ELECTRA.
It is my death-blow; I am lost, am lost.
CLYTAEMNESTRA.
Look to thyself, girl. Stranger, tell me true,
In what way was it that he met his doom?
PAEDAGOGOS.
To this end was I sent; thou shalt hear all.
To those great games, the pride of Hellas, came
Orestes, fain to win the Delphic prize.
There, when he heard the herald with loud voice
Proclaim the race, which is the first event,
He entered, dazzling, and admired of all;
And shooting swift from starting-post to goal,
Bore off the prize of glorious victory.
Briefly to speak, exploits so marvellous,
Such proofs of prowess, never did I see.
Know that in every foot-race that as wont
The presidents proclaimed, he, midst the cheers
Of gratulating crowds, bore off the prize;
While heralds loud proclaimed the victor's name,
Argive Orestes, Agamemnon's son,
Heir to the glory of that conqueror.
So far he prospered; but when heaven decrees
That man shall fall, man's might is vain to save.
Another day, when in the early morn,
The chariot race was held upon the course,
Orestes came with many a charioteer.
One an Achaean, one a Spartan, was;
Two with their cars from distant Lybia came;
Orestes with his steeds of Thessaly
The fifth, the sixth was an Aetolian,
With bright bay steeds; then a Magnesian,
Then with white steeds an Aeneanian came;
Athens, the god-built city, sent the ninth;
In the tenth chariot a Boeotian rode.
Taking their stand, each where his lot was drawn,
And as the masters of the games ordained,
At trumpet's sound they started, and at once,
All shouting to their steeds, they shook the reins
To urge them onwards, while the course was filled
With din of rattling chariots; rose the dust
In clouds, the racers, mingled in a throng,
Plied, each of them, the goad unsparingly,
To clear the press of cars and snorting steeds,
So close, they felt the horses' breath behind,
And all the whirling wheels were flecked with foam.
Orestes showed his skill once and again,
Grazing the pillar at the course's end,
The near horse well in hand, his mate let go.
So far had all the chariots safely run;
But now the hard-mouthed Aeneanian steeds
O'erpowered their driver, and in wheeling round,
Just as, the sixth stretch past, the seventh began,
Dashed front to front on the Barcaean car.
Disaster on disaster came: now one
And now another car was overturned
And shattered; Crisa's plain was filled with wreck.
The skilful charioteer whom Athens sent
Then drew aside, slackened his pace and gave
The surge of wild confusion room to pass.
Last of the train Orestes drove, his steeds
Holding in hand, and trusting to the end;
But seeing only the Athenian left,
With piercing shouts, urging his team to speed,
He made for him, and side by side the pair
Drove onward, yoke even with yoke, now one
And now the other leading by a head.
Through all the courses but the last that youth
Ill-starred stood safely in an upright car.
But at the last, slackening his left-hand rein,
As his horse turned the goal, he unawares
The pillar struck and broke his axle-tree.
Out of the car he rolled, still in the reins
Entangled, while his horses, as he fell,
Rushed wildly through the middle of the course.
The whole assembly, when they saw him fall,
Raised a loud cry of horror at the fate
Of him that was the hero of the games,
Seeing him dragged along the ground, his feet
Anon flung skyward; till some charioteers,
With much ado, stopping the headlong steeds,
Released him, but so mangled that no friend
The gory and disfigured corpse would know.
They laid him on the funeral pyre, and now
Have Phocian envoys in a narrow urn
Brought the poor ashes of that mighty frame
For sepulture in his ancestral tomb.
Such is my story. Sad enough for those
Who hear; for those who saw most piteous
Of all the sights that e'er these eyes beheld.
CHORUS.
Alas, alas! it seems the noble stock
Of our old Kings is wholly rooted out.
CLYTAEMNESTRA.
What shall I call this, Zeus? Is it good luck,
Or gain with sorrow blended? Sad it is
That I should owe my safety to my dole.
PAEDAGOGOS.
Why art thou downcast, lady, at my words?
CLYTAEMNESTRA.
Strong is a mother's love; no injury
Can make her hate the offspring of her womb.
PAEDAGOGOS.
My errand then is bootless, as it seems.
CLYTAEMNESTRA.
Bootless it is not, and it could not be,
If thou hast brought me certain evidence
That he is dead, who, owing life to me,
Rebelled against the breast that suckled him;
Who, when self-banished, he had left the land
Looked on my face no more; who, charging me
With his sire's murder, threatened vengeance dire,
So that sweet sleep neither by night nor day
Could fold my weary sense, but every hour
Passed in the shadow of impending death.
Now—since this day doth end my fears from him,
And from this maid, whose presence in my home,
Draining the very life-blood of my heart,
Was to me yet more baneful—now at last
Rid of their menaces, we dwell in peace.