Chapters 2
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1 1 - Part 1 38:52
Translated by Francis Storr. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, Please visit LibriVox. Dermatis Personae. Oedipus, banished king of Thebes.
Antigone, his daughter.
Ismene, his daughter.
Theseus, King of Athens, played by Mark Smith, of Simpsonville, South Carolina. Creon, brother of Jocasta, now reigning at Thebes, read by Bruce Peary. Polyneses, read by David Goldfarb. Stranger, a native of Colonus, read by Lucy Perry. Messenger, read by Martin Gieson. Chorus. Sene. Enter the blind Oedipus, led by his daughter, Antigone. Child of an old blind sire, Antigone? What region, say? Whose city have we reached? Who will provide to-day with scanted dole, this wanderer? Tis little that he craves, and less obtains. That less enough for me, for I am taught by suffering to endure, and the long years that have grown old with me, and last, not least, by true nobility. My daughter, if thou seest a resting-place, on common ground, or by some sacred grove, stay me, and set me down.
Let us discover where we have come. For strangers must inquire of denizens, and do as they are bid. Long-suffering father, Oedipus, the towers that fence the city still are faint and far, but where we stand is surely holy ground, a wilderness of laurel, olive, and vine, within a choir or songster nightingales are warbling. On this native seat of rock rest, for an old man thou hast traveled far. Guide these dark steps, and set me there secure. If time can teach, I need naught to be told. Say, prithee, if thou know'st where we are? Athens, I recognise, but not the spot. That much we heard from every wayfarer. Shall I go on and ask about the place? Yes, daughter, if it be inhabited. Sure, there are habitations, but no need to leave thee.
Yonder is a man hard by. What, moving hitherward and on his way? Say, rather, here already. Ask him straight the needful questions, for the man is here. Enter stranger. O stranger, as I learn from her whose eyes must serve both her and me, that thou art here, sent by some happy chance to serve our doubts. First quit that seat, then question me at large. The spot thou treadest on is holy ground. What is the site? To what god dedicate? Invileble, untrod. Goddesses, dread brood of earth and darkness here abide. Tell me the awful name I should invoke. The gracious ones. All-seeing, so our folk call them, but elsewhere other names are rife. Then may they show their suppliant grace, for I, from this your sanctuary, will ne'er depart.
What word is this? The watchword of my fate. Nay, tis not mine to bid thee hence, without due warrant and instruction from the State. Now, in God's name, O stranger, scorn me not. As a wayfarer, tell me what I crave. Ask. Your request shall not be scorned by me. How call you then the place where we bide? Whate'er I know, thou too shalt know. The place is all to great Poseidon consecrate. Hard by the Titan, he who bears the torch, Prometheus, has his worship. But the spot thou treadest, the brass-footed threshold named, is Athens' bastion, and the neighboring lands claim as their chief and patron yonder knight Colonus, and in common bear his name. Such, stranger, is the spot to fame unknown. But dear to us its native worshippers.
Thou sayest there are dwellers in these parts? Surely. They bear the name of yonder god. Ruled by a king, or by the general voice? The Lord of Athens is our overlord. Who is this monarch, great in word and might? Theseus, the son of Aegeus, our late king. Might one be sent from you to summon him? Wherefore, to tell him aught, or urge his coming? Say a slight service may avail him much. How can he profit from a sightless man? The blind man's words will be instinct with sight. Heed, then. I fain would see thee out of harm. For by thy looks, marred though they be by fate, I judge thee noble. Tarry where thou art, while I go seek the burgers. Those at hand, not in the city, they will soon decide whether thou art to rest or go thy way.
Exit. Stranger. Tell me, my daughter, has the stranger gone? Yes, he has gone. Now we are all alone, and thou mayst speak, dear father, without fear. Stem-visaged queens, since coming to this land, first in your sanctuary I bent the knee. Frown not on me, or Phoebus, who, when erst he told me all my miseries to come, spake of this respite after many years. Some haven in a far-off land, arrest, vouchsafed at last by dread divinities. There, said he, shalt thou round thy weary life, a blessing to the land wherein thou dwellest, but to the land that cast thee forth a curse. And of my weird he promised signs should come, earthquake or thunderclap or lightning flash. And now I recognize as yours the sign that led my wanderings to this your grove.
Else had I never lighted on you first. A wineless man on your seat of native rock. O goddesses, fulfill Apollo's word. Grant me some consummation of my life, if haply I appear not all too vile. A thrall to sorrow, worse than any slave. Hear, gentle daughters of primeval night. Hear, namesake of great palace. Athens, first of cities. Pity this poor dishonored shade, the ghost of him who once was Oedipus. Hush! For I see some graybeards on their way, their errand to spy out our resting-place. I will be mute, and thou shalt guide my steps into the covert from a public road till I have learnt their drift. A prudent man will ever shape his course by what he learns. Enter chorus. Ha! where is he? Look around, every nook and corner scan.
He, the all-presumptuous man, whither vanished, searched the ground. A wayfarer I ween, a wayfarer, no countryman of ours, that old man must have been. Never have native dared to tempt the powers, or enter their demest. The maids in ave of whom each mortal cowers, whose name no voice betrays nor cry. And as we pass them with averted eye, we move hushed lips in reverent piety. But now some godless man, tis rumoured here, abides. The precinct through I scan, yet what not where he hides? The wretch profane, I search and search in vain. I am that man, I know you near. Ears to the blind, they say, are eyes. O, dread to see, and dread to hear! O, sirs, I am no outlaw under ban. Who can he be, save us, this old man?
No favourite of fate, that ye should envy his estate. O, sirs, would any happy mortal, say, grope by the light of other eyes his way, or face the storm upon so frail a stay? O, wast thou then sightless from thy birth? Evil, methinks, and long thy pilgrimage on earth. Yet add not curse to curse and wrong to wrong. I warn thee, trespass not within this hallowed spot, lest thou shouldst find the silent grassy glade where offerings are laid. Boughs of spring water mingled with sweet mead, thou must not stay. Come, come, away. Tired wonder dost thou heed? We are far off, but sure our voice can reach. If aught thou wouldst beseech, speak where it is right, till then refrain from speech. Daughter, what counsel should we now pursue?
We must obey and do as here they do. Thy hand, then? Here, O father, is my hand. O sirs, if I come forth at your command, let me not suffer for my confidence. Against thy will no man shall drive thee hence. Shall I go further? Aye. What further still? Lead, maiden, thou canst guide him where we will. Follow with blind steps, father, as I lead. In a strange land strange thou art, to her will incline thy heart. Honor whatsoever the state, honors all she frowns on hate. Guide me, child, where we may range, safe within the paths of right. Counsel freely may exchange, nor with fate and fortune fight. Halt! Go no further than that rocky floor. Stay where I now am? Yes, advance no more. May I sit down?
Move sideways towards the ledge, and sit thee crouching on the scarped edge. This is my office, father. O incline. Ah, me! Ah, me! Thy steps to my steps, lean thine aged frame on mine. Woe on my fate unblest! Wanderer, now thou art at rest. Tell me of thy birth and home. From what far country art thou come? Led on thy weary way declare. Strangers, I have no country, or forbear. What is it, old man, that thou wouldst conceal? Forbear, nor urge me further to reveal. Why this reluctance? Dread my lineage. Say! What must I answer, child? Oh, well are they. Say, O what stop thou com'st, what man's son? Ah, me, my daughter, now we are undone. Speak, for thou standest on the slippery verge. I will. No plea for silence can I urge.
Will neither speak? Come, sir, why dally thus. Knost one of Laeces? Ha? Who? Seed of Labdarchus. O, seves! The hapless Oedipus. Art he? Whate'er I utter, have no fear of me. Begone! O, wretched me! Begone! O daughter, what will happen on? Fought from our borders speed ye both. How keep ye then your troth? Heaven's justice never smites him who ill with ill requites, but if gile with gile contend, vain of blessing is the end. Arise, be gone, and take thee hence straightway, lest on our land a heavier curse thou lay. O sirs, ye suffered not my father blind. Albeit gracious and to Ruth inclined, knowing the deeds he wrought, not innocent, but with no ill intent. Yet heed a maiden's moan who pleads for him alone.
My eyes, not reft of sight, plead with you as a daughter's might. You are our providence. O make us not go hence. O with a gracious nod, grant us the nigh-despair'd of boon we crave. Hear us, O hear! But all that ye hold dear, wife, children, homestead, hearth, and God, where will you find one, search ye ne'er so well, who scapes perdition if a God impel? Surely we pity thee and him alike, daughter of Oedipus, for your distress. But as we reverence the decrees of heaven, we cannot say aught other than we said. O, what avails renown or fair repute? Are they not vanity? For look you now! Athens is held of states the most devout. Athens alone gives hospitality and shelters the vexed stranger, so men say.
Have I found so? I, whom ye dislodged first from my seat of rock, and now would drive forth from your land, dreading my name alone? For me you surely dread not. Nor my deeds, deeds of a man more sinned against than sinning, as I might well convince you were it meet to tell my mother's story and my sires, the cause of your fear. Yet am I then a villain born because in self-defence stricken I struck the striker back again. E'en had I known no villain it would prove, But all unwitting, whither I went, I went to ruin. My destroyers knew it well. Wherefore I pray you, sirs, in heaven's name, even as ye bade me quit my seat, defend me. O pay not a lip service to the gods, and wrong them of their dues.
Bethink ye well, the eye of heaven beholds the just of men, and the unjust, Nor ever in this world has want, soul, godless sinner found escape. Stand then on heaven's side, and never blot Athens' fair scutcheon by abetting wrong. I came to you a suppliant, and you pledged your honour. O preserve me to the end! O let not this marred visage do me wrong! A holy and God-fearing man is here, whose coming purports comfort for your folk. And when your chief arrives, whoe'er he be, then shall ye have my story and know all. Meanwhile, I pray you, do me no despite. The plea thou urged needs must give us pause, set forth in weighty argument, but we must leave the issue with the ruling powers. Where is he, strangers, he who sways the realm?
In his ancestral seat a messenger, the same who sent us here is gone for him. And think you he will have such care or thought for the blind stranger as to come himself? Aye, that he will, when once he learns thy name. But who will bear him word? The way is long, and many travellers pass to speed the news. Be sure he'll hear and hasten, never fear. So wide and far thy name is noised abroad, that were he never so spent and loth to move, he would bestir him when he hears of thee. Well, may he come with blessing to his state and me, who serves his neighbour, serves himself. Zeus, what is this? What can I say or think? What now, Antigone? I see a woman riding upon a colt of Etna's breed. She wears for headgear a Thessalian hat to shade her from the sun.
Who can it be? She or a stranger? Do I wake or dream? Tis she. Tis not. I cannot tell, alack. Oh, it is no other. Now her brightening glance greets me with recognition. Yes, tis she herself, Ismany. Ah! What say ye, child? That I behold thy daughter and my sister, and thou wilt know her straightway by her voice.
Father and sister, names to me most sweet. How hardly have I found you, hardly now when found at last can see you through my tears. Art come, my child? O father, sad thy plight. Child, thou art here. Yes, twas a weary way. Touch me, my child. I give a hand to both. O children, sisters! O disastrous plight! Her plight and mine? Ay, and my own no less. What brought thee, daughter? Father, care for thee. A daughter's yearning? Yes, and I had news I would myself deliver, so I came with the one thrall who yet is true to me. The valiant brothers. Where are they at need? They are. Enough! Tis now their darkest hour. Out on the twain, the thoughts and actions all are framed and modelled on Egyptian ways.
For there the men sit at looms indoors, while the wives slave abroad for daily bread. So you, my children, those whom I behove to bear the burden, stay at home like girls, while in their stead my daughters moil and drudge. Lightening their father's misery. The one, since first she grew from girlish feebleness to womanhood, has been the old man's guide, and shared my weary wandering, roaming oft, hungry and footsore, through wild forest ways, in drenching rains and under scorching suns. Careless herself of home and ease, if so her sire might have her tender ministry, And now, my child, willem thou wentest forth, eluding the Cadmian's vigilance, to bring thy fathers all the oracles concerning Oedipus?
And didst make thyself my faithful leisure when they banished me? And now what mission summons thee from home? What news, Ismene, hast thou for thy father? This much I know, thou comest not empty-handed. Without a warning of some new alarm. The toil and trouble, father, that I bore to find thy lodging-place, and how thou faredst, I spare thee. Surely t'were a double pain to suffer, first in act and then in telling. Tis the misfortune of thine ill-starred sons I come to tell thee. At the first they willed to leave the throne to Creon, minded well thus to remove the inveterate curse of old, a canker that infected all thy race. But now some god and an infatuate soul have stirred betwixt them a mad rivalry to grasp its sovereignty and kingly power.
Today the hot-branded youth, the younger-born, is keeping Polyneses from the throne, his elder, and has thrust him from the land. The banished brother, so all Thebes reports, fled to the Vale of Argos, and by help of new alliance there and friends in arms, swears he will stablish Argus straight as lord of the Cadmian land, or, if he fail, exalt the victor to the stars of heaven. This is no empty tale but deadly truth, my father, and how long thy agony ere the gods pity thee I cannot tell. GEN. Hast thou indeed, then, entertained a hope the gods at last will turn and rescue me? LUCIA. Yea, so I read these latest oracles. What oracles? What hath been uttered, child? Thy country, so it runs, shall yearn in time to have thee for their weal alive or dead.
And who could gain by such a one as I? On thee, it is said, their sovereignty depends. So when I cease to be, my worth begins. The gods who once abased uplift thee now. Poor help to raise an old man fallen in youth. Howe'er that be, tis for this cause alone that Creon comes to thee, and comes anon. With what intent, my daughter? Tell me plainly. To plant thee near the Theban land, and so keep thee within their grasp. Yet now allow thy foot to pass beyond their boundaries. What gain they if I lay outside? Thy tomb, if disappointed, brings on them a curse. It needs no god to tell what's plain to sense. Therefore they fain would have thee close at hand, not where thou wouldst be master of thyself.
Mean they to shroud my bones in Theban dust? Nay, father, guilt of kinsmen's blood forbids. Then never shall they be my masters, never. Thebes, thou shalt rue this bitterly some day. When what conjunction comes to pass, my child? Thy angry wraith, when at thy tomb they stand. And who hath told thee what thou tellst me, child? Envoys who visited the Delphic hearth. Hath Phoebus spoken thus concerning me? So say the envoys who returned to Thebes. And can a son of mine have heard of this? Yea, both alike, and know its import well. They knew it, yet the ignoble greed of rule outweighed all longing for their sire's return. Grievous thy words, yet I must own them true. Then may the gods ne'er quench their fatal feud.
And mine be the arbitrament of the fight, for which they now are arming, spear to spear, that neither he who holds the sceptre now may keep the throne, nor he who fled the realm return again. They never raised a hand when I, their sire, was thrust from hearth and home. When I was banned and banished, what wrecked they? Say you twas done at my desire, a grace which the state yielding to my wish allowed. Not so, for, mark you, on that very day, when in the tempest of my soul I craved death, even death by stoning, none appeared to further that one longing, but anon, when time had numbed my anguish, and I felt my wrath had all outrun those errors past, then, then it was the city went about by force to oust me, respited for years, And then my sons, who should as sons have helped, did nothing, and one little word from them was all I needed, and they spoke no word.
But let me wander on forevermore, a banished man, a beggar. These two maids, their sisters, girls, gave all their sex could give, food and safe harborage and filial care, while their two brethren sacrificed their sire for lust of power and sceptered sovereignty. No, me they never shall win for an ally. Nor will this Theban kingship bring them gain. That know I from this maiden's oracles, and those old prophecies concerning me, which Phoebus now at length has brought to pass. Come, Creon, then, come, all the mightiest in Thebes to seek me. For if ye, my friends, championed by those dread powers indigenous, espouse my cause, Then for the state ye gain a great deliverer, for my foemen bane. Our pity, Oedipus, thou need'st must move.
Thou and these maidens, and the stronger plea, thou urgest as the saviour of our land, disposes me to counsel for thy will. Aid me, kind sirs, I will do all ye bid. First make atonement to the deities. Whose groove by trespass thou didst first profane. After what manner, stranger? Teach me, pray. Make a libation first of water fetched, with undefiled hands from living spring. And after I have gotten this pure draught? Bals, thou wilt find the carver's handiwork. Crown thou the brims, and both the handles crown. With olive shoots, or blocks of wood, or how? With wool from fleas of yearling freshly shorn. What next? How must I end the ritual? Pour thy libation, turning to the dawn. Pouring it from the urns, whereof ye spake?
Yea, in three streams, and be the last boat drained to the last drop. And wherewith shall I fill it, ere in its place I set it? This do tell. With water and with honey add no wine. And when the embowered earth hath drunk thereof, then lay upon it thrice nine olive sprays, with both thy hands, and offer up this prayer. I fain would hear it, that imports the most. That, as we call them gracious, they would deign, to grant the suppliant their saving race. So pray thyself, or whoso pray for thee, in whispered accents, not with lifted voice, Then go and look back, do as I bid, and I shall then be bold to stand thy friend. Else, stranger, I should have my fears for thee. Hear ye, my daughters, what these strangers say?
We listened, and attend thy bidding, father. I cannot go, disabled as I am, doubly by lack of strength and lack of sight. But one of you may do it in my stead. For one, I trou, may pay the sacrifice of thousands, if his heart be leal and true. So to your work with speed. But leave me not untended, for this frame is all too weak to move without the help of guiding hand. Then I will go perform these rites. But where to find the spot, this have I yet to learn. Beyond his crew, if thou hast need of aught, the guardian of the close will lend his aid. I go, and thou, Antigone, meanwhile, must guard our father. In appearance cause toil, if there be toil, is of no account. Exit, Ismene. Ill it is stranger to awake, pain that long since has ceased to ache, and yet I fain would hear.
What thing? Thy tale of cruel suffering, for which no cure was found, the fate that held thee bound. O bid me not. As guest I claim this grace, expose my shame. The tale is bruited far and near, and echoes still from ear to ear, the truth I fain would hear. Ah, me! I prithee yield. Ah, me! Grant my request, I grant it all to thee. Know then I suffered ills most vile, but none, so help me heaven, from acts in malice done. Say how? The state around an all-unwitting bridegroom bound, an impious marriage chain. That was my bane. Didst thou in sooth then share a bed incestuous with her, that pair? It stabs me like a saw, that two-edged word. O stranger, but these maids, my own. Say on. Two daughters, curses twain.
O God! Sprang from the wife and mother's travail pain. What, then, thy offspring are at once? Two true. Their father's very sisters, too. Oh, horror! Horrors from the boundless deep. Back on my soul in refluent surges sweep. Thou hast endured? Intolerable woe. And sinned? I sinned not. How so? I served the state. Would I had never won that graceless grace by which I was undone. And next unhappy man thou hast shed blood? Must ye hear more? Fathers? Flood on flood whelms me. That word's a second mortal blow. Murderer? Yes, a murderer, but no. What canst thou plead? A plea of justice. How? I slew who else would have me slain. I slew without intent, a wretch, but innocent. In the law's eye I stand without a stain.
Behold our sovereign, Theusaphs, Aegeus sown, comes at thy summons to perform his part. Enter Theseus. Oft had I heard of thee in times gone by, the bloody mutilation of thine eyes, and therefore know thee, son of Laeus. All that I lately gathered on the way made my conjecture doubly sure, and now thy garb and that marred visage prove to me that thou art he. So, pitying thine estate, most ill-starred Oedipus, I fain would know what is the suit ye urge on me in Athens, thou and the helpless maiden at thy side. Declare it! Dire indeed must be the tale whereat I should recoil. I too was reared, like thee, in exile. And in foreign lands wrestled with many perils, no man more. Wherefore no alien in adversity shall seek in vain my succour, nor shalt thou.
I know myself a mortal, and my share in what the morrow brings no more than thine. Theseus, thy words so apt, so generous, so comfortable, need no long reply. Both who I am? And of what lineage sprung, and from what land I came, thou hast declared. So without prologue I may utter now my brief petition, and the tale is told. Say on, and tell me what I fain would learn. I come to offer thee this woe-worn frame, a gift not fair to look on, yet its worth, more precious far than any outward show. What profit dost thou proffer to have brought? Hereafter thou shalt learn, not yet, methinks. When may we hope to reap the benefit? When I am dead, and thou hast buried me. Thou cravest life's last service, all before.
Is it forgotten, or of no account? Yea, the last boon is warrant for the rest. The grace thou cravest then is small indeed. Nay, weigh it well. The issue is not slight. Thou meanest that betwixt thy sons and me? Prince, they would fain convey me back to Thebes. If there be no compulsion, then methinks to rest in banishment befits not thee. Nay, when I wished it, they would not consent. For shame! Such temper misbecomes the faller. Chide, if thou wilt, but first attend my plea. Say on. I wait full knowledge, ere I judge. O Theseus, I have suffered wrongs on wrongs. Would'st tell the old misfortune of thy race? No, that has grown a byword throughout Greece. What, then, can be this more than mortal grief?
My case stands thus. By my own flesh and blood I was expelled my country, and can ne'er thither return again—a parricide. Why fetch thee home if thou must needs obey? What are they threatened by the oracle? Destruction. That awaits them in this land. What can beget ill-blood twixt them and me? Dear son of Aegeus, to the gods alone is given immunity from hell and death. But nothing else escapes all ruinous time. Earth's might decays, the might of men decays, honour grows cold, dishonour flourishes. There is no constancy twixt friend and friend, or city and city. Be it soon or late, sweet turns to bitter, hate once more to love. If now tis sunshine betwixt Thebes and thee, and not a cloud, time in his endless course gives birth to endless days and nights, wherein the merest nothing shall suffice to cut with serried spears your bonds of amity.
Then shall my slumbering and buried corpse in its cold grave drink their warm life-blood up. If Zeus be Zeus, and Phoebus still speak true—no more. Tis ill to tear aside the veil of mysteries. Let me cease as I began. Enough, if thou wilt keep thy plighted troth. Then shalt thou ne'er complain that Oedipus proved an unprofitable and thankless guest. Except the gods themselves shall play me false. The man, my lord, has from the very first declared his power to offer to our land these and like benefits. Who could reject the proffered amity of such a friend? First, he can claim the hospitality to which by mutual contract we stand pledged. Next, coming here, a suppliant to the gods, he pays full tribute to the state and me.
His favours therefore never will I spurn, but grant him the full rights of citizen, and, if it suits the stranger here to bide, I place him in your charge, or, if he please, rather to come with me. Choose, Oedipus, which of the two thou wilt. Thy choice is mine. Zeus, may the blessing fall on men like these. What dost thou then decide, to come with me? Zeus, yea, were it lawful. But tis rather here. What wouldst thou here? I shall not thwart thy wish. Here shall I vanquish those who cast me forth. Then were thy presence here a boon indeed. Such shall it prove, if thou fulfill'st thy pledge. Fear not for me. I shall not play thee false. No need to back thy promise with an oath. An oath would be no surer than my word.
How wilt thou act then? What is it thou fearest? My foes will come. Our friends will look to that. But if thou leave me, teach me not my duty. Tis fear constrains me. My soul knows no fear. Thou know'st not what threats. I know that none shall hail thee hence in my despite. Such threats, vented in anger oft, are blusterers, an idle breath, forgot when sense returns. And for thy foemen, though their words were brave, boasting to bring thee back, They are like to find the seas between us wide and hard to sail. Such my firm purpose. But in any case, take heart, since Phoebus sent thee here. My name, though I be distant, warrants thee from harm. Thou hast come to a steed-fringed land for rest, O stranger worn with toil, to a land of all lands the goodliest, colonus glistening soil.
"'Tis the haunt of the clear-voiced nightingale, Who hid in her bower among the vine-dark ivy That readdest the vale, Trilleth her ceaseless song, And she loves where the clustering berries nod, O'er a sunless, windless glade, The spot by no mortal footstep trod, The pleasance kept for the bacchic god, Where he holds each night his rebels wild, With the nymphs who fostered the lusty child. And fed each morn by the pearly dew, the star Narcissi shine, and a wreath with the crocus' golden hue, for the mother and daughter twine. And never the sleepest fountains cease that fed Cephas a stream, but they swell earth's bosom with quick increase. And their wave hath a crystal gleam, and a muses' choir will never disdain to visit this heaven-favored plain, nor the Cyprian queen of the golden reign.
And here there grows unpruned, untamed, terror to foemen spare, a tree in ancient soil unnamed, by Pelop's Dorian Isle unclaimed. Self-nurtured year by year, tis the gray-leaved olive that feeds our boys. Nor youth nor withering age destroys the plant that the olive-planter tends, and the gray-eyed goddess herself defends. Yet another gift of all gifts the most, prized by our fatherland, we boast. The might of the horse, the might of the sea, Our fame, Poseidon, we owe to thee, Son of Kranos, our King divine, Who in these highways first didst fit, For the mouth of horses the iron bit. Thou too hast taught us to fashion meat For the arm of the rower, the oarblade fleet, Swift as the near its hundred feet As they dance along the brine.
O land extolled above all lands, tis now for thee to make these glorious titles good. Why this appeal, my daughter? Father, lo! Creon approaches with his company. Fear not, it shall be so. If we are old, this country's vigor has no touch of age.
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2 2 - Part 2 57:14
Translated by Francis Storr. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Enter Creon with attendance. Burgers, my noble friends, Ye take alarm at my approach. I read it in your eyes. Fear nothing, and refrain from angry words. I come with no ill purpose. I am old, and know the city whither I am come, without a peer amongst the powers of Greece. It was by reason of my years that I was chosen to persuade your guest, and bring him back to Thebes. Not the delegate of one man, but commissioned by the state, since of all Thebans I have most bewailed, Being his kinsman, his most grievous woes. Oh, listen to me, luckless Oedipus.
Come home. The whole Cadmian people claim with right to have thee back. I most of all—for, most of all—else were I vile indeed—I mourn for thy misfortunes. Seeing thee, an aged outcast, wandering on and on, a beggar with one handmaid for thy stay. Ah, who had e'er imagined she could fall to such a depth of misery as this, to tend in penury thy stricken frame, a virgin ripe for wedlock, but unwed, a prey for any wanton ravisher? Seems it not cruel, this reproach I cast on thee, and on myself, and all the race? Ay, but an open shame cannot be hid. Hide it, O hide it, Oedipus, thou canst. O by our fathers' gods, consent, I pray. Come back to Thebes, come to thy father's home. Bid Athens, as is meet, a fond farewell.
Thebes, thy old foster-mother, claims thee first. O front of brass, thy subtle tongue would twist to thy advantage every plea of right. Why try thy arts on me? Why spread again toils, where twould gall me sorest to be snared? In old days, when by self-wrought woes distraught, I yearned for exile as a glad release, Thy will refused the favour than I craved. But when my frenzied grief had spent its force, and I was fain to taste the sweets of home, then thou wouldst thrust me from my country, then these ties of kindred were by thee ignored. And now again, when thou behold'st this state, and all its kindly people welcome me, thou seek'st to part us, wrapping in soft words hard thoughts. And yet, what pleasure canst thou find in forcing friendship on unwilling foes?
Suppose a man refused to grant some boon when you importuned him, and afterward, when you had got your heart's desire consented, granting a grace from which all grace had fled. Would not such favour seem an empty boon? Yet such the boon thou proffere'st now to me. Fair in appearance, but when tested, false. Yea, I will prove thee false, that these may hear. Thou art come to take me, not to take me home, but plant me on thy borders, that thy state may so escape annoyance from this land. That thou shalt never gain, but this instead, my ghost, to haunt thy country without end. And for my sons, this heritage, no more, just room to die in. Have I not more skill than thou to draw the horoscope of Thebes?
Are not my teachers surer guides than thine? Great Phoebus, and the sire of Phoebus, Zeus! Thou art a messenger, suborned. Thy tongue is sharper than a sword's edge. Yet thy speech will bring thee more defeats than victories. Howbeit I know I waste my words. Begone, and leave me here, whate'er may be my lot. He lives not ill, who lives with all content. Which loses in this parley? I, or thrown by thee, or thou, who overthrowest thyself? I shall be well contented, if thy suit fails with these strangers as it has with me. Unhappy man! Will years ne'er make thee wise? Must thou live on to cast a slur on age? Thou hast a glib tongue, but no honest man, methinks, can argue well on any side. Tis one thing to speak much, another well.
Thuy words, forsooth, are few, and all well aimed. Not for a man, indeed, with wits like thine. Depart! I bid thee in these burghers name, and prowl no more round me to blockade my destined harbour. I protest to these, not thee, and for thine answer to thy kin, if e'er I take thee... Who against their will could take me? Though untaken thou shalt smart. What power hast thou to execute this threat? One of thy daughters is already seized. The other I will carry off anon. Woe, woe! This is but prelude to thy woes. Hast thou my child? And soon shall have the other. O, friends, ye will not surely play me false. Chase this ungodly villain from your land. Hens, stranger, hens, savant, thou dost wrong in this and wrong in all that thou hast done.
Creon, to his guards. Tis time by force to carry off the girl if she refuse of her free will to go. Ah, woe is me! Where shall I fly? Where find succour from gods or men? What wouldst thou, stranger? I meddle not with him, but her, who is mine. O princes of the land! Sir, thou dost wrong! Nay, right! How right? I take but what is mine. Help, Athens! What means this, sirrah? Quick, unhand her oar, we'll fight it out. Back. Not till thou forbear. Tis war with Thebes, if I am touched or harmed. Did I not warn thee? Quick, unhand the maid. Command your minions, I am not your slave. Desist, I bid thee. And I bid thee march. To the rescue one and all, rally neighbors to my call. See the foe is at the gate, rally to defend the state.
Ah, woe is me! They drag me hence, O friends! Where art thou, daughter? Hail'd along by force! Thy hands, my child! They will not let me, father! Away with her! Oh, woe is me! Ah, woe! So those two crutches shall no longer serve thee for further roaming, since it pleaseth thee to triumph o'er thy country and thy friends, whose mandate, though a prince, I here discharge, Enjoy thy triumph. Soon or late thou'lt find thou art an enemy to thyself, both now and in time past, when in despite of friends thou gavest the rein to passion, still thy bane. Hold there, sir stranger. Hands off, have a care. Restore the maidens, if thou goest not. Then Thebes will take a dearer surety soon. I will lay hands on more than these two maids.
What canst thou further? Carry off this man. Brave words. And deeds forthwith shall make them good. Unless perchance our sovereign intervene. O shameless voice, wouldst lay a hand on me? Silence I bid thee. Goddesses, allow thy suppliant to utter yet one curse. Wretch, now mine eyes are gone, thou hast torn away the helpless maiden whose eyes to me. For these to thee and all thy cursed race, May the great sun, whose eye is everywhere, Grant length of days and old age like to mine. Listen, O men of Athens, mark ye this. They mark us both, and understand that I, wronged by the deeds, defend myself with words. Nothing shall curb my will. Though I be old and single-handed, I will have this man. Ah!
Woe is me! Thou art a bold man, stranger, if thou think'st, to execute by purpose. So I do. Then shall I deem this state no more estate. With a just quarrel, weakness conquers might. Ye hear his words? Ay, words, but not yet deeds. Seves knoweth. Zeus may haply know, not thou. Insolence. Insolence that thou must bear. Haste ye, princes, sound the alarm! Men of Athens, arm ye, arm! Quickly to the rescue come, ere the robbers get them home. Enter Theseus. Why this outcry? What is forward? Wherefore was I called away from the altar of Poseidon, lord of your Colonus? Say, on what errand have I hurried hither, without stop or stay? Dear friend, those accents tell me who thou art. Yon man but now hath done me a foul wrong.
What is this wrong, and who hath wrought it? Speak. Creon who stands before thee, he it is hath robbed me of my all, my daughters twain. What means this? Thou hast heard my tale of wrongs. Ho! hasten to the altars, one of you. Command my liegemen, leave the sacrifice, and hurry, foot and horse, with rein uncheck'd. To where the paths that pack-man used diverge, lest the two maidens slip away and I become a mockery to this my guest, as one despoiled by force. Quick, as I bid! As for this stranger, had I let my rage, justly provoked, have play, he had not escaped scatheless and uncorrected at my hands. But now the laws to which himself appealed, these and none other shall adjudicate. Thou shalt not quit this land till thou hast fetched the maidens and produced them in my sight.
Thou hast offended both against myself and thine own race and country. Having come unto a state that champions right, and ask for every action warranty of law, thou hast set aside the custom of the land, and, like some freebooter, art carrying off what plunder pleases thee, as if, forsooth, thou thoughtest this a city without men. Or manned by slaves, and me a thing of naught. Yet not from Thebes this villainy was learnt. Thebes is not wont to breed unrighteous sons, nor would she praise thee, if she learnt that thou wert robbing me. Ay, and the gods to boot, hailing by force their suppliants, poor maids. Were I on Theban soil, to prosecute the justice claim imaginable, I would never rest by violence my own without sanction of your state or king.
I should behave as fits an outlander living amongst a foreign folk, but thou shamest a city that deserves it not, even thine own, and plenitude of years have made of thee an old man and a fool. Therefore again I charge thee as before, see that the maidens are restored at once, Unless thou wouldst continue here by force, and not by choice, a sojourner, so much I tell thee home, and what I say, I mean. Thou thy case is perilous, thou by birth and race. Thou shouldst be just, thou plainly dost wrong. Not deeming this city void of men or counsel, son of Aegeus, as thou sayest, I did what I have done. Rather, I thought your people were not like to set such store by kin of mine, and keep them gainst my will.
Nor would they harbour, so I stood assured, a godless parricide, a reprobate convicted of incestuous marriage ties. For on her native hill of Ares here, I knew your far-famed Areopagus, sits justice, and permits not vagrant folk to stay within your borders. In that faith I hunted down my quarry, and in then I had refrained but for the curses dire wherewith he banned my kinsfolk and myself. Such wrong, methought, had warrant for my act. Anger has no old age but only death. The dead alone can feel no touch of spite. So thou must work thy will. My cause is just. But weak without allies. Yet will I try, old as I am, to answer deeds with deeds. O shameless Rayla! Think'st thou this abuse defames my grey hairs rather than thine own?
Murder and incest, deeds of horror, all thou blurtest forth against me, all I have borne. No willing sinner, so it pleased the gods, wroth haply with my sinful race of old's? Since thou couldst find no sin in me myself, for which in retribution I was doomed to trespass thus against myself and mine, answer me now, if by some oracle my sire was destined to a bloody end by a son's hand, can this reflect on me? Me, then, unborn, begotten by no sire, conceived in no mother's womb. And if, when born to misery, as born I was, I met my sire, not knowing whom I met, or what I did, and slew him, how canst thou with justice blame the all-unconscious hand? And for my mother, wretch, art not ashamed, seeing she was thy sister, to extort from me the story of her marriage, such a marriage as I straightway will proclaim, For I will speak.
Thy lewd and impious speech hath broken all the bonds of reticence. She was—ah, woe is me! She was my mother. I knew it not, nor she. And she, my mother, bare children to the son whom she had borne. A birth of shame! But this at least I know. Wittingly thou aspersest her and me. But I, unwitting, wed, unwilling, speak. Nay, neither in this marriage or this deed which thou art ever casting in my teeth, a murdered sire, shall I be held to blame? Come, answer me one question, if thou canst. If one should presently attempt thy life, wouldst thou, O man of justice, first inquire if the assassin was perchance thy sire? Or turn upon him. As thou lovest thy life, on thy aggressor thou wouldst turn. No stay debating if the law would bear thee out.
Such was my case, and such the pass whereto the gods reduced me, and, methinks, my sire, could he come back to life, would not dissent. Yet thou, for just thou art not but a man who sticks at nothing, if it serve his plea, Reproachest me with this before these men? It serves thy turn to lord great Theseus's name, and Athens has a wisely-governed state. Yet in thy flatteries one thing is to seek. If any land knows how to pay the gods their proper rights, tis Athens most of all. This is the land whence thou wouldst fain to steal their aged suppliant, and hast carried off my daughters. Therefore to yon goddesses I turn, adjure them, and invoke their aid to champion my cause, that thou may'st learn what is the breed of men who guard this state.
An honest man, my liege, one sore besteed, my fortune answer worthy our support. Enough of words. The captors speed amain, while we the victims stand debating here. What would'st thou? What can I, a feeble man? Show us the trail, and I'll attend thee to, that, if thou hast the maidens hereabouts, thou mayest thyself discover them to me. But if thy guards outstrip us with their spoil, we may draw rein, for others speed, from whom they will not scape to thank the gods at home. Lead on, I say, the captor's caught, and fate hath taken the fowler in the toils he spread. So soon are loss gains gotten by deceit, and look not for allies. I know indeed such height of insolence was never reached without abettors or accomplices.
Thou hast some backer in thy bold essay, but I will search this matter home, and see one man doth not prevail against the State. Dost take my drift? Or seem these words as vain as seemed our warnings when the plot was hatched? Nothing thou sayest can I here dispute, but once at home I too shall act my part. Threaten us and begone! Thou, Oedipus, stay here assured that nothing save my death will stay my purpose to restore the maids. Heaven bless thee, Theseus, for thy nobleness, and all thy loving care in my behalf. Exeunt, Theseus, and Creon. O when the flying foe, turning at last to bay, soon will give blow for blow, might I behold the fray, hear the loud battle roar, swell on the Pythian shore, or by the torch-lit bay, where the dreaded queen and maid cherished the mystic rites, rites they to none betray, ere on his lips is laid secrecy's golden key.
By their own accolades, priestly Evmolpide. There I may chance behold, Tesevs our captain bold, Meet with the robber band, ere they have fled the land, Rescue by might and main, Maidens the captives twain. Hap'ly on swiftest deed, or in the flying car, Now they approach the glen, West of white Oeas score, they will be vanquished. Dread are our warriors' dread, Tesevs our chieftain's men, flashes each bridal bright, charges each gallant knight. All that our queen adore, Pallas their patron o'er, him whose wide floods enringed, earth the great ocean king whom Rhea bore. Fight they, or now prepare to fight a vision rare. Tells me that soon again I shall behold the twain, Maidens so ill bestead, by their kin buffeted.
Today, today, Sevs worketh some great thing. This day shall victory bring. Oh, for the wings, the wings of a dove, To be borne with the speed of the gale. Up! And still upwards to sail, and gaze on the fray from the clouds above. All-seeing Seves, O Lord of Heaven, to our guardian host be given, my triumphant to surprise, flying foes and win their prize. Hera's Seves, and Hera's child of Seves, Athena undefiled. Hear, Apollo, hunter, hear, hunter, sister of Apollo, who the dappled swift foot deer over the wooded glade dost follow. Help with your twofold power, Athens in danger's hour. O wayfarer, thou wilt not have to tax the friends who watch for thee with false presage, for lo, an escort Enter Antigone and Ismene with Theseus.
Where, where, what sayest thou? O father, father, would that some god might grant thee eyes to see this best of men who brings us back again. My child, and are ye back indeed? Yes, saved by Theseus and his gallant followers. Come to your father's arms. Let me feel a child's embrace I never hoped for more. Thou askest what is doubly sweet to give. Where are ye then? We come together both. My precious nurslings. Father's eye were fond. Props of my age. So sorrow, sorrow props. I have my darlings, and if death should come, death were not wholly bitter with you near. Cling to me. Press me close on either side. There, rest ye from your dreary wayfaring. Now, tell me of your ventures, but in brief.
Brief speech suffices for young maids like you. Here is our Saviour. Thou shouldst hear the tale from his own lips. So shall my part be brief. I pray thee, do not wonder if the sight of children given off or lost has made my converse somewhat long and tedious. Full well I know the joy I have of them is due to thee, to thee and no man else. Thou wast their sole deliverer, none else. The gods deal with thee after my desire, with thee and with this land. For fear of heaven I found above all peoples most with you, and righteousness, and lips that cannot lie. I speak in gratitude of what I know. For all I have I owe to thee alone. Give me thy hand, O Prince, that I may touch it, and if thou wilt permit me, kiss thy cheek.
What say I? Can I wish that thou shouldst touch one fallen like me to utter wretchedness, corrupt and tainted with a thousand ills? O no, I would not let thee if thou wouldst. They only who have known calamity can share it. Let me greet thee, where thou art, and still befriend me, as thou hast till now. I marvel not if thou hast dallied long in converse with thy children, and preferred their speech to mine. I feel no jealousy. I would be famous more by deeds than words. Of this, old friend, thou hast had proof. My oath I have fulfilled, and brought thee back, the maids alive, and nothing harm'd for all those threats. And how the fight was won, "'Twer waste of words to boast. Thy daughters here will tell thee all.
But of a matter that has lately chanced on my way hitherward, I fain would have thy counsel. Slight twould seem, yet worthy thought, a wise man heeds all matters, great or small. What is it, son of Aegeus? Let me hear. Of what thou askest, I myself know not. Tis said, a man, No countryman of thine, but of thy kin, hath taken sanctuary beside the altar of Poseidon, where I was at sacrifice when called away. What is his country? What the suitor's prayer? I know but one thing. He implores, I am told, a word with thee. He will not trouble thee. What seeks he? If a suppliant, something grave? He only waits, they say, to speak with thee, and then unharmed to go upon his way. L'chon, thy marvel, who is this petitioner?
Think if there be not any of thy kin at Argos who might claim the spoon of thee. Dear friend, forbear, I pray. What ails thee now? Ask it not of me. Ask not what? Explain. Thy words have told me who the suppliant is. Who can he be that I should frown on him? My son, O king, my hateful son, whose words of all men's most would jar upon my ears. Lord thou sure mightest listen. If his suit offend, no need to grant it. Why so loath to hear him? Lord that voice, O king, grates on a father's ears. I have come to loathe it. Force me not to yield. Lord but he hath found asylum. O beware, and fail not, and do reverence to the god. O heed me, father, though I am young in years, let the prince have his will, and pay withal what in his eyes is service to the god.
For our sake also let our brother come. If what he urges tend not to thy good, he cannot surely wrest perforce thy will. To hear him, then, what harm? By open words a scheme of villainy is soon berate. Thou art his father, therefore canst not pay in kind a son's most impious outrages. O listen to him. Other men like thee have thankless children and are choleric, but yielding to persuasion's gentle spell, they let their savage mood be exercised. Look thou to the past, forget the present, think on all the woe thy sire and mother brought thee. Thence wilt thou draw this lesson without fail. Of evil passion evil is the end. Thou hast, alas, to prick thy memory stern monitors. These ever sightless orbs.
O yield to us! Just suitors should not need to be importunate, nor he that takes a favour lack the grace to make return. Grievous to me, my child, the boon ye win, by pleading? Let it be, then. Have your way. Only, if come he must, I beg thee, friend, let none have power to dispose of me. No need, sir, to appeal a second time. It likes me not to boast. But be assured, thy life is safe while any god saves mine. Exit. Theseus. Who craves excess of days, scorning the common span of life, I judge that man. A giddy white who walks in folly's ways, for the long years heap up a grievous load, scant pleasures heavier pains, till not one joy remains for him who lingers on life's weary road. And come it slow or fast, one doom of fate doth all await, for dance and marriage bell, the dirge and funeral knell, death the deliverer freeth all at last.
Not to be born at all is best, far best that can befall, next best when born with least delay to trace the backward way. From when youth passes with its jitty train, troubles on troubles follow, toils on toils, pain, pain, forever pain, and none escapes life's coils. Envy, sedition, strife, carnage, and war make up the tale of life. Last comes the worst and most abhorred stage of unregarded age. Joyless, companionless, and slow, Avose the crowning woe. Such ill's not I alone, He too our guest hath known, E'en as some headland on an iron-bound shore, Lashed by the wintry blasts and surges roar, So is he buffeted on every side, By drear misfortune's whelming tide, By every wind of heaven o'er-borne, some from the sunset, some from orient morn, some from the noonday glow, some from ripian gloom of everlasting snow.
Father, methinks I see the stranger coming. Alone he comes, and weeping plenteous tears. Who may he be? The same that we surmised, from the outset. Polyneses, he is here. Enter. Polynices. Ah, me, my sisters. Shall I first lament my own afflictions, or my aged sires, whom here I find a castaway with you in a strange land, an ancient beggar clad in antic tatters marring all his frame, while o'er the sightless orbs his unkept locks float in the breeze, and as it were to match he bears a wallet against hunger's pinch. All this too late, I learn, wretch that I am. Alas! I own it, and am proved most vile in my neglect of thee. I scorn myself. But as Almighty Zeus, in all he doth, hath mercy for co-partner of this throne.
Let mercy, Father, also sit enthroned in thy heart likewise, for transgressions past may be amended, cannot be made worse.
Why silent? Father, speak, nor turn away. Hast thou no word? Wilt thou dismiss me then in mute disdain, nor tell me why thou art wrath? O ye his daughters, sisters mine, do ye this sullen, obstinate silence try to move. Let him not spurn without a single word of answer me the suppliant of the God. L. Tell him thyself, unhappy one, thine errand, for large discourse may send a thrill of joy, or stir a chord of wrath or tenderness, and to the tongue-tide somehow give a tongue. Well dost thou counsel, and I will speak out. First will I colonnade the god himself, Poseidon, from whose altar I was raised, with warrant from the monarch of this land, to parley with you, and depart unscathed. These pledges, strangers, I would see observed, by you and by my sisters and my sire.
Now, father, let me tell thee why I came. I have been banished from my native land, because by right of primogeniture I claimed possession of thy sovereign throne, wherefrom Atoakles my younger brother ousted me, not by weight of precedent, nor by the last arbitrament of war, but by his popular acts, and the prime cause of this I deem the curse that rests on thee. So likewise hold the soothsayers, for when I came to Argos in the Dorian land, and took the king Adrasta's child to wife, under my standard I enlisted all the foremost captains of the Apian Isle, to levy with their aid that sevenfold host of spearmen against Thebes, determining to oust my foes, or die in a just cause. Why, then, thou askest, am I here to-day?
Father— I come a-suppliant to thee both for myself and my allies, who now, with squadrons seven beneath their seven spears, beleaguer all the plain that circles Thebes. Foremost the peerless warrior, peerless seer, amphiorise with his lightning lance. Next, an Aetolian, Tidius, Ineus' son. Antiochus of Argive birthed the third, the fourth Hippomedon sent to the war by a sire Talaus. Capaneus, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, V, Thus, by thy children and thy life, my sire, we all adjure thee to remit thy wrath, and favour one who seeks a just revenge against a brother who has banned and robbed him.
For victory, if oracles speak true, will fall to those who have thee for ally. So, by our fountains and familiar gods, I pray thee, yield and hear. A beggar I, and exile, thou an exile likewise. Both, involved in one misfortune, find a home as pensioners, while he, the lord of Thebes, O agony, makes a mock of thee and me. I'll scatter with a breath, the upstart's might, and bring thee home again, and stablish thee, and stablish, having cast him out, myself. This, with thy good will, I will undertake. Without it I can scarce return alive. For the king's sake who sent him Oedipus, dismiss him not without a meet reply. Nay, worthy seniors, but for Theseus' sake, who sent him hither to have word of me, never again would he have heard my voice.
But now he shall obtain this parting grace, an answer that will bring him little joy. O villain! When thou hadst the sovereignty that now thy brother holdeth in thy stead, didst thou not drive me, thine own father, out, an exile, cityless, and make me wear the beggar's garb, thou weepest to behold, now thou art come thyself to my sad plight. Nothing is here for tears. It must be borne by me till death, and I shall think of thee as of my murderer. Thou didst thrust me out, "'tis thou hast made me conversant with woe. Through thee I beg my bread in a strange land. And had not these my daughters tended me, I had been dead for aught of aid from thee. They tend me, they preserve me, they are men, not women, in true service to their sire.
But ye are bastards, and no sons of mine." Therefore just heaven hath an eye on thee. Howbeit not yet with aspect so austere as thou shalt soon experience, if indeed these banded hosts are moving against Thebes? That city thou canst never storm, but first shall fall thou and thy brother, blood imbued. Such curse I lately launched against you twain. Such curse I now invoke to fight for me, that ye may learn to honour those who bear thee, nor flout a sightless father who begat degenerate sons. These maidens did not so. Therefore my curse is stronger than thy throne, thy suppliance, if by right of law'sy turn primeval justice sits enthroned with Zeus. Begone, abhorred, disowned, and no son of mine, thou vilest of the vile, and take with thee this curse, I leave thee as my last bequest, never to win by arms thy native land, no, nor return to Argos in the vale, but by a kinsman's hand to die, and slay him who expelled thee.
So, I pray, and call on the ancestral gloom of Tartarus to snatch thee hence, on these dread goddesses I call, and Ares, who incensed you both to mortal enemy. Go now, proclaim what thou hast heard to the Cadmaians all, thy staunch confederates. This, the heritage that Oedipus divideth to his sons. Thy Aaron, Polyneacus, like me not. From the beginning, now go back with speed. Woe! Worth my journey and my baffled hopes! Woe! Worth my comrades! What a desperate end to that glad march from Argos! Woe is me! I dare not whisper it to my allies, or turn them back, but mute must meet my doom. My sisters, ye his daughters, ye have heard the prayers of our stern father. If his curse should come to pass, and ye some day return to Thebes, O then disown me not, I pray.
But grant me burial, and do funeral rites. So shall the praise your filial care now wins be doubled for the service wrought for me. One boon, O Polyneses, let me crave. What wouldst thou, sweet Antigone, say on? Turn back thy host to Argos with all speed, and ruin not thyself and Thebes as well. That cannot be. How could I lead again an army that had seen their leader quail? But, brother, why shouldst thou be wroth again? What profit from thy country's ruin comes? Tis shame to live in exile, and shall I, the elder, bear a younger brother's flouts? Wilt thou then bring to pass his prophecies who threatens mutual slaughter to you both? Aye, so he wishes, but I must not yield. L. O, woe is me! But say, will any dare, hearing his prophecy, to follow thee?
A. I shall not tell it. A good general reports successes and conceals mishaps. L. Misguided youth, thy purpose then stands fast. A. Tis so, and stay me not. The road I choose, dogged by my sire and his avenging spirit, leads me to ruin. But for you, may Zeus make your path bright, if ye fulfill my hest, when dead. In life ye cannot serve me more. Now let me go. Farewell, a long farewell. Ye ne'er shall see my living face again. Ah, me! Bewell me not. Who would not mourn thee, brother, hurrying to an open pit? If I must die, I must. Nay, hear me plead. It may not be. Forbear. Then woe is me if I must lose thee. Nay, that rests with fate, whether I live or die. But for you both, I pray to heaven ye may escape all ill, for ye are blameless in the eyes of all.
Exit Polyneses. Ills on ills, no pause or rest, come they from our sightless guest. Or haply now we see fulfilled, but fate long time hath willed. For never have I proved vain. Aught that the heavenly powers ordain. Time with never-sleeping eye watches what is writ on high, overthrowing now the great, raising now from low estate. Hark, how the thunder rumbles! Ceves defend us! Chil-dren, my children, will no messenger go summon hither Theseus, my best friend? Chil-dren, my children, will no messenger go summon hither Theseus, my best friend? Chil-dren, and wherefore, father, dost thou summon him? This winged thunder of the god must bear me anon to Hades. Send and tarry not. Hark with louder, nearer roar, the bolt of self descends once more.
My spirit quails and cowers, my hair bristles for fear against that flare. What doth the lightning flash portend? Ever it points to Isius' grave, greed powers of air. Save, Cebs, oh save! Daughters, upon me the predestined end has come. No turning from it any more. How knowest thou? What sign convinces thee? Ay, know full well. Let some one with all speed go summon hither the Athenian prince. Ah! once more the deafening sound Peals yet louder all around. If thou darknest our land, Lightly, lightly lay thy hand. Grace not anger, let me win. If upon a man of sin I have looked with pitying eye, Sev's our king, to thee I cry. Is the prince coming? Will he, when he comes, find me yet living and my senses clear?
What solemn charge wouldst thou impress on him? For all his benefits I would perform the promise made when I received them first. Hither haste, my son, arise, altar, leave, and sacrifice, if haply to Poseidon now, in the far glade thou pay'st thy vow. For our guests to thee would bring, and thy folk an offering, thy Jew geared on haste, O king. Enter Theseus. Wherefore again this general din? At once my people call me, and the stranger calls. Is it a thunderbolt of Zeus, or sleet of arrowy hail? A storm so fierce as this would warrant all surmises of mischance. Thou com'st much wish'd for, prince, and sure some god hath bid good luck attend thee on thy way. What son of Laius hath chanced of new?
My life hath turn'd the scale. I would do all I promised thee, and thine before I die. What sign assures thee that thine end is near? The gods themselves are heralds of my fate. Of their appointed warnings nothing fails. How sayest thou they signify their will? This thunder, peal on peal, this lightning, hurled flash upon flash from the unconquered hand. I must believe thee, having found thee oft a prophet true. Then speak what must be done. O son of Aegeus, for this state will I unfold a treasure age cannot corrupt. Myself anon, without a guiding hand, will take thee to the spot where I must end. This secret never revealed to mortal man, neither the spot nor whereabouts it lies. So shall it ever serve thee for defence, better than native shields and near allies.
But these dread mysteries, speech may not profane, thyself shall gather, coming there alone, since not to any of thy subjects, not to my own children, though I love them dearly, can I reveal what thou must guard alone, and whisper to thy chosen heir alone. So to be handed down from heir to heir. Thus shalt thou hold this land in violet from the dread dragon's brood. The justice state by countless wanton neighbours may be wronged, for the gods, though they tarry, mark for gloom the godless sinner in his mad career. Far from thee, son of Aegeus, be such fate, but to the spot the god within me goads. Let us set forth, no longer hesitate. Follow me, daughters, this way. Strange that I, whom you have led for so long, should lead you now.
Oh, touch me not, but let me all alone find out the sepulchre that destiny appoints me in this land. Hither, this way, for this way Hermes leads, the spirit guide, and Persepice, empress of the dead. Oh, light, no light to me, but mine erewhile. Now the last time I feel thee palpable, for I am drawing near the final gloom of Hades. Blessing on thee, dearest friend, on thee, and on thy land and followers. Live prosperous, and in your happy state, still for your welfare. Think on me, the dead. Exit Theseus, followed by Antigone and Ismene. If mortal prayers are heard in hell, Here, goddess, dread invisible, Monarch of the regions drear, Idonius, hear, O hear, By a gentle, tearless doom, Speed this stranger to the gloom.
Let him enter without pain The old shrouding Styrian plain, Wrongfully in life oppressed, Be he now by justice blessed. Queen infernal, and thou fell, Watchdog of the gates of hell, Who, as legends tell, dost glare, Gnaling in thy cavernous lair? At all comers let him go, Scathless to the fields below, For thy master orders thus The son of earth and tartarus. In his den the monster keep, Giver of eternal sleep. Enter, messenger. Friends, countrymen, my tidings are in some that Oedipus is gone. But the event was not so brief, nor can the tale be brief. What has he gone, the unhappy man? Know well that he has passed away from life to death. How, by a godsend painless doom, poor soul? Thy question hits the marvel of the tale.
How he moved hence, you saw him and must know, without a friend to lead the way, himself guiding us all. So, having reached the abrupt earth-rooted threshold with its brazen stairs, He paused at one of the converging paths, hard by the rocky basin which records the pact of Theseus and Perithoos. Betwixt that rift and the Thorysean rock, the hollow pear-tree and the marble tomb, midway he sat and loosed his beggar's weeds. Then, calling to his daughters, bade them fetch of running water, both to wash withal and make libation. So they clomb the steep, and in brief space brought what their father bade, then laved and dressed him with observance due. But when he had his will in everything, and no desire was left unsatisfied, It thundered from the nether world.
The maids shivered, and, crouching at their fathers knees, wept, beat their breast, and uttered a long wail. He, as he heard their sudden, bitter cry, folded his arms about them both, and said— My children, ye will lose your sire to-day, for all of me has perished, and no more have ye to bear your long, long ministry. A heavy load, I know, and yet one word wipes out all score of tribulations. Love. And love from me had, from no man more, but now must live without me all your days. So clinging to each other, sobbed and wept father and daughters both. But when at last their mourning had an end, and no wail rose, a moment there was silence. Suddenly, a voice that summoned him. With sudden dread the hair of all stood up, and all were mazed, for the call came, now loud, now low, and oft.
Oedipus, Oedipus, why tarry we? Too long, too long thy passing is delay'd. But when he heard the summons of the god, he prayed that Theseus might be brought, and when the prince came nearer, O my friend, he cried, pledge ye my daughters, giving thy right hand, and daughters, give him yours, and promise me thou never wilt forsake them, but do all that time and friendship prompt in their behoof. And he of his nobility repressed his tears, and swore to be their constant friend. This promise given, Oedipus put forth blind hands, and laid them on his children, saying, O children, prove your true nobility, and hence depart, nor seek to witness sights unlawful, or to hear unlawful words. Nay, go with speed, let none but Theseus stay, our ruler, to behold what next shall hap.
So we all heard him speak, and weeping sore, we companyed the maidens on their way. After brief space we looked again, and lo! the man was gone! He vanished from our eyes! Only the king we saw with upraised hand, shading his eyes as from some awful sight, that no man might endure to look upon. A moment later, and we saw him bend in prayer to earth, and prayer to heaven, at once. But by what doom the stranger met his end, no man save Theseus knoweth. For there fell no fiery bolt that reft him in that hour, nor whirlwind from the sea, but he was taken. It was a messenger from heaven, or else some gentle, painless cleaving of earth's base, for without wailing or disease or pain he passed away, an end most marvellous.
And if to some my tale seems foolishness, I am content that such could count me fool. Where are the maids and their attendant friends? They cannot be far off. The approaching sound of lamentation tells they come this way. Enter Antigone and Ismene. Woe! Woe! On this sad day we sisters of one blasted stalk must bow beneath the shock, must weep and weep the curse that lay on him our sire, for whom in life a lifelong world of care was ours to bear. In death must face the gloom that wraps his tomb. What tongue can tell that sight ineffable? What mean ye maidens? All is but surmise. Is he then gone? Gone, as ye most might wish, not in battle or sea-storm, but reft from sight, by hands invisible borne to viewless fields of night.
Ah, me! On us, too, night has come, the night of morning. Whither roam or land or sea in our distress, eating the bread of bitterness. I know not. O, that death might nip my breath, and let me share my aged father's fate! I cannot live a life thus desolate. Best of daughters, worthy pair, what heaven brings ye needs must bear. Fret no more against heaven's will. Fate hath dealt with you not ill. Love can turn past pain to bliss. What seemed bitter now is sweet. Ah, me, that happy toil is sweet! The guidance of those dear blind feet, dear father. Wrapt for aye in nether gloom, e'en in the tomb, never shalt thou lack of love repine, her love and mine. Mr. Brown. His fate? Is even as he planned.
Mr. Brown. How so? He died, so willed he, in a foreign land. Lapt in kind earth he sleeps his long last sleep, and o'er his grave his friends weep. How great our lost these streaming eyes can tell, this sorrow naught can quell. Thou hadst thy wish mid strangers thus to die, but I, ah me, not by. Alas, my sister, what new fate befalls us orphans desolate? His end was blest. Therefore, children, stay your sorrow. Man is born to fate a prey. Sister, let us back again. Why return? My soul is fain. Is fain? To see the earthy bed. Sayest thou? Where our sire is laid. Nay, thou canst not, dost not see? Sister, wherefore wroth with me? Nost not, beside. More must I hear? Tombless he died, none near. Lead me thither, slay me there.
How shall I, unhappy, fair? Friendless, helpless? How drag on a life of misery alone? Fear not, maids. Ah, whither flee? Refuge hath been found. For me? Where thou shalt be safe from harm. I know it. Why then this alarm? How again to get us home, I know not. Why then this roam? Troubles whelm us. As of yore? Worse than what was worse before. Sure ye are driven on the breaker's surge. Alas, we are. Alas, it is so. Ah, whither turn, O Zeus? No ray of hope to cheer the way whereon the fates our desperate voyage urge. Enter. Theseus. Dry your tears. When grace is shed on the quick and on the dead by dark powers beneficent, over grief they would resent. Aegeus, child, to thee we pray. What the boon, my children?
Say. Aegeus. With our own eyes we fain would see our father's tomb. That may not be. What say'st thou, king? My children, he charged me straitly that no mortal should approach the sacred portal, or greet with funeral litanies the hidden tomb wherein he lies, saying, If thou keepest my hest, thou shalt hold my realm at rest. The god of oaths this promise heard, and to Zeus I pledge my word. Well, if he would have it so, we must yield. Then let us go back to Thebes, if yet we may heal this mortal feud, and stay the self-wrought doom that drives our brothers to their tomb. Go in peace, nor will I spare aught of toil and zealous care, but on all your needs attend, gladdening in his grave, my friend.
Wail no more, let sorrow rest, all is ordered for the best.
End of Oedipus at Colonus by Sophocles Translated by Francis Storr