University of Virginia Library

ACT THE FIRST.

SCENE THE FIRST.

Electra.
Elec.
Oh fatal, horrible, atrocious night,
Oh night, for ever present to my thoughts!
Now, for two lustres, every year, I've witness'd,
Pall'd in ensanguined darkness, thy return;
Yet, 'tis not shed, the expiatory blood,
The blood that thou requirest. Oh remembrance!
Oh Agamemnon, oh my wretched father!
Within these thresholds I beheld thee slain;
And by what hand? To his most sacred tomb,
Oh night, thou guidest me, by all unseen;
Except, indeed, that, ere to-morrow dawn,
Ægisthus do not come to interrupt
The tears, which I disconsolately bring
In annual tribute to his sacred ashes!
The only tribute which I now can give thee
Of past affection, and the only pledge
Of hope, not yet quite banish'd from my bosom,
Of possible revenge. Ah! yes: I swear,
If yet I live in Argos, in this palace,
Near a flagitious mother, and the slave
Of an Ægisthus, it is that revenge,
That possible revenge, and nothing else,
That gives me strength t'endure the life I lead.
Orestes yet, though far from Argos, lives.
'Twas I that saved thee, brother; and for thee
I save myself, until the day arise,
When thou shalt shed upon my father's tomb,
Not tears, but life-blood of an enemy.

SCENE THE SECOND.

Clytemnestra, Electra.
Cly.
Daughter.

Elec.
What voice is that? Oh heaven! comest thou?

Cly.
Ah! fly not from me, daughter; I would share
With thee the sacred task; in vain Ægisthus
Prohibits me; he will not know it. Come;
Let us together to the tomb repair.

Elec.
Of whom?

Cly.
Of ... thy ... unhappy ... father.

Elec.
Ah!
Wherefore not say of thy unhappy consort?
Thou darest not, and well that fear becomes thee.
But how darest thou thy footsteps thither bend,
Still with his blood defiled?

Cly.
Ten years are past
Since that atrocious night; ten years I have wept
Unceasingly my guilt.

Elec.
What length of time
Can e'er suffice t'atone for such a fault?
E'en were thy tears eternal, that were nothing.
Dost thou not see it? On these horrid walls
Still the coagulated blood-drops stand
Which thou hast shed: ah fly; at sight of thee,
Behold, it liquifies, and reddens. Fly,
Oh thou, whom I ne'er can, nor ought to call
My mother: go; return to th'impious bed
Of th'infamous Ægisthus. At his side
His consort stand; nor further do advance
To trouble Agamemnon's quiet relics.
E'en now his terrible, indignant shade
Rises against us, and repels thee back.

Cly.
Thou makest me shudder ... once thou lovedst me ...
Oh daughter! ... oh remorse! ... oh agony!
Think'st thou I can be happy with Ægisthus?

Elec.
Happy? Deservest thou to be happy? Heaven
By an indissoluble tie has join'd
Vice, infamy, and wretchedness together.
Thy agony in fate's eternal archives
Hath been from all eternity engraved.
Thou only provest yet the first faint symptoms
Of future torment: near the dreary waves
Of black Cocytus 'tis reserved for thee
In all its plenitude. There art thou doom'd
To bear the menacing and angry looks
Of thy slain consort: there wilt thou behold,
On thy arrival, the indignant spectres
Of thy forefathers shudder; thou wilt hear
The inexorable judge of hell regret,
That to thy crime no punishment is equal.

Cly.
Wretch that I am! What can I ask for? ... pity ...
No, that I merit not ... and yet, oh daughter,
Could'st thou but see the anguish of my heart ...
But who, without abhorrence, could explore
The deep recesses of a heart, like mine,
Contaminate with so much infamy?
I cannot blame thy hatred, or thy rage.
In life, already, all the pangs I prove
Of baleful Erebus. Scarce had the blow
Been by my hand accomplish'd, ere repentance,
Swift, but too late, tremendously assail'd me.
E'en from that moment, the ensanguined spectre
Both day and night before my blasted eyes
Horribly rises. Wheresoe'er I move,
Preceding me, the phantom I behold
Trailing along my desolated path
A track of sable blood: 'tis on my bed;
'Tis on my throne; and worse, 'tis in my heart:
If, as it seldom happens, I should close,
Upon my restless couch, my weary lids,
The spectre haunts my dreams; and I behold him
Plunge in the wide wounds of his bleeding breast
His rabid hands, then wildly draw them forth
Dropping with gore, and in a threatening posture,
With fingers clench'd, wring them before my face.
To horrid nights succeed more horrid days:
Thus I exist in a protracted death.—
Oh daughter, (for thou art my daughter still,
Whate'er I be) weep'st not at pangs like these?

Elec.
I weep, ... ah yes ... I weep—But tell me, mother,
Dost thou not yet enjoy the usurp'd throne?
Does not Ægisthus with thee also reap
The common harvest of your common crime?
With thee I should not weep; far less should I
Yield credence to thy tears. Go to Ægisthus;
Leave me alone t'accomplish my design.

Cly.
Oh daughter, hear me; stay a moment longer;
I am enough distress'd. I hate myself
More than thou hatest me. Too late I knew
Ægisthus ... Ah! ... What do I say? Atrides
Scarce was no more, ere fully I discover'd
The baseness of his soul; yet still I loved him.
I felt, and still I feel, the speechless conflict
Of a remorseful love ... Remorse, and love,
Unnatural pair, of me alone ye are worthy! ...
What recompence Ægisthus renders me
For my delinquency, I clearly see:
I see contempt in spurious love conceal'd.
But so much am I fall'n, that what atonement
Can I now offer for my turpitude,
That is not criminal?

Elec.
A lofty death
Atones for every crime. But, since thou hast not
The weapon, reeking with thy husband's blood,
Against thy bosom hurl'd; since toward thyself
Thy parricidal arm hath seem'd to lose
Its wonted intrepidity; ah, why
Hast thou not turn'd, or turn'st thou not, thy sword
Against the bosom of that miscreant,
Who takes from thee thy honour, peace, and fame,
And his paternal rights from thy Orestes?

Cly.
Orestes? ... when I hear that name pronounced,
In every vein my blood congeals.

Elec.
My blood
Boils in each vein, hearing Orestes' name.
Thou feelest now, as such a mother should,
A mother's love. But yet Orestes lives.

Cly.
And may the gods grant him a lengthen'd life.
Ah, may he never his incautious feet
Toward Argos turn. I am a wretched mother;
Even for ever have I from myself
Banish'd my son. Alas! I am compell'd,
E'en in proportion as I love him, now
To supplicate the gods, that they no more
May bring him in my sight.

Elec.
I feel a love
Quite opposite to thine. For his return
I wish, and weary heaven with prayers to grant it;
And in the hope of that return I live.
I trust, that one day he will dare to come,
As should the son of murder'd Agamemnon.

SCENE THE THIRD.

Ægisthus, Clytemnestra, Electra.
Ægis.
Doth then the entire day seem short, oh queen,
For thy afflictions? Ere the morning's dawn
To fresh regrets thou risest? Yield the past
To merited oblivion; and consent,
By being so thyself, to make me happy.

Cly.
Thou wishedst but to reign, and now thou reign'st.
Now, what solicitude canst feel for me
Or for my grief? Eternal is that grief,
And that thou knowest.

Ægis.
I know well what fount
Thus ministers to thee eternal tears.
Thou would'st, at all events, preserve Electra;
With thy solicitations I complied
For thy misfortune and my own. Henceforth
That aspect of insufferable grief
I from thine eyes will take away: I will
Henceforth the palace gladden; and from thence,
With her, will banish tears.

Elec.
Drive me away:
Still ever will this palace, where thou dwell'st,
Be the abode of tears, What other voice,
Save that of lamentation, can be heard
Where an Ægisthus reigns? But it must give
Exquisite pleasure to Thyestes' son
To see the progeny of Atreus weep.

Cly.
Daughter ... he is my husband. Ah, reflect,
Ægisthus, that she is my daughter.

Ægis.
She?
She is the daughter of Atrides.

Elec.
He?
He is Atrides' murderer.

Cly.
Electra! ...
Ægisthus, pity ... dost thou see that tomb,
That horrible tomb ... and art not satisfied?

Ægis.
Lady, be more consistent with thyself.
Say, whose hand laid Atrides in that tomb?

Cly.
Fatal rebuke! Can more be wanting now
To fill the measure of my bitterness?
The very instigator to it, now,
Upbraids me for the crime.

Elec.
Oh new delight!
Oh sole delight, with which, for ten years past,
My heart has been refresh'd! I see you both
A prey to hatred and remorse. At length
I the retributory transports hear
Of a flagitious love: at length are fled
All your illusions; thoroughly ye know
Each other. May contempt impel to hate,
And hate to further blood.

Cly.
Oh horrible,
But merited denunciatory curse!
Oh heaven! ... Ah! ... daughter.

Ægis.
From thyself alone
Arises all our discord. Such a daughter
Well may a mother lose, nor feel herself
More childless than before. I might reclaim
That which I weakly granted to her prayers;
But I am not accustomed to reclaim
That which I once have given; not to see thee
Suffices to our peace. To-day, I yield thee
To the most abject of my slaves as wife.
With him thou shalt be banish'd: and shall bring him,
Amid the infamy of squalid want,
Instead of dowry, thy eternal tears.

Elec.
Speak'st thou of other infamy than thine?
What slave of thine is vile compared with thee?
Or more degraded, what?

Ægis.
Depart.

Elec.
I know
That thou hast saved my life t'increase my pangs.
But, come what may come, this my hand, which heaven
Perhaps dooms to lofty purposes...

Ægis.
Now go;
Once more I say it.

Cly.
Be thou silent now ...
Oh daughter ... go, I pray thee ...

Elec.
Severed from you, there is no punishment
Which equals the annoyance of your presence.

SCENE THE FOURTH.

Ægisthus, Clytemnestra.
Cly.
To hear severe rebukes from every tongue,
And merit them! ... Oh life! to thee what death
Can ever be compared!

Ægis.
Oft have I told thee,
That while Electra in our presence stays
We ne'er can breathe in peace. 'Tis time, high time,
That she were slain: the safety of the state,
Thy peace and mine, demand it: furthermore,
By her offensive pride she stands condemn'd.
But still thy tears entreat me to absolve her.
Cease then to oppose her banishment: I will it:
And it were utterly in vain for thee
To seek t'oppose that will.

Cly.
Oft have I told thee,
Whatever be Electra's destiny,
Never 'twixt us, oh never, can be peace:
'Mid apprehension thou, I 'mid remorse;
In guilty terrors both, we shall drag on
A horrid apprehensive life for ever.
Is there another hope?

Ægis.
I ne'er look back:
I of the future think: I ne'er can be
Happy, while of Atrides' seed remains.
Orestes lives: in him, with years, matures
Hatred towards us: he lives, and lives alone
On the dire project of ferocious vengeance.

Cly.
Wretched! he lives; but far from us, unknown,
Helpless, obscure.—Ah cruel! to a mother
Canst thou lament thus, that her son yet lives?

Ægis.
Yes, to a mother, who has slain her husband,
Thus I may well lament. That to our love
Thou sacrificedst; should'st thou not then this
Equally to my safety sacrifice?

Cly.
Oh thou, ne'er satisfied with blood and crimes! ...
Thou hast already caught me in the snare
Of feigned regard: thy cruel manners since
Too well have proved this truth! Still in my breast,
E'en yet a flame too strong, and too sincere,
I cherish; and thou knowest this too well!
Hence may'st thou judge, if I can fail to love
An innocent and only son. What heart
Is there so hard as not to weep his lot?

Ægis.
Thou who with one blow two did'st immolate.
The self-same sword cut off the father's life,
And graved, in sable characters of blood,
The son's death-warrant.—My procrastination,
Fortune, the subtle foresight of Electra,
Have saved Orestes. But what matters that?
Darest thou proclaim the innocence of a son,
Whose father thou hast slain, whose throne usurped?

Cly.
Oh words of blood! ... Oh son, deprived of all,
Nothing thou givest him, who, of that all
Thus robb'd thee, if thou givest not thy life.

Ægis.
And, tell me, while he lives, are they secure
Who triumph in his spoils? Over thy head
His sword for ever hangs. Son of Atrides,
The only branch of that flagitious race,
Uniting every crime, his fierce revenge
Would not alone with my blood be appeased.
Anxiety for thee, more than myself,
Weighs on my bosom when I think of him.
Thou heard'st the dreadful and oracular voice,
Predicting, that Orestes would become
The murderer of his parents? Wretched mother,
That voice belongs to thee; whene'er the power
Is mine, I ought t'accelerate his death,
Thou to endure it silently.

Cly.
Alas! ...
My blood. ...

Ægis.
Orestes is not of thy blood;
He is the impure remnant of the blood
Of Atreus: a blood to every crime
Predestined. Thou his father hast beheld,
By impious ambition, hurried on;
His daughter, on the altar, immolate.
Orestes, treading in his father's steps,
Atrides' son, will sacrifice his mother.
Mother too blind, and too compassionate!
That son now holds himself prepared to slay thee:
Behold him; tremble ...

Cly.
To avenge his father,
Suffer him, then, to pierce this guilty breast.
Another greater crime, if such there be,
Perhaps should atone for mine. But thou, Ægisthus,
Whatever destiny may threaten me,
I do conjure thee, by the injured blood
Of Agamemnon, do not thou attempt
To plot against Orestes. Far from us,
And exiled, he may live; but let him live.
Orestes would not dare to turn his steps
Towards his native country; if he came,
My breast should shield him from thy violence.
But if he came, 'tis heaven that brings him hither;
And who avails 'gainst heaven? What doubt remains?
I a predestinated victim am.

Ægis.
Awhile refrain from tears. Orestes lives:
And I but faintly hope that in my power
He ever will be found. But if the day
Should e'er arrive, when I indeed suffice
To consummate a necessary deed,
Which thou in vain call'st criminal, that day
Thou shalt, if so thou wilt, resume thy tears.