Strange daring yours, Menelaus, where you have no right.

Stand back! You carry loyalty to your master too far.

The very reproach you have for me is to my credit.

You shall rue it, if you meddle in matters that do not concern you.

You had no right to open a letter, which I was carrying.

No, nor you to be carrying sorrow to all Hellas.

Argue that point with others, but surrender that letter to me.

I shall not let go.

Nor will I let loose my hold.

Why then, this staff of mine will be dabbling your head with blood before long.

To die in my master's cause would be a noble death.

Let go! you are too wordy for a slave.

Master, he is wronging me; he snatched your letter violently from my grasp, Agamemnon, and will not heed the claims of right.

Ah! what is this uproar at the gates, this indecent brawling?

My tale, not his, has the better right to be spoken.

You, Menelaus! what quarrel do you have with this man, why are you dragging him here? Exit ATTENDANT.

Look me in the face! May that be the prelude to my story.

Shall I, the son of Atreus, close my eyes from fear?The point lies in the play on the name *)atreu/s, i.e., “the fearless,” “shall I the son of fearlessness, fear, etc.?”

Do you see this tablet, the bearer of a shameful message?

I see it, yes; now, you first of all surrender it.

No, not till I have shown its contents to all the army.

What! have you broken the seal and know already what you should never have known?

Yes, I opened it and know to your sorrow the secret machinations of your heart.

Where did you get it? O gods! what shameless heart you have!

I was awaiting your daughter's arrival at the camp in Argos.

What right have you to watch my doings? is not this a proof of shamelessness?

My wish to do it gave the spur, for I am no slave to you.

Infamous! Am I not to be allowed the management of my own house?

No, for you think crooked thoughts, one thing now, another formerly, and something different presently.

Most exquisite refining on evil themes! A hateful thing the tongue of cleverness!

Yes, but a mind unstable is an unjust possession, disloyal to friends. Now I am anxious to test you, and do not seek from rage to turn aside from the truth, nor will I on my part overstrain the case. Do you remember when you were all eagerness to captain the Danaids against Troy, making a pretence of declining, though eager for it in your heart; how humble you were then, taking each man by the hand and keeping open doors for every fellow-townsman who cared to enter, affording each in turn chance to speak with you, even though some did not wish it, seeking by these methods to purchase popularity from all bidders? Then when you had secured the command, there came a change over your manners; you were no longer so cordial as before to former friends, but hard of access, seldom to be found at home. But the man of real worth ought not to change his manners in the hour of prosperity, but should then show himself most staunch to friends, when his own good fortune can help them most effectually.

For brothers to come to words and blows, whenever they disagree, is terrible.

I wish to rebuke you in turn, briefly, not lifting my eyes too high shamelessly, but in more sober fashion, as a brother; for it is a good man's way to be considerate. Tell me, why this burst of fury, these bloodshot eyes? who wrongs you? what is it you want? are you longing to have a virtuous wife? WeIl, I cannot supply you; for she, whom you once had, was ill-controlled by you. Am I then, a man who never went astray, to suffer for your sins? or is it my popularity that galls you? No! it is the longing you have to keep a beautiful woman in your embrace, casting reason and honor to the winds. A bad man's pleasures are like himself. Am I mad, if I change to wiser counsels, after previously deciding amiss? Yours is the madness rather in wishing to recover a wicked wife, once you had lost her—a stroke of heaven-sent luck. Those foolish suitors swore that oath to Tyndareus in their longing to wed; but Hope was the goddess that led them on, I think, and she it was that brought it about rather than you and your strength. So take the field with them; they are ready for it in the folly of their hearts; for the deity is not without insight, but is able to discern where oaths have been wrongly pledged or forcibly extorted. I will not slay my children, nor shall your interests be prospered by justice in your vengeance for a worthless wife, while I am left wasting, night and day, in sorrow for what I did to one of my own flesh and blood, contrary to all law and justice. Here is your answer shortly given, clear and easy to understand; and if you will not come to your senses, I shall do the best for myself.

This differs from your previous declaration, but there is good in it, your child's reprieve.

Ah me, how sad my lot! I have no friends then after all.

Friends you have, if you do not seek their destruction.

Where will you find any proof that you are sprung from the same father as I?

It is your moderation, not your madness, that I share by nature.

Friends should sympathize with friends in sorrow.

Claim my help by kindly service, not by paining me.

So you have no mind to share this trouble with Hellas?

No, Hellas is diseased like you, according to some god's design.

Go boast of your scepter, after betraying your own brother! while I will seek some different means and other friends.

Agamemnon, lord of Hellas! I have come and bring you your daughter, whom you call Iphigenia in your home; and her mother, your wife Clytemnestra, is with her, and the child Orestes, a sight to gladden you after your long absence from your home; but they had been travelling long and far, they are now resting their tender feet at the waters of a fair spring, they and their horses, for we turned these loose in the grassy meadow to browse their fill. But I have come as their forerunner to prepare you for their reception; for the army knows already of your daughter's arrival, so quickly did the rumor spread; and all the people are running together to the sight, that they may see your child; for Fortune's favorites enjoy world-wide fame and have all eyes fixed on them. Some say: “Is it a wedding, or what is happening? or has king Agamemnon from fond yearning summoned his daughter here?” From others you would have heard: “They are presenting the maiden to Artemis, queen of Aulis, previous to marriage; who can the bridegroom be, that is to lead her home?”

Come, then, begin the rites, that is the next step, by getting the baskets ready; crown your heads—you too, lord Menelaus; prepare the wedding hymn; let flutes sound throughout the tents with noise of dancer's feet; for this is a happy day, that has come for the maid.

You have my thanks; now go within; for the rest it will be well, as Fate proceeds. Exit Messenger.

Ah, woe is me! unhappy wretch, what can I say? where shall I begin? To what cruel straits have I been plunged! A god has outwitted me, proving far cleverer than any cunning of mine. What an advantage humble birth possesses! for it is easy for her sons to weep and tell out all their sorrows; while to the high-born man come these same sorrows, but we heve dignity throned over our life and are the people's slaves. I, for instance, am ashamed to weep, and no less ashamed, poor wretch, to check my tears at the dreadful pass to which I am brought.

Enough; what am I to tell my wife? how shall I welcome her? with what face meet her? for she too has undone me by coming uninvited in this my hour of sorrow; yet it was only natural she should come with her daughter to prepare the bride and perform the fondest duties, where she will discover my villainy. And for this poor maid—why maid? Death, it seems, will soon make her his bride—how I pity her! Thus will she plead to me, I think: “My father, will you slay me? May you yourself make such a marriage, and whoever is a friend to you!” While Orestes, from his station near us, will cry in childish accents, inarticulate, yet fraught with meaning. Alas! to what utter ruin Paris, the son of Priam, the cause of these troubles, has brought me by his union with Helen!

I pity her myself, as a woman who is a stranger may grieve for the misfortunes of royalty.

Your hand, brother! let me grasp it.

I give it; yours is the victory, mine the sorrow.

By Pelops our reputed grandsire and Atreus our father, I swear to tell you the truth from my heart, without any covert purpose, but only what I think. The sight of you in tears made me pity you, and in return I shed a tear for you myself; I withdraw from my former proposals, ceasing to be a cause of fear to you; yes, and I will put myself in your present position; and I counsel you, do not slay your child or prefer my interests to yours; for it is not just that you should grieve, while I am glad, or that your children should die, while mine still see the light of day. What is it, after all, I seek? If I am set on marriage, could I not find a bride as choice elsewhere? Was I to lose a brother—the last I should have lost—to win a Helen, getting bad for good? I was mad, impetuous as a youth, till I perceived, on closer view, what slaying children really meant. Moreover I am filled with compassion for the hapless maiden, doomed to bleed that I may wed, when I reflect that we are kin. What has your daughter to do with Helen?

Let the army be disbanded and leave Aulis; dry those streaming eyes, brother, and do not provoke me to tears. Whatever concern you have in oracles that affect your child, let it be none of mine; into your hands I resign my share. A sudden change, you'll say, from my dread proposals? A natural course for me; affection for my brother caused the change. These are the ways of a man not devoid of virtue, to pursue on each occasion what is best.

A generous speech, worthy of Tantalus, the son of Zeus; you do not shame your ancestry.

I thank you, Menelaus, for this unexpected suggestion; it is an honorable proposal, worthy of you. Sometimes love, sometimes the selfishness of their families, causes a quarrel between brothers; I loathe a relationship of this kind which is bitterness to both. But it is useless, for circumstances compel me to carry out the murderous sacrifice of my daughter.

How so? who will compel you to slay your own?

The whole Achaean army here assembled.

Not if you send her back to Argos.

I might do that unnoticed, but there will be another thing I cannot.

What is that? You must not fear the mob too much.

Calchas will tell the Argive army his oracles.

Not if he should die before that—an easy matter.

The whole tribe of seers is a curse with its ambition.

Yes, and good for nothing and useless, when among us.

Has the thought, which is rising in my mind, no terrors for you?

How can I understand your meaning, unless you declare it?

The son of Sisyphus knows all.

Odysseus cannot possibly hurt us.

He was ever shifty by nature, siding with the mob.

True, he is enslaved by the love of popularity, a fearful evil.

Don't you think, then, he will arise among the Argives and tell them the oracles that Calchas delivered, saying of me that I undertook to offer Artemis a victim, and after all am proving false? Then, when he has carried the army away with him, he will bid the Argives slay us and sacrifice the girl; and if I escape to Argos, they will come and destroy the place, razing it to the ground, Cyclopean walls and all. That is my trouble. Woe is me! to what perplexities the gods have brought me at this pass! Take one precaution for me, Menelaus, as you go through the army, that Clytemnestra does not learn this, till I have taken my child and devoted her to death, that my affliction may be attended with the fewest tears. Turning to the Chorus. And you, foreign women, keep silence. Exit Menelaus.

Oh! great is the bliss the great enjoy. Behold Iphigenia, the king's child, my lady, and Clytemnestra, the daughter of Tyndareus; how proud their lineage! how high their pinnacle of fortune! These mighty ones, whom wealth attends, are very gods in the eyes of less favored folk.

Let us stand here, maidens of Chalcis, and lift the queen from her chariot to the ground without stumbling, supporting her gently in our arms, with kind intent, that the renowned daughter of Agamemnon, just arrived, may feel no fear; strangers ourselves, let us avoid anything that may disturb or frighten the strangers from Argos.

I take this as a lucky omen, your kindness and auspicious greeting, and have good hope that it is to a happy marriage I conduct the bride. To attendants. Take from the chariot the dowry I am bringing for my daughter and convey it within with careful heed.

My daughter, leave the horse-drawn chariot, planting your faltering footstep delicately. To the Chorus. Young women, take her in your arms and lift her from the chariot, and let one of you give me the support of her hand, that I may quit my seat in the carriage with fitting grace. Some of you stand at the horses' heads; for the horse has a timid eye, easily frightened; here, take this child Orestes, son of Agamemnon, baby as he still is.

What! sleeping, little one, tired out by your ride in the chariot? Awake to bless your sister's wedding; for you, my gallant boy, shall get by this marriage a kinsman gallant as yourself, the Nereid's godlike offspring. Come here to your mother, my daughter, Iphigenia, and seat yourself beside me, and stationed near show my happiness to these strangers; yes, come here and welcome the father you love so dearly.

Do not be angry with me, mother, if I run from your side and throw myself on my father's breast.

Hail! my honored lord, king Agamemnon! we have obeyed your commands and have come.

[O my father! I long to outrun others and embrace you after this long while;] for I yearn to see your face; do not be angry with me.

You may do so, daughter; for of all the children I have borne, you have always loved your father best.

I see you, father, joyfully after a long time.

And I, your father, see you; your words do equal duty for both of us.

All hail, father! you did well in bringing me here to you.

I know not how I am to say yes or no to that, my child.

Ah! how wildly you are looking, spite of your joy at seeing me.

A man has many cares when he is king and general too.

Be mine, all mine today; do not turn to moody thoughts.

Why so I am, all yours today; I have no other thought.

Then smooth your knitted brow, unbend and smile.

See! my child, my joy at seeing you is even as it is.

And do you then have tears streaming from your eyes?

Yes, for long is the absence from each other, that awaits us.

I do not know, dear father, I do not know of what you are speaking.

You are moving my pity all the more by speaking so sensibly.

My words shall turn to senselessness if that will cheer you more.

Alas! this silence is too much. You have my thanks.

Stay with your children at home, father.

My own wish! But to my sorrow I may not

Ruin seize their wars and the woes of Menelaus!

First will that, which has been my life-long ruin, bring ruin to others.

How long you were absent in the bays of Aulis!

Yes, and there is still a hindrance to my sending the army forward.

Where do men say the Phrygians live, father?

In a land where I wish Paris, the son of Priam, never had dwelt.

It is a long voyage you are bound on, father, after you leave me.

You will meet your father again, my daughter.

Ah! would it were seemly for you to take me as a fellow voyager!

You too have a voyage to make to a haven where you will remember your father.

Shall I sail there with my mother or alone?

All alone, without father or mother.

What! have you found me a new home, father?

Enough of this! it is not for girls to know such things.

Please hurry home from Troy, father, as soon as you have triumphed there.

There is a sacrifice I have first to offer here.

Yes, it is your duty to heed religion with aid of holy rites.

You will witness it, for you will be standing near the libations.

Am I to lead the dance then round the altar, father?

I count you happier than myself because you know nothing. Go within—it is wrong for maidens to be seen—after you have given me your hand and a kiss, on the eve of your lengthy sojourn far from your father's side. Breast, cheek, and golden hair! ah, how grievous you have found Helen and the Phrygians' city! I can speak no more; the tears come welling to my eyes, the moment I touch you. Go into the house. Exit Iphigenia. Agamemnon turns to Clytemnestra. I beg your pardon, daughter of Leda, if I showed excessive grief at the thought of giving my daughter to Achilles; for though we are sending her to taste of bliss, still it wrings a parent's heart, when he, the father who has toiled so hard for them, commits his children to the homes of strangers.

I am not so senseless; But I think I will go through this as well, when I lead the girl from the chamber to the sound of the marriage hymn; so I do not chide you; but custom will combine with time to make the smart grow less. As for him, to whom you have betrothed our daughter, I know his name, it is true, but want to learn his lineage and the land of his birth.

There was one Aegina, the daughter of Asopus.

Who wedded her? Some mortal or a god?

Zeus, and she bore Aeacus, the prince of Oenone.

What son of Aeacus secured his father's halls?

Peleus, who wedded the daughter of Nereus.

With the god's consent, or when he had taken her in spite of gods?

Zeus betrothed her, and her guardian gave consent.

Where did he marry her? in the billows of the sea?

In Chiron's home, at sacred Pelion's foot.

What! the abode ascribed to the race of Centaurs?

It was there the gods celebrated the marriage feast of Peleus.

Did Thetis or his father train Achilles?

Chiron brought him up, to prevent his learning the ways of the wicked.

Ah! wise the teacher, still wiser the one who gave his son.

Such is the future husband of your daughter.

A blameless lord; but what city in Hellas is his?

He dwells on the banks of the river Apidanus, in the borders of Phthia.

Will you convey our daughter there?

He who takes her to himself will see to that.

Happiness attend the pair! Which day will he marry her?

As soon as the full moon comes to give its blessing

Have you already offered the goddess a sacrifice to usher in the maiden's marriage?

I am about to do so; that is the very thing I was engaged in.

And then will you celebrate the marriage feast afterwards?

Yes, when I have offered a sacrifice required by the gods of me.

But where am I to make ready the feast for the women?

Here beside our gallant Argive ships.

Finely here! but still I must; good come of it for all that!

Do you know what to do, lady? Then obey me.

In what matter? for I was ever accustomed to obey you.

Here, where the bridegroom is, I will—

Which of my duties will you perform in the mother's absence?

Give your child away with help of Danaids.

And where am I to be then?

Go to Argos, and take care of your unwedded daughters.

And leave my child? Then who will raise her bridal torch?

I will provide the proper wedding torch.

That is not the custom; but you think lightly of these things.

It is not good for you to be alone among a soldier-crowd.

It is good that a mother should give her own child away.

Yes, and that those maidens at home should not be left alone.

They are well guarded in their maiden bowers.

Obey.

No, by the goddess-queen of Argos! Go, manage matters out of doors; but in the house it is my place to decide [what is proper for maidens at their wedding].

Woe is me! my efforts are baffled; I am disappointed in my hope, anxious as I was to get my wife out of sight; foiled at every point, I form my plots and subtle schemes against my best-beloved. But I will go, in spite of all, with Calchas the priest, to inquire the goddess's good pleasure, fraught with ill-luck as it is to me, and with trouble to Hellas. He who is wise should keep in his house a good and useful wife or none at all.

Where is Achaea's general? Which of his servants will announce to him that Achilles, the son of Peleus, is at his gates seeking him? For this delay at the Euripus is not the same for all of us; there are some, for instance, who, bing still unwed, have left their houses desolate and are idling here upon the beach, while others are married but without children; so strange the longing for this expedition that has fallen on their hearts by the will of the gods. My own just plea I must declare, and whoever else has any wish will speak for himself. Though I have left Pharsalia , and Peleus, still I linger here by reason of these light breezes at the Euripus, restraining my Myrmidons, while they are always pressing on me, saying: “Why do we tarry, Achilles? how much longer must we count the days to the start for Ilium? do something if you are so minded; or lead home your men, and do not wait for the tardy action of these Atridae.”

Hail to you, son of the Nereid goddess! I heard your voice from within the tent and came forth.

O modesty revered! who can this lady be whom I behold, so richly dowered with beauty's gifts?

No wonder you do not know me, seeing I am one you have never before set eyes on; I praise your reverent address to modesty.

Who are you, and why have you come to the mustering of the Danaids—you, a woman, to a fenced camp of men?

I am the daughter of Leda; my name is Clytemnestra; and my husband king Agamemnon.

Well and shortly answered on all important points, but it is shameful for me to stand talking to women.

Stay; why seek to escape? give me your hand, a prelude to a happy marriage.

What is it you say? I give you my hand? To lay a finger where I have no right, I could never meet Agamemnon's eye.

The best of rights you have, seeing it is my child you will wed, O son of the sea-goddess, daughter of Nereus.

What wedding do you speak of? Words fail me, lady; can your wits have gone astray and are you inventing this?

All men are naturally shy in the presence of new relations, when these remind them of their wedding.

Lady, I have never courted your daughter, nor have the sons of Atreus ever mentioned marriage to me.

What can it mean? Your turn now to marvel at my words, for yours are very strange to me.

Hazard a guess; that we can both do in this matter; for it may be we are both correct in our statements.

What! have I suffered such indignity? The marriage I am courting has no reality it seems; I am ashmed of it.

Some one perhaps has made a mock of you and me; pay no heed to it; make light of it.

Farewell; I can no longer face you with unfaltering eyes, after being made a liar and suffering undeservedly.

It is “farewell” I bid you too, lady; and I go within the tent to seek your husband.

Stranger of the race of Aeacus, stay awhile! Ho there! I mean you, O goddess-born, and you, daughter of Leda.

Who is it calling through the half-opened door? What fear his voice betrays!

A slave; of that I am not proud, for fortune does not permit it.

Whose slave are you? not mine; for mine and Agamemnon's goods are separate.

I belong to this lady who stands before the tent, a gift to her from Tyndareus her father.

I am waiting; tell me, if you are desirous, why you have stopped me.

Are you really all alone here at the door?

To us alone will you address yourself; come forth from the king's tent.

O Fortune and my own foresight, preserve whom I desire!

That speech will save them in the future; it has a certain pompous air.

Delay not for the sake of touching my right hand, if there is anything that you would say to me.

Well, you know my character and my devotion to you and your children.

I know you have grown old in the service of my house.

Likewise you know it was in your dowry king Agamemnon received me.

Yes, you came to Argos with me, and have been mine this long time past.

True; and I bear all goodwill to you, less to your husband.

Come, come, unfold whatever you have to say.

Her father, he that begot her, is on the point of slaying your daughter with his own hand.

How? That for your story, old man! you are mad.

Severing with a sword the hapless girl's white throat.

Ah, alas for me! Does my husband happen to have gone mad?

No; he is sane, except where you and your daughter are concerned; there he is mad.

What is his reason? what vengeful fiend impels him?

Oracles, at least so Calchas says, in order that the army may start—

Where? Alas for me, and for the one her father is going to kill!

To the halls of Dardanus, that Menelaus may recover Helen.

So Helen's return then was fated to affect Iphigenia?

You know all; her father is about to offer your child to Artemis.

But that marriage—what pretext had it for bringing me from home?

An inducement to you to bring your daughter cheerfully, to wed her to Achilles.

On a deadly errand have you come, my daughter, both you, and I, your mother.

Piteous the lot of both of you, and dreadful Agamemnon's venture.

Alas, I am undone; my eyes can no longer hold their tears.

If the loss of children is painful, shed your tears.

From where, old man, do you say you had this news?

I had started to carry you a letter referring to the former writing.

Forbidding or combining to urge my bringing the child to her death?

No, forbidding it, for your lord was then in his sober senses.

How comes it then, if you were really bringing me a letter, that you do not now deliver it into my hands?

Menelaus snatched it from me, he who caused this trouble.

Do you hear that, son of Peleus, the Nereid's child?

I have been listening to the tale of your sufferings, and I do not bear my own lightly.

They will slay my child; they have tricked her with your marriage.

Like you I blame your lord, nor do I view it with mere indifference.

No longer will I let shame prevent my kneeling to you, a mortal to one goddess-born; why do I affect reserve? whose interests should I consult before my child's? Throwing herself before Achilles. Oh! help me, goddess-born, in my sore distress, and her that was called your bride, in vain, it is true, yet called she was. For you it was I wreathed her head and led her forth as if to marriage, but now it is to slaughter I am bringing her. On you will come reproach because you did not help her; for though not wedded to her, yet were you the loving husband of my hapless girl in name at any rate. By your beard, your right hand, and mother too I do implore you; for your name it was that worked my ruin, and you are bound to stand by that. Except your knees I have no altar to fly to; and not a friend stands at my side. You have heard the cruel abandoned scheme of Agamemnon; and I, a woman, have come, as you see, to a camp of lawless sailor-folk, bold in evil's cause, though useful when they wish; Now if you boldly stretch forth your arm in my behalf, our safety is assured; but if not, we are lost.

A strange thing is motherhood, carrying with it a potent spell, in which all share, so that for their children's sake they will endure affliction.

My proud spirit is stirred to range aloft, butI have learned to grieve in misfortune and rejoice in high prosperity with equal moderation. For these are the men who can count on ordering all their life rightly by wisdom's rules. True, there are cases where it is pleasant not to be too wise, but there are others, where some store of wisdom helps. Brought up in godly Chiron's halls myself, I learned to keep a single heart; and provided the Atridae lead well, I will obey them; but when they cease from that, no more will I obey; no, but here and in Troy I will show the freedom of my nature, and, as far as in me lies, do honor to Ares with my spear. You, lady, who have suffered so cruelly from your nearest and dearest, I will, by every effort in a young man's power, set right, investing you with that amount of pity and never shall your daughter, after being once called my bride, die by her father's hand; for I will not lend myself to your husband's subtle tricks; no! for it will be my name that kills your child, although it does not wield the sword. Your own husband is the actual cause, but I shall no longer be guiltless, if, because of me and my marriage, this maiden perishes, she that has suffered past endurance and been the victim of affronts most strangely undeserved.

Son of Peleus, your words are alike worthy of you and that sea-born deity, the holy goddess.

Ah! would I could find words to utter your praise without excess, and yet not lose the graciousness of it by stinting it; for when the good are praised, they have some sort of feeling of hatred for those who in their praise exceed the mean. But I am ashamed of intruding a tale of woe, since my affliction touches myself alone and you are not affected by troubles of mine; but still it looks well for the man of worth to assist the unfortunate, even when he is not connected with then. Therefore pity us, for our suffering cries for pity; in the first place, I have harbored an idle hope, in thinking to have you marry my daughter; and next, perhaps, the slaying of my child will be to you an evil omen in your wooing hereafter, against which you must guard yourself. Your words were good, both first and last; for if you will it so, my daughter will be saved.

Do not bring your daughter out for me to see, lady, nor let us incur the reproach of the ignorant; for an army, when gathered together without domestic duties to employ it, loves the evil gossip of malicious tongues. After all, should you both supplicate me, you will attain a like result as if I had never been supplicated; for I am myself engaged in a mighty struggle to rid you of your troubles. One thing be sure you have heard; I will not tell a lie; if I do that or idly mock you, may I die, but live if I preserve the girl.

Bless you for always helping the distressed!

Hearken then to me, that the matter may succeed.

What is your proposal? for hear you I must.

Let us once more urge her father to a better frame of mind.

He is something of a coward, and fears the army too much.

Still argument overthrows argument.

Cold hope indeed; but tell me what I must do.

Supplicate him first not to slay his children; and if he is stubborn, come to me. For if he consents to your request, my intervention need go no further, since this consent insures your safety. I too shall show myself in a better light to my friend, and the army will not blame me, if I arrange the matter by reason rather than force; while, should things turn out well, the result will prove satisfactory both to you and your friends, even without my interference.

How sensibly you speak! I must act as seems best to you; but should I fail of my object, where am I to see you again, where? Must I turn my wretched steps and find you ready to champion my distress?

I will keep watch to guard you, where occasion calls, that none may see you passing through the army of Danaids with that scared look. Do not shame your father's house; for Tyndareus does not deserve not to be ill spoken of, being a mighty man in Hellas.

It will be so. Command me; I must play the slave to you. If there are gods, you for your righteous dealing will find them favorable; if there are none, what need to toil? Exeunt Achilles and Clytemnestra.

I have come from the tent to look out for my husband, who went away and left its shelter long ago; while my poor child, hearing of the death her father designs for her, is in tears, uttering in many keys her piteous lamentation. Catching sight of Agamamnon. It seems I was speaking of one not far away; for there is Agamemnon, who will soon be detected in the commission of a crime against his own child.

Daughter of Leda, it is lucky I have found you outside the tent, to discuss with you in our daughter's absence subjects not suited for the ears of maidens on the eve of marriage.

What critical moment is it that you are seizing?

Send the maiden out to join her father, for the lustral water stands there ready, and barley-meal to scatter with the hand on the cleansing flame, and heifers to be slain before the marriage, in honor of the goddess [Artemis, their black blood spouting from them].

Though the words you use are good, I do not know how I am to name your deeds in terms of praise. Come forth, my daughter; well you know what is in your father's mind; take the child Orestes, your brother, and bring him with you in the folds of your robe. Behold! she comes, in obedience to your summons. I will speak the rest for her and for myself.

My child, why do you weep and no longer look cheerfully? why are you fixing your eyes upon the ground and holding your robe before them?

Ah! with which of my woes shall I begin? for I may treat them all as first, or put them last or midway, anywhere.

What is it? I find you all alike, confusion and alarm in every eye.

My husband, answer frankly the questions I ask you.

There is no necessity to order me; I am willing to be questioned.

Do you mean to slay your child and mine?

Ha! these are heartless words, unwarranted suspicions!

Peace! answer me that question first.

Put a fair question and you shall have a fair answer.

I have no other questions to put; give me no other answers.

O fate revered, O destiny, and my fortune!

Yes, and mine and hers too; the three share one bad fortune.

Whom have I injured?

Do you ask this question? A thought like that itself amounts to tboughtlessness.

Ruined! my secret betrayed!

I know all; I have heard what you are bent on doing to me. Your very silence and those frequent groans are a confession; do not tire yourself by telling it.

See, I am silent; for why should I tell you a falsehood, and add effrontery to misfortune?

Well, now listen; for I will unfold my meaning and no longer employ dark riddles. In the first place—to reproach you first with this—it was not of my own free will but by force that you took and wed me, after slaying Tantalus, my former husband, and dashing my baby on the ground when you had torn him from my breast with brutal violence. Then those two sons of Zeus, who were my brothers, came flashing on horseback to war with you; but Tyndareus, my old father, rescued you because of your suppliant prayers, and you in turn had me to wife.

Once I was reconciled to you upon this footing, you will bear me witness I have been a blameless wife to you and your family, chaste in love, an honor to your house, that so your coming in might be with joy and your going out with gladness. And it is seldom a man secures a wife like this, though the getting of a worthless woman Is no rarity. Besides three daughters, of one of whom you are heartlessly depriving me, I am the mother of this son of yours. If anyone asks you your reason for slaying her, tell me, what will you say? or must I say it for you? “It is that Menelaus may recover Helen.” An honorable exchange, indeed, to pay a wicked woman's price in children's lives! It is buying what we most detest with what we hold most dear. Again, if you go forth with the army, leaving me in your halls and are long absent at Troy, what will my feelings be at home, do you think? when I behold each vacant chair and her chamber now deserted, and then sit down alone in tears, making ceaseless lamentation for her, “Ah! my child, he that begot you has slain you himself, he and no one else, nor are was it by another's hand, leaving behind him such a return to his home.” For it needs now only a trifling pretext for me and the daughters remaining to give you the reception it is right you should receive. I adjure you by the gods, do not compel me to sin against you, or sin yourself.

Hearken to her, Agamemnon, for to join in saving your children's lives is surely a noble deed; no one will deny this.

If I had the eloquence of Orpheus, my father, to move the rocks by chanted spells to follow me, or to charm by speaking anyone I wished, I would have resorted to it. But as it is, I'll bring my tears—the only art I know; for that I might attempt. And about your knees, as a suppliant, I twine my limbs—these limbs your wife here bore. Do not destroy me before my time, for it is sweet to look upon the light, and do not force me to visit scenes below. I was the first to call you father, you the first to call me child; I was the first to sit upon your knee and give and take the fond caress. And this was what you would saythen: “Shall I see you, my child, living a happy prosperous life in a husband's home one day, in a manner worthy of myself?” And I in my turn would ask, as I hung about your beard, where I now am clinging, “What then will I do for you? Shall I be giving you a glad reception in my halls, father, in your old age, repaying all your anxious care in rearing me?” I remember all we said, it is you who have forgotten and now would take my life. By Pelops, I entreat you spare me, by your father Atreus and my mother here, who suffers now a second time the pangs she felt before when bearing me! What have I to do with the marriage of Paris and Helen? Why is his coming to prove my ruin, father? Look upon me; bestow one glance, one kiss, that this at least I may carry to my death as a memorial of you, though you do not heed my pleading.

holding up the baby Orestes. Feeble ally though you are, brother, to your loved ones, yet add your tears to mine and entreat our father for your sister's life; even in babies there is a natural sense of evil. O father, see this speechless supplication made to you; pity me; have mercy on my tender years! Yes, by your beard we two fond hearts implore your pity, the one a baby, a full-grown maid the other. By summing all my pleas in one, I will prevail in what I say: to gaze upon the light is man's most cherished gift; that life below is nothingness, and whoever longs for death is mad. Better live a life of woe than die a death of glory!

Ah, wretched Helen! Great is the struggle that has come sons to the of Atreus and their children, thanks to you and those marriages of yours.

While loving my own children, I yet understand what should move my pity and what should not; I would be a madman otherwise. It is terrible for me to bring myself to this, nor is it less terrible to refuse, daughter; for I must do this. You see the vastness of that naval army, and the numbers of bronze-clad warriors from Hellas, who can neither make their way to Ilium's towers nor raze the far-famed citadel of Troy, unless I offer you according to the word of Calchas the seer. Some mad desire possesses the army of Hellas to sail at once to the land of the barbarians, and put a stop to the rape of wives from Hellas, and they will slay my daughter in Argos as well as you and me, if I disregard the goddess's commands. It is not Menelaus who has enslaved me to him, child, nor have I followed his wish; no, it is Hellas, for whom I must sacrifice you whether I will or not; to this necessity I bow my head; for her freedom must be preserved, as far as any help of yours daughter, or mine can go; or they, who are the sons of Hellas, must be pillaged of their wives by barbarian robbery.Exit Agamemnon.

I pity you for your cruel fate—a fate I would you never had met!

O mother that bore me! I see a throng of men approaching.

It is the goddess' son you see, child, for whom you came here.

Open the tent-door to me, servants, that I may hide myself

Why seek to escape, my child?

I am ashamed to face Achilles.

But why?

The luckless ending to our marriage causes me to feel abashed.

No time for affectation now in face of what has happened. Stay then; reserve will do no good, if we may profit.

Daughter of Leda, lady of sorrows!

No misnomer that.

A fearful cry is heard among the Argives.

What is it? tell me.

It concerns your child.

An evil omen for your words.

They say her sacrifice is necessary.

And is there no one to say a word against them?

Indeed I was in some danger myself from the tumult.

In danger of what, stranger?.

Of being stoned.

Surely not for trying to save my daughter?

The very reason.

Who would have dared to lay a finger on you?

All the men of Hellas.

Were not your Myrmidon warriors at your side?

They were the first who turned against me.

My child! we are lost, it seems.

They taunted me as the man whom marriage had enslaved.

And what did you answer them?

Not to kill the one I meant to wed—

Justly so.

The wife her father promised me.

Yes, and sent to fetch from Argos.

But I was overcome by clamorous cries.

Truly the mob is a dire mischief.

But I will help you for all that.

Will you really fight them single-handed?

Do you see these warriors here, carrying my arms?

Bless you for your kind intent!

Well, I shall be blessed.

Then my child will not be slaughtered now?

No, not with my consent at any rate.

But will any of them come to lay hands on the maid?

Thousands of them, with Odysseus at their head.

The son of Sisyphus?

The very same.

Acting for himself or by the army's order?

By their choice—and his own.

An evil choice indeed, to stain his hands in blood.

But I will hold him back.

Will he seize and bear her off against her will?

Yes, by her golden hair no doubt.

What must I do, when it comes to that?

Keep hold of your daughter.

Be sure that she shall not be slain, as far as that that can help her.

Believe me, it will come to this.

Mother, hear me while I speak, for I see that you are angry with your husband to no purpose; it is hard for us to persist in impossibilities. Our thanks are due to this stranger for his ready help; but you must also see to it that he is not reproached by the army, leaving us no better off and himself involved in trouble.

You play a noble part, maiden; but the whims of Fate and the goddess are diseased.

Daughter of Agamemnon! some god was bent on blessing me, if I could have won you for my wife. In you I consider Hellas happy, and you in Hellas; for this that you have said is good and worthy of your fatherland; since you, abandonIng a strife with heavenly powers, which are too strong for you, have fairly weighed advantages and needs. But now that I have looked into your noble nature, I feel still more a fond desire to win you for my bride. Look to it; for I want to serve you and receive you in my halls; and, Thetis be my witness, how I grieve to think I shall not save your life by doing battle with the Danaids. Reflect, I say; a dreadful ill is death.

This I say, without regard to anyone. Enough that the daughter of Tyndareus is causing wars and bloodshed by her beauty; then be not slain yourself, stranger, nor seek to slay another on my account; but let me, if I can, save Hellas.

Heroic spirit! I can say no more to this, since you are so minded; for yours is a noble resolve; why should not one speak the truth? Yet I will speak, for you will perhaps change your mind; [that you may know then what my offer is,] I will go and place these arms of mine near the altar, resolved not to permit your death but to prevent; for brave as you are at sight of the knife held at your throat, you will soon avail yourself of what I said. So I will not let you perish through any thoughtlessness of yours, but will go to the goddess with these arms and await your arrival there. Exit Achilles.

Mother, why so silent, your eyes wet with tears?

I have reason, woe is me! to be sad at heart.

Stop; do not make me a coward; here in one thing obey me.

Tell me, my child, for at my hands you shall never suffer injury.

Cut not off the tresses of your hair for me, nor clothe yourself in sable garb.

Why, my child, what is it you have said? When I have lost you?

You wll not lose me; I am saved and you renowned, as far as I can make you.

How so? Must I not mourn your death?

By no means, for I shall have no tomb heaped over me.

What then? It is death, not the tomb, that is rightly mourned.

The altar of the goddess, Zeus's daughter, will be my tomb.

Well, my child, I will let you persuade me, for you speak well.

Yes, as one who prospers and does Hellas service.

What message shall I carry to your sisters?

Do not put mourning raiment on them either.

But is there no fond message I can give the maidens from you?

Yes, my farewell words; and promise me to rear Orestes to manhood.

Press him to your bosom; it is your last look.

O you that are most dear to me! you have helped your friends as you had means.

Is there anything I can do in Argos to please you?

Yes, do not hate my father, your own husband.

Fearful are the trials through which he has to go because of you.

It was against his will he ruined me for the sake of Hellas.

Ah! but he employed base treachery, unworthy of Atreus.

Who will escort me from here, before my hair is torn?

I will go with you—

No, not you; that is not well saidl.

Clinging to your robes.

Be persuaded by me, mother, stay here; for this is the better way both for me and you; but let one of these attendants of my father conduct me to the meadow of Artemis, where I shall be sacrificed.

Are you gone from me, my child?

Yes, and with no chance of ever returning.

Leaving your mother?

Yes, as you see, undeservedly.

Hold! do not leave me!

I cannot let you shed a tear. To the Chorus. May it be yours, maidens, to hymn in joyous strains Artemis, the child of Zeus, for my hard lot; and let the order for a solemn hush go forth to the Danaids. Begin the sacrifice with the baskets, let the fire blaze for the purifying meal of sprinkling, and my father pace from left to right about the altar; for I come to bestow on Hellas safety crowned with victory.