The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Volume 01 · Chapter 21Iphigenia
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Unhappy man, I only loose thy bonds In token of a still severer doom. The freedom which the sanctuary imparts, Like the last life-gleam o'er the dying face, But heralds death. I cannot, dare not, say Your doom is hopeless; for, with murderous hand, Could I inflict the fatal blow myself? And while I here am priestess of Diana, None, be he who he may, dare touch your heads. But the incensed king, should I refuse Compliance with the rites himself enjoin'd, Will choose another virgin from my train As my successor. Then, alas! with naught, Save ardent wishes, can I succor you. Much honored countrymen! The humblest slave, Who had but near'd our sacred household hearth, Is dearly welcome in a foreign land; How with proportion'd joy and blessing, then, Shall I receive the man who doth recall The image of the heroes, whom I learn'd To honor from my parents, and who cheers My inmost heart with flatt'ring gleams of hope!
Does prudent forethought prompt thee to conceal Thy name and race? or may I hope to know Who, like a heavenly vision, meets me thus?
Yes, thou shalt know me. Now conclude the tale Of which thy brother only told me half Relate their end, who coming home from Troy, On their own threshold met a doom severe And most unlook'd for. Young I was in sooth When first conducted to this foreign shore, Yet well I recollect the timid glance Of wonder and amazement which I cast On those heroic forms. When they went forth It seem'd as though Olympus had sent down The glorious figures of a bygone world, To frighten Ilion; and above them all, Great Agamemnon tower'd preeminent! Oh, tell me! Fell the hero in his home, Through Clytemnestra's and Ægisthus' wiles?
He fell!
Unblest Mycene! Thus the sons Of Tantalus, with barbarous hands, have sown Curse upon curse; and, as the shaken weed Scatters around a thousand poison-seeds, So they assassins ceaseless generate, Their children's children ruthless to destroy.— Now tell the remnant of thy brother's tale, Which horror darkly hid from me before. How did the last descendant of the race,— The gentle child, to whom the Gods assign'd The office of avenger,—how did he Escape that day of blood? Did equal fate Around Orestes throw Avernus' net Say, was he saved? and is he still alive? And lives Electra, too?
They both survive.
Golden Apollo, lend thy choicest beams! Lay them an offering at the throne of Jove! For I am poor and dumb.
If social bonds Or ties more close connect thee with this house, As this thy rapturous joy betrayeth to me, O then rein in thy heart and hold it fast! For insupportable the sudden plunge From happiness to sorrow's gloomy depth. Thou knowest only Agamemnon's death.
And is not this intelligence enough?
Half of the horror only hast thou heard.
What should I fear'? Orestes, Electra lives.
And fearest thou for Clytemnestra naught?
Her, neither hope nor fear have power to save.
She to the land of hope hath bid farewell.
Did her repentant hand shed her own blood?
Not so; yet her own blood inflicted death.
More plainly speak, nor leave me in suspense. Uncertainty around my anxious head Her dusky, thousand-folded pinion waves.
Have then the powers above selected me To be the herald of a dreadful deed, Which in the drear and soundless realms of night I fain would hide for ever? 'Gainst my will Thy gentle voice constrains me; it demands, And shall receive, a tale of direst woe. Electra, on the day when fell her sire, Her brother from impending doom conceal'd; Him Strophius, his father's relative, Receiv'd with kindest care, and rear'd him up With his own son, named Pylades, who soon Around the stranger twin'd love's fairest bonds. And as they grew, within their inmost souls There sprang the burning longing to revenge The monarch's death. Unlook'd for, and disguis'd, They reach Mycene, feigning to have brought The mournful tidings of Orestes' death, Together with his ashes. Them the queen Gladly receives. Within the house they enter; Orestes to Electra shows himself: She fans the fires of vengeance into flame, Which in the sacred presence of a mother Had burn'd more dimly. Silently she leads Her brother to the spot where fell their sire; Where lurid blood-marks, on the oft-wash'd floor, With pallid streaks, anticipate revenge. With fiery eloquence she pictured forth Each circumstance of that atrocious deed, Her own oppress'd and miserable life, The prosperous traitor's insolent demeanor, The perils threat'ning Agamemnon's race From her who had become their stepmother, Then in his hand the ancient dagger thrust, Which often in the house of Tantalus With savage fury rag'd,—and by her son Was Clytemnestra slain.
Immortal powers! Whose pure and blest existence glides away 'Mid ever shifting clouds, me have ye kept So many years secluded from the world, Retain'd me near yourselves, consign'd to me The childlike task to feed the sacred fire, And taught my spirit, like the hallow'd flame, With never-clouded brightness to aspire To your pure mansions,—but at length to feel With keener woe the horror of my house? O tell me of the poor unfortunate! Speak of Orestes!
O could I speak to tell thee of his death! Forth from the slain one's spouting blood arose His mother's ghost; And to the ancient daughters of the night Cries,—"Let him not escape,—the matricide! Pursue the victim, dedicate to you!" They hear, and glare around with hollow eyes, Like greedy eagles. In their murky dens They stir themselves, and from the corners creep Their comrades, dire Remorse and pallid Fear; Before them fumes a mist of Acheron; Perplexingly around the murderer's brow The eternal contemplation of the past Rolls in its cloudy circles. Once again The grisly band, commission'd to destroy, Pollute earth's beautiful and heaven-sown fields, From which an ancient curse had banish'd them. Their rapid feet the fugitive pursue; They only pause to start a wilder fear.
Unhappy one; thy lot resembles his, Thou feel'st what he, poor fugitive, must suffer.
What say'st thou? why presume my fate like his?
A brother's murder weighs upon thy soul; Thy younger brother told the mournful tale.
I cannot suffer that thy noble soul Should by a word of falsehood be deceived. In cunning rich and practised in deceit A web ensnaring let the stranger weave To snare the stranger's feet; between us twain Be truth! I am Orestes! and this guilty head Is stooping to the tomb, and covets death; It will be welcome now in any shape. Whoe'er thou art, for thee and for my friend I wish deliverance—I desire it not. Thou seem'st to linger here against thy will; Contrive some means of flight, and leave me here My lifeless corpse hurl'd headlong from the rock, My blood shall mingle with the dashing waves, And bring a curse upon this barbarous shore! Return together home to lovely Greece, With joy a new existence to commence.
[ORESTES retires.]
At length Fulfilment, fairest child of Jove, Thou dost descend upon me from on high! How vast thine image! Scarce my straining eye Can reach thy hands, which, fill'd with golden fruit And wreaths of blessing, from Olympus' height Shower treasures down. As by his bounteous gifts We recognize the monarch (for what seems To thousands opulence, is naught to him), So you, ye heavenly Powers, are also known By bounty long withheld, and wisely plann'd. Ye only know what things are good for us; Ye view the future's wide-extended realm, While from our eye a dim or starry veil The prospect shrouds. Calmly ye hear our prayers, When we like children sue for greater speed. Not immature ye pluck heaven's golden fruit; And woe to him, who with impatient hand, His date of joy forestalling, gathers death. Let not this long-awaited happiness, Which yet my heart hath scarcely realiz'd, Like to the shadow of departed friends, Glide vainly by with triple sorrow fraught!
ORESTES (returning)
Dost thou for Pylades and for thyself Implore the gods, blend not my name with yours; Thou wilt not save the wretch whom thou wouldst join, But will participate his curse and woe.
My destiny is firmly bound to thine.
No; say not so: alone and unattended Let me descend to Hades. Though thou shouldst In thine own veil enwrap the guilty one, Thou couldst not shroud him from his wakeful foes; And e'en thy sacred presence, heavenly maid, But driveth them aside and scares them not. With brazen, impious feet they dare not tread Within the precincts of this sacred grove Yet in the distance, ever and anon, I hear their horrid laughter, like the howl Of famish'd wolves, beneath the tree wherein The traveler hides. Without, encamp'd they lie, And should I quit this consecrated grove, Shaking their serpent locks, they would arise, And, raising clouds of dust on every side, Ceaseless pursue their miserable prey.
Orestes, canst thou hear a friendly word
Reserve it for one favor'd by the gods.
To thee they give anew the light of hope.
Through clouds and smoke I see the feeble gleam Of the death-stream which lights me down to hell.
Hast thou one sister only, thy Electra?
I knew but one: yet her kind destiny, Which seemed to us so terrible, betimes Removed an elder sister from the woe Which o'er the house of Pelops aye impends. O cease thy questions, nor thus league thyself With the Erinnys; still they blow away, With fiendish joy, the ashes from my soul, Lest the last embers of the fiery brand The fatal heritage of Pelops' house, Should there be quenched. Must then the fire for aye, Deliberately kindled and supplied With hellish sulphur, sear my tortured soul!
I scatter fragrant incense in the flame. O let the pure, the gentle breath of love, Low murmuring, cool thy bosom's fiery glow. Orestes, fondly lov'd,—canst thou not hear me? Hath the terrific Furies' grisly band Dried up the blood of life within thy veins? Creeps there, as from the Gorgon's direful head, A petrifying charm through all thy limbs? With hollow accents from a mother's blood, If voices call thee to the shades below, May not a sister's word with blessing rife Call from Olympus' height help-rendering gods?
She calls! she calls!—Dost thou desire my doom? Is there a Fury shrouded in thy form? Who art thou, that thy voice thus horribly Can harrow up my bosom's inmost depths!
Thine inmost heart reveals it. I am she,— Iphigenia,—look on me, Orestes!
Thou!
My own brother!
Hence, away, begone! I counsel thee, touch not these fatal locks! As from Creusa's bridal robe, from me An inextinguishable fire is kindled. Leave me! Like Hercules, a death of shame, Unworthy wretch, locked in myself, I'll die!
Thou shalt not perish! Would that I might hear One quiet word from thee! dispel my doubts, Make sure the bliss I have implored so long. A wheel of joy and sorrow in my heart, Ceaseless revolves. I from a man unknown With horror turn; but with resistless might My inmost heart impels me to my brother.
Is this Lyæus' temple? Doth the glow Of holy rage unbridled thus possess The sacred priestess?
Hear me, oh, look up! See how my heart, which hath been closed so long Doth open to the bliss of seeing thee, The dearest treasure that the world contains,— Of falling on thy neck, and folding thee Within my longing arms, which have till now Met the embraces of the empty wind. Do not repulse me,—the eternal spring, Whose crystal waters from Parnassus flow, Bounds not more gaily on from rock to rock, Down to the golden vale, than from my heart The waters of affection freely gush, And round me form a circling sea of bliss. Orestes! O my brother!
Lovely nymph! Nor thy caresses, nor thyself I trust; Diana claims attendants more severe, And doth avenge her desecrated fane. Remove thy circling arm! Wilt thou indeed Safety and love upon a youth bestow, And fondly tender him earth's fairest joy Unto my friend, more worthy than myself, Impart thy favors; 'mong yon rocks he roves. Go, seek him; guide him hence, and heed not me.
Brother, command thyself, and better know Thy sister, newly found! Misconstrue not Her pure and heavenly rapture, blaming it As lustful heat unbridled. O ye gods, Remove delusion from his rigid gaze, Lest that this moment, fraught with bliss supreme, Should make us trebly wretched! She is here, Thine own, thy long-lost sister! From the altar The goddess rescued me, and placed me here, Secure within her consecrated fane— A captive thou, prepared for sacrifice, And findest here a sister in the priestess.
Unblessèd one! So may the radiant sun The final horror of our house behold! Is not Electra here? That she with us May also perish, nor her life prolong For heavier destiny and direr woe. 'Tis well,—I follow, priestess! Fratricide Is an old custom of our ancient house; And you, ye gods, I thank, that ye resolve Childless to root me hence. Thee let me counsel To view too fondly neither sun nor stars. Come, follow to the gloomy realms below! As dragons, gender'd in the sulphur pool, Swallow each other with voracious rage, So our accursed race destroys itself. Childless and guiltless come below with me! There's pity in thy look! oh, gaze not so,— 'Twas with such looks that Clytemnestra sought An entrance to her son Orestes' heart, And yet his uprais'd arm her bosom pierc'd. His mother fell!—Appear, indignant shade! Within the circle step, ye fiends of hell, Be present at the welcome spectacle, The last, most horrible that ye prepare! Nor hate, nor vengeance whets the poniard now; A loving sister is constrain'd to deal The fatal blow. Weep not! Thou hast no guilt. From earliest infancy I naught have lov'd, As thee I could have lov'd, my sister. Come, The weapon raise, spare not, this bosom rend, And make an outlet for its boiling streams!
[He sinks exhausted.]
Alone I cannot bear this bliss and woe. Where art thou, Pylades? Thine aid I need. [IPHIGENIA retires.]