Corinth, to Œdipus. They have declared him to be their king, in the
place of Polybus, who is dead. It seems good news indeed. Polybus dead,
there is no need now for the anxious king to fear that oracular menace
from Delphi; and Jocasta’s heart bounds at the thought.
“_Where stand ye at the last,
Ye oracles of God? For many a year
Œdipus fled before that man, in fear
To slay him. And behold we find him thus
Slain by a chance death, not by Oedipus._“[22]
Œdipus is hurriedly sent for, and, hearing the news confirmed from the
lips of the messenger, is caught up suddenly on a wave of exultation. In
the violent reaction from his lifelong terror there is a rush of joy
which has something sinister in it, by its very excess. Jocasta was
right. It was a lying oracle which said he should slay his father; and
in the first sense of relief he vows that never again will he trust in
seer-craft. But the words are hardly cold upon his lips, when he
remembers that he has still one other thing to fear. The curse had been,
“To slay his father and marry with his mother”; and while Queen Merope
lives he must therefore always be an exile from Corinth. But Jocasta is
not daunted. Possessed by her conviction that all oracles are false and
evil, she tries to reason away his fear.
JOC. _What should man do with fear, who hath but Chance
Above him, and no sight nor governance
Of things to be? To live as life may run,
No fear, no fret, were wisest ‘neath the sun.
And thou, fear not thy mother. Prophets deem
A deed wrought that is wrought but in a dream.
And he to whom these things are nothing, best
Will bear his burden._[22]
The Corinthian messenger, too, has caught at Œdipus’s words. Does the
king fear Merope, believing her to be his mother? And is that the reason
why he has never come to Corinth? Then let him set his mind at rest, for
he, the herdsman of Polybus, happens to have sure knowledge that Œdipus
is not the son of Merope. Œdipus and Jocasta stand amazed; and Œdipus
presses the stranger for all that he knows. But at first he will not say
more. He repeats that Œdipus is not the son of Polybus and Merope; but
he shrinks from disclosing to the great king that he was an unknown
foundling. He answers reluctantly to the eager questioning of Œdipus,
who is now hot upon the scent of his mysterious parentage. Blindly,
almost feverishly, with no hint of where each step is leading him, he
stumbles on. But fear is awakening in Jocasta, as bit by bit the
stranger reveals that he himself had given the infant to Polybus. But
how came the child to him? And whence? Thus pursues the excited king,
while Jocasta stands in silent suspense. The answer of the stranger
smites her with a sudden prescience of what is coming. He says he found
the babe in a high glen of Kithairon; and as, in rapid answer to the
king, he tells of its poor maimed feet and of the Theban herdsman from
whom he received it, the full truth falls upon Jocasta with a shattering
blow. This man, the king, her husband, is none other than that outcast
child, her son. But Œdipus does not see the horror yet; and as she
stands rigid at his side one thought and one prayer fill her mind—that
he may never know. But some frenzy seems to possess him, driving him to
destroy himself. He turns to an officer of the Court. Where is the
Theban herdsman of whom the stranger speaks? He must be sought, and made
to say whence came the child that he gave to this stranger from Corinth.
The officer replies hesitatingly; he thinks he must be the same man who
was king Laius’ attendant, and who has already been sent for. But only
the queen can tell of his whereabouts. Œdipus turns quickly on Jocasta,
and then for the first time sees her anguish. But he has no clue to its
cause. He cannot know that there has fallen on her misery worse than
death; and that with all the strength of body and soul she is trying to
shield him from it. He can see only a fear, which seems to him
contemptible, that he may prove to be base-born. Impatience leaps to
anger as she tries to evade his questions; and he replies with a taunt
at what he believes to be her pride.
ŒD. _Fear not!... Though I be thrice of slavish stuff
From my third grand-dam down, it shames not thee._
JOC. _Ask no more. I beseech thee.... Promise me!_
ŒD. _To leave the Truth half found? ‘Tis not my mood._
JOC. _I understand; and tell thee what is good._
ŒD. _Thy good doth weary me._[22]
It seems at this word that all Jocasta’s strength breaks down. The
malign power that is driving Œdipus onward is too great for her, and she
cannot strive against it any longer. She can only wail in answer:
“_O child of woe,
I pray God, I pray God, thou never know!_“[22]
And then, as Œdipus turns roughly from her, all his tenderness
shrivelled to scorn and wrath, the last link snaps. In another moment he
will know the truth; and knowing it, she will be loathsome and abhorrent
in his eyes. The thought brings intolerable pain. She craves relief,
escape, and, swiftly—before Œdipus can learn what he is seeking, before
his accusing eyes can meet her own—annihilation. With an imploring
gesture, she takes one step toward him.
“_Unhappy one, good-bye! Good-bye before
I go: this once, and never, never more!_“[22]
But Œdipus does not heed her; and with wild eyes, she flies into the
palace, to die by her own hand. And when the great king, brought at last
to see the truth which casts him lower than the meanest slave, thinks to
avenge his wrongs on her, he finds that she has taken vengeance on
herself. Before her pitiful dead body his wrath is turned to loathing of
himself; and the hand that was raised against her, smites the light for
ever from his own eyes.
-----
Footnote 21:
From Professor J. W. Mackail’s translation of the _Odyssey_ (John
Murray).
Footnote 22:
From Professor Gilbert Murray’s translation of the _Œdipus, King of
Thebes_ (George Allen & Co. Ltd.).
_Sophocles: Antigone_
There was an important figure in _Œdipus the King_ whom we only glanced
at in passing when we were considering the story of Jocasta. He was the
queen’s own brother, Creon; a man who knew better than to covet kingly
honours, and who had a soul for friendship. It was he who said,
answering the rash accusation which Œdipus made against him:
“_This I tell thee. He who plucks a friend
Out from his heart hath lost a treasured thing
Dear as his own dear life._“[23]
Thus, when the great king’s downfall came, Creon knew how to be a
friend. He was gentle to Œdipus; and forgetting his own wrongs, he took
upon himself the care of the king’s young daughters, Antigone and
Ismene.
But Creon said once, at another crowded moment of his career:
“_Hard it is to learn
The mind of any mortal or the heart,
Till he be tried in chief authority.
Power shows the man._“[24]
It was a true word, and curiously verified in his own life. For he who
had shown so fair a front in Thebes, when the reins of government lay in
the hands of Œdipus and Jocasta, proved himself a tyrant when authority
fell on him. Creon, young and ardent, could dare the wrath of Œdipus,
and tell him to his face that even a king might not be unjust. But the
same man clothed in power, with youthful ideals fled and all the texture
of his mind hardened by age and convention, could only meet the supreme
idealism of Antigone with a decree of death.
It is not suggested that Sophocles has developed Creon’s character in an
unbroken sequence through the three dramas in which he appears. The
chronology of the plays forbids this. For the _Antigone_, which presents
the last phase of the story, was written years before _Œdipus the King_
and the _Œdipus at Colonus_, which give us both Antigone and Creon in
earlier days. But that is an external fact which does not much disturb
the unity of the poet’s conception. The Creon of the three plays is
essentially the same man. He is not consistent always, since no human
creature is. But under that accusing contrast between the theories of
his youth and the practice of his age there is an abiding law of human
nature which only the few fine souls escape. And we are clearly shown
that Creon was not born to be the rare exception. Always prudent,
law-abiding and careful of authority, these qualities would strengthen
with the years; and lighted by no higher truth, but carried to excess in
moments of passion, would inevitably make him what he became.
In the same way there is an underlying unity in the character of
Antigone. In _Œdipus the King_ we know her only by name, a child of
thirteen into whose sunny life a storm has suddenly crashed. In the
_Œdipus at Colonus_, the strong young spirit has awakened, and is giving
clear promise of the heights to which it will soar before its short day
is done. While the _Antigone_, the drama which bears her name, does but
fulfil and make perfect what is fair promise in the other plays.
We are entitled therefore, in coming to the Attic dramatists for
Antigone’s story, to read the three Sophoclean plays as if they were a
trilogy; although each of the three is distinct and complete in itself.
And we shall find too, that in the _Seven against Thebes_ of Æschylus,
in which Antigone first appears, there is sounded once for all the high
heroic note to which her story moved in the versions of the later poets.
There is indeed a wealth of testimony for Antigone, and fine unanimity
in it. We can trace her short life almost throughout. There was the
happy early time in Thebes, when royalty sat lightly on the merry boys
and girls in the palace; and when the great king and queen were simply
their dear and loving parents. That was a time of sweetest memories.
Ambition had not yet taught the two spirited brothers to hate each
other; and Ismene was still the gentle little sister who would follow
with unquestioning devotion wherever Antigone might lead.
But in one black day, and with no warning given, every ray of happiness
had been blotted out. Of all the sights and sounds huddled into the
memory of that hideous day, Antigone could only recall two things
clearly—the stately queen her mother lying dead by her own hand; and
Œdipus the king, self-blinded, pleading in strange remorse outside the
palace to be banished from the city. But one impression, filtering
almost unconsciously through her terror, remained and grew. It was the
look of horror, almost of loathing, on every face that surrounded the
unhappy king. Antigone herself could hardly bear to see him; but she
vaguely felt that in these shrinking figures there was something more
than physical revulsion at the sight. Why did the crowding people, the
senators, even Prince Creon himself, draw away from her father as though
he were some unclean thing whose touch would pollute them? That they did
so stung her; and although their terrified recoil was only dimly
realized at the time, it brought a flood of pity and indignation with
it. In the wave of protecting love that filled her heart, making her
long to fling herself between the dear maimed father and all those cruel
glances, Antigone the woman sprang to a noble life. She did not grow to
full stature immediately. Years passed, and Creon, assuming rule in
Thebes as regent for her brothers, prevailed on Œdipus to seclude
himself within the city. Time brought sad knowledge to Antigone. She
learned the causes of the tragedy that had fallen on them, as it seemed,
out of a blue sky. She found, too, the meaning of that frantic
abhorrence of her father; though she never learned to share it. Neither
intellect nor heart would consent to hold him guilty: not by one iota
was he responsible for the evils that had smitten him. So, as his own
brain cleared from the shock of the calamity, Œdipus found a champion in
his daughter whose splendid logic and whose love were alike invincible.
Later he had need of all Antigone’s courage. For faction sprang to life
in the city and grew fast. Superstition fed it eagerly, and soon there
was but one thought in all the darkened mind of Thebes, from Creon
downward. Their town, in sheltering Œdipus, was harbouring pollution;
and he must be cast out. The people clamoured fanatically; but Creon and
the princes Polynices and Eteocles made no stand against them. To them,
the presence of Œdipus was a political embarrassment, as well as an
alleged cause of displeasure to the gods. Thus ambition united with fear
to drive them on; and presently, his unnatural sons consenting, Œdipus
was ruthlessly cast out of Thebes.
There was only one voice uplifted in his defence; but a woman’s word,
though it might be the soul of right, had no value in the counsels of
the State. Œdipus went into exile alone: poor, blind and dogged by the
curse which his cruel destiny had invoked upon him. But he did not
wander long unfriended.
_Antigone,
E’er since her childhood ended, and her frame
Was firmly knit, with ceaseless ministry
Still tends upon an old man’s wandering,
Oft in the forest ranging up and down
Fasting and barefoot through the burning heat
Or pelting rain, nor thinks, unhappy maid,
Of home or comfort, so her father’s need
Be satisfied._[25]
Year after year they wandered together, haunting the glens and groves of
Mt. Kithairon, where the infant Œdipus had been exposed. It seemed as if
his destiny were calling him to render up his life there on the spot
which had seen the beginning of his wrongs. But the gods relented a
little at last. There came to Œdipus a divine message that he should
have honour at the end, and a glorious passing. He should not know the
death of a mortal creature. He was to fare to Athens, and in the little
deme of Colonus, at the place which was sacred to Poseidon and
Prometheus, the awful Powers of the Underworld would welcome him,
living, to their shadowy empire.
To Colonus, then, Œdipus and Antigone wearily came; and threw themselves
on the protection of Theseus. They were strange suppliants, hardly
auspicious in the eyes of the Athenian folk before whom Antigone pleaded
for succour. And the message which Œdipus sent to their king was
stranger still, as he repeated the promise that Apollo had given him:
“_When I should reach my bourne,
And find repose and refuge with the Powers
Of reverent name, my troubled life should end
With blessing to the men who sheltered me,
And curses on their race who banished me
And sent me wandering forth._“[25]
Even in dying, it seemed, his life should have no peace. There was still
one act of wrath to do: the stormy day must needs go out in storm. When
he stood before Theseus, to declare his name and history, all the
unquiet flux of life seemed sweeping round him still.
“_Fair Aigeus’ son, only to gods in heaven
Comes no old age, nor death of anything;
All else is turmoiled by our master Time.
The earth’s strength fades and manhood’s glory fades,
Faith dies, and unfaith blossoms like a flower.
And who shall find in the open streets of men
Or secret places of his own heart’s love
One wind blow true for ever?_“[26]
Theseus took pity on the poor blind king and gave him refuge. But
meantime, away in Thebes, his sons were quarrelling about the succession
to the throne. Eteocles and Creon had stirred up the people against
Polynices; and he, too, was banished from the kingdom. But he had
strength and influence. He fled to Argos: married the daughter of king
Adrastus there, and presently had raised an army, with six other Greek
chiefs, to invade his native country. This incident is the subject of
Æschylus’s drama called _The Seven against Thebes_.
On the eve of the battle, Polynices remembered Œdipus. His own
misfortunes had taught him remorse for the part which he had played
against his outcast father; and a conviction weighed on him that no
enterprise of his might succeed until he had begged forgiveness and a
blessing. So he travelled hastily to Colonus; and in fear both of his
father and of Theseus, he flung himself as a suppliant at the altar of
Poseidon. But in the heart of Œdipus anger still burned; and in his ears
still sounded the last oracular command—to curse these impious sons
before he died. At first he refused even to see Polynices, when Theseus
brought word of his petition; and only yielded to Antigone’s plea that
he should at least give her brother a hearing.
“_Father, give ear, though I be young that speak.
... He is thy son:
Whence, were his heartless conduct against thee
Beyond redemption impious, O my sire,
Thy vengeance still would be unnatural.
O, let him!—Others have had evil sons
And passionate anger, but the warning voice
Of friends hath charmed their mood. Then do not thou
Look narrowly upon thy present griefs,
But on those ancient wrongs thou didst endure
From father and from mother. Thence, thou wilt learn
That evil passion ever ends in woe._“[25]
But from the first there was no hope of a softer mood in Œdipus. Grimly
he listened while Polynices poured out his plea for forgiveness, and
when all was said, broke into the curse which was to devastate his
children’s lives. Never should the crime of Polynices and Eteocles be
forgiven; but in this battle, when each hoped to win glory and the
throne of Thebes, both should fall, slain each by the other’s hand.
The siege of Thebes was thus foredoomed; and Antigone implored her
brother to abandon the enterprise. But he was committed to it beyond
recall; and went to meet failure and certain death. One solemn request
he made of her and of Ismene too, at their farewell. When he should lie
dead before Thebes, would she promise him the last holy act of burial?
There would be no other kin to perform the rite, and if it were not
done, his ghost must wander endlessly and find no rest.
“_I must attend
To my dark enterprise, blasted and foiled
Beforehand by my father’s angry curse.
But as for you, Heaven prosper all your way,
If ye will show this kindness in my death,
For nevermore in life shall ye befriend me!_“[25]
No oath could bind Antigone more strongly than the prompting of her
love; but she gave her word to Polynices, so that he might go untroubled
by a dread more awful than any other to a Greek. And when the testing
time came, both love and duty were irrevocably engaged. It came very
soon. On the day that the Seven laid siege to Thebes, the gods took
Œdipus. In marvellous fashion he left the earth, rapt away in the
thunders of Olympus, while mighty voices called upon his name. And as,
unseen by mortal eyes, he crossed that mysterious Brazen Causeway, the
Argive army lay round Thebes. When Antigone and Ismene returned to the
city, dreadful tidings were brought to them. Their brothers had met in
single combat, and, fighting furiously, each had slain the other.
MESSENGER. _The genius of them both was even so dire,
So undistinguishing; and with one stroke
Consigns to nothingness that hapless race ...
Thebè is rescued: but her princes twain
By mutual slaughter fratricidally
Are perished; their own land hath drunk their blood._[27]
[Illustration:
ŒDIPUS & ANTIGONE
_From the sculpture by Hugues in the Luxembourg_
]
Creon instantly assumed control. The Argive host was beaten back, and
when the next day dawned, the invading force was gone. The siege was
over; and Thebes might set about the pious task of burying its dead. The
princes were taken up from the spot where they had fallen, and brought
into the city. By the most sacred law of Greek religion every ceremony
of burial should now be reverently performed. The duty devolved first on
male kindred; and Creon, as uncle to the princes, should perform the
rites. But Creon was now king of Thebes; and in that capacity there fell
on him another, and a conflicting, duty. He must decide what burial
honours might fittingly be paid to Polynices, the traitor who had fought
against his country.
Antigone waited in anxiety for the decision. For Eteocles she had no
fear: he had given no offence to Thebes. But she knew Creon’s rigorous
spirit; she knew his devotion to the State; and she trembled for the
poor misguided brother who had sinned against the State. In the early
morning after the battle, Antigone came out of the palace, to meet the
procession which bore her brothers’ bodies in. And as she joined her
voice to the mourners’ wail, Creon’s herald broke upon their grief, to
announce the king’s decree.
HERALD. _’Tis mine to announce the will and firm decree
Of the high council of this Theban state.
Eteocles, as loyal to his land,
Shall be insepulchred beneath her shade....
But this, his brother Polynices’ corpse,
Graveless shall be cast forth for dogs to tear.
... Dead though he be, his country’s gods
Shall ban him, since he brought in their despite
A foreign host to invade and subjugate
Their city...._
_... No drink-offerings
Poured at his tomb by careful hands, no sound
Of dirgeful wailing shall enhance his fame,
Nor following of dear footsteps honour him.
So runs the enactment of our Theban lords._[27]
But Creon had reckoned without Antigone. Her utmost apprehension had not
dreamed that so cruel an edict could be passed. It was foul dishonour to
the dead, and an insult to the gods. But she would never suffer it.
Though she must be one woman against the whole of Thebes, her brother
should not lack the necessary rites.
ANTIGONE. _But I make answer to the lords of Thebes,
Though none beside consent to bury him,
I will provide my brother’s funeral.
... Then, O my soul,
Of thine own living will share thou the wrongs
Forced on the helpless dead: be leal and true._[27]
At this point of the story, the _Antigone_ of Sophocles opens. Creon has
heard a rumour of defiance, and has added a penalty of death to his
decree. The sisters are alone outside the palace. Antigone, not doubting
of Ismene for a moment, rapidly puts before her a plan for Polynices’
burial. They must act at once, quickly and quietly, before Creon may
have time to prevent them. To her utter amazement, however, Ismene will
not help her. She is a gentle, timid creature: she cannot think it
possible that Antigone will dare to defy Creon’s edict: the mere
suggestion terrifies her. She cannot rise to Antigone’s perception of a
law higher than this ugly mandate against the dead; and if she could,
she is not of the heroic fibre to make a stand against authority. She
sees and admits that this vengeful edict must needs offend the gods; but
for her part, she can only pray to be held guiltless of it. She is not
lacking in love and loyalty to her kin. When Œdipus and Antigone were
wandering in beggary, Ismene had secretly contrived to send them aid;
and once she had ridden a perilous journey in order to warn them of
danger. She is no craven. Only, she is oppressed by a sense of physical
weakness: the forces which Antigone will challenge are overwhelming, and
will surely crush her. Is it not rash and sinful to attempt the
impossible?
“_O think how beyond all
Most piteously we two shall be destroyed,
If in defiance of authority
We traverse the commandment of the king!_“[24]
Antigone is bitterly disappointed. She had gauged Ismene by herself, and
thought her courage would be equal to her love. To her the duty to their
dead is a holy act, crying aloud for fulfilment, and shining far above
this tyrannous decree. It is so clear to her eager spirit that she
cannot doubt or hesitate. She had thought that one word to Ismene would
enlist her help; and instead, she is met with puerile answers
counselling prudence and submission. Her passionate soul flames into
indignation, and in her anger she is less than just to Ismene. Despite
her heroism, she is simply human. Nor is she, as has sometimes been
suggested, like a martyr of the early Christian era, whose humility and
gentleness would bless the hand that smote. Antigone’s warm heart is as
strong in its hatred as its love; absolute in devotion, but impetuous in
anger; capable of supreme self-sacrifice, and tender to infirmity; but
intolerant of moral weakness and meanness and timidity. She retorts in
scorn upon Ismene:
“_I will not urge you! No! Nor if now you list
To help me, will your help afford me joy.
Be what you choose to be! This single hand
Shall bury our lost brother. Glorious
For me to take this labour and to die!
Dear to him will my soul be as we rest
In death, when I have dared this holy crime.
My time for pleasing men will soon be over;
Not so my duty towards the Dead! My home
Yonder will have no end. You, if you will,
May throw contempt on laws revered on High._“[24]