Electra

Perseus Greek · Perseus Greek · 471 sections

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O ancient plain of land, the streams of Inachus, from which king Agamemnon once mounted war on a thousand ships and sailed to the land of Troy. After he had slain Priam, the ruler of Ilium,
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and captured the famous city of Dardanus, he came here to Argos and set up on the high temples many spoils of the barbarians. And in Troy he was successful; but at home he died by the guile of his wife Clytemnestra
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and the hand of Aegisthus, son of Thyestes. And he left behind the ancient scepter of Tantalus, and is dead; but Aegisthus rules the land, possessing Agamemnon’s wife, the daughter of Tyndareus. Now as for those whom he left in his house when he sailed to Troy,
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his son Orestes and his young daughter Electra: when Orestes was about to die at the hand of Aegisthus, his father’s old servant stole him away and gave him to Strophius to bring up in the land of the Phocians. Electra stayed in her father’s house,
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and when she came to the blooming season of youth, the foremost suitors of the land of Hellas asked for her in marriage. But Aegisthus feared she might bear to some chieftain a son who would avenge Agamemnon, and so he kept her at home and did not betroth her to any bridegroom.
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When even this filled him with great fear, that she might secretly bear children to some noble lord, Aegisthus planned to kill her, but her mother, although cruel at heart, rescued her from his hand. For she had a pretext for having slain her husband,
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but she feared that she would be despised for the murder of her children. So then, for these reasons, Aegisthus devised such a scheme: he promised gold to anyone who should kill Agamemnon’s son, who had left the country as an exile, while Electra he gave
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in marriage to me. My ancestors were Mycenaeans; in that respect at least I am not to blame. My family was noble in race but poor in money—which is the ruin of good birth. He gave her to a powerless man so that his fear might lose its power.
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For if some man of high position got her, he would have roused the sleeping blood of Agamemnon and judgment would have come at some time to Aegisthus. But I have never (Cypris knows this too) dishonored her in bed; she is still a virgin indeed.
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I am ashamed to have the daughter of a wealthy man and violate her, when I was not born of equal rank. And I groan for the wretched Orestes, called my kinsman, if he shall ever return to Argos and see the unfortunate marriage of his sister.
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And whoever says I am a fool if I do not touch a young girl when I have her in my house, let him know that he measures soundness of mind by worthless standards of judgment, and he himself is a fool.
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O black night, nurse of the golden stars,
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in which I go to the river’s streams, bearing this pitcher resting on my head—not because I have come to such a point of necessity, but so that I may show to the gods Aegisthus’ insolence—and send forth laments into the wide sky, to my father.
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For the deadly daughter of Tyndareus, my mother, has cast me out of the house to please her husband; since she has borne other children in her union with Aegisthus, she considers Orestes and me secondary in the home.
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Why, unhappy one, do you do this work, laboring for my sake,
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though you were well brought up before, and do not stop, even when I tell you this?
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I hold you equal to the gods in kindness, for in my distress you have not insulted me. It is a great allotment for mortals
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to find a healer for ill fortune, such as I have in you. And so, even though unbidden, I ought to share your labors, relieving you of work as far as I have strength, so that you may bear it more easily. You have enough to do outside; I must keep the house
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in order. It is pleasant for the worker coming in from outside to find things within right.
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Go, then, if you wish; and in fact the springs are not far from my house. When it is day, I will drive the oxen to my lands and sow the fields.
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For no idler, though he has the gods’ names always on his lips, can gather a livelihood without hard work. Exeunt Peasant and Electra. Enter Orestes and Pylades.
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Pylades, I hold you first among men as a kind and trusted friend to me. You alone of my friends have honored me, Orestes,
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being as I am in dreadful suffering from Aegisthus, who killed my father, he and my most deadly mother. I have come from the mystic shrine of the god to Argive land, and no one knows it, to repay my father’s murderers with murder.
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During this past night, going to my father’s tomb, I wept and cut off a lock of my hair as an offering and sacrificed over the altar the blood of a slaughtered sheep, unnoticed by the tyrants who rule this land. And now I do not set foot within the walls,
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but I have come to the borders of this land combining two desires: I may escape to another country if anyone on the watch should recognize me; and, looking for my sister (for they say that she lives here, joined in marriage, and is no longer a virgin),
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I may meet with her and, having her as an accomplice for murder, I may learn clearly what is happening within the walls. And now, since dawn is lifting up her bright eye, let us step aside from this path. For either some plowman or serving maid
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will come in our sight, from whom we may ask if my sister lives in this place. But now that I see this maidservant, bearing a weight of water on her shorn head, let us sit down, and inquire
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of this slave girl, if we may receive some word about the matter, Pylades, for which we have come to this land. They retire a little.
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Hasten your step, it is time; go onward, onward, weeping! Ah me!
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I am Agamemnon’s child, and Clytemnestra, hated daughter of Tyndareus, bore me; the citizens call me unhappy Electra.
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Alas for my cruel pain and hateful life! O father, Agamemnon, you lie in Hades, by the butchery of your wife and Aegisthus.
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Come, waken the same lament, take up the enjoyment of long weeping.
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Hasten your step, it is time; go onward, onward, weeping. Ah me!
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In what city and what household do you wander about, my wretched brother, leaving your pitiable sister in our ancestral home, to great pain?
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Come to me, the unhappy one, as a deliverer from this pain, oh Zeus, Zeus, and as a defender for my father against his most hateful bloodshed; bring the wanderer to shore in Argos.
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Take this pitcher from my head and put it down, so that I may cry aloud the night-time laments for my father. A wail, a song of death, of death, for you, father, under the earth, I speak the laments
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in which I am always engaged, day by day, tearing my skin with my nails, and striking my cropped head with my hand, for your death.
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Oh, oh, tear my face; as a clear-sounding swan beside the river’s streams calls to its dearest father, dying in the crafty snares of the
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net, so I lament you, my unhappy father,
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washed by the very last bath, in the most piteous bed of death. Oh, me,
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your bitter cleaving by the axe, father, the bitter plans of the way from Troy! Your wife welcomed you with no victor’s garlands or crowns, but with a two-edged sword,
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making you the mournful victim of Aigisthus, she got a treacherous bed-fellow.
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O Electra, daughter of Agamemnon, I have come to your rustic courtyard. A milk-drinker from Mycenae has come, he has come,
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a mountain walker; he reports that the Argives are proclaiming a sacrifice for the third day from now, and that all maidens are to go to Hera’s temple.
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My unhappy heart beats fast, friends, but not at adornment or gold; nor will I set up choruses with the maidens of Argos
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and beat my foot in the mazes of the dance. By tears I pass the night; tears are my unhappy care day by day. See if my filthy hair,
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and the rags of my dress, will be fit for a princess, a daughter of Agamemnon, or for Troy, once taken, which remembers my father.
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Mighty is the goddess; come then, and borrow from me thick-woven clothes to wear, and gold—as a favor to me—accessories to adornment. Do you think to rule over your enemies by tears, if you do not revere the gods?
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Honoring the gods not by lamentation but by prayers, you will have good fortune, child.
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No god attends to the voice of the ill-fated one,
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or to the slaying of my father long ago. Alas for the dead, and for the living vagabond, who dwells in another land somewhere,
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miserably wandering to a slave’s hearth, yet born of that renowned father. I myself live in a poor man’s house, wasting my life away, an exile from my father’s house,
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on the mountain crags. But my mother, with a new husband, makes her home in a bed stained by blood.
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Helen, your mother’s sister, is the cause of many evils to the Hellenes and to your house.
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Ah! Women, I have broken off my lament; strangers, who had their lair at the altar, are rising from ambush towards the household. Let us escape the villains by flight, you along the path and I to the house.
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Stay, poor girl; do not fear my hand.
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O Phoebus Apollo! I beseech you to spare my life.
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May I kill others more hated than you!
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Go away! Do not touch one whom you must not touch.
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There is no one I have a better right to touch.
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Then why are you in ambush, with drawn sword, near my house?
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Wait and hear, and you will soon say the same.
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I am still; in any case, I am yours, since you are the stronger.
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I have come to bring you word from your brother.
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Oh best of friends! Is he alive or dead?
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Alive; for I want to tell you the good news first.
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May you be happy, as a reward for your most welcome tidings.
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I give that blessing for us two to have in common.
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Where does the unhappy one live, in his unhappy exile?
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He goes miserably about, not following the customs of any one city.
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Surely he does not want for a living, day by day?
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He has that, but an exile is a helpless man at best.
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What is this message you have come bringing from him?
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If you are alive, and if so, how you are.
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Well then, you see first of all how withered my body is.
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Yes, so wasted with sorrow that I sigh for it.
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And my head and hair, close shaven as if by a Scythian’s razor.
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Your brother and your dead father perhaps gnaw at your heart.
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Alas! For what is dearer to me than they?
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Ah! What are you to your brother, do you think?
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He is far away, not here to be my friend.
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Why are you living here, far from the city?
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I am married, stranger; a deadly match.
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I pity your brother. Is your husband a Mycenaean?
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Not one to whom my father ever hoped to give me.
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Tell me so that I may hear and inform your brother.
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I live in his house, at a distance from the city.
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A ditch-digger or a herdsman is worthy of the house.
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He is a man poor but noble, and respectful to me.
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What is this respect that your husband has?
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He has never dared to touch me in bed.
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Does he hold some form of religious chastity, or does he think you unworthy?
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He did not think himself worthy to insult my family.
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And how was he not delighted to make such a marriage?
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He thinks the person who gave me did not have that right, stranger.
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I understand; he fears that he may someday be punished by Orestes.
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He does fear that, but he is also a virtuous man.
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Ah! You have described a noble man, and he must be treated well.
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Yes, if ever the one now absent comes home.
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But did your mother, who gave you birth, endure this?

Perseus Greek. CTS URN tlg0006.tlg012.perseus-eng2. Via the Perseus Digital Library / Open Greek and Latin TEI corpora. Licence: Available under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0 International License. Source.