Library of the World's Best Literature, Ancient and Modern — Volume 01
General
Library of the World's Best Literature, Ancient and Modern — Volume 01
Literature -- Collections
The scene of the 'Agamemnon' is the royal palace in Argos. The time is
night. A watchman is discovered on the flat roof of the palace. For a
year he has kept weary vigil there, waiting for the beacon-fire that,
sped from mountain-top to mountain-top, shall announce the fall of Troy.
The signal comes at last, and joyously he proclaims the welcome news.
The sacrificial fires which have been made ready in anticipation of the
event are set alight throughout the city. The play naturally falls into
three divisions. The first introduces the Chorus of Argive elders,
Clytemnestra, and a Herald who tells of the hardships of the siege and
of the calamitous return, and ends with the triumphal entrance of
Agamemnon with Cassandra, and his welcome by the Queen; the second
comprehends the prophecy of the frenzied Cassandra of the doom about to
fall upon the house and the murder of the King; the third the conflict
between the Chorus, still faithful to the murdered King, and
Clytemnestra, beside whom stands her paramour Aegisthus.
Interest centres in Clytemnestra. Crafty, unscrupulous, resolute,
remorseless, she veils her deadly hatred for her lord, and welcomes him
home in tender speech:--
"So now, dear lord, I bid thee welcome home--
True as the faithful watchdog of the fold,
Strong as the mainstay of the laboring bark,
Stately as column, fond as only child,
Dear as the land to shipwrecked mariner,
Bright as fair sunshine after winter's storms,
Sweet as fresh fount to thirsty wanderer--
All this, and more, thou art, dear love, to me."
Agamemnon passes within the palace; she slays him in his bath, enmeshed
in a net, and then, reappearing, vaunts her bloody deed:
"I smote him, and he bellowed; and again
I smote, and with a groan his knees gave way;
And as he fell before me, with a third
And last libation from the deadly mace,
I pledged the crowning draught to Hades due,
That subterranean Saviour--of the dead!
At which he spouted up the Ghost in such
A flood of purple as, bespattered with,
No less did I rejoice than the green ear
Rejoices in the largesse of the skies
That fleeting Iris follows as it flies."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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