I do not begin to think this is all true. Alfieri himself owns his acquaintance with the French theater before the time when he began to write, and we must believe that he got at least some of his ideas of Athens from Paris, though he liked the Frenchmen none the better for his obligation to them. A less mechanical conception of the Greek idea than his would have prevented its application to historical subjects. In Alfieri's Brutus the First, a far greater stretch of imagination is required from the spectator in order to preserve the unities of time and place than the most capricious changes of scene would have asked. The scene is always in the forum in Rome; the action occurs within twenty-four hours. During this limited time, we see the body of Lucretia borne along in the distance; Brutus harangues the people with the bloody dagger in his hand. The emissaries of Tarquin arrive and organize a conspiracy against the new republic; the sons of Brutus are found in the plot, and are convicted and put to death.
But such incongruities as these do not affect us in the tragedies based on the heroic fables; here the poet takes, without offense, any liberty he likes with time and place; the whole affair is in his hands, to do what he will, so long as he respects the internal harmony of his own work. For this reason, I think, we find Alfieri at his best in these tragedies, among which I have liked the Orestes best, as giving the widest range of feeling with the greatest vigor of action. The Agamemnon, which precedes it, and which ought to be read first, closes with its most powerful scene. Agamemnon has returned from Troy to Argos with his captive Cassandra, and Aegisthus has persuaded Clytemnestra that her husband intends to raise Cassandra to the throne. She kills him and reigns with Aegisthus, Electra concealing Orestes on the night of the murder, and sending him secretly away with Strophius, king of Phocis.
In the last scene, as Clytemnestra steals through the darkness to her husband's chamber, she soliloquizes, with the dagger in her hand:
It is the hour; and sunk in slumber now Lies Agamemnon. Shall he nevermore Open his eyes to the fair light? My hand, Once pledge to him of stainless love and faith, Is it to be the minister of his death? Did I swear that? Ay, that; and I must keep My oath. Quick, let me go! My foot, heart, hand-- All over I tremble. Oh, what did I promise? Wretch! what do I attempt? How all my courage Hath vanished from me since Aegisthus vanished! I only see the immense atrocity Of this, my horrible deed; I only see The bloody specter of Atrides! Ah, In vain do I accuse thee! No, thou lovest Cassandra not. Me, only me, thou lovest, Unworthy of thy love. Thou hast no blame, Save that thou art my husband, in the world! Of trustful sleep, to death's arms by my hand? And where then shall I hide me? O perfidy! Can I e'er hope for peace? O woful life-- Life of remorse, of madness, and of tears! How shall Aegisthus, even Aegisthus, dare To rest beside the parricidal wife Upon her murder-stained marriage-bed, Nor tremble for himself? Away, away,-- Hence, horrible instrument of all my guilt And harm, thou execrable dagger, hence! I'll lose at once my lover and my life, But never by this hand betrayed shall fall So great a hero! Live, honor of Greece And Asia's terror! Live to glory, live To thy dear children, and a better wife! --But what are these hushed steps? Into these rooms Who is it comes by night? Aegisthus?--Lost, I am lost!