Chapter 10

OED. Another gave me, then? You did not find me?

COR. SH. Another herdsman passed thee on to me.

OED. Can you describe him? Tell us what you know.

COR. SH. Methinks they called him one of Laius' people.

OED. Of Laius once the sovereign of this land?

COR. SH. E'en so. He was a shepherd of his flock.

OED. And is he still alive for me to see?

COR. SH. You Thebans are most likely to know that.

OED. Speak, any one of you in presence here, Can you make known the swain he tells us of, In town or country having met with him? The hour for this discovery is full come.

CH. Methinks it is no other than the peasant Whom thou didst seek before to see: but this Could best be told by queen Jocasta there.

OED. We lately sought that one should come, my queen. Know'st thou, is this of whom he speaks the same?

JO. What matter who? Regard not, nor desire Even vainly to remember aught he saith.

OED. When I have found such tokens of my birth, I must disclose it.

JO. As you love your life, By heaven I beg you, search no further here! The sickness in my bosom is enough.

OED. Nay, never fear! Were I proved thrice a slave And waif of bondwomen, you still are noble.

JO. Yet hearken, I implore you: do not so.

OED. I cannot hear you. I must know this through.

JO. With clear perception I advise the best.

OED. Thy 'best' is still my torment.

JO. Wretched one, Never may'st thou discover who thou art!

OED. Will some one go and bring the herdman hither? Leave her to revel in her lordly line!

JO. O horrible! O lost one! This alone I speak to thee, and no word more for ever. [_Exit_

CH. Oedipus, wherefore is Jocasta gone, Driven madly by wild grief? I needs must fear Lest from this silence she make sorrow spring.

OED. Leave her to raise what storm she will. But I Will persevere to know mine origin, Though from an humble seed. Her woman's pride Is shamed, it may be, by my lowliness. But I, whilst I account myself the son Of prospering Fortune, ne'er will be disgraced. For she is my true mother: and the months, Coheirs with me of the same father, Time, Have marked my lowness and mine exaltation. So born, so nurtured, I can fear no change, That I need shrink to probe this to the root. [OEDIPUS _remains, and gazes towards the country, while the_ CHORUS _sing_

CHORUS. If I wield a prophet's might, 1 Or have sense to search aright, Cithaeron, when all night the moon rides high, Loud thy praise shall be confessed, How upon thy rugged breast, Thou, mighty mother, nursed'st tenderly Great Oedipus, and gav'st his being room Within thy spacious home. Yea, we will dance and sing Thy glory for thy kindness to our king. Phoebus, unto thee we cry, Be this pleasing in thine eye!

Who, dear sovereign, gave thee birth, 2 Of the long lived nymphs of earth? Say, was she clasped by mountain roving Pan? Or beguiled she one sweet hour With Apollo in her bower, Who loves to trace the field untrod by man? Or was the ruler of Cyllene's height The author of thy light? Or did the Bacchic god, Who makes the top of Helicon to nod, Take thee for a foundling care From his playmates that are there?

_The_ THEBAN SHEPHERD _is seen approaching, guarded._

OED. If haply I, who never saw his face, Thebans, may guess, methinks I see the hind Whose coming we have longed for. Both his age, Agreeing with this other's wintry locks, Accords with my conjecture, and the garb Of his conductors is well known to me As that of mine own people. But methinks [_to_ LEADER of CHORUS] Thou hast more perfect knowledge in this case, Having beheld the herdman in the past.

CH. I know him well, believe me. Laius Had no more faithful shepherd than this man.

OED. Corinthian friend, I first appeal to you: Was't he you spake of?

COR. SH. 'Twas the man you see.

OED. Turn thine eyes hither, aged friend, and tell What I shall ask thee. Wast thou Laius' slave?

THEB. SH. I was, not bought, but bred within the house.

OED. What charge or occupation was thy care?

THEB. SH. Most of my time was spent in shepherding.

OED. And where didst thou inhabit with thy flock?

THEB. SH. 'Twas now Cithaeron, now the neighbouring tract.

OED. And hadst thou there acquaintance of this man?

THEB. SH. Following what service? What is he you mean?

OED. The man you see. Hast thou had dealings with him?

THEB. SH. I cannot bring him all at once to mind.

COR. SH. No marvel, good my lord. But I will soon Wake to clear knowledge his oblivious sense. For sure I am he can recall the time, When he with his two flocks, and I with one Beside him, grazed Cithaeron's pasture wide Good six months' space of three successive years, From spring to rising of Arcturus; then For the bleak winter season, I drove mine To their own folds, he his to Laius' stalls. Do I talk idly, or is this the truth?

THEB. SH. The time is far remote. But all is true.

COR. SH. Well, dost remember having given me then A child, that I might nurture him for mine?

THEB. SH. What means thy question? Let me know thy drift.

COR. SH. Friend, yonder stands the infant whom we knew.

THEB. SH. Confusion seize thee, and thy evil tongue!

OED. Check not his speech, I pray thee, for thy words Call more than his for chastisement, old sir.

THEB. SH. O my dread lord, therein do I offend?

OED. Thou wilt not answer him about the child?

THEB. SH. He knows not what he speaks. His end is vain.

OED. So! Thou'lt not tell to please us, but the lash Will make thee tell.

THEB. SH. By all that's merciful, Scourge not this aged frame!

OED. Pinion him straight!

THEB. SH. Unhappy! wherefore? what is't you would know?

OED. Gave you this man the child of whom he asks you?

THEB. SH. I gave it him. Would I had died that hour!

OED. Speak rightly, or your wish will soon come true.

THEB. SH. My ruin comes the sooner, if I speak.

OED. This man will balk us with his baffling prate.

THEB. SH. Not so. I said long since, 'I gave the child.'

OED. Whence? Was't your own, or from another's hand?

THEB. SH. 'Twas not mine own; another gave it me.

OED. What Theban gave it, from what home in Thebes?

THEB. SH. O, I implore thee, master, ask no more!

OED. You perish, if I have to ask again.

THEB. SH. The child was of the stock of Laius.

OED. Slave-born, or rightly of the royal line?

THEB. SH. Ah me! Now comes the horror to my tongue!

OED. And to mine ear. But thou shalt tell it me!

THEB. SH. He was given out for Laius' son: but she, Thy queen, within the palace, best can tell.

OED. How? Did she give it thee?

THEB. SH. My lord, she did.

OED. With what commission?

THEB. SH. I was to destroy him.

OED. And could a mother's heart be steeled to this?

THEB. SH. With fear of evil prophecies.

OED. What were they?

THEB. SH. 'Twas said the child should be his father's death.

OED. What then possessed thee to give up the child To this old man?

THEB. SH. Pity, my sovereign lord! Supposing he would take him far away Unto the land whence he was come. But he Preserved him to great sorrow. For if thou Art he this man hath said, be well assured Thou bear'st a heavy doom.

OED. O horrible! Horrible! All fulfilled, as sunlight clear! Oh may I nevermore behold the day, Since proved accursed in my parentage, In those I live with, and in him I slew! [_Exeunt_

CHORUS. O mortal tribes of men, I 1 How near to nothingness I count you while your lives remain! What man that lives hath more of happiness Than to seem blest, and, seeming, fade in night? O Oedipus, in this thine hour of gloom, Musing on thee and thy relentless doom, I call none happy who beholds the light.

Thou through surpassing skill I 2 Didst rise to wealth and power, When thou the monstrous riddling maid didst kill, And stoodst forth to my country as a tower To guard from myriad deaths this glorious town; Whence thou wert called my king, of faultless fame, In all the world a far-resounded name, Unparagoned in honour and renown.

But now to hear of thee, who more distressed? II 1 Who more acquainted with fierce misery, Assaulted by disasters manifest, Than thou in this thy day of agony? Most noble, most renowned!--Yet one same room Heard thy first cry, and in thy prime of power, Received thee, harbouring both bride and groom, And bore it silently till this dread hour. How could that furrowing of thy father's field Year after year continue unrevealed?

Time hath detected thine unwitting deed, II 2 Time, who discovers all with eyes of fire, Accusing thee of living without heed In hideous wedlock husband, son, and sire. Ah would that we, thou child of Laius born, Ah would that we had never seen thee nigh! E'er since we knew thee who thou art, we mourn Exceedingly with cries that rend the sky. For, to tell truth, thou didst restore our life And gavest our soul sweet respite after strife.

_Enter_ Messenger.

MESS. O ye who in this land have ever held Chief honour, what an object of dire woe Awaits your eyes, your ears! What piercing grief Your hearts must suffer, if as kinsmen should Ye still regard the house of Laius! Not Phasis, nor the Danube's rolling flood, Can ever wash away the stain and purge This mansion of the horror that it hides. --And more it soon shall give to light, not now Unconsciously enacted. Of all ill, Self-chosen sorrows are the worst to bear.

CH. What hast thou new to add? the weight of grief From that we know burdens the heart enough.

MESS. Soon spoken and soon heard is the chief sum. Jocasta's royal head is sunk in death.

CH. The hapless queen! What was the fatal cause?

MESS. Her own determination. You are spared The worst affliction, not being there to see. Yet to the height of my poor memory's power The wretched lady's passion you shall hear. When she had passed in her hot mood within The vestibule, straight to the bridal room She rushes, tearing with both hands her hair. Then having entered, shutting fast the door, She called aloud on Laius, long dead, With anguished memory of that birth of old Whereby the father fell, leaving his queen To breed a dreadful brood for his own son. And loudly o'er the bed she wailed, where she, In twofold wedlock, hapless, had brought forth Husband from husband, children from a child. We could not know the moment of her death, Which followed soon, for Oedipus with cries Broke in, and would not let us see her end, But held our eyes as he careered the hall, Demanding arms, and where to find his wife,-- No, not his wife, but fatal mother-croft, Cropped doubly with himself and his own seed. And in his rage some god directed him To find her:--'twas no man of us at hand. Then with a fearful shout, as following His leader, he assailed the folding-doors; And battering inward from the mortised bolts The bending boards, he burst into the room: Where high suspended we beheld the queen, In twisted cordage resolutely swung. He all at once on seeing her, wretched king! Undid the pendent noose, and on the ground Lay the ill-starred queen. Oh, then 'twas terrible To see what followed--for he tore away The tiring-pins wherewith she was arrayed, And, lifting, smote his eyeballs to the root, Saying, Nevermore should they behold the evil His life inherited from that past time, But all in dark henceforth should look upon Features far better not beheld, and fail To recognize the souls he had longed to know. Thus crying aloud, not once but oftentimes He drave the points into his eyes; and soon The bleeding pupils moistened all his beard, Nor stinted the dark flood, but all at once The ruddy hail poured down in plenteous shower. Thus from two springs, from man and wife together, Rose the joint evil that is now o'erflowing. And the old happiness in that past day Was truly happy, but the present hour Hath pain, crime, ruin:--whatsoe'er of ill Mankind have named, not one is absent here.

CH. And finds the sufferer now some pause of woe?

MESS. He bids make wide the portal and display To all the men of Thebes the man who slew His father, who unto his mother did What I dare not repeat, and fain would fling His body from the land, nor calmly bide The shock of his own curse on his own hall. Meanwhile he needs some comfort and some guide, For such a load of misery who can bear? Thyself shalt judge: for, lo, the palace-gates Unfold, and presently thine eyes will see A hateful sight, yet one thou needs must pity.

_Enter_ OEDIPUS, _blind and unattended._

LEADER OF CH. O horror of the world! Too great for mortal eye! More terrible than all I have known of ill! What fury of wild thought Came o'er thee? Who in heaven Hath leapt against thy hapless life With boundings out of measure fierce and huge? Ah! wretched one, I cannot look on thee: No, though I long to search, to ask, to learn. Thine aspect is too horrible.--I cannot!

OED. Me miserable! Whither am I borne? Into what region are these wavering sounds Wafted on aimless wings? O ruthless Fate! To what a height thy fury hath soared!

CH. Too far For human sense to follow, or human thought To endure the horror.

OED. O dark cloud, descending I 1 Unutterably on me! invincible, Abhorred, borne onward by too sure a wind. Woe, woe! Woe! Yet again I voice it, with such pangs Both from these piercing wounds I am assailed And from within through memory of my grief.

CH. Nay, 'tis no marvel if thy matchless woe Redouble thine affliction and thy moan!

OED. Ah! Friend, thou art still constant! Thou remainest I 2 To tend me and to care for the blind man. Alas! I know thee well, nor fail I to perceive, Dark though I be, thy kind familiar voice.

CH. How dreadful is thy deed! How couldst thou bear Thus to put out thine eyes? What Power impelled thee?

OED. Apollo, dear my friends, Apollo brought to pass II 1 In dreadful wise, this my calamitous woe. But I,--no being else,--I with this hand destroyed them. [_Pointing to his eyes_ For why should I have sight, To whom nought now gave pleasure through the eye?

CH. There speak'st thou truly.

OED. What could I see, whom hear With gladness, whom delight in any more? Lead me away out of the land with speed! Be rid of the destroyer, the accursed, Whom most of all the world the Gods abhor.

CH. O miserable in thy calamity And not less miserable in thy despair, Would thou wert still in ignorance of thy birth!

OED. My curse on him who from the cruel bond II 2 That held my feet in that high pasture-land Freed me, and rescued me from murder there, And saved my life! Vain kindness! Then to have died Had spared this agony to me and mine.

CH. Ay, would it had been so!

OED. Then had I ne'er Been proved a parricide, ne'er borne the shame Of marriage bonds incestuous! But now I am God abandoned, Son of the unholy, Rival of him who gave me being. Ah woe! What sorrow beyond sorrows hath chief place? That sorrow Oedipus must bear!

LEADER OF CH. I know not how to call thee wise in this: Thou wert better dead than to be blind and live.

OED. That this last act hath not been for the best Instruct me not, nor counsel me again. How, if I kept my sight, could I have looked In Hades on my father's countenance, Or mine all hapless mother, when, toward both, I have done deeds no death can e'er atone? Ah! but my children were a sight of joy,-- Offspring of such a marriage! were they so? Never, to eyes of mine! nor town, nor tower, Nor holy shrines o' the gods, which I myself, Dowered with the fairest life of Theban men, Have forfeited, alas, by mine own law, Declaring men should drive from every door One marked by Heaven as impious and impure, Nay worse, of Laius born! And was I then, By mine own edict branded thus, to look On Theban faces with unaltered eye? Nay verily, but had there been a way To stop the hearing fountain through the ear, I had not faltered, but had closed and barred Each gate of this poor body, deaf and blind! So thought might sweetly dwell at rest from ill Cithaeron! Why didst thou receive me? Why Not slay me then and there? So had I not Told to the world the horror of my birth. O foster home of Corinth and her king, How bright the life ye cherished, filming o'er What foulness far beneath! For I am vile, And vile were both my parents. So 'tis proved O cross road in the covert of the glen, O thicket in the gorge where three ways met, Bedewed by these my hands with mine own blood From whence I sprang--have ye forgotten me? Or doth some memory haunt you of the deeds I did before you, and went on to do Worse horrors here? O marriage twice accurst! That gave me being, and then again sent forth Fresh saplings springing from the selfsame seed, To amaze men's eyes and minds with dire confusion Of father, brother, son, bride, mother, wife, Murder of parents, and all shames that are! Silence alone befits such deeds. Then, pray you, Hide me immediately away from men! Kill me outright, or fling me far to sea, Where never ye may look upon me more. Come, lend your hand unto my misery! Comply, and fear not, for my load of woe Is incommunicable to all but me.

CH. With timely presence to fulfil thy need With act and counsel, Creon comes, who now Is regent o'er this people in thy room.

OED. Alas, what shall I say to him? What plea For my defence will hold? My evil part Toward him in all the past is clearly proved.

_Enter_ CREON.

CR. I come not, Oedipus, to mock thy woes, Nor to reproach thee for thine evils past. But ye, (_to_ Chorus) if all respect of mortal eye Be dead, let awe of the universal flame Of life's great nourisher, our lord the Sun, Forbid your holding thus unveiled to view This huge abomination, which nor Earth Nor sacred Element, nor light of Heaven Can once endure. Convey him in with speed. Religion bids that kindred eyes and ears Alone should witness kindred crime and woe.

OED. By Heaven, since thou hast reft away my fear, So nobly meeting my unworthiness, I pray thee, hear me for thine own behoof.

CR. What boon dost thou desire so earnestly?

OED. Fling me with speediest swiftness from the land, Where nevermore I may converse with men.

CR. Doubt not I would have done it, but the God Must be inquired of, ere we act herein.

OED. His sacred utterance was express and clear, The parricide, the unholy, should be slain.

CR. Ay, so 'twas spoken: but, in such a time, We needs must be advised more perfectly.

OED. Will ye then ask him for a wretch like me?

CR. Yea. For even thou methinks wilt now believe.

OED. Not only so. But I will charge thee too, With urgent exhortation, to perform The funeral rite for her who lies within-- She is thy kinswoman--howe'er thou wilt. But never let this city of my sires Claim me for living habitant! There, there Leave me to range the mountain, where my nurse, Cithaeron, echoeth with my name,--Cithaeron, Which both my parents destined for my tomb. So my true murderers will be my death. Yet one thing I can tell. Mine end will come Not by disease nor ordinary chance I had not lived when at the point to die, But for some terrible doom. Then let my fate Run out its full career. But for my children Thou, Creon, shalt provide. As for my sons, I pray thee burden not thyself with them. They ne'er will lack subsistence--they are men. But my poor maidens, hapless and forlorn, Who never had a meal apart from mine, But ever shared my table, yea, for them Take heedful care, and grant me, though but once. Yea, I beseech thee, with these hands to feel, Thou noble heart! the forms I love so well, And weep with them our common misery. Oh, if my arms were round them, I might seem To have them as of old when I could see-- What! Am I fooled once more, or do I hear My dear ones weeping! And hath Creon sent, Pitying my sorrows, mine own children to me Whom most I love? Can this be truth I utter?

CR. Yea, I have done it. For I knew the joy Thou ever hadst in this, thy comfort now.

OED. Fair be thy fortune, and, for this last deed, Heaven guide thee on a better course than mine. Where are ye, O my children? Come, draw near To these my hands of brother blood with you, Hands that have made so piteous to your sight The darkened gaze of his once brilliant eyes, Who all in blindness, with no thought of ill, Became your father at that fount of life, Where he himself took being! Oh! for you I weep, not seeing you, when I but think Of all the bitter passages of fate That must attend you amongst men. For where Can ye find fellowship, what civic throng Shall ye resort unto, what festival, From whence, instead of sight or sound enjoyed, Ye will not come in tears unto your home? And when ye reach the marriageable bloom, My daughters, who will be the man to cast His lot with yours, receiving for his own All those reproaches which have marred the name Of both my parents and your name no less? What evil is not here? Your father slew His father, and then eared the mother field Where he himself was sown, and got you from The source of his own birth. Such taunts will fly. And who will marry you? No man, my daughters; But ye must wither childless and unwed. Son of Menoeceus, who alone art left As father to these maidens, for the pair That gave them birth are utterly undone, Suffer them not, being your kinswomen, To wander desolate and poor, nor make Their lot perforce the counterpart of mine. But look on them with pity, left in youth Forlorn of all protection save from thee. Noble one, seal this promise with thy hand! --For you, my children, were ye of an age To ponder speech, I would have counselled you Full carefully. Now I would have you pray To dwell where 'tis convenient, that your life May find more blessing than your father knew.

CR. Thou hast had enough of weeping. Close thee in thy chamber walls.

OED. I must yield, though sore against me.

CR. Yea, for strong occasion calls.

OED. Know'st thou on what terms I yield it?

CR. Tell me, let us hear and know.

OED. That ye send from the country.

CR. God alone can let thee go.

OED. But the Gods long since abhor me.

CR. Thou wilt sooner gain that boon.

OED. Then consent.

CR. 'Tis not my wont to venture promises too soon.

OED. Lead me now within the palace.

CR. Come, but leave thy children.

OED. Nay! Tear not these from my embraces!

CR. Hope not for perpetual sway: Since the power thou once obtainedst ruling with unquestioned might Ebbing from thy life hath vanished ere the falling of the night.

LEADER OF CHORUS. Dwellers in our native Thebe, fix on Oedipus your eyes. Who resolved the dark enigma, noblest champion and most wise. Like a star his envied fortune mounted beaming[6] far and wide: Now he sinks in seas of anguish, whelmed beneath a raging tide. Therefore, with the old-world sages, waiting for that final day, I will call no mortal happy, while he holds his house of clay, Till without one pang of sorrow, all his hours have passed away.

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ELECTRA

THE PERSONS