Nay, do not, son; but, even as thou hast sworn,
Convey me home, and thou, in Scyros dwelling,
[1369-1402] Leave to their evil doom those evil men.
So thou shalt win a twofold gratitude
From me and from my father, and not seem,
Helping vile men, to be as vile as they.
NEO. ’Tis fairly spoken. Yet I would that thou
Relying on my word and on Heaven’s aid,
Would’st voyage forth from Lemnos with thy friend.
PHI. Mean’st thou to Troy, and to the hateful sons
Of Atreus, me, with this distressful limb?
NEO. Nay, but to those that will relieve the pain
Of thy torn foot and heal thee of thy plague.
PHI. Thy words are horrible. What mean’st thou, boy?
NEO. The act I deem the noblest for us both.
PHI. Wilt thou speak so? Where is thy fear of Heaven?
NEO. Why should I fear, when I see certain gain?
PHI. Gain for the sons of Atreus, or for me?
NEO. Methinks a friend should give thee friendly counsel.
PHI. Friendly, to hand me over to my foes?
NEO. Ah, be not hardened in thy misery!
PHI. I know thou wilt ruin me by what thou speakest.
NEO. Not I. The case is dark to thee, I see.
PHI. I know the Atreidae cast me on this rock.
NEO. But how, if they should save thee afterward?
PHI. They ne’er shall make me see Troy with my will.
NEO. Hard is my fortune, then, if by no sleight
Of reasoning I can draw thee to my mind.
For me, ‘twere easiest to end speech, that thou
Might’st live on as thou livest in hopeless pain.
PHI. Then leave me to my fate! — But thou hast touched
My right hand with thine own, and given consent
To bear me to my home. Do this, dear son!
And do not linger to take thought of Troy.
Enough that name hath echoed in my groans.
NEO. If thou wilt, let us be going.
PHI. Nobly hast thou said the word.
[1402-1436] NEO. Lean thy steps on mine.
PHI. As firmly as my foot will strength afford.
NEO. Ah! but how shall I escape Achaean anger?
PHI. Do not care!
NEO. Ah! but should they spoil my country!
PHI. I to shield thee will be there.
NEO. How to shield me, how to aid me?
PHI. With the shafts of Heracles
I will scare them.
NEO. Give thy blessing to this isle, and come in peace.
HERACLES appears from above.
HERACLES. First, son of Poeas, wait till thou hast heard
The voice of Heracles, and weighed his word.
Him thou beholdest from the Heavenly seat
Come down, for thee leaving the blest retreat,
To tell thee all high Zeus intends, and stay
Thy purpose in the journey of to-day.
Then hear me, first how after my long toils
By strange adventure I have found and won
Immortal glory, which thine eyes perceive;
And the like lot, I tell thee, shall be thine,
After these pains to rise to glorious fame.
Sailing with this thy comrade to Troy-town,
First thou shalt heal thee from thy grievous sore,
And then, being singled forth from all the host
As noblest, thou shalt conquer with that bow
Paris, prime author of these years of harm,
And capture Troy, and bear back to thy hall
The choicest guerdon, for thy valour’s meed,
To Oeta’s vale and thine own father’s home.
But every prize thou tak’st be sure thou bear
Unto my pyre, in memory of my bow.
This word, Achilles’ offspring, is for thee
No less. For, as thou could’st not without him,
So, without thee, he cannot conquer Troy.
Then, like twin lions hunting the same hill,
[1437-1471] Guard thou him, and he thee! and I will send
Asclepius Troyward to relieve thy pain.
For Ilion now a second time must fall
Before the Herculean bow. But, take good heed,
Midst all your spoil to hold the gods in awe.
Far above all. This follows men in death,
And fails them not when they resign their breath.
PHI. Thou whom I have longed to see,
Thy dear voice is law to me.
NEO. I obey with gladdened heart.
HER. Lose no time: at once depart!
Bright occasion and fair wind
Urge your vessel from behind.
PHI. Come, let me bless the region ere I go.
Poor house, sad comrade of my watch, farewell!
Ye nymphs of meadows where soft waters flow
Thou ocean headland, pealing thy deep knell,
Where oft within my cavern as I lay
My hair was moist with dashing south-wind’s spray,
And ofttimes came from Hermes’ foreland high
Sad replication of my storm-vext cry;
Ye fountains and thou Lycian water sweet, —
I never thought to leave you, yet my feet
Are turning from your paths, — we part for aye.
Farewell! and waft me kindly on my way,
O Lemnian earth enclosed by circling seas,
To sail, where mighty Fate my course decrees,
And friendly voices point me, and the will
Of that heroic power, who doth this act fulfil.
CH. Come now all in one strong band;
Then, ere loosing from the land,
Pray we to the nymphs of sea
Kind protectresses to be,
Till we touch the Trojan strand.
ELECTRA
Translated by Lewis Campbell
Generally believed to have been written towards the end of Sophocles’ career, Electra is set in the city of Argos a few years after the Trojan war. The tragedy concerns Electra and Orestes’ vengeance on their mother Clytemnestra and Aegisthus for the murder of their father, Agamemnon. In the drama, Orestes arrives with his friend Pylades, son of Strophius, and a tutor. They have devised a plan where they will arrive in disguise, announcing that Orestes has died in a chariot accident and that they are delivering an urn with his remains.
Electra laments over her father, first on her own, then in lyrics with the newly-arrived chorus. She bitterly argues first with her sister Chrysothemis over her accommodation with her father’s killers and then with her mother over her father’s murder. Her only hope is that one day her brother will return to avenge him. When the messenger arrives with news of the death of Orestes, Clytemnestra is relieved to hear these tidings. Electra however is devastated. Chrysothemis then enters: she has seen some offerings at the tomb of Agamemnon and concludes that Orestes has returned. Electra dismisses her arguments, certain that Orestes is now dead. She suddenly turns to her sister with a proposal to kill Aegisthus, but Chrysothemis refuses to help, pointing out the impracticability of the plan.
After a choral ode Orestes arrives, carrying the urn supposedly containing his ashes. He does not recognise Electra, nor does she recognise her brother. He gives her the urn and she delivers a moving lament over it, unaware that her brother is in fact standing alive next to her. Now realising the truth, Orestes reveals his identity to his emotional sister. She is overjoyed that he is alive, but in their excitement they nearly reveal his identity, and the tutor comes out from the palace to urge them on. Orestes and Pylades enter the house and slay his mother Clytemnestra. As Aegisthus returns home, they quickly put her corpse under a sheet and present it to him as the body of Orestes. He lifts the veil to discover who it really is, and Orestes then reveals
himself. They escort Aegisthus off set to be killed at the hearth, the same location Agamemnon was slain. The play ends here, before the death of Aegisthus is announced.
‘Electra and Orestes’ by Alfred Church
CONTENTS
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
ARGUMENT
ELECTRA
‘Electra Receiving the Ashes of Her Brother Orestes’ by Jean Baptiste Joseph Wicar, 1826
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
An Old Man, formerly one of the retainers of Agamemnon.
ORESTES, son of Agamemnon and Clytemnestra.
ELECTRA, sister of Orestes.
CHORUS of Argive Women.
CHRYSOTHEMIS, sister of Orestes and Electra.
CLYTEMNESTRA.
AEGISTHUS.
PYLADES appears with ORESTES, but does not speak.
SCENE. Mycenae: before the palace of the Pelopidae.
ARGUMENT
Agamemnon on his return from Troy, had been murdered by his wife Clytemnestra and her paramour Aegisthus, who had usurped the Mycenean throne. Orestes, then a child, had been rescued by his sister Electra, and sent into Phocis with the one servant who remained faithful to his old master. The son of Agamemnon now returns, being of a full age, accompanied by this same attendant and his friend Pylades, with whom he has already concerted a plan for taking vengeance on his father’s murderers, in obedience to the command of Apollo.
Orestes had been received in Phocis by Strophius, his father’s friend. Another Phocian prince, named Phanoteus, was a friend of Aegisthus.
ELECTRA
ORESTES and the Old Man — PYLADES is present.
OLD MAN. Son of the king who led the Achaean host
Erewhile beleaguering Troy, ’tis thine to day
To see around thee what through many a year
Thy forward spirit hath sighed for. Argolis
Lies here before us, hallowed as the scene
Of Io’s wildering pain: yonder, the mart
Named from the wolf slaying God, and there, to our left,
Hera’s famed temple. For we reach the bourn
Of far renowned Mycenae, rich in gold
And Pelops’ fatal roofs before us rise,
Haunted with many horrors, whence my hand,
Thy murdered sire then lying in his gore,
Received thee from thy sister, and removed
Where I have kept thee safe and nourished thee
To this bright manhood thou dost bear, to be
The avenger of thy father’s bloody death.
Wherefore, Orestes, and thou, Pylades,
Dearest of friends, though from a foreign soil,
Prepare your enterprise with speed. Dark night
Is vanished with her stars, and day’s bright orb
Hath waked the birds of morn into full song.
Now, then, ere foot of man go forth, ye two
Knit counsels. ’Tis no time for shy delay:
The very moment for your act is come.
OR. Kind faithful friend, how well thou mak’st appear
Thy constancy in service to our house!
As some good steed, aged, but nobly bred,
Slacks not his spirit in the day of war,
But points his ears to the fray, even so dost thou
Press on and urge thy master in the van.
Hear, then, our purpose, and if aught thy mind,
[30-71] Keenly attent, discerns of weak or crude
In this I now set forth, admonish me.
I, when I visited the Pythian shrine
Oracular, that I might learn whereby
To punish home the murderers of my sire,
Had word from Phoebus which you straight shall hear:
‘No shielded host, but thine own craft, O King!
The righteous death-blow to thine arm shall bring.’
Then, since the will of Heaven is so revealed,
Go thou within, when Opportunity
Shall marshal thee the way, and gathering all
Their business, bring us certain cognizance.
Age and long absence are a safe disguise;
They never will suspect thee who thou art.
And let thy tale be that another land,
Phocis, hath sent thee forth, and Phanoteus,
Than whom they have no mightier help in war.
Then, prefaced with an oath, declare thy news,
Orestes’ death by dire mischance, down-rolled
From wheel-borne chariot in the Pythian course.
So let the fable be devised; while we,
As Phoebus ordered, with luxuriant locks
Shorn from our brows, and fair libations, crown
My father’s sepulchre, and thence return
Bearing aloft the shapely vase of bronze
That’s hidden hard by in brushwood, as thou knowest,
And bring them welcome tidings, that my form
Is fallen ere now to ashes in the fire.
How should this pain me, in pretence being dead,
Really to save myself and win renown?
No saying bodes men ill, that brings them gain.
Oft have I known the wise, dying in word,
Return with glorious salutation home.
So lightened by this rumour shall mine eye
Blaze yet like bale-star on mine enemies.
O native earth! and Gods that hold the land,
Accept me here, and prosper this my way!
Thou, too, paternal hearth! To thee I come,
Justly to cleanse thee by behest from heaven.
Send me not bootless, Gods, but let me found
[72-101] A wealthy line of fair posterity!
I have spoken. To thy charge! and with good heed
Perform it. We go forth. The Occasion calls,
Great taskmaster of enterprise to men.
ELECTRA (within). Woe for my hapless lot!
OLD M. Hark! from the doors, my son, methought there came
A moaning cry, as of some maid within.
OR. Can it be poor Electra? Shall we stay,
And list again the lamentable sound?
OLD M. Not so. Before all else begin the attempt
To execute Apollo’s sovereign will,
Pouring libation to thy sire: this makes
Victory ours, and our success assured.[Exeunt
Enter ELECTRA.
MONODY.
EL. O purest light!
And air by earth alone
Measured and limitable, how oft have ye
Heard many a piercing moan,
Many a blow full on my bleeding breast,
When gloomy night
Hath slackened pace and yielded to the day!
And through the hours of rest,
Ah! well ’tis known
To my sad pillow in yon house of woe,
What vigil of scant joyance keeping,
Whiles all within are sleeping,
For my dear father without stint I groan,
Whom not in bloody fray
The War-god in the stranger-land
Received with hospitable hand,
But she that is my mother, and her groom,
As woodmen fell the oak,
Cleft through the skull with murdering stroke.
And o’er this gloom
No ray of pity, save from only me,
Goes forth on thee,
[101-136] My father, who didst die
A cruel death of piteous agony.
But ne’er will I
Cease from my crying and sad mourning lay,
While I behold the sky,
Glancing with myriad fires, or this fair day.
But, like some brood-bereavèd nightingale,
With far-heard wail,
Here at my father’s door my voice shall sound.
O home beneath the ground!
Hades unseen, and dread Persephonè,
And darkling Hermes, and the Curse revered,
And ye, E
rinyës, of mortals feared,
Daughters of Heaven, that ever see
Who die unjustly, who are wronged i’ the bed
Of those they wed,
Avenge our father’s murder on his foe!
Aid us, and send my brother to my side;
Alone I cannot longer bide
The oppressive strain of strength-o’ermastering woe.
CHORUS (entering).
O sad Electra, childI 1 Of a lost mother, why still flow
Unceasingly with lamentation wild
For him who through her treachery beguiled,
Inveigled by a wife’s deceit,
Fallen at the foul adulterer’s feet,
Most impiously was quelled long years ago?
Perish the cause! if I may lawfully pray so.
EL. O daughters of a noble line,
Ye come to soothe me from my troublous woe.
I see, I know:
Your love is not unrecognized of mine.
But yet I will not seem as I forgot,
Or cease to mourn my hapless father’s lot.
Oh, of all love
That ever may you move,
This only boon I crave —
Leave me to rave!
CH. Lament, nor praying breathI 2 [137-172]
Will raise thy sire, our honoured chief,
From that dim multitudinous gulf of death.
Beyond the mark, due grief that measureth,
Still pining with excess of pain
Thou urgest lamentation vain,
That from thy woes can bring thee no relief.
Why hast thou set thy heart on unavailing grief?
EL. Senseless were he who lost from thought
A noble father, lamentably slain!
I love thy strain,
Bewildered mourner, bird divinely taught,
For ‘Itys,’ ‘Itys,’ ever heard to pine.
O Niobè, I hold thee all divine,
Of sorrows queen,
Who with all tearful mien
Insepulchred in stone
Aye makest moan.
CH. Not unto thee alone hath sorrow come,II 1
Daughter, that thou shouldst carry grief so far
Beyond those dwellers in the palace-home
Who of thy kindred are
And own one source with thee.
What life hath she,
Chrysothemis, and Iphianassa bright,
And he whose light
Is hidden afar from taste of horrid doom,
Youthful Orestes, who shall come
To fair Mycenae’s glorious town,
Welcomed as worthy of his sire’s renown,