The Electra of Euripides | Page 6

man.... But speak,
Tell of thy life, that I may know, and seek

Thy brother with a tale that must be heard
Howe'er it sicken. If
mine eyes be blurred,
Remember, 'tis the fool that feels not. Aye,

Wisdom is full of pity; and thereby
Men pay for too much wisdom
with much pain.
LEADER.
My heart is moved as this man's. I would fain
Learn all thy tale. Here
dwelling on the hills
Little I know of Argos and its ills.

ELECTRA.
If I must speak--and at love's call, God knows,
I fear not--I will tell
thee all; my woes,
My father's woes, and--O, since thou hast stirred

This storm of speech, thou bear him this my word--
His woes and
shame! Tell of this narrow cloak
In the wind; this grime and reek of
toil, that choke
My breathing; this low roof that bows my head

After a king's. This raiment ... thread by thread,
'Tis I must weave it,
or go bare--must bring,
Myself, each jar of water from the spring.

No holy day for me, no festival,
No dance upon the green! From all,
from all
I am cut off. No portion hath my life
'Mid wives of Argos,
being no true wife.
No portion where the maidens throng to praise

Castor--my Castor, whom in ancient days,
Ere he passed from us and
men worshipped him,
They named my bridegroom!--
And she, she!... The grim
Troy spoils gleam round her throne, and by
each hand
Queens of the East, my father's prisoners, stand,
A cloud
of Orient webs and tangling gold.
And there upon the floor, the blood,
the old
Black blood, yet crawls and cankers, like a rot
In the stone!
And on our father's chariot
The murderer's foot stands glorying, and
the red
False hand uplifts that ancient staff, that led
The armies of
the world!... Aye, tell him how
The grave of Agamemnon, even now,

Lacketh the common honour of the dead;
A desert barrow, where
no tears are shed,
No tresses hung, no gift, no myrtle spray.
And
when the wine is in him, so men say,
Our mother's mighty master
leaps thereon,
Spurning the slab, or pelteth stone on stone,
Flouting
the lone dead and the twain that live:
"Where is thy son Orestes?
Doth he give
Thy tomb good tendance? Or is all forgot?"
So is he
scorned because he cometh not....
O Stranger, on my knees, I charge thee, tell
This tale, not mine, but of
dumb wrongs that swell

Crowding--and I the trumpet of their pain,

This tongue, these arms, this bitter burning brain;
These dead shorn
locks, and he for whom they died!
His father slew Troy's thousands in

their pride;
He hath but one to kill.... O God, but one!
Is he a man,
and Agamemnon's son?
LEADER.
But hold: is this thy husband from the plain,
His labour ended,
hasting home again?
_Enter the_ PEASANT.
PEASANT.
Ha, who be these? Strange men in arms before
My house! What
would they at this lonely door?
Seek they for me?--Strange gallants
should not stay
A woman's goings.
ELECTRA.
Friend and helper!--Nay,
Think not of any evil. These men be

Friends of Orestes, charged with words for me!...
Strangers, forgive
his speech.
PEASANT.
What word have they
Of him? At least he lives and sees the day!
ELECTRA.
So fares their tale--and sure I doubt it not!
PEASANT.
And ye two still are living in his thought,
Thou and his father?
ELECTRA.
In his dreams we live.
An exile hath small power.

PEASANT.
And did he give
Some privy message?
ELECTRA.
None: they come as spies
For news of me.
PEASANT.
Thine outward news their eyes
Can see; the rest, methinks, thyself
will tell.
ELECTRA.
They have seen all, heard all. I trust them well.
PEASANT.
Why were our doors not open long ago?--
Be welcome, strangers
both, and pass below
My lintel. In return for your glad words
Be
sure all greeting that mine house affords
Is yours.--Ye followers, bear
in their gear!--
Gainsay me not; for his sake are ye dear
That sent
you to our house; and though my part
In life be low, I am no churl at
heart.
[_The_ PEASANT _goes to the_ ARMED SERVANTS _at the back,
to help them with the baggage._
ORESTES (_aside to_ ELECTRA).
Is this the man that shields thy maidenhood
Unknown, and will not
wrong thy father's blood?
ELECTRA.
He is called my husband. 'Tis for him I toil.

ORESTES.
How dark lies honour hid! And what turmoil
In all things human:
sons of mighty men
Fallen to naught, and from ill seed again
Good
fruit: yea, famine in the rich man's scroll
Writ deep, and in poor flesh
a lordly soul.
As, lo, this man, not great in Argos, not
With pride of
house uplifted, in a lot
Of unmarked life hath shown a prince's grace.
[_To the_ PEASANT, _who has returned._
All that is here of
Agamemnon's race,
And all that lacketh yet, for whom we come,

Do thank thee, and the welcome of thy home
Accept with
gladness.--Ho, men; hasten ye
Within!--This open-hearted poverty

Is blither to my sense than feasts of gold.
Lady, thine husband's welcome makes me bold;
Yet would thou hadst
thy brother, before all
Confessed, to greet us in a prince's hall!

Which