A monologue from the play by Sophocles

  • NOTE: This monologue is reprinted from Dramas. Sophocles. London: J.M. Dent & Sons, 1906.
  • ELECTRA: I am ashamed, dear ladies, if to you
    Through frequent lamentations I appear
    Too sorely oppressed; but, for necessity
    Obliges me to do so, pardon me.
    For how should any woman gently born,
    Viewing the sorrows of her father's house,
    Do otherwise than I, who witness them
    For ever day by day and night by night
    Rather increase than lesson? to whom, first,
    The mother's face who bare me has become
    Most hostile; next, I must be companied
    In my own home with my sire's murderers,
    By them be ruled, take at their hands, or else
    At their hands hunger! Then, what sort of days
    Do you suppose I lead, when I behold
    Ægisthus seated on my father's throne,
    Wearing the selfsame garments which he wore,
    And pouring out libations on the hearth
    By which he slew him? When I witness, too,
    The consummation of their impudence,
    The homicide lying in my father's bed
    With that abandoned mother--if it be right
    To call her mother, who consorts with him!
    And she--so profligate that she lives on
    With her blood-guilty mate--fearing no vengeance--
    Rather, as if exulting in her doings--
    Looks out the day on which by cunning erst
    She slew my father, and each month on it
    Sets dances going, and sacrifices sheep
    In offering to her guardian deities!
    I see it, I, ill-fated one! At home
    I weep and waste and sorrow as I survey
    The unblest feast that bears my father's name,
    In private; for I cannot even weep
    So freely as my heart would have me do;
    For this tongue-valiant woman with vile words
    Upbraids me, crying "Thou God-forsaken thing,
    Has no man's father died, save only thine?
    Is nobody in mourning, except thee?
    Ill death betide thee, and the nether Gods
    Give thee no end to these thy sorrowings!"
    So she reviles; save when she hears it said
    Orestes is at hand; then instantly
    She is possessed, and comes and screams at me--
    "Is it not you who are the cause of this?
    Pray is not this your doing, who stole Orestes
    Out of my hands, and conjured him away?
    But mind you, you shall pay me well for it!"
    So snarling, there joins with her and stands by
    And hounds her forward her illustrious groom,
    The all unmanly, all injurious pest,
    Who fights no battles without women! I,
    Waiting and waiting, till Orestes come
    And end it, miserably daily die.
    For always meaning, never doing, he
    Has utterly confounded all my hopes
    Remote or present. Friends, in such a case,
    There is no room--no, not for soberness
    Or piety; but, beneath injuries,
    There is deep need we prove injurious, too!