No More Learning

Lie close until she pass; then question her.
A slave might help us well, or speak some sign
Of import to this work of mine and thine.

[_The two men retire into ambush. _ ELECTRA _enters, returning from the
well. _

ELECTRA.

Onward, O labouring tread,
As on move the years;
Onward amid thy tears,
O happier dead!

Let me remember. I am she, [_Strophe_ 1.
Agamemnon's child, and the mother of me
Clytemnestra, the evil Queen,
Helen's sister. And folk, I ween,
That pass in the streets call yet my name
Electra. . . . God protect my shame!
For toil, toil is a weary thing,
And life is heavy about my head;
And thou far off, O Father and King,
In the lost lands of the dead.
A bloody twain made these things be;
One was thy bitterest enemy,
And one the wife that lay by thee.

Brother, brother, on some far shore [_Antistrophe_ 1.
Hast thou a city, is there a door
That knows thy footfall, Wandering One?
Who left me, left me, when all our pain
Was bitter about us, a father slain,
And a girl that wept in her room alone.
Thou couldst break me this bondage sore,
Only thou, who art far away,
Loose our father, and wake once more. . . .
Zeus, Zeus, dost hear me pray? . . .
The sleeping blood and the shame and the doom!
O feet that rest not, over the foam
Of distant seas, come home, come home!

What boots this cruse that I carry? [_Strophe_ 2.
O, set free my brow!
For the gathered tears that tarry
Through the day and the dark till now,
Now in the dawn are free,
Father, and flow beneath
The floor of the world, to be
As a song in she house of Death:
From the rising up of the day
They guide my heart alway,
The silent tears unshed,
And my body mourns for the dead;
My cheeks bleed silently,
And these bruised temples keep
Their pain, remembering thee
And thy bloody sleep.

Be rent, O hair of mine head!

As a swan crying alone
Where the river windeth cold,
For a loved, for a silent one,
Whom the toils of the fowler hold,
I cry, Father, to thee,
O slain in misery!

The water, the wan water, [_Antistrophe_ 2.
Lapped him, and his head
Drooped in the bed of slaughter
Low, as one wearied;
Woe for the edged axe,
And woe for the heart of hate,
Houndlike about thy tracks,
O conqueror desolate,
From Troy over land and sea,
Till a wife stood waiting thee;
Not with crowns did she stand,
Nor flowers of peace in her hand;
With Aegisthus' dagger drawn
For her hire she strove,
Through shame and through blood alone;
And won her a traitor's love.

[_As she ceases there enter from right and left the_ CHORUS, _consisting
of women of Argos, young and old, in festal dress_.


CHORUS.

_Some Women. _

Child of the mighty dead, [_Strophe_.
Electra, lo, my way
To thee in the dawn hath sped,
And the cot on the mountain grey,
For the Watcher hath cried this day:
He of the ancient folk,
The walker of waste and hill,
Who drinketh the milk of the flock;
And he told of Hera's will;
For the morrow's morrow now
They cry her festival,
And before her throne shall bow
Our damsels all.

ELECTRA.

Not unto joy, nor sweet
Music, nor shining of gold,
The wings of my spirit beat.
Let the brides of Argos hold
Their dance in the night, as of old;
I lead no dance; I mark
No beat as the dancers sway;
With tears I dwell in the dark,
And my thought is of tears alway,
To the going down of the day.
Look on my wasted hair
And raiment. . . . This that I bear,
Is it meet for the King my sire,
And her whom the King begot?
For Troy, that was burned with fire
And forgetteth not?


CHORUS.

_Other Women. _

Hera is great! --Ah, come, [_Antistrophe_.
Be kind; and my hand shall bring
Fair raiment, work of the loom,
And many a golden thing,
For joyous robe-wearing.
Deemest thou this thy woe
Shall rise unto God as prayer,
Or bend thine haters low?
Doth God for thy pain have care?
Not tears for the dead nor sighs,
But worship and joy divine
Shall win thee peace in thy skies,
O daughter mine!

ELECTRA.

No care cometh to God
For the voice of the helpless; none
For the crying of ancient blood.
Alas for him that is gone,
And for thee, O wandering one:
That now, methinks, in a land
Of the stranger must toil for hire,
And stand where the poor men stand,
A-cold by another's fire,
O son of the mighty sire:
While I in a beggar's cot
On the wrecked hills, changing not,
Starve in my soul for food;
But our mother lieth wed
In another's arms, and blood
Is about her bed.

LEADER.

On all of Greece she wrought great jeopardy,
Thy mother's sister, Helen,--and on thee.

[ORESTES _and_ PYLADES _move out from their concealment_; ORESTES _comes
forward_: PYLADES _beckons to two_ ARMED SERVANTS _and stays with them in
the background_.

ELECTRA.

Woe's me! No more of wailing! Women, flee!
Strange armed men beside the dwelling there
Lie ambushed! They are rising from their lair.
Back by the road, all you. I will essay
The house; and may our good feet save us!

ORESTES (_between_ ELECTRA _and the hut_).

Stay,
Unhappy woman! Never fear my steel.

ELECTRA (_in utter panic_).

O bright Apollo! Mercy! See, I kneel;
Slay me not.

ORESTES.

Others I have yet to slay
Less dear than thou.

ELECTRA.

Go from me! Wouldst thou lay
Hand on a body that is not for thee?

ORESTES.

None is there I would touch more righteously.

ELECTRA.

Why lurk'st thou by my house? And why a sword?

ORESTES.

Stay. Listen! Thou wilt not gainsay my word.

ELECTRA.

There--I am still. Do what thou wilt with me.
Thou art too strong.

ORESTES.

A word I bear to thee. . .
Word of thy brother.

ELECTRA.

Oh, friend! More than friend!
Living or dead?

ORESTES.

He lives; so let me send
My comfort foremost, ere the rest be heard.

ELECTRA.

God love thee for the sweetness of thy word!

ORESTES.

God love the twain of us, both thee and me.

ELECTRA.

He lives! Poor brother! In what land weareth he
His exile?

ORESTES.

Not one region nor one lot
His wasted life hath trod.

ELECTRA.

He lacketh not
For bread?

ORESTES.

Bread hath he; but a man is weak
In exile.

ELECTRA.

What charge laid he on thee? Speak.

ORESTES.

To learn if thou still live, and how the storm,
Living, hath struck thee.

ELECTRA.

That thou seest; this form
Wasted. . .

ORESTES.

Yea, riven with the fire of woe.
I sigh to look on thee.

ELECTRA.

My face; and, lo,
My temples of their ancient glory shorn.

ORESTES.

Methinks thy brother haunts thee, being forlorn;
Aye, and perchance thy father, whom they slew. . .

ELECTRA.

What should be nearer to me than those two?

ORESTES.

And what to him, thy brother, half so dear
As thou?

ELECTRA.
His is a distant love, not near
At need.

ORESTES.

But why this dwelling place, this life
Of loneliness?

ELECTRA (_with sudden bitterness_).

Stranger, I am a wife. . . .
O better dead!

ORESTES.

That seals thy brother's doom!
What Prince of Argos. . . ?

ELECTRA.

Not the man to whom
My father thought to give me.

ORESTES.

Speak; that I
May tell thy brother all.

ELECTRA.

'Tis there, hard by,
His dwelling, where I live, far from men's eyes.

ORESTES.

Some ditcher's cot, or cowherd's, by its guise!

ELECTRA (_struck with shame for her ingratitude_).

A poor man; but true-hearted, and to me
God-fearing.

ORESTES.

How? What fear of God hath he?

ELECTRA.

He hath never held my body to his own.

ORESTES.

Hath he some vow to keep? Or is it done
To scorn thee?

ELECTRA.

Nay; he only scorns to sin
Against my father's greatness.

ORESTES.

But to win
A princess! Doth his heart not leap for pride?

ELECTRA.

He honoureth not the hand that gave the bride.

ORESTES.

I see. He trembles for Orestes' wrath?

ELECTRA.

Aye, that would move him. But beside, he hath
A gentle heart.

ORESTES.

Strange! A good man. . . . I swear
He well shall be requited.

ELECTRA.
Whensoe'er
Our wanderer comes again!

ORESTES.

Thy mother stays
Unmoved 'mid all thy wrong?

ELECTRA.

A lover weighs
More than a child in any woman's heart.

ORESTES.

But what end seeks Aegisthus, by such art
Of shame?

ELECTRA.

To make mine unborn children low
And weak, even as my husband.

ORESTES.

Lest there grow
From thee the avenger?

ELECTRA.

Such his purpose is:
For which may I requite him!

ORESTES.

And of this
Thy virgin life--Aegisthus knows it?

ELECTRA.

Nay,
We speak it not. It cometh not his way.

ORESTES.

These women hear us. Are they friends to thee?

ELECTRA.

Aye, friends and true. They will keep faithfully
All words of mine and thine.

ORESTES (_trying her_).

Thou art well stayed
With friends. And could Orestes give thee aid
In aught, if e'er. . .

ELECTRA.

Shame on thee! Seest thou not?
Is it not time?

ORESTES (_catching her excitement_).

How time? And if he sought
To slay, how should he come at his desire?

ELECTRA.

By daring, as they dared who slew his sire!

ORESTES.

Wouldst thou dare with him, if he came, thou too,
To slay her?

ELECTRA.

Yes; with the same axe that slew
My father!

ORESTES.

'Tis thy message? And thy mood
Unchanging?

ELECTRA.

Let me shed my mother's blood,
And I die happy.

ORESTES.

God! . . . I would that now
Orestes heard thee here.

ELECTRA.

Yet, wottest thou,
Though here I saw him, I should know him not.

ORESTES.

Surely. Ye both were children, when they wrought
Your parting.

ELECTRA.

One alone in all this land
Would know his face.

ORESTES.

The thrall, methinks, whose hand
Stole him from death--or so the story ran?

ELECTRA.

He taught my father, too, an old old man
Of other days than these.

ORESTES.

Thy father's grave. . .
He had due rites and tendance?

ELECTRA.

What chance gave,
My father had, cast out to rot in the sun.

ORESTES.

God, 'tis too much! . . . To hear of such things done
Even to a stranger, stings a man. . . . But speak,
Tell of thy life, that I may know, and seek
Thy brother with a tale that must be heard
Howe'er it sicken. If mine eyes be blurred,
Remember, 'tis the fool that feels not. Aye,
Wisdom is full of pity; and thereby
Men pay for too much wisdom with much pain.

LEADER.

My heart is moved as this man's. I would fain
Learn all thy tale. Here dwelling on the hills
Little I know of Argos and its ills.

ELECTRA.

If I must speak--and at love's call, God knows,
I fear not--I will tell thee all; my woes,
My father's woes, and--O, since thou hast stirred
This storm of speech, thou bear him this my word--
His woes and shame! Tell of this narrow cloak
In the wind; this grime and reek of toil, that choke
My breathing; this low roof that bows my head
After a king's. This raiment . . . thread by thread,
'Tis I must weave it, or go bare--must bring,
Myself, each jar of water from the spring.
No holy day for me, no festival,
No dance upon the green! From all, from all
I am cut off. No portion hath my life
'Mid wives of Argos, being no true wife.
No portion where the maidens throng to praise
Castor--my Castor, whom in ancient days,
Ere he passed from us and men worshipped him,
They named my bridegroom! --
And she, she! . . . The grim
Troy spoils gleam round her throne, and by each hand
Queens of the East, my father's prisoners, stand,
A cloud of Orient webs and tangling gold.
And there upon the floor, the blood, the old
Black blood, yet crawls and cankers, like a rot
In the stone! And on our father's chariot
The murderer's foot stands glorying, and the red
False hand uplifts that ancient staff, that led
The armies of the world! . . . Aye, tell him how
The grave of Agamemnon, even now,
Lacketh the common honour of the dead;
A desert barrow, where no tears are shed,
No tresses hung, no gift, no myrtle spray.
And when the wine is in him, so men say,
Our mother's mighty master leaps thereon,
Spurning the slab, or pelteth stone on stone,
Flouting the lone dead and the twain that live:
"Where is thy son Orestes? Doth he give
Thy tomb good tendance? Or is all forgot? "
So is he scorned because he cometh not. . . .

O Stranger, on my knees, I charge thee, tell
This tale, not mine, but of dumb wrongs that swell
Crowding--and I the trumpet of their pain,
This tongue, these arms, this bitter burning brain;
These dead shorn locks, and he for whom they died!
His father slew Troy's thousands in their pride;
He hath but one to kill. . . . O God, but one!
Is he a man, and Agamemnon's son?

LEADER.

But hold: is this thy husband from the plain,
His labour ended, hasting home again?

_Enter the_ PEASANT.

PEASANT.

Ha, who be these? Strange men in arms before
My house! What would they at this lonely door?
Seek they for me? --Strange gallants should not stay
A woman's goings.

ELECTRA.

Friend and helper! --Nay,
Think not of any evil. These men be
Friends of Orestes, charged with words for me! . . .
Strangers, forgive his speech.

PEASANT.

What word have they
Of him? At least he lives and sees the day!

ELECTRA.

So fares their tale--and sure I doubt it not!

PEASANT.

And ye two still are living in his thought,
Thou and his father?

ELECTRA.

In his dreams we live.
An exile hath small power.

PEASANT.

And did he give
Some privy message?

ELECTRA.

None: they come as spies
For news of me.

PEASANT.

Thine outward news their eyes
Can see; the rest, methinks, thyself will tell.

ELECTRA.

They have seen all, heard all. I trust them well.

PEASANT.

Why were our doors not open long ago? --
Be welcome, strangers both, and pass below
My lintel. In return for your glad words
Be sure all greeting that mine house affords
Is yours. --Ye followers, bear in their gear! --
Gainsay me not; for his sake are ye dear
That sent you to our house; and though my part
In life be low, I am no churl at heart.

[_The_ PEASANT _goes to the_ ARMED SERVANTS _at the back, to help them
with the baggage. _

ORESTES (_aside to_ ELECTRA).

Is this the man that shields thy maidenhood
Unknown, and will not wrong thy father's blood?

ELECTRA.

He is called my husband. 'Tis for him I toil.

ORESTES.

How dark lies honour hid! And what turmoil
In all things human: sons of mighty men
Fallen to naught, and from ill seed again
Good fruit: yea, famine in the rich man's scroll
Writ deep, and in poor flesh a lordly soul.
As, lo, this man, not great in Argos, not
With pride of house uplifted, in a lot
Of unmarked life hath shown a prince's grace.
[_To the_ PEASANT, _who has returned. _
All that is here of Agamemnon's race,
And all that lacketh yet, for whom we come,
Do thank thee, and the welcome of thy home
Accept with gladness. --Ho, men; hasten ye
Within! --This open-hearted poverty
Is blither to my sense than feasts of gold.

Lady, thine husband's welcome makes me bold;
Yet would thou hadst thy brother, before all
Confessed, to greet us in a prince's hall!
Which may be, even yet. Apollo spake
The word; and surely, though small store I make
Of man's divining, God will fail us not.

[ORESTES _and_ PYLADES _go in, following the_ SERVANTS.

LEADER.

O never was the heart of hope so hot
Within me. How? So moveless in time past,
Hath Fortune girded up her loins at last?

ELECTRA.

Now know'st thou not thine own ill furniture,
To bid these strangers in, to whom for sure
Our best were hardship, men of gentle breed?

PEASANT.

Nay, if the men be gentle, as indeed
I deem them, they will take good cheer or ill
With even kindness.

ELECTRA.

'Twas ill done; but still--
Go, since so poor thou art, to that old friend
Who reared my father. At the realm's last end
He dwells, where Tanaos river foams between
Argos and Sparta. Long time hath he been
An exile 'mid his flocks. Tell him what thing
Hath chanced on me, and bid him haste and bring
Meat for the strangers' tending. --Glad, I trow,
That old man's heart will be, and many a vow
Will lift to God, to learn the child he stole
From death, yet breathes. --I will not ask a dole
From home; how should my mother help me? Nay,
I pity him that seeks that door, to say
Orestes liveth!

PEASANT.

Wilt thou have it so?