University of Virginia Library

SCENE THE THIRD.

Eteocles, Polinices, Jocasta, Antigone, Soldiers of Eteocles.
Ant.
[To Polinices.]
Ah! thou at least art safe ...

Pol.
Touch me not, sister!
I am all cover'd with my brother's blood.

Joc.
Ah wretch, ah infamous, ah fratricide!
Dar'st thou approach the presence of a mother
Whose son thou hast assassinated?

Pol.
No.
'Twas my desire never more to be
Within thy presence living; I had turned,
With a more furious hand against myself,
The weapon fatal to my brother's life ...

Joc.
But yet thou art alive ...

Ant.
What life? oh, Heaven!

Pol.
Inopportunely Emon grasp'd my hand,
And by main force disarmed it of its sword.
Perhaps cruel fate designs that I should be
By other hands transfix'd. If by thy hands,
Strike, mother, strike, behold my naked breast:
Why dost thou doubt? I am no more thy son,
I, who deprived thee of another son.

Joc.
Be silent now; disturb not any longer
Our parting moments. Oh, Eteocles,
Dost thou not hear me? dost not recognise
Her who now clasps thee to her tortured heart?
It is thy mother; they are her warm tears,
Mixed with thy blood, which thou feel'st trickling down
Thy face and thy pierced bosom. I beseech thee,
Once more thine eye-lids open.

Ete.
Oh, my mother! ...
Tell me ... am I in Thebes?

Joc.
Within thy palace.

Ete.
Speak ... do I die a king? That traitor? ah!
What do I see? Thou livest, and I ... die ...

Pol.
Thou shalt have all my blood; I have already
Devoted all that blood to pacify
Thy haughty and inexorable shade.
Dispel thy anger; thou thyself, thou knowest,
Soughtest thy death; with swift temerity
Abandonedst thy bosom to my sword.
Alas! the fatal blow robs thee of life,
And, more than life, it robs me of my honour.
Grant me thy pardon ere the fault I punish,
Which baffles all attempt at reparation.
Now that that hatred I have merited,
The enmity of a vindictive brother,
I think there is no pang that equals it.
I swear I hate thee not; sight of thy blood,
Th'atrocious sight, has banished from my heart
All rancour ... wretched that I am, I see
That thou'rt exasperated by my prayers.

Ete.
Of what speak'st thou? Thou, son of Œdipus,
Dost pardon ask of me? Dost dare to hope,
From one that springs from Œdipus, forgiveness?

Joc.
Oh son, oh son, do there in thy sick bosom
Such bitter passions dwell?

Ete.
Within our breasts
The impious furies have their throne erected:
I do not feel that mine are fled from me;
Nor though their blood is lost, that my foul veins
Of their inbred and cleaving hate are cleansed.
Oh, impious agony! ... atrocious rage!
Livest thou yet? and hast thou conquer'd me?
And shalt thou fill my throne? make haste, oh death,
That I may never see the maddening sight.

Pol.
I ne'er will fill thy throne, again I swear it;
Descend in peace to Pluto's dark abodes.
To join thy sceptred ancestors, engarlanded
With the imperial chaplet, shalt thou go,
A haughty, sullen, and vindictive shade.
I will obsequiously attend thee thither,
Thy subject brother, a submissive shade.
Oh calm a little the fierce turbulence
Of that unconquerable mind! behold
Me at thy feet; thou, thou art still my king.
Before I rush to death, I do conjure thee
To grant me pardon ...

Joc.
Thou shalt gain it. Thou,
Eteocles, rise, rise above thy fate.
Ah, pardon him, and render him more guilty.
To his remorse transfer thy sated vengeance.

Ant.
And dost thou yet resist? oh heart of steel!
By prayers, by agonies, thou art not moved.
Nor by the tears of desperation shed
By those thou most shouldst love.

Joc.
My son, my son,
Refuse not to thy brother one embrace.
There yet is time; ah, from thy fame avert
Such stigma!

Ete.
Mother, 'tis thy will? ... 'tis well ...
I yield ... come, then, oh brother, to the arms
Of thy expiring brother ... slain by thee ...
Come, to receive in this my last embrace
Brother ... from me ... the death thou meritest.

Joc.
Ah, treason!

Ant.
Polinices! ... Brother! ... slain ...

Pol.
Art thou now satisfied?

Ete.
I am revenged! ...
I die ... yet thee I hate ...

Pol.
I also die; ...
But pardon thee.

Joc.
Behold the work complete.
These sons of incest, these unnatural brothers,
Murder each other: mother, dost thou see,
To whom there now remains nothing to lose?
Ye gods, than us more guilty, prove your being
By pealing thunders and volcanic fires,
Tempesting heaven and earth: or gods there are not.
But what do I behold? Beneath my feet
Yawns the unfathomable, dire abyss!

Ant.
My mother ...

Joc.
Ah! I see them burst asunder
The black, interminable realms of death:
Thou lurid shade of Laius, dost thou stretch
To me thy arms? to a flagitious wife?
What do I see? Thou shew'st thy pierced breast?
Thy hands and face, with clotted gore defiled,
Thou weepest, and dost cry out aloud “Revenge!”
Who made that horrid wound? what impious wretch?
'Twas Œdipus thy son, whom, in thy bed,
Yet reeking with thy life-blood, I received.
Who from another quarter beckons me?
I hear a noise which makes e'en Pluto tremble;
Behold the crash, the gleam, of warlike swords.
Sons of my son, my sons, ferocious shades,
Brothers, does strife e'en after death subsist?
Oh, Laius, separate them. But, behold,
Close at their side the grinning furies stand!
Vengeful Eumenides, I am their mother;
Rack me with that ensanguined, snaky scourge,
This form incestuous, which could being give
To such unnatural wretches. Furies, why,
Ah why, delay! I rush to meet you ...

Ant.
Mother!