The Moirai (singular “Moira”) are a related group of indistinct goddesses who are repeatedly referred to and called upon in the Oresteia. The standard translation, “Fates,” is again inadequate. The task of the Moirai is to see that people get what they should, especially death; to put it another way, they allocate proper proportions, shares, and lifetimes. Their actual operations are even more inexplicit than the Erinyes’, but they are felt as an underlying current in the moral universe.

  So the Erinyes and Moirai are here foreignized away from the familiar Furies and Fates. There is a curiously contrary situation with the titles of the plays. They have traditionally been given rather remote, esoteric forms that in this translation are changed to newly coined, more accessible replacements. The traditional titles—Agamemnon, Choephoroi, and Eumenides—were those registered in the official Athenian records, but they may well not have originated with Aeschylus. In fact, there is some reason to think they did not.

  There is no problem with the first play being called Agamemnon, since it centers on his return from the Trojan War—although, in view of the much greater and more powerful role of his waiting wife, it might have been better called Clytemnestra. Choephoroi, the second title, means “people bringing libations” and is derived from the first appearance of the chorus as they bring offerings to pour upon Agamemnon’s tomb. This ritual is unfamiliar to modern audiences, and the English version Libation Bearers has a musty, off-putting ring to it. I have taken the liberty of changing it to a more recognizable equivalent: Women at the Graveside.

  It is the title of the third play that poses the greatest problem and has the least meaning for modern ears. Eumenides, which has been given varying translations but is most often rendered by the clumsy locution The Kindly Ones, is also related to the chorus. The term Eumenides became used as a kind of euphemistic cult term for the Erinyes, but this word is never actually used in Aeschylus’ play, not even after their conciliation with Athena and Athens at the end. It is also misleading in that it fails to convey the threatening role of the Erinyes: while they are benevolent in the final scenes, they are still dangerous. So I seriously considered using the foreignizing title Erinyes, but I have ultimately turned to the central event and named the play Orestes at Athens. This recognizes the ordeal of Orestes and brings out Aeschylus’ bold move of transporting the action from Argos to the city where the tragedies were first performed.

  Text and Line Numbers

  This Oresteia has been translated from the Greek without intermediary versions, and compared with some modern versions, it is relatively “close.” There is, however, one passage where the order of the Greek text transmitted to us has been substantially altered, in order to place Athena’s speech founding the court at Athens in Orestes at Athens at the beginning, rather than the end, of the trial scene (see Scene 7, with note on ‘After 573’). Otherwise, there are no significant additions except for those rare places where there is good reason to think that something has dropped out from the original text (such additions are put inside angled brackets: < . . . >). The Greek text has hardly any external stage directions, and so almost all of those have been added, following inferences from the internal indications.

  On the other hand, this translation is not totally and utterly complete, and it does not pretend to include every single phrase, nor even every line, that is to be found in the Greek text as transmitted to us. There is a fair scattering of omissions and trimmings; and while many of these cuts are brief phrases, there are also some lines and even longer stretches that are not included (the larger omissions are indicated in the endnotes on pp. 165–170).

  There are three main reasons for these editorial prunings. First, the text transmitted to us includes, unfortunately, frequent places where the original has become seriously corrupted. While many of these passages have been edited to arrive at some intelligible meaning, there are also some where, in the interests of producing a fluent version, it has seemed preferable to pass over the problematic glitch. There is a scattering of places where the text is reasonably secure but includes some subject matter which would be obscure for most modern readers, such that additional explanation would be needed. So in some passages here and there throughout the plays, words and phrases have been pruned because the criteria of accessibility and of momentum have been given priority over the inclusion of everything in the Greek. The third reason for omissions is even more subjective. While the expression of the Greek is mostly tight, there are some places, especially in the spoken dialogue scenes, where it strikes modern ears as rather wordy or labored. So some cuts, usually of only a few words, have been made, in the interest of making the script more pacey and direct. These clippings are inevitably a matter of judgment, open to dispute. But ultimately, after all, every word of every translation is, it must be emphasized, a choice, an ordering of priorities.

  The text registers line numbers according to the conventional numeration that has been almost universally employed in modern times; this is derived ultimately from early printings of the Greek text. These traditional numbers often, but by no means always, correspond with every tenth line of this translation. Even without the trimming just discussed, it is simply impossible for a fluent verse translation to remain tied to the fixed numeration. When marginal line numbers appear in parentheses, this is usually because the line with that conventional number has for some reason been omitted. Parentheses are also used to indicate the rare occasions where several lines have been transposed from the order in which they come in the manuscripts to a place where they make better sense.

  In conclusion, this translation is not prosaically literal, nor is it colloquial and naturalistic. Its language is crafted to be rhythmical and expressive; at times it is idiomatic, at times exotic or with touches of the archaic, as is the poetry of Aeschylus in places. Cumulatively it aspires to flow, to stir up sights and sounds, and to move the reader toward horror and wonder intertwined with questing thoughts.

  AGAMEMNON

  CHARACTERS

  WATCHMAN, under instructions from Clytemnestra

  CLYTEMNESTRA, wife of king Agamemnon, left at home while he is away fighting at Troy

  HERALD, sent home with news in advance of the victorious Agamemnon

  AGAMEMNON, king of Argos, son of Atreus, joint leader with Menelaus of the expedition against Troy

  CASSANDRA, beautiful daughter of Priam, king of Troy, endowed by Apollo as a prophetess, brought back as a slave by Agamemnon

  AEGISTHUS, lover of Clytemnestra, son of Thyestes, who was the brother of Atreus, with a grudge against him

  CHORUS, elders of the city of Argos

  [PLACE: In front of the palace at Argos, ancestral seat of AGAMEMNON and his brother Menelaus.]

  Scene 1

  [Not yet day. The WATCHMAN can be discerned on the roof of the palace.]

  WATCHMAN

  I beg you gods: release me from this drudgery,

  this year long spent as lookout,

  time I’ve crouched through like some watchdog,

  bedded up here on the palace roof of Atreus’ sons.

  I’ve got to know the gathering of the stars,

  distinguishing those sparkling dynasties

  which bring the winter and the summer with their rise and fall.

  And now I’m watching for a token marked in flame,

  the gleam of fire that brings a word from Troy:

  10 the message it has fallen.

  And in control of this there waits a heart in hope,

  a woman’s heart that organizes like a man.

  But as I pass the night upon my restless dew-drenched bed—

  it is unvisited by dreams, this bed of mine,

  because it’s fear, not sleep, that visits me

  and stops my eyes from closing fast—

  whenever I would like to sing or hum,

  dispensing music as a healing antidote,

  instead I weep for how this house has met bad times,

  not managed for the best as once it was.

  20 Now, though, let’s hope there’ll be

  a bright release from all this pain:

  the flame in darkness that declares good news.

  [Silence while he watches . . . he sees the distant beacon.]

  The beacon! Welcome!

  beaming through this night as bright as day!

  There will be carnivals of song and dance

  in Argos at this happy turn.

  [He cries out in jubilation.]

  I’m calling clear to Agamemnon’s wife:

  stir out of bed, and quickly as you can

  raise through the house a triumph-cry

  in celebration of this flame.

  The town of Troy is overthrown!

  30 the beacon-message tells us clear.

  I’m going myself to start a jig of joy

  to match my master’s winning throw,

  because this beacon-watch has cast a triple six.

  At least I hope to greet the ruler of this house

  and clasp his much-loved hand in this of mine.

  As for the rest, I’m keeping quiet—

  a hulking ox is standing on my tongue.

  The house itself, if it could find a voice,

  would speak out all too clear.

  I’m saying this to those who know my drift:

  for those who don’t . . . it’s slipped my mind.

  [He goes; the CHORUS of elders enters.]

  Choral Song

  CHORUS

  40 Ten long years now since the day that

  Menelaus, prosecuting

  Priam, strongly honor-bonded

  with his brother Agamemnon—

  double-rulers, Zeus-descended—

  launched their thousand-ship armada

  from this country, battle claimants.

  “War!” they cry out, “war!” and shrieking

  sail like eagles high above their

  50 emptied eyrie; range in anguish

  for their children; wheel in spirals,

  rowing with their feathered oar-strokes,

  since they’ve wasted all that labor,

  nest-patrolling for their hatchlings.

  High above some god does hear them—

  Pan or Zeus or lord Apollo—

  hears the piercing, keening bird-cry;

  sends against the trespassers a

  late-avenging Erinys.

  In this spirit, Zeus, who guards the

  60 rights of host and guest, dispatches

  Atreus’ sons against prince Paris;

  all about a much-manned woman,

  he imposes grueling struggles—

  knees in dust and splintered lances—

  pressed on both the Greeks and Trojans.

  That is where these things are poised now,

  heading for the end that’s destined:

  70 no amount of sacrificing

  can placate relentless anger.

  As for us, back then we had no

  strength to offer with our wasted

  muscles, so we stayed behind here,

  propped up on these wooden crutches.

  There’s no camp for war within us;

  and the very old, with leafage

  80 dry, already withered, drift on

  triple-footed journeys, shadows,

  merely dreams by daylight.

  What’s the news, queen Clytemnestra?

  what’s the message that has led you

  to proclaim these sacrifices?

  All the altars flame with offerings

  to the gods who help the city—

  90 those of sky, earth, meeting-places—

  everywhere the flames are leaping,

  conjured by the purest resin,

  ointments from the royal storehouse.

  Tell as much as you are able

  and is proper: do your best to

  cure this anxious fear that plagues us.

  100 Sometimes it recurs malignant,

  while, at others, soothing hope comes

  from your sacrifices, fending

  off the heart-devouring anguish.

  Since this god-given gift

  has stayed with me strong

  through my whole life, the power

  of persuasive song,

  I can command the art

  to evoke in words

  the omen that sent off

  our departing lords.

  So I shall tell of those

  birds of prey that faced

  the double chiefs of our

  110 Greek youth on their quest

  to take their vengeful spears

  to Troy’s distant shore—

  kings of birds to match

  our kings of the oar.

  One eagle’s tail was black

  and the other’s white;

  they flew along the camp’s

  spear-hand, to the right,

  and made their perch where all

  could observe them clear:

  they tore their talons’ prey,

  body of a hare—

  a hare whose womb was crammed

  with its embryo-young,

  stopped short while racing on

  120 its life’s final run.

  Cry out, cry out with grief, I say;

  yet hope what’s best will win the day.

  The prophet Calchas saw

  those who rent the hare

  reflected Atreus’ sons,

  the contrasting pair.

  He spoke this prophecy:

  “Once proper time’s passed by,

  this invading force

  130 is bound to conquer Troy—

  the city sacked, and its

  human animals

  massacred in flocks

  within their own walls.

  My only fear’s that some

  god will take offense,

  and stain the curb of Troy

  tarnished in advance.

  For Artemis is stirred

  by compassion’s pangs;

  resents her father’s cruel

  terriers with wings,

  who sacrifice the hare’s

  still-born leverets.

  It is this eagles’ feast

  Artemis detests.”

  Cry out, cry out with grief, I say;

  yet hope what’s best will win the day.

  140 “Artemis is so gentle,

  favoring new-born nurslings,

  fond of the suckling kittens

  of every ranging creature.

  So she demands atonement,

  balance for this defilement.

  Partly propitious I see,

  partly malign, this portent.

  I am disturbed in case she

  should generate relentless

  counterwinds, ship-detaining,

  stopping the Greeks from sailing.

  150 Don’t, goddess, stir that other

  sacrifice with no music,

  no celebratory feasting—

  that architect, inbred worker

  of quarrels, who fears no husband.

  For waiting behind is lurking

  a frightening, reawakening,

  devious house-caretaker,

  long-memoried, child-avenging

  Fury.” This was what Calchas

  prophesied from the bird-signs,

  mixed with good for the royal

  household as they departed.

  Sing this refrain in chorus:

  “Cry out, cry out with grief, I say;

  yet hope what’s best will win the day.”

  160 Zeus—

  whoever he may be—but Zeus,

  if he’s contented with that name,

  remains the title I shall use:

  there is no other key or claim,

  none to compare, if I should try

  to balance all the world by weight,

  except for “Zeus”: no, not if I

  still hope to cast my mind’s disquiet

  (167) away in all reality.

  (176) Zeus—

  who set us humans on the road

  to finding wisdom on our own,

  and fixed this precept for our good,

  the truth that “learning comes through pain.”

  Through hearing its persistent drip,

  180 the agony of pain recalled

  molds our thoughts in place of sleep;

  and brings sound mind, although not willed.

  This favor from the gods’ high throne

  is kind but forcibly laid down.

  So was it for the elder king,

  commander of the great Greek fleet,

  not blaming seers for anything,

  but breathing as the winds inflate,

  when all the host was stuck aground,

  because the ships could not set sail,

  and all the soldiers were worn down,

  their stomachs filled with hunger’s pain,

  190 pinned where the surging currents roar,

  encamped on Aulis’ sandy shore.

  The winds unrelenting

  from the northeast sent them

  idleness and hunger,

  insecure at anchor,

  constant people-chafing,

  rotting ship and cable,

  stretching out the days redoubled,

  scouring the Greek bloom to stubble.

  Then a grimmer course was offered

  200 to the leaders by the prophet,

  medicine for the bitter tempest.

  This solution, naming

  Artemis as plaintiff,

  made the sons of Atreus

  beat earth with their scepters;

  and there was no keeping

  bitter tears from dropping.

  The elder king then poses

  his dilemma-choices:

  “Heavy chaos waiting

  for my not obeying:

  heavy, though, the future

  chaos if I butcher

  my own household’s precious glory,

  210 stain my hands with daughter pouring

  life-blood on the altar table.

  Which of these is free from evil?

  How can I desert my navy?

  How betray my allies?

  For their keen desire cries

  for the wind to fade now,

  for a virgin’s blood now.