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But I, as I joylessly witness it, cry out, waste away in the house and bewail the unholy feast named after my father,
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in solitary weeping. For I cannot even grieve to the full extent which would please my heart, since this lady, who is in fact no lady, loudly reproaches me with such shameless taunts as these: “Wicked and hateful girl, have you alone lost your father,
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and is no one else in the world grieving? May your death be harsh, and may the gods below never free you from your current mourning.” Just so she abuses me, except when she gets word that Orestes is coming. Then, infuriated,
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she comes up to me and cries;—“Have you not brought this upon me? Is this not your doing, since you stole Orestes from my hands and secretly sent him away? Yes—but rest assured that you will be justly punished.” Like this she barks, and in agreement
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her glorious bridegroom by her side urges her on—that total impotent, that utter plague who fights his battles with the help of women. But my heart is broken by my suffering as I constantly wait for Orestes to come and end these troubles.
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For the perpetual imminence of his actions has eradicated every hope that I could conceive. In such a state of affairs, then, friends, there is no room for self-restraint or for reverence. Rather, in these dire straits there is much need to pursue a dire course.
Sophocles. The Electra of Sophocles. Edited with introduction and notes by Sir Richard Jebb. Sir Richard Jebb. Cambridge. Cambridge University Press. 1894.
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