The Libation Bearers

The scene represents the Grave of Agamemnon, a mound of earth in a desolate expanse. The time is afternoon. Orestes and Pylades in the garb of travellers, with swords at their sides, are discovered. Orestes’ hair is cut short, that of Pylades streams down his back. Both look grim and travel-stained. Orestes holds a long tress of hair in his hand.

Orestes

O Warder Hermês of the world beneath, Son of the Father who is Lord of Death; Saviour, be thou my saviour; Help in War, Help me! I am returned from lands afar To claim mine own. And on this headland steep Of death, I call my Father o’er the deep To hearken, to give ear.⁠—Behold, I bring Out of my poverty one little thing, To adorn thy grave, though who can touch the dead Or wake from sleep that unuplifted head? Yet long ago in Phôkis, where I lay With Strophius in the hills, being cast away In childhood, plundered by mine enemies, And friendless, save for this man, Pylades, I sware an oath which should for ever set In memory those they taught me to forget: If once I came to manhood, so I sware, In tresses twain I would divide mine hair, One tress for Inachos river, by whose grace I live, and one for mourning at this place. Which oath I here fulfil. He lays the tress of hair upon the upper part of the grave mound. O Herald, lay Before his sight the gift I bring this day, Who stood not by to mourn him as he fell, Nor reached mine arms to bid the dead farewell. As he turns, he sees the Libation-Bearers approaching. Ha!

Electra

At my heart also bitterer than gall A great wave beats. The iron hath passed thro’ all My being; and the stormy drops that rise Full unforbidden from these starvèd eyes, Gazing upon this hair. ’Tis past belief That any Argive tree hath shed this leaf. And sure she shore it not who wrought his death, My mother, godless, with no mother’s faith Or kindness for her child.⁠—And yet to swear Outright that this glad laugher is the hair Of my beloved Orestes.⁠ ⁠… Oh, I am weak With dreaming! Had it but a voice to speak Like some kind messenger, I had not been This phantom tossing in the wind between Two fancies. Either quick it would proclaim Its hate, if from some hater’s head it came; Or, if it were our own, with me ’twould shed Tears for this tomb and our great father dead⁠ ⁠… Surely they know, these gods to whom we pray, Through what wild seas our vessel beats her way, And, if to save us is their will, may breed A mighty oak-trunk from a little seed⁠ ⁠… She goes back to the Tomb, searching.

Ah see, the print of feet, a second sign! The same feet: surely they are shaped like mine. Surely! Two separate trails of feet are there: He and perchance some fellow traveller. The heels; the mark of the long muscle thrown Athwart them on the sand⁠—just like mine own In shape and measure. What?⁠ ⁠… Oh, all is vain; Torment of heart and blinding of the brain! She buries her face in her hands.

Orestes rises from his hiding-place and stands before her.

Orestes

Thy prayer hath borne its fruit. Hereafter tell The gods thy thanks, and may the end be well!

Electra

What meanest thou? What hath God done for me?

Orestes

Shown thee a face which thou hast longed to see.

Electra

What face? What know’st thou of my secret heart?

Orestes

Orestes’. For that name all fire thou art.

Electra

If that be so, how am I near mine end?

Orestes

Here am I, Sister. Seek no closer friend.

Electra

Stranger! It is a plot thou lay’st for me!

Orestes

Against mine own dear life that plot would be.

Electra

Thou mock’st me! Thou would’st laugh to hear me moan!

Orestes

Who mocks thy tribulation mocks mine own.

Electra

My heart half dares foretell that thou art he⁠ ⁠…

Orestes

Nay, when I face thee plain thou wilt not see! Oh, seeing but that shorn tress of funeral hair Thy soul took wings and seemed to hold me there; Then peering in my steps⁠ ⁠… thou knew’st them mine, Thy brother’s, moulded feet and head like thine. Set the lock here, where it was cut. Behold This cloak I wear, thy woven work of old, The battened ridges and the broidered braid Of lions⁠ ⁠… Electra throws herself into his arms. Hold! Ah, be not all dismayed With joy! Our nearest is our deadliest foe.

Electra

Orestes

So be it. Yet methinks to know one thing Were well. Why sent she this drink-offering? Hoped she by late atonement to undo That wrong eternal? A vain comfort, too, Sent to one dead, and feeling not! My mind Stumbles to understand what lies behind These gifts, so puny for the deed she hath done. Yea, though man offer all he hath to atone For one life’s blood, ’tis written, he hath lost That labour.⁠—But enough. Say all thou know’st.

Leader

Son, I was near her, and could mark aright. A dream, a terror wandering in the night, Shook her dark spirit till she spoke that word.

Orestes

What was the dream she dreamed? Speak, if ye heard.

Leader

She bore to life, she said, a Serpent Thing.

Orestes

And after? To its head thy story bring.

Leader

In swathing clothes she lapt it like a child.

Orestes

It craved for meat, that dragon of the wild?

Leader

Yes; in the dream she gave it her own breast.

Orestes

And took no scathing from the evil beast?

Leader

The milk ran into blood. So deep it bit.

Orestes

The dream is come. The man shall follow it.

Leader

And she, appalled, came shrieking out of sleep; And many a torch, long blinded in the deep Of darkness, in our chambers burst afire To cheer the Queen.

The scene now represents the front of the Palace of the Atridae, with one door leading to the main palace, another to the Women’s House. Dusk is approaching. Enter Orestes and Pylades, disguised as merchants from Phôkis, with Attendants.

Orestes

Ho, Warder! Hear! One knocketh at your gate!⁠ ⁠… Ho, Warder, yet again! I knock and wait.⁠ ⁠… A third time, ye within! I call ye forth; Or counts your lord the stranger nothing worth?

A Porter

Within, opening the main door.

Enough! I hear. What stranger and wherefrom?

Orestes

Go, rouse your masters. ’Tis to them I come, Bearing great news. And haste, for even now Night’s darkling chariot presseth to the brow Of heaven, and wayfarers like us must find Quick anchorage in some resthouse for our kind. Let one come forth who bears authority; A woman, if God will; but if it be A man, ’twere seemlier. With a woman, speech Trembles and words are blinded. Man can teach Man all his purpose and make clear his thought. Enter Clytemnestra from the House.

Clytemnestra

Strangers, your pleasure? If ye have need of aught All that beseems this House is yours to-day, Warm bathing and the couch that soothes away Toil, and the tendering of righteous eyes. Else, if ye come on some grave enterprise, That is man’s work; and I will find the man.

Orestes

I come from Phôkis, of the Daulian clan, And, travelling hither, bearing mine own load Of merchandise, toward Argos, as the road Branched, there was one who met me, both of us Strangers to one another: Strophius, A Phocian prince, men called him.