place and made due sacrifice, and washed in the great stone basin, and
put away all uncleanness from his heart, and went through the portals of
rock to the awful shrine within, where the undying fire burns night and
day and the sacred laurel stands. And he put his question to the god and
waited for an answer.
Through the dim darkness of the shrine he saw the priestess on her
tripod, veiled in a mist of incense and vapor, and as the power of the
god came upon her she beheld the things of the future and the hidden
secrets of Fate. And she raised her hand toward Œdipus, and with pale
lips spoke the words of doom: “Œdipus ill-fated, thine own sire shalt
thou slay.”
As she spoke the words his head swam round like a whirlpool, and his
heart seemed turned to stone; then, with a loud and bitter cry, he
rushed from the temple, through the thronging crowd of pilgrims down
into the Sacred Way, and the people moved out of his path like shadows.
Blindly he sped along the stony road, down through the pass to a place
where three roads meet, and he shuddered as he crossed them; for Fear
laid her cold hand upon his heart and filled it with a wild, unreasoning
dread, and branded the image of that awful spot upon his brain so that he
could never forget it. On every side the mountains frowned down upon him,
and seemed to echo to and fro the doom which the priestess had spoken.
Straight forward he went like some hunted thing, turning neither to right
nor left, till he came to a narrow path, where he met an old man in a
chariot drawn by mules, with his trusty servants round him.
“Ho! there, thou madman!” they shouted; “stand by and let the chariot
pass.”
“Madmen yourselves,” he cried, for his sore heart could not brook the
taunt. “I am a king’s son, and will stand aside for no man.”
So he tried to push past them by force, though he was one against many.
And the old man stretched out his hand as though to stop him, but as
well might a child hope to stand up against a wild bull. For he thrust
him aside and felled him from his seat, and turned upon his followers,
and, striking out to right and left, he stunned one and slew another, and
forced his way through in blind fury. But the old man lay stiff and still
upon the road. The fall from the chariot had quenched the feeble spark of
life within him, and his spirit fled away to the house of Hades and the
Kingdom of the Dead. One trusty servant lay slain by his side, and the
other senseless and stunned, and when he awoke, to find his master and
his comrades slain, Œdipus was far upon his way.
On and on he went, over hill and dale and mountain stream, till at length
his strength gave way, and he sank down exhausted. And black despair laid
hold of his heart, and he said within himself: “Better to die here on
the bare hillside and be food for the kites and crows than return to my
father’s house to bring death to him and sorrow to my mother’s heart.”
But sweet sleep fell upon him, and when he awoke hope and the love of
life put other thoughts in his breast. And he remembered the words which
Merope the queen had spoke to him one day when he was boasting of his
strength and skill.
“Strength and skill, my son, are the gifts of the gods, as the rain which
falleth from heaven and giveth life and increase to the fruits of the
earth. But man’s pride is an angry flood that bringeth destruction on
field and city. Remember that great gifts may work great good or great
evil, and he who has them must answer to the gods if he use them well or
ill.”
And he thought within himself: “’Twere ill to die if, even in the
uttermost parts of the earth, men need a strong man’s arm and a wise
man’s cunning. Never more will I return to far-famed Corinth and my
home by the sounding sea, but to far-distant lands will I go and bring
blessing to those who are not of my kin, since to mine own folk I must be
a curse if ever I return.”
So he went along the road from Delphi till he came to seven-gated
Thebes. There he found all the people in deep distress and mourning, for
their king Laius was dead, slain by robbers on the highroad, and they
had buried him far from his native land at a place where three roads
meet. And, worse still, their city was beset by a terrible monster, the
Sphinx, part eagle and part lion, with the face of a woman, who every day
devoured a man because they could not answer the riddle she set them.
All this Œdipus heard as he stood in the market place and talked with the
people.
“What is this famous riddle that none can solve?” he asked.
“Alas! young man, that none can say. For he that would solve the riddle
must go up alone to the rock where she sits. Then and there she chants
the riddle, and if he answer it not forthwith she tears him limb from
limb. And if none go up to try the riddle, then she swoops down upon the
city and carries off her victims, and spares not woman or child. Our
wisest and bravest have gone up, and our eyes have seen them no more. Now
there is no man left who dare face the terrible beast.”
Then Œdipus said: “I will go up and face this monster. It must be a hard
riddle indeed if I cannot answer it.”
“Oh, overbold and rash,” they cried, “thinkest thou to succeed where so
many have failed?”
“Better to try, and fail, than never to try at all.”
“Yet, where failure is death, surely a man should think twice?”
“A man can die but once, and how better than in trying to save his
fellows?”
As they looked at his strong young limbs and his fair young face they
pitied him. “Stranger,” they said, “who art thou to throw away thy life
thus heedlessly? Are there none at home to mourn thee and no kingdom thou
shouldst rule? For, of a truth, thou art a king’s son and no common man.”
“Nay, were I to return, my home would be plunged in mourning and woe, and
the people would drive me from my father’s house.”
They marveled at his answer, but dared question him no further; and,
seeing that nothing would turn him from his purpose, they showed him the
path to the Sphinx’s rock, and all the people went out with him to the
gate with prayers and blessings. At the gate they left him, for he who
goes up to face the Sphinx must go alone, and none can stand by and help
him. So he went through the Crenean gate and across the stream of Dirce
into the wide plain, and the mountain of the Sphinx stood out dark and
clear on the other side. Then he prayed to Pallas Athene, the gray-eyed
goddess of Wisdom, and she took all fear from his heart. So he went up
boldly to the rock, where the monster sat waiting to spring upon her
prey; yet for all his courage his heart beat fast as he looked on her.
For at first she appeared like a mighty bird, with great wings of bronze
and gold, and the glancing sunbeams played about them, casting a halo
of light around, and in the midst of the halo her face shone out pale
and beautiful as a star at dawn. But when she saw him coming near, a
greedy fire lit up her eyes, and she put out her cruel claws and lashed
her tail from side to side like an angry lion waiting for his prey.
Nevertheless, Œdipus spoke to her fair and softly: “Oh, lady, I am come
to hear thy famous riddle and answer it or die.”
“Foolhardy manling, a dainty morsel the gods have sent this day, with thy
fair young face and fresh young limbs.” And she licked her cruel lips.
Then Œdipus felt his blood boil within him, and he wished to slay her
then and there; for she who had been the fairest of women was now the
foulest of beasts, and he saw that by her cruelty she had killed the
woman’s soul within her, and the soul of a beast had taken its place.
“Come, tell me thy famous riddle, foul Fury that thou art, that I may
answer it and rid the land of this curse.”
“At dawn it creeps on four legs; at noon it strides on two; at sunset and
evening it totters on three. What is this thing, never the same, yet not
many, but one?” So she chanted slowly, and her eyes gleamed cruel and
cold.
Then thought Œdipus within himself: “Now or never must my learning and
wit stand me in good stead, or in vain have I talked with the wisest of
men and learnt the secrets of Phœnicia and Egypt.”
And the gods who had given him understanding sent light into his heart,
and boldly he answered: “What can this creature be but man, O Sphinx?
For, a helpless babe at the dawn of life, he crawls on his hands and
feet; at noontide he walks erect in the strength of his manhood; and at
evening he supports his tottering limbs with a staff, the prop and stay
of old age. Have I not answered aright and guessed thy famous riddle?”
Then with a loud cry of despair, and answering him never a word, the
great beast sprang up from her seat on the rock and hurled herself over
the precipice into the yawning gulf beneath. Far away across the plain
the people heard her cry, and they saw the flash of the sun on her brazen
wings like a gleam of lightning in the summer sky. Thereupon they sent up
a great shout of joy to heaven, and poured out from every gate into the
open plain, and some raised Œdipus upon their shoulders, and with shouts
and songs of triumph bore him to the city. Then and there they made him
king with one accord, for the old king had left no son behind him, and
who more fitted to rule over them than the slayer of the Sphinx and the
savior of their city?
So Œdipus became King of Thebes, and wisely and well did he rule, and for
many a long year the land prospered both in peace and war.
But the day came when a terrible pestilence broke out, and the people
died by hundreds, so that at last Œdipus sent messengers to Delphi to ask
why the gods were angry and had sent a plague upon the land. And this
was the answer they brought back: “There is an unclean thing in Thebes.
Never has the murderer of Laius been found, and he dwells a pollution in
the land. Though the vengeance of the gods is slow, yet it cometh without
fail, and the shedding of blood shall not pass unpunished.”
Then Œdipus made proclamation through the land that if any man knew who
the murderer was, they should give him up to his doom and appease the
anger of Heaven. And he laid a terrible curse on any who dared to give
so much as a crust of bread or a draft of water to him who had brought
such suffering on the land. So throughout the country far and wide a
search was made to track out the stain of blood and cleanse the city from
pollution, but day after day the quest was fruitless, and the pestilence
raged unceasingly, and darkness fell upon the soul of the people, as
their prayers remained unanswered and their burnt-offerings smoked in
vain upon the altars of the gods. Then at last Œdipus sent for the blind
seer Teiresias, who had lived through six generations of mortal men, and
was the wisest of all prophets on earth. He knew the language of the
birds, and, though his eyes were closed in darkness, his ears were opened
to hear the secrets of the universe, and he knew the hidden things of
the past and of the future. But at first when he came before the king he
would tell him nothing, but begged him to question no further. “For the
things of the future will come of themselves,” he cried, “though I shroud
them in silence, and evil will it be for thee, O king, and evil for thine
house if I speak out the knowledge that is hidden in my heart.”
At last Œdipus grew angry at his silence, and taunted him: “Verily,
methinks thou thyself didst aid in the plotting of this deed, seeing that
thou carest naught for the people bowed down beneath the pestilence and
the dark days that are fallen on the land, so be it thou canst shield the
murderer and escape thyself from the curse of the gods.”
Then Teiresias was stung past bearing, and would hold his tongue no
longer. “By thine own doom shalt thou be judged, O king,” he said. “Thou
thyself art the murderer, thyself the pollution that staineth the land
with the blood of innocent men.”
Then Œdipus laughed aloud: “Verily, old man, thou pratest. What rival
hath urged thee to this lie, hoping to drive me from the throne of
Thebes? Of a truth, not thine eyes only, but thy heart, is shrouded in a
mist of darkness.”
“Woe to thee, Œdipus, woe to thee! Thou hast sight, yet seest not who
thou art, nor knowest the deed of thine hand. Soon shalt thou wander
sightless and blind, a stranger in a strange land, feeling the ground
with a staff, and men shall shrink back from thee in horror when they
hear thy name and the deed that thou hast done.”
And the people were hushed by the words of the old man, and knew not what
to think. But the wife of Œdipus, who stood by his side, said: “Hearken
not to him, my lord. For verily no mortal can search the secrets of Fate,
as I can prove full well by the words of this same man that he spoke in
prophecy. For he it was who said that Laius, the king who is dead, should
be slain by the hand of his own son. However, that poor innocent never
grew to manhood, but was exposed on the trackless mountainside to die of
cold and hunger; and Laius, men say, was slain by robber bands at a place
where three roads meet. So hearken not to seer-craft, ye people, nor
trust in the words of one who is proved a false prophet.”
But her words brought no comfort to Œdipus, and a dreadful fear came into
his heart, like a cold, creeping snake, as he listened. For he thought
of his journey from Delphi, and of how in his frenzy he had struck down
an old man and his followers at a place where three roads meet. When
he questioned her further, the time and the place and the company all
tallied, save only that rumor had it that Laius had been slain by robber
bands, while he had been single-handed against many.
“Was there none left,” he asked, “who saw the deed and lived to tell the
tale?”
“Yea, one faithful follower returned to bear the news, but so soon as the
Sphinx was slain and the people had made thee king he went into distant
pastures with his flocks, for he could not brook to see a stranger in his
master’s place, albeit he had saved the land from woe.”
“Go, summon him,” said Œdipus. “If the murderers were many, as rumor
saith, with his aid we may track them out; but if he was one man
single-handed—yea, though that man were myself—of a truth he shall be an
outcast from the land, that the plague may be stayed from the people.
Verily, my queen, my heart misgives me when I remember my wrath and the
deed that I wrought at the cross-roads.”
In vain she tried to comfort him, for a nameless fear had laid hold of
his heart.
Now, while they were waiting for the herdsman to come, a messenger
arrived in haste from Corinth to say that Polybus was dead, and that
Œdipus was chosen king of the land, for his fame had gone out far and
wide as the slayer of the Sphinx and the wisest of the kings of Hellas.
When Œdipus heard the news, he bowed his head in sorrow to hear of the
death of the father he had loved, and turning to the messenger, he said,
“For many a long year my heart hath yearned toward him who is dead, and
verily my soul is grieved that I shall see him no more in the pleasant
light of the sun. But for the oracle’s sake I stayed in exile, that my
hand might not be red with a father’s blood. And now I thank the gods
that he has passed away in a green old age, in the fullness of years and
of honor.” But the messenger wondered at his words. “Knewest thou not,
then, that Polybus was no father to thee in the flesh, but that for thy
beauty and thy strength he chose thee out of all the land to be a son to
him and heir to the kingdom of Corinth?”
“What sayest thou, bearer of ill news that thou art?” cried Œdipus.
“To prove that same tale of thine a slanderous lie I went to Delphi,
and there the priestess prophesied that I should slay mine own sire.
Wherefore I went not back to my native land, but have lived in exile all
my days.”
“Then in darkness of soul hast thou lived, O king. For with mine own
hands I received thee as a babe from a shepherd on dim Cithæron, from one
of the herdsmen of Laius, who was king before thee in this land.”
“Woe is me, then! The curse of the gods is over me yet. I know not my
sire, and unwittingly I may slay him and rue the evil day. And a cloud
of darkness hangeth over me for the slaying of King Laius. But lo! they
bring the herdsman who saw the deed done, and pray Heaven he may clear me
from all guilt. Bring him forward that I may question him.”
Then they brought the man forward before the king, though he shrank back
and tried to hide himself. When the messenger from Corinth saw him he
started back in surprise, for it was the very man from whose hands he had
taken Œdipus on the mountainside. And he said to the king, “Behold the
man who will tell thee the secret of thy birth. From his hands did I take
thee as a babe on dim Cithæron.”
Then Œdipus questioned the man, and at first he denied it from fear, but
at last he was fain to confess. “And who gave me to thee to slay on the
barren mountainside?”
“I pray thee, my king, ask no more. Some things there are that are better
unsaid.”
“Nay, tell me, and fear not. I care not if I am a child of shame and
slavery stains my birth. A son of Fortune the gods have made me, and have
given me good days with evil. Speak out, I pray thee. Though I be the son
of a slave, I can bear it.”
“No son of a slave art thou, but seed of a royal house. Ask no more, my
king.”
“Speak, speak, man. Thou drivest me to anger, and I will make thee tell,
though it be by force.”
“Ah! lay not cruel hands upon me. For thine own sake I would hide it.
From the queen thy mother I had thee, and thy father was—Laius the
king. At the cross-roads from Delphi didst thou meet him in his chariot,
and slew him unwittingly in thy wrath. Ah, woe is me! For the gods have
chosen me out to be an unwilling witness to the truth of their oracles.”
Then a great hush fell upon all the people like the lull before a storm.
For the words of the herdsman were so strange and terrible that at
first they could scarce take in their meaning. But when they understood
that Œdipus was Laius’s own son, and that he had fulfilled the dreadful
prophecy and slain his sire, a great tumult arose, some saying one thing
and some another; but the voice of Œdipus was heard above the uproar,
“Ah, woe is me, woe is me! The curse of the gods is upon me, and none
can escape their wrath. Blindly have I done this evil, and when I was
striving to escape Fate caught me in her hidden meshes. Oh, foolish
hearts of men, to think that ye can flee from the doom of the gods; for
lo! ye strive in the dark, and your very struggles bind you but closer in
the snare of your fate. Cast me from the land, ye people; do with me what
ye will. For the gods have made me a curse and a pollution, and by my
death alone will the land have rest from pestilence.”
And the people would have taken him at his word; for fickle is the
heart of the multitude, and swayed this way and that by every breath of
calamity.
They were sore stricken, too, by the pestilence, and in their wrath
against the cause of it they forgot the slaying of the Sphinx and the
long days of peace and prosperity. But the blind seer Teiresias rose up
in their midst, and at his voice the people were silent.
“Citizens of Cadmus, foolish and blind of heart! Will ye slay the savior
of your city? Have ye forgotten the man-devouring Sphinx and the days of
darkness? Verily prosperity blunteth the edge of gratitude. And thou,
Œdipus, curse not the gods for thine evil fate. He that putteth his
finger in the fire is burnt, whether he do it knowingly or not. As to thy
sire, him indeed didst thou slay in ignorance but the shedding of man’s
blood be upon thine own head, for that was the fruit of thy wrathful
spirit, which, through lack of curbing, broke forth like an angry beast.
Hadst thou never slain a man, never wouldst thou have slain thy sire.
But now thou art a pollution to the land of thy birth, and by long exile
and wandering must thou expiate thy sin and die a stranger in a strange
land. Yet methinks that in the dark mirror of prophecy I see thy form,
as it were, a guardian to the land of thy last resting-place, and in a
grove of sacred trees thy spirit’s lasting habitation, when thy feet have
accomplished the ways of expiation and the days of thy wandering are
done.”
So the people were silenced. But Œdipus would not be comforted, and in
his shame and misery he put out his own eyes because they had looked on
unspeakable things. Then he clothed himself in rags and took a pilgrim’s
staff, to go forth alone upon his wanderings. And the people were glad
at his going, because the plague had hardened their hearts, and they
cared nothing for his gray hairs and sightless eyes, nor remembered all
he had done for them, but thought only how the plague might be stayed.
Even Eteocles and Polynices, his own sons, showed no pity, but would
have let him go forth alone, that they might live on the fatness of the
land. For their hardness of heart they were punished long after, when
they quarreled as to which should be king, and brought down the flood of
war upon Thebes, and fell each by the other’s hand in deadly strife. Of
all his children, Antigone alone refused to let him go forth a solitary
wanderer, and would listen to none of his entreaties when he spoke of the
hardness of the way that would lie before them.
“Nay, father,” she cried; “thinkest thou that I could suffer thee to
wander sightless and blind in thine old age with none to stay thy feeble
steps or lend thee the light of their eyes?”
“The road before us is hard and long, my child, and no man can say when
my soul shall find rest. The ways of the world are cruel, and men love
not the cursed of the gods. As for thee, Heaven bless thee for thy love;
but thou art too frail and tender a thing to eat of the bread and drink
of the waters of sorrow.”
“Ah, father, thinkest thou that aught could be more bitter than to sit in
the seat of kings while thou wanderest a beggar on the face of the earth?
Nay, suffer me to go with thee, and stay thy steps in the days of thy
trial.”
Nothing he could say would dissuade her. So they two set out alone upon
their wanderings, the old man bowed down beneath the weight of sorrow,
and the young girl in the freshness of youth and beauty, with a great
love in her heart—a bright, burning love which was the light by which she
lived, and a light which never led her astray.
At first Œdipus was filled with shame and bitterness, and cursed the day
of his birth and his evil fate; but as time went on he remembered the
words of Teiresias—how at his death he should be a blessing to the land
of his last resting-place; and the hope sprang up in his heart that the
gods had not forsaken him, but would wipe out the stain of his sin, and
make his name once more glorious among men. Daily this hope grew stronger
and brighter, and he felt that the days of wandering and expiation were
drawing to a close, and a mysterious power guided his steps he knew not
whither, except that it was toward the goal of his release. And many a
hero’s grave did they pass and many a sacred shrine, for all along that
road men of old raised monuments to the undying glory of the dead and
the heritage of honor which they left to unborn generations. And always
Antigone tended the old man’s feeble steps, and lent him the light of
her young eyes, till at length they came to white Colonus and the grove
of the Eumenides. There she set him on a rock to rest his weary limbs.
And the soft spring breezes played about them, and the clear waters of
Cephisus flowed sparkling at their feet to the fertile plain below. In
the dark coverts and green glades the nightingale trilled her sweet song,
and the grass was bright with many a golden crocus and white narcissus
bloom. As he sat there a great calm filled the old man’s heart, for he
felt that the days of his wandering were done.
But while they were resting a man from the village happened to pass, and
when he saw them he shouted out, “Ho! there, impious wanderers, know ye
not that ye sit on sacred land and trespass on hallowed ground?”
Then Œdipus knew more surely than ever that the day of his release had
come. “Oh, stranger!” he cried, “welcome is that which thou sayest. For
here shall the words of the prophet be fulfilled, when he said that in a
grove of sacred trees my spirit should find rest.”
But the man was not satisfied, and he called to a band of his countrymen
who were in the fields close by. And they came up and spoke roughly to
Œdipus, and asked his name and business. When he told them they were
filled with horror, for all men had heard of the slaying of Laius, and
they would have turned him out by force.