Phoenissae, or Thebaïs: Act I

Oedipus [to Antigone, who has followed him into exile]: O thou,who guid'st thy blinded father's steps,Sole comfort of my weary heart, my child,Begotten at such heavy cost to me,Leave thou the unpropitious way I tread.Why shouldst thou seek to lead my feet arightWhich fain would wander? Let me stumble on.Far better shall I find my way, alone,The path that from the miseries of lifeShall take me, and the face of heaven and earthFree from the sight of this ill-omened head.O hand of mine, how little hast thou done!For, though I do not see the light of dayWhich looked upon my crime, still am I seen.Unclasp thy clinging hand from mine; permitMy sightless feet to wander where they will.I go, I go where my Cithaeron liftsHis rugged crags on high; where to his dogsActaeon, speeding through the rocky ways,Became a booty strange and pitiful;Where through the dim old woods and dusky glades,By Bacchic frenzy fired, the mother wildHer sisters led, rejoicing in the crime,When on the waving thyrsus' point she boreThe gory head of Pentheus; where the bullOf Zethus rushed along, the mangled corpseOf Dirce dragging (through the thorny briarsThe mad beast's flight was traceable in blood);Or where the cliff of Ino lifts its headHigh o'er the heaving sea, into whose depthsThe mother leaped, fleeing an unknown crime,Yet daring other crime, by terror drivenTo sink her son with her beneath the waves.Oh, happy they whose better fortune gaveMothers like these! There is another placeWithin these woods--my place, which calls to me,To which I fain would haste; my eager feetWill not delay, and thither will I go,Unguided, all alone. Why hesitateTo seek the place that most belongs to me?Give back that death, Cithaeron, give againThat spot where once I lay upon thy breast,That, where I should in infancy have died,In age I may expire. Now let me payThe debt I long have owed. O mountain, fellAnd bloody, cruel, savage in thy rage,Both when thou spar'st and when thou dost destroy,This body long ago was given to thee:Obey my father's and my mother's will.My soul is eager to receive at lastIts punishment. Why, daughter, why dost thouWith baleful love restrain me? Hold me not.My father calls, and I will follow, yea,Will follow him. Then cease to hold me back.See where the royal Laius comes in rage,The blood-stained scepter of his ravished realmWithin his grasp. See, with his angry handsHe seeks to tear again my empty eyes.O daughter, dost thou see my father, too?I surely see him.Brave but to mar a helpless part of thee,At length spew out that hateful life of thine.Delay no more upon thy punishment,And give thyself entirely unto death.Why do I, sluggish, linger on in life?There is no further crime that I can do.Oh, my foreboding, wretched soul, there is!Flee from thy father, flee, while still a maid;My mother's fate makes me of all afraid.

Antigone: No power, my father, shall unloose my holdOf thee; no one shall force me from thy side.The illustrious, rich house of Labdacus,Let my two brothers seek with strife to gain:The greatest part of all my father's realmIs mine--my father's self. Nor shall this shareBe reft away from me by him who holdsBy stolen right the scepter over Thebes,Nor by that other brother who leads onAgainst his native land th' Argolic hosts;Though Jove himself should thunder out of heaven,And hurl his bolt against my clinging hands,I would not let thee go. Though thou forbid,I'll guide thee, O my father, 'gainst thy will,And thy reluctant feet will I direct.Seek'st thou the level plain? There will I go.The rugged mountain heights? I'll not oppose,But will precede thy way. Use me as guideWherever thou wouldst go; since for us bothIs every path selected that thou tread'st.With me, but not without me, canst thou die.There springs a lofty cliff, precipitous,And looks far out upon the sea below:Shall we seek this? There hangs a naked rock,There yawns the riven earth with gaping jaws:Wouldst thou to these? And there a mountain streamIn roaring torrent falls, and 'neath its wavesWorn fragments of the mountain roll along:Shall we rush headlong in? Where thou wouldst go,I go, but always first. I'll not opposeNor urge. Dost thou desire to be destroyed?Is death thy highest wish? If thou dost die,I go before thee; if thou liv'st, I follow.But change thy mind, call up thine old-time strength,And with a mighty will thy sorrows curb.Resist, since in such ills defeat is death.

Oedipus: Whence springs so rare a spirit in a houseSo impious? Whence comes this noble maid,Unlike her race? Can it be true indeed?Has any pious thing been born of me?Ne'er would it be, for well I know my fates,Except for harmful ends. Nature herselfHas changed her laws: now shall the stream, reversed,Bear back its whirling waters to their source;The torch of Phoebus shall bring in the night,And day be heralded by Hesperus;And, that I may but add unto my woe,I, too, shall pious be. Not to be saved--This is for Oedipus the only cure.Let me avenge my father, unavengedTill now. My hand, why dost thou hesitateTo exact the penalty I owe to him?Whatever I have suffered hithertoWas for my mother's sake. Release my hand,Undaunted girl; thou but delay'st my death,And thy living father's funeral prolong'st.Let earth conceal at last this hated form.Thou wrongest me, though with a kind intent,And deem'st it piety to keep thy sireFrom burial. But they are one in guilt,Both he who forces death upon a manWho fain would live, and he who holds him backWho longs to die. And yet they are not one;For surely is the last the worser sin.To be condemned to death were better farFor me than to be saved from death. Then cease,My child, from this attempt. I have reservedFor my own will the right to live or die.Right gladly did I yield the sovereigntyO'er all my realm; yet o'er myself aloneI still am king. If thou in very truthArt loyal to me, give me back my sword,That sword already with my father's bloodDefiled. Wilt give it back? Or do my sonsRetain my sword together with my throne?'Tis well. Wherever there is need of crime,There let it be; I gladly give it up.Let both my sons possess the sword. But thou,Flames, rather, and a heap of wood prepare;Then will I fling myself upon the pyre,Cling in its hot embrace, and hide myselfWithin its deadly hold. There will I looseThis stubborn soul, and give to mortal dustWhatever lives in me. Where is the sea?Come, lead me where some beetling crag juts out,Or where Ismenus rolls his savage waves;Or thither would I go and end my life,Where once upon a jutting rock abodeThe hybrid Sphinx and wove her crafty speech.Direct me thither, set thy father there.Let not that dreadful seat be empty long,But place me there, a greater monster still.There will I sit and of my fate proposeA riddle dark which no man will resolve.Come listen, ye, who plow the Theban fields;Whoever worships in the sacred groveOf Cadmus, for the deadly serpent famed,Where hallowed Dirce lies; whoever drinksEurotas' stream; ye who in Sparta dwell,Illustrious for its heavenly brothers twain;And ye who reap Boeotia's fertile fields,The plains of Elis and Parnassus' slopes:What riddle like to this could she propose,That curse of Thebes, who wove destructive wordsIn puzzling measures? What so dark as this?He was his grandsire's son-in-law, and yetHis father's rival; brother of his sons,And father of his brothers; at one birthThe granddame bore unto her husband sons,And grandson's to herself. Who can unwindA tangle such as this? E'en I myself,Who bore the spoils of triumph o'er the Sphinx,Stand mute before the riddle of my fate.

But why waste further words? Why dost thou tryTo soften my determined heart with prayers?My will is fixed to pour this spirit forthWhich now for long has struggled sore with death,And seek the world of shades; for blackest nightIs still not black enough for this my crime.'Tis sweet in deepest Tartarus to hide;Or, if there yet is deeper pit than this,There would I go. 'Tis well to do at lastThe thing which long ago should have been done.I cannot be prevented from my death.Wilt take away my sword? Wilt bar all pathsThat lead unto the fatal precipice?Wilt keep my neck free from the choking noose?Remove all poisonous herbs from me? Yet what,Think'st thou, will all that care of thine avail?For death is everywhere. A kindly GodHath this great law with wisest care ordained:That anyone can take man's life away,But none can stay his death; for countless waysAre open unto him who seeks to die.I ask no aid of thine. Well am I usedTo employ this naked hand. Then come, my hand,With all thy force, with all thy passion, come.And not one wound alone would I endure,For I have sinned in every part of me.Come, strike the mortal blow where'er thou wilt:Break through my breast and tear my heart away,So full of sin; lay bear my vitals all;Rain blows upon my neck until it break,Or let thy gouging fingers tear my veinsUntil they flow with blood. Or, if thou wilt,Direct thine anger whither thou art wont:These healing wounds reopen; let them flowWith streams of blood and loathsome gore again;And through this passage drag my life away,So stubborn in defeat, so hard to storm.And thou, O father, wheresoe'er thou art,Who stand'st as judge upon my just deserts,I ne'er have thought that such a crime as mineCould ever be sufficiently atoned,Nor has this living death contented me;I have not bought my pardon with my eyes,But fain would perish for thee, limit by limb.Exact at last the penalty I owe.Now I atone; then I but sacrificedUnto thy manes. Be thou here to aid,And my reluctant hand help me to plungeDeep down and deeper in my sightless eyes.A scant and timid offering I made,When first I plucked my eager eyeballs out.And even now my trembling spirit halts,Yea, halts, though downward to my shrinking handsMy face inclines. Now shalt thou hear the truth,O Oedipus: less boldly than thou plan'dstDid'st thou pluck out thine eyes. Let now thy brainFeel those avenging fingers; through this doorComplete the death which has begun in me.

Antigone: O father, great of soul, I pray thee hearWith quiet mind thy wretched daughter's words:I do not seek to lead thee back againInto the presence of thy former home,Nor to the illustrious splendor of thy realm;I ask thee not with calm and peaceful soulTo bear again that fearful shock of woeWhich even yet the soothing hand of timeHas not assuaged. And yet it is not meetThat one so stout of heart should be o'ercomeAnd to misfortune weakly turn his back.It is not valor, father, as thou think'st,To shrink from life; but 'gainst the mightiest illsTo stand opposed, and not to flinch or budge,That is the truest test of manly worth.Who tramples under foot his destiny,Who disregards and scorns the goods of life,And aggravates the evils of his lot,Who has no further need of Providence:Wherefore should such a man desire to die,Or seek for death? Each is the coward's act.No one holds death in scorn who seeks to die.The man whose evils can no farther goIs safely lodged. Who of the gods, think'st thou,Grant that he wills it so, can add one jotUnto thy sum of trouble? Nor canst thou,Save that thou deem'st thyself unfit to live.But thou art not unfit, for in thy breastNo taint of sin has come. And all the more,My father, art thou free from taint of sin,Because, though heaven willed it otherwise,Thou still art innocent. What is there nowWhich has so maddened thee, which goads thy heartTo fresh outbursts of grief? What forces theeTo seek the abodes of hell, and fly from these?Is't that thou wouldst avoid the light of day?Thou dost avoid the light. Or wouldst thou fleeThis noble palace and thy native land?Thy native land, although thou livest still,Is dead to thee. Wouldst from thy sons escape,And from thy mother? From the sight of allHas fate removed thee; and whatever deathFrom any man can take, thy life has taken.Art weary of the kingdom's press and stir?At thy command thy former courtier throngHas vanished.--Whom, O father, dost thou flee?

Oedipus: Myself I flee, I flee this heart of mine,Full of all crimes; I flee this hand, this sky,These gods; I flee those dreadful sins which I,Though innocent, have done. And can it beThat this fair world, whence bounteous harvests spring,Is trod by such as I? This wholesome airDo I with pestilential lips inhale,With water quench my thirst, or any giftOf kindly earth enjoy? And do I dare,This impious, incestuous, curséd wretch,To touch thy maiden hand? Have I still earsTo hear the name of parent or of son?Oh, that with rending hands I might destroyThese narrow ways of sound by which I hearThe words of men. My child, all sense of thee,Who art a parcel of my impious deeds,In my unhappiness I would have fled.But now my crime sticks fast within my heart,And threatens ever to break out afresh;For what my blinded eyes have spared to me,Is through my ears poured in upon my soul.Oh, why do I not plunge this darkened lifeInto the eternal shadow-world of Dis?Why do I longer hold my spirit here?Why be a burden to the upper world,And wander still among the living men?What evil yet remains? My fatherland,My parents, children, valor--all are lost,And that illustrious glory of the mind;Yea, evil chance hath stripped me of my all.Tears yet remained, but these with my own handHave I destroyed. Then go thy ways, my child.My soul will not give ear to any prayers,And only seeks new punishment for crime,And equal to my sin--if that can be.While yet an infant was I doomed to death.What mortal ever drew so hard a fate?Ere I had seen the light, while still confinedWithin the darksome prison of the womb,I was a thing of dread. The night of deathLays hold on many at the hour of birth,And snatches them away from dawning life;But death anticipated birth in me.Some are o'ertaken by untimely fateWhile still within the womb, yet without sin.But I, yet hid within the hold of life,While yet my very being was in doubt,Was by the heavenly oracle compelledTo answer to a charge unspeakable.My sire condemned me at Apollo's word,And through my tender ankles thrust a rodStill glowing from the forge; then sent his childInto the forest deep, a prey for beastsAnd all the savage birds Cithaeron breeds,Accustomed to be stained with royal blood.Yet him, whom God condemned, who by his sireWas cast away to die, death also fled.And Delphi's oracle have I fulfilled:For I with impious hand assailed my sire,And slew him.Perchance another act of pietyWill make amends: I killed my father; true,But still I loved my mother.--Oh, 'tis shameTo mention such a wedlock; yet I will,And force myself to bear this punishment,To tell abroad my more than bestial crime,So strange, that nations stand in dumb amaze,So shameful, that no age will credit it,That e'en the shameless parricide is shocked:Into my father's bed I bore my handsSmeared with my father's blood, and there receivedThe wages of my crime--a greater crime.My father's murder was a trivial thing;But, that my sum of crime might be complete,My mother, to my marriage chamber led,Conceived--Oh, how could nature e'er endureA greater crime? And yet, if aught remains,I have begotten children vile enoughTo do this also. I have cast awayThe scepter which I won by parricide,And with it other hands are armed for war.Full well do I my kingdom's fortune know,That never more shall any gain the throneWithout the sacrifice of kindred blood.Dire evils doth my father-soul presage,For even now are sown the baleful seedsOf future strife; the plighted pact is spurned;One will not yield the throne he hath usurped,The other claims his right, calls on the godsTo witness of his bond, and, driven from home,Moves Argos and the towns of Greece to arms.No light destruction comes to weary Thebes;For weapons, flames, and wounds press hard on her,And greater woes than these, if such there be,That all may know I have begotten sons.

Antigone: If thou no other cause for living hast,My father, this one reason is enough,That thou as father mayst restrain thy sonsFrom deadly strife. Thou only canst avertTheir threats of impious war, curb their mad hearts,Give peace to citizens, to country rest,And to their broken treaty honest faith.To many men art thou refusing life,If for thyself thou dost refuse to live.

Oedipus: Think'st thou that such as they have aught of loveFor father or for right, whose hearts are filledWith lust for blood and power and impious arms,Profane and cruel sons--in brief, my own?Toward every form of evil deed they strive,And have no scruples where their wrath impels.In shame begot, they have no sense of shame.They have no feeling for their wretched sire,None for their country. Naught but lust of powerRules in their maddened breasts. I know full wellTo what dire ends they tend, what monstrous deedsThey are prepared to do; and for this causeI seek to find destruction's shortest path,And haste to die, while yet within my houseThere is no soul more steeped in guilt than I.O child, why dost thou weep about my knees,Why seek with prayer to soften my hard heart?This means alone my fortune has reservedBy which I may be led, unconquered else;For thou alone canst soothe my stubborn soul,Canst teach me piety. For naught is hardOr grievous in my sight, if I perceiveThat thou dost wish it. Do thou but command:Then will I swim the broad Aegean straits,Will drink the flames which from Sicilia's mountEarth belches forth in whirling, molten streams,Will beard the savage dragon in his den,Still raging at the theft of Hercules;At thy command, to birds of prey will giveMy bleeding heart--at thy command will live.