Electra

Page 10

by Sophocles

infected.

CREON. I will not bandy words with any prophet.

TEIRESIAS. And yet you say my prophecies are

dishonest!

CREON. Prophets have always been too fond of gold.

TEIRESIAS. And tyrants, of the shameful use of power.

CREON. You know it is your King of whom you speak?

TEIRESIAS. King of the land I saved from mortal

danger.*

CREON. A clever prophet—but an evil one.

TEIRESIAS. You’ll rouse me to awaken my dark secret.

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CREON. Awaken it, but do not speak for money.

TEIRESIAS. And do you think that I am come to that?

CREON. You shall not buy and sell my policy.

TEIRESIAS. Then I will tell you this: you will not live

Through many circuits of the racing sun

Before you give a child of your own body

To make amends for murder, death for death;

Because you have thrust down within the earth

One who should walk upon it,* and have lodged

A living soul dishonourably in a tomb;

And impiously have kept upon the earth

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Unburied and unblest one who belongs

Neither to you nor to the upper gods

But to the gods below, who are despoiled

By you. Therefore the gods arouse against you

Their sure avengers;* they lie in your path

Even now to trap you and to make you pay

Their price.—Now think: do I say this for money?

Not many hours will pass before your house

Rings loud with lamentation, men and women.

Hatred for you is moving in those cities

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Whose mangled sons* had funeral-rites from dogs

Or from some bird of prey, whose wings have

carried

The taint of dead men’s flesh to their own homes,

Polluting hearth and altar.

These are the arrows that I launch at you,

Because you anger me. I shall not miss

My aim, and you shall not escape their smart.

Boy, lead me home again, that he may vent

His rage upon some younger man, and learn

To moderate his violent tongue, and find

More understanding than he has today,

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[Exit TEIRESIAS and boy

CHORUS. And so, my lord, he leaves us, with a threat

Of doom. I have lived long,* but I am sure

Of this: no single prophecy that he

Has made to Thebes has gone without fulfilment.

CREON. I know it too, and I am terrified.

To yield is very hard, but to resist

And meet disaster, that is harder still.

CHORUS. Creon, this is no time for wrong decision.

CREON. What shall I do? Advise me; I will listen.

CHORUS. Release Antigone from her rock-hewn

dungeon,

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And lay the unburied body in a tomb.

CREON. Is this your counsel? You would have me yield?

CHORUS. I would, and quickly. The destroying hand

Of Heaven is quick to punish human error.

CREON. How hard it is! And yet one cannot fight

Against Necessity.*—I will give way.

CHORUS. Go then and do it; leave it not to others.

CREON. Just as I am I go.—You men-at-arms,

You here, and those within: away at once

Up to the hill, and take your implements.

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Now that my resolution is reversed

I who imprisoned her will set her free.—

I fear it may be wisest to observe

Throughout one’s life the laws that are established.

[Exit CREON and guards

Strophe 1

CHORUS [sings]. Thou Spirit whose names are many,*

Dionysus,

Born to Zeus the loud-thunderer,

Joy of thy Theban mother-nymph,*

Lover of famous Italy:*

King art thou in the crowded shrine

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Where Demeter has her abode,* O

Bacchus! Here is thy mother’s home,

Here is thine, by the smooth Is-

menus’ flood,* here where the savage

Dragon’s teeth had offspring.*

Antistrophe 1

Thou art seen by the nymphs amid the smoky

torchlight,

Where, upon Parnassus’ height,*

They hold revels to honour Thee

Close to the spring of Castaly.*

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Thou art come from the ivy-clad

Slopes of Asian hills,* and vineyards

Hanging thick with clustering grapes.

Mystic voices chant: ‘O

Bacchus! O Bacchus!’ in

The roads and ways of Thebe.

Strophe 2

Here is thy chosen home,

In Thebes above all lands,

With thy mother, bride of Zeus.

Wherefore, since a pollution holds

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All our people fast in its grip,

O come with swift healing* across the wall of high

Parnassus,

Or over the rough Euripus.*

Antistrophe 2

Stars that move, breathing flame,

Honour Thee as they dance;

Voices cry to Thee in the night.

Son begotten of Zeus, appear!

Come, Lord, with thy company,

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Thy own nymphs, who with wild, nightlong dances

praise Thee,

Bountiful Dionysus!

Enter a MESSENGER

MESSENGER. You noblemen of Thebes, how insecure

Is human fortune! Chance will overthrow

The great, and raise the lowly; nothing’s firm,

Either for confidence or for despair;

No one can prophesy what lies in store.

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An hour ago, how much I envied Creon!

He had saved Thebes, we had accorded him

The sovereign power; he ruled our land

Supported by a noble prince, his son.

Now all is lost, and he who forfeits joy

Forfeits his life; he is a breathing corpse.

Heap treasures in your palace, if you will,

And wear the pomp of royalty; but if

You have no happiness, I would not give

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A straw for all of it, compared with joy.

CHORUS. What is this weight of heavy news you bring?

MESSENGER. Death!—and the blood-guilt rests upon

the living.

CHORUS. Death? Who is dead? And who has killed

him? Tell me.

MESSENGER. Haemon is dead, and by no stranger’s

hand.

CHORUS. But by his father’s? Or was it his own?

MESSENGER. His own—inflamed with anger at his

father.

CHORUS. Yours was no idle prophecy, Teiresias!

MESSENGER. That is my news. What next, remains with

you.

CHORUS. But look! There is his wife, Eurydice;

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She is coming from the palace. Has she heard

About her son, or is she here by chance?

Enter EURYDICE

EURYDICE. You citizens of Thebes, I overheard

When I was standing at the gates, for I

Had come to make an offering at the shrine

Of Pallas,* and my hand was on the bar

That holds the gate, to draw it; then there fell

Upon my ears a voice that spoke of death.

My terror took away my strength; I fell

Into my servants’ arms and swooned away.

But tel
l it me once more; I can endure

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To listen; I am no stranger to bad news.*

MESSENGER. Dear lady, I was there, and I will tell

The truth; I will not keep it back from you.

Why should I gloze it over? You would hear

From someone else, and I should seem a liar.

The truth is always best.

I went with Creon

Up to the hill where Polyneices’ body

Still lay, unpitied, torn by animals.

We gave it holy washing, and we prayed

To Hecate and Pluto* that they would

Restrain their anger and be merciful.

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And then we cut some branches, and we burned

What little had been left, and built a mound

Over his ashes of his native soil.

Then, to the cavern, to the home of death,

The bridal-chamber with its bed of stone.

One of us heard a cry of lamentation

From that unhallowed place; he went to Creon

And told him. On the wind, as he came near,

Cries of despair were borne. He groaned aloud

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In anguish: ‘O, and are my fears come true?

Of all the journeys I have made, am I

To find this one the most calamitous?

It is my son’s voice greets me. Hurry, men;

Run to the place, and when you reach the tomb

Creep in between the gaping stones and see

If it be Haemon there, or if the gods

Are cheating me.’ Upon this desperate order

We ran and looked. Within the furthest chamber

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We saw her hanging, dead; strips from her dress

Had served her for a rope. Haemon we saw

Embracing her dead body and lamenting

His loss, his father’s deed, and her destruction.

When Creon saw him he cried out in anguish,

Went in, and called to him: ‘My son! my son!

O why? What have you done? What brought you

here?

What is this madness? O come out, my son,

Come, I implore you!’ Haemon glared at him

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With anger in his eyes, spat in his face,

Said nothing, drew his double-hilted sword,

But missed his aim as Creon leapt aside.

Then in remorse he leaned upon the blade

And drove it half its length into his body.

While yet the life was in him he embraced

The girl with failing arms, and breathing hard

Poured out his life-blood on to her white face.

So side by side they lie, and both are dead.

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Not in this world but in the world below

He wins his bride, and shows to all mankind

That folly is the worst of human evils.

[Exit EURYDICE

CHORUS. What can we think of this? The Queen is

gone

Without one word of good or evil omen.

MESSENGER. What can it mean? But yet we may sustain

The hope that she would not display her grief

In public, but will rouse the sad lament

For Haemon’s death among her serving-women

Inside the palace. * She has true discretion,

And she would never do what is unseemly.

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CHORUS. I cannot say, but wild lament would be

Less ominous than this unnatural silence.

MESSENGER. It is unnatural; there may be danger.

I’ll follow her; it may be she is hiding

Some secret purpose in her passionate heart.

[Exit MESSENGER, into the palace

CHORUS [chants]. Look, Creon draws near, and the

burden he bears

Gives witness to his misdeeds; the cause

Lies only in his blind error.

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