Prologue

(The scene represents a hut on a desolate mountain side; the river Inachus is visible in the distance. The time is the dusk of early dawn, before sunrise. The PEASANT is discovered in front of the hut.)

PEASANT.Old gleam on the face of the world, I give thee hail,River of Argos land, where sail on sailThe long ships met, a thousand, near and far,When Agamemnon walked the seas in war;Who smote King Priam in the dust, and burnedThe storied streets of Ilion, and returnedAbove all conquerors, heaping tower and faneOf Argos high with spoils of Eastern slain.

So in far lands he prospered; and at homeHis own wife trapped and slew him. 'Twas the doomAegisthus wrought, son of his father's foe.

Gone is that King, and the old spear laid lowThat Tantalus wielded when the world was young.Aegisthus hath his queen, and reigns amongHis people. And the children here alone,Orestes and Electra, buds unblownOf man and womanhood, when forth to TroyHe shook his sail and left them--lo, the boyOrestes, ere Aegisthus' hand could fall,Was stolen from Argos--borne by one old thrall,Who served his father's boyhood, over seasFar off, and laid upon King Strophios' kneesIn Phocis, for the old king's sake. But hereThe maid Electra waited, year by year,Alone, till the warm days of womanhoodDrew nigh and suitors came of gentle bloodIn Hellas. Then Aegisthus was in fearLest she be wed in some great house, and bearA son to avenge her father. Close he wroughtHer prison in his house, and gave her notTo any wooer. Then, since even thisWas full of peril, and the secret kissOf some bold prince might find her yet, and rendHer prison walls, Aegisthus at the endWould slay her. Then her mother, she so wildAforetime, pled with him and saved her child.Her heart had still an answer for her lordMurdered, but if the child's blood spoke, what wordCould meet the hate thereof? After that dayAegisthus thus decreed: whoso should slayThe old king's wandering son, should win rich meedOf gold; and for Electra, she must wedWith me, not base of blood--in that I standTrue Mycenaean--but in gold and landMost poor, which maketh highest birth as naught.So from a powerless husband shall be wroughtA powerless peril. Had some man of mightPossessed her, he had called perchance to lightHer father's blood, and unknown vengeancesRisen on Aegisthus yet.Aye, mine she is:But never yet these arms--the Cyprian knowsMy truth!--have clasped her body, and she goesA virgin still. Myself would hold it shameTo abase this daughter of a royal name.I am too lowly to love violence. Yea,Orestes too doth move me, far away,Mine unknown brother! Will he ever nowCome back and see his sister bowed so low?

Doth any deem me fool, to hold a fairMaid in my room and seek no joy, but spareHer maidenhood? If any such there be,Let him but look within. The fool is heIn gentle things, weighing the more and lessOf love by his own heart's untenderness.

(As he ceases ELECTRA comes out of the hut. She is in mourning garb, and carries a large pitcher on her head. She speaks without observing the PEASANT'S presence.)

ELECTRA.Dark shepherdess of many a golden star,Dost see me, Mother Night? And how this jarHath worn my earth-bowed head, as forth and froFor water to the hillward springs I go?Not for mere stress of need, but purpose set,That never day nor night God may forgetAegisthus' sin: aye, and perchance a cryCast forth to the waste shining of the skyMay find my father's ear.... The woman bredOf Tyndareus, my mother--on her headBe curses!--from my house hath outcast me;She hath borne children to our enemy;She hath made me naught, she hath made Orestes naught....

(As the bitterness of her tone increases, the PEASANT comes forward.)

PEASANT.What wouldst thou now, my sad one, ever fraughtWith toil to lighten my toil? And so softThy nurture was! Have I not chid thee oft,And thou wilt cease not, serving without end?

ELECTRA (turning to him with impulsive affection).O friend, my friend, as God might be my friend,Thou only hast not trampled on my tears.Life scarce can be so hard, 'mid many fearsAnd many shames, when mortal heart can findSomewhere one healing touch, as my sick mindFinds thee.... And should I wait thy word, to endureA little for thine easing, yea, or pourMy strength out in thy toiling fellowship?Thou hast enough with fields and kine to keep;'Tis mine to make all bright within the door.'Tis joy to him that toils, when toil is o'er,To find home waiting, full of happy things.

PEASANT.If so it please thee, go thy way. The springsAre not far off. And I before the mornMust drive my team afield, and sow the cornIn the hollows.--Not a thousand prayers can gainA man's bare bread, save an he work amain.

(ELECTRA and the PEASANT depart on their several ways. After a few moments there enter stealthily two armed men, ORESTES and PYLADES.)

ORESTES.Thou art the first that I have known in deedTrue and my friend, and shelterer of my need.Thou only, Pylades, of all that knew,Hast held Orestes of some worth, all throughThese years of helplessness, wherein I lieDowntrodden by the murderer--yea, and byThe murderess, my mother!... I am come,Fresh from the cleansing of Apollo, homeTo Argos--and my coming no man yetKnoweth--to pay the bloody twain their debtOf blood. This very night I crept aloneTo my dead father's grave, and poured thereonMy heart's first tears and tresses of my headNew-shorn, and o'er the barrow of the deadSlew a black lamb, unknown of them that reignIn this unhappy land.... I am not fainTo pass the city gates, but hold me hereHard on the borders. So my road is clearTo fly if men look close and watch my way;If not, to seek my sister. For men sayShe dwelleth in these hills, no more a maidBut wedded. I must find her house, for aidTo guide our work, and learn what hath betidOf late in Argos.--Ha, the radiant lidOf Dawn's eye lifteth! Come, friend; leave we nowThis trodden path. Some worker of the plough,Or serving damsel at her early taskWill presently come by, whom we may askIf here my sister dwells. But soft! Even nowI see some bondmaid there, her death-shorn browBending beneath its freight of well-water.Lie close until she pass; then question her.A slave might help us well, or speak some signOf import to this work of mine and thine.