Klutemnestra
By Caroline Bishop
When it had first begun, it had been a joke, a game of the boys of the town. Somehow, in the folly of their youth, they thought it an amusing idea to introduce her to the old man, who was a stranger in their city-state. No one, not even her who thought so differently than the rest of them, expected the impossible-that the old man would take her in as his 'apprentice.'
"Well, you know what's going on there," the matrons would whisper-even though they were alone in drawing rooms together and had no need to whisper, still they would whisper-spreading around the fanciful words, passing them through the thin air to be picked up by another matron in another drawing room, whispering to another shocked listener. "You know what's going on there," the matron would continue, "You know why the old man has taken her in, that old lecher. She walks around now so proud of herself, as if she were better than us because she's done nothing better than lie on the floor and open her legs."
She knew that they talked about these things; she knew these whispers all too well. She also knew that she could not be like they were, for she could never be concerned about the delicate folds of her robe and the soft colors of her veil and which girl had the best dowry. She could never be concerned with that unless she was around the old man.
She never knew afterward what made her first love the old man, for, even though the matrons whispered deliciously about the scandal, the old man had never laid a finger on her. He preferred young boys to young girls, if all truth had to be told. Most of the great teachers took young men as apprentices and this was appropriate conduct. The old man treated her with a strange mixture of respect and contempt-respect for her mind, contempt for her body. A woman's body was considered to be imperfect compared to a man's, to be less than his, although she had vowed a long time ago to never consider herself less than anyone.
"You've got the gift," the old man would say to her, "and I don't know how you've got the gift. The gods must have forgotten themselves the day you were born, and misappropriated the gift. It should have gone to another."
"Yes, but it went to me," she would reply, looking up into his eyes, hoping for a touch of tenderness in them. "Will you teach me?"
"If it is possible for a man to teach a woman. I will try." But the way he said it made it sound like he wouldn't really. And she would then try to explain to him the story of Kassandra, the gods' messengress, who, as the songs were sung, had foreseen the fall of Troy. He would give her a certain patronizing look each time she mentioned the prophetess and remind her that Priam's daughter was crazy, and no one would listen to her, besides, because she was a woman. Who would believe a woman, of all things? A beast might give better testimony, if it was a beast sacred to Apollo.
***
Was it that he said these things so often that she began to believe them, or was it that they were really true all along? Either way, she found herself in almost constant agony, wanting his support and love and embarrassed by his shame and insults. In situations like this despondency seemed too happy a word to describe the state that she was in. She felt as if she must be a wineskin, squeezed empty of every drop and then tossed carelessly in the corner by the mindless drunk. She ached.
The ache was worst when she realized he had been using her songs on his travels to every polis in the region. She had never suspected that her divine gift was superior to his, but when a band of shepherds came through their town, they had repeated snatches of one of the songs he had sung at the next town over, and, sure enough, it was hers. She, a woman, had bested one of the town's most honored persons, a man, with her songs. The gods did not love him; the gods had not given him the gift. Had they seen what he had done to her, and finally answered the prayers that she had poured out without ceasing at their shrines?
And then she began to think about it. Who was he to insult her? How could he call her talent-less, worthless, base, inferior, and untalented, when her talent was greater than his could ever dream of being? For she saw the truth now, saw it in its awfulness and simplicity-he had never been talented, he had never been worthy of the gods. He had been using her since the first day; he had only kept her around so that he might have his way to make a living. He did not feel anything for her at all, and she loathed him for his apathy. He had kept this secret from her, but now the truth burned into her soul like the firebrand that Hekabe had seen on the night of Paris' conception.
***
So it naturally wasn't long before she began to hate him. After all, hate was closest to love, and she knew that once, before she had known him for what he was, she had loved him dearly. One day she simply stepped over the thin line between hate and love and that was that. She wouldn't believe his lies any longer.
"Have I ever told you about the great Menelaus?" he asked.
"Yes, many times, bard. I've learned the songs of his by heart."
"Of course you have," he said sarcastically, making clear his disbelief, and then he added, as if to reassure himself of his own supremacy, "Women have to be reminded more than once of these things. You seem to forget so soon. You know what your sex reminds me of? A domestic beast, a tiny dog that stays in the house, who comes when he is called, his tail wagging with happiness and stupidity. And then, how you recoil when you are chastised! Yes, little dogs, that is what you are."
"Do not say it," she warned. "Do not make me do it."
"You could do nothing, and you know it. But I forget myself. I was going to tell you the story of the Oresteia, and ask if you were able to write any new songs about it. Agamemnon had a wife, a woman named Laothoë, who took a lover. Typical woman-always conniving and planning, but not without the help of a man- and the lover was Aegisthus. She and her lover conspired to kill Agamemnon, and they did it, and did it quite well."
"She pulled out an ax and hacked into his neck," she replied softly; for no matter what he said against her cognitive abilities, she knew the story well. And an idea that had been shapeless in times before was now beginning to take shape in her head.
"Yes, and killed Kassandra, his captive mistress from Troy. It is a shameful story to tell, but one that people like, and a bard's job is to tell stories for the people. Not that you'll ever get the chance to, since no one would want to hear a woman sing the tales."
"Stop saying that," she said forcefully.
"Stop saying what?"
"Stop saying things about me like that, that I'm not good enough, that no one would want to listen to me. I think you're scared of me."
"Absolute rubbish! A man frightened of a woman-that I would like to see!"
"You are frightened of me, aren't you, you poor man? You realize that my power is great. I will be immortal, and you will never be remembered beyond this day, this very day. I will be loved; you will be forgotten."
"You don't know what you speak of, girl! Out of my presence, now! You are no longer my apprentice!"
"No, you are no longer my teacher," she responded, smiling largely. She had waited for this day with relish, and now she knew it had finally come. "Today is the day I absolve woman from her lowly place at last, and I will be remembered as her liberator."
"I said out of my presence! You disobey me!" he cried, suddenly frightened.
"That is not all I do," she said, grabbing the ax.
His eyes grew wide and terrified. "No," he begged, shaking his head. "No, girl! You must not do it!"
"I am no longer 'girl,'" she answered, gathering her courage. "I have a name, and you should remember that as you take your dying breath."
He backed away from her. "No, don't do it, girl, don't do it, gir…Klytemnestra! Please don't do it to me!"
"Yes, that's my name. What's yours? I think we shall forget too soon," Klytemnestra replied, raising the ax high.
***
It was quickly a legend spread through the town, and whenever visitors passed through the tiny city-state on their way to bigger and better places, they would hear of the girl who killed her own Agamemnon, as it were, and what had happened once the killing was done, the body was found, and the murderess confessed to the archons of the town. She more than confessed, she exulted, she reveled in the snuffing out of a life so worthless and talent-less (in her words, echoing the man who had cared so little for her).
But almost immediately after the dread act, she became repentant and sorry, and the people welcomed her back gratefully into society, forgiving the crime, since the old man was not well liked, and, most importantly, since she was one of their own and the old man was not. She had forgotten her old ideas of liberation and independence, as if in resignation of woman's place, and had settled down quite peacefully with a nice young man, borne him five children, and that was that. She was revered in the town, even now, years after her own natural death, and the young children were told of Klytemnestra, for the story had a fantastical element to it, something that was appealing to everyone. Everyone knew her, and when a certain bard came to town to sing his songs, he was also told.
"Excellent name," he said, "to fit the metre, much better than Laothoë. I think I shall use it." And so this bard, his sightless eyes seeing more than most men's do in a lifetime, and more commonly known as Homer, did so.
FINIS
-Memphis July 2000
By Caroline Bishop
When it had first begun, it had been a joke, a game of the boys of the town. Somehow, in the folly of their youth, they thought it an amusing idea to introduce her to the old man, who was a stranger in their city-state. No one, not even her who thought so differently than the rest of them, expected the impossible-that the old man would take her in as his 'apprentice.'
"Well, you know what's going on there," the matrons would whisper-even though they were alone in drawing rooms together and had no need to whisper, still they would whisper-spreading around the fanciful words, passing them through the thin air to be picked up by another matron in another drawing room, whispering to another shocked listener. "You know what's going on there," the matron would continue, "You know why the old man has taken her in, that old lecher. She walks around now so proud of herself, as if she were better than us because she's done nothing better than lie on the floor and open her legs."
She knew that they talked about these things; she knew these whispers all too well. She also knew that she could not be like they were, for she could never be concerned about the delicate folds of her robe and the soft colors of her veil and which girl had the best dowry. She could never be concerned with that unless she was around the old man.
She never knew afterward what made her first love the old man, for, even though the matrons whispered deliciously about the scandal, the old man had never laid a finger on her. He preferred young boys to young girls, if all truth had to be told. Most of the great teachers took young men as apprentices and this was appropriate conduct. The old man treated her with a strange mixture of respect and contempt-respect for her mind, contempt for her body. A woman's body was considered to be imperfect compared to a man's, to be less than his, although she had vowed a long time ago to never consider herself less than anyone.
"You've got the gift," the old man would say to her, "and I don't know how you've got the gift. The gods must have forgotten themselves the day you were born, and misappropriated the gift. It should have gone to another."
"Yes, but it went to me," she would reply, looking up into his eyes, hoping for a touch of tenderness in them. "Will you teach me?"
"If it is possible for a man to teach a woman. I will try." But the way he said it made it sound like he wouldn't really. And she would then try to explain to him the story of Kassandra, the gods' messengress, who, as the songs were sung, had foreseen the fall of Troy. He would give her a certain patronizing look each time she mentioned the prophetess and remind her that Priam's daughter was crazy, and no one would listen to her, besides, because she was a woman. Who would believe a woman, of all things? A beast might give better testimony, if it was a beast sacred to Apollo.
***
Was it that he said these things so often that she began to believe them, or was it that they were really true all along? Either way, she found herself in almost constant agony, wanting his support and love and embarrassed by his shame and insults. In situations like this despondency seemed too happy a word to describe the state that she was in. She felt as if she must be a wineskin, squeezed empty of every drop and then tossed carelessly in the corner by the mindless drunk. She ached.
The ache was worst when she realized he had been using her songs on his travels to every polis in the region. She had never suspected that her divine gift was superior to his, but when a band of shepherds came through their town, they had repeated snatches of one of the songs he had sung at the next town over, and, sure enough, it was hers. She, a woman, had bested one of the town's most honored persons, a man, with her songs. The gods did not love him; the gods had not given him the gift. Had they seen what he had done to her, and finally answered the prayers that she had poured out without ceasing at their shrines?
And then she began to think about it. Who was he to insult her? How could he call her talent-less, worthless, base, inferior, and untalented, when her talent was greater than his could ever dream of being? For she saw the truth now, saw it in its awfulness and simplicity-he had never been talented, he had never been worthy of the gods. He had been using her since the first day; he had only kept her around so that he might have his way to make a living. He did not feel anything for her at all, and she loathed him for his apathy. He had kept this secret from her, but now the truth burned into her soul like the firebrand that Hekabe had seen on the night of Paris' conception.
***
So it naturally wasn't long before she began to hate him. After all, hate was closest to love, and she knew that once, before she had known him for what he was, she had loved him dearly. One day she simply stepped over the thin line between hate and love and that was that. She wouldn't believe his lies any longer.
"Have I ever told you about the great Menelaus?" he asked.
"Yes, many times, bard. I've learned the songs of his by heart."
"Of course you have," he said sarcastically, making clear his disbelief, and then he added, as if to reassure himself of his own supremacy, "Women have to be reminded more than once of these things. You seem to forget so soon. You know what your sex reminds me of? A domestic beast, a tiny dog that stays in the house, who comes when he is called, his tail wagging with happiness and stupidity. And then, how you recoil when you are chastised! Yes, little dogs, that is what you are."
"Do not say it," she warned. "Do not make me do it."
"You could do nothing, and you know it. But I forget myself. I was going to tell you the story of the Oresteia, and ask if you were able to write any new songs about it. Agamemnon had a wife, a woman named Laothoë, who took a lover. Typical woman-always conniving and planning, but not without the help of a man- and the lover was Aegisthus. She and her lover conspired to kill Agamemnon, and they did it, and did it quite well."
"She pulled out an ax and hacked into his neck," she replied softly; for no matter what he said against her cognitive abilities, she knew the story well. And an idea that had been shapeless in times before was now beginning to take shape in her head.
"Yes, and killed Kassandra, his captive mistress from Troy. It is a shameful story to tell, but one that people like, and a bard's job is to tell stories for the people. Not that you'll ever get the chance to, since no one would want to hear a woman sing the tales."
"Stop saying that," she said forcefully.
"Stop saying what?"
"Stop saying things about me like that, that I'm not good enough, that no one would want to listen to me. I think you're scared of me."
"Absolute rubbish! A man frightened of a woman-that I would like to see!"
"You are frightened of me, aren't you, you poor man? You realize that my power is great. I will be immortal, and you will never be remembered beyond this day, this very day. I will be loved; you will be forgotten."
"You don't know what you speak of, girl! Out of my presence, now! You are no longer my apprentice!"
"No, you are no longer my teacher," she responded, smiling largely. She had waited for this day with relish, and now she knew it had finally come. "Today is the day I absolve woman from her lowly place at last, and I will be remembered as her liberator."
"I said out of my presence! You disobey me!" he cried, suddenly frightened.
"That is not all I do," she said, grabbing the ax.
His eyes grew wide and terrified. "No," he begged, shaking his head. "No, girl! You must not do it!"
"I am no longer 'girl,'" she answered, gathering her courage. "I have a name, and you should remember that as you take your dying breath."
He backed away from her. "No, don't do it, girl, don't do it, gir…Klytemnestra! Please don't do it to me!"
"Yes, that's my name. What's yours? I think we shall forget too soon," Klytemnestra replied, raising the ax high.
***
It was quickly a legend spread through the town, and whenever visitors passed through the tiny city-state on their way to bigger and better places, they would hear of the girl who killed her own Agamemnon, as it were, and what had happened once the killing was done, the body was found, and the murderess confessed to the archons of the town. She more than confessed, she exulted, she reveled in the snuffing out of a life so worthless and talent-less (in her words, echoing the man who had cared so little for her).
But almost immediately after the dread act, she became repentant and sorry, and the people welcomed her back gratefully into society, forgiving the crime, since the old man was not well liked, and, most importantly, since she was one of their own and the old man was not. She had forgotten her old ideas of liberation and independence, as if in resignation of woman's place, and had settled down quite peacefully with a nice young man, borne him five children, and that was that. She was revered in the town, even now, years after her own natural death, and the young children were told of Klytemnestra, for the story had a fantastical element to it, something that was appealing to everyone. Everyone knew her, and when a certain bard came to town to sing his songs, he was also told.
"Excellent name," he said, "to fit the metre, much better than Laothoë. I think I shall use it." And so this bard, his sightless eyes seeing more than most men's do in a lifetime, and more commonly known as Homer, did so.
FINIS
-Memphis July 2000