Classical Mythology, 7th Edition - obinfonet: dia logou

424 THE GREEK SAGAS: GREEK LOCAL LEGENDS
a life of misery, suffering many torments at the hands of you and your bedmate.
Your other child far away, poor Orestes, having barely escaped your violence,
wastes away his ill-starred life. Many times you have accused me of nurturing
him to be your avenger. Know full well that I would have done so, if I
had the power. For these reasons then denounce me to everyone, whether you
proclaim me as evil or loud-mouthed or full of shamelessness. Indeed, if I am
so accomplished in such behavior, it only shows that I do not in the least belie
a nature and character just like yours.
In this way mother and daughter argue their case. The scene ends with
Clytemnestra calling upon Apollo to grant that her dream might turn out well
for her and that she might live a long, safe, and happy life. At the conclusion of
her prayer, the tutor arrives to announce the false news of Orestes' death and
set in motion the action that will end in death for Clytemnestra and Aegisthus.
With similar dramatic irony, Sophocles in Oedipus the King marks the beginning
of the end for Jocasta when the messenger from Corinth arrives immediately after
her invocation to Apollo for salvation.
Belief that Orestes is dead brings to Clytemnestra a joyous relief but also a
painful sadness. Electra is devastated and in a second clash with Chrysothemis
reveals that she is ready, all alone, to kill Aegisthus herself. Sophocles' Electra
does not even contemplate the murder of her mother.
When Orestes and Pylades arrive bringing an urn that supposedly contains
the ashes of the dead Orestes, Electra receives it into her hands and utters these
heartbreaking words (1126-1170):
f
ELECTRA: This urn is a memorial of the life of Orestes, to me the most beloved
of men. Here is all that is left of him. With what high hopes I sent you away,
dear brother, and how far they have fallen now that I have gotten you back.
Now I fondle you in my hands but you are no more. You were gloriously alive
when I rescued you out of the palace.
How I wish that I had died before I stole you away with these same hands
and delivered you into a foreign land to save you from being murdered; if I had
not done so, you could then on that day have died here, and shared death and
a grave with your father. But now as it is, you have died miserably, far from
home, an exile in a foreign land, separated from your sister. I, wretched me, did
not bathe your corpse with loving hands or remove your remains from the blazing
pyre as I should have; instead, poor brother, your funeral was in the hands
of foreigners and you have come back to me as a handful of ashes in a tiny urn.
Alas, unhappy me, all for nothing was the care which long ago I lavished upon
you—a sweet burden; you never loved your mother more than you did me, and
I was your nurse, not anyone else in the household; in addition to mother and
nurse, you could call me your sister. But now with your death, all is over in one
day. You have gone and have taken everything away with you, like a whirlwind.
Father is gone, you yourself are gone and your death has killed me. Our
enemies laugh and our mother is insane with joy, she no mother at all, against
whom you were to appear as an avenger, as you so often promised in secret