The Huntress Artemis why she becalmed

  The fleet at windy Aulis.*—No; I will tell you;

  We may not question gods.

  My father once, they tell me, hunting in

  A forest that was sacred to the goddess,*

  Started an antlered stag. He aimed, and shot it,

  Then made a foolish boast, of such a kind

  As angered Artemis. Therefore she held up

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  The fleet, to make my father sacrifice

  His daughter to her in requital for

  The stag he’d killed. So came the sacrifice:

  The Greeks were prisoners, they could neither sail

  To Troy nor go back home; and so, in anguish,

  And after long refusal, being compelled,

  He sacrificed her. It was not to help

  His brother. But even had it been for that,

  As you pretend, what right had you to kill him?

  Under what law? Be careful; if you set

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  This up for law, Blood in return for blood,

  You may repent it; you would be the first

  To die, if you were given your deserts.

  But this is nothing but an empty pretext;

  For tell me—if you will—why you are doing

  What is of all things most abominable.

  You take the murderer with whose help you killed

  My father, sleep with him and bear him children;*

  Those born to you before, in lawful wedlock,

  You have cast out. Is this to be applauded?

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  Will you declare this too is retribution?

  You’ll not say that; most shameful if you do—

  Marrying enemies to avenge a daughter!

  But there, one cannot even warn you, for

  You shout aloud that I revile my mother.

  You are no daughter’s mother, but a slave’s

  Mistress to me! You and your paramour

  Enforce on me a life of misery.

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  Your son Orestes, whom you nearly killed,

  Is dragging out a weary life in exile.

  You say I am sustaining him that he

  May come as an avenger: would to God

  I were! Go then, denounce me where you like—

  Unfilial, disloyal, shameless, impudent.

  I may be skilled in all these arts; if so,

  I am at least a credit to my mother!

  CHORUS. She is so furious that she is beyond

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  All caring whether she be right or wrong.

  CLYTEMNESTRA. Then why should I care what I say to her,

  When she so brazenly insults her mother,

  At her age too?* She is so impudent

  That there is nothing that she would not do.*

  ELECTRA. Then let me tell you, though you’ll not believe it:

  I am ashamed at what I do; I hate it.

  But it is forced on me, despite myself,

  By your malignity and wickedness.

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  Evil in one breeds evil in another.

  CLYTEMNESTRA. You shameless creature! What I say, it seems,

  And what I do give you too much to say.

  ELECTRA. ’Tis you that say it, not I. You do the deeds,

  And your ungodly deeds find me the words.*

  CLYTEMNESTRA. I swear by Artemis* that when

  Aegisthus comes

  Back home you’ll suffer for this insolence.

  ELECTRA. You see? You give me leave to speak my mind,

  Then fly into a rage and will not listen.

  CLYTEMNESTRA. Will you not even keep a decent silence

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  And let me offer sacrifice in peace

  When I have let you rage without restraint?

  ELECTRA. Begin your sacrifice. I will not speak

  Another word. You shall not say I stopped you.

  CLYTEMNESTRA [to the servant]. Lift up the rich fruit- offering to Apollo

  As I lift up my prayers to him, that he

  Will give deliverance from the fears that now

  Possess me.

  Phoebus Apollo, god of our defence:

  Hear my petition, though I keep it secret;

  There is one present who has little love

  For me. Should I speak openly, her sour

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  And clamorous tongue would spread malicious rumour

  Throughout the city. Therefore, as I may

  Not speak, give ear to my unspoken prayer.

  Those visions of the doubtful dreams that came

  When I was sleeping, if they bring good omen,

  Then grant, O Lord Apollo, that they be

  Fulfilled; if evil omen, then avert

  That evil; let it fall upon my foes.

  If there be any who, by trickery,

  Would wrest from me the wealth I now enjoy,

  Frustrate them. Let this royal power be mine,

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  This house of Atreus.* So, until I die,

  My peace untroubled, my prosperity

  Unbroken, let me live with those with whom

  I now am living, with my children round me—

  Those who are not my bitter enemies.

  Such is my prayer; accept it graciously,

  O Lord Apollo; give to all of us

  Even as we ask. And there is something more.

  I say not what it is; I must be silent;

  But thou, being a god, wilt understand.

  Nothing is hidden from the sons of Zeus.

  A silence, while CLYTEMNESTRA makes her sacrifice.

  Enter the TUTOR

  TUTOR [to the chorus]. Might I inquire of you if I have come

  To the royal palace of the lord Aegisthus?

  CHORUS. You have made no mistake, sir; this is it.

  TUTOR. The lady standing there perhaps might be

  Aegisthus’ wife? She well might be a queen!

  CHORUS. She is indeed the queen.

  TUTOR.

  My lady, greeting!

  One whom you know—a friend—has sent me here

  To you and to Aegisthus with good news.

  CLYTEMNESTRA. Then you are very welcome. Tell me first,

  Who is the friend who sent you?

  TUTOR.

  Phanoteus

  Of Phokis.—The news is of importance.

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  CLYTEMNESTRA. Then sir, what is it? Tell me. Coming from

  So good a friend, the news, I’m sure, is good.

  TUTOR. In short, it is Orestes. He is dead.

  ELECTRA. Orestes, dead? O this is death to me!

  CLYTEMNESTRA. What, dead?—Take no account of her.

  TUTOR. That is the news. Orestes has been killed.

  ELECTRA. Orestes! Dead! Then what have I to live for?

  CLYTEMNESTRA. That’s your affair!—Now let me hear the truth,

  Stranger. What was the manner of his death?

  TUTOR. That was my errand, and I’ll tell you all.

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  He came to Delphi for the Pythian Games,

  That pride and glory of the land of Greece.

  So, when he heard the herald’s voice proclaim

  The foot-race, which was first to be contested,

  He stepped into the course, admired by all.

  And soon he showed that he was swift and strong

  No less than beautiful, for he returned

  Crowned with the glory of a victory.

  But though there’s much to tell, I will be brief:

  That man was never known who did the like.

  Of every contest in the Festival*

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  He won the prize, triumphantly. His name

  Time and again was heard proclaimed: ‘Victor:

  Orestes, citizen of Argos, son

  Of Agamemnon, who commanded all

  The Greeks at Troy.’ And so far, all was well.

  But when the gods are adverse, human strength

  Cannot prevail; and so it was with him.

  For when upon another day, at dawn,

  There was to be a contest of swift chariots,

  He took his place—and he was one of many:

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  One from Achaea,* one from Sparta, two

  From Libya,* charioteers of skill; Orestes

  Was next—the fifth—driving Thessalian mares;*

  Then an Aetolian* with a team of chestnuts;

  The seventh was from Magnesia;* the eighth

  From Aenia*—he was driving bays;

  The ninth was from that ancient city Athens;

  The tenth and last was a Boeotian.

  They drew their places. Then the umpire set them

  Each at the station that had been allotted.

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  The brazen trumpet sounded; they were off.

  They shouted to their horses, shook the reins;

  You could hear nothing but the rattling din

  Of chariots; clouds of dust arose; they all

  Were bunched together; every driver

  Goaded his horses, hoping so to pass

  His rival’s wheels and then his panting horses.

  Foam from the horses’ mouths was everywhere—

  On one man’s wheels, upon another’s back.

  So far no chariot had been overturned.

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  But now, the sixth lap finished and the seventh

  Begun, the Aenian driver lost control:

  His horses, hard of mouth, swerved suddenly

  And dashed against a Libyan team. From this

  Single mishap there followed crash on crash;

  The course* was full of wreckage. Seeing this,

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  The Athenian—a clever charioteer—

  Drew out and waited, till the struggling mass

  Had passed him by. Orestes was behind,

  Relying on the finish. When he saw

  That only the Athenian was left

  He gave his team a ringing cry, and they

  Responded. Now the two of them raced level;

  First one and then the other gained the lead,

  But only by a head. And as he drove,

  Each time he turned the pillar at the end,

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  Checking the inside horse he gave full rein

  To the outer one, and so he almost grazed The stone.* Eleven circuits now he had

  Safely accomplished; still he stood erect,

  And still the chariot ran. But then, as he

  Came to the turn, slackening the left-hand rein

  Too soon, he struck the pillar. The axle-shaft

  Was snapped in two, and he was flung headlong,

  Entangled in the reins. The horses ran

  Amok into mid-course and dragged Orestes

  Along the ground. O, what a cry arose

  From all the company when they saw him thrown!

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  That he, who had achieved so much, should meet

  With such disaster, dashed to the ground, and now

  Tossed high, until the other charioteers,

  After a struggle with the horses, checked them

  And loosed him, torn and bleeding, from the reins,

  So mangled that his friends would not have known

  him.

  A funeral-pyre was made; they burned the body.

  Two men of Phokis, chosen for the task,

  Are bringing home his ashes in an urn—

  A little urn, to hold so tall a man*—

  That in his native soil he may find burial.

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  Such is my tale, painful enough to hear;

  For those of us who saw it, how much worse!

  Far worse than anything I yet have seen.

  CHORUS. And so the ancient line of Argive kings

  Has reached its end, in such calamity!

  CLYTEMNESTRA. O Zeus! Am I to call this happy news,

  Or sorrowful, but good? What bitterness,

  If I must lose a son to save my life!

  TUTOR. My lady, why so sad?

  CLYTEMNESTRA.

  There is strange power

  In motherhood: however terrible

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  Her wrongs, a mother never hates her child.

  TUTOR. So then it seems that I have come in vain.

  CLYTEMNESTRA. No, not in vain! How can you say ‘In vain’