by W. B. Yeats
ANTIGONE. No, no; hear me, I beseech.
POLYNEICES. You waste breath.
ANTIGONE. If wasted, then indeed am I wretched, for I must lose you.
POLYNEICES. Fortune will decide, but I pray to God that only good fortune attend you two, for there is not a man in the world but knows that you deserve it.
[He goes out.
CHORUS.
What is this portent? What does it shadow forth?
Have Heaven and Earth in dreadful marriage lain?
What shall the allotted season bring to birth?
This blind old ragged, rambling beggar-man
Calls curses upon cities, upon the great,
And scatters at his pleasure rich estate.
[Thunder.
CHORUS. What an uproar! God protect us!
OEDIPUS. My children, my children, if there is any man who can be sent, send to Theseus and summon him hither.
ANTIGONE. Why should he be summoned, father?
OEDIPUS. God’s winged thunder comes to lead me down to Hades; send for him, send for him upon the instant.
[A second peal of thunder.
CHORUS.
Thunder has stirred the hair upon my head.
What horror comes to birth? What shall be found,
That travail finished, on the lowly bed?
Never in vain the dreadful thunder sounds,
Nor can the living lightning flash in vain;
Heaven has borne a child and shrieks from pain.
OEDIPUS. Daughters, your father comes to his predestined end; he can no more turn away his face.
ANTIGONE. HOW do you know it? What have you heard or seen?
OEDIPUS. Enough that I know it. Let a man go quickly and bring the lord of this country.
[Thunder.
CHORUS.
Once more that dreadful sound. God pity us
When all is finished on the bed of earth,
Nor hold us all unclean for Oedipus.
Whatever fate maternal sky bring forth,
Pity Colonus, nor lay us under ban
Because of Oedipus the beggar-man.
OEDIPUS. Has Theseus come? Will he find me living, children? and with all my wits?
ANTIGONE. What would you say to him? What are you afraid of forgetting?
OEDIPUS. He has heaped benefits upon me. The time has come to pay for all.
CHORUS.
Come, King of Athens, father of the land —
Whether at Poseidon’s altars and the still
Unfinished sacrifice, or close at hand —
A blind old beggar-man proclaims God’s will,
Proclaims a blessing on the land and us;
Come, King of Athens, come, King Theseus.
Enter Theseus
THESEUS. Why this sudden clamour? Why am I called hither, called as it seems by this stranger and by my own people alike? Have you been terrified by the thunder? No wonder indeed if you are terrified by such a storm.
OEDIPUS. Welcome! God has sent you, King; good fortune waits you here.
THESEUS. What has happened, son of Laius?
OEDIPUS. I am about to die, and before I die I would accomplish for you and for this city what has been foretold.
THESEUS. Why do you say you are about to die?
OEDIPUS. The Gods have sent the signs that they promised.
THESEUS. What signs, old man?
OEDIPUS. Prolonged loud thunder and abundant lightning.
THESEUS. YOU have foretold many things, and what you have foretold has come true. Therefore I believe your words and I ask what I must do.
OEDIPUS. Son of Aegeus, I shall expound a mystery and give your city that which time shall never take away. First I shall lead you to my place of death, and though blind I shall need no guiding hand. But that place you must never show to any living man, for it shall be, while it stays hidden, more protection than a multitude of Athenian shields or than the borrowed might of an ally; and there by that place mysteries shall be revealed, revealed to you alone, things that I dare not speak to my own daughters, much as I love them, things it is not lawful to put into words; and these you must guard in your heart and reveal to your successor, and then only upon your deathbed, that they may be revealed to his successor in turn and so through all time. So shall this city and countryside be kept unharmed from the dragon’s teeth and from the men of Thebes, but keep it secret: while you keep all secret you shall be safe from your own citizens as from the enemy. Even the best-governed cities are turbulent, and though the Gods punish turbulence they are slow to act. But why should I warn you? the son of Aegeus knows how to guard himself. Now let us hurry to that place, for the heavens call and I dare not linger. Follow me, children, though but for a portion of the way. It is my turn to guide those that long have been their father’s guide; come, come, but lay no hand upon me; all unhelped I shall discover my predestined plot of ground, my sacred tomb. Come this way, this way; Hermes guides and the Goddess of the Dead. O light bathing my body for the last time; O light, my light long ago, I tread the road to Hades; blessed be this land, blessed be its people, you, best of friends, be blessed, and when your fortune mounts, remember me in the tomb.
[He goes out, followed by his daughters, Theseus, and attendants.
CHORUS.
I call upon Persephone, queen of the dead,
And upon Hades, king of night, I call;
Chain all the Furies up that he may tread
The perilous pathway to the Stygian hall
And rest among his mighty peers at last,
For the entanglements of God are past.
Nor may the hundred-headed dog give tongue
Until the daughter of Earth and Tartarus
That even bloodless shades call Death has sung
The travel-broken shade of Oedipus
Through triumph of completed destiny
Into eternal sleep, if such there be.
Enter Messenger
MESSENGER. Fellow-countrymen, three words can sum up all I have to say — Oedipus is dead. But it all took time to happen and it will take time in the telling.
CHORUS. So that unhappy man is dead.
MESSENGER. He is dead indeed.
CHORUS. How? In a God-appointed, painless way?
MESSENGER. There indeed you touch upon the wonder of it. You saw with your own eyes how the man went out from here, none to show him where to set his feet, but he the guide of all. We followed . to the sacrificial hollow in the rock where the foot-paths cross and to the sacred threshold where brazen steps go down into the earth, and there, midway between the four sacred things, the basin of brass, the hollow pear-tree, the marble tomb, the stone from Thoricus, he sat upon the ground and began to loosen his miserable rags. Then he bade his children find spring water for washing and libation, and they climbed the neighbouring hill, found spring water there, and brought it to their father. They washed and dressed him as we wash and dress the dead, and no sooner had all been done according to his commands than there came from under our feet, as if from the place of shades, a sound of thunder. The two children trembled, threw themselves down at their father’s knees, beat upon their breasts, wept and cried aloud. And thereupon he cast his arms about them and said, ‘From this day you are left without a father, and all that is mine comes to an end. Your attendance upon me has been a heavy burden, children; I know how heavy, and yet it seemed to you light. A word, a solitary word tells all, and that word is love. No living man could have loved as I have loved. But now I go, and never again shall you look upon me through all your days of life.’ After he had spoken all three clung to one another, sobbing and crying out; but presently they ceased to sob and to cry out and there was silence, and then a voice spoke and summoned Oedipus, and the hair stood up upon our heads, for it was a God that spoke. It summoned Oedipus not once but many times. ‘Oedipus, Oedipus,’ it said, ‘what keeps you there? We must set out upon our journey.’ He, knowing what voice had spoken, called King Theseus to his side
and said, ‘O best of friends, put your right hand into the hands of my daughters; promise to be their guardian and never forsake them.’ King Theseus, that most magnanimous man, promised and swore an oath, and yet fearing to wring the children’s hearts anew spoke no word of grief. That oath being sworn, Oedipus groped for his daughters with blind hands and said, ‘My children, be brave and go from this place, for there are things it is not lawful for you to see or hear. Go quickly, and let these others go, but let King Theseus stay and hear and see everything, for that is his right.’ When he had spoken the children left and we followed with streaming eyes, but after a little time turned our heads. Oedipus had gone and the King stood there, a hand raised to shade his eyes as from some dreadful sight. Then, after a little, he bent down and kissed the earth, and after raised his arms to heaven praying, as it seemed, to heaven and earth in the same prayer. But by what death Oedipus died no man can say but Theseus. Neither did thunderbolt descend nor storm come up out of the sea, but some messenger carried him away or the foundations of the earth were riven to receive him, riven not by pain but by love. For I affirm, and care not if my words seem folly, that this man has gone without the pang of death and in a manner altogether wonderful.
CHORUS. But where are the others? And where are the two girls?
MESSENGER. That sound of mourning tells where they are.
Enter Antigone, Ismene, and attendants
ISMENE. Where shall we wander, where find our daily bread? I dread what is to come.
CHORUS. Why should you, remembering the bitterness of your past, dread the future?
ISMENE. Things that were most bitter can seem most sweet in memory. How should those days seem bitter when we could take him in our arms? Our beloved is gone down under the earth.
CHORUS. He has found a blessed end.
ANTIGONE. Sister, I will go back there.
ISMENE. Why?
ANTIGONE. I have a great longing.
ISMENE. For what?
ANTIGONE. TO find a bed under the earth.
ISMENE. What bed?
ANTIGONE. Our father’s bed.
ISMENE. I thought you understood.
ANTIGONE. Understood what?
ISMENE. That he had no tomb, that nobody can tell where he lies, that he went alone to his death.
ANTIGONE. Bring me to where we saw him last and kill me there.
ISMENE. But if you died I should be friendless.
CHORUS. DO not be afraid, my children.
ANTIGONE. What refuge have we but our father’s tomb?
CHORUS. A refuge has been found.
Enter Theseus
THESEUS. Your father is with the Powers under the earth; you have his promise and their protection. Do not vex them with lamentation. I bring you the protection of Athens.
ANTIGONE. Promise me, son of Aegeus.
THESEUS. What must I promise?
ANTIGONE. TO bring me to my father’s tomb.
THESEUS. The law forbids.
ANTIGONE. But you are King of Athens.
THESEUS. He laid a charge upon me that never human foot approach that place.
ANTIGONE. If that be my father’s will I must obey.
THESEUS. In all else it shall be as you will. I will omit nothing that can profit you or gratify the dead.
CHORUS. Raise no funeral song. God’s will has been accomplished.
Curtain
THE CAT AND THE MOON
To John Masefield
PERSONS IN THE PLAY
A Blind Beggar —
A Lame Beggar
Three Musicians
THE CAT AND THE MOON
SCENE. — The scene is any bare place before a wall against which stands a patterned screen, or hangs a patterned curtain suggesting Saint Colman’s Well. Three Musicians are sitting close to the wall, with zither, drum, and flute. Their faces are made up to resemble masks.
FIRST MUSICIAN [singing].
The cat went here and there
And the moon spun round like a top,
And the nearest kin of the moon,
The creeping cat, looked up.
Black Minnaloushe stared at the moon,
For, wander and wail as he would,
The pure cold light in the sky
Troubled his animal blood.
[Two beggars enter — a blind man with a lame man on his back. They wear grotesque masks. The Blind Beggar is counting the paces.
BLIND BEGGAR. One thousand and six, one thousand and seven, one thousand and nine. Look well now, for we should be in sight of the holy well of Saint Colman. The beggar at the cross-roads said it was one thousand paces from where he stood and a few paces over. Look well now, can you see the big ash-tree that’s above it?
LAME BEGGAR [getting down]. No, not yet.
BLIND BEGGAR. Then we must have taken a wrong turn; flighty you always were, and maybe before the day is over you will have me drowned in Kiltartan River or maybe in the sea itself.
LAME BEGGAR. I have brought you the right way, but you are a lazy man, Blind Man, and you make very short strides.
BLIND BEGGAR. It’s great daring you have, and how could I make a long stride and you on my back from the peep o’ day?
LAME BEGGAR. And maybe the beggar of the cross-roads was only making it up when he said a thousand paces and a few paces more.
You and I, being beggars, know the way of beggars, and maybe he never paced it at all, being a lazy man.
BLIND BEGGAR. Get up. It’s too much talk you have.
LAME BEGGAR [getting up]. But as I was saying, he being a lazy man — O, O, O, stop pinching the calf of my leg and I’ll not say another word till I’m spoken to.
[They go round the stage once, moving to drum-taps, and as they move the following song is sung.
FIRST MUSICIAN [singing].
Minnaloushe runs in the grass
Lifting his delicate feet.
Do you dance, Minnaloushe, do you dance?
When two close kindred meet
What better than call a dance?
Maybe the moon may learn,
Tired of that courtly fashion,
A new dance turn.
BLIND BEGGAR. DO you see the big ash-tree?
LAME BEGGAR. I do then, and the wall under it, and the flat stone, and the things upon the stone; and here is a good dry place to kneel in.
BLIND BEGGAR. YOU may get down so. [Lame Beggar gets down.] I begin to have it in my mind that I am a great fool, and it was you who egged me on with your flighty talk.
LAME BEGGAR. HOW should you be a great fool to ask the saint to give you back your two eyes?
BLIND BEGGAR. There is many gives money to a blind man and would give nothing but a curse to a whole man, and if it was not for one thing — but no matter anyway.
LAME BEGGAR. If I speak out all that’s in my mind you won’t take a blow at me at all?
BLIND BEGGAR. I will not this time.
LAME BEGGAR. Then I’ll tell you why you are not a great fool. When you go out to pick up a chicken, or maybe a stray goose on the road, or a cabbage from a neighbour’s garden, I have to go riding on your back; and if I want a goose, or a chicken, or a cabbage, I must have your two legs under me.
BLIND BEGGAR. That’s true now, and if we were whole men and went different ways, there’d be as much again between us.
LAME BEGGAR. And your own goods keep going from you because you are blind.
BLIND BEGGAR. Rogues and thieves ye all are, but there are some I may have my eyes on yet.
LAME BEGGAR. Because there’s no one to see a man slipping in at the door, or throwing a leg over the wall of a yard, you are a bitter temptation to many a poor man, and I say it’s not right, it’s not right at all. There are poor men that because you are blind will be delayed in Purgatory.
BLIND BEGGAR. Though you are a rogue, Lame Man, maybe you are in the right.
LAME BEGGAR. And maybe we’ll see the blessed saint this day, for there’s an odd one sees him, and maybe
that will be a grander thing than having my two legs, though legs are a grand thing.
BLIND BEGGAR. You’re getting flighty again, Lame Man; what could be better for you than to have your two legs?
LAME BEGGAR. DO you think now will the saint put an ear on him at all, and we without an Ave or a Paternoster to put before the prayer or after the prayer?
BLIND BEGGAR. Wise though you are and flighty though you are, and you throwing eyes to the right of you and eyes to the left of you, there’s many a thing you don’t know about the heart of man.
LAME BEGGAR. But it stands to reason that he’d be put out and he maybe with a great liking for the Latin.
BLIND BEGGAR. I have it in mind that the saint will be better pleased at us not knowing a prayer at all, and that we had best say what we want in plain language. What pleasure can he have in all that holy company kneeling at his well on holidays and Sundays, and they as innocent maybe as himself?
