The Oresteia: Agamemnon, the Libation-Bearers & the Furies (25 page)

 

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.

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.

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.

 

LEADER:

She tells him to come,
but how, prepared?

 

NURSE:

Prepared, how else?
I don’t see . . .

 

LEADER:

With his men, I mean, or all alone?

 

NURSE:

Oh, she says to bring his bodyguard, his cut - throats.

 

LEADER:

No, not now, not if you hate our master-
tell him to come alone.
Nothing for him to fear then, when he hears.
Have him come quickly, too, rejoicing all the way!
The teller sets the crooked message straight.

 

NURSE:

What,
you’re glad for the news that’s come?

 

LEADER:

Why not,
if Zeus will turn the evil wind to good?

 

NURSE:

But how? Orestes, the hope of the house is gone.

 

LEADER:

Not yet. It’s a poor seer who’d say so.

 

NURSE:

What are you saying? - something I don’t know?

 

LEADER:

Go in with your message. Do as you’re told.
May the gods take care of cares that come from them

 

NURSE:

Well, I’m off. Do as I’m told.
And here’s to the best. . .
some help, dear gods, some help.
Exit.

 

CHORUS:

O now bend to my prayer, Father Zeus,
lord of the gods astride the sky -
grant them all good fortune,
the lords of the house who strain to see
strict discipline return.
Our cry is the cry of Justice,
Zeus, safeguard it well.

 

Zeus, Zeus,
set him against his enemies in the halls!
Do it, rear him to greatness - two, threefold
he will repay you freely, gladly.

 

Look now - watch the colt of a man you loved,
yoked to the chariot of pain.
Now the orphan needs you -
harness his racing, rein him in,
preserve his stride so we
can watch him surge at the last turn,
storming for the goal.

 

And you who haunt the vaults
where the gold glows in the darkness,
hear us now, good spirits of the house,
conspire with us - come,
and wash old works of blood
in the fresh-drawn blood of Justice.
Let the grey retainer, murder, breed no more.

 

And you, Apollo, lord of the glorious masoned cavern,
grant that this man’s house lift up its head,
that we may see with loving eyes
the light of freedom burst from its dark veil !

And lend a hand and scheme
for the rights, my Hermes, help us,
sail the action on with all your breath.
Reveal what’s hidden, please,
or say a baffling word
in the night and blind men’s eyes -
when the morning comes your word is just as dark.

 

Soon, at last, in the dawn that frees the house,
we sea-widows wed to the winds
will beat our mourning looms of song
and sing, ‘Our ship’s come in!
Mine, mine is the wealth that swells her holds -
those I love are home and free of death.’

 

But you, when your turn in the action comes, be strong.
When she cries ‘Son!’ cry out ‘My
father’s
son!’
Go through with the murder - innocent at last.

 

Raise up the heart of Perseus in your breast!
And for all you love under earth
and all above its rim, now scarf your eyes
against the Gorgon’s fury -
In, go in for the slaughter now!

The butcher comes. Wipe out death with death.

 

AEGISTHUS:

Coming, coming. Yes, I have my summons.
There’s news, I gather, travellers here to tell it.
No joy in the telling, though - Orestes dead.
Saddle the house with a bloody thing like that
and it might just collapse. It’s still raw
from the last murders, galled and raw.
But how to take the story, for living truth?
Or work of a woman’s panic, gossip starting up
in the night to flicker out and die?

Do you know?
Tell me, clear my mind.

 

LEADER:

We’ve heard a little.
But get it from the strangers, go inside.
Messengers have no power. Nothing like
a face-to-face encounter with the source.

 

AEGISTHUS:

- Must see him, test the messenger. Where was he
when the boy died, standing on the spot?
Or is he dazed with rumour, mouthing hearsay?
No, he’ll never trap me open-eyed!

 

CHORUS:

Zeus, Zeus, what can I say? -
how to begin this prayer, call down
the gods for help? what words
can reach the depth of all I feel?
Now they swing to the work,
the red edge of the cleaver
hacks at flesh and men go down.
Agamemnon’s house goes down -
all-out disaster now,
or a son ignites the torch of freedom,
wins the throne, the citadel,
the fathers’ realms of gold.
The last man on the bench, a challenger
must come to grips with two. Up,
like a young god, Orestes, wrestle -
let it be to win.

- Listen!
- What’s happening?
- The house,
what have they done to the house?

 

LEADER:

Back,
till the work is over! Stand back -
they’ll count us clean of the dreadful business.

Look, the die is cast, the battle’s done.

 

SERVANT:

Open up, wrench the bolts on the women’s doors.
Faster! A strong young arm it takes,
but not to save him now, he’s finished.
What’s the use?
Look - wake up!
No good,
I call to the deaf, to sleepers . . . a waste of breath.
Where are you, Clytaemnestra? What are you doing?

 

LEADER:

Her head is ripe for lopping on the block.
She’s next, and justice wields the axe.

 

CLYTAEMNESTRA:

What now?
Why this shouting up and down the halls?

 

SERVANT:

The dead are cutting down the quick, I tell you!

 

CLYTAEMNESTRA:

Ah, a riddle. I do well at riddles.
By cunning we die, precisely as we killed.
Hand me the man-axe, someone, hurry!

Now we will see. Win all or lose all,
we have come to this - the crisis of our lives.

 

ORESTES:

It’s you I want. This one’s had enough.

 

CLYTAEMNESTRA:

Gone, my violent one - Aegisthus, very dear.

ORESTES:

 

You love your man? Then lie in the same grave.
You can never be unfaithful to the dead.

 

CLYTAEMNESTRA:

Wait, my son - no respect for this, my child?
The breast you held, drowsing away the hours,
soft gums tugging the milk that made you grow?

 

ORESTES:

What will I do, Pylades? - I dread to kill my mother!

 

PYLADES :

What of the future? What of the Prophet God Apollo,
the Delphic voice, the faith and oaths we swear?
Make all mankind your enemy, not the gods.

 

ORESTES:

O you win me over - good advice.