Works of Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Page 198
My father, mother, and my long-lost home?
Oh let thy vessels bear me thither, king! That in the ancient halls, where sorrow still In accents low doth fondly breathe my name, Joy, as in welcome of a new-born child, May round the columns twine the fairest wreath. Thou wouldst to me and mine new life impart.
THOAS.
Then go! the promptings of thy heart obey; Despise the voice of reason and good counsel. Be quite the woman, sway’d by each desire, That bridleless impels her to and fro. When passion rages fiercely in her breast, No sacred tie withholds her from the wretch Who would allure her to forsake for him A husband’s or a father’s guardian arms; Extinct within her heart its fiery glow, The golden tongue of eloquence in vain With words of truth and power assails her ear.
IPHIGENIA.
Remember now, O king, thy noble words! My trust and candour wilt thou thus repay? Thou seem’dst, methought, prepar’d to hear the truth.
THOAS.
For this unlook’d-for answer not prepar’d. Yet ’twas to be expected; knew I not That ’twas with woman I had now to deal?
IPHIGENIA.
Upbraid not thus, O king, our feeble sex! Though not in dignity to match with yours, The weapons woman wields are not ignoble. And trust me, Thoas, in thy happiness I have a deeper insight than thyself. Thou thinkest, ignorant alike of both, A closer union would augment our bliss; Inspir’d with confidence and honest zeal Thou strongly urgest me to yield consent; And here I thank the gods, who give me strength To shun a doom unratified by them.
THOAS.
’Tis not a god, ’tis thine own heart that speaks.
IPHIGENIA.
’Tis through the heart alone they speak to us.
THOAS.
To hear them have I not an equal right?
IPHIGENIA.
The raging tempest drowns the still, small voice.
THOAS.
This voice no doubt the priestess hears alone.
IPHIGENIA.
Before all others should the prince attend it.
THOAS.
Thy sacred office, and ancestral right To Jove’s own table, place thee with the gods In closer union than an earth-born savage.
IPHIGENIA.
Thus must I now the confidence atone Thyself extorted from me!
THOAS.
I’m a man, And better ’tis we end this conference. Hear then my last resolve. Be priestess still Of the great goddess who selected thee; And may she pardon me, that I from her, Unjustly and with secret self-reproach, Her ancient sacrifice so long withheld. From olden times no stranger near’d our shore But fell a victim at her sacred shrine. But thou, with kind affection (which at times Seem’d like a gentle daughter’s tender love, At times assum’d to my enraptur’d heart The modest inclination of a bride), Didst so inthral me, as with magic bonds, That I forgot my duty. Thou didst rock My senses in a dream: I did not hear My people’s murmurs: now they cry aloud, Ascribing my poor son’s untimely death To this my guilt. No longer for thy sake Will I oppose the wishes of the crowd, Who urgently demand the sacrifice.
IPHIGENIA.
For mine own sake I ne’er desired it from thee.
Who to the gods ascribe a thirst for blood Do misconceive their nature, and impute To them their own inhuman dark desires. Did not Diana snatch me from the priest, Preferring my poor service to my death?
THOAS.
’Tis not for us, on reason’s shifting grounds, Lightly to guide and construe rites divine. Perform thy duty; I’ll accomplish mine. Two strangers, whom in caverns of the shore We found conceal’d, and whose arrival here Bodes to my realm no good, are in my power. With them thy goddess may once more resume Her ancient, pious, long-suspended rites! I send them here, — thy duty not unknown. [Exit.
IPHIGENIA, alone.
Gracious protectress! thou hast clouds To shelter innocence distress’d, And genial gales from Fate’s rude grasp, Safely to waft her o’er the sea, O’er the wide earth’s remotest realms, Where’er it seemeth good to thee. Wise art thou, — thine all-seeing eye The future and the past surveys, And doth on all thy children rest, E’en as thy pure and guardian light Keeps o’er the earth its silent watch, The beauty and the life of night. O Goddess! keep my hands from blood! Blessing it never brings, nor peace; And still in evil hours the form Of the chance-murder’d man appears To fill the unwilling murderer’s soul With horrible and gloomy fears. For fondly the Immortals view Man’s widely-scatter’d, simple race; And the poor mortal’s transient life Gladly prolong, that he may raise Awhile to their eternal heavens His sympathetic joyous gaze.
ACT THE SECOND.
SCENE I.
ORESTES. PYLADES.
ORESTES.
It is the path of death that now we tread: At every step my soul grows more serene. When I implor’d Apollo to remove The grisly band of Furies from my side, He seem’d, with hope-inspiring, godlike words, To promise aid and safety in the fane Of his lov’d sister, who o’er Tauris rules. Thus the prophetic word fulfils itself, That with my life shall terminate my woe. How easy ’tis for me, whose heart is crush’d, Whose sense is deaden’d by a hand divine, Thus to renounce the beauteous light of day! And must the son of Atreus not entwine The wreath of conquest round his dying brow — Must I, as my forefathers, as my sire, Bleed like a victim, — an ignoble death — So be it! Better at the altar here, Than in a nook obscure, where kindred hands Have spread assassination’s wily net. Yield me this brief repose, infernal Powers! Ye, who, like loosen’d hounds, still scent the blood, Which, trickling from my feet, betrays my path. Leave me! ere long I come to you below. Nor you, nor I, should view the light of day. The soft green carpet of the beauteous earth Is no arena for unhallow’d fiends. Below I seek you, where an equal fate Binds all in murky, never-ending night. Thee only, thee, my Pylades, my friend, The guiltless partner of my crime and curse, Thee am I loath, before thy time, to take To yonder cheerless shore! Thy life or death Alone awakens in me hope or fear.
PYLADES.
Like thee, Orestes, I am not prepar’d Downwards to wander to yon realm of shade. I purpose still, through the entangl’d paths, Which seem as they would lead to blackest night, Again to guide our upward way to life. Of death I think not; I observe and mark Whether the gods may not perchance present Means and fit moment for a joyful flight. Dreaded or not, the stroke of death must come; And though the priestess stood with hand uprais’d, Prepar’d to cut our consecrated locks, Our safety still should be my only thought: Uplift thy soul above this weak despair; Desponding doubts but hasten on our peril. Apollo pledg’d to us his sacred word, That in his sister’s’ holy fane for thee Were comfort, aid, and glad return prepar’d. The words of Heaven are not equivocal, As in despair the poor oppress’d one thinks.
ORESTES.
The mystic web of life my mother spread Around my infant head, and so I grew, An image of my sire; and my mute look Was aye a bitter and a keen reproof To her and base Ægisthus. Oh, how oft, When silently within our gloomy hall Electra sat, and mus’d beside the fire, Have I with anguish’d spirit climb’d her knee, And watch’d her bitter tears with sad amaze! Then would she tell me of our noble sire: How much I long’d to see him — be with him! Myself at Troy one moment fondly wish’d, My sire’s return, the next. The day arrived —
PYLADES.
Oh, of that awful hour let fiends of hell
Hold nightly converse! Of a time more fair
May the remembrance animate our hearts
To fresh heroic deeds. The gods require
On this wide earth the service of the good,
To work their pleasure. Still they count on thee; For in thy father’s train they sent thee not, When he to Orcus went unwilling down.
ORESTES.
Would I had seiz’d the border of his robe. And follow’d him!
PYLADES.
They kindly car’d for me Who here detain’d thee; for if thou hadst died I know not what had then become of me; Since I with thee, and for thy sake al
one, Have from my childhood liv’d, and wish to live.
ORESTES.
Do not remind me of those tranquil days, When me thy home a safe asylum gave; With fond solicitude thy noble sire The half-nipp’d, tender flow’ret gently rear’d; While thou a friend and playmate always gay, Like to a light and brilliant butterfly Around a dusky flower, didst around me Still with new life thy merry gambols play, And breathe thy joyous spirit in my soul, Until, my cares forgetting, I with thee Was lur’d to snatch the eager joys of youth.
PYLADES.
My very life began when thee I lov’d.
ORESTES.
Say, then thy woes began, and thou speak’st truly. This is the sharpest sorrow of my lot, That, like a plague-infected wretch, I bear Death and destruction hid within my breast; That, where I tread, e’en on the healthiest spot, Ere long the blooming faces round betray The writhing features of a ling’ring death.
PYLADES.
Were thy breath venom, I had been the first To die that death, Orestes. Am I not, As ever, full of courage and of joy? And love and courage are the spirit’s wings Wafting to noble actions.
ORESTES.
Noble actions? Time was, when fancy painted such before us! When oft, the game pursuing, on we roam’d O’er hill and valley; hoping that ere long With club and weapon arm’d, we so might track The robber to his den, or monster huge. And then at twilight, by the glassy sea, We peaceful sat, reclin’d against each other The waves came dancing to our very feet. And all before us lay the wide, wide world. Then on a sudden one would seize his sword, And future deeds shone round us like the stars, Which gemm’d in countless throngs the vault of night.
PYLADES.
Endless, my friend, the projects which the soul Burns to accomplish. We would every deed At once perform as grandly as it shows After long ages, when from land to land The poet’s swelling song hath roll’d it on. It sounds so lovely what our fathers did, When, in the silent evening shade reclin’d, We drink it in with music’s melting tones; And what we do is, as their deeds to them, Toilsome and incomplete! Thus we pursue what always flies before; We disregard the path in which we tread, Scarce see around the footsteps of our sires, Or heed the trace of their career on earth. We ever hasten on to chase their shades, Which godlike, at a distance far remote, On golden clouds reclin’d, the mountains crown. The man I prize not who esteems himself Just as the people’s breath may chance to raise him. But thou, Orestes, to the gods give thanks, That they have done so much through thee already.
ORESTES.
When they ordain a man to noble deeds,
To shield from dire calamity his friends,
Extend his empire, or protect its bounds,
Or put to flight its ancient enemies,
Let him be grateful! For to him a god Imparts the first, the sweetest joy of life. Me have they doom’d to be a slaughterer, To be an honour’d mother’s murderer, And shamefully a deed of shame avenging. Me through their own decree they have o’erwhelm’d. Trust me, the race of Tantalus is doom’d; Nor may his last descendant leave the earth, Or crown’d with honour or unstain’d by crime.
PYLADES.
The gods avenge not on the son the deeds Done by the father. Each, or good or bad, Of his own actions reaps the due reward. The parents’ blessing, not their curse, descends.
ORESTES.
Methinks their blessing did not lead us here.
PYLADES.
It was at least the mighty gods’ decree.
ORESTES.
Then is it their decree which doth destroy us.
PYLADES.
Perform what they command, and wait the event. Do thou Apollo’s sister bear from hence, That they at Delphi may united dwell, Rever’d and honour’d by a noble race: Thee, for this deed, the heav’nly pair will view With gracious eye, and from the hateful grasp Of the infernal Powers will rescue thee. E’en now none dares intrude within this grove.
ORESTES.
So shall I die at least a peaceful death.
PYLADES.
Far other are my thoughts, and not unskill’d Have I the future and the past combin’d In quiet meditation. Long, perchance, Hath ripen’d in the counsel of the gods The great event. Diana wish d to leave This savage region foul with human blood. We were selected for the high emprize; To us it is assign’d, and strangely thus We are conducted to the threshold here.
ORESTES.
My friend, with wondrous skill thou link’st thy wish With the predestin’d purpose of the gods.
PYLADES.
Of what avail is prudence, if it fail Heedful to mark the purposes of Heaven? A noble man, who much hath sinn’d, some god Doth summon to a dangerous enterprize, Which to achieve appears impossible. The hero conquers, and atoning serves Mortals and gods, who thenceforth honour him.
ORESTES.
Am I foredoom’d to action and to life, Would that a god from my distemper’d brain Might chase this dizzy fever, which impels My restless steps along a slipp’ry path, Stain’d with a mother’s blood, to direful death; And pitying, dry the fountain, whence the blood, For ever spouting from a mother’s wounds, Eternally defiles me!
PYLADES.
Wait in peace! Thou dost increase the evil, and dost take The office of the Furies on thyself. Let me contrive, — be still! And when at length The time for action claims our powers combin’d, Then will I summon thee, and on we’ll stride, With cautious boldness to achieve the event.
ORESTES.
I hear Ulysses speak!
PYLADES.
Nay, mock me not. Each must select the hero after whom To climb the steep and difficult ascent Of high Olympus. And to me it seems That him nor stratagem nor art defile Who consecrates himself to noble deeds.
ORESTES.
I most esteem the brave and upright man.
PYLADES.
And therefore have I not desir’d thy counsel. One step is ta’en already: from our guards I have extorted this intelligence. A strange and godlike woman now restrains The execution of that bloody law: Incense, and prayer, and an unsullied heart, These are the gifts she offers to the gods. Her fame is widely spread, and it is thought That from the race of Amazon she springs, And hither fled some great calamity.
ORESTES.
Her gentle sway, it seems, lost all its power At the approach of one so criminal, Whom the dire curse enshrouds in gloomy night. Our doom to seal, the pious thirst for blood Again unchains the ancient cruel rite: The monarch’s savage will decrees our death; A woman cannot save when he condemns.
PYLADES.
That ’tis a woman is a ground for hope! A man, the very best, with cruelty At length may so familiarize his mind, His character through custom so transform, That he shall come to make himself a law Of what at first his very soul abhorr’d. But woman doth retain the stamp of mind She first assum’d. On her we may depend In good or evil with more certainty. She comes; leave us alone. I dare not tell At once our names, nor unreserv’d confide Our fortunes to her. Now retire awhile, And ere she speaks with thee we’ll meet again.
SCENE II.
IPHIGENIA. PYLADES.
IPHIGENIA.
Whence art thou? Stranger, speak! To me thy bearing Stamps thee of Grecian, not of Scythian race.
(She unbinds his chains.)
The freedom that I give is dangerous: The gods avert the doom that threatens you!
PYLADES.
Delicious music! dearly welcome tones Of our own language in a foreign land! With joy my captive eye once more beholds The azure mountains of my native coast. Oh, let this joy that I too am a Greek Convince thee, priestess! How I need thine aid, A moment I forget, my spirit wrapt In contemplation of so fair a vision. If fate’s dread mandate doth not seal thy lips. From which of our illustrious races, say, Dost thou thy godlike origin derive?
IPHIGENIA.
A priestess, by the Goddess’ self ordain’d And consecrated too, doth speak with thee. Let that suffice: but tell me, who art thou, And what unbless’d o’erruling de
stiny Hath hither led thee with thy friend?
PYLADES.
The woe,
Whose hateful presence ever dogs our steps,
I can with ease relate. Oh, would that thou
Couldst with like ease, divine one, shed on us
One ray of cheering hope! We are from Crete,
Adrastus’ sons, and I, the youngest born,
Named Cephalus; my eldest brother, he,
Laodamus. Between us two a youth
Of savage temper grew, who oft disturb’d
The joy and concord of our youthful sports.
Long as our father led his powers at Troy,
Passive our mother’s mandate we obey’d; But when, enrich’d with booty, he return’d, And shortly after died, a contest fierce For the succession and their father’s wealth, Parted the brothers. I the eldest joined; He slew the second; and the Furies hence For kindred murder dog his restless steps. But to this savage shore the Delphian god Hath sent us, cheer’d by hope, commanding us Within his sister’s temple to await The blessed hand of aid. We have been ta’en, Brought hither, and now stand for sacrifice. My tale is told.
IPHIGENIA.
Tell me, is Troy o’erthrown? Assure me of its fall.
PYLADES.
It lies in ruins. But oh, ensure deliverance to us! Hasten, I pray, the promis’d aid of heav’n. Pity my brother, say a kindly word; But I implore thee, spare him when thou speakest. Too easily his inner mind is torn By joy, or grief, or cruel memory. A feverish madness oft doth seize on him, Yielding his spirit, beautiful and free, A prey to furies.
IPHIGENIA.
Great as is thy woe, Forget it, I conjure thee, for a while, Till I am satisfied.
PYLADES.
The stately town, Which ten long years withstood the Grecian host, Now lies in ruins, ne’er to rise again; Yet many a hero’s grave will oft recall Our sad remembrance to that barbarous shore; There lies Achilles and his noble friend.
IPHIGENIA.
And are ye, godlike forms, reduc’d to dust!
PYLADES.
Nor Palamede, nor Ajax, ere again The daylight of their native land behold.
IPHIGENIA.
He speaks not of my father, doth not name Him with the fallen. He may yet survive! I may behold him! still hope on, my heart!