Enter a CHORUS, the old citizens of Thebes, chanting as the sun begins to rise.
Chorus:
Glory!–great beam of the sun, brightest of all
that ever rose on the seven gates of Thebes,
you burn through night at last!
Great eye of the golden day,
mounting the Dirce’s banks you throw him back–
the enemy out of Argos, the white shield, the man of bronze–
he’s flying headlong now
the bridle of fate stampeding him with pain!
And he had driven against our borders,
launched by the warring claims of Polynices–
like an eagle screaming, wings havoc
over the land, wings of armor
shielded white as snow,
a huge army massing,
crested helmets bristling for assault.
He hovered above our roofs, his vast maw gaping
closing down around our seven gates,
his spears thirsting for the kill
but now he’s gone, look,
before he could glut his jaws with Theban blood
or the god of fire put our crown of towers to the torch.
He grappled the Dragon none can master–Thebes–
the clang of our arms like thunder at his back!
Zeus hates with a vengeance all bravado,
the mighty boasts of men. He watched them
coming on in a rising flood, the pride
of their golden armor ringing shrill–
and brandishing his lightning
blasted the fighter just at the goal,
rushing to shout his triumph from our walls.
Down from the heights he crashed, pounding down on the earth!
and a moment ago, blazing torch in hand–
mad for attack, ecstatic
he breathed his rage, the storm
of his fury hurling at our heads!
But now his high hopes have laid him low
and down the enemy ranks the iron god of war
deals his rewards, his stunning blows–Ares
rapture of battle, our right arm in the crisis.
Seven captains marshaled at seven gates
seven against their equals, gave
their brazen trophies up to Zeus,
god of the breaking rout of battle,
all but two: those blood brothers,
one father, one mother–matched in rage,
spears matched for the twin conquest–
clashed and won the common prize of death.
But now for Victory! Glorious in the morning,
joy in her eyes to meet our joy
she is winging down to Thebes,
our fleets of chariots wheeling in her wake–
Now let us win oblivion from the wars,
thronging the temples of the gods
in singing, dancing choirs through the night!
Lord Dionysus, god of the dance
that shakes the land of Thebes, now lead the way!
Enter Creon from the palace, attended by his guard
But look, the king of the realm is coming,
Creon, the new man for the new day,
whatever the gods are sending now…
what new plan will he launch?
Why this, this special session?
Why this sudden call to the old men
summoned at one command?
Creon:
My countrymen,
the ship of state is safe. The gods who rocked her,
after a long, merciless pounding in the storm,
have righted her once more.
Out of the whole city
I have called you here alone. Well I know,
first, your undeviating respect
for the throne and royal power of King Laius.
Next, while Oedipus steered the land of Thebes,
and even after he died, your loyalty was unshakable,
you still stood by their children. Now then,
since the two sons are dead–two blows of fate
in the same day, cut down by each other’s hands,
both killers, both brothers stained with blood–
as I am next in kin to the dead,
I now possess the throne and all its powers.
Of course you cannot know a man completely,
his character, his principles, sense of judgement,
not till he’ shown his colors, ruling the people,
making laws. Experience, here’s the test.
As I see it, whoever assumes the task,
the awesome task of setting the city’s course,
and refuses to adopt the soundest policies
but fearing someone, keeps his lips locked tight,
he’s utterly worthless. So I rate him now,
I always have. And whoever places a friend
above the good of his own country, he is nothing:
I have no use for him. Zeus my witness,
Zeus who sees all things, always–
I could never stand by silent, watching destruction
march against our city, putting safety to rout,
nor could I ever make that man a friend of mine
who menaces our country. Remember this:
our country is our safety.
Only while she voyages true on course
can we establish friendships, truer than blood itself.
Such are my standards. They make our city great.
Closely akin to them I have proclaimed,
just now, the following decree to our people
concerning the two sons of Oedipus.
Eteocles, who died fighting for Thebes,
excelling all in arms: he shall be buried,
crowned with a hero’s honors, the cups we pour
to soak the earth and reach the famous dead.
But as for his blood brother, Polynices,
who returned from exile, home to his father-city
and the gods of his race, consumed with one desire–
to burn them roof to roots–who thirsted to drink
his kinsmen’s blood and sell the rest to slavery:
that man–a proclamation has forbidden the city
to dignify him with burial, mourn him at all.
No, he must be left unburied, his corpse
carrion for the birds and dogs to tear,
an obscenity for the citizens to behold!
These are my principles. Never at my hands
will the traitor be honored above the patriot.
But whoever proves his loyalty to the state–
I’ll prize that man in death as well as life.
Leader (of the Chorus):
If this is your pleasure, Creon, treating
our city’s enemy and our friend this way…
The power is yours, I suppose, to enforce it
with the laws, both for the dead and all of us,
the living.
Creon:
Follow my orders closely then,
be on your guard.
Leader:
We are too old.
Lay that burden on the younger shoulders.
Creon:
No, no,
I don’t mean the body–I’ve posted guards already.
Leader:
What commands for us then? What other service?
Creon:
See that you never side with those that break my orders.
Leader:
Never. Only a fool could be in love with death,
Creon:
Death is the price–you’re right. But all too often
the mere hope of money has ruined many men.
A sentry enters from the side
Sentry:
My lord,
I can’t say I’m winded from running, or set out
with any spring in my legs either–no sir,
I was lost in thought, and it made me stop, often,
dead in my tracks, wheeling, turning back,
and all the time a voice inside me muttering,
“Idiot, why? You’re going straight to your death.”
Then muttering, “Stopped again, poor fool?
If somebody gets the news to Creon first,
what’s to save your neck?”
And so, mulling it over, on I trudged, dragging my feet,
you can make a short road take forever…
but at last, look, common sense won out,
I’m here, and I’m all yours,
and even though I come empty-handed
I’ll tell my story just the same, because
I’ve come with a good grip on one hope,
what will come will come, whatever fate–
Creon:
Come to the point!
What’s wrong–why so afraid?
Sentry:
First, myself, I’ve got to tell you,
I didn’t do it, didn’t see who did–
Be fair, don’t take it out on me.
Creon:
You’re playing it safe, soldier,
barricading yourself from any trouble.
It’s obvious, you’ve something strange to tell.
Sentry:
Dangerous too, and danger makes you delay
for all you’re worth.
Creon:
Out with it–then dismiss!
Sentry:
All right, here it comes. The body–
someone’s just buried it, then run off…
sprinkled some dry dust on the flesh,
given it proper rites.
Creon:
What?
What man alive would dare–
Sentry:
I’ve no idea, I swear it.
There was no mark of a spade, no pickaxe there,
no earth turned up, the ground packed hard and dry,
unbroken, no tracks, no wheelruts, nothing,
the workman left no trace. Just at sunup
the first watch of the day points it out–
it was a wonder! We were stunned…
a terrific burden too, for all of us, listen:
you can’t see the corpse, not that it’s buried,
really, just a light cover of road-dust on it,
as if someone meant to lay the dead to rest
and keep from getting cursed.
Not a sign in sight that dogs or wild beasts
had worried the body, even torn the skin.
But what came next! Rough talk flew think and fast,
guard grilling guard–we’d have come to blows
at last, nothing to stop it, no one caught red-handed,
all of us pleading ignorance, dodging the charges,
ready to take up the red-hot iron in our fists,
go through fire, swear oaths to the gods–
“I didn’t do it, I had no hand in it either,
not in the plotting, not the work itself!”
Finally, after all this wrangling came to nothing,
one man spoke out and made us stare at the ground,
hanging our heads in fear. No way to counter him,
no way to take his advice and come through
safe and sound. Here’s what he said:
“Look, we’ve got to report the facts to Creon,
we can’t keep this hidden.” Well, that won out,
and the lot fell to me, condemned me,
unlucky as ever, I got the prize. So here I am,
against my will and yours too, well I know–
no one wants the man who brings bad news.
Leader:
My king,
ever since he began I’ve been debating in my mind,
could this possibly be the work of the gods?
Creon:
Stop–
before you make me choke with anger–the gods!
You, you’re senile, must you be insane?
You say–why it’s intolerable–say the gods
could have the slightest concern for that corpse?
Tell me, was it for meritorious service
they proceeded to bury him, prized him so? The hero
who came to burn their temples ringed with pillars,
their golden treasures–scorch their hallowed earth
and fling their laws to the winds.
Exactly when did you last see the gods
celebrating traitors? Inconceivable!
No, from the first there were certain citizens
who could hardly stand the spirit of my regime,
grumbling against me in the dark, heads together,
tossing wildly, never keeping their necks beneath
the yoke, loyally submitting to their king.
These are the instigators, I’m convinced–
they’ve perverted my own guard, bribed them
to do their work.
Money! Nothing worse
in our lives, so current, so rampant, so corrupting.
Money–you demolish cities, root men from their homes,
you train and twist good minds and set them on
to the most atrocious schemes. No limit,
you make them adept at every kind of outrage,
every godless crime–money!
Everyone–
the whole crew bribed to commit this crime,
they’ve made one thing sure at least:
sooner or later they will pay the price.
Wheeling on the sentry:
You–
I swear to Zeus as I still believe in Zeus,
if you don’t find the man who buried that corpse,
the very man, and produce him before my eyes,
simple death won’t be enough for you,
not till we string you up alive
and wring the immorality out of you.
Then you can steal the rest of your days,
better informed about where to make a killing.
You’ll have learned, at last, it doesn’t pay
to itch for rewards from every hand that beckons.
Filthy profits wreck most men, you’ll see–
they’ll never save your life.
Sentry:
Please,
may I say a word or two, or just turn and go?
Creon:
Can’t you tell? Everything you say offends me.
Sentry:
Where does it hurt you, in the ears or in the heart?
Creon:
And who are you to pinpoint my displeasure?
Sentry:
The culprit grates on your feelings,
I just annoy your ears.
Creon:
Still talking?
You talk too much! A born nuisance–
Sentry:
Maybe so,
but I never did this thing, so help me!
Creon:
Yes, you did–
what’s more, your squandered your life for silver!
Sentry:
Oh it’s terrible when the one who does the judging
judges all things wrong.
Creon:
Well now,
you just be clever about your judgments–
if you fail to produce the criminals for me,
you’ll swear your dirty money brought you pain. Turning sharply, reentering the palace
Sentry:
I hope he’s found. Best thing by far.
But caught or not, that’s in the lap of fortune:
I’ll never come back, you’ve seen the last of me.
I’m saved, even now, and I never thought,
I never hoped–
dear gods, I owe you all my thanks! Rushing out.
Chorus:
Numberless wonders
terrible wonders walk the world but none the match for man–
that great wonder crossing the heaving gray sea,
driven on by the blasts of winter
on through breakers crashing left and right,
holds his steady course
and the oldest of the gods he wears away–
the Earth, the immortal, the inexhaustible–
as his plows go back and forth, year in, year out
with the breed of stallions turning up the furrows.
And the blithe, lightheaded race of birds he snares,
the tribes of savage beasts, the life that swarms the depths–
with one fling of his nets
woven and coiled tight, he takes them all,
man the skilled, the brilliant!
He conquers all, taming with his techniques
the prey that roams the cliffs and wild lairs,
training the stallion, clamping the yoke across
his shaggy neck, and the tireless mountain bull.
And speech and thought, quick as the wind
and the mood and mind for law that rules the city–
all these he has taught himself
and shelter from the arrows of the frost
where there’s rough lodging under the cold clear sky
and the shafts of lashing rain–
ready, resourceful man!
Never without resources
never an impasse as he marches on the future–
only Death, from Death alone he will find no rescue
but from desperate plagues he has plotted his escapes.
Man the master, ingenious past all measure
past all dreams, the skills within his grasp–
he forges on, now to destruction
now again to greatness. When he weaves in
the laws of the land, and the justice of the gods
that binds his oaths together
he and his city rise high–
but the city casts out
that man who weds himself to inhumanity
thanks to reckless daring. Never share my hearth
never think my thoughts, whoever does such things.
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