Creon:
To the guards: take her away.
You’re wasting time–you’ll pay for it too.
Antigone:
Oh god, the voice of death. It’s come, it’s here.
Creon:
True. Not a word of hope–your doom is sealed.
Antigone:
Land of Thebes, city of all my fathers–
O you gods, the first gods of the race!
They drag me away, now, no more delay.
Look on me, you noble sons of Thebes–
the last of a great line of kings,
I alone, see what I suffer now
at the hands of what breed of men–
all for reverence, my reverence for the gods!
She leaves under guard: the Chorus gathers.
Chorus:
Danae, Danae–
even she endured a fate like yours,
in all her lovely strength she traded
the light of day for the bolten brazen vault–
buried within her tomb, her bridal chamber,
wed to the yoke and broken.
But she was of glorious birth
my child, my child
and treasured the seed of Zeus within her womb,
the cloudburst streaming of gold!
The power of fate is a wonder,
dark, terrible wonder–
neither wealth nor armies
towered walls nor ships
black hulls lashed by the salt
can save us from that force.
The yoke tamed him too
young Lycurgus flaming in anger
king of Edonia, all for his mad taunts
Dionysus clamped him down, encased
in the chain-mail of rock
and there his rage
his terrible flowering rage burst–
sobbing, dying away… at last that madman
came to know his god–
the power he mocked, the power
he taunted in all his frenzy
trying to stamp out
the women strong with the god–
the torch, the raving sacred cries–
enraging the Muses who adore the flute.
And far north where the Black Rocks
cut the sea in half
and murderous straits
split the coast of Thrace
a forbidden city stands
where once, hard by the walls
the savage Ares thrilled to watch
a king’s new queen, a Fury rearing in rage
against his two royal sons–
her bloody hands, her dagger-shuttle
stabbing out their eyes–cursed, blinding wounds–
their eyes blind sockets screaming for revenge!
They wailed in agony, cries echoing cries
the princes doomed at birth…
and their mother doomed to chains,
walled up in a tomb of stone–
but she traced her own birth back
to a proud Athenian line and the high gods
and off in caverns half the world away,
born of the wild North Wind
she sprang on her father’s gales,
racing stallions up the leaping cliffs–
child of the heavens. But even on her the Fates
the gray everlasting Fates rode hard
my child, my child.
Enter Tiresias, the blind prophet, led by a boy.
Tiresias:
Lords of Thebes,
I and the boy have come together,
hand in hand. Two see with the eyes of one…
so the blind must go, with a guide to lead the way.
Creon:
What is it, old Tiresias? What news now?
Tiresias:
I will teach you. And you obey the seer.
Creon:
I will,
I’ve never wavered from your advice before.
Tiresias:
And so you kept the city straight on course.
Creon:
I owe you a great deal, I swear to that.
Tiresias:
Then reflect, my son: you are poised,
once more, on the razor-edge of fate.
Creon:
What is it? I shudder to hear you.
Tiresias:
You will learn
when you listen to the warnings of my craft.
As I sat on the ancient seat of augury,
in the sanctuary where every bird I know
will hover at my hands–suddenly I heard it,
a strange voice in the wingbeats, unintelligible,
barbaric, a mad scream! Talons flashing, ripping,
they were killing each other–that much I knew–
the murderous fury whirring in those wings
made that much clear!
I was afraid,
I turned quickly, tested the burnt-sacrifice,
ignited the altar at all points–but no fire,
the god in the fire never blazed.
Not from those offerings… over the embers
slid a heavy ooze from the long thighbones,
smoking, sputtering out, and the bladder
puffed and burst–spraying gal into the air–
and the fat wrapping the bones slithered off
and left them glistening white. No fire!
The rites failed that might have blazed the future
with a sign. So I learned from the boy here:
he is my guide, as I am guide to others.
And it is you–
your high resolve that sets this plague on Thebes.
The public altars and sacred hearths are fouled,
one and all, by the birds and dogs with carrion
torn from the corpse, the doomstruck son of Oedipus!
And so the gods are deaf to our prayers, they spurn
the offerings in our hands, the flame of holy flesh.
No birds cry out an omen clear and true–
they’re gorged with the murdered victim’s blood and fat.
Take these things to heart, my son, I warn you.
All men make mistakes, it is only human.
But once the wrong is done, a man
can turn his back on folly, misfortune too,
if he tries to make amends, however low he’s fallen,
and stops his bullnecked ways. Stubbornness
brands you for stupidity–pride is a crime.
No, yield to the dead!
Never stab the fighter when he’s down.
Where’s the glory, killing the dead twice over?
I mean you well. I give you sound advice.
It’s best to learn from a good adviser
when he speaks for your own good:
it’s pure again.
Creon:
Old man–all of you! So,
you shoot your arrows at my head like archers at the target–
I even have him loosed on me, this fortune-teller.
Oh his ilk has tried to sell me short
and ship me off for years. Well,
drive your bargains, traffic–much as you like–
in the gold of India, silver-gold of Sardis.
You’ll never bury that body in the grave,
not even if Zeus’s eagles rip the corpse
and wing their rotten pickings off to the throne of god!
Never, not even in fear of such defilement
will I tolerate his burial, that traitor.
Well I know, we can’t defile the gods–
no mortal has the power.
No,
reverend old Tiresias, all men fall,
it’s only human, but the wisest fall obscenely
when they glorify obscene advice with rhetoric–
all for their own gain.
Tiresias:
Oh god, is there a man alive
who knows, who actually believes…
Creon:
What now?
What earth-shattering truth are you about to utter?
Tiresias:
…just how much a sense of judgment, wisdom
is the greatest gift we have?
Creon:
Just as much, I’d say,
as a twisted mind is the worst affliction known.
Tiresias:
You are the one who’s sick, Creon, sick to death.
Creon:
I am in no mood to trade insults with a seer.
Tiresias:
You have already, calling my prophecies a lie.
Creon:
Why not?
You and the whole breed of seers are mad for money!
Tiresias:
And the whole race of tyrants lusts for filthy gain.
Creon:
This slander of yours–
are you aware you’re speaking to the king?
Tiresias:
Well aware. Who helped you save the city?
Creon:
You–
you have your skills, old seer, but you lust for injustice!
Tiresias:
You will drive me to utter the dreadful secret in my heart.
Creon:
Spit it out! Just don’t speak it out for profit.
Tiresias:
Profit? No, not a bit of profit, not for you.
Creon:
Know full well, you’re never buy off my resolve.
Tiresias:
Then know this too, learn this by heart!
The chariot of the sun will not race through
so many circuits more, before you have surrendered
one born of your own loins, your own flesh and blood,
a corpse for corpses given in return, since you have thrust
to the world below a child sprung for the world above,
ruthlessly lodged a living soul within the grave–
then you’ve robbed the gods below the earth,
keeping a dead body here in the bright air,
unburied, unsung, unhallowed by the rites.
You, you have no business with the dead,
nor do the gods above–this is violence
you have forced upon the heavens.
And so the avengers, the dark destroyers late
but true to the mark, now lie in wait for you,
the Furies sent by the gods and the god of death
to strike you down with the pains that you perfected!
There. Reflect on that, tell me I’ve been bribed.
The day comes soon, no long test of time, not now,
when the mourning cries for men and women break
throughout your halls. Great hatred rises against you–
cities in tumult, all whose mutilated sons
the dogs have graced with burial, or the wild beasts
or a wheeling crow that wings the ungodly stench of carrion
back to each city, each warrior’s hearth and home.
These arrows for your heart! Since you’ve raked me
I loose them like an archer in my anger,
arrows deadly true. You’ll never escape
their burning, searing force
Motioning to his escort:
Come, boy, take me home.
So he can vent his rage on younger men,
and learn to keep a gentler tongue in his head
and better sense than what he carries now. Exit to the side.
Leader:
The old man’s gone, my king–
terrible prophecies. Well I know,
since the hair on this old head went gray,
he’s never lied to Thebes.
Creon:
I know it myself–I’m shaken, torn.
It’s a dreadful thing to yield… but resist now?
Lay my pride bare to the blows of ruin?
That’s dreadful too.
Leader:
But good advice,
Creon, take it now, you must.
Creon:
What should I do? Tell me… I’ll obey.
Leader:
Go! Free the girl from the rocky vault
and raise a mound for the body you exposed.
Creon:
That’s you advice? You think I should give in?
Leader:
Yes, my king, quickly. Disasters sent by the gods
cut short our follies in a flash.
Creon:
Oh it’s hard,
giving up the heart’s desire… but I will do it–
no more fighting a losing battle with necessity.
Leader:
Do it now, go, don’t leave it to others.
Creon:
Now–I’m on my way! Come, each of you,
take up axes, make for the high ground,
over there, quickly! I and my better judgment
have come round to this–I shackled her,
I’ll set her free myself. I am afraid…
it’s best to keep the established laws
to the very day we die.
Rushing out, followed by his entourage. The Chorus clusters around the altar.
Chorus:
God of a hundred names!
Great Dionysus–
Son and glory of Semele! Pride of Thebes–
Child of Zeus whose thunder rocks the clouds–
Lord of the famous lands of evening–
King of the Mysteries!
King of Eleusis, Demeter’s plain
her breasting hills that welcome in the world–
Great Dionysus!
Bacchus, living in Thebes
the mother-city of all your frenzied women–
Bacchus
living along the Ismenus’ rippling waters
standing over the field sown with the Dragon’s teeth!
You–we have seen you through the flaring smoky fires,
your torches blazing over the twin peaks
where nymphs of the hallowed cave climb onward
fired with you, your sacred rage–
we have seen you at Castalia’s running spring
and down from the heights of Nysa crowned with ivy
the greening shore rioting vines and grapes
down you come in your storm of wild women
ecstatic, mystic cries–
Dionysus–
down to watch and ward the roads of Thebes!
First of all cities, Thebes you honor first
you and your mother, bride of the lightning–
come, Dionysus! now your people lie
in the iron grip of plague,
come in your racing, healing stride
down Parnassus’ slopes
or across the moaning straits.
Lord of the dancing–
dance, dance the constellations breathing fire!
Great master of the voices of the night!
Child of Zeus, God’s offspring, come, come forth!
Lord, king, dance with your nymphs, swirling, raving
arm-in-arm in frenzy through the night
they dance you, Iacchus–
Dance, Dionysus
giver of all good things!
Enter a messenger from the side
Messenger:
Neighbors,
friends of the house of Cadmus and the kings,
there’s not a thing in this mortal life of ours
I’d praise or blame as settled once for all.
Fortune lifts and Fortune fells the lucky
and unlucky every day. No prophet on earth
can tell a man his fate. Take Creon:
there was a man to rouse your envy once,
as I see it. He saved the realm from enemies,
taking power, he alone, the lord of the fatherland,
he set us true on course–he flourished like a tree
with the noble line of sons he bred and reared…
and now it’s lost, all gone.
Believe me,
when a man has squandered his true joys,
he’s good as dead, I tell you, a living corpse.
Pile up riches in your house, as much as you like–
live like a king with a huge show of pomp,
but if real delight is missing from the lot,
I wouldn’t give you a wisp of smoke for it,
not compared with joy.
Leader:
What now?
What new grief do you bring to the house of kings?
Messenger:
Dead, dead–and the living are guilty of their death!
Leader:
Who’s the murderer? Who is dead? Tell us.
Messenger:
Haemon’s gone, his blood spilled by the very hand–
Leader:
His father’s or his own?
Messenger:
His own…
raging mad with his father for the death–
Leader:
Oh great seer,
you saw it all, you brought your word to birth!
Messenger:
Those are the facts. Deal with them as you will.
As he turns to go, Eurydice enters from the palace.
Leader:
Look, Eurydice. Poor woman, Creon’s wife,
so close at hand. By chance perhaps,
unless she’s heard the news about her son.
Eurydice:
My countrymen,
all of you–I caught the sound of your words
as I was leaving to do my part,
to appeal to queen Athena with my prayers.
I was just loosing the bolts, opening the doors,
when a voice filled with sorrow, family sorrow,
struck my ears, and I fell back, terrified,
into the women’s arms–everything went black.
Tell me the news, again, whatever it is…
sorrow and I are hardly strangers.
I can bear the worst.
Messenger:
I–dear lady,
I’ll speak as an eye-witness. I was there.
And I won’t pass over one word of the truth.
Why should I try to soothe you with a story,
only to prove a liar in a moment?
Truth is always best.
So,
I escorted your lord, I guided him
to the edge of the plain where the body lay,
Polynices, torn by the dogs and still unmourned.
And saying a prayer to Hecate of the Crossroads,
Pluto too, to hold their anger and be kind,
we washed the dead in a bath of holy water
and plucking some fresh branches, gathering…
what was left of him, we burned them all together
and raised a high mound of native earth, and then
we turned and made for that rocky vault of hers,
the hollow, empty bed of the bride of Death.
And far off, one of us heard a voice,
a long wail rising, echoing
out of that unhallowed wedding-chamber,
he ran to alert the master and Creon pressed on,
closer–the strange, inscrutable cry became sharper,
throbbing around him now, and he let loose
a cry of his own, enough to wrench the heart,
“Oh god, am I the prophet now? going down
the darkest road I’ve ever gone? My son–
it’s his dear voice, he greets me! Go, men,
closer, quickly! Go through the gap,
the rocks are dragged back–
right to the tomb’s very mouth–and look,
see if it’s Haemon’s voice I think I hear,
or the gods have robbed me of my senses.”
The king was shattered. We took his orders,
went and searched, and there in the deepest,
dark recesses of the tomb we found her…
hanged by the neck in a fine linen noose,
strangled in her veils–and the boy,
his arms flung around her waist,
clinging to her, wailing for his bride,
dead and down below, for his father’s crimes
and the bed of his marriage blighted by misfortune.
When Creon saw him, he gave a deep sob,
he ran in, shouting, crying out to him,
“Oh my child–what have you done? what seized you,
what insanity? what disaster drove you mad?
Come out, my son! I beg you on my knees!”
But the boy gave him a wild burning glance,
spat in his face, not a word in reply,
he drew his sword–his father rushed out,
running as Haemon lunged and missed!–
and then, doomed, desperate with himself,
suddenly leaning his full weight on the blade,
he buried it in his body, halfway to the hilt.
And still in his senses, pouring his arms around her,
he embraced the girl and breathing hard,
released a quick rush of blood,
bright red on her cheek glistening white.
And there he lies, body enfolding body…
he has won his bride at last, poor boy,
not here but in the houses of the dead.
Creon shows the world that of all the ills
afflicting men the worst is lack of judgment.
Eurydice turns and reenters the palace.
Leader:
What do you make of that? The lady’s gone,
without a word, good or bad.
Messenger:
I’m alarmed too
but here’s my hope–faced with her son’s death
she finds it unbecoming to mourn in public.
Inside, under her roof, she’ll set her women
to the task and wail the sorrow of the house.
She’s too discreet. She won’t do something rash.
Leader:
I’m not so sure. To me, at least,
a long heavy silence promises danger,
just as much as a lot of empty outcries.
Messenger:
We’ll see if she’s holding something back,
hiding some passion in her heart.
I’m going in. You may be right–who knows?
Even too much silence has its dangers. Exit to the palace.
Enter Creon from the side, escorted by attendants carrying Haemon’s body on a bier.
Leader:
The king himself! Coming toward us,
look, holding the boy’s head in his hands.
Clear, damning proof, if it’s right to say so–
proof of his own madness, no one else’s,
no, his own blind wrongs.
Creon:
Ohhh,
se senseless, so insane… my crimes,
my stubborn, deadly–
Look at us, the killer, the killed,
father and son, the same blood–the misery!
My plans, my mad fanatic heart,
my son, cut off so young!
Ai, dead, lost to the world,
not through your stupidity, no, my own.
Leader:
Too late,
too late, you see what justice means.
Creon:
Oh I’ve learned
through blood and tears! Then, it was then,
when the god came down and struck me–a great weight
shattering, driving me down that wild savage path,
ruining, trampling down my joy. Oh the agony,
the heartbreaking agonies of our lives.
Enter the Messenger from the palace.
Messenger:
Master,
what a hoard of grief you have, and you’ll have more.
The grief that lies to hand you’ve brought yourself–
Pointing to Haemon’s body.
the rest, in the house, you’ll see it all too soon.
Creon:
What now? What’s worse than this?
Messenger:
The queen is dead.
The mother of this dead boy… mother to the end–
poor thing, her wounds are fresh.
Creon:
No, no,
harbor of Death, so choked, so hard to cleanse!–
why me? why are you killing me?
Herald of pain, more words, more grief?
I died once, you kill me again and again!
What’s the report, boy… some news for me?
My wife’s dead? O dear god!
Slaughter heaped on slaughter?
The doors open; the body of Eurydice is brought out on her bier.
Messenger:
See for yourself:
now they bring her body from the palace.
Creon:
Oh no,
another, a second loss to break the heart.
What next, what fate still waits for me?
I just held my son in my arms and now,
look, a new corpse rising before my eyes–
wretched, helpless mother–O my son!
Messenger:
She stabbed herself at the altar,
then her eyes went dark, after she’d raised
a cry for the noble fate of Megareus, the hero
killed in the first assault, then for Haemon,
then with her dying breath she called down
torments on your head–you killed her sons.
Creon:
Oh the dread,
I shudder with dread! Why not kill me too?–
run me through with a good sharp sword?
Oh god, the misery, anguish–
I, I’m churning with it, going under.
Messenger:
Yes, and the dead, the woman lying there,
piles the guilt of all their deaths on you.
Creon:
How did she end her life, what bloody stroke?
Messenger:
She drove home to the heart with her own hand,
once she learned her son was dead… that agony.
Creon:
And the guilt is all mine–
can never be fixed on another man,
no escape for me. I killed you,
I, god help me, I admit it all!
To his attendants:
Take me away, quickly, out of sight.
I don’t even exist–I’m no more. Nothing.
Leader:
Good advice, if there’s any good in suffering.
Quickest is best when troubles block the way.
Creon:
Kneeling in prayer.
Come, let it come!–that best of fates for me
that brings the final day, best fate of all.
Oh quickly, now–
so I never have to see another sunrise.
Leader:
That will come when it comes;
we must deal with all that lies before us.
The future rests with the ones who tend the future.
Creon:
That prayer–I poured my heart into that prayer!
Leader:
No more prayers now. For mortal men
there is no escape from the doom we must endure.
Creon:
Take me away, I beg you, out of sight.
A rash, indiscriminate fool!
I murdered you, my son, against my will–
you too, my wife…
Wailing wreck of a man,
whom to look to? where to lean for support?
Desperately turning from Haemon to Eurydice on their biers.
Whatever I touch goes wrong–once more
a crushing fate’s come down upon my head!
The messenger and attendants lead Creon into the palace.
Chorus:
Wisdom is by far the greatest part of joy,
and reverence toward the gods must be safeguarded.
The mighty words of the proud are paid in full
with mighty blows of fate, and at long last
those blows will teach us wisdom.
The old citizens exit to the side.
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