University of Virginia Library

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.