 Biographical notice of the Tebeid or the Brothers at War by Jean Racine, translated by Robert Bruce Boswell. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Biographical notice, read by Michael Mags. The reign of Louis XIV in France, like the Age of Pericles at ancient Assens, was remarkable for literary excellence, no less than for military achievements. In dramatic poetry the names of Cornet, 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 satiric drama, the Cyclops, as evidence of his capacity for sustained humour, so the latter has given us le plaider, 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 the spectator, who requires the constant stimulus of a brisk and sparkling dialogue. Racine's strict adherence to the unities of action, time and place, as briskried by Aristotle, and enforced by the critical authority of Bois-Loup. Footnote 1. As understood by the classical school of French dramatists, these rules prescribe observance of the following conditions. 1. Unity of action or the predominance of one main plot. 2. Unity of time which limits the action to the course of a single day. 3. Unity of place. End of footnote. 4. 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 Cornet 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 constant shifting the point of view, introduce a succession of novel effects with few materials. Not that but this simplicity is, in some cases, carried too far for a drama intended for representation on the stage, as for instance in Berenice, where the changes are rung with wearersome iteration on the varying tones of disappointed love, whereas the tangled web of passion in such a play as Andromac gives much greater scope for sustaining the attention with growing interest to the end. Born on or about December 21st 1639, at the little town of Lefelte Mille, about equidistant from Moe and Rime, 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, Racine. He was his father's only son and bore his name. He had but one sister, Mary, 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 stepmother, 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 where Jean was only ten, but his grandmother, Mary de Molin, 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 chagra, changed him from a man of pleasure and fashion into a conscientious devotee, and the author of Esther and Utterly undoubtedly owed much to the pious solitaire 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 petit école of the 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 Ethiopica of Heliodorus, having fallen into his hands, he was perusing it with the utmost avidity when one of his masters, Claude Loselot, snatched the volume from his hands and threw it into the fire. The blameless adventures of the Agonies and Chariclia 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 bulked, 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 Loselot, 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 Dora 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 margin 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 Pohoialists before he was nineteen, and proceeded to Paris in order to study philosophy and logic at the Collège d'Arcours. But he appears to have devoted himself with more ardour to sociability and pleasure, with gay companions like the Abbe Levasseur and La Fontaine, to whom in his letters, and no doubt his conversation at the period, he loved to mimic the pious phraseology of his former instructors. He was bordered with his cousin Nicolas Vita, who was steward to the Duc de Loïne, and dressing himself at a later time formed one of that nobleman's household. In an amusing letter written to Levasseur from Chevoise, near Versailles, he deplores his absence from Paris as an exile in Babylon, and to describe his uncongenial duties in superintending the alterations at the Duc Chateau, which he varied by frequent visits to the neighbouring tavern, and by reading and writing poetry, with a soup sort of romantic adventure in connection with a lady who, as he enigmatically remarks, mistook me yesterday for a bailiff. In sixteen sixty he made an unsuccessful attempt to get a play of his put upon the stage, which bore the title of amacy, 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 Poroyal 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 Teresa brought him the substantial reward of a hundred Louis d'Or. He entitled this effusion na nav de la Seine. He had now given up all thoughts of his original destination, the legal profession, but was induced in sixteen sixty-one to prepare himself for holy orders at Uses in Longedoc, with his maternal uncle, Per Skouna, who was willing to resign to him when qualified, the benefits that he himself held if there should be none other available. Racine remained at Uses for a year or 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 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 Epine, 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, a major acquaintance of Molière and Boileau. His friendship with the latter remained unbroken throughout 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 Tebeide, was put upon the stage. This was at the Palais Royale, Molière's own theatre, and it had a run of a dozen nights, and it 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 Lacroix, 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 Royale, Molière's company learned with astonishment and indignation that it was being simultaneously performed at a rival theatre, that of the Hotel de Bourgogne. The actors at the Palais Royale punished the poet's underhand conduct by mulching him of his share of the profits and dividing them all among themselves. Another quarrel occurred about this time which reflects still less upon racine sense of generosity and gratitude. His friends of Poiroyale, amongst whom were some of his own kinfolk, regarded his career as a writer of plays, and his intimacy was actors and actresses with a long and aversion. His aunt, Agnes 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 Poiroyalists. His wrath was aggravated by a pamphlet war between his old master Pierre-Nicolle and a certain Demaré who had attacked all Jasonists as heretics. Cornelius Jansen was a Dutch divine whose tenets on grace and predestination, as set forth in his great work Augustanus, were condemned by three successive Popes. The Jansenist doctrines were supported by the Poiroyalists and opposed by the Jesuits in France, the principal champions of the former party being Pascal, Alno and Nicolle. Nicolle, in his reply, taunted Demaré with having formally written novels and plays, and took occasion to invade 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 Poiroyalists 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 Poirot to forgo 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 a face. In 1667 one of his best tragedies, and by many it is reckoned his masterpiece, was acted at the Hotel de Borgogna. This was Andromac, and the part of the heroine was taken by Mamzel du Parc, whom Racine persuaded to leave the Palais Royale for the purpose. Its success was immediate, and his reputation established as a formidable rival to Cornet. Nor has the verdict of posterity failed to confirm the judgment of his contemporaries. With the exception of Ferdor, no other of his tragedies has been more represented at Parisian theatres, and the late G. H. Lewis, among English critics, has pronounced the character of Elmion to be the finest creation of Racine's genius. Andromac was followed in 1668 by his first and last comedy, La Pléder, and the popularity of this clever travesty of law and lawyers has, like Cooper'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 some experience of a court of justice. It has already been mentioned that he held for a time the title of Prior of Epinée, 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 Callens. No such witty satire have been directed against the gentleman of the long robe since the days of Ravallet, though somehow it failed to make a hit at first, but when Le Gromour knelt, dain to laugh at it, Paris began to see the joke and laughed too. Racine was now steadily producing 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 honor of admission among the famous 40 of the Académie Française, which had been founded by Richelot in 1635. Four years later he was appointed to share with his friend Poirot the distinction of historiographer to the king, to which office there was attached the annual salary of two thousand 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, Phaedra. A plot had been set on foot by the Duchesse de Bouillard and others to dam the play by buying up all the best seats at the theater of the hotel Bourgogne, where Phaedra was to appear, and by starting a rival drama at another house, composed by a bookseller's hack of the name of Prado 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 future efforts to court the favor 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 the wiser course, and at the age of thirty-eight, 1677, he married Catherine de Romene, 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 solitaire of Pochoyal was cemented by a frank apology for the sarcasms which he had levelled against them ten years before. Boilot 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 Alno and Pierre Nicole were persuaded to read their all-pupils version of the time-honored story of Fédera 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, Boilot 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, Boilot 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 Pochoyal 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 Matinot, whom Louis XIV had privately married in 1684, took a warm interest in a convent for the education of young ladies, which he had established at Sassil. Here it was the custom for the girls to recite plays at certain times, chiefly those of Cornet 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 Matinot to write something expressly for her young charges of a more edifying tendency. Boilot advised him to decline the commission as one beneath his powers, but he was unwilling to offend Madame de Matinot, and he determined to do his best. The fruits of this resolution was the sacred drama of Esther, which was privately performed at the Maison de Sassil in 1689, and met with much applause. Encouraged by this success, he assayed a higher flight in Attali, which was acted by the same young performers in 1691, and is justly regarded as the finest specimen of its kind. Neither of the 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 Paul Royale was his last work, and formed a fitting conclusion to his checkered 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. End of Biographical Notice Act I of the Tebeid or the Brothers at War by Jean Racine Translated by Robert Bruce Boswell This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Introduction to the Tebeid This play, which was first acted in 1664 when Racine was in his 25th year, is a tragedy founded upon the Seven Against Thebes of Isolus and the Phoenician Women of Euripides. The part of Haman is borrowed from the Antigone of Sophocles, and free use has been made of Routro'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 apologises for the wholesale slaughter of nearly all the characters at its close on the ground that he has herein 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 Oedipus as inheritors of the curse pronounced against the latter for the parasite and incest of which he was unwittingly guilty. The influence of Cornet 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 those two princes and of Antigone, read by Sonia. Antigone, sister of Etiocles and Polyneses, read by Lydia. Creon, their uncle, read by Adrian Stevens. Heman, son of Creon, lover of Antigone, read by Thomas Peter. Olympia, confidential friend of Jocasta, read by LaSanne LaVoy. Attalus, confidential friend of Creon, read by Adam Bielka. A soldier of the army of Polyneses, read by Nima. Stage Directions, read by Michael Max. The scene is laid at Thebes in a room of the palace. The tepid, or the brothers-at-wall, act one, scene one. Jocasta, Olympia. Olympia, are they gone? What grief is mine to pay with weeping for one moment's rest? For six long months mine eyes have opened thus only to tears, nor ever closed in peace. Ah, would that death might seal them up for a year they behold this darkest steed of all? Have they encountered? From the high city wall I saw their hosts for battle all arrayed, 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. No doubt remains, Olympia, they are bent on mutual slaughter. Let the princess know, and bid her hasten hither. Righteous heaven, 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 filled me with despair. Of no avail have been my prayers and tears. The fates not yet their wrath have satisfied. Oh, son, that give us light to all the world, why has 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 appeal no more. The rays of layers 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 foreswear their solemn oath, unnatural murderous both. Knowing them from incestuous union born, rather wouldst thou wonder were they virtuous. Scene two. Jocasta, Antigone, Olympia My daughter, have you heard our misery? Yes, they have told me of my brother's rage. Let us then hasten, dear Antigone, to stop, if it may be, their fretricide. Come, let us show them what they hold most dear, and see if they will yield to our tech, or even blinded frenzy, they will bear to shed our blood, e'er each the other slays. Mother, tis over, Etiocles is here. Scene three. Jocasta, Etiocles, Antigone, Olympia Your arm, Olympia. Anguish makes me weak. Mother, what trouble ails you? Oh, my son, do not I see your raiment stained with blood. Is it your brother's blood? Is it your own? No, madam, it is neither. In his camp my brother Polynesus loyders yet, and will not meet my challenge face to face, but only send an argive voice that dare dispute our sally from these walls. Rash fools! I made them bite the dust. There blood it is which you may see. But what did you intend? What sudden impulse led you all at once to pour your troops upon the plain? T'was time I acted as I did, for, lingering here, my fame grew tarnished, and hard words arose from all the people, blaming me for sloth, when loomed already famine's dreadful form. I heard regress that they had crowned me king, complaints that I had failed 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 overall let her decide alone the issue. I have men enough to keep the field. If fortune aid our arms, bold Polynesus and his proud allies shall leave her free, or perish at my feet. Heavens! Could you let such blood your arms defile? Has then the crowned for you such fatal charm, if only to be gained by fratricide would my son wear it at a price so dear? Thus on our 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. To share my crown? And call you that to reign? To tamely yield what my own right has given? You know, my son, how birth and justice grant this dignity to him, as well as you. How Oedipus ear-ending his sad course ordained that each of you his year should reign, and having but one kingdom to bequeath, wilt you should both be rulers in your turn. To these conditions you subscribed. The lot summoned you first to Power Supreme, and so the throne you mounted, unopposed by him, unwilling now to let him take your place. No, madam. To the scepter he has lost all claim, since Thebes refused to ratify our compact, and in making me her king, to she not I who barred him from the throne? Has Thebes less reason now to dread his power after six months of outrage at his hands? How could she air obey that savage prince who arms against her famine and the sword? How could she take for king my sea and slave, who for all the beings 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 be hold Thebes laid in ashes. Love had little part in such foul union. Fury lit the torch of Hymen. Thebes, to escape his chains, crowned me. Expects through me to see her troubles end. Must needs accuse me if I play her false? I am her captive, I am not her king. Say, rather say, ungrateful heart and fierce, not 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's small sin to shed a brother's blood. I offer you my own. Will that suffice? Thus then will you have vanquished all your foes, removed all cheques, committed every crime. No hateful rival to the throne be left, and you be greatest of all criminals. 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? What words are these? Good heavens! How ill you read my secret heart. I do not ask you to resign your sway. Rain 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 unblemished fame be dear, then let your brother shared at high estate. Only an empty splendor will be his. Your power, enhanced thereby, will sweet approve. 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 power 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, even to his tent and unattended. This shall be my hope. My heartfelt sighs may move him to relent. 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 fulfilled. 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 sedence 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 unfettered Thebes shall choose her king. Seen for. Jocasta, Etiocles, Antigone, Creon, Olympia. The Sally has alarmed your subject, sir. Thebes at your fancied loss already weeps, while horror and a fright reign everywhere, and people tremble gazing from the walls. Soon shall their vain alarm be quieted. Madam, I go to join my gallant troops. Meanwhile you may accomplish your desires. Bring Polynesus in, and talk of peace. Creon, the queen commands here in my room, prepare the people to obey her will. Your son, Menaceus, shall be left behind to take and give her orders. Him I choose. For, I repute with all to Valor joined, his merits will the timid reassure, and give no handle to the enemy. Command his service, madam. To Creon. Follow me. What, sir? Yes, Creon. I am so resolved. And do you thus resign your sovereign power? Whether I do or not, nervex yourself, fulfill my bidding, and come after me. Scene 5 Jocasta, Antigone, Creon, Olympia What have you done, madam? What course is this, to make the conqueror seek ignoble flight? Your council ruins all. They all preserves. For thus and thus alone can thieves be saved. 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 snatched? There may be conquest, yet no glory won. Shame and remorse oft follow victory, when brothers train for mutual slaughter-arm, to part them not, maybe to lose them both. Or if one conquer, to have suffered him so to prevail, were his worst injury. Too high their wrath has risen. It may be calmed. Both wish to reign. And so, in truth, they shall. King's majesty admits no partnership. It is no commodity to be resigned, and then resumed. They shall accept as a law the interest of the state. Which is to have a single king who, governing his realms with constant sway, accustomed 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 power, and public policy would change each year. To put a period to their sovereignty means to give greater scope for violence. Both in their term 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. Hey, rather shall we see the brothers vie in noble schemes, to win their country's love. But, Creon, own that all your trouble springs from fear lest peace should rend their 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, defaults by right of birth into your hands, deceptor, 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. 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 power. I hate his foes, and there lies all my crime. I care not to deny it, but, me thinks, this crime of mine finds no like feeling here. 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. 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 Polineses has no warmer friend than him on. 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. After such valiant deeds as he has wrought, the general feeling has another bent. I see it, madam, and I grieve there at, but know my duty when a son revolts, or 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. Need better nature's voice. The dearer he who doth the offence, the more the ill is felt. But should a father carry wrath so far? You hate too much. You are too lenient. Impleading for a rebel you transgress. The cause of innocence is worth a word. I know what makes his innocence for you. And I would make him hateful in your sight. For love sees not like common eyes. Beware of what my wrath can do, when you abuse the liberty which may be stretched too far, and bring down ruin on your head at last. The public good weighs little on his soul, and patriotism masks another flame. I know it, Creon, but a porous suit, which twere your wisdom to leave unexpressed. 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. Heman and Polyneses sent for them. Farewell. Yes, wicked schemer, both will come, and with united efforts foil your plots. Scene six. Jocasta, Antigone, Olympia. The traitor! What a height of insolence! All his presumptuous words will turn to shame. For soon, if our desires are heard in heaven, peace will ambition's retribution bring. But every hour is precious. We must haste, and summon Heman, and your brother too. I am prepared to grant them to this end whatever safe conduct they think fit to ask. And gracious heaven, if justice may give pause to my misfortunes, then incline to peace the heart of Polyneses. Aide my size, make eloquent my trouble, and my tears. Antigone, alone. If heaven can feel compassion for a flame as innocent as mine, then bring me back my Heman faithful still, and grant today that with my lover love himself may come. End of Act One. Act Two. Of the Tebeid, or the Brothers at War, by Jean Racine. Translated by Robert Bruce Boswell. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Act Two. Scene One. Antigone, Heman. What? Would you rob me of the face I love so soon, when I have suffered a whole year of absence? Have you called me to your side to snatch away again so sweet a prize? Shall I so soon then cast a brother off, and let my mother seek the guards alone? Ought I to shape my duty to your wish, think but of love and care for peace no more? No duty bids thee thwart my happiness. They can consult the oracle full well without us. Let me rather to your eyes question my heart's divinity at what fate is mine. Should I be overbowled to ask if their accustomed sweetness welcomes still the thought of my affection, nor resent my ardour? Can they pity where they wound? For a cruel absence dragged its weary course. Say, have you wished me to be faithful still? Thoughts you have death was threatening far from you, a lover who should die but at your knees. Ah, when such beauty penetrates a cell, when the heart dares to lift its hopes to you, how sweet a worship charm is divinely fair! What torture when they vanish out of sight? Each moment's separation seemed 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 dwelled to bleed for me while banished from your face? And that each thought of me would make you think her great must be the love that thus obeys? 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 my own heart was full of sorrow, and but wished that you might share its load, grown yet more heavy since the war, brought your invading forces on this land. With what anguish did I then behold my dearest on opposing sides arrayed, with countless pangs my heart was torn to see loved ones without our walls loved ones within, at each assault a thousand terrors clashed in conflict, and a thousand deaths I died. It is pitiful indeed, but have I done ought, but I see you yourself directed me. And following Polyneses I obeyed your wish, nay more your absolute command. But friends diverted hard I pledged him then, quitted my country, left my father's side, thereby incurring his indignant wrath, and worst of all banished myself from you. I bear it all in mind, Hem in his right, in serving Polyneses me you served, 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 on rivaled sway, to please him was my chief delight, to share his sorrows was the sister's privilege. Oh, that such a power to move him still were mine! Then would he love the peace for which I yearn, our common woe would be so little to rest, and I should see him, nor would you from me be parted. He abores this dreadful war. Yea, I have seen him sigh with grief and rage, that he has been compelled to make his way through bloodshed to regain his father's throne. Hope that the gods, touched by our miseries, will soon the rift between the brother's hue. May heaven restore affection to their hearts, and in their sister's breast keep love alight. That latter task indeed, ah, doubt it not, were easier far than to appease their rage. Well do I know them both, and am assured, their hearts do him and are more hard than mine. But sometimes heaven works marvel's past belief. Now let us hear what said the oracle, what must be done. Alas! What, were you told that war must still be waged? Ah, worse than that. What woe is this the angry powers pretend? Prince, hear the answer for yourself, then judge. Ye Thebans, thus doth fate ordain, that if ye would from war be freed, the last hope of the royal seed, with blood outpoured, your land must stain. How has this offspring of a hapless race deserve such condemnation, O ye gods? Was not my father's death vengeance enough that wrath must follow all our family? Lady, this sentence is not aimed at you, for virtue shelters you from punishment. The gods can read your innocence of heart. Though innocence affords no trusty shield, yet tis not for myself I fear their stroke. The guilt of Oedipus will slay his child, waiting without a murmur for her death. But if I must my ground of dread to close, it is for you, dear Hemen, that I fear. From that unhappy stalk like us you spring, I see too plainly that the wrath of heaven, this baleful honour, will to you extend, as unto us, and make our prince's wish, their birth had been from lowest of the low. Can I regret a destiny so grand, or shrink from meeting such a noble death? To be descended from the blood of kings is glorious, even if we must lose that blood soon as received. If any sin is ours, should heaven for that take vengeance upon you? The father and the children might suffice without more distant quest for guiltless blood. The offence we inherit tis for us to expiate, then slay us, heavenly powers, but spare the rest. My sire, dear Hemen, brings your utter ruin now, and I, perchance, yet more than he, punishment falls on you and on your house, because my father sinned, and you have loved his daughter, which has wrought more harm than incest than parasite. My love, say you, is that a fatal crime? Can it be wrong to love Celestial charms? And since my passion meets such sweet response, how can it air-desive the wrath of heaven? My sighs concern you and your heart alone, for you it is to judge if they offend. As to your potent sentence they appeal, shall they be blamable or innocent? That heaven decree my ruin, if it will, still shall the cause of that fate be dear. Proud shall I be to die, because I claim kinship with royalty, and happier still to die your subject. In this common wreck, why should I wish to live a life forlorn? The gods would all in vain my death delay, their mercy would be foiled by my despair. But after all perchance our fears are vain, patience! Though Polynesus and the Queen. Scene 3 Jocasta, Polyneses, Antigone, Hemen Cease to oppose me in the name of heaven. Plainly I see peace is impossible. I hoped the eternal justice of the gods might against tyranny declare itself, and, weary of the sight of so much blood, might grant to each of us his proper rank. But, since they back injustice openly, and side with guilt, I can no longer hope, when heaven itself favours unrighteousness, that a rebellious people may be just. Shall then a shameless rabble judge my cause, whose base self-interest, though remote from his, inspires the zeal that serves my enemy? The multitude admit not reason's sway. Victim already of this people's scorn, me they have banished, nor will take again the offended prince, whom they attirent deem. And, as to honours dictates, they are deaf. They think the aim of all the world, revenge. Their hatred owns no curb, but, started once, holds on its course forever. If indeed this people have such fear of you, my son, and all the Thebans dread your sovereignty, why, when they steal their hearts against your plea, through bloodshed seek the sceptre they withhold? Is it the people's part to choose their lord? Soon as they hate a king, must he resign his crown? And, by their hatred, or their love, is his right limited to mount the throne, or leave it? With affection or with fear, let these regard me as they will. What birth, not their caprice, has made they must accept. And pay respect if they refuse to love. When subjects hate the king, he then becomes a tyrant. Nay, a lawful prince can ne'er be called such. None deserve that odious name with rights like mine, nor does a people's hate make tyrants. Rather name my brother so. He is loved by all. A tyrant is they love, who, by a hundred tricks of meanness, tries to keep the footing he has gained by force. Who learns from pride lessons of humbleness, his brother's tyrant, but his people's slave. To keep the sceptre to himself, he bends submissive. And to make me hated courts contempt. Not without cause do they prefer a traitor, for the people love a slave, and fear to have a master. To consult their whims were treason done to royalty. Has this court then for you such matchless charms, already weary of the armistice? After such troubles shall we never seize you to shed blood, and I, to weep in vain, will you grant nothing to a mother's tears. Daughter, restrain your brother, if you can. erst was your love the only check he owned. Ah, if his soul is deaf to pity's voice for your sake, can his former love for me, estranged by absence leave me room for hope? Scarce and his memory have I still a place. He knows no pleasure but in shedding blood. No longer may we trust to find him the gallant prince who shuddered at the thought of crime, whose generous soul with kindness teamed honoured his mother and his sister loved. Now nature's ties for him are idle dreams, that sister he disowns, that mother scorns. And his ingratitude, long nursed by pride, holds us strangers, yea, as enemies. Charge not that sin on my sword, troubled soul. Say, rather, sister, you yourself are changed. Say, the unjust usurper of my rights has robbed me of a sister's tenderness. The same as ever, I forget you not. Hard heart, is this to love as I love you, to rest unmoved by all my painful sighs, to doom me still to sorrow's manifold? Sister, is this to love your brother, then, to urge in treaties just as must refuse, to wish to rest the scepter from my hand? Ye gods, then Eticles himself is kind. A tyrant wrongs me, yet you favour him unfairly. Nay, I hold your interest dear. Think not these eyes are false that weep for you. My tears conspire not with your enemies, that peace for which I yearn would be to me torture should Polineses lose thereby a throne. The only favour that I seek is for a longer space to look on you, my brother. Suffer me to see your face a few brief days, and give me time to find some means that may restore you to the rank which you inherit, without loss of blood so precious. Can you now refuse this grant, this little favour to a sister's tears, a mother's sighs? What have you yet to fear? Why wish so soon to leave us? All this day, is it not all included in the truth? Must it be ended, it is well begun? See how your brother, laying down his arms, permits our meeting. Is your will more stern? Yes, brother, his compassion passes yours. His mother's tears can move him, and our grief today has forced him to disarm his wrath. You call him cruel, you are worse than he. My lord, no danger presses. You may well let their entreaties even yet prevail. Grant to their earnest wish this day, ungrudged, the chance they may devise some happy scheme to heal the call. Nor let Etiocles have power to say that, where it not for you peace might have been. Thus will you satisfy a mother and a sister, yet your own honour. What brings this man with looks perturbed? Seenful, Jocasta Polyneses Antigone Hamon Soldier Soldier to Polyneses My lord, the truce is broken, and the fight rages once more. Creon attacks your host. The Thebans, at their king's command, renounce their oath, and scarce can brave Hippomadin filling your place with Stan the general charge. He ordered me to tell you so, my lord. The traitors. Come, my Hamon, we must go. To the queen. Madam, you see how well he keeps his word. Straight will I meet his challenge and attack, since he will have it so. My son, my son, he hears me not. Cry his arous veins as tears. Go, dear Antigone, with winged feet beg him and to do all he can to part your ruthless brothers. Strength fails my limbs, too weak to move. One task remains to die. End of Act 2 Act 3 of The Tebeid or The Brothers at War by Jean Racine Translated by Robert Bruce Boswell This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Act 3 Scene 1 Jocasta Olympia Olympia, go and view the dreadful sight. See if the rage has found no obstacle. If one or other owns no touch of shame, their same nieces is gone to urge the claims of peace. Some noble purpose armed his spirit, being heroic in his eye. And you must hope, dear madam, to the end. Go, look Olympia and then bring me word of all you see. Lighten this anxious heart. How can I leave you thus in solitude? Go, I would be alone, if such can be my lot, with such a multitude of woes. Scene 2 Jocasta Ah, will these sad afflictions last foray, nor ever exhaust the vengeance of the gods? Will they inflict a thousand cruel death, yet hurry not my steps towards the grave? Lest terribly severe would be their wrath, were it to strike the guilty once for all. How infinite their punishments appear, when life is left to those that suffer them. Heaven knows that since that thrice-accursed day, when I first found I had become the wife of my own son, the sufferings I endured surpassed the keenest torments of the damned. Yet righteous gods did an unconscious crime deserve such wrath implacable. Alas, I knew him not that luckless son of mine. To us you yourselves, who led him to my arms, yourselves that opened wide the horrid gulf. Such is the justice of these mighty gods. They bring our footsteps to the brink of crime, force us to fall, and then are merciless. Do they delight in leading men astray, to make them very types of misery? And can they not, when they would vent their wrath, find criminals to whom the crime is sweet? Scene 3 Jocasta, Antigone Well, it's all over. One or other slain. Comes the proud victor to add matricide to slaughter of a brother? Daughters, speak. Heaven is appeased, the oracle fulfilled. What! My two sons are dead! Another life, worthy of all its royal ancestry, has purchased peace for Thebes, for you repose, yea, for our country sacrificed itself. I ran to call back Hemen and your son, but ere I started they were far ahead. They heard me not, and vainly did I call, with cries of anguish on the name of each. They both flew swiftly to the battlefield, and, as for me, mounting the ramparts height, I, with the people there, watched an alarm, that seemed to freeze our blood, the thickening fray. Just at that fatal moment, their steps forth, between the embattled ranks, our country's hope, the youngest yet most honoured of our blood. The Prince Menicius, worthy to be called brother of Hemen, and too good to be the son of Creon. In his zeal to show his love for Thebes, in the ears of either host he cries, Halt! Heaven forbid the unnatural strife! To these commanding accents all give heed, astonished at so strange a spectacle, and checked the darkening tempest of their rage. Then straight away he continues, Learn, says he, the kind decree of fate, whereby full soon ye shall behold a limit to your woes. I am the last descendant of your kings, whose blood, so heaven his willed, must now be shed. Welcome this blood, then, that my hand shall spill, and welcome peace beyond your hopes regained. Thus speaks he, and therewith deals the death blow, and when the Thebans saw their hero fall, as though peace were but pain at such a cost. Trembling they viewed that glorious sacrifice. I saw the afflicted heaven leave his place, and fondly clasp his brother's bloodstained formed. While Creon in his turn threw down his arms, and turned in tears toward his dying son, seeing them so absorbed all else forgot. Both armies drew apart and left the field, with agitated pulse and stricken soul. I could not look upon a sight so sad, though full of admiration for that prince heroic. I, too, must admire the deed that makes me shudder. Is it possible, ye gods, that after this Thieves still should find no path to peace? Cannot this death sublime, which even moves my sons to cease from war, content you? Shall this noble victim die rejected? If to virtue you incline, as crime you hate, if ye reward as well as punish, shall not guilt be washed away by this pure blood? Such virtue cannot fail of recompense, his life has more than paid the debt we owe the gods, a hero's blood that of a thousand criminals outweighs its worth. You little know the wrath of heaven, that to my sorrow gives relief a while, but ever, when I think its hand is stayed, makes ready to destroy me utterly. This night it seems to wipe my tears away, to show me when awake new scenes of blood, the hopes of peace with which it flatters me, a cruel oracle foray forbids. It brings my son and bids me look on him, but ah, how dearly purchased is that joy, my son is deaf to all my earnest prayers, leaves me in sudden haste, and takes the field. Thus ever cruel burns the wrath of heaven, it only mocks us when it seems appeased, and grows more fierce, it interrupts its blows to make them fall the heavier, and withdraws its arm to crush me. Let us hope all good from this last wonder. Can I, while my sons remain unrecognisled? The younger, he it's not but his rights. The other, only he is the people's voice, and Creons, whose base greed robs all his son's devotion of its fruit. That gallant prince to save us dies in vain. His father harms us more than he can help. That faithless sire of two young heroes. Ah, my mother see he comes and with the king! Scene four Jocasta, Etiocles, Antigone, Creon This does my son, then, that kings keep their word. Madam, this fray was not begun by me, but by some soldiers, our guides and our own, who, having quarreled with each other, drew their comrades on to help them, till at length a mere dispute into a battle turned. A bloody one it doubtless would have been, and settled once for all our rival claims, had not manyoseous by his noble end, held back the arms of all the combatants. That prince, last offspring of our royal race, transported with a patriotic love, the faithful answer of the gods took home, and gave himself to death right willingly. Oh, if Menicius loved his country so, that life's sweet charm, paled in comparison, cannot that self-same love at least evade to check the fierce ambition of my son. His grand example bids you follow him, but not to die, not even cease to reign. You may by slight concession, yet do more than all his blood outpoured on our behalf. Seize but to hate your brother, nothing else, and you will bless us better than that death of self-devotion. Is it harder, say, to love a brother, than, despising life, to rush into death's arms? Easier for him to shed his blood than you to cherish yours? His virtue I admire no less than you, and even envy such a glorious death. Yet must I tell you, madam, it is a task more difficult to quit a throne than life. Glory for oft makes us in love with death, but few kings deem it glorious to obey. The gods required his life, nor could the prince, without disgrace, refuse the sacrifice. But as from him our country claimed his blood, so doth she bid me keep my throne and reign. And there, until she oust me, must I stay. Let her but speak, and straight will I submit. Yea, thieves shall see me to appease her fate, lay down the scepter, and my life as well. My son is dead, nor do the gods require another victim. Let no blood of yours mingle with his. To give us peace, he died. Live you to grant it to our just desires. What, even Creon on the side of peace? For having loved too long this barbarous war, you see how heaven has welled me in despair. My son is dead. And he must be avenged. On whom shall I take vengeance for this stroke of misery? Your foes are those of thieves, avenger and yourself. Among her foes I find your brother and my elder son. How can I spill the blood that you and I partake? And one son lost take my revenge upon the other. Toad be sacrilege to slay your brother, and to slay my son would outrage nature. Shall I stain my hand with blood so sacred, or with blood so dear? Can a good father by such cruel aid relieve his heart? To ruin, not revenge. One thought alone is like a healing balm. My sorrows may at least your scepter serve. I shall have comfort if the son I mourn brings by his death a shored repose to Thebes. Peace heaven has promised to Manocca's blood. Complete my liege what he has well begun. Grant him the price he has a right to claim. Nor fruitless let his self-devotion prove. Since you are led to feel for our distress, Menacea's blood may work more wonders yet. After this miracle, let Thebes take heart that which has altered you will change her lot. Henceforth is peace no longer desperate. Nay, disassured if Creon wills it so. Soon will those iron hearts in pity melt. My sons may well submit to power that bends the mind of Creon. To at your crease. Let this change in him move you, my son, to lay your arms aside, and banish savage hatred from your breast, give comfort to a mother, and console Creon, restore to both of us a son. To grant your wish would turn me from a king into a subject. Polynesius claims the sovereign power or me as well as Thebes. With sceptered hand alone will he return. Scene 5 Jocasta Etiocris Antigone Creon A Tellis A Tellis to Etiocris Sire, Polynesius begs an interview. A herald has arrived to tell us so. He offers either to come here himself or in his camp await you. It may be that, grown more mild, he feign would end this war, so long protracted, and ambition owns a check by this last battle taught today. Your power at least is equal to his own. The Greeks have served his fury long enough, yea, and the royal father of his bride, preferring solid peace to unstable war, keeps as I hear my sea-knife for himself, and makes him king of Argos. Brave indeed, but prudent too, he seeks but to retreat with honour. By this offer he means peace. Today he must see it ratified, or else forever broken. You may thus secure a firmer seat, let him have all he asks, except the diadem. And that alone is what he craves. See him at least. Yes, meet his wish. Alone you will transcend our power to make the ties of blood again prevail. Let us then go to him. In heaven's name, rather await his presence here, my son. Well, madam, be it so, and let him have safe conduct, and all do security. Now let us go. If peace this day return to Thebes, to Creeon we shall owe the boon. Scene 6, Creeon Attalus It is not the wheel of Thebes that touches you, proud princess, and your soul untameable, that seems to flatter where it's gone so long. Thinks less of peace than of my son's return, but we shall see ere long if her disdain will hold the throne as cheap as Creeon's heart. Soon we shall see, when heaven has made me king, whether the son's luck will eclipse the sire's. Who would not marvel at a change so rare, Creeon himself declaring now for peace? You think that peace, then, is the goal I seek? It needs no musing to think that, my lord, and seeing as I do your eager zeal, much I admire the generous resolve which makes you very hatred in the tomb. Manetius, dying, did no nobler deed. For he who can resentment sacrifice for patriotism would not spare his life. Ha, doubtless, he who can constrain his will to love his foe may make a friend of death. Why should I forgo my dear revenge and undertake my enemy's defence? It was Polly Nicese really slew my son. Should I become his abject advocate? And were I in to crush this deadly hate, could I the better cease to love the crown? No, you shall see me with unshaken zeal, like a bore my foes, and long for power. The throne is ever my most cherished hope. I blush to be a subject, where my sire's were kings. I burn to reach the same high rank. This is the object I have had in view since I could see. Now, for two years and more each step has brought me nearer to my goal. The fury of my nephews I have fed, it is my ambition makes me foster theirs, to as I who first made Etioclus refuse to let his brother reign, therein unjust, but strong through my support, lent for a while to dispossess him later and myself place on the throne. For if so keen for war, why do you snatch the weapons from their hands? Since their dissension is what you desire. How comes it that they meet by your advice? The war has proved more fatal to myself than to my foes. The gods are too unkind. The plan I formed is made to work my woe. It is my own hand they use to stab my heart. Soon as the war was kindled, chastisement began for me, when hemen left my side for Polyneses. I, it was, who fanned the brother's enmity and found a foe in my own son. The broken truce today was due to me, to as I who roused the strife, that led to bloodshed, till the desperate deed of my Menocus cut the chain I wove. Still I have left a son who, still I love, a rebel though he be, and rival too. Him would I save when I destroy my foes. To lose them both would be too dear a price. Besides, the princes hate each other so. Be sure, they never will consent to peace. Well know I how to make the venom work, till they would rather die than be at one. Brief may be enmity with other foes, but when the bonds of nature have been snapped, nothing can reunite the sundered hearts, which ties of love so strong have failed to hold. When brothers hate, their hatred knows no bounds, but absence calls their wrath. For when a foe, one whom we most detest, is out of sight, resentment loses half its bitterness. Be not surprised, then, I would have them meet. I wish their eyes to reinforce their rage, that they, with hatred cherished, not expelled, may feel their false embraces stifle them. More than ought else, you have yourself to dread. Remorse may torture brows that wear a crown. The throne, when once attained, brings other cares, remorse weighs likely in comparison. The mind that is engrossed with present power, dwells not upon the visions of the past. It separates itself from what it was, and deems its life began with sovereignty. Come, let us go, remorse affects me not, nor do I own a heart that guilt can scare. All the first steps to crime some effort cost, but easy those that follow, Attilus. End of Act 3, Act 4 of The Tebeid or The Brothers at War by Jean Racine Translated by Robert Bruce Boswell This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Act 4, Scene 1, Etiocris Creon Yes, Creon. To this spot he soon will come. And here we may await him, both of us, then learn what he would have. Upon my word I think this meeting augurs little good. I know his overbearing temper well. He hates me with a hatred unimpaired, whose course I wean, no mortal may rest. And I, I hate him always. That's the truth. But if he now at length resigns his claim to royalty, your hatred should subside. I think my heart will never be appeased. It is not his pride. It is himself I hate. Relentless is our mutual enmity. It is not a twelve-months work, it was born with us, and its dark venom, Creon, reached our hearts as soon as life itself. We were sworn foes in tenderest childhood. Yay, before our birth that enmity began, fatal effect of our insetuous blood and parentage. Yet while imprisoned in the self-same womb we struggled hard, and made my mother fear where our divisions had their origin. They flourished in the cradle, as you know. In to the tomb perchance they'll follow us. It seems as though the dire decree of heaven would brand the incest of our parents thus, and in our persons let the world behold the blackest use of hatred as of love. Whilst I await his coming, Creon, now think not I hate him less than I have done. The nearer his approach, more odious he, and my abhorrent must before his eyes break forth. I would not have him quit his claim. He must be made to fly, not thus retire. I will have no half-measures for my hate. I dread his friendship more than all his wrath. To give my animosity full scope, I'll have his rage at least sanctioned my own. And, since my heart cannot betray itself to hate him freely, I would have him show hatred for me. His rage is still the same, as you will see. Still covets he the crown. Still curses me for keeping him wherefrom. More easy he to be subdued than one. Subdu him, then, my lord, if he remains stubborn, however arrogant he be. He's not invincible. And when his heart is deaf to reason, prove what can be done by your resistless sword. Though I love peace, I'll be the first to take up arms again. I asked for their suspension. It is true. But more I wished that you should ever reign. Rather may war blaze forth and never end, than Polynesis should return with peace. Let others boast her charms. I scorn them, then. War's on as please me, so we lose not you. Thebes by my mouth implores you. Crush us not beneath the heel of that ferocious prince. She yearns like me for peace, if possible. But if you love her, grant her chief desire to keep her king. Yet to your brother give a patient ear. And if you can, conceal your wrath. But someone comes. Seen to, Etiocris Creon, Attalus. Are they at hand? Will they come, Attalus? Yeah, Sire. They're here. And meeting first the princess and the queen, to the next chamber will proceed anon. Well, let them enter. Waiting which approach. My wrath grows hot. How we do hate a foe when he is near us. Ah, he comes. Aside. Fulfill my efforts, fortune, matten both with rage. Seen three, Jocasta, Etiocris, Polyneses, Antigone, Hamon, Creon. Thus are my wishes crowned with glad success, since heaven has brought you both together here. After two years of absence, each beholds once more a brother, in this palace where your days began. And I, beyond my hopes made happy, may embrace you both at once. Henceforth my sons dwelled thus in unity, owning the bonds of brotherhood, and trace each in the other's countenance his own. But to judge better, take in nearer view. Heed the strong tie that kindred blood proclaims. Come, Etiocris, and Polyneses, come. Approach each other. What, you both draw back? Why this cold greeting? Why these darkening frowns? Is it that each with mind irresolute waits till his brother makes the first advance, deeming it generous to be last to yield? So both reviews to offer an embrace? What strange ambition this, that but to crime, aspires, confounding honor with revenge. This shameful strife should make the victor blush. The noblest will be first to own defeat, which has the greater courage. Show me now, by being first to triumph over rage. What, neither stirs? Let Polyneses give a friendly greeting. Coming from afar, you should begin. Embrace your brother now, and show him— Madam, little boots it thus to mask the truth. Such greetings on his placed. Let him explain, speak, and resolve my doubts. What, have I yet to make my wishes known? Surely the past has made the manifest. Has not the blood in many a conflict shed declared sufficiently my claim to reign? The self-same battles, and that blood, all poured so oft upon the crimson mental earth, have told full plainly that the throne is mine, and while I live cannot to you belong. You hold your seat unjustly, as you know. Wrong suits me well, so I but banish you. Though you refuse to leave it, yet therefrom you'll be perchance thrown down. And if I fall, it is like you'll share my ruin. Ah, to find blasted such budding hopes. Was it for this I urged so oft this fatal interview, in flaming discord? Is this then to treat of terms of peace? Drive out your deadly thoughts, and in the name of heaven forget your wrath. Is it your mother arms your hands anew? Here you are met, not on the bloody field, but in your home, my sons, where you were born. At each familiar sight subdue your rage, nor let your common birthplace lack respect. All that is here speaks but of peace and love. These princes and your sister blame your strife, nor least myself, who ever have for you suffered and toiled, and would took well your feud give up. They turned their heads, and heed me not, alas for stubborn hearts as hard as stone. The voice of nature meets no echo there. To Polyneses. And you, whom I supposed of milder mood. I only claim what has been promised me, for he is perjured if he reigns alone. Untempered justice oft is injury. I cannot contradict your right to rule, but you upset the throne you feign would mount. Are you not weary of this frightful war? Would you lay waste this land without remorse, and to obtain the kingdom ruin it? Is it then over the death you wish to reign? Thebes has good cause to dread dead princess Sway, who floods her fair domains with streams of blood. Will she obey one who has wronged her thus? You are her tyrant, ere you are her king. To grow great means oft times to grow worse, and virtue wanes when sovereignty is won. Race to the throne, alas, what will you be, since you are cruel now, debaught from power? If I am cruel, it is my stern constraint. I am not monster of the deeds I do. I see myself with shame, forced to commit acts most abhorrent, and the people's fear is all unjust. No longer will I wound my country's peace, her groans afflict my soul. Two copious streams of guiltless blood have flowed incessant. I must heal her miseries. Nor Thebes, nor Greece shall mourn or suffer more. I will confront the author of my ills. His blood, or mine, suffices for today. Your brother's blood? Yes, madam. Even his. A fitting end to this inhuman war. Such is the errand which has brought me here, to challenge you myself. Nor did I dare to speak of it to others than to you, for any other would have blamed the thought, and no one here have been my deputy. So I am mine own herald. Tis for you to prove that you can keep what you have seized. Show yourself worthy of a prize so fair. Your challenge? I accept, and that with joy. Creon knows well it was my own desire. It gave me less delight to accept the throne. You show that you deserve the diadem, which at the point of this my sword I beg to offer. Hasten then, and pierce this heart. With me commence your cruel enterprise. Forget that it was I who gave you both. Remember only that your brother drew his life from me. And if you seek his blood, in my unhappy bosom find its source. I am the common enemy of both. Being the mother of your hated foe, who never but for me had seen the light. If he must die, shall I not die as well? May doubt it not, for I will share his death. You must include us both, or neither slay. Perfect your clemency, or cruelty, and take my life, or spare your enemy. If virtue charms you, and if honour guides, blush your barbarians at a crime like this, or if to each of you such sin is sweet, then blush barbarians to commit but one. Nor is it love indeed that stays your hands, if when you seek his life you save my own. Your cruelty would grudge forsooth to spare me too, if I one moment stood between the throne and you. Is this the way to treat a mother? I would spare my country. I and kill your brother. Nay, but punish guilt. His blood will make you guiltier far than he. Must then this hand of mine a traitor crown? And must I service seek at foreign courts? Quit my ancestral realms a vagabond, and pay submission to the laws he scorns? Shall I become the victim of his greed? What is the crown the heritage of a crime? Has he not set it naught each right he owes, and while I am an exile, he is king. But what if Argos grants you too a crown? Am I to seek elsewhere what right of birth bestows? And, craving his alliance, bring nothing myself, but owe to his good will or future rank, banished from my own throne, and suing humbly to a foreign prince? No, no, I cannot cringe to pay him court. To whom I owe my life will I too owe my scepter. From the father of your bride, all from your own, you may accept the gift as one of equal price. They differ much. One makes me king, the other but a slave. What, shall my greatness be a woman's work? There at my soul might blush with shame. Shall then I owe my scepter to my love, and only as a bridegroom reigns king? Nay, my own right shall raise me to the throne, or I'll renounce it. With unborrowed power, let mine be sole command, hated for chance, yet well obeyed, if not from love, from fear. In fine I will be master of my fate, and scorn to wear a crown that is not mine. My birth entitles me to reign, or else I wish no sucker but my own right arm. Do more, my son. Hold fast this bold resolve, and let your arm alone your fortune win. Distain the steps that others sovereigns tread, and let your own hands carve the way that leads to greatness. Crown yourself with famous deeds, and be your diadem the victor's base. Conquer and reign, let marshal glory add new lustre to the purple that kings wear. What, can my son's ambition be content to wield a scepter each alternate year? Let that brave heart which nothing can subdue seek for some throne which you may mount alone. Thousands there are, mid which your sword may choose, but stay not this one, with a brother's blood. Your triumphs, then, will bring your mother joy, and even your rival aid your victories. Would you than I, flattered with these vain dreams, leave a usurper on my father's throne? If you indeed wish him such grievous ill, raise him yourself to this ill omen throne. So plunge him in a deep abyss of woe. For baleful lightnings and the curse of crime be set it. Yea, your father and his sires, soon as they mounted, saw themselves cast down. What though I meet the thunderbolts of heaven, rather mount there than crawl upon the ground. My heart is envious of such misery, eager to rise, even if to fall with them. Nay, I will spare you such a fruitless fate. Your ruin, trust me, shall precede my own. My son, the people love his rule. To me, Tiz hateful. They support him. And the gods back me. Not so. Tiz they forbid your quest, since they have given to me this subter first. And when they made the choice, they knew full well that he who wants his king would king remain. No realm can brook two masters, and one throne, however great so are, will grant them scanty room. Each will be combered by his second self, and one ere long must find himself upset. You see how I abhor this impious wretch, then judge how I can let him share my crown. And I, so hateful are you, wish no more to share with you the light that's free to all. Go, kill each other, then. I stay you not, but rather urge you to these savage lists. Since all my efforts can effect no change, why tarry longer. Reek your wild revenge, surpass if possible your father's crimes. By mutual slaughter show your brotherhood. Your life bestowed through guilt of deepest die must be by no less wickedness cut off. Why should I blame the fury that goats on my sons, for I have ceased to pity them? Yea, they have told this heart to turn to stone, and I will teach the cruel how to die. Seen for, Antigone, Etiocles, Polyneses, Hamon, Creon. Mother, ah, what is this? Can nothing touch their hearts? No, nor the savage purpose shake. My brothers. Come, then, let us choose our ground. Yea, with all speed. Sister, farewell. Good-bye, sweet princess. Stop, my brothers, let the guards hold them perforce, join all your pains to mine. Tis to be cruel to show false respect. Dear lady, nothing more can stop them now. Ah, noble hemantist, to you I turn, and only you. If still you love me, still love goodness, and can't fratricide prevent to save me from my despair, these wretches save.