IPHIGENIA IN TAURIS: AGAMEMNON'S CHILDREN by EURIPIDES

IPHIGENIA. ORESTES

IPH.

Say first . . . which is it men call Pylades?

OR.

'Tis this man's name, if that will give thee ease.

IPH.

From what walled town of Hellas cometh he?

OR.

Enough! -- How would the knowledge profit thee?

IPH.

Are ye two brethren of one mother born?

OR.

No, not in blood. In love we are brothers sworn.

IPH.

Thou also hast a name: tell me thereof.

OR.

Call me Unfortunate. 'Tis name enough.

IPH.

I asked not that. Let that with Fortune lie.

OR.

Fools cannot laugh at them that nameless die.

IPH.

Why grudge me this? Hast thou such mighty fame?

OR.

My body, if thou wilt, but not my name.

IPH.

Nor yet the land of Greece where thou wast bred?

OR.

What gain to have told it thee, when I am dead?

IPH.

Nay: why shouldst thou deny so small a grace?

OR.

Know then, great Argos was my native place.

IPH.

Stranger! The truth! . . . From Argos art thou come?

OR.

Mycenae, once a rich land, was my home.

IPH.

'Tis banishment that brings thee here -- or what?

OR.

A kind of banishment, half forced, half sought.

IPH.

Wouldst thou but tell me all I need of thee!

OR.

'Twere not much added to my misery.

IPH.

From Argos! . . . Oh, how sweet to see thee here!

OR.

Enjoy it, then. To me 'tis sorry cheer.

IPH.

Thou knowst the name of Troy? Far doth it flit.

OR.

Would God, I had not; nay, nor dreamed of it.

IPH.

Men fable it is fallen beneath the sword?

OR.

Fallen it is. Thou hast heard no idle word.

IPH.

Fallen! At last! -- And Helen taken too?

OR.

Aye; on an evil day for one I knew.

IPH.

Where is she? I too have some anger stored. . . .

OR.

In Sparta! Once more happy with her Lord!

IPH.

Oh, hated of all Greece, not only me!

OR.

I too have tasted of her wizardry.

IPH.

And came the armies home, as the tales run?

OR.

To answer that were many tales in one.

IPH.

Oh, give me this hour full! Thou wilt soon die.

OR.

Ask, if such longing holds thee. I will try.

IPH.

A seer called Calchas! Did he ever come . . .?

OR.

Calchas is dead, as the news went at home.

IPH.

Good news, ye gods! -- Odysseus, what of him?

OR.

Not home yet, but still living, as men deem.

IPH.

Curse him! And may he see his home no more.

OR.

Why curse him? All his house is stricken sore.

IPH.

How hath the Nereid's son, Achilles, sped?

OR.

Small help his bridal brought him! He is dead.

IPH.

A false fierce bridal, so the sufferers tell!

OR.

Who art thou, questioning of Greece so well?

IPH.

I was Greek. Evil caught me long ago.

OR.

Small wonder, then, thou hast such wish to know.

IPH.

That war-lord, whom they call so high in bliss. . . .

OR.

None such is known to me. What name was his?

IPH.

They called him Agamemnon, Atreus' son.

OR.

I know not. Cease. -- My questioning is done.

IPH.

'Twill be such joy to me! How fares he? Tell!

OR.

Dead. And has wrecked another's life as well.

IPH.

Dead? By what dreadful fortune? Woe is me!

OR.

Why sighest thou? Had he any link with thee?

IPH.

I did but think of his old joy and pride.

OR.

His own wife foully stabbed him, and he died.

IPH.

O God!
I pity her that slew . . . and him that slew.

OR.

Now cease thy questions. Add no word thereto.

IPH.

But one word. Lives she still, that hapless wife?

OR.

No. Her own son, her first-born, took her life.

IPH.

O shipwrecked house! What thought was in his brain?

OR.

Justice on her, to avenge his father slain.

IPH.

Alas!
A bad false duty bravely hath he wrought.

OR.

Yet God, for all his duty, helps him not.

IPH.

And not one branch of Atreus' tree lives on?

OR.

Electra lives, unmated and alone.

IPH.

The child they slaughtered . . . is there word of her?

OR.

Why, no, save that she died in Aulis there.

IPH.

Poor child! Poor father, too, who killed and lied!

OR.

For a bad woman's worthless sake she died.

IPH.

The dead king's son, lives he in Argos still?

OR.

He lives, now here, now nowhere, bent with ill.

IPH.

O dreams, light dreams, farewell! Ye too were lies.

OR.

Aye; the gods too, whom mortals deem so wise,
Are nothing clearer than some winged dream;
And all their ways, like man's ways, but a stream
Of turmoil. He who cares to suffer least,
Not blind, as fools are blinded, by a priest,
Goes straight . . . to what death, those who know him know.

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