University of Virginia Library

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.