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The Oedipus Cycle: Oedipus Rex/Oedipus at Colonus/Antigone

Page 15

by Sophocles


  it’s him

  stumbling, his moan carrying

  a long way in pain seeing

  nothing moored in the sea out there.

  PHILOKTETES—in rags, foot wrapped in filthy bandages, bow in hand—is on them . . .

  PHILOKTETES

  Strangers!

  Who? From where? What brings you 240

  rowing ashore

  to this desolate island? And no harbor!?

  What is your country? Who are your people?

  Dressed like Greeks. I like that

  more than anything.

  Speak! It’s OK, don’t let the wild look of me

  scare you off. Don’t panic. Have pity

  on a lonely miserable man,

  say something if you really come as friends—

  just answer! 250

  It wouldn’t be right,

  us not exchanging words with one another.

  NEOPTOLEMOS

  Since you ask, sir, the first thing

  you should know is: we’re Greeks.

  PHILOKTETES

  O music to the ears! After so long

  to hear Greek from such as you!

  Dear boy

  what brought you to this place?

  This very spot! What necessity? What urge?

  What most 260

  merciful wind pushed you this way?

  Tell me everything so I can know

  who you are.

  NEOPTOLEMOS

  I’m sailing home to the island of Skyros.

  I am Neoptolemos, son of Achilles.

  Now you know everything.

  PHILOKTETES

  O my son of a beloved father,

  a beloved land,

  brought up by your grandfather Lykomedes—

  what’s your mission here? Where are you coming from? 270

  NEOPTOLEMOS

  Right now I’m sailing from Troy.

  PHILOKTETES

  O? How so? For sure you weren’t with us

  when we first set sail for Troy.

  NEOPTOLEMOS

  You!? Were actually part of that!

  PHILOKTETES

  My boy, I’m standing here. You don’t know me!?

  NEOPTOLEMOS

  Know you? How? I’ve never seen you before.

  PHILOKTETES

  Never heard my name? No word

  of the miseries killing me to death?

  NEOPTOLEMOS

  Nothing. I don’t know what you’re talking about.

  PHILOKTETES

  I’m lost! The gods hate me! 280

  Not one word of me abandoned here

  has reached my home. No word

  to Greeks anywhere out there!

  The men who brought me here

  in silence, in secret, make

  mockery of me

  while my disease

  flourishes its worst, and spreads.

  O my boy . . . Achilles’ son . . .

  I’m one you must have heard of! 290

  the master of Herakles’ bow!

  Philoktetes, son of Poias!

  whom those two commanders and Odysseus

  tricked and dumped

  in this emptiness to waste away

  with this vicious sickness,

  venom-stricken by a vicious serpent.

  Sickness I was left alone with.

  The fleet had put in here

  having left sea-locked Chryse-. 300

  They’d set me ashore. From rocking

  on the stormy waters I’d fallen exhausted,

  they were glad to see,

  asleep under an arch of rock. They left

  some rags good enough for a beggar

  and a little food. Me too they left

  and may the gods give them the same.

  Can you feel, son, how I felt, waking

  to nobody here?

  I burst into tears. 310

  Can you feel how I felt cursing myself

  seeing the very ships I’d sailed on

  gone! and on the island

  nobody, not one human being

  to give me a hand when I went down

  in pain? All I saw

  was pain. Plenty of it.

  Time passed me by. Season after season

  cramped alone in my cave, I made do

  myself. Had to. For something to eat 320

  this bow knocked down fluttering doves.

  The bowstring, as I released it, hummed!

  . . . then

  whatever I’d hit I had to go after,

  step & drag,

  hauling this goddam foot.

  Had to get water too. And winters

  with frost, the water frozen,

  step & drag, get

  firewood to cut up. 330

  No fire, none, but striking

  stone on stone

  I’d make the secret spark

  leap up, out of darkness!

  And this is what saved me.

  A roof overhead, fire,

  it’s all I need—except

  release from this disease.

  Young man, I’ll tell you something

  about this place. No sailor 340

  drops by on purpose—there’s no harbor,

  no port to trade in, no ‘entertainment.’

  No man in his right mind comes here.

  Well, suppose some do. A lot happens

  in the course of a lifetime. Then,

  my boy, they feel sorry for me,

  or so they say. And give me food

  and clothing. But what they won’t do,

  when I can bring myself to mention it,

  is take me home. 350

  Ten miserable years now

  I’m rotting away, feeding

  this disease

  it can’t get enough of me!

  This the sons of Atreus and ruthless Odysseus

  did to me.

  May the Gods of Above give them what I got.

  LEADER

  I too feel for you, son of Poias,

  much as those others did.

  NEOPTOLEMOS

  And I can testify to the truth of what you say. 360

  I know, having been overridden

  by the sons of Atreus—and the brutish Odysseus.

  PHILOKTETES

  You too? Have a grudge against those damned

  sons of Atreus? On what grounds?

  NEOPTOLEMOS

  O if only my anger might find its hands!

  Mycenaeans and Spartans alike would know

  Skyros, too, raises great warriors.

  PHILOKTETES

  You said it, boy! But what is it

  you in your anger go after them for?

  NEOPTOLEMOS

  Sir, I will tell you—gods it’s hard 370

  to talk about! but when I got to Troy

  they humiliated me. Because when

  fate gripped Achilles, and made him die . . .

  PHILOKTETES

  Wait! Enough! Let me get this straight.

  He’s dead? Achilles!?

  NEOPTOLEMOS

  Dead. Killed not by a man but a god.

  An arrow from Apollo.

  PHILOKTETES

  No! . . . Noble killer, noble killed.

  Where now should I begin? Ask how

  they wronged you? Or mourn the dead? 380

  NEOPTOLEMOS

  You have enough to do mourning yourself,

  poor man. No need to mourn others.

  PHILOKTETES

  True enough. Well go on then. Tell me

  exactly how they insulted you.

  NEOPTOLEMOS

  They came for me in a ship, the prow

  all decked out, colors flying—

  the great Odysseus, and Phoinix

  who’d raised my father from infancy—

  saying (true or not, I don’t know)

  since my father was dead, it was fated 390

  no one could capture Troy but me.

 
That was their story.

  It was all they needed to say.

  I didn’t wait to hear any more, but got myself

  ready in a hurry. I wanted so to see my father

  unburied. In all my life I’d never seen him

  alive! Then too, they promised me that

  when I got there, I alone could sack Troy.

  Second day out, rowing along

  with a following wind 400

  we landed at still painful Sigeion.

  Soon as we hit shore, soldiers

  crowded round, all swearing that

  in me the dead Achilles lived again.

  But he, he was dead. I wept for him, I felt

  terrible. Then I went to the sons of Atreus,

  figuring them as friends—to claim my father’s arms

  and whatever else he’d left. And, well . . .

  they had the nerve to say: “Son of Achilles

  take everything else of his, but those arms 410

  belong to another man. The son of Laertes.”

  I choked up with rage and grief:

  “You dared give away my arms

  without so much as asking me?”

  Then Odysseus—standing right there!—

  he said: “That’s right, boy. I saved them

  and the remains of their owner.”

  I called him everything under the sun

  I was so mad I, I

  didn’tleaveanythingout, no, what with 420

  him thinking he could steal my arms!

  And I got to him. He doesn’t usually

  get mad, but, you know, he did, he said:

  “Your duty was here. But you weren’t.

  Now your mouth spits such insolence

  you’ll never take those arms back to Skyros.”

  Bawled out, disrespected, I sail home now—

  robbed of what I had coming to me

  by the sleaziest of a sleazy breed: Odysseus.

  Even so, I don’t blame him so much as the sons 430

  of Atreus. An army, like a city, depends

  completely on its leaders. When men trample on

  others’ rights, they get that from their leaders.

  Anyway. That’s my story. May the gods bless

  any enemy of the sons of Atreus. I do.

  CHORUS

  Goddess of Mountains,

  Bountiful Earth,

  Mother of Zeus himself,

  you through whom flows

  Paktolos’ great rush 440

  of gold dust

  Wondrous Mother

  there too I called on you

  that day the sons of Atreus

  puffed up with arrogance

  piled insults on this man,

  giving his father’s revered armor

  to that son of Laertes

  I prayed you then—now

  hear me 450

  Dread Mother who rides

  lions that slaughter bulls

  PHILOKTETES

  Friends, the grief you’ve brought with you

  rings true.

  Your story tells my story. In it I see

  the machinations of the sons of Atreus

  and Odysseus. That one will talk up

  any shady agenda—do anything for

  any unconscionable end. Nothing new

  in that. What’s strange is how Aias 460

  if he was there, could put up with this.

  NEOPTOLEMOS

  My friend . . . he wasn’t! If he had been alive

  they would never have robbed me like that.

  PHILOKTETES

  Him too!? Dead?

  NEOPTOLEMOS

  Think of him as gone . . . out, from the world of light.

  PHILOKTETES

  It can’t be! And yet Diomedes and Odysseus,

  the bastard Sisyphos begot then sold to Laertes—

  the ones who should be dead—aren’t!?

  NEOPTOLEMOS

  Those ones? Believe it, right now they’re riding

  high in the Greek army. 470

  PHILOKTETES

  What of my friend, the old and honest Nestor of Pylos?

  Alive still? He’s the one

  could baffle their schemes with wise advice.

  NEOPTOLEMOS

  It’s no longer in him. He lost his son

  Antilochos, who cared for him.

  PHILOKTETES

  Damn! Those two you mention, they’re

  the last ones I want to hear are dead.

  What’s to be our outlook on life

  when they’re dead, and Odysseus

  who should be dead, isn’t! 480

  NEOPTOLEMOS

  He’s a cagey wrestler, Philoktetes, yet

  even clever moves may be upended.

  PHILOKTETES

  Gods Above! where was Patroklos

  he didn’t help you out?

  He was your father’s dearest friend.

  NEOPTOLEMOS

  Dead. Him too. The short of it

  is: war doesn’t single out evil men

  but in general kills the good.

  PHILOKTETES

  I’ll vouch for that. Speaking of which,

  how goes the worthless one 490

  with the quick, nasty tongue?

  NEOPTOLEMOS

  That would be Odysseus?

  PHILOKTETES

  Not him. Thersites, that one.

  We had no way, ever, to shut him up

  though everyone tried. He still alive?

  NEOPTOLEMOS

  I haven’t seen him myself. I heard he is.

  PHILOKTETES

  He would be. Nothing evil ever dies.

  The gods swaddle it up. They take

  some kind of pleasure keeping

  the slick smooth ones out of Hades, 500

  yet send the just and the good away,

  down there forever. What

  can I make of this? How can I

  go along with them when,

  while praising all things divine,

  I see the gods are evil?

  NEOPTOLEMOS

  As for me, O son of an Oitan father,

  I’ll be steering clear of Troy, keeping

  my distance from the sons of Atreus.

  Where the worst men overpower the best, 510

  where the good die, while cowards rule,

  I won’t ever put up with such men.

  From now on it’s rockbound Skyros

  for me. I will live my life

  happily, at home . . .

  (pause; then, abruptly . . .)

  Well! Got to get back to the ship!

  Good-bye son of Poias. Good luck

  with the gods!

  Here’s hoping they cure you

  just as you wish! 520

  (to sailors, all business)

  Let’s get going. We should be set to sail

  the moment the heavens permit.

  PHILOKTETES

  Already!? Going?

  NEOPTOLEMOS

  Yes. We need to be aboard

  ready to sail when the wind shifts.

  PHILOKTETES

  My son, I beg you, in the name of

  your father your mother your own

  precious home—don’t abandon me here

  alone, helpless, living in the misery

  you see, and more you’ve only heard of! 530

  I won’t be in your way!

  It puts you out

  I know, a cargo like me, but put up with it

  anyway. You’re noble, you despise meanness,

  to you decency is honorable. But leave me

  here? your name will be covered with shame!

  My son, the glory’s all yours if you

  return me alive to Oita. Do it, it won’t take

  hardly a day, stow me wherever—

  in the hold, by the prow, the stern— 540

  wherever’s least noxious to the crew.

  O say you will! My boy, by the grace
of Zeus

  look at me! on my knees, sick as I am, helpless,

  a miserable cripple! Don’t leave me outcast

  here, where human footsteps are unheard-of.

  Give me safe passage to your own homeland

  or Chalkedon in Euboea. From there it’s not

  far to Oita, to rugged Trakhis, to the gorgeous

  rolling Sperkheios—you can present me

  to my most loving father. For a long time 550

  now, I’ve been afraid he’s passed on.

  I kept sending messages with those

  who happened through, begging him

  come alone with a ship. Take me home!

  But maybe he’s dead. Or the messengers

  thought no more of it, and hurried

  their own way home.

  You now, you’re not just

  a messenger, you’re my escort—you take me.

  Have mercy! Save me! You see how we all 560

  live on the edge, with disaster a step away.

  And the man who’s doing well, he above all

  should watch out for what just like that

  will destroy his life.

  CHORUS

  (severally)

  Sir, pity him.

  He’s told all

  the sufferings he has struggled with,

  not to be wished on any friend of mine.

  Sir, if you hate the hateful sons of Atreus—

  if it were me I’d turn 570

  their evils to his advantage—

  take him aboard your swift, well-rigged ship

  to the home he’s homesick for,

  and escape the wrath of the gods.

  NEOPTOLEMOS

  Careful.

  It’s easy to be easy-going . . . now. Yet

  when you’ve lived awhile with his disease

  you may disown your own words.

  LEADER

  Never. You will never, with justice,

  accuse me of that. 580

  NEOPTOLEMOS

  I’d be ashamed if you seemed readier

  than me to help him out. But if

  that’s what you want, let’s sail. Quickly!

  We should get a move on. The ship

  won’t turn him away. Just pray

  the gods get us safely out of here,

  wherever we’re going.

  PHILOKTETES

  O glorious day! My dear friend! kind

  sailors! if only I could do something

  to prove how grateful I am to you! 590

  Let’s go, my boy—after we say good-bye

  to the home that’s not a home, inside.

  You’ll know then how I lived, and what

  heart it took to survive. Just seeing it

 

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