Antigone

Antigone and Ismene before the Palace gates.

Antigone

Ismene, sister of my blood and heart, See’st thou how Zeus would in our lives fulfil The weird of Oedipus, a world of woes! For what of pain, affliction, outrage, shame, Is lacking in our fortunes, thine and mine? And now this proclamation of today Made by our Captain-General to the State, What can its purport be? Didst hear and heed, Or art thou deaf when friends are banned as foes?

Ismene

To me, Antigone, no word of friends Has come, or glad or grievous, since we twain Were reft of our two brethren in one day By double fratricide; and since i’ the night Our Argive leaguers fled, no later news Has reached me, to inspirit or deject.

Antigone

I knew ’twas so, and therefore summoned thee Beyond the gates to breathe it in thine ear.

Ismene

What is it? Some dark secret stirs thy breast.

Antigone

What but the thought of our two brothers dead, The one by Creon graced with funeral rites, The other disappointed? Eteocles He hath consigned to earth (as fame reports) With obsequies that use and wont ordain, So gracing him among the dead below. But Polyneices, a dishonoured corse, (So by report the royal edict runs) No man may bury him or make lament⁠— Must leave him tombless and unwept, a feast For kites to scent afar and swoop upon.

What, bury him despite the interdict?

Antigone

My brother, and, though thou deny him, thine. No man shall say that I betrayed a brother.

Ismene

Wilt thou persist, though Creon has forbid?

Antigone

What right has he to keep me from my own?

Ismene

Bethink thee, sister, of our father’s fate, Abhorred, dishonoured, self-convinced of sin, Blinded, himself his executioner. Think of his mother-wife (ill-sorted names) Done by a noose herself had twined to death. And last, our hapless brethren in one day, Both in a mutual destiny involved, Self-slaughtered, both the slayer and the slain. Bethink thee, sister, we are left alone; Shall we not perish wretchedest of all. If in defiance of the law we cross A monarch’s will?⁠—weak women, think of that, Not framed by nature to contend with men. Remember this too that the stronger rules; We must obey his orders, these or worse. Therefore I plead compulsion and entreat The dead to pardon. I perforce obey The powers that be. ’Tis foolishness, I ween, To overstep in aught the golden mean.

Antigone

I urge no more; nay, wert thou willing still, I would not welcome such a fellowship. Go thine own way; myself will bury him. How sweet to die in such employ, to rest⁠— Sister and brother linked in love’s embrace⁠— A sinless sinner, banned awhile on earth, But by the dead commended; and with them I shall abide for ever. As for thee, Scorn, if thou wilt, the eternal laws of Heaven.

Ismene

I scorn them not, but to defy the State Or break her ordinance I have no skill.

Enter Guard.

Guard

My lord, I will not make pretence to pant And puff as some light-footed messenger. In sooth my soul beneath its pack of thought Made many a halt and turned and turned again; For conscience plied her spur and curb by turns. “Why hurry headlong to thy fate, poor fool?” She whispered. Then again, “If Creon learn This from another, thou wilt rue it worse.” Thus leisurely I hastened on my road; Much thought extends a furlong to a league. But in the end the forward voice prevailed, To face thee. I will speak though I say nothing. For plucking courage from despair methought, “Let the worst hap, thou canst but meet thy fate.”

Creon

What is thy news? Why this despondency?

Guard

Let me premise a word about myself. I neither did the deed nor saw it done, Nor were it just that I should come to harm.

Creon

Thou art good at parry, and canst fence about Some matter of grave import, as is plain.

Guard

The bearer of dread tidings needs must quake.

Creon

Then, sirrah, shoot thy bolt and get thee gone.

Guard

Well, it must out; the corpse is buried; someone E’en now besprinkled it with thirsty dust, Performed the proper ritual⁠—and was gone.

Creon

What say’st thou? Who hath dared to do this thing?

Guilty. I did it, I deny it not.

Creon

To Guard.

Sirrah, begone whither thou wilt, and thank Thy luck that thou hast ’scaped a heavy charge.

To Antigone.

Now answer this plain question, yes or no, Wast thou acquainted with the interdict?

Antigone

I knew, all knew; how should I fail to know?

Creon

And yet wert bold enough to break the law?

Antigone

Yea, for these laws were not ordained of Zeus, And she who sits enthroned with gods below, Justice, enacted not these human laws. Nor did I deem that thou, a mortal man, Could’st by a breath annul and override The immutable unwritten laws of Heaven. They were not born today nor yesterday; They die not; and none knoweth whence they sprang. I was not like, who feared no mortal’s frown, To disobey these laws and so provoke The wrath of Heaven. I knew that I must die, E’en hadst thou not proclaimed it; and if death Is thereby hastened, I shall count it gain. For death is gain to him whose life, like mine, Is full of misery. Thus my lot appears Not sad, but blissful; for had I endured To leave my mother’s son unburied there, I should have grieved with reason, but not now. And if in this thou judgest me a fool, Methinks the judge of folly’s not acquit.

To Haemon.

Heed thou thy sire too; both have spoken well.

Creon

What, would you have us at our age be schooled, Lessoned in prudence by a beardless boy?

Haemon

I plead for justice, father, nothing more. Weigh me upon my merit, not my years.

Creon

Strange merit this to sanction lawlessness!

Haemon

For evil-doers I would urge no plea.

Creon

Is not this maid an arrant law-breaker?

Haemon

The Theban commons with one voice say, No.

Creon

What, shall the mob dictate my policy?

Haemon

’Tis thou, methinks, who speakest like a boy.

Creon

Am I to rule for others, or myself?

Haemon

A State for one man is no State at all.

Creon

The State is his who rules it, so ’tis held.

Haemon

As monarch of a desert thou wouldst shine.

Creon

This boy, methinks, maintains the woman’s cause.

Haemon

If thou be’st woman, yes. My thought’s for thee.

Creon

O reprobate, would’st wrangle with thy sire?