The Agamemnon of Aeschylus

Rugs for the feet and yonder broidered pall … The names ring diverse!… Aye, and not to fall Suddenly blind is of all gifts the best God giveth, for I reckon no man blest Ere to the utmost goal his race be run. So be it; and if, as this day I have done, I shall do always, then I fear no ill. CLYTEMNESTRA. Tell me but this, nowise against thy will … AGAMEMNON. My will, be sure, shall falter not nor fade. CLYTEMNESTRA. Was this a vow in some great peril made? AGAMEMNON. Enough! I have spoke my purpose, fixed and plain. CLYTEMNESTRA. Were Priam the conqueror … Think, would he refrain? AGAMEMNON. Oh, stores of broideries would be trampled then! CLYTEMNESTRA. Lord, care not for the cavillings of men! AGAMEMNON. The murmur of a people hath strange weight. CLYTEMNESTRA. Who feareth envy, feareth to be great. AGAMEMNON. ’Tis graceless when a woman strives to lead. CLYTEMNESTRA. When a great conqueror yields, ’tis grace indeed, AGAMEMNON. So in this war thou must my conqueror be? CLYTEMNESTRA. Yield! With good will to yield is victory! AGAMEMNON. Well, if I needs must … Be it as thou hast said! Quick! Loose me these bound slaves on which I tread, And while I walk yon wonders of the sea God grant no eye of wrath be cast on me From far! [_The Attendants untie his shoes_.] For even now it likes me not To waste mine house, thus marring underfoot The pride thereof, and wondrous broideries Bought in far seas with silver. But of these Enough.—And mark, I charge thee, this princess Of Ilion; tend her with all gentleness. God’s eye doth see, and loveth from afar, The merciful conqueror. For no slave of war Is slave by his own will. She is the prize And chosen flower of Ilion’s treasuries, Set by the soldiers’ gift to follow me. Now therefore, seeing I am constrained by thee And do thy will, I walk in conqueror’s guise Beneath my Gate, trampling sea-crimson dyes. [_As he dismounts and sets foot on the Tapestries_ CLYTEMNESTRA’S _women utter again their Cry of Triumph. The people bow or kneel as he passes._] CLYTEMNESTRA. There is the sea—its caverns who shall drain?— Breeding of many a purple-fish the stain Surpassing silver, ever fresh renewed, For robes of kings. And we, by right indued, Possess our fill thereof. Thy house, O King, Knoweth no stint, nor lack of anything. What trampling of rich raiment, had the cry So sounded in the domes of prophesy, Would I have vowed these years, as price to pay For this dear life in peril far away! Where the root is, the leafage cometh soon To clothe an house, and spread its leafy boon Against the burning star; and, thou being come, Thou, on the midmost hearthstone of thy home, Oh, warmth in winter leapeth to thy sign. And when God’s summer melteth into wine The green grape, on that house shall coolness fall Where the true man, the master, walks his hall. Zeus, Zeus! True Master, let my prayers be true! And, oh, forget not that thou art willed to do! [_She follows_ AGAMEMNON _into the Palace._ _The retinues of both King and Queen go in after them._ CASSANDRA _remains_.] CHORUS. What is this that evermore, [_Strophe 1._ A cold terror at the door Of this bosom presage-haunted, Pale as death hovereth? While a song unhired, unwanted, By some inward prophet chanted, Speaks the secret at its core; And to cast it from my blood Like a dream not understood No sweet-spoken Courage now Sitteth at my heart’s dear prow. Yet I know that manifold Days, like sand, have waxen old Since the day those shoreward-thrown Cables flapped and line on line Standing forth for Ilion The long galleys took the brine [_Antistrophe 1._ And in harbour—mine own eye Hath beheld—again they lie; Yet that lyreless music hidden Whispers still words of ill, ’Tis the Soul of me unbidden, Like some Fury sorrow-ridden, Weeping over things that die. Neither waketh in my sense Ever Hope’s dear confidence; For this flesh that groans within, And these bones that know of Sin, This tossed heart upon the spate Of a whirpool that is Fate, Surely these lie not. Yet deep Beneath hope my prayer doth run, All will die like dreams, and creep To the unthought of and undone. [_Strophe 2._ —Surely of great Weal at the end of all Comes not Content; so near doth Fever crawl, Close neighbour, pressing hard the narrow wall. —Woe to him who fears not fate! ’Tis the ship that forward straight Sweepeth, strikes the reef below; He who fears and lightens weight, Casting forth, in measured throw, From the wealth his hand hath got … His whole ship shall founder not, With abundance overfraught, Nor deep seas above him flow. —Lo, when famine stalketh near, One good gift of Zeus again From the furrows of one year Endeth quick the starving pain; [_Antistrophe 2._ —But once the blood of death is fallen, black And oozing at a slain man’s feet, alack! By spell or singing who shall charm it back? —One there was of old who showed Man the path from death to day; But Zeus, lifting up his rod, Spared not, when he charged him stay. —Save that every doom of God Hath by other dooms its way Crossed, that none may rule alone, In one speech-outstripping groan Forth had all this passion flown, Which now murmuring hides away, Full of pain, and hoping not Ever one clear thread to unknot From the tangle of my soul, From a heart of burning coal. [_Suddenly_ CLYTEMNESTRA _appears standing in the Doorway._] CLYTEMNESTRA. Thou likewise, come within! I speak thy name, Cassandra; [CASSANDRA _trembles, but continues to stare in front of her, as though not hearing_ CLYTEMNESTRA.] seeing the Gods—why chafe at them?— Have placed thee here, to share within these walls Our lustral waters, ’mid a crowd of thralls Who stand obedient round the altar-stone Of our Possession. Therefore come thou down, And be not over-proud. The tale is told How once Alcmêna’s son himself, being sold, Was patient, though he liked not the slaves’ mess. And more, if Fate must bring thee to this stress, Praise God thou art come to a House of high report And wealth from long ago. The baser sort, Who have reaped some sudden harvest unforeseen, Are ever cruel to their slaves, and mean In the measure. We shall give whate’er is due. [CASSANDRA _is silent._] LEADER. To thee she speaks, and waits … clear words and true! Oh, doom is all around thee like a net; Yield, if thou canst…. Belike thou canst not yet. CLYTEMNESTRA. Methinks, unless this wandering maid is one Voiced like a swallow-bird, with tongue unknown And barbarous, she can read my plain intent. I use but words, and ask for her consent. LEADER. Ah, come! Tis best, as the world lies to-day. Leave this high-throned chariot, and obey! CLYTEMNESTRA. How long must I stand dallying at the Gate? Even now the beasts to Hestia consecrate Wait by the midmost fire, since there is wrought This high fulfilment for which no man thought. Wherefore, if ’tis thy pleasure to obey Aught of my will, prithee, no more delay! If, dead to sense, thou wilt not understand… Thou show her, not with speech but with brute hand! [_To the Leader of the_ CHORUS.] LEADER. The strange maid needs a rare interpreter. She is trembling like a wild beast in a snare. CLYTEMNESTRA. ’Fore God, she is mad, and heareth but her own Folly! A slave, her city all o’erthrown, She needs must chafe her bridle, till this fret Be foamed away in blood and bitter sweat. I waste no more speech, thus to be defied. [_She goes back inside the Palace_.] LEADER. I pity thee so sore, no wrath nor pride Is in me.—Come, dismount! Bend to the stroke Fate lays on thee, and learn to feel thy yoke. [_He lays his hand softly on_ CASSANDRA’S _shoulder_.] CASSANDRA (_moaning to herself_). Otototoi … Dreams. Dreams. Apollo. O Apollo! SECOND ELDER. Why sob’st thou for Apollo? It is writ, He loves not grief nor lendeth ear to it. CASSANDRA. Otototoi … Dreams. Dreams. Apollo. O Apollo! LEADER. Still to that god she makes her sobbing cry Who hath no place where men are sad, or die. CASSANDRA. Apollo, Apollo! Light of the Ways of Men! Mine enemy! Hast lighted me to darkness yet again? SECOND ELDER. How? Will she prophesy about her own Sorrows? That power abides when all is gone! CASSANDRA. Apollo, Apollo! Light of all that is! Mine enemy! Where hast thou led me? … Ha! What house is this? LEADER. The Atreidae’s castle. If thou knowest not, I Am here to help thee, and help faithfully. CASSANDRA (_whispering_). Nay, nay. This is the house that God hateth. There be many things that know its secret; sore And evil things; murders and strangling death. ’Tis here they slaughter men…A splashing floor. SECOND ELDER. Keen-sensed the strange maid seemeth, like a hound For blood.—And what she seeks can sure be found! CASSANDRA. The witnesses … I follow where they lead. The crying … of little children … near the gate: Crying for wounds that bleed: And the smell of the baked meats their father ate. SECOND ELDER (_recognizing her vision, and repelled_). Word of thy mystic power had reached our ear Long since. Howbeit we need no prophets here. CASSANDRA. Ah, ah! What would they? A new dreadful thing. A great great sin plots in the house this day; Too strong for the faithful, beyond medicining … And help stands far away. LEADER. This warning I can read not, though I knew That other tale. It rings the city through. CASSANDRA. O Woman, thou! The lord who lay with thee! Wilt lave with water, and then … How speak the end? It comes so quick. A hand … another hand … That reach, reach gropingly…. LEADER. I see not yet. These riddles, pierced with blind Gleams of foreboding, but bemuse my mind. CASSANDRA. Ah, ah! What is it? There; it is coming clear. A net … some net of Hell. Nay, she that lies with him … is she the snare? And half of his blood upon it. It holds well…. O Crowd of ravening Voices, be glad, yea, shout And cry for the stoning, cry for the casting out! SECOND ELDER. What Fury Voices call’st thou to be hot Against this castle? Such words like me not. And deep within my breast I felt that sick And saffron drop, which creepeth to the heart To die as the last rays of life depart. Misfortune comes so quick. CASSANDRA. Ah, look! Look! Keep his mate from the Wild Bull! A tangle of raiment, see; A black horn, and a blow, and he falleth, full In the marble amid the water. I counsel ye. I speak plain … Blood in the bath and treachery! LEADER. No great interpreter of oracles Am I; but this, I think, some mischief spells. What spring of good hath seercraft ever made Up from the dark to flow? ’Tis but a weaving of words, a craft of woe, To make mankind afraid. CASSANDRA. Poor woman! Poor dead woman! … Yea, it is I, Poured out like water among them. Weep for me…. Ah! What is this place? Why must I come with thee…. To die, only to die? LEADER. Thou art borne on the breath of God, thou spirit wild, For thine own weird to wail, Like to that wingèd voice, that heart so sore Which, crying alway, hungereth to cry more, “Itylus, Itylus,” till it sing her child Back to the nightingale. CASSANDRA. Oh, happy Singing Bird, so sweet, so clear! Soft wings for her God made, And an easy passing, without pain or tear … For me ’twill be torn flesh and rending blade. SECOND ELDER. Whence is it sprung, whence wafted on God’s breath, This anguish reasonless? This throbbing of terror shaped to melody, Moaning of evil blent with music high? Who hath marked out for thee that mystic path Through thy woe’s wilderness? CASSANDRA. Alas for the kiss, the kiss of Paris, his people’s bane! Alas for Scamander Water, the water my fathers drank! Long, long ago, I played about thy bank,