The Oresteia

Aeschylus

Translated by

Ian Johnston

Copyright notice

This translation may be distributed in printed or electronic form (in whole or in part) to students without permission and without charge. Performing artists are permitted to use the text for their productions and to edit it to suit their purposes (again, without permission and without charge). However, commercial publication in any form is prohibited except with the written permission of the translator.

For information please contact Ian Johnston (at ian.johnston@viu.ca)

Contents

About this edition

The Oresteia

Agamemnon

The Libation Bearers

The Furies

End notes

Colophon

About this edition

Aeschylus (525-455 BC) was one of the most famous Greek dramatists, and was said by Aristotle to be the first to have more than one character on stage as well as the chorus. The Oresteia was produced in 458 BC.

This 21st century verse translation of the three plays in The Oresteia was done by Emeritus Professor Ian Johnston of Vancouver Island University, British Columbia, Canada. He retains the copyright, and has given permission to use his text in this ebook. Prof. Johnston has provided stage directions for the three plays, (in italics) and footnotes for the first two plays.

The first play tells of Agamemnon’s sacrifice of his daughter Iphigeneia to induce Artemis to grant favourable winds for the invasion of Troy, and his murder by his wife Clytaemnestra when he returns to Argos after the fall of Troy. The second play tells of the murder of Clytaemnestra by their son Orestes when he returns from exile. The third play tells of Oreste’s flight to Athens pursued and tormented by the Furies, and the intervention of Athena who arranges his trial and provides a new role for the Furies.

The text for this ebook was taken from the online version on Prof. Johnston’s website, and checked against the print version. I have omitted line numbers, made slight changes to layout, and provided endnotes for the third play. The cover illustration is taken from Wikisource.

Agamemnon

Dramatis Personae

WATCHMAN: servant of Agamemnon and Clytaemnestra.

CHORUS: old men, citizens of Argos.

CLYTAEMNESTRA: wife of Agamemnon, daughter of Leda, sister of Helen.

HERALD: soldier serving with Agamemnon.

AGAMEMNON: king of Argos, leader of the Greek expedition to Troy.

MESSENGER: a servant in the palace.

CASSANDRA: daughter of Priam, King of Troy, a prisoner given to Agamemnon, a priestess of Apollo.

AEGISTHUS: son of Thyestes, cousin of Agamemnon, Clytaemnestra’s lover.

SOLDIERS and SERVANTS attending on Agamemnon and on Clytaemnestra and Aegisthus.

The brothers Agamemnon and Menelaus, sons of Atreus, are both kings of Argos and leaders of the expedition against Troy, launched ten years before the action of the play begins. Agamemnon is the senior of the two. The allied forces under Agamemnon are called the Argives, the Achaeans, or the Danaans, as in Homer’s Iliad – not Greeks. Priam’s city is called Troy or Ilion interchangeably.

[The scene is in Argos immediately in front of the steps leading up to the main doors of the royal palace. In front of the palace there are statues of gods. At the start of the play, the Watchman is prone on the roof of the palace resting his head on his arms. It is just before dawn.]

WATCHMAN

I pray the gods will give me some relief

and end this weary job. One long full year

I’ve been lying here, on this rooftop,

the palace of the sons of Atreus,

resting on my arms, just like a dog.

I’ve come to know the night sky, every star,

the powers we see glittering in the sky,

bringing winter and summer to us all,

as the constellations rise and sink.

I’m still looking for that signal flare,

the fiery blaze from Troy, announcing

it’s been taken. These are my instructions

from the queen. She has a fiery heart,

the determined resolution of a man.

When I set my damp, restless bed up here,

I never dream, for I don’t fall asleep.

No. Fear comes instead and stands beside me,

so I can’t shut my eyes and get some rest.

If I try to sing or hum a tune,

something to do instead of trying to sleep,

since I’m always awake, I start to weep,

as I lament what’s happened to this house,

where things are not being governed well,

not like they used to be. How I wish

my watching could end happily tonight,

with good news brought by fire blazing

through this darkness.

[The signal fire the Watchman has been waiting for suddenly appears. The Watchman springs to his feet]

Fire gleaming in the night!

What a welcome sight! Light of a new day –

you’ll bring on many dancing choruses

right here in Argos, celebrations

of this joyful news.

[Shouting]

It’s over! It’s over!

I must call out to wake the queen,

Clytaemnestra, Agamemnon’s wife,

to get her out of bed, so she can raise

a shout of joy as soon as possible

inside the palace, welcoming this fire –

if indeed the city of Troy’s fallen,

as this signal fire seems to indicate.

For my part, I’ll start things off by dancing,

treating my king’s good fortune as my own.

I’ve had a lucky dice roll, triple six,

thanks to this fiery signal …

[His mood suddenly changes to something much more hesitant and reserved]

But I hope

the master of this house may come home soon,

so I can grasp his welcome hand in mine.

As for all the rest, I’m saying nothing.

A great ox stands on my tongue. But this house,

if it could speak, might tell some stories.

I speak to those who know about these things.

For those who don’t, there’s nothing I remember.

[The Watchman goes down into the house. Enter the Chorus of Argive elders, very old men who carry staves to help them stand up. As they speak, servants come out of the palace and light oil lamps in offering to the statues of the gods outside the palace doors]

CHORUS

It’s now ten years since Menelaus,

Priam’s great adversary,

and lord Agamemnon,

two mighty sons of Atreus,

joined by Zeus in double honours –

twin thrones and royal sceptres –

left this country with that fleet,

a thousand Argive ships,

to back their warrior cause with force,

hearts screaming in their battle fury,

two eagles overwhelmed by grief,

crying for their young – wings beating

like oars, they wheel aloft,

high above their home, distressed

because they’ve lost their work –

their fledglings in the nest are gone!

Then one of the supreme powers –

Apollo, or Pan, or Zeus –

hears the shrill wailing cry,

hears those screaming birds,

who live within his realm,

and sends a late-avenging Fury

to take revenge on the transgressors.

In just that way, mighty Zeus,

god of hospitality,

sends those sons of Atreus

against Alexander,[1] son of Priam –

for that woman’s sake, Helen,

the one who’s had so many men,

condemning Trojans and Danaans

to many heartfelt struggles, both alike,

knees splintering as the fighting starts.

Now things stand as they stand.

What’s destined to come will be fulfilled,

and no libation, sacrifice, or human tears

will mitigate the gods’ unbending wrath

of sacrifice not blessed by fire.

But as for us, whose old bodies

confer no honour, who were left behind

when the army sailed so long ago,

we wait here, using up our strength

to support ourselves with canes,

like children, whose power,

though growing in their chests,

is not yet fit for Ares, god of war.

And so it is with old men, too,

who, when they reach extreme old age,

wither like leaves, and go their way

three-footed, no better than a child,

as they wander like a daydream.

But you, daughter of Tyndareus,

queen Clytaemnestra,

what’s going on? What news?

What reports have you received

that lead you to send your servants out

commanding all this sacrifice?

For every god our city worships –

all-powerful gods above the earth,

and those below, and those in heaven,

and those in the marketplace –

their altars are ablaze with offerings.

Fires rise here and there and everywhere,

right up to heaven, fed by sacred oils

brought from the palace – sweet and holy,

their purity sustains those flames.

Tell us what you can,

tell us what’s right for us to hear.

Cure our anxious thoughts.

For now, at one particular moment,

things look grim, but then our hopes,

rising from these sacrificial fires,

make things seem better, soothing

corrosive pains that eat my heart.

I have the power to proclaim

that prophecy made to our kings,

as they were setting on their way,

a happy outcome for their expedition.

My age inspires in me Persuasion still,

the power of song sent from the gods,

to sing how two kings of Achaea’s troops,

united in a joint command, led off

the youth of Greece, armed with avenging spears,

marching against Troy, land of Teucer.

They got a happy omen – two eagles,

kings of birds, appeared before the kings of ships.

One bird was black, the other’s tail was white,

here, close to the palace, on the right,

in a place where everyone could see.

The eagles were gorging themselves,

devouring a pregnant hare

and all its unborn offspring,

struggling in their death throes still.

Sing out the song of sorrow, song of grief,

but let the good prevail.

Then the army’s prophet, Calchas,

observing the twin purposes

in the two warlike sons of Atreus,

saw the twin leaders of the army

in those birds devouring the hare.

He then interpreted the omen, saying,

“In due course this expedition

will capture Priam’s city, Troy –

before its towers a violent Fate

will annihilate all public goods.

But may no anger from the gods

cast its dark shadow on our troops,

our great bit forged to curb Troy’s mouth.

For goddess Artemis is full of anger

at her father’s flying hounds – she pities

the cowering sacrificial creature in distress,

she pities its young, slaughtered

before she’s brought them into life.

Artemis abominates the eagles’ feast.”

Sing out the song of sorrow, song of grief,

but let the good prevail.

“And lovely Artemis –

though you’re gentle with the tender cubs

of vicious lions and take special joy

in the suckling young of all wild living beasts,

promise things will work out well,

as this omen of the eagles indicates,

an auspicious sign, but ominous.

And I call Apollo, god of healing,

to stop Artemis delaying the fleet,

by sending hostile winds

to keep the ships from sailing,

in her demand for another sacrifice,

one which violates all human law,

which no feast celebrates –

it shatters families and makes the wife

lose all respect and hate her husband.

For in the home a dreadful anger waits.

It does not forget and cannot be appeased.

Its treachery controls the house,

waiting to avenge a slaughtered child.”

Calchas prophesied that fatal destiny,

read from those birds, as the army marched,

speaking by this palace of the kings.

And to confirm all this

sing out the song of sorrow, song of grief,

but let the good prevail.

O Zeus, whoever he may be,

if this name please him as invocation,

then that’s the name I’ll use to call him.

As I try to think all these things through,

I have no words to shape my thoughts,

other than Zeus – if I truly can succeed

in easing my heart of this heavy grief,

this self-defeating weight of sorrow.

As for Uranus, who was once so great,

bursting with arrogance for every fight,

people will talk about that god

as if he’d never even lived.

And his son, Cronos, who came after,

has met his match and is no more.[2]

But whoever with a willing heart

cries his triumphal song to Zeus

will come to understand all things.

Zeus, who guided mortals to be wise,

has established his fixed law –

wisdom comes through suffering.

Trouble, with its memories of pain,

drips in our hearts as we try to sleep,

so men against their will

learn to practice moderation.

Favours come to us from gods

seated on their solemn thrones –

such grace is harsh and violent.

So then the leader of Achaean ships,

the elder brother, Agamemnon,

did not blame or fault the prophet,

but gave in to fortune’s sudden blows.

For Achaea’s army, stranded there,

on the shores across from Calchis,

was held up by opposing winds at Aulis,

where tides ebb and flow.

Troops grew weary, as supplies ran low.

Winds blew from the Strymon river,

keeping ships at anchor, harming men

with too much leisure. Troops grew hungry.

They wandered discontent and restless.

The winds corroded ships and cables.

The delay seemed endless, on and on, until

the men, the flower of Argos, began to wilt.

Then Calchas proclaimed the cause of this –

it was Artemis. And he proposed

a further remedy, but something harsh,

even worse than the opposing winds,

so painful that the sons of Atreus

struck their canes on the ground and wept.

Then Agamemnon, the older king, spoke up:

“It’s harsh not to obey this fate –

but to go through with it is harsh as well,

to kill my child, the glory of my house,

to stain a father’s hands before the altar

with streams of virgin’s blood.[3]

Which of my options is not evil?

How can I just leave this fleet,

and let my fellow warriors down?

Their passionate demand for sacrifice

to calm the winds lies within their rights –

even the sacrifice of virgin blood.

So be it. All may be well.”

But when Agamemnon strapped on

the harsh yoke of necessity,

his spirits changed, and his intentions

became profane, unholy, unsanctified.

He undertook an act beyond all daring.

Troubles come, above all, from delusions

inciting men to rash designs, to evil.

So Agamemnon steeled his heart

to make his own daughter the sacrifice,

an offering for the Achaean fleet,

so he could prosecute the war

waged to avenge that woman Helen.

In their eagerness for war, those leaders

paid no attention to the girl,

her pleas for help, her cries of “Father!” –

any more than to her virgin youth.

Her father offered up a prayer,

then ordered men to seize her

and lift her up – she’d fallen forward

and just lay there in her robes – to raise her,

high above the altar, like a goat,

urging them to keep their spirits up.

They gagged her lovely mouth,

with force, just like a horse’s bit,

to keep her speechless, to stifle any curse

which she might cry against her family.

As she threw her saffron robe onto the ground,

she glanced at the men, each of them,

those carrying out the sacrifice,

her eyes imploring pity. She looked

just like a painting dying to speak.

She’d often sung before her father’s table,

when, as host, he’d entertained his guests,

a virgin using her flawless voice

to honour her dear father with her love,

as he prayed for blessing

at the third libation.

What happened next I did not see.

And I won’t say. What Calchas’ skill

had prophesied did come to pass.

The scales of Justice move to show

that wisdom comes through suffering.

As for what’s to come – you’ll know that

when it comes. So let it be.

To know would be to grieve ahead of time.

It’s clear whatever is to happen

will happen, like tomorrow’s dawn.

[Enter Clytaemnestra through the palace doors]

CHORUS

But I hope whatever follows will be good,

according to the wishes of our queen,

who governs here, our closest guard,

keeping watch all by herself,

protecting Peloponnesian lands.

CHORUS LEADER

Queen Clytaemnestra, we’ve come here

in deference to your royal authority.

With our king far away, the man’s throne

is empty – so it’s appropriate for us

to pay allegiance to his wife, the queen.

I’d really like to hear your news,

whether what you’ve heard is good or not.

Your sacrificial offerings give us hope.

But we won’t object if you stay silent.

CLYTAEMNESTRA

It’s a welcome message. As the proverb says,

“May Dawn be born from mother Night.”

You’ll hear great news, greater than all your hopes –

the Argives have captured Priam’s city!

CHORUS LEADER

What’s that you say? I misheard your words –

what you’ve just said – it defies belief!

CLYTAEMNESTRA

I say Troy is now in Achaean hands.

Is that clear enough?

CHORUS LEADER

That fills me with joy.

So much so I can’t stop crying.

CLYTAEMNESTRA

Then your eyes reveal your faithful loyalty.

CHORUS LEADER

Is this report reliable? Is there proof?

CLYTAEMNESTRA

Of course there is. Unless some god deceives me.

CHORUS LEADER

Has some vision persuaded you of this,

something in a dream, perhaps?

CLYTAEMNESTRA

Not at all.

As if I’d listen to some dozing brain.

CHORUS LEADER:

Perhaps some unfledged rumour raised your hopes?

CLYTAEMNESTRA

Now you’re insulting my intelligence,

as if I were a youngster, just a child.

CHORUS LEADER

When exactly was the city captured?

CLYTAEMNESTRA

I’ll tell you. It was the very night

that gave birth to this glorious day.

CHORUS LEADER

How could a messenger get here so fast?

CLYTAEMNESTRA

Hephaestos, god of fire, sent his bright blaze

speeding here from Ida, his messenger,

flames racing from one beacon to the next –

from Ida to Hermes’ rock in Lemnos.

From that island the great flames sped

to the third fire, on the crest of Athos,

sacred to Zeus, and then, arcing high,

the beacon light sprang across the sea,

exulting in its golden fiery power,

rushing on, like another sun, passing

the message to the look-out towers

at Macistus. The man there was not sleeping

like some fool. Without a moment’s pause,

he relayed the message, so the blazing news

sped on, leaping across Euripus’ stream,

to pass the signal to the next watchmen,

at Messapion. Those men, in their turn,

torched a pile of dried-out heather, firing

the message onward. The flaming light

was not diminished – its strength kept growing.

Like a glowing moon, it jumped across

the plain of Asopus, up to the ridges

on mount Cithaeron, where it set alight

the next stage of the relay race of fire.

Those watching there did not neglect their work –

that light which came to them from far away

they passed on with an even greater blaze,

which dashed across the shores of Gorgopus,

to reach mount Aegiplanctus, with orders

for those there to keep the beacon moving.

They lit a fire, a huge flaming pillar,

with unchecked force, speeding the message on –

its light visible even at the headland

by the Saronic Gulf. It swooped down,

once it reached the crest of Arachnaeus,

that look-out near our city – and from there

jumped down onto the roof of Atreus’ sons,

flames directly linked to blazing Troy.

I organized these messengers of fire,

setting them up in sequence, one by one.

In that race the first and last both triumph,

the ones who sent the message and received it.

That’s the evidence I set before you,

a message from my husband, dispatched

all the way from burning Troy to me.

CHORUS

My queen, I’ll offer up to all the gods

my prayers of thanks, but now I’d like to hear

the details of your wonderful report.

Can you tell me the news once more?

CLYTAEMNESTRA

On this very day Achaea’s army

has taken Troy. Inside that town, I think,

voices cry out in mass confusion.

If you place oil and vinegar together,

in the same container, you’ll observe

they never mix, but separate themselves,

like enemies – well, in Troy the shouting

of conquerors and conquered is like that,

matching their very different situations.

Trojans fall upon their family corpses,

husbands, brothers. The children scream

over dead old men who gave them life.

As captives now, they keep lamenting

all their slaughtered loved ones. But the Argives,

famished after a long night’s roaming,

and weary after battle, are set to eat,

to gorge themselves on what the town affords.

They’re quartered now in captured Trojan homes,

sheltered from the night sky’s frost and dew,

but not according to official rank,

rather as luck determines each man’s lot.

They’re happy. They’ll sleep straight through the night,

without posting a guard. Now, if these troops

fully and piously respect Troy’s gods,

a captured country’s divinities and shrines,

those who’ve conquered may not, in their turn,

be conquered. But let no frenzied greed,

no overpowering lust for plunder,

fall upon the army from the start,

so they ravage what they should leave alone.

For to get safely home, the army needs

to make that long journey back again.

But even if the soldiers do reach home

without offending any god, harsh sorrow

for the dead may still be watching for them,

unless some new disaster intervenes.

Well, I’ve let you hear my woman’s words.

May good things now prevail for all to see.

I take this news as cause for common joy.

CHORUS LEADER

You speak wisely, like a prudent man.

But now I’ve heard that I can trust your news,

we must prepare ourselves to thank the gods,

who’ve given a blessing worthy of our toil.

[Clytaemnestra goes back into the palace]

CHORUS

O Zeus, my king, and friendly Night,

you’ve handed us great glories

to keep as our possession.

You cast upon the towers of Troy

your all-encompassing hunting net,

and no one, young or old, escaped

its enslaving fatal mesh

that overpowered them all.

I worship mighty Zeus,

god of hospitality,

who made this happen.

For a long time now

he’s aimed his bow at Paris,

making sure his arrow

would not fall short or fly

above the stars and miss.

Men will say it’s a blow from Zeus

and trace his presence in all this.

He acts on what he himself decides.

Some people claim that gods

don’t really care about those men

who trample underfoot

favours from the pure in heart.

Such people are profane.

For we now clearly see

destruction is the penalty

for those with reckless pride,

who breathe a boastful spirit

greater than is just,

because their homes are full,

stuffed with riches to excess,

beyond what’s best for them.

Let men have sufficient wealth

to match good sense, not so much

it piles up their misfortunes.

There’s no security in riches

for the insolent man who kicks aside

and pushes from his sight

great altars of righteousness.

Such a man is overpowered

by perverse Persuasion,

insufferable child of scheming Folly.

And there’s no remedy.

His evil’s not concealed –

it stands out, a lurid glitter,

like false bronze when rubbed.

All men can judge his darkness,

once he’s tested by events.

He’s like a child chasing a flying bird.

He brands his city with disgrace

which cannot be removed,

for no god hears his prayers.

The man who lives this way,

doing wrong, the gods destroy.

Such a man was Paris. He came

to the home of the sons of Atreus,

and then abused their hospitality,

running off with his host’s wife.

But she left her people

the smash of shield and spear,

a fleet well armed for war.

To Troy she carried with her

no dowry but destruction.

Daring what should not be dared,

she glided through Troy’s gates.

The prophets in this house cried out,

“Alas, alas for house and home,

and for the royal leaders here.

Alas, for the marriage bed,

still holding traces of her body,

the one who loved her husband.”[4]

As for him, he sits apart,

in pain, silent and dishonoured.

He does not blame her –

no, he aches to be with her,

the woman far across the sea.

Her image seems to rule the house.

Her husband finds no beauty now

in graceful statues, for to his blank eyes

all sexual loveliness has gone.

In his dreams he sees sad images,

with memories of earlier joy –

a vain relief, for when the man

thinks he sees such beauty there,

all at once it’s gone, slipping

through his hands, flying away

along the paths of sleep.

These are the sorrows in the house,

around the hearth, and pain

much worse than this.

throughout the land of Greece,

in every home where men set out

to gather in that army

there is insufferable grief.

Many disasters pierce the heart.

People know the ones who leave,

but every house gets back

weapons and ash, not living men.

For Ares, god of war, pays gold

for soldier’s bodies. In spear fights

he tips the scales, then back from Troy

he ships a heavy freight of ash,

cremated bodies of the dead,

sent home for loved ones to lament.

He trades funeral dust for men,

shiploads of urns filled up with ashes.

Back home the people weep,

praising one man for his battle skill,

another for courageous death.

Some complain about that woman,

how she’s to blame for all of this –

but do so quietly. Nonetheless,

this sorrow spreads resentment

against the leaders of the war,

the sons of Atreus. Meanwhile,

over there, across the seas in Troy,

around the city walls, the hostile ground

swallows our beautiful young men,

now hidden in the earth they conquered.

The people’s voice, once angered,

can create dissent, ratifying a curse

which now must have its way.

And so, in my anxiety, I wait,

listening for something murky,

something emerging from the gloom.

For gods aren’t blind to men who kill.

In time, black agents of revenge,

the Furies, wear down and bring to nothing

the fortunes of a man who prospers

in unjust ways. They wear him out,

reverse his luck, and bring him at last

among the dead. There’s no remedy.

To boast too much of one’s success

is dangerous – the high mountain peak

is struck by Zeus’ lightning bolt.

I’d choose wealth no one could envy.

May I never be the sort of man

who puts whole cities to the sword.

Let me never see myself enslaved,

my life in someone else’s power.

CHORUS MEMBER ONE

This welcome fiery message has spread fast;

it’s gone throughout the town. But is it true?

Sent from the gods or false? Who knows?

CHORUS MEMBER TWO

What man is such a senseless child

he lets his heart catch fire at this news,

and then is shattered by some fresh report?

CHORUS MEMBER THREE

That’s just the nature of a woman –

to give thanks before the truth appears.

CHORUS MEMBER FOUR

Yes, they’re far too trusting.

The proper order in a woman’s mind

is easily upset. Rumours women start

soon die out, soon come to nothing.

CHORUS LEADER

We’ll quickly know about these signal fires,

flaming beacons passed from place to place.

We’ll find out if that really did occur

or if, just like a dream, this joyful light

has come in order to deceive our hopes.

For I see a herald coming from the shore –

an olive bough of triumph shades his face.

The dry dust on him, all those muddy clothes,

tell me he’ll report the facts. Nor will he

light some flaming pile of mountain wood

to pass a signal on with smoke. No –

he’ll shout out to us what he has to say,

and we can then rejoice still more,

or else … but I won’t think of that. Let’s have

good news to add to what we know already.

If anyone is praying for something else

to happen to our city, let him reap

the harvest of his own misguided heart.

[Enter Herald]

HERALD

Greetings to this Argive soil, my father’s land.

On this day, ten years later, I’ve come back.

I’ve seen many hopes of mine destroyed,

and only one fulfilled – I’ve made it home.

I never dreamed I’d die here in Argos,

with a burial plot in this land I love.

I bless the land, the bright light of this sun –

and I give thanks to Zeus, our highest god,

and to Apollo, lord of Pytho.

May you never fire your arrows at us

any more. We had enough of those,

my lord, beside Scamander’s banks,

when you took your stand against us. But now,

Apollo, may you preserve and heal us.

And I greet all gods assembled here,

including Hermes, whom I honour,

the well-loved herald god, worshipped

as the herald’s patron. And next I pray

the heroic spirits who sent us off

will welcome back the remnants of our army,

those spared being slaughtered by the spear.

O you hall of kings, you roof I cherish,

you sacred seats and gods who face the sun,

if your shining eyes in days gone by

have welcomed our king home, then do so now,

after his long absence. He’s coming here,

carrying light into this darkness, for you

and all assembled here – our mighty king,

lord Agamemnon. Greet him with full respect.

For he’s uprooted Troy – with the pick axe

of avenging Zeus he’s reduced her soil.

The altars of the gods and all their shrines

he has obliterated, laying waste

all that country’s rich fertility.

Around Troy’s neck he’s fixed destruction’s yoke.

Now he’s coming home, king Agamemnon,

the fortunate elder son of Atreus,

among all men he merits the most honour.

For neither Paris nor his accomplice,

the Trojan city, can ever boast again

their deeds were greater than their suffering.

Guilty of rape and theft, he’s lost his loot.

He’s utterly destroyed his father’s house,

the land, too, which sustained his people.

So Priam’s sons have paid the price twice over.

CHORUS LEADER

All joyful greetings to you, herald,

as you come back from our army.

HERALD

I, too, rejoice.

Now I don’t fear death – it’s as the gods decide.

CHORUS LEADER

Did your love of this land cause you distress?

HERALD

Yes. That’s why my eyes are filled with tears.

CHORUS LEADER

It’s as if you had some pleasing sickness.

HERALD

How so? Tell me exactly what you mean.

CHORUS LEADER

You suffered from love for those who loved you.

HERALD

You mean the country and the army

both missed each other?

CHORUS LEADER

Yes, so much so,

often my anxious heart cried out aloud.

HERALD

What caused this gnawing trouble in your heart?

CHORUS LEADER

Long ago I learned to keep my silence –

the best antidote against more trouble.

HERALD

Why’s that? Were you afraid of someone,

once the kings were gone?

CHORUS LEADER

Indeed I was.

In fact, as you have said, there’d be great joy

in dying now.

HERALD

It’s true we have done well.

As for what happened long ago, you could say

some worked out happily, and some was bad.

But who except the gods avoids all pain

throughout his life? If I told what we went through –

the hardships, wretched quarters, narrow berths,

the harsh conditions – was there anything

we did not complain about? We had our share

of trouble every day. And then on shore

things were even worse. We had to camp

right by the enemy wall. It was wet –

dew from the sky and marshes soaked us.

Our clothes rotted. Our hair grew full of lice.

And it was freezing. The winters there,

beyond endurance, when snows from Ida

froze birds to death. And then the heat,

so hot at noon, the sea, without a ripple,

sank to sleep… But why complain about it?

Our work is done. It’s over for the dead,

who aren’t about to spring to life again.

Why should the living call to mind the dead?

There’s no need to relive those blows of fate.

I think it’s time to bid a long farewell

to our misfortune. For those still living,

the soldiers left alive, our luck’s won out.

No loss can change that now. We’ve a right,

as we cross land and sea, to boast aloud,

and cry out to the sun, “Argive forces once,

having captured Troy, took their spoils of war

and nailed them up in gods’ holy shrines,

all through Greece, glorious tribute from the past!”

So whoever hears the story of these things

must praise our generals – our city, too.

Full honour and thanks to Zeus who did the work.

That’s my full report.

CHORUS LEADER

What you say is true.

I was in the wrong – I won’t deny that.

But the old can always learn from younger men,

and what you’ve said enriches all of us.

[Enter Clytaemnestra from the palace]

But your news will have a special interest

for Clytaemnestra and her household.

CLYTAEMNESTRA

Some time ago I cried out in triumph,

rejoicing when that first messenger arrived,

the fiery herald in the night, who told me

Troy was captured and was being destroyed.

Some people criticized me then, saying,

“How come you’re so easily persuaded

by signal fires Troy’s being demolished?

Isn’t that just like a woman’s heart,

to get so jubilant?” Insults like these

made it appear as if I’d lost my wits.

But I continued with my sacrifice,

and everywhere throughout the city

women kept up their joyful shouting,

as they traditionally do, echoing

their exultation through all holy shrines,

tending sweet-smelling spicy flames,

as they consumed their victims. So now,

why do I need you to go on and on

about all this? I’ll hear it from the king.

But, so I can give my honoured husband

the finest welcome home, and with all speed –

for what light gives a woman greater pleasure

than to unbar the gates to her own husband

as he comes home from battle, once the gods

have spared his life in war? – tell him this,

and give him the message to come home

as soon as possible. The citizens

will love to see him, and when he gets back,

in this house he’ll find his wife as faithful

as when he left, a watch dog of the home,

loyal to him, hostile to his enemies,

and, for the rest, the same in every way.

In this long time, I’ve not betrayed our bond –

I’ve known no pleasure with another man,

no breath of scandal. About such things

I understand as much as tempering bronze.

I’m proud to state this, for it’s all true –

nothing a noble lady should feel shame to say.

[Clytaemnestra exits back into the palace]

CHORUS LEADER

She seems to speak as if she really wants

to tell you something, but, in fact,

to those who can interpret her words well

she’s only saying what she ought to say.

But tell me, herald, can I learn something

of Menelaus, this country’s well-loved king –

did he make it back safe and sound with you?

HERALD

I can’t lie with false good news of Menelaus,

so his friends can enjoy themselves for long.

CHORUS LEADER

I wish your news of him was true and good.

It’s hard when both of these don’t go together.

HERALD

Menelaus disappeared – the army

lost sight of him and his ship. That’s the truth.

CHORUS LEADER

Did you see him sail off from Ilion,

or did some storm attack the entire fleet

and cut him off from you?

HERALD

Like a master archer, you hit the mark –

your last question briefly tells the story.

CHORUS LEADER

According to the others in the fleet

what happened? Is he alive or dead?

HERALD

No one knows for certain, except the sun,

moving around the earth sustaining life.

CHORUS LEADER

Tell me how that storm struck the soldiers’ ships.

How did the anger of the gods come to an end?

HERALD

It’s not right I talk of our misfortunes,

and spoil such an auspicious day as this.

We ought to keep such matters separate

in deference to the gods. When a messenger

arrives distraught, bringing dreadful news

about some slaughtered army, that’s one wound

inflicted on the city. Beyond that,

from many houses many men are driven

to their destruction by the double whip

which Ares, god of war, so loves –

disaster with two prongs, a bloody pair.

A messenger weighed down with news like this

should report the Furies’ song of triumph.

But when he brings good news of men being saved

to a city full of joyful celebrations …

How can I mix the good news and the bad,

telling of the storm which hit Achaeans,

a storm linked to the anger of the gods?

For fire and sea, before now enemies,

swore a common oath and then proclaimed it

by destroying Achaea’s helpless forces.

At night malevolent seas rose up,

as winds from Thrace smashed ships together.

Pushed round by the power of that storm,

and driven by great bursts of rain, the ships

scattered, then disappeared, blown apart

by the evil shepherd’s whirlwind. Later,

when the sun’s bright light appeared again,

we witnessed the Aegean sea in bloom

with corpses of Achaean troops and ships.

As for us, some god saved us in secret

or interceded for us – our boat survived,

its hull intact. That was no human feat.

Some divine hand was on our steering oar,

some stroke of Fortune wanted our ship saved,

not swamped by surf as we rode at anchor

or smashed upon the rocky coast. And then,

once we’d avoided Hades on those seas,

we couldn’t believe our luck, as we brooded,

in the bright light of day, on all our troubles,

this new disaster which destroyed our fleet,

dispersing it so badly. So on those ships

if anyone’s still breathing, he’ll now say

we’re the ones who’ve been destroyed. Why not,

when we say much the same of them?

But let’s hope things all turn out for the best.

As for Menelaus, wait for his return –

that should be your first priority.

If some ray of sunlight finds him still alive,

his vision still intact, thanks to Zeus,

whose crafty plans at this point don’t include

destruction of the entire race, there’s hope

he’ll soon come home again. Now you’ve heard this,

you’ve listened to the truth.

[Exit Herald]

CHORUS

Whoever came up with that name,

a name so altogether true –

was there some power we can’t see

telling that tongue what to say,

the tongue which prophesied our fate –

I mean the man who called her Helen,

that woman wed for warfare,

the object of our strife?

For she’s lived up to that name –

a hell for ships, a hell for men,

a hell for cities, too.

From her delicately curtained room

she sailed away, transported

by West Wind, an earth-born giant.

A horde of warriors with shields

went after her, huntsmen

following the vanished track

her oars had left, all the way

to where she’d beached her ship,

on leafy shores of Simois.

Then came bloody war.

And so Troy’s destiny’s fulfilled –

wrath brings a dreadful wedding day,

late retribution for dishonour

to hospitality and Zeus,

god of guest and host,

on those who celebrated with the bride,

who, on that day, sang aloud

the joyful wedding hymns.

Now Priam’s city, in old age,

has learned a different song.

I think I hear loud funeral chants,

lamenting as an evil fate

the marriage Paris brought.

The city’s filled with songs of grief.

It must endure all sorrows,

the brutal slaughter of its sons.

So a man once raised a lion cub

in his own home. The beast

lacked milk but craved its mother’s teat.

In early life the cub was gentle.

Children loved it, and it brought

the old men great delight.

They gave it many things

and clasped it in their arms,

as if it were a nursing child.

Its fiery eyes fixed on the hands

that fed it, the creature fawned,

a slave to appetite.

But with time the creature grew

and its true nature showed –

the one its parents gave it.

So it paid back those who reared it,

preparing a meal in gratitude,

an unholy slaughter of the flocks,

house awash with blood,

while those who lived inside the home

were powerless against the pain,

against the massive carnage.

By god’s will they’d brought up

a priest of doom in their own house.

I’d say she first arrived in Troy

a gentle spirit, like a calming breeze,

a delicate, expensive ornament –

her soft darting eyes a flower

which stings the heart with love.

Then, changing her direction,

she took her marriage to its bitter end,

destroying all those she lived with.

With evil in her train and led by Zeus,

god of guest and host, she turned into

a bride of tears, a Fury.

Among men there’s a saying,

an old one, from times long past:

A man’s prosperity, once fully grown,

has offspring – it never dies

without producing children.

From that man’s good fortune

spring up voracious pains

for all his race. But on this

I don’t agree with other men.

I stand alone and say

it’s the unholy act that breeds

more acts of the same kind.

A truly righteous house is blessed,

its children always fair and good.

Old violent aggression

loves to generate new troubles

among evil men – soon or late,

when it’s fated to be born,

new violence springs forth,

a spirit no one can resist or conquer,

unholy recklessness,

dark ruin on the home,

like the destructiveness

from which it sprang.

But Righteousness shines out

from grimy dwellings, honouring

the man who lives in virtue.

She turns her eyes away

from gold-encrusted mansions

where men’s hands are black,

and moves towards integrity,

rejecting power and wealth,

which, though praised, are counterfeit.

Righteousness leads all things

to well-deserved fulfillment.

[Enter Agamemnon in a chariot with Cassandra and a large military escort]

CHORUS LEADER

Welcome, son of Atreus, my king,

Troy’s destroyer. How shall I address you?

How honour you without extravagance,

without failing to say what’s suitable?

For many men value appearances

more than reality – thus they violate

what’s right. Everyone’s prepared to sigh

over some suffering man, though no sorrow

really eats their hearts, or they can pretend

to join another person’s happiness,

forcing their faces into smiling masks.

But a good man discerns true character –

he’s not fooled by eyes feigning loyalty,

favouring him with watered-down respect.

Back when you were gathering the army

in Helen’s cause – I won’t deny the fact –

I saw you in an unflattering light,

an unfit mind steering our ship astray,

trying through that sacrifice to boost the spirits

of dying soldiers. But now, with love,

with a full heart, I welcome your return.

For those who’ve won final success, the joy

is worth the toil. If you enquire, in time

you’ll learn about the men who stayed at home,

those who with justice stood guard for the city

and those who failed to carry out what’s right.

AGAMEMNON

First I salute Argos and my native gods,

as is right, the ones who worked with me

for my safe return and for the justice

I brought down on Priam’s city. The gods

refused to listen to their urgent pleas,

then cast their ballots – there was no dissent –

into the urn of blood – to kill their men,

to wipe out Ilion. The other urn,

the one for clemency, stood there empty –

only Hope took up her stand beside it.

Even now smoke from the burning city,

an auspicious sign, tells of its capture.

The storms from its destruction still live on.

As fiery embers cool, their dying breaths

give off ripe smells of wealth. For all this,

we must give the gods eternal thanks.

Around Troy we’ve cast a savage net.

For a woman’s sake, the beast from Argos,

born from the belly of that wooden horse,

in the night, as the Pleiades went down,

jumped out with their shields and razed the city.

Leaping over walls, the ravenous lion

gorged itself on blood of royalty.

So much for my long prelude to the gods.

As for your concerns, I’ve heard your words,

and I’ll keep them in mind. I agree with you –

we’ll work together. By nature few men

possess the inborn talent to admire

a friend’s good fortune without envy.

Poisonous malice seeps into the heart,

doubling the pain of the infected man,

weighing him down with misfortunes of his own,

while he groans to see another’s wealth.

I understand too well companionship

no more substantial than pictures in a glass.

From my experience, I’d say those men

who seemed so loyal to me are shadows,

no more than images of true companions.

All except Odysseus – he sailed with me

much against his will, but once in harness,

he was prepared to pull his weight for me.

I say this whether he’s alive or dead.

For other issues of the city and our gods,

we’ll set up a general assembly,

all of us discussing things together.

We must make sure what’s working well

remains that way in future. By contrast,

where we need some healing medicine,

we’ll make a well-intentioned effort

to root out all infectious evil,

burning the sores or slicing them away.

[Enter Clytaemnestra with attendants carrying the purple carpet]

Now I’ll go inside my palace, my hearth and home,

first, to greet the gods who sent me off

and today bring me back. May victory,

which has been mine, stay with me forever.

[Agamemnon moves to climb out of the chariot but is held up by Clytaemnestra’s speech]

CLYTAEMNESTRA

Citizens, you senior men of Argos here,

I’m not ashamed to speak before you all,

to state how much I love my husband. With time,

men’s fears diminish. So I’ll speak out now.

I don’t talk as one who has been taught

by others, so I’ll just describe my life,

my oppressive life, all the many years

my husband’s been away at Ilion.

First, it’s unmitigated trouble

for a woman to sit at home alone,

far from her man. She has to listen to

all sorts of painful rumours. Messengers

arrive, hard on each other’s heels, bearing

news of some disaster – and everyone

tells of troubles worse than those before,

shouted throughout the house. If my husband

had had as many wounds as I heard rumours

coming to this house, he’d have more holes in him

than any net. If he’d died as many times

as rumour killed him, he could claim to be

a second Geryon, that triple-bodied beast,

and boast of being covered up with earth

three times, one death for every separate shape.

Because of all these spiteful messages,

others have often had to cut me loose,

a high-hung noose strung tight around my neck.

That’s why our son, Orestes, is not standing here,

the most trusted bond linking you and me.

He should be, but there’s no cause to worry.

He’s being cared for by a friendly ally,

Strophius of Phocis, who warned me twice –

first, of your own danger under Ilion’s walls,

second, of people here, how they could rebel,

cry out against being governed, then overthrow

the Council. For it’s natural to men,

once someone’s down, to trample on him

all the more. That’s how I explain myself.

And it’s all true. As for me, my eyes are dry –

the welling sources of my tears are parched,

no drop remains. Many long nights I wept

until my eyes were sore, as I kept watching

for that beacon light I’d set up for you,

but always it kept disappointing me.

The faint whirring of a buzzing fly

would often wake me up from dreams of you,

dreams where I saw you endure more suffering

than the hours in which I slept had time for.

But now, after going through all this, my heart

is free of worry. So I would salute my lord –

the watch dog who protects our household,

the mainstay which saves our ship of state,

the lofty pillar which holds our roof beams high,

his father’s truly begotten son, for men at sea

a land they glimpse beyond their wildest hopes,

the fairest dawn after a night of storms,

a flowing stream to thirsty travellers.

What joy it is to escape necessity!

In my opinion, these words of greeting

are worthy of him. So let there be no envy,

since in days past we’ve suffered many ills.

And now, my beloved lord, come to me here,

climb down from that chariot. But, my king,

don’t place upon the common ground the foot

which stamped out Troy.

[Clytaemnestra turns to the women attending on her who, on her orders, begin to spread out at Agamemnon’s feet the tapestries they have brought out from the house, making a path from the chariot to the palace doors. The tapestries are all a deep red-purple, the colour of blood]

You women, don’t just stand there.

I’ve told you what to do. Spread out those tapestries,

here on the ground, directly in his path. Quickly!

Let his path be covered all in red, so Justice

can lead him back into his home, a place

he never hoped to see. As for the rest,

my unsleeping vigilance will sort it out,

with the help of gods, as fate decrees.

AGAMEMNON

Daughter of Leda, guardian of my home,

your speech was, like my absence, far too long.

Praise that’s due to us should come from others.

Then it’s worthwhile. All those things you said –

don’t puff me up with such female honours,

or grovel there before me babbling tributes,

like some barbarian. Don’t invite envy

to cross my path by strewing it with cloth.

That’s how we honour gods, not human beings.

For a mortal man to place his foot like this

on rich embroidery is, in my view,

not without some risk. So I’m telling you

honour me as a man, not as a god.

My fame proclaims itself. It does not need

foot mats made out of such embroideries.

Not even to think of doing something bad

is god’s greatest gift. When a man’s life ends

in great prosperity, only then can we declare

that he’s a happy man. Thus, if I act,

in every circumstance, as I ought to now,

there’s nothing I need fear.

CLYTAEMNESTRA

Don’t say that just to flout what I’ve arranged.

AGAMEMNON

You should know I’ll not go back on what I’ve said.

CLYTAEMNESTRA

You must fear something, then, to act this way.

You’ve made some promise to the gods.

AGAMEMNON

I’ve said my final word. I fully understand,

as well as any man, just what I’m doing.

CLYTAEMNESTRA

What do you think Priam would have done,

if he’d had your success?

AGAMEMNON

That’s clear –

he’d have walked across these tapestries.

CLYTAEMNESTRA

So then why be ashamed by what men say?

AGAMEMNON

But what people say can have great power.

CLYTAEMNESTRA

True, but the man whom people do not envy

is not worth their envy.

AGAMEMNON

It’s not like a woman

to be so keen on competition.

CLYTAEMNESTRA

It’s fitting that the happy conqueror

should let himself be overcome.

AGAMEMNON

And in this contest

that’s the sort of victory you value?

CLYTAEMNESTRA

Why not agree? Be strong and yield to me,

of your own consent.

AGAMEMNON

Well, if it’s what you want …

Quick, someone get these sandals off –

they’ve served my feet so well. As I now walk

on these red tapestries dyed in the sea,

may no distant god catch sight of me,

and, for envy, strike me down. There’s much shame

when my feet squander assets of my house,

wasting wealth and costly woven finery.

[Agamemnon, in bare feet, comes down from the chariot onto the tapestries]

So much for that.

[Agamemnon turns to call attention to Cassandra in the chariot]

Welcome this foreign girl

into our house. And do it graciously.

For god, who sees us from far away,

looks down with favour on a gentle master.

No one freely puts on slavery’s yoke,

but this girl, the finest flower of all our loot,

comes with us as my army’s gift to me.

And now, since you’ve talked me into this,

I’ll proceed into my palace, treading

on this crimson pathway as I go.

[Agamemnon starts to move slowly along the tapestries towards the palace and up the stairs. Cassandra remains in the chariot]

CLYTAEMNESTRA

There is the sea. Who will drain it dry?

It gives us crimson dye in huge amounts,

as valuable as silver, inexhaustible.

With that we dye our garments. And of these

our house has a full store, thanks to the gods.

We’re rich. We have no sense of poverty.

I’d have vowed to tread on many clothes,

to use what we have stored up in our home,

if an oracle had ordered such a payment

to save your life. If the root still lives,

the house can blossom into leaf once more,

growing high-arching shade, protection

against the Dog Star’s scorching season.

Your return to your father’s hearth and home

brings us the summer’s heat in winter time.

It’s like when Zeus makes wine from bitter grapes,

the house immediately grows cool, once its lord

strolls through his own halls in complete command.

[By this time Agamemnon has reached the palace doors and has just entered the palace]

O Zeus, Zeus, who accomplishes all things,

answer my prayers. Take care to bring about

all things that reach fulfillment through your will.

[Exit Clytaemnestra into the palace. The doors close behind her]

CHORUS

Why does this sense of dread

hover so unceasingly

around my heart

with such foreboding?

My song of prophecy goes on

unbidden and unpaid.

Why can’t some calming confidence

sit on my mind and spurn

my fears as enigmatic dreams?

It was so long ago –

Time has long since buried

deep in sand the mooring cables

cast when the army sailed to Troy.

My own eyes tell me

Agamemnon has returned.

For that I need no further witness.

But still, here, deep in my heart,

the spontaneous song

keeps up its tuneless dirge,

as the avenging Furies chant.

It kills my confidence, my hope.

Everything inside me

beats against my chest,

surging back and forth

in tides of grim foreboding –

something’s moving to fulfillment.

But I pray my premonitions

prove false and never come to light.

For, as we know, boundaries

of vigorous health break down –

disease is always pressing hard

the common wall between them.

So with the fate of men.

It holds to a straight course,

then, all at once, can crash

upon a hidden rock of grief.

But if, as a precaution,

men toss overboard

some part of their rich cargo,

and time their throw just right,

the house, though grieving,

will not completely founder,

nor will its hull be swamped.

And Zeus’ bountiful rich gifts

reaped from the furrows every year

hold off the plague of famine.

But once a murdered man’s dark blood

has soaked the ground, who then

can bring him back through song?

Even Aesculapius, whose skill

could raise men from the dead,

was stopped by Zeus’ thunderbolt.

Was that not warning to us all?

If one fate settled by the gods

did not prevent another fate

securing an advantage,

my heart would then outrace my tongue –

I’d speak out loud and clear,

I’d cry out my forebodings.

But now it mutters in the dark,

uneasy, holding little hope

for any resolution.

And still my spirit smoulders.

[Enter Clytaemnestra from the palace. She addresses Cassandra, who is still in the chariot]

CLYTAEMNESTRA

You should go in, too – I mean you up there,

Cassandra. Zeus, in his mercy to you,

has made you member of our household,

one who shares its purification rites.

So you can take your place before the altar

of the god protecting all our wealth,

along with other slaves. So come down.

Leave the chariot. And leave your pride behind.

Men say even Hercules, Alcmene’s son,

once long ago was sold in slavery

and had to eat its bitter bread. If Fate

has brought you to the same condition,

be very grateful you serve masters here

who’ve been rich forever. Certain men,

those who’ve reaped a harvest of rich goods

beyond their dreams, maltreat their slaves.

They go too far. But here, with us, you’ll get

the treatment our traditions say is right.

CHORUS LEADER

[addressing Cassandra]

Our queen is talking to you. Her meaning’s clear.

Fate has caught you in its nets – you’d best obey,

unless such action is beyond your power.

CLYTAEMNESTRA

If she’s not like a swallow, with a song

all her own, something barbarously obscure,

I’ll speak so she can understand. She must obey.

CHORUS LEADER

[to Cassandra]

Go with the queen. Of all your options now

what she says is best. Do as she says.

Step down from your chariot seat.

CLYTAEMNESTRA

Come down now.

I don’t have time to waste on this girl here.

Inside, by our central hearth, our victims

are already waiting for the sacrifice,

a joyful time beyond our fondest hopes.

So if you want to play your part in this,

you’d better come at once. If what I say

means nothing to you, if you can’t understand,

at least use your foreign hand to make a sign.

CHORUS LEADER

An interpreter is what this stranger needs.

She’s like some wild thing, freshly trapped.

CLYTAEMNESTRA

She’s mad, too busy listening to her troubled heart.

She’s just left her newly captured city,

then come here, without sufficient time

to learn to stomach the controlling bit.

She will, once her anger’s been dissolved

in foaming blood. But I’ll waste no more time,

dealing with her contempt outside the house.

[Clytaemnestra turns and exits into the palace. The members of the Chorus gather around Cassandra]

CHORUS LEADER

I’ll not lose my temper. I pity her.

You unhappy creature, why not come down?

Leave the chariot. Why not accept fate’s yoke

of your own free will?

CASSANDRA

[searching the sky for a sign of Apollo and screaming]

Aieeeee … earth … sky …

Apollo … Apollo …

CHORUS MEMBER

Why cry out your distress in Apollo’s name?

He’s not a god who pays attention

to those who mourn like this.

CASSANDRA

Aieeee … earth … sky …

Apollo … my destroyer …

CHORUS MEMBER

She cried out again. Such ominous words –

and to a god who’s not the one

to have around at times of grieving.

CASSANDRA

Apollo! Apollo! God of the road …

You’re destroying me. Why leave me here

beyond all hope a second time?

CHORUS MEMBER

It looks as if she’s going to prophesy,

to say something of her unhappiness.

She may be a slave, but inside her

the god’s voice still remains.

CASSANDRA

Apollo!

O Apollo! God of the road …

You’re obliterating me! Where am I now?

Where have you led me? What house is this?

CHORUS MEMBER

If you don’t know where you are, I’ll tell you –

you’re at the house of the sons of Atreus.

That’s the truth.

CASSANDRA

No … no … a house

that hates the gods … house full of death,

kinsmen butchered … heads chopped off …

a human slaughterhouse awash in blood …

CHORUS MEMBER

This stranger’s like a keen hound on the scent.

She’s on the trail of blood.

CASSANDRA

I see evidence I trust – young children

screaming as they’re butchered – then their father

eating his own infants’ roasted flesh …

CHORUS MEMBER

We’ve heard about your fame in prophecy.

But here in Argos no one wants a prophet.

CASSANDRA

O god what’s this she has in mind?

What new agony inside the house

is she preparing? Something monstrous,

barbaric, evil … beyond all love,

all remedy. And help is far away.

CHORUS MEMBER

I don’t understand what she’s saying now.

What she first said, that I understood –

the whole city talks about it.

CASSANDRA

O evil woman, you’re going to do it.

Your own husband, the man who shares your bed –

once you’ve washed him clean … there in the bath …

How shall I describe how all this ends?

It’s coming soon. She’s stretching out her hand …

and now her other hand is reaching for him …

CHORUS MEMBER

I still don’t understand. What she’s saying

is just too confused. Her dark prophecies

leave me bewildered.

CASSANDRA

Look! Look over there!

What’s that apparition? Is that death’s net?

No, she’s the net, the one who sleeps with him,

that woman, murder’s willing agent.

Let those Furies insatiably at work

against this clan rise up and scream for joy –

they have another victim fit for stoning.

CHORUS MEMBER

What Fury do you now invoke to shriek

throughout this house? What you’ve just said

makes me afraid.

CHORUS

Drop by drop the dark blood flows

around my heart – like mortal wounds

when life’s sunset comes,

when death is near.

CASSANDRA

Look over there! Look now!

Keep the great bull from his mate.

She’s caught him in her robes –

now she gores him with her black horn.

A trap! He’s collapsing in the bath!

I’m telling you what’s going on –

he’s being murdered in there,

while bathing – a plot to kill him!

CHORUS MEMBER

I can’t boast of any skill with prophecies,

but these strike me as pointing to disaster.

CHORUS

What good ever comes to men

from prophecies? They talk of evil.

All those skilful words encourage men

to be afraid of what the prophet chants.

CASSANDRA

Alas for me! Alas for my unwelcome fate!

I’m crying out for my own suffering –

my cup of grief is full, brim full …

Why have you brought me here,

so wretched, if not to die,

the second victim? Why else?

CHORUS MEMBER

Your mind’s possessed – some god is in control.

And so you wail aloud about your death,

just like some shrill nightingale that sings,

without a pause, of her heart’s distress,

lamenting all her life for her dead son,

life rich in sorrow.

CASSANDRA

O to have that –

the fate of the singing nightingale!

Gods gave her body wings and a sweet life.

She does not weep. But murder waits for me –

a two-edged sword hacks me to death.

CHORUS MEMBER

These vain prophetic cries of woe you chant,

where do they start? Why introduce

such horrific fear into your songs?

How do you set some limit to the path

where what you see so ominously leads?

CASSANDRA

Alas for that wedding … Paris and his bride …

how it destroyed his loved ones …

Alas for the Scamander, river of my home!

By your banks I was raised so long ago,

brought up to all this misery … And now it seems

I must soon chant my prophecies

by Cocytus and banks of Acheron,

twin rivers of the dead.

CHORUS MEMBER

What’s that? The words seem clear enough –

any child could understand. Your cruel fate

strikes at me like a bloody fang. It hurts.

My heart breaks to hear you chant your sorrows.

CASSANDRA

Alas for my city’s fate –

totally destroyed …

Alas for my father’s sacrifices,

all those grazing herds …

offerings to save our walls!

In vain … the city was not spared …

all that misery it’s endured.

Now I, on fire too, must go to ground.

CHORUS MEMBER

You keep repeating what you said before.

Some evil-minded demon, swooping down,

has fallen on you, forcing you to sing,

to chant your songs of death.

Where does this end?

That’s what I can’t see.

CASSANDRA

Then my prophecy will veil itself no more,

like some new bride half-concealed from view.

Let it now rise as clear as a fresh wind

blowing toward the rising sun, a wave

cresting through the dawn and bringing on

a tide of woe far greater than my own.

I’ll teach you no more in cryptic riddles.

And you bear witness – run the trail with me,

as I sniff out the track of ancient crimes.

Up there on that roof there sits a chorus –

it never leaves. They sing in harmony,

but the song is harsh, predicting doom.

Drinking human blood has made them bold –

they dance in celebration through the house.

The family’s Furies cannot be dislodged.

Sitting in the home, they chant their song,

the madness that began all this, each in turn

cursing that man who defiled his brother’s bed.

Have I missed the mark? Or like a fine archer

have I hit the beast? Or am I selling lies,

a fortune-teller babbling door to door?

Tell me on your oath how well I know

these old stories of this family’s crimes.

CHORUS LEADER

How could an oath of ours be any help,

no matter how sincere, to heal your grief?

But I’m amazed that you, born overseas,

can say so much about a foreign city,

as if you’d lived here.

CASSANDRA

It was Apollo,

god of prophecy, who made me what I am.

CHORUS MEMBER

Surely the god was not in love with you?

CASSANDRA

I used to be ashamed to talk of this …

CHORUS MEMBER

When we’re doing well, we all have scruples.

CASSANDRA

Apollo was like a mighty wrestler,

panting all over me, in love.

CHORUS MEMBER

Did you go through with it –

bear him a child?

CASSANDRA

I promised to,

but then I broke my word.

CHORUS MEMBER

Did you already have prophetic skill,

inspired by the god?

CASSANDRA

At that time

I used to prophesy to all my countrymen.

I’d foretell disasters.

CHORUS MEMBER

How did you escape Apollo’s anger?

CASSANDRA

Since I resisted him, no one believes me.

CHORUS MEMBER

But to us, at least, what you prophesy

seems true enough.

CASSANDRA

Aieee … the pains I feel.

The fearful labour pains of true prophecy

seize me, confuse me, as they start again,

full of foreboding. Look there – see those creatures,

young ones, sitting by the house, dark shapes,

like something from a dream? They’re like children

murdered by their loved ones … their hands are full,

clenching chunks of their own flesh as food,

their guts and inner organs … it’s all so clear …

that awful meal their own father tasted.

For all that, I say, revenge is on the way,

someone’s planning it, a craven lion,

a beast wallowing in bed, keeping watch,

waiting for my master to get back.

Yes, my master – since I must now bear

the yoke of slavery. That lord of war,

who led the fleet and ravaged Ilion,

has no idea what that cur is up to,

what evil plans the hateful bitch is hatching,

as her tongue licks his hands in welcome,

ears perked up for joy, like treacherous Ate,

goddess who destroys. It’s outrageous –

the woman kills her man. What shall I call her?

What awful monster suits her? A snake?

An amphisbaena with a head at either end?

Or perhaps a Scylla living in the rocks,

preying on sailors, raging mother of hell,

who breathes relentless war on loved ones.

How that woman, in her audacity,

screamed out in triumph, like a battle cry,

pretending to enjoy his safe return!

Whether you credit what I say or not –

that doesn’t really matter. Why should it?

What will come will come. And soon enough,

as you stand here full of pity, you’ll say

Cassandra’s prophecies were all too true.

CHORUS

I understand about Thyestes’ meal,

and tremble thinking how he ate his children’s flesh.

Terror grips me as I hear these truths

without embellishment. As for the rest,

hearing that just makes me lose my way.

CASSANDRA

I tell you you’ll see Agamemnon dead.

CHORUS MEMBER

Poor girl, calm yourself. Tone down those words.

CASSANDRA

No – no one can heal what my words prophesy.

CHORUS

Not if they’re true. But may the gods forbid!

CASSANDRA

While you pray here, others move in to kill.

CHORUS LEADER

What man is going to commit such crimes?

CASSANDRA

What man? You’ve completely missed the point.

You’ve failed to understand my prophecies.

CHORUS LEADER

Yes I have –

I don’t see who has means to do it.

CASSANDRA

Yet I can speak Greek well enough.

CHORUS LEADER

So does the oracle at Delphi,

but understanding what it says is hard.

CASSANDRA

O this fire! His fire comes over me once more!

The pain … Lycian Apollo … burning me …

That two-footed lioness … crouching there

with a wolf, once the noble lion’s gone …

She’s going to kill me … the agony!

Now she prepares her drugs, and in her rage,

vows I too will be a part of her revenge,

as she whets a sword to kill her king.

He brought me here. Now we both die.

Her retribution. So why do I bear

these ornaments that mock me, this rod,

these prophet’s wreaths around my neck?

Let me be rid of you before I die …

[Cassandra breaks her wand and throws off the insignia of her office as a prophet]

There, an end to you. With you down there,

I get revenge. Make some other woman rich.

Let her preach destruction instead of me.

[Cassandra now starts tearing off her clothes]

Look how Apollo now in person strips me,

rips my prophetic robes, the god who watched,

as my friends in their hatred turned on me,

mocked me so savagely in these very clothes –

they thought they knew what they were doing.

But they were wrong. I heard them call me names,

“beggar,” “starving wretch” – I endured them all.

And now the prophet god is done with me.

He’s led his prophet to her place of death.

No father’s altar for me here – instead

a chopping block awaits, slaughtered

in one hot stroke of bloody sacrifice.

But we’ll not die without the gods’ revenge.

Another man will come and will avenge us,

a son who’ll kill his mother, then pay back

his father’s death, a wanderer in exile,

a man this country’s made a stranger.

He’ll come back and, like a coping stone,

bring the ruin of his family to a close.

For gods have made a powerful promise –

his father’s stretched out corpse will bring him home.

Why then do I lament so piteously?

Since I’m the one who first saw how Troy

would be wiped out the way it was,

since I see now how those who took the city

are being destroyed in judgment from the gods,

I’ll go to meet my fate. I’ll dare to die.

I greet this doorway as the gates of Death.

Once the death blow strikes, I pray I’ll have

a gentle end – no struggle, as my life blood

drains away. And then I’ll close my eyes.

CHORUS LEADER

You poor woman, so much pain and wisdom.

You’ve said so much. But if you see your death –

see it so clearly – how can you go on

so bravely to the altar, like an ox

destined by gods for sacrifice?

CASSANDRA

There’s no way out. My friends, the time has come.

CHORUS LEADER

But there’s some benefit in going last.

CASSANDRA

This is the day. It makes no sense to run.

CHORUS LEADER

You know, you endure your suffering

with courage I admire.

CASSANDRA

No one hearing that

has reason to be glad.

CHORUS LEADER

But to die well

confers some human dignity.

CASSANDRA

[approaching the door then moving back in horror]

I cry for you, my father, your noble children.

CHORUS LEADER

What’s wrong? Why turn around in fear?

CASSANDRA

This house … It’s horrific!

CHORUS

Why call out in horror? Is there some vision

in your mind?

CASSANDRA

It’s this house –

it stinks of murder, blood slaughter…

CHORUS LEADER

No, no – that’s the smell of sacrifice,

victims at the hearth.

CASSANDRA

That smell …

it’s like an open grave …

CHORUS

Do you mean the splendid Syrian incense?

It’s all through the house.

CASSANDRA

[turning back to the palace doors]

No. But I must go.

I’ll lament my death, and Agamemnon’s, too,

inside the house. Enough of living!

Alas, my friends, I’m not holding back in fear,

like some bird trapped in bushes. I want you

to witness how I went to meet my death

when for me another woman will be killed,

a man will die for one who married evil.

This is my last request before I die.

CHORUS LEADER

I pity you, poor creature, and your death,

which you have prophesied.

CASSANDRA

One last time

I feel the urge to speak, not sing a dirge

about my death. I pray to the sun,

here in the light of his most recent day,

that those who carry out revenge for me

will make my enemies pay with their blood

for butchering a slave, an easy victim.

Alas, for human life. When things go well,

a shadow overturns it all.

a damp sponge wipes away the picture.

Of these two, the second is more pitiful.

[Cassandra exits slowly and deliberately through the palace doors, which close behind her]

CHORUS

To rest unsatisfied amid great wealth

is in the nature of all human beings.

No one can point and order it away

from princely homes by uttering the words

“Dissatisfaction, enter here no more!”

Take Agamemnon. The powers in heaven

permitted him to capture Priam’s town,

to return home honoured by the gods.

But now, if he must pay the penalty

for blood which other men before him shed

and die in retribution for the dead

he killed himself, what mortal human being

who hears all this can boast he lives

a life unscarred by fate?

[A scream comes from inside the palace]

AGAMEMNON

[from inside]

Help me!

I’m hit … a deadly blow …

CHORUS LEADER

Silence!

Who cried out then? Something about a deadly blow.

AGAMEMNON

[within]

Aaagh! I’m hit again … a second blow …

CHORUS LEADER

That’s the king in there. Those cries, I think,

tell us what’s going on. Come now, let’s decide

what’s best to do, our safest course of action.

[At this point the Chorus breaks up in panic, losing its unity as a group. Individual members speak to each other in great confusion]

CHORUS MEMBER ONE

Here’s my advice – summon all the people,

call them to bring help up to the palace.

CHORUS MEMBER TWO

I say we must attack the house at once,

catch them at it, swords still wet with blood.

CHORUS MEMBER THREE

My view is we should do something like that.

I vote we act. There’s no time to delay.

CHORUS MEMBER FOUR

It’s all so clear. This is their opening move –

a sign they’re going to tyrannize the city.

CHORUS MEMBER FIVE

We’re wasting time. They’ve thrown aside

all sense of hesitation. Their hands won’t rest.

CHORUS MEMBER SIX

I don’t know what scheme I could propose.

It’s up to those who can carry out the plan

to tell us what to do.

CHORUS MEMBER SEVEN

That’s my view, too.

I don’t know how to bring the dead to life

with nothing but our words.

CHORUS MEMBER EIGHT

But just to stay alive,

should we bow down before these tyrants,

who desecrate the house?

CHORUS MEMBER NINE

No. We can’t do that.

Death would be preferable, a gentler fate

than such a tyranny.

CHORUS MEMBER TEN

But should we assume,

just on the basis of those groans we heard,

that Agamemnon’s dead?

CHORUS MEMBER ELEVEN

Before we act,

we must have clearer evidence. To guess like this

is not really knowing what is true or not.

CHORUS LEADER

That’s it then – everyone agrees on this –

we need to know more clearly how things stand

with Agamemnon, son of Atreus.

[The palace doors open, revealing the bodies of Agamemnon and Cassandra. Clytaemnestra stands over them. She is covered in blood]

CLYTAEMNESTRA

Before this moment I said many things

to suit my purposes. I’m not ashamed

to contradict them now. How else could I

act on my hate for such a hateful man,

who feigned his love, how else prepare my nets

of agony so high no one could jump them?

I’ve brooded on this struggle many years,

the old blood feud. My moment’s come at last,

though long delayed. I stand now where I struck,

where I achieved what I set out to do.

I did all this. I won’t deny the fact.

Round this man I cast my all-embracing net,

rich robes of evil, as if catching fish –

he had no way out, no eluding fate.

I stabbed him twice. He gave out two groans.

Then as his limbs went limp, I hit again,

a third blow, my prayerful dedication

to Zeus, underground protector of the dead.

He collapsed, snorting his life away,

spitting great gobs of blood all over me,

drenching me in showers of his dark blood.

And I rejoiced – just as the fecund earth

rejoices when the heavens send spring rains,

and new-born flower buds burst into bloom.

That’s how things stand, old men of Argos.

Be joyful, if that’s how you feel. For me,

this is my triumph. If it were fitting

to pour libations on this corpse,

I’d pour my curses out – that would be just.

He filled the mixing bowls in his own house

with such destructive misery, and now

he drinks it to the dregs. He’s home at last.

CHORUS LEADER

What you say I find incredible!

How can that tongue of yours gloat like this,

exulting over your dead husband?

CLYTAEMNESTRA

You’re testing me, as if I were some silly woman.

But my heart is fearless. Let me tell you

what you already know – then you can praise

or criticize me as you like. I don’t care.

This man is Agamemnon, my husband.

He’s a corpse, the work of this right hand,

a work of justice. That’s how matters stand.

CHORUS LEADER

Woman, what earth-grown poison have you eaten,

what evil drink drawn from the surging sea,

that you’re so mad to risk the public voice,

the curses people mutter? You cast him off.

You cut him down. So now you’ll be thrown out,

exiled from the city – a hateful thing

to your own people.

CLYTAEMNESTRA

So now

you’d sentence me to banishment,

send me from the city a thing accursed?

Back then you made no accusation

against this man lying here. He sacrificed

his own child, that dear girl I bore in pain,

to charm the winds from Thrace – and didn’t care.

To him she was a beast for slaughter.

He had flocks of them – his farms were full.

Shouldn’t you have banished him from Argos

in punishment for that polluting crime?

You’re strict enough when you pass judgment

on what I’ve done. So let me caution you –

I’m prepared to fight you head to head.

If you win, well then, you can govern me.

But if god lets me prevail, you old men

will learn, old as you are, to behave yourselves.

CHORUS LEADER

You’re too ambitious, far too arrogant.

Blood-drenched murder’s made you mad. That’s plain.

Your eyes are full of blood. Now stroke for stroke

you’ll pay for what you’ve done. You’ve lost your friends,

you’ve lost your honour …

CLYTAEMNESTRA

[interrupting]

Then hear this, too, the force behind my oath –

by that Justice I exacted for my child,

by Ate, goddess of destruction,

by the Fury to whom I offered up this man,

my hopes will never walk these halls in fear,

so long as Aegisthus stokes the blazing fires

in my hearth. And he’s as loyal to me now

as always, my shield, no man to trifle with.

He’ll boost my confidence. Here he lies,

the man who abused his wife, seduced

by every captive girl at Ilion –

and here she lies, his concubine, his spear prize,

the faithful prophetess who shared his bed.

She also knew the rowing benches

where sailors sweat. They get what they deserve.

He’s dead. She, like a swan, sang her last song,

then died. Now she lies there, his sweetheart.

She’ll bring new thrills, fresh pleasures to my bed.

CHORUS

O that some Fate would soon come,

free from suffering and quick,

bringing endless sleep,

our last eternal sleep,

now our gracious lord is dead.

For a woman’s sake

he suffered much, and now

by a woman’s hand he died.

Alas for you, Helen, frantic woman.

On your own, beneath Troy’s walls,

you slaughtered many lives,

and more than many.

Now you wear your final garland –

one long remembered for the blood

which will never wash away.

Back then in this house

lived a spirit of strife,

a power that broke our king.

CLYTAEMNESTRA

Don’t torment yourself like this, invoking

death and fate, or redirect your rage

on Helen, as if she killed those men,

all those Danaan lives, all by herself,

and brought us pain past remedy.

CHORUS

O spirit that falls upon this house,

on Menelaus, on Agamemnon,

descendants of Tantalus,

you overpower me

through these two sisters,

each with power like a man.

You consume my heart with grief.

Perched on his corpse

the hateful raven caws her song,

her harsh triumphal tune.

CLYTAEMNESTRA

Now you’re talking sense, when you call on

the demon of this house, who’s eaten up

three generations, the one who nurtures

bloodlust in our guts. And so new blood

spurts out before the old wound heals.

CHORUS

You appeal to that huge fiend

haunting this house,

whose anger weighs it down,

to that tale of evil fate

insatiably consuming us.

Alas, alas, the will of Zeus,

the cause of everything,

who brings all things about.

What can come to mortal men

except at Zeus’ will?

And in what’s happened here

what’s not caused by the gods?

Alas, my king, my lord –

How shall I weep for you?

How speak of you with love?

To lie entangled in the spider’s web,

gasping life away – a sacrilege –

stretched out on this bed of shame,

struck down in treachery,

the two-edged sword

wielded by your wife.

CLYTAEMNESTRA

Are you saying this work is mine? That’s not so.

Don’t think of me as Agamemnon’s wife.

The form of this corpse’s wife was taken on

by the ancient savage spirit of revenge.

For that brutal meal prepared by Atreus,

it sacrificed one full-grown man,

payment for two butchered children.

CHORUS

Who would ever say

you bear no guilt

for Agamemnon’s murder?

How could they? How?

Yet that avenging spirit

acting on his father’s crime

could well have egged you on.

Black Ruin moves ahead with force

through streams of family blood

granting vengeance for the young

served up as chunks of meat.

Alas, my king, my lord –

How shall I weep for you?

How speak of you with love?

To lie entangled in the spider’s web,

gasping life away – a sacrilege –

stretched out on this bed of shame,

struck down in treachery,

the two-edged sword

wielded by your wife.

CLYTAEMNESTRA

I don’t think the man died wretchedly,

like some poor slave. Surely his own deceit

brought ruin on this house? His suffering

matches exactly what he did himself.

Remember my own Iphigeneia,

his daughter, that sweet flower whom we mourn.

So let him not boast out loud in Hades.

He was the first to draw his sword,

and by the sword he’s been repaid.

CHORUS

There’s no clear way, and now

this family’s falling. I’m afraid.

It’s not just bloody drops. No,

storms of blood rain batter down,

destroying the house, while fate

on yet another whetstone,

hones the edge of Justice,

for the next act, one more crime.

O Earth, my Earth –

how I wish you’d swallowed me

before I ever saw my king

lying low on such bed,

a silver-plated bath.

Who will now bury him?

Who will lament for him?

Will you dare to do this,

a woman mourning for the spirit

of the husband she’s just killed,

complete the injustices you’ve done

with wretched favours to the dead

to expiate your monstrous crimes?

As people stand around the grave

to praise this god-like man, in tears,

whose sad heart will be sincere?

CLYTAEMNESTRA

That business is none of your concern.

At our hands he collapsed in death.

We’ll bury him. But this house will not weep.

No. Iphigeneia will meet him down there,

as is fitting – the daughter greets her father

happily by that swift stream of sorrow.

Then she’ll embrace the man with love.

CHORUS

One disgrace exchanged for yet another,

the struggle to decide is hard.

The man who sins is sinned against,

the killer pays the price.

Yet while Zeus sits upon his throne

this decree from god remains –

the man who acts will suffer.

Who can then cast from this house

its self-perpetuating curse?

This race is wedded to destruction.

CLYTAEMNESTRA

Now you’re close to getting at the truth.

For my part, I’m prepared to swear an oath

to the demon of the House of Atreus –

I’ll rest content with what’s been done,

hard though that is, if he’ll leave this house alone,

transferring family murder somewhere else,

to some other clan. I don’t need much,

a small part of our wealth, if I can free

these halls entirely of this madness,

the urge we have to kill each other.

[Enter Aegisthus with armed attendants. The situation now grows increasingly tense, with the soldiers menacing the members of the Chorus, who begin to coalesce as a political unit, rediscovering their strength. This sense of a major irreconcilable political division and the threat of civil war grows increasingly acute until the end of the play]

AEGISTHUS,

What a glorious day of retribution!

Now I can say that once again the gods

looking down on men avenge their crimes.

How it fills my heart with joy to see this man

stretched out here in a robe the Furies wove,

full payment for deceitful treachery

his father’s hand devised. For Atreus,

king of Argos, was this man’s father.

To set the record straight, my father,

Thyestes, brother to Atreus,

challenged his authority. So Atreus

expelled him from his home and city.

But Thyestes in his misery returned,

a suppliant at his own hearth, praying

Fate would save him, he would not be killed,

his own blood would not stain his native ground.

Atreus, the godless father of this man,

welcomed him effusively, but not with love.

He set up what seemed a celebration –

a feast day with lots of meat, but served

my father flesh of his own children.

He sliced their toes and fingers off. Over these

he diced the other parts, then passed this dish

to Thyestes, where he sat beside him.

My father then, in total ignorance,

took the food he didn’t recognize,

and ate the meal which, as you’ve witnessed,

destroyed the race. When Thyestes learns

the abominable thing he’s done, he screams,

staggers back, vomits up the butchered flesh.

Then, kicking down the banquet table

to underscore his cry for justice,

he calls down on the House of Atreus

a curse no one can bear, “Let them all die,

the race of Pleisthenes – all die like this.”[5]

That’s why you see this man lying here.

This murder was my plan for justice.

For Atreus threw my broken father out,

and me as well, his third son, still a child,

an infant wrapped in swaddling clothes.

But I grew up. And Justice brought me back.

I seized the man who’d banished me.

I planned each detail of this murderous scheme.

Now I see him in the nets of Justice,

I can face even my own death with joy.

CHORUS LEADER

To me you’re contemptible, Aegisthus,

getting pleasure from all this agony.

You say you killed the king deliberately,

and planned the cowardly slaughter on your own.

I tell you – remember this – when justice comes,

your head will not escape the people’s cursing

or death by stoning at their hands.

AEGISTHUS

So you say – but you man the lower oars.

Your masters on the higher tiers control the ship.

You may be old, but you’ll learn how painful

it is at your age to be taught your place.

Hunger pangs and chains, two worthy teachers,

make excellent cures for teaching wisdom,

even with old men. Surely you have eyes.

Can’t you see this? You shouldn’t kick at thorns.

You’ll only hurt yourselves.

CHORUS MEMBER ONE

You womanly creature!

You stayed at home, waiting out the war,

until the men came back. You soiled a real man’s bed,

then planned to kill our king.

AEGISTHUS

This talk of yours

will soon give you sufficient cause to weep.

The tongue of Orpheus was not like yours –

the pleasure of his voice drew all things to him.

Your puny squawking merely irritates.

But once I chain you up, my force has ways

to make you more compliant.

CHORUS MEMBER TWO

As if you rule in Argos!

You, the one who plotted Agamemnon’s death,

but weren’t brave enough to kill the man yourself!

AEGISTHUS

Clearly it was the woman’s role to trick him.

I was not a man whom he would trust.

After all, I’m an old enemy of his.

But with his wealth I’ll try to rule the people.

Those who resist I’ll strap under the yoke.

It won’t be light – not like a well-fed trace horse.

No. Miserable starvation in the dark –

then we’ll see how docile they can be.

CHORUS MEMBER THREE

You coward!

Why not kill the man yourself? Why rely

upon that woman for the murder,

a disgrace to her own country and its gods?

O can Orestes still see the light of day?

If his good fortune holds, will he come home,

win out, and kill the two of them up there?

AEGISTHUS

If that’s the way you want to act and speak,

you’ll get your lesson fast. Men, stand ready.

My trusty guard, your work’s in front of you.

[The soldiers place their weapons at the ready and move into menace the Chorus. The Chorus stands its ground, raising their staves as weapons]

CHORUS LEADER

Don’t give way. Each of you, get your weapons ready.

AEGISTHUS

[half drawing his sword]

My hand is on my sword, as well.

I’m not afraid to die.

CHORUS LEADER

You say you’ll welcome death. That’s good to hear.

We’re happy to oblige.

[Clytaemnestra, alarmed at the way in which the conflict has grown, moves quickly between the guards led by Aegisthus and the Chorus]

CLYTAEMNESTRA

Stop this, my dearest.

Let’s not act to bring on further trouble.

Our wretched harvest is bountiful enough –

we’ve reaped sufficient pain. No more bloodshed.

You honourable old men, go home. Yield to fate,

before you hurt yourselves. What we’ve done here

we had to do. Let our troubles end right now.

That we’ll allow, even though our fate

has struck a heavy blow. That’s my advice,

what a woman ought to say, if any here

will act on it.

AEGISTHUS

What about these men

who let their tongues prattle on against me,

hurling insults in my face, testing fate?

They throw aside all moderate restraint

to abuse their master.

CHORUS LEADER

Men of Argos

will never cringe before an evil man.

AEGISTHUS

I’ll get my own back soon enough.

CHORUS LEADER

Not if fate brings Orestes home again.

AEGISTHUS

I understand how exiles feed on hope.

CHORUS LEADER

Go on. Fatten yourself up. While you still can,

pollute all Justice.

AEGISTHUS

You must know you’ll pay

for all this insolence to me.

CHORUS

Keep on bragging –

just like a cock beside his hen.

CLYTAEMNESTRA

[pulling Aegisthus towards the palace doors]

Leave them their feeble yelping. You and I

control the house. We’ll put things in order.

[Clytaemnestra and Aegisthus back slowly into the palace and close the doors, leaving the guards and Chorus still facing each other. Slowly the Chorus disintegrates and its members walk off one by one. The guards form up in front of the palace, an armed defence before the doors.]

The Libation Bearers

Dramatis Personae

ORESTES: son of Agamemnon and Clytaemnestra, brother of Electra.

CHORUS: slave women captured at Troy and serving the royal palace at Argos.

ELECTRA: daughter of Agamemnon and Clytaemnestra, sister of Orestes.

SERVANT: house slave serving in the royal palace.

CLYTAEMNESTRA: widow of Agamemnon, lover of Aegisthus, mother of Orestes and Electra.

PYLADES: friend of Orestes.

CILISSA: Orestes’ old nurse, a servant in the palace.

AEGISTHUS: son of Thyestes,[6] lover of Clytaemnestra.

ATTENDANTS on Orestes and Pylades and Aegisthus.

[Scene: Argos, the tomb of Agamemnon some years after his murder by Clytaemnestra and Aegisthus. Behind the tomb stands the royal palace of the sons of Atreus.]

[Enter Orestes and Pylades. They have just arrived in Argos]

ORESTES

Hermes,[7] messenger to the dead, guardian

of your father’s powers, help rescue me –

work with me, I beg you, now I’ve come back,

returned to this land from exile.

on this heaped-up earth, I call my father,

imploring him to listen, to hear me …

[Orestes cuts two locks of his hair and sets them one by one on the tomb]

Here’s a lock of hair, offering to Inachus,

the stream where I was raised. Here’s another,

a token of my grief. I was not there,

my father, to mourn your death. I couldn’t stretch

my hand out to you, when they carried off

your corpse for burial.

[Enter Electra and the Chorus, dressed in black. They do not see Orestes and Pylades]

What’s this I see?

What’s this crowd of women coming here,

all wearing black in public? What does it mean?

What new turn of fate? Has some fresh sorrow

struck the house? Or am I right to think

they bring libations here to honour you,

my father, to appease the dead below?

That must be it. I see my sister there,

Electra. That’s her approaching with them.

She’s grieving – in great pain – that’s obvious.

O Zeus, let me avenge my father’s death.

Support me as my ally in this fight.

Pylades, let’s stand over there and hide,

so I can find out what’s taking place,

what brings these suppliant women here.

[Orestes and Pylades conceal themselves from the sight of Electra and the Chorus]

CHORUS

I’ve been sent here from the palace,

to bring libations for the dead,

to clap out the hands’ sharp beat.

Blood flows down my cheeks

from cuts my nails have scratched.

As life drags on and on, my heart

feeds itself on my laments,

to the sound of garments torn apart,

the sound of sorrow in our clothes,

as we rip the woven linen

covering our breasts.

No laughter any more.

Our fortune beats us down.

With hair-raising shrieks, Fear,

dream-prophet in this house,

breathed a furious cry of terror,

at night, while people were asleep.

Deep within the inner house

the heavy scream re-echoed, all the way

to rooms where women slept.

Those who read our dreams,

who speak by heaven’s will,

declared, “The dead beneath the ground

are discontent – their anger grows

against the ones who killed them.”

O Earth, my mother Earth,

to protect herself from harm

that godless woman sends me here

with gifts, with loveless gifts.

But I’m too scared to speak her words,

the prayer she wishes me to say.

What can atone for blood

once fallen on the ground?

Alas for the grief-filled hearth,

Alas for the buried home!

Sunless darkness grips the house

which all men hate, for now

their master’s murdered.

It’s gone – that ancient splendour

no man could resist or fight,

no man could overcome.

Its glory rang in every ear,

echoed in every heart.

Now it’s been thrown away.

But each man feels the fear.

For now, in all men’s eyes,

success is worshipped,

more so than god himself.

But Justice is vigilant –

she tips the scales.

With some she’s quick,

striking by light of day,

for others sorrows wait,

delaying until their lives

are half way sunk in twilight,

while others are embraced

by night that never ends.

The nurturing earth drinks blood,

she drinks her fill. That gore,

which cries out for revenge,

will not dissolve or seep away.

The guilty live in utter desperation –

madness preys upon their minds

infecting them completely.

The man who violates a virgin’s bed

cannot be redeemed. All rivers flow

into one stream to cleanse his hand

of black blood which defiles him.

Such waters flow in vain.

As for me – gods set a fatal noose

around my city, so I was led

out of my father’s house a slave.

Now I do what I have to do –

beat down my bitter rage.

Against my inclinations,

I follow what my masters say,

whether right or wrong.

Still, behind our veils

we weep for her, this girl,

her senseless suffering,

as grief, concealed and cold,

congeals our hearts to ice.

ELECTRA

You women who keep our house in order,

now you’re here attending me in prayers,

in supplication, give me your advice.

What should I say as I pour out these cups,

my offering to grief? How frame my words

to make my prayer a tribute to my father?

Shall I say I bring these gifts with love,

from doting wife to her beloved husband,

from my mother? I have no strength for that.

I don’t know what to say, as I pour out

this oil and honey on my father’s tomb.

Shall I recite the words men often use,

“May those who send this noble tribute

get back the same.” No, let him give them

a gift their treachery deserves! Or should I

stand here in silence and dishonour, the way

my father died, empty out these cups,

with eyes averted as I toss the gift,

let the earth drink, and then retrace my steps,

like someone sent to carry out the trash

left over from some purifying rite?

Help me, my friends, with your advice.

We share a common hatred in the house.

Don’t hide what’s in your hearts. Don’t be afraid

of anyone. Fate waits for each of us –

the free and those in bondage to another.

Speak up, if you can think of something better.

CHORUS LEADER

I respect your father’s tomb, as if it were

an altar. So I’ll speak straight from my heart,

as you have asked.

ELECTRA

Then talk to me,

out of your reverence for my father’s grave.

CHORUS LEADER

As you pour, bless those who are your friends.

ELECTRA

Of those close to me, whom shall I call friends?

CHORUS LEADER

First, name yourself – then anyone

who hates Aegisthus.

ELECTRA

Then I’ll make this prayer

on my own behalf. Shall I include you too?

CHORUS LEADER

That’s your decision. In this ritual

you must let your judgment guide you.

ELECTRA

Who else should I then add to join with us?

CHORUS LEADER

He may be far from home, but don’t forget Orestes.

ELECTRA

That’s good. You give me excellent advice.

CHORUS LEADER

Remember, too, the guilty murderers.

ELECTRA

What do I say? I’ve never practised this.

Teach me what I should say.

CHORUS LEADER

Let some god

or mortal man come down on them.

ELECTRA

You mean as judge or as avenger? Which?

CHORUS LEADER

Pronounce these words – and clearly –

“Someone who’ll pay back life by taking life.”

ELECTRA

Is it a righteous thing for me to do,

to petition gods like that?

CHORUS

Why not?

How can it not be a righteous thing to pray

to pay back one’s enemies for evil?

ELECTRA

Oh Hermes, mighty herald, moving

between earth above and earth below,

messenger to the dead, assist me now –

summon the spirits there beneath the ground

who guard my father’s house, to hear my prayers.

And call on Earth herself, who, giving birth

and nurturing all things, in due course takes back

the swollen tide of their increasing store.

As I pour out these offering to the dead,

I call upon my father, “Pity me –

and dear Orestes, too! How can we rule

in our own home? We’re beggars now,

as if our mother traded us away,

exchanged us for her mate, Aegisthus,

her partner in your murder. For now I live

just like a slave. Orestes lives in exile,

far from his estates. In their arrogance,

those two squander all the wealth you worked for.

And so I pray to you – dear father,

let good fortune bring Orestes home!

Father, hear me. Make me more self-controlled,

than mother, my hand more righteous!

Those are my prayers for us. Our enemies –

for them, my father, I pray someone will come

as your avenger, then kill your killers,

in retribution, as is just. As I pray

for our well being, I include this curse –

may they be caught by their own evil.

Bring us your blessing to the earth above,

with help from gods, and Earth, and Justice,

all combined to bring us victory.”

[Electra pours out her libation on the tomb]

Those are my prayers, and over them I pour

libations. Your duty now is to lament,

to crown my prayers with flowers, chanting

your mournful chorus for the dead.

CHORUS

Come, let our tears begin,

fall, and die, as our master died.

Let them guard us from evil,

preserve the good, and keep away

with our outpoured libations

the polluting curse.

Hear me, oh hear me,

my honoured master.

May your disembodied spirit

hear my prayer.

Alas, alas … ohhhhhhhh!

Let him come now,

some forceful man,

a power with the spear.

May he restore this house,

bent Scythian bow in hand,

a fist around his sword hilt.

Like Ares, god of war,

let him begin the slaughter!

ELECTRA

My father’s now received his offerings.

The earth has drunk them up. But look –

here’s something new. Come, look at it with me.

CHORUS

Speak up. My heart’s afraid. It’s dancing.

ELECTRA

I see a lock of hair, an offering … on the tomb.

CHORUS

Whose is it? A man’s? A full-grown girl’s?

ELECTRA

It shouldn’t be too difficult to guess,

to sort out what this indicates.

CHORUS

How so? Let your youth instruct your elders.

ELECTRA

No one but me could have cut this off.

CHORUS

You’re right. Those who should make offerings,

cutting their hair in grief, are enemies.

ELECTRA

Look at this … It looks just like …

CHORUS

Like whose?

I want to know.

ELECTRA

Like mine. It looks identical.

CHORUS

Perhaps Orestes? Did he place it here,

a secret offering?

ELECTRA

It really looks like his …

these curls …

CHORUS

But how could he come back?

ELECTRA

He sent it here, a token of respect

for his dead father.

CHORUS

Those words of yours

give us fresh cause for tears, if there’s no chance

Orestes will set foot in this land again.

ELECTRA

Over my heart, too, breaks a bitter wave.

I feel as if a sword had sliced right through me.

Seeing this hair, my eyes weep thirsty drops –

I can’t hold back my flood of grief. There’s no way

I would expect one of the citizens,

someone in Argos, to own this lock.

It’s clearly not that murderess’ hair,

my mother’s – her treatment of her children

profanes the very name of mother.

But how can I accept without a doubt

this offering’s from the man I love the most,

Orestes? I’m just clinging to a hope.

Alas! If only, like a messenger,

this hair possessed a friendly human voice,

my thoughts would not be so distracted.

It would tell me clearly what to do.

If someone I detest had cut it off,

I’d throw this lock away, but if it’s his,

my brother’s, it could share my sorrow,

adorn this tomb, a tribute to my father.

I call upon the gods who understand

how storms whirl us off course, like sailors.

But if we’re fated to come safely home,

then mighty trees can spring from tiny seeds.

[Electra notices footprints in the dirt around the tomb]

Here are some footprints – more evidence –

tracks of feet, just like my own – in pairs –

two sets of footprints, his own and others,

some companion’s. The heels, the arches –

these prints are shaped just like my own …

[Electra traces the tracks from the tomb towards Orestes’ hiding place. Orestes emerges to meet her as she follows the footprints]

The pain of this … my mind grows dizzy …

ORESTES

Pray for what must still be done. Thank the gods

for answering your prayers. Pray to them

that all will work out well.

ELECTRA

What? The gods?

What have they given me?

ORESTES

You’ve come to see

the person you’ve been praying for all this time.

ELECTRA

Then you know the man I was calling for?

ORESTES

I know your sympathies are with Orestes.

ELECTRA

Yes, but how have my prayers been answered now?

ORESTES

I’m here. You need look no more for friends.

I’m the dearest one you have.

ELECTRA

No, stranger.

You’re weaving a net, a trick to trap me.

ORESTES

If so, I plot against myself as well.

ELECTRA

You just want to laugh at my distress.

ORESTES

If I laugh at you, I’m laughing at myself.

ELECTRA

Orestes … is it truly you? Can I

call you Orestes?

ORESTES

Yes, you can.

You’re looking at Orestes in the flesh.

Why take so long to recognize the truth?

When you saw the lock of hair, that token

of my grief, and traced my footprints in the dust,

your imagination flew – you thought

you saw me. Look. Put this hair in place.

It’s your brother’s. And it matches yours.

See this weaving here – that’s your handiwork.

You worked the loom. Look at this design,

these animals …

[Electra is finally convinced. She almost breaks down with joy]

Control yourself. Calm down.

Don’t get too overjoyed. Remember this –

our closest family is our enemy.

ELECTRA

You dearest member of your father’s house.

the seed of hope through all our weeping –

trust to your own strength and win back again

your father’s home. How my eyes rejoice!

To me you are four different loves – fate

declares that I must call you father,

and on you falls the love I ought to feel

towards my mother, who’s earned my hate.

Then there’s the love I bore my sister,

Iphigeneia, that cruel sacrifice –

and you’re my faithful brother. You alone

sustained my sense of honour. May Power

and Justice stand with us now, our allies –

and may almighty Zeus make up the third.

ORESTES

O Zeus, Zeus, look down on what we do!

See the abandoned fledglings of the eagle,

whose father perished in the viper’s coils,

that deadly net. Orphans now, we bear

the pangs of hunger, not yet mature enough

to bring our father’s quarry to the nest.

See us like this – I mean me and Electra –

children without a father, both outcasts,

banished from our home. If you wipe out

these fledglings, what respect will you receive

at feasts from hands like his, their father’s,

who offered you such wealthy sacrifice?

Kill off the eagle’s brood, then who will trust

the signs you send? If this royal stock decays,

it cannot consecrate your altars

with sacrificial oxen in the morning.

Stand by us. You can elevate our house

from its debased condition, make it great,

though now it seems completely ruined.

CHORUS LEADER

Children, saviours of your father’s home,

don’t speak too loud. Someone may hear you,

my children, and to hear his tongue run on

report to those in charge. O how I wish

I see them dead one day, roasting in flames,

sizzling like pitch.

ORESTES

Apollo’s great oracle

surely will defend me. Its orders were

that I should undertake this danger.

It cried out in prophecy, foretelling

many winters of calamity would chill

my hot heart, if I did not take revenge

on those who killed my father. It ordered me

to murder them the way they murdered him,

insisting they could not pay the penalty

with their possessions. The oracle declared,

“If not, you’ll pay the debt with your own life,

a life of troubles.” It spoke a revelation,

making known to men the wrath of blood guilt –

from underneath the earth, infectious plagues,

leprous sores which gnaw the flesh, fangs chewing

living tissue, festering white rot in the sores.

It mentioned other miseries as well –

attacks by vengeful Furies, [8] stemming

from a slaughtered father’s blood, dark bolts

from gods below, aroused by murdered kinsmen

calling for revenge, frenzied night fits.

Such terrors plague the man – he sees them all

so clearly, eyeballs rolling in the dark.

Then he’s chased in exile from the city,

his body scourged by bronze-tipped whips.

A man like this can never share the wine bowl,

no libations mixed with love. We don’t see

his father’s anger, but it casts him out –

no access to an altar. There’s no relief,

and no one takes him in, until at last,

universally despised, without a friend,

he wastes in all-consuming pain and dies.

Am I not right to trust such oracles?

Even if I don’t, the work must still be done.

Many feelings lead to one conclusion –

the gods’ decree, my keen paternal grief,

the weight of poverty I bear. Besides,

my countrymen, most glorious of men,

whose courageous spirit brought down Troy,

should not be subject to a pair of women.

For Aegisthus is at heart a woman –

if not, we’ll learn about it soon enough.

CHORUS

Oh mighty Fates, bring all this to pass.

Through Zeus’ power, make all things right.

For Justice, as she turns the scales

exacting retribution, cries aloud,

“Hostile words for hostile words –

let it be done. One murderous stroke

is paid off by another lethal blow.

The one who acts must suffer.”

So runs the ancient saying,

now three generations old.

ORESTES

O my unhappy father,

what can I say for you or do,

to send you, where you rest

so far away, some light

to drive away your darkness?

But nonetheless some joy

comes from a funeral lament

for glorious sons of Atreus, [9]

who once possessed the house.

CHORUS

My child, among the dead

the savage jaws of fire

cannot destroy the spirit.

He’ll show his rage in time.

Dead men receive their dirge –

the guilty stand revealed.

A father’s funeral lament,

strong and clear and just,

searches far and wide,

confounding those who killed.

ELECTRA

Hear us now, my father,

as, in turn, we mourn and weep.

Your two children at your tomb

now sing your death song.

Your tomb has welcomed us,

two suppliants and outcasts.

What in this is good?

What free from trouble?

Who wrestles death and wins?

CHORUS

But if god wills it, he can turn

our dirges into joyful songs –

instead of funeral laments

around this monument

chants of triumph ringing out

throughout the palace halls,

a welcome celebration

for reunion with a friend.

ORESTES

My father, if only you had died

hit by some Lycian spear at Troy!

You’d have left your glory

with your children in their home.

In their dealings with the world

men would now honour them.

You’d have won a tomb raised high

in lands across the seas, a death

your home could bear with ease.

CHORUS

Dear to the men you loved,

the ones who died so bravely,

you’d stand out under earth,

as a majestic lord, minister

of the mightiest gods below,

who rule the dead. In life,

you were a king of men –

the ones who hold the staff

that every man obeys,

those with authority

to sentence men to die.

ELECTRA

I don’t want you dead, my father,

not even under Trojan walls,

with all those other men

who perished by the spear,

where the Scamander [10] flows.

No. I’d much prefer

your killers had been killed

by their own families,

just as they murdered you.

People then in far-off lands

would hear about their deaths

and not our present trouble.

CHORUS

Children, these things you say

are merely your desires,

finer than gold, greater still

than the great happiness

of those who live in bliss

beyond the northern wind.

But wishing is an easy thing.

Still, now it’s striking home,

that double whip – for now

protectors underneath the earth

are helping us. Our masters

are unholy creatures

with polluted hands.

The children win the day!

ORESTES

Our words, like arrows,

pierce down into the earth

straight to my father’s ear.

O Zeus, Zeus, send us

from the world below

your long-delayed revenge,

pay back the wickedness

brought on by human hands.

O let that come to pass –

and thus avenge all fathers.

CHORUS

Let my heart cry out in triumph

when that man is stabbed,

when that woman dies.

Why should my spirit hide

what hovers here before me,

when driving hatred, like a storm,

a biting headwind,

breaks across my heart?

ELECTRA

Oh, when will mighty Zeus

strike them with his fist –

split their skulls apart!

Alas, alas! Give our land

some sign – confirm our faith.

From these crimes I seek

the rights of justice.

O Earth, hear me, and you,

blessed gods in earth below.

CHORUS

It’s the law – once drops of blood

are shed upon the ground

they cry out for still more blood.

Slaughter calls upon the Furies

of those who have been killed.

Thus, hard on murder’s heels

destruction comes again.

ORESTES

Lords of the world below, alas,

see the mighty curses of the dead.

See survivors of the line of Atreus,

here in our helplessness,

cast out from home, dishonoured.

O Zeus, where can we turn?

CHORUS

My fond heart races once again

to hear your pitiful lament.

But as I listen to your words

I lose my hope. My heart

grows dark. But then again

hope comes to make me strong –

all my unhappiness is gone.

I see a bright new dawn.

ELECTRA

To what can we appeal? What else

but to the agonies we suffer,

anguish from the one who bore us,

our mother. So let her grovel.

She’ll not appease our pain.

We’re bred from her, like wolves,

whose savage hearts do not relent.

CHORUS

Like some Asian wailing woman,

I beat out my lament, my fists

keep pounding out the blows

in quick succession. You see

my hands – I stretch them out,

then strike down from above.

My torment beats upon my head

until it breaks for sorrow.

ELECTRA

Oh cruel and reckless mother,

that savage burial, our king,

no fellow citizens around,

no suffering procession –

you dared place him in the tomb

without the rites of mourning.

ORESTES

Alas. As you say, totally disgraced.

But she’ll pay for his dishonour,

by the gods, by my own hands.

Let me kill her. Then let me die.

CHORUS

And let me tell you this –

she first hacked off his limbs,

then hung them round his neck.

That’s how she buried him,

to make that slaughter

a burden on your life –

a thing you couldn’t bear.

You hear me? Your father’s death –

she made it an abomination.

ELECTRA

You describe my father’s death,

but I too was utterly disgraced,

worth nothing, set apart,

inside a cell, as if I were

some rabid dog. I wept.

What had I to laugh about,

as I shed all those tears in hiding?

Hear that. Carve that on your heart.

CHORUS

Let your ears pick up her story,

but keep your spirit firm.

Things now stand as they stand.

You’re keen to know what’s next,

but you must wait, prepared

to fight on with no turning back.

ORESTES

Father, I call on you. Stand by your children.

ELECTRA

Through these tears I join his call.

CHORUS

In unison, our voices blend as one –

hear us. Return into the light.

Join us against our enemies.

ORESTES

Now war god Ares goes to meet

the war god Ares. Right fights with right.

ELECTRA

Dear gods, let justice choose what’s right.

CHORUS

I hear these prayers and shudder.

This doom’s been long delayed,

but it does come for those who pray.

Oh, family bred for torments,

for the bloody strokes

of harsh discordant ruin,

for pains beyond enduring,

grief that can’t be staunched.

For all this evil there’s a remedy,

not from some stranger,

someone outside the house,

but from within, the cure

that blood strife brings,

their savage bloody fight.

To gods beneath the ground

we sing this hymn.

Hear us, you blessed gods of earth,

hear this supplication, and assist

with your good will these children.

Give them the victory!

ORESTES

Father, you may not have perished like a king,

but, in answer to my prayer, make me

the master of your house.

ELECTRA

I, too, father,

have a request of you – let me escape,

once I’ve accomplished this enormous task,

once Aegisthus is destroyed.

ORESTES

Yes.

Then men would set up on your behalf

those feasts of honour our laws demand.

But otherwise, when people sacrifice

burnt offering to Earth at solemn banquets

they will not honour you.

ELECTRA

And I, too,

at my marriage feast, from the full store

of what I inherit in my father’s house,

will pour libations to you. And your tomb

I’ll honour above all other shrines.

ORESTES

O Earth, send my father up to see our fight.

ELECTRA

O Persephone, [11] grant us glorious power.

ORESTES

My father, remember that bath

where you were slaughtered.

ELECTRA

Remember the net in which they killed you.

ORESTES

My father, you were trapped in fetters,

but they weren’t forged in bronze.

ELECTRA

They covered you

with their deceit and shame.

ORESTES

Father, these taunts –

do they not stir your spirit?

ELECTRA

Will you raise

that beloved head of yours upright?

ORESTES

Either send Justice here to stand with us,

the ones you love, or let us, in our turn,

catch them in our grip, as they caught you –

that is, if you want to beat them down,

after the way they overpowered you.

ELECTRA

Father, listen to my last appeal –

see your children huddled at your tomb.

Take pity on them, your son and daughter.

ORESTES

Don’t let the seed of Pelops [12] disappear.

With us alive, in death you cannot die.

ELECTRA

For to a man that’s dead his children

are saving testament – like corks,

they hold up the net and keep the mesh

from sinking deep into the sea.

ORESTES

Hear us!

We’re making our lament on your behalf.

Honour our request and save yourself.

CHORUS LEADER

There’s nothing wrong expanding your lament.

For that will honour this neglected tomb.

But since your heart is rightly set to act,

it’s time to test your fortune, time to start.

ORESTES

You’re right. But first we might ask this question:

Why did that woman send out these libations?

What did she have in mind, trying so late

to heal a crime which cannot be forgiven?

What she sent here was paltry tribute

to the unforgiving dead. I don’t see

what she intends. The gift’s too trivial

for her offence. As the old saying runs,

“Pour out all you’ve got to make amends

for bloodshed, your work is all in vain.”

If you know her reason, tell me now.

I’d like to hear.

CHORUS LEADER

My child, I know – I was there.

She had bad dreams. Vague terrors in the night

upset her. So that godless woman sent these gifts.

ORESTES

Do you know the nature of her dreams?

Can you give me details?

CHORUS LEADER

She’d given birth,

but to a snake. That’s what she told me.

ORESTES

How did the dream end up? What happened?

CHORUS LEADER

She set it in bed wrapped in swaddling clothes,

just like a child.

ORESTES

And that newborn snake,

what did it want for nourishment?

CHORUS LEADER

She dreamt she offered it her breasts.

ORESTES

Didn’t the monster bite her nipple?

CHORUS LEADER

No. But with her milk it sucked out clots of blood.

ORESTES

It’s an omen. Her vision means a man.

CHORUS LEADER

She woke up with a scream, quite terrified.

Many torches which stay unlit at night

were set ablaze throughout the house

to calm our mistress. Then she sent out

libations for the dead – in the hope

they’d work like medicine for her distress.

ORESTES

I pray to Earth and to my father’s tomb

that this dream will fulfill itself in me.

I think it matches me in every point.

If that snake came from the same womb as me,

if it was wrapped up in my swaddling clothes

and opened up its jaws to suck the milk

that nourished me, mixing sweet milk with blood,

so she cried out in terror at the sight,

then that must mean she’ll die by violence,

from nursing such a violent beast.

I am that snake. And I will kill her.

That’s the meaning of this dream.

CHORUS LEADER

Your reading of her dream seems right to me.

So let it come. Tell your friends the rest –

what they must do or take care not to do.

ORESTES

My plan is simple. First, Electra here

must go inside. I’m instructing her

to keep this bond with me a secret.

The two in there deceived a noble man,

then killed him. So we’ll use deceit on them.

They’ll die in the same net. Lord Apollo,

who’s never wrong in what he prophesies,

has ordered this. I’ll approach the outer gates,

pretending I’m a stranger, prepared

for anything. Pylades goes with me,

as guest and ally of the house. We two

will speak Parnassian dialect of Phocis.

If no one at the gate is in the mood

to let us in, alleging that the house

is haunted by some evil demon,

we’ll wait there so any passer-by

will be intrigued and say, “What’s going on?

Why does Aegisthus shut his doors like this

against a suppliant? Is he at home?

Is he aware of this?” If I get past the gate,

across the outer threshold, then find that man

seated on my father’s throne or meet him

face to face, his eyes will shift and fall,

I promise you. Before he’s had time to ask,

“Stranger, what country are you from?”

I’ll kill him quickly with my sword.

Our Fury never lacked for blood –

for her third draught she’ll drink his pure.

Now, Electra, keep a close watch in there,

check what’s going on inside the house.

We’ll need to work on this together.

You women, be careful what you say –

keep quiet – speak only when you have to.

As for the rest, I invoke Apollo

to cast his eyes down here and be my guide

when the time comes to fight it out with swords.

[Orestes, Pylades, and Electra leave together]

CHORUS

Earth brings forth many horrors –

terrors and agonies – the sea’s arms

hold monsters, savage beasts.

Between the earth and heaven

hang fiery lights, suspended high.

Winged birds and beasts

that walk along the ground

can also speak of storms,

the whirlwind’s power.

But who of us can speak

about the arrogance of men

or women’s reckless passion

beyond all self-control,

so they become conspirators

in all our lethal woes?

Passionate desire wins out –

it gains a fatal victory

in every woman.

It ends all married love

in men and beasts.

A man with any sense

should recognize these things,

once he recalls Althaea, [13]

ruthless child of Thestius,

who planned her own son’s ruin.

She burned the fatal torch,

knowing that Meleager’s life,

from the time he first appeared

howling from his mother’s womb,

depended on that wood.

And so it was – he stayed alive

until her fire doomed him.

Another story of a hateful girl

tells of that murderous Scylla,

who killed her father,

brought to it by his enemies.

Tempted by a gift from Minos,

a golden necklace made in Crete,

she plucked out her father’s hair,

the one which made Nisus [14] immortal.

As he lay peacefully asleep,

then died, murdered by that bitch,

and Hermes led him off.

As I recall these stories

of savagery without remorse,

it’s time to speak of marriages

in which there was no love,

which laid a curse upon the house,

schemes devised by woman’s cunning

against her warrior lord, a man

his enemies have cause to honour.

I value hearth and home

where passions do not rule,

where women’s spirits

rein in their waywardness.

Of all such tales of crime, the worst

concerns the isle of Lemnos, [15]

where all the women killed their men.

At that story people moan –

they weep for that abomination.

When some new troubles come

men measure them by Lemnos.

Horror at that deed brought on

the hatred of the gods, and thus,

cast out by humankind and in disgrace,

that women’s race dies out.

No man can hold in reverence

what gods abhor. So of these tales

which one can I not justly cite?

Justice wields her sword.

She thrusts it home –

hungry and sharp,

it slices deep,

right by the lungs –

and so the lawlessness

of those who flout what’s right,

who violate the majesty of Zeus,

lies trampled underfoot.

The anvil of Justice now holds firm.

Fate hammers out her sword –

she forges it in time.

At last the brooding Fury comes,

famous spirit of revenge –

leading a child inside the house,

to cleanse the stain of blood,

the family curse from long ago.

[Enter Orestes and Pylades, with a couple of attendants. They move up to the front doors of the royal palace. Orestes knocks loudly on the door]

ORESTES

Hey, in there! You hear this knocking on the door?

I’ll try again. Anyone in there?

All right, a third attempt. I’m knocking here –

are you coming out? Anyone in there?

Hello! Does Aegisthus welcome strangers?

SERVANT

[from within]

All right. All right. I hear you. Stranger,

what country are you from? Who are you?

ORESTES

Announce me to the masters of the house.

I’ve come to bring them news. And hurry!

Night’s black chariot is speeding overhead.

It’s time for people on the road to rest –

drop anchor where all strangers feel at home.

Tell someone to come out who’s in control –

the mistress would be fine, the master

even better. We could speak our minds.

After all, politeness can obscure the sense.

When we talk man to man, we get the point –

we say just what we mean without reserve.

[Clytaemnestra and Electra enter through the palace doors]

CLYTAEMNESTRA

Stranger, welcome. Just ask for what you need.

Inside we have all luxuries of home –

warm baths and beds to charm away your pains.

We live under the eyes of Justice here.

But if your business is more serious,

men’s work, then we’ll send for Aegisthus.

ORESTES

I’m a stranger – a Daulian from Phocis –

coming to Argos on private business,

carrying this pack. I need to pause and rest.

On my way here I ran into a man –

we’d never met before. He told me

where he was going and asked my route.

As we talked, I learned his name – Strophius.

He came from Phocis, too. And he said this,

“Well, friend, since you’re heading off to Argos,

here’s a message for Orestes’ parents,

something they’ve a right to know, so please

remember it: Orestes is dead. Don’t forget.

Then, when you return, you can tell me

whether his family wants to bring him back

or have him buried here in Phocis,

where he’s a stranger, forever outcast.

Right now his ashes sit in a bronze urn.

The man was truly mourned.” That’s my message.

That’s what I heard. At this point I’m not sure

whether I’m telling this to anyone who cares,

but Orestes’ parent ought to be informed.

CLYTAEMNESTRA

I … this news … what you just said …

it’s shattering … that curse we can’t repress.

It haunts the house, ranges everywhere …

Someone kept safe and far away from here

the curse seeks out. Its arrow strikes and kills.

It takes those I love, drives me to desperation.

And now Orestes. He was well prepared.

He kept his feet well clear of muddy ground

where hidden danger lurks. He offered hope

the Furies’ striking revels in this house

might find a cure. Now, from what you say,

we’ve lost that hope.

ORESTES

As far as I’m concerned,

with hosts as prosperous as you, I wish

you’d seen me as the bearer of good news

and welcomed me for that. What’s kinder

than the link between a stranger and his host?

But to my mind, it would have been profane

if I’d not told his loved ones, as I promised,

as hospitality demands.

CLYTAEMNESTRA

Don’t worry.

You’ll receive what you deserve. In this house

you’re no less welcome for your news,

which, in any case, someone else would bring.

But now’s the time when strangers on the road

get entertained once their long journey’s done.

[Clytaemnestra turns to Electra, ordering her as if she were a servant]

You there – take this traveller to the rooms

we use to entertain our guests – and with him

these fellow travellers, his attendants.

Look after them the way this house requires.

Those are my orders. See you follow them.

I’m holding you responsible. Meanwhile,

I’ll go find the master of the house,

tell him the news. We don’t lack friends –

from them we’ll seek advice about this death.

[Electra escorts Orestes, Pylades, and their attendants into the palace. Clytaemnestra enters the palace. The Chorus is left alone on stage]

CHORUS LEADER

Dear fellow slaves who serve this house,

how long before our words can demonstrate

just how strongly we support Orestes?

CHORUS

O sacred Earth,

heaped-up burial mound,

lying above that noble corpse,

commander of the ships,

hear me now,

help me now.

Now’s the moment

for Persuasion to come in

with her deceit,

for that stealthy god,

Hermes of the lower world,

to guide the fight,

the fatal clash of swords.

[Enter Orestes’ Nurse, Cilissa, in tears]

CHORUS LEADER

It seems the stranger’s mischief is at work.

Here comes Orestes’ nurse. I see she’s crying.

Cilissa, why are you walking by the gates,

with your unpaid companion Sorrow?

NURSE

My mistress ordered me to fetch Aegisthus

to meet the strangers – and to hurry up –

so he can find out clearly, man to man,

the news that’s just arrived. With servants

she puts on her gloomy face, but deep down

her eyes are laughing at how well all this

has ended up for her. But for this house

the stranger’s news is simply a disaster.

Once Aegisthus hears, gets the full report,

he’ll jump for joy. How miserable I feel!

The old troubles of the house of Atreus,

so hard to bear, how they’ve hurt my heart.

I get these chest pains. But a blow like this –

I’ve never had to bear such sorrow.

Other troubles I’ve endured with patience,

but dear Orestes, how it breaks my heart!

When he was born, I got him from his mother.

I nursed him. I spent all night on my feet,

answering his cries. So much tiring work –

all for nothing. A helpless child like that

one has to nurse as if he were a beast.

How’d I do that? By following his moods.

A child in swaddling clothes can’t speak at all.

So if he needed something to eat or drink,

or had just wet himself, his one response

came from his instincts. So I had to use

a prophet’s skill. But often I was wrong.

I had to launder linen. Yes, I was

wet nurse and washerwoman, all in one,

two special skills. I received Orestes

from his own father’s hands. Now he’s dead.

That’s what I’ve been told. It makes me cry.

Well, I must go. I have to fetch Aegisthus,

the man who brought this house to ruin.

He’ll be glad enough to hear my words.

CHORUS LEADER

Did she tell him how to come and what to bring?

NURSE

How’s that? Say it again. I need a clearer sense

of what you’re asking.

CHORUS LEADER

Did she tell him

to come with guards or unattended?

NURSE

She said he should bring his spearmen with him.

CHORUS LEADER

Don’t give that message to Aegisthus,

that hateful tyrant. Tell him to come alone,

with a joyous heart, as quickly as he can.

He won’t suspect a thing. The messenger

can straighten out a crooked message.

NURSE

What? Does your heart feel good about this news?

CHORUS LEADER

Why not, if Zeus turns evil into good?

NURSE

How’s that to happen? Orestes,

the house’s hope, is gone.

CHORUS LEADER

Not so fast.

A prophet who claimed that would be a bad one.

NURSE

What are you saying? Do you know something

more than what I’ve heard?

CHORUS LEADER

Go on then.

Relay your message. Do what you’ve been told.

Let the gods care about what most concerns them.

NURSE

All right, I’ll go and do what you suggest.

With blessings from the gods, I pray all this

will work out for the best.

[Exit Nurse, off in search of Aegisthus, who is not in the palace]

CHORUS

Now, in answer to my prayers,

I implore you, Zeus,

father of Olympian gods,

restore this house,

give it good fortune, so those

who rightly love due order

may witness it right here.

In every word we cry,

we plead for justice.

O Zeus, protect what’s right.

Zeus, Zeus,

inside that palace

place him face to face

before his enemies.

If you exalt him

he’ll willingly repay you,

three or four times over.

You know that orphan colt,

child of a man you cherish,

stands now in harness,

yoked to a chariot of pain.

Control the way he runs,

preserve his pace,

so he will last the course,

and we may see him surge,

as he races to his goal.

You gods inside the house,

in those inner chambers,

where you celebrate its wealth,

hear me, you gods

who sympathize with us.

Cleanse that ancient blood

of crimes committed long ago.

Let old murder cease to breed.

And Apollo, you who dwell

in that massive well-built cavern,

grant that this man’s house

may raise its head once more,

so with loving eyes we see

the veil of darkness yield

to freedom’s light.

May Hermes, Maia’s son,

support him in what’s right.

He sends the finest winds

to hold an enterprise on course,

when that’s his will –

and when he so desires,

he will make known

much hidden from our view,

or speak in riddles in the night,

darkening men’s eyes,

which see no better by the light of day.

Soon at last we’ll shout in song

of the deliverance of this house –

no shrill lament of those who mourn,

but robust songs the sea wives sing

when the wind sits fair,

“Good sailing now – for me,

for me this means more riches –

no dangers for the ones I love.”

But you, Orestes, do your part –

when your moment comes, be brave.

When she cries out “My son!”

cry in return “My father’s son!”

Then murder her in innocence.

In your heart maintain

the heart of Perseus. [16]

Satisfy the rage

of those you love

under the earth,

and here above.

With blood murder

inside the house

eradicate the cause

of all our blood-guilt.

[Enter Aegisthus]

AEGISTHUS

A stranger’s story called me here –

I’m told that travellers have arrived

with startling and unwelcome news –

Orestes is dead – yet one more burden

laid upon this house, a terrifying load,

while it still bears raw festering wounds

from earlier murder. But is what they saw

the living truth? That’s what I must confirm.

Or is it some fearful women’s gossip,

which blazes up, then dies away to nothing?

Can you clear my mind? What do you know?

CHORUS LEADER

Well, we heard the news. But go inside.

You can learn it from the guests themselves.

The power in a messenger’s report

is not like hearing what he has to say

when you confront him face to face.

AEGISTHUS

I want to see this messenger and check

if he was present at Orestes’ death,

or if he’s just repeating what he heard

from some vague rumours. I’ll see through him.

These keen eyes of mine won’t be deceived.

[Exit Aegisthus into the palace]

CHORUS

Zeus, O Zeus,

what do I say? How do I start

appealing to the gods in prayer?

How from a loyal heart

can I find what to say,

matching words with deeds?

Now blood-stained blades

are slicing men to death

and totally destroy forever

Agamemnon’s house, or else

with freedom’s blazing light

Orestes wins the throne,

and all his father’s riches.

The ambush now is set –

noble Orestes by himself

must face two enemies.

Let him emerge the victor!

[Aegisthus screams in pain from inside the palace]

CHORUS MEMBERS

[speaking separately]

Listen!

What was that?

What’s going on, in there, inside the palace?

[Some members of the chorus start to move towards the palace doors]

CHORUS LEADER

Stay back. Until this work is finished,

we won’t get involved in all the bloodshed.

That way no one can blame us.

[A servant emerges through the palace doors]

It’s over.

Whatever the result, the fighting’s over.

SERVANT

Oh, it’s horrible – my master’s killed!

He’s dead. Alas. I’ll cry it out again,

a third time, Aegisthus is no more!

[The servant moves to a side door and tries desperately to pull it open]

Come on! Come on! Open this door! Hurry!

Unbolt the women’s doors! A strong right arm

is all it takes! Not to help Aegisthus –

he’s already dead. No point in trying.

Come on! Am I shouting to the deaf,

or are you all asleep?

[The servant gives up pounding on the side door]

A waste of time.

Where’s Clytaemnestra gone? What’s she doing?

Her own neck’s resting on the razor’s edge –

this justice could strike her down as well.

[Enter Clytaemnestra through the main palace doors]

CLYTAEMNESTRA

What’s happening? Why are you shouting

all around the house?

SERVANT

I’m telling you

the dead are murdering the living!

CLYTAEMNESTRA

I see. I understand your paradox.

We’re being destroyed by someone’s trickery,

just as we destroyed. All right, then,

get me a man-killing axe – and quickly!

[Exit servant into the palace]

Let’s see now if we win through or lose.

The wretched business brings me down to this.

[The palace doors open to reveal the dead body of Aegisthus with Orestes standing over it. Pylades is beside Orestes]

ORESTES

The very one I seek. This fellow here

has had enough.

CLYTAEMNESTRA

No, not Aegisthus,

not my love, my power … dead.

ORESTES

You loved this man? Then you’ll find your rest

in a common grave with him – he’s one man

you won’t abandon when he dies.

CLYTAEMNESTRA

Hold off, my son, my child. Take pity

on these breasts. Here you often lay asleep.

Your toothless gums sucked out the milk

that made you strong.

ORESTES

Pylades, what do I do?

It’s a dreadful act to kill my mother.

PYLADES

What then becomes of what Apollo said,

what he foretold at Delphi? We made an oath.

Make all men your enemies but not the gods.

ORESTES

That’s good advice. As judge in this debate

I say you prevail.

[Orestes turns on Clytaemnestra, pulls her towards the body of Aegisthus]

Over here.

I want to kill you right beside this man.

When he was alive, you considered him

better than my father, so once you’re dead

you can sleep on by his side. You loved him.

The man you should have loved you hated.

CLYTAEMNESTRA

I brought you up. Let me grow old with you.

ORESTES

What? Kill my father and then live with me?

CLYTAEMNESTRA

My child, in this our fate’s to blame.

ORESTES

Then, in the same way, Fate brings on your death.

CLYTAEMNESTRA

My son, do you not fear your mother’s curse?

ORESTES

You bore me, then threw me out to misery.

CLYTAEMNESTRA

No, no – I sent you to live with a friend.

ORESTES

You sold me in disgrace – a free man’s son.

CLYTAEMNESTRA

What’s the price I charged for you?

ORESTES

That’s too shameful to declare in public.

CLYTAEMNESTRA

Don’t forget to name your father’s failings, too.

ORESTES

Don’t charge him with anything – he worked hard

while you sat here at home.

CLYTAEMNESTRA

My son, it’s painful

for women to go on without their men.

ORESTES

Maybe, but while they stay safely in the home

their men look after them.

CLYTAEMNESTRA

My son, you really mean to do this –

to slaughter your own mother?

ORESTES

You kill yourself.

I’ll not be the murderer. You will.

CLYTAEMNESTRA

Take care.

The vicious hounds which avenge all mothers

will hunt you down.

ORESTES

What about my father’s?

If I don’t kill you, there’s no escaping them.

CLYTAEMNESTRA

It seems as if, while still alive, I waste

my useless tears at my own tomb.

ORESTES

My father’s destiny has marked you out.

It states that you must die.

CLYTAEMNESTRA

Alas for me!

You are the snake I bore and nourished.

ORESTES

Yes. That terror in your dream foretold the truth.

You killed the man you should not kill, and now

you’ll suffer what no one should ever see.

[Orestes pushes Clytaemnestra inside the palace doors. Pylades goes with them. The doors close behind them]

CHORUS LEADER

The fate of these two victims makes me grieve.

But long-suffering Orestes rides the crest

of so much bloodshed, we’d prefer he triumph –

the bright eyes of this house must never fade.

CHORUS

Just as justice came at last

to Priam [17] and his sons,

a crushing retribution,

so a double lion comes

to Agamemnon’s house,

a two-fold slaughter.

Apollo’s suppliant, the exile,

sees his action through,

driven on by justice

sent from gods above.

Raise now a shout of triumph

above our master’s house,

free of misery at last,

free of that tainted couple

squandering its wealth,

and free of its unhappy fate.

He came back with a secret plan,

fighting to win crafty vengeance.

The goddess took him by the hand,

true daughter of great Zeus,

his guide throughout the fight.

Men call her rightful Justice –

who destroys her enemies

once she breathes in anger.

Raise a shout of triumph now

above our master’s house,

free of misery at last,

free of that tainted couple

squandering its wealth,

free of its unhappy destiny.

From his shrine deep within the earth,

Parnassian Apollo spoke in prophecy –

“Well intentioned stealthy trickery

will conquer long-entrenched deceit.”

I pray his words somehow prevail,

so I never am a slave to wickedness.

True reverence should worship heaven’s rule.

Look now, dawn is coming!

Great chains on the home are falling off.

Let this house rise up! For far too long

it’s lain in pieces on the ground.

Time, which brings all things to pass,

will soon move through these doors,

once purifying rites expel

polluting evil. That will change

the roll of fortune’s dice – they’ll fall

so all can see the fair result,

a happy destiny once more

for all who live within the house.

Look now, dawn is coming!

Great chains on the home are falling off.

Let this house rise up! For far too long

it’s lain in pieces on the ground.

[The palace doors are thrown open, revealing Orestes standing above the bodies of Aegisthus and Clytaemnestra. Pylades stands beside Orestes. With them are attendants holding the bloodstained robes of Agamemnon]

ORESTES

Here you see them – this pair of tyrants.

They killed my father, then robbed my home.

Once they sat enthroned in regal splendour.

They’re lovers still, as you can witness here

by how they died, true to the oaths they swore.

They made a pact to murder my poor father,

then die together. Well, they’ve kept their word.

[Orestes starts unfurling the robes in which Agamemnon was killed]

Look at this again, all those of you

who pay attention to this house’s troubles.

This robe they used to trap my helpless father.

With it they tied his hands and lashed his feet.

Spread it out. Stand round here in a group –

put it on display, my father’s death shroud,

so that the Father (not mine – the one

who sees everything, the Sun) can see

my mother’s sacrilege. Then he will come

on the day when I am judged, to testify

that I pursued and even killed my mother

in a just cause. About Aegisthus’ death

there’s nothing I need say. As an adulterer,

he dies – our law’s just punishment.

But as for her who planned this evil act

against her husband, a man whose children

she carried in her womb – I loved her once,

but she became my bitter enemy,

as you can see. What do you make of her?

If she’d been born a viper or sea snake,

she wouldn’t need to bite – her very touch

would make men rot, so evil is her heart,

so reckless.

[Orestes stoops and picks up the bloody robe]

What do I call this?

What fine words will do? A snare for some wild beast?

A corpse’s shroud? The curtain from a bath

wrapped round his legs? No. It’s a hunting net.

That name sounds right – robes to trap a man,

entangling his feet, something a highway thief

might use to trick and rob a stranger.

With such a net he’d take so many lives,

his pleasure in the work would warm his heart.

May I never live with such a woman.

Before that, let the gods destroy me –

let me die without a child.

CHORUS

Alas for this horrific act,

the monstrous way she died.

But woe on the survivor, too –

his suffering begins to flower.

ORESTES

Did she commit the crime or not? Come here.

This clothing is my witness, dyed with blood.

It’s from Aegisthus’ blade. These bloody stains

with time have blotted out the fine embroidery.

But I can praise my father. Now at last

I’m here to mourn him, as I hold this robe,

the net that brought about my father’s death.

But I lament my act, my suffering.

I mourn the entire race, for though I’ve won,

I can’t avoid the guilt which now pollutes me.

CHORUS

No mortal goes through life unscathed,

free from pain until the end.

One trouble comes today,

yet another comes tomorrow.

ORESTES

[starting to break down]

But still, you need to understand …

I don’t know how this will end … I feel like

some chariot racer lashing on my team,

but we’re way off track … My mind is racing …

it’s lost control. Something’s overpowering me …

carrying me off …Deep in my heart, fear

prepares its furious song and dance.

So while I still have my wits about me,

to all my friends I publicly proclaim

I killed my mother not without just cause.

She was guilty of my father’s murder,

a woman gods despised. What drove me on?

I cite as my chief cause the Delphic prophet,

Apollo’s priest, who said this to me,

“If you carry out this act, you’ll go free –

no charge of evil. But if you refuse …”

I won’t describe the punishment –

no arrow fired from a bow could reach

the top of so much pain.

[Pylades hands Orestes an olive branch, the mark of a suppliant to Apollo’s oracle at Delphi]

Look at me now –

armed with this branch and wreath, I go

a suppliant to earth’s central navel stone,

Apollo’s realm, to that sacred flame

which, people say, never dies away,

an exile who murdered his own blood.

Apollo’s prophet gave me his orders –

I’m to go to his shrine, no other place.

As to how I did this brutal act,

I call all men of Argos – be my witnesses

to Menelaus when he comes back home.

Remember me in years to come. Now I go,

wandering in exile from my country.

Whether I live or die, I leave with you

your memory of me.

CHORUS LEADER

But you’ve done great things.

Why depress your spirit with such talk,

ominous predictions, evil omens?

You’ve freed the city, all of Argos,

hacking off the heads of those two serpents,

a healing blow.

[Orestes is suddenly overpowered with fear by a vision of his mother’s Furies coming after him]

ORESTES

No … They’re here …

Look, you women … over there …

like Gorgons draped in black … their heads

hundreds of writhing snakes …

I can’t stand it here …

CHORUS LEADER

What’s wrong? What are you looking at?

Of all men you have a father’s strongest love,

so stay calm. Don’t give in to fear

ORESTES

It’s no imagined horror, no!

It’s real. Out there my mother’s bloodhounds wait.

They want revenge.

CHORUS LEADER

Your hands are still blood stained –

that’s made your mind disordered.

ORESTES

Lord Apollo!

They come at me! Hordes of them! Their eyes

drip blood … it’s horrible!

CHORUS LEADER

There’s just one cure –

Apollo’s touch will cleanse you, set you free

of these hallucinations.

ORESTES

You don’t see them. I do.

They’re coming for me. I have to leave …

[Orestes runs off. Pylades follows him]

CHORUS LEADER

Good fortune go with you. And may god

watch over you, protect you with his favours.

CHORUS

The third storm has broken on the palace,

then run its course across the royal clan.

First, came the torments of those children

slaughtered for Thyestes’ food. [18] Next came

the suffering of a man, our warrior lord,

Achaea’s king. And now the third –

do I call him our saviour or our doom?

When will all this cease? When will murder,

its fury spent, rest at last in sleep?

The Furies

Dramatis Personae

PRIESTESS: prophetic priestess (the Pythia) of Apollo at Delphi

APOLLO: divine son of Zeus, god of prophecy.

ORESTES: son of Agamemnon and Clytaemnestra, brother of Electra.

CLYTAEMNESTRA: mother of Orestes, appearing as a ghost after her murder.

CHORUS: Furies, goddesses of blood revenge.

ATHENA: divine daughter of Zeus who was born fully grown from his head (without a mother).

ATHENIAN CITIZENS

Scene: The play opens just in front of the temple of Apollo at Delphi.

[Enter the Pythia, the Priestess of Apollo]

PRIESTESS

In my prayer, I hold Earth in highest honour,

as the first of prophets among all gods.

Then, after her came Themis. That goddess,

so the legend goes, followed her mother

at this seat of prophecy. Third in line,

another Titan, Phoebe, child of Earth,

was then assigned to occupy this throne.

There was no force – Themis approved the change.

Phoebe then gave it as a birthday gift

to the god who takes his name from her,

Phoebus Apollo. He left the island Delos,

moving from his lake and ridge to Pallas,

to those shores where ships sail in to trade.

Then he came to live on Mount Parnassus.

A reverential escort came with him –

children of the fire god, Hephaestus,

highway builders who tame the wilderness

and civilize the land. As he marched here,

people came out in droves to worship him,

including their king and helmsman,

Then Zeus inspired in him prophetic skills,

and set him on this throne as fourth in line.

Here Apollo speaks for Zeus, his father.

My prayers begin with preludes to these gods.

My words also give special prominence

to the goddess who stands outside the shrine,

Pallas Athena. I revere those nymphs

inhabiting Corycia’s rocky caves, [19]

where flocks of birds delight to congregate,

where holy spirits roam. I don’t forget

how Dionysus, ruler of this land,

divine commander of those Bacchic women,

ripped Pentheus [20] apart, as if he were

a cornered rabbit. I also call upon

the streams of Pleistus and Poseidon’s power,

and Zeus most high, who fulfills all things.

I’ll take my seat now on the prophet’s throne.

May I be fortunate, above the rest,

to see far more than previous attempts.

If any Greeks are in attendance here,

let them draw lots and enter, each in turn,

as is our custom. I will prophesy,

following directions from the god.

[The Priestess enters the temple, only to return immediately, very agitated. She collapses onto her hands and knees]

It’s horrible!

Too horrible to say … awful to see.

It drives me back … out of Apollo’s shrine.

My strength is gone … I can’t stand up.

I have to crawl on hands and knees – my legs

just buckle under me … An old woman

overcome with fear is nothing, a child.

No more …

[The Priestess gathers herself together and stands with great difficulty, holding onto the temple doors for support]

As I was entering the inner shrine –

the part covered up with wreaths – I saw him,

right on the central navel stone, a man

the gods despise, sitting there, in the seat

reserved for suppliants, hands dripping blood.

He’d drawn his sword, but held an olive branch.

It had a tuft of wool on top, a mark

of reverence – a large one, really white.

I saw all that distinctly. But then I saw

in front of him something astonishing,

on the benches groups of women sleeping –

well, they weren’t exactly women,

I’d say more like Gorgons – then again,

not much like Gorgons either. Years ago

I once saw a picture of some monsters

snatching a feast away from Phineas.

But the ones inside here have no wings –

I checked. They’re black and totally repulsive,

with loud rasping snorts that terrify me.

Disgusting pus comes oozing from their eyes.

As for their clothing – quite inappropriate

to wear before the statues of the gods,

or even in men’s homes. I’ve never seen

a tribe which could produce this company,

a country which would admit with pride

that it had raised them without paying a price,

without regretting all the pain they cost.

Where does this end? That is Apollo’s work.

Let that be his concern. His force is strong –

what he reveals has healing power.

He reads the omens and can purify

the home, his own and other men’s.

[The scene changes to reveal the inside of the temple, with Orestes clutching the central stone (the navel stone) and the Furies asleep in front of him. Apollo enters from the back of the temple (the inner shrine). Apollo moves to stand near Orestes]

APOLLO

I’ll not leave you – no, I’ll stand beside you,

your protector till the end. Close at hand

or far away, I’ll show no gentleness

towards your enemies. Right now you see

these frenzied creatures overcome with sleep,

just lying there, these loathsome maidens,

ancient children, hags. No god or man

or animal has intercourse with them.

They’re born for evil. That’s why they live

within the blackest gloom of Tartarus,

under the earth. Olympian gods and men

despise them. But you should still keep going.

Do not give up. They’ll chase you everywhere,

as you move along well-traveled ground,

across wide continents, beyond the seas,

through cities with the ocean all around.

Don’t grow weary brooding on your pain.

And then, once you reach Athena’s city,

sit down, and wrap your arms around her,

embrace her image. With people there

to judge your cause and with the force of speech,

the spell-binding power in words, we’ll find

a way to free you from misfortune.

For I was the one who urged you on

to kill your mother.

ORESTES

My lord Apollo,

you have no knowledge how to be unjust.

That being the case, now learn compassion, too.

Your power to do good is strong enough.

APOLLO

Remember this – don’t let fear defeat you

by conquering your spirit. And you, Hermes,

my own blood brother from a common father,

protect this man. Live up to that name of yours,

and be his guide. Since he’s my suppliant,

lead him as if you were his shepherd –

remember Zeus respects an outcast’s rights –

with you to show the way, he’ll get better,

and quickly come among men once again.

[Exit Orestes. Apollo moves back into the inner sanctuary. Enter the Ghost of Clytaemnestra]

GHOST OF CLYTAEMNESTRA

[addressing the sleeping chorus]

Ah, you may be fast asleep, but now

what use is sleeping? On account of you,

I alone among the dead lack honour.

The ghosts of those I killed revile me –

they never stop. I wander in disgrace.

They charge me with the most horrific crimes.

But I, too, suffered cruelty from those

most dear to me. And yet, although I died

at the hands of one who killed his mother,

no spirit is enraged on my behalf.

Look here – you see these slashes on my heart?

How did they get there? While it’s asleep

the mind can see, but in the light of day

we have no vision of men’s destiny.

You’ve licked up many of my offerings,

soothing milk and honey without wine.

I’ve given many sacrificial gifts

with fire in my hearth at solemn banquets,

in that night hour no god will ever share.

I see all that being trampled underfoot.

He’s gone, eluded you – just like a fawn,

he’s jumped the centre of your nets with ease.

He mocks your efforts as he moves away.

Listen to me. I’m speaking of my soul.

So rouse yourselves! Wake up, you goddesses

from underground. While you dream on I call –

now Clytaemnestra summons you!

[The members of the Chorus begin to make strange sounds and to mutter in their sleep]

You may well moan – the man’s escaped. He’s gone.

He’s flown a long way off. The friends he has

are stronger than my own. You sleep on there

so heavily, no sense of my distress.

Orestes, the man who killed his mother,

has run off! You mutter, but keep sleeping.

On your feet!. Why won’t you get up? What work

has fate assigned you if not causing pain?

Sleep and hard work, two apt confederates,

have made these fearsome dragons impotent,

draining all their rage.

CHORUS MEMBER

[muttering in her sleep]

Seize him!

Seize him! Seize him! Seize that man! Look out!

GHOST OF CLYTAEMNESTRA

You hunt your prey, but only in your dreams,

whimpering like hounds who never lose

their keenness for the hunt. But you don’t act!

Get up! Don’t let exhaustion beat you down.

Sleep makes you soft – you overlook my pain.

Let my reproaches justly prick your hearts,

a spur for those who act with righteousness.

Blow your blood-filled breath all over him.

Let those fires in your bodies shrivel him.

Go on! Drive him to a fresh pursuit. Go!

[The Furies begin to wake up slowly, one after the other. As they start to get up, the Ghost of Clytaemnestra exits]

CHORUS LEADER

[waking up and rousing the other Furies]

Wake up! Come on, I’ll wake you up.

Now do the same for her. Still sleeping?

Stand up. Wipe that sleep out of your eyes.

Let’s chant our prelude – that should take effect.

[The Furies, now awake, gather as a group, moving around trying to find Orestes or smell his track. They speak these lines as individual members of the larger group]

-Ah ha, what this? Dear sisters, something’s wrong.

-I’ve been through a lot, and all for nothing.

-We’re being made to suffer something bad,

alas, an evil we cannot endure.

-Our quarry’s slipped our nets. He’s gone!

Once sleep came over us, we lost our prey.

-You’re disgraceful, Hermes, a child of Zeus

who loves to steal.

-For a god you’re young –

but still you trample on more ancient spirits.

-You showed that suppliant respect,

a godless man, so vicious to his parent.

-You may be a god, but you’re a thief.

You filched a man who killed his mother.

-Who can say there’s justice in such theft?

-In my dreams shame struck –

it came on like a charioteer

who gripped his cruel whip so tight,

then hit under my heart,

deep in my gut.

-I feel the executioner’s scourge,

the one who wields a heavy lash,

weighed down with pain.

-Younger gods are doing this –

they push their ruling power

beyond what’s theirs by right.

Their throne drips blood

around its foot,

around its head.

-I see Earth’s central navel stone

defiled with blood, corrupted,

stained with guilt.

-The prophet soils the hearth,

pollutes the shrine himself,

acting on his own behalf.

against divine tradition,

he honours human things.

-He sets aside decrees of fate

established long ago.

-Though he inflict his pain on me,

he’ll never free that man.

Let him flee underground,

he’ll find no liberty below.

-As he seeks to cleanse himself

he’ll meet the next avenger –

a family member coming for his head.

[Enter Apollo from the inner part of the shrine]

APOLLO

Get out! I’m ordering you to leave this house.

Move on! Out of my prophet’s sanctuary!

Go now, or else you’ll feel my arrows bite,

glittering winged snakes shot from a golden string.

Then, your agonies will make you choke,

spit out black froth you suck from men,

and vomit up the clotted blood you’ve drunk

from murder. This shrine’s no place for you.

No, you belong where heads are sliced away,

eyes gouged out – where justice equals slaughter –

where youthful men are ruined by castration,

where others suffer mutilation, stoning,

where men impaled on spikes below the spine

scream all the time. That’s the feast you love.

You hear me? And that’s why gods detest you.

The way you look, your shape, says what you are –

some blood-soaked lion’s den might be your home.

You must not infect those near this temple

with your pollution. So leave this place,

you flock without a shepherd, you herd

the gods despise.

CHORUS LEADER

Lord Apollo,

listen to what we say. It’s our turn to speak.

You’re no mere accomplice in this crime –

you did it all yourself. You bear the guilt.

APOLLO

What does that mean? Go on. Keep talking.

CHORUS LEADER

You told that stranger to kill his mother.

APOLLO

To avenge his father is what I said.

What’s wrong with that?

CHORUS LEADER

Then you supported him.

You helped a man who’d just committed murder.

APOLLO

And I instructed him to come back here

to expiate his crime.

CHORUS LEADER

Then why insult us,

the ones who chased him here?

APOLLO

It’s not right

for you to come inside my shrine.

CHORUS LEADER

We’ve been assigned to do this.

APOLLO

Assigned?

What’s that? Proclaim your fine authority.

CHORUS LEADER

We chase out of their homes those criminals

who slaughter their own mothers.

APOLLO

What about a wife who kills her husband?

CHORUS LEADER

That’s not blood murder in the family.

APOLLO

What?

What about Zeus and his queen Hera –

your actions bring disgrace on them.

You ignore the strongest bonds between them.

Your claim dishonours Aphrodite, too,

goddess of love, from whom all men derive

their greatest joys. With man and woman

a marriage sealed by fate is stronger

than any oath, and justice guards it.

Now, if one partner kills the other one,

and you’re not interested in punishment,

if you feel no urge to act, then I say

the way you chase Orestes is unjust.

I don’t see why in one case you’re so harsh

when you don’t really care about the other.

However, goddess Athena will take charge –

she’ll organize a trial.

CHORUS LEADER

But that fugitive –

he’ll never be free of me, never.

APOLLO

Then go after him. Bring yourself more trouble.

CHORUS LEADER

Don’t try to curb my powers with your words.

APOLLO

Your powers? Those I wouldn’t take,

not even as a gift.

CHORUS LEADER

Of course not.

You’re already great, by all accounts –

right by Zeus’ throne. But for my part,

since I’m called onward by a mother’s blood,

I’ll chase this man with justice of my own.

I scent the trail!

APOLLO

I’ll help my suppliant

and bring him safely home. With gods and men

the anger of a man who seeks redemption

will be dreadful, if, of my own free will,

I abandon him.

[Apollo exits into the inner shrine. The scene now changes to Athens, just outside the Temple of Athena. Orestes enters and moves up to the large statue of Athena]

ORESTES

Queen Athena,

I’ve come here on Apollo’s orders.

I beg your kindness. Please let me enter,

a man accursed, an outcast. I don’t seek

ritual purification – my hands are clean –

but my avenging zeal has lost its edge,

worn down, blunted by other people’s homes,

by all well-beaten pathways known to men.

I’ve stayed true to what Apollo told me

at his oracle. Crossing land and sea,

I’ve reached this statue by your shrine at last.

Here I take up my position, goddess.

I await the outcome of my trial.

[Enter the Furies, like hunting dogs, still tracking Orestes by his scent. They do not see him at first]

CHORUS LEADER

Ah ha! Here we have that man’s clear scent,

a silent witness, but firm evidence.

After him! Like hounds chasing a wounded fawn,

we track him by the drops of blood he sheds.

Man-killing work – the effort wearies me.

My lungs are bursting. We’ve roamed everywhere,

exploring all the regions of the earth,

crossing seas in wingless flight, moving on

faster than any ship, always in pursuit.

Now he’s cornered here, cowering somewhere.

I smell human blood – I could laugh for joy!

Start looking for him! Seek him out again!

Check everywhere. Don’t let him escape.

That man killed his mother – he must pay!

[The Chorus of Furies catch sight of Orestes and crowd around him]

CHORUS

[different individuals]

-He’s over there! Claiming sanctuary,

at that statue of the eternal goddess,

embracing it. He must want a trial,

a judgment on his murderous violence.

-Impossible! A mother’s blood, once shed,

soaks in the earth and can’t come back again –

the flowing stream moves through the ground,

then disappears forever.

-No. You must pay me back.

I’ll suck your blood.

Drinking your living bones sustains me –

I feed upon your pain.

-Though it wears me out, I’ll drag you down,

still living, to the world below. And there

you’ll pay for murdering your mother.

-You’ll see there other human criminals

who’ve failed to honour gods and strangers,

who’ve abused the parents they should love.

They all receive the justice they deserve.

-Hades, mighty god of all the dead,

judges mortal men below the ground.

His perceptive mind records all things.

ORESTES

My misery has been my teacher –

I know that men are cleansed in many ways,

that sometimes it’s appropriate to speak,

sometimes to stay silent. And in this case

a wise master has ordered me to speak.

Blood on my hands is dormant now, fading –

polluting stains from my mother’s murder

have been washed away. When they were fresh,

Apollo in his temple cleansed my guilt –

slaughtering pigs to make me pure again.

It’s a long story to describe for you,

right from the start, all the men I’ve seen,

ones I’ve stayed with, then left unharmed.

Time destroys all things which age with time.

Now, with full reverence and holy speech,

I invoke Athena, this country’s queen.

I beg her help. Let her appear unarmed.

She’ll win true allies in me, my land,

the Argive people. We’ll trust her forever.

No matter where she is – in Libya,

in some region by the springs of Triton,

her birthplace, with her covered feet at rest

or on the move, assisting those she loves,

or whether, like some bold commander

in the Phelegraean plain, battle site

of gods and giants, she surveys the field –

I pray she’ll come, for she’s a goddess

and hears me, even though she’s far away.

May she come here. May she deliver me.

CHORUS LEADER

But Apollo’s power will not save you –

nor will Athena’s. You’re slated to die

abandoned and alone, without a sense

of heartfelt joy, a bloodless criminal

sucked dry by demons, just a shade – no more.

[Orestes makes no answer]

What? You ignore my words and won’t reply,

you, a victim fattened up for me,

my consecrated gift? You’ll not perish

on any altar – no, I’ll eat you alive.

[Orestes continues to remain silent]

All right then, hear our song, a spell to chain you.

CHORUS

Come, let’s link our arms and dance –

Furies determined to display

our fearful art, to demonstrate

collective power we possess

to guide all mortals’ lives.

We claim we represent true justice.

Our anger never works against

a man whose hands are clean –

all his life he stays unharmed.

But those men guilty of some crime,

as this one is, who hide away,

concealing blood-stained hands –

we harass them as testament

to those they’ve murdered.

Blood avengers, always in pursuit,

we chase them to the end.

Hear me, Mother Night,

mother who gave birth to me

so I could avenge

the living and the dead.

Leto’s child, Apollo,

dishonours me – he tears

that man out of my hands,

the hare who cowers there,

who by rights must expiate

his mother’s blood.

Let this frenzied song of ours

fall upon our victim’s head,

our sacrifice – our frenzy

driving him to madness –

obliterate his mind.

This is our Furies’ chant

It chains up the soul,

destroys its harmony,

and withers mortal men.

Remorseless Fate gave us this work

to carry on forever, a destiny

spun out for us alone,

to attach ourselves to those

who, overcome with passion,

slaughter blood relatives.

We chase after them until the end,

until they go beneath the ground.

In death they find small freedom.

Let this frenzied song of ours

fall upon our victim’s head,

our sacrifice – our frenzy

driving him to madness –

obliterate his mind.

This is our Furies’ chant.

It chains up the soul,

destroys its harmony,

and withers mortal men.

These rights are ours from birth –

even the immortal gods

may not lay hands on us.

We share no feasts with them,

no fellowship – their pure white robes

are no part of our destiny.

The task I take upon myself is mine,

to overthrow whole families,

when strife inside the home

kills someone near and dear.

We chase that murderer down,

the one who’s spilled fresh blood.

For all his strength, we wear him down.

That’s why we’re now here,

eager to contest the charge,

to challenge other gods,

to make sure none of them

ends up controlling what is ours.

There will be no trial –

for Zeus despises us,

considers us unworthy,

refusing to converse with us

because we deal in blood.

The task I take upon myself is mine,

to overthrow whole families,

when strife inside the home

kills someone near and dear.

We chase that murderer down,

the one who’s spilled fresh blood.

For all his strength, we wear him down.

Those proud opinions people have,

who raise themselves so high,

who puff themselves to heaven,

will melt away, dissolving

in dishonour underground,

when we, in our black robes,

beat out our vengeful dance –

when we launch our attack.

Leaping from the heights,

we pound them with our feet –

our force trips up the runner

as he sprints for home,

a fate he cannot bear.

His mind is so confused

he does not sense his fall.

Dark clouds of his defilement

hover all around the man.

Murky shadows fall,

enveloping his home –

and Rumour spreads

a tale of sorrow.

Leaping from the heights,

we pound them with our feet –

our force trips up the runner

as he sprints for home,

a fate he cannot bear.

So things remain.

We have our skills –

our powers we fulfill,

keeping human evil in our minds.

Our awesome powers

cannot be appeased by men.

Dishonoured and despised,

we see our work gets done.

Split off from gods,

with no light from the sun,

we make the path more arduous

for those who still can see

and for the blind.

What man is not in awe

or stands there unafraid

to hear me state my rights,

those powers allowed by Fate

and ratified by all the gods,

mine to hold forever?

Those old prerogatives

I still retain – they’re mine.

I have my honour, too,

though my appointed place

is underneath the ground

in sunless darkness.

[Enter Athena]

ATHENA

I heard someone summon me from far away.

I was in Troy, by the Scamander’s banks,

taking ownership of new property,

a gift from ruling leaders of Achaea,

a major part of what their spears had won,

assigned to me entirely and forever,

a splendid gift for Theseus’ sons.

I’ve come from there at my untiring pace,

not flying on wings, but on this whirling cape,

a chariot yoked to horses in their prime.

Here I see an unfamiliar crowd,

strangers to this place, nothing I fear,

but astonishing to see. Who are you?

I’m talking to all those assembled here –

the stranger crouching there beside my statue,

and those of you like no one ever born,

creatures no god has seen in goddesses,

in form a thing unknown to mortal men.

But to say such things about one’s neighbour

who’s done no wrong is far from just

and contravenes our customs.

CHORUS LEADER

Daughter of Zeus,

you’ll find out everything – and briefly, too.

We are immortal children of the Night.

Below ground, where we have our homes,

we’re called the Curses.

ATHENA

Now I know your race

I know what people call you.

CHORUS LEADER

But our powers –

these you’ll quickly ascertain as well.

ATHENA

Those I’d like to learn. Please state them clearly.

CHORUS LEADER

We hound out of their homes all those who kill.

ATHENA

Once the killer flees, where does he finally go?

CHORUS LEADER

Where no one thinks of joy, for there is none.

ATHENA

Your screams would drive this man to such a flight?

CHORUS LEADER

Yes – he thought it right to kill his mother.

ATHENA

Why? Was he forced to do it? Did he fear

another person’s anger?

CHORUS LEADER

Where’s the urge

so strong to force a man to kill his mother?

ATHENA

There are two sides to this dispute. I’ve heard

only one half the argument.

CHORUS LEADER

What about the oath?

He won’t deny he did it or accept

the guilt we charge him with.

ATHENA

Where do you stand?

You wish to be considered righteous,

but not to act with justice.

CHORUS LEADER

How? Teach me.

You clearly have a mind for subtleties.

ATHENA

I assert that no one should use oaths

to let injustice triumph.

CHORUS LEADER

Question him.

Then make a righteous judgment.

ATHENA

Are you prepared

that I should be the one to do this,

to produce a final verdict?

CHORUS LEADER

Why not?

We respect your worth, as you do ours.

ATHENA

Stranger, do you have anything to say

by way of a response? State your country,

lineage, and circumstance. And then,

defend yourself against their accusations,

if you really trust the justice of your case,

as you sit here clinging to my statue,

a sacred suppliant beside my hearth,

doing what Ixion [21] did so long ago.

Speak to me. Address all this directly.

ORESTES

Queen Athena, your last words express

important doubts which I must first remove.

I’m not a suppliant in need of cleansing.

Nor have I fallen at your statue’s feet

with my hands defiled. On these two points

I’ll offer weighty proof. Our laws assert

a criminal polluted with blood guilt

will be denied all speech until he’s cleansed

by someone authorized to purify

a man for murder, who sprinkles him

with suckling victim’s blood. Some time ago,

in homes of other men, I underwent

such purification rites with slaughtered beasts,

at flowing streams, as well. So, as I say,

there are no grounds for your misgivings here.

As for my family, you’ll know that soon enough –

I’m an Argive, son of Agamemnon.

You may well ask his story – he’s the man

who put that naval force together.

You worked with him to see that Ilion,

Troy’s city, ceased to be. When he came home,

he died in a disgraceful way, butchered

by my mother, whose black heart snagged him

in devious hunting nets – these still exist,

attesting to that slaughter in his bath.

I was in exile at the time. I came back.

I killed my mother – that I don’t deny –

to avenge the murder of my father,

whom I truly loved. For this murder

Apollo bears responsibility,

along with me. He urged me to it,

pointing out the cruel reprisals I would face

if I failed to act against the murderers.

Was what I did a righteous act or not?

That you must decide. I’ll be satisfied,

no matter how you render judgment.

ATHENA

This is a serious matter, too complex

for any mortal man to think of judging.

It’s not right even for me to adjudicate

such cases, where murder done in passion

merits passionate swift punishment.

Above all, you come here a suppliant

who’s gone through all cleansing rituals,

who’s pure and hence no danger to my shrine.

You thus have my respect, for in my view,

where my city is concerned, you’re innocent.

But these Furies also have their function.

That’s something we just cannot set aside.

So if they fail to triumph in this case,

they’ll spread their poisonous resentment –

it will seep underground, infecting us,

bring perpetual disease upon our land,

something we can’t bear. So stands the case.

Two options, each of them disastrous.

Allow one to remain, expel the other?

No, I see no way of resolving this.

But since the judgment now devolves on me,

I’ll appoint human judges of this murder,

a tribunal bound by oath – I’ll set it up

to last forever. So you two parties,

summon your witnesses, set out your proofs,

with sworn evidence to back your stories.

Once I’ve picked the finest men in Athens,

I’ll return. They’ll rule fairly in this case,

bound by a sworn oath to act with justice.

[Exit Athena]

CHORUS

If his legal action triumphs,

if now this matricide prevails,

then newly set divine decrees

will overthrow all order.

Mortals will at once believe

that everything’s permitted.

From now on parents can expect

repeated blows of suffering

inflicted by their children –

now and in time yet to come.

For Furies who keep watch on men

will bring no anger down

on human crimes – so then

we loose death everywhere,

all forms of killing known to man.

So one, seeing his neighbour’s pain,

will ask another, “Where’s this end?

When does our suffering diminish?”

But the poor wretch can offer nothing –

his remedies are vain, without effect.

So when a terrible disaster strikes

let no one make the old appeal,

“Justice, you Furies – hear me,

you powers on your thrones!”

It may well happen soon –

a father in despair, a mother

in some new catastrophe,

may scream out for pity,

now the house of justice falls.

Sometimes what’s terrible can work

to bring about what’s good.

Such terror needs to sit on guard,

to check the passionate heart.

There is a benefit for men

to learn control through suffering.

For where is there a man or city –

both alike in this regard –

who still respects what’s just

without a heart attuned to fear?

It’s not right that men revere

a life without controls

or one enslaved by tyrants.

Those who practise moderation

in everything they do

acquire strength from god,

though he hands down

his other gifts in other ways.

Our words stress self-control,

for arrogance, we know,

is surely born from sacrilege.

From a healthy heart and mind

comes the happiness men love,

the joy they ask for in their prayers.

To sum up everything about this case,

I’ll tell you this – Justice has an altar.

Give that full human reverence.

Don’t trample it profanely underfoot

because self-interest sees advantages.

Remember punishment will come –

that outcome’s fixed and permanent.

So each of you, above all else,

should honour parents,

pay them the deference you owe,

respect all guests and strangers

you welcome in your home.

For happiness will never fail

the man who follows justice,

freely and without constraint.

He’ll never be destroyed.

But the reckless man who goes too far,

who piles up riches for himself

in any way he can and disregards

all justice – I tell you this –

in time he’ll have to strike his sail,

as storming torments break his ship,

as his yardarm shatters.

He screams for help.

But no one listens.

In the middle of the seas

he fights – but all in vain.

Whirlpools suck him down,

while heaven roars with laughter

at the sight of this hot-tempered man

who used to boast with pride

he’d never come to grief

now helpless, panic stricken,

unable to ride out the waves.

He always lived for wealth –

now that, too, smashes on the reef,

the rock of Justice – he drowns,

unseen and unlamented.

[The scene shifts to the Areopagus, the high court of Athens. Athena enters with a herald and ten citizens, the jury she has selected. A crowd of citizens enters with her. Orestes moves to the place where the accused stands]

ATHENA

Herald, blow the call for order in this court.

Raise that Etruscan trumpet, [22] fill your lungs,

let these people hear an ear-piercing blast.

As they crowd into this court of judgment

it’s better to have silence. The whole city

can listen to my laws, which are eternal.

So can these litigants. Then all will see

the justice in our verdict for themselves.

[Enter Apollo. He moves to stand behind Orestes]

Lord Apollo, you have your own domain.

What’s your role here? Announce that to us.

APOLLO

I’ve come here as a witness. That man,

the accused, according to our customs,

came a suppliant to my shrine, my hearth.

I purified him of the blood he spilled.

As his advocate, I share the blame

arising from his mother’s murder.

Start the trial. You understand procedure.

Confirm that with a just decision.

ATHENA

[addressing the Furies]

Then I’ll begin the trial. You speak up first.

The plaintiff opens our proceedings.

Tell us the facts. Begin at the beginning –

inform us clearly of the issues here.

CHORUS LEADER

There are many of us, but we’ll keep

our speeches brief.

[Turning to interrogate Orestes]

Answer our questions,

as we put them one by one. First, tell us –

did you kill your mother?

ORESTES

Yes, I killed her.

I don’t deny the fact.

CHORUS LEADER

We take first fall.

Three falls wins the match.

ORESTES

You gloat,

but your opponent isn’t pinned down yet.

CHORUS LEADER

Now you must describe the murder for us.

How did you kill her?

ORESTES

I’ll tell you –

I drew my sword and slit her throat.

CHORUS LEADER

Who persuaded you to do this? Whose advice?

ORESTES

The orders of this god. He is my witness.

CHORUS LEADER

The prophet ordered you to kill your mother?

ORESTES

He did. And to this moment I have no regrets.

CHORUS LEADER

But if the verdict lays its hands on you,

you’ll change your story soon enough.

ORESTES

I’m confident. My father from his grave

will send the help I need.

CHORUS LEADER

So you trust the dead,

and yet you killed your mother?

ORESTES

I do, for she was guilty of two crimes.

CHORUS LEADER

How so? Inform the judges on this point.

ORESTES

She killed her husband and my father.

CHORUS LEADER

But her death evens out the score for her.

You’re still living.

ORESTES

When she was still alive

you didn’t hound her into exile. Why?

CHORUS LEADER

She and her victim shared no common blood.

ORESTES

And my mother and me? Are we blood linked?

CHORUS LEADER

How else could she sustain you in her womb,

you murderer? Do you now reject

the closest bond there is, a mother’s blood?

ORESTES

[turning to Apollo]

You must give evidence, Apollo.

Take the lead for me. Did I kill her justly?

For I don’t deny I did the murder.

But whether that act of shedding blood

was just or not, as you perceive the facts,

you must decide, so I can tell the court.

APOLLO

Let me address this high court of Athena.

Tribunal members, what I have to say

will proceed from justice. I’m a prophet.

I cannot tell a lie. And never yet,

when I’ve been seated in my oracle,

have I said anything in prophecy

concerning woman, man, or city state,

that Olympian father Zeus did not command.

Make sure you understand how powerful

his justice is. That’s why I urge you now –

obey the will of Zeus, our father.

No oath has greater strength than Zeus.

CHORUS LEADER

Then, Zeus, according to your reasoning,

told your oracle to give the order –

Orestes must avenge his father’s death,

ignoring any rights his mother had.

APOLLO

Yes. For these two things are not the same –

he died a noble man, a special king

who bears a sceptre given by the gods,

an honoured king who dies by murder,

and at a woman’s hand, not in a fight

where arrows fly in from a distance,

as with the Amazons, but in a way

which we’ll describe for you, Athena,

and those here ready to decide this case

when you cast your votes. He’d just come home,

returning from a long and harsh campaign,

where in the eyes of loyal citizens

he’d won success beyond all expectation.

She welcomed him. Then, he took his bath.

As he stepped out – still on the outer rim –

she threw the cloak, his shroud, around him,

just like a tent. She caught him in those robes,

whose endless folds enclosed him like a net.

Then she hacked him down. I’m telling you,

that’s how the splendid leader of the ships

went to his death. As for that woman,

I speak of her to rouse a sense of shame

in those men chosen here to judge this case.

CHORUS

So your claim is Zeus thinks a father’s death

is more significant? But on his own

he chained up his old father, Cronos.

Does that not contradict what you’ve just said?

I ask you judges to take note of this.

APOLLO

You monsters – how all the gods detest you!

Zeus has power to smash those chains apart.

For that he has a remedy, many ways

to set us free. But once a mortal’s blood

has drained into the dust, the man is dead.

And then there’s no return. My father Zeus

has made no charms for that, though he can change

all other things without a pause for breath.

CHORUS LEADER

You plead to set him free. But think of this –

will this man, who shed his mother’s blood,

who spilled it on the ground, return back home,

to live in Argos in his father’s house?

Where are the public altars he can use,

the family cleansing rites he can attend?

APOLLO

I’ll speak to that, as well. Make sure you note

how right my answer is. That word mother –

we give it to the one who bears the child.

However, she’s no parent, just a nurse

to that new life embedded in her.

The parent is the one who plants the seed,

the father. Like a stranger for a stranger,

she preserves the growing life, unless

god injures it. And I can offer proof

for what I say – a man can have a child

without a mother. Here’s our witness,

here – Athena, child of Olympian Zeus.

[Apollo points to Athena]

No dark womb nursed her – no goddess bears

a child with ancestry like hers. Athena,

since I know so many other things,

I’ll make your city and your people great.

That’s why I sent this man a suppliant

to your own shrine, so he might prove himself,

then place eternal trust in you, dear goddess,

and you could win a new ally in him,

in his descendants, too, and thus create

an everlasting bond with his posterity.

ATHENA

Has each side said enough? Shall I now

instruct the judges to cast their votes,

acting on their judgment of what’s just?

CHORUS LEADER

Though we’ve already shot our final arrow,

we’ll stay to hear this contest to the end.

ATHENA

Why not? Now, as for you defendants,

what can I do to avoid your censure?

APOLLO

You have heard what you have heard.

[To jurors]

My friends,

as you cast your ballots, make sure your hearts

respect that oath you made.

ATHENA

You citizens of Athens, you judges

at the first trial ever held for murder,

hear what I decree. Now and forever

this court of judges will be set up here

to serve Aegeus’ people. This place,

this Mount of Ares, is where Amazons,

once marched in force, enraged at Theseus.

Here they pitched their tents. Then they built

a new city on the heights, with lofty walls

to match his own, making a sacrifice

to Ares, god of war, from whom this rock

derives its name, the Mount of Ares.

From this hill Reverence and Terror,

two kindred rulers of my citizens,

will guarantee they don’t commit injustice,

by day or night, unless the citizens

pollute the laws with evil innovations.

Once limpid waters are stained with mud,

you’ll never find a drink. My people,

avoid both anarchy and tyranny.

I urge you to uphold this principle.

Show it due reverence. As for terror,

don’t banish it completely from the city.

What mortal man is truly righteous

without being afraid? Those who sense the fear

revere what’s right. With citizens like these

your country and your city will be safe,

stronger than anything possessed by men

in Pelops’ country or in Scythia.

So here I now establish this tribunal,

incorruptible, magnificent,

swift in punishment – it stands above you,

your country’s guardian as you lie asleep.

I’ve gone through this at length to urge you on,

my citizens, today and in the future.

But now you must get up, cast your ballots,

decide this case, while honouring your oath.

I’m finished – that’s all I have to say.

[The members of the tribunal begin to step forward and cast their votes into the urns]

CHORUS LEADER

Watch out. Don’t ever show us disrespect.

For our united power can crush your land.

APOLLO

Let me remind you – fear the oracles,

not just mine, but those of Zeus the Father.

Don’t make them barren.

CHORUS LEADER

[to Apollo]

You interfere

in blood work that’s not your proper business.

Your oracles remain no longer pure.

APOLLO

When the first man-killer Ixion

went a suppliant to Zeus for cleansing,

was Zeus wrong to treat him as he did?

CHORUS LEADER

Argue all you want. But in this judgment

if I don’t prevail, I’ll be back again

to bring this country to its knees.

APOLLO

Among all gods, old and new alike,

you have no honour. I will triumph here.

CHORUS LEADER

Just as you triumphed in the house of Pheres,

persuading Fate to free all men from death.

APOLLO

Surely it’s right to help a worshipper,

especially when his need is desperate?

CHORUS LEADER

You made those ancient goddesses, the Fates,

drunk on wine, then got them to suspend

the oldest rule of order we possess.

APOLLO

Well, you’ll soon lose this case. Then you can spew

your poison and not hurt your enemies.

CHORUS

You’re young. You’d ride roughshod over me

because I’m old. I’ll await the verdict,

see where this trial ends. I have my doubts

about my anger at this city.

ATHENA

It’s now my task to give my final verdict.

And I award my ballot to Orestes.

No mother gave me birth – that’s why

in everything but marriage I support

the man with all my heart, a true child

of my father Zeus. Thus, that woman’s death

I won’t consider more significant.

She killed her husband, guardian of their home.

If the votes are equal, Orestes wins.

Now, members of the jury, do your job.

Shake the ballots from the urns – and quickly.

[The urns are emptied and the ballots counted]

ORESTES

O Phoebus Apollo, how did they vote?

CHORUS

O black mother Night, are you watching this?

ORESTES

Now for the result. Either I hang

or live on to see the light of day.

CHORUS

Either we’re finished or our honour thrives.

APOLLO

Shake out all ballots, friends. Count them fairly.

Divide them with due care. Make no mistakes.

Errors in judgment now can mean disaster.

A single ballot cast can save this house.

[The ballots are shown to Athena]

ATHENA

The numbers of the votes are equal – thus,

this man’s acquitted of the murder charge.

ORESTES

O Pallas Athena, you’ve saved my house.

I’d lost my homeland – now you give it back,

and anyone in Greece can say, “This man

is once again an Argive, occupying

his father’s property, thanks to Pallas,

thanks to Apollo, and thanks to Zeus,

third god and all-fulfilling saviour.”

Faced with these pleaders for my mother’s cause,

Zeus chose to honour my father’s death.

Now I’ll go home. But first I make this oath

to your land and people for all time to come –

never will an Argive leader march in here

with spears arrayed against you. If he does,

in violation of this oath of mine,

from the grave we’ll see his effort fails.

We’ll bring him bad luck, trouble on the march,

send birds of evil omen over him.

He’ll regret the pains his campaign brings him.

But all those who keep this oath, who honour

for all time Athena’s city, allies

who fight on its behalf, such citizens

we’ll treat with greater favour and good will.

And so farewell to you, Athena,

farewell to those who guard your city.

In struggles with your enemies, I hope

you catch them in a stranglehold, win out,

and gain the spear denoting victory.

[Apollo and Orestes leave. The Furies move to surround Athena]

CHORUS

You younger gods, you’ve wrenched our ancient laws

out of my grasp, then stamped them underfoot.

You heap on us dishonourable contempt.

Now my anger turns against this land

I’ll spread my poisons – how it’s going to pay,

when I release this venom in my heart

to ease my grief. I’ll saturate this ground.

It won’t survive. From it disease will grow,

infecting leaves and children – that’s justice.

Sterility will spread across the land,

contaminate the soil, destroy mankind.

What can I do now but scream out in pain?

The citizens make fun of us, the Furies.

How can we put up with such indignity,

daughters of Night disgracefully abused,

dishonoured, shamed, our powers cast aside?

ATHENA

Let me persuade you not to spurn this trial.

You’ve not been beaten – the votes were fair,

the numbers equal, no disgrace to you.

But we received clear evidence from Zeus.

The one who spoke the oracle declared

Orestes should not suffer for his act.

So don’t be vengeful, breathing anger

on this land and drenching it with showers,

whose drops, like spears, will kill the seeds,

and blast its fruitfulness. I promise you

in all righteousness you’ll have your place,

a subterranean cavern, yours by right.

Beside the hearth you’ll sit on glittering thrones,

worshipped with reverence by my citizens.

CHORUS

You younger gods, you’ve wrenched our ancient laws

out of my grasp, then stamped them underfoot.

You heap on us dishonourable contempt.

Now my anger turns against this land

I’ll spread my poisons – how it’s going to pay,

when I release this venom in my heart

to ease my grief. I’ll saturate this ground.

It won’t survive. From it disease will grow,

infecting leaves and children – that’s justice.

Sterility will spread across the land,

contaminate the soil, destroy mankind.

What can I do now but scream out in pain?

The citizens make fun of us, the Furies.

How can we put up with such indignity,

daughters of Night disgracefully abused,

shamed, dishonoured, our powers cast aside?

ATHENA

But you’ve not lost honour – you’re goddesses.

Don’t let your anger lead you to excess,

to blast this land of men past remedy.

I have faith in Zeus. Why must I mention that?

Well, I’m the only god who knows the keys

to Zeus’ arsenal where he keeps sealed

his lightning bolt. But there’s no need for that.

Accept my argument. Don’t let rash tongues

hurl threats against this land, condemning it

to sterile fruitlessness. Ease your anger.

Let your fury’s black and bitter waves recede.

You can live with me, receive full honours.

The first fruits of this fertile land are yours,

forever, all those offerings for heirs,

for marriages – from now on they’re yours.

With all this, you’ll praise what I’m advising.

CHORUS

Such suffering for me.

My ancient wisdom

driven underground,

despised, dishonoured.

The shame, my shame.

This pure rage I breathe

consumes me utterly.

What sinks under my ribs

and pains my heart?

O Night, my mother,

the cunning of those gods,

too hard to overcome,

takes all my ancient powers,

and leaves me nothing.

ATHENA

I’ll bear with your rage, for you are older,

and thus your wisdom far exceeds my own.

But Zeus gave me a fine intelligence as well.

So let me tell you this – if you leave here,

for this land you’ll feel a lover’s yearning.

As time goes on, my citizens will win

increasing honour, and you, on your thrones,

seated outside the house of Erechtheus,

a place of honour, will win more respect

from lines of men and women filing past

than you could find in all the world beyond.

So cast no stones for bloodshed on this land,

my realm. Do not corrupt our youthful hearts,

intoxicating them with rage, like wine,

or rip the heart out of a fighting cock

to set it in my people, giving them

a thirst for reckless internecine war.

Let them fight wars abroad, without restraint

in those men driven by a lust for fame.

I want no birds who fight their wars at home.

That’s what I offer you. It’s yours to take.

Do good things, receive good things in honour.

Take your place in a land the gods all love.

CHORUS

Such suffering for me –

my ancient wisdom

driven underground,

despised, dishonoured.

The shame, my shame.

This pure rage I breathe

consumes me utterly.

What sinks under my ribs

and pains my heart?

O Night, my mother,

the cunning of those gods,

too hard to overcome,

takes all my ancient powers,

and leaves me nothing.

ATHENA

I’ll not tire of telling you your gifts,

so you can never lodge complaints that I,

a newer god, or men who guard this land

failed to revere such ancient goddesses

and cast you out in exile from our city.

No. But if you respect Persuasion,

holding in reverence that sacred power

whose soothing spell sits on my tongue,

then you should stay. If that’s not your wish,

it would be unjust to vent your anger

on this city, injuring its people,

enraged at them from spite. It’s up to you –

take your allotted portion of this land,

justly entitled to your share of honour.

CHORUS LEADER

Queen Athena, this place you say is ours,

what exactly is it?

ATHENA

One free of pain,

without anxieties. Why not accept?

CHORUS LEADER

If I do, what honours would I get?

ATHENA

Without you no house can thrive.

CHORUS LEADER

You’d do this? You’d grant me that much power?

ATHENA

I will. Together we’ll enrich the lives

of all who worship us.

CHORUS LEADER

This promise you make –

you’ll hold to it forever?

ATHENA

Yes. I don’t say anything I don’t fulfill.

CHORUS LEADER

Your magic’s doing its work, it seems –

I feel my rage diminish.

ATHENA

Then stay.

In this land you’ll win more friends.

CHORUS LEADER

Let me speak out a blessing on the land.

Tell me what I might say.

ATHENA

Speak nothing

of brutal victories – only blessings

stemming from the earth, the ocean depths,

the heavens. Let gusting winds caress the land

in glorious sunlight, our herds and harvests

overflow with plenty, so they never fail

our citizens in time to come, whose seed

will last forever. Let their prosperity

match how well they worship you. I love

these righteous men, the way a gardener loves

his growing plants, this race now free of grief.

These things are yours to give. For my part,

I’ll see this city wins triumphal fame

in deadly wars where men seek glory,

so all men celebrate victorious Athens.

CHORUS

Then we’ll accept this home

and live here with Athena.

We’ll never harm a place

which she and Ares

and all-powerful Zeus

hold as a fortress of the gods,

this glorious altar, the shield

for all the gods of Greece.

I make this prayer for Athens,

prophesying fine things for her –

bounteous happy harvests

bursting from the earth,

beneath a radiant sun.

ATHENA

To all my citizens I’ll act with kindness,

setting in place these goddesses among them –

powerful divinities, implacable –

whose office is to guide all mortals’ lives

in everything they do. If there’s a man

who’s never felt their weight, he’s ignorant

of where life’s blows arise. His father’s crimes

drag him before these goddesses, and there,

for all his boasting, his destruction comes –

dread silent anger crushing him to dust.

CHORUS

Hear me speak my blessing –

let no winds destroy the trees

nor scorching desert heat move in

to shrivel budding plants,

no festering blight kill off the fruit.

May Pan foster fertility

and make the flocks increase,

to every ewe twin lambs,

all born in season, and in Athens

may the earth be rich in treasure,

paying fine gifts to Hermes,

god of unexpected luck.

ATHENA

Do you hear that, you guardians of my city?

The blessings they will bring? They’re powerful,

the sacred Furies, among immortal gods,

among the dead below. With mortal men

it’s clear they work their wills decisively,

for some a life of song, for others lives of tears.

CHORUS

I forbid those deadly accidents

which cut men down before their time.

And all you gods with rightful powers,

let our lovely girls all live

to find a husband. Hear our prayers,

you sacred Fates, our sisters,

you children of the Night,

who apportion all things justly,

who have a place in every home,

whose righteous visitations

at all times carry weight, everywhere

most honoured of the gods.

ATHENA

I rejoice to hear these love-filled blessings

conferred upon this land. It pleases me

Persuasion kept watch on my tongue and lips,

when I met their fierce refusal. But Zeus,

the patron god of our assemblies,

has triumphed. Our struggle here for justice

has left us victorious forever.

CHORUS

I pray man-killing civil strife

may never roar aloud

within the city – may its dust

not drink our citizen’s dark blood,

nor passions for revenge incite

those wars which kill the state.

Let men give joy for joy,

united by their common love,

united in their enmities –

for that cures all human ills.

ATHENA

You see now how these Furies seek their way

with well intentioned words? I can predict

these terrifying faces will provide

my citizens all sorts of benefits.

So treat them kindly, just as they are kind.

Worship them forever. Then you’ll keep

your land and city on the path of justice,

in everything you do attaining glory.

CHORUS

Rejoice, rejoice

amid the riches you deserve

rejoice, you citizens,

who dwell with Zeus,

who love that virgin girl,

Athena – and she loves you.

You manifest your wisdom

at the proper time, nestling

underneath Athena’s wings,

while Zeus looks on in awe.

[Enter a group of citizens to lead Athena’s procession, some bearing unlit torches, some robes, and some leading animals for sacrifice]

ATHENA

And you too rejoice. I must lead the way,

show you to your rooms, by sacred torchlight

carried by your escort. Now you can go –

move with speed under the earth, and there

with sacred sacrificial blood hold down

what would destroy my land and send above

what brings prosperity, so that our city

may prove victorious. And now you citizens,

you children of Cranaus, king of this rock,

lead our new residents for life away.

May all citizens look on with favour

at those who bring such favours to them.

CHORUS

Farewell, once more farewell,

all those who live in Athens,

gods and men, inhabitants

of Pallas’ city. Pay us respect,

while we live here among you –

you’ll have cause to celebrate

the fortunes of your lives.

ATHENA

My thanks to you for these words of blessing.

Now I’ll send you down by blazing torchlight

to your homes beneath the earth, with this escort

of those duty-bound to guard my statue.

That seems right. For the most precious part

of all the land of Theseus will come out,

a splendid throng of girls and mothers,

groups of older women.

[From the processional company some women bearing scarlet robes move forward to place the robes on the Furies. Athena speaks directly to them]

Invest these Furies

with their special crimson robes. Honour them.

Then, move on with the torches, so this group,

our fellow residents, can show the love

they bear this land, and for all time to come

bring our city strength and great good fortune.

[The women dress the Furies in the scarlet robes and sing the final song of joy and thanks, as the entire procession of Athena, Furies, and citizens moves off stage]

THE WOMEN OF ATHENS

Move on with your loyal escort,

you mighty children of the Night,

children without children, no longer young,

yet glorious in your honours.

You citizens, nothing but blessings in your songs.

Deep in those primeval caverns

far underground, our sacrifices,

the sacred honours we bestow on you

will maintain our city’s reverence.

All of you, nothing but blessings in your songs.

Come forward, sacred goddesses,

benevolent and gracious to our land,

come forward with the flaming torches,

rejoicing as we move along our way.

Now raise triumphal cries to crown our song!

Peace now reigns forevermore

between Athena’s people and their guests.

For all-seeing Zeus and Fate herself

have worked together for this ending.

Now raise triumphal cries to crown our song!

[The entire group moves off singing and dancing]

End notes

Agamemnon

[1] Alexander: an alternative name for Paris, son of Priam.

[2] Uranus and Cronos: Uranus was the original god, who was overthrown by his son Cronos. Then Cronos, in turn, was overthrown by his son Zeus.

[3] Calchas tells Agamemnon he must sacrifice his daughter Iphigeneia to appease Artemis and stop the hostile winds.

[4] The lines following describe Menelaus’ reaction to Helen’s disappearance.

[5] Pleisthenes: In some legends Atreus had a son Pleisthenes who was raised by his brother Thyestes. Thyestes sent Pleisthenes to kill Atreus, but the latter killed him, not knowing he was his son. This was the cause of the notorious banquet. In other stories Pleisthenes (perhaps another person with the same name) is the husband of Aerope and father of Menelaus and Agamemnon. When Pleisthenes died, Atreus married Aerope and adopted the children. Aerope had a sexual affair with Thyestes, another cause for the quarrel between the two brothers, and was drowned for her adultery.

The Libation Bearers

[6] Thyestes, the father of Aegisthus, was the brother of Atreus, the father of Agamemnon and Menelaus.

[7] Hermes, a divine son of Zeus, accompanied the dead down to Hades.

[8] The Furies are the goddesses of blood revenge, particularly within the family.

[9] Atreus was the father of Agamemnon and Menelaus.

[10] The Scamander was the river near Troy, the site of many battles in the Trojan War.

[11] Persephone was the queen of the underworld, wife of Hades.

[12] Pelops was the original founder of the royal family of Argos.

[13] Althaea was the mother of Meleager. When he was born, the Fates told her that Meleager would live as long as a log in the fireplace. Althaea removed the log and preserved it to keep Meleager alive. However, when Meleager, in an angry fit, killed Althaea’s two brothers, she threw the log in the fire and killed her son.

[14] Nisus had a purple lock of hair on which the safety of his kingdom depended. When Minos, king of Crete, besieged their city, Scylla, daughter of the king, cut off her father’s lock and presented it to Minos, who promptly abandoned her.

[15] The women of Lemnos offended the goddess Aphrodite, who in revenge gave them all a dreadful smell. When the men of Lemnos started sleeping with other women, the wives on the island killed their husbands.

[16] Perseus, a son of Zeus, was a famous hero, who, among other things, killed the Gorgon Medusa, whose gaze turned people to stone.

[17] Priam was king of Troy, killed when the city was ransacked at the end of the Trojan War.

[18] Thyestes, father of Aegisthus, was a brother of Atreus and thus uncle of Agamemnon. Atreus had killed Thyestes’ two sons and served them to him at what was supposed to be a feast of reconciliation. Aegisthus’ murder of Agamemnon is his revenge for those killings.

The Furies

[19] Corycia was a nymph who lived in a vast cave near Parnassus with her sisters. She was the mother of Lycorus by Apollo. The cave was used by local people as a place of refuge from invading armies – from the Persians to the Germans.

[20] Pentheus was a king of Thebes who offended Dionysus, who put Pentheus’ mother and several other women into a frenzy in which they tore Pentheus to pieces.

[21] Ixion was said to have murdered his father-in-law, and to have been the first man guilty of slaying a kinsman. As punishment he was bound by Zeus to a winged fiery wheel which was sent spinning across the heavens for eternity.

[22] The Etrurians in Italy made an especially fine trumpet, which was said to be Athena’s favourite instrument.

Colophon

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ebook design by Alex Bell

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Version 1  March 2017