spirit has no place for anything so harsh. But when she begs Antigone to
keep her purpose secret, and reiterates her conviction that the attempt
will prove futile, Antigone will not listen any longer. With a bitter
word on her lips, she goes out alone to face her perilous task.
“_Speak in that vein if you would earn my hate
And aye be hated of our lost one. Peace!
Leave my unwisdom to endure this peril;
Fate cannot rob me of a noble death._”[24]
Ismene, left standing before the palace, gives one involuntary cry of
mingled fear and admiration. Then the thought of Antigone’s danger
overwhelms her, and she rushes within like one distracted.
In the Parados which follows, sung by a Chorus of Theban elders, we are
made to feel with growing force the isolation of Antigone. For they sing
of the Argive attack, and of the sin of Polynices in bringing an army
against Thebes. They are old men, and cannot be expected to share the
ardent enthusiasm of youth; and being senators, their greatest care must
be to uphold the State against its enemies. When Creon enters, heralded
with pomp and ceremony, they are tempered to the dry official mood which
will exactly suit his purpose.
Creon is newly burdened with the weight of monarchy; and in this his
first public proclamation it seems to oppress him. There is an evident
anxiety in his tone as he repeats the edict that he has made against
Polynices. It seems, despite the authority of his words, as though he
were trying to justify the decree, not only to possible critics among
his hearers, but to an inner malcontent who will not be silenced. With
all the strength of words, he emphasises his devotion to the State; and
from our knowledge of Creon, we realize that this is something more than
mere protestation. The glory of Thebes shall be his constant aim and
utmost care, he says. Her friends he will exalt, and her enemies shall
be his enemies.
With this prelude, he comes fittingly to the terms of the edict.
Eteocles, who died fighting for his country, shall receive every tribute
that the State can pay; but the traitor who could betray his country to
an enemy shall be justly left dishonoured, for carrion to devour. As we
listen to the speech we are compelled to admit its stern logic. We see
that Creon’s action is not entirely arbitrary, so far. There is,
according to his standard, rigorous justice in it; and no other standard
had yet been applied. The Chorus would not question it. It is in the
main an echo of their own thought; only it looks a little harsh, put
into words. They, too, believe Polynices guilty of an unpardonable crime
against the country that they serve; and they have no wish to gainsay
Creon. But about this vengeance taken on the dead there seems to be a
certain degree of excess, which forbids entire approval. At any rate,
they will take no responsibility for it. “It is thine,” they reply to
the king, “to exercise all power.” They will not take upon themselves to
criticize the action of their king, though it may cause uneasiness; and
on the other hand, they dare not censure it. He is in authority, and
they must submit.
Creon then proceeds to explain that he has set a watch over Polynices’
body. But even while he is speaking there shuffles on the scene a
curious, half-comic figure, announcing that the edict has been defied.
He is one of the sentinels set to guard the corpse. In brusque speech,
and with exaggerated fear for his own life, he tells a strange tale. At
the first light of morning, he and his companions found that some
unknown hand had given the prince his funeral rites: not the full and
complete ceremony, but just so much as to give peace to the unquiet
spirit.
“_And when the scout of our first daylight watch
Showed us the thing, we marvelled in dismay.
The Prince was out of sight; not in a grave,
But a thin dust was o’er him, as if thrown
By one who shunned the dead man’s curse._“[24]
Creon’s judicial air vanishes in a moment. Astonishment quickly gives
place to anger as he listens; and this is only heightened when the
Chorus suggest that some god has interposed to pay the burial rites.
Startled by the strange recital, their words betray an involuntary
glimpse of the misgiving that underlies their submission to the king,
Creon breaks into angry speech. The insult to his authority stings his
new-found sense of power; but when the senators imply that the gods
themselves disapprove of his action, some prick of the unacknowledged
truth goads him to fury. And below his wrath there lies a suspicion of
disloyalty amongst the citizens, and corruption amongst his slaves.
Not the gods, he says, but these same watchmen who were set to guard the
body, have performed the rites. And they have done it for gain; set on
by rebels who will not accept his rule. Driven by complex emotions, he
loses all sense of restraint; and threatens the sentinel with torture
and death if he does not find and bring the culprit immediately. Then he
strides into the palace, and the man flings off with a gibe.
In the short interval which follows, the Chorus sing aptly and
beautifully of the daring and skill of man. But their ode soon breaks
into excited exclamations. They see the watchman who but lately left
them returning hurriedly and leading a woman by the hand. At the same
moment Creon enters.
CHORUS. _What portent from the gods is here?
My mind is mazed with doubt and fear.
How can I gainsay what I see?
I know the girl Antigone.
O hapless child of hapless sire!
Didst thou, then, recklessly aspire
To brave kings’ laws, and now art brought
In madness of transgression caught?_[24]
Her captor is exultant, for he has disproved the charge against himself.
Not that it gives him pleasure to betray the kind young princess; but
everybody’s life is precious to himself, he says, not seeing one gleam
of the splendid scorn of life in the girl who is standing beside him.
This maid is undoubtedly the transgressor, for they caught her in the
act. Now let the king acquit him of the false accusation, and set him
free. Before the man may go, however, Creon turns to Antigone. She
stands pale and silent, her eyes lowered before the incredulous gaze of
all these hostile men. Does she confirm the amazing statement they have
just heard? he asks. It is quite true, she answers; she owns to the
deed. Then Creon, having dismissed the watchman, demands to be told why
she has dared to disobey his edict. Antigone’s reply, with all its
spiritual power and beauty, is also touchingly human. Creon has asked
whether she was aware of the decree and the penalty.
ANT. _I could not fail to know. You made it plain._
CREON. _How durst thou then transgress the published law?_
ANT. _I heard it not from Heaven, nor came it forth
From Justice, where she reigns with Gods below.
They too have published to mankind a law.
Nor thought I thy commandment of such might
That one who is mortal thus could overbear
The infallible, unwritten laws of Heaven.
Not now or yesterday they have their being,
But everlastingly, and none can tell
The hour that saw their birth. I would not, I,
For any terrors of a man’s resolve,
Incur the God-inflicted penalty
Of doing them wrong. That death would come—I knew
Without thine edict:—if before the time,
I count it gain. Who does not gain by death,
That lives, as I do, amid boundless woe?
Slight is the sorrow of such doom to me.
But had I suffered my own mother’s child,
Fallen in blood, to be without a grave,
That were indeed a sorrow. This is none._[24]
Up to this point her ardent vision and courage have carried her on,
soaring high into the light of eternal truth, or tenderly stooping to
the sanction of dear human ties. The austerity of the stern faces by
which she is surrounded has had no power to quell her fervent spirit;
and it is only when she catches Creon’s look of contempt that a bitter
reality forces itself upon her. This passion of self-sacrifice, this
duty which comes to her as a mandate from the gods themselves, is stark
nonsense in the eyes of the man who confronts her. The thought gives a
sudden pause to her ardour, and there is a quick revulsion to anger. O
these blind eyes that will not see! And this stupidity that refuses to
be enlightened! She drops to a lower range, and ends abruptly on a taunt
at Creon’s dullness of perception:
“_And if thou deem’st me foolish for my deed,
I am foolish in the judgment of a fool._“[24]
The Chorus has relapsed into submission to Creon. No spark of fire from
Antigone’s burning words can warm their coldness. Yet their frigid
comment is significant. How like she is, in her strong will, to Œdipus,
her sire. Creon takes up their words. Yes, she is stubborn, but the
hardest metal will soonest break. Not content with disobedience, she
must glory in her deed. But she shall surely die for it; and Ismene,
too, if she has been an accomplice.
Antigone had expected no less than the death penalty for herself; but
she will by no means allow Ismene to be included in it. For, first,
Ismene had refused her help; and then, she is too slight and weak a
creature for such a terrible ordeal. Antigone sees that there is a sharp
struggle coming. Some attendants have brought her sister from the
palace, and she comes weeping for Antigone’s fate. Creon turns upon her
in a fury. Without a sign of proof, he roundly accuses her of complicity
in the deed.
To Ismene, who does not know what has passed, it seems clear that
Antigone has in some way implicated her. But she will not deny it. On
the contrary, there is in her tender heart some sense of relief, despite
her fear, that she can now prove to Antigone her loyalty. Ever since she
first refused her help, remorse has stung her. But now there is an
opportunity to redeem her weakness, and she makes a pathetic attempt to
share Antigone’s fate. It is not a very bold effort, however: she seems
almost to tremble as she tells Creon that she _did_ help in the
burial—if Antigone said so; and none but a man who was blind with rage
could have been deceived by it. But to Creon the poor little declaration
has all the appearance of truth; and Antigone, knowing his inexorable
nature, sees that he will assuredly condemn Ismene to death. She must
interpose, quickly and decisively. She is still sore with disappointment
at her sister; her own burden, since the glow of her magnificent defence
passed, has grown heavier at every moment; and there is, moreover, a
very natural resentment that Ismene should claim merit where it is not
due. She breaks in with an emphatic denial of her sister’s help.
ISMENE. _Alas! and must I be debarred thy fate?_
ANTIG. _Life was the choice you made: Mine was to die._
ISMENE. _I warned thee—_
ANTIG. _Yes, your prudence is admired
On earth. My wisdom is approved below._
ISMENE. _Yet truly we are both alike in fault._
ANTIG. _Fear not; you live. My life hath long been given
To death, to be of service to the dead._[24]
Hurt and baffled, Ismene now turns to Creon with an appeal that she
thinks must touch him. Will he not save Antigone for Hæmon’s sake, his
son, to whom she is betrothed? Surely he will not break the heart of his
own child, too? His reply is a brutal jest that wrings from Antigone the
first sign of her anguish. The pity of her broken life, to herself and
to the lover she must leave, elicits a poignant cry:
“_O dearest Hæmon! How thy father wrongs thee!_”[24]
Then she is led away by the guards.
Almost immediately there enters upon the scene a man who is much better
fitted to cope with Creon. He is Hæmon, Antigone’s lover. Logical,
restrained, and of considerable force of character, he possesses besides
a valuable key to his father’s temperament. He knows the man with whom
he has to deal, and adopts a quiet, conciliatory tone, deferring from
the first to Creon’s rights as his father and his king. He listens with
apparent calm to the arraignment of Antigone; and makes no reply when
Creon expounds his doctrine of absolute obedience to the laws of the
State, be they right or wrong. He even controls himself at the rough
exhortation to “cast her off, to wed with some one down below.”
But Hæmon is only biding his time; and when his father concludes, he
begins, tactfully and with moderation, to put before him the only plea
which he thinks has any hope of influencing him. He appeals to Creon in
his public capacity, and asks him to consider the opinion of the
citizens of Thebes upon Antigone’s action.
“_Thy people mourn this maiden, and complain
That of all women least deservedly,
She perishes for a most glorious deed.
‘Who, when her own true brother on the earth
Lay weltering after combat in his gore,
Left him not graveless, for the carrion-fowl
And raw-devouring field-dogs to consume—
Hath she not merited a golden praise?’
Such the dark rumour spreading silently._”[24]
With fine delicacy, and holding his emotions well in check, Hæmon hints
that his father will do well to listen to the voice of the people. No
human creature is infallible; and is it not unwise to cling too
tenaciously to one’s own will in the face of so strong a public opinion?
The tree that will not yield to the torrent is torn up by the roots; and
the sailor who rushes into the teeth of the storm with sheets taut is
liable to end his voyaging keel-upward.
Creon interposes an angry exclamation; he will not be taught discretion
by a boy. But Hæmon is ready with an answer—Even age must yield to truth
and justice. Antigone is no base rebel: all Thebes denies it. “Am I
ruled by Thebes?” thunders Creon; and Hæmon, seeing his father lost to
reason, begins to feel the onrush of despair that will presently sweep
away his self-control. In the wave of emotion that breaks upon him, he
answers hotly to Creon’s taunts. It is the one thing needed to complete
his father’s wrath; and he turns with a brutal order to the Guards to
bring Antigone out, that she may die before her lover’s eyes. But Hæmon
will not look upon that sight. Under his quiet manner, a torrent of
passion has been gathering force; and a terrible resolution. He has been
keeping an iron hand upon himself; but he has known all through his
pleading that if Creon will dare to carry out the sentence against
Antigone, it will cost him the life of his son. Hæmon will not survive
his bride. Now, with an ominous cry that his father shall never see his
face again, he rushes from the place.
The Chorus break into an exquisite lyric on the power of love; and a few
moments afterward Antigone herself crosses the scene, on her way to the
place of death. She is to be buried alive, in a rocky tomb in the hills;
and this last horror, with the inevitable reaction that has followed on
her splendid daring, have wrought a pathetic change in her. All her
audacity has gone: the passion of righteous anger has faded out: even
her perception is blunted. The vision of a higher law, and the superb
confidence that the gods approve her action, have grown dull and faint
before this dreadful thing which is coming to her. Her voice falters:
her footsteps lag: and on her lips are pitiful words of regret for all
the fair things that she is leaving. The old senators are moved, but are
sadly inept in their efforts at consolation. Remembering Antigone as she
had faced them in her magnificent heroism, they think to comfort her
with the thought that there is glory in her death. But Antigone is not
heroic now. She is a lonely human soul, confronting the last grim
reality; and the well-turned phrases of these comfortable old men are
revolting to her. What glory can really compensate for the monstrous
injustice that she suffers; for the loss of youth, and lover, and
friends; and for the hideous darkness that will quench the light of the
sun for her?
“_O mockery of my woe!
I pray you by our fathers’ holy Fear,
Why must I hear
Your insults, while in life on earth I stand,
O ye that flow
In wealth, rich burghers of my bounteous land?...
By what enormity of lawless doom,
Without one friendly sigh,
I go to the strong mound of yon strange tomb—
All hapless, having neither part nor room
With those who live or those who die._“[24]
Even faith seems swept away for a moment in this access of physical
weakness. But a gleam comes back, flickering through the clouds of doubt
upon that shadowy region of the Underworld:
“_Dear will my coming be, father, to thee,
And dear to thee, my mother, and to thee,
Brother! since with these very hands I decked
And bathed you after death, and ministered
The last libations._“[24]
Then the clouds gather again, and she cannot see anything clearly. Why
is she suffering so? Is it possible that she is guilty, that her deed
was wrong? In the strange confusion of her soul, truth itself seems to
reel, and the form of piety grows blurred. What if, after all, the gods
do _NOT_ approve, and it is she who has sinned?
But from this most ghastly fear Creon himself unwittingly delivers her.
He breaks suddenly into her mourning with a harsh order; and instantly
her mind grows clear.
“_O land of Thebè and city of my sires,
Ye too, ancestral Gods, I go, I go!
Even now they lead me to mine end. Behold!
Princes of Thebes, the only scion left
Of Cadmus’ issue, how unworthily,
By what mean instruments I am oppressed,
For reverencing the dues of piety._”[24]
Beside the perverse authority of Creon, her integrity rises
unassailable. So Antigone passes, in light at the last.
* * * * *
It would take too long to tell of the punishment which befell Creon,
which is nevertheless a vital part of Sophocles’s _Antigone_. It was
swift and crushing. No sooner had the princess been led to her rocky
tomb than the seer Tiresias demanded an audience of the king. He had
come with solemn warnings from the gods, first because the body of
Polynices, the burial of which Antigone had not been allowed to
complete, was polluting the city; and secondly because his shameful
cruelty to the princess had given the gods offence. Let Creon go at once
and rescue Antigone from her living tomb; and let him pay the needful
honours to the dead. But if he will not instantly make this just amend,
the divine power will surely exact from him the payment of a life for
the life that he has taken.
Creon has no recourse to authority now; and he makes but a feeble
resistance. Misguided and over-zealous hitherto, he is no sooner
convinced of his error by the Prophet than he makes a strenuous effort
to put it right. He is shaken by fear, too: and declares that he cannot
fight with destiny. So he goes to perform the will of the gods; and on
his action now the whole force of the tragedy hangs. The gods had
commanded—Release Antigone first, and then bury the body. But Creon in
his perturbation had not paid good heed. True to his nature, he turns to
the official duty first, the burial that is to remove pollution from the
city. Characteristically, too, he stays to perform the rites with the
utmost amplitude. Not until a mound has been heaped upon Polynices does
he proceed to the cave to release Antigone. Then he is too late.
Antigone has hanged herself from the rocky roof, and Hæmon is clinging
about her feet in agony. As Creon appears, the youth springs up with
intent to kill him; but missing his aim, he turns the sword against
himself and dies by Antigone’s side.
So the gods exacted a life for a life; but the punishment was not yet
complete. When Creon, broken with grief, came carrying his dead son into
the palace, he found that the tragic news had been before him. Eurydice
his wife had slain herself.
CREON. _Take me away, the vain-proud man who slew
Thee, O my son, and thee!
Me miserable! Which way shall I turn?
Which look upon? Since all that I can touch
Is falling, falling, round me, and o’erhead
Intolerable destiny descends._[24]
-----
Footnote 23:
From Professor Gilbert Murray’s translation of the _Œdipus Tyrannus_
(George Allen & Co., Ltd.).
Footnote 24:
From Professor Lewis Campbell’s translation of the _Antigone_
(Clarendon Press).
Footnote 25:
From Professor Lewis Campbell’s translation of the _Œdipus at Colonus_
(Clarendon Press).
Footnote 26:
From Professor Gilbert Murray’s translation of a fragment of the
_Œdipus Coloneus_ in his _History of Ancient Greek Literature_
(William Heinemann).
Footnote 27:
From Professor Lewis Campbell’s translation of the _Seven against
Thebes_ (Clarendon Press).
_Euripides: Alcestis_
In the story of Alcestis, we step at once into light and sweet air. Here
is no taint of an hereditary curse; no excess of passion to offend the
sight of gods and men; no foul crime to be avenged by other crime, and
expiated in its turn by bitter remorse. The Trojan Cycle and the Theban
Cycle, with all the tragic grandeur with which Æschylus and Sophocles
have invested them, are left behind. We come to a new theme, fair as a
garden and clean as a morning breeze. It is the tale of a wife’s supreme
love: of the friendship of a god for a mortal man: of an unique act of
hospitality and its magnificent requital. The oppressive sense of
destiny, of something almost malign in the heart of things, has lifted.
Human error and wrongdoing and impotence, which have hitherto made such
a sombre background for heroic figures, are lost in a glow of human
love. And instead of a brooding menace, there is the presence of a
benign divinity, seeking to protect and recompense virtue.
But while we turn to the _Alcestis_ of Euripides with a refreshing sense
of contrast, we are soon reminded that the elements of the story itself
are unfavourable to the work as dramatic art. We could not expect from
such a theme a tragedy so intense and powerful as the works of the two
elder dramatists. The spectacle of virtue rewarded may satisfy a primary
moral sense; but for that very reason it will not evoke the strong
emotions which are the life of drama. While perfect accord with the
divine power, and harmony amongst the human agents of the story, utterly
preclude the sense of conflict without which tragedy can hardly be. For
that reason, it would seem, Euripides did not treat the legend as pure
tragedy. In any case, the happy ending of the legend upon which he
worked would forbid it; and he has further departed from convention by
introducing two scenes which, by their flavour of satire and their
stinging realism, partake of the nature of comedy.
It would therefore appear that the critics have had some cause of
complaint against Euripides, on account of technical defects in the
_Alcestis_. They have indeed been very severe, not only on this play,
but on his drama generally, charging him with all sorts of artistic sins
which need not trouble us in the least. Fortunately, we are not much
concerned with criticism: and in this case there is opposed to the
censure a vast body of praise, ranking most of the poets on its side,
and all the minds which are attuned most nearly to the reflective note
of Euripidean poetry.
If, however, we had time for a comparison with Sophocles, we should
quickly find for ourselves the one fact which gives colour to much of
the critics’ grumbling. Euripides was not, like Sophocles, a consummate
artist. But we should not stop at such profitless negation; for a larger
truth would spring to light a moment afterward. While the art is less,
the thought is much greater: there is a wider range, and a higher ideal.
Euripides is not content to make perfect drama: he must give humanity
the fullest and most complete expression possible to him. And since he
saw into the human heart with an eye at once so keen and pitiful; since
he felt with such insistence the ethical and intellectual problems of
the transition period in which he lived, it is no wonder if the artist
in him was sometimes taxed beyond his powers. The great Periclean Age
was passing; and the new era had some curious intellectual resemblances
to our own time. It had begun to examine the bases of its religion; it
had seen a great development of the democratic spirit; and it was
awakening to something wrong in the position of women. That these
questions greatly exercised the mind of Euripides we may see from the
prominent place they occupy in his drama; and that he must have been an
original and advanced thinker upon them is evident from certain facts of
his personal unpopularity, and from the freshness of his ideas to the
modern mind. That modernity is indeed one cause of his intimate appeal
to the thought of our own day; and so far as it touches the question of
womanhood, it has a peculiar interest for us.