Electra E-Book

Sophocles

• Herausgeber: Sovereign
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Serie: Plays by Sophocles
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Seitenzahl: 67

Beschreibung

Orestes arrives with his friend Pylades, son of Strophius, and a tutor. Their plan is to have the tutor announce that Orestes has died in a chariot accident, and that two men (really Orestes and Pylades) are arriving shortly to deliver an urn with his remains. Meanwhile, Electra continues to mourn the death of her father Agamemnon, holding her mother Clytemnestra responsible for his murder. When Electra is told of the death of Orestes her grief is doubled, but is to be short-lived.

Leseprobe

Sophocles

Sophocles

Electra

LONDON ∙ NEW YORK ∙ TORONTO ∙ SAO PAULO ∙ MOSCOW

PARIS ∙ MADRID ∙ BERLIN ∙ ROME ∙ MEXICO CITY ∙ MUMBAI ∙ SEOUL ∙ DOHA

TOKYO ∙ SYDNEY ∙ CAPE TOWN ∙ AUCKLAND ∙ BEIJING

New Edition

Published by Sovereign Classic

www.sovereignclassic.net

This Edition

First published in 2015

Copyright © 2015 Sovereign Classic

Contents

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

ELECTRA

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

ORESTES, son of Agamemnon and CLYTEMNESTRAELECTRA, sister of ORESTESCHRYSOTHEMIS, sister of ORESTESAN OLD MAN, formerly the PAEDAGOGUS or Attendant Of ORESTESCLYTEMNESTRAAEGISTHUSCHORUS OF WOMEN OF MYCENAEMute PersonsPYLADES, son of Strophius, King of Crisa, the friend Of ORESTES.A handmaid of CLYTEMNESTRA. Two attendants of ORESTES

ELECTRA

SCENE

At Mycenae, before the palace of the Pelopidae. It is morning and the new-risen sun is bright. The PAEDAGOGUS enters on the left of the spectators, accompanied by the two youths, ORESTES and PYLADES.

PAEDAGOGUS

Son of him who led our hosts at Troy of old, son of Agamemnon!- now thou mayest behold with thine eyes all that thy soul hath desired so long. There is the ancient Argos of thy yearning,- that hallowed scene whence the gadfly drove the daughter of Inachus; and there, Orestes, is the Lycean Agora, named from the wolf-slaying god; there, on the left, Hera’s famous temple; and in this place to which we have come, deem that thou seest Mycenae rich in gold, with the house of the Pelopidae there, so often stained with bloodshed; whence I carried thee of yore, from the slaying of thy father, as thy kinswoman, thy sister, charged me; and saved thee, and reared thee up to manhood, to be the avenger of thy murdered sire. Now, therefore, Orestes, and thou, best of friends, Pylades, our plans must be laid quickly; for lo, already the sun’s bright ray is wakingthe songs of the birds into clearness, and the dark night of stars is spent. Before, then, anyone comes forth from the house, take counsel; seeing that the time allows not of delay, but is full ripe for deeds.

ORESTES

True friend and follower, how well dost thou prove thy loyalty to our house! As a steed of generous race, though old, loses not courage in danger, but pricks his ear, even so thou urgest us forward, and art foremost in our support. I will tell thee, then, what I have determined;listen closely to my words, and correct me, if I miss the mark in aught. When I went to the Pythian oracle, to learn how I might avenge my father on his murderers, Phoebus gave me the response which thou artnow to hear:- that alone, and by stealth, without aid of arms or numbers, I should snatch the righteous vengeance of my hand. Since, then, the god spake to us on this wise, thou must go into yonder house, when opportunity gives thee entrance, and learn all that is passing there, so that thou mayest report to us from sure knowledge. Thine age, and the lapse of time, will prevent them from recognising thee; they will never suspect who thou art, with that silvered hair. Let thy tale be that thou art a Phocian stranger, sent by Phanoteus; for he is the greatest of their allies. Tell them, and confirm it with thine oath, that Orestes hath perished by a fatal chance,- hurled at the Pythian games from his rapid chariot; be that the substance of thy story. We, meanwhile, will first crown my father’s tomb, as the god enjoined, with drink-offerings and the luxuriant tribute of severed hair; then come back, bearing in our hands an urn of shapely bronze,-now hidden in the brushwood, as I think thou knowest,- so to gladden them with the false tidings that this my body is no more, but has been consumed with fire and turned to ashes. Why should the omen trouble me, when by a feigned death I find life indeed, and win renown? I trow, no word is ill-omened, if fraught with gain. Often ere now have I seen wise men die in vain report; then, when they return home, they are held in more abiding honour: as I trust that from this rumour I also shall emerge in radiant life, and yet shine like a star upon my foes. O my fatherland, and ye gods of the land, receive me with good fortune in this journey,- and ye also, halls of my fathers, for I come with divine mandate to cleanse you righteously; send me not dishonoured from the land, but grant that I may rule over my possessions, and restore my house! Enough;- be it now thy care, old man, to go and heed thy task; and we twain will go forth; for so occasion bids, chief ruler of everyenterprise for men.

ELECTRA within

Ah me, ah me!

PAEDAGOGUS

Hark, my son,- from the doors, methought, came the sound of some handmaid moaning within.

ORESTES

Can it be the hapless Electra? Shall we stay here, and listen to her laments?

PAEDAGOGUS

No, no: before all else, let us seek to obey the command of Loxias, and thence make a fair beginning, by pouring libations to thy sire; that brings victory within our grasp, and gives us the mastery in all that we do.

Exeunt PAEDAGOGUS on the spectators’ left, ORESTES and PYLADES the right.- Enter ELECTRA, from the house. She is meanly clad.

ELECTRA chanting

systemaO thou pure sunlight, and thou air, earth’s canopy, how often have ye heard the strains of my lament, the wild blows dealt against this bleeding breast, when dark night fails! And my wretched couch in yonder house of woe knows well, ere now, how I keep the watches of the night,- how often I bewail my hapless sire; to whom deadly Ares gave not of his gifts in a strange land, but my mother, and her mate Aegisthus, cleft his head with murderous axe, as woodmen fell an oak. And for this no plaint bursts from any lip save mine, when thou, my father, hath died a death so cruel and so piteous! antisystemaBut never will I cease from dirge and sore lament, while I look on the trembling rays of the bright stars, or on this light of day; but like the nightingale, slayer of her offspring, I will wail without ceasing, and cry aloud to all, here, at the doors of my father. O home of Hades and Persephone! O Hermes of the shades! potent Curse, and ye, dread daughters of the gods, Erinyes,- Ye who behold when a life is reft by violence, when a bed is dishonoured by stealth,- come, help me, avenge the murder of my sire,- and send to me my brother; for I have no more the strength to bear up alone against the load of grief that weighs me down.

As ELECTRA finishes her lament, (the CHORUS OF WOMEN OF MYCENAE enter. The following

lines between ELECTRA and the CHORUS are chanted responsively.)

CHORUS

strophe 1Ah, Electra, child of a wretched mother, why art thou ever pining thus in ceaseless lament for Agamemnon, who long ago was wickedly ensnared by thy false mother’s wiles, and betrayed to death by dastardly hand? Perish the author of that deed, if I may utter such prayer!

ELECTRA

Ah, noble-hearted maidens, ye have come to soothe my woes. I know and feel it, it escapes me not; but I cannot leave this task undone, or cease from mourning for my hapless sire. Ah, friends whose love responds to mine in every mood, leave me to rave thus,- Oh leave me, I entreat you!

CHORUS

antistrophe 1But never by laments or prayers shalt thou recall thy sire from that lake of Hades to which all must pass. Nay, thine is a fatal course of grief, passing ever from due bounds into a cureless sorrow; wherein there is no deliverance from evils. Say, wherefore art thou enamoured of misery?

ELECTRA

Foolish is the child who forgets a parent’s piteous death. No, dearer to my soul is the mourner that laments for Itys, Itys, evermore, that bird distraught with grief, the messenger of Zeus. Ah, queen of sorrow,