# Sophocles (Storr 1919)/Electra

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From the Loeb Classical Library edition. The Greek text from this edition is available at Greek Wikisource.
Layout 2
ELECTRA
ARGUMENT
Orestes, admonished by the Delphic oracle to avenge his murdered father, sets forth for Mycenae accompanied by his aged Paedagogus and Pylades. When in sight of the palace they lay their plot. The Paedagogus is to present himself as a Phocian messenger and announce to Clytemnestra that Orestes has been killed in a chariot race at the Pythian games. Meanwhile Orestes and Pylades are to make funeral offerings at the tomb of Agamemnon and then, disguised as Phocians, to carry to the Queen a funeral urn, telling her it holds the ashes of Orestes. Clytemnestra, warned by an evil dream, sends Chrysothemis to pour a libation on the tomb. Electra meets her on the way thither and persuades her to leave these impious offerings and take instead such gifts as the two sisters can make to their father’s ghost. Clytemnestra enters with a handmaid bearing fruits to be laid on the altar of Apollo. She rates Electra for being abroad without her leave, and defends her past acts against Electra’s reproaches. The announcement of a messenger ends the altercation, and the Queen hears with feigned sorrow and ill-concealed joy the news of Orestes’ death, and invites the messenger to accompany her to the palace. ​Chrysothemis returns from the tomb, reporting that someone has been there before her, has wreathed the mound with flowers, and left on the edge a lock of hair. Who can it be but Orestes? Electra disabuses her, repeating the messenger’s sad tale, and entreats her aid in executing the resolve to slay with her own hands their unnatural mother and her paramour. Orestes joins them with Pylades and attendants bearing the funeral urn. She takes the urn in her hands and makes her moan over her lost brother. As they converse together Orestes by degrees reveals himself and discloses his purpose. With Pylades he enters the palace, and shortly a death-shriek is heard. He comes forth, and in answer to Electra replies that all is well in the house. Aegisthus is seen approaching, exultant at the report he has heard of Orestes’ death. Electra confirms it, and bids him enter the palace and see with his own eyes the corpse. At his bidding the palace doors are thrown open and on a bier is seen a veiled corpse. Aegisthus lifts the face cloth and beholds the corpse of Clytemnestra with Orestes standing hard by. He knows that his fate is sealed, and is driven at the sword’s point by Orestes to be slain in the hall where Agamemnon was slain. The Chorus of free Mycenean women hail the death of the usurper which ends the curse on the house of Atreus.
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
Aged Servant of Orestes
| Electra | $\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \\\ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,$ | daughters of Agamemnon and Clytemnestra. |
| Chrysothemis | $\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \\\ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,$ | daughters of Agamemnon and Clytemnestra. |
Clytemnestra, Queen of Argos and Mycenae.
Chorus of Mycenean Women.
Scene: At Mycenae before the Palace of Agamemnon.
ELECTRA
Enter Aged Servant with Orestes and Pylades.
Aged Servant
O Child of Agamemnon, who sometime Was Captain of the host that leaguered Troy, ’Tis thine at last to view before thee spread The scene thy heart was set on. Yonder lies Old Argos thou so long hast yearned to see, Once refuge of the gadfly-driven maid, Daughter of Inachus; and, Orestes, here The market-place from the Wolf-slayer named; There on our left is Hera’s far-famed shrine; And lo! before us, at our very feet Thou seest Mycenae of the golden hoard, And there the palace grim of Pelops’ line, Deep stained with murder. Thence I bore thee once Snatched from beside thy father’s bleeding corse By kindly hands, thy sister’s; rescued thus I fostered thee till thou hadst reached the age To be the avenger of thy father’s blood. But now, Orestes, and thou, Pylades, Dearest of friends, the hour for you is ripe To take resolve and that right speedily. ​For lo, already the bright beams of day Waken to melody the pipe of birds, And black night with her glimmering stars has waned. So ere a soul be stirring in the streets Confer together and resolve yourselves. No time for longer pause; now must we act.
Orestes
Dearest of followers, how well thou show’st The constant service of thy loyalty! For as the high-bred steed, though he be old, Pricks up his ears and champs the bit for joy When battle rages, even so dost thou Both urge us on and follow with the first. Therefore I will unfold our plans, and thou Note well my words, and if in aught I seem To miss the mark, admonish and correct. Know then that when I left thee to consult The Pythian oracle and learn how best To execute just vengeance for my sire On those that slew him, Phoebus answered thus: Trust not to shields or armed hosts, but steal The chance thyself the avenging blow to deal. Since then the Pythian god hath thus advised, Go thou and watch thine opportunity To enter in the palace and observe What happens there and bring us full report. And fear not to be recognised; long years And thy white locks, the blossom of old age, Have changed thee wholly. Forge some specious tale: Thou art a Phocian stranger hither sent By Phanoteus their doughtiest ally. ​Report, confirming with an oath the tale, How that Orestes by a fatal chance Hath perished, from his speeding chariot hurled (So let thy tale run) at the Pythian games. And we meanwhile, as the god ordered us, First having crowned my father’s sepulchre With pure libations and rich offerings Of new-shorn tresses, will return anon, An urn of well-wrought brasswork in our hands, The same we hid in the brush-wood, as thou know’st. This will confirm the feigned tale we bring, That I am dead and to the pyre consigned, Naught left of me but ashes and grey dust: Little reck I by rumour to be dead, So I live on to win me deathless fame. The end, methinks, gives any fraud excuse. Oft have I heard of men, reputed wise, Who spread the rumour of their death, and so Returning home a heartier welcome found. Thus by my bruited death I too aspire To blaze a sudden meteor on my foes. But O my country and my country’s gods, Give me fair welcome, prosper my emprise! And greet me too, thou palace of my sires; A heaven-sent purger of thy stain I come. Send me not forth again to banishment, But O! restore to me its ancient wealth, May I refound its old prosperity! Enough of words; go presently, old friend, Attend thy business; and we two will go, And watch the time, for opportunity Is the best captain of all enterprise.
Electra (within)
Ah me! unhappy me!
Aged Servant
Hist! from the doors a voice, my son, methought, A wailing as of some handmaid within.
Orestes
Can it be sad Electra! Shall we stay And overhear her lamentable plaint?
Aged Servant
Not so; we first must strive before all else To do as Loxias bade us and thence take Our auspices—with lustral waters lave Thy father’s grave, thus shall we surely win Vantage at each step, victory in the end.
[Exeunt. Enter Electra from the palace.
Electra
O holy light, O circumambient air, What wailings of despair, What sight Have ye not witnessed in the first grey morn, Beatings of breasts and bosoms madly torn! By night for me is spread No festal banquet in this haunted hall, But my lone pallet bed. All night I muse upon my father dead, Not in a foreign land at Ares’ call, But here, at home, by my own mother slain; Her and Aegisthus, these adulterers twain; Felled by their axe’s bloody stroke, E’en as the woodman fells an oak. ​And I, O father, I alone of all Thy house am left forlorn To make my moan, to mourn Thy piteous fall.
Yet never, while these eyes Behold or sun or star-bespangled skies, Will I restrain my plaint, my bitter cries; But like some nightingale My ravished nest bewail, And through these halls shall sound my groans and sighs. Halls of Persephonè and Death, Guide of the shades, O Hermes, and O Wraith, Ye god-sprung Furies dread Who watch when blood is shed, Or stained the marriage bed, O aid me to avenge my father slain, O send my brother back again! Alone, no more I countervail Grief that o’erloads the scale.
Enter Chorus.
Chorus
Child of a mother all unblest, (Str. 1) Electra, how in grief that knows no rest Thou witherest; Mourning thy father’s cruel fate, By her betrayed and slaughtered by her mate. Black death await The plotter of that sin, If prayer so bold may answer win!
Electra
Ah, noble friends ye come, I see To ease my misery; Your kind intent, O trust me, I perceive. Yet can I never leave My task, each day, each hour, anew to shed Tears o’er my father dead. O kindly hearts, so ready to repay All friendship owes, Leave me, O leave me (this one boon I pray) To my wild woes.
Chorus
Yet him, thy sire, from Acheron’s dark shore (Ant. 1) By prayers or cries thou never can’st restore, No, never more; And by excess of grief thou perishest. If remedy be none, were it not best From grief to rest? O rest thee! why Thus nurse thy fruitless misery?
Electra
That child’s insensate who remembers not His sire’s sad lot. O bird of Zeus, to thine I’ll set my note, Who with full throat For Itys, Itys griev’st from eve till morn. Ah! Niobe forlorn, How blest art thou who tombed in stone dost lie And weep for aye!
Chorus
Not thou alone, hast sorrow; others share (Str. 2) Thy load of care. ​Think on thy kinsfolk whom afflictions press Than thine no less, Iphianassa and Chrysothemis. Think of thy brother; sorrow now is his, An exiled youth, yet shortly shall he come By heaven’s good guidance home, And glad Mycenae shall Orestes own Heir to his father’s throne.
Electra
Yea, for him long years I wait, Unwed, childless, desolate, Drenched with tears that ever flow For my barren load of woe; And the wrongs whereof he wot, Or hath heard, are all forgot. All those messages are vain— How he hopes to come again, How for home his heart doth yearn!— Yet he wills not to return.
Chorus
Take heart, my child, Zeus still in heaven is king, And orders everything; To him commit the wrath that gnaws thy breast, His will is ever best. Nurse, as is meet, thy vengeance, but abate Excess of hate, For Time can heal, a gentle god and mild. Nor Agamemnon’s child Who long by Crisa’s pastoral shore remains, Nor he who reigns O’er Acheron will nevermore relent.
Electra
Nay but for me is spent The best of life; I languish in despair. ​Fordone with care, Without a parent’s love or husband’s aid, An orphaned maid. Here in the chambers of my sire I wait In low estate, Or like a stranger who in beggar’s weeds On fragments feeds.
Chorus
Dire was the voice that greeted first Thy sire’s return, and dire the cry That from the banquet-chamber burst, A wail of agony; What time the brazen axe’s blow Struck him and laid him low, ’Twas lust begat and craft conceived the deed, A monstrous offspring of a monstrous seed, Whether a god or mortal wrought the woe.
Electra
Dawn, the darkest of all morrows, Night, the crown of all my sorrows, When that foul feast for the dead By those traitors twain was spread, Who slew my sire—me too In slaying him they slew. May the great Olympian King Send on them like suffering; Bitter be of sin the fruit; May they perish branch and root!
Chorus
O curb thy tongue I hast thou no thought ​How thine own misery thou hast wrought, And mak’st a burden of thy life By ever heaping strife on strife In sullen mood? Ill fares the right When feebleness contends with might.
Electra
Bitter constraint compelled me, and I know My heart with wrath did overflow; But never while life lasts will I control, Thus wronged, the indignant passion of my soul. Ye mean me well, but solace is there none For woes like mine, so all who know must own. Forbear, kind comforters, forbear; be sure A case so desperate admits no cure. What respite to my sorrows, what relief? No tears, no moans, can satisfy such grief.
Chorus
O heap not misery on misery, As a fond mother I would plead with thee.
Electra
No, for this villainy grows and knows no bound. Where can a race be found So vile as they, to disregard the dead? By praise of such men I were ill bestead. O may I ne’er, if fate should on me smile, In careless ease sad memories beguile, Clipping the pinions of my mournful song, The dirges due that to my sire belong. ​For if to dust and nothingness the dead Are doomed, nor blood for blood be shed, Farewell to sanctities of law, Farewell to reverence and awe.
Chorus
I came in thy behalf no less than mine, Daughter, but if my words displease thee, well, Have it thy way; we follow thee no less.
Electra
It shames me, friends, that ye should thus set down To frowardness my too persistent grief. But since I yield to hard necessity, Bear with me. How indeed could any woman Of noble blood who sees her father’s home Plague-stricken, as I see it night and day, And each day stricken worse, not do as I? For me a mother’s love has turned to hate; In my own home on sufferance I live With my sire’s murderers, on whose will it rests To give or to withhold my daily bread. Think what a life is mine, to see each day Aegisthus seated on my father’s throne, Wearing the royal robes my father wore, Pouring libations on the hearth, whereat He slew him, and, to crown his insolence, The assassin lays him in my father’s bed Beside my mother—mother shall I call ​His paramour? So lost to shame is she That the adulteress fears no vengeance. No, As if exulting in her infamy, She watches month to month to know the day Whereon by treachery she slew my sire, And keeps that day with dance and sacrifice, Each month, of sheep to tutelary gods. Beholding this I weep and waste within, And to myself bewail the unhallowed feast Named of my sire, with silent tears, for e’en The luxury of wailing is denied me. This woman (saintly is her speech) upbraids And rates me thus: “Ungodly, hateful girl, Hast thou alone to bear a father’s loss, Art thou the only mourner? Out upon thee! Perdition seize thee I and in hell may’st thou Find no deliverance from thy present grief!” So rails she, save at times when rumours run Orestes is at hand, then wild with rage She thunders in my ears “This is thy doing; Was it not thou who from my hands didst steal Orestes and convey him safe away? Mark my words, thou shalt rue it!” So she screams, And her abettor’s there to egg her on, Her glorious consort who repeats her gibes, That rogue in grain, that dastardly poltroon, Who fights his battles with a woman’s aid. Meanwhile I wait until Orestes comes To end my woes, and waiting pine away. By ever dallying he has quite destroyed ​The hopes I had and those I might have had. In such a case what room is there, my friends, For patience, what for piety? In sooth Those in ill plight are driven to evil ways.
Chorus
Stay, tell me, is Aegisthus nigh at hand, While thus thou speakest, or is he from home?
Electra
From home, of course! Think you, were he within, I should thus venture forth? He is now afield.
Chorus
More freely then may I converse with thee, If this is so.
Electra
It is; ask what thou wilt.
Chorus
’Tis of thy brother I would question thee. Comes he, or tarries yet? I fain would know.
Electra
He says “I come,” but does not what he says.
Chorus
A man thinks twice with some great work in hand.
Electra
I thought not twice when I delivered him.
Chorus
Take heart, he is loyal and will not fail his friends.
Electra
I trust him, else I had not lived so long.
Chorus
No more for this time; at the doors I see Chrysothemis, thy sister, of one sire ​Born and one mother; in her hands she bears Gifts for the tomb that use and wont ordain.
Enter Chrysothemis.
Chrysothemis
Sister, why com’st thou once more to declaim in public at the outer gate? Has time Not schooled thee to desist from idle rage? I too, my sister, chafe no less than thou At our sad fortunes, and had I the power, Would make it plain how I regard our masters. But in the storm ’tis best to reef the sail, Nor utter threats we cannot execute. I would thou wert likeminded; yet I know Justice is on thy side, and I am wrong. Yet if I am to keep my liberty, I needs must bow before the powers that be.
Electra
O shame that thou, the child of such a sire, Should’st him forget and take thy mother’s part; For all these admonitions are not thine, A lesson thou repeatest, learnt of her. Make thine election then, to be unwise, Or show thy wisdom by forgetting friends. Thou saidst, “If but the power were granted me, I would make plain the hate I feel for them;” And yet when I am straining every nerve To avenge my sire, thou wilt not aid me; nay, Dissuadest and wouldst have me hold my hand. Shall we to all our ills add cowardice? Tell me—or let me tell thee—what have I To gain by ceasing from my sad complaint? I still have life? a sorry life, indeed, ​But good enough for me; and them I vex, And vexing them do honour to the dead, If anything can touch the world of shades. Thou hatest? Nay, thy deeds belie thy words, While thou consortest with the murderers; So would not I, though they should offer me The pomp that makes thee proud, the loaded board, Thy life of ease; no, I would never yield. Enough for me spare diet and a soul Void of offence ; thy state I covet not, Nor wouldst thou, wert thou wise. Men might have called thee Child of the noblest sire that ever lived; Be called thy mother’s, rightly named as base, Betrayer of thy dead sire and thy kin.
Chorus
No angry words, I pray, for both of you There’s profit in this parleying, if thou Wouldst learn of her, and she in turn of thee.
Chrysothemis
I know her moods too well to take offence, Nor had I now approached her, but I learnt Of new impending peril that is like To put a finish to her long-drawn woes.
Electra
Say what can be this terror; if ’tis worse Than what I now bear, I will call a truce.
Chrysothemis
All I have learnt in full I will impart. They purpose, if thou wilt not stay thy plaints, To send thee where thou shalt not see the sun, Far hence, to some dark dungeon, there to spend Thy days and nights in litanies of woe. ​Therefore reflect, and blame me not too late; Take warning and repent while yet ’tis time.
Electra
Have they indeed resolved to treat me thus?
Chrysothemis
The instant that Aegisthus is returned.
Electra
Well, for my part I would he came back soon.
Chrysothemis
Insensate girl! What mean’st thou by this prayer?
Electra
Would he were here, if this be his intent.
Chrysothemis
That thou mayst suffer—what? Hast lost thy wits?
Electra
A flight long leagues away from all of you.
Chrysothemis
Art thou indifferent to thy present life?
Electra
O ’tis a marvellously happy life!
Chrysothemis
It might have been, couldst thou have schooled thyself.
Electra
Teach me not basely to betray my friends.
Chrysothemis
Not I; I teach submission to the strong.
Electra
Fawn, if thou wilt; such cringing suits not me.
Chrysothemis
Yet not to fall through folly were no blame.
Electra
If needs be, in a father’s cause I’ll fall.
Chrysothemis
I trust our father pardons us for this.
Electra
Traitors take refuge in like sentiments.
Chrysothemis
Thou wilt not heed then or be ruled by me?
Electra
I am not in my dotage, save the mark!
Chrysothemis
Then I will do my errand.
Electra
Whither away? For whom art carrying these burnt offerings?
Chrysothemis
My mother bids me crown our father’s grave.
Electra
Her mortal enemy’s! How sayest thou?
Chrysothemis
The husband whom she slew, so thou wouldst say.
Electra
Which of her friends advised her? whence this whim?
Chrysothemis
A nightly vision warned her, so I think.
Electra
Gods of my fathers, aid me in this pass!
Chrysothemis
Dost thou take heart of courage from her dread?
Electra
Before I answer let me hear the dream.
Chrysothemis
There is but little that I have to tell.
Electra
Tell it no less. A little word, men say, Hath oftentimes determined weal or woe.
Chrysothemis
’Tis said that she beheld thy sire and mine In bodily presence standing by her side, Revisiting the light of day. He took The sceptre of Aegisthus, once his own, And at the household altar planted it, And from it sprang and spread a fruitful bough, Till it o’ershadowed all Mycenae’s land. Such is the tale one told me who was by When to the Sun-god she declared her dream. Further I know not, save that in alarm She sent me hither. Hearken then to me. Sister, I pray thee by our household gods, Fall not through folly; if thou spurn me now Too late in sorrow wilt thou seek my aid.
Electra
Nay, let not aught, my sister, touch the tomb, Of all thou bearest. ’Twere a shame, a sin, To offer on behalf of her, the accursed, Gifts or libations to our father’s ghost. Scatter them to the winds or bury them Deep in the dust, where nothing may defile Our father’s lone couch; let her find them there, A buried treasure when she comes to die. Were she not abjectest of womankind, She ne’er had thought with offerings of hate ​To crown her murdered victim’s sepulchre. Thinkst thou ’tis likely that her buried lord Will take these honours kindly at her hands Who slew him without pity like a foe, Mangled his corse, and for ablution washed The bloodstains on his head? Say, is it like These gifts will purge her of blood-guiltiness? It cannot be. Fling them away and cut A tress of thine own locks; and for my share Give him from me—a poor thing, but my best— This unkempt lock, this girdle unadorned. Then fall upon thy knees and pray that he May come, our gracious champion from the dead, And that the young Orestes yet may live To trample underfoot his vanquished foes. So may we some day crown our father’s tomb With costlier gifts than these poor offerings. I can but think, ’tis but a thought, that he Had part in sending her this ominous dream. Still, sister, do this service and so aid Thyself and me, and him the most beloved Of all men, e’en though dead, thy sire and mine.
Chorus
’Tis piously advised, and thou, my daughter, Wilt do her bidding, if thou art discreet.
Chrysothemis
I will. When duty calls, ’twere lack of sense For two to wrangle; both should join to act. ​Only when I essay this perilous task, Be silent, an you love me, friends, for if My mother hears of it, I shall have cause To rue my indiscretion soon or late.
[Exit Chrysothemis.
Chorus
Count me a prophet false, a witless wight, If Justice, who inspires my prophecy, Comes not, my child, to vindicate the right. She comes and that right speedily. My heart grows bold and nothing fears; That dream was music in my ears. It tells me that thy sire who whilom led The Greeks to victory hath not forgot; Yea, and that axe with double brazen head Still thirsts for blood to wipe away its blot. (Ant.) So leaping from her ambush, brazen-shod, Comes the Erinys with an armed host’s tread, For she hath seen a pair who knew not God Driven by lust to an adulterous bed, A bed with stains of murder dyed, A bridal without groom or bride. Therefore I know that not in vain is sent This portent that the fall of guilt foretells, For, if this vision fails of its intent, Vain is all sooth, all dreams, all oracles. ​O chariot-race of Pelops old, The source of sorrows manifold, What endless curse hath fallen on us Since to his sea-grave Myrtilus Sank from the golden chariot hurled; Woe upon woe, of woes a world.
Enter Clytemnestra.
Clytemnestra
So once again I find thee here at large, For he who kept thee close and so restrained Thy scandalous tongue, Aegisthus, is away; Yet thy complaints, repeated many a time To many, censured my tyrannic rule— The insults that I heaped on thee and thine. Was it an insult if I paid in kind The flouts and taunts wherewith thou girdest at me? Thy father, the sole pretext of thy grief, Died by my hand, aye mine, I know it well, ’Tis true beyond denial; yet not I, Not I alone, but Justice slew him too: And thou shouldst side with Justice, wert thou wise. This sire of thine for whom thy tears still flow ​Alone of all the Greeks could steel his heart To yield thy sister as a sacrifice; A father who begat her and ne’er felt A mother’s pangs of travail. Tell me now Wherefore he offered her, on whose behalf? The Greeks, thou sayest. And what right had they To kill my child? For Menelaus’ sake, His brother? Should such pretext stay my hand? Had not his brother children twain to serve As victims? Should not they, as born of sire And mother for whose sake the host embarked, Have been preferred before my innocent child? Had Death forsooth some craving for my child Rather than hers? or had the wretch, her sire, A tender heart for Menelaus’ brood, And for my flesh and blood no tenderness? That choice was for a father rash and base; So, though I differ from thee, I opine, And could the dead maid speak, she would agree. I therefore view the past without remorse, And if to thee I seem perverted, clear Thy judgment ere thou makst thyself a judge.
Electra
This time thou canst not say that I began The quarrel or provoked thee. But if thou Wilt give me leave, I fain would speak the truth Regarding both my sister and my sire.
Clytemnestra
My leave is given, and, hadst thou always shown This temper, I had listened without pain.
Electra
Hear then. Thou say’st, “I slew thy father.” Who Could well avow a blacker crime than that? ​Justly or not, what matters? But I’ll prove There was no justice in it; ’twas the lure Of a vile wretch that hurried thee along,— Thy lover’s. Ask the Huntress Artemis For what offence she prisoned every gust That blows at Aulis; rather, as from her Thou mayst not win an answer, I will tell thee. My father once—so have I heard the tale— Taking his pleasure in her sacred glade Started an antlered stag with dappled hide, Shot it, and shooting made some careless vaunt. Latona’s daughter, wroth thereat, detained The Achaeans, that in quittance for her hart My sire might give his daughter, life for life. And so it came to pass that she was slain: The fleet becalmed no other way could win Homeward or Troyward. For that cause alone Reluctantly, by hard constraint, at last He slew her, no wise for his brother’s sake. But if, as thou interpretest the deed, ’Twas done to please his brother, even thus Should he for that have died by hand of thine? What law is this? In laying down such law See that against thyself thou lay not up Dire retribution; for if blood for blood Be justice, thou wouldst justly die the first. Look, if thy pleading be not all a lie. Say, if thou wilt, why thou art living now A life of shame as partner of his bed, The wretch who aided thee to slay my sire, Bearing him children, casting out for them The rightful heirs in rightful wedlock born. Can I approve such acts? Or wilt thou say ​This too was vengeance for a daughter’s blood? A shameful plea, if urged, for shame it is To wed a foeman for a daughter’s sake. But in convincing thee I waste my breath; Thou hast no answer but to scream that I Revile a mother; and in sooth to us Thou art mistress more than mother, for I pine A wretched drudge, by thee and by thy mate Downtrodden; and that other child who scarce Escaped thy hands, Orestes, wears away In weary exile his unhappy days. Oft hast thou taxed me that I reared him up For vengeance; so I willed it, had I power. Go to, proclaim me out of my own mouth A shrew, a scold, a vixen—what thou wilt. For if I be accomplished in such arts, Methinks I show my breed, a trick o’ the blood.
Chorus
I see she breathes forth fury and no more Heeds if her words with justice harmonize.
Clytemnestra
Why then should I heed one who thus insults A mother, at her ripe age too? Dost think That she would stick at any deed of shame?
Electra
Nay, I am shamefast, though to thee I seem Shameless; I know such manners in a maid Are ill-becoming, in a daughter strange; ​But thy malignity, thy cruel acts Compel me; baseness is from baseness learnt.
Clytemnestra
Thou brazen monster! I, my words, my acts, Are matter for thy glib garrulity!
Electra
The fault is thine, not mine; for thine the acts, And mine are but the words that show them forth.
Clytemnestra
Now, by our lady Artemis, thou shalt rue Thy boldness when Aegisthus comes again.
Electra
See, rage distracts thee; first thou grantest me Free speech, and wilt not listen when I speak.
Clytemnestra
I let thee have thy say, and wilt not thou Hush thy wild tongue and let me sacrifice?
Electra
Go, I adjure thee, sacrifice; nor blame My voice; henceforth I shall not speak one word.
Clytemnestra
Bear this, my maid, this offering of earth’s fruits, That to our King I may uplift my prayers, To rid me of the dread that haunts my soul. O Phoebus, our Defender, lend an ear To my petition; dark and veiled the words For those who love me not, nor were it meet To lay my whole heart bare, while she is by, Ready to blab with her envenomed tongue Through all the town some empty, rash report. Darkly I pray; to my dark prayer attend! ​The vision that I yesternight beheld Of double import, if, Lycean King, It bodes me well, fulfil it; but if ill, May it upon my enemies recoil! If there be some who treacherously plot To dispossess me of my wealth and power, Prevent them, and vouchsafe that I may rule The house of Atreus in security, And wield the sceptre, sharing prosperous days With the same friends and with my children—those By malice and blind rancour not estranged. Grant, O Lycean Phoebus, of thy grace, To me and mine fulfilment of my prayers. And for those other things my heart desires, Though unexpressed, thou as a god dost know them; For naught is hidden from the sons of Zeus.
Aged Servant
Good ladies, might a stranger crave to learn If this indeed be King Aegisthus’ house?
Chorus
It is, Sir; thou thyself hast guessed aright.
Aged Servant
And am I right conjecturing that I see His royal consort here? She looks a queen.
Chorus
Indeed thou art in presence of the queen.
Aged Servant
I greet thee, Madam, and I bear to thee Fair news, and to Aegisthus, from a friend.
Clytemnestra
I welcome thy fair words, but first would know Who sends thee.
Aged Servant
Phanoteus, the Phocian, On a grave mission.
Clytemnestra
Tell me, stranger, what. It must be friendly coming from a friend.
Aged Servant
Orestes’ death, to sum in brief my tale.
Electra
Me miserable! Now am I undone.
Clytemnestra
What say’st thou, man, what say’st thou? Heed not her.
Aged Servant
I say again, Orestes is no more.
Electra
Ah me, I’m lost, ah wretched me, undone!
Clytemnestra
Attend to thine own business. (To Aged Servant.) Tell me. Sir, The circumstance and manner of his death.
Aged Servant
That was my errand, and I’ll tell thee all. To the great festival of Greece he went, The Delphic Games, and when the herald’s voice Announced the opening trial, the foot race, He stepped into the lists, a radiant form, The admired of all beholders. Like a shaft He sped from starting point to goal and back, And bore the crown of glorious victory. To speak in brief where there is much to tell, I never heard of prowess like to his. ​This much I’ll add, the judges of the games Announced no single contest wherein he Was not the victor, and each time glad shouts Hailed the award—‘An Argive wins, Orestes, The son of Agamemnon, King of men, Who led the hosts of Hellas.’ So he sped. But when some angry godhead intervenes The mightiest man is foiled. Another day, When at sunsetting chariots vied in speed, He entered; many were the charioteers. From Sparta one, and one Achaean, two From Libya, skilled to guide the yoked team; The fifth in rank, with mares of Thessaly, Orestes came, and an Aeolian sixth, With chestnut fillies, a Megarian seventh, The eighth, with milk-white steeds, an Aenian, The ninth from Athens, city built by gods; Last a Boeotian made the field of ten. Then, as the appointed umpires signed to each By lot his place, they ranged their chariots, And at the trumpet’s brazen signal all Started, all shook the reins and urged their steeds With shouts; the whole plain echoed with a din Of rattling cars and the dust rose to heaven. They drave together, all in narrow space, And plied their goads, each keen to leave behind The press of whirling wheels and snorting steeds, For each man saw his car beflecked with foam Or felt the coursers’ hot breath at his back. Orestes, as he rounded either goal, ​Steered close and shaved the pillar with his nave, Urging his offside trace-horse, while he checked The nearer. For a while they all sped on Unscathed, but soon the Aenian’s hard-mouthed steeds Bolted, and ’twixt the sixth and seventh round ’Gainst the Barcaean chariot headlong dashed. Then on that first mishap there followed close Shock upon shock, crash upon crash, that strewed With wrack of cars all the Crisaean plain. This the shrewd charioteer of Athens marked, Slackened and drew aside, letting go by The surge of chariots running in mid course. Last came Orestes who had curbed his team (He trusted to the finish), but at sight Of the Athenian, his one rival left, With a shrill holloa in his horses’ ears He followed; and the two abreast raced on, Now one, and now the other a head in front. Thus far Orestes, ill-starred youth, had steered Steadfast at every lap his steadfast team, But at the last, in turning, all too soon He loosed the left-hand rein, and ere he knew it The axle struck against the pillar’s edge. The axle box was shattered, and himself Hurled o’er the chariot rail, and in his fall Caught in the reins’ grip he was dragged along, While his scared team dashed wildly o’er the course. But as the crowd beheld his overthrow, There rose a wail of pity for the youth— His doughty deeds and his disastrous end— Now flung to earth, now bounding to the sky Feet uppermost. At length the charioteers ​Stayed in their wild career his steeds and freed The corpse all blood-bestained, disfigured, marred Past recognition of his nearest friend. Straightway the Phoceans burnt him on a pyre, And envoys now are on their way to bring That mighty frame shut in a little urn, And lay his ashes in his fatherland. Such is my tale, right piteous to tell; But for all those who saw it with their eyes, As I, there never was a sadder sight.
Chorus
Alas, alas! our ancient masters’ line, So it appears, hath perished root and branch.
Clytemnestra
Are these glad tidings? Rather would I say Sad, but of profit. Ah how hard my lot When I must look for safety to my losses.
Aged Servant
Why, lady, why downhearted at my news?
Clytemnestra
Strange is the force of motherhood; a mother, Whate’er her wrongs, can ne’er forget her child.
Aged Servant
So it would seem our coming was in vain.
Clytemnestra
Nay, not in vain. How canst thou say “in vain,” If of his death thou bringst convincing proof, Who from my life drew life, and yet, estranged, Forgat the breasts that suckled him, forgat A mother’s tender nurture, fled his home, And since that day has never seen me more, ​Slandered me as the murderer of his sire And breathed forth vengeance?—Neither night nor day Kind slumber closed these eyes, and immanent dread Of death each minute stretched me on the rack. But now on this glad day, of terror rid From him and her, a deadlier plague than he, That vampire who was housed with me to drain My very life blood—now, despite her threats Methinks that I shall pass my days in peace.
Electra
Ah woe is me! now verily may I mourn Thy fate, Orestes, when thou farest thus, Mocked by thy mother in death! Is it not well?
Clytemnestra
Not well with thee, but it is well with him.
Electra
Hear her. Avenging Spirit of the dead Whose ashes still are warm!
Clytemnestra
The Avenger heard When it behoved her, and hath ruled it well.
Electra
Mock on; this is thine hour of victory.
Clytemnestra
That hour Orestes shall not end, nor thou.
Electra
End it! ’Tis we are ended and undone.
Clytemnestra
Thy coming. Sir, would merit large reward, If thou indeed hast stopped her wagging tongue.
Aged Servant
Then I may take my leave, if all is well.
Clytemnestra
Not so; such entertainment would reflect On me and on thy master, my ally. Be pleased to enter; leave this girl without To wail her friends’ misfortunes and her own.
[Exeunt Clytemnestra and Aged Servant.
Electra
Seemed she to you a mother woe-begone, Weeping and wailing for a son thus slain, This miserable woman? No, she left us With mocking laughter. Dearest brother mine, Thy death was my death warrant. Woe is me! With thee has gone my last fond hope, that thou Wast living yet and wouldst return some day To avenge my sire and me, unhappy me. Now whither shall I turn, alone, bereft Of thee and of my sire? Henceforth again Must I be slave to those I most abhor, My father’s murderers. Is it not well with me? No, never will I cross their threshold more, But at these gates will lay me down to die, There pine away. If any in the house Think me an eyesore, let him slay me; life To me were misery and death a boon.
Chorus
Where, O Zeus, are thy bolts, O Sun-god, where is thy ray, If with thy lightning, thy light, these things be not shewn to the day?
Electra
Ah me! Ah me!
Chorus
Daughter, why weepest thou?
Electra
Woe!
Chorus
Hush! No rash cry!
Electra
Thou’lt be my death.
Chorus
What meanest thou?
Electra
If ye would whisper hope That they we know for dead may be alive; Ye trample on a bleeding heart.
Chorus
Nay, I bethink me how (Ant. 1) The Argive seer was swallowed up, Snared by a woman for a golden chain, And now in the nether world—
Electra
Ah me!
Chorus
A living soul he reigns.
Electra
Ah woe!
Chorus
Aye woe! for the murderess—
Electra
Was slain.
Chorus
Aye, slain.
Electra
I know, I know. A champion was raised up To avenge the mourning ghost. No champion for me, The one yet left is taken, reft away.
Chorus
A weary, weary lot is thine. (Str. 2)
Electra
I know it well, too well, When life, month in month out, Like a dark torrent flows, Horror on horror, pain on pain.
Chorus
We have watched its tearful course.
Electra
Cease then to turn it where—
Chorus
What wouldst thou say?
Electra
No comfort’s left of hope From him of royal blood, Sprung from one stock with me.
Chorus
Death is the common lot. (Ant. 2)
Electra
To die as he died, hapless youth, Entangled in the reins Beneath the tramp of coursers’ hoofs!
Chorus
Torture ineffable!
Electra
Yea, in a strange land far away—
Chorus
Alas!
Electra
To lie untended by my hands, Unwept, ungraced with sepulture by me!
Enter Chrysothemis.
Chrysothemis
Joy, dearest sister, sped me hitherward, And haply with unseemly haste I ran To bring the joyful tidings and relief From all thy woes and weary sufferings.
Electra
And where canst thou have found a remedy For irremediable woes like mine?
Chrysothemis
Orestes—hear it from my lips—is here, In bodily presence, as thou see’st me now.
Electra
Art mad, poor sister, making mockery Of thine own misery and mine withal?
Chrysothemis
I mock not, by our father’s hearth I swear it; In very truth we have him here again.
Electra
O misery! And, prithee, from whose mouth Hadst thou this tale so blindly credited?
Chrysothemis
I trusted to none other than myself, The clearest proof and evidence of my eyes.
Electra
What proof, what evidence! What sight, poor girl, Lit this illusion in thy fevered brain?
Chrysothemis
O, as thou lov’st me, listen, then decide, My story told, if I am mad or sane.
Electra
Well, if it pleases thee to speak, speak on.
Chrysothemis
I will, and tell thee all that I have seen. As I approached our sire’s ancestral tomb, I noted that the barrow still was wet With streams of milk, and round the monument Garlands were wreathed of every flower that blows, I marvelled much and peered around in dread Of someone watching me; but when I found That nothing stirred, nearer the tomb I crept; And there upon the grave’s edge lay a lock Of hair fresh-severed; at the sight there flashed A dear familiar image on my soul, Orestes; ’twas a token and a sign From him whom most of all the world I love. I took it in my hands and not a sound I uttered but my eyes o’erbrimmed for joy. I knew, I knew it then as now, for sure: This shining treasure could be none but his. Who else could set it there save thee or me? And ’twas not I assuredly, nor thou; How couldst thou, when thou mayst not leave the house Not e’en to sacrifice? Our mother then? When did our mother’s heart that way incline? ​Could she have ’scaped our notice, had she done it? No, from Orestes comes this offering. Courage, dear sister. Never destiny Ran one unbroken course. On us till now She frowned; to-day gives promise of her smiles.
Electra
Alas! I pity thy simplicity, Fond sister.
Chrysothemis
Are not then my tidings glad?
Electra
Thou knowst not in what land of dreams thou art.
Chrysothemis
Wouldst have me doubt the evidence of my eyes?
Electra
He is dead, I tell thee; look not to the dead For a deliverer; that hope has gone.
Chrysothemis
Ah woe is me! Who told thee of his death?
Electra
One who was present when he met his fate.
Chrysothemis
Where is the man? ’Tis strange, ’tis passing strange.
Electra
Within; our mother’s not unwelcome guest.
Chrysothemis
Ah me! Ah me! And whose then can have been Those wreaths, that milk outpoured upon the grave?
Electra
To me it seems most like that they were brought A kindly offering to Orestes dead.
Chrysothemis
And I, poor fool, was hurrying in hot haste To bring my joyful message, unaware Of our ill plight; and now that I have brought it I find fresh sorrows added to the old.
Electra
So stands the case; but be advised by me And lighten this the burden of our woes.
Chrysothemis
Wouldst have me raise the dead to life again?
Electra
I meant not that; I am not so demented.
Chrysothemis
What wouldst thou then that lies within my powers?
Electra
Be bold to execute what I enjoin.
Chrysothemis
If it can profit, I will not refuse.
Electra
Success, remember, is the meed of toil.
Chrysothemis
I know it, and will help thee all I can.
Electra
Then listen how I am resolved to act. From friends, thou knowest now as well as I, We cannot look for succour; death hath snatched All from us and we two are left alone. While yet my brother lived and tidings came Of his prosperity, I still had hopes That he would yet appear to avenge his sire; But now that he is dead, to thee I turn; From thee a sister craves a sister’s aid, ​To slay—shrink not—our father’s murderer, Aegisthus. There, I plainly tell thee all. Why hesitate? What faintest ray of hope Is left to excuse thy lethargy, whose lot Henceforth must be to mourn the ancestral wealth Whereof thou art defrauded, to lament A youth that withers fast, unloved, unwed. For dream not wedded bliss can e’er be thine; Too wary is Aegisthus to permit That children should be born of thee or me For his destruction. But, if thou attend My counsel, thou shalt reap large benefits: First, from our dead sire, and our brother too, A name for piety; and furthermore, A free-born woman thou shalt stand revealed; And worthy spousals shall be thine, for worth In women ever captivates all men. Seest thou not too the honour thou shalt win Both for thyself and me, if thou consent? What countryman, what stranger will not greet Our presence, when he sees us, with acclaim? “Look, friends, upon this sister pair,” he'll cry, “Who raised their father’s house, who dared confront Their foes in power, who jeopardised their lives In bloody vengeance. Honour to the pair. Honour and worship! Yea at every feast Let all the people laud their bravery.” So will our fame be bruited far and wide, Nor shall our glory fail in life or death. Sweet sister, hear me, take thy father’s part, Side with thy brother, give me, give thyself ​Surcease of sorrow; and remember this, A life of shame is shame for noble souls.
Chorus
Forethought for those that speak and those that hear, In such grave issues, is most serviceable.
Chrysothemis
Before she spake, were not her mind perverse, She had remembered caution, but she, friends, Remembers not. (To Electra.) What glamour fooled thee thus To take up arms thus boldly and enlist me? Thou art a woman, see’st thou not? no man, No match in battle for thine adversaries; Their fortune rises with the flowing tide, Ours ebbs and leaves us soon a stranded hulk; Who then could hope to grapple with a foe So mighty and escape without a fall? Bethink thee, if thy speech were overheard, We are like to change our evil plight for worse. Small comfort or commodity to win Glory and die an ignominious death! Mere death were easy, but to crave for death And be denied that last boon—there’s the sting. Nay, I entreat, before we wreck ourselves And perish root and branch, restrain thy rage. All thou hast said for me shall be unsaid, An empty breath. O learn at length, though late, To yield, nor match thy weakness with their strength.
Chorus
Hearken! for mortal man there is no gift Greater than forethought and sobriety.
Electra
’Tis as I thought: before thy answer came I knew full well thou wouldst refuse thine aid. Unaided then and by myself I’ll do it, For done it must be, though I work alone.
Chrysothemis
Ah well-a-way! Would thou hadst been so minded on that day Our father died! What couldst thou not have wrought!
Electra
My temper was the same, my mind less ripe.
Chrysothemis
Study to keep the same mind all thy days.
Electra
This counsel means refusal of thine aid.
Chrysothemis
Yes, for misfortune dogs such enterprise.
Electra
I praise thy prudence, hate thy cowardice.
Chrysothemis
E’en when thou shalt commend me, I will bear Thy commendation no less patiently.
Electra
That trial thou wilt ne’er endure from me.
Chrysothemis
Who lives will see; time yet may prove thee wrong.
Electra
Begone! in thee there is no power to aid.
Chrysothemis
Not so; in thee there is no will to learn.
Electra
Go to thy mother; tell it all to her.
Chrysothemis
My hatred of thee does not reach so far.
Electra
Thou wouldst dishonour me; that much is sure.
Chrysothemis
Dishonour? No, I seek to save thine honour.
Electra
Am I to make thy rule of honour mine?
Chrysothemis
When thou art wise, then thou shalt guide us both.
Electra
Sound words; ’tis sad they are so misapplied.
Chrysothemis
Thou hittest well the blot that is thine own.
Electra
How? dost deny the plea I urge is just?
Chrysothemis
No; but e’en justice sometimes worketh harm.
Electra
I choose not to conform to such a rule.
Chrysothemis
Well, if thy purpose hold, thou’lt own me right.
Electra
It holds; I shall not swerve in awe of thee.
Chrysothemis
Is this thy last word? Wilt not be advised?
Electra
No, naught is loathlier than ill advice.
Chrysothemis
Thou seemest deaf to all that I can urge.
Electra
My resolution was not born to-day.
Chrysothemis
Then I will go, for thou canst not be brought To approve my words, nor I to approve thy ways.
Electra
Go in then; I shall never follow thee, E’en shouldst thou pray me: ’tis insane to urge An idle suit.
Chrysothemis
Well, if thou art wise In thine own eyes, so let it be; anon, Sore stricken, thou wilt take my words to heart.
[Exit Chrysothemis.
Chorus
Wise nature taught the birds of air (Str. 1) For those who reared them in the nest to care; The parent bird is nourished by his brood, And shall not we, as they, The debt of nature pay, Shall man not show like gratitude? By Zeus who hurls the leven, By Themis throned in heaven, There comes a judgment day; Not long shall punishment delay. O voice that echoes to the world below, Bear to the dead a wail of woe, A coronach, a tale of shame To Atreus’ line proclaim.
Tell him his house is stricken sore, (Ant. 1) Tell him his children now no more In amity together dwell; Dire strife the twain divides, ​Alone Electra bides, Alone she braves the surging swell.
Disconsolate doth she her sire bewail, Like the forlornest nightingale; Reckless of life, could she but quell The cursed pair, those Furies fell. Where shall ye find on earth A maid to match her worth?
No generous soul were fain (Str. 2) By a base life his fair repute to stain. Such baseness thou didst scorn, Choosing, my child, to mourn with them that mourn. Wise and of daughters best— With double honours thou art doubly blest.
O may I see thee tower (Ant. 2) As high above thy foes in wealth and power As now they tower o’er thee; For now thy state is piteous to see. Yet brightly dost thou shine, For fear of Zeus far-famed and love of laws divine.
Enter Orestes.
Orestes
Pray tell me, ladies, were we guided right, And are we close upon our journey’s end?
Chorus
What seek’st thou, stranger, and with what intent?
Orestes
I seek and long have sought Aegisthus’ home.
Chorus
’Tis here; thy guide is nowise blameable.
Orestes
Would one of you announce to those within The auspicious advent of our company?
Chorus
This maiden, as the next of kin, will do it.
Orestes
Go, madam, say that visitors have come And seek Aegisthus—certain Phocians.
Electra
Ah woe is me! You come not to confirm By ocular proof the rumours that we heard?
Orestes
I’ve heard no “rumours.” Agèd Strophius Charged me with tidings of Orestes.
Electra
Ha! What tidings, stranger? how I quake with dread!
Orestes
Ashes within this narrow urn we bear, All that remains of him, as thou mayst see.
Electra
Ah me unhappy! in my very sight Lies palpable the burden of my woes.
Orestes
If for Orestes thou art weeping, know This brazen urn contains the dust of him.
Electra
O if it hold his ashes, let me, friend, O let me, let me take it in my hands. ​Not for this dust alone, but for myself And all my house withal, I’ll weep and wail.
Orestes
Bring it and give it her, whoe’er she be; For not as an ill-wisher, but as friend, Or haply near of kin, she asks the boon.
Electra
Last relics of the man I most did love, Orestes! high in hope I sent thee forth; How hast thou dashed all hope in thy return! Radiant as day thou speddest forth, and now I hold a dusty nothing in my hands. Would I had died before I rescued thee From death and sent thee to a foreign land! Then hadst thou fallen together with thy sire And lain beside him in the ancestral tomb: Now in a strange land, exiled, far from home, Far from thy sister thou hast died, ah me! How miserably! I was not by to lave And deck with loving hands thy corse, and snatch Thy charred bones from out the flaming pyre. Alas! by foreign hands these rites were paid, And now thou comest back to me, of dust A little burden in this little urn. O for the nursing and the toil, no toil, I spent on thee an infant, all in vain! For thou wast ne’er thy mother’s babe, but mine; Thou hadst no nurse in all the house but me, I was thy sister, none so called but me. But now all this hath vanished in a day, ​Dead with thy death, a whirlwind that passed by, And left all desolate; thy father’s gone, And I am dead in thee, and thou art lost; And our foes laugh. That mother, mother none, Whose crimes, as oft thou gav’st me secret word, Thou wouldst thyself full speedily avenge, Is mad for joy. But now malignant fate, Thy fate and mine, hath blasted all and sent me, Instead of that dear form I loved so well, Cold ashes and an unavailing shade. Ah me! Ah me! O piteous corse! Ah woe is me! O woeful coming! I am all undone, Undone by thee, beloved brother mine! Take me, O take me to thy last lone home, A shadow to a shade, that I may dwell With thee for ever in the underworld; For here on earth we shared alike, and now I fain would die to share with thee thy tomb; For with the dead there is no mourning, none.
Chorus
Child of a mortal sire, Electra, think, Orestes too was mortal; calm thy grief. Death is a debt that all of us must pay.
Orestes
Ah me! what shall I say where all words fail? And yet I can no longer curb my tongue.
Electra
What sudden trouble made thee speak like this?
Orestes
Is this the famed Electra I behold?
Electra
’Tis she, and very wretched is her state.
Orestes
O for the heavy change! Alas, alas!
Electra
Surely thy pity, sir, is not for me.
Orestes
O beauty marred by foul and impious spite!
Electra
Yea, sir, this wreck of womanhood am I.
Orestes
Alas, how sad a life of singleness!
Electra
Why gaze thus on me, stranger, and lament?
Orestes
Of my own ills how little then I knew!
Electra
Was this revealed by any word of mine?
Orestes
By seeing thee conspicuous in thy woes.
Electra
And yet my looks reveal but half my woes.
Orestes
Could there be woes more piteous to behold?
Electra
Yea, to be housemate with the murderers—
Orestes
Whose murderers? at what villainy dost hint?
Electra
My father’s; and their slave am I perforce.
Orestes
Who is it puts upon thee this constraint?
Electra
My mother, not a mother save in name.
Orestes
By blows or petty tyrannies or how?
Electra
By blows and tyrannies of every kind.
Orestes
And is there none to help or stay her hand?
Electra
None; there was one, the man whose dust I hold.
Orestes
Poor maid! my pity’s stirred at sight of thee.
Electra
Thou art the first who ever pitied me.
Orestes
I am the first to feel a common woe.
Electra
What, canst thou be some kinsman from afar?
Orestes
If these are friends who hear us, I would answer.
Electra
Yes, they are friends; thou needst not fear to speak.
Orestes
Give back this urn, and then I’ll tell thee all.
Electra
Ask not so hard a thing, good sir, I pray.
Orestes
Do as I bid thee; thou shalt not repent it.
Electra
O, I adjure thee, rob me not of that The most I prize on earth.
Orestes
It may not be.
Electra
Ah! woe for thee, Orestes, woe is me, If I am not to give thee burial.
Orestes
Guard well thy lips; thou hast no right to mourn.
Electra
No right to mourn a brother who is dead!
Orestes
To speak of him in this wise is not meet.
Electra
What, am I so dishonoured of the dead?
Orestes
Of none dishonoured: this is not thy part.
Electra
Not if Orestes’ ashes here I hold?
Orestes
They are not his, though feigned to pass for his.
Electra
Where then is my unhappy brother’s grave?
Orestes
There is no grave; we bury not the quick.
Electra
What sayst thou, boy?
Orestes
Nothing that is not true.
Electra
He lives?
Orestes
As surely as I am alive.
Electra
What, art thou he?
Orestes
Look at this signet ring, My father’s; let it witness if I lie.
Electra
O happy day!
Orestes
O, happy, happy day!
Electra
Thy voice I greet!
Orestes
My voice gives greeting back.
Electra
My arms embrace thee!
Orestes
May they clasp me aye!
Electra
My countrywomen, dearest friends, behold Orestes who in feigning died, and so By feigning is alive again and safe.
Chorus
We see him, daughter, and this glad surprise Makes our eyes overflow with happy tears.
Electra
Son of my best loved sire, (Str.) Now hast thou come, art here to find, to see Thy heart’s desire.
Orestes
E’en so; but best keep silence for a while.
Electra
What need for silence?
Orestes
’Twere wise, lest someone from the house should hear.
Electra
Nay, by Queen Artemis the virgin maid, Of women-folk I ne’er will be afraid, Those stay-at-homes, mere cumberers of the ground.
Orestes
Yet note that in the breasts of women dwells The War-God too, as thou methinks hast found.
Electra
Ah me, ah me! Thou wak’st a memory Inveterate, ineffaceable, An ache time cannot quell.
Orestes
I know it too; but when the hour shall strike Then it behoves us to recall those deeds.
Electra
All time, each passing hour (Ant.) Henceforward I were fain To tell my gfriefs, my pain, For late and hardly have I won free speech.
Orestes
’Tis so; then forfeit not this liberty.
Electra
How forfeit it?
Orestes
By speaking out of season overmuch.
Electra
But who would barter speech for silence now, Who could be dumb, Now that beyond all thought and hope I’ve seen thee come?
Orestes
That sight was then vouchsafed thee when the gods First monished me to turn my steps towards home.
Electra
If a god guided thee To seek our halls, this boon Surpasses all before, I see The hand of heaven.
Orestes
To check thy gladness I am loth, and yet This ecstasy of joy—it makes me fear.
Electra
O after many a weary year Restored to glad my eyes, Seeing my utter misery, forbear—
Orestes
What is thy prayer?
Electra
Forbear to rob me of the light, The presence of thy face.
Orestes
If any dared essay it, I were wrath.
Electra
Dost thou consent?
Orestes
How could I otherwise?
Electra (to Chorus)
Friends, a voice is in my ear, That I never hoped to hear. At the glad sound how could I Be mute nor raise a joyous cry? But I have thee, and the light Of thy countenance so bright Not e’en sorrow can eclipse, Or still the music of those lips.
Orestes
Spare me all superfluity of words— How vile our mother, how Aegisthus drains By waste and luxury our father’s house; The time admits not such prolixity. But tell me rather what will best subserve Our present need—where we must show ourselves, Or lie in wait, and either way confound The mockery and triumph of our foes. And see that when we twain are gone within Our mother read not in thy radiant looks Our secret; weep as overwhelmed with grief At our feigned story; when the victory’s won We shall have time and liberty to laugh.
Electra
Yea, as it pleaseth thee it pleases me, Brother, for all my pleasure is thy gift, Not mine; nor would I purchase for myself The greatest boon that cost thee the least pang: So should I cross the providence that guides us. How it stands with us, doubtless thou hast heard. Aegisthus, as thou knowest, is away; Only our mother keeps the house, and fear not ​That she will see my face lit up with smiles; My hatred of her is too deep engrained. Moreover, since thy coming I have wept, Wept for pure joy and still must weep to see The dead alive, on one day dead and living. It works me strangely; if my sire appeared In bodily presence, I should now believe it No mocking phantom but his living self. Thus far no common fate hath guided thee; So lead me as thou wilt, for left alone I had myself achieved of two things one, A noble living or a noble death.
Orestes
Hush, hush! I hear a stir within the house As if one issued forth.
Electra (to Orestes and Pylades)
Pass in, good sirs, Ye are sure of welcome; they within will not Reject your gift, though bitter it may prove.
Enter Aged Servant.
Aged Servant
Fools! madmen! are ye weary of your lives, Or are your natural wits too dull to see That ye are standing, not upon the brink, But in the midst of mortal jeopardy? Nay, had I not kept watch this weary while, Here at the door, your plot had slipped inside Ere ye yourselves had entered. As it is, My watchfulness has fended this mishap. Now that your wordy eloquence has an end, And your insatiate cries of joy, go in. ​’Tis ill delaying in such case, and well To make an end.
Orestes
How shall I fare within?
Aged Servant
Right well; to start with, thou art known to none.
Orestes
Thou hast reported, I presume, my death.
Aged Servant
They’ll speak of thee as though thou wert a shade.
Orestes
And are they glad thereat, or what say they?
Aged Servant
I’ll tell thee when the time is ripe: meanwhile Whate’er they do, however ill, is well.
Electra
I pray thee, brother, tell me who is this?
Orestes
Dost thou not see?
Electra
I know not, nor can guess.
Orestes
Not know the man to whom thou gav’st me once?
Electra
What man? how mean’st thou?
Orestes
He that stole me hence, Through thy foretliought, and safe to Phocis bore.
Electra
Can this be he who, when our sire was slain, Faithful among the many false I found?
Orestes
’Tis he; let that suffice thee; ask no more.
Electra
O happy day! O sole deliverer Of Agamemnon’s house, how cam’st thou hither? Art thou indeed our saviour who redeemed From endless woes my brother and myself? O hands beloved, O messenger whose feet Were bringers of glad tidings, how so long Couldst thou be with me and remain unknown, Stay me with feignèd fables and conceal The truth that gave me life? Hail, father, hail! For ’tis a father whom I seem to see. Verily no man in the self-same day Was hated so and so much loved as thou.
Aged Servant
Enough methinks; the tale ’twixt then and now— Many revolving nights and days as many Shall serve, Electra, to unfold it all.
(To Orestes and Pylades)
Why stand ye here! ’tis time for you to act, Now Clytemnestra is alone; no man Is now within; but, if ye stay your hand, Not only with her house-carls will ye fight But with a troop more numerous and more skilled.
Orestes
Our business, Pylades, would seem to crave No longer parley; let us instantly Enter, but ere we enter first adore The gods who keep the threshold of the house.
[Orestes and Pylades enter the palace.
Electra
O King Apollo! lend a gracious ear ​To them and me, to me too who so oft Laid on thy shrine with humble hands my best. And now with vows (I cannot offer more), Apollo, Lord Lycean, I beseech, Implore, adjure thee, prosper this our work, Defend the right and show to godless men How the gods vindicate impiety.
Chorus
Breathing out blood and vengeance, lo! (Str.) Stalks Ares, sure though slow. E’en now the hounds are on the trail; Within, the sinners at their coming quail. A little while and death shall realise The vision that now floats before mine eyes.
For now within the house is led (Ant.) By stealth the champion of the dead; He treads once more the ancestral hall of kings, And death new-whetted in his hands he brings. Great Maia’s son conducts him on his way And shrouds his guile and brooks not more delay.
Electra
O dearest women, even as I speak (Str.) The men are at their work; but not a word.
Chorus
What work? what are they at?
Electra
E’en now she decks The urn for burial and the pair stand by.
Chorus
Why spedst thou forth?
Electra
To keep a watch for fear Aegisthus should forestall us unawares.
Clytemnestra (within)
Woe! woe! O woeful house, Of friends forsaken, full of murderers!
Electra
Listen! a cry within—hear ye not, friends?
Chorus
I heard and shuddered—oh, an awesome cry.
Clytemnestra
Ah woe is me! Aegisthus, where art thou?
Electra
Hark; once again a wail.
Clytemnestra
O son, my son, Have pity on thy mother!
Electra
Thou hadst none On him or on the father that begat him.
Chorus
Unhappy realm and house, The curse that dogged thee day by day Is dying, dying fast.
Clytemnestra
I am stricken, ah!
Electra
Strike, if thou canst, again.
Clytemnestra
Woe, woe is me once more!
Electra
I would that woe Were for Aegisthus not for thee alone.
Chorus
The curses work; the buried live again, And blood for bloody the slayer’s blood they drain, The ghosts of victims long since slain.
Enter Orestes and Pylades from the palace.
Lo they come forth with gory hands that reek (Ant.) Of sacrifice to Ares—’twas done well.
Electra
How have ye sped, Orestes?
Orestes
All within Is well, if Phoebus’ oracle spake well.
Electra
The wretched woman’s dead?
Orestes
No longer fear Thy mother’s arrogance will flout thee more.
Chorus
Cease, for I see Aegisthus full in sight.
Electra
Back, youths, back to the house!
Orestes
Where see ye him?
Electra
Approaching from the suburb with an air Of exultation. He is ours!
Chorus
Quick to the palace doorway! half your work Is well done : do no less well what remains.
Orestes
Fear not, we shall.
Electra
Then speed thee on thy way.
Orestes
See, I am gone.
Electra
Leave what is here to me.
[Exeunt Orestes and Pylades; Aegisthus approaches.
Chorus
’Twere not amiss to breathe some soft words in his ear, That he may blindly rush into the lists of doom.
Aegisthus
Could any of you tell me where to find The Phocian strangers who, I hear, have brought News of Orestes midst the chariots wrecked? Thee, thee I question, thee, in former days So froward: it concerns thee most, methinks, And thou, as best informed, canst tell me best.
Electra
I know for sure, else were I unconcerned In what has happened to my nearest kin.
Aegisthus
Where then are these newcomers? Tell me straight.
Electra
Within; they’ve won their kindly hostess’ heart.
Aegisthus
Did they in very truth report his death?
Electra
They did; and more, they showed us the dead man.
Aegisthus
May I too view the body to make sure?
Electra
Thou mayst, but ’tis a gruesome spectacle.
Aegisthus
Thou givest me much joy against thy wont.
Electra
I wish thee joy, if here is food for joy.
Aegisthus
Silence! attend! throw open wide the gate, For all Mycenae, Argos all, to see. If any heretofore was puffed with hopes Of this pretender, now he sees him dead, Let him in time accept my yoke, nor wait Wisdom by chastisement to learn too late.
Electra
My lesson’s learnt already; time hath taught me The wisdom of consenting with the strong.
Aegisthus
O Zeus, I look upon this form laid low By jealousy of Heaven, but if my words Seem to thee overbold, be they unsaid. Take from the face the face-cloth; I, as kin, I too would pay my tribute of lament.
Orestes
Lift it thyself; ’tis not for me but thee To see and kindly greet what lieth here.
Aegisthus
Well said, so will I. (To Electra.) If she be within Go call me Clytemnestra, I would see her—
Orestes
She is beside thee; look not otherwhere.
(Aegisthus lifts the face-cloth.)
Aegisthus
O horror!
Orestes
Why dost start? is the face strange?
Aegisthus
Who spread the net wherein, O woe is me, I lie enmeshed?
Orestes
Hast thou not learnt ere this The dead of whom thou spakest are alive?
Aegisthus
Alas! I read thy riddle; ’tis none else Than thou, Orestes, whom I now address.
Orestes
A seer so wise, and yet befooled so long!
Aegisthus
O I am spoiled, undone! yet suffer me, One little word.
Electra
Brother, in heaven’s name Let him not speak a word or plead his cause. When a poor wretch is in the toils of fate What can a brief reprieve avail him? No, Slay him outright and having slain him give His corse to such grave-makers as is meet, Far from our sight; for me no otherwise Can he wipe out the memory of past wrongs.
Orestes (to Aegisthus)
Quick, get thee in; the issue lies not now In words; the case is tried and thou must die.
Aegisthus
Why hale me indoors? if my doom be just, What need of darkness? Why not slay me here?
Orestes
’Tis not for thee to order; go within; Where thou didst slay my father thou must die.
Aegisthus
Ah! is there need this palace should behold All woes of Pelops’ line, now and to come?
Orestes
Thine own they shall; thus much I can predict.
Aegisthus
Thy skill as seer derives not from thy sire.
Orestes
Thou handiest words; our going is delayed. Go.
Aegisthus
Lead the way.
Orestes
No, thou must go the first.
Aegisthus
Lest I escape?
Orestes
Nay, not to let thee choose The manner of thy death; thou must be spared No bitterness of death, and well it were If on transgressors swift this sentence fall, Slay him; so wickedness should less abound.
Chorus
House of Atreus! thou hast passed Through the fire and won at last Freedom, perfected to-day By this glorious essay.
* ↑ Inachus, the river god, was the legendary founder of Argos, whither his daughter Io, changed by the jealous Hera into a cow, was driven in her wanderings.
* ↑ Apollo Lukeios, the god of light, but by folk-etymology connected with λύκος, wolf.
* ↑ The full meaning is “to cut off the hands and feet and suspend them to the armpits.” This was done to prevent the victim from taking vengeance.
* ↑ The charioteer of Oenomaüs. In the race for the hand of Hippodameia, the king’s daughter, he betrayed his master by removing a linch-pin. Pelops won the race, but afterwards for an insult offered to his wife, he hurled into the sea Myrtilus, who invoked a dying curse on the house.
* ↑ Amphiaraus. Induced by his wife Eriphyle to join the expedition of Polyneices against Argos, he was swallowed up by an earthquake. His son (like Orestes) avenged his father and Amphiaraus was honoured as an earth-god.