The guards escort Antigone and Ismene into the palace.
Creon remains while the old citizens form their Chorus.
Chorus:
Blest, they are the truly blest who all their lives
have never tasted devastation. For others, once
the gods have rocked a house to its foundations
the ruin will never cease, cresting on and on
from one generation on throughout the race–
like a great mounting tide
driven on by savage northern gales,
surging over the dead black depths
roiling up from the bottom dark heaves of sand
and the headlands, taking the storm’s onslaught full-force,
roar, and the low moaning
echoes on and on
and now
as in ancient times I see the sorrows of the house,
the living heirs of the old ancestral kings,
piling on the sorrows of the dead
and one generation cannot free the next–
some god will bring them crashing down,
the race finds no release.
And now the light, the hope
springing up from the late last root
in the house of Oedipus, that hope’s cut down in turn
by the long, bloody knife swung by the gods of death
by a senseless word
by fury at the heart.
Zeus,
yours is the power, Zeus, what man on earth
can override it, who can hold it back?
Power that neither Sleep, the all-ensnaring
no, nor the tireless months of heaven
can ever overmaster–young through all time,
mighty lord of power, you hold fast
the dazzling crystal mansions of Olympus.
And throughout the future, late and soon
as through the past, your law prevails:
no towering form of greatness
enters into the lives of mortals
free and clear of ruin.
True,
our dreams, our high hopes voyaging far and wide
bring sheer delight to many, to many others
delusion, blithe, mindless lusts
and the fraud steals on one slowly… unaware
till he trips and puts his foot into the fire.
He was a wise old man who coined
the famous saying: “Sooner or later
foul is fair, fair is foul
to the man the gods will ruin”–
He goes his way for a moment only
free of blinding ruin.
Enter Haemon from the palace.
Here’s Haemon now, the last of all your sons.
Does he come in tears for his bride,
his doomed bride, Antigone–
bitter at being cheated of their marriage?
Creon:
We’ll soon know, better than seers could tell us.
Turning to Haemon.
Son, you’ve heard the final verdict on your bride?
Are you coming now, raving against your father?
Or do you love me, no matter what I do?
Haemon:
Father, I’m your son… you in your wisdom
set my bearings for me–I obey you.
No marriage could ever mean more to me than you,
whatever good direction you may offer.
Creon:
Fine, Haemon.
That’s how you ought to feel within your heart,
subordinate to your father’s will in every way.
That’s what a man prays for: to produce good sons–
a household full of them, dutiful and attentive,
so they can pay his enemy back with interest
and match the respect their father shows his friend.
But the man who rears a brood of useless children,
what has he brought into the world, I ask you?
Nothing but trouble for himself, and mockery
from his enemies laughing in his face.
Oh Haemon,
never lose your sense of judgment over a woman.
The warmth, the rush of pleasure, it all goed cold
in your arms, I warn you… a worthless woman
in your house, a misery in your bed.
What wounds cut deeper that a loved one
turned against you? Spit her out,
like a mortal enemy–let the girl go.
Let her find a husband down among the dead.
Imagine it: I caught her in naked rebellion,
the traitor, the only one in the whole city.
I’m not about to prove myself a liar,
not to my people, no, I’m going to kill her!
That’s right–so let her cry for mercy, sing her hymns
to Zeus who defends all bonds of kindred blood.
Why, if I bring up my own kids to be rebels,
think what I’d suffer from the world at large.
Show me the man who rules his household well:
I’ll show you someone fit to rule the state.
That good man, my son,
I have every confidence he and he alone
can give commands and take them too. Staunch
in the storm of spears he’ll stand his ground,
a loyal, unflinching comrade at your side.
But whoever steps out of line, violates the laws
or presumes to hand out orders to his superiors,
he’ll win no praise from me. But that man
the city places in authority, his orders
must be obeyed, large and small,
right and wrong.
Anarchy–
show me a greater crime in all the earth!
She, she destroys cities, rips up houses,
breaks the ranks of spearmen into headlong rout.
But the ones who last it out, the great mass of them
owe their lives to discipline. Therefore
we must defend the men who live by law,
never let some woman triumph over us.
Better to fall from power, if fall we must,
at the hands of a man–never be rated
inferior to a woman, never.
Leader:
To us,
unless old age has robbed us of our wits,
you seem to say what you have to say with sense.
Haemon:
Father, only the gods endow a man with reason,
the finest of all their gifts, a treasure.
Far be it from me–I haven’t the skill,
and certainly no desire, to tell you when,
if ever, you make a slip in speech… though
someone else might have a good suggestion.
Of course it’s not for you,
in the normal run of things, to watch
whatever men say or do, or find to criticize.
The man in the street, you know, dreads your glance,
he’d never say anything displeasing to your face.
But it’s for me to catch the murmurs in the dark,
the way the city mourns for this young girl.
“No woman,” they say, “ever deserved death less,
and such a brutal death for such a glorious action.
She, with her own dear brother lying in his blood–
she couldn’t bear to leave him dead, unburied,
food for the wild dogs or wheeling vultures.
Death? She deserves a glowing crown of gold!”
So they say, and the rumor spreads in secret,
darkly…
I rejoice in your success, father–
nothing more precious to me in the world.
What medal of honor brighter to his children
than a father’s growing glory? Or a child’s
to his proud father? Now don’t, please,
be quite so single-minded, self-involved,
or assume the world is wrong and you are right.
Whoever thinks that he alone possesses intelligence,
the gift of eloquence, he and no one else,
and character too… such men, I tell you,
spread them open–you will find them empty.
No,
it’s no disgrace for a man, even a wise man,
to learn many things and not be too rigid.
You’ve seen trees by a raging winter torrent,
how many sway with the flood and salvage every twig,
but not the stubborn–they’re ripped out, roots and all.
Bend or break. The same when a man is sailing:
haul your sheets too taut, never give an inch,
you’ll capsize, and go the rest of the voyage
keel up and the rowing-benches under.
Oh give way. Relax your anger–change!
I’m young, I know, but let me offer this:
it would be best by far, I admit,
if a man were born infallible, right by nature.
If not–and things don’t often go that way,
it’s best to learn from those with good advice.
Leader:
You’d do well, my lord, if he’s speaking to the point,
to learn from him,
Turning to Haemon:
and you, my boy, from him.
You both are talking sense.
Creon:
So,
men our age, we’re to be lectured, are we?–
schooled by a boy his age?
Haemon:
Only in what is right. But if I seem young,
look less to my years and more to what I do
Creon:
Do? Is admiring rebels an achievement?
Haemon:
I’d never suggest that you admire treason.
Creon:
Oh?–
isn’t that just the sickness that’s attacked her?
Haemon:
The whole city of Thebes denies it, to a man.
Creon:
And is Thebes about to tell me how to rule?
Haemon:
Now, you see? Who’s talking like a child?
Creon:
Am I to rule this land for others–or myself?
Haemon:
It’s no city at all, owned by one man alone.
Creon:
What? The city is the king’s–that’s the law!
Haemon:
What a splendid king you’d make of a desert island–
you and you alone.
Creon:
To the Chorus:
This boy, I do believe,
is fighting on her side, the woman’s side.
Haemon:
If you are a woman, yes–
my concern is all for you.
Creon:
Why, you degenerate–bandying accusations,
threatening me with justice, your own father!
Haemon:
I see my father offending justice–wrong.
Creon:
Wrong?
To protect my royal rights?
Haemon:
Protect your rights?
When you trample down the honors of the gods?
Creon:
You, you soul of corruption, rotten through–
woman’s accomplice!
Haemon:
That may be,
but you will never find me accomplice to a criminal.
Creon:
That’s what she is,
and every word you say is a blatant appeal for her–
Haemon:
And you, and me, and the gods beneath the earth.
Creon:
You will never marry her, not while she’s alive.
Haemon:
Then she will die… but her death will kill another.
Creon:
What, brazen threats? You go too far!
Haemon:
What threat?
Combating your empty, mindless judgments with a word?
Creon:
You’ll suffer for your sermons, you and your empty wisdom!
Haemon:
If you weren’t my father, I’d say you were insane.
Creon:
Don’t flatter me with Father–you woman’s slave!
Haemon:
You really expect to fling abuse at me
and not receive the same?
Creon:
Is that so!
Now, by heaven, I promise you, you’ll pay–
taunting, insulting me! Bring her out,
that hateful–she’ll die now, here,
in front of his eyes, beside her groom!
Haemon:
No, no, she will never die beside me–
don’t delude yourself. And you will never
see me, never set eyes on my face again.
Rage your heart out, rage with friends
who can stand the sight of you. Rushing out
Leader:
Gone, my king, in a burst of anger.
A temper young as his… hurt him once,
he may do something violent.
Creon:
Let him do–
dream up something desperate, past all human limit!
Good riddance. Rest assured,
he’ll never save those two young girls from death.
Leader:
Both of them, you really intend to kill them both?
Creon:
No, not her, the one whose hands are clean–
you’re quite right.
Leader:
But Antigone–
what sort of death do you have in mind for her?
Creon:
I will take her down some wild, desolate path
never trod my men, and wall her up alive
in a rocky vault, and set out short rations,
just the measure piety demands
to keep the entire city free of defilement.
There let her pray to the one god she worships:
Death–who knows?–maybe just reprieve her from death.
Or she may learn at last, better late than never,
what a waste of breath it is to worship Death. Exit to the palace.
Chorus:
Love, never conquered in battle
Love the plunderer laying waste the rich!
Love standing the night-watch
guarding a girl’s soft cheek,
you range the seas, the shepherd’s steadings off in the wilds–
not even the deathless gods can flee your onset,
nothing human born for a day–
whoever feels your grip is driven mad.
Love!–
you wrench the minds of the righteous into outrage,
swerve them to their ruin–you have ignited this,
this kindred strife, father and son at war
and Love alone the victor–
warm glance of the bride triumphant, burning with desire!
Throned in power, side-by-side with the mighty laws!
Irresistible Aphrodite, never conquered–
Love, you mock us for your sport.
Antigone is brought from the palace under guard.
But now, even I would rebel against the king,
I would break all bounds when I see this–
I fill with tears, I cannot hold them back,
not any more… I see Antigone make her way
to the bridal vault where all are laid to rest.
Antigone:
Look at me, men of my fatherland,
setting out on the last road
looking into the last light of day
the last I will ever see…
the god of death who puts us all to bed
takes me down to the banks of Acheron alive–
denied my part in the wedding-songs,
no wedding-song in the dusk has crowned my marriage–
I go to wed the lord of the dark waters.
Chorus:
Not crowned with glory or with a dirge,
you leave for the deep pit of the dead.
No withering illness laid you low,
no strokes of the sword–a law to yourself,
alone, no mortal like you, ever, you go down
to the halls of Death alive and breathing.
Antigone:
But think of Niobe–well I know her story–
think what a living death she died,
Tantalus’ daughter, stranger queen from the east:
there on the mountain heights, growing stone
binding as ivy, slowly walled her round
and the rains will never cease, the legends say
the snows will never leave her…
wasting away, under her brows the tears
showering down her breasting ridge and slopes–
a rocky death like hers puts me to sleep.
Chorus:
But she was a god, born of gods,
and we are only mortals born to die.
And yet, of course, it’s a great thing
for a dying girl to hear, even to hear
she shares a destiny equal to the gods,
during life and later, once she’s dead.
Antigone:
O you mock me!
Why, in the name of all my fathers’ gods
why can’t you wait until I am gone–
must you abuse me to my face?
O my city, all your fine rich sons!
And you, you springs of the Dirce,
holy grove of Thebes where the chariots gather,
you at least, you’ll bear me witness, look,
unmourned by friends and forced by such crude laws
I go to my rockbound prison, strange new tomb–
always a stranger, O dear god,
I have no home on earth and none below,
not with the living, not with the breathless dead.
Chorus:
You went too far, the last limits of daring–
smashing against the high throne of Justice!
Your life’s in ruins, child–I wonder…
do you pay for your father’s terrible ordeal?
Antigone:
There–at last you’ve touched it, the worst pain
the worst anguish! Raking up the grief for father
three times over, for all the doom
that’s struck us down, the brilliant house of Laius.
O mother, your marriage bed
the coiling horrors, the coupling there–
you with your own son, my father–doomstruck mother!
Such, such were my parents, and I their wretched child.
I go to them now, cursed, unwed, to share their home–
I am a stranger! O dear brother, doomed
in your marriage–your marriage murders mine,
your dying drags me down to death alive!
Enter Creon.
Chorus:
Reverence asks some reverence in return–
but attacks on power never go unchecked,
not by the man who holds the reins of power.
Your own blind will, your passion has destroyed you.
Antigone:
No one to weep for me, my friends,
no wedding-song–they take me away
in all my pain… the road lies open, waiting.
Never again, the law forbids me to see
the sacred eye of day. I am agony!
No tears for the destiny that’s mine,
no loved one mourns my death.
Creon:
Can’t you see?
If a man could wail his own dirge before he dies,
he’d never finish.
To the guards: Take her away, quickly!
Wall her up in the tomb, you have your orders.
Abandon her there, alone, and let her choose00
death or a buried life with a good roof for shelter.
As for myself, my hands are clean. This young girl–
dead or alive, she will be stripped off her rights,
her stranger’s rights, here in the world above.
Antigone:
O tomb, my bridal-bed–my house, my prison
cut in the hollow rock, my everlasting watch!
I’ll soon be there, soon embrace my own,
the great growing family of our dead
Persephone has received among her ghosts.
I,
the last of them all, the most reviled by far,
go down before my destined time’s run out.
But still I go, cherishing one good hope:
my arrival may be dear to father,
dear to you, my mother,
dear to you, my loving brother, Eteocles–
When you died I washed you with my hands,
I dressed you all, I poured the sacred cups
across your tombs. But now, Polynices,
because I laid your body out as well,
this, this is my reward. Nevertheless
I honored you–the decent will admit it–
well and wisely too.
Never, I tell you.
if I had been the mother of children
or if my husband died, exposed and rotting–
I’d never have taken this ordeal upon myself,
never defied our people’s will. What law,
you ask, do I satisfy with what I say?
A husband dead, there might have been another.
A child by another too, if I had lost the first.
But mother and father both lost in the halls of Death,
no brother could ever spring to light again.
For this law alone I held you first in honor.
For this, Creon, the king, judges me a criminal
guilty of dreadful outrage, my dear brother!
And now he leads me off, a captive in his hands,
with no part in the bridal-song, the bridal-bed,
denied all the joys of marriage, raising children–
deserted so by loved ones, struck by fate,
I descend alive to the caverns of the dead.
What law of the mighty gods have I transgressed?
Why look to the heavens any more, tormented as I am?
Whom to call, what comrades now? Just think,
my reverence only brands me for irreverence!
Very well: if this is the pleasure of the gods,
once I suffer I will know that I was wrong.
But if these men are wrong, let them suffer
nothing worse than they mete out to me–
these masters of injustice!
Leader:
Still the same rough winds, the wild passion
raging through the girl.
Recent Comments