The Complete Plays of Jean Racine

THE COMPLETE PLAYS OF JEAN RACINE

BY JEAN RACINE

TRANSLATED BY ROBERT BRUCE BOSWELL

eBook ISBN 13: 978-1-4209-4908-7

Print ISBN 13: 978-1-4209-4907-0

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CONTENTS

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE.

THE THEBAÏD.

ALEXANDER THE GREAT.

ANDROMACHE.

THE LITIGANTS.

BRITANNICUS.

BERENICE.

BAJAZET.

MITHRIDATES.

IPHIGENIA.

PHAEDRA.

ESTHER.

ATHALIAH.

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE.

The reign of Louis XIV. in France, like the age of Pericles at ancient Athens, was remarkable for literary-excellence no less than for military achievements. In dramatic poetry the names of Corneille, Molière, and Racine are not unworthy of comparison with those of Sophocles, Aristophanes, and Euripides. Like Euripides, Racine confined himself almost exclusively to tragedy; but as the former has left one Satyric drama,—the Cyclops,—as evidence of his capacity for sustained humour, so the latter has given us Les Plaideurs, as his sole contribution to the Comic Muse. In their distinguishing characteristics as authors, the two poets have points of resemblance. In both alike tenderness and sweetness are more conspicuous than sublimity and force. In each writer there is a curiosa felicitas of language that confers the stamp of originality upon the style rather than on the thoughts, which would often appear tame and commonplace if expressed in less fittingly chosen terms. This feature renders the task of a translator an especially difficult one, and demands the constant indulgence of a reader who has learned to appreciate those graces of diction which no foreign language can precisely imitate. In Racine, as in Euripides, the play of contending emotions is more prominently presented than sensational incidents of horror and bloodshed; and another common trait is the analytical and argumentative vein which occupies so large a space as often to tax the patience of the reader, and still more of the spectator who requires the constant stimulus of brisk and sparkling dialogue.

Racine's strict adherence to the unities of action, time, and place, as prescribed by Aristotle and enforced by the critical authority of Boileau,{1} is felt by an Englishman, accustomed to the unlicensed freedom of our own Elizabethan dramatists, as a needless restriction, which tends to render the action monotonous. But this, if it is to be regarded as a defect, is one from which the French stage has been slow to emancipate itself; and the genius of Racine was of such a kind as to conform itself to such shackles con amore, far more so than that of Corneille or Voltaire. The simplicity of plot in most of Racine's plays enables him to exert his peculiar excellence, the skill with which he can by constantly shifting the point of view introduce a. succession of novel effects with few materials. Not but that this simplicity is in some cases carried too far for a drama intended for representation on the stage; as, for instance, in Bérénice, where the changes are rung with wearisome iteration on the varying tones of disappointed love; whereas the tangled web of passion in such a play as Andromaque gives much greater scope f or sustaining the attention with growing interest to the end.

Born on or about December 21st, 1639, at the little town of La Ferté Milon, about equidistant from Meaux and Reims, Jean Racine was the son of a minor government official, who was charged with the collection of the salt tax, a position which gave him some degree of importance in the poet's native place. His family were well connected, and the ancestral arms were a rebus of a rat and a swan (rat-cygne). He was his father's only son, and bore his name. He had but one sister, Marie, about a year younger than himself. The two children were left orphans when Jean was only four years of age, and though they had a step-mother, she does not appear to have taken any interest in their subsequent fortunes. The brother and sister were adopted by their parents' families, Jean finding a home with his paternal grandfather, while their mother's father took care of little Marie. His grandfather died when Jean was only ten; but his grandmother, Marie des Moulins, continued to treat him as a son, and a tender attachment existed between them, as is shown by his correspondence with his sister, until her death in 1663, when he had already appeared before the world as a poet and dramatist.

He received his earliest education at the college, or grammar school, of Beauvais, leaving it at the age of sixteen for one of the three rural branches of the famous abbey of Port Royal, where he remained from 1655 till 1658. The Port Royalists are closely associated with the poet's subsequent career, and the religious influences which were then brought to bear upon his youthful mind were destined to assert themselves in later life in a way that, combined with disappointment and chagrin, changed him from a man of pleasure and fashion into a conscientious devotee; and the author of Esther and Athalie undoubtedly owed much to the pious Solitaires under whose charge he passed the most impressionable years of life. But at the time the ardent and imaginative youth chafed against the austere spirit that prevailed at the Petites Ecoles of Port Royal; and the somewhat narrow-minded strictness of their regulations long rankled in his bosom, and eventually found expression in a savage tirade against his old instructors, of which further mention will have to be made. A single incident will be sufficient to show both the zealous discipline to which he was subjected, and the determined spirit with which he resented opposition to his favourite tastes. A Greek romance, written in the fourth century of the Christian era, by a future Bishop of the Church, the Æthiopica of Heliodorus, having f alien into his hands, he was perusing it with the utmost avidity, when one of his masters, Claude Lancelot, snatched the volume from his hands, and threw it into the fire. The blameless adventures of Theagenes and Chariclea scarcely deserved such violent treatment, but the worthy man no doubt acted up to his light, and the mere name of a love story was probably quite enough to make him deem it pernicious. Young Racine's curiosity, however, was not to be so easily balked, and he managed to procure another copy. This too was confiscated by the zealous magister morum, and followed the fate of its predecessor. But the lad was more than a match for his tutor, and, recovering the forbidden treasure a third time, made himself master of its contents, and is even said to have learned them by heart. Then with triumphant impertinence he presented the book to Lancelot, saying: You may burn this, as you have done the others. The tale was one that lingered affectionately in his remembrance, and he was at one time intending to make it the subject of a play, as was actually done by Dorat about a hundred years afterwards. There are other stories told of him at this time which show that his memory was as retentive as his imagination was alert. Greek poetry was more to his taste than theological disquisitions, and he gave his good preceptors much anxiety and distress by the zest with which he devoured the Athenian dramatists, as contrasted with his disinclination for pious instruction. Sophocles and Euripides were his favourite authors. He could repeat large portions of their plays, and they were his chosen companions when he wandered through the woods, or buried himself in their deepest solitudes. He made copious notes in the margins of his pocket volumes, and essayed poetical compositions of his own on similar themes, a frivolous and dangerous amusement which, when discovered, drew down upon him the censure of the authorities, and, as a punishment, it was thought advisable to turn his gift to religious uses by setting him the task of translating the Latin hymns of his Breviary into French verse, an occupation to which he returned in the closing years of his life.

He left the Port Royalists before he was nineteen, and proceeded to Paris, in order to study philosophy and logic at the Collége ďHarcourt. But he appears to have devoted himself with more ardour to sociability and pleasure, with gay companions like the Abbé Le Vasseur and La Fontaine, to whom in his letters, and no doubt in his conversation at this period, he loved to mimic the pious phraseology of his former instructors. He was boarded with his cousin, Nicolas Vitard, who was steward to the Due de Luynes; and Racine himself, at a later time, formed one of that nobleman's household. In an amusing letter written to Le Vasseur from Chevreuse, near Versailles, he deplores his absence from Paris as an exile in Babylon, and describes his uncongenial duties in superintending the alterations at the Duke's château, which he varied by frequent visits to the neighbouring tavern, and by reading and writing poetry, with a soupçon of romantic adventure in connection with a lady who, as he enigmatically remarks, mistook me yesterday for a bailiff. In 1660 he made an unsuccessful attempt to get a play of his put upon the stage, which bore the title of Amasie, and another was at least taken in hand, if not completed. These efforts led him into the society of actors and actresses, and his friends of Port Royal grew more and more uneasy as to his manner of life. An ode that he wrote about this time in honour of the king's marriage with the Infanta Maria Theresa brought him the substantial reward of a hundred louis ďor. He entitled this effusion La Nymphe de la Seine. He had now given up all thoughts of his original destination, the legal profession, but was induced, in 1661, to prepare himself for holy orders at Uzès in Languedoc, with his maternal uncle, Père Sconin, who was willing to resign to him, when qualified, the benefice that he himself held, if there should be none other available. Racine remained at Uzès for a year and more, studying theology, but with his heart still devoted to the Muses, as is shown by his critical remarks upon Pindar and Homer, which he wrote while there. The clerical life was not one to which Racine's temperament, at least at this time, was at all adapted, and it was probably his sense of this incompatibility, as much as the difficulties which presented themselves in obtaining a satisfactory living, that determined his abandonment of a scheme which he had been led to adopt under strong pressure from without. He was, indeed, instituted prior of Epinay, but this was an office which could be held by a layman; and when it involved him in a lawsuit which threatened to be interminable, he did not care to retain it long after finding his true vocation as a dramatic author.

In 1663 Racine was once more in Paris, and made the acquaintance of Molière and Boileau. His friendship with the latter remained unbroken through life; but the former's kindness was repaid with a discourteous ingratitude which was unpardonable, and is, unfortunately, not the only instance of this blemish in his character. It was under Molière's friendly auspices that Racine's first published play, La Thébaïde, was put upon the stage. This was at the Palais Royal, Molière's own theatre, and it had a run of a dozen nights, and was revived the next season. It was in the same year (1664) that Louis XIV.'s recovery from the measles inspired our courtly poet to celebrate this important event in such flattering verses that he was rewarded with a pension of six hundred francs, and he was indebted to the munificence of the Court for many refreshers on other occasions.

His next play was Alexandre le Grand, which was also brought out by Molière, in December, 1665; and it was in connection with this arrangement that the rupture between the two had its origin. The sensitive poet seems to have been disgusted by the manner in which it was being acted; for, a fortnight after it had been put on the boards at the Palais Royal, Molière's company learned with astonishment and indignation that it was being simultaneously performed at a rival theatre, that of the Hôtel de Bourgogne. The actors at the Palais Royal punished the poet's underhand conduct by mulcting him of his share of the profits, and dividing them all among themselves. Another quarrel occurred about this time which reflects still less credit upon Racine's sense of generosity and gratitude. His friends of Port Royal, amongst whom were some of his own kinsfolk, regarded his career as a writer of plays, and his intimacy with actors and actresses, with alarm and aversion. His aunt, Agnès Racine, who was one of them, wrote him an affectionate letter of sorrowful remonstrance, the only immediate effect of which was a bitter resentment which soon afterwards found expression in a wholesale invective directed against the principles and practice of the Port Royalists. His wrath was aggravated by a pamphlet war between his old master, Pierre Nicole, and a certain Desmarets, who had attacked all Jansenists as heretics.{2} Nicole, in his reply, taunted Desmarets with having formerly written novels and plays, and took occasion to inveigh against all such people as public poisoners. Racine chose to consider himself personally insulted by these strictures, and wrote a couple of violent letters, in which he did all he could to expose the Port Royalists to ridicule and contempt. The publication of the first of these letters widened the breach that already existed between them and their headstrong protégé; but he was induced by the judicious advice of Boileau to forego his intention of sending the second letter also to the press, nor did it see the light of publicity till after the poet's death. He even endeavoured to arrest the sale of the first letter, and long afterwards, at a meeting of the Academy, referred to this incident as the most disgraceful spot in his life, and one that he would give his heart's blood to efface.

In 1667 one of his best tragedies, and by many it is reckoned his masterpiece, was acted at the Hôtel de Bourgogne. This was Andromaque, and the part of the heroine was taken by Mademoiselle du Parc, whom Racine persuaded to leave the Palais Royal for the purpose. Its success was immediate, and his reputation established as a formidable rival to Corneille. Nor has the verdict of posterity failed to confirm the judgment of his contemporaries. With the exception of Phèdre, no other of his tragedies has been more often represented at Parisian theatres, and the late G. H. Lewes, among English critics, has pronounced the character of Hermione to be the finest creation of Racine's genius.

Andromaque was followed in 1668 by his first and last comedy, Les Plaideurs; and the popularity of this clever travesty of law and lawyers has, like Cowper's John Gilpin, made the author's name familiar to many who have little or no acquaintance with his more serious work. He had himself had some experience of a court of justice. It has been already mentioned that he held for a time the title of Prior of Epinay; but his right was disputed, and the lawsuit that followed brought the whole matter into such a state of mystification and confusion that the prospect of any definite decision seemed as remote as the Greek Kalends. No. such witty satire had been directed against the gentlemen of the long robe since the days of Rabelais, though somehow it failed to make a hit at first, but when le grand monarque deigned to laugh at it, Paris began to see the joke, and laughed too.

Racine was now steadily producing a new drama almost every year; and between 1664 and 1677 ten of his plays were acted on the Paris boards. He only wrote two more, after a long interval, and those for a special purpose, and in quite another vein. In 1673 he received the blue ribbon of literary ambition, the honour of admission among the famous forty of the Académie Française, which had been founded by Richelieu in 1635. Four years later he was appointed to share with his friend Boileau the distinction of historiographer to the king, to which office there was attached the annual salary of 2,000 crowns. He was thus relieved from the necessity of supporting himself by writing for the stage, and this had probably as much to do with his long silence, which lasted from 1677 to 1689, as the annoyance and disappointment which he felt at the comparative failure of his latest and perhaps best classical tragedy, Phèdre. A plot had been set on foot by the Duchesse de Bouillon and others to damn the play by buying up all the best seats at the theatre of the Hôtel Bourgogne, where Phèdre was to appear, and by starting a rival drama at another house, composed by a bookseller's hack of the name of Pradon on the very same theme. For the first few nights Racine's play was acted to empty boxes, and though the triumph of his enemies was short lived, the poet's feelings were so deeply wounded that he renounced all further efforts to court the favour of the fickle public. He had even serious thoughts of forsaking the world altogether, and becoming a monk, but was persuaded to adopt what for him at least was no doubt a wiser course, and at the age of thirty-eight (1677) he married Catherine de Romanet, a simple minded but excellent woman, who had a little fortune of her own. As a husband and a father (he had a family of two sons and five daughters), he gave himself up to a blameless and domestic life, and a complete reconciliation with the Solitaires of Port Royal was cemented by a frank apology for the sarcasms which he had levelled against them ten years before. Boileau acted as peacemaker on this occasion, as he had endeavoured to do when the rupture took place, and it is amusing to learn how the austere Antoine Arnauld and Pierre Nicole were persuaded to read their old pupil's version of the time-honoured story of Phaedra and Hippolytus, and that the former relented so far as to praise the moral lesson which it taught, though he could not forgive him for trying to improve upon Euripides, and complained, Why did he make Hippolytus in love?

As the king's historiographers, Boileau and Racine accompanied his victorious troops on several campaigns, but neither of them did more than accumulate materials which were never reduced to any coherent and permanent shape. Like the younger poet, Boileau discontinued all other literary work for many years after his appointment to this office. The regularity of Racine's married life was all that his friends of Port Royal could desire. He mapped out his hours with methodical precision, giving one third of his day to devotional exercises, another to his professional avocations, and the remainder to his family and friends.

Madame de Maintenon, whom Louis XIV. had privately married in 1684, took a warm interest in a convent for the education of young ladies, which she had established at St. Cyr. Here it was the custom for the girls to recite plays at certain times, chiefly those of Corneille and Racine; and this they had done on one occasion with such evident relish for the tenderer passages, when Andromache had been selected for performance, that it was deemed unsuitable for repetition, and Racine was requested by Madame de Maintenon to write something expressly for her young charges of a more edifying tendency. Boileau advised him to decline the commission as one beneath his powers, but he was unwilling to offend Madame de Maintenon, and determined to do his best. The fruit of this resolution was the sacred drama of Esther, which was privately performed at the Maison de St. Cyr in 1689, and met with much applause. Encouraged by this success, he essayed a higher flight in Athalie, which was acted by the same young performers in 1691, and is justly regarded as the finest specimen of its kind. Neither of these sacred dramas was acted on a public stage till long after Racine's death, which occurred on the 12th of April, 1699. A short history of Port Royal was his last work, and formed a fitting conclusion to his chequered relations with that celebrated community; for therein he did full justice to the merits to which he had been blinded by passion in the hotter days of his theatrical career, and nobly repaid the debt of gratitude that he owed to those whose pious instructions had so long lain dormant but not dead, as testified by his subsequent conversion and the exalted religious sentiments of his later writings.

THE THEBAÏD.

OR, THE BROTHERS AT WAR.

A TRAGEDY.

1664.

INTRODUCTION TO THE THEBAÏD.

This play, which was first acted in 1664, when Racine was in his twenty-fifth year, is a tragedy founded upon the Seven against Thebes of Æschylus and the Phœnician Women of Euripides. The part of Hæmon is borrowed from the Antigone of Sophocles, and free use has been made of Rotrou's tragedy of the same name. The author, in the preface to this drama in his collected works, begs the reader's indulgence for its imperfections, in consideration of the early age at which he wrote it. He apologizes for the wholesale slaughter of nearly all the characters at its close on the ground that he has therein only followed tradition. Love occupies but a subsidiary place in the development of the plot, the main theme being the hatred between the sons of Œdipus, as inheritors of the curse pronounced against the latter for the parricide and incest of which he was unwittingly guilty.

The influence of Corneille is strongly marked in this the earliest of Racine's published plays; and neither in matter nor style is there more than a faint promise of original genius.

CHARACTERS.

ETEOCLES, King of Thebes.

POLYNICES, brother of Eteocles.

JOCASTA, mother of those two princes, and of Antigone.

ANTIGONE, sister of Eteocles and Polynices.

CREON, their uncle.

HÆMON, son of Creon, lover of Antigone.

OLYMPIA, confidential friend of Jocasta.

ATTALUS, confidential friend of Creon.

A SOLDIER of the army of Polynices.

Guards.

The scene is laid at Thebes, in a room of the palace.

THE THEBAÏD;

OR, THE BROTHERS AT WAR.

ACT I.

SCENE I. JOCASTA, OLYMPIA.

JOCASTA. Olympia, are they gone? What grief is mine,

To pay with weeping for one moment's rest!

For six long months mine eyes have open'd thus

Only to tears, nor ever closed in peace:

Ah, would that death might seal them up for aye,

Ere they behold this darkest deed of all!

Have they encountered?

OLYMPIA. From th' high city wall

I saw their hosts for battle all array'd,

Their bright arms flashing in the sun; then left

The ramparts straight to bring you word; for there

I saw the king himself march, sword in hand,

Before his troops, teaching the stoutest hearts

Surpassing eagerness to dare the worst.

JOCASTA. No doubt remains, Olympia, they are bent

On mutual slaughter. Let the Princess know,

And bid her hasten hither. Righteous Heav'n,

Support my weakness. We must after them,

Part these unnatural brothers, or else die

Slain by their hands. The fatal day is come,

Bare dread of which has fill'd me with despair?

Of no avail have been my prayers and tears;

The Fates not yet their wrath have satisfied.

О Sun, that givest light to all the world,

Why hast thou left us not in deepest night?

Shall thy fair beams on deeds of darkness shine,

Nor horror turn thine eyes from what we see?

Alas, such portents can appal no more,

The race of Laïus has made them trite;

Thou canst unmoved behold my guilty sons,

For crimes more heinous yet their parents wrought;

Thou dost not shudder if my sons forswear

Their solemn oaths, unnatural murderers both,

Knowing them from incestuous union born,

Rather would'st wonder were they virtuous.

SCENE II. JOCASTA, ANTIGONE, OLYMPIA.

JOCASTA. My daughter, have you heard our misery?

ANTIGONE. Yes, they have told me of my brothers' rage.

JOCASTA. Let us then hasten, dear Antigone,

To stop, if it may be, their fratricide.

Come, let us show them what they hold most dear,

And see if they will yield to our attack,

Or if in blinded frenzy they will dare

To shed our blood, ere each the other slays.

ANTIGONE. Mother, 'tis over! Eteocles is here!

SCENE III. JOCASTA, ETEOCLES, ANTIGONE, OLYMPIA.

JOCASTA. Your arm, Olympia! Anguish makes me weak.

ETEOCLES. Mother, what trouble ails you?

JOCASTA. Ah! my son!

Do not I see your raiment stain'd with blood?

Is it your brother's blood? Is it your own?

ETEOCLES. No, Madam, it is neither. In his camp

My brother Polynices loiters yet,

And will not meet my challenge face to face,

But only sent an Argive force, that dared

Dispute our sally from these walls; rash fools!

I made them bite the dust; their blood it is,

Which you may see.

JOCASTA. But what did you intend?

What sudden impulse led you, all at once,

To pour your troops upon the plain?

ETEOCLES. 'Twas time

I acted as I did, for, lingering here,

My fame grew tarnish'd, and hard words arose

Prom all the people, blaming me for sloth,

When loom'd already Famine's dreadful form;

I heard regrets that they had crown'd me king,

Complaints that I had fail'd to justify

Their choice to that high rank. So, come what may,

I must content them; Thebes from this day forth

Shall captive be no more; no troops of mine

Being left to overawe, let her decide,

Alone, the issue. I have men enough

To keep the field; if Fortune aid our arms,

Bold Polynices and his proud allies

Shall leave her free, or perish at my feet.

JOCASTA. Heav'ns! Could you let such blood your arms defile?

Has then the crown for you such fatal charm?

If only to be gain'd by fratricide,

Would my son wear it at a price so dear?

Does honour urge? With you alone it rests

To give us peace without recourse to crime,

And, vanquishing your savage wrath this day,

Your brother satisfy and reign with him.

ETEOCLES. To share my crown! And call you that to reign?

To tamely yield what my own right has giv'n!

JOCASTA. You know, my son, how birth and justice grant

This dignity to him as well as you;

How Œdipus, ere ending his sad course,

Ordain'd that each of you his year should reign,

And, having but one kingdom to bequeath,

Will'd you should both be rulers in your turn.

To these conditions you subscribed. The lot

Summon'd you first to pow'r supreme, and so

The throne you mounted, unopposed by him,

Unwilling now to let him take your place.

ETEOCLES. No, Madam; to the sceptre he has lost

All claim, since Thebes refused to ratify

Our compact, and, in making me her king,

'Tis she, not I, who barr'd him from the throne:

Has Thebes less reason now to dread his pow'r,

After six months of outrage at his hands?

How could she e'er obey that savage Prince

Who arms against her Famine and the Sword?

How could she take for king Mycenæ's slave,

Who for all Thebans hatred only feels?

Who, to the king of Argos basely bound,

Links him in marriage to our bitterest foes?

For Argos chose him for his son-in-law,

In hopes that by his means he might behold

Thebes laid in ashes. Love had little part

In such foul union; fury lit the torch

Of Hymen. Thebes, t'escape his chains, crown'd me,

Expects thro' me to see her troubles end,

Must needs accuse me if I play her false,—

I am her captive, I am not her king!

JOCASTA. Say, rather say, ungrateful heart and fierce,

Nought else can move you like the diadem.

Yet I am wrong; it is not royal rank,

But guilt alone, that has a charm for you.

Well, since your soul so hungers after that,

Why stop at fratricide? Slay me as well.

Seems it small sin to shed a brother's blood?

I offer you my own. Will that suffice?

Thus then will you have vanquish'd all your foes,

Removed all checks, committed every crime,

No hateful rival to the throne be left,

And you be greatest of all criminals!

ETEOCLES. What will content you, Madam? Must I leave

The throne, and crown my brother king instead?

Must I, to further your unjust design,

Own him as lord who is my subject now,

And, to advance you to your height of bliss,

Yield myself up a prey to his revenge?

Must I submit to die?—

JOCASTA. What words are these?

Good Heav'ns! How ill you read my secret heart I

I do not ask you to resign your sway;

Reign still, my son, for such is my desire;

But if my many woes can pity stir,

If in your breast you keep some love for me,

Or if your own unblemish'd fame be dear,

Then let your brother share that high estate;

Only an empty splendour will be his;

Your pow'r enhanced thereby will sweeter prove;

Your subjects all will praise the generous deed,

And ever wish to keep a prince so rare;

This noble act will not impair your rights,

But render you the greatest of all kings,

As the most just. Or, if you will not bend

To meet a mother's wish, if, at such price,

Peace seems impossible, and pow'r alone

Has charms for you; at least, to give me ease,

Suspend your arms. Grant to your mother's tears

This favour, while I seek your brother's camp:

Pity perchance may in his soul reside;

Or I at least may bid my last farewell.

This moment let me go, e'en to his tent,

And unattended; this shall be my hope;

My heart-felt sighs may move him to relent.

ETEOCLES. Mother, you need not go; here may you see

Your son again, if in that interview

You find such charms. It rests with him alone

To effect a truce. This very hour your wish

May be fulfill'd, this palace welcome him.

I will go further, and, that you may know

He wrongs me in imputing treachery,

And that I play no hateful tyrant's part,

Let sentence be pronounced by gods and men.

If so the people will, to him I yield

My place; but let him bow to their decree,

If it be exile; yea, I pledge my word,

Free and unfetter'd Thebes shall choose her king.

SCENE IV. JOCASTA, ETEOCLES, ANTIGONE, CREON, OLYMPIA.

CREON. The sally has alarm'd your subjects, sire;

Thebes at your fancied loss already weeps,

While horror and affright reign everywhere,

And people tremble gazing from the walls.

ETEOCLES. Soon shall their vain alarm be quieted.

Madam, I go to join my gallant troops;

Meanwhile you may accomplish your desires,

Bring Polynices in, and talk of peace.

Creon, the queen commands here in my room,

Prepare the people to obey her will;

Your son, Menæceus shall be left behind

To take and give her orders; him I choose,

For, high repute with all to valour join'd,

His merits will the timid reassure,

And give no handle to the enemy.

Command his service, Madam.

[to CREON.] Follow me.

CREON. What, sire!—

ETEOCLES. Yes, Creon, I am so resolv'd.

CREON. And do you thus resign your sovereign pow'r:

ETEOCLES. Whether I do or not, ne'er vex yourself;

Fulfil my bidding, and come after me.

SCENE V. JOCASTA, ANTIGONE, CREON, OLYMPIA.

CREON. What have you done? Madam, what course is this,

To make the conqueror seek ignoble flight?

Your counsel ruins all.

JOCASTA. Nay, all preserves;

For thus, and thus alone, can Thebes be saved.

CREON. What, Madam! when, (our state being strong as now,

Contingents of six thousand men and more

Swelling our ranks and promising success,)

The king lets victory from his hands be snatch'd!

JOCASTA. There may be conquest, yet no glory won;

Shame and remorse oft follow victory.

When brothers twain for mutual slaughter arm,

To part them not may be to lose them both:

Or if one conquer, to have suffer'd him

So to prevail were his worst injury.

CREON. Too high their wrath has ris'n—

JOCASTA. It may be calm'd.

CREON. Both wish to reign.

JOCASTA. And so in truth they shall.

CREON. Kings' majesty admits no partnership;

'Tis no commodity to be resign'd,

And then resumed.

JOCASTA. They shall accept as law

The interest of the State.

CREON. Which is to have

A single king. who. governing his realms

With constant sway, accustoms to his laws

People and Princes. But alternate rule

Would give two tyrants, when it gave two kings.

One brother would the other's work destroy

By contrary decrees; they'd ever be

Scheming to exercise despotic pow'r,

And public policy would change each year.

To put a period to their sovereignty

Means to give greater scope for violence.

Both in their turn would make their subjects groan;

Like mountain torrents lasting but a day,

Which any barrier makes more dangerous,

Ruin and misery must mark their course.

JOCASTA. Nay, rather shall we see the brothers vie

In noble schemes to win their country's love.

But, Creon, own that all your trouble springs

Prom fear lest peace should render treason vain,

Seat my sons firmly in the throne you seek,

And break the snares you set to catch their steps.

As at their death there falls by right of birth

Into your hands the sceptre, natural ties

Of common blood between you and my sons

Make you regard them as your greatest foes,

And your ambition, aiming at the crown,

Inspires a hatred which they share alike.

With dangerous counsels you infect the king,

And make a friend of one to ruin both.

CREON. I nourish no such fancies; for the king

My high respect is ardent and sincere;

And my ambition is not, as you think,

To reach the throne, but to maintain him there.

My sole concern is to exalt his pow'r;

I hate his foes, and there lies all my crime:

I care not to deny it. But, methinks,

This crime of mine finds no like feeling here.

JOCASTA. I am his mother, Creon; if I love

His brother, is the king less dear for that?

Let cringing courtiers hate him as they may,

A mother's tender heart beats ever true.

ANTIGONE. Your interest herein is one with ours,

The king has enemies that are not yours;

You are a father, and amongst his foes,

Consider, Creon, that your son is found,

For Polynices has no warmer friend

Than Hæmon.

CREON. True, nor am I less than just;

He holds in my regard a special place,

Which is, as it should be, to hate him more

Than any other; in just wrath I wish

That all might hate him as his father does.

ANTIGONE. After such valiant deeds as he has wrought,

The general feeling has another bent.

CREON. I see it, Madam, and I grieve thereat,

But know my duty when a son revolts;

All these grand exploits that have won him praise

Excite my just resentment. For Disgrace

Is ever constant to the rebel's side;

His bravest actions bring his greatest guilt,

The prowess of his arm but marks his crime,

And Glory scorns to own Disloyalty.

ANTIGONE. Heed better Nature's voice.

CREON. The dearer he

Who does th' offence, the more the ill is felt.

ANTIGONE. But should a father carry wrath so far?

You hate too much.

CREON. You are too lenient,

In pleading for a rebel you transgress.

ANTIGONE. The cause of Innocence is worth a word.

CREON. I know what makes his innocence for you.

ANTIGONE. And I what makes him hateful in your sight.

CREON. For Love sees not like common eyes.

JOCASTA. Beware

Of what my wrath can do, when you abuse

The liberty which may be stretch'd too far

And bring down ruin on your head at last.

ANTIGONE. The public good weighs little on his soul,

And Patriotism masks another flame.

I know it, Creon, but abhor a suit,

Which 'twere your wisdom to leave unexpress'd.

CREON. I'll do so, Madam; and, beginning now,

Will rid you of my presence. For I see

To pay you my respect but points your scorn:

My son,—more happy,—shall supply my room.

The king has summoned me, and I obey.

Haemon and Polynices,—send for them.

Farewell.

JOCASTA. Yes, wicked schemer, both will come,

And with united efforts foil your plots.

SCENE VI. JOCASTA, ANTIGONE, OLYMPIA.

ANTIGONE. The traitor! What a height of insolence!

JOCASTA. All his presumptuous words will turn to shame.

For soon, if our desires are heard in Heav'n,

Peace will ambition's retribution bring.

But every hour is precious, we must haste

And summon Haemon and your brother too;

I am prepared to grant them to this end

Whate'er safe conduct they think fit to ask.

And gracious Heav'n, if Justice may give pause

To my misfortunes, then incline to peace

The heart of Polynices; aid my sighs,

Make eloquent my trouble and my tears!

ANTIGONE. [alone.] If Heav'n can feel compassion for a flame

As innocent as mine, then bring me back

My Hæmon faithful still, and grant to-day

That with my lover Love himself may come.

ACT II.

SCENE I. ANTIGONE, HÆMON.

HÆMON. What! Will you rob me of the face I love

So soon, when I have suffer'd a whole year

Of absence? Have you call'd me to your side

To snatch away again so sweet a prize?

ANTIGONE. Shall I so soon, then, cast a brother off,

And let my mother seek the gods alone?

Ought I to shape my duty to your wish,

Think but of love, and care for peace no more?

HÆMON. No duty bids thee thwart my happiness;

They can consult the oracle full well

Without us. Let me rather at your eyes

Question my heart's Divinity what fate

Is mine. Should I be overbold to ask

If their accustom'd sweetness welcome still

The thought of my affection, nor resent

My ardour? Can they pity where they wound?

While cruel absence dragg'd its weary course,

Say, have you wish'd me to be faithful still?

Thought you how Death was threat'ning, far from you,

A lover who should die but at your knees?

Ah! when such beauty penetrates the soul,

When the heart dares to lift its hopes to you,

How sweet to worship charms divinely fair!

What torture when they vanish out of sight!

Each moment's separation seem'd an age;

And I had long since closed my sad career,

Had I not trusted, till I might return,

That absence would to you be proof of love,

And my obedience in your memory dwell

To plead for me while banish'd from your face;

And that each thought of me would make you think,

How great must be the love that thus obeys.

ANTIGONE. Yes, I knew well that such a faithful soul

Would find the pain of absence hard to bear;

And, if I may my secret thoughts reveal,

The wish would sometimes come that you might feel

Some shade of bitterness, to make the days,

Parted from me, seem longer than before.

But blame me not, for mine own heart was full

Of sorrow, and but wish'd that you might share

Its load, grown yet more heavy since the war

Brought your invading forces on this land

Ah! with what anguish did I then behold

My dearest on opposing sides array'd!

With countless pangs my heart was torn to see

Loved ones without our walls, loved ones within:

At each assault a thousand terrors clash'd

In conflict, and a thousand deaths I died.

HÆMON. Tis pitiful indeed; but have I done

Aught but as you yourself directed me?

In following Polynices I obey'd

Your wish; nay more, your absolute command.

A friend's devoted heart I pledg'd him then,

Quitted my country, left my father's side,

Thereby incurring his indignant wrath,

And, worst of all, banish'd myself from you.

ANTIGONE. I bear it all in mind; Haemon is right,

In serving Polynices, me you serv'd.

Dear was he then to me, and dear to-day,

All that was done for him was done for me.

We loved each other from our tenderest years,

And o'er his heart I held unrivall'd sway;

To please him was my chief delight, to share

His sorrows was the sister's privilege.

О that such pow'r to move him still were mine!