University of Virginia Library

ŒDIPUS IN THEBES

PART I

Œdipus, Priest and Suppliants assembled before his palace-gate, Chorus.
Œd.
Children of Cadmus, and as mine to me,
When all that of the plague-struck city can
With lamentation loud, and sacrifice
Beset the shrines and altars of the Gods
Through street and market, by the Temples twain
Of Pallas, and before the Tomb that shrouds
Ismenus' his prophetic ashes—why
Be you thus gather'd at my palace-door,
Mute, with the Suppliant's olive-branch in hand?
Asking, or deprecating, what? which I,
Not satisfied from other lips to learn,
Myself am come to hear it from your own.
You, whose grave aspect and investiture
Announce the chosen oracle of all,
Tell me the purport: I am here, you see,
As King, and Father of his people too,
To listen and what in me lies to do;
For surely mine were but a heart of stone
Not to be moved by such an embassy,
Nor feel my people's sorrows as my own.

Priest.
O Œdipus, our Father, and our King!
Of what a mingled company you see
This Supplication gather'd at your door;
Ev'n from the child who scarce has learn'd to creep,
Down to old age that little further can,
With all the strength of life that breathes between.
You know how all the shatter'd city lies
Reeling a-wreck, and cannot right herself
Under the tempest of this pestilence,
That nips the fruitful growth within the bud,
Strangles the struggling blossom in the womb,
With sudden death infects the living man,
Until the realm of Cadmus wastes, and Thebes
With her depopulation Hades feeds.
Therefore, myself and this mute company
In supplication at your altar sit,
Looking to you for succour; looking not
As to a God, but to the Man of men,
Most like the God in man's extremity:
Who, coming here a stranger to the land,
Didst overcome the Witch who with her song
Seduced, and slew the wisest and the best;
For which all but divine deliverance Thebes
Call'd the strange man who saved her to the throne
Left void by her hereditary king.
And now the kingdom looks to you once more—
To you, the Master of the master-mind,
To save her in a worse extremity:
When men, not one by one, but troop by troop,
Fall by a plague more deadly than the Sphinx,
Till Thebes herself is left to foreign arms
Assailable—for what are wall and tower,
Divinely built and founded as they be,
Without the rampart of the man within?—
And let not what of Cadmus yet survives
From this time forth regard you as the man
Who saved them once, by worse to perish now.

Œd.
Alas, my children! telling me of that
My people groans with, knowing not yourselves
How more than any man among you, I,
Who bear the accumulated woes of all;
So that you find me, coming when you may,
Restlessly all day pacing up and down,
Tossing all night upon a sleepless bed,
Endeavouring all that of myself I can,
And all of Heaven implore—thus far in vain.
But if your King have seem'd to pause awhile,
'Tis that I wait the issue of one hope,
Which, if accomplish'd, will accomplish all.
Creon, my brother, and my second self
Beside the throne I sit on, to the shrine
Of Delphian Phœbus, man's assured appeal
In all his exigence, I have despatch'd:
And long before you gather'd at my door
Within my soul was fretting, lest To-day
That should have lighted him from Delphi back
Pass over into night, and bring him not.
But come he must, and will; and when he comes,
Do I not all, so far as man may do,
To follow where the God shall point the way,
Denounce me traitor to the State I saved
And to the people who proclaim'd me King.

Cho.
Your words are as a breath from Delphi, King,
Prophetic of itself; for even now
Fore-running Rumour buzzes in our ear
That he whose coming all await is here.

Œd.
And as before the advent of a God,
The moving multitude divides—O Phœbus!
Be but the word he carries back to me
Auspicious as well-timed!

Chorus.
And shall no less;
For look! the laurel wreath about his brow
Can but announce the herald of Success.

Œdipus, Creon, Chorus.
Œd.
Son of Menœceus! Brother! Brother-king!—
Oh, let impatience for the word you bring
Excuse brief welcome to the messenger!
Be but the word as welcome!—

Cre.
As it shall,
Have you your ancient cunning to divine
The darker word in which the God of Light
Enshrines his answer.

Œd.
Speak! for till I hear,
I know not whether most to hope or fear.

Cre.
Am I to speak before the people here,
Or to yourself within?

Œd.
Here, before all,
Whose common cause it is.

Cre.
To all then thus:
When Delphi reach'd, and at the sacred shrine
Lustration, sacrifice, and offering made,
I put the question I was charged withal,
The Prophetess of the three-footed throne,
Conceiving with the vapour of the God
Which wrapt her, rising from Earth's centre, round,
At length convulsed to sudden answer broke:
‘O seven-gated City, by the Lyre
Compact, and peopled from a Dragon Sire!
Thebes feeds the Plague that slays her nourishing
Within her walls the slayer of her King.’

Œd.
The slayer of her King? What king?

Cre.
None else
I know than Laius, son of Labdacus,
Who occupied the throne before you came;
That much of Oracle, methinks, is plain.

Œd.
A story rises on me from the past.
Laius, the son of Labdacus—of whom
I know indeed, but him I never saw.

Cre.
No; he was slain before you set your foot
Over the country's threshold.

Œd.
Slain! By whom?

Cre.
That to divine were to interpret all
That Œdipus himself is call'd to answer.
Thus much is all we know,
The King was murder'd by some roving band
Of outlaws, who waylaid him on his road
To that same Delphi, whither he had gone
On some such sacred mission as myself.

Œd.
Yet of those roving outlaws, one at least
Yet breathes among us in the heart of Thebes.

Cre.
So saith the Oracle.

Œd.
In the midst of all
The citizens and subjects of the King
He slew?

Cre.
So saith the Oracle.

Œd.
But hold!
The story of this treason—all, you say,
Now known of it, how first made known in Thebes?

Cre.
By the one man of the King's retinue,
Who having 'scaped the fate which took the rest,
As if the assassin's foot were at his heels,
Half dead with fear, just reach'd the city gates
With breath to tell the story.

Œd.
And breathes still
To tell it once again?

Cre.
I know not that:
For having told it, the bewilder'd man,
As fast as hither he had fled, fled hence,
Where, if the assassin's foot not on him then,
His eye, the God declares, were on him now—
So fled he to his native field again
Among his flocks and fellow-husbandmen.

Œd.
And thus the single witness you let slip,
Whose eye might ev'n have singled out the man,
As him the man's!—Oh, had I but been by,
I would have driv'n interrogation home,
Would the bewilder'd memory so have sifted
Of each minutest grain of circumstance—
How many, accoutred how, what people like—
Now by the lapse of time and memory,
Beyond recall into oblivion pass'd!
But not to lose what yet of hope there is—
Let him be sent for, sought for, found and brought.

Cre.
Meanwhile, default of him for whom you send,
Or of uncertain memory when he comes,
Were it not well, if still the God withhold
His revelation of the word we need,
To question it of his Interpreter?

Œd.
Of his Interpreter!

Cre.
Of whom so well,
As of Teiresias, the blind Seer of Thebes,
Whose years the God hath in his service counted
Beyond all reach of human memory?

Œd.
So be it. But I marvel yet why Thebes,
Letting the witness slip, then unpursued,
Or undetected, left the criminal,
Whom the King's blood, by whomsoever spilt,
Cried out aloud to be revenged upon.

Cre.
What might be done we did. But how detect
The roving robber, in whatever land,
Of friend or foe alike, outlaw'd of all,
Where ever prey to pounce on on the wing,
Or housed in rock or forest, save to him
Unknown, or inaccessible? Besides,
Thebes soon had other business on her hand.

Œd.
Why, what of business to engage her more
Than to revenge the murder of her King?

Cre.
None other than the riddle-singing Sphinx
Who, till you came to silence her, held Thebes
From thinking of the dead to save herself.

Œd.
And leaving this which then you might have guess'd,
To guess at that which none of you could solve,
You have brought home a riddle on your heads
Inextricable and more fatal far!
But I, who put the riddling Witch to rest,
This fatal riddle will unravel too,
And by swift execution following
The revelation, once more save the realm,
And wipe away the impiety and shame
Of Laius' yet unexpiated death.
For were no expiation to the God,
And to the welfare of this people due,
Were't not a shame thus unrevenged so long
To leave the slaughter of so great a King—
King Laius, the son of Labdacus,
Who from his father Polydore his blood
Direct from Cadmus and Agenor drew?
Shame to myself, who, sitting on the throne
He sat on, wedded to the very Queen
Who should have borne him children, as to me
She bore them, had not an assassin's hand
Divorced them ere their wedded life bore fruit!
Therefore to this as 'twere my father's cause,
As of my people's—nay, why not my own,
Who in his death am threaten'd by the hand
Of him, whose eye now follows me about?—
With the Gods' aid do I devote myself.
And hereto let the city's Herald all
Her population summon, from my lips
To hear and help in what I shall devise:
And you, that with bow'd head and olive wand,
Have since the dawn been gather'd at my door,
Beseeching me with piteous silence, rise,
And by their altars supplicate the Gods,
And Phœbus chief of all, that he may turn
His yet half-clouded word into full light,
And with one shaft of his unerring bow
Smite dead the Plague which back into the dust
Whence Cadmus raised them lays the People low,

Chorus.

Œdipus, Chorus.
Œd.
You came to me for counsel; hearken then,
And do as well as hearken, like myself
Following the pointed finger of the God
Which thus far leads us, all may yet be well.
I, Œdipus, albeit no Theban born,
By Thebes herself enthroned her sovereign King,
Thus to the citizens of Thebes proclaim;
That whosoever of them knows by whom
King Laius, son of Labdacus, was slain,
Forthwith let him disclose it undismay'd;
Yea, though the criminal himself he were,
Let not the dread of deadly consequence
Revolt him from confession of the crime;
For he shall suffer nothing worse than this,
Instant departure from the city, but
Uninjured, uninsulted, unpursued;
For though feloniously a King he slew
Yet haply as a stranger unaware
That king was Laius; and thus the crime
Half-clear'd of treason, half absolved by time.
Nor, on the other hand, if any knows
Another guilty, let him not for love,
Or fear, or whatsoever else regard,
Flinch from a revelation that shall win
More from myself than aught he fears to lose—
Nay, as a second saviour of the State
Shall after me be call'd; and who should not
Save a whole people at the cost of one?
But Him—that one—who would not at the cost
Of self-confession save himself and all—
Him—were he nearest to my heart and hearth—
Nearest and dearest—thus do I denounce;
That from the very moment that he stands,
By whatsoever, or by whom, reveal'd,
No man shall him bespeak, at home, abroad,
Sit with at table, nor by altar stand,
But, as the very Pestilence he were
Incarnate which this people now devours,
Him slay at once, or hoot and hunt him forth,
With execration from the city walls.
But if, in spite of promise or of threat,
The man who did, or knows who did, this deed,
Still hold it in his bosom unreveal'd—
That man—and he is here among us now—
Man's vengeance may escape when he forswears
Participation in the crime, but not
The Gods', himself involving in the Curse
Which, with myself and every man in Thebes,
He shall denounce upon the criminal,
The Gods invoking to withhold from him
That issue of the earth by which he lives,
That issue of the womb by which himself
Lives after him; that in the deadly curse
By which his fellows perish he and his
May perish, or, if worse there be, by worse!

Cho.
Beside Apollo's altar standing here,
That oath I swear, that neither I myself
Nor did myself, nor know who did this deed:
And in the curse I join on him who did,
Or, knowing him who did, will not reveal.

Œd.
'Tis well: and, all the city's seven gates closed,
Thus solemnly shall every man in Thebes
Before the altars of his country swear.

Cho.
Well have you done, O Master, in so far
As human hand and wit may reach; and lo!
The sacred Seer of Thebes, Teiresias,
To whom, next to the God himself, we look
For Heaven's assistance, at your summons comes,
In his prophetic raiment, staff in hand,
Approaching, gravely guided as his wont,
But with a step, methinks, unwonted slow.
Œdipus, Teiresias, Chorus.
Teiresias, Minister and Seer of God,
Who, blind to all that others see without,
See that within to which all else are blind;
Sequester'd as you are with Deity,
You know, what others only know too well,
The mortal sickness that confounds us all;
But you alone can tell the remedy.
For since the God whose Minister you are
Bids us, if Thebes would be herself again,
Revenge the murder of King Laius
By retribution on the murderer,
Who undetected walks among us now;
Unless by you, Teiresias, to whose lips,
As Phœbus his Interpreter we cling,
To catch the single word that he withholds,
And without which what he reveals is vain—
Therefore to you, Teiresias, you alone,
Do look this people and their Ruler—look,
Imploring you, by that same inward light
Which sees, to name the man who lurks unseen,
And whose live presence is the death of all.

Tei.
Alas! how worse than vain to be well arm'd
When the man's weapon turns upon himself!

Œd.
I know not upon whom that arrow lights.

Tei.
If not on him that summon'd, then on him
Who, summon'd, came. There is one remedy;
Let those who hither led me lead me hence.

Œd.
Before the single word—which you alone
Can speak—be spoken? How is this, Teiresias,
That to your King on such a summons come,
You come so much distemper'd?

Tei.
For the King,
With all his wisdom, knows not what he asks.

Œd.
And therefore asks that he may know from you,
Seeing the God hath folded up his word
From human eyesight.

Tei.
Why should I reveal
What He I serve has chosen to conceal?

Œd.
Is't not your office to interpret that
To man which he for man vouchsafes from Heaven?

Tei.
What Fate hath fix'd to come to pass come will,
Whether reveal'd or not.

Œd.
I know it must;
But Fate may cancel Fate, foretelling that
Which, unpredicted, else would come to pass.

Tei.
Yet none the less I tell you, Œdipus,
That you, though wise, not knowing what you ask,
I, knowing, shall not answer.

Œd.
You will not!
Inexorable to the people's cries—
Plague-pitiless, disloyal to your King—

Tei.
Oh! you forsooth were taunting me but now
With my distemper'd humour—

Œd.
Who would not,
When but a word, which you pretend to know,
Would save a people?

Tei.
One of them at least
It would not.

Œd.
Oh, scarce any man, methinks,
But would himself, though guiltless, sacrifice,
If that would ransom all.

Tei.
Yet one, you see,
Obdurate as myself—

Œd.
You have not heard, perchance, Teiresias,
(Unless from that prophetic voice within,)
How through the city, by my herald's voice,
With excommunication, death, or banishment,
I have denounced, not him alone who did,
But him who, knowing who, will not reveal?

Tei.
I hear it now.

Œd.
And are inflexible
To Fear as Pity?

Tei.
It might be, to Fear
Inflexible by Pity; else, why fear
Invulnerable as I am in Truth,
And by the God I serve inviolate?

Œd.
Is not your King a Minister of Zeus,
As you of Phœbus, and the King of Thebes
Not more to be insulted or defied
Than any Priest or Augur in his realm?

Tei.
Implore, denounce, and threaten as you may,
What unreveal'd I would, I will not say.

Œd.
You will not! Mark then how, default of your
Interpretation, I interpret you:
Either not knowing what you feign to know,
You lock your tongue in baffled ignorance;
Or, knowing that which you will not reveal,
I do suspect—Suspect! why, stand you not
Self-accused, self-convicted, and by me
Denounced as he, that knowing him who did,
Will not reveal—nay, might yourself have done
The deed that you with some accomplice plann'd,
Could those blind eyes have aim'd the murderous hand?

Tei.
You say so! Now then, listen in your turn
To that one word which, as it leaves my lips,
By your own Curse upon the Criminal
Denounced, should be your last in Thebes to hear.
For by the unerring insight of the God
You question, Zeus his delegate though you be
Who lay this Theban people under curse
Of revelation of the murderer
Whose undiscover'd presence eats away
The people's life—I tell you—You are he!

Cho.
Forbear, old man, forbear! And you, my King,
Heed not the passion of provoked old age.

Œd.
And thus, in your blind passion of revenge,
You think to 'scape contempt or punishment
By tossing accusation back on me
Under Apollo's mantle.

Tei.
Ay, and more,
Dared you but listen.

Cho.
Peace, O peace, old man!

Œd.
Nay, let him shoot his poison'd arrows out;
They fall far short of me.

Tei.
Not mine, but those
Which Fate had fill'd my Master's quiver with,
And you have drawn upon yourself.

Œd.
Your Master's?
Your Master's; but assuredly not His
To whom you point, albeit you see him not,
In his meridian dazzling overhead,
Who is the God of Truth as well as Light,
And knows as I within myself must know
If Memory be not false as Augury,
The words you put into his lips a Lie!
Not He, but Self—Self only—in revenge
Of self-convicted ignorance—Self alone,
Or with some self whom Self would profit by—
As were it—Creon, say—smooth, subtle Creon,
Moving by rule and weighing every word
As in the scales of Justice—but of whom
Whispers of late have reach'd me—Creon, ha!
Methinks I scent another Master here!
Who, wearied of but secondary power
Under an alien King, and would belike
Exalt his Prophet for good service done
Higher than ever by my throne he stood—
And, now I think on't, bade me send for you
Under the mask of Phœbus—

Cho.
Oh, forbear—
Forbear, in turn, my lord and master!

Tei.
Nay,
Let him, in turn, his poison'd arrows, not
From Phœbus' quiver, shoot, but to recoil
When his mad Passion having pass'd—

Œd.
O vain
Prerogative of human majesty,
That one poor mortal from his fellows takes,
And, with false pomp and honour dressing up,
Lifts idol-like to what men call a Throne,
For all below to worship and assail!
That even the power which unsolicited
By aught but salutary service done
The men of Thebes committed to my hands,
Some, restless under just authority,
Or jealous of not wielding it themselves,
Ev'n with the altar and the priest collude,
And tamper with, to ruin or to seize!
Prophet and Seer forsooth and Soothsayer!
Why, when the singing Witch contrived the noose
Which strangled all who tried and none could loose,
Where was the Prophet of Apollo then?
'Twas not for one who poring purblind down
Over the reeking entrail of the beast,
Nor gaping to the wandering bird in air,
Nor in the empty silence of his soul
Feigning a voice of God inaudible,
Not he, nor any of his tribe—but I—
I, Œdipus, a stranger in the land,
And uninspired by all but mother-wit,
Silenced and slew the monster against whom
Divine and human cunning strove in vain.
And now again when tried, and foil'd again,
This Prophet—whether to revenge the past,
And to prevent discomfiture to come,
Or by some traitor aiming at my throne
Suborn'd to stand a greater at his side
Than peradventure e'er he stood at mine,
Would drag me to destruction! But beware!
Beware lest, blind and agèd as you are,
Wrapt in supposititious sanctity,
You, and whoever he that leagues with you,
Meet a worse doom than you for me prepare.

Tei.
Quick to your vengeance, then; for this same day
That under Phœbus' fiery rein flies fast
Over the field of heaven, shall be the last
That you shall play the tyrant in.

Œd.
O Thebes,
You never called me Tyrant, from the day
Since first I saved you!

Tei.
And shall save again;
As then by coming, by departing now.
Enough: before the day that judges both
Decide between us, let them lead me home.

Œd.
Ay, lead him hence—home—Hades—anywhere!
Blind in his inward as his outward eye.

Tei.
Poor man! that in your inward vision blind,
Know not, as I, that ere this day go down,
By your own hand yourself shall be consign'd
To deeper night than now you taunt me with;
When, not the King and Prophet that you were,
But a detested outcast of the land,
With other eyes and hands you feel your way
To wander through the world, begging the bread
Of execration from the stranger's hand
Denied you here, and thrust from door to door,
As though yourself the Plague you brought from Thebes;
A wretch, self-branded with the double curse
Of such unheard, unnatural infamy,
As shall confound a son in the embrace
Of her who bore him to the sire he slew!

Chorus

Iocasta, Chorus, then Œdipus.
Ioc.
A noise has reach'd me through the palace-wall
Of words between Teiresias and the King,
In which my brother's name was all misused.
You who were here, and heard, can tell me all.

Cho.
Words there have been indeed on either side,
By provocation into passion blown,
Which after-thought as likely will disown.

Ioc.
But to what purport?

Cho.
I would not repeat
What those who utter'd now may wish unsaid,
Much more, unheard. But look! the King himself
To answer for himself.

Ioc.
As one who dreams.
In Heaven's name, husband, tell me what has fired
This wrath between you and Teiresias,
So fierce that e'en my brother Creon's name
Was scorcht withal, and in its ashes now
Still smoulders in your face?

Œd.
That has been said
On either side that should not; but on his,
Relying on protection from his God,
Treason so foul against his King—

Ioc.
But what?

Œd.
Why need tell now, if, as the Prophet says,
This very day shall not go down without
To Thebes, as you, revealing?—What if I—
If I, that have with banishment or death
Denounced the assassin of King Laius—
Myself am he?

Ioc.
You! Œdipus?

Œd.
So says
Apollo's prophet.

Ioc.
You!—Teiresias!—You!
On what presumption, Human or Divine?

Œd.
On His whose chariot shall not cross the sky,
But dragging me to Night along with it.

Ioc.
Which cannot be—we know, which cannot be
Of the God's self—you of yourself more sure
Than any mortal Prophet sure of Him.

Œd.
So might I think. But if not from the God,
From whom then, Iocasta?

Ioc.
Only not
From Creon—Whosoever else, not he!—
My brother, and your brother, being mine!

Œd.
Yet brother against brother, son 'gainst sire,
Such things have been between them, and shall be,
For things of less ambition than a throne.

Ioc.
Oh, strangle such suspicion in its birth
Of one more innocent than babe unborn!
Why, had he minded empire, could he not
Have seized it for his own before you came,
And Thebes was looking for a sovereign?
Or, after-minded to unseat you King,
Would have contrived and hatch'd his priestly plot
Ere you so firmly seated on the throne,
And life with him at least so much for-spent
As makes ev'n just possession—and much more,
Unjust—of little moment unto all!

Œd.
So be it. From the God of Light and Truth
Less likely than from him of Sleep and Dream,
Whose-ever be the Prophet.

Ioc.
Had you not
Provoked the Prophet first?

Œd.
As who would not,
Who either knowing would withhold the word
On which a people's whole salvation hung,
Then, taunted into malice by just wrath,
Or to collusion with some traitor leagued,
Belied his God, and me.

Ioc.
The man is old,
And testy, and perhaps incensed by you,
Mere human passion with the lees
Of Divination mixing—

Œd.
Be it so;
And so, methinks, I might have let it pass,
But for a parting threat, which though in wrath
And malice, like the rest it may have been,
Woke up the echo of another Word
Told me by Delphi's self, so long ago
As with its unfulfilment to have died
Almost from memory.

Ioc.
What Oracle
Which, if the Prophet fail'd, has fail'd as well?

Œd.
You know I am the son of Polybus,
Of Corinth King, and Merope his Queen,
And till a chance, of which you may not know,
Slight as it seem'd, but fraught with grave result,
Methought the first in Corinth after them.
One day at table, when the cup went round,
One of the company whom I, belike
Flushed with the wine and youthful insolence,
Had twitted with his meaner parentage,
Bade me beware; for, proudly as I sate
Above them all beside the royal twain
A superstition linger'd, that because
Of some ill-omen'd accident of birth
Their son should never to their throne succeed.
The word awhile sank in the flowing wine,
But when the wine went off the word was there,
And all night long kept stirring in my brain.
So that, with morning when I woke again,
Unable to endure it unsuppress'd,
I challenged King and Queen to answer me
The challenge thrown out by the nameless guest.
Indignantly they heard; denounced the man
Whoever it might be, for false or fool,
And with endearing re-assurances
Recomforted me awhile. Nevertheless,
Spite re-assurance and redoubled love,
That random word still rankled in my heart,
And I resolved on quenching all misdoubt
From the head fountain of all truth at Delphi.
Thither, without a word of whither gone,
I went, and put my question. But the God
Vouchsafed no revelation of the past,
But prophesied far worse for me to come;
That I should slay my father: then with her
Who bore me wed, and bring into the world
A race the world would loathe to look upon.
Whereat affrighted—as what man were not?—
From Corinth and from those I was to wrong
I fled—I scarce knew whither, so from them—
Fled hither; and in spite of prophecies,
All that I lost regain'd, except the bliss
Of prospering in a loving mother's eyes.

Ioc.
And see! the father whom you were to slay,
With that Queen-mother whom you were to wed,
Lives to a ripe old age in Corinth, far
Beyond his reach who should have wrong'd them both,
Himself fast wedded and enthroned in Thebes!

Œd.
And yet this blunted shaft of long ago,
And rusted with oblivion, had the Seer
Snatch'd from his Master's armoury To-day,
For malediction's last and master blow!

Ioc.
Which from his Master's hand had fail'd before!
And would you listen to a woman's voice
I could requite your story, Œdipus,
With one so like as almost to be one,
Save that in mine the Sire it was who foil'd
Predestination, as in yours the Son.

Œd.
In this dumb pause between despair and hope,
Whose voice to me more welcome than your own?

Ioc.
When first I wedded with King Laius,
Whose murder now perplexes Thebes and you,
A Prophecy from Delphi reached his ears—
But whether from the God, or from his Priest,
I know not—but there went the Prophecy;
That he should die slain by the hand of him
Who should be born between himself and me.
Whereat, like you, affrighted, when the child
But three days born had seen the light of day,
He had him, spite of all a mother's cries,
Not slain, but left in some such desert place
As where with cold and hunger, he must die.
So, at the sacrifice of that poor life
Saving his own, he lived himself in peace,
Till slain, not as the Oracle foretold
Slain by the son himself had slain before,
But by that undetected alien hand
Which the fond Prophet pointed at in you.
Of such account are such vaticinations,
Whether from Phœbus, or his Minister;
Of which take you no heed. For, surely, what
Fate has determined, Fate shall bring to pass,
Whether by prophecy foretold or not.

Œd.
So seems it.

Ioc.
Nay, beyond denial is.
And yet you seem to hesitate as one
Who in broad daylight cannot see his way.

Œd.
Was it not said that Laius your King
Upon some sacred errand by the road
Was set upon and murder'd?

Ioc.
Even so;
To that same Delphi where yourself had been,
As much to be misled.

Œd.
And whereabout?

Ioc.
Somewhere in Phocis which his road went through;
As went the story.

Œd.
And how long ago?

Ioc.
Nay, just before you came to Thebes yourself
To save us from the Sphinx, and occupy
The throne left empty by my husband's death.
What makes you muse?

Œd.
And this King Laius
About what age, and what to look upon?

Ioc.
Lofty and large of stature, and of port
And aspect that becomes a King; his hair
Just whitening with the earliest frost of age—

Œd.
And how accompanied?

Ioc.
With such a train
Accompanied as may become a King
Upon a peaceful errand of his own,
And through a friendly people travelling.

Œd.
And, as the story went, but one of those
Who, witnessing, escaped to tell the tale.

Ioc.
Ev'n so it was.

Œd.
And him they let depart
With half his tale untold?

Ioc.
Nay, all he could,
Half dead with terror. Meanwhile Œdipus,
What is't that, when I thought to clear your brow
With dissipation of prophetic fear,
Darkens it more and more?

Œd.
Is it not strange—
Strange—that your second husband, like your first,
With such a cross-related Prophecy
Threaten'd, like him should have defeated it?

Ioc.
Strange as it is, but most assuredly.

Œd.
O Iocasta, what if secret Fate
Avenged the God, who sometimes speaks for her,
Two thwarted utterances by one blow
On Laius and myself unprophesied?

Ioc.
I know not what this aims at.

Œd.
You shall hear.
When, as I told you, in my youth at Corinth,
I had resolved to cross that Prophecy
Which from the God's own lips myself had heard,
By flying those I was foredoom'd to wrong—
Nay, from the very country of my birth,
Leaving them all behind me for the stars
Alone to tell me of their whereabout,
I fled: and flying as at random on,
I came—now mark me, Iocasta, came—
Whether in Phocis, or elsewhere, I know not—
Where two main roads which lead two nations on
To Delphi, shrink into a narrow gorge;
When, coming up the narrow road, Behold!
A Herald first, and then a chariot,
In which, erect beside his charioteer,
There rode the stately semblance of a King,
And so came on, not swerving left or right,
As if the road were but for them, and I
A cur, to slink aside and let them by.
Whereat, no cur, but a King's son, enraged,
With the stout staff I carried in my hand
I smote the charioteer; on which the King
Struck me with his—for which he paid too dear
With such a fatal counter-blow from mine
As roll'd him headlong dead into the dust:
And, after him, his Herald, and all his
Who came against me one by one I slew.
Now if the royal man—for such he was—
Were—as by such consent of circumstance
I scarce dare think were not—

Ioc.
Oh, many a King
Of a like presence, and like retinue,
Has been that road to learn the word of Fate
Which he, like you, had vainly learn'd before.

Œd.
But one escaped, they say; and if he live—
And if maintain the tale that first he told,
That Laius, not by one, but many men,
Was in his chariot set upon and slain,
Then was it surely not King Laius
Whom single-handed, and alone, I slew.
But if he falter from that first report—

Ioc.
How should he?

Œd.
Whether out of present fear,
Or after, to excuse a coward flight,
One man to numbers multiply he might—

Ioc.
He cannot—whether by device or fear,
He cannot falter from his first report—
Unless the sudden presence of his King,
And the disquiet of your looks affright him
Into the confirmation of false fear.
But meanwhile, Œdipus, come in with me,
And let not troubled Thebes new troubles see
Writ in your brows, augmenting present ill,
And Prophecy that Fate shall not fulfil.

Chorus.

Iocasta, Chorus.
Ioc.
Ancients of Thebes, in this extremity
When ev'n the very steersman of the realm,
To whom we look for our deliverance,
Veering himself with every wind that blows
Of rumour, helplessly resigns the helm,
I come, albeit with these poor woman's hands,
To offer wreath and incense on the shrines
And altars of our tutelary Gods:
And first to thee, Apollo, first to thee,
Whose altar nearest to the palace stands,
And on whose word depends the life of Thebes,
Lest any unconsider'd word against
Thy Minister, revolt thy face from us;
Imploring thee with all the Gods in Heav'n
To help where all of human help is vain.

Chorus
Barb'd with Death, there are among
The gold-enquiver'd arrows hung
About Apollo's shoulder; whence,
As over heav'n his chariot burns
The land he loves to harvest turns,
And cities swell with opulence;
Ev'n so, where yet unexpiated sin
Cries out, or undetected lurks within,
The God his lustre turns to pestilence;
And contrite man must worship and abide,
Till, Nemesis and Justice satisfied,
When men least dream it, one relenting ray—
Oh grant, Apollo, grant it as we pray!—
Strikes through sheer midnight, and lets in the day.

Herald, Iocasta, Chorus.
Her.
Tell me who will among you, men of Thebes,
Which is the palace of King Œdipus,
And, further, if the King himself within.

Cho.
This is the palace; and the King himself
Within; and she that by that altar stands
Offering her garland to the God, his Queen.

Her.
Oh, to the prayer she offers at the shrine
She lays the wreath on, be the God benign!

Ioc.
A Herald! whence, and on what embassy?

Her.
From Corinth, as the message that I bring.

Ioc.
Good may the tidings be where all goes ill.

Her.
If, as things human, not unmix'd with pain,
To you and yours auspicious in the main.

Ioc.
So far so well; but tell me—

Her.
This in sum—
The citizens of Corinth, by my voice,
Proclaim King Œdipus of Thebes their King

Ioc.
Œdipus King of Corinth?

Her.
Even so.

Ioc.
But does not Polybus in Corinth reign?

Her.
No; the long years that kept him on the Throne,
At length have laid him in his father's tomb.

Ioc.
The King of Corinth dead! Polybus dead!
Summon the King! You Oracles of Heaven,
Of what account shall men hereafter hold
Your Ministers—or you? This was the Sire
Whom Œdipus, for fear of slaying, fled,
Now by the common course of Nature dead!

Œdipus, Iocasta, Herald, Chorus.
Œd.
What tidings? Is the man I sent for here?

Ioc.
Not he, but one whose coming shall go far
To make his coming needless. Herald, speak.

Her.
I come from Corinth, by the people there
Charged with a mission to King Œdipus,
Whom, in the room of Polybus now dead,
They call upon to fill the sovereign chair.

Œd.
My father dead?

Ioc.
And by no hand of yours!

Her.
No, nor by any hand but Nature's own,
That lightly rocks, you know, old age to sleep.

Œd.
And this is he whom by the Oracle
From Phœbus his own lips, myself I heard
Foredoom'd to slay—
Yet with whose death I have no more to do
Than leaving him to languish for the son
Whose hand was to have slain him had he stay'd!

Ioc.
Did not I say?

Œd.
But who would not be scared
By such prediction from the God himself—
Of which yet half hangs dark above my head!

Ioc.
This word from Corinth is a Signal-fire
Assuring us that Oracle, half slain,
Must all lie buried in your father's tomb.

Œd.
The agèd King is dead, you tell me, Herald—
But Merope, his Queen?

Her.
Lives, and may live
As one that hath not reached her winter yet;
And longer yet to live if you return,
Whose sudden flight from Corinth neither she
Nor Corinth cease to wonder at, and mourn.

Œd.
Yet, Herald, she herself it was whose love,
That would have held me there, thence banish'd me.

Her.
If one, a simple subject as I am,
Might ask of him he now salutes for King—

Œd.
A Prophecy of Phœbus, from the lips
Of Phœbus' self, and utter'd in these ears,
Involving me in worse calamity
With Merope, my mother, who survives,
Than by my father's death I have escaped.

Her.
I understand not wholly, but thus much,
That 'twas the fear of some mysterious wrong
Against them both which drove you from their side
And from your country.

Œd.
That, and that alone.

Her.
I know not if for better or for worse,
But certainly for strangest, Œdipus,
If now for the first time, and from my lips,
You learn that you are not indeed the son
Of those you fled from in what two-fold fear.

Œd.
You seem a loyal as well-season'd man,
As near in age to him you lately served
As trusted, and I think to me and mine
Well-minded now.

Her.
If not, I had not told
What told I have.

Œd.
And would reiterate?

Her.
By the most solemn oath by which mankind
Adjure the Gods to witness human word.

Œd.
That I am not in very deed the son
Of Polybus, and Merope his Queen?

Her.
No more their son than—might I so dare say—
Than son of mine—and that is, not at all.

Œd.
But was this known in Corinth?

Her.
To none else
Save to the King and Queen themselves, and me.

Œd.
Yet 'twas in Corinth when the cup went round
At table, that a guest once startled me
With a light taunt of somewhat like to that
Which now you gravely tell.

Her.
The random shot
Of idleness, or malice freed by wine,
That sometimes nears the mark.

Œd.
But how was it
That only you beside the King and Queen
Knew for a truth?

Her.
Would Œdipus know all?

Œd.
Yea—on the allegiance you profess to him,
Whom now you have saluted as your King.

Her.
Thus then I know it: for that I alone
Laid you a new-born babe into their hands
Who, childless as they were, and like to be,
Ev'n took what fortune sent them for their own.

Cho.
This man bears stranger tidings from himself
Than from his country he was charged withal.

Œd.
You—and you solely—brought me to their hands—
From whose received me then?

Ioc.
O Œdipus,
When all, beyond all hope, has ended well,
Why tempt the God, still jealous of success,
By questioning the means?

Œd.
I bid you speak!

Her.
You charge me for an answer, Œdipus,
Which, were you not my King who bids me speak,
Yet might resent when spoken—

Œd.
But one word
Of ev'n unwelcome truth from human lip
Were welcome in the night of mystery
That Fate has gather'd round me.

Her.
Listen, then.
Long ere in favour of these whitening locks,
And recompence of faithful service done,
King Polybus had made me what I am,
I was his shepherd; and, upon a time
Keeping my flock upon Kithæron's side,
One of like calling with myself, though not
Of the same country, who that summer through
Had fed his sheep beside me, came one day,
And listening first, and looking all about,
With those rough hands of his he laid in mine
As tenderly as any mother might,
A naked infant—say, some three days born—
And fasten'd foot to foot, like some poor lamb,
Which some one of the land from which he came,
Warm from the bosom of its mother took
To perish on the barren mountain's side,
Of cold and hunger. Which the kindly man
Not finding in himself the heart to do,
But yet as fearful if he left undone,
Gave you—for you, King Œdipus, it was—
The very name you bear, remembering
The pitiful condition of the babe—
Gave you to me, to carry far away
And pitifully cherish for my own
Beyond all search of those who wish'd you dead.
So to his country he, and I to mine:
Which when I reach'd, and to my King and Queen
Show'd them the prettiest lamb of all my flock,
They, whether by some instinct of their own
Inspired, or somewhat royal in the Child
Prophetic of the Man that was to be,
Took, nursed, and rear'd to manhood for their own,
And set beside themselves upon the throne.

Cho.
The Gods upon the mountain-top, men tell,
Do sometimes light, and through the tangled dell,
And forest-shade—

Œd.
A shepherd like yourself,
But not of Corinth. Whence then?

Her.
Thebes, he said,
To which your destiny recall'd you.

Œd.
Thebes!

Ioc.
O Œdipus, by all the Gods in heav'n,
And all that upon earth you hold most dear,
Heed not these stories of the past, patch'd up
By the fallacious memory of old age!

Œd.
He were by nature baser than base-born
Who would not find and follow to its source
The current of the blood by which he lives.
This Shepherd—and from whom took he the child—
Charged with that ruthless errand?

Her.
Either I
With mine own duty busied did not ask,
Or he not answer.

Œd.
But to answer lives?

Her.
Those of his country best can answer that.

Œd.
Does any man of all the people here
Remember such a man?

Cho.
May be the same
Already sent for, who, as I remember,
Like this good Herald, shepherded the flocks
Of Laius, then our Master. But the Queen—

Ioc.
No more! No more! For your sake, Œdipus,
If not for mine—no more!

Œd.
Whatever shame
My birth betray, your blood it cannot taint;
Not were I proved the issue of a sire
Three generations deep in slavery.

Ioc.
Forbear! once more, for one last time, forbear!

Œd.
If aught you know—and your wild looks and words
But argue somewhat than conjecture worse—
At once reveal it all: for ask I will
Till all be answered.

Ioc.
Wretched man! the last
These lips shall ever utter you have heard!

Cho.
She is gone as one distracted. O my Lord,
What should this sudden passion of the Queen
Forbode of ill!

Œd.
Forbode what ill it may,
But I will solve the riddle of my birth.
The Queen belike, of royal birth herself
And haughty-minded as such women are,
Resents her husband's baser parentage;
But I, regardless of the accident
That oft from royal blood provokes a slave,
I do account myself the royal heir
Of Destiny, who found me where I lay,
By man's blind foresight which defeats itself
Cradled to perish on Kithæron's side,
And taking from a simple shepherd's hand,
So laid me in the lap of Royalty,
And through the days and years of human growth
Rear'd to the kingly stature that I am.
And when, affrighted by vain prophecies,
From Corinth, and the throne prepared me there,
I fled, inalienable Destiny
Pursuing drove me but from throne to throne,
Till, doubling back my course to reach my height,
Now Thebes and Corinth claim me for their own.

Chorus.

Œdipus, Shepherd, Herald, Chorus.
Œd.
Whether or not the man we have so long
Been looking after, one at least whose age
Evens with his whose story we have heard.

Cho.
Whether the same of whom the stranger tells
I know not, but the man himself I know
For an old shepherd of King Laius.

Her.
And I for him with whom I shepherded
Upon Kithæron's side so long ago.

Œd.
Approach, old man—still nearer—unafraid;
For nothing but my favour need you fear,
If, looking straight at me, as I at you,
Straightforwardly you answer what I ask.
You, in the days gone by, and long ere Time
Had strewn his silver honour on your head—
You were a servant of King Laius?

Shep.
His servant—not his slave—no less than he,
Myself a freeman of the soil of Thebes.

Œd.
As such I understand; and in that wise,
As a free servant of King Laius,
You kept his flocks?

Shep.
Upon a time I might.

Œd.
And folding them at home in winter-time,
Led them in Summer forth?

Shep.
So shepherds use,
Where'er the more and sweeter pasture grew.

Œd.
And ever on Kithæron's grassy sides
In summer-time, remember you this man,
Old as yourself, keeping his flock with yours?

Shep.
Time that has silver'd, as you say, my locks,
Has somewhat dimm'd both eyes and memory.

Œd.
None older than your fellow-shepherd here,
Who with his locks as silver-touch'd as yours,
Sees, and recalls in you the man of yore.

Shep.
May be; but all men are not all alike,
And he may err as well remembering me,
As I forgetting him.

Her.
Listen to me,
And let my voice, and what it has to tell,
Recall to you the man your eyes do not.
Can you not call to mind, though long ago,
Keeping your flock with one whose flock, like yours,
Grazed on Kithæron, one long summer through—

Shep.
With more than one, may be.

Her.
Nay, but with one
To whom, just as that same long summer closed,
And cold Arcturus warn'd the shepherd home,
You brought a naked infant—

Shep.
Brought? who brought?

Her.
Tied by the feet—

Shep.
What should one know of that?

Her.
Being myself the man you gave it to.

Shep.
Methinks this man, whoever he may be,
And howsoever gifted with good eyes,
Is something weaker in his wits than I,
Recounting all such idle rhapsody.

Œd.
And you, sharp-witted as you are, methinks
Seem looking round about you for escape
In hesitation—but escape shall not.
Look you! Beware!

Shep.
What have I said amiss?

Œd.
Not said, but will not say.

Shep.
What would you have?

Œd.
The babe your fellow-shepherd asks about—
That naked, new-born, ankle-fetter'd babe,
Did not you bring and put into his hands?

Shep.
And would to Heaven had died before I did!

Œd.
And death you shall not have to pray for long,
If, knowing what prevarication proves
You know, you not reveal.

Shep.
And if reveal!
Have you not heard enough?

Œd.
No, if not all.
The babe you put into this shepherd's hands
Was not your own?

Shep.
Oh, not mine own!

Œd.
Then whose?

Shep.
O Œdipus, my master, and my lord!
In mercy question me no more!

Œd.
No more
In mercy if you answer not at once.

Shep.
O me! The terror of your countenance
Scatters what little memory age has left!
What if I found the little helpless thing
There laid alone and none to tell me whose?
Or he from whom I took it knew no more
Than he to whom I gave it?

Œd.
Bind his hands:
The lash must loose the tongue.

Shep.
O Œdipus,
Shame not white hairs!

Œd.
Nay, shame them not yourself
By false prevarication with your King.
That helpless babe—me—Œdipus—your King—
Who gave into your hands?

Shep.
Alas! alas!
One of the household of the King that was!—

Œd.
Slave? Servant? Who?

Shep.
Alas! one now within
Can answer all!

Œd.
Answer yourself then, who?

Shep.
Woe's me! I drift into destruction's mouth!

Œd.
And I with you. But who?

Shep.
Alas! The Queen!

Œd.
The Queen!

Shep.
Ev'n Iocasta's sacred self!

Œd.
But not her own?

Shep.
I said not that—

Œd.
Her own?

Shep.
Yourself have said.

Cho.
The man is turn'd to stone!

[After a silence.]
Œd.
The God of Delphi has revenged himself!
His oracle defied of long ago,
And his insulted prophet's of to-day,
Break in one judgment o'er my head, who now,
Myself sole witness and interpreter,
Divine that half reveal'd is all fulfill'd,
And on myself myself pronounce my doom.

Cho.
O Œdipus, my lord—

Œd.
Speak to me not,
Approach me not, unless at once to slay,
Or thrust with execration from the walls,
The wretch convicted of the double crime
Of parricide, and—Ha! the prophet said
That, ere the Day which all beholds go down,
I shall have look'd my last upon the Sun
Which all accomplishes—and, ere we pass
To darkness, somewhat yet is to be done.

Chorus.

Messenger, Chorus.
Mess.
O venerable Senators of Thebes,
O liege-men of the house of Labdacus,
What shall you hear—what not behold—of such
Pollution in the Palace of your Kings,
Which all the waters in one volume drown'd
Of Nile and Ister could not wash away!

Cho.
What we already have beheld and heard
Were but prophetic of yet worse to come;
Tell us the worst.

Mess.
If breath I have to tell,
If not the worst, the worse that first befell.
The light of Iocasta's life is quench'd!

Cho.
Alas, not strange as terrible! But how?

Mess.
By her own hand; as by my eyes indeed
I cannot, but from others can, avouch,
With such bewilder'd senses as I may—
When, as you witness'd for yourselves, from hence
She fled, and flew distractedly within,
Shrieking, and tearing her grey locks, she ran
Along the echoing walls until she reach'd
The nuptial chamber, shot the bolt within,
And by the affrighted women lock'd without
Was heard calling on ‘Laius, Laius!
Her husband Laius, father of the Son
Who slew, and worse dishonour'd him when dead!’
This, and much more, and much more terrible,
They heard: and then a silence as of death,
Through all the house; till with the sudden yell
As of some wild beast closing on his prey,
King Œdipus along the corridor
With imprecations half articulate,
Fearful to hear—too fearful to relate—
With thrice the force of the mad Herakles
He flung himself against the chamber-door,
And bursting in, to all who dared to look
Disclosed the wretched woman hanging dead.
Whom when he saw, roaring, he sprang upon,
And tearing from the beam flung down aheap,
And spurn'd; and then, most horrible of all,
Wide open tore the raiment from her breast,
From which himself recoiling with a shriek,
He struck the golden clasp into his eyes,
Which having seen such things, henceforth, he said,
Should in the light of Day behold no more
Those whom he loved, nor, in the after-dark
Of Hades, those he loathed, to look upon.
Then rising, blind, and bleeding as he was,
He groped and stagger'd back the way he came,
Vociferating as he went along
That none who would not share the curse with him
Should touch unless to slay him—till he reach'd
The palace-door, and would, methinks, have that,
As of the nuptial chamber, open burst,
Had not King Creon bid them lead him in
Where none henceforth should hear, and none behold,
Till Thebes his fate determine.—All is told.

Chorus.
Oh men of Thebes, this famous man behold,
Who coming here a stranger to the gate,
The Sphinx's fatal riddle did unfold,
And chosen King, as Saviour of the State
So greatly ruled, and rose to such Renown
As not a King but envied: now by Fate
To such a Depth precipitated down
As not a Wretch but may commiserate.
Beholding which, and counsell'd by the wise,
That Nemesis regards with jealous eyes
Man's over-much, and at his elbow stands
To shake the full cup in the steadiest hands,
Deem not the wisest of To-morrow sure,
Nor fortunate account him till he dies.