The Complete Aeschylus, Volume I: The Oresteia

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  that his house be all destroyed, there are still grounds

  for hope he will come home again. Know that

  in hearing this much you have heard the truth.

  HERALD exits to the right.

  CHORUS Who can have named her so

  Strophe 1

  exactly? Someone now

  invisible whose power

  to see, so long ago,

  what far ahead was fated

  to happen, rightly led

  his tongue, his lips, to name

  that spear bride, source of killing,

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  Helen: destroyer. The name

  became her, suited her,

  it seemed, as much as the soft

  luxuries of the bower

  she sailed from, destroyer of ships,

  destroyer of men, destroyer

  of cities, swept ahead

  on the breeze that the giant Zephyrus

  sent her. And on her heels,

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  fast on the scent of blood-strife,

  many shield-bearing huntsmen

  followed the disappearing

  track of the oars that had

  already beached the ships

  on Simois’ leaf-thick shores.

  Inexorable in its aim,

  Antistrophe 1

  Wrath made for Troy

  a marriage whose name is mourning,

  and then demanded a reckoning

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  for the guest-table, dishonored,

  and the dishonor to Zeus,

  from those who sang out

  in the bride’s honor the song

  that fell then to the bride-

  groom’s kin to sing.

  But learning a different tune

  in a new key fraught with sorrow,

  Priam’s city laments,

  I think, in her old age,

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  laments and calls it evil,

  the marriage Paris made.

  She has endured destruction,

  death, sheer desolation,

  and a season of ceaseless keening

  caused by the spilled blood

  of all her piteous sons.

  A man raised as his own

  Strophe 2

  a lion cub, not weaned

  yet, robbed of the breast,

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  gentle in the beginning,

  the children’s pet, and to

  the old a quiet pleasure.

  And often in his arms

  he rocked it like a baby,

  its bright eyes ever turned

  to the hand it nuzzled

  to ease the belly’s hunger.

  But as time passed it showed

  Antistrophe 2

  the color of its bloodlines,

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  and in return for all

  the kindness it received

  from those who fostered it,

  it made a bleak, forbidden

  feast, cruel slaughter of all

  the cattle, the house foul

  with blood, since no one could

  beat back the agony,

  and all about them, near

  and far, a chaos of strewn

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  corpses. A priest of death

  and ruin, ordained by god,

  was nurtured in the house.

  And one could say there came at first

  to Troy

  Strophe 3

  a sweet air

  of windless calm, and wealth with all its subtle,

  shimmery

  ornaments, a soft arrow of the eyes,

  a love-flower

  stinging the heart. But who was it who turned

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  the marriage bed

  to ruin, devised such a bitter consummation?

  Who drove on

  to the sons of Priam, in the train of Zeus,

  protector of host

  and guest, and spread the deadly poison of

  herself among them?

  The poisonous deliverer of tears

  to brides, the Erinys.

  An ancient saying, still repeated, still

  Antistrophe 3

  860

  believed, proclaims

  that great prosperity, once it has reached full growth,

  turns to begetting,

  does not die childless—and from the high

  state of a house’s

  fortune a quenchless misery is born.

  But I’m alone

  in thinking otherwise—an evil act

  is all that fathers

  more evil after it: the son follows

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  in the father’s footsteps.

  For when a house is just, its children are

  the beauty of its fate.

  But, soon or late, at the determined time,

  Strophe 4

  among the impious

  old arrogance gives birth to new, brings forth

  that irresistible,

  undefeatable spirit of wild daring

  that is itself

  the black face of ruin, so like its parent.

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  Even in hovels, under smoke-smeared

  rafters,

  Antistrophe 4

  Justice shines

  her blessings on the ones who live with honor;

  but from grand halls

  made radiant with gold by unclean hands

  she turns away,

  her eyes drawn back to what is simply good,

  shunning the power

  of gold that flattery makes a fool’s gold of,

  and, always, all

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  things she is guiding to their determined end.

  AGAMEMNON enters from the left in a horse-drawn car,

  accompanied by CASSANDRA.

  And now, my king, scourge of Troy,

  son of Atreus,

  how should I greet you, how do you justice

  and neither shoot beyond nor fall

  short of the mark of what suits you,

  what you deserve, for there are now

  so many here

  among us who prefer the outward

  sheen of truth without the substance,

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  who flout justice

  and groan out with the ones who groan

  though no pain grips their heart, and then,

  among the joyous, with a show

  of joy disguise a joyless face.

  But the good

  discerning shepherd of his flock

  sees through those eyes that brighten with

  a seeming heart-

  felt loyalty that’s really just

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  a fawning, watered-down affection.

  And when you long ago led forth

  your thousand warships for the sake

  of Helen, the picture

  I painted in my mind of you

  (I will not hide it) was disfigured,

  ugly; I thought

  the tiller of your mind steered wildly,

  trying by sacrifice to bring

  back courage to your dying men.

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  But now with love drawn from the deep

  well of the heart,

  I say, “Even the toil is sweet

  to those who have at last succeeded.”

  And you will learn,

  in time, by careful scrutiny,

  which of your citizens have served

  the city justly, which have not.

  AGAMEMNON I first greet Argos, as is only just,

  and all the gods who dwell here in the land,

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  they who have helped me in my safe return,

  and in the justice I at last exacted

  from Priam’s city. For the gods heard pleas

  not from any mouth but from force of arms

  and unanimously cast into the urn of blood

  their vote
of ruin, death, for Ilium;

  And though a hand drew near the other urn,

  and held out hope, the vessel wasn’t filled.

  Smoke, even now, lifts up a declaration

  of the city’s fall, the fiery thunderstorm

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  of its destruction goes on living and

  the embers, eating down, dying with the city,

  exhale the rich fumes of the city’s wealth.

  For this we owe the gods our gratitude

  and remembrance, since what was arrogantly

  plundered has been remorselessly avenged,

  and for a woman’s sake all of the city

  was ground down into dust by the Trojan Horse,

  the wooden monster that held the Argive host

  till they made their fierce leap when the Pleiads set.

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  Over the wall, the flesh-crazed lion leaped

  and gorged himself upon the blood of kings.

  I’ve gone on this long in honor of the gods.

  But as for your concerns, know I have listened,

  and still remember, and think the same as you—

  You have my full support. For few men give

  by nature honor to a friend’s good fortune

  without resenting him. For envy burrows

  deep in the heart and doubles the sickening weight

  of the disease for the man afflicted with it.

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  Weighed down with sorrows all his own, he groans

  to see someone who’s happy in his life.

  I speak from hard experience and, knowing

  too well the mirror of friendship, comradeship,

  call those who only mimic loyalty

  the shadow of a shade. Only Odysseus,

  who dragged his feet at first, once harnessed, always

  pulled his own weight, and more. Whether alive

  or dead, he still deserves our praise and thanks.

  As to the rest, what concerns the city

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  and the gods, we shall hold assembly and

  talk openly about this. And what is well,

  we will make sure that it continues well,

  But what needs healing, we will heal,

  Yes, one way or another, we’ll try to thwart

  the pain of the disease by some kind means,

  burning, or cutting.

  I’m going inside now

  to my halls, my household, greeting the gods who sent

  me far away and brought me back. Since Victory

  has been with me, may she stay with me forever.

  980

  CLYTEMNESTRA enters from the palace followed by

  serving women holding crimson tapestries.

  CLYTEMNESTRA Elders of the city, I’m not ashamed

  to tell you all how much I love my husband.

  As one grows older, all shyness dies away.

  I am self-taught in suffering. Let me tell you

  how hard my life’s been these long years my husband

  fought beneath the walls of Troy. How hard

  and fearful for a woman, her husband gone,

  to sit in her house alone, the helpless prey

  of deadly rumors, as messenger follows messenger,

  each bearing news worse than the one before,

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  all crying devastation for the house.

  And if this man had suffered as many wounds

  as rumor after rumor of his wounds

  poured through the house, his body now would be

  more net than body, pierced with so many holes.

  Or if he’d died as often as he did

  in the tales I heard, you’d have to say he had

  three bodies, like a second Geryon,

  and could claim he had received a triple cloak

  of earth (a mighty weight of earth above

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  him, not to mention all the earth below)—

  perishing three times, once for every shape.

  Distraught from deadly rumours such as these,

  I often pulled a noose around my neck

  and yanked it tight, and would have hanged myself

  had others not discovered me, and seized me

  and, though I fought them hard, loosened the knot.

  And this is why our son is not here with us,

  as he ought to be, Orestes, in whom resides

  the joint pledge of our love for one another.

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  Don’t be surprised to hear this. For your friend

  and ally, Strophius the Phocian, is

  looking after him. He urged this on me

  for two reasons: the danger you ran at Troy,

  and the way the people’s clamorous lawlessness

  might topple the council, since it’s human nature

  to want to trample on the man who’s fallen.

  That’s my justification, quite without deceit.

  My tears, those fountains that gushed once, have all

  run dry, no drop remains, and my eyes are sore

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  with weeping from the years of nightlong vigils

  for the beacon fires set for you that were never lit.

  Year in, year out, my sleep was so thin even

  the faintest whirr of a gnat’s wing was enough

  to wake me from the nightmares in which I saw

  you suffer more torments than the time that shared

  my sleep could hold. Now, these troubles all

  behind me,

  with my heart free of sorrow, I can call

  my husband here the watchdog of the fold,

  the ship’s stout rigging, the high roof’s central pillar,

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  sole son to a father, land appearing

  to sailors who despaired of seeing land,

  bright rill of water to the bone-dry traveler.

  Fairest is the weather dawning after storm.

  What joy I have at last to elude all need.

  These are the greetings he deserves. Let Envy

  not begrudge me what I’m blessed with now, for I

  endured much in what went before.

  And now,

  beloved, step down from your chariot,

  don’t let your foot touch the ground, my king, the foot

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  that toppled Troy.

  Handmaidens, I gave you all

  the task of strewing with tapestries the ground

  he walks on—why the delay? Let his path be

  covered quickly over all with purple,

  so Justice now may guide him to the home

  he never hoped to see. And for the rest,

  a vigilant attention will accomplish

  everything down to the smallest detail, justly,

  with god’s help, exactly as it’s been ordained.

  AGAMEMNON Child of Leda, guardian of my house,

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  in one respect, at least, your speech mirrors

  my absence, for you have stretched it out too long.

  What praise is due me ought to come from others,

  not you. What’s more, you shouldn’t coddle me

  like a woman, or grovel, mouth wide with loud hurrahs,

  as if I were some barbarian; don’t draw down envy

  upon my path by strewing it with robes.

  Only the gods one honors in this way.

  A man who walks on fineries such as these

  walks fearfully. Revere me like a man,

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  not like a god. True fame speaks for itself,

  it doesn’t need to throw its voice like some

  ventriloquist into mats and tapestries.

  Not thinking basely is the greatest blessing.

  Call only one whose life ends happily

  a fortunate man. And I am hopeful

  if in all things I can behave like this.

  CLYTEMNESTRA Now tell me this: and say wha
t you truly think.

  AGAMEMNON Be sure, I never defile what I truly think.

  CLYTEMNESTRA Would you have vowed to do this, in fear of the gods?

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  AGAMEMNON If someone, who knew I should, ordained it, yes.

  CLYTEMNESTRA And if Priam had crushed you, what would he have done?

  AGAMEMNON He would have trampled on fineries, I think.

  CLYTEMNESTRA Don’t worry then what other men might say.

  AGAMEMNON Yet people talk, and what they say has power.

  CLYTEMNESTRA A life unenvied is an unenviable life.

  AGAMEMNON And it’s unwomanly to love contention.

  CLYTEMNESTRA It is fitting for the fortunate to give way.

  AGAMEMNON Does winning this fight mean so much to you?

  CLYEMNESTRA The gain is all yours, if you let me win.

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  AGAMEMNON Well, if you want it so badly—someone quick

  loosen these boots that slave on my behalf,

  And as I trample down the god’s purples,

  let no envy strike me from a far-off eye.

  Shameful to squander with my feet like this

  the house’s substance, ruining such wealth,

  such woven opulence that silver bought.

  But enough of this.

  (pointing to CASSANDRA)

  Now bring this stranger in,

  and treat her well. From far away the gods

  look favorably upon a gentle master.

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  For none bows by his own will to the yoke

  of slavery. And she came with me as

  the choicest flower of abundant treasure,

  the army’s gift.

  But since I let my will

  be bent to yours in this, my feet will trample

  a purple path into my palace halls.

  CLYTEMNESTRA There is a sea—and who will drain it dry?—

  breeding wave after wave of purple, precious

  as silver, inexhaustibly renewed,

  in which to dye our garments. Yes, a wealth

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