Orestes (NHB Classic Plays)

Helen Edmundson

• Publisher: Nick Hern Books
• Year: 2014
• ISBN:
  9781780015194
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Drama
• Index: Literature

An explosive retelling of the most savage and powerful of ancient myths - the story of avenging siblings, Electra and Orestes - premiered by Shared Experience Theatre Company.

As children, Orestes and his sister, Electra, were sent far away, banished by their own mother. Years later, the city must vote to determine their future, as they stand trial for her murder. Some say the killing should be met with banishment and that the cycle of revenge must be stopped. Others want blood...

Exploring the tragedy of human relationships set against the backdrop of war, Orestes is based on Euripides' Electra.

'crackles with dangerous energy' - Irish Independent

'at once timeless and as topical as tomorrow's headlines... slams straight into the viewer's head, heart and gut' - Telegraph

'Euripides was the most profound and disturbing psychologist of the three great Greeks; and Edmundson and (director) Meckler blend his cruel insights and classical grandeur with a masterful theatrical intelligence' - Sunday Times

In Klytemnestra’s bedroom in Agamemnon’s palace. It is an ostentatious room, full of clothes and pairs of shoes, full of the gold-plated trappings of wealth.

ELECTRA is sitting at the dressing table. She is wearing one of her mother’s dresses over the top of her own clothes.

ORESTES is on the bed, asleep.

ELECTRA. Sometimes she would let me stay while she undressed. Sometimes she would send the servants away and she would sit here while I brushed her hair. My mother. She would let me open jars and bottles, sniff and touch, she would let me uncover close things from drawers, treasures, and tell me where they came from. Tell me stories of a life before. Sometimes she would hold out her hands for me and I would rub them with oil, taking the rings off, one by one, feeling the deep lines on her knuckles, shifting her skin, gently, over veins and bone.

I wanted to climb back inside her, always, and settle down behind her heart.

The best day . . . the best day was when my father came home triumphant in wine and pride and said he had betrothed me to a prince, though I was only six years old, Prince Kastor of Sparta, a demigod, a god to be. That day I was the centre of my mother’s eye. She dressed me as a princess, put colour on my lips and cheeks, a golden crown upon my head. And my father lifted me up on his shoulders, a horse for a virgin-bride, and staggered me around the room, cornering and swaying, laughing loud while my mother played the easy, adoring people.

And that night I crawled into bed beside my mother, that bed, and when my father came he didn’t tip me out but let me stay. And I crept down and down, burrowing between them, smelling in the mattress and the sheets all their nights of passion and sweat, good dreams and bad, our warmth all mingling together.

He was naked when she killed him. Naked in his bath, his home bath, his safe bath. Naked. His muscles releasing their memories of battle and rough seas. They netted him – my mother and her lover Aigisthos – they caught him round with cord, with rope. He stood, too late. He struggled, twisted, they brought him down, crashing to his knees, arms pressed against his sides like giant, folded wings. He moaned, roared, spat, they swung the axe and split his skull, they swung again, they hacked his chest until it cracked, they axed and axed until his moving, twitching stopped and blood lapped the sides of the bath with a steady, slowing rhythm. My father.

Someone had to see. It was right that it should be me. Right for my father, right for him – (She indicates the sleeping ORESTES.) so that I could tell him, perfectly, what she had done. I didn’t need to fable it, tell how she danced and sang while he lay dying, wound garlands through her hair. I could tell him how she sagged and felt for the floor, vomiting and shaking. I could tell him how Aigisthos stood so still and Time gaped, gasped. Time gasped.

If I hadn’t seen it, we might have balked at what we had to do. My brother and I. Orestes.

Beyond the doors, footsteps and noises are heard. ELECTRA springs up, terrified.

No. No. Who’s there? It isn’t time yet. Leave us alone. Let my brother sleep. Let us have our last night. Who’s there?

The doors open and HELEN enters with SOLDIERS in attendance. Also with her is a female SLAVE who is carrying HELEN’s baby daughter, HERMIONE.

ELECTRA stares in disbelief. HELEN stands still and takes in the scene.

HELEN. Do you recognise me?

ELECTRA. Yes.

HELEN. Speak my name.

ELECTRA. Helen. You are Helen, if you are real.

HELEN. I haven’t changed so much. Unlike you, Electra. You were a child when I left.

ELECTRA. You’re back.

HELEN. Sixteen years.

ELECTRA. You’re back.

HELEN. Yes. I’m back.

ELECTRA. My uncle? Is he with you?

HELEN. ‘Uncle’ Menelaos. He’ll be here. Soon. He sent me on ahead under cover of darkness, to slip unseen through the city gates. He feared the people would be baying for my blood, poor souls who lost their sons to the war. But the people have scented fresh blood now.

(To SOLDIERS.) Bring more light in here.

(Looking at ORESTES.) Is this your brother?

ELECTRA. Yes. It is Orestes.

HELEN. Wake him up.

ELECTRA. No. Please. No. He hasn’t slept for six days and nights. He hasn’t closed his eyes.

HELEN. Since he murdered his mother? Since he murdered my sister?

ELECTRA. We both did it. I did it too. Apollo told us to.

HELEN moves further into the room, seeing things more clearly in the new light.

HELEN. This room. A mausoleum. It smells of her. (She picks up a hairbrush from the dressing table.) Is this her hair?

ELECTRA. Yes.

HELEN. It was always stronger than mine, though it never shone so well. Is this where she died?

ELECTRA. No.

HELEN. Where then? Where did she die? My sister?

ELECTRA. In the hills outside the city. After they killed my father – she and Aigisthos – they wanted me gone. They married me to a farmer, a peasant, a man much older than myself, so that any son I should chance to have would be too low to set himself against them. But Orestes came. Back from long years away. He found me, knew me. Our hands locked together. He told me what Apollo had decreed and so we lured them to us and we killed them. And then we came home.

Now the people are angry with us. They call us the matricides. By day they press around the palace walls. They leave the rotting carcasses of dogs beneath the windows. They have nailed shut the wells and taken the wood so that we have no warmth. In the assembly, in our absence, we have been tried and condemned. Tomorrow they decide how we should die – by public execution, or abandoned to the mob. Tomorrow is the last day.

We gave her a decent burial. We passed her through cleansing fire. There is a tomb, you will see, a proper place where prayers can be said and offerings can be made.

We did what Apollo asked of us. We are in his hands. We commend ourselves to our God.

HELEN. Pretty dress, Electra. Was it one of hers?

(To SOLDIERS.) Open up another wing of the palace. Away from here. Go out and find food, water, wood. If anyone should challenge you, say you come in Menelaos’ name. Make somewhere safe and clean for myself and my daughter and my husband.

HELEN starts to go.

ELECTRA. Helen?

Tomorrow is the last day.

HELEN. Yes.

ELECTRA. If you find water . . . if you could spare some for Orestes. He is ill. He is hot, feverish. A little food perhaps?

HELEN turns to go again.

Helen. Talk to Menelaos. Please. We know our lives are gone, but ask him, please . . . not the mob. We are Agamemnon’s children. We shouldn’t die like that. Please ask him that.

HELEN comes to stand close to her.

HELEN. Are you still a virgin?

ELECTRA. Yes. My husband was a good man. He had no wish to shame me.

HELEN. Is that what he told you?

You are unlovable, Electra. And unloved. It happens sometimes; a child is born who cannot be loved.

The third of three girls, what possible use could you be? You were a prelude to Orestes; a mistake, a slip.

Your mother knew it and you knew it too. You are a warren of need, more holes than self. If I tried to look for you, where would I find you? Here? Here? There is nothing to be found.

What a chance this was for you, what an opportunity to punish her for ...