The Eumenides

The Scene represents the front of the Temple of Apollo at Delphi; great doors at the back lead to the inner shrine and the central Altar. The Pythian Prophetess is standing before the Doors.

Prophetess

First of all Gods I worship in this prayer Earth, the primeval prophet; after her Themis, the Wise, who on her mother’s throne⁠— So runs the tale⁠—sat second; by whose own Accepted will, with never strife nor stress, Third reigned another earth-born Titaness, Phoebe; from whom (for that he bears her name) To Phoebus as a birthtide gift it came.

He left his isle, he left his Delian seas, He passed Athena’s wave-worn promontories, In haste this great Parnassus to possess And Delphi, thronèd in the wilderness. And with him came, to escort him and revere, A folk born of Hephaistos, pioneer Of God’s way, making sweet a bitter land. And much this people and the King whose hand Then steered them, Delphos, glorified his name, Till Zeus into his heart put mystic flame And prophet here enthroned him, fourth in use: So Loxias’ lips reveal the thought of Zeus.

These gods be foremost in all prayers of mine, Who have held the Throne. Next, She before the shrine, Pallas, is praisèd, and the Nymphs who keep Yon old Corycian bird-belovèd steep, Deep-caverned, where things blessèd come and go. And Bromios walks the mountain, well I know, Since first he led his Maenad host on high And doomed King Pentheus like a hare to die. And Pleistos’ fountains and Poseidon’s power I call, and Him who brings the Perfect Hour, Zeus, the Most Highest.

Him who pitieth suffering men Zeus pitieth, and his ways are sweet on earth. Exit Apollo. Presently enter the Ghost of Clytemnestra. She watches the sleeping Furies.

Ghost

Ye sleep. O God, and what are sleepers worth? ’Tis you, have left me among all the dead Dishonoured. Alway, for that blood I shed, Rebuke and hissing cease not, and I go Wandering in shame. Oh, hear!⁠ ⁠… For that old blow I struck still I am hated, but for his Who smote me, being of my blood, there is No wrath in all the darkness: there is none Cares for a mother murdered by her son.

Open thine heart to see this gash!⁠—She shows the wound in her throat. In sleep The heart hath many eyes and can see deep: ’Tis daylight makes man’s fate invisible.

Oft of my bounty ye have lapt your fill; Oft the sad peace of wineless cups to earth I have poured, and midmurk feastings on your hearth Burned, when no other god draws near to eat.

And all these things ye have cast beneath your feet, And he is fled, fled lightly like a fawn Out of your nets! With mocking he is gone And twisting of the lips.⁠ ⁠… I charge you, hark! This is my life, my death. Oh, shake the dark From off you, Children of the Deep. ’Tis I, Your dream, I, Clytemnestra, stand and cry. Moaning among the Furies. Moan on, but he is vanished and forgot. So strong the prayers of them that love me not! Moaning. Too sound ye sleep.⁠—And have ye for the dead No pity?⁠ ⁠… And my son, my murderer, fled! Groaning. Ye groan; ye slumber. Wake!⁠ ⁠… What task have ye To do on earth save to work misery? Groaning.

Enter Apollo.

Apollo

Avaunt, I charge you! Get ye from my door! Darken this visionary dome no more! Quick, lest ye meet that snake of bitter wing That leaps a-sudden from my golden string, And in your agony spue forth again The black froth ye have sucked from tortured men!

This floor shall be no harbour to your feet. Are there not realms where Law upon her seat Smites living head from trunk? Where prisoners bleed From gougèd eyes? Children with manhood’s seed Blasted are there; maimed foot and severed hand, And stoning, and a moan through all the land Of men impaled to die. There is the board Whereat ye feast, and, feasting, are abhorred Of heaven.⁠—But all the shapes of you declare Your souls within. Some reeking lion’s lair Were your fit dwelling, not this cloistered Hall Of Mercy, which your foulness chokes withal.

Out, ye wild goats unherded! Out, ye drove Accursed, that god nor devil dares to love! During this speech the Furies fly confusedly from the Temple down into the Orchestra. The Leader turns.

Orestes

Pallas Athena, from Apollo’s wing I come; receive in peace this hunted thing My sin no more polluteth, nor with hand Unpurified before thy throne I stand. A blunted edge, grief-worn and sanctified By pain, where’er men traffic or abide, On, on, o’er land and sea I have made my way, True-purposed Loxias’ bidding to obey. At last I have found thy House; thine image I Clasp, and here wait thy judgement till I die. He throws himself down at the feet of the Statue, but no answer comes. Presently enter the Furies, following him.

Leader

Ha! Here he has passed. Spot reeketh upon spot. Blood is a spy that points and babbles not. Like hounds that follow some sore-wounded fawn, We smell the way that blood and tears are gone, And follow.⁠—Oh, my belly gaspeth sore With toils man-wasting; I can chase no more. Through all the ways of the world I have shepherded My lost sheep, and above the salt sea sped, Wingless pursuing, swift as any sail. And now ’tis here, meseemeth, he doth quail And cower.⁠—Aye, surely it is here; the smell Of man’s blood laughs to meet me. All is well.

Furies

Searching.

Orestes

Most high Athena, let me from the last Of these thy questionings one fear outcast. Pollution is not in me, nor with hand Blood-reeking cleave I to thine altar-strand; In sign whereof, behold, I have cast away That silence which the man of blood alway Observeth, till some hand, that hath the power To cleanse the sins of man, new blood shall shower Of swine upon him, drowning the old stain. I have been cleansed again and yet again In others’ dwellings, both by blood that fell And running rivers that have washed me well. Be that care then forgot. My name and birth Are quickly told. I am sprung of Argive earth; My father’s name was known upon thy lips, Agamemnon, marshal of a thousand ships, With whom thou madest Troy, that city of pride, No more a city. He returning died, Not kingly. ’Twas my mother black of heart Met him and murdered, snaring him with art Of spangled webs.⁠ ⁠… Alas, that robe of wrath, That cried to heaven the blood-stain of the bath! Then came long exile; then, returning, I Struck dead my mother. Nought will I deny; So, for my sire belovèd, death met death.