Gods and Heroes of Ancient Greece

by Gustav Schwab

  “Listen,” Electra replied. “You boast of having murdered my father. That is shameful enough! Whether or not the murder was justified has nothing to do with it. You did not kill him for the sake of justice! You were driven to it by the flattery, by the caresses of that man who now owns you. My father sacrificed his daughter for the Argive army, not for his personal welfare. He did it reluctantly. He did it under compulsion and only for the sake of the people of Greece. But even if he had done it for his brother and himself, is that any reason why he should die by the hand of his wife? Did you have to marry your accomplice and so let disgrace follow on the heels of crime? Or was that also included in the vengeance you think you owed your daughter?”

  “Insolent girl!” screamed Clytaemnestra. “By Artemis, you shall repent your defiance as soon as Aegisthus returns! Will you stop annoying me and let me make my offerings in peace!”

  Clytaemnestra turned from her daughter and went up to the altar of Apollo which stood in front of the palace, as before every Argive house, to protect the walls and the street. Her sacrifice was intended to propitiate the god of prophecy who had sent her the dream which had frightened her during the past night. And it seemed that the god wished to favor her. Hardly had she completed the rites when a stranger approached the tirewomen who had accompanied her and asked for the palace of Aegisthus. When they pointed the queen out to him, he bowed to her and said: “Hail, Clytaemnestra! I have come with welcome news for you and your husband and your friends. I am sent by King Strophius of Phanote. Orestes is dead. That is what I have been sent to tell you.”

  “These words mean death to me,” moaned Electra and sank down on the steps.

  “Repeat what you said!” cried Clytaemnestra, hastily leaving the altar. “Do not mind that foolish girl. Tell me everything. Tell me!”

  “Your son Orestes,” said the stranger, “went to the sacred games at Delphi, for he was driven by the thirst for glory. When the herald announced the beginning of the foot races, he stepped forward, and he was so radiant that all marvelled at him. Before anyone even saw him start he had reached the goal, running like wind or lightning. He won, and the name of Argive Orestes, son of Agamemnon, conqueror of Troy, was proclaimed as the victor. This was on the first day of the games. But the strongest man cannot escape his fate if the gods choose to bewilder him. The next morning, when the chariot races were to begin at rise of sun, he was again among the contestants. They were an Achaean, a Spartan, and two men from Libya with great experience in the driving of horses. Orestes, with his four Thessalian horses, was the fifth. After him came an Aetolian with four bays. The seventh contestant in the races was from Magnesia, the eighth, with white horses, an Aenian. The ninth came from Athens, and the tenth from Boeotia. And now the judges shuffled the lots, the chariots were lined up in order, a trumpet gave the signal, and all ten stormed forward, shaking the reins and calling to their horses. The brazen chariots clanged, dust whirled from under the wheels, and no one spared the goad. Close behind every chariot were the snorting horses of the next. They had already started on the seventh round. Whenever Orestes circled the turning post he almost touched it with the axle, for he had taken the curve very close by drawing tight the rein of the left horse and leaving slack that of the right. Up to this point the chariots had all run smoothly, but now the hard-mouthed horses of the Aenian shied and ran against the chariot of one of the contestants from Libya. This one slip immediately caused the wildest confusion. Chariot crashed on chariot, and soon the field was covered with shattered cars. The Athenian was the only one wise enough to drive on the outer side of the course. He reined in his horses and left the clutter of chariots in the inner circle. Close behind him came Orestes. When he saw the tangle of men, beasts, and chariots, and realized that only the Athenian was left to compete with him, he beat his horses with the goad, and now, both standing erect, the bold pair set out to finish the race. The turning post around which they had to drive for the last time, was near. Orestes had made good progress on the long course. Overconfident in his luck, he gradually slackened the rein of the left horse too. This caused the animal to turn too soon. The axle barely grazed the post, but still the impact was so great that it broke. Orestes fell and was dragged along the ground. The moment he toppled from the chariot his horses ran over the sand in frantic flight. The spectators screamed with pity, for the Argive now trailed on the earth, now hurtled through the air. At last the other charioteers succeeded in stopping his horses and cutting him loose. But he was so disfigured and covered with blood that even his own friends would not have recognized the body. The Phocians quickly burned it on the pyre, and envoys from Phocis are on their way with an urn which contains his bones, so that these may be buried in his native earth.”

  The messenger paused. Clytaemnestra was shaken with conflicting emotions. She wanted to rejoice wholeheartedly at the death of her son whose coming she had feared. But her mother’s grief tempered the feeling of relief which the message had given her. Electra, on the other hand, felt nothing but boundless sorrow. “Where shall I flee?” she cried, after Clytaemnestra had taken the stranger from Phocis into the palace. “Now I am utterly alone. Now I must go on and on serving the murderers of my father! But I cannot! I will not live under the same roof with them any longer. Rather will I leave the palace and perish miserably. And if anyone within begrudges me this slow death, let him come out and kill me at once! Life can mean nothing but grief to me. Death is more than welcome!”

  Gradually she fell silent and gave herself up to dull despair. She must have been sitting on the marble steps of the palace for hours, her head bowed in her lap, when her younger sister Chrysothemis ran up to her and roused her from her brooding. “Orestes has come!” she cried. “He is just as much alive as you or I!”

  Electra raised her head and stared at her sister with wide-open eyes. “Have you lost your wits, sister?” she asked. “Are you jeering at my sorrow and yours?”

  “I can only report what I found,” said Chrysothemis between smiles and tears. “Listen, and I shall tell you how I discovered the truth. When I came to our father’s grave, overgrown with grass, I saw the traces of a fresh offering of milk and garlands of flowers. I looked around in terror and amazement, and when I had made sure that no one was there, I came closer. Then, at the edge of the mound, I saw a lock of hair, newly cut. And suddenly—I hardly know why—I thought of our brother Orestes, and I guessed that the lock must be his. I took it in my hand with tears of joy, and here it is! It must—I am sure it must have been cut from his head!”

  Electra shook her own head doubtfully. All she had heard seemed too vague, too fantastic. “I am sorry for you because you are so credulous,” she said to her sister. “But then you do not know what I know.” And now she told her sister everything she had heard from the Phocian, and at every word Chrysothemis grew sadder and sadder, until she joined in her sister’s lament. “The lock,” said Electra, “is probably from the head of some friend who offered it up for dead Orestes at his father’s grave.” But in spite of her bitterness and unbelief, Electra had gained control of herself while she spoke to her sister, and now she proposed that since the last hope of vengeance by the hand of Orestes was gone, the two girls together should do the great deed and kill Aegisthus, the murderer. “Think well, Chrysothemis,” she said. “You cling to life and its joys. Do not imagine that Aegisthus will ever permit us to marry and bring forth children who could be future avengers of Agamemnon. But if you do as I say, you will prove your faithfulness to your father and brother, win glory, live in freedom, and be happy with a husband worthy of you and your line. For who would not be glad to court the daughter of so noble a house? And all the world will praise what we have done. At the feast and in the assembly we shall be honored for a deed brave enough for a man. Give me your help! Save me, save yourself from the joyless and humiliating life we are leading!”

  But Chrysothemis regarded the plan her sister had unfolded with such passionate intensity as unwise, incautio
us, and unfeasible.

  “What have you to rely on?” she asked. “Have you the strong arm of a man? Are you not a woman? Are you not opposed by powerful foes whose position grows more and more secure every day? It is true that our lot is hard, but if you are not careful it will become insufferable. We could, indeed, win glory, but it is far more likely that we should die a shameful death. And perhaps dying would not be the worst to befall us. There are more terrible things than death. Let me beg you, sister—do not destroy us! Curb your anger! I shall guard everything you have said and keep it secret.”

  “I am not surprised to hear you say this,” Electra sighed. “I knew very well that you would reject my plan. Then I must do it alone, do it unaided. And perhaps it is better so!” Chrysothemis put her arms around her and wept. But her elder sister did not relent. “Go,” she said coldly. “Tell all you have heard to our mother.” And when her sister shook her head, she called after her: “Go, go! I shall never follow in your footsteps.”

  She was still sitting motionless on the steps when two young men came toward her. They were carrying a small urn of bronze, and with them were other youths. The one with the noblest bearing turned to Electra and asked her where he might find Aegisthus. He told her that he was one of the envoys from Phocis. At that Electra sprang up and stretched out her hand for the urn. “By the gods, stranger,” she cried, “give me the urn, so that, in shedding my tears on the bones of Orestes, I can mourn my whole unhappy house.”

  “Whoever she may be,” said the youth, looking at the girl attentively, “give her the urn. She cannot be a foe of the dead. She is his friend, or perhaps he was her kinsman.” Electra took the urn in both hands and pressed it to her heart again and again. And softly she moaned: “O remains of the dearest I had on earth! How great were the hopes with which I sent you away, and now you come back to me like this! I wish I had died rather than let you go to another land. Then you would have been slaughtered as your father before you, and would not have perished miserably in exile, burned on a pyre heaped by the hands of strangers. All my care of you, all my sweet pains have gone for nothing! Now that you have died, everything is dead for me, even I have died, since you are no longer alive. Our enemies exult. Our mother can give herself up entirely to her pleasures, for she has nothing more to fear. If only I could share this small urn with you!”

  While the girl was uttering her bitter lament, the youth who was leading the envoys could no longer curb his tongue. “Can this be Electra?” he cried. “But how distorted by sorrow! Who has done this to her?”

  Electra looked at him in surprise. “It is because I am forced to serve the murderers of my father,” she answered. “This urn means the death of my hopes.”

  “Put it down!” said the youth, his voice choked with tears. And when Electra refused and only clutched it more tightly, he said: “Put it away. It is empty!”

  Electra flung the urn down in despair. “Then where is his grave?” she asked pleadingly.

  “Nowhere,” he answered. “The living need no grave.”

  “He is alive—he lives?”

  “He is alive—just as alive as you and I. I am Orestes, I am your brother. See, you can recognize me by the signet ring our father once gave me. Do you believe me now?”

  “O light in the darkness!” cried Electra and threw herself into his arms.

  Just then the messenger who had given Clytaemnestra the false news of her son’s death came out of the palace. He was the servant of young Orestes, the man to whom Electra herself had entrusted the child and who had accompanied him to Phocis. When he revealed himself to the girl, she greeted him and said joyfully:

  “You have saved our line. What great service these faithful hands of yours have performed! But how was it possible that you were not discovered? How did you accomplish all this?”

  The man did not take time to answer her impetuous questions. “The day will come,” he said, “when I can tell you at my leisure everything that happened. But now we must hurry. The hour for revenge has come. Clytaemnestra is still alone. She has no one to protect her, for Aegisthus has not yet returned. But if we hesitate even for a moment, we may have to fight the guards—more guards than we can cope with.” Orestes agreed, and with his faithful friend Pylades, son of King Strophius of Phocis, he rushed into the palace. His companions followed. Electra flung herself down at Apollo’s altar in supplication and then followed her brother.

  A few minutes later Aegisthus returned. He entered the palace and immediately asked for the men from Phocis who had brought the happy news of Orestes’ death. The first to cross his path was Electra, and he put his question to her with contemptuous pride. “Well, speak!” he said. “Where are those strangers who have crushed your dearest hopes?”

  Electra suppressed her true feelings and answered quietly: “They are inside. They have been taken to their dear hostess.”

  “And have they really reported his death?” he continued.

  “Yes,” said Electra. “Not only that, but they have brought the dead with them.”

  “These are welcome words I hear from your lips,” he said jeeringly. “But look! There they come, bringing the dead!”

  Joyfully he went to meet Orestes and his companions, who were carrying a shrouded corpse from the inner part of the palace into the court. “O happy sight!” cried the king, and fixed his eyes on their burden. “But hurry now and lift the covering. It is, after all, only proper that I mourn him who was my kinsman.”

  Orestes replied: “Lift the covering yourself. It is fitting that you alone see and mourn what lies under this pall.”

  “That is right,” said the king. “But first call Clytaemnestra, so that she too may see what she will rejoice to see.”

  “Clytaemnestra is not far away,” said Orestes. And now the king raised the covering, but he recoiled with a cry of horror. For under it was not the corpse of Orestes, which he had hoped to see, but the bloodstained body of Clytaemnestra. “Into what trap have I stepped!” he cried in terror.

  Orestes answered in a voice like thunder. “Did you not know that you have been talking to him you thought dead? Do you not see that Orestes, his father’s avenger, stands before you?”

  “Let me explain,” gasped Aegisthus, sinking to the floor. But Electra implored her brother not to listen to him. Orestes forced Aegisthus to precede him back into the palace, and in the very same place where he had once murdered King Agamemnon, he himself now fell a victim to the sword stroke of the avenger.

  ORESTES AND THE FURIES

  In avenging Agamemnon by the slaying of Clytaemnestra and her lover, Orestes had done the will of the gods, for an oracle of Apollo had commanded him to do this deed. But his piety toward his father had made him the murderer of his mother. Hardly was she dead before filial love stirred in his heart, and the crime he had committed against nature made him the prey of the Erinyes or Furies, the goddesses of vengeance, whom the Greeks—to propitiate them—gave the name of Eumenides, which means “the Gracious Ones,” or “those we implore to be gracious toward us.” The Eumenides were the daughters of Night, and as dark as their mother. They were taller than any human being. Their eyes were bloodshot, their hair was a mass of writhing serpents. Holding a torch in one hand and a scourge plaited of snakes in the other, they pursued the murderer of his mother wherever he went and tormented him with the pangs of remorse.

  Immediately after the deed, the Furies afflicted Orestes with madness. He left his sisters, Mycenae, and his native land in frantic flight. In a lucid moment he had betrothed his faithful friend Pylades to Electra, and now Pylades did not return to his father, Strophius, king of Phocis, but shared the wanderings of mad Orestes. He was the only mortal to stand by him in his wretchedness. But an immortal also came to his aid. Apollo, at whose command he had slain his mother, remained near him, now visible, now invisible, and fended off the raging Erinyes. The spirit of Orestes grew calmer whenever he felt the god at his side.

  After long wanderings the fugi
tives came to Delphi, and Orestes took refuge in the temple of Apollo which the Furies were not permitted to enter. He threw himself on the floor, exhausted with weariness and terror, and the god looked at him full of compassion. Then he revived his hope and courage with the words: “Unhappy son, take comfort. I shall not betray you. Whether I am near or far, I shall guard you and never give you up to your enemies. At this very moment I have poured leaden sleep on the lids of those terrible old goddesses who rise from the depths of Tartarus and are abhorred by immortals, mortals, and even animals. For the present they are tamed and dare not approach my temple. But do not depend too much on their slumber! It will not last long, for Fate permits me only brief ascendency over these ancient deities. You must soon resume your flight, but you shall, at least, not wander without a goal. You shall go to Athens, to the stately city of my sister, Pallas Athene. There I shall see to it that you come before a just court, where you can speak and defend your cause. Do not be afraid. Though I myself must leave you now, my brother Hermes will guard you and protect you from all harm.”

  So said Apollo. But before he left his temple and Orestes, the shade of Clytaemnestra had appeared to the sleeping Furies in a dream and whispered to them angrily: “Why are you asleep? Have you abandoned me so utterly that I must hover unavenged in the bleakness of Hades? My closest kin have wronged me, and no god cares that I was slain by my own son! I have poured you many libations, and you drained them all. How many offerings have I brought you by night! And now you forget all this and let your prey escape like a deer which slips from the snare! Hear me, gods of the underworld! It is I, Clytaemnestra, whom you swore to avenge, and who now troubles your dream to remind you of your oath.”

  But the sinister goddesses could not shake off the magic sleep which held them spellbound. Not until they heard the words: “Orestes, the murderer of his mother, is escaping you!” did one of them rouse herself and wake the others. Like wild beasts they leaped from their lair, stormed boldly to the temple of Apollo, and set foot on the threshold of the sanctuary. “Son of Zeus,” they shouted at him, “you are a cheat! You, the younger god, tread underfoot the older goddesses, the daughters of Night, and dare withhold from our wrath this scorner of the law, this slayer of his mother! You have stolen him from us! Is it right for a god to do that?”