CHAPTER III.
ŒDIPUS AT COLONUS.
Years are supposed to have passed away since the curtain fell on the horrors of the preceding tragedy. In the first burst of his despair, the one wish of Œdipus had been to leave Thebes with all its associations of guilt and misery, and to bury himself far from the haunts of men in the solitude of the desert. But an oracle forced him to remain on the scene of his crimes. Time gradually cooled his passion, and taught him resignation. Life once more gave him a taste of pleasure in the tender affection of his daughters; and it seemed as if the gods themselves had relented, and would allow him to die in peace. But Creon (his successor on the throne), with the consent, if not at the suggestion, of his own sons, Eteocles and Polynices, drove the aged king forth from Thebes, to be a wanderer on the face of the earth. Their excuse for this unnatural cruelty was, that they feared lest he should bring pollution on the land; but why (as Œdipus himself asks) had they waited these many years before they discovered the danger?
And so it came to pass that Œdipus left Thebes, bitterly denouncing the ingratitude of his sons, and praying that sooner or later they might feel the weight of a father's curse. (In the "Seven against Thebes" of Æschylus, it has already been told how terribly this curse was fulfilled.[1]) The daughters proved kinder than the sons. Ismene indeed stayed at Thebes, but her heart was with her father in his exile; while Antigone, with unflinching affection, had guided his steps in his wanderings from city to city. Œdipus himself, in this play, describes how her tender affection for him knew no rest, and how she,
"Still wandering sadly with me evermore,
Leads the old man through many a wild wood's paths,
Hungry and footsore, threading on her way.
And many a storm, and many a scorching sun,
Bravely she bears, and little recks of home,
So that her father find his daily bread."—(P.)
The reader of Dickens—and the modern novehst is not unworthy, perhaps, of comparison with the Athenian poet—will remember the picture of "little Nell."
But, in spite of all these hardships, we can well imagine the delight it must have been to escape from the polluted city to the fresh pure breezes of Cithæron or Hymettus, and how
"The pair
Wholly forgot their first sad life, and home,
And all that Theban woe, and ever stray
Through sunny glens, or on the warm sea-shore,
In breathless quiet after all their ills;
Nor do they see their country, nor the place
Where the Sphinx lived among the frowning hills,
Nor the unhappy palace of their race,
Nor Thebes, nor the Ismenus, any more."[2]
For many months the father, led by the child, had roamed, dependent on the chance liberality of strangers, until they reach the spot where the play opens, the village of Colonus, a mile to the north of Athens, the birthplace of the poet.
And here let us notice the contrast, shown even in the first few lines of the play, between Œdipus the kiug and Œdipus the exile. It is as great as that between Lear in his palace and Lear in the hovel on the heath. The hot and furious temper has been chastened; the proud heart has been humbled in the dust; the spirit which had been so impatient of the advice of Creon and of the warnings of Teiresias—which had thrown impious doubt on the truth of heaven—has been taught a lesson of patience and contentment, as Œdipus says himself, "by his afflictions, by the hand of time, by the force of a noble nature.""Œdipus the Great," as he had proudly termed himself to the admiring Thebans, is no more; and we see instead an aged and sightless exile, clothed in rags, leaning on the arm of his helpless daughter. But he has gained more than he has lost. Those powers of destiny which had tried him, as he thought, with such wanton and relentless cruelty in former days, are changed to beneficent spirits who guide him by the hand to the bourne of his earthly pilgrimage. Though stripped of his kingdom, he has acquired peace and serenity of mind. "The storm of passion has subsided, and left him calm and firm. He is conscious of a charmed life, safe from the malice of men and the accidents of nature, and reserved by the gods for the accomplishment of high purposes."[3] Ducis, in his play of 'Œdipe,' makes the king himself describe the change which had come over his troubled spirit in some eloquent lines:—
"Sur mon front, cependant, dis-moi, reconnais-tu
L'inaltérable paix qui reste à la vertu?
Je marche sans remords vers mon dernier asile:
Œdipe est malheureux, mais Œdipe est tranquille."
The scenery of Colonus has scarcely changed since the days when Sophocles described his birthplace. The landscape has that enduring beauty which Byron noticed as characteristic of Greece in a well-known passage—
"Yet are thy skies as blue, thy crags as wild,
Sweet are thy groves, and verdant are thy fields,
Thine olive ripe, as when Minerva smiled,
And still his honied wealth Hymettus yields."[4]
A modern traveller[5] has in the same way described the rich contrast of colours which pervades this spot—the sombre green of the bay and myrtle relieved by the golden orange-bloom, the red pomegranate, and the purple clusters of the vine. Colonus was, besides, rich in sacred associations; all around it lay "holy ground." Not only had Poseidon, the god of horses, and the Titan Prometheus, made the place their own, but there was here also a grove dedicated to the "Gentle Goddesses" (as those whom we otherwise know as the Furies were called, by one of those pious euphemisms common in Greek speech), within whose precincts no profane foot might tread, whose awful name no mortal might presume to utter, and by whose shrine their very worshippers pass "in silence and with averted eyes."
But Œdipus and his daughter know nothing of the sacred character of the spot to which they have wandered; and Antigone cannot even tell her father the name of the stately city, whose "diadem of towers" is seen in the distance. The aged king, wearied by his journey, sits down to rest his limbs on a rough unhewn stone within the sacred precinct of the goddesses. Then there enters a wayfarer from Athens, who, horror-struck at the apparent profanation, bids him leave a spot where "man neither comes nor dwells." But Œdipus, who has caught the name of the dread goddesses, recognises the "sign of his fate," and will not move; and at length the Athenian, impressed by the dignified earnestness of his tone and manner, leaves the stage to summon his townsmen of Colonus.
Then Œdipus, left alone with his daughter, addresses a solemn prayer to the dread powers at whose shrine he is a suppliant:—
"O dread and awful beings, since to halt
On your ground first I bent my wearied limbs,
Be ye not harsh to Phœbus and to me!
For he, when he proclaimed my many woes,
Told of this respite after many years,
That I should claim a stranger's place, and sit
A suppliant at the shrine of dreaded gods,
And then should near the goal of woe-worn life,—
To those who should receive me bringing gain;
To those who sent me—yea, who drove me—evil;
And that sure signs should give me pledge of this,
Earthquake, or thunder, or the flash of Zeus.
*******
Come, ye sweet daughters of the Darkness old!
Come, O thou city bearing Pallas' name,
O Athens, of all cities most renowned!
Have pity on this wasted spectral form
That once was Œdipus."—(P.)
The aged citizens of Colonus, who form the Chorus, now enter, in a fever of indignation that any stranger should have ventured to set foot within the holy grove of the "Virgin Goddesses;" and at last Œdipus, taught by his adversity not to "war with fate" or to offend pious scruples, allows Antigone to lead him from the precinct. The Chorus, with an undignified curiosity which contrasts with the simple yet refined courtesy of the Homeric times, ask a string of questions as to the stranger's name and birth. When Œdipus reluctantly confesses that he is "the son of Laius," they bid him instantly depart from their coasts, lest he bring the same pollution upon Attica which he had brought on Thebes; and not even the piteous entreaties of Antigone can prevail on them to change this decision.
Œdipus indignantly protests against such churlish denial of hospitality. What will become, he says, of the "fame and fair report" which Athens has earned as the chivalrous protector of the helpless and oppressed, if they refuse shelter to a poor outcast like himself, who, after all, has been "more sinned against than sinning"? Let them not bring shame upon a city which boasts itself to be especially favoured by the gods, by dishonouring a suppliant whom these very gods protect, and who brings with him blessing and profit to the land. And then Œdipus wisely "appeals to Cæsar." Theseus, their king, shall hear his story, and his subjects must bow to his decision.
At this point a fresh channel is given to the current of the action by the sudden advent of a woman, who is seen riding towards Colonus mounted on a horse of Sicilian breed; and almost before Antigone has recognised her for certain, she is in the arms of her "own dear sister Ismene." She brings news from Thebes. The curse of the father is already being fulfilled to the destruction of his sons. An "evil spirit from the gods," working upon their own vile passions, has driven them into open war for the crown of Thebes. Polynices, exiled by his younger brother, has
"Fled to the vales of Argos, and contracts
A new alliance, arms his martial friends,
And vaunts that Argos shall requite his wrongs
On guilty Thebes, and raise his name to heaven."—(D.)
Moreover, continues Ismene, an oracle has declared that the issue of the struggle depends on Œdipus. "Dead or living," his body will decide the fortunes of the war; and Creon is even now on his way to take possession of his person, and to bring him near the borders of the Theban land, intending to keep him a prisoner there until his death, when his tomb would serve as a fortress against the enemies of Thebes.
Œdipus is more bitterly incensed than ever at the heartless and selfish conduct of his sons. They had acquiesced in the sentence which had doomed him to poverty and exile; they had suffered him to be cast forth from his home and country, when "one small word," spoken by them in his defence, would have saved him from such dishonour; they had rioted in luxury while he wandered a miserable outcast, dependent on his daughter's aid;—and now, to suit their own ambitious purposes, they would force him to return to Thebes. Never will he so return, he emphatically declares—so help him those dread powers who are now his guardians. He will remain on the spot to which his destinies have brought him, and prove himself in very truth the "great deliverer" of Athens, the city which has given him refuge.
The Chorus now instruct him that, if he really mshes to befriend their city, he must first make his peace with the Avengers of the dead, and offer libations in their honour according to a solemn and mysterious ritual. From a vase crowned with "a wreath of snow-white lamb's-wool" he must pour streams of pure water mingled with honey, turning to the east, and strew on either side of him "thrice nine olive-branches." Then he may utter a whispered prayer to the goddesses, and so obtain at their hands rest and pardon.
But Œdipus has not the strength for this ceremonial, and he deputes his daughters to pour the libations in his stead—giving as his reason what seems an unconscious prophecy of One whose life was offered as "a ransom for many"—
"For one soul working in the strength of love
Is mightier than ten thousand to atone."[6]
Perhaps, too, there was mingled with this reluctance the same feeling which made David shrink from consecrating the Temple. The offering to the Virgin Goddesses would surely be more acceptable from the pure hands of his daughters than from his, who had been "a man of war from his youth." So Horace afterwards declared that the flowers and meal-cakes of his village maiden had a sweeter savour than all the burnt-offerings of the rich.
"The costliest sacrifice that wealth can make,
From the incensed Penates less commands
A soft response, than doth the poorest cake,
If on the altar laid with spotless hands."[7]
Scarcely have Antigone and Ismene left the scene to make the offering in their father's stead, when Theseus, the king of Athens, enters, and his chivalrous demeanour strikingly contrasts with the garrulous importunities of the Chorus.
He will not cause fresh pain to Œdipus, he says, by recalling his sorrows. This "abject garb and aspect of despair" tell their own tale. An exile's misfortunes touch him keenly, for he has himself been schooled in adversity—
"I know that I am man, and I can count
No more than thou on what to-morrow brings."—(P.)
Œdipus, grateful for this generous forbearance, tells the king that, though outwardly it is but "a sorry gift" that he brings—namely, his own feeble body, in bitter truth a "heritage of woe" to its master—yet its possession should bring no small gain to the land of his refuge; and not small either (he adds, with a touch of his ancient pride) will be the conflict waged for it between his own sons and the citizens of Athens.
Truly, as Ismene says,
"The gods now raise the head they once laid low."
It was with his body as with the bones of Orestes—another so-called victim of Fate—which an oracle had declared would bring success to the arms of Sparta.[8] "Such is the force attached to expiation and the expiatory victim. In his lifetime men pitilessly strike him in the name of God, as the scapegoat of the evil which his death is destined to abolish; and in his death all men revere him as the symbol of re-established justice."[9]
Theseus doubts if any strife can spring up between himself and his trusty allies of Thebes; but Œdipus knows better, from sad experience, the uncertainty of earthly friendship, and how soon there arise "unnaturalness between the child and the parent; death, dearth, dissolutions of ancient amities."[10]
"O son of Ægeus, unto Gods alone
Nor age can come, nor destined hour of death;
All else the almighty ruler Time sweeps on.
Earth's strength shall wither, wither strength of limb,
And trust decays, and mistrust grows apace;
And the same spirit lasts not among them
That once were friends, nor joineth state with state.
To these at once, to those in after-years
Sweet things grow bitter, then turn sweet again.
And what, if now at Thebes all things run smooth,
And well towards thee, Time, in myriad change,
A myriad nights and days brings forth; and thus
In these, for some slight cause, they yet may spurn
In battle all their pledge of faithfulness.
And then this body, sleeping in the grave,
All cold and stiff shall drink warm blood of men,
If Zeus be Zeus, and his son Phœbus true."—(P.)
Theseus is convinced by the sincerity of Œdipus, and declares that he will never give up a suppliant guest, bound to him by ancient friendship—so rich in the present favour of the gods, and in the future blessings which will flow from his presence in the land. He will not give him up, despite of the threats of Creon and all his host; "for," he adds, with all the pride of a Bayard, "my heart knows no fear"—
"My very name will guard thee from all harm."
The famous chorus which follows is associated with a personal anecdote of the old age of Sophocles. It is said that Ariston, his eldest son, had in a fit of jealous suspicion brought an action against his father, as being imbecile and incapable of managing his own affairs. The poet, then, as tradition tells us, in his hundredth year, entered the court, leaning on his favourite grandchild (who probably suggested the filial devotion of Antigone's character), and, scorning to otherwise defend himself against the insult offered to his mental powers, recited the passage from his then unfinished play which describes the glories of Colonus. And the story goes on to say that, before Sophocles had finished reciting these noble lines, the Athenian jury, always susceptible to an "appeal to their feelings," broke into irrepressible applause. "A dotard cannot have written this," was their verdict; and the case was dismissed—we will hope "with costs."
Anstice gives—as far as can be given in English—the spirit of the original; and we make no excuse for borrowing largely from his version (too little known) of this ode:—
"Stranger, thou art standing now
On Colonus' sparry brow;
All the haunts of Attic ground,
Where the matchless coursers bound,
Boast not, through their realms of bliss,
Other spot as fair as this.
Frequent down this greenwood dale
Mourns the warbling nightingale,
Nestling 'mid the thickest screen
Of the ivy's darksome green.
***** Here Narcissus, day by day,
Buds in clustering beauty gay:
*****
Here the golden Crocus gleams,
Murmur here unfailing streams,
Sleep the bubbling fountains never,
Feeding pure Cephiseus' river,
Whose prolific waters daily
Bid the pastures blossom gaily,
With the showers of spring-tide blending,
On the lap of earth descending."
Then, after paying a tribute to the olive, a tree peculiarly sacred in Attica, and the especial care of "Morian Jove" and "blue-eyed Pallas," the chorus concludes:—
"Swell the song of praise again;
Other boons demand my strain,
Other blessings we inherit,
Granted by the mighty Spirit;
On the sea and on the shore,
Ours the bridle and the oar.
Son of Saturn old, whose sway
Stormy winds and waves obey,
Thine be honour's well-earned meed,
Tamer of the champing steed;
First he wore on Attic plain
Bit of steel and curbing rein.
Oft too, o'er the waters blue,
Athens, strain thy labouring crew;
Practised hands the bark are plying,
Oars are bending, spray is flying,
Sunny waves beneath them glancing,
Sportive Nereids round them dancing,
With their hundred feet in motion,
Twinkling 'mid the foam of ocean."
The praises lavished on Athenian chivalry are now put to the proof; for Creon, whom Ismene had described as already on his way to seize and carry off Œdipus to Thebes, enters in person at the head of an armed force. As the Chorus shrink back from him in alarmed surprise, he deprecates their fears in a speech—masterly, whether we regard the purpose of the orator or the policy of the statesman. He compliments the citizens on their noble city; he condoles with the sightless king on his many sorrows; he commiserates the forlorn condition of the maidens. All may yet be well, he argues, if Œdipus will take heart of grace, and accept the proffered invitation of the Thebans to return. But Œdipus is not to be easily convinced. He sees through the polished insincerity of Creon's speech, and denounces those specious promises made with "feigned lips"—
"Goodly in show, but mischievous in act."
As to his returning to Thebes, merely that he may bring profit to his ungrateful country and his unnatural kindred—
"That shall not be; but this shall be thy lot,
My stern Avenger dwelling with thee still;
And these my sons shall gain of that my land
Enough to die in; that—and—nothing more."—(P.)
Then Creon throws off the mask: since fair words have failed him, he will use force; and in spite of the indignation of the Chorus, the outcry of the maidens, and the feeble resistance of Œdipus, the Theban guards drag off Antigone and Ismene as hostages for their father; and Creon even threatens that he will lay hands on Œdipus himself. The aged king's wrath boils over at this last outrage, and he reiterates his curse upon the robber of his children:—
"May these Goddess Powers
Not smite me speechless till I speak my curse
On thee, thou vile one, robbing me by force
Of that last light when other lights were quenched.
For this may yon bright Sun-god, scanning all,
Grant thee thyself, and all thy race with thee,
To wear thy life in dreary age like mine."
Just as Creon is actually about to force Œdipus along with him, Theseus enters. On hearing what has passed, he at once gives orders to summon horse and foot, who may rescue the maidens from the Theban guards before they cross the borders. He then addresses Creon with a dignified rebuke for his violence and lawless conduct, outraging the sacred character of suppliants, and wronging a state which "without laws does nothing:"—
"Thou must have deemed my city void of men,
Slave-like, submissive, and myself as nought.
******
Thou tramplest on my rights, defiest Gods,
And rudely seizest these poor suppliants,"
Creon, by way of justification, insults Theseus and Œdipus in the same sentence. He had never supposed that the holy city, with its supreme tribunal on the Hill of Mars, would give shelter to a parricide, "whose marriage had been incest." The curse of Œdipus had provoked his anger—
"For headstrong wrath knows no old age but death."
Œdipus in his turn recriminates the foul reproaches which the brother had uttered against the sister. The shame in such a case rested more on the reviler than on the unwilling victim of an evil destiny. Even his father's spirit, if it could return from Hades, would hardly upbraid him for crimes which had been wrought so unwittingly.
But Theseus breaks off this angry dialogue. They a-re standing idle, he says, while the captive maidens are being hurried across the Athenian borders; and then, with a parting promise to Œdipus that he will restore his children or die in the attempt, the chivalrous king starts in pursuit, taking with him his Athenian attendants, and Creon to serve as an unwilling guide.
The Chorus fill up the interval by a bold flight of song, in which they picture to themselves the pursuit, the battle, and the recovery of the maidens. The following again is Anstice's spirited translation of the ode:—
"Waft me hence, and set me down
Where the lines of battle frown;
Waft me, where the brazen shout
Of the Lord of War rings out
On the Pythian coast, or where
Flickering torches wildly glare,
Where on mystic rites have smiled
Ceres and her honoured child.
Many a priest attends their shrine,
Sprung of old Eumolpus' line,
While discretion's golden key
Locks their lips in secrecy.
Round the virgin sisters twain
Soon shall fall the crowded slain,
Theseus soon in mailèd might
Wake the terrors of the fight.
Now I ween in haste they glide
Œa's snowy rocks beside;
There beneath the western sky,
Swift their straining coursers fly;
Rapid roll their whirling cars;
Fleeter speeds pursuing Mars;
Theseus' train is on its way,
Keen to grasp the destined prey;
Every bit like lightning glancing,
Every mailèd knight advancing,
Every charger's arching neck
Princely spoils and trappings deck,
Yours the vow for victory won,
Hippian Pallas! Rhea's son!
Thou who, throned in coral caves,
Claspest earth, and rulest waves!
Is the awful stillness past?
Have they closed in fight at last?
Answer, my prophetic soul!
Thou canst secret fate unroll.
Soon I ween shall warrior sword,
Wielded by Athena's lord,
Free the maid by sorrow bowed,
Mocked and scorned by brethren proud:
So across my spirit's dreams
Joy anticipated gleams.
Might I, like the soaring dove,
Roam the aerial fields above,
Her who borne on tempest wings
Forth with nestling pinion springs.
Sweet it were from clouds on high
Battle's changeful tide to spy.
Jove! whose everlasting sway
Heaven's unchanging gods obey,
Grant to Athens' champions brave
Might to vanquish, strength to save.
Pallas! Jove's majestic child;
Phœbus! hunter of the wild;
Dian! still the woodland wooing,
Still the dappled stag pursuing,—
Archer lord, and mountain maid,
Haste ye, haste ye to our aid!"
These triumphal strains are not premature, for Theseus is now seen returning, having, like a true knight-errant, rescued the maidens by his feats of arms. Great is the father's joy at the restoration of his daughters, and fervent are his expressions of gratitude to their deliverer. But Theseus modestly cuts short his thanks, being, as he says, "given more to deeds than words;" and then he tells Œdipus that there is a suppliant sitting at the altar of Poseidon craving an audience with him. Œdipus knows too well that this nameless suppliant must be Polynices, the elder of his sons, and is unwilling even to listen to his voice. But Antigone joins her gentle pleading to the request of Theseus, and Œdipus can gainsay nothing to his daughter's arguments—
"He is thy child;
And therefore, O my father, 'tis not right,
Although his deeds to thee be basest, vilest,
To render ill for ill. But let him come."—(P.)
While Polynices is being summoned, the Chorus again moralise on the vanity of life; and, like the preacher, they "praise the dead, which are already dead, more than the living, which are yet alive." Who would pray for length of days, which can bring nothing but sorrow? Death, after all, is man's last and best friend:—
"Of all the dreams of bliss that are,
Not to be born is best by far;
Next best, by far the next, for man
To speed as fast as speed he can,
Soon as his eyes have glanced on earth,
To where he was before his birth."
And then they point their moral by the fate of Œdipus, thus stricken with age and misery; and possibly, in writing the last lines of the chorus, the poet may have been thinking of his own approaching end:—
"As billows, by the tempest tossed,
Burst on some wintry northern coast,
So toppling o'er his aged form,
Descends the fury of the storm;
The troublous breakers never rest;
Some from the chambers of the west,
Some from the orient sun, or where
At noon he sheds his angry glare,
Or where the stars, faint twinkling, light
The gloomy length of Arctic night."—(A.)
Then, with faltering steps and shrinking gesture, Polynices enters; and if eloquent self-reproach and protestations of sorrow could have atoned for years of unfilial insult and neglect, he might have gained his end. He throws himself at his father's feet, and appeals to him, in the name of that divine mercy which "is the attribute of God Himself," to forego his just resentment:—
"But since there,
Sharing the throne of Zeus, compassion dwells,
Regarding all our deeds; so let it come
And dwell with thee, my father; more we cannot add.
Why art thou silent? Speak, my father, speak!
Turn not away."—(P.)
But Œdipus answers him not a word. Then Polynices tells the story of the wrong done him by his brother, of his flight to Argos, of his fresh alliance, and, trembling with martial ardour, he describes
"The seven great armies, by seven captains led,
That gird the plain of Thebes;"
and he implores his father, in the name of these chieftains, to forget his ancient wrongs, and to join his strength with theirs, that so they may break the might of "the despot lord at home."
Œdipus has listened with brows bent and lips close set to this passionate appeal, and at last he breaks his silence. The repentance of Polynices has come too late. He has sown the wind, and must reap the whirlwind. Then the sightless king, with all the passion of Lear, reiterates those awful curses which he had before pronounced. Ruin and disaster await the host that is marshalled against Thebes. Polynices shall never return again to "Argos in the vale," but shall slay his brother, and be slain by his brother's sword, and no man shall bury him:—
"Yea, curses shall possess thy seat and throne, If ancient justice o'er the laws of earth Reign with the Thunder-god. March on to ruin! Spurned and disowned, the basest of the base, And with thee bear this burden; o'er thine head I pour a prophet's doom; nor throne nor home Waits on the sharpness of thy levelled spear: Thy very land of refuge hath no welcome; Thine eyes have looked their last on hollow Argos."[11]
Heartless renegade though he is, Polynices is not without some touch of a nobler spirit. He has learned his fate, and must return; but he will not discourage his friends by imparting to them the old man's words of doom. And so he tears himself from the embraces of his sisters, rejecting almost angrily the advice of Antigone, that he should lead his army back to Argos. "How," he asks, "can he
"Lead back an army that could deem I trembled?"
He makes a last request of his sisters—that they will give his body seemly burial; the next play will show how faithfully this charge was kept by one of them. And then, with a blessing on his lips, and a prayer that the gods will keep them at least from all harm, he goes forth as Saul went forth to Gilboa, as Otho headed his legions at Bedriacum—knowing himself to be a doomed man. So touching is the heroism, that (as a French critic observes) we know not whether we ought to condemn Polynices with Œdipus, to pity him with Theseus, or to love him with Antigone.[12]
The father, in the modern drama, however justly incensed he might have been, would have relented at the sight of so much real sorrow. Accordingly, in the play of Ducis, Œdipus and Polynices mutually embrace in the French fashion. With us, Christianity transfers the penalty for sin to a future life. But if Œdipus had pardoned Polynices, he would in a Greek point of view have destroyed the very principle of filial piety. With them, the expiation for impious wrongs must be made by the actual criminal in his own person, and in this world.[13]
Suddenly the sky grows black with storm-clouds, the lightning flashes, and peals of thunder, in quicker and louder succession, denote that the end which Œdipus had prayed for at last draws nigh. The Chorus, terrified by "the fire from heaven" and the incessant roll of thunder, call loudly upon Theseus; and the Athenian king, amazed at the tumult, enters hurriedly, in obedience to the summons. Œdipus bids him follow where he leads; for to his eyes alone shall be revealed that secret grave which should prove a bulwark against his foes—"stronger than many shields"—and to his ears alone shall those mystic words be uttered, which shall be transmitted at the hour of death to his son, and to his son's sons after him. "Follow me," he cries to his daughters; "follow me, who have so often followed you—but touch me not. Let me find for myself the sepulchre, where the gods have willed that I shall rest in peace. Follow me, my children, whither Mercury and the Queen of Night are leading me." Then, directed by some mysterious agency, Œdipus moves slowly onwards and upwards along the sloping ridge, towards the "steps of brass," followed at a little distance by Theseus and by his daughters, and at last he disappears from view.
Then the Chorus utter a solemn requiem for his soul, addressed to the Dark King and his bride, who rule the lower world:—
"If to thee, eternal queen,
Empress of the worlds unseen;
Mighty Pluto, if to thee,
Hell's terrific deity,
Lips of mortal mould may dare
Breathe the solemn suppliant prayer,—
Grant the stranger swift release,
Bid the mourner part in peace;
Guide him, where in silence deep
All that once were mortal sleep.
Since relentless Fate hath shed
Sorrows o'er thy guiltless head,
In thy pangs let mercy stay thee,
In the grave let rest repay thee!"—(D.)
A messenger, who had followed as near as he might the small company that had attended Œdipus, tells the sequel of this mysterious drama. They had reached the brazen steps, and there, near "the Thorician rock and the hollow pear-tree" (both probably consecrated by tradition), Œdipus had sat down; and after bathing his limbs in pure water from the stream, had doffed the mean rags of his exile, and clothed himself in a clean white robe, "meet for the sepulchre." Then came the sound of subterranean thunder; and the wanderer, recognising the sign, had clasped his daughters in a last passionate embrace, as they clung to him, wailing in grief and terror:—
"But when their piercing cries an instant ceased,
And the first thrill was hushed, silence ensued—
A silence, oh, how awful! From beneath,
With deep mysterious voice, called one unseen.
Again and yet again the god exclaimed:
'Come, Œdipus, why pause we to depart?
Come, Œdipus, for thou hast tarried long.'"—(D.)
Then Œdipus bids all leave the spot, save Theseus only; and when, after a short interval, they return, the Athenian king is found alone, shading his eyes as if dazzled by some unearthly vision, and then prostrating himself in fervent prayer to the gods of light and day. He alone has seen and knows the manner of the death of Œdipus—
"For neither was it thunderbolt from God,
With flashing fire that slew him, nor the blast
Of whirlwind sweeping o'er the sea's dark waves;
But either some one whom the gods had sent
To guide his steps, or gentleness of mood
Had moved the Powers beneath to ope the way
To earth's deep centre painlessly. He died
No death to mourn for—did not leave the world
Worn out with pain and sickness; but his end,
If any ever was, was wonderful."—(P.)[14]
- ↑ See vol. vii. of this Series, 'Æschylus,' p. 104.
- ↑ Matthew Arnold's 'Empedocles on Etna.' The liberty has been taken of slightly altering the first few lines.
- ↑ Bishop Thirlwall.
- ↑ Childe Harold, ii. 87.
- ↑ Hughes's Travels in Greece.
- ↑ Plumptre's Introd., lxxxv.
- ↑ Ode iii. 23 (Martin's Transl.)
- ↑ Herod., i. 67.
- ↑ Girardin, Cours de Littérature Dramat., i. 189.
- ↑ King Lear, Act i. sc. 2.
- ↑ Lord Lytton's Athens, ii. 542.
- ↑ Patin, Etudes sur Sophocle, p. 243.
- ↑ Girardin, Lit. Dramat., i. 195.
- ↑ The following is De Quincey's eloquent description of this "call," like nothing else in history or fiction. "What language of earth or trumpet of heaven could decipher the woe of that unfathomable call, when from the depth of the ancient woods a voice, that drew like gravitation, that sucked in like a vortex, far off, yet near—in some distant world, yet close at hand—cried, 'Hark, Œdipus! King Œdipus! come hither; thou art wanted!' Wanted! for what? Was it for death? was it for judgment? was it for some wilderness of pariah eternities? No man ever knew. Chasms opened in the earth; dark gigantic arms stretched out to receive the king; clouds and vapour settled over the penal abyss; and of him only, though the neighbourhood of his disappearance was known, no trace or visible record survived—neither bones, nor grave, nor dust, nor epitaph."—The Theban Sphinx (Works, ix. 250).