 | Agamemnon |  |
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SCENE THE FIFTH.
Agamemnon, Clytemnestra.Aga.
Come, consort, come; and from my heart dispel,
For thou alone canst do it, every doubt,
Which, on that heart, Electra hath impress'd.
Cly.
Electra? ... Doubt? ... What has she said to thee? ...
Oh heaven! ... She loves thee so; ... yet on this day
With false suggestions she oppresses thee? ...
And yet, what doubts? ...
Aga.
Ægisthus ...
Cly.
What of him? ...
Aga.
Ægisthus, he, of whom thou ne'er to me,
As yet, hast spoken, seems to interrupt
Electra's comfort and tranquillity.
Cly.
Hast thou not sentenced him to banishment?
What can Electra fear from him?
Aga.
Ah, thou
Art not, as we are, of the blood of Atreus:
A stranger's mind cannot conceive the horror
That, in our race, Thyestes' race excites.
Yet to the terrors of a timid damsel
I do not yield, so as to change the hour
Fix'd for his banishment: I am content
To know that he is going to a distance.
I now shall have my heart relieved from care.
It now is time, full time, beloved consort,
That thou unfoldest to me the deep grief,
That weighs upon thy heart, and which I read,
In spite of all thy efforts, on thy face.
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If I be the occasion of thy grief,
Who better than myself can mitigate,
Or expiate it, or divide it with thee? ...
Oh heaven! but thou art silent? From the earth
Thine eyes dost never raise? Immoveably,
Suffused with tears, they're fix'd... Alas! what thou,
Electra saidst to me was too, too true.
Cly.
Too true? ... Electra? ... Did she speak of me? ...
Dost thou believe her?
Aga.
Yes, she has, to me,
Betray'd thee; and she has reveal'd to me
The fountain of thy grief.
Cly.
Oh heaven! ... Perchance
She has described my faith toward thee as dubious? ...
I clearly see it all; Electra always
Little regarded me.
Aga.
Thou art mistaken.
She spoke to me, of thee, as it behoved
A duteous daughter of a much-loved mother:
If otherwise, should I have listen'd to her?
Cly.
What did she say then?
Aga.
What, without a blush,
Thou should'st have told me of thine own accord:
That bitter recollections, in thy heart,
Of thy devoted daughter haunt thee yet.
Cly.
Of Iphigenia? ... Now I breathe....—Ah, yes,
That day will ever more be fatal to me. ...
Aga.
What can I say, that thou already know'st not?
In every heart, except in thine, I find
Pity for my misfortunes: but if tears,
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Could mitigate thy unconsumed affliction,
In tears, or in recriminating words,
Why not indulge? Though I deserve it not,
I would endure it. Why not weep with me?
Dost thou despise my tears? Thou knowest well
I were not able to refrain from them,
At the remembrance of my luckless daughter.
Further, oh consort, if thou hatest me,
Ah tell me so: avow'd dissatisfaction
Is more endurable than feign'd regard.
Cly.
Perchance the cause that in thine eyes I seem
So much more alter'd than I am, arises
From thy not being what thou wert before.
I will e'en speak it out: perchance Cassandra,
Ah, yes, Cassandra, is the cause, whence I
Am now less acceptable to Atrides...
Aga.
Oh heaven! Cassandra? Consort, what dost thou
Impute to me? and canst thou think this true?
When the best spoils among us were divided
Of ravaged Troy, to me th'illustrious damsel,
Deprived by the victorious Grecian sword
Of parents and of country, was awarded.
The accustom'd, and the fatal, law of conquest,
Ordain'd, that, bound in fetters, I should bring her
With me to Argos; an affecting instance
Of the uncertainty of human greatness.
I pity, it is true, Cassandra's fate,
But thee alone I love. Know'st thou not this?
And as a proof of this, to thee I yield
The royal captive: if it be thy will,
Withdraw her from my sight, and exercise,
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Thee I conjure alone to recollect
That she's the wretched daughter of a king
Once powerful; that to treat her with disdain,
Would be unworthy of thy lofty station.
Cly.
Dost thou not love her? ... wretched me ... oh heaven!
And dost thou yet so faithfully love me?
But can I e'er consent to take from thee
Thy lawful spoil? Ah! no; she's thine by right:
She has already cost thee too much toil,
And too much jeopardy, and too much blood.
Aga.
What boots it to insinuate, and speak not?
Rather disburthen by severe rebukes
Thy pent-up bitterness, than thus convey
Unutter'd, yet intelligible meanings.
If it be such a thought that troubles thee,
And in thy heart if jealous phantasies
Find a reception, thy inquietudes
Are by the roots effectually torn up.
Come, consort, come, and be by thine own eyes
Persuaded, that Cassandra, in thy palace,
Can be alone thy first obedient handmaid.
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