To avenge my sire, thou wilt not aid me; nay,
Dissuadest and wouldst have me hold my hand.
Shall we to all our ills add cowardice?
Tell me—or let me tell thee—what have I
To gain by ceasing from my sad complaint?
I still have life? a sorry life, indeed,
But good enough for me; and them I vex,
And vexing them do honour to the dead,
If anything can touch the world of shades.
Thou hatest? Nay, thy deeds belie thy words,
While thou consortest with the murderers;
So would not I, though they should offer me
The pomp that makes thee proud, the loaded board,
Thy life of ease; no, I would never yield.
Enough for me spare diet and a soul
Void of offence; thy state I covet not,
Nor wouldst thou, wert thou wise. Men might have called thee
Child of the noblest sire that ever lived;
Be called thy mother’s, rightly named as base,
Betrayer of thy dead sire and thy kin.
No angry words, I pray, for both of you
There’s profit in this parleying, if thou
Wouldst learn of her, and she in turn of thee.
I know her moods too well to take offence,
Nor had I now approached her, but I learnt
Of new impending peril that is like
To put a finish to her long-drawn woes.
Say what can be this terror; if ’tis worse
Than what I now bear, I will call a truce.
All I have learnt in full I will impart.
They purpose, if thou wilt not stay thy plaints,
To send thee where thou shalt not see the sun,
Far hence, to some dark dungeon, there to spend
Thy days and nights in litanies of woe.
Therefore reflect, and blame me not too late;
Take warning and repent while yet ’tis time.
Have they indeed resolved to treat me thus?
The instant that Aegisthus is returned.
Well, for my part I would he came back soon.
Insensate girl! What mean’st thou by this prayer?
Would he were here, if this be his intent.
That thou mayst suffer—what? Hast lost thy wits?
A flight long leagues away from all of you.
Art thou indifferent to thy present life?
O ’tis a marvellously happy life!
It might have been, couldst thou have schooled thyself.
Teach me not basely to betray my friends.
Not I; I teach submission to the strong.
Fawn, if thou wilt; such cringing suits not me.
Yet not to fall through folly were no blame.
If needs be, in a father’s cause I’ll fall.
I trust our father pardons us for this.
Traitors take refuge in like sentiments.
Thou wilt not heed then or be ruled by me?
I am not in my dotage, save the mark!
Then I will do my errand.
Whither away?
For whom art carrying these burnt offerings?
My mother bids me crown our father’s grave.
Her mortal enemy’s! How sayest thou?
The husband whom she slew, so thou wouldst say.
Which of her friends advised her? whence this whim?
A nightly vision warned her, so I think.
Gods of my fathers, aid me in this pass!
Dost thou take heart of courage from her dread?
Before I answer let me hear the dream.
There is but little that I have to tell.
Tell it no less. A little word, men say,
Hath oftentimes determined weal or woe.
’Tis said that she beheld thy sire and mine
In bodily presence standing by her side,
Revisiting the light of day. He took
The sceptre of Aegisthus, once his own,
And at the household altar planted it,
And from it sprang and spread a fruitful bough,
Till it o’ershadowed all Mycenae’s land.
Such is the tale one told me who was by
When to the Sun-god she declared her dream.
Further I know not, save that in alarm
She sent me hither. Hearken then to me.
Sister, I pray thee by our household gods,
Fall not through folly; if thou spurn me now
Too late in sorrow wilt thou seek my aid.
Nay, let not aught, my sister, touch the tomb,
Of all thou bearest. ’Twere a shame, a sin,
To offer on behalf of her, the accursed,
Gifts or libations to our father’s ghost.
Scatter them to the winds or bury them
Deep in the dust, where nothing may defile
Our father’s lone couch; let her find them there,
A buried treasure when she comes to die.
Were she not abjectest of womankind,
She ne’er had thought with offerings of hate
To crown her murdered victim’s sepulchre.
Thinkst thou ’tis likely that her buried lord
Will take these honours kindly at her hands
Who slew him without pity like a foe,
Mangled3 his corse, and for ablution washed
The bloodstains on his head? Say, is it like
These gifts will purge her of blood-guiltiness?
It cannot be. Fling them away and cut
A tress of thine own locks; and for my share
Give him from me—a poor thing, but my best—
This unkempt lock, this girdle unadorned.
Then fall upon thy knees and pray that he
May come, our gracious champion from the dead,
And that the young Orestes yet may live
To trample underfoot his vanquished foes.
So may we some day crown our father’s tomb
With costlier gifts than these poor offerings.
I can but think, ’tis but a thought, that he
Had part in sending her this ominous dream.
Still, sister, do this service and so aid
Thyself and me, and him the most beloved
Of all men, e’en though dead, thy sire and mine.
’Tis piously advised, and thou, my daughter,
Wilt do her bidding, if thou art discreet.
I will. When duty calls, ’twere lack of sense
For two to wrangle; both should join to act.
Only when I essay this perilous task,
Be silent, an you love me, friends, for if
My mother hears of it, I shall have cause
To rue my indiscretion soon or late. Exit Chrysothemis.
Strophe
Count me a prophet false, a witless wight,
If Justice, who inspires my prophecy,
Comes not, my child, to vindicate the right.
She comes and that right speedily.
My heart grows bold and nothing fears;
That dream
