Scraps
[Scene: a space in front of the palace of Agamemnon in Argos. It is night, the tenth year of the Trojan War. A watchman is posted on the flat roof.]
watchman
I beg the gods for release from this heavy task
of being on watch, day after day, a lookout
for one whole year, out on the palace roof,
propped on my elbows, belly-down like a dog.
I have come to know the assembly of stars and those brilliant
rulers, the constellations, which burn from the depths
of the night sky and whose movements bring winter and summer
to humankind. I have tracked when they rise and set
as I watch the hills for the beacon signal, a fire
that will leap for hundreds of miles, from mountain to mountain,
to shout out the news that Troy at last has been conquered.
I obey the royal lady who stationed me here
in expectation. She has the heart of a man.
So all night long, restless, covered with dew,
I pace back and forth on the palace roof, from a bed
unvisited by comforting dreams, and fear
follows my steps, keeps my eyes pried wide open,
and whenever I try to lighten my heart by humming
a tune to charm away sleep, I begin to cry,
thinking about this family and its misfortunes.
But may I soon be released from this heavy task;
may a fire blaze in the darkness to bring the good news.
[He sees the beacon.]
Look! Over there! It lights up the night like the sun!
A flame that declares our triumph, a flame that begins
a thousand celebrations, singing and dancing
in all the cities of Argos. At last! At last!
May Agamemnon’s lady hear me and wake
and rise from her bed, trilling and shouting in triumph
at our victory. The city of Troy has fallen!
Look over there! The fire on the hill is my witness;
it means that the endless war has been won, and that Fate
has thrown a lucky roll of the dice for my master—
triple sixes—and not just for him, but for me.
I am stunned with joy. I pray to the gods that he soon
may sail home and I may clasp his dear hand in mine.
Of what went on in his absence, I will say nothing;
my lips are sealed. But this house, if it could talk,
could tell you some of the secrets that it has witnessed—
the horrors. It’s good if you understand me, and if
you don’t know what I am speaking of… never mind.
[Exit watchman. Enter chorus of old men.]
chorus
For ten years now the great contest
has raged against Priam; ten years ago Menelaus,
his prosecutor, along with
Agamemnon, twin-sceptered, twin-
throned by the grace of Zeus,
launched their great army
with a fleet of a thousand ships
to fight for their honor,
shrieking war! war! like two eagles
whose nest has been robbed and who whirl up
in pathless grief, around and around and around,
thrashing the air, rowing the currents in jagged
circles of agony, mourning
the chicks they have lost,
and some god on high—Apollo
or Pan or Zeus—when he hears
the piercing lament of these sky-guests,
lets loose his vengeance, however long it may take,
to hunt the criminal down.
Thus Zeus, the protector of hospitality, sent
the sons of Atreus after
Paris, because of one woman, and caused
many good men to fall
face down in the dust with their spear shafts
shattered in the embrace
of battle, both Greeks and Trojans.
What is ordained
hurtles on toward fulfillment,
and neither burnt offerings
nor tears can assuage the gods’ anger.
But we, because we are old—
the army left us behind
in Argos, as weak as children,
hobbling around on our sticks.
For the vital force in old men
withers like leaves in autumn;
the spirit of war
decamps from their breasts,
and they walk down the road on three feet
like ghosts that wander in daylight.
[They turn toward the palace.]
But tell us, Queen Clytemnestra,
what is happening? What
news have you heard that prompts you
to order these sacrifices all over the city?
For every altar is blazing
with offerings to the gods
of the sky, the gods of the earth,
gods of the temples, gods
of the marketplaces. Wherever
we look, in every direction,
flames have shot up, the torches
are burning with holy oil
from the palace’s storerooms.
Tell me what it all means;
heal these dark thoughts; let hope
dispel the relentless anguish that gnaws at my heart.
[They turn away from the palace.]
Since I saw it myself, I can speak with authority
about the auspicious omen that met the commanders
as they left for the war, and I am not yet too old
for the gods to inspire me with the power of song.
I will tell how the twin-throned rulers
who led the Grecian army, and the young men
under their single-minded
command, were sped on their way with avenging spears
to the land of Troy by two eagles,
the kings of birds, who swooped down
as the army stood near the huts at Aulis,
a black one in front, and behind it
one with white tail feathers, on the right,
the spear hand, the lucky side, as we all looked on,
and they snatched up a hare
as she darted away on her last run:
ripped her open and ate her
along with the unborn babies that teemed in her womb.
Cry sorrow, sorrow, but may the good win in the end.
When Calchas, the army’s prophet, saw the two fierce
birds rip into the hare,
he prophesied thus: These eagles stand for the two
sons of Atreus, our fierce, two-edged commanders.
I see that in time this expedition will seize
the city of Priam, and before its high walls
Fate will butcher its men
like vast herds of cattle—unless some malicious god
strikes at the army encamped here:
the iron bit that will thrust itself into Troy’s mouth.
For chaste Artemis, in her pity, resents the wingèd
hounds of her father for killing the mother hare
and the wriggling unborn young in her belly;
at their horrible feast she was sickened.
Cry sorrow, sorrow, but may the good win in the end.
Because the goddess is kind
to the tender cubs of ravening lions
and takes delight in the suckling children
of all beasts that roam in the wild,
she demands to fulfill this omen
by another sacrifice;
may it turn out well for us, though it is laced with evil.
I call on you, Lord Apollo:
stop her from sending crosswinds against our ships
to keep us penned in until
we have made, in response, an unholy offering, slaughter
without any celebration, without
ritual, a builder of hate, long bred
in the bloodline, afraid of no man, a secret rage
that will stalk the house in its deadly, relentless,
implacable child-avenging fury.
Such were the words that Calchas shrieked out to the army.
Cry sorrow, sorrow, but may the good win in the end.
Zeus, whatever he is—
if he is pleased by this name
then that is how I invoke him.
There is nowhere else I can go;
I have weighed all in the balance
and I can find nothing but Zeus
to help me cast off this dead weight of anguish
from my staggering mind.
The god who was formerly great,
the grandfather, who swelled
with confidence, fell and shall be
as if he never existed,
and the father himself was conquered
by his son—he fell and is gone.
Joyfully shout out to Zeus
a hymn for his glorious victory, and your trust
will not be mistaken,
for he is the one who set mortals
on the path to wisdom and laid down
the law that by suffering we learn.
Instead of sleep, the remembered
pain drips into the heart
and an understanding dawns on us
even against our will:
There is a violent grace
that seems to come from the gods who direct this life.
On that day the senior leader
of the Argive ships,
finding no blame in the prophet,
yielded himself to the harsh
blast of misfortune that struck him
when the fleet was trapped
and famine gnawed at men’s bellies
in Aulis, where the violent currents pound,
and fierce gales roared down upon us,
idleness numbed our brains,
starvation gripped us, we wandered in search of food,
light-headed, the storm winds
rotted the ships and cables,
and each day, each hour, seemed
twice as long as it was.
The flower of the Grecian youth drooped and withered,
and when the prophet shrieked out
another remedy, worse than that bitter storm
and heavier yet for the two kings,
and he told us that Artemis
was the cause and that she demanded
recompense—then, appalled,
the sons of Atreus beat the ground with their staffs,
and Lord Agamemnon,
the senior commander, spoke:
I meet a harsh fate if I disobey,
but an even harsher one if,
obeying, I slit the throat
of my child, the joy of my house,
and pollute a father’s hands with her gushing
blood at the altar.
Which of these two choices
is free from evil? I cannot
desert the fleet or betray
my allies. But however intense their wish
to stop the winds with a girl’s death, justice forbids it.
Still, may it be for the best.
But when he put on the bridle
of necessity, and turned
his thoughts in another direction,
gusting unholy, impure—
from that moment he was a ruthless
inflictor of grief, for deranged men
shamelessly commit
the suffering-filled offenses
that they would abhor in their right minds.
Thus madness led him to kill his beloved daughter
as a sacrifice that allowed
the Argives’ massed ships to sail
and avenge the crime of a woman.
Her pleas and her cries of “Father!”
meant nothing
to all those war-frantic chieftains,
and after a hurried prayer
her father, as she implored him,
sobbing, gripping his knees,
ordered his men
to lift her, face-down like a young goat, above the altar
with a gag stuffed into her mouth
to silence the screams
that would bring a bloody curse on him and his palace,
and as her saffron-dyed robe
hung toward the ground, she shot
piteous glances at each of the men who would kill her,
speaking to them with her eyes like a girl in a picture,
wanting to beg them by name,
for often at the rich feasts in her father’s hall
she had sung for them, with her pure
virginal voice, the hymn
to Zeus at the end of a meal,
lovingly doing honor
to her loving father’s command.
What followed after the ships
sailed off, I didn’t see
and cannot speak of, but Calchas
is a master of prophecy,
and his words are never mistaken.
The scales of Justice have tipped,
and the Trojans are learning the painful
lesson that when you do wrong you are always punished.
As for us, let us see
what the future brings. Until then
why think about it or grieve
for something before it happens?
But all will be clear when day breaks.
May it all turn out well:
that is the firm desire of us who stand here
in defense of the land of Argos.
[Enter Clytemnestra.]
I have come, Clytemnestra, in reverence of your power.
For it is proper to honor a ruler’s wife
when that man’s throne is left empty. I would be glad
to know if you have heard any good news from Troy,
or if it is only hope that has lit up these altars.
I would like to know, but I will not grudge you your silence.
clytemnestra
There is good news indeed, and may a dawn of rejoicing
be born from the womb of her mother, the kindly night.
This news is not simply wishful thinking. Now listen:
Our Greek army has taken the city of Priam!
chorus
What do you mean? I can’t grasp it, can’t believe it.
clytemnestra
Troy is in Grecian hands. Is that clear enough?
chorus
Great joy is pouring through me. I can’t help weeping.
clytemnestra
Yes: your eyes are proclaiming your loyal heart.
chorus
But is there proof that the city of Troy has fallen?
clytemnestra
Yes, there is, unless a god has deceived me.
chorus
Was it a dream? Were you overawed by some vision?
clytemnestra
I would never accept what the sleeping mind conjures up.
chorus
Or perhaps you have been stirred by some infant rumor.
clytemnestra
You insult my intelligence. I am not a young girl!
chorus
But when was the city stormed? When did it happen?
clytemnestra
This very night: the night that gave birth to this dawn.
chorus
What messenger could have made his way here so quickly?
clytemnestra
Hephaestus. He sent a brilliant flame from Mount Ida;
then, from that courier-fire, beacon sent beacon:
from Ida it instantly flew to the Crag of Hermes
on Lemnos, leaped to the top of Mount Athos,
then it blazed up again, and it arched over
the back of the sea, to the god’s delight, and landed
on Peparéthus; pine timbers flared to gold
like a second sun, and it shot to the heights of Macístus,
where the soldier on watch didn’t hesitate or linger,
but immediately sent the relay to the next station,
and from far away the brilliant beacon fire signaled
to the watchmen on Mount Messápion that it was coming
over the straits of Eurípus. They, in answer,
passed on the message, kindling a heap of dry heather,
and the torch, still blazing, undimmed, leaped over the plain
of the river Asópus, as radiant as the full moon,
came to the crags of Cithǽron, and set in motion
the next round of the messenger fire. The watchmen
weren’t slow to obey the light from afar
and kindled even more wood than what had been ordered,
and the light plunged onward over the lake of Gorgópis
and, reaching Mount Ægiplánctus, it urged the men
not to neglect the command and to send on the flame.
They lit a huge beard of fire, which shot up and leaped
far beyond the tall headland that looks out over
the Sarónic straits, then swooped down onto the peak
of Aráchneum, the watch-point nearest our city.
Finally, it arrived at this palace, the house
of Atreus’s sons, this fire, a direct
descendent of the flame they kindled on Ida.
That is how the news reached us, how I commanded
the torches to run all the way in this relay race,
each passed to the next until the last lap, with the triumph
gained equally by the first and by the last runner.
This is the proof that I mentioned, the message of fire
that my husband has transmitted to me from Troy.
chorus
Lady, I will give thanks to the gods with a prayer,
but later. Now I would like to hear your answer
one more time, from beginning to end, just as
you said it before, and once more be lost in wonder.
clytemnestra
Today the Achaeans have conquered Troy; it is ours,
it is ours! I can almost hear the screams of the slaughtered
ringing out through the city, along with the fierce
shouts of the slaughterers, each sound separate, like oil
and vinegar when they stand, apart, in a bowl …
***
Ecclesiastes
Chapter 1
The words of the Teacher, descendant of David, king in Jerusalem:
Emptiness, pure emptiness, says the Teacher;
the whole world is empty.
What can a man gain
by his toil under the sun?
A generation goes, a generation comes,
but the earth abides forever.
The sun rises, the sun sets
and hastens to the place where it rose.
The wind blows toward the south
and turns around to the north;
around and around it goes
and returns again on its circuits.
The rivers flow to the sea,
yet the sea is never full;
to the place that the rivers flow from,
there they flow back again.
All words are wearying;
nobody says a thing;
the eye is not satisfied with seeing,
nor the ear filled with hearing.
Whatever has been:
that is what will be;
whatever people have done:
that is what they will do;
there is nothing new under the sun.
If people say about something,
“Finally, something new!”
in ancient times it existed,
in a past that we have forgotten.
No remembrance is left
of those who came before us,
and there will be no remembrance
of those who will come after.
Chapter 11:9f., 12
Rejoice, young man, in your youth,
and take pleasure while you are strong;
do what your heart bids you
and enjoy what your eyes behold.
Banish grief from your heart,
and cast out pain from your body;
for youth will pass like the wind.
Remember your Creator
while you are young and strong,
before the hard days come,
and the years arrive when you think,
I have no pleasure in life;
before the sun and the moon
and all the stars are darkened,
and the black clouds blot out the sky;
when the keepers of the house tremble,
and the strong men shake, and the grinders
can no longer do their job
because they are so few,
and those who look through the windows
grow dim, and the front doors are shut;
when the sound of the mill is quiet,
and the sound of the sparrows rises,
and the carrion birds fly low,
and from on high they see
that terrors are on the way;
when the almond becomes disgusting,
when the locust tree droops,
and the caper bushes wither,
and the human goes to his grave,
and the mourners move through the streets;
before the silver cord
is snapped, and the golden bowl
breaks, or the jar is shattered
and the wheel broken at the cistern,
and the corpse returns to the earth
from which it came, and the spirit
returns to the God who gave it.