brought into conflict. In this case, however, there is an added element
of tragic irony which increases the dramatic power threefold. For we
know, as we watch the tender comradeship of Œdipus and Jocasta, that
there is this sinister thing in the background, ready to flame out at
any instant and make them loathsome in each other’s eyes. And the moment
when the shameful truth is revealed, literally dragged to light by
Œdipus to his own undoing, is perhaps the most awful in Greek tragedy.
The story belongs to the Theban cycle, of which we have already heard.
It is older than Homer, who calls Jocasta _Epicasta_; and it had many
variants. In the Eleventh Book of the _Odyssey_ there is the quaint
epitome of it which the hero gives when he is describing his visit to
the World of the Dead. Among the shades which throng there he sees
Jocasta.
“_And then beheld I Epicasta fair,
Oedipus’ mother, her who unaware
Did a strange deed through ignorance of mind,
To intermarry with the son she bare._
“_And he his mother wedded, having slain
His father: and these things the Gods made plain
To all men suddenly; then he among
The folk Cadmean held a troublous reign,_
“_In lovely Thebes, according to the fate
By purpose of the Gods predestinate
For evil: but she went her way alone
To the strong Warder of the darkling gate._“[21]
This version agrees in the main with that of Sophocles, and points to
the antiquity of the story. Even in those early times the fate of
Jocasta and Œdipus was part of an ancient myth. Like the story of Io,
remote ancestress of the founder of their city, it is a tale of wrong
wrought upon mortals by a god. Perhaps it is not so primitive as the Io
legend. There is nothing in it quite so naïve as the idea of the
heifer-maiden loved by the supreme god and mercilessly hunted by his
jealous queen. The Olympian hierarchy is now established, with its
system of greater and lesser gods, and Zeus at their head has grown, in
accordance with the theory of Æschylus, wiser with age. Apollo is now
the persecutor. And with the development in the divine order goes a
corresponding complexity in the human elements of the story. The actors
in it are the instruments of their own suffering. The inimical power is
not now frank tyranny. Its victims even believe it to be friendly, or at
least placable; and it is by their own deeds that the decree against
them is brought to pass. Yet this apparent advance still leaves the
story in a dark past, far behind the poets. And there are some aspects
of it—the curse fulfilled by Œdipus of parricide and incest; and the
stark unreason with which it was regarded—which make us feel that the
primitive age has only just given place to one of gross superstition.
The essence of the tragedy lies in the double fact of Apollo’s hostility
to Œdipus and Jocasta and their ignorance of it. When Laius and Jocasta
were young upon the throne of Thebes they prayed to Apollo to give them
a son. The oracle at Delphi replied to Laius, “I will give thee a son,
but it is doomed that thou leave the sunlight by the hands of thy
child.” Thus the decree was launched.
Laius and Jocasta trembled at the doom, and considered how it might be
averted. When their son was born, they took a cruel and desperate means
to save its father’s life. Three days after his birth they handed over
the babe to a herdsman, to be exposed on Mt. Kithairon. And first they
pierced his heels, to ensure his death. So Jocasta, out of love for her
husband and fear of the oracle, brought herself to a deed which poisoned
all her life. Yet it was of no avail against fate. For the man who took
her babe had pity on it; and meeting a friendly herdsman who was in the
service of Polybus, king of Corinth, he gave the child to him. Polybus
and his queen Merope were childless; and the herdsman believed that they
would welcome the little foundling. He was not mistaken: calling him
Œdipus from his swelled feet, they brought him up as their son.
All went well until the boy had grown into manhood. Then one day a young
companion, heated with wine, flung out a taunt about his birth. Œdipus,
fully believing himself to be the son of Polybus and Merope, went to
them with the story. They chastised the offender, but their replies to
Œdipus’ questions left a doubt of his parentage rankling in his mind. He
determined to satisfy himself once for all by an appeal to Apollo; and
he travelled to Delphi to inquire of the oracle in person. The reply was
terrible, and, unlike most oracular utterances, seemed only too clear.
He was doomed, it said, to slay his father and marry with his mother.
But the most vital point, the names of his parents, was not revealed;
and Œdipus, still believing them to be Polybus and Merope, vowed never
again to set foot in Corinth while they were living. So he hoped to
avoid his doom; and he set out alone, along the road to Bœotia, and
Thebes.
Now it happened that just about that time Thebes was afflicted by a
strange monster. It was the Sphinx, sent by Hera to prey upon the city.
Sitting upon a neighbouring hill, she claimed the life of every man who
could not read her riddle—“What is the creature which is two-footed,
three-footed and four-footed; and weakest when it has most feet?” No one
could find the answer; and Thebes daily paid the toll of life to the
monster. The people were in despair, when Laius the king set out to seek
counsel at Delphi. Thus the unknown father and son were hourly
approaching each other from east and west. Laius was accompanied by only
four attendants. When his party came to a narrow pass in Phokis, at a
place where three roads met, a young man appeared in the path before
them. The slaves of Laius were insolent, and the young man’s blood was
hot. A quarrel ensued. Three of the attendants were struck down; and
Laius himself, aiming at the stranger from his chariot, was killed by a
single blow. Œdipus had unwittingly slain his father; and the first part
of the curse had fallen.
The fourth attendant of Laius, the very man who had given away Jocasta’s
babe years before to the Corinthian herdsman, fled for his life. Arrived
at Thebes, he reported the death of the king. But he feared to tell the
whole truth: he dared not admit that he and his fellows had been
overcome by one man; and he gave out that Laius had been slain by a band
of robbers.
Meantime, Œdipus continued his wanderings; and some time afterward he
came to Thebes. He found the city still harassed by the Sphinx, who
seized her victims daily from among the Theban people. He learned too
that their king had been killed by robbers whilst on a journey; and that
the old prophet Tiresias, who should have been able to advise the people
at such a crisis, was helpless. The young stranger seized his
opportunity. He faced the Sphinx and solved her riddle, triumphantly
naming the creature of her question to be Man. Whereupon she flung
herself down from the hill on which she was stationed; and the people of
Thebes at last had rest from their tormentor. They hailed Œdipus with
joy; and in their gratitude they named him king in succession to Laius.
But the new king could not put aside the queen who already occupied the
throne. Indeed, by a custom of those old times, he could not rightly
become the king unless she married him. He had proved himself to the
Theban people brave and wise, a ruler to be desired. Consideration for
her people inclined Jocasta to him, and besides, he seemed to her just
and kind. But more than all, there hung about him, in his carriage or
his manner, something which brought a fleeting memory of Laius, and
warmed her heart to him. So she consented that he should be her husband.
The curse on Œdipus was now complete. In perfect innocence, and though
he had striven to keep his hands clean from the horror, he had slain his
father and married with his mother. Yet no shadow of the truth fell on
him. There were in Thebes two persons to whom it was known, or partly
known. One was that slave born in Laius’s household who had given the
infant prince to the herdsman from Corinth; and who had fled for his
life when his master was killed at the cross-roads in Phokis. The other
was the blind old prophet Tiresias. But neither spoke of what they knew.
The slave kept silence from loyalty; and coming to the queen soon after
her marriage, he besought her earnestly to send him back to serve in
outland parts. Tiresias was merely prudent; and thought it best to bide
the time of the god.
For many years no sign came. Jocasta and Œdipus, loving each other and
beloved by their people, reigned happily in Thebes; Creon, Jocasta’s
brother, sharing equally in the honour which was paid to them. Four
children were born to the king and queen: two sons, named Eteocles and
Polynices; and two daughters, Antigone and Ismene. Life flowed so
smoothly now that painful memories grew faint. Œdipus had almost
forgotten the menace that rang in his ears at Delphi twelve years
before; and Jocasta, though she would never forget that early act of
cruelty, was not haunted so persistently now by the thought of her
first-born. It seemed almost that Apollo had relented; that having
fulfilled the letter of the doom, he had taken pity on the victims, and
would leave them in happy ignorance. But he, too, was only waiting for a
fitting moment—till Thebes should be most flourishing and Œdipus should
have reached the top of fame. Then the blow fell. A sudden plague was
sent upon the city, which ravaged all life like a blight. Flocks
sickened; the harvest failed; and human creatures died in thousands,
while Œdipus looked on, sore at heart for their misery, but powerless to
help.
At this point of the story, Sophocles has opened the _Œdipus, King of
Thebes_. The scene is before the royal palace, where a crowd of
suppliants has gathered to implore the aid of the king. Œdipus comes out
in person to receive them, and listens patiently while the old priest
petitions him on their behalf. They have pathetic faith in him. There
can be no doubt that he has power to succour them, for did he not of old
save Thebes from the Sphinx? Perhaps too there is a touch of deeper
meaning in their act, a hint of that duty laid on early kings, to die
for their people in case of need. They come to lay on him the burden of
the whole land’s sorrow. Œdipus answers them pityingly.
“_My poor, poor children! Surely long ago
I have read your trouble. Stricken, well I know,
Ye all are, stricken sore: yet verily
Not one so stricken to the heart as I._“[22]
[Illustration:
JOCASTA
_Gertrude Demain Hammond, R.I._
]
There has appeared to him only one hope; and days before he had grasped
at it. He had sent Creon to Apollo’s House in Delphi, to inquire of the
god what great thing the king must do to save his people. When the
answer comes, he vows that he will not flinch. Whatever task Apollo may
command, no matter how bitter, it shall be performed.
Even while Œdipus speaks shouts are heard announcing Creon’s return; and
presently he delivers before them all the answer of the god.
“_Thus saith
Phoebus, our Lord and Seer, in clear command:
‘An unclean thing there is, hid in our land,
Eating the soil thereof: this ye shall cast
Out, and not foster till all help be past’._“[22]
But what is the unclean thing that is polluting the city? Œdipus does
not know that it is himself; and he questions Creon until the oracular
command seems clear to him—to hunt out and banish the murderers of
Laius. The task seems hopeless. How is it possible, after all these
years, to find the men who slew the king? But the oracle has said
explicitly that it must be done; that they are still alive within the
city; and Œdipus unhesitatingly takes the task upon him.
An assembly of the people is commanded, and Œdipus publicly makes known
to them his purpose of tracking the murderers. In a great speech, full
of tragic irony, he claims their help in his search. They are Thebans
born; but he, a stranger to their town in those days when Laius was
killed, had never seen the king. It is for them to seek and render up
the men who murdered him. He calls upon them solemnly to reveal what
they may know. They need not fear that harm will come to them, for he
will promise to befriend the man who does this service to the State. He
pauses. But there is of course no answer. Again he appeals to them,
growing indignant now, because he believes that they are wilfully
shielding the guilty. Will they not speak out, and save their city? Then
he will make a decree against them. For those who refuse to denounce the
murderers, they shall be outcast and shelterless, and none shall succour
them in living or in dying. For those who will not lend him their active
aid in his search, Nature herself shall frown upon them and deny them
every blessing; whilst on the man himself who slew the king, the most
awful curse shall fall.
“_Even as his soul
Is foul within him let his days be foul,
And life unfriended grind him till he die.
More: if he ever tread my hearth and I
Know it, be every curse upon my head
That I have spoke this day._”[22]
As Œdipus, unconscious of what he is doing, invokes this terrible curse
upon himself, a blind old man is slowly led in. He is the prophet
Tiresias, for whom Œdipus has sent at the suggestion of Creon. He is the
only mortal being who knows all the truth; and under peril of the ban
that Œdipus has just proclaimed: in virtue of his office, he must needs
proclaim it. How will he strike the blow at the great good king? By his
sacred calling, and his great age, and his knowledge of the mesh of fate
in which Œdipus has been caught, he should be merciful. But as we watch
him we have strange doubts. It is not so much that he is unshorn, ragged
and unclean; we have learned to be familiar with such things in these
hermit-seers of an early age. But there is something in the lowering
brow and twitching mouth that hints of an untamed soul in the unkempt
body; and knowing the passionate heart of Œdipus himself, we tremble for
the issue.
At first it would seem that our fears are groundless. Œdipus, who is
calmer now, greets the prophet with profound respect; and laying bare
the oracle, he begs most humbly for Tiresias’s help.
The prophet is calm too, awed by the thought of all that is impending.
He answers hesitatingly at first, almost with a touch of pity and
regret. He does know who is the murderer of Laius, but—he dare not, he
cannot tell. Such a reply could only have one effect upon the tremendous
anxiety of the king. Rendered helpless by his ignorance, his own keen
wit cannot avail him one iota. He has perforce to ask and ask of these
ineffectual creatures around him, only to be thrown back baffled again
and again. For one moment he puts a curb upon his rising anger, as he
tells Tiresias that his answer is not kind; and casting away all pride
and dignity, he kneels at the prophet’s feet. But when in sullen words
which give no light Tiresias doggedly replies that he will not speak,
Œdipus’s wrath leaps out at him. Surely this man who knows God’s truth
and will not declare it is no prophet, but a devil. And is it not
probable therefore that he himself has had some hand in the murder of
Laius? As the words fall, there is a sudden and malign change in
Tiresias; and the dreadful truth which could not be won from him by
entreaty, flashes out pitilessly in anger.
“_So?—I command thee by thine own word’s power,
To stand accurst, and never from this hour
Speak word to me, nor yet to those who ring
Thy throne._ Thou art thyself the unclean thing.”[22]
But such a wild utterance, smiting through a tempest of passion, carries
no shade of conviction to Œdipus. It is but a horrible insult, which
this old man, because he is feeble, thinks he may launch with impunity.
Not until it has been thrice repeated does the full significance of it
break upon him. Then a suspicion flashes into his mind. This is
doubtless some conspiracy against him, prompted by Creon, the brother of
his queen, to gain the throne. The foolish improbability of such a plot
will not bear reflection for a moment; but the king’s impulsive nature
is goaded by rage and mistrust. He turns fiercely upon Tiresias and
roundly charges him with conspiring against his life.
The prophet retorts with an emphatic denial, but he is not content to
stop there. In cold malignance, he repeats his foul accusation against
the king, seeming to gloat over every word of the hideous charge and the
penalty which his prophetic vision sees that the gods will exact from
Œdipus—
“_Blind, who once had seeing eyes,
Beggared, who once had riches, in strange guise,
His staff groping before him, he shall crawl
O’er unknown earth._“[22]
To the infuriated king this frightful menace, like the crimes of which
he is accused, seems to be the mere raving of madness; and he deigns no
answer. The old man is led away; Œdipus enters the palace; and in the
pause that follows the Chorus muse over the scene. They are bewildered
and torn by doubt. They may not disbelieve the seer, but they cannot and
will not believe that their beloved king has been guilty of deeds so
vile. As they sing, Creon rushes on indignant; and he is followed a
moment afterward by Œdipus. Here at last is an opportunity to strike out
against the deadly thing which seems closing in around him. Creon is no
old and blind opponent, before whose weakness his hands are tied; but a
man of equal strength and rank whom, in his rashness, he believes to be
his bitter enemy. Without a word of prelude or explanation, Œdipus
flings down the gauntlet; and declares Creon, his comrade and the
brother of his wife, to be a traitor. The charge is false and foolish,
to every mind but that of the overwrought king. But reason cannot sway
him now; Creon’s protests are futile, and his proofs of innocence mere
words bereft of meaning. This knave who has plotted against him must
die, and quickly, before his schemes can take effect. In vain Creon
pleads for justice: in vain the leader of the Chorus tries to stem the
king’s anger, With a rallying cry to his guards, Œdipus draws his sword
upon Creon. But as he springs to the blow there suddenly appears in the
doorway of the palace, Jocasta the queen. An immediate silence falls:
weapons are lowered; and the queen advances slowly to the top of the
palace steps. The Chorus move back, leaving Œdipus and Creon standing
alone before her. She looks reproachfully into one shamed face after
another and then, with gentle dignity, she speaks:
“_Vain men, what would ye with this angry swell
Of words heart-blinded? Is there in your eyes
No pity, thus, when all our city lies
Bleeding, to ply your privy hates?... Alack,
My lord, come in! Thou, Creon, get thee back
To thine own house. And stir not to such stress
Of peril griefs that are but nothingness._“[22]
There is authority in her tone and in her words, none the less
compelling because of the tender humanity below them. It calms the
disputants: and as they recount to her the cause of the quarrel,
emotions ebb and leave the cold facts, hard and ugly. It is clear that
Œdipus has been rash in his accusations; and Jocasta counsels him to
accept the oath of loyalty that Creon offers. Then, when the peace is
made, and she and Œdipus remain alone, she begs him to tell her all that
has happened. Œdipus sums the cause of the brawl in a few words—he
believes that Creon is plotting against his life, by accusing him,
through the instrumentality of Tiresias the seer, of the murder of
Laius. At the mention of the seer there is a flash of scorn in Jocasta’s
eyes, followed by a shadow of pain, as memory brings back the time when
she trusted in the vain words of a prophet to her sorrow.
“_The seer?—Then tear thy terrors like a veil
And take free breath. A seer? No human thing
Born on the earth hath power for conjuring
Truth from the dark of God.
Come, I will tell
An old tale._“[22]
She recounts the story of the oracle that came to Laius, declaring that
he should die by the hand of his son; and of the terrible means that
they had taken to frustrate it, casting out their child to die upon the
mountain.
“_Thus did we cheat
Apollo of his will. My child could slay
No father, and the King could cast away
The fear that dogged him, by his child to die
Murdered.—Behold the fruits of prophecy!
Which heed not thou! God needs not that a seer
Help him, when he would make his dark things clear._“[22]
As Jocasta speaks, we feel that time has not yet healed her wound. The
thought of that unnatural deed of her young motherhood, is still so
horrible to her that though she tries she cannot tell all the truth
about it. She says that Laius gave the baby to the slave, whereas it was
she herself. Remorse sweeps over her, and the bitterness which lies just
below the surface of her life rises in revolt against the oracle which
could tempt to such a deed. There is no impiety in her words. Her voice
is reverent when she names the god. But for his corrupt interpreters her
acute perception has nothing but contempt. Œdipus will do well to
despise them too.
But the king has not observed her emotion. Something that she has said
about the manner of Laius’ death has startled him. He asks her to repeat
it. Yes, it was in Phokis, at a place where three roads met; and it
happened just before the stranger Œdipus arrived. Œdipus is recalling
fearfully his own encounter on such a spot. But what was Laius like?
JOC. _Tall, with the white new gleaming on his brow
He walked. In shape just such a man as thou._[22]
In growing dread, hurried questions are put and answered; and all the
details save one Œdipus finds to correspond with that old event. But
that one may save him yet. For the attendant who returned had said that
a _band of robbers_ slew the king. He must be sent for instantly.
Jocasta promises to do so; but may she not know all that is troubling
him, and whither his questions tend?
ŒD. _Thou shalt. When I am tossed to such an height
Of dark foreboding, woman, when my mind
Faceth such straits as these, where should I find
A mightier love than thine?_[22]
Then, partly because he is instinctively seeking relief from the
thoughts that oppress him: partly to refresh Jocasta’s memory and to
clarify his own mind, he recounts all the story of his early life; of
his parents Polybus and Merope, of his visit to Delphi, of his flight
from the oracular decree, of the fierce encounter at the cross-roads in
Phokis, and of how he slew the unknown rider in the chariot. At this
point his voice falters:
“_Oh, if that man’s unspoken name
Had aught of Laius in him, in God’s eye
What man doth move more miserable than I,
More dogged by the hate of heaven!_“[22]
He has one shred of hope, however. If the herdsman who returned spoke
truth, clearly Œdipus was not the murderer. Jocasta repeats her promise
to send for him, and as she leads the king into the palace she tries to
soothe him. The herdsman certainly told the story exactly so:
“_... All they that heard him know,
Not only I. He cannot change again
Now. And if change he should, O Lord of men,
No change of his can make the prophecy
Of Laius’ death fall true. He was to die
Slain by my son. So Loxias spake.... My son!
He slew no man, that poor deserted one
That died.... And I will no more turn mine eyes
This way nor that for all their prophecies._“[22]
The awful irony underlying her words prepares us for the next step of
the revelation. Œdipus sees only one thing yet—that he may be the
unwitting murderer. But what need to fear, says the queen, to comfort
him, since the God had said that Laius should be slain at the hands of
that poor dead babe? She is not really confident however. The king’s
apprehension has secretly seized on her too; and presently she returns
from the palace with her maidens, to pray at the altar of Apollo. She
lays her husband’s grief before the god.
“_And seeing no word of mine hath power to heal
His torment, therefore forth to thee I steal,
O Slayer of the Wolf, O Lord of Light,
Apollo....
O show us still some path that is not all
Unclean; for now our captain’s eyes are dim
With dread, and the whole ship must follow him._“[22]
The answer to her prayer is very near; but bringing desolation in the
guise of joy. Even as she kneels before the altar there comes a voice
calling on the name of the king, as though it were the voice of the god
himself. It is a stranger from Corinth; and the queen rises to receive
his greeting.