The Greek Plays

by The Greek Plays- Sixteen Plays by Aeschylus, Sophocles

  antistrophe 2

  Then time worked on it, and it showed

  what its parents had been. It gave

  those who had brought it up

  730

  the thanks of carnage and ruin in their flocks:

  to the feast it prepared no one was invited,

  and the home was polluted with blood.

  Helpless, the pain for the household,

  a slaughtering curse in its power.

  Through a god’s will, the new child reared

  in the house was Disaster’s priest himself.

  strophe 3

  I think a spirit of windless calm arrived

  740

  in Ilium at the start—

  jewel of wealth, soothing bad omens,

  arrow shot soft from the eyes,

  flower of love that gnawed at the heart.

  Then she swerved off, then she made the marriage

  bitter in its fulfillment.

  What a sad house where she stayed, where she kept company.

  There swept to Priam’s sons

  a Fury,*26 a bride who brought weeping,

  under the escort of Zeus the guest-god.

  antistrophe 3

  750

  This saying, now grown old, has lived among mortals forever:

  When a man’s great prosperity has reached its prime,

  it will be fertile, it will not die childless.

  Out of good fortune the shoot

  rising is ravenous misery.

  On my own here, apart, I think my own thoughts;

  since an unholy act

  gives birth to more in their turn,

  760

  and they have the look of their lineage.

  But the destiny of houses true to justice

  is a child of beauty, always.

  strophe 4

  An ancient arrogance begets its own

  to grow in mortal misery; sooner or later

  when the time comes that is ordained,

  this fresh rancor is born,

  this spirit enduring all battles, all wars,

  770

  unholy insolence full of

  Black Ruin for the palace—

  the image of its parents.

  antistrophe 4

  In houses dim with cooking smoke, Justice shines,

  honoring the life

  of righteousness. Precincts that filthy hands have hung

  with cloth of gold, she turns from

  in disgust and moves along to holy places.

  780

  She doesn’t honor money when its

  power counterfeits praise.

  No, she guides all things to their fitting end.

  (Agamemnon enters on foot and slowly moves forward; Cassandra, dressed as a priestess of Apollo, is brought into sight on a chariot but remains silent and impassive throughout the following scene.)

  CHORUS: Tell me, my king, sacker of Troy, Atreus’ offspring,

  how shall I speak to you, how shall I revere you?—

  not falling short of your favor, not going beyond it.

  Much of mankind gives first honor to what

  only appears to be—but this trespasses on justice.

  790

  Everyone’s ready to groan along with misery.

  But the teeth of the pain don’t sink into their own hearts.

  Oh, they tune their features perfectly to joy,

  forcing a smile onto their dreary faces

  […]

  Whoever, though, knows his flock well

  can’t be deceived by the eyes of a man

  whose purpose is specious, who fawns,

  though his affection’s thin as water.

  Well—in my eyes, when you sent your expedition

  800

  for Helen’s sake—no, I won’t hide it from you—

  you hardly were acting a part that invited applause;

  there was no skill in your hand as it steered your spirit.

  […] the willing courage

  you tended for your men, even as they were dying.

  Now, though, it’s not at my mind’s, not at arms’ length

  that I smile at you […

  …]*27 hardship to those who have reached a good ending.

  In time you’ll make your inquiries, and then you’ll know

  which of us citizens tending your city like a house

  were just, and which ones were—unwarranted.

  810

  AGAMEMNON: Argos and this land’s gods, accessories

  in my return, and in my punishment

  of Priam’s city, must be first accosted.

  In the gods’ court, the case stood on the facts.

  Every vote went one way, into the blood-urn,

  and told me, Kill the men and sack the city.

  There were no chits to fill up the opposing

  jar, and the Hope attending it was helpless.

  The city’s still conspicuous—from smoke.

  The cyclones of destruction live, while ashes

  820

  in their sad dying breathe wealth’s oily fragrance.

  For this we owe the gods our thanks, recalling

  our vengeance on the riotousness of rape.

  For a woman’s sake, the sharp-toothed Argive beast

  nesting inside the horse,*28 the shield-slung army,

  roused itself, sprang, and smashed the town to dust

  around the time the Pleiades set. A lion

  in its raw hunger bounded past the tower

  and licked up all the tyrant blood it wanted.

  It is the gods my long preamble serves.

  830

  (to the Chorus) I’ve heard and bear in mind your thoughts as well;

  I voice the same concerns, I take your case,

  since few men have it in them to respect—

  and not resent—one of their own who’s lucky.

  Malice lodged in the heart is a disease,

  a blight that doubles pain in the infected:

  they feel the weight of their own misery

  and groan to see prosperity in others.

  I know of what I speak, from long experience:

  people are just a mirror. Those who’ve seemed

  840

  kindest were phantoms’ shadows in the end—

  except Odysseus: he was forced to sail,

  but yoked beside my traces, he proved willing;

  for that I give him—dead or living—credit.

  Well, as to matters civic and religious,

  we’ll have our formal national assembly

  and set our policy. What’s going well

  must hold, and we’ll see how—as policy;

  but as for what requires the healing arts—

  cutting or cauterizing for its own good—

  850

  we’ll try to drive back that disease’s pain.

  Now that I’m at my hall, my hearth and home,

  I’ll give the gods my hand in greeting first:

  they brought me back from that far place they sent me.

  May Victory—which did follow me—stand steady!

  CLYTEMNESTRA: Gentlemen, citizens, honored Argive elders,

  I’m not ashamed to tell you how attached

  to a man I am, by nature. People’s fear

  withers with time. It’s not from second hand

  that I report a miserable life

  860

  endured the whole time this one was in Ilium.

  It is a fearsome thing, first, that a wife

  sits at home desolate, without her husband,

  malignant noises rising all around her.

  Messengers, screeching evil for her household,

  keep coming, each with worse news than the last.

  I must say, if my man caught all the wounds

  news of which kept on sluicing to this house,

  a net would have as many holes to count;

  and if his de
aths had tallied with the stories,

  870

  he’d be a second Geryon,*29 three-bodied,

  boasting a cloak of earth allotted three times—

  thick above, and beneath him, just imagine—

  when all three versions of his body perished.

  Time and again, after such awful rumors,

  they seized me forcibly and from my neck

  wrenched the noose I had fastened to a roof-beam.

  And so our son, that forceful guarantee

  of our mutual bond, does not stand here beside me.

  I know Orestes should, but don’t be startled.

  880

  Your ally, Strophius of Phocis, meant well

  in fostering the boy, as he foresaw

  harm—and both places muttered it: for you

  in Ilium; here, lawless civil uproar,

  the council overthrown—it’s in the blood

  of humankind to kick at someone fallen.

  Certainly, my excuse is hiding nothing.

  Oh, but the roaring fountain of my sobbing

  has been extinguished—not one drop remains.

  My eyes are bad, so late at night I lay

  890

  weeping for you and piles of brush deprived always

  of beacon fires. From my flimsy dreams

  I used to startle wide awake at gnats’ wings

  in their shrilling onrush. I saw more disasters

  for you than my companion, sleep, had time for.

  I have endured all this; empty of grief now

  I can address my man: the sheepfold’s guard-dog,

  strong rope that holds the mast, the stalwart pillar

  of the high roof, a father’s only child,

  land to the eyes of sailors past all hope,

  900

  the glorious daylight following a storm,

  a spring’s gush for a thirsty traveler.

  So pleasant is escaping all compulsion!

  I think you worthy of such salutations—

  and banish envy: all that we have suffered

  already warrants this. Come now, darling,

  step from your vehicle—but keep your feet

  from the ground, great ravager of Ilium.

  Maids, hurry! Carry your commission out:

  cover the earth he’ll walk on with these fabrics;

  910

  spread purple on his passage—now! And Justice

  will lead him to the home he scarcely hoped for.

  As for the rest, let prudence, undefeated

  by sleep, settle it justly, with the gods’ help.

  AGAMEMNON: Offspring of Leda, left to guard my house:

  The speech you’ve given suits my absence well,

  since both were quite extended. Proper praise

  is a tribute other people ought to give.

  Furthermore, don’t indulge me—that’s just like

  a woman. I am no barbarian

  920

  for you to gape and squeal at as you grovel—

  and don’t spread clothing in my path to lead me

  to resentment. Only gods should reap these honors,

  and I’m a mortal—I’d be terrified

  in setting foot on these embroidered splendors.

  Revere me merely as a man, I tell you.

  Word of me rises and resounds without

  foot-wiping tapestries. Lack of presumption

  is a god’s greatest gift. Call a man happy

  who ends his life in sweet prosperity.

  930

  If everything were like that, I’d be fearless.

  CLYTEMNESTRA: But tell me this—and give me your sincere view.

  AGAMEMNON: Count on it: I won’t throw my view away.

  CLYTEMNESTRA: Would you have vowed to do this, out of fear?

  AGAMEMNON: Yes, as a rite an expert had prescribed.

  CLYTEMNESTRA: Think: what would Priam, as the victor, do?

  AGAMEMNON: Step on embroidery, I really think.

  CLYTEMNESTRA: Don’t be concerned, then, when the people blame you.

  AGAMEMNON: But there’s great power in the citizens’ voice.

  CLYTEMNESTRA: To be unenvied is—unenviable.

  940

  AGAMEMNON: Surely a woman shouldn’t long for battle.

  CLYTEMNESTRA: It’s gracious for the fortunate to lose.

  AGAMEMNON: You’d really value victory in this clash?

  CLYTEMNESTRA: Listen and give in freely, and you win.

  AGAMEMNON: If that’s your judgment—someone, quick, untie

  these boots, the slaves beneath my feet. As I

  set foot on heaven’s property, these dyed works,

  I hope no envious gaze strikes from a distance.

  I feel great shame in trampling on my household,

  wrecking its wealth, these weavings silver bought us.

  Well, be that as it may.

  950

  (indicates Cassandra) Bring in this stranger

  with kindness. From far off a god’s gaze falls

  propitiously on gentle use of power.

  No one would volunteer for slavery’s yoke;

  and she’s the pick, the flower of great possessions,

  my present from the army, as it happened.

  I am subdued, however; as you order,

  I step into my halls on purple cloth.

  (He steps down onto the tapestries.)

  CLYTEMNESTRA: There is a sea—who’ll scorch it dry?—that feeds

  a giant ooze of dye, renewed forever,*30

  960

  for purple clothing worth its weight in silver.

  By the gods’ grace, this is on hand, my lord.

  Our household isn’t trained in poverty.

  I would have vowed to trample endless clothing

  if orders came from any oracle’s seat,

  and I could pay for this lost life’s return.

  If the root lives, the house will come to leaf,

  a shadow stretch to shield us from the Dog Star.*31

  Back to the hearthside of your residence

  you’ve come; your coming signals warmth in winter;

  970

  and Zeus is crafting wine from bitter grapes,

  the halls already have grown cool whenever

  the man of consequence walks through his home.

  (Agamemnon reaches the end of the purple walkway and exits into the palace.)

  Zeus, Zeus, Fulfiller, come fulfill my prayers,

  look after all these things you mean to do.

  strophe 1

  CHORUS: Tell me, why is this terror

  fixed in its hovering

  here, before my prophetic heart, like a guard at a gate?

  Nobody called for, nobody paid for this song of divination.

  980

  The boldness I would need to shove it away

  (like dreams that baffle me)

  is overthrown—it has lost my mind’s kingdom.

  Old age has come to the moment the ropes

  were tossed to the sandy shore*32

  when the voyaging army

  set off for Ilium.

  antistrophe 1

  I am the witness myself; my own eyes

  take in his homecoming;

  990

  yet my heart learns on its own, here inside me,

  a song that no lyre can play to: the dirge

  of a Fury. The whole of my darling

  courage is gone.

  Instincts couldn’t be gibberish.

  Close to my righteous mind, my heart

  wheels in the whirlpools that bring these things’ fulfillment.

  Still I pray: may what I forecast

  1000

  turn out untrue, may it not come to pass.

  strophe 2

  Flourishing vigor gorges

  full on itself,

  […] at the limits. But sickness

  is living next door and pushes the s
hared

  wall between them outward.

  Though a man’s fate holds a straight

  course […]

  *33 strike on the hidden, sunken rock.

  Dread may throw part

  of his profit overboard to save the rest,

  1010

  sling it out in prudence—

  then his whole house will not sink,

  stashed full of overfullness;

  the sea will not take his small boat.

  Thick grows and wide spreads Zeus’ gift, his cure,

  from each year’s furrows,

  killing the plague of famine.*34

  antistrophe 2

  But once the black life-blood strikes

  the ground in front of a man,

  1020

  how can anyone’s spells

  call it back to the body again?

  Even the one with the mastery

  to bring the dead up from Hades

  did not win Zeus’ assent. He was not spared.*35

  Gods deploy one fate to cut off

  another—if not for that

  I would pour out what I know—my heart would run

  out of my tongue’s control—

  not mutter in the dark,

  1030

  dismally, without hope of winding the skein

  clear to the end at the moment of the crisis—

  but my mind leaps in a blaze.

  CLYTEMNESTRA: Come, get yourself inside—that’s you, Cassandra.

  Zeus makes you share our household rites—but not

  to punish you. You’ll stand with many slaves

  by the altar where he’s Guardian of Goods.

  Get off your vehicle—don’t be too proud.

  1040

  They say Alcmene’s child once went for sale

  and had to tolerate the bread of slavery.*36

  At any rate, though you’ve no choice in this,

  there’s comfort in your owners’ ancient wealth.

  Those who’ve reaped richly, when they never hoped to,

  are cruel to slaves […

  …] strictly by the book.

  I’ve told you—so you know—how things are done here.

  CHORUS: (to Cassandra) She’s finished, and she gave you clear instructions.

  Here you are, tangled in the net of fate.

  You might, perhaps, obey her. Or you might not.

  1050

  CLYTEMNESTRA: Unless there’s nothing in her head except

  a strange barbarian language like a swallow’s,

  the things I say to urge her should make sense.

  CHORUS: (to Cassandra) Follow her. Your best choice is as she orders.