University of Virginia Library

ACT THE FIRST.

SCENE THE FIRST.

Ægisthus.
Ægis.
Oh bloody, angry, discontented shade
Of unavenged Thyestes, why pursue me?
Leave me, oh leave me, nor torment me thus;
Visit once more the sluggish Stygian waves.
All, all thy furies fill my breast; thy blood,
Too surely, runs through all my veins. I know
That I am the offspring of flagitious incest,
To guilt predoomed; nor is it requisite,
To bring this to my mind, that I should see thee.
That Agamemnon now returns to Argos
A haughty conqueror from Troy, I know.
Within his palace I expect him here;
Let him return; his triumph will be short,
I swear to thee. Vengeance shall guide my steps:
Vengeance resounds within my heart; the time
Approaches for it; thou shalt have it; here
More than one victim thou shalt have, Thyestes;
The blood of Atreus thou shalt drink in streams.
But I must have recourse to art, or ere
I use the sword: unaided, and alone,
Against a powerful king I stand: can I,
If in my breast my fury and my hate
I do not hide, victory o'er him obtain?

SCENE THE SECOND.

Ægisthus, Clytemnestra.
Cly.
Ægisthus, evermore I find thee thus
A prey to gloomy thoughts in solitude?
From me thou hidest thy corroding cares,
From me? ... Must I then see thee fly from her
Who breathes alone for thee?

Ægis.
I do confess
I am too much an alien in this palace.
'Tis true, thou trustest to me; and my foot
Within these thresholds I had never planted,
Hadst thou not fill'd the throne: I hither came,
Thou knowest, for thy sake, and here remain
For thee. But ah, the day, the fatal day,
Already is approaching, on the which,
Thou ... e'en thyself ... wilt banish me from hence.

Cly.
What saidst thou? I? and dost thou think it? no!
But little, nothing, do my oaths avail;
Thou for thyself shalt witness, if I cherish,
In this enamour'd bosom, any thought
Except of thee alone.

Ægis.
And though I were
Thy heart's sole object, yet, if I esteem
Thy honour more important than my life,
I should destroy, and will destroy myself,
Ere I disturb thy peace; or be the means
To obscure thy fame, or rob thee but in part
Of Agamemnon's love. From hence to go
A fugitive, neglected, and obscure,
This is the destiny to which I am doomed,
The unhappy offspring of accursed Thyestes.
I am accounted of an infamous sire,
Though innocent, the son more infamous still.
I want wealth, power, and arrogance of carriage,
To cancel the misfortune of my birth,
And the opprobrium of my father's name.
Not thus Atrides ... He returns renowned,
The conqueror of Troy; and can I hope
That he will e'er endure the sight in Argos,
Of the detested offspring of Thyestes,
His most implacable and mortal foe?

Cly.
If he return, his recent victories
Will, from his mind, obliterate all thought
Of animosities in years long past.
A conquering king will banish from his breast
Hatred towards one whom he no longer fears.

Ægis.
'Tis true, that, on my own account, I cannot
By any one be feared; alone, an exile,
Oppressed with wretchedness, bereft of power,
Atrides will not condescend to hate me;
But perhaps he may despise me; and would'st thou
That I stay'd here exposed to such an outrage?
Dost thou exhort me to do this, and love me?

Cly.
Thou lovest me, and yet canst entertain
The cruel thought of leaving me for ever?

Ægis.
'Tis useless now, oh queen, to flatter thee.
By hard necessity, I am compelled
To make a declaration of my thoughts.
Provided that Atrides could forget
The injuries of my father, canst thou hope
That he would not discover, or if he
Discovered, would dissemble his disgrace,
Feign not to see, or feign not to believe,
Our guilty outrage of his nuptial love?
If I stayed here I ought to avoid thy presence;
And should drag on a melancholy life,
Worse than the worst of deaths. If now and then
I came into thy sight, one sigh alone,
One gesture, might betray me: what would be
The consequence? 'Tis too, too true! The least,
Slightest suspicion in a proud king's heart
Makes those who are its objects culpable
Of every crime. I think not of myself;
Nought for myself I fear; I ought indeed
To give thee of true love this terrible proof.

Cly.
Perchance, who knows? more than thou dost suspect
The peril may be distant, or be past:
Many revolving moons have now return'd
Since fell the walls of Troy; yet still Atrides
Tarries, and still arrives not. Thou know'st well
It is reported, that the Grecian fleet,
By violent winds long driven, at length were scatter'd.
Perchance the day is come that brings to me
A sure revenge at last, though long delay'd,
For the unnatural murder of my daughter.

Ægis.
And if this were the day, ah would'st thou deign,
The illustrious widow of the king of kings,
To cast a look on me, the obscure branch
Of an abhorred blood? on me, the sport
Of inauspicious fate? on me, deprived
Of wealth, of arms, of subjects, and of friends?

Cly.
And add, of crimes.—'Tis true thou graspest not
The sceptre of Atrides; but the dagger,
Trickling and reeking with my daughter's blood,
I see not in thy hands. Ere from my breast
He dared to wrest my daughter, and to drag her
A bleeding victim to the impious altar,
I call the gods to witness, that my heart
Received Atrides for its sovereign lord;
Nor did another wake a wandering thought.
But the remembrance of that fatal day,
That horrible moment, with eternal grief,
And unimaginable rage, consumes me.
To give completion to the futile dreams
Of a crazed augur, as it was alleged,
But rather, I suspect, to gratify
The more atrocious, but less visionary,
Frantic ambition of a cruel father,
I saw my daughter immolated, torn
By stealth from me, under the false pretext
Of simulated marriage. From that day,
Down to this very time, I feel myself
Shudder with horror at the name alone
Of such a father. I have not since seen him;
And if to-day, at length, fortune betray'd him ...

Ægis.
Fortune will never turn her back on him,
Except he should have wearied her. 'Twas she
That to the shores of Xanthus led Atrides
Conductor of the Greeks; 'twas she that made him,
Rather than virtue, overcome, when there,
Th'implacable resentment of Achilles,
And Hector's valour: lastly, we shall see her
Once more enthrone him in expecting Argos,
Laden with trophies, arrogant from conquest.
A long time, no, shall not elapse ere thou
Shalt have Atrides by thy side; and he
Shall well know how thy anger to extinguish.
Pledges are living of your former love,
Electra and Orestes; pledges still
Of interchangeable and lasting peace:
E'en as the clouds disperse before the sun,
At his return the ill-starr'd love will fly,
Which now for me thou fosterest in thy breast.

Cly.
Orestes is conducive to my safety,
And to my heart Electra is most dear.
But still the tones of thy expiring voice,
Iphigenia, echo in my heart:
I hear thee cry, in supplicating accents,
Oh, mother! canst thou love my murderer?
No, no; I love him not.—Ægisthus, thou
Hadst been a different father to my children.

Ægis.
Ah, could I one day clasp them in my arms!
But that I ne'er must hope. In the dread future
I have nothing to expect but grief and shame,
Calamity and ruin. Yet my fate,
Whatever it may be, I here expect,
If 'tis thy will. Yes, here I will remain,
Since mine the danger is; if it were thine,
I should know how alone to fall the victim
Of an unhappy love.

Cly.
Ere that hour comes
I will inseparably join our fates.
Thy frank and modest language hath inflamed
My bosom more than ever: more and more
I see thou art worthy of a better fate.
But see, Electra comes; leave me with her:
I love her; and would fain attempt, at least,
To mould her inclinations in thy favour.

SCENE THE THIRD.

Electra, Clytemnestra.
Elec.
Mother, and must it be, that we are condemned
By unpropitious fate always to tremble;
That thou, in vain, should'st languish for thy husband;
I for my father? If day after day
Perpetual impediments arise
To keep from Argos her victorious monarch,
What profits it that we have long since heard
That Ilion's towers lie levelled with the dust?

Cly.
Is the report well founded, then, that told us
The Grecian fleet were shipwrecked or dispersed?

Elec.
Different reports are prevalent in Argos:
Some say, that even to the Hellespont,
By turbid and impetuous south winds,
Our fleet was driven; while others swear to have seen
Their white sails glimmering on the coast of Argos;
Too many, also, are there who affirm
That 'gainst a rock the royal prow was dash'd,
And that they all who sail'd in her were drown'd,
Together with our king. Unhappy we!
Mother, to whom now must we credence yield?
How rid ourselves of doubt? How be exempt
From fear's disquietude?

Cly.
The rebel winds,
That would not be appeased, except with blood,
At his departure, now, at his return,
Perchance require a human sacrifice.
My children, what a solace to my heart
Is it that you are in safety by my side!
At least, as I did ten years since, I need not
Now tremble for your sake.

Elec.
What do I hear?
And doth the memory of that sacrifice
Still press upon thy heart? tremendous, fatal,
But indispensable it was. If Heaven
One of thy daughters as a sacrifice
To-day required, exultingly to-day
Would I approach the sacred altar; I;
To save for thee thy consort, for the Greeks
Their chief, for Argos its imperial splendour.

Cly.
I know how dear to thee thy father is:
Ah, didst thou equally thy mother love!

Elec.
Alike I love you: but my father is
In imminent danger; ... yet when thou dost hear
His hard vicissitudes, not only I
Do never see thee weep, but scarce, alas!
I see thy countenance change? Ah, didst thou love him,
Mother, as much as I! ...

Cly.
Too well I know him.

Elec.
Oh Heaven! what say'st thou? thus thou didst not speak
Of him some months ago? Till there had past
Almost a lustre from the time when first
The Grecians sail'd from hence, I myself heard thee
Each day sigh more and more for his return.
To us thou talked'st of our father's exploits:
In these thou lived'st; foster'd us with these;
Speaking of him, I saw thy cheeks bedewed
With tears of genuine sorrow ... Thou hast not
Seen him since then; he is what then he was:
But thou art changed too much; ah! is there then
Any new cause, that thus may render him
So different to his former self, to thee?

Cly.
What dost thou mean? new cause? ... my unchanged heart
Was always thus an alien from his love.
Ah! thou know'st not ... what shall I say? ... Oh daughter,
If I revealed to thee of this sad heart
The inmost thoughts ...

Elec.
Oh, that I knew them not!

Cly.
Alas! what do I hear? My secret, then,
Has she discover'd? ...

Elec.
Oh, that I, at least,
And only I, thy secret had discover'd!
But know'st thou not, that, in external semblance,
Those who most reverently surround the great,
Malignantly, intensely, greedily,
Their every motion watch? Thou, and thou only,
Now hearest not the murmur of the people;
Thinking that that from every man is hidden
Which thou but ill concealest, which alone
To thee none dare impart. Love makes thee blind.

Cly.
Love?
Ah me! who hath betray'd me thus?

Elec.
Thyself;
And long has it been so. From thy own lips
It was not likely that I e'er should hear
Of such a flame. To speak of it to me
Would have cost thee too much. Beloved mother,
What art thou doing? I do not believe
That a flagitious passion fires thy breast,
Involuntary fondness, sprung from pity,
Which youth, especially when 'tis unhappy,
Is apt to inspire; these, mother, are the baits
By which, without thyself suspecting it,
Thou hast been caught. Thou hast not, hitherto,
Each secret impulse rigorously examined;
A bosom conscious of its rectitude,
Hardly admits suspicion of itself;
And here, perchance, there is no ground for it:
Perchance thy fame thou yet hast scarcely sullied,
Much less thy virtue: and there still is time
To make atonement with one easy step.
Ah, by the sacred shade, so dear to thee,
Of thy devoted daughter; by that love,
Which thou hast ever shewn and felt for me,
That love, of which to-day I am not unworthy;
How can I more persuasively adjure thee?
By thy son's life, Orestes' life, I pray thee,
Pause on the brink of this tremendous gulph,
Beloved mother, pause. Afar from Argos
Banish Ægisthus: stop malignant tongues
By thy deportment: with thy children weep
The hardships of Atrides: and frequent
With them the sacred temples of the gods
To implore his swift return.

Cly.
Banish Ægisthus?

Elec.
Wilt thou not do it? but thy king, my father,
Merits not thus to be by thee betray'd:
Nor will he suffer it.

Cly.
But; grant ... that he ...
No longer lives?

Elec.
Thou mak'st my blood run cold.

Cly.
What do I say? ... Alas! ... What do I wish?
Ah, weep the errors of a misled mother,
A mother, past recovery misled.
The lengthen'd absence of a cruel husband, ...
The merit of Ægisthus ... the decrees
Of an o'erruling destiny ...

Elec.
Oh Heaven!
What sayest thou? The merit of Ægisthus?
Ah! thou know'st not the vices of his heart:
Springing from such a blood, it cannot be
That of one genuine virtue he's possest.
An exile, vile, the fruit of horrid incest;
Dost thou a successor like him project
For the king of kings?

Cly.
Alas, and who am I?
Am not I Leda's daughter, Helen's sister?
A blood impure as their's runs in my veins.
An unknown force, of which I am not mistress,
And maddening impulses from vengeful gods,
By arts ensnare me, or by force compel.

Elec.
Helen? and dost thou yet account her sister?
Ah, if thou wilt, try to resemble her;
But do not be more culpable than she.
She had no son, though she betray'd a husband.
She fled, but did not from her own descendants
The sceptre snatch. And to Ægisthus' hands
Would'st thou not only yield thyself, but yield
Thy sceptre, and thy children?

Cly.
If that fate,
Oh daughter, wills, that I should be bereft
Of Agamemnon, dost thou think that I
Should from Orestes seize his father's throne?
To me a husband, but not thence a king,
Would be Ægisthus; rather he would be
A father, a protector, to Orestes.

Elec.
Rather would he be an atrocious tyrant;
Of thy defenceless son the foe; and (ah!
I shudder as I think of it!) perchance
The murderer. Oh my mother, wouldst thou trust
Thy son to one who pants t'usurp his throne?
Trust Atreus grandchild to Thyestes' son? ...
But I transgress with thee in vain the bounds
Of filial duty. Both of us indulge
The hope that still the great Atrides lives;
My heart assures me of it. His appearance
Will of itself suffice in thee t'extinguish
Each less illustrious flame; and I, as ought
A duteous daughter, swear to thee, for ever
To hide th'important secret in my breast.

Cly.
Wretch that I am! In all thy words I own
The voice of truth: but in my darken'd breast
The flash of reason shines so transiently,
Leaving no track behind it, that I tremble.