 | Orestes |  |
SCENE THE FOURTH.
Ægisthus, Clytemnestra.Cly.
To hear severe rebukes from every tongue,
And merit them! ... Oh life! to thee what death
Can ever be compared!
Ægis.
Oft have I told thee,
That while Electra in our presence stays
We ne'er can breathe in peace. 'Tis time, high time,
That she were slain: the safety of the state,
Thy peace and mine, demand it: furthermore,
By her offensive pride she stands condemn'd.
But still thy tears entreat me to absolve her.
Cease then to oppose her banishment: I will it:
And it were utterly in vain for thee
To seek t'oppose that will.
Cly.
Oft have I told thee,
Whatever be Electra's destiny,
Never 'twixt us, oh never, can be peace:
'Mid apprehension thou, I 'mid remorse;
In guilty terrors both, we shall drag on
A horrid apprehensive life for ever.
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Ægis.
I ne'er look back:
I of the future think: I ne'er can be
Happy, while of Atrides' seed remains.
Orestes lives: in him, with years, matures
Hatred towards us: he lives, and lives alone
On the dire project of ferocious vengeance.
Cly.
Wretched! he lives; but far from us, unknown,
Helpless, obscure.—Ah cruel! to a mother
Canst thou lament thus, that her son yet lives?
Ægis.
Yes, to a mother, who has slain her husband,
Thus I may well lament. That to our love
Thou sacrificedst; should'st thou not then this
Equally to my safety sacrifice?
Cly.
Oh thou, ne'er satisfied with blood and crimes! ...
Thou hast already caught me in the snare
Of feigned regard: thy cruel manners since
Too well have proved this truth! Still in my breast,
E'en yet a flame too strong, and too sincere,
I cherish; and thou knowest this too well!
Hence may'st thou judge, if I can fail to love
An innocent and only son. What heart
Is there so hard as not to weep his lot?
Ægis.
Thou who with one blow two did'st immolate.
The self-same sword cut off the father's life,
And graved, in sable characters of blood,
The son's death-warrant.—My procrastination,
Fortune, the subtle foresight of Electra,
Have saved Orestes. But what matters that?
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Whose father thou hast slain, whose throne usurped?
Cly.
Oh words of blood! ... Oh son, deprived of all,
Nothing thou givest him, who, of that all
Thus robb'd thee, if thou givest not thy life.
Ægis.
And, tell me, while he lives, are they secure
Who triumph in his spoils? Over thy head
His sword for ever hangs. Son of Atrides,
The only branch of that flagitious race,
Uniting every crime, his fierce revenge
Would not alone with my blood be appeased.
Anxiety for thee, more than myself,
Weighs on my bosom when I think of him.
Thou heard'st the dreadful and oracular voice,
Predicting, that Orestes would become
The murderer of his parents? Wretched mother,
That voice belongs to thee; whene'er the power
Is mine, I ought t'accelerate his death,
Thou to endure it silently.
Cly.
Alas! ...
My blood. ...
Ægis.
Orestes is not of thy blood;
He is the impure remnant of the blood
Of Atreus: a blood to every crime
Predestined. Thou his father hast beheld,
By impious ambition, hurried on;
His daughter, on the altar, immolate.
Orestes, treading in his father's steps,
Atrides' son, will sacrifice his mother.
Mother too blind, and too compassionate!
That son now holds himself prepared to slay thee:
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Cly.
To avenge his father,
Suffer him, then, to pierce this guilty breast.
Another greater crime, if such there be,
Perhaps should atone for mine. But thou, Ægisthus,
Whatever destiny may threaten me,
I do conjure thee, by the injured blood
Of Agamemnon, do not thou attempt
To plot against Orestes. Far from us,
And exiled, he may live; but let him live.
Orestes would not dare to turn his steps
Towards his native country; if he came,
My breast should shield him from thy violence.
But if he came, 'tis heaven that brings him hither;
And who avails 'gainst heaven? What doubt remains?
I a predestinated victim am.
Ægis.
Awhile refrain from tears. Orestes lives:
And I but faintly hope that in my power
He ever will be found. But if the day
Should e'er arrive, when I indeed suffice
To consummate a necessary deed,
Which thou in vain call'st criminal, that day
Thou shalt, if so thou wilt, resume thy tears.
| Orestes | |