Electra (Sophocles)
Short summary
Ancient Mycenae, before the palace of Agamemnon. Orestes arrived with his aged servant and friend Pylades to avenge his father's murder.
They devised a plan: the servant would announce Orestes' death in a chariot race, while Orestes would bring a funeral urn as proof. Meanwhile, Electra mourned her father constantly at the palace gates.
Her sister Chrysothemis brought offerings to Agamemnon's tomb on their mother's orders, but Electra persuaded her to leave their own gifts instead. Clytemnestra defended her actions, claiming she killed Agamemnon justly because he sacrificed their daughter Iphigenia.
The servant arrived with news of Orestes' death. Clytemnestra feigned sorrow but felt relief. Electra was devastated. Chrysothemis returned from the tomb with evidence that Orestes lived, but Electra, believing him dead, tried to enlist her sister's help in killing Aegisthus themselves. Chrysothemis refused. Orestes appeared with the funeral urn, and Electra lamented over it until he revealed his identity. They entered the palace, and soon Clytemnestra's death cry rang out.
O son, my son,
Have pity on thy mother! / Thou hadst none
On him or on the father that begat him.
Aegisthus arrived, and Orestes forced him to view Clytemnestra's corpse before driving him inside to die where Agamemnon fell. The chorus celebrated the end of the curse on the house of Atreus.
Detailed summary
Division into chapters is editorial.
Orestes arrives in Mycenae; Electras grief and defiance
At dawn, an aged servant arrived at Mycenae with two young men. He pointed out the landmarks to one of themâthe marketplace named after Apollo the Wolf-slayer, the famous shrine of Hera, and the palace of the house of Pelops, stained with murder. The old man reminded the youth that he had once rescued him from beside his father's bleeding corpse and raised him to manhood so he could avenge that death. Now the time had come to act, for day was breaking and they must decide their course before anyone stirred in the streets.
The young man praised the servant's constant loyalty, comparing him to a high-bred steed that still champed at the bit in battle despite his age. He then revealed the plan given by the Pythian oracle: he must not trust to shields or armed hosts, but steal the chance himself to deal the avenging blow. The aged servant was to enter the palace, observe what happened there, and report back. He should pretend to be a Phocian stranger sent by their ally and report that the young man had perished in a chariot accident at the Pythian games. Meanwhile, the two youths would visit their father's tomb with offerings, then return with a brass urn supposedly containing the dead man's ashes.
From within the palace came a wailing voice. The servant thought it might be a handmaid, but the young man wondered if it could be his sister. The old man urged him not to delayâthey must first follow Apollo's command and pour lustral waters on the father's grave to ensure victory. They departed as a woman emerged from the palace, lamenting her fate.
The woman cried out to the holy light and air, asking what wailings and sights they had witnessed. She spoke of her lone pallet bed in the haunted hall, mourning her father who had been slain not in foreign lands but at home by her own mother and a paramour. She compared herself to a nightingale bewailing her ravished nest, vowing never to restrain her bitter cries while she could still see sun or stars. She called upon the gods of the underworld and the Furies to aid her in avenging her father and to send her brother back, for she could no longer bear the grief alone.
A group of women arrived to comfort her. They urged her not to wither away in endless grief, reminding her that she could never restore her father from death by prayers or cries. They pointed out that she was not alone in her sorrowâher sisters also suffered, and her brother would soon return by heaven's guidance to claim his father's throne. But the woman replied that she had waited long years for him, unwed and childless, drenched with tears. She said all his messages were vain, for though he hoped to return and yearned for home, he did not actually come back.
Chrysothemis brings news of Clytemnestras ominous dream
The women counseled her to nurse her vengeance but abate excess of hate, for Time was a gentle god who could heal. They reminded her that neither her brother who remained by the pastoral shore nor the god who reigned over the underworld would forget. But the mourning woman insisted that the best of her life was spent, that she languished in despair without a parent's love or husband's aid, waiting like a stranger in beggar's weeds. The women continued their lament, recalling the dire voice that greeted her father's return and the wail that burst from the banquet chamber when the brazen axe struck him down.
The woman spoke of that darkest dawn and night when the foul feast was spread by the two traitors who slew her father. She prayed that the Olympian King would send like suffering upon them, that they might perish branch and root. The women urged her to curb her tongue and consider how she made her burden heavier by heaping strife upon strife. But she replied that bitter constraint compelled her, and she would never control the indignant passion of her soul while life lasted. She insisted there could be no respite for woes like hers, no cure for such desperate grief.
Another woman approached, carrying gifts for a tomb. She questioned why her sister had come out to declaim in public at the gate once more, asking if time had not taught her to desist from idle rage. The newcomer admitted she too chafed at their fortunes and would make plain her feelings if she had the power, but in the storm it was best to reef the sail. She acknowledged that justice was on her sister's side, yet if she wished to keep her liberty, she must bow before the powers that be.
The defiant woman accused her sister of forgetting their father and taking their mother's part, saying all her admonitions were learned from that woman, not her own thoughts. She challenged her to choose between being unwise or showing wisdom by forgetting friends. The cautious sister replied that she had not approached lightlyâshe had learned of a new peril. If the mourning woman would not cease her complaints, they planned to send her to a dark dungeon where she would spend her days in woe, never seeing the sun again. The defiant one declared she would welcome such a fate if it meant flight from all of them.
Clytemnestra defends her actions; mother and daughter clash
The cautious sister explained that their mother had been warned by an evil dream and was sending her to pour a libation on their father's tomb. The defiant woman urged her not to let anything touch the tombâit would be a shame and sin to offer gifts on behalf of the accursed woman to their father's ghost. She should scatter them to the winds or bury them deep where nothing could defile their father's resting place. Instead, she should cut a lock of her own hair and give their father a simple offering from both sisters, then pray that he would come as their champion from the dead and that their brother might yet live to trample his foes. The cautious sister agreed to do this service.
A woman emerged from the palace accompanied by a handmaid bearing fruits for an altar. She found the defiant daughter at large again, noting that the one who kept her close and restrained her scandalous tongue was away. The mother accused her daughter of repeatedly complaining to many about her tyrannic rule and the insults heaped upon her. She defended herself, saying that if she paid in kind the flouts and taunts directed at her, it was no insult. She admitted that she and Justice, not she alone, had slain the father. The daughter should side with Justice if she were wise.
The mother argued that the father alone of all Greeks could steel his heart to sacrifice his daughter, though he never felt a mother's pangs of travail. She asked why he offered the girlâfor the Greeks? But what right had they to kill her child? For his brother's sake? Should not that brother's own children have served as victims instead? She questioned whether Death had some craving for her child rather than the other woman's, or whether the father had tenderness for his brother's brood but none for her flesh and blood. She viewed the past without remorse, and if she seemed perverted to her daughter, she suggested the girl should clear her own judgment before making herself a judge.
The daughter asked for leave to speak the truth regarding both her sister and her father. The mother granted permission, saying that if the daughter had always shown this temper, she would have listened without pain. The daughter then proved there was no justice in the killingâit was the lure of a vile wretch, the mother's lover, that hurried her along. She explained that the father had once shot a sacred stag in the goddess's glade and made a careless boast, which angered the deity who detained the fleet. The father reluctantly sacrificed his daughter by hard constraint, not for his brother's sake. Even if it had been for his brother, the daughter argued, should he have died by the mother's hand for that? The daughter condemned the mother for living a life of shame as partner to the wretch who helped slay the father, bearing him children while casting out the rightful heirs.
The messengers tale: Orestes death at the Pythian games
The women observed that the mother breathed forth fury and no longer heeded whether her words harmonized with justice. The mother retorted that her daughter was a brazen monster, asking why she should heed one who thus insulted a mother at her ripe age. The daughter replied that she was shamefast, though she seemed shamelessâshe knew such manners were ill-becoming in a daughter, but the mother's malignity and cruel acts compelled her. The mother swore by Artemis that the daughter would rue her boldness when her consort returned. The daughter pointed out that rage distracted the motherâfirst she granted free speech, then would not listen. The mother told her to hush her wild tongue so she could sacrifice.
The mother instructed her maid to bear an offering of earth's fruits so she could uplift her prayers to their King and rid herself of the dread haunting her soul. She prayed to Apollo the Defender, asking him to lend an ear to her dark petition. She spoke of a vision of double import she had seen the previous nightâif it boded well, she asked him to fulfill it, but if ill, to make it recoil upon her enemies. She prayed that if some plotted treacherously to dispossess her of wealth and power, he would prevent them and vouchsafe that she might rule the house in security. She asked for fulfillment of her prayers, trusting that as a god he knew her unexpressed desires, for nothing was hidden from the sons of Zeus.
A stranger approached and asked if this was the house of the king. The women confirmed it was. He greeted the queen and said he bore fair news to her and the king from a friend. When asked who sent him, he replied it was a Phocian on a grave mission. The queen asked him to tell what it was, noting it must be friendly coming from a friend. The stranger announced the death of the young man, summing his tale briefly. The defiant daughter cried out that she was undone, but the mother told her to attend to her own business and asked the stranger to tell the circumstance and manner of death.
The stranger recounted how the young man went to the great Delphic Games. When the herald announced the opening foot race, he stepped into the lists as a radiant form, admired by all beholders. He sped like a shaft from starting point to goal and back, bearing the crown of glorious victory. The stranger said he never heard of prowess like hisâthe youth won every single contest announced. Another day, when chariots vied in speed at sunsetting, he entered with many other charioteers. The race began with all shaking their reins and urging their steeds with shouts. The whole plain echoed with rattling cars and dust rose to heaven.
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.
The stranger continued that for a while all sped on unscathed, but soon one charioteer's horses bolted and crashed against another, causing shock upon shock that strewed the plain with wreckage. The shrewd Athenian charioteer drew aside, letting the surge of chariots pass. The young man came last, having curbed his team, trusting to the finish. Seeing only the Athenian left as rival, he followed with a shrill cry. The two raced abreast, now one and now the other ahead. But at the last turn, the youth loosed the left rein too soon, struck the pillar's edge, shattered the axle box, and was hurled over the rail. Caught in the reins, he was dragged along as his scared team dashed wildly over the course. The crowd wailed in pity for his doughty deeds and disastrous end. At length the charioteers stayed the wild career and freed the blood-stained corpse, disfigured past recognition. The Phoceans burnt him on a pyre, and envoys were bringing his ashes in a little urn to lay in his fatherland.
Chrysothemis discovers offerings at Agamemnons tomb
The women lamented that their ancient masters' line had perished root and branch. The mother asked if these were glad tidings, saying she would rather call them sad but profitable. She reflected on the strangeness of motherhoodâa mother, whatever her wrongs, could never forget her child. The stranger asked if his coming was in vain. The mother assured him it was not, for he brought convincing proof of death. She spoke of how the youth had drawn life from her, yet estranged himself, forgot the breasts that suckled him, fled his home, and never saw her again. He slandered her as his father's murderer and breathed forth vengeance. Neither night nor day had kind slumber closed her eyes, and immanent dread of death stretched her on the rack each minute. But now on this glad day, rid of terror from him and from the deadlier plague who was housed with her to drain her very life blood, she thought she would pass her days in peace despite threats.
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 bloodânow, despite her threats
The defiant daughter cried that now she could truly mourn his fate, mocked by the mother in death. The mother said it was not well with the daughter, but well with the dead son. The daughter invoked the Avenging Spirit of the dead whose ashes were still warm. The mother replied that the Avenger heard when it behoved her and ruled it well. The daughter told her to mock on, for this was her hour of victory. The mother said that hour would not be ended by the son or daughter. The daughter declared it was they who were ended and undone. The mother said the stranger's coming would merit large reward if he had stopped the daughter's wagging tongue. The stranger asked if he could take his leave if all was well. The mother told him not soâsuch entertainment would reflect on her and her ally. She invited him to enter, leaving the girl outside to wail her friends' misfortunes and her own. They departed.
The mourning woman questioned whether the mother seemed like one woe-begone, weeping and wailing for a son thus slain. No, she left with mocking laughter. She addressed her dearest brother, saying his death was her death warrant. With him had gone her last fond hope that he was living yet and would return to avenge their father and her. Now she asked where she should turn, alone and bereft of both him and their father. Henceforth she must again be slave to those she most abhorredâtheir father's murderers. She declared she would never cross their threshold more but would lay herself down at the gates to die and pine away there. If any in the house thought her an eyesore, let them slay herâlife to her was misery and death a boon.
The women asked where Zeus's bolts were, where the sun god's ray was, if with lightning and light these things were not shown to the day. The mourning woman cried out in despair. The women asked why she wept and told her to hush, warning that she would be her own death. She replied that they would trample on a bleeding heart if they whispered hope that those known to be dead might be alive. The women recalled how a seer was swallowed up, snared by a woman for a golden chain, and now in the nether world he reigned as a living soul. The mourning woman acknowledged this, saying the murderess was slain. The women confirmed it, noting that a champion was raised up to avenge the mourning ghost, but no champion remained for herâthe one yet left was taken and reft away.
Another woman approached with joy, having run with unseemly haste to bring joyful tidings and relief from all woes and weary sufferings. She announced that the brother was there in bodily presence. The mourning woman asked if she was mad, making mockery of her own misery and hers. The newcomer swore by their father's hearth that she did not mockâin very truth they had him there again. When asked from whose mouth she had this tale so blindly credited, she said she trusted none other than herself, the clearest proof and evidence of her eyes. She had approached their father's ancestral tomb and noted that the barrow was still wet with streams of milk, and garlands of every flower were wreathed around the monument. Upon the grave's edge lay a lock of fresh-severed hair. At the sight, a dear familiar image flashed on her soulâit was a token and sign from him whom most of all the world she loved. She knew this shining treasure could be none but his, for who else could have set it there?
Electra resolves to kill Aegisthus; Chrysothemis refuses to help
The mourning woman pitied her sister's simplicity, telling her she knew not in what land of dreams she was. The brother was deadâshe should look not to the dead for a deliverer, for that hope had gone. When asked who told her of his death, she replied that one who was present when he met his fate had told her. The sister asked where the man was, finding it strange and passing strange. The mourning woman said he was within, their mother's not unwelcome guest. The sister wondered whose then could have been those wreaths and milk poured upon the grave. The mourning woman thought it most likely they were brought as a kindly offering to the dead brother. The sister said she had been hurrying in hot haste to bring her joyful message, unaware of their ill plight, and now that she had brought it, she found fresh sorrows added to the old.
The mourning woman told her sister to be advised by her and lighten the burden of their woes. When asked if she would have her raise the dead to life again, she said she meant not thatâshe was not so demented. She asked her sister to be bold to execute what she enjoined. If it could profit, the sister would not refuse. The mourning woman reminded her that success was the meed of toil, and the sister said she knew it and would help all she could. The mourning woman then revealed how she was resolved to act. From friends they could not look for succor, for death had snatched all from them and they two were left alone. While yet the brother lived and tidings came of his prosperity, she still had hopes he would appear to avenge their father. But now that he was dead, she turned to her sister. From her a sister craved a sister's aid to slay their father's murderer. She plainly told her all, asking why she hesitated.
She painted a picture of their lotâto mourn the ancestral wealth whereof they were defrauded, to lament a youth that withered fast, unloved and unwed. She warned her sister to dream not that wedded bliss could ever be hers, for the usurper was too wary to permit that children should be born of them for his destruction. But if the sister attended her counsel, she would reap large benefits. First, from their dead father and brother, a name for piety. Furthermore, she would stand revealed as a free-born woman, and worthy spousals would be hers, for worth in women ever captivated all men. She asked if the sister did not see the honor she would win for both of them if she consented. What countryman or stranger would not greet their presence with acclaim, praising the sister pair who raised their father's house, who dared confront their foes in power, who jeopardized their lives in bloody vengeance? So would their fame be bruited far and wide, nor would their glory fail in life or death. She urged her sweet sister to hear her, take their father's part, side with their brother, give her and herself surcease of sorrow, remembering that a life of shame was shame for noble souls.
The women said that forethought for those that spoke and those that heard was most serviceable in such grave issues. Before she spoke, were not her mind perverse, she would have remembered caution. The sister asked what glamour fooled her thus to take up arms so boldly and enlist her. She pointed out that she was a woman, no man, no match in battle for their adversaries. Their fortune rose with the flowing tide while theirs ebbed and left them a stranded hulk. Who then could hope to grapple with a foe so mighty and escape without a fall? She warned that if the speech were overheard, they were like to change their evil plight for worse. Mere death were easy, but to crave for death and be denied that last boonâthere was the sting. She entreated her sister to restrain her rage before they wrecked themselves and perished root and branch. She begged her to learn at length, though late, to yield, nor match her weakness with their strength.
Orestes reveals his identity to Electra
The women said they should hearken, for mortal man had no gift greater than forethought and sobriety. The defiant woman said it was as she thoughtâbefore the answer came, she knew full well her sister would refuse aid. Unaided then and by herself she would do it, for done it must be, though she worked alone. The sister wished she had been so minded on the day their father died, asking what she could not have wrought. The defiant woman said her temper was the same, her mind less ripe. The sister told her to study to keep the same mind all her days. This counsel meant refusal of aid. The sister said yes, for misfortune dogged such enterprise. The defiant woman said she praised her prudence but hated her cowardice. The sister said that even when she would commend her, she would bear the commendation no less patiently. The defiant woman said that trial she would never endure from her. The sister said who lived would seeâtime yet might prove her wrong. The defiant woman told her to begone, for in her there was no power to aid. The sister replied not soâin her there was no will to learn. The defiant woman told her to go to their mother and tell it all to her. The sister said her hatred did not reach so far. The defiant woman insisted she would dishonor her, and that much was sure. The sister said dishonor? No, she sought to save her honor. The defiant woman asked if she was to make her rule of honor hers. The sister said when she was wise, then she would guide them both. The defiant woman said sound words were sad when so misapplied. The sister said she hit well the blot that was her own. The defiant woman asked if she denied the plea she urged was just. The sister said no, but even justice sometimes worked harm. The defiant woman chose not to conform to such a rule. The sister said well, if her purpose held, she would own her right. The defiant woman said it heldâshe would not swerve in awe of her. The sister asked if this was her last word, if she would not be advised. The defiant woman said no, for naught was loathlier than ill advice. The sister said she seemed deaf to all that could be urged. The defiant woman said her resolution was not born that day. The sister said then she would go, for she could not be brought to approve her words, nor she in turn to approve her ways. The defiant woman told her to go in thenâshe would never follow her, even if she prayed. It was insane to urge an idle suit. The sister said well, if she was wise in her own eyes, so let it be. Anon, sore stricken, she would take her words to heart. The sister departed.
The women sang of how wise nature taught the birds of air to care for those who reared them in the nest, and asked if man should not show like gratitude. By Zeus who hurled the levin and by Themis throned in heaven, there came a judgment day, and not long would punishment delay. They called upon the voice that echoed to the world below to bear to the dead a wail of woe, a tale of shame to proclaim to the line. They told him his house was stricken sore, that his children no more dwelt in amity together, that dire strife divided the twain, and that alone the daughter bided, alone she braved the surging swell. Disconsolate did she bewail her father, reckless of life, could she but quell the cursed pair, those Furies fell. They asked where one could find on earth a maid to match her worth. No generous soul would be fain by a base life to stain fair repute. Such baseness she scorned, choosing to mourn with them that mourned, wise and of daughters best, with double honors doubly blessed. They prayed they might see her tower as high above her foes in wealth and power as now they towered over her, for now her state was piteous to see. Yet brightly did she shine for fear of Zeus far-famed and love of laws divine.
Strangers approached and asked if they were guided right and were close upon their journey's end. The women asked what they sought and with what intent. The strangers said they sought and long had sought the house of the usurper. The women confirmed it was thereâtheir guide was nowise blameable. The strangers asked if one of them would announce to those within the auspicious advent of their company. The women said the maiden, as the next of kin, would do it. The strangers told the lady to go and say that visitors had come and sought the usurperâcertain Phocians. She asked if they came not to confirm by ocular proof the rumors they had heard. They said they had heard no rumorsâaged Strophius charged them with tidings. She asked what tidings, how she quaked with dread. They said they bore ashes within a narrow urn, all that remained of him, as she might see. She cried out unhappily that in her very sight lay palpable the burden of her woes. The strangers said that if for the dead man she was weeping, she should know this brazen urn contained his dust. She begged them to let her take it in her hands, saying that not for this dust alone, but for herself and all her house, she would weep and wail. The strangers brought it and gave it to her, whoever she was, for not as an ill-wisher but as friend, or haply near of kin, she asked the boon.
She addressed the last relics of the man she most loved, saying that high in hope she sent him forth, but how he had dashed all hope in his return. Radiant as day he sped forth, and now she held a dusty nothing in her hands.
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.
She wished she had died before she rescued him from death and sent him to a foreign land. Then he would have fallen together with their father and lain beside him in the ancestral tomb. Now in a strange land, exiled, far from home, far from his sister, he had died miserably. She was not by to lave and deck with loving hands his corpse and snatch his charred bones from out the flaming pyre. By foreign hands these rites were paid, and now he came back to her, of dust a little burden in this little urn. She lamented the nursing and toil she spent on him as an infant, all in vain, for he was never their mother's babe but hers. He had no nurse in all the house but herâshe was his sister, none so called but her. But now all this had vanished in a day, dead with his death, a whirlwind that passed by and left all desolate. Their father was gone, and she was dead in him, and he was lost. Their foes laughed. That mother, mother none, whose crimes he gave her secret word he would speedily avenge, was mad for joy. But now malignant fate, his fate and hers, had blasted all and sent her, instead of that dear form she loved so well, cold ashes and an unavailing shade. She took the urn in her hands and made her moan over her lost brother, saying that his piteous coming had undone her. She begged him to take her to his last lone home, a shadow to a shade, that she might dwell with him forever in the underworld, for here on earth they shared alike, and now she fain would die to share with him his tomb, for with the dead there was no mourning, none.
The women reminded her that she was child of a mortal father and he too was mortalâshe should calm her grief, for death was a debt that all must pay. One of the strangers cried out, asking what he should say where all words failed, and yet he could no longer curb his tongue. She asked what sudden trouble made him speak like this. He asked if this was the famed woman he beheld. She confirmed it was she, and very wretched was her state. He lamented the heavy change. She asked if his pity was for her. He spoke of beauty marred by foul and impious spite. She said yes, this wreck of womanhood was she. He lamented how sad a life of singleness. She asked why he gazed thus on her and lamented. He said that of his own ills how little then he knew. She asked if this was revealed by any word of hers. He said by seeing her conspicuous in her woes. She said and yet her looks revealed but half her woes. He asked if there could be woes more piteous to behold. She said yes, to be housemate with the murderers. He asked whose murderers, at what villainy she hinted. She said her father's, and their slave was she perforce. He asked who put upon her this constraint. She said her mother, not a mother save in name. He asked howâby blows or petty tyrannies. She said by blows and tyrannies of every kind. He asked if there was none to help or stay her hand. She said noneâthere was one, the man whose dust she held. He said that his pity was stirred at sight of her. She said he was the first who ever pitied her. He said he was the first to feel a common woe. She asked if he could be some kinsman from afar. He said if these were friends who heard them, he would answer. She said yes, they were friendsâhe need not fear to speak. He told her to give back the urn, and then he would tell her all. She begged him not to ask so hard a thing. He said to do as he bid herâshe would not repent it. She adjured him not to rob her of that which she most prized on earth. He said it might not be. She cried woe for him, woe for her, if she was not to give him burial. He told her to guard well her lipsâshe had no right to mourn. She asked if she had no right to mourn a brother who was dead. He said to speak of him in this wise was not meet. She asked if she was so dishonored of the dead. He said of none dishonoredâthis was not her part. She asked if it was not, if she held his ashes there. He said they were not his, though feigned to pass for his. She asked where then was her unhappy brother's grave. He said there was no graveâthey buried not the quick. She asked what he said. He said nothing that was not true. She asked if he lived. He said as surely as he was alive. She asked if he was the brother. He told her to look at a signet ring, their father's, and let it witness if he lied. She cried out in joy at the happy day. He confirmed it was a happy, happy day. She said she greeted his voice. He said his voice gave greeting back. She said her arms embraced him. He said may they clasp him aye. She called upon her countrywomen and dearest friends to behold him who in feigning died, and so by feigning was alive again and safe.
Clytemnestra is slain inside the palace
The women said they saw him, and this glad surprise made their eyes overflow with happy tears. The woman sang a strophe, saying that the son of her best loved father had now come, was there to find and see his heart's desire. The brother told her it was even so, but best to keep silence for a while. She asked what need for silence. He said it were wise, lest someone from the house should hear. She swore by Artemis the virgin maid that of womenfolk she would never be afraid, those stay-at-homes, mere cumberers of the ground. He noted that in the breasts of women dwelt the War-God too, as she methinks had found. She cried out that he waked a memory inveterate, ineffaceable, an ache time could not quell. He said he knew it too, but when the hour should strike, then it behoved them to recall those deeds. She sang an antistrophe, saying that all time, each passing hour henceforward she was fain to tell her griefs and pain, for late and hardly had she won free speech. He asked how she would forfeit it. She said by speaking out of season overmuch. She asked who would barter speech for silence now, who could be dumb, now that beyond all thought and hope she had seen him come. He said that sight was vouchsafed her when the gods first monished him to turn his steps toward home. She said if a god guided him to seek their halls, this boon surpassed all beforeâshe saw the hand of heaven. He said to check her gladness he was loth, and yet this ecstasy of joy made him fear. She begged him not to forbear after many a weary year, seeing her utter misery, not to rob her of the light, the presence of his face. He asked if she consented. She said how could she otherwise.
She told the women that friends, a voice was in her ear that she never hoped to hear. At the glad sound how could she be mute nor raise a joyous cry? But she had him, and the light of his countenance so bright not even sorrow could eclipse or still the music of those lips. The brother told her to spare him all superfluity of wordsâhow vile their mother, how the usurper drained by waste and luxury their father's house. The time admitted not such prolixity. She should tell him rather what would best subserve their present needâwhere they must show themselves or lie in wait, and either way confound the mockery and triumph of their foes. She should see that when they twain were gone within, their mother read not in her radiant looks their secret. She should weep as overwhelmed with grief at their feigned story. When the victory was won, they would have time and liberty to laugh. She said yes, as it pleased him it pleased her, for all her pleasure was his gift, not hers. Nor would she purchase for herself the greatest boon that cost him the least pangâso should she cross the providence that guided them. How it stood with them, doubtless he had heard. The usurper was away, only their mother kept the house, and she need not fear that the mother would see her face lit up with smiles. Her hatred of her was too deep engrained. Moreover, since his coming she had wept, wept for pure joy and still must weep to see the dead alive, on one day dead and living. It worked her strangelyâif their father appeared in bodily presence, she should now believe it no mocking phantom but his living self. Thus far no common fate had guided him, so he should lead her as he willed. For left alone, she had herself achieved of two things oneâa noble living or a noble death.
The brother told her to hush, for he heard a stir within the house as if one issued forth. She told the good sirs to pass inâthey were sure of welcome. They within would not reject their gift, though bitter it might prove. The aged servant emerged and called them fools and madmen, asking if they were weary of their lives or if their natural wits were too dull to see that they were standing not upon the brink but in the midst of mortal jeopardy. Had he not kept watch this weary while here at the door, their plot had slipped inside ere they themselves had entered. As it was, his watchfulness had fended this mishap. Now that their wordy eloquence had an end and their insatiate cries of joy, they should go in. It was ill delaying in such case, and well to make an end. The brother asked how he would fare within. The servant said right wellâto start with, he was known to none. The brother presumed he had reported his death. The servant said they would speak of him as though he were a shade. The brother asked if they were glad thereat, or what said they. The servant said he would tell him when the time was ripe. Meanwhile whatever they did, however ill, was well. The woman asked who this was. The brother asked if she did not see. She said she knew not, nor could guess. He asked if she did not know the man to whom she gave him once. She asked what man, how meant he. He said the man who stole him hence through her forethought and safe to Phocis bore. She asked if this could be he who, when their father was slain, faithful among the many false she found. He said it was heâlet that suffice her, ask no more. She cried out in joy at the happy day, calling him sole deliverer of their father's house, asking how he came there. She asked if he was indeed their savior who redeemed from endless woes her brother and herself. She addressed him as hands beloved, messenger whose feet were bringers of glad tidings, asking how so long he could be with her and remain unknown, stay her with feigned fables and conceal the truth that gave her life. She hailed him as father, for it was a father whom she seemed to see. Verily no man in the self-same day was hated so and so much loved as he.
The servant said enough methinksâthe tale between then and now, many revolving nights and days as many would serve to unfold it all. He asked why they stood there, saying it was time for them to act. Now the queen was alone, no man was now within, but if they stayed their hand, not only with her house-carls would they fight but with a troop more numerous and more skilled. The brother said their business would seem to crave no longer parleyâthey should instantly enter, but ere they entered first adore the gods who kept the threshold of the house. The brother and his companion entered the palace. The woman prayed to King Apollo to lend a gracious ear to them and to her too, who so oft laid on his shrine with humble hands her best. And now with vows, she besought Apollo, Lord Lycean, to prosper this their work, defend the right, and show to godless men how the gods vindicated impiety.
The women sang a strophe, saying that breathing out blood and vengeance, stalking came Ares, sure though slow. Even now the hounds were on the trail, within the sinners at their coming quailed. A little while and death would realize the vision that now floated before their eyes. For now within the house was led by stealth the champion of the dead. He trod once more the ancestral hall of kings, and death new-whetted in his hands he brought. Great Maia's son conducted him on his way and shrouded his guile and brooked not more delay. The woman told the dearest women that even as she spoke, the men were at their work, but not a word. Even now the queen decked the urn for burial and the pair stood by. She asked why she sped forth. She said to keep a watch for fear the usurper should forestall them unawares. From within came a cry of woe, a woeful house of friends forsaken, full of murderers. The woman told them to listen to a cry within, asking if they heard not. She said she heard and shudderedâoh, an awesome cry. The queen cried out in woe, asking where the usurper was. The woman said hark, once again a wail. The queen cried out to her son to have pity on his mother. The woman said she had none on him or on the father that begat him. The women lamented that the unhappy realm and house, the curse that dogged them day by day was dying, dying fast. The queen cried that she was stricken. The woman said to strike, if she could, again. The queen cried woe once more. The woman said she would that woe were for the usurper not for her alone. The women said the curses worked, the buried lived again, and blood for blood, the slayer's blood they drained, the ghosts of victims long since slain.
Aegisthus returns and meets his doom
The brother and his companion emerged from the palace. The women sang an antistrophe, saying that they came forth with gory hands that reeked of sacrifice to Aresâit was done well. The woman asked how they had sped. The brother said all within was well, if Phoebus's oracle spoke well. She asked if the wretched woman was dead. He said she should no longer fear her mother's arrogance would flout her more. The women told them to cease, for they saw the usurper full in sight. The woman told the youths to go back to the house. The brother asked where they saw him. She said he was approaching from the suburb with an air of exultation, saying he was theirs. The women told them to go quick to the palace doorwayâhalf their work was well done, they should do no less well what remained. The brother said they should fear not, they would do it. The woman told him to speed on his way. He said he was gone. She said she would leave what was there to her. The women said it were not amiss to breathe some soft words in his ear, that he might blindly rush into the lists of doom.
The usurper approached and asked if any of them could tell him where to find the Phocian strangers who, he heard, had brought news of the young man midst the chariots wrecked. He questioned the woman, her in former days so froward, saying it concerned her most, and she, as best informed, could tell him best. She said she knew for sure, else were she unconcerned in what had happened to her nearest kin. He asked where then were these newcomers, telling her straight. She said withinâthey had won their kindly hostess's heart. He asked if they in very truth reported his death. She said they did, and more, they showed them the dead man. He asked if he too might view the body to make sure. She said he might, but it was a gruesome spectacle. He said she gave him much joy against her wont. She said she wished him joy, if here was food for joy. He told them to be silent and attend, to throw open wide the gate for all Mycenae and Argos to see. If any heretofore was puffed with hopes of this pretender, now he saw him dead, let him in time accept his yoke, nor wait to learn wisdom by chastisement too late. The woman said her lesson was learnt alreadyâtime had taught her the wisdom of consenting with the strong.
The scene opened showing a shrouded corpse with the brother and his companion beside it. The usurper said that he looked upon this form laid low by jealousy of Heaven, but if his words seemed overbold, let them be unsaid. He told them to take from the face the face-clothâhe, as kin, he too would pay his tribute of lament. The brother said it was not for him but for the usurper to see and kindly greet what lay there. The usurper said well said, so would he. He told the woman that if she was within, to go call the queen, for he would see her. The brother said she was beside himâhe should look not otherwhere. The usurper lifted the face-cloth and cried out in horror. The brother asked why he started, if the face was strange. The usurper asked who spread the net wherein he lay enmeshed. The brother asked if he had not learnt ere this that the dead of whom he spoke were alive. The usurper said he read the riddleâit was none else than the brother whom he now addressed. The brother said a seer so wise, and yet befooled so long. The usurper said he was spoiled, undone, yet he asked to suffer him one little word. The woman told her brother in heaven's name to let him not speak a word or plead his cause. When a poor wretch was in the toils of fate, what could a brief reprieve avail him? No, she said to slay him outright and having slain him give his corpse to such grave-makers as was meet, far from their sight. For her no otherwise could he wipe out the memory of past wrongs.
The brother told the usurper to get inside quickly. The issue lay not now in wordsâthe case was tried and he must die. The usurper asked why hale him indoorsâif his doom was just, what need of darkness? Why not slay him there?
'Tis not for thee to order; go within;
Where thou didst slay my father thou must die.
The usurper asked if there was need this palace should behold all woes of the line, now and to come. The brother said it would behold his ownâthus much he could predict. The usurper said his skill as seer derived not from his father. The brother said he bandied wordsâtheir going was delayed. He told him to go. The usurper said he should lead the way. The brother said no, he must go the first. The usurper asked if it was lest he escape. The brother said nay, not to let him choose the manner of his deathâhe must be spared no bitterness of death. And well it were if on transgressors swift this sentence fell, slay him, so wickedness should less abound.
The women sang their final words.
House of Atreus! thou hast passed
Through the fire and won at last
Freedom, perfected to-day
By this glorious essay.