Part 13

The Corinthian messenger, too, has caught at Œdipus’s words. Does the king fear Merope, believing her to be his mother? And is that the reason why he has never come to Corinth? Then let him set his mind at rest, for he, the herdsman of Polybus, happens to have sure knowledge that Œdipus is not the son of Merope. Œdipus and Jocasta stand amazed; and Œdipus presses the stranger for all that he knows. But at first he will not say more. He repeats that Œdipus is not the son of Polybus and Merope; but he shrinks from disclosing to the great king that he was an unknown foundling. He answers reluctantly to the eager questioning of Œdipus, who is now hot upon the scent of his mysterious parentage. Blindly, almost feverishly, with no hint of where each step is leading him, he stumbles on. But fear is awakening in Jocasta, as bit by bit the stranger reveals that he himself had given the infant to Polybus. But how came the child to him? And whence? Thus pursues the excited king, while Jocasta stands in silent suspense. The answer of the stranger smites her with a sudden prescience of what is coming. He says he found the babe in a high glen of Kithairon; and as, in rapid answer to the king, he tells of its poor maimed feet and of the Theban herdsman from whom he received it, the full truth falls upon Jocasta with a shattering blow. This man, the king, her husband, is none other than that outcast child, her son. But Œdipus does not see the horror yet; and as she stands rigid at his side one thought and one prayer fill her mind—that he may never know. But some frenzy seems to possess him, driving him to destroy himself. He turns to an officer of the Court. Where is the Theban herdsman of whom the stranger speaks? He must be sought, and made to say whence came the child that he gave to this stranger from Corinth. The officer replies hesitatingly; he thinks he must be the same man who was king Laius’ attendant, and who has already been sent for. But only the queen can tell of his whereabouts. Œdipus turns quickly on Jocasta, and then for the first time sees her anguish. But he has no clue to its cause. He cannot know that there has fallen on her misery worse than death; and that with all the strength of body and soul she is trying to shield him from it. He can see only a fear, which seems to him contemptible, that he may prove to be base-born. Impatience leaps to anger as she tries to evade his questions; and he replies with a taunt at what he believes to be her pride.

ŒD. _Fear not!... Though I be thrice of slavish stuff From my third grand-dam down, it shames not thee._

JOC. _Ask no more. I beseech thee.... Promise me!_

ŒD. _To leave the Truth half found? ‘Tis not my mood._

JOC. _I understand; and tell thee what is good._

ŒD. _Thy good doth weary me._[22]

It seems at this word that all Jocasta’s strength breaks down. The malign power that is driving Œdipus onward is too great for her, and she cannot strive against it any longer. She can only wail in answer:

“_O child of woe, I pray God, I pray God, thou never know!_“[22]

And then, as Œdipus turns roughly from her, all his tenderness shrivelled to scorn and wrath, the last link snaps. In another moment he will know the truth; and knowing it, she will be loathsome and abhorrent in his eyes. The thought brings intolerable pain. She craves relief, escape, and, swiftly—before Œdipus can learn what he is seeking, before his accusing eyes can meet her own—annihilation. With an imploring gesture, she takes one step toward him.

“_Unhappy one, good-bye! Good-bye before I go: this once, and never, never more!_“[22]

But Œdipus does not heed her; and with wild eyes, she flies into the palace, to die by her own hand. And when the great king, brought at last to see the truth which casts him lower than the meanest slave, thinks to avenge his wrongs on her, he finds that she has taken vengeance on herself. Before her pitiful dead body his wrath is turned to loathing of himself; and the hand that was raised against her, smites the light for ever from his own eyes.

Footnote 21:

From Professor J. W. Mackail’s translation of the _Odyssey_ (John Murray).

Footnote 22:

From Professor Gilbert Murray’s translation of the _Œdipus, King of Thebes_ (George Allen & Co. Ltd.).

_Sophocles: Antigone_

There was an important figure in _Œdipus the King_ whom we only glanced at in passing when we were considering the story of Jocasta. He was the queen’s own brother, Creon; a man who knew better than to covet kingly honours, and who had a soul for friendship. It was he who said, answering the rash accusation which Œdipus made against him:

“_This I tell thee. He who plucks a friend Out from his heart hath lost a treasured thing Dear as his own dear life._“[23]

Thus, when the great king’s downfall came, Creon knew how to be a friend. He was gentle to Œdipus; and forgetting his own wrongs, he took upon himself the care of the king’s young daughters, Antigone and Ismene.

But Creon said once, at another crowded moment of his career:

“_Hard it is to learn The mind of any mortal or the heart, Till he be tried in chief authority. Power shows the man._“[24]

It was a true word, and curiously verified in his own life. For he who had shown so fair a front in Thebes, when the reins of government lay in the hands of Œdipus and Jocasta, proved himself a tyrant when authority fell on him. Creon, young and ardent, could dare the wrath of Œdipus, and tell him to his face that even a king might not be unjust. But the same man clothed in power, with youthful ideals fled and all the texture of his mind hardened by age and convention, could only meet the supreme idealism of Antigone with a decree of death.

It is not suggested that Sophocles has developed Creon’s character in an unbroken sequence through the three dramas in which he appears. The chronology of the plays forbids this. For the _Antigone_, which presents the last phase of the story, was written years before _Œdipus the King_ and the _Œdipus at Colonus_, which give us both Antigone and Creon in earlier days. But that is an external fact which does not much disturb the unity of the poet’s conception. The Creon of the three plays is essentially the same man. He is not consistent always, since no human creature is. But under that accusing contrast between the theories of his youth and the practice of his age there is an abiding law of human nature which only the few fine souls escape. And we are clearly shown that Creon was not born to be the rare exception. Always prudent, law-abiding and careful of authority, these qualities would strengthen with the years; and lighted by no higher truth, but carried to excess in moments of passion, would inevitably make him what he became.

In the same way there is an underlying unity in the character of Antigone. In _Œdipus the King_ we know her only by name, a child of thirteen into whose sunny life a storm has suddenly crashed. In the _Œdipus at Colonus_, the strong young spirit has awakened, and is giving clear promise of the heights to which it will soar before its short day is done. While the _Antigone_, the drama which bears her name, does but fulfil and make perfect what is fair promise in the other plays.

We are entitled therefore, in coming to the Attic dramatists for Antigone’s story, to read the three Sophoclean plays as if they were a trilogy; although each of the three is distinct and complete in itself. And we shall find too, that in the _Seven against Thebes_ of Æschylus, in which Antigone first appears, there is sounded once for all the high heroic note to which her story moved in the versions of the later poets. There is indeed a wealth of testimony for Antigone, and fine unanimity in it. We can trace her short life almost throughout. There was the happy early time in Thebes, when royalty sat lightly on the merry boys and girls in the palace; and when the great king and queen were simply their dear and loving parents. That was a time of sweetest memories. Ambition had not yet taught the two spirited brothers to hate each other; and Ismene was still the gentle little sister who would follow with unquestioning devotion wherever Antigone might lead.

But in one black day, and with no warning given, every ray of happiness had been blotted out. Of all the sights and sounds huddled into the memory of that hideous day, Antigone could only recall two things clearly—the stately queen her mother lying dead by her own hand; and Œdipus the king, self-blinded, pleading in strange remorse outside the palace to be banished from the city. But one impression, filtering almost unconsciously through her terror, remained and grew. It was the look of horror, almost of loathing, on every face that surrounded the unhappy king. Antigone herself could hardly bear to see him; but she vaguely felt that in these shrinking figures there was something more than physical revulsion at the sight. Why did the crowding people, the senators, even Prince Creon himself, draw away from her father as though he were some unclean thing whose touch would pollute them? That they did so stung her; and although their terrified recoil was only dimly realized at the time, it brought a flood of pity and indignation with it. In the wave of protecting love that filled her heart, making her long to fling herself between the dear maimed father and all those cruel glances, Antigone the woman sprang to a noble life. She did not grow to full stature immediately. Years passed, and Creon, assuming rule in Thebes as regent for her brothers, prevailed on Œdipus to seclude himself within the city. Time brought sad knowledge to Antigone. She learned the causes of the tragedy that had fallen on them, as it seemed, out of a blue sky. She found, too, the meaning of that frantic abhorrence of her father; though she never learned to share it. Neither intellect nor heart would consent to hold him guilty: not by one iota was he responsible for the evils that had smitten him. So, as his own brain cleared from the shock of the calamity, Œdipus found a champion in his daughter whose splendid logic and whose love were alike invincible.

Later he had need of all Antigone’s courage. For faction sprang to life in the city and grew fast. Superstition fed it eagerly, and soon there was but one thought in all the darkened mind of Thebes, from Creon downward. Their town, in sheltering Œdipus, was harbouring pollution; and he must be cast out. The people clamoured fanatically; but Creon and the princes Polynices and Eteocles made no stand against them. To them, the presence of Œdipus was a political embarrassment, as well as an alleged cause of displeasure to the gods. Thus ambition united with fear to drive them on; and presently, his unnatural sons consenting, Œdipus was ruthlessly cast out of Thebes.

There was only one voice uplifted in his defence; but a woman’s word, though it might be the soul of right, had no value in the counsels of the State. Œdipus went into exile alone: poor, blind and dogged by the curse which his cruel destiny had invoked upon him. But he did not wander long unfriended.

_Antigone, E’er since her childhood ended, and her frame Was firmly knit, with ceaseless ministry Still tends upon an old man’s wandering, Oft in the forest ranging up and down Fasting and barefoot through the burning heat Or pelting rain, nor thinks, unhappy maid, Of home or comfort, so her father’s need Be satisfied._[25]

Year after year they wandered together, haunting the glens and groves of Mt. Kithairon, where the infant Œdipus had been exposed. It seemed as if his destiny were calling him to render up his life there on the spot which had seen the beginning of his wrongs. But the gods relented a little at last. There came to Œdipus a divine message that he should have honour at the end, and a glorious passing. He should not know the death of a mortal creature. He was to fare to Athens, and in the little deme of Colonus, at the place which was sacred to Poseidon and Prometheus, the awful Powers of the Underworld would welcome him, living, to their shadowy empire.

To Colonus, then, Œdipus and Antigone wearily came; and threw themselves on the protection of Theseus. They were strange suppliants, hardly auspicious in the eyes of the Athenian folk before whom Antigone pleaded for succour. And the message which Œdipus sent to their king was stranger still, as he repeated the promise that Apollo had given him:

“_When I should reach my bourne, And find repose and refuge with the Powers Of reverent name, my troubled life should end With blessing to the men who sheltered me, And curses on their race who banished me And sent me wandering forth._“[25]

Even in dying, it seemed, his life should have no peace. There was still one act of wrath to do: the stormy day must needs go out in storm. When he stood before Theseus, to declare his name and history, all the unquiet flux of life seemed sweeping round him still.

“_Fair Aigeus’ son, only to gods in heaven Comes no old age, nor death of anything; All else is turmoiled by our master Time. The earth’s strength fades and manhood’s glory fades, Faith dies, and unfaith blossoms like a flower. And who shall find in the open streets of men Or secret places of his own heart’s love One wind blow true for ever?_“[26]

Theseus took pity on the poor blind king and gave him refuge. But meantime, away in Thebes, his sons were quarrelling about the succession to the throne. Eteocles and Creon had stirred up the people against Polynices; and he, too, was banished from the kingdom. But he had strength and influence. He fled to Argos: married the daughter of king Adrastus there, and presently had raised an army, with six other Greek chiefs, to invade his native country. This incident is the subject of Æschylus’s drama called _The Seven against Thebes_.

On the eve of the battle, Polynices remembered Œdipus. His own misfortunes had taught him remorse for the part which he had played against his outcast father; and a conviction weighed on him that no enterprise of his might succeed until he had begged forgiveness and a blessing. So he travelled hastily to Colonus; and in fear both of his father and of Theseus, he flung himself as a suppliant at the altar of Poseidon. But in the heart of Œdipus anger still burned; and in his ears still sounded the last oracular command—to curse these impious sons before he died. At first he refused even to see Polynices, when Theseus brought word of his petition; and only yielded to Antigone’s plea that he should at least give her brother a hearing.

“_Father, give ear, though I be young that speak. ... He is thy son: Whence, were his heartless conduct against thee Beyond redemption impious, O my sire, Thy vengeance still would be unnatural. O, let him!—Others have had evil sons And passionate anger, but the warning voice Of friends hath charmed their mood. Then do not thou Look narrowly upon thy present griefs, But on those ancient wrongs thou didst endure From father and from mother. Thence, thou wilt learn That evil passion ever ends in woe._“[25]

But from the first there was no hope of a softer mood in Œdipus. Grimly he listened while Polynices poured out his plea for forgiveness, and when all was said, broke into the curse which was to devastate his children’s lives. Never should the crime of Polynices and Eteocles be forgiven; but in this battle, when each hoped to win glory and the throne of Thebes, both should fall, slain each by the other’s hand.

The siege of Thebes was thus foredoomed; and Antigone implored her brother to abandon the enterprise. But he was committed to it beyond recall; and went to meet failure and certain death. One solemn request he made of her and of Ismene too, at their farewell. When he should lie dead before Thebes, would she promise him the last holy act of burial? There would be no other kin to perform the rite, and if it were not done, his ghost must wander endlessly and find no rest.

“_I must attend To my dark enterprise, blasted and foiled Beforehand by my father’s angry curse. But as for you, Heaven prosper all your way, If ye will show this kindness in my death, For nevermore in life shall ye befriend me!_“[25]

No oath could bind Antigone more strongly than the prompting of her love; but she gave her word to Polynices, so that he might go untroubled by a dread more awful than any other to a Greek. And when the testing time came, both love and duty were irrevocably engaged. It came very soon. On the day that the Seven laid siege to Thebes, the gods took Œdipus. In marvellous fashion he left the earth, rapt away in the thunders of Olympus, while mighty voices called upon his name. And as, unseen by mortal eyes, he crossed that mysterious Brazen Causeway, the Argive army lay round Thebes. When Antigone and Ismene returned to the city, dreadful tidings were brought to them. Their brothers had met in single combat, and, fighting furiously, each had slain the other.

MESSENGER. _The genius of them both was even so dire, So undistinguishing; and with one stroke Consigns to nothingness that hapless race ... Thebè is rescued: but her princes twain By mutual slaughter fratricidally Are perished; their own land hath drunk their blood._[27]

Creon instantly assumed control. The Argive host was beaten back, and when the next day dawned, the invading force was gone. The siege was over; and Thebes might set about the pious task of burying its dead. The princes were taken up from the spot where they had fallen, and brought into the city. By the most sacred law of Greek religion every ceremony of burial should now be reverently performed. The duty devolved first on male kindred; and Creon, as uncle to the princes, should perform the rites. But Creon was now king of Thebes; and in that capacity there fell on him another, and a conflicting, duty. He must decide what burial honours might fittingly be paid to Polynices, the traitor who had fought against his country.

Antigone waited in anxiety for the decision. For Eteocles she had no fear: he had given no offence to Thebes. But she knew Creon’s rigorous spirit; she knew his devotion to the State; and she trembled for the poor misguided brother who had sinned against the State. In the early morning after the battle, Antigone came out of the palace, to meet the procession which bore her brothers’ bodies in. And as she joined her voice to the mourners’ wail, Creon’s herald broke upon their grief, to announce the king’s decree.

HERALD. _’Tis mine to announce the will and firm decree Of the high council of this Theban state. Eteocles, as loyal to his land, Shall be insepulchred beneath her shade.... But this, his brother Polynices’ corpse, Graveless shall be cast forth for dogs to tear. ... Dead though he be, his country’s gods Shall ban him, since he brought in their despite A foreign host to invade and subjugate Their city...._

_... No drink-offerings Poured at his tomb by careful hands, no sound Of dirgeful wailing shall enhance his fame, Nor following of dear footsteps honour him. So runs the enactment of our Theban lords._[27]

But Creon had reckoned without Antigone. Her utmost apprehension had not dreamed that so cruel an edict could be passed. It was foul dishonour to the dead, and an insult to the gods. But she would never suffer it. Though she must be one woman against the whole of Thebes, her brother should not lack the necessary rites.

ANTIGONE. _But I make answer to the lords of Thebes, Though none beside consent to bury him, I will provide my brother’s funeral. ... Then, O my soul, Of thine own living will share thou the wrongs Forced on the helpless dead: be leal and true._[27]

At this point of the story, the _Antigone_ of Sophocles opens. Creon has heard a rumour of defiance, and has added a penalty of death to his decree. The sisters are alone outside the palace. Antigone, not doubting of Ismene for a moment, rapidly puts before her a plan for Polynices’ burial. They must act at once, quickly and quietly, before Creon may have time to prevent them. To her utter amazement, however, Ismene will not help her. She is a gentle, timid creature: she cannot think it possible that Antigone will dare to defy Creon’s edict: the mere suggestion terrifies her. She cannot rise to Antigone’s perception of a law higher than this ugly mandate against the dead; and if she could, she is not of the heroic fibre to make a stand against authority. She sees and admits that this vengeful edict must needs offend the gods; but for her part, she can only pray to be held guiltless of it. She is not lacking in love and loyalty to her kin. When Œdipus and Antigone were wandering in beggary, Ismene had secretly contrived to send them aid; and once she had ridden a perilous journey in order to warn them of danger. She is no craven. Only, she is oppressed by a sense of physical weakness: the forces which Antigone will challenge are overwhelming, and will surely crush her. Is it not rash and sinful to attempt the impossible?

“_O think how beyond all Most piteously we two shall be destroyed, If in defiance of authority We traverse the commandment of the king!_“[24]

Antigone is bitterly disappointed. She had gauged Ismene by herself, and thought her courage would be equal to her love. To her the duty to their dead is a holy act, crying aloud for fulfilment, and shining far above this tyrannous decree. It is so clear to her eager spirit that she cannot doubt or hesitate. She had thought that one word to Ismene would enlist her help; and instead, she is met with puerile answers counselling prudence and submission. Her passionate soul flames into indignation, and in her anger she is less than just to Ismene. Despite her heroism, she is simply human. Nor is she, as has sometimes been suggested, like a martyr of the early Christian era, whose humility and gentleness would bless the hand that smote. Antigone’s warm heart is as strong in its hatred as its love; absolute in devotion, but impetuous in anger; capable of supreme self-sacrifice, and tender to infirmity; but intolerant of moral weakness and meanness and timidity. She retorts in scorn upon Ismene:

“_I will not urge you! No! Nor if now you list To help me, will your help afford me joy. Be what you choose to be! This single hand Shall bury our lost brother. Glorious For me to take this labour and to die! Dear to him will my soul be as we rest In death, when I have dared this holy crime. My time for pleasing men will soon be over; Not so my duty towards the Dead! My home Yonder will have no end. You, if you will, May throw contempt on laws revered on High._“[24]