Jocasta: Wife and Mother

by Brian Aldiss

  ‘Why, this is just a pleasant family meeting,’ said Creon, with a small gesture. Denying Oedipus’ charge, smiling slyly, Creon asked if any man of royal rank and good sense would wish to exchange a quiet life for an uneasy throne. It had never been part of his ambition, he said, to be crowned king; it was sufficient for one as modest as he to live a kingly life, to be as scrupulous as a king – but he made no aspersions – should be.

  Besides, he added, he had a well-meaning brother-in-law who went through the motions of kingship, who would listen to any modest requests he might make, no matter that he turned a deaf ear to the supplications of his lesser subjects … How much better it was to be in such a relationship than to aspire to the throne himself, when there were many irksome events to attend to – or to neglect, as was the case at present.

  In a small voice, Jocasta said, ‘Please, Creon, why are you doing this to us?’

  Creon said that they were simply enjoying family conversation. He had to confess, he said, that he was not the kind of man who sought honours and power – or not beyond those he already had, which, he would like to emphasise, were considerable. No, he, Creon, was a peaceable man. A stoic. No traitor he. Certainly he had no wish to inherit a tarnished throne.

  To all this, Jocasta listened with much discomfort, as did her children. Antigone now frowned at Haemon. Even Eteocles had set down his beaker of wine. Oedipus had sat listening to Creon’s speech without showing any emotion. He rose to speak now.

  ‘What a self-serving speech! Admirable in its serpentlike way. With all your words of self-justification, you show yourself meet for banishment – or worse,’ said Oedipus. He stood alert, body rigid, glaring at his brother-in-law. It had not escaped his notice that armed guards had moved silently into the courtyard.

  Jocasta stood up beside Oedipus. ‘Eurydice, what we women have to contend with! Our men are so quarrelsome. At this time of stress, they should be ashamed to air their petty grievances. Should not their thoughts be directed to the woes of Thebes itself? Creon, Oedipus, you are making too much of your differences. Guard your tongues before the quarrel becomes fatal.’

  ‘Petty grievances?’ Creon asked. ‘Sister, this is nothing petty. Your so-called husband is condemning me to banishment or death.’

  ‘I certainly am – and would do so of any man plotting against me,’ said Oedipus.

  ‘May the curse of Zeus rest for ever on my shoulders if I am guilty of any such thing! Am I not discreet? Have I made any mention of the marital arrangements between you two?’

  Jocasta cried, ‘Believe him, Oedipus, if you can! Let this argument die here and now. Come, let’s return to our palace, to regret this falling-out at leisure, before this day of our mortal lives is done.’

  While this argument went back and forth, Eurydice, wife of Creon, had sat impassively by, one ringed hand lying on the table before her, a finger sometimes tapping as if to emphasise a point her husband made. Her face was masklike, expressing neither friendship nor enmity, unless neutrality was itself hostile.

  Now she spoke.

  ‘So, what of this mystery concerning the murder of Jocasta’s late husband Laius? Are we to believe that it fails to interest you, Jocasta?’

  ‘It is long ago and done with,’ replied Jocasta. ‘If I have put it behind me, so can you. Sensible people live in the present.’

  ‘Oh? And what has Oedipus to say about it?’ Eurydice asked. ‘Have you also no wish to speak of the matter, Oedipus?’

  Before Oedipus could open his mouth, Jocasta spoke again, confronting her sister-in-law. ‘The murder of my late husband is no concern of yours, or of Oedipus either, though he himself was deceived into believing he might be responsible for it. Perhaps, dear Eurydice, you do not understand the workings of the human mind, wherein the innocent can believe themselves guilty and the guilty innocent. I have a proof—’

  ‘Pah, this is double talk, Sister Jocasta! The guilty understand their guilt adequately enough. Our seer, Tiresias, knows that well.’

  Jocasta grew uncomfortable to feel a blush rising to her cheek.

  ‘My proof is this. Laius and I were told by the oracle that Laius was destined to die by the hand of his own child – his child and mine. So we believed – yet were deceived in our belief, as events proved. As is well known, Laius was killed by robbers – or a robber, it matters not – and certainly by no blood-relation.

  ‘Even you, Sister, with your sheltered life, must know how robbers abound outside cities.

  ‘And as for Laius’ son, our son, why, Laius cast it out, to perish as a babe upon a mountainside. I think you may know that. This offspring did not kill the father. The father was killed, certainly, but never by his son. So much for all prophetic warnings! Why heed them for a moment? Eurydice, dear, you and Creon would be well advised to drop this sly line of attack and cease to meddle in our noble affairs.’

  Eurydice gazed upwards, to say as if in innocence, ‘And then there is your and Oedipus’ other secret, dear …’

  At this, Creon shot his wife a warning glance, but Jocasta had taken her husband’s arm.

  Speaking sharply, she said, ‘Come, Oedipus, Antigone, boys, let’s abandon this place, leaving their wine undrunk …’

  With this stern admonishment, she prepared to leave. Oedipus followed her without a word, and after him came Antigone and the boys, all silent, with expressions of gloom.

  Creon stood immobile, clutching his gown. Eurydice, in sudden fury, hurled a bunch of grapes at her departing guests.

  15

  Hezikiee stood before her mistress’s bronze mirror, pulling at her cheek. She gave a small shriek as Jocasta entered the chamber.

  ‘Oh, dear mistress, I have a dreadful boil appearing on my face. You will certainly hate my presence. It’s so disfiguring! I must eat more fish. That’s the cure, don’t you think? You never have boils anywhere, do you? Not even on that pretty bottom of yours—’

  ‘Hezikiee, leave me, please. I need to rest myself.’

  ‘Your family meeting – you did not enjoy it?’

  ‘I enjoyed it greatly, but I am fatigued.’

  ‘You see, already you dismiss me. Just because I’m ugly, that’s why.’

  Jocasta settled herself languidly on her couch.

  ‘Oh, all these lies!’ she gasped to the air, as Hezikiee reluctantly left.

  She closed her reptilian eyes. Almost immediately, strange scenes presented themselves. People seemed to be running among bushes. Then she, or someone like her, was being led up a mountain to a cliff by a giant figure, a stranger, yet she knew him. And something flew low overhead …

  The hypnoidal vision was suddenly shattered. Oedipus entered the chamber and knelt beside her, clutching her hand.

  She was alarmed and protested.

  ‘Do not upset yourself, Jocasta dearest! All is well. As ever, I need your help. Something in what you said to Eurydice troubles my mind.’

  She begged him not to pursue these matters, but he would not desist, declaring that his mind was crazed by them.

  ‘Tell me once more about the murder of your late husband. Laius was killed to the north, in Phocis, where the three tracks meet. It’s so?’

  ‘You know it to be so. You have confessed to killing Laius. I was certainly not going to tell my brother that.’

  ‘And when did this disaster occur?’

  ‘Oh, ages past – a short while before your reign began. As you must know.’

  Briefly, he rested his forehead in his hand. He groaned. ‘They attacked me. I had no inkling of whom the fellow in the chariot was.’

  She put an arm about his shoulders. ‘Think no more of it on my account, since it troubles you so. I had no love of Laius.’

  Ignoring her remark, he asked her if she had a portrait of Laius.

  ‘He gave me one once, but I destroyed it.’

  ‘All right. Then, how many men were with him on the Phocis road?’

  ‘Six of them, all told, as I believe. One man leadin
g, then the driver of the chariot, and four guards following behind.’

  ‘You are certain of this? How so, if it’s so long ago?’

  She paused before speaking. ‘One man in that escort escaped. I don’t mean the boy Chrysippus. The man who led. He got away.’

  ‘How can you possibly know this?’

  ‘It was a man I liked. A good slave and an honest fellow. At first, after Laius’ death, he stayed away from Thebes, fearing he might be charged with the crime. But I had been something of a friend to him. Eventually, he returned to Thebes and talked to me, giving me all the details of the crime he had witnessed. And by the way, he says the party attacked you first.’

  ‘He’s here in Thebes?’

  ‘He begged me for his freedom. Which I gave, together with some coin. He lives now quite richly, well beyond sight of the city. I understand that he is married and is a shepherd with large flocks.’

  ‘You must have liked this fellow well.’

  She shrugged. ‘As I have said, I liked him well enough. Who else was there to like at that period of my life?’

  At this point in their colloquy, their daughter Antigone entered. ‘What a horrid meeting with Uncle Creon! He was at his worst. And what was Eurydice hinting at?’

  ‘She’s always hinting. It’s just her way.’

  ‘No, it’s not.’

  Jocasta told her daughter that she and Oedipus were having a private conversation. She should leave them in peace. But Oedipus rose from his knees and went over to his daughter, taking her hand to lead her gently to Jocasta’s couch.

  ‘I am happy to remind you of something in my history, my dear daughter. You shall learn what troubles us. Now that your monthly bleeding has begun, you are adult, and must learn of adult sorrows.

  ‘Firstly, Jocasta, tell us more fully what you told Eurydice – that you bore Laius a son who perished on a mountainside when still a baby? Is such the case?’

  Jocasta was not happy to have Antigone listening to their conversation, not knowing what might accidentally come out. In acquiescing to Oedipus, she nevertheless spoke reluctantly.

  ‘Certainly it is the case. That’s what I told Eurydice.’

  ‘Very well. Then listen to my story, with parts of which you will be familiar. Antigone, you must learn from your father’s dreadful history.’

  He composed himself, so that he spoke calmly, as if the events he related had happened to someone else.

  His early life, he said, was like a myth. When a man is grown, he thinks little of his roots. He did recall the pain and puzzlement of infancy – the beginning of his world. By degrees, he realised that he had been born to privilege. He told Jocasta and Antigone that his father was none other than Polybus, the King of Corinth. Polybus had married a Dorian woman, by name Merope, who bore Oedipus, her only child. As he spoke, he smiled with the pleasure of recollection. Polybus and Merope were proud and affectionate parents. At home with them, he flourished, growing up to be a prince of some eminence.

  ‘But Corinth … It’s so far … I don’t understand,’ said Antigone.

  Oedipus took her hand. ‘Wait until you hear more, dearest daughter.’

  He studied the law and philosophy, he said, and had wise teachers, upon whose words he hung. He also excelled at athletics. It happened that one day, after a certain race, he went to a tavern for refreshment. There he met a fellow student who had been drinking heavily. This fellow got into unwelcome conversation with Oedipus. Saying he had a piece of knowledge worth money, he then blurted it out. He told Oedipus that he was not Polybus’ son, but of unknown race.

  Oedipus was wounded by this news. Unable to keep it to himself, he went after some weeks to Polybus and Merope, to divulge the rumour he had heard. The king was bitterly angry that such a story should be circulated. He denied it was the case: Oedipus was his own true son. This somewhat calmed Oedipus. Yet he found himself occasionally worrying about it, in case the story was correct, despite his father’s assurance.

  At this point in his account, Oedipus fell silent and walked about the chamber, preparing himself to relate what followed, so much less pleasing than what had gone before.

  ‘You should not tell us any more,’ said Jocasta. She too was pale of face. ‘This is all in the cellarage of the dead past. It can do us little good.’

  Antigone placed her hand upon her mother’s hand, and felt it trembling.

  ‘No, I must tell you what happened, now we’ve come to it.’ He went on to say, his voice trembling, that he journeyed to Pythia without telling his parents. There, kneeling at Apollo’s shrine, he heard a prediction which struck horror into his heart.

  Oedipus paused, took control of himself, and continued. At Apollo’s shrine, he was warned that a curse was upon him. He was told that he would kill his father. More, he would go on to marry his mother and have children by her – an offence regarded as being against mankind and the natural order of things, as his study of law had instructed him.

  ‘What did you feel when told you would marry your mother?’ asked Jocasta.

  ‘I suppose all men …’ He broke off. ‘The shock was so great. I fell to the ground.’

  Paralysed by the prediction, he’d had to be dragged from the shrine. When he recovered, he sat beneath a tree and thought, summoning up what philosophy he had learnt. He decided that, if mankind had free will, then he must exercise it. So he would put a great distance between himself and Corinth. Without so much as a farewell to the good Polybus and the kind Merope, he left, never to see them again, in order that the horrors predicted would not come to pass.

  ‘It was an honourable decision, Father,’ said Antigone.

  Like a madman he wandered the countryside, feeling himself accursed among men. Why, he continually asked himself, had this fate fallen upon him? He fought with wild animals, becoming in the process wild himself. He slept beside boulders or in caves. He avoided other human beings. He lived as he imagined his remote ancestors had lived, before there were streets to walk, or laws to abide by.

  So it befell that on a certain day he was wandering in the wilderness called Phocis. Then came the men and the chariot. They called out at him to move from the road, cursing him, as if he were a vagabond of the worst order. No Prince of Corinth would tolerate such insults. The chariot driver struck at him with his whip.

  Accustomed to fighting for survival, Oedipus flung himself upon them and, by taking them all unprepared for resistance, defeated them. He killed them all bar a child whom he allowed to run off, and the leading guard, a herald, who escaped – the man of whom Jocasta had spoken so highly.

  Breaking from his monologue, Oedipus asked Jocasta for the name of this man whom she had praised.

  ‘His name was Eriphus. He had been of service to us since childhood.’

  ‘If only I could meet with this man, Eriphus. Perhaps he would bear witness that it was not I on that fateful occasion … But of course it was I. There can be no room for doubt.’

  As he forced these words from his lips, he regarded the two women with an expression on his face such as they had never seen before. He continued his story in a choking voice. Jocasta hid her face in Antigone’s shallow breast.

  ‘I who had torn wild goats apart with my bare hands, I had no hesitation in attacking those who offended me. That arrogant man in the chariot – do you think I paused to enquire his name? Only now do I realise the blood of King Laius flowed in his veins. That blood is now upon my hands! Stale blood …

  ‘And so on me falls the prohibition and curse that none but I have uttered! It is I to whom none may speak again, or offer hospitality. I whose fate it is to wander again in the wilderness, shunned by all.

  ‘Shunned even by you, dearest Jocasta! To think that the hands which have caressed you killed him … If only Thalia would come to my aid in this desperate hour!’

  Jocasta was pale and sick. ‘I tried to warn you …’

  Even when witnessing his agony of mind, she found herself unable to speak of h
er ignoble role in sealing his destiny.

  Horror and disgust seized her.

  ‘You’ll just have to go and tell the mob you made a mistake. Then everything will be fine again,’ said Antigone brightly.

  Oedipus shook his head. ‘My dear child, you fail to understand. Nothing will be fine again.’

  While he continued to bemoan his fate, Antigone begged her mother to send for Eriphus, that he might possibly clear Oedipus’ name. Who could say how many chariots passed by Triodos, carrying arrogant fools? Any one of them could have attacked Oedipus. Jocasta looked alarmed and said it was not possible.

  Antigone slipped away, leaving her parents alone to grieve.

  ‘Now am I banished not from Thebes alone,’ sighed Oedipus, ‘but from Corinth also, lest the oracle be fulfilled whereby I kill my father and espouse my mother in carnal embrace … My poor father, Polybus, to whom my life is owed … What monstrous god has brought this doom upon me?’

  Jocasta stood with her arms about herself, scarcely listening to his complaints. In a minute, turning to him, she begged him to hold her. ‘I am cold and sick. If only I could die …’

  Oedipus took Jocasta to him and felt her body trembling. He whispered endearments to her. She made no response. In that silent minute, he removed his thoughts from himself to consider what might happen to her. He reflected that he had never loved that staunch and beautiful woman enough.

  He kissed her lips, which were as cold as a fish’s mouth. But for the moment they were as one, clinging together.

  Antigone, meanwhile, hurried to the stables where she ordered the fleetest horse to be saddled. She sprang upon its back and was gone from the palace. She headed westwards, towards the most fertile lands in all Boeotia. There lived Eriphus, an elderly man now, with his wife, surrounded by his flocks of sheep and goats. Antigone knew that her mother maintained irregular contact with this man, occasionally sending him presents of silver plate. She had never understood why.

  She rode low, crouching over the flying mane, singing a wild song into the stallion’s ear. In her heart, Antigone rejoiced. By bringing Eriphus as witness to the Theban palace, she believed she would serve her beloved father well.