My comrades . . .
they’re shadows, I tell you, ghosts of men
who swore they’d die for me. Only Odysseus:
I dragged that man to the wars but once in harness
he was a trace-horse, he gave his all for me.
Dead or alive, no matter, I can praise him.
And now this cause involving men and gods.
We must summon the city for a trial,
found a national tribunal. Whatever’s healthy,
shore it up with law and help it flourish.
Wherever something calls for drastic cures
we make our noblest effort : amputate or wield
the healing iron, burn the cancer at the roots.
Now I go to my father’s house -
I give the gods my right hand, my first salute.
The ones who sent me forth have brought me home.
He starts down from the chariot, looks at CLYTAEMNESTRA, stops, and offers up a prayer.
Victory, you have sped my way before,
now speed me to the last.
CLYTAEMNESTRA turns from the king to the CHORUS.
CLYTAEMNESTRA:
Old nobility of Argos
gathered here, I am not ashamed to tell you
how I love the man. I am older,
and the fear dies away . . . I am human.
Nothing I say was learned from others.
This is my life, my ordeal, long as the siege
he laid at Troy and more demanding.
First,
when a woman sits at home and the man is gone,
the loneliness is terrible,
unconscionable . . .
and the rumours spread and fester,
a runner comes with something dreadful,
dose on his heels the next and his news worse,
and they shout it out and the whole house can hear;
and wounds - if he took one wound for each report
to penetrate these walls, he’s gashed like a dragnet,
more, if he had only died ...
for each death that swelled his record, he could boast
like a triple-bodied Geryon risen from the grave,
‘Three shrouds I dug from the earth, one for every body
that went down!’
The rumours broke like fever,
broke and then rose higher. There were times
they cut me down and eased my throat from the noose.
I wavered between the living and the dead.
Turning to AGAMEMNON.
And so
our child is gone, not standing by our side,
the bond of our dearest pledges, mine and yours;
by all rights our child should be here . . .
Orestes. You seem startled.
You needn’t be. Our loyal brother-in-arms
will take good care of him, Strophios the Phocian.
He warned from the start we court two griefs in one.
You risk all on the wars - and what if the people
rise up howling for the king, and anarchy
should dash our plans?
Men, it is their nature,
trampling on the fighter once he’s down.
Our child is gone. That is my self-defence
and it is true.
For me, the tears that welled
like springs are dry. I have no tears to spare.
I’d watch till late at night, my eyes still burn,
I sobbed by the torch I lit for you alone. ,Glancing towards the palace.
I never let it die . . . but in my dreams
the high thin wail of a gnat would rouse me,
piercing like a trumpet - I could see you
suffer more than all
the hours that slept with me could ever bear.
I endured it all. And now, free of grief,
I would salute that man the watchdog of the fold,
the mainroyal, saving stay of the vessel,
rooted oak that thrusts the roof sky-high,
the father’s one true heir.
Land at dawn to the shipwrecked past all hope,
light of the morning burning off the night of storm,
the cold clear spring to the parched horseman -
O the ecstasy, to flee the yoke of Fate!
It is right to use the titles he deserves.
Let envy keep her distance. We have suffered
long enough.
Reaching towards AGAMEMNON.
Come to me now, my dearest,
down from the car of war, but never set the foot
that stamped out Troy on earth again, my great one.
Women, why delay? You have your orders.
Pave his way with tapestries.
They begin to spread the crimson tapestries between the king and the palace doors.
Quickly.
Let the red stream flow and bear him home
to the home he never hoped to see — Justice,
lead him in!
Leave all the rest to me.
The spirit within me never yields to sleep.
We will set things right, with the god’s help.
We will do whatever Fate requires.
AGAMEMNON:
There
is Leda’s daughter, the keeper of my house.
And the speech to suit my absence, much too long.
But the praise that does us justice,
let it come from others, then we prize it.
This -
you treat me like a woman. Grovelling, gaping up at me -
what am I, some barbarian peacocking out of Asia?
Never cross my path with robes and draw the lightning.
Never- only the gods deserve the pomps of honour
and the stiff brocades of fame. To walk on them . . .
I am human, and it makes my pulses stir
with dread.
Give me the tributes of a man
and not a god, a little earth to walk on,
not this gorgeous work.
There is no need to sound my reputation.
I have a sense of right and wrong, what’s more -
heaven’s proudest gift. Call no man blest
until he ends his life in peace, fulfilled.
If I can live by what I say, I have no fear.
CLYTAEMNESTRA:
One thing more. Be true to your ideals and tell me -
AGAMEMNON:
True to my ideals? Once I violate them I am lost.
CLYTAEMNESTRA:
Would you have sworn this act to god in a time of terror?
AGAMEMNON:
Yes, if a prophet called for a last, drastic rite.
CLYTAEMNESTRA:
But Priam - can you see him if he had your success?
AGAMEMNON:
Striding on the tapestries of god, I see him now.
CLYTAEMNESTRA:
And you fear the reproach of common men?
AGAMEMNON:
The voice of the people - aye, they have enormous power.
CLYTAEMNESTRA:
Perhaps, but where’s the glory without a little gall?
AGAMEMNON:
And where’s the woman in all this lust for glory?
CLYTAEMNESTRA:
But the great victor - it becomes him to give way.
AGAMEMNON:
Victory in this . . . war of ours, it means so much to you?
CLYTAEMNESTRA:
O give way! The power is yours if you surrender,
all of your own free will, to me!
AGAMEMNON:
Enough.
If you are so determined-Turning to the women, pointing to his boots.
Let someone help me off with these at least.
Old slaves, they’ve stood me well.
Hurry,
and while I tread his splendours dyed red in the sea,
may no god watch and strike me down with envy
from on high. I feel such
shame -
to tread the life of the house, a kingdom’s worth
of silver in the weaving.
He steps down from the chariot to the tapestries and reveals CASSANDRA, dressed in the sacred regalia, the fillets, robes, and sceptre of Apollo.
Done is done.
Escort this stranger in, be gentle.
Conquer with compassion. Then the gods
shine down upon you, gently. No one chooses
the yoke of slavery, not of one’s free will-
and she least of all. The gift of the armies,
flower and pride of all the wealth we won,
she follows me from Troy.
And now,
since you have brought me down with your insistence,
just this once I enter my father’s house,
trampling royal crimson as I go.
He takes his first steps and pauses.
CLYTAEMNESTRA:
There is the sea
and who will drain it dry? Precious as silver,
inexhaustible, ever-new, it breeds the more we reap it—
tides on tides of crimson dye our robes blood-red.
Our lives are based on wealth, my king,
the gods have seen to that.
Destitution, our house has never heard the word.
I would have sworn to tread on legacies of robes,
at one command from an oracle, deplete the house -
suffer the worst to bring that dear life back!
Encouraged, AGAMEMNON strides to the entrance.
When the root lives on, the new leaves come back,
spreading a dense shroud of shade across the house
to thwart the Dog Star’s fury. So you return
to the father’s hearth, you bring us warmth in winter
like the sun -
And you are Zeus when Zeus
tramples the bitter virgin grape for new wine
and the welcome chill steals through the halls, at last
the master moves among the shadows of his house, fulfilled.
AGAMEMNON goes over the threshold; the women gather up the tapestries while CLYTAEMNESTRA prays.
Zeus, Zeus, master of all fulfilment, now fulfil our prayers—
speed our rites to their fulfilment once for all!
She enters the palace, the doors close,
the old men huddle in terror.
CHORUS:
Why, why does it rock me, never stops,
this terror beating down my heart,
this seer that sees it all-
it beats its wings, uncalled unpaid
thrust on the lungs
the mercenary song beats on and on
singing a prophet’s strain -
and I can’t throw it off
like dreams that make no sense,
and the strength drains
that filled the mind with trust,
and the years drift by and the driven sand
has buried the mooring lines
that churned when the armoured squadrons cut for Troy . . .
and now I believe it, I can prove he’s home,
my own clear eyes for witness—
Agamemnon!
Still it’s chanting, beating deep so deep in the heart
this dirge of the Furies, oh dear god,
not fit for the lyre, its own master
it kills our spirit
kills our hopes
and it’s real, true, no fantasy—
stark terror whirls the brain
and the end is coming
Justice comes to birth-
I pray my fears prove false and fall
and die and never come to birth!
Even exultant health, well we know,
exceeds its limits, comes so near disease
it can breach the wall between them.
Even a man’s fate, held true on course,
in a blinding flash rams some hidden reef;
but if caution only casts the pick of the cargo -
one well-balanced cast -
the house will not go down, not outright;
labouring under its wealth of grief
the ship of state rides on.
Yes, and the great green bounty of god,
sown in the furrows year by year and reaped each fall
can end the plague of famine.
But a man’s life-blood
is dark and mortal.
Once it wets the earth
what song can sing it back?
Not even the master-healer
who brought the dead to life -
Zeus stopped the man before he did more harm.
Oh, if only the gods had never forged
the chain that curbs our excess,
one man’s fate curbing the next man’s fate,
my heart would outrace my song, I’d pour out all I feel -
but no, I choke with anguish,
mutter through the nights.
Never to ravel out a hope in time
and the brain is swarming, burning —CLYTAEMNESTRA merges from the palace and goes to CASSANDRA, impassive in the chariot.
CLYTAEMNESTRA:
Won’t you come inside? I mean you, Cassandra.
Zeus in all his mercy wants you to share
some victory libations with the house.
The slaves are flocking. Come, lead them
up to the altar of the god who guards
our dearest treasures.
Down from the chariot,
this is no time for pride. Why even Heracles,
they say, was sold into bondage long ago,
he had to endure the bitter bread of slaves.
But if the yoke descends on you, be grateful
for a master born and reared in ancient wealth.
Those who reap a harvest past their hopes
are merciless to their slaves.
From us
you will receive what custom says is right.
CASSANDRA remains impassive.
LEADER:
It’s you she is speaking to, it’s all too clear.
You’re caught in the nets of doom — obey
if you can obey, unless you cannot bear to.
CLYTAEMNESTRA:
Unless she’s like a swallow, possessed
of her own barbaric song, strange, dark.
I speak directly as I can - she must obey.
LEADER:
Go with her. Make the best of it, she’s right.
Step down from the seat, obey her.
CLYTAEMNESTRA:
Do it mow -
I have no time to spend outside. Already
the victims crowd the hearth, the Navelstone,
to bless this day of joy I never hoped to see ! -
our victims waiting for the fire and die knife,
and you,
if you want to taste our mystic rites, come now.
If my words can’t reach you
—Turning to the LEADER.
Give her a sign,
one of her exotic handsigns.
LEADER:
I think
the stranger needs an interpreter, someone clear.
She’s like a wild creature, fresh caught.
CLYTAEMNESTRA:
She’s mad,
her evil genius murmuring in her ears.
She comes from a city fresh caught.
She must learn to take the cutting bridle
before she foams her spirit off in blood -
and that’s the last I waste on her contempt!
Wheeling. re-entering the palace. The LEADER turns to CASSANDRA, who remains transfixed.
LEADER:
Not I, I pity her. I will be gentle.
Come, poor thing. Leave the empty chariot -
Of your own free will try on the yoke of Fate.
CASSANDRA:
Aieeeeee! Earth - Mother-
Curse of the Earth - Apollo Apollo!
LEADER:
Why cry to Apollo?
He’s not the god to call with sounds of mourning.
CASSANDRA:
Aieeeeee! Earth - Mother -
Rape of the Earth - Apollo Apollo!
LEADER:
Again, it’s a bad omen.
She cries for the god who wants no part of grief.
CASSANDRA steps from the chariot, looks slowly towards the rooftops of the palace.
CASSANDRA:
God of the long road,
Apollo Apollo my destroyer-
you destroy me once, destroy me twice -
LEADER:
She’s about to sense her own ordeal, I think.
Slave that she is, the god lives on inside her.
CASSANDRA:
God of the iron marches,
Apollo Apollo my destroyer-
where, where have you led me now? what house -
LEADER:
The house of Atreus and his sons. Really -
don’t you know? It’s true, see for yourself.
CASSANDRA:
No . . . the house that hates god,
an echoing womb of guilt, kinsmen
torturing kinsmen, severed heads,
slaughterhouse of heroes, soil streaming blood -
LEADER:
A keen hound, this stranger.
Trailing murder, and murder she will find.
CASSANDRA:
See, my witnesses -
I trust to them, to the babies