The Oresteia: Agamemnon, the Libation-Bearers & the Furies (22 page)

LEADER:

You, pathetic-
the king had just returned from battle.
You waited out the war and fouled his lair,
you planned my great commander’s fall.

 

AEGISTHUS:

Talk on-
you’ll scream for every word, my little Orpheus.
We’ll see if the world comes dancing to your song,
your absurd barking - snarl your breath away !
I’ll make you dance, I’ll bring you all to heel.

 

LEADER:

You rule Argos? You who schemed his death
but cringed to cut him down with your own hand?

 

AEGISTHUS:

The treachery was the woman’s work, clearly.
I was a marked man, his enemy for ages.
But I will use his riches, stop at nothing
to civilize his people. All but the rebel:
him I’ll yoke and break-
no cornfed colt, running free in the traces.
Hunger, ruthless mate of the dark torture-chamber,
trains her eyes upon him till he drops!

 

LEADER:

Coward, why not kill the man yourself?
Why did the woman, the corruption of Greece
and the gods of Greece, have to bring him down?
Orestes—
If he still sees the light of day,
bring him home, good Fates, home to kill
this pair at last. Our champion in slaughter!

 

AEGISTHUS:

Bent on insolence? Well, you’ll learn, quickly.
At them, men - you have your work at hand!

 

At them, fist at the hilt, to the last man -

 

AEGISTHUS:

Fist at the hilt, I’m not afraid to die.

 

LEADER:

It’s death you want and death you’ll have -
we’ll make that word your last.

 

CLYTAEMNESTRA:

No more, my dearest,
no more grief. We have too much to reap
right here, our mighty harvest of despair.
Our lives are based on pain. No bloodshed now.

 

Fathers of Argos, turn for home before you act
and suffer for it. What we did was destiny.
If we could end the suffering, how we would rejoice.
The spirit’s brutal hoof has struck our heart.
And that is what a woman has to say.
Can you accept the truth?

 

AEGISTHUS:

But these ... mouths
that bloom in filth — spitting insults in my teeth.
You tempt your fates, you insubordinate dogs-
to hurl abuse at me, your master!

 

LEADER:

No Greek
worth his salt would grovel at your feet.

 

AEGISTHUS:

I - I’ll stalk you all your days!

 

LEADER:

Not if the spirit brings Orestes home.

 

AEGISTHUS:

Exiles feed on hope - well I know.

 

LEADER:

More,
gorge yourself to bursting - soil justice, while you can.

 

AEGISTHUS:

I promise you, you’ll pay, old fools - in good time, too!

 

LEADER:

Strut on your own dunghill, you cock beside your mate.

 

CLYTAEMNESTRA:

Let them howl - they’re impotent. You and I have power now.
We will set the house in order once for all.

... in my heart there was a kind of fighting
That would not let me sleep. Methought I lay
Worse than the mutines in the bilboes. Rashly -
And prais’d be rashness for it; let us know,
Our indiscretion sometime serves us well
When our deep plots do pall; and that should learn us
There’s a divinity that shapes our ends,
Rough-hew them how we will -

—SHAKESPEARE,
Hamlet

ORESTES,
son of Agamemnon and Clytaemnestra
PYLADES,
his companion
ELECTRA,
his sister
CHORUS OF SLAVEWOMEN AND THEIR
LEADER
CLYTAEMNESTRA
CILISSA,
Orestes’ old nurse
AEGISTHUS
A Servant of Aegisthus
Attendants of Orestes, bodyguard of Aegisthus

 

ORESTES:

Hermes, lord of the dead, look down and guard
the fathers’ power. Be my saviour, I beg you,
be my comrade now.
I have come home
to my own soil, an exile home at last.
Here at the mounded grave I call my father,
Hear me - I am crying out to you . . .

There is a lock for Inachos who nursed me
into manhood, there is one for death.

 

I was not here to mourn you when you died,
my father, never gave the last salute
when they bore your corpse away.

What’s this?
Look, a company moving towards us. Women,
robed in black . . . so clear in the early light.

 

I wonder what they mean, what turn of fate? -
some new wound to the house?
Or perhaps they come to honour you, my father,
bearing cups to soothe and still the dead.
That’s right, it must be . . .
Electra, I think I see her coming, there,
my own sister, worn, radiant in her grief-
Dear god, let me avenge my father’s murder-
fight beside me now with all your might!

 

Out of their way, Pylades. I must know
what they mean, these women turning towards us,
what their prayers call forth.

 

CHORUS:

Rushed from the house we come
escorting cups for the dead,
in step with the hands’ hard beat,
our cheeks glistening,
flushed where the nails have raked new furrows running blood;
and life beats on, and
we nurse our lives with tears,
to the sound of ripping linen beat our robes in sorrow,
close to the breast the beats throb
and laughter’s gone and fortune throbs and throbs.

 

Aie!- bristling Terror struck -
the seer of the house,
the nightmare ringing dear
breathed its wrath in sleep,
in the midnight watch a cry! - the voice of Terror
deep in the house, bursting down
on the women’s darkened chambers, yes,
and the old ones, skilled at dreams, swore oaths to god
and called,
‘The proud dead stir under earth,
they rage against the ones who took their lives.’

 

But the gifts, the empty gifts
she hopes will ward them off-
good Mother Earth! - that godless woman sends me here . . .
I dread to say her prayer.
What can redeem the blood that wets the soil?
Oh for the hearthfire banked with grief,
the rampart’s down, a fine house down-
dark, dark, and the sun, the life is curst,
and mist enshrouds the halls
where the lords of war went down.

 

And the ancient pride no war,
no storm, no force could tame,
ringing in all men’s ears, in all men’s hearts is gone.
They are afraid. Success,
they bow to success, more god than god himself.
But Justice waits and turns the scales:
a sudden blow for some at dawn,
for some in the no man’s land of dusk
her torments grow with time,
and the lethal night takes others.

 

And the blood that Mother Earth consumes
clots hard, it won’t seep through, it breeds revenge
and frenzy goes through the guilty,
seething like infection, swarming through the brain.
For the one who treads a virgin’s bed
there is no cure. All the streams of the world,
all channels run into one
to cleanse a man’s red hands will swell the bloody tide.

 

And I . . . Fate and the gods brought down their yoke,
they ringed our city, out of our fathers’ halls
they led us here as slaves.
And the will breaks, we kneel at their command -
our masters right or wrong!
And we beat the tearing hatred down,
behind our veils we weep for her,

her senseless fate.
Sorrow turns the secret heart to ice.

 

ELECTRA:

Dear women,
you keep the house in order, best you can;
and now you’ve come to the grave to say a prayer
with me, my escorts. I’ll need your help with this.
What to say when I pour the cup of sorrow?

What kindness, what prayer can touch my father?
Shall I say I bring him love for love, a woman’s
love for husband? My mother, love from her?
I’ve no taste for that, no words to say
as I run the honeyed oil on father’s tomb.

 

Or try the salute we often use at graves?
‘A wreath for a wreath. Now bring the givers
gifts to match’ . . . no, give them pain for pain.

 

Or silent, dishonoured, just as father died,
empty it out for the soil to drink and then
retrace my steps, like a slave sent out with scourings
left from the purging of the halls, and throw
the cup behind me, looking straight ahead.
Help me decide, my friends. Join me here.
We nurse a common hatred in the house.
Don’t hide your feelings - no, fear no one.
Destiny waits us all,

born free,
or slaves who labour under another’s hand.
Speak to me, please. Perhaps you’ve had
a glimpse of something better.

 

LEADER:

I revere
your father’s death-mound like an altar.
I’ll say a word, now that you ask,
that comes from deep within me.

 

ELECTRA:

Speak on,
with everything you feel for father’s grave.

 

LEADER:

Say a blessing as you pour, for those who love you.

 

ELECTRA:

And of the loved ones, whom to call my friends?

 

LEADER:

First yourself, then all who hate Aegisthus.

 

ELECTRA:

I and you. I can say a prayer for us
and then for -

 

LEADER:

You know, try to say it.

 

ELECTRA:

There is someone else to rally to our side?

 

LEADER:

 

Remember Orestes, even abroad and gone.

 

ELECTRA:

Well said, the best advice I’ve had.

 

LEADER:

Now for the murderers. Remember them and-

 

ELECTRA:

What?
I’m so unseasoned, teach me what to say.

 

LEADER:

Let some god or man come down upon them.

 

ELECTRA:

Judge or avenger, which?

 

LEADER:

Just say ‘the one who murders in return!’

 

ELECTRA:

How can I ask the gods for that
and keep my conscience clear?

 

LEADER:

How not,
and pay the enemy back in kind?

 

ELECTRA:

- Herald king
of the world above and the quiet world below,
lord of the dead, my Hermes, help me now.
Tell the spirits underground to hear my prayers,
and the high watch hovering over father’s roofs,
and have her listen too, the Earth herself
who brings all things to life and makes them strong,
then gathers in the rising tide once more.

 

And I will tip libations to the dead.
I call out to my father. Pity me,
dear Orestes too.
Rekindle the light that saves our house!
We’re auctioned off, drift like vagrants now.
Mother has pawned us for a husband, Aegisthus,
her partner in her murdering.
I go like a slave,
and Orestes driven from his estates while they,
they roll in the fruits of all your labours,
magnificent and sleek. O bring Orestes home,
with a happy twist of fate, my father. Hear me,
make me far more self-possessed than mother,
make this hand more pure.

 

These prayers for us. For our enemies I say,
Raise up your avenger, into the light, my father-
kill the killers in return, with justice!
So in the midst of prayers for good I place
this curse for them.
Bring up your blessings,
up into the air, led by the gods and Earth
and all the rights that bring us triumph.