’s spreading this confusion in your mind.
O lord Apollo, here they come in swarms.
And from their eyes they drip disgusting blood and pus.
There’s only one way to be cleansed:
1060 Apollo’s touch will free you from these torments.
You cannot see them, but I do.
They hunt me down.
There is no way that I can stay—I have to go.
[ORESTES rushes away.]
Good luck go with you then.
I pray the gods take care of you,
whatever may arise.
Now this tempest is the third to
rage and leave behind its wake of
wreckage through the royal palace.
First there was that cruel banquet:
children swallowed by their father.
1070 Second was the royal commander’s
downfall, bathtub-slaughtered.
Thirdly now a kind of savior
has arrived . . . or should I call him
more a death knell? Where shall all this
reach an ending? Where be soothed to
calm, this cyclone of disaster?
[The CHORUS depart into the palace.]