University of Virginia Library

ACT THE FIFTH.

SCENE THE FIRST.

Jocasta.
Joc.
Antigone returns not. Hard constraint
That here confines me! Trembling, and alone,
Am I here destined from afar to hear
The clamorous dissonance of th'unnatural strife?
The consummation am I destined here
To wait, of the abhorr'd fraternal vengeance?
Wretch that I am! Do I live yet? Yet hope?
What can I hope? I have no hope on earth:
My life is the miraculous effect
Of destiny, which wills that I should be
Involved in fratricide, then cease to breathe.
There doth remain no other trespass now,
Except this crime, to perpetrate in Thebes;
Shall not Jocasta be to this a witness?
Oh ye, of Thebes the sovereign arbiters,
Tremendous deities of realms below,
Why do ye now delay to burst asunder
“The dark, unbottom'd, infinite abyss,”
And instantly engulph us? I, perchance,
Am I not she who to my son have given
Both sons and brothers? Are not those fierce youths,
That now in battle drink each other's blood,
The fruit of horrid incest? We are yours,
Entirely yours, infernal deities! ...
Oh, pangs unuttered, and unutterable!
All the affections of a mother move me,
And yet to be a mother I abhor.
But what has happened? Suddenly the din,
The hollow din, of distant battle ceases ...
To the tremendous dissonance succeeds
A silence as tremendous ... fatal silence! ...
To me the presage of more fatal tidings!
Who knows? ... perchance the battle is suspended ...
Ah me! ... perchance the fatal strife is over ...
What should I think, alas! what hope, what fear?
For whom breathe vows? For whom ask victory?
Alas! for neither: are not both my sons?
Oh thou, whoe'er thou beest, who palms hast won,
Into my presence come not; tremble, fly;
Delinquent—fly; entirely I devote
My undivided pity to the conquered:
Confederate shades, we will descend together
To Pluto's realms, and ask for vengeance there:
Nor can I ever bear to see a son
That, o'er a brother gasping on the earth,
Has raised the standard of flagitious conquest.

SCENE THE SECOND.

Antigone, Jocasta.
Joc.
Antigone ... thou speakest not ... thy face
Is pale with hues of death. Oh, I have heard it,
That silence, that excruciating silence!

Ant.
To a dire strife it yielded.

Joc.
Are they dead ...
My sons? ...

Ant.
One only ...

Joc.
Which then lives? Ah, traitor,
I will myself ...

Ant.
The combat I espied
From yon high tower: he fell upon the earth
Immersed in blood.

Joc.
Which? ... speak ...

Ant.
Eteocles.

Joc.
Thus Polinices hath fulfilled his promise,
Thus died: ... thus shunn'd the execrable fight?
Ah, miscreant! Thy abominable rage
Thou then designedst to indulge, and cheat
Thy mother. Tremble, for I yet am living;
And from thy breast that impious heart I gave thee
Will tear with my own hands.

Ant.
Thou know'st not all:
Thy blame of Polinices is misplaced.

Joc.
I blame the living: he alone is guilty.

Ant.
Who knows if yet he lives! ah, wretched mother,
If thou hast strength to listen, thou wilt learn,
That he was more unfortunate than guilty.
Scarce had he gain'd the plain, when round him press'd
A valiant band of Argive warriors,
Who, emulously, to the sky sent up
A dreadful shout, announcing victory.
In a remote part of the plain the battle
Raged yet in doubtful conflict; in the midst
Eteocles rose eminent: prepared,
In front, to cope with him Adrastes stood;
And his heart, full of lofty hardihood,
Tydeus. Polinices, with swift feet,
Towards the mingled contest ran: alarm
Before him flew; and death pursued his steps,
To right, to left, in front, in thousand shapes,
And frightful all, a thousand deaths he dealt;
Nor was the death he sought to him allotted.
Where'er he turned his steps the Thebans wavered,
Yielded, and fled; and hoped, by flight, to gain
Opprobrious safety. From the flying troops
Eteocles leaps forth in furious guise,
And with a terrible accent he exclaims,
“To Polinices!” With precipitous rage
His steps he traces, and at last he finds him ...

Joc.
Alas! oh dreadful! ... Did the other fly?

Ant.
How could he fly from such ferocious pride?
Eteocles in haughty scorn broke forth;
Taxed him with cowardice; defiance breathed;
And by mere force dared him to single combat.
“Thebans,” he cried with a tremendous voice,
“Thebans and Argives, cease your guilty rage!
“Ye have descended to the field of battle
“In our contention, prodigal of life:
“Ours is the strife, be ours the forfeiture.
“Let us, ourselves, to a conclusion bring
“This unjust waste of blood, e'en in your presence,
“And on this field of death. And thou, whom I
“Should no more call my brother, do thou spare
“The blood of Thebes; thy hate, thy rage, thy sword,
“All—all—on me let fall—on me alone.”
To speak and leap with fury to the charge,
Were actions of one instant.

Joc.
Infamous! ...
But how? to such a combat was the field,
By those armed multitudes, surrendered tamely?

Ant.
An universal fear, at such a sight,
Palsied the troops. Commingled as they were,
Stupid, immoveable, both armies stood
Spectators of the contest. Drunk with blood
And fury, of his own life quite regardless,
Provided his antagonist he slew,
Eteocles upon his wretched brother
Falls with his sword, and all his strength collects.
For a long time, intent to ward his blows,
Stands Polinices; generously he fears
More for his wretched brother than himself,
Refusing to attack him. But, at length,
Seeing his brother obstinately chace him,
And press upon him more and more, and force him,
He cries, “I call to witness Heaven and Thebes,
“Thou will'st it.” While to Heaven his eyes he raised,
And thus exclaim'd, his sword he onward thrust;
The hovering furies guide the reckless blow
To pierce the bosom of Eteocles.
He falls. Upon his brother spouts his blood:
Who, seeing this, towards his own breast turned
The bloody, smoking sword ... I saw no more ...
My senses, almost, at the cruel deed
Forsook me; thick mists swam before my eyes;
I flew, with tottering steps, and came to thee ...
Alas! what will the consummation be
Of this most fatal incident? ...

Joc.
'Twill be,
Doubt not, one worthy of our family!
Ah, leave the care of that to the fell rage,
The fury, of the persecuting gods.
But who comes towards us? What do I behold?
Dying Eteocles is hither borne.

Ant.
His warriors on each side support his steps!

Joc.
Ah, with what death-like slowness he advances!

Ant.
Yonder, see Polinices in his train! ...

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!