The Electra of Euripides Part 15

Wilt softly hear, and after work me ill?

CLYTEMNESTRA.

Not so, not so. I will but pleasure thee.

ELECTRA.

I answer then. And, mother, this shall be My prayer of opening, where hangs the whole: Would G.o.d that He had made thee clean of soul!

Helen and thou--O, face and form were fair, Meet for men's praise; but sisters twain ye were, Both things of naught, a stain on Castor's star, And Helen slew her honour, borne afar In wilful ravishment: but thou didst slay The highest man of the world. And now wilt say 'Twas wrought in justice for thy child laid low At Aulis?... Ah, who knows thee as I know?

Thou, thou, who long ere aught of ill was done Thy child, when Agamemnon scarce was gone, Sate at the looking-gla.s.s, and tress by tress Didst comb the twined gold in loneliness.

When any wife, her lord being far away.

Toils to be fair, O blot her out that day As false within! What would she with a cheek So bright in strange men's eyes, unless she seek Some treason? None but I, thy child, could so Watch thee in h.e.l.las: none but I could know Thy face of gladness when our enemies Were strong, and the swift cloud upon thine eyes If Troy seemed falling, all thy soul keen-set Praying that he might come no more!... And yet It was so easy to be true. A king Was thine, not feebler, not in anything Below Aegisthus; one whom h.e.l.las chose For chief beyond all kings. Aye, and G.o.d knows, How sweet a name in Greece, after the sin Thy sister wrought, lay in thy ways to win.

Ill deeds make fair ones s.h.i.+ne, and turn thereto Men's eyes.--Enough: but say he wronged thee; slew By craft thy child:--what wrong had I done, what The babe Orestes? Why didst render not Back unto us, the children of the dead, Our father's portion? Must thou heap thy bed With gold of murdered men, to buy to thee Thy strange man's arms? Justice! Why is not he Who cast Orestes out, cast out again?

Not slain for me whom doubly he hath slain, In living death, more bitter than of old My sister's? Nay, when all the tale is told Of blood for blood, what murder shall we make, I and Orestes, for our father's sake?

CLYTEMNESTRA.

Aye, child; I know thy heart, from long ago.

Thou hast alway loved him best. 'Tis oft-time so: One is her father's daughter, and one hot To bear her mother's part. I blame thee not....

Yet think not I am happy, child; nor flown With pride now, in the deeds my hand hath done....

[_Seeing_ ELECTRA _unsympathetic, she checks herself_.

But thou art all untended, comfortless Of body and wild of raiment; and thy stress Of travail scarce yet ended!... Woe is me!

'Tis all as I have willed it. Bitterly I wrought against him, to the last blind deep Of bitterness.... Woe's me!

ELECTRA.

Fair days to weep, When help is not! Or stay: though he lie cold Long since, there lives another of thy fold Far off; there might be pity for thy son?

CLYTEMNESTRA.

I dare not!... Yes, I fear him. 'Tis mine own Life, and not his, comes first. And rumour saith His heart yet burneth for his father's death.

ELECTRA.

Why dost thou keep thine husband ever hot Against me?

CLYTEMNESTRA.

'Tis his mood. And thou art not So gentle, child!

ELECTRA.

My spirit is too sore!

Howbeit, from this day I will no more Hate him.

CLYTEMNESTRA (_with a flash of hope_).

O daughter!--Then, indeed, shall he, I promise, never more be harsh to thee!

ELECTRA.

He lieth in my house, as 'twere his own.

'Tis that hath made him proud.

CLYTEMNESTRA.

Nay, art thou flown To strife again so quick, child?

ELECTRA.

Well; I say No more; long have I feared him, and alway Shall fear him, even as now!

CLYTEMNESTRA.

Nay, daughter, peace!

It bringeth little profit, speech like this...

Why didst thou call me hither?

ELECTRA.

It reached thee, My word that a man-child is born to me?

Do thou make offering for me--for the rite I know not--as is meet on the tenth night.

I cannot; I have borne no child till now.

CLYTEMNESTRA.

Who tended thee? 'Tis she should make the vow.

ELECTRA.

None tended me. Alone I bare my child.

CLYTEMNESTRA

What, is thy cot so friendless? And this wild So far from aid?

ELECTRA.

Who seeks for friends.h.i.+p sake A beggar's house?

CLYTEMNESTRA.

I will go in, and make Due wors.h.i.+p for thy child, the Peace-bringer.

To all thy need I would be minister.

Then to my lord, where by the meadow side He prays the woodland nymphs.

Ye handmaids, guide My chariot to the stall, and when ye guess The rite draws near its end, in readiness Be here again. Then to my lord!... I owe My lord this gladness, too.

[_The Attendants depart;_ CLYTEMNESTRA, _left alone, proceeds to enter the house_.