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Full well I feel that too impatiently
145
I seem to multiply the sounds of woe.
145
Yet suffer me, dear women! Mighty force
145
Compels me. Who that had a noble heart
145
And saw her father’s cause, as I have done,
145
By day and night more outraged, could refrain?
145
Are my woes lessening? Are they not in bloom?—
145
My mother full of hate and hateful proved,
145
Whilst I in my own home must dwell with these,
My father’s murderers, and by them be ruled,
Dependent on their bounty even for bread.
And then what days suppose you I must pass,
When I behold Aegisthus on the throne
That was my father’s; when I see him wear
Such robes, and pour libations by the hearth
Where he destroyed him; lastly, when I see
Their crowning insolence,—our regicide
Laid in my father’s chamber beside her,
My mother—if she still must bear the name
When resting in those arms? Her shame is dead.
She harbours with blood-guiltiness, and fears
No vengeance, but, as laughing at the wrong,
She watches for the hour wherein with guile
She killed our sire, and orders dance and mirth
That day o’ the month, and joyful sacrifice
Of thanksgiving. But I within the house
Beholding, weep and pine, and mourn that feast
Of infamy, called by my father’s name,
All to myself; for not even grief may flow
As largely as my spirit would desire.
That so-called princess of a noble race
O’ercrows my wailing with loud obloquy:
‘Hilding! are you alone in grief? Are none
Mourning for loss of fathers but yourself?
‘Fore the blest Gods! ill may you thrive, and ne’er
Find cure of sorrow from the powers below!’
So she insults: unless she hear one say
‘Orestes will arrive’: then standing close,
She shouts like one possessed into mine ear,
‘These are your doings, this your work, I trow.
150
You stole Orestes from my gripe, and placed
150
His life with fosterers; but you shall pay
150
Full penalty.’ So harsh is her exclaim.
150
And he at hand, the husband she extols,
150
Hounds on the cry, that prince of cowardice,
150
From head to foot one mass of pestilent harm.
150
Tongue-doughty champion of this women’s-war.
150
I, for Orestes ever languishing
To end this, am undone. For evermore
Intending, still delaying, he wears out
All hope, both here and yonder. How, then, friends,
Can I be moderate, or feel the touch
Of holy resignation? Evil fruit
Cannot but follow on a life of ill.
Full well I feel that too impatiently
145
I seem to multiply the sounds of woe.
145
Yet suffer me, dear women! Mighty force
145
Compels me. Who that had a noble heart
145
And saw her father’s cause, as I have done,
145
By day and night more outraged, could refrain?
145
Are my woes lessening? Are they not in bloom?—
145
My mother full of hate and hateful proved,
145
Whilst I in my own home must dwell with these,
My father’s murderers, and by them be ruled,
Dependent on their bounty even for bread.
And then what days suppose you I must pass,
When I behold Aegisthus on the throne
That was my father’s; when I see him wear
Such robes, and pour libations by the hearth
Where he destroyed him; lastly, when I see
Their crowning insolence,—our regicide
Laid in my father’s chamber beside her,
My mother—if she still must bear the name
When resting in those arms? Her shame is dead.
She harbours with blood-guiltiness, and fears
No vengeance, but, as laughing at the wrong,
She watches for the hour wherein with guile
She killed our sire, and orders dance and mirth
That day o’ the month, and joyful sacrifice
Of thanksgiving. But I within the house
Beholding, weep and pine, and mourn that feast
Of infamy, called by my father’s name,
All to myself; for not even grief may flow
As largely as my spirit would desire.
That so-called princess of a noble race
O’ercrows my wailing with loud obloquy:
‘Hilding! are you alone in grief? Are none
Mourning for loss of fathers but yourself?
‘Fore the blest Gods! ill may you thrive, and ne’er
Find cure of sorrow from the powers below!’
So she insults: unless she hear one say
‘Orestes will arrive’: then standing close,
She shouts like one possessed into mine ear,
‘These are your doings, this your work, I trow.
150
You stole Orestes from my gripe, and placed
150
His life with fosterers; but you shall pay
150
Full penalty.’ So harsh is her exclaim.
150
And he at hand, the husband she extols,
150
Hounds on the cry, that prince of cowardice,
150
From head to foot one mass of pestilent harm.
150
Tongue-doughty champion of this women’s-war.
150
I, for Orestes ever languishing
To end this, am undone. For evermore
Intending, still delaying, he wears out
All hope, both here and yonder. How, then, friends,
Can I be moderate, or feel the touch
Of holy resignation? Evil fruit
Cannot but follow on a life of ill.
Electra. Sophocles. Lewis Campbell (Translator). London, New York and Toronto. 1906.