Some Alleged Interpolations in Aeschylus' Choephori and Euripides' Electra

Abstract

The second play of the trilogy begins with the appearance before Agamemnon's tomb of the long-absent Orestes, who prays to Hermes for aid in his revenge and then dedicates upon the tomb a lock of hair cut from his own head. He is interrupted by the entrance of Electra together with the captive women who form the Chorus; in consequence of an evil dream, Clytemnestra has sent them to pour a libation to the spirit of her murdered husband. After discussion with the Chorus, Electra resolves to accompany that libation not with words of appeasement, but with a prayer for her father's help in taking revenge upon his murderers. Going to the tomb to pour the libation, she notices upon it the lock put there by Orestes (168). She notices that the hair is like her own, and at once suspects that it may be her brother's. ‘How can he have dared to come here?’ the Chorus ask her (179); and she replies that he must have sent the lock from his place of exile. The thought that Orestes' return is impossible plunges both the Chorus and Electra into deep sorrow, and in tears Electra broods over the lock (183 f.). It can belong only to Orestes; she wishes it could speak, so that either she could know it not to be his, or else it could at least take part with her in mourning. At this point, if we cantrusttheone manuscript, Electra breaks off her reflections with a prayer (201–4). ‘But we call upon the gods,’ she says, ‘well do they know by what storms, like sailors, we are buffeted; but if we are fated to find safety, from a small seed may grow a mighty trunk.’ Next, if we are to trust what is transmitted, Electra catches sight of a new indication of her brother's presence. ‘Yes, and here are tracks,’ she says (205 f.), ‘a second indication, the tracks of feet matching each other and resembling mine. Yes, for here are two outlines of feet, his own and those of some companion. The heels and the outlines of the tendons agree in their proportions with my prints. I am in torment, and my wits are confounded.’