The Scene represents the front of the Temple of Apollo at Delphi; great doors at the back lead to the inner shrine and the central Altar. The Pythian Prophetess is standing before the Doors.
Prophetess: First of all Gods I worship in this prayer Earth, the primeval prophet; after her Themis, the Wise, who on her mother’s throne— So runs the tale—sat second; by whose own Accepted will, with never strife nor stress, Third reigned another earth-born Titaness, Phoebe; from whom (for that he bears her name) To Phoebus as a birthtide gift it came.
He left his isle, he left his Delian seas, He passed Athena’s wave-worn promontories, In haste this great Parnassus to possess And Delphi, thronèd in the wilderness. And with him came, to escort him and revere, A folk born of Hephaistos, pioneer Of God’s way, making sweet a bitter land. And much this people and the King whose hand Then steered them, Delphos, glorified his name, Till Zeus into his heart put mystic flame And prophet here enthroned him, fourth in use: So Loxias’ lips reveal the thought of Zeus.
These gods be foremost in all prayers of mine, Who have held the Throne. Next, She before the shrine, Pallas, is praisèd, and the Nymphs who keep Yon old Corycian bird-belovèd steep, Deep-caverned, where things blessèd come and go. And Bromios walks the mountain, well I know, Since first he led his Maenad host on high And doomed King Pentheus like a hare to die. And Pleistos’ fountains and Poseidon’s power I call, and Him who brings the Perfect Hour, Zeus, the Most Highest. With which prayers I go To seat me, priestess, on the Throne. And, oh, May God send blessing on mine entrance, more And deeper than He e’er hath sent of yore!
If there be present men of Greece but not Of Delphi, let them enter as the lot Ordains; I speak but as God leadeth me. She enters the Inner Shrine, and the stage is for a moment empty. Then she returns, grasping at the wall for support. Ah! Horrors, horrors, dire to speak or see, From Loxias’ chamber drive me reeling back. My knees are weak beneath me, and I lack The strength to fly. … O hands, drag me from here If feet fail! … An old woman, and in fear, A thing of naught, a babe in helplessness!
I made my way into the Holy Place, And there, at the inmost Altar of the world, A man abhorred of God, his body hurled Earthward in desperate prayer; blood on his hand Yet reeking, and a naked new-drawn brand Wreathed in beseeching wool, a suppliant’s weed Of snow-white fleece … so much mine eyes could read. But out in front of him a rout unknown Of women sleepeth, flung from throne to throne.
Women? Nay, never women! Gorgons more: And yet not like the Gorgon shapes of yore. … I saw a picture once of woman things That ravished Phineus’ banquet. But no wings Have these; all shadows, black, abominable. The voices of their slumber rise and swell, Back-beating, and their eyes drop gouts of gore. Their garb, it is no garb to show before God’s altar nor the hearths of human kind.
I cannot read what lineage lies behind These shapes, nor what land, having born such breed, Hath trembled not before and shall not bleed Hereafter. Let Apollo great in power Take to his care the peril of this hour: Being Helper, Prophet, Seer of things unseen, The stainèd hearth he knoweth to make clean. The Prophetess departs. The doors open and reveal the inner shrine, Orestes at the Altar, the Furies asleep about him, and Apollo standing over them.
Apollo: I fail thee not. For ever more I stay, Or watching at thy side or far away, Thy guard, and iron against thine enemies. Even now my snares have closèd upon these, The ragers sleep: the Virgins without love, So grey, so old, whom never god above Hath kissed, nor man, nor from the wilderness One wild beast. They were born for wickedness And sorrow; for in evil night they dwell,
And feed on the great darkness that is Hell, Most hated by the Gods and human thought. But none the less, fly thou and falter not. For these shall hunt thee, ever on through earth Unwandered, through the vast lands of the North, The sea-ways and the cities ringed with sea. But faint not. Clasp thy travail unto thee; On till thou come to Pallas’ Rock, and fold Thine arms in prayer about her image old.
In Athens there be hearts to judge, there be Words that bring peace; and I shall set thee free At last from all this woe.—If thou didst kill Thy mother, was it not my word and will?
Orestes: Not to betray thou knowest. Oh, ponder yet One other lesson, Lord—not to forget! Thy strength in doing can be trusted well. Orestes departs.
Apollo: Remember! Let no fear thy spirit quell!
Do thou, O Hermes, brother of my blood, Watch over him. Thou guide of man, make good The name thou bearest, shepherding again My suppliant. Him who pitieth suffering men Zeus pitieth, and his ways are sweet on earth. Exit Apollo. Presently enter the Ghost of Clytemnestra. She watches the sleeping Furies.
Ghost: Ye sleep. O God, and what are sleepers worth? ’Tis you, have left me among all the dead Dishonoured. Alway, for that blood I shed, Rebuke and hissing cease not, and I go Wandering in shame. Oh, hear! … For that old blow I struck still I am hated, but for his Who smote me, being of my blood, there is No wrath in all the darkness: there is none Cares for a mother murdered by her son.
Open thine heart to see this gash!—She shows the wound in her throat. In sleep The heart hath many eyes and can see deep: ’Tis daylight makes man’s fate invisible.
Oft of my bounty ye have lapt your fill; Oft the sad peace of wineless cups to earth I have poured, and midmurk feastings on your hearth Burned, when no other god draws near to eat.
And all these things ye have cast beneath your feet, And he is fled, fled lightly like a fawn Out of your nets! With mocking he is gone And twisting of the lips. … I charge you, hark! This is my life, my death. Oh, shake the dark From off you, Children of the Deep. ’Tis I, Your dream, I, Clytemnestra, stand and cry. Moaning among the Furies. Moan on, but he is vanished and forgot. So strong the prayers of them that love me not! Moaning.
Too sound ye sleep.—And have ye for the dead No pity? … And my son, my murderer, fled! Groaning. Ye groan; ye slumber. Wake! … What task have ye To do on earth save to work misery? Groaning. Can sleep and weariness so well conspire To drain the fell she-dragon of her fire? Sharp repeated muttering: then words “At him! At him! Catch, catch, catch! Ah, beware!” Ah, hunting in your dreams, and clamorous yet, Tired bloodhounds that can sleep but not forget!
How now? Awake! Be strong! And faithful keep Thy lust of pain through all the drugs of sleep.
Thou feelst my scorn? Aye, feel and agonize Within; such words are scourges to the wise. Thy blood-mist fold about him, like a doom. Waste him with vapour from thy burning womb. A second chase is death! … Pursue! Pursue! The Ghost vanishes as the Furies gradually wake.
Leader of the Furies: Awake! Quick, waken her as I wake you! Thou sleepest? Rise; cast slumber from thy brain And search. Is our first hunt so all in vain?
Furies: Speaking severally.
—O rage, rage and wrath! Friends, they have done me wrong! —Many and many a wrong I have suffered, mockeries all! —Evil and violent deeds, a shame that lingereth long And bitter, bitter as gall! —The beast is out of the toils, out of the toils and away! —I slept, and I lost my prey.
—What art thou, O Child of Zeus? A thief and a cozener! —Many and many a wrong I have suffered, mockeries all! —Hast broken beneath thy wheels them that were holy and old? —Many and many a wrong I have suffered, mockeries all! —A godless man and an evil son, he but kneels in prayer, And straight he is ta’en to thy fold. —Thou hast chosen the man who spilt his mother’s blood! —Are these things just, thou God?