Book of illustrations : Ancient Tragedy. Aeschylus

recompense make thou to those who bring

                These garlands," yea, a gift full well deserved

                By deeds of ill? Or, dumb with ignominy

                Like that with which he perished, shall I pour

                Libations on the earth, and like a man

                That flings away the lustral filth, shall I

                Throw down the urn and walk with eyes not turned? {97}

      The Chorus-Leader breaking ranks to lay her hand on the Sepulchre as sign of fidelity, advises to throw off all disguise and pray boldly for friend and against foe. Electra in this sense offers the Prayer: setting forth the wrongs of the house and praying for Orestes and Vengeance: then calling on the Chorus for a Sepulchral Song she descends to the tomb. {144}

       Sepulchral Paean of short Strophe and Antistrophe: for these libations' sake may the curse be averted – yet who strong enough to come as Averter: while Electra is pouring the libations on the tomb. {157}

       Electra returns to Stage, her whole manner changed: as if the prayer had already begun to be fulfilled, she has found the mysterious locks which, she bit by bit lets out, must be those of Orestes – the Chorus, like sailors in a storm, can only invoke the gods: if the day has come, from a small seed a mighty trunk may grow – Electra then discovers foot-prints [as if leading from the Side Stage-door to the Orchestra-staircase] of two travellers; one foot-print agrees with her brother's: {203}

       Orestes and Pylades come forward: recognition and joy, Electra hardly believing. She addresses him by four-fold name: as father dear,

                The love I owe my mother turns to thee,

                My sister's too that ruthlessly was slain,

                And thou wast ever faithful brother found.

      Orestes compares his family to an eagle's brood orphaned by the spoiler. Electra catching at the omen of eagle, dear bird of Zeus who will avenge his own —Chorus are afraid that their noisy joy may be overheard and ruin all – Orestes has no fear of ruin after the strong oracles of Apollo that bade him come under terrible penalties if he disobeyed: {261}

                    Leprous sores that creep

                All o'er the flesh, and as with cruel jaws

                Eat out its ancient nature, and white hairs

                On that foul ill to supervene: and still

                He spake of other onsets of the Erinnyes,

                As brought to issue from a father's blood;

                For the dark weapon of the Gods below

                Winged by our kindred that lie low in death,

                And beg for vengeance, yea, and madness too,

                And vague, dim fears at night disturb and haunt me,

                Seeing full clearly, though I move my brow

                In the thick darkness.. and that then my frame

                Thus tortured should be driven from the city

                With brass-knobbed scourge: and that for such as I

                It was not given to share the wine-cup's taste,

                Nor votive stream in pure libation poured;

                And that my father's wrath invisible

                Would drive me from all altars, and that none

                Should take me in or lodge with me: at last,

                That loathed of all and friendless I should die,

                A wretched mummy, all my strength consumed.

                Must I not trust such oracles as these? {297}

       The Chorus, breaking into lyrics, feel that Justice has at last taken their side: then follows an elaborate

KOMMOS, OR LYRIC CONCERTO

       by Orestes, Electra and Chorus, in highly intricate and interwoven Strophes and Antistrophes, with funereal gesture. The jaws of flame do not reduce the corpse to senselessness; they can hear below this our Rite and will send answer – what a fate was Agamemnon's, not that of the warrior who dies leaving high fame at home and laying strong and sure his children's paths in life, but to be struck down by his own kin! But there is a sense of Vengeance being at hand, Erinnys and the Curses of the slain; they make the heart quiver: the Dirge crescendoes till it breaks into the 'Arian rhythm,' a foreign funeral rhythm with violent gestures (proper to the Chorus as Asiatics); and so as a climax breaks up into two semi-choruses: one sings of woe, the other of vengeance, and then the formal Dirge terminates and the Blank Verse recommences. {469}

      In a composed frame (and in Blank Verse) Orestes and Electra repeat the distinct prayer for Vengeance and the death of Aegisthus and then address themselves to the means. Orestes enquires as to the meaning of the Sepulchral rites, and the dream is narrated, which he interprets as good omen.

       Orest. And have ye learnt the dream, to tell it right? {517}

        Chor. As she doth say, she thought she bare a snake.

        Orest. How ends the tale, and what its outcome then?

        Chor. She nursed it, like a child, in swaddling clothes.

        Orest. What food did the young monster crave for then?

        Chor. She in her dream her bosom gave to it.

        Orest. How 'scaped her breast by that dread beast unhurt?

        Chor. Nay, with the milk it sucked out clots of blood.

        Orest. Ah, not in vain comes this dream from her lord.

        Chor. She, roused from sleep, cries out all terrified,

                  And many torches that were quenched in gloom

                  Blazed for our Mistress' sake within the house.

                  Then these libations for the dead she sends,

                  Hoping they'll prove good medicine of ills.

        Orest. Now to earth here, and my sire's tomb I pray,

                  They leave not this strange vision unfulfilled.

                  So I expound it that it all coheres;

                  For if, the self-same spot that I left leaving,

                  The snake was then wrapt in my swaddling clothes,

                  And sucked the very breast that nourished me,

                  And mixed the sweet milk with a clot of blood,

                  And she in terror wailed the strange event,

                  So must she, as that monster dread she nourished,

                  Die cruel death: and I, thus serpentised,

                  Am