The Electra of Euripides | Page 3

avenge her father. Close he wrought?Her prison in his house, and gave her not?To any wooer. Then, since even this?Was full of peril, and the secret kiss?Of some bold prince might find her yet, and rend?Her prison walls, Aegisthus at the end?Would slay her. Then her mother, she so wild?Aforetime, pled with him and saved her child.?Her heart had still an answer for her lord?Murdered, but if the child's blood spoke, what word?Could meet the hate thereof? After that day?Aegisthus thus decreed: whoso should slay?The old king's wandering son, should win rich meed?Of gold; and for Electra, she must wed?With me, not base of blood--in that I stand?True Mycenaean--but in gold and land?Most poor, which maketh highest birth as naught.?So from a powerless husband shall be wrought?A powerless peril. Had some man of might?Possessed her, he had called perchance to light?Her father's blood, and unknown vengeances?Risen on Aegisthus yet.
Aye, mine she is:?But never yet these arms--the Cyprian knows?My truth!--have clasped her body, and she goes?A virgin still. Myself would hold it shame?To abase this daughter of a royal name.?I am too lowly to love violence. Yea,?Orestes too doth move me, far away,?Mine unknown brother! Will he ever now?Come back and see his sister bowed so low?
Doth any deem me fool, to hold a fair?Maid in my room and seek no joy, but spare?Her maidenhood? If any such there be,?Let him but look within. The fool is he?In gentle things, weighing the more and less?Of love by his own heart's untenderness.
[_As he ceases_ ELECTRA _comes out of the hut. She is in mourning garb, and carries a large pitcher on her head. She speaks without observing the_ PEASANT'S _presence_.
ELECTRA.
Dark shepherdess of many a golden star,?Dost see me, Mother Night? And how this jar?Hath worn my earth-bowed head, as forth and fro?For water to the hillward springs I go??Not for mere stress of need, but purpose set,?That never day nor night God may forget?Aegisthus' sin: aye, and perchance a cry?Cast forth to the waste shining of the sky?May find my father's ear.... The woman bred?Of Tyndareus, my mother--on her head?Be curses!--from my house hath outcast me;?She hath borne children to our enemy;?She hath made me naught, she hath made Orestes naught....
[_As the bitterness of her tone increases, the_ PEASANT _comes forward._
PEASANT.
What wouldst thou now, my sad one, ever fraught?With toil to lighten my toil? And so soft?Thy nurture was! Have I not chid thee oft,?And thou wilt cease not, serving without end?
ELECTRA (_turning to him with impulsive affection_).
O friend, my friend, as God might be my friend,?Thou only hast not trampled on my tears.?Life scarce can be so hard, 'mid many fears?And many shames, when mortal heart can find?Somewhere one healing touch, as my sick mind?Finds thee.... And should I wait thy word, to endure?A little for thine easing, yea, or pour?My strength out in thy toiling fellowship??Thou hast enough with fields and kine to keep;?'Tis mine to make all bright within the door.?'Tis joy to him that toils, when toil is o'er,?To find home waiting, full of happy things.
PEASANT.
If so it please thee, go thy way. The springs?Are not far off. And I before the morn?Must drive my team afield, and sow the corn?In the hollows.--Not a thousand prayers can gain?A man's bare bread, save an he work amain.
[ELECTRA _and the_ PEASANT _depart on their several ways. After a few moments there enter stealthily two armed men,_ ORESTES _and_ PYLADES.
ORESTES.
Thou art the first that I have known in deed?True and my friend, and shelterer of my need.?Thou only, Pylades, of all that knew,?Hast held Orestes of some worth, all through?These years of helplessness, wherein I lie?Downtrodden by the murderer--yea, and by?The murderess, my mother!... I am come,?Fresh from the cleansing of Apollo, home?To Argos--and my coming no man yet?Knoweth--to pay the bloody twain their debt?Of blood. This very night I crept alone?To my dead father's grave, and poured thereon?My heart's first tears and tresses of my head?New-shorn, and o'er the barrow of the dead?Slew a black lamb, unknown of them that reign?In this unhappy land.... I am not fain?To pass the city gates, but hold me here?Hard on the borders. So my road is clear?To fly if men look close and watch my way;?If not, to seek my sister. For men say?She dwelleth in these hills, no more a maid?But wedded. I must find her house, for aid?To guide our work, and learn what hath betid?Of late in Argos.--Ha, the radiant lid?Of Dawn's eye lifteth! Come, friend; leave we now?This trodden path. Some worker of the plough,?Or serving damsel at her early task?Will presently come by, whom we may ask?If here my sister dwells. But soft! Even now?I see some bondmaid there, her death-shorn brow?Bending beneath its freight of well-water.?Lie close until she pass; then question her.?A slave might help us