University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE I.

The Dungeon in the Rock.
Thoas discovered, alone.
THOAS.
Ye walls of living rock, whose time-shed stains
Attest that ages have revolv'd since hands
Of man were arm'd to pierce your solid frame,
And, from your heart of adamant, hew out
Space for his fellow's wretchedness, I hail
A refuge in your stillness; tyranny
Will not stretch forth its palsied arm to fret
Its captive here. Ye cannot clasp me round
With darkness so substantial, as can shut
The airy visions from me which foreshew
The glories Athens will achieve, when I
Am passionless as ye. I hear a step!
It is that mournful lady's minister,
Who comes to waken feelings I would bid
For ever sleep. A light, as of a star,
Gleams in the narrow cavern's steep descent;
And now a form, as of a goddess, glides
To illuminate its blackness. 'Tis Creusa!
My heart is not yet stone.

Enter Creusa.
I venture here
Thus boldly to perform a holy office,
Which should have been my brother's.—When he fled
The city of his nurture, his last thoughts
Were bent on his preserver; he bequeathed
His strong injunction never to forsake
The aim of thy deliverance. I exult
That heaven thus far has prosper'd it; be quick,
And follow me to freedom.

THOAS.
Did'st thou say
To freedom, lovely one?

CREUSA.
If thou wilt haste;
The path is clear; the city wrapt in sleep;
I know the pass-word at the gates—how learn'd
By quaint device, I'll tell thee when we meet
In safety,—if we ever meet again!

THOAS.
And dost thou wish it?

CREUSA.
Do I wish it? Yes!
And on the swift fulfilment of that wish
My life is wager'd.

THOAS.
There is more than life
To me in these sweet words—speak them again—
But no;—once heard they linger on the ear
Which drank them in, for ever. Shapeless rocks
That witness to the sound, rejoice! No fane
Of alabaster while the breeze has slept
In circling myrtles, and the moon disclos'd
Young love's first blush to the rapt eyes of him
Whose happy boldness rais'd it, rivals you
In sanctity which rich affection lends
To things of earthly mould. Methinks ye spring
Rounded to columns; your dank mists are curl'd
Upwards in heavenly shapes, and breathe perfume,
While every niche which caught the music speeds
Delicious echoes to the soul. 'Twere bliss
To dwell for ever here.

CREUSA.
O linger not;
The watch will change at midnight.

THOAS.
Midnight—Jove!—
I cannot go.

CREUSA.
Not go! I ask no thanks—
No recompense—no boon,—save the delight
Of saving thee; for this I've perill'd all—
Life, freedom, fame,—and now thou tell'st me, proud one,
That I have perill'd all in vain.

THOAS.
Forbear,
In mercy; I have pledg'd my word to wait
A messenger the Queen will send at midnight,
To bring me to her presence.

CREUSA.
To the Queen?
What would she with thee? She is steel'd 'gainst nature;
I never knew her shed a tear, nor heard
A sigh break from her,—oft she seeks a glen
Hard by the temple of avenging Jove,
Which sinks mid blasted rocks, whose narrow gorge
Scarce gives the bold explorer space; its sides,
Glistening in marble blackness, rise aloft
From the scant margin of a pool, whose face
No breeze e'er dimpled; in its furthest shade
A cavern yawns, where poisonous vapours rise
That none may enter it and live; they spread
Their rolling films of ashy white like shrouds
Around the fearful orifice, and kill
The very lichens which the earthless stone
Would nurture;—whether evil men, or things
More terrible, meet this sad lady there,
I know not—she will lead thee thither!

THOAS.
No—
Not if guilt point the way, if it be sorrow
I must endure it rather than the curse
Which lies upon the faithless heart of him
Who breaks a promise plighted to the wretched;
For she is wretched.

CREUSA.
So am I. Methinks
I am grown selfish; for it is not suffering
I dread should fall upon thee, but I tremble
Lest witchery of that awful woman's grief
Lead thee to some rash deed. Thou art a soldier,
A young proficient in the game of death,
And mayst be wrought on—

THOAS.
Do not fear for me;
Where shews of glory beckon I'll not wait
To pluck away the radiant masks and find
Death under them; but at the thought of blood
Shed save in hottest fight, my spirit shrinks
As from some guilt not aim'd at human things
But at the majesty of gods.

CREUSA.
Forgive me;
It was a foolish terror swept across
My soul,—I should not have forgot 'twas mercy
That made thee captive.

Voice without.
Thoas!

THOAS.
I am call'd.
The voice came that way—still thy upward path
Is open—haste—he must not find thee here.

CREUSA.
My prayers—all that the weak can give—are thine.
Farewell!

[Exit.
THOAS.
The gods for ever guard thee!
She glides away—she gains the topmost ridge—
She's safe. Now can I welcome fate with bosom
Steel'd to endure the worst.

Voice without.
Thoas!

THOAS.
I come!

[Exit.

SCENE II.

The Hall of Statues, in Creon's Palace.
Enter Ismene.
ISMENE.
Why tarries Calchas? It is past the hour
Of deepest night, when he should hither guide
The avenger of my sorrows. Gods of Athens!
Whom strong expostulation hath compell'd
To look upon my shames, one little hour
I ask your aid; that granted, never more
Shall the constraining force of passion break
Your dread repose. I hear a warrior's step—
Ye answer, and ye bless me.
Enter Calchas and Thoas.
It is well.
[To Calchas.
Withdraw, and wait without. I must confer
With this unyielding man, alone.

[Exit Calchas.
THOAS.
I wait
To learn thy will;—why thou hast bid me leave
The stubborn rock, where I had grown as dull,
As painless, as the cell to which thy breath
Consign'd me?—thou, who urg'd the king to wreak
His most inglorious spleen on one too low
To be mark'd out for anger, too resolv'd
To heed it!

ISMENE.
I beheld in thee a soldier,
Born of that glorious soil whose meanest son
Is nobler than barbarian kings, with arm
Worthy to serve a daughter, who has claim
On its best blood. But there is softness in thee,
Weakening thy gallant nature, which may need
The discipline of agony and shame
To master it. Hast thou already learn'd
Enough to steel thee for a generous deed;
Or shall I wait till thou hast linger'd long
In sorrow's mighty school? I'm mistress in it,
And know its lessons well.

THOAS.
If thou hast aught
Of honor to suggest, I need no more
To fit me for thy purpose; if thy aim
Hath taint of treachery or meanness in it,
I think no pain will bend me to thy will;
At least, I pray the gods so!

ISMENE.
Had'st thou borne
Long years of lingering wretchedness like mine,
Thou would'st not play the casuist thus. 'Tis well
For lusty youth, that casts no glance beyond
To-morrow's fight or game, which values life
A gewgaw, to be perill'd at a plunge
From some tall rock into an eddying gulph,
For the next revel's glory, to collect
The blood into the cheek, and bravely march
Amidst admiring people to swift death,
And call its heedlessness of what it yields—
A sacrifice heroic. But who knows,
Who guesses, save the woman that endures,
What 'tis to pine each weary day in forms
All counterfeit;—each night to seek a couch
Throng'd by the phantoms of revenge, till age
Find her in all things weaken'd, save the wish,
The longing of the spirit, which laughs out
In mockery of the withering frame! O Thoas,
I have endured all this—I, who am sprung
From the great race of Theseus!

THOAS.
From the race
Of Theseus!—of the godlike man whose name
Hath shone upon my childhood as a star
With magic power?

ISMENE.
Reduc'd to basest needs
By slow decay in Attica, array'd
In hateful splendour here, I bear small trace
Of whence I sprung. No matter—spurn'd—disown'd
By living kindred, I have converse held
With those of my great family whom Death
Hath stripp'd of all but glory; and they wait
The triumph of this hour to hail me theirs.

THOAS.
Shame to our city, who allowed a matron
Of that great race to languish!

ISMENE.
Let it pass;
A single grief—a short and casual wrong—
Which—in that sense of ages past and hopes
Resplendent for the future, which are center'd
In the great thought of country, and make rich
The poorest citizen who feels a share
In her—is nothing. Had she sought my blood,
To mingle with the dust before the rush
Of some triumphant entry, I had shed it;
And while my life gush'd forth, had tasted joy
Akin to her rapt hero's. 'Tis thy lot—
Thy glorious lot—to give me all I live for,—
Freedom and vengeance.

THOAS.
What would'st have me do?

ISMENE.
I have not wasted all the shows of power
Which mock'd my grief, but used them to conceal
The sparks which tyrant fickleness had lit,
And sloth had left to smoulder. In the depths
Of neighbouring caverns, foes of Creon meet
Who will obey thee; lead them thence to-night—
Surprise the palace—slay this hated king,—
Or bear him as a slave to Athens.

THOAS.
Never!
I am a foe to Corinth—not a traitor,
Nor will I league with treason. In the love
Of my own land, I honour his who cleaves
To the scant graces of the wildest soil,
As I do to the loveliness, the might,
The hope, of Athens. Aught else man can do,
In honor, shall be thine.

ISMENE.
I thought I knew
Athenians well; and yet, thy speech is strange.
Whence drew thou these affections,—whence these thoughts
Which reach beyond a soldier's sphere?

THOAS.
From Athens;
Her groves; her halls; her temples; nay, her streets
Have been my teachers. I had else been rude,
For I was left an orphan, in the charge
Of an old citizen, who gave my youth
Rough though kind nurture. Fatherless, I made
The city and her skies my home; have watch'd
Her various aspects with a child's fond love;
Hung in chill morning o'er the mountain's brow,
And, as the dawn broke slowly, seen her grow
Majestic from the darkness, till she fill'd
The sight and soul alike; enjoy'd the storm
Which wrapt her in the mantle of its cloud,
While every flash that shiver'd it reveal'd
Some exquisite proportion, pictur'd once
And ever to the gazer;—stood entranc'd
In rainy moonshine, as, one side, uprose
A column'd shadow, ponderous as the rock
Which held the Titan groaning with the sense
Of Jove's injustice; on the other, shapes
Of dreamlike softness drew the fancy far
Into the glistening air; but most I felt
Her loveliness, when summer-evening tints
Gave to my lonely childhood sense of home.

ISMENE.
And was no spot amidst that radiant waste
A home to thee indeed?

THOAS.
The hut which held
My foster-father had for me no charms,
Save those his virtues shed upon its rudeness.
I lived abroad;—and yet there is a spot
Where I have felt that faintness of the heart
Which traces of oblivious childhood bring
Upon ripe manhood; where small heaps of stones,
Blacken'd by fire, bear witness to a tale
Of rapine which destroyed my mother's cot,
And bore her thence to exile.

ISMENE.
Mighty gods!
Where stand these ruins?

THOAS.
On a gentle slope.
Broken by workings of an ancient quarry,
About a furlong from the western gate,
Stand these remains of penury; one olive,
Projecting o'er the cottage site which fire
Had blighted, with two melancholy stems,
Stream'd o'er its meagre vestiges.

ISMENE.
'Tis plain!
Hold! hold! my courage. Let the work be done,
And then I shall aspire. I must not wait
Another hour for vengeance. Dreadful powers!
Who on the precipice's side at eve
Have bid gigantic shadows greyly pass
Before my mortal vision,—dismal forms
Of a fate-stricken race—I see HIM now,
Whom ye led follower of your ghastly train—
O nerve him for his office!

THOAS.
Fearful woman,
Speak thy command, if thou would have it reach
A conscious ear; for whilst thou gazest thus,
My flesh seems hardening into stone; my soul
Is tainted; thought of horror courses thought
Like thunder-clouds swept wildly;—yet I feel
That I must do thy bidding.

ISMENE.
It is well;—
Hast thou a weapon?

THOAS.
Yes; the generous prince,
When I resign'd my arms, left me a dagger.

ISMENE.
The prince! The Furies sent it by his hand,
For justice on his father.

THOAS.
On thy husband?

ISMENE.
Husband! Beware!—my husband moulders yet
Within his rusting armour; such a word
From thee may pierce the rock beneath whose shade
He fell, and curse him with a moment's life
To blast thee where we stand. If this slight king,
In the caprice of tyranny was pleas'd
To deck me out in regal robes, dost think
That in his wayward smiles, or household taunts,
I can forget the wretchedness and shame
He hurl'd upon me once?

THOAS.
What shame?

ISMENE.
What shame!
Thou hast not heard it. Listen! I was pluck'd
From the small pressure of an only babe,
And in my frenzy, sought the hall where Creon
Drain'd the frank goblet; fell upon my knees;
Embrac'd his foot-stool with my hungry arms,
And shriek'd aloud for liberty to seek
My infant's ashes, or to hear some news
Of how it perish'd;—Creon did not deign
To look upon me, but with reckless haste
Dash'd me to earth;—yes; this disgrace he cast
On the proud daughter of a line which trac'd
Its skiey lineage to the gods, and bore
The impress of its origin,—on me,
A woman, and a mother!

THOAS.
Let me fly
And whet Athenian anger with thy wrongs—
My thoughts are strange and slaughterous.

ISMENE.
[After a pause.
Fly then! Yes!—
(Aside.)
'T will be as certain.—I will point a way
Will lead thee through a chamber to the terrace,
Whence thou may'st reach the wall. Thy only peril
Lies in that chamber. Mark me well;—if there
An arm be rais'd to stay thee—if a voice
Be heard—or if aught mortal meet thy sight,
Whate'er the form, thy knife is pledged to quench
The life that breathes there.

THOAS.
I obey. Farewell!

[He takes her hand; she shivers; and drops it.
ISMENE.
Hold off thy hand—it thrills me.—Swear!

THOAS.
By those
Who hover o'er us now, I swear!

ISMENE.
Be firm.
That is the door;—thou canst not miss the path.
Is thy steel ready?

THOAS.
Yes;—my breast is cold
As is that steel.

ISMENE.
Haste—the thick darkness wanes.
[Exit Thoas.
Infernal powers! I thank ye—all is paid—
By thousand ectsasies in which my soul
Grows wanton. Calchas!
Enter Calchas.
Wish me joy, old servant!
What dost thou think of him who left me now?

CALCHAS.
A gallant soldier.

ISMENE.
'Tis my son—my own!
The very child for whom I knelt to Creon,
Is sent to give me justice. He is gone,
Arm'd with a dagger, thro' the royal chamber,
Sworn to strike any that may meet him there
A corpse before him. Dost thou think the king
Will see to-morrow?

CALCHAS.
He may slumber.

ISMENE.
No—
He hath sent his son to exile—he will wake—
I'm sure he will. There! listen!—'twas a groan!
'Twill be but low—again! 'Tis finish'd! Shades
Of my immortal ancestry, look down,
And own me of your kindred!—Calchas, haste;
Secure possession of the towers that guard
The city gates:—entrust them to our friends,
Who, when I give the word, will set them wide.
Haste, 'tis thy final labour. I shall soon
Be potent to reward the friends who clove
To me in my sad bondage.

CALCHAS.
Whither go'st thou?

ISMENE.
To the pale shrine of her whose withering shield
Is dedicate to Athens. I have pray'd
At coldest midnight there, without a hope
Which might give ardour to my freezing veins.
I ask her to allay my raptures now,
By touch of marble—I require its chillness.
There I'll await the issue. It is sure!

[Exeunt Ismene and Calchas.

SCENE III.

The Outskirts of a Wood on one side; the Athenian Camp on the other. A Watch-fire at a little distance, lighting the Scene.
PENTHEUS
(walking backwards and forwards as a Guard).
The cold grey dawn begins to glimmer; speed it,
Ye powers that favour Athens! From the sea,
Her everlasting guardian, Phœbus, rise,
To pour auspicious radiance o'er the field,
In which she may efface the foul dishonour
Her arms own'd yesterday. Not shame alone,
But loss no morrow can repair, is hers!
Archas, our army's noble leader, sleeps
Beneath the pressure of a thousand shields;
And Thoas, bravest of our youth, a slave—
Perchance, ere this a corpse. Friend whom I loved,
In whose advancing glories I grew proud
As though they had been mine—if yet thou breathest,
I will deliver, and if dead, avenge thee!
O, Thoas!

Enter Thoas wildly, from the Wood.
THOAS.
Who pronounc'd that wretched name,—
That name no honest tongue may utter more?
Pentheus!

PENTHEUS.
Thoas! most welcome. Thou art come in time
To share a glorious conflict. Ha! thine eyes
Glare with a frightful light;—be calm,—thou art safe;—
This is the camp of those who will reward
Thy great emprise of yesterday, with place
Among the foremost in the battle. Come
To my exulting heart.

[Offering to embrace Thoas.
THOAS.
No!—hold me from thee!—
My heart can ne'er know fellowship again
With such as thine; for I have paid a price
For this vile liberty to roam abroad,
And cry to woods and rocks that answer me
With fearful echoes:—such a price, my Pentheus—
My own unspotted conscience. Dost not see
Foul spots of blood upon this slave's apparel,
Polluting e'en that dress?

PENTHEUS.
If thou hast struck
Some soldier down to vindicate thy freedom,
Who shall accuse thee?

THOAS.
'Twas no soldier, Pentheus;
No stout opponent that my fatal knife
Dismiss'd to Erebus. A wither'd hand,
As from an old man, in the gloom stretch'd forth,
Scarce met my touch,—which could not have delay'd
My course an instant;—'twas no thought of fear,
No haste for freedom, urged me,—but an oath
Glar'd on my soul in characters of flame,
And madden'd me to strike. I rais'd my arm,
And wildly hurl'd my dagger;—nought but air
It seem'd to meet;—but a sharp feeble sigh,
Such as death urges when it stops the gasp
Of wasting age, assur'd me it had done
A murderer's office.

PENTHEUS.
Think not of it thus:—
Thy lips are parch'd,—let me fetch water.

THOAS.
No!
I have drank fiercely at a mountain spring,
And left the stain of blood in its pure waters;
It quench'd my mortal thirst, and I rejoic'd,
For I seem'd grown to demon, till the stream
Cool'd my hot throat, and then I laugh'd aloud,
To find that I had something human still.

PENTHEUS.
Fret not thy noble heart with what is past.

THOAS.
No!—'tis not past!—the murderer has no PAST;
But one eternal PRESENT.

HYLLUS.
[Within the wood.
Help me!—answer!—

THOAS.
The voice of Hyllus!—of that noble youth,
Who, for my sake, is outcast from his home,
So near the camp of Athens! Should our guards
Arrest him, he will perish. Friend! That voice
Comes on my ear like that of one who serv'd me,
In yonder city; leave thy watch to me
A moment.

PENTHEUS.
No—thy passion's dangerous;
I dare not trust it.

THOAS.
See—I have subdu'd
The pang which wrung me. By our ancient loves
Grant me this boon—perhaps the last.

PENTHEUS.
Be quick,
For the watch presently will be remov'd,
And the trump call to battle.
[Exit Pentheus.

THOAS.
[Calling to Hyllus.
Here! The hope
Of saving Hyllus wafts into my soul
A breath of comfort.

Enter Hyllus.
HYLLUS.
I have lost my path,
Wandering the dismal night in this old wood;
I'd seek the coast; canst thou point out the way?

THOAS.
Avoid it—on each side the Isthmus, ships
Of Athens ride at anchor.

HYLLUS.
[Recognising him.
Thoas! free—
Then I am bless'd, and I can bear my lot,
However hard;—I guess the hand that op'd
The dungeon door;—how didst thou quit the palace?

THOAS.
Why dost thou ask me that? Through a large chamber
That open'd on a terrace—'twas all dark;—
Tell me who lay there?

HYLLUS.
'Tis my father's chamber,
Did he awake?

THOAS.
Thy father?—gods! The king?
The feeble old man with the reverend hair?
Art sure he rested there?

HYLLUS.
Sure. No one else
May enter after sunset, save the queen.

THOAS.
The queen! all's clear;—Jove strike me into marble!

HYLLUS.
Why dost thou tremble so? as if a fit
Of ague shook thee.

THOAS.
Nothing—only thought
Of my past danger came upon my soul
And shook it strangely. Was the old man there?

[Stands abstractedly as stupefied.
PENTHEUS.
[Without.
Thoas!

THOAS.
Haste!—Do not lose a moment—fly!
The watch-fire that is waning now is fed
By hands which, madden'd by the foul defeat
Of yesterday, will slay thee.

HYLLUS.
Whither fly?
The camp of Athens is before me;—ships
Of Athens line the coasts,—and Corinth's king
Hath driven me forth an exile. I'll return
And crave my father's pardon.

THOAS.
No—not there—
Yet, where should the poor stripling go? O Jove!
When he shall learn—

HYLLUS.
Farewell—yet hold an instant!—
Wilt thou not send some message to Creusa,
That she may greet her brother with a smile?

THOAS.
Creusa smile!—Methinks I see her now—
Her form expands—her delicate features grow
To giant stone; her hairs escape their band,
And stream aloft in air;—and now they take
The forms of fiery serpents—how they hiss—
And point their tongues at Thoas!

HYLLUS.
This is frenzy;
I cannot leave thee thus:—whate'er my fate,
I will attend and soothe thee.

THOAS.
Soothe me!—Boy,
Wouldst haunt me with that face which now I see
Is like thy father's. Ha! ha! ha! Thou soothe me—
Look not upon me; by this lurid light
Thou look'st a spectre. Hence, or I will rend thee!

HYLLUS.
I rather would die here.

THOAS.
Fool! fool! away!
[Exit Hyllus.
He's gone—yet she is with me still,—with looks
More terrible than anger;—take away
That patient face,—I cannot bear its sweetness;—
Earth, cover me!

[Falls on the ground.
Enter Pentheus.
PENTHEUS.
The troops are arming fast;
They call on thee to lead them.—Hark, the trump—

[The trumpet sounds.
THOAS.
[Leaps up.
Yes; I will answer to its call. Again
Thou shalt behold me strike. In yonder field
I'll win that which I hunger for.

PENTHEUS.
A crown
Of laurel which hath floated in thy dreams
From thy brave infancy—

THOAS.
A grave! a grave!

[Exeunt.