Electra (755-825)

freed him, so covered with blood that no friend who saw it would have known the pitiful corpse. Immediately they burned him on a pyre, and chosen men of Phocis now bring the sad dust of that mighty form in a small urn of bronze,

so that he may find due burial in his fatherland. Such is my story—it is grievous even to hear, but for us witnesses who looked on, it was the greatest of sorrows that these eyes have seen.

Oh, sorrow! It seems now that all the stock of our ancient masters

has been leveled clean down to the roots.

O Zeus, how shall I name this news—fortunate? Or terrible, but beneficial? It is a bitter thing, when by my own misery I preserve my life.

Why are you so despondent, lady, at my news?

There is a terrible power in motherhood; a mother may be wronged, but she can feel no hate for those whom she bore.

Then it seems that we have come in vain.

No, not in vain; how can you say in vain when you have brought me sure proofs of his death?

He sprang from my own life, yet deserting my breast and my nurture he became a fugitive, completely alien from me. And me, once he left this land, he saw no more; but, charging me with the murder of his father, he made terrible threats,

so that neither by night nor by day could sweet sleep cover me, but the imminent moment made me live always as if I were about to die. Now, however, since today I am rid of terror of him and of this girl—that greater plague

who shared my home while consuming undiluted my life-blood—now, I think, for all her threats, I shall pass my days in peace.

Ah, what misery! Now, indeed, Orestes, I must mourn your misfortune, since even dead as you are

you are abused by this woman, your mother! Is it not just fine?

You certainly are not, but he is fine as he is.

Listen to her, Nemesis of the recently departed!

She has heard who should be heard, and has ordained well.

Abuse us! Fortune is with you today.

You and Orestes will not stop me, then, will you?

It is we who are stopped; we cannot stop you.

Your coming, sir, deserves large recompense, if you have stopped her clamorous tongue.

Then I would take my leave, if all is well.

Not so; your welcome would then be unworthy of me, and of my ally who sent you. No, come in. Leave her out here to shout out loud her misfortunes and those of her friends. Clytaemnestra and the Paedagogus enter the house.

What do you think? Does it seem to you that she, poor woman, wept and wailed terribly,

like a grieving, anguished woman, over her son thus destroyed? No, she left us with a laugh! Ah, miserable me! Dearest Orestes, how your death has destroyed me! For your passing has torn from my heart

the only hopes which still were mine: that you would live to return some day as the avenger of our father, and also of me in my misery. But now, where shall I turn? I am alone, cheated of you, as of my father. Hereafter I must be a slave again

among those I most hate, my father’s murderers. Am I not in a fine way? But at least in the time remaining me I will never enter the house to dwell with them. No, lying down at these gates, without a friend, I shall wither away my days.

Therefore, if anyone in the house be angry, let him kill me. It is a favor, if I die, but a pain, if I live. I desire life no more.