Chapter One (Outside the royal palace at Argos.) WATCHMAN You Gods in heaven-- You have watched me here on this tower All night, every night for twelve months, Thirteen moons-- Tethered on the roof of this palace Like a dog. It is time to release me. I've stared long enough into this darkness For what never emerges. I'm tired of the constellations-- That glittering parade of lofty rulers Night after night a little bit earlier Withholding the thing I wait for-- Slow as torture. And the moon, coming and going-- Wearisome, like watching the sea From a deathbed. Like watching the tide In its prison yard, with its two turns In out in out. I'm sick of the heavens, sick of the darkness. The one light I wait for never comes. Maybe it never will come-- A beacon-flare that leaps from peak to peak Bringing the news from Troy-- `Victory! After ten years, Victory!' The one word that Clytemnestra prays for. Queen Clytemnestra -- who wears A man's heart in a woman's body, A man's dreadful will in the scabbard of her body Like a polished blade. A hidden blade. Clytemnestra reigns over fear. I get up sodden with dew. I walk about, to shift my aches. I lie down -- the aches harden worse. No dreams. No sleep. Only fear-- Fear like a solid lump of indigestion Here, high in my belly -- a seething. Singing's good for fear But when I try to sing -- weeping comes. I weep. There's no keeping it down. Everything's changed in this palace. The old days, The rightful King, order, safety, splendour, A splendour that lifted the heart-- All gone. You Gods, Release me. Let that flame come leaping out of the East To release me. Where did that light come from? In pitch darkness That point -- that's new. Down there, near what must be the skyline, In the right place! It just appeared! A flickering point. And getting bigger. A fire! The beacon! Tell the Queen-- It's the beacon. It's flaring up! It's shaking its horns. Troy has fallen. The King is coming home. Agamemnon is coming. Troy has fallen! Now the Queen can rejoice And I'll be the first to dance -- Troy has fallen. The gods have blessed our master. They've blessed me too. They've made me the bearer of the news. Only let them bring the King home safely. Let me prostrate myself at his feet And then -- what follows, Better not think about it. Only the foundations of this house Can tell that story. Yes, The tongue that could find The words for what follows -- that tongue Would have to lift this house's foundations. Those who know too much, as I do, about this house, Let their tongue lie still -- squashed flat. Under the foundations. (Cry of triumph from Clytemnestra inside palace. She enters: casts incense on altars, etc. Enter Elders of Argos: the Chorus. Dawn.) CHORUS Ten years ago The sons of Atreus, Menelaus and Agamemnon, Both divine Kings, Assembled a thousand ships Crammed with the youth of Hellas And sailed across the sea to punish Priam. Two brothers, ravenous for war, Their hunger for war Went up Like the screaming Of eagles, two eagles in agony Over a crag Where their nest has been robbed- Beating the air With broad oars, Climbing the currents They bewail, in helpless fury, Their lost labours. Their brood gone, They lament Their vigilance that failed. Anguish tears their throats. They scream it in heaven -- and in heaven Some god hears it-- Zeus or Pan Or Apollo hears And pities it, And sends a remorseless fury To hunt the culprit down And pluck the guilt from his bowels. So now Zeus -- protector Of the sacred trust Between the guest and the host-- Sends the two sons of Atreus To rip the boasting tongue From between the lips of Paris And Helen from his bed. Greece and Troy with bellowing effort Lock their limbs In that accursed marriage, and labour At the killing. Spear-shafts splinter In twisting bodies, Strong men kneel In their own blood Under weights of darkness And what is happening Cannot be otherwise. Cannot not happen. Fate holds every man Of these two embattled armies By the scruff of the neck And jams his face, helpless, Into what has to happen. Priam pours libations To lubricate the favour of the heavens In vain. He burns perfumed offerings on altars To soften their pity In vain. The gods above and the gods below Ignore him. No bribes, Nothing that passes under the roof of a temple Or under the roof of the mouth, Can appease heaven's anger Or deflect its aim. We were too old. Second childhood Propped on sticks Kept us out of the battle. We stayed here On the scrap heap Playing with our dreams, The playthings of dreams. (Chorus sees Clytemnestra.) Queen Clytemnestra, What has happened? What have you heard? Why have you called for a sacrifice Throughout Argos-- Every altar Of every god Is ablaze-- From the kitchen-shrines of hearth-goblins To the high temple of Zeus, god of the summits. Fortunes in rich oil Go up in smoke Smudging the dawn. Cherished beasts Drop to their knees In a flood of blood. What has happened? What is happening? Are we right To smell hope In all this? Or has a worse fear come? Tell us. Do all these fiery tongues, These forked and horned offerings, Declare good news or the opposite? Tell us. Do they consume the evil of the past And the dread of what is to come-- All these fears that sicken us-- Or do they thicken the air with something worse? I am the man to tell this tale. Old age Takes away everything Except a few words the gods have tested, For the eye That opens towards the grave Sees the core of things and is prophetic. As our two Kings set out, As their floating forest of spears Lifted anchor, Two birds, Hook-beaked, big-winged birds, A black bird and a white bird, Sailed over On the right -- on the right! Good fortune! The whole army cheered the good omen-- Victory! Then those two birds, The black bird and the white bird, Flushed and drove and killed A hare heavy with her twins. The whole army Saw them kill the pregnant hare. They saw The black bird and the white bird That had brought them promise of victory Rip the mother's womb and drag from it The living unborn tenants-- The whole army watched from start to finish That murder of the unborn. If evil is in this wind, let it blow over ... (Continues...) Copyright © 1999 The Estate of Ted Hughes. All rights reserved.
