Reader

Translator’s preface MAY I be permitted to chat a little, by way of recreation, at the end of a somewhat toilsome and perhaps fruitless adventure? If, because of the immense fame of the following Tragedy, I wished to acquaint myself with it, and could only do so by the help of a translator, I should require him to be literal at every cost save that of absolute violence to our language. The use of certain allowable constructions which, happening to be out of daily favour, are all the more appropriate to archaic workmanship, is no violence: but I would be tolerant for once,—in the case of so immensely famous an original,—of even a clumsy attempt to furnish me with the very turn of each phrase in as Greek a fashion as English will bear: while, with respect to amplifications and embellishments,—anything rather than, with the good farmer, experience that most signal of mortifications, to gape for Aeschylus and get Theognis. I should especially decline,—what may appear to brighten up a passage,—the employment of a new word for some old one—πόνος, or μέγας, or τέλος, with its congeners, recurring four times in three lines: for though such substitution may be in itself perfectly justifiable, yet this exercise of ingenuity ought to be within the competence of the unaided English reader if he likes to show himself ingenious. Learning Greek teaches Greek, and nothing else: certainly not common sense, if that have failed to precede the teaching. Further,—if I obtained a mere strict bald version of thing by thing, or at least word pregnant with thing, I should hardly look for an impossible transmission of the reputed magniloquence and sonority of the Greek; and this with the less regret, inasmuch as there is abundant musicality elsewhere, but nowhere else than in his poem the ideas of the poet. And lastly, when presented with these ideas, I should expect the result to prove very hard reading indeed if it were meant to resemble Aeschylus, ξυμβαλεῖν οὐ ῥᾴδιος (Frogs 931) , not easy to understand, in the opinion of his stoutest advocate among the ancients; while, I suppose, even modern scholarship sympathizes with that early declaration of the redoubtable Salmasius, when, looking about for an example of the truly obscure for the benefit of those who found obscurity in the sacred books, he protested that this particular play leaves them all behind in this respect, with their Hebraisms, Syriasms, Hellenisms, and the whole of such bag and baggage. Quis Aeschylum possit affirmare Graece nunc scienti magis patere explicabilem quam Evangelia aut Epistolas Apostolicas? Unus ejus Agamemnon obscuritate superat quantum est librorum sacrorum cum suis Hebraismis et Syriasmis et tota Hellenisticae supellectili vel farragine. SALMASIUS de Hellenistica, Epist. Dedic. For, over and above the purposed ambiguity of the Chorus, the text is sadly corrupt, probably interpolated, and certainly mutilated; and no unlearned person enjoys the scholar’s privilege of trying his fancy upon each obstacle whenever he comes to a stoppage, and effectually clearing the way by suppressing what seems to lie in it. All I can say for the present performance is, that I have done as I would be done by, if need were. Should anybody, without need, honour my translation by a comparison with the original, I beg him to observe that, following no editor exclusively, I keep to the earlier readings so long as sense can be made out of them, but disregard, I hope, little of importance in recent criticism so far as I have fallen in with it. Fortunately, the poorest translation, provided only it be faithful,—though it reproduce all the artistic confusion of tenses, moods, and persons, with which the original teems,—will not only suffice to display what an eloquent friend maintains to be the all-in-all of poetry—the action of the piece— but may help to illustrate his assurance that the Greeks are the highest models of expression, the unapproached masters of the grand style: their expression is so excellent because it is so admirably kept in its right degree of prominence, because it is so simple and so well subordinated, because it draws its force directly from the pregnancy of the matter which it conveys . . . not a word wasted, not a sentiment capriciously thrown in, stroke on stroke! Poems by Matthew Arnold, Preface. So may all happen! Just a word more on the subject of my spelling—in a transcript from the Greek and there exclusively—Greek names and places precisely as does the Greek author. I began this practice, with great innocency of intention, some six-and-thirty years ago. Leigh Hunt, I remember, was accustomed to speak of his gratitude, when ignorant of Greek, to those writers (like Goldsmith) who had obliged him by using English characters, so that he might relish, for instance, the smooth quality of such a phrase as hapalunetai galené; he said also that Shelley was indignant at Firenze having displaced the Dantesque Fiorenza, and would contemptuously English the intruder Firence. I supposed I was doing a simple thing enough: but there has been till lately much astonishment at os and us, ai and oi, representing the same letters in Greek. Of a sudden, however, whether in translation or out of it, everybody seems committing the offence, although the adoption of u for v still presents such difficulty that it is a wonder how we have hitherto escaped Eyripides. But there existed a sturdy Briton who, Ben Jonson informs us, wrote The Life of the Emperor Anthony Pie — whom we now acquiesce in as Antoninus Pius: for with time and patience the mulberry leaf becomes satin. Yet there is, on all sides, much profession of respect for what Keats called vowelled Greek — consonanted, one would expect; and, in a criticism upon a late admirable translation of something of my own, it was deplored that, in a certain verse corresponding in measure to the fourteenth of the sixth Pythian Ode, neither Professor Jebb in his Greek, nor Mr. Browning in his English, could emulate that matchlessly musical γόνον ἰδὼν κάλλιστον ἀνδρῶν (Pyth. 4.123) . Now, undoubtedly, Seeing her son the fairest of men has more sense than sound to boast of: but then, would not an Italian roll us out Rimirando il figliuolo bellissimo degli uomini! whereat Pindar, no less than Professor Jebb and Mr. Browning, τριακτῆρος οἴχεται τυχών (Ag. 171) . It is recorded in the annals of Art Lettres à un jeune Prince, traduites du Suédois. that there was once upon a time, practising so far north as Stockholm, a painter and picture-cleaner — sire of a less unhappy son — Old Muytens: and the annalist, Baron de Tessé, has not concealed his profound dissatisfaction at Old Muytens’ conceit to have himself had something to do with the work of whatever master of eminence might pass through his hands. Whence it was,—the Baron goes on to deplore,—that much detriment was done to that excellent piece The Recognition of Achilles, by Rubens, through the perversity of Old Muytens, who must needs take on him to beautify every nymph of the twenty by the bestowment of a widened eye and an enlarged mouth. I, at least, have left eyes and mouths everywhere as I found them, and this conservatism is all that claims praise for — what is, after all, ἀκέλευστος ἄμισθος ἀοιδά (Ag. 979) . No, neither uncommanded nor unrewarded: since it was commanded of me by my venerated friend Thomas Carlyle, and rewarded will it indeed become if I am permitted to dignify it by the prefatory insertion of his dear and noble name. R. B. LONDON: October 1st, 1877. Warder. Choros of Old Men. KLUTAIMNESTRA. TALTHUBIOS, AGAMEMNON. KASSANDRA. AIGISTHOS.

WARDER.

The gods I ask deliverance from these labours,

Watch of a year’s length whereby, slumbering through it

On the Atreidai’s roofs on elbow, — dog-like —

I know of nightly star-groups the assemblage,

And those that bring to men winter and summer

Bright dynasts, as they pride them in the aether

— Stars, when they wither, and the uprisings of them.

And now on ward I wait the torch’s token,

The glow of fire, shall bring from Troia message

And word of capture: so prevails audacious

The man’s-way-planning hoping heart of woman.

But when I, driven from night-rest, dew-drenched hold to

This couch of mine — not looked upon by visions,

Since fear instead of sleep still stands beside me,

So as that fast I fix in sleep no eyelids —

And when to sing or chirp a tune I fancy,

For slumber such song-remedy infusing,

I wail then, for this House’s fortune groaning,

Not, as of old, after the best ways governed.

Now, lucky be deliverance from these labours,

At good news — the appearing dusky fire!

O hail, thou lamp of night, a day-long lightness

Revealing, and of dances the ordainment!

Halloo, halloo!

To Agamemnon’s wife I show, by shouting,

That, from bed starting up at once, i’ the household

Joyous acclaim, good-omened to this torch-blaze,

She send aloft, if haply Ilion’s city

Be taken, as the beacon boasts announcing.

Ay, and, for me, myself will dance a prelude,

For, that my masters’ dice drop right, I’ll reckon:

Since thrice-six has it thrown to me, this signal.

Well, may it hap that, as he comes, the loved hand

O’ the household’s lord I may sustain with this hand!

As for the rest, I’m mute: on tongue a big ox

Has trodden. Yet this House, if voice it take should,

Most plain would speak. So, willing I myself speak

To those who know: to who know not — I’m blankness.

CHOROS.

The tenth year this, since Priamos’ great match,

King Menelaos, Agamemnon King,

— The strenuous yoke-pair of the Atreidai’s honour

Two-throned, two-sceptred, whereof Zeus was donor —

Did from this land the aid, the armament despatch,

The thousand-sailored force of Argives clamouring

Aresfrom out the indignant breast, as fling

Passion forth vultures which, because of grief

Away, — as are their young ones, — with the thief,

Lofty above their brood-nests wheel in ring,

Row round and round with oar of either wing,

Lament the bedded chicks, lost labour that was love:

Which hearing, one above

— Whether Apollon, Pan or Zeus — that wail,

Sharp-piercing bird-shriek of the guests who fare

Housemates with gods in air —

Suchanone sends, against who these assail,

What, late-sent, shall not fail

Of punishing — Erinus. Here as there,

The Guardian of the Guest, Zeus, the excelling one,

Sends against Alexandros either son

Of Atreus: for that wife, the many-husbanded,

Appointing many a tug that tries the limb,

While the knee plays the prop in dust, while, shred

To morsels, lies the spear-shaft; in those grim

Marriage-prolusions when their Fury wed

Danaoi and Troes, both alike. All’s said:

Things are where things are, and, as fate has willed,

So shall they be fulfilled.

Not gently-grieving, not just doling out

The drops of expiation — no, nor tears distilled —

Shall he we know of bring the hard about

But we pay nought here: through our flesh, age-weighed,

Left out from who gave aid

In that day, — we remain,

The equal of a child’s at length.

For when young marrow in the breast doth reign,

That’s the old man’s match, — Ares out of place

In either: but in oldest age’s case,

Foliage a-fading, why, he wends his way

On three feet, and, no stronger than a child,

Wanders about gone wild,

A dream in day.

But thou, Tundareus’ daughter, Klutaimnestra queen,

What need? What new? What having heard or seen,

By what announcement’s tidings, everywhere

Settest thou, round about, the sacrifice a-flare?

For, of all gods the city-swaying,

Those supernal, those infernal,

Those of the fields’, those of the mart’s obeying, —

The altars blaze with gifts;

And here and there, heaven-high the torch uplifts

Flame-medicated with persuasions mild,

With foul admixture unbeguiled —

Of holy unguent, from the clotted chrism

Brought from the palace, safe in its abysm.

Of these things, speaking what may be indeed

Both possible and lawful to concede,

Healer do thou become! — of this solicitude

Which, now, stands plainly forth of evil mood,

And, then . . . but from oblations, hope, to-day