The Return of Agamemnon

It was ten years since Agamemnon, the mighty Argive monarch, had left his kingdom—somewhat suddenly, after a stormy interview with the Queen, as those with the best knowledge of the matter said—with the declared intention of going to assist at the siege of Troy.

He had never written a single letter in all that time, but so many reports of his personal bravery and his terrible wounds had reached the palace that Clytemnestra would often remark, with a hint of irritation, that if he wasn't actually dead by now, he must be nearly as full of holes as a fishing net.

So she was hardly surprised when one day they broke the news to her that he really had died at last, falling while fighting desperately against overwhelming odds on the Trojan plain. And when, a little later, she formally announced to her loyal subjects her engagement to Aegisthus, her youngest and favorite courtier, they were not surprised either. They told one another, with a crude sense of humor, that they had half expected something of the sort.

They were celebrating the Queen's betrothal with the wildest enthusiasm, for they were a simple and affectionate people who foresaw a boost to the local economy. Those ten weary years had been dull times for Argos, and the city had become nearly empty as, one by one, all her bravest and best had left, as they poetically put it, 'to seek a soldier's tomb.' Several married men, who had never before shown such patriotic passion, suddenly discovered that their country needed them, and departed, leaving their wives and children behind. Many pushing tradesmen also abandoned their shops, seeking—not ostentatiously, but with the self-effacement of true heroes—the seat of war where their sovereign had been sitting for so long. Their true devotion was seldom appreciated until long after they'd gone, when it was usually discovered that, in their haste, they had left their affairs in the greatest confusion.

And very soon the only young men left were mild, unwarlike youths, respectable and wearing spectacles, while the rest of the male population was made up of equal parts babbling infants and doddering old men.

This was a sad state of affairs—but the absent ones wrote such splendid letters home, full of vivid descriptions of camp life and the fierce excitement of night attacks and desperate missions, that those left behind should have felt well comforted. They didn't; they merely said it seemed rather odd that the writers so persistently forgot to give their return addresses, and that it was strange that, while each letter claimed to come directly from the Greek lines, every envelope bore a different postmark. And often the older married women—and their mothers too—would wish with great emotion that they could only get the missing men home and have a good talk with them—that was all!

But all anxiety was forgotten in celebrating the betrothal, for the Argives were determined to do it well. In the main streets they had put up triumphal arches representing the chief local products, which were, as scholars hardly need reminding, soda water and cane-bottomed chairs. From these arches, chairs and bottles kept falling, like gentle rain, upon the happy crowds passing underneath. All the public fountains spouted a cheap dinner sherry that was 'very like water,' as some disaffected persons said. Householders were graciously asked to display flags and lights at their own expense, and in the marketplace a whole fowl was being roasted for the common people.

So all was merriment as the sun set, and the citizens gathered in groups around the square before the palace, ready to cheer the royal couple enthusiastically when they deigned to appear on the balcony.

The well-meaning old gentlemen who formed the Chorus (for in those days every respectable household kept a chorus, and even shabby-genteel families had a semi-chorus in buttons) were twittering in a corner, prepared to come forward eventually with their ill-timed remarks, gloomy predictions, and unnecessary advice, which was all that was expected of them. The Mayor and the Corporation were fussing about distractedly with a brass band and the inevitable official welcome.

Suddenly there was a stir in the crowd, and everyone strained to see a tall, swaying scaffold on the palace rooftop, where a small black figure, sharply outlined against the saffron sky, could be seen gesticulating wildly.

'Look at the watchman!' they whispered excitedly. 'Whatever can be the matter with him?'

Now, before Agamemnon left, he had had fires laid on all the mountaintops in a direct line between Argos and Troy, arranging to light the pile at the Trojan end when it became necessary to let them know at home that he might soon return. The watchman had been placed on the scaffold to look for the beacon, and he had been there for years, day and night, never once allowed to leave his post—even on his birthday. There had been some expectation that Clytemnestra would let him come down for good when she heard of Agamemnon's death on such excellent authority, but she would not hear of it. She said she knew people would think her foolish and sentimental, but taking the watchman down would seem like giving up all hope. So she kept him up there as proof of her wifely devotion, which touched everyone—except perhaps the watchman himself.

Clytemnestra and Aegisthus, who had happened to come out just when the excitement was at its height, found themselves utterly ignored. 'Not a single cap off—not one solitary cheer!' cried the Queen with regal anger. 'What have you been doing to make yourself so unpopular with my loyal Argives?' she demanded suspiciously.

'I don't think it's anything to do with me, really,' protested Aegisthus weakly. 'They're just looking the other way at the moment, and—can't you see why?' he added suddenly. 'They've lit the beacon on top of Arachnaeus!'

Clytemnestra looked and started violently, for on the mountain top a red tongue of flame shot up through the gathering dusk. 'What does it mean?' she whispered, clutching his arm convulsively.

'Well,' said Aegisthus, 'it looks to me, you know, as if your late lamented husband has changed his mind about dying and is on his way back to your arms.'

'Then he is not dead!' exclaimed Clytemnestra. 'He is coming home. I shall look upon that face, hear that voice, press that hand once more! How extremely annoying!'

'A confounded nuisance!' he agreed heartily, but his irritation sounded a bit overdone. 'Well, this puts an end to the betrothal. Don't you think we'd better take down all the arches and fireworks and things? We won't need them now, you know.'

'Why not?' asked the Queen. 'They'll do for him. He won't know the difference. Ye gods!' she cried, stretching out her arms with a tragic groan. 'Must I, too, fall in with his plans?'

'Anyway,' said Aegisthus with an attempted nonchalance, 'you won't need me any longer, so if you'll kindly excuse me, I think I'll retire to some quiet spot where I can drag myself with my broken heart and bleed to death, like a wounded deer, don't you know.'

'You can do all that just as well here,' she replied. 'I want you to stay. Who knows what may happen?' she added with a sinister smile. 'We may be happy yet!'

Clytemnestra's sinister smiles always made Aegisthus feel as if something he'd eaten was disagreeing with him—but he stayed.

By now the people had also realized the turn of events, but they sensibly decided that their duty was to continue the festivities. They were, as mentioned before, a simple and affectionate people, fond of their king. So, since his return would be even better for trade than the betrothal, they happily kept celebrating, and there was nothing fake or forced about their joy.

Presently there was another stir in the crowd, and a rumbling of wheels as a covered chariot from the station rolled, amid faint cheering, up to the palace gates, saluted by the one elderly sentinel on guard.

'It is Agamemnon,' gasped the Queen. 'He has come already—I must not be caught unprepared. I will go inside.'

She had just time to withdraw hastily, followed by Aegisthus, before a short, stout man in faded military uniform and a cocked hat with a molting plume descended from the vehicle.

The Chorus, finding it left to them to do the honors, advanced in a row, singing the ode of welcome which they had been rehearsing ever since the first year of the war.

'O King,' they chanted in their cracked old voices, 'offspring of Atreus, sacker of Troy!'

'Would you kindly count the luggage?' interrupted the monarch, who hated ceremony. 'There should be four pieces—a tin hat-box, two camel-hair trunks, and a carpet bag.'

But a Greek chorus was not easily silenced, and they burst out again all together: 'Nay, with bursting hearts would we hail thee thrice!'

'Once will be quite enough, thank you,' said the King politely. 'And I would be truly distressed if any of you were to burst on my account. Has anyone got half a drachma about them?'

He heard no more of the ode, and the Mayor thought it best to roll up his address and take the Corporation home.

Agamemnon succeeded in borrowing the coin and had turned to pay the driver when Clytemnestra glided down the broad steps to the courtyard. Striking a pose, she addressed no one in particular in tones of rapturous joy.

'O happy day!' she cried very loudly, 'when my hero husband returns to me after a long absence, quite unexpectedly.

Henceforth his helmet shall hang in the hall, his spear rest among the umbrellas, his breastplate be replaced by a chest protector; for a shield he'll have a parasol, and instead of a sword, a walking stick. But now let me, as a devoted wife, greet him before all—Agamemnon, will you kindly tell me who that young woman is in the chariot?' was her abrupt and somewhat lame ending.

'Oh, there you are,' said Agamemnon, turning and holding up a finger. 'How do you do, my dear? How do you do?' (I won't give you another obol!' he muttered to the driver, who seemed unsatisfied.) 'So, you're quite well, are you?' he continued to his wife. 'Still as talkative as ever. By Jove, I feel as if I'd only been away a week—until I look at you. Well, we can't stay young forever, can we? So you'd like to meet my little friend here? Allow me to introduce her. One moment.'

He hurried to the chariot and helped out a maiden with a pale face, wild, roving eyes, and tawny golden hair, then led her to his wife.

'The Princess Cassandra of Troy—my wife, Queen Clytemnestra. They tell me this young lady can prophesy very nicely, my dear,' he remarked.

Clytemnestra bowed coldly and said she was sure it would be very amusing. Did the Princess plan to give any public performances?

'She is our guest,' Agamemnon put in sharply, while Cassandra smiled sardonically and said nothing.

Clytemnestra hoped she might be persuaded to stay longer; a week was such a very short time.

'She has kindly agreed to stay a little longer, my love,' said Agamemnon—'actually, for the rest of her life.'

The Queen was delighted to hear it; it was very kind of her, especially since visitors often found the area rather unhealthy.

And as Aegisthus joined them just then, she introduced him to the King, saying he had been the most faithful and devoted of courtiers during the King's entire absence. Agamemnon replied, with a faint scowl, that he was charmed to meet Mr. Aegisthus. After that, no one seemed to know exactly what to say for a minute or two.

Finally Aegisthus ventured that the royal warrior must have found it warm over at Troy.

'It varied, sir,' said the monarch uncomfortably. 'The climate varied. I often got quite warm while fighting.'

Aegisthus agreed that battle must be hot work, and Clytemnestra suddenly exclaimed that her husband was wearing the very same shabby old uniform he had on when he left.

'The very same,' said Agamemnon, smiling. 'I wore it throughout the campaign. A true warrior is no dandy!'

'We had heard you were wounded,' remarked Aegisthus.

'Oh, yes,' said the King, 'I was considerably wounded—all over the chest and arms. But what did I care?'

'Exactly,' said Aegisthus, 'and, strangely enough, the weapons don't seem to have pierced your coat at all. I notice there are no patches.'

'No,' the King replied. 'So you noticed that, did you? Well, the reason is that those fellows over there have a peculiar way of slashing and cutting, so as to—' And he launched into elaborate demonstrations with his sheathed sword, until Aegisthus said he thought he understood.

But Clytemnestra, with a girlish playfulness that suited her poorly, pounced on the weapon. 'I want to see it drawn!' she cried. 'I want to behold the flashing blade that has pierced so many of our enemies. Oh, it won't come out!' she added, trying to pull it from the scabbard. 'Do make it come out!'

The King tried, but the blade stuck halfway, and what was visible seemed thickly coated with rust. Agamemnon claimed it was dried blood, and that his orderly must have forgotten to clean it after the fall of Troy. He added that it was due to the sea air.

'Troy has really fallen, then?' asked Aegisthus. 'I suppose you stayed to see it through?'

'I did, sir,' answered the monarch proudly. 'I sacked the most fashionable districts myself. My booty should be arriving soon. Didn't you know Troy was taken?' he asked suspiciously. 'Couldn't you see the beacon I lit before I left?'

The courtier murmured that it was remarkable that such a long and weary journey could be completed in such excellent time.

'What do you mean by that? How do you know how long it took?' demanded Agamemnon.

'Don't you see?' said Clytemnestra. 'You say you had the fire lit at Ida when you set out; of course they would see it at Lemnos and light theirs, then at Athos, and so on—'

'You are not a timetable, my love,' interrupted the monarch coldly. 'Don't bother me with details. Come to the point.'

'The point is,' she explained sweetly, 'we've only just seen the beacon flame arrive here at Arachnaeus, after leaping from height to height across lake and plain. So you, my dear, must have traveled almost as fast!'

'I came with the beacon,' said Agamemnon, coughing. 'Does that settle it?'

'Perhaps,' said the Queen. 'I mean, certainly. And now,' she continued, after exchanging a quick glance with Aegisthus, 'you will come inside and have a nice cup of coffee and a warm bath before you do anything else, won't you?'

He supposed he might as well, he said; fighting for ten years without a break was dusty, tiring work. He was about to enter when his eye fell on the awnings, flags, and red stair carpet laid out for the betrothal, and he frowned.

'Now, my dear, this kind of thing is all very well, but I don't like it. I am a plain, honest ruler, and I despise show and flattery—especially when it comes out of my own pocket! And you've laid down a carpet from the throne room over all this gravel. Take it up at once; I won't walk on it. Do you hear? This wasteful extravagance is a sin. Take it up!'

Clytemnestra assured him they hadn't intended to annoy him with it—which was literally true—and suggested meekly that for the King to stand in the courtyard while all the decorations were removed might be tedious and even ridiculous. 'If,' she added, 'he simply didn't want to soil the carpet, he could remove his extremely muddy boots—for a king's boots, they are quite muddy.'

'Very well, my dear,' said the King. 'I didn't mean to scold you. It's just that I've grown so used to the frugal, hardy life of a camp that I have acquired a soldier's contempt for luxury.'

And, taking off his boots, he followed the Queen into the palace, as she led the way with a baleful expression on her dark, inscrutable face.

As the couple passed up the steps and between the tall pillars, the hounds howled from the royal kennels behind the palace. And—a stranger omen still—a meteor flashed across the growing gloom and burst in a rain of colored stars above the rooftop, while, shortly after, a staff fell from above and struck one of the Chorus on the head, shattering into fragments.

---

Meanwhile, Aegisthus had strolled off under the colonnade, leaving Cassandra alone with the Chorus. She stood apart, mysterious, moody, and unreadable, letting down her long flowing hair.

'You are a prophetess, are you not?' said the kindly old men, trying to make her feel at home. 'Might we ask you to give us a prediction—just a small one?'

At first Cassandra made excuses, as was proper: she had a cold, she was tired from the journey, she wasn't really inspired just then, and anyway she hadn't touched a tripod for ages. But pressed, she gave in, after declaring with a little giggle that she was sure no one would believe a word she said.

'I see before me,' she began, in a weird, hollow voice that she couldn't sustain for long, 'a proud and stately palace—but do not enter. Do you see that ghoul on the chimney pots, that serpent in the garden? And the scent of blood is everywhere!'

'A grim picture indeed!' the Chorus interjected conventionally.

'But the finger of fate is slowly unwinding, and the hand of destiny strides through the marble halls with heavy step. And know, old men, that the Inevitable is not entirely unconnected with the Probable.'

At this, even their politeness couldn't hide a gesture of disbelief, but she went on:

'And who is this I see next? A regal warrior leaping over blazing walls in bronze armor?'

('That must be Agamemnon!' cried the Chorus. 'The despatches mentioned him leaping like that. Amazing!')

'I see him,' she continued, 'pale and fallen, a prey to inner torment, scanning the waves from his storm-tossed ship. Now he's reached his native city. Listen to the cheers! And see, a stately queen comes to greet him with a honeyed smile, inviting him inside. He follows. And then—' Here Cassandra stopped, saying that was all, for even second sight had its limits.

The Chorus was impressed, for they had never seen a prophecy and its fulfillment so close together; their own attempts usually went wrong. But while they agreed the prophecy was charming as far as it went, they were beginning to feel a little afraid of the prophetess, and were relieved when Aegisthus came up and offered to show her the sights of Argos.

Still, they were great authorities on manners and morality, and after she left they all remarked that she had been far too quick to accept the escort of a courtier she'd never been properly introduced to. 'That may be the custom in Troy,' they said, wagging their beards, 'but if she intends to behave like that here—well!'

By now the last glow of sunset had faded, and stars were appearing in the pale green sky. The Chorus walked up and down to keep warm, for the evening was turning chilly.

Suddenly a loud cry shattered the silence—a scream like a strong man in agony. It sounded remarkably like Agamemnon, but no one wanted to say so. They only remarked, with forced calm, that the cats were becoming quite a nuisance.

The cry came again, louder and more distinct, seeming to come from the royal bathroom. 'Help! Someone! They've turned on the hot water, and I can't turn it off!'

After that, there was no doubt that something far more serious than cats was happening. Agamemnon, the king of men, was apparently in trouble, and it was only too likely that this was Clytemnestra's work.

They all ran about and fell over each other in a panic. Recovering their wits, they debated what to do. Some thought it would not be a terrible breach of etiquette to rush into the bathroom and pull the king out. Others, more cautious, asked for precedents in such a delicate situation. They were on the verge of quarreling when the wisest among them reminded them that it was probably too late anyway, since the king must certainly be hard-boiled by now—which absolved them of all responsibility nicely.

At that point the Queen appeared at the top of the marble steps. She glided down cautiously, clearly in a state of suppressed excitement.

'What a lovely evening!' said the Chorus in unison, thinking it better not to seem to have noticed anything unusual.

'Agamemnon is with his ancestors,' she whispered fiercely. 'I sewed up the sleeves of his bathrobe and drugged his coffee, and then I turned on the hot water from a distance. And he's boiled, and it serves him right, and I'm glad of it—so there! But tell me, aged ones,' she added in one of her quick shifts, 'have I done well?'

The Chorus was disgusted by her lack of tact and reserve; they would have preferred not to be involved in such private matters, but they were not the type to shirk their duty.

'In our opinion, O Queen,' they replied coldly, 'the deed was hasty and not well considered.'

'Ha!' she cried angrily. 'You dare to scold me like a girl? Am I not your sovereign? Guards, seize these insolent men!'

The elderly sentinel tottered from his box and arrested as many as he could, telling the rest to consider themselves detained, which they did immediately.

'Summon the people,' Clytemnestra commanded. The Argives obediently left the fireworks and gathered before the steps.

'Citizens! Argives!' she cried in a loud, clear voice. 'I am sure you will all be grieved to learn that your beloved sovereign, so recently restored to us'—here she broke down with the skill of a great actress—'is—due to a most unfortunate accident—'

'Alive!' interrupted a voice from behind her.

Someone pushed aside the hangings and started down the steps. It was Agamemnon himself.

Clytemnestra screamed, turned slowly, and faced him in silence. The moment was intensely dramatic, and the Argives, a simple, affectionate people, fully appreciated it and never regretted the fireworks they'd left.

The Queen spoke first: 'So—you've—you've—had your bath?' she said, pale and panting.

'Well, no,' said Agamemnon mildly. 'I happened to notice that someone had thoughtfully sewn up the armholes of my dressing gown, and the coffee had a particularly nasty smell. So I decided to wait. Then the boiling water came rushing in, and I realized there had been a mistake. So I thought I'd play along and see what happened. I called for help. And now I think I understand it all.'

He adopted a higher moral tone; his manner lost its cynicism. He wasn't even angry—only deeply hurt, and there was something noble about the stern sadness on his brow.

'So this was to be my fate?' he said. 'I was to return, a war-worn soldier, to the home I'd been absent from so long, only to be parboiled the very moment I arrived, by my own wife! Was that kind? Was that wifely, Clytemnestra?'

'That's rich, coming from you,' she retorted.

'What—what do you mean?' he stammered.

'You know perfectly well what I mean,' she said. 'Enough! Stop pretending with me.'

'Can you possibly suspect that I wasn't near Troy all this time?' he cried. 'Tell me, Clytemnestra, do you really think that?'

'Yes,' she replied. 'I know you weren't!'

'But I tell you, there's a poet, a fellow named Homer, who's already making a name for himself by putting the campaign into verse. It's rather long, but quite readable—you should order a copy. There's a great deal about me in it.'

'Did Homer see you there?'

'That's a ridiculous question,' he protested, beginning to feel she was softening and that he could convince her. 'The poet is blind, Clytemnestra, quite blind. But I won't argue. You must accept a soldier's word.'

She laughed. 'I'm afraid,' she said, 'that even a soldier's word won't explain these—and these—and these.' As she spoke, she handed him various objects: a folding hat, a guide to Corinth, a phrase book, several unused tourist tickets, some theater programs, a green veil, supper bills, a correct card for the Olympic races with likely starters, and three little jointed wooden dolls.

Agamemnon took them helplessly. All his righteous indignation had evaporated, and he looked very red and embarrassed as he said with a nervous laugh, 'You've been going through my pockets!'

'I have,' she said. 'And now what do you have to say for yourself? I don't believe there is any such place as Troy.'

'There is, I promise,' he pleaded. 'I can show it to you on the map!'

'Well,' she said, 'if there is, you never went near it!'

'Send these people away,' he said, 'and I'll tell you everything.'

When they were gone, he confessed all: he had meant to go to Troy at first, but as he drew nearer, he found himself less and less inclined to fight.

Finally, he decided to travel around and see life instead—to, as he put it, 'pick up a bit of character.'

'Well,' said Clytemnestra, 'I will have no little characters in my palace, Agamemnon.'

But he protested that she had misunderstood him. 'And if I have erred, my dear,' he humbly suggested, 'excuse me, but I can't help thinking that the way you tried to correct me was rather harsh.'

'It was nothing of the sort,' she said. 'You deserved it all—and worse!'

At that, Agamemnon hurried to assure her that she had shown the right spirit, and he respected her for it. 'Now,' he proposed, 'why not let bygones be bygones?' But Clytemnestra replied that she'd be quite happy to do that once they actually were bygones, which, she added, they were far from being yet.

The King was in despair, until a stroke of nature saved him. From a nearby bush came a faint chirrup, which he turned to good use.

'Do you hear it?' he asked tenderly. 'That sweet sound? Do you know it? Ah, Clytemnestra, it's the owl—the cheerful, tuneful owl! Owls sang on our wedding night. Can you listen to their song now and remain unmoved? No, I was wrong to doubt you. I see a tear on your eyelash, a smile on your lips. I'm forgiven. Clytemnestra—my wife—embrace me... we both have much to forgive.'

This speech—which closely resembled ones he'd heard in thrilling dramas at the Haemabronteion theater in Corinth, where the prophetess Cassandra had been admired in tragic roles—touched Clytemnestra's heart, which, though hard, had a soft spot. She fell sobbing into her husband's arms.

And so all was forgiven and forgotten most satisfactorily. The Chorus, released from arrest, was free again. When they looked for Aegisthus and Cassandra, they were nowhere to be found, and no trace of them was ever discovered. But it was generally understood that, with admirable selflessness, they had not wanted to stay where their presence might lead to complications.

From that night onward—until the unhappy day, some six weeks later, when each accidentally drank a potion prepared for the other—there was no happier royal pair in Argos than Clytemnestra and Agamemnon.