Part 7

ORESTES Hark ye and learn—for what the end shall be For me I know not: breaking from the curb My spirit whirls me off, a conquered prey, Borne as a charioteer by steeds distraught Far from the course, and madness in my breast Burneth to chant its song, and leap, and rave— Hark ye and learn, friends, ere my reason goes! I say that rightfully I slew my mother, A thing God-scorned, that foully slew my sire And chiefest wizard of the spell that bound me Unto this deed I name the Pythian seer Apollo, who foretold that if I slew, The guilt of murder done should pass from me; But if I spared, the fate that should be mine I dare not blazon forth—the bow of speech Can reach not to the mark, that doom to tell. And now behold me, how with branch and crown I pass, a suppliant made meet to go Unto Earth’s midmost shrine, the holy ground Of Loxias, and that renownèd light Of ever-burning fire, to ’scape the doom Of kindred murder: to no other shrine (So Loxias bade) may I for refuge turn. Bear witness, Argives, in the after time, How came on me this dread fatality. Living, I pass a banished wanderer hence, To leave in death the memory of this cry.

CHORUS Nay, but the deed is well; link not thy lips To speech ill-starred, nor vent ill-boding words— Who hast to Argos her full freedom given, Lopping two serpents’ heads with timely blow.

ORESTES Look, look, alas! Handmaidens, see—what Gorgon shapes throng up; Dusky their robes and all their hair enwound— Snakes coiled with snakes—off, off, I must away!

CHORUS Most loyal of all sons unto thy sire, What visions thus distract thee? Hold, abide; Great was thy victory, and shalt thou fear?

ORESTES These are no dreams, void shapes of haunting ill, But clear to sight my mother’s hell-hounds come!

CHORUS Nay, the fresh bloodshed still imbrues thine hands, And thence distraction sinks into thy soul.

ORESTES O king Apollo—see, they swarm and throng— Black blood of hatred dripping from their eyes!

CHORUS One remedy thou hast; go, touch the shrine Of Loxias, and rid thee of these woes.

ORESTES Ye can behold them not, but I behold them. Up and away! I dare abide no more.

[_Exit_

CHORUS Farewell then as thou mayst,—the god thy friend Guard thee and aid with chances favouring.

Behold, the storm of woe divine That the raves and beats on Atreus’ line Its great third blast hath blown. First was Thyestes’ loathly woe— The rueful feast of long ago, On children’s flesh, unknown. And next the kingly chief’s despite, When he who led the Greeks to fight Was in the bath hewn down. And now the offspring of the race Stands in the third, the saviour’s place, To save—or to consume? O whither, ere it be fulfilled, Ere its fierce blast be hushed and stilled, Shall blow the wind of doom?

[_Exeunt_.

THE FURIES

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

THE PYTHIAN PRIESTESS APOLLO ORESTES THE GHOST OF CLYTEMNESTRA CHORUS OF FURIES ATHENA ATTENDANTS OF ATHENA TWELVE ATHENIAN CITIZENS

_The Scene of the Drama is the Temple of Apollo, at Delphi: afterwards the Temple of Athena, on the Acropolis of Athens, and the adjoining Areopagus._

_The Temple at Delphi_

_The Pythian Priestess_

F irst, in this prayer, of all the gods I name The prophet-mother Earth; and Themis next, Second who sat—for so with truth is said— On this her mother’s shrine oracular. Then by her grace, who unconstrained allowed, There sat thereon another child of Earth— Titanian Phoebe. She, in after time, Gave o’er the throne, as birthgift to a god, Phoebus, who in his own bears Phoebe’s name. He from the lake and ridge of Delos’ isle Steered to the port of Pallas’ Attic shores, The home of ships; and thence he passed and came Unto this land and to Parnassus’ shrine. And at his side, with awe revering him, There went the children of Hephaestus’ seed, The hewers of the sacred way, who tame The stubborn tract that erst was wilderness. And all this folk, and Delphos, chieftain-king Of this their land, with honour gave him home; And in his breast Zeus set a prophet’s soul, And gave to him this throne, whereon he sits, Fourth prophet of the shrine, and, Loxias hight, Gives voice to that which Zeus his sire decrees.

Such gods I name in my preluding prayer, And after them, I call with honour due On Pallas, wardress of the fane, and Nymphs Who dwell around the rock Corycian, Where in the hollow cave, the wild birds’ haunt, Wander the feet of lesser gods; and there, Right well I know it, Bromian Bacchus dwells, Since he in godship led his Maenad host, Devising death for Pentheus, whom they rent Piecemeal, as hare among the hounds. And last, I call on Pleistus’ springs, Poseidon’s might, And Zeus most high, the great Accomplisher. Then as a seeress to the sacred chair I pass and sit; and may the powers divine Make this mine entrance fruitful in response Beyond each former advent, triply blest. And if there stand without, from Hellas bound, Men seeking oracles, let each pass in In order of the lot, as use allows; For the god guides whate’er my tongue proclaims.

[_She goes into the interior of the temple; after a short interval, she returns in great fear_.

Things fell to speak of, fell for eyes to see, Have sped me forth again from Loxias’ shrine, With strength unstrung, moving erect no more, But aiding with my hands my failing feet, Unnerved by fear. A beldame’s force is naught— Is as a child’s, when age and fear combine. For as I pace towards the inmost fane Bay-filleted by many a suppliant’s hand, Lo, at the central altar I descry One crouching as for refuge—yea, a man Abhorredd of heaven; and from his hands, wherein A sword new-drawn he holds, blood reeked and fell: A wand he bears, the olive’s topmost bough, Twined as of purpose with a deep close tuft Of whitest wool. This, that I plainly saw, Plainly I tell. But lo, in front of him, Crouched on the altar-steps, a grisly band Of women slumbers—not like women they, But Gorgons rather; nay, that word is weak, Nor may I match the Gorgons’ shape with theirs! Such have I seen in painted semblance erst— Winged Harpies, snatching food from Phineus’ board,— But these are wingless, black, and all their shape The eye’s abomination to behold. Fell is the breath—let none draw nigh to it— Wherewith they snort in slumber; from their eyes Exude the damnèd drops of poisonous ire: And such their garb as none should dare to bring To statues of the gods or homes of men. I wot not of the tribe wherefrom can come So fell a legion, nor in what land Earth Could rear, unharmed, such creatures, nor avow That she had travailed and brought forth death. But, for the rest, be all these things a care Unto the mighty Loxias, the lord Of this our shrine: healer and prophet he, Discerner he of portents, and the cleanser Of other homes—behold, his own to cleanse!

[_Exit_.

[_The scene opens, disclosing the interior of the temple: Orestes clings to the central altar; the Furies lie slumbering at a little distance; Apollo and Hermes appear from the innermost shrine_.

APOLLO Lo, I desert thee never: to the end, Hard at thy side as now, or sundered far, I am thy guard, and to thine enemies Implacably oppose me: look on them, These greedy fiends, beneath my craft subdued! See, they are fallen on sleep, these beldames old, Unto whose grim and wizened maidenhood Nor god nor man nor beast can e’er draw near. Yea, evil were they born, for evil’s doom, Evil the dark abyss of Tartarus Wherein they dwell, and they themselves the hate Of men on earth, and of Olympian gods. But thou, flee far and with unfaltering speed; For they shall hunt thee through the mainland wide Where’er throughout the tract of travelled earth Thy foot may roam, and o’er and o’er the seas And island homes of men. Faint not nor fail, Too soon and timidly within thy breast Shepherding thoughts forlorn of this thy toil; But unto Pallas’ city go, and there Crouch at her shrine, and in thine arms enfold Her ancient image: there we well shall find Meet judges for this cause and suasive pleas, Skilled to contrive for thee deliverance From all this woe. Be such my pledge to thee, For by my hest thou didst thy mother slay.

ORESTES O king Apollo, since right well thou know’st What justice bids, have heed, fulfil the same,— Thy strength is all-sufficient to achieve.

APOLLO Have thou too heed, nor let thy fear prevail Above thy will. And do thou guard him, Hermes, Whose blood is brother unto mine, whose sire The same high God. Men call thee guide and guard, Guide therefore thou and guard my suppliant; For Zeus himself reveres the outlaw’s right, Boon of fair escort, upon man conferred.

[_Exeunt Apollo, Hermes, and Orestes. The Ghost of Clytemnestra near_

GHOST OF CLYTEMNESTRA Sleep on! awake! what skills your sleep to me— Me, among all the dead by you dishonoured— Me from whom never, in the world of death, Dieth this curse, _’Tis she who smote and slew_, And shamed and scorned I roam? Awake, and hear My plaint of dead men’s hate intolerable. Me, sternly slain by them that should have loved, Me doth no god arouse him to avenge, Hewn down in blood by matricidal hands. Mark ye these wounds from which the heart’s blood ran, And by whose hand, bethink ye! for the sense When shut in sleep hath then the spirit-sight, But in the day the inward eye is blind. List, ye who drank so oft with lapping tongue The wineless draught by me outpoured to soothe Your vengeful ire! how oft on kindled shrine I laid the feast of darkness, at the hour Abhorred of every god but you alone! Lo, all my service trampled down and scorned! And he hath baulked your chase, as stag the hounds; Yea, lightly bounding from the circling toils, Hath wried his face in scorn, and flieth far. Awake and hear—for mine own soul I cry— Awake, ye powers of hell! the wandering ghost That once was Clytemnestra calls—Arise!

[_The Furies mutter grimly, as in a dream_.

Mutter and murmur! He hath flown afar— My kin have gods to guard them, I have none!

[_The Furies mutter as before_.

O drowsed in sleep too deep to heed my pain! Orestes flies, who me, his mother, slew.

[_The Furies give a confused cry_.

Yelping, and drowsed again? Up and be doing That which alone is yours, the deed of hell!

[_The Furies give another cry_.

Lo, sleep and toil, the sworn confederates, Have quelled your dragon-anger, once so fell!

THE FURIES (_muttering more fiercely and loudly_) Seize, seize, seize, seize—mark, yonder!

GHOST In dreams ye chase a prey, and like some hound, That even in sleep doth ply his woodland toil, Ye bell and bay. What do ye, sleeping here? Be not o’ercome with toil, nor sleep-subdued, Be heedless of my wrong. Up! thrill your heart With the just chidings of my tongue,—such words Are as a spur to purpose firmly held. Blow forth on him the breath of wrath and blood, Scorch him with reek of fire that burns in you, Waste him with new pursuit—swift, hound him down!

[_Ghost sinks._

FIRST FURY (_awaking_) Up! rouse another as I rouse thee; up! Sleep’st thou? Rise up, and spurning sleep away, See we if false to us this prelude rang.

CHORUS OF FURIES Alack, alack, O sisters, we have toiled, O much and vainly have we toiled and borne! Vainly! and all we wrought the gods have foiled, And turnèd us to scorn! He hath slipped from the net, whom we chased: he hath ’scaped us who should be our prey— O’ermastered by slumber we sank, and our quarry hath stolen away! Thou, child of the high God Zeus, Apollo, hast robbed us and wronged; Thou, a youth, hast down-trodden the right that is godship more ancient belonged; Thou hast cherished thy suppliant man; the slayer the God-forsaken, The bane of a parent, by craft from out of our grasp thou hast taken: A god, thou hast stolen from us the avengers a matricide son— And who shall consider thy deed and say, _It is rightfully_ done? The sound of chiding scorn Came from the land of dream; Deep to mine inmost heart I felt it thrill and burn, Thrust as a strong-grasped goad, to urge Onward the chariot’s team. Thrilled, chilled with bitter inward pain I stand as one beneath the doomsman’s scourge. Shame on the younger gods who tread down right, Sitting on thrones of might! Woe on the altar of earth’s central fane! Clotted on step and shrine, Behold, the guilt of blood, the ghastly stain! Woe upon thee, Apollo! uncontrolled, Unbidden, hast thou, prophet-god, imbrued The pure prophetic shrine with wrongful blood! For thou too heinous a respect didst hold Of man, too little heed of powers divine! And us the Fates, the ancients of the earth, Didst deem as nothing worth. Scornful to me thou art, yet shalt not fend My wrath from him; though unto hell he flee, There too are we! And he the blood defiled, should feel and rue, Though I were not, fiend-wrath that shall not end, Descending on his head who foully slew.

[_Re-enter Apollo from the inner shrine._

APOLLO Out! I command you. Out from this my home— Haste, tarry not! Out from the mystic shrine, Lest thy lot be to take into thy breast The winged bright dart that from my golden string Speeds hissing as a snake,—lest, pierced and thrilled With agony, thou shouldst spew forth again Black frothy heart’s-blood, drawn from mortal men, Belching the gory clots sucked forth from wounds. These be no halls where such as you can prowl— Go where men lay on men the doom of blood, Heads lopped from necks, eyes from their spheres plucked out, Hacked flesh, the flower of youthful seed crushed out, Feet hewn away, and hands, and death beneath The smiting stone, low moans and piteous Of men impaled—Hark, hear ye for what feast Ye hanker ever, and the loathing gods Do spit upon your craving? Lo, your shape Is all too fitted to your greed; the cave Where lurks some lion, lapping gore, were home More meet for you. Avaunt from sacred shrines, Nor bring pollution by your touch on all That nears you. Hence! and roam unshepherded— No god there is to tend such herd as you.

CHORUS O king Apollo, in our turn hear us. Thou hast’not only part in these ill things, But art chief cause and doer of the same.

APOLLO How? stretch thy speech to tell this, and have done.

CHORUS Thine oracle bade this man slay his mother.

APOLLO I bade him quit his sire’s death,—wherefore not?

CHORUS Then didst thou aid and guard red-handed crime.

APOLLO Yea, and I bade him to this temple flee.

CHORUS And yet forsooth dost chide us following him!

APOLLO Ay—not for you it is, to near this fane.

CHORUS Yet is such office ours, imposed by fate.

APOLLO What office? vaunt the thing ye deem so fair.

CHORUS From home to home we chase the matricide.

APOLLO What? to avenge a wife who slays her lord?

CHORUS That is not blood outpoured by kindred hands.

APOLLO How darkly ye dishonour and annul The troth to which the high accomplishers, Hera and Zeus, do honour. Yea, and thus Is Aphrodite to dishonour cast, The queen of rapture unto mortal men. Know, that above the marriage-bed ordained For man and woman standeth Right as guard, Enhancing sanctity of troth-plight sworn; Therefore, if thou art placable to those Who have their consort slain, nor will’st to turn On them the eye of wrath, unjust art thou In hounding to his doom the man who slew His mother. Lo, I know thee full of wrath Against one deed, but all too placable Unto the other, minishing the crime. But in this cause shall Pallas guard the right.

CHORUS Deem not my quest shall ever quit that man.

APOLLO Follow then, make thee double toil in vain!

CHORUS Think not by speech mine office to curtail.

APOLLO None hast thou, that I would accept of thee!

CHORUS Yea, high thine honour by the throne of Zeus: But I, drawn on by scent of mother’s blood, Seek vengeance on this man and hound him down.

APOLLO But I will stand beside him; ’tis for me To guard my suppliant: gods and men alike Do dread the curse of such an one betrayed, And in me Fear and Will say _Leave him not_.

[_Exeunt omnes_

_The scene changes to Athens. In the foreground, the Temple of Athena on the Acropolis; her statue stands in the centre; Orestes is seen clinging to it._

ORESTES Look on me, queen Athena; lo, I come By Loxias’ behest; thou of thy grace Receive me, driven of avenging powers— Not now a red-hand slayer unannealed, But with guilt fading, half-effaced, outworn On many homes and paths of mortal men. For to the limit of each land, each sea, I roamed, obedient to Apollo’s hest, And come at last, O Goddess, to thy fane, And clinging to thine image, bide my doom.

[_Enter the Chorus of Furies, questing like hounds_

CHORUS Ho! clear is here the trace of him we seek: Follow the track of blood, the silent sign! Like to some hound that hunts a wounded fawn, We snuff along the scent of dripping gore, And inwardly we pant, for many a day Toiling in chase that shall fordo the man; For o’er and o’er the wide land have I ranged, And o’er the wide sea, flying without wings, Swift as a sail I pressed upon his track, Who now hard by is crouching, well I wot, For scent of mortal blood allures me here. Follow, seek him—round and round Scent and snuff and scan the ground, Lest unharmed he slip away, He who did his mother slay! Hist—he is there! See him his arms entwine Around the image of the maid divine— Thus aided, for the deed he wrought Unto the judgment wills he to be brought.

It may not be! a mother’s blood, poured forth Upon the stainèd earth, None gathers up: it lies—bear witness, Hell!— For aye indelible! And thou who sheddest it shalt give thine own That shedding to atone! Yea, from thy living limbs I suck it out, Red, clotted, gout by gout,— A draught abhorred of men and gods; but I Will drain it, suck thee dry; Yea, I will waste thee living, nerve and vein; Yea, for thy mother slain, Will drag thee downward, there where thou shalt dree The weird of agony! And thou and whatsoe’er of men hath sinned— Hath wronged or God, or friend, Or parent,—learn ye how to all and each The arm of doom can reach! Sternly requiteth, in the world beneath, The judgment-seat of Death; Yea, Death, beholding every man’s endeavour Recordeth it for ever.

ORESTES I, schooled in many miseries, have learnt How many refuges of cleansing shrines There be; I know when law alloweth speech And when imposeth silence. Lo, I stand Fixed now to speak, for he whose word is wise Commands the same. Look, how the stain of blood Is dull upon mine hand and wastes away, And laved and lost therewith is the deep curse Of matricide; for while the guilt was new, ’Twas banished from me at Apollo’s hearth, Atoned and purified by death of swine. Long were my word if I should sum the tale, How oft since then among my fellow-men I stood and brought no curse. Time cleanses all— Time, the coeval of all things that are. Now from pure lips, in words of omen fair, I call Athena, lady of this land, To come, my champion: so, in aftertime, She shall not fail of love and service leal, Not won by war, from me and from my land, And all the folk of Argos, vowed to her. Now, be she far away in Libyan land Where flows from Triton’s lake her natal wave,— Stand she with planted feet, or in some hour Of rest conceal them, champion of her friends Where’er she be,—or whether o’er the plain Phlegraean she look forth, as warrior bold— I cry to her to come, where’er she be, (And she, as goddess, from afar can hear,) And aid and free me, set among my foes.

CHORUS Thee not Apollo nor Athena’s strength Can save from perishing, a castaway Amid the Lost, where no delight shall meet Thy soul—a bloodless prey of nether powers, A shadow among shadows. Answerest thou Nothing? dost cast away my words with scorn, Thou, prey prepared and dedicate to me? Not as a victim slain upon the shrine, But living shalt thou see thy flesh my food. Hear now the binding chant that makes thee mine.

Weave the weird dance,—behold the hour To utter forth the chant of hell, Our sway among mankind to tell, The guidance of our power. Of Justice are we ministers, And whosoe’er of men may stand Lifting a pure unsullied hand, That man no doom of ours incurs, And walks thro’ all his mortal path Untouched by woe, unharmed by wrath. But if, as yonder man, he hath Blood on the hands he strives to hide, We stand avengers at his side, Decreeing, _Thou hast wronged the dead: We are doom’s witnesses to thee_. The price of blood, his hands have shed, We wring from him; in life, in death, Hard at his side are we!

Night, Mother Night, who brought me forth, a torment To living men and dead, Hear me, O hear! by Leto’s stripling son I am dishonourèd: He hath ta’en from me him who cowers in refuge, To me made consecrate,— A rightful victim, him who slew his mother. Given o’er to me and fate.

Hear the hymn of hell, O’er the victim sounding,— Chant of frenzy, chant of ill, Sense and will confounding! Round the soul entwining Without lute or lyre— Soul in madness pining, Wasting as with fire!

Fate, all-pervading Fate, this service spun, commanding That I should bide therein: Whosoe’er of mortals, made perverse and lawless, Is stained with blood of kin, By his side are we, and hunt him ever onward, Till to the Silent Land, The realm of death, he cometh; neither yonder In freedom shall he stand.

Hear the hymn of hell, O’er the victim sounding,— Chant of frenzy, chant of ill, Sense and will confounding! Round the soul entwining Without lute or lyre— Soul in madness pining, Wasting as with fire!

When from womb of Night we sprang, on us this labour Was laid and shall abide. Gods immortal are ye, yet beware ye touch not That which is our pride! None may come beside us gathered round the blood feast— For us no garments white Gleam on a festal day; for us a darker fate is, Another darker rite. That is mine hour when falls an ancient line— When in the household’s heart The god of blood doth slay by kindred hands,— Then do we bear our part: On him who slays we sweep with chasing cry: Though he be triply strong, We wear and waste him; blood atones for blood, New pain for ancient wrong.

I hold this task—’tis mine, and not another’s. The very gods on high, Though they can silence and annul the prayers Of those who on us cry, They may not strive with us who stand apart, A race by Zeus abhorred, Blood-boltered, held unworthy of the council And converse of Heaven’s lord. Therefore the more I leap upon my prey; Upon their head I bound; My foot is hard; as one that trips a runner I cast them to the ground; Yea, to the depth of doom intolerable; And they who erst were great, And upon earth held high their pride and glory, Are brought to low estate. In underworld they waste and are diminished, The while around them fleet Dark wavings of my robes, and, subtly woven, The paces of my feet.

Who falls infatuate, he sees not, neither knows he That we are at his side; So closely round about him, darkly flitting, The cloud of guilt doth glide. Heavily ’tis uttered, how around his hearthstone The mirk of hell doth rise. Stern and fixed the law is; we have hands t’achieve it, Cunning to devise. Queens are we and mindful of our solemn vengeance. Not by tear or prayer Shall a man avert it. In unhonoured darkness, Far from gods, we fare, Lit unto our task with torch of sunless regions, And o’er a deadly way— Deadly to the living as to those who see not Life and light of day— Hunt we and press onward. Who of mortals hearing Doth not quake for awe, Hearing all that Fate thro’ hand of God hath given us For ordinance and law? Yea, this right to us, in dark abysm and backward Of ages it befel: None shall wrong mine office, tho’ in nether regions And sunless dark I dwell.