January 30 The Harvard Classics, fifteen minutes a day
First Problem Play Popular
Antigone, an orphan princess, defies a king’s mandate and risks her life to do her duty to her brother. What is this duty which her brother calls her to perform and the king forbids?
- Sophocles died at Athens, Jan. 30, 405 B. C.
From the 1930 Reading Guide
Antigone
Sophocles
The reading starts at the title “ANTIGONE” on page 255.
ANTIGONE
OF SOPHOCLES
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
CREON, King of ThebesHAEMON, son of CREONTEIRESIAS, a seerGuardFirst MessengerSecond MessengerEURYDICE, wife of CREONANTIGONE, ISMENE, daughters of OEDIPUSChorus of Theban Elders
SCENE—Thebes, in front of the Palace.
Enter ANTIGONE and ISMENE
Antigone
ISMENE, mine own sister, dearest one;Is there, of all the ills of Oedipus,One left that Zeus will fail to bring on us,While still we live? for nothing is there sadOr full of woe, or base, or fraught with shame,But I have seen it in thy woes and mine.And now, what new decree is this they tell,Our ruler has enjoined on all the state?Know’st thou? hast heard? or is it hid from thee,The doom of foes that comes upon thy friends?Ism. No tidings of our friends, Antigone,Painful or pleasant since that hour have comeWhen we, two sisters, lost our brothers twain,In one day dying by each other’s hand.And since in this last night the Argive hostHas left the field, I nothing further know,Nor brightening fortune, nor increasing gloom.Antig. That knew I well, and therefore sent for theeBeyond the gates, that thou mayst hear alone.Ism. What meanest thou? It is but all too clearThou broodest darkly o’er some tale of woe.Antig. And does not Creon treat our brothers twainOne with the rites of burial, one with shame?Eteocles, so say they, he interredFitly, with wonted rites, as one held meetTo pass with honour to the gloom below.But for the corpse of Polynices, slainSo piteously, they say, he has proclaimedTo all the citizens, that none should giveHis body burial, or bewail his fate,But leave it still unsepulchred, unwept,A prize full rich for birds that scent afarTheir sweet repast. So Creon bids, they say,Creon the good, commanding thee and me,Yes, me, I say, and now is coming here,To make it clear to those who knew it not,And counts the matter not a trivial thing;But whoso does the things that he forbids,For him, there waits within the city’s wallsThe death of stoning. Thus, then, stands thy case;And quickly thou wilt show, if thou art bornOf noble nature, or degenerate liv’st,Base child of honoured parents.Ism. How could I,O daring in thy mood, in this our plight,Or doing or undoing, aught avail?Antig. Wilt thou with me share risk and toil? Look to it.Ism. What risk is this? What purpose fills thy mind?Antig. Wilt thou with me go forth to help the dead?Ism. And dost thou mean to give him sepulture,When all have been forbidden?Antig. He is stillMy brother; yes, and thine, though thou, it seems,Wouldst fain he were not. I desert him not.Ism. O daring one, when Creon bids thee not!Antig. What right has he to keep me from mine own?Ism. Ah me! remember, sister, how our sirePerished, with hate o’erwhelmed and infamy,From evils that he brought upon himself,And with his own hand robbed himself of sight,And how his wife and mother, both in one,With twist and cordage, cast away her life;And thirdly, how our brothers in one dayIn suicidal conflict wrought the doom,Each of the other. And we twain are left;And think, how much more wretchedly than allWe twain shall perish, if, against the law,We brave our sovereign’s edict and his power.For this we need remember, we were bornWomen; as such, not made to strive with men.And next, that they who reign surpass in strength,And we must bow to this, and worse than this.I, then, entreating those that dwell below,To judge me leniently, as forced to yield,Will hearken to our rulers. OverzealIn act or word but little wisdom shows.Antig. I would not ask thee. No! if thou shouldst wishTo do it, and wouldst gladly join with me.Do what thou wilt, I go to bury him;And good it were, this having done, to die.Loved I shall be with him whom I have loved,Guilty of holiest crime. More time have IIn which to win the favour of the dead,Than that of those who live; for I shall restFor ever there. But thou, if thus thou please,Count as dishonoured what the Gods approve.Ism. I do them no dishonour, but I findMyself too weak to war against the state.Antig. Make what excuse thou wilt, I go to rearA grave above the brother whom I love.Ism. Ah, wretched me! how much I fear for thee.Antig. Fear not for me. Thine own fate guide aright.Ism. At any rate, disclose this deed to none;Keep it close hidden. I will hide it too.Antig. Speak out! I bid thee. Silent, thou wilt beMore hateful to me than if thou shouldst tellMy deed to all men.Ism. Fiery is thy mood,Although thy deeds might chill the very blood.Antig. I know I please the souls I seek to please.Ism. If thou canst do it; but thy passion cravesFor things impossible.Antig. I’ll cease to striveWhen strength shall fail me.Ism. Even from the first,It is not meet to seek what may not be.Antig. If thou speak thus, my hatred wilt thou gain,And rightly wilt be hated of the dead.Leave me and my ill counsel to endureThis dreadful doom. I shall not suffer aughtSo evil as a death dishonourable.Ism. Go, then, if so thou wilt. Of this be sure,Wild as thou art, thy friends must love thee still. [Exeunt.
Enter Chorus
STROPHE I
Chor. Ray of the glorious sun,Brightest of all that ever shone on Thebes,Thebes with her seven high gates,Thou didst appear that day,Eye of the golden dawn,O’er Dirke’s streams advancing,Driving with quickened curb,In haste of headlong flight,The warrior who, in panoply of proof,From Argos came, with shield as white as snow;Who came to this our land,Roused by the strife of tonguesThat Polynices stirred;Shrieking his shrill sharp cry,The eagle hovered round,With snow-white wing bedecked,Begirt with myriad arms,And flowing horsehair crests.
Antistrophe I
He stood above our towers,Circling, with blood-stained spears,The portals of our gates;He went, before he filledHis jaws with blood of men,Before Hephaestus with his pitchy flameHad seized our crown of towers.So loud the battle din that Ares loves,Was raised around his rear,A conflict hard and stiff,E’en for his dragon foe.For breath of haughty speechZeus hateth evermore exceedingly;And seeing them advance,Exulting in the clang of golden arms,With brandished fire he hurls them headlong down,In act, upon the topmost battlementRushing, with eager step,To shout out, “Victory!”
STROPHE II
Crashing to earth he fell,Who came, with madman’s haste,Drunken, but not with wine,And swept o’er us with blasts,The whirlwind blasts of hate.Thus on one side they fare,And mighty Ares, bounding in his strength,Dashing now here, now there,Elsewhere brought other fate.For seven chief warriors at the seven gates met,Equals with equals matched,To Zeus, the Lord of War,Left tribute, arms of bronze;All but the hateful onesWho, from one father and one mother sprung,Stood wielding, hand to hand,Their doubly pointed spears;They had their doom of death,In common, shared by both.
Antistrophe II
But now, since Victory, of mightiest name,Hath come to Thebes, of many chariots proud,Joying and giving joy,After these wars just past,Learn ye forgetfulness,And all night long, with dance and voice of hymns,Let us go round to all the shrines of Gods,While Bacchus, making Thebes resound with shouts,Begins the strain of joy;But, lo! the sovereign of this land of ours,Creon, Mencekeus’ son,He, whom strange change and chances from the GodHave nobly raised to power,Comes to us, steering on some new device;For, lo! he hath convened,By herald’s loud command,This council of the elders of our land.
Enter CREON
Creon. My friends, for what concerns our commonwealth,The Gods who vexed it with the billowing stormsHave righted it again; but I have sent,By special summons, calling you to comeApart from all the others. This, in part,As knowing ye did all along upholdThe might of Laius’ throne, in part again,Because when Oedipus our country ruled,And, when he perished, then towards his sonsYe still were faithful in your steadfast mind.And since they fell, as by a double death,Both on the selfsame day with murderous blow,Smiting and being smitten, now I holdTheir thrones and all their power of sov’reigntyBy nearness of my kindred to the dead.And hard it is to learn what each man is,In heart and mind and judgment, till one gainsExperience in the exercise of power.For me, whoe’er is called to guide a state,And does not catch at counsels wise and good,But holds his peace through any fear of man,I deem him basest of all men that are,Of all that ever have been; and whoe’erAs worthier than his country counts his friend,I utterly despise him. I myself,Zeus be my witness, who beholdeth all,Will not keep silence, seeing danger come,Instead of safety, to my subjects true.Nor could I take as friend my country’s foe;For this I know, that there our safety lies,And sailing in her while she holds her course,We gather friends around us. By these rulesAnd such as these will I maintain the state.And now I come, with edicts close alliedTo these in spirit, for my subjects all,Concerning those two sons of Oedipus.Eteocles, who died in deeds of mightIllustrious, fighting for our fatherland,To honour him with sepulture, all ritesDuly performed that to the noblest deadOf right belong. Not so his brother; himI speak of, Polynices, who, returnedFrom exile, sought with fire and sword to wasteHis father’s city and the shrines of Gods,Yea, sought to glut his rage with blood of men,And lead them captives to the bondslave’s doom;Him I decree that none should dare entomb,That none should utter wail or loud lament,But leave his corpse unburied, by the dogsAnd vultures mangled, foul to look upon.Such is my purpose. Ne’er, if I can help,Shall the vile share the honours of the just;But whoso shows himself my country’s friend,Living or dead, from me shall honour gain.Chor. This is thy pleasure, O Menoekeus’ son,For him who hated, him who loved our state;And thou hast power to make what laws thou wilt,Both for the dead and all of us who live.Creon. Be ye, then, guardians of the things I speak.Chor. Commit this task to one of younger years.Creon. The watchmen are appointed for the corpse.Chor. What duty, then, enjoin’st thou on another?Creon. Not to consent with those that disobey.Chor. None are so foolish as to seek for death.Creon. And that shall be his doom; but love of gainHath oft with false hopes lured men to their death.
Enter Guard
Guard. I will not say, O king, that I am comePanting with speed and plying nimble feet,For I had many halting-points of thought,Backwards and forwards turning, round and round;For now my mind would give me sage advice:“Poor wretch, and wilt thou go and bear the blame?”Or—“Dost thou tarry now? Shall Creon knowThese things from others? How wilt thou escape?”Resolving thus, I came in haste, yet slow,And thus a short way finds itself prolonged,But, last of all, to come to thee prevailed.And though I tell of naught, thou shalt hear all;For this one hope I cling to steadfastly,That I shall suffer nothing but my fate.Creon. What is it, then, that causes such dismay?Guard. First, for mine own share in it, this I say,I did not do it, do not know who did,Nor should I rightly come to ill for it.Creon. Thou tak’st good aim and fencest up thy taleAll round and round. ’Twould seem thou hast some news.Guard. Yea, news of fear engenders long delay.Creon. Tell thou thy tale, and then depart in peace.Guard. And speak I will. The corpse … Some one has beenBut now and buried it, a little dustO’er the skin scattering, with the wonted rites.Creon. What say’st thou? Who has dared this deed of guilt?Guard. I know not. Neither was there stroke of spade,Nor earth cast up by mattock. All the soilWas dry and hard, no track of chariot wheel;But he who did it went and left no sign.But when the first day’s watchman showed it us,The sight caused wonder and sore grief to all,For he had disappeared. No tomb, indeed,Was over him, but dust all lightly strown,As by some hand that shunned defiling guilt;And no work was there of a beast of preyOr dog devouring. Evil words aroseAmong us, guard to guard imputing blame,Which might have come to blows, for none was thereTo check its course, and each to each appearedThe man whose hand had done it. As for proof,That there was none, and so he ‘scaped our ken.And we were ready in our hands to takeBars of hot iron, and to walk through fire,And call the Gods to witness none of usHad done the deed, nor knew who counselled it,Nor who had wrought it. Then at last, when naughtWas gained by all our searching, some one saysWhat made us bend our gaze upon the groundIn fear and trembling; for we neither sawHow to oppose it, nor, accepting it,How we might prosper in it. And his speechWas this, that all our tale should go to thee,Not hushed up anywise. This gained the day;And me, ill-starred, the lot condemns to winThis precious prize. So here I come to theeAgainst my will; and surely do I trowThou dost not wish to see me. Still ’tis trueThat no man loves the messenger of ill.Chor. For me, my prince, my mind some time has thoughtThat this perchance has some divine intent.Creon. Cease thou, before thou fillest me with wrath,Lest thou be found a dastard and a fool.For what thou say’st is most intolerable,That for this corpse the providence of GodsHas any care. What! have they buried him,As to their patron paying honours high,Who came to waste their columned shrines with fire,To desecrate their offerings and their lands,And all their wonted customs? Dost thou seeThe Gods approving men of evil deeds?It is not so; but men of rebel mood,Lifting their head in secret long ago,Have stirred this thing against me. Never yetHad they their neck beneath the yoke, contentTo own me as their ruler. They, I know,Have bribed these men to let the deed be done.No thing in use by man, for power of ill,Can equal money. This lays cities low,This drives men forth from quiet dwelling-place,This warps and changes minds of worthiest stamp,To turn to deeds of baseness, teaching menAll shifts of cunning, and to know the guiltOf every impious deed. But they who, hired,Have wrought this crime, have laboured to their cost,Or soon or late to pay the penalty.But if Zeus still claims any awe from me,Know this, and with an oath I tell it thee,Unless ye find the very man whose handHas wrought this burial, and before mine eyesPresent him captive, death shall not suffice,Till first, impaled still living, ye shall showThe story of this outrage, that henceforth,Knowing what gain is lawful, ye may graspAt that, and learn it is not meet to loveGain from all quarters. By base profit won,You will see more destroyed than prospering.Guard. May I, then, speak? Or shall I turn and go?Creon. Dost thou not see how vexing are thy words?Guard. Is it thine ears they trouble, or thy soul?Creon. Why dost thou gauge my trouble where it is?Guard. The doer grieves thy heart, but I thine ears.Creon. Pshaw! what a babbler, born to prate, art thou.Guard. And therefore not the man to do this deed.Creon. Yes, that too; selling e’en thy soul for pay.Guard. Ah me!How fearful ’tis, in thinking, false to think.Creon. Prate about thinking; but unless ye showTo me the doers, ye shall say ere longThat evil gains still work their punishment. [Exit.Guard. God send we find him! Should we find him not,As well may be, for this must chance decide,You will not see me coming here again;For now, being safe beyond all hope of mine,Beyond all thought, I owe the Gods much thanks. [Exit.
STROPHE I
Chor. Many the forms of life,Fearful and strange to see,But man supreme stands out,For strangeness and for fear.He, with the wintry gales,O’er the foam-crested sea,Mid billows surging round,Tracketh his way across:Earth, of all Gods, from ancient days, the first,Mightiest and undecayed,He, with his circling plough,Wears ever year by year.
Antistrophe I
The thoughtless tribe of birds,The beasts that roam the fields,The finny brood of ocean’s depths,He takes them all in nets of knotted mesh,Man, wonderful in skill.And by his arts he holds in swayThe wild beasts on the mountain’s height;And brings the neck-encircling yokeOn horse with shaggy mane,Or bull that walks untamed upon the hills.
STROPHE II
And speech, and thought as swift as wind,And tempered mood for higher life of states,These he has learnt, and how to fleeThe stormy sleet of frost unkind,The tempest thunderbolts of Zeus.So all-preparing, unpreparedHe meeteth naught the coming days may bring;Only from Hades, stillHe fails to find a refuge at the last,Though skill of art may teach him to escapeFrom depths of fell disease incurable.
Antistrophe II
So, gifted with a wondrous might,Above all fancy’s dreams, with skill to plan,Now unto evil, now to good,He wends his way. Now holding fast the laws,His country’s sacred rights,That rest upon the oath of Gods on high,High in the state he stands.An outlaw and an exile he who lovesThe thing that is not good,In wilful pride of soul:Ne’er may he sit beside my hearth,Ne’er may my thoughts be like to his,Who worketh deeds like this.
Page 266 ends inside a choral stanza; the reading runs on to the end of the stanza (Antistrophe II) on page 267.
Volume 8, pages 255–266 · See the scanned page on archive.org
This is the reading for January 30 in Fifteen Minutes a Day: The Reading Guide (1930 edition), page 29. There the assignment reads “Vol. 8, pp. 255–266.” Read it in the guide.