Electra
The subject of the “Electra” of Sophocles is the same as that of the “Choëphoroe” (the Libation-bearers) of Aeschylus. It is the return of Orestes from exile to take vengeance on Aegisthus and Clytaemnestra, for their murder of his father, Agamemnon. Electra plays the same part which she plays in the “Choëphoroe,” while her sister, Chrysothemis, plays that of gentleness and comparative weakness. Orestes, in this play, returns with a fictitious story of his death which throws Aegisthus and Clytaemnestra off their guard.
The Snare
The Paedagogos (tutor or governor) of Orestes, to circumvent Clytaemnestra, tells her a fictitious story of her son’s death by a fall in a chariot-race. Electra is on the scene.
Lines 660-822
Paedagogos
Good ladies, tell a stranger in your land,
Does King Aegisthus in this mansion dwell?
CHORUS.
He does, my friend; thou hast conjectured right.
Paedagogos
Shall I conjecture right if I take this
To be his Queen? She has a queenly look.
CHORUS.
Thou’rt right again; the Queen indeed she is.
Paedagogos
Hail, royal lady. From a friend I bring
News good for thee and for Aegisthus too.
Clytaemnestra
Thy words are pleasing to mine ear; but first I must inquire of thee, who sent thee here?
Paedagogos
The Phocian Phanoteus, on errand grave.
Clytaemnestra
Say what it is; for as the name is dear Of him that sent thee, glad will be thy news.
Paedagogos
Orestes is no more: that is the sum.
Electra
Alas! alas! I am undone this day.
Clytaemnestra
What? what? repeat it; listen not to her.
Paedagogos
Again, I say, Orestes is no more.
Electra
It is my death-blow; I am lost, am lost.
Clytaemnestra
Look to thyself, girl. Stranger, tell me true,
In what way was it that he met his doom?
Paedagogos
To this end was I sent; thou shalt hear all.
To those great games, the pride of Hellas, came
Orestes, fain to win the Delphic prize.
There, when he heard the herald with loud voice
Proclaim the race, which is the first event,
He entered, dazzling, and admired of all;
And shooting swift from starting-post to goal,
Bore off the prize of glorious victory.
Briefly to speak, exploits so marvellous,
Such proofs of prowess, never did I see.
Know that in every foot-race that as wont
The presidents proclaimed, he, midst the cheers
Of gratulating crowds, bore off the prize;
While heralds loud proclaimed the victor’s name,
Argive Orestes, Agamemnon’s son,
Heir to the glory of that conqueror.
So far he prospered; but when heaven decrees
That man shall fall, man’s might is vain to save.
Another day, when in the early morn,
The chariot race was held upon the course,
Orestes came with many a charioteer.
One an Achaean, one a Spartan, was;
Two with their cars from distant Lybia came;
Orestes with his steeds of Thessaly
The fifth, the sixth was an Aetolian,
With bright bay steeds; then a Magnesian,
Then with white steeds an Aeneanian came;
Athens, the god-built city, sent the ninth;
In the tenth chariot a Boeotian rode.
Taking their stand, each where his lot was drawn,
And as the masters of the games ordained,
At trumpet’s sound they started, and at once,
All shouting to their steeds, they shook the reins
To urge them onwards, while the course was filled
With din of rattling chariots; rose the dust
In clouds, the racers, mingled in a throng,
Plied, each of them, the goad unsparingly,
To clear the press of cars and snorting steeds,
So close, they felt the horses’ breath behind,
And all the whirling wheels were flecked with foam.
Orestes showed his skill once and again,
Grazing the pillar at the course’s end,
The near horse well in hand, his mate let go.
So far had all the chariots safely run;
But now the hard-mouthed Aeneanian steeds
O’erpowered their driver, and in wheeling round,
Just as, the sixth stretch past, the seventh began,
Dashed front to front on the Barcaean car.
Disaster on disaster came: now one
And now another car was overturned
And shattered; Crisa’s plain was filled with wreck.
The skilful charioteer whom Athens sent
Then drew aside, slackened his pace and gave
The surge of wild confusion room to pass.
Last of the train Orestes drove, his steeds
Holding in hand, and trusting to the end;
But seeing only the Athenian left,
With piercing shouts, urging his team to speed,
He made for him, and side by side the pair
Drove onward, yoke even with yoke, now one
And now the other leading by a head.
Through all the courses but the last that youth
Ill-starred stood safely in an upright car.
But at the last, slackening his left-hand rein,
As his horse turned the goal, he unawares
The pillar struck and broke his axle-tree.
Out of the car he rolled, still in the reins
Entangled, while his horses, as he fell,
Rushed wildly through the middle of the course.
The whole assembly, when they saw him fall,
Raised a loud cry of horror at the fate
Of him that was the hero of the games,
Seeing him dragged along the ground, his feet
Anon flung skyward; till some charioteers,
With much ado, stopping the headlong steeds,
Released him, but so mangled that no friend
The gory and disfigured corpse would know.
They laid him on the funeral pyre, and now
Have Phocian envoys in a narrow urn
Brought the poor ashes of that mighty frame
For sepulture in his ancestral tomb.
Such is my story. Sad enough for those
Who hear; for those who saw most piteous
Of all the sights that e’er these eyes beheld.
CHORUS.
Alas, alas! it seems the noble stock
Of our old Kings is wholly rooted out.
Clytaemnestra
What shall I call this, Zeus? Is it good luck,
Or gain with sorrow blended? Sad it is
That I should owe my safety to my dole.
Paedagogos
Why art thou downcast, lady, at my words?
Clytaemnestra
Strong is a mother’s love; no injury
Can make her hate the offspring of her womb.
Paedagogos
My errand then is bootless, as it seems.
Clytaemnestra
Bootless it is not, and it could not be,
If thou hast brought me certain evidence
That he is dead, who, owing life to me,
Rebelled against the breast that suckled him;
Who, when self-banished, he had left the land
Looked on my face no more; who, charging me
With his sire’s murder, threatened vengeance dire,
So that sweet sleep neither by night nor day
Could fold my weary sense, but every hour
Passed in the shadow of impending death.
Now—since this day doth end my fears from him,
And from this maid, whose presence in my home,
Draining the very life-blood of my heart,
Was to me yet more baneful—now at last
Rid of their menaces, we dwell in peace.
Electra
Alas, alas! well may we wail for thee,
Orestes, when thy mother can exult
Over her child’s poor ashes. Is this well?
Clytaemnestra
Not well for thee, with him ’tis well enough.
Electra
Hear, Nemesis, the prayer of him that’s gone.
Clytaemnestra
The right prayer she had heard and ratified.
Electra
Thy tongue is free, fortune is on thy side.
Clytaemnestra
Thou and Orestes soon will put us down.
Electra
We put thee down? We are put down ourselves.
Clytaemnestra
Stranger, thy mission would be blessed indeed If thou could silence yonder termagant.
Paedagogos
If I am no more needed, let me go.
Clytaemnestra
Nay, it would shame my hospitality
And his that sent thee, thus to let thee go.
Come in with me, and leave this damsel here,
To mourn her friend’s disasters and her own.
(Exeunt PAEDAGOGOS and CLYTAEMNESTRA.)
Electra
How say ye? Does yon wretched woman seem
Deeply to mourn and bitterly bewail
The son that has so miserably died?
She goes off mocking us. Woe worth the day!
Dearest Orestes, I have died in thee.
For thou hast carried with thee to the grave
The only hope that in my heart yet lived,
The hope that thou wouldst some day come to venge
Thy sire and me. Now whither can I turn?
I am left desolate, deprived of thee,
As of my father. Once more I become
The slave of those whom I do hate like death,
My father’s murderers. What a lot is mine!
But with those murderers I will dwell no more
Under one roof; an outcast at this gate
I’ll fling me down, and pine away my life.
Let those within, then, if my grief offends,
Kill me at once. Welcome would be the blow;
Life is a burden, death would be a boon.
The Sisters
Electra’s sister, Chrysothemis, having found the offering of Orestes on his father’s tomb, brings what she deems glad tidings to Electra, who meets her with the announcement that the Pedagogos has just brought certain news of their brother’s death. Electra, now reduced to despair, proposes to Chrysothemis that they should themselves attempt to slay Aegisthus.
Lines 871-1057
Chrysothemis
Joy, dearest sister, has impelled my steps
To haste with no regard for dignity,
1
I bring to thee glad tidings and relief
From all the miseries thou hast undergone.
Electra
Whence canst thou any aid or comfort draw For my misfortunes which are past all cure?
Chrysothemis
Orestes has come home. Doubt not my word.
As sure as now thou seest me, he is here.
Electra
Hast thou gone mad, unhappy one, that thus
Thou mockest at my miseries and thy own?
Chrysothemis
By our ancestral hearth I swear to thee
I say not this in mockery; he is here.
Electra
O misery, from what mortal hast thou heard This story that has gained thy fond belief?
Chrysothemis
It is no hearsay: mine own eyes have seen The certain proofs of that which I believe.
Electra
What is the token? What has met thy gaze
To fire thy silly heart with fevered hope?
Chrysothemis
Only give ear to what I have to tell,
Then call me mad, or not mad, as thou wilt.
Electra
Speak on, if thou hast pleasure in the tale.
Chrysothemis
All that I saw, I will recount to thee.
When to our old ancestral tomb I came,
I saw a stream of milk fresh running down,
From the mound’s summit, and our father’s grave
Crowned with a wreath of all the flowers that grow.
The sight amazed me and I looked around,
Fearing lest some intruder might be near.
But when I saw that all around was still,
I drew near to the tomb, and on its edge
I found a lock of hair, freshly cut off.
When I beheld that lock, into my soul
Rushed a familiar image, and meseemed
Orestes must have laid that token there.
I took it up, I opened not my lips,
But in my eyes the tears of joy o’erflowed.
That from one hand alone this gift could come
Is now, as then it was, my sure belief.
Who else could lay it there save you or me?
That ’twas not I, is certain, and no less
That ’twas not you, when scarcely you have leave
To go forth to the temples of the gods;
While, for our mother, she has little mind
To do such things, nor could she go unseen.
It is Orestes that his homage pays.
Be of good cheer, my sister; destiny
Unkind to-day, to-morrow may be kind.
So far it has been adverse, but this hour,
Perchance, may prove the dawn of happiness.
Electra
I pity as I hear thy foolish talk.
Chrysothemis
Why? Is not what I say sweet to thine ear?
Electra
Thou know’st not what thou dost or where thou art.
Chrysothemis
Not know the thing which my own eyes beheld?
Electra
He’s dead, poor foolish heart. These proofs of thine Are good for nothing. Look for him no more.
Chrysothemis
Unhappy me; who was it told thee this?
Electra
One that was present when he met his end.
Chrysothemis
Amazement fills my soul! Where is this man?
Electra
Within there, and our mother’s welcome guest.
Chrysothemis
Thy words o’erwhelm me. Who, then, could have laid Affection’s offerings on our father’s grave?
Electra
That some one brought them as memorials
Of dead Orestes, likeliest seems to me.
Chrysothemis
Unhappy that I am! And full of joy
I hastened with these tidings, ignorant
Of our dark fate. I left the cup of grief
Full, and I come to see it overflow.
Electra
So stands it now, but do what I advise,
And thou mayest lighten yet this load of woe.
Chrysothemis
How? Can I bring the dead to life again?
Electra
I meant not that, nor was so void of sense.
Chrysothemis
What wouldst thou have, that is within my power?
Electra
I’d have thee bravely do what I enjoin.
Chrysothemis
So it be helpful, I will not refuse.
Electra
Look, without effort nothing will go well.
Chrysothemis
’Tis true, and I will aid with all my might.
Electra
Hear now my resolution. Thou dost know
That we are friendless now; the friend we had
Hades has ta’en and left us desolate.
While I still heard that our Orestes lived,
And all was well with him, the hope remained
That he would come, and venge our murdered sire.
But now that he is gone I look to thee
To lend thy sister aid in taking off
Aegisthus; frankly such is my intent.
Where will thy sufferance end? what hope is left
For thee to look to? woe on woe is thine.
Of thy sire’s wealth thou’rt disinherited,
And to this hour hast been condemned to pine
In cold companionless virginity.
Nor deem that thou shalt ever be a bride;
Aegisthus is not so devoid of sense
As to permit a shoot from thee or me
To spring which to his certain bane would grow.
But if thy soul can rise to my resolve,
First to thy sire and brother there below
Thou wilt discharge the debt of piety;
Next a free woman thou wilt be once more,
As thou wast born, and find a worthy mate,
For lover’s eyes look to the good and brave.
Then seest thou not what glory thou wilt win
For both of us, embracing my design?
What citizen or foreigner will fail
Whene’er we pass, to pay his meed of praise?
“Look at yon pair of sisters; these are they
That from its fall redeemed their father’s house,
That setting their own lives upon the die,
Their enemies, in power uplifted, slew.
To these we all should loving homage pay,
These ever honour at our festivals
And our assemblies for their bravery.”
Such things the public voice will say of us,
In life or death our fame will never end.
Consent, dear sister; for thy father strike,
Strike for thy brother, rescue me from woe,
Redeem thyself. Those who are nobly born
Honour forbids to live the butt of scorn.
CHORUS.
Foresight in matters such as these is good,
For those who give and those who take advice.
Chrysothemis
Before she spoke, ladies, had not her mind
Been quite perverted, she would have held fast
The caution which she utterly lets go.
What puts it in thy heart, this desperate deed
Thyself to dare, and call on me to aid?
Dost thou not know that thou a woman art?
And that our enemies are mightier far?
While their good fortune waxes day by day,
Ours wanes as fast and leaves us destitute.
Who then that strikes at one so powerful
Can fail to pluck down ruin on himself?
Beware, lest to our ills we add more ill,
If these thy resolutions get abroad.
Little would all that glory profit us,
If we should die an ignominious death.
And death is not the worst that may befall;
It is worse still to long for death in vain.
I do conjure thee, ere thou ruin us
Beyond redemption, and cut off our race,
To moderate thy wrath; what thou hast said
I will regard as unsaid, null and void.
Do thou at last get thee some sober sense,
And yield to power as thou art powerless.
CHORUS.
Take her advice; there is not among men A better thing than foresight and good sense.
Electra
All thou hast said I did anticipate;
What I proposed I knew thou wouldst reject.
Alone, with my own hand, I’ll do the deed;
My resolution shall not come to naught.
Chrysothemis
What now thou art, would thou hadst been the day Thy father died: thou wouldst have ruled the hour.
Electra
In heart I was the same, but not in sense.
Chrysothemis
Strive still to keep the sense that then thou hadst.
Electra
Thy preaching shows I shall not have thy aid,
Chrysothemis
No, for the enterprise is desperate.
Electra
Thy sense I envy, but thy spirit scorn.
Chrysothemis
Thy blame or praise to me is all the same.
Electra
Praise from these lips thou needest never fear.
Chrysothemis
That will be seen hereafter: time is long.
Electra
Get thee away, in thee there is no help.
Chrysothemis
Help is in me, knowledge in thee is not.
Electra
Go, if thou wilt, and tell our mother all.
Chrysothemis
Hate if I must, not so far goes my hate.
Electra
It goes so far as to dishonour me.
Chrysothemis
Not to dishonour but to care for thee.
Electra
And is my justice to be led by thine?
Chrysothemis
Learn to be wise, and thou shalt lead us both.
Electra
’Tis pity when good talkers go astray.
Chrysothemis
Thou hast exactly hit thy own disease.
Electra
What! have I not, then, justice on my side?
Chrysothemis
Justice itself may sometimes lead us wrong.
Electra
Let me not live where justice may be wrong.
Chrysothemis
Do it and thou wilt see that I was right.
Electra
Do it I will, and reckless of thy frown.
Chrysothemis
Thou wilt: and is no room for counsel left?
Electra
Base counsel is a thing my soul abhors.
Chrysothemis
It seems that we shall never be agreed.
Electra
Of that I was convinced a while ago.
Chrysothemis
I will begone: thy spirit will not brook
My counsel, nor can I thy ways approve.
Electra
Go then, but never shall I follow thee,
Entreat me as thou mayst, of that be sure:
Fools only look for that which none can find.
2
Chrysothemis
If thou dost seem unto thyself so wise
Hug thine own wisdom, soon in danger’s hour
Thou wilt confess that I have counselled right.
(Exit CHRYSOTHEMIS.)
The Recognition
Orestes enters with the urn which, it is pretended, contains his ashes. His recognition ensues.
Lines 1097-1231
Orestes
Say, ladies, have we been informed aright,
And has our journey led us to our mark?
CHORUS.
What is thy journey’s mark? Whom dost thou seek?
Orestes
I fain would learn where King Aegisthus dwells.
CHORUS.
Thou hast not been misled, this is the place.
ORESTES.
Would one of you announce to those within. In courteous wise that strangers twain are here?
CHORUS.
That will this maid if kinship gives a claim.
Orestes
Go, lady, then, and tell them in the house
That Phocian envoys for Aegisthus look.
Electra
Alas! ye bear I ween the certain proofs
Of that which has already reached our ears.
Orestes
I know not what that is; old Strophius
Has charged me of Orestes news to bring.
Electra
Stranger, what is it? fear comes over me.
Orestes
He is no more, and here behold we bear
His poor remains, gathered in this small urn.
Electra
Alas! for me all doubt is over now;
Here is the sorrow present to my touch.
Orestes
If for Orestes thou hast cause to mourn
Know that whate’er is left of him is here.
Electra
Friend, if that urn indeed Orestes holds,
Give it, I do conjure thee, to my hands,
That I may weep my own calamities,
And those of our whole race, with this dear dust.
Orestes
Whoever she may be, give her the urn;
Her wish approves her not an enemy
But a good friend, perchance one near in blood.
Electra
Dearest of all memorials to my heart,
Relic of my Orestes, what a change
From those fond hopes with which I sent thee forth!
Full of bright promise wast thou then, and now
I see thee here reduced to nothingness.
Would I myself had died before the hour
When from the murderous hands that sought thy life
I snatched and sent thee to a foreign shore,
So hadst thou met thy end at once and slept
In thy forefather’s tomb. Instead whereof
Thou hast died miserably far from home,
An exile, with no sister at thy side.
I was not there with loving hand to wash
Thy corpse, to lay thee out, or gather up,
As nature bade, the relics of the pyre.
Strange hands those rites performed; and thou art here,
A little dust clipt in a narrow urn.
Unhappy me! how bootless were the pains
Which many a day I spent in nursing thee,
A labour that I loved, for thou wert not
Thy mother’s darling more than thou wert mine.
No menial hands tended thy infancy,
But I thy sister, joying in that name.
Now all has vanished in a single day,
And thou art gone, and like a storm hast swept
All off with thee. My father is no more,
Thy sister dies in thee, thyself art dust.
Our enemies exult, and, mad with joy,
Is that unnatural mother, whom to smite
With thine own hand thou oft didst promise me,
By secret messages which destiny,
Unkind to both of us, now brings to naught,
Sending me here, instead of that loved form,
Cold ashes and an ineffectual shade.
Ah me! ah me!
Poor form.
Alas! alas!
Sent to the saddest bourne.
Ah me! ah me!
Dearest of brothers, thou hast ruined me,
Ruined thy sister, brother of my love.
Receive me now in that abode of thine,
That, dust to dust, I may abide with thee
Forever there below. When thou wast here,
All things were common to us; now I crave
To be thy mate in death and share thy tomb,
For there I see they do not sorrow more.
CHORUS.
Electra, think; a mortal was thy sire.
Orestes was a mortal; calm thy grief
For loss is common to mortality.
Orestes
What can I say? words to my bursting heart Are wanting. I can check my tongue no more.
Electra
What is it troubles thee? What means thy speech?
Orestes
Can what I see be fair Electra’s face?
Electra
Her face it is, and in most piteous plight.
ORESTES.
My heart is wrung by looking on such woe.
Electra
Can one unknown to thee thy pity move?
Orestes
O beauteous wreck, by heaven and man disowned!
Electra
The picture limned in those sad words is mine.
Orestes
Woe for thy cheerless and unwedded life.
Electra
Why dost thou gaze on me thus mournfully?
Orestes
It seems that of my woes I knew but half.
Electra
What have I said to breathe this thought in thee?
Orestes
’Tis bred by sight of sorrow’s effigy.
ELECTRA.
What thou dost see is of my griefs the least.
Orestes
What can be worse than what I now behold?
Electra
What can be worse? Life with the murderers.
Orestes
Murderers of whom? Thy tale of crime unfold.
Electra
My father’s murderers, and their slave am I.
Orestes
What tyrant has imposed on thee this yoke?
Electra
My mother, little worthy of that name.
Orestes
And how? By persecution or by force?
Electra
By persecution, force, and all that’s vile.
Orestes
And hast thou none to save thee from her hands?
Electra
One such I had, and thou hast brought his dust.
Orestes
Unhappy maid, my soul does pity thee.
Electra
Only in thee have I such pity found.
Orestes
I also am a partner of thy woe.
Electra
Art thou some kinsman come I know not whence?
Orestes
That thou shalt hear, provided these are friends.
Electra
And friends they are, thou mayest confide in them.
Orestes
Give back that urn, and I will tell thee all.
Electra
Nay, I conjure thee; let me keep it still.
Orestes
Do as I say and thou wilt not repent.
Electra
O grant my prayer, and rob not this poor heart.
Orestes
I must not leave it with thee.
Electra
Woe is me,
Orestes, if I may not tend thy dust.
Orestes
Peace, maiden, peace! thou hast no cause to mourn.
Electra
No cause to mourn, who have a brother lost?
Orestes
To speak of brothers lost is not for thee.
ELECTRA.
Have I not then the mourner’s privilege?
Orestes
Naught hast thou lost, and hast no part in this.
Electra
I have, if this contains my brother’s dust.
Orestes
It does not, save in name and in pretence.
Electra
Where, then, does my ill-starred Orestes lie?
Orestes
Nowhere; for he who lives can have no grave.
Electra
What dost thou say, young man?
Orestes
I tell thee truth.
Electra
How! does he live?
Orestes
Sure as I live he lives.
Electra
And art thou he?
Orestes
Look on this signet ring,
Our father’s once, and tell me if I lie.
Electra
Light of my life, most dear.
Orestes
Most dear indeed.
Electra
Is it that voice I hear?
Orestes
It is that voice.
Electra
And do these arms enfold thee?
Orestes
Ay, forever.
Electra
(To the CHORUS.)
My countrywomen and companions dear,
Behold Orestes that erewhile was dead.
Dead by device now by device alive.
CHORUS.
Maiden, we do behold him; at the sight,
The tears of joy are gathering in our eyes.
Notes
1 Composure in gait and manner was the rule for Hellenic
women.
2 As no help or sympathy can be found in Chrysothemis.