The Greek Plays
Page 50
Old as I am, I’ll try to retaliate.
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OEDIPUS: Insolence, unrestrained! Whose old age
do you think you’re insulting—mine or yours?
What a stream tumbles from your lips—murders,
marriages, catastrophes, all borne by me
against my will! For so it pleased the gods, who held,
it seems, some ancient grudge against my family.
As for me, you couldn’t find a single crime
to blame me for, whose recompense I then
paid with all these crimes against myself and mine.
Come, tell me: if an oracle came from the gods
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to my father, saying that he would perish
at his son’s hands, how could you fairly put
the blame for that on me? Not yet begotten,
not yet conceived, I was as yet unborn!
And if, again, born, as I was, unhappily,
I came to blows with my father, and killed him,
not knowing what I did or who I did it to,
how can you blame me for what I didn’t mean?
And now you feel no shame, forcing me to mention
my mother’s marriage, though she was your sister
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and it—I’ll say it, I won’t hold back
now that your unholy lips have led the way.*70
She was my mother, my mother!
I didn’t know, she didn’t know. She bore me
and had children by me, to her disgrace.
But this one thing I know for sure: you mean
to drag my name and hers in the dirt, but I didn’t
want to marry her, and don’t want to speak of it now.
But neither my marriage nor my father’s killing,
which you are always bringing up, bitterly
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reviling me for it, will earn me the name of evil.
Care to know why? Answer, then, just this:
if, right here, right now a man appeared
and tried to kill you, would you wonder whether
he was your father, or deal with him at once?
If, as I presume, you want to live, you’d pay him back
in kind, and not look around for permission.
Yet such were the evils into which I fell,
the gods leading the way—I think even
my father, if he were alive, would take my side.
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But you, unfair as you are, think it’s fine
to say anything, even what should not be said,
and heap abuse on me, for these men to hear.
You’re fond of flattering Theseus to his face
and saying that Athens is well governed,
and then, in the midst of all this praise, you forget
that if any land knows how to pay respect
and give honors to the gods, it is this land
from which you tried to kidnap me, a suppliant,
old as I am—and made off with my daughters!
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In return, I now call upon these goddesses,*71
I beseech, I importune them with my prayers—
may they come, my helpers, my allies,
and teach you what sort of men safeguard this city!
CHORUS LEADER: Our guest, lord, is a good man, and his
afflictions, so ruinous, win him our support.
THESEUS: Enough of words! Those who’ve seized their prey
rush off while we, the ones aggrieved, stand still.
CREON: What do you want from me, helpless as I am?
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THESEUS: You lead the way there, and I’ll escort you,
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I and no other, to make sure, for I know that you*72
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would not have tried such blatant violence
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if you’d been unarmed and unprepared—no,
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there was someone you trusted when you did this.
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I need to keep an eye on that, so this city
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will not prove weaker than a single man. On, then,
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and show me, yourself, where those girls are—
if you’re holding them here, in this land; but if
their captors have fled with them, we needn’t bother—
others will pursue them. They’ll never get out,
never thank the gods for their escape.
Lead the way, now, and know the catcher’s caught,
the hunter’s in the snare of Chance! The gains
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of guile and treachery are not secure.
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Do you understand, or do my words, like those you heard
before you hatched this scheme, mean nothing to you?
CREON: I can’t argue with anything you say here;
once home, though, I, too, will know what to do.
THESEUS: Threaten, if you must, but go, right now. And you,
Oedipus, stay here and rest assured
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that, unless I die first, I shall not relax
until I’ve made your children yours again.
OEDIPUS: May fortune smile on you, Theseus, for your
nobility and for your just concern toward us!
(Exit Theseus, with Creon and attendants, to the left. The Chorus now sing their second ode.)
strophe 1
CHORUS: I wish I were there,
where the enemy’s forces
will spin round into battle
with a brazen cry, near
Apollo’s shore*73 or the shore
lit by torches*74 in solemn
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rites fostered by the Great Goddesses*75
for those whose lips are hushed
under the golden seal put upon them
by the priestly Eumolpidae.*76
It is there, I imagine, Theseus
will arrive, urging his men
to battle, sure of his power
to save the two maiden sisters
here, within this land.
antistrophe 1
Yes! The enemy presses on
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west of the snowy rock,*77
I’d say—out of the pastures
of Oea,*78 racing
on horseback or on
chariots darting in flight. He will
be caught! Dread Ares rides
with our countrymen, and dread
is the might of Theseus’ sons. Every
bridle flashes fire, all the riders, reins
loose on the wind, rush
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in pursuit—those worshippers of Athena,
goddess of horses, and of the earth—
embracing god of the sea,
Rhea’s beloved son.*79
strophe 2
Are they engaged, or on the point of it? For
a premonition comes to me—
that the dread sorrows
of these girls, who’ve been treated
dreadfully by their kin, will soon abate.
Zeus will bring victory, victory today.
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I am a prophet of success!
I wish I were a dove, riding the storm,
swift and strong, to perch on a cloud
in heaven, and from that height
gaze down on the battle!
antistrophe 2
Zeus, all-ruling, all-seeing lord
of the gods, may you grant
the guardians of this land
strength to win, and good
hunting in this ambush—you
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and your daughter, awesome Pallas Athena,
and I pray that Apollo
the hunter, and his sister,*80 harrower
of dappled, swift-footed deer, come,
twin allies bringing
aid to our land and citi
zens!
(Enter, from the left, Theseus with Antigone, Ismene, and attendants.)
CHORUS LEADER: My wandering friend, you will not call me
a false prophet, for I see them coming now, close
and closer—your daughters, on their way back here.
OEDIPUS: Where, where? What are you saying?
ANTIG.: Father, Father!
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O that a god would grant you sight, to see
this best of men, the one who’s brought us here!
OEDIPUS: Child, are you here, both of you?
ANTIG.: Yes, saved by the hands of Theseus and his loyal men.
OEDIPUS: Come now, children, to your father, and let me
touch those of whose return I had no hope!
ANTIGONE: You’ll have your wish, for we desire it, too.
OEDIPUS: Where, then, where are you?
ANTIG.: Here, we’re here, together.
OEDIPUS: At last!
ANTIG.: Every father, every child, feels such love.
OEDIPUS: The staves I lean on!
ANTIG.: Your weight of sadness, ours, too!
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OEDIPUS: I have what I love most, and I would never
die unhappy, with you two in my arms!
Stand close to me, children, one on each side,
clinging to your father; relieve the loneliness
I felt when you went away so sadly.
Tell me what happened—as briefly as you can.
Girls your age have no need of long speeches.
ANTIGONE: The one who saved us is here, Father. Ask him
how he did it. That’s as brief as I can be.
OEDIPUS: (to Theseus) Friend, don’t be surprised if I go on at length
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talking with my children. They’ve returned
beyond all hope. I know the joy I feel
on their account comes from you:
you saved them, you, and no one else.
May the gods favor you as I would wish,
you yourself and this land of yours, for here
alone on earth have I found piety
and fairness and love of truth! All this
I know and now repay, with these words of mine.
For I owe what I have to you, and none but you.
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And now, lord, give me your right hand to touch
and let me kiss, if I may, your cheek.
But what am I saying? How could I, born
for misery, ask you to touch a man in whom
no evil has not left its stain? No, I won’t ask
and wouldn’t allow it! Only those who’ve felt
sorrows like mine may share the grief of them.
Accept my greeting, then, from where you are
and be my just protector, as you’ve been till now!
THESEUS: I’m not amazed that you have spoken
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at some length, rejoicing in these children here,
or even that you preferred words with them
to words with me. That causes me no pain.
For it’s not through words that I am eager
to make my life illustrious, but through deeds.
And so, in nothing that I swore to do have I
been remiss, old man. I’ve brought these girls of yours
alive, unscathed by all that threatened them.
As for how I did it—why should I boast of what
you’ll hear from them yourself, when you’re together?
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But a report did come to me just now,
on my way here—tell me what you think.
It’s brief, yet worthy of attention. No mortal man
should take any matter lightly.
OEDIPUS: What is it, son of Aegeus? Tell me! So far
I have no idea of what you’re getting at.
THESEUS: They say that a man, not a fellow citizen
of yours, but a relative, has flung himself in prayer
at Poseidon’s altar, and is sitting there now,*81
where I’d been sacrificing before I rushed here.*82
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OEDIPUS: Where’s he from? What does he pray for?
THESEUS: I know only one thing: they say he wants
to talk with you, briefly, no great matter.
OEDIPUS: What about, then? These appeals are serious.
THESEUS: They say he asks only to speak with you
and then to leave, safely, from his journey here.
OEDIPUS: Who could he be—this suppliant, with this prayer?
THESEUS: Consider: do you have a kinsman in Argos,*83
who might want to ask this of you?
OEDIPUS: Dear friend, stop right there!
THES.: What’s the matter?
OEDIPUS: Don’t ask of me—
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THES.: What? Tell me!
OEDIPUS: I know from what you say who the suppliant is.
THESEUS: And who is he, that I should disapprove of him?
OEDIPUS: My hated son. His words would cause
me greater pain than those of any man.
THESEUS: Why? Can’t you listen and then reject
what he says? Why not hear him out?
OEDIPUS: I, his father, can’t stand to hear his voice!
You—don’t force me to give way in this!
THESEUS: But think: his supplication may compel you—
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you should consider what the god may want.
ANTIGONE: Father, take my advice, young though I am.
Let this man please his own mind and please
the god, as he wishes to; and for my sake
and my sister’s, let our brother come here.
If what he says is bad for you, it won’t—
you may be sure—rob you of your judgment.
What harm is there in listening to him? Deeds
conceived in evil are revealed in speech.
You’re his father, so that not even if he were
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guilty of the most impious crime against you
would it be right to pay him evil in return.
Take pity on him! Others have evil children
and quick tempers, but the good advice
of friends charms them out of their nature.
Look not to the present but the past, the pains
you suffered from your parents; and with your gaze
fixed on those, you’ll recognize, I know,
what comes of a bad temper, the evil in its wake.
Not slight is the cost you have to reckon up—
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the loss of your eyes, their blindness now.
Yield, then, to us. It’s not right that we should beg
when we seek justice, or that a man
who’s treated well should not respond in kind.
OEDIPUS: Child, you’ve won your case—a joy to you
but hard on me. All the same, let it be as you wish.
Only you, my friend, if he does come here,
let no one lay their hands on me!
THESEUS: Such prayers, old man, I need to hear once,
not twice. I wouldn’t boast, but be assured
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that you are safe if the gods also keep me safe!
(Exit Theseus, to the right. The Chorus now sing their third ode.)
strophe
CHORUS: Someone who wishes to live too long,
who spurns a moderate share
in life, clings, all too clearly,
in my view, to delusion.
For the long days pile up
many things so much like pain
you’d look and not find
where pleasure’s gone
once one has sunk too
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deeply into life. But the Deliverer
levels all endings, when Hades’ doom
shows up—no wedding song,
no music, no d
ance, only
Death at the end.
antistrophe
Not to be born is best, by any
measure, and next best, by far, once born,
go back where you came from
as soon as you can.
For when one has let go
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of youth’s airy thoughtlessness,
what painful blow is missing?
What misery is not at hand?
Murders, factions, strife, battles,
and envy. And then, last of all,
reviled old age is our lot—
strengthless, friendless,
loveless—where all the worst
evils make their home.
epode
This poor man is there now—not I alone—:
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like a coast facing north, battered by waves
in winter, assailed on every side,
so is he assailed, dread disasters
breaking over his head
in waves that never end—
some from where the sun sets,
some from where it rises,
some from the mid-day beam,*84
some from the Rhipae*85 draped in night.
ANTIGONE: Here, it seems, is our stranger—alone,
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no men at his side, and from his eyes,
as he comes, the tears fall in streams, not drops.
OEDIPUS: Who is he?
ANTIG.: The very one we’ve had in mind for some time now. Yes, Polynices is here.
(Enter Polynices, from the left. He speaks first to Antigone and Ismene.)
POLYNICES: oimoi! What am I to do? Bewail my own
afflictions first, or my old father’s,
now that I see them? In a strange land
I’ve found him, cast out here along with you
and dressed in such rags! Their repulsive, aged
filth has settled in and aged on him; it eats
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into his ribs, and from his eyeless head
his wild hair waves in the wind.
Kin to all this, it seems, he carries a pouch
stuffed with food for his wretched belly.
Too late I learn of it—too late, and all to blame.
I’ve been worthless in your support—I admit it,
father: you needn’t hear it said by others.
All the same, Compassion sits on Zeus’ throne,
at Zeus’ side, whatever he does; and father,
may she also stand by you! For mistakes
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there’s a cure, though mine could not be worse…
Why are you silent?*86
Say something, Father! Don’t turn away from me!
Have you no answer? None? Will you send me off
in disgrace? No word, no explanation, even,