Die Antigone des Sophokles nach der Hölderlinschen Übertragung für die Bühne bearbeitet von Brecht 1948 (Suhrkamp Verlag) (1992) - full transcript

My sister lsmene, accursed twin

of the line of Oedipus,
do you know of some form,

some labyrinth, some shame,
or some useless labor,

that the father of the earth
has not yet sent

to us, who are stranded here?

In the long war,
one among many,

our brother Eteokles died for us.
In the tyrant's service,

he died young.
Polyneikes was even younger

when he saw his brother trampled under
the hooves of the war-horse. In tears

he fled from the unfinished battle.
For others another decision

is made by the spirit of battle,
when with a hard



blow with his right
he unnerves his hand. Now

the fugitive lurches forward until he has crossed
the Dirsean river, breathing a sigh of relief

at the sight of Thebes, his seven-gated city,
when he is suddenly seized

by blood-spattered Kreon, who killed
his brother, standing behind them,

lashing them all into his battle,
and he is slaughtered.

Have they told you or
haven't they told you

of the latest insults to be
heaped on Oedipus'

dwindling children?

I haven't been to the market,
Antigone.

I've heard no news of our loved ones,

neither loving words nor sad words

and I'm not happier and I'm not sadder.

Then hear the news from me
and if your heart

stands still or pounds too hard,



because it's broken,
then tell me so.

Gather your grey dust.
It seems you'd paint me

blood-red words.

Here it is: our two brothers

both dragged into Kreon's war
for the grey iron ore

of distant Argos,
and both killed,

are not both to be buried
in the earth.

Of course the fearless hero of
the battlefields, Eteokles,

shall, it is understood, be honored
and buried according to custom.

But the other, Polyneikes,
who died in disgrace,

it is now said of his body,
and it has been made known

in the city, that no one

shall make a grave for him
or mourn for him.

He is to be left
unmourned and unburied,

as a sweet meal
for the vultures. And he who

does something about it
is to be stoned to death.

Well, tell me, what are you
going to do about it?

What are you doing,
sister, testing me?

To see if you'll help me.

In what danger?

To bury him.

He, who was denounced by the city?

He, whom the city has renounced.

He, who caused the revolt!

Yes, my brother and yours.

Sister, they'll catch you defenseless.

But they won't
catch me faithless.

Poor thing. What drives you
to drive down to destruction

the last of Oedipus's children?
Forget the past.

Because you are younger you've seen

less horror. When
we forget the past

the past returns.

And think of it this way:
we're women

who haven't the strength
to fight against men

and therefore we're obedient in this

and in some things even
harder. Therefore

I ask the dead and the oppressed

to forgive me. When
force is used against me,

I obey the authorities.
What's the sense,

of committing useless actions?

I won't ask you again.

Follow someone who
gives orders. And do

what you are ordered. But I

am following the custom and
burying my brother.

And if I die for it? So
what? I'll rest in peace

among the peaceful. And I'll have left

something holy behind me.
I prefer to make

friends in the underworld

for I will live there forever.
As for you,

laugh at shame and live.

Antigone, bitterly

hard as it is to live
in disgrace, still

even the salt tears stop.
They don't flow

from the eyes forever.
The executioner's ax

puts an end to life's sweetness,
but for the survivor

it opens the slow veins of pain.
He can't stop screaming

yet even while screaming, he hears

the birds swooping above him

and sees through curtains of tears

the familiar elms and rooftops of home.

I hate you. How shamelessly you
show me the tattered apron of

your sentimentality? Right now,

on the naked stones,
the flesh of your flesh

is laid out under the wide sky
for the vultures.

But you think that was yesterday.

No, I'm not good enough just to offer
myself as a sacrifice, nor willful enough.

And I'm afraid of you.

Don' t give me advice!
Live your life.

But let me at least do what
I can to honor those of us

who have been shamed.
I'm not so

particular, I hope,
that I couldn't bear

to die an unbeautiful death.

Go on and gather your dust.
What you say is wrong but

it's said in love, and beloved.

The wagons of booty are coming!

The victory loaded with
plunder to make Thebes

forget the war.

In the temples of all the gods,

come out! And sing all
night the choral songs.

For Thebes is crowned with laurel

and the Feast of Bacchus reigns...

But he who won us the victory,

Kreon, Menokeus' son, he comes

from the battlefield with news
of the booty and promises us

at last the return of the soldiers,
for which he has ordered

and called together a council
of the Elders of Thebes.

Gentlemen, tell the world: Argos

is finished.
The reckoning was

total. From the eleven cities,

only a few escaped, only the fewest.

It is said of Thebes that when she's lucky

she'll be luckier. But misfortune
has not weakened you

rather you have weakened misfortune.
The thirst of our bloodthirsty weapons

was quenched by the first taste
of blood, but we did not deny them

repeated refreshment.
On a rough resting place,

Thebes, you have laid down the men
of Argos. Without a city, without a grave,

out in the open, lies
that which defied you.

Look over there where
their city once stood!

There you'll see dogs
with shining faces.

The greatest vultures
circled her, screaming

from corpse to corpse

but the meal was so rich

that the overfed birds couldn't
rise from the ground.

Lord, you paint a pretty picture
of great power

and the city will love it
when you deliver it

and you cleverly add one more
thing: the wagons of plunder

that drive through
the streets full of our own men.

Soon, friends, soon! But first
to business! You haven't yet

seen me hang the ceremonial
sword in the temple.

You see, I have for
two reasons called

you together: first,
because I know

that you will not count the costs
when it comes to oiling the wheels

of the man-mangling war-machine,
any more than you deny him

the blood of your sons in battle.
However,

when they return, exhausted to
the comforts of home,

there is too much counting
in the markets. Therefore,

give me your quick assurance that
the casualty lists of Thebes

do not exceed the customary
expectations. And also,

because the people of Thebes are
always too quick to forgive, now

that the danger is over, they
come here to wipe the sweat off

the homecoming hero without

asking whether that sweat is
the sweat of the fever of

battle or only the cold
sweat of fear, mixed with

the dust of desertion.
Therefore, I have buried,

and I ask you to approve it,
Eteokles

who died for the State,
with honors and laurels.

But Polyneikes the coward,
to Eteokles

and to me abhorrent and
friend to the people of Argos,

he shall lie unburied, as
bare as this lies here.

He was the enemy:
my enemy and Thebes'.

And therefore I want no mourning.

I want him to be left
with no tomb, unburied

to be devoured, as a meal,
by dogs and vultures.

If, instead of the greater
good of the city-state,

anyone should prefer life,
I have no respect for the man.

But he who serves
my State, dead or

alive, I'll praise him either way.

I hope you approve this.

We approve it.

And will you be responsible for
carrying out the orders?

A job like that is for the younger men.

Not this job. The watch for
the dead has started already.

And are we to keep
watch for the living?

Yes, because there are
some who are dissatisfied.

There's no one here that's
fool enough to risk his life.

Not openly.
But many

have shaken their heads
until they lost them...

which brings me to this:
we must do more.

The State must be cleansed...

I got here as fast as I could,
out of breath

to bring the message swiftly
to our leader. Don't ask me why

I couldn't make it any faster.
My feet got ahead of my head or

my head raced on and
dragged my feet behind, yet

no matter how tired I got,
or how long I was

in the sun, out of breath, still

I kept going.

I'm not holding anything back,
so I ask myself why not say it

right out, since I didn't do it?

And I don't know anything.
I don't even know

who did it to you. For me
to draw conclusions

when I know so little
wouldn't mean a thing.

Your innocence, my ambitious
messenger, won't win you medals

for swift footwork.

You entrust your guards
with great power. But

the exercise of great power
comes with great fatigue.

Tell me your news and get out of here.

I'll tell you my news.
The body, just now,

someone buried it. Someone who
evaded us, over the body sprinkled

dust, so that
the vultures can't see him.

What? Who would dare undertake it?

I don't know. There was
no mark of a spade,

no sign of the use of a shovel.
And the smooth ground

showed no wheel-marks. No sign

of the culprit. Wasn't a real grave,

just some soft dust, as if
breaking your law didn't

involve kicking up a lot of dirt.

But there were no animal tracks.

Not even a dog had come
to tear and devour.

What the first light of day showed us

struck us as unholy.
And the lot fell to me

to bring our leader the message,

and nobody loves
the bearer of bad news.

O Kreon, son of Menokeus,
can it be

that something holy
has happened here?

Stop that! Don't make me
angrier yet by saying

that the spirits
pamper the cowards

who would cooly allow
the desecration

of the pillars of their city's
temples and sacrifices!

There are some in the city who hold
certain things against me and boast

that they will
not bow to my will.

I know all about it,

they do it with bribes and presents.

Of all things graven,

there is nothing as evil
as silver. It corrupts

whole states. It lures
men from their homes

to practice every kind of godless action.

But I tell you, if you don't deliver
the person who did this, in human form,

alive, bound to a board, and
delivered, you will be hanged

and enter hell with
a rope around your neck.

Then you'll learn
how rewards are earned.

Stop plundering each other and realize

that not all things
are made for profit.

Sir, a man in my position has
a lot to be afraid of.

There are too many
roads that lead to him,

being just a nobody whom you
threaten. I'm less afraid

at the moment -- well, always
a little afraid --

of being accused of
accepting bribes -- though

if you suspect me,
I'll turn my purse inside out

twice, to prove I have nothing --

than I fear to enrage you
by contradicting you.

What I'm really afraid of
is that this investigation

will get me a rope around my neck.
The hands of the powerful

more often provide
my kind with rope

than with silver,
as you well know.

Are you asking me riddles,
you transparent fool?

The dead man was of high rank
and must have high-ranking friends.

Then go for their ankles if you

can't reach any higher! I know that
there are troublemakers everywhere.

There are several who shudder to hear

of my victory and place the laurel wreath

with fear and trembling.
I'll find them out.

It's an unhealthy spot,
where the mighty have

gotten into the hair
of the mighty! I

think -- I'm still here.
I wonder why.

There is much that is
monstrous. But nothing

more monstrous than a human being.

Only he goes out at night

on the sea. While
against the winter blows

the south wind, he ventures out

in winged whistling houses.

And the earth below the Heavens,

the unspoilable and the untiring,

his ambitious plows tear it up,

as year after year

he drives his horses over the land.

He traps and hunts
the gently fashioned birds

and the wild beasts

and the wide seas'
salt-nourished life,

with craftily slung nets,

the skillful man.

With cunning he catches the wild things

that forage at night in the hills.

He yokes the rough-maned stallion

by the neck, and
also the untamed ox

that roams through the hills.

And speech and the airy flight

of thoughts and the laws
that order the State,

he has mastered -- and to
avoid the polluted swamp air

and how to come in from
the rain, he knows it all

and yet all is unknown.
He comes to nothing.

He always has advice,
nothing is advisable for him.

Though all things are without borders for him,

a limit has been set on him.

For he who finds none,

becomes his own enemy.
As though he were an ox,

he yokes the neck of humanity,
but humanity

tears it off.
If he advances,

he steps across the bodies of
his own people. His own stomach,

he cannot fill alone.
But he builds a wall

around his own property
and the wall:

it must be torn down!
Open the roof

to the rain!
He counts what is human

as nothing at all.
He has become

his own monster.

O, I am tempted by heaven

not to admit that I know

her. It isn't she.
Antigone,

unfortunate child of an unfortunate

father, Oedipus' child,
what brings you

to this place as a criminal

under the laws of the State?

Here she is. She did it.
We caught her

as she made the grave.
Where's Kreon?

He's there, coming out of the house.

What are you bringing her here for?
Where did you catch her?

She made the grave.
Now you know everything.

I hear your words clearly.
But did you yourself see it?

Just as she started the grave,
against your orders.

When you're lucky
you can speak clearly.

So you had ought to...
give me the story.

After I left you, as you
made those terrible threats,

we wiped the dust off the body,

which was putrefying
already and we sat

on a hill where there
was air, because the smell

of the dead man was
strong. And we agreed

that if we got sleepy we'd wake
each other with a poke

of the elbows.
Suddenly we opened

our eyes,
because a sudden

warm wind
lifted the mist from the ground

in a whirlwind
which concealed the valley,

tearing the hair of the woods
into the valley, filling

the air with fog so that
we had to blink

yes, that was it, and
rub our eyes. It was then

that we saw her standing there crying out

in a sharp voice like a bird that mourns

when it sees the empty
nest without young ones.

She wailed because she saw
the dead man naked

and she spread the dust over him
again out of the iron jug.

She sprinkled dust over the dead man

three times. We ran and held her

and she didn't resist.
And we accused her

of these present things that
we have witnessed.

But she denied nothing and was

gentle toward me and
sad at the same time.

Do you admit or do you deny that
you did it?

I say that I did it and
I don't deny it.

Now tell me, and be brief:

Are you aware of
what was announced

in the open city about
this particular corpse?

I knew it. How could I help it?
It was clear enough.

And yet you dared to break my law?

Just because it was
your law, a human law,

that's why a human being
may break it -- and I am

just as human as you and only
slightly more mortal. And if

I die before my time, I think
it's because it has its

advantages. When you've
lived the way I have,

surrounded by evil,
isn't there some

slight advantage in death?

And further, if I had let my mother's

dead son lie unburied,

that would have made me unhappy.

But this

does not make me unhappy.
And if I seem crazy to you

because I fear the judgement
of heaven which hates

the bared sight of mangled bodies

and I don't fear your judgement,
then let a crazy

judge judge me.

Tough child of a tough father:

she hasn't learned how
to be cautious.

The toughest iron,
tempered in the ovens,

yields and loses its

stubbornness.
It happens every day.

But this one here enjoys
making fun of the laws of the land.

And to top this
impertinence: now that

she's done it, she laughs
about it and boasts

that she's done it. I hate that:
when somebody's caught

in a crime and tries
to make it look pretty.

And yet, though she insults me
in spite of our family ties

I'll be slow to condemn her
because of our family ties.

Therefore I ask you:
since you did it in secret

and now it's out in the open,
wouldn't you say,

to avoid severe punishment, that
you're sorry you did it?

Tell me why you're so stubborn.

To set an example.

Doesn't it matter to you
that I have you in my hands?

What more can you do to me, since
you have me, than kill me?

Nothing more. But
having this, I have all.

What are you waiting for?
What you're saying,

I don't like it and I won't like
what you're going to say.

And I know you don't like me either.

Though there are those who do,
because of what I did.

So you think there are others
who see things as you do?

They see it too and
they are moved by it.

Aren't you ashamed to claim
their support without asking?

There's nothing wrong in
honoring my brother.

But the one who dies for
his country was also your brother.

Yes. Of the blood.
We are all of one family.

And the coward? Do you love him
as much as the other?

He who was not your slave
is dearer to me than a brother.

Of course, if good and evil
are the same as one another.

The things are not the same:
to die for you or to die for one's country.

Wasn't there a war?

Yes, your war.

Not the country's?

A strange country.
It wasn't enough for you

to rule over the brothers in their own city.

How beautiful Thebes was

when we lived in peace and unafraid
under the trees. But you

had to drag them all the way to Argos,

so you could rule over them there too.
And you turned them into the butcher

of peaceful Argos. But the scared one

you lay out to feed the vultures
and frighten his loved ones.

I advise you to say nothing.
Don't say anything

to defend her. If you know
what's good for you.

But I will appeal to you,
for if you help me in my trouble

it will help you later.
The man who's after power is like

the thirsty man who drinks salt-water;
he can't hold it in,

but he has to have more. Yesterday
it was my brother. Today it is I.

I am waiting to see who stands by you.

And you take it and let him shut you up.

It will be remembered.

She's keeping accounts!

Dissension. That's what
she wants under the Theban roof.

You who cry for unity live by conflict.

I live by conflict here and
on the Argive battlefield.

That's right. That's how it is.
Anyone who uses power against

his enemy will turn and use
power against his own people.

It seems the dear girl wouldn't
grudge me to the vultures.

And what if Thebes fell,
through our conflict

to be devoured by the invaders?

The men in power always threaten us
with the fall of the State.

It will fall by dissension,
devoured by the invaders?

And so we give in to you, and give
you our power, and bow down

and, because of this weakness, the city
falls and is devoured by the invaders.

Are you accusing me of throwing
the city away to be devoured by the enemy?

The city threw herself away
by bowing down before you.

Because when a man bows down he
can't see what's coming at him.

He only sees the earth --
and oh! she will get him!

Insult the whole earth, you
monster, insult your country!

Wrong. Earth is an ordeal.
But my country is not only

the earth, or a house built by sweat,

not that house standing
helplessly in the path of the fire,

not a place where I can't hold my head up.
I claim that's not my country.

Your country no longer
claims you as her own,

but throws you out like filth
that dirties all it touches.

Who throws me out?
There are less

in the city, since you rule it.
And there will still be less.

Why do you come alone?
You left with many.

Who's missing?

Where are the youngsters?
The men? Aren't they coming back?

How she lies!
Everyone knows: to clear

the battlefields of the last weapons,
they stayed behind.

And to do your last mischief

and become a horror,
till their own fathers

wouldn't recognize them when

they are finally killed
like beasts of prey.

She's insulting the dead!

How stupid you are!
I'm in no mood for winning arguments.

Pity her,
take no account of her words.

When have I ever concealed
the sacrifice made for victory?

But you in your ravings,
don't let your tragedy make you

disparage Thebes' glorious victory.

But she doesn't want

the people of Thebes to live
in the house of Argos. She'd rather

see Thebes destroyed.

We would sit better
in the ruins of our own city,

and more safely, than with you
in the enemies' houses.

There, she said it!
You heard it.

She breaks every law,
knows no limits, like a guest,

reluctant to leave whom
one hopes never to see again,

who insolently tampers with his luggage.

I only took what was mine.
And I had to steal that.

You see as far as your nose.
But the State's

divine order, you don't see that.

It may well be divine, but I'd rather

that it were human,
Kreon, son of Menokeus.

Get out. You were always our enemy
and even in hell you shall be so;

like the mangled one, you shall
be hated even in hell, you nothing.

Who knows what the customs are down there.

The enemy, even when dead,
does not become a friend.

Of course he does.
I don't live to hate but to love.

Then go to hell if you want love

and love down there. Under my rule,
your kind doesn't live long.

But now Ismene comes

the sweet one, who is for peace.

But with tears awashed,

her face is yet
flushed with pain.

Yes! You! You stay inside.
Get home. I have

brought up two monsters.
A pair of snakes.

Come, out with it.

Did you takes part at the grave,
or are you innocent?

I did it. If my sister will accept me.

I took part too,
and I accept my guilt.

But your sister won't let you.

She didn't want to.
I didn't take her with me.

Fight it out!
I don't bicker over small things.

I'm not ashamed of my sister's misfortune,

and I'm asking her to call me her accomplice.

By all who are beyond the world of matter

and who talk together down in hell:

those who love with words alone,
I do not like.

Sister, not everyone is good
enough for sacrifice,

but even I am good enough for death.

Don't die too abstractly.
Don't meddle in things

that are not your business.
My death is enough.

My sister is too strict. I love you.

If she is gone,
what would I have to love?

There's Kreon. Love him.
Be his. I'm leaving you.

Does it amuse my sister to make fun of me?

Maybe it hurts too, and
the cup of my pain runneth over.

But what I said still goes.

That would be nice.
But I've made my decision.

Is it because you did it without me,
that you can die without me?

Be of good cheer and live.
I have a dead soul

and I am only of use to the dead, sister.

These women, I tell you they're all alike:

one of them loses her mind,
and another one follows.

I can't live without her.

We're not talking about her.
She doesn't exist.

But you're killing your own son's bride.

There's more than one field
for a man to plow.

Get ready to die. And so that you'll know

exactly when it's going to happen:
when at the Festival of Bacchus

drunken Thebes invites me to dance. Get

rid of these women.

When you dress up for the victory dances,
don't stamp

on the ground too hard, and
not there where it grows green;

may he who has troubled you,
mighty one, praise you.

Don't drive him down so deep

that he's out of sight,

for he lies in that direction,
on the ground, naked to confront you. His shame

he is resigned to, hideous and horrified,

abandoned to his loss, dehumanized, he remembers

his earlier form and rises and is new.

Patiently the brothers of Lachmyia
sat in their fire-gutted house.

rotting away, they earned their
living by weaving; each winter

the ice froze over them,
and their women didn't live there,

didn't live there at night,
but furtively sat around all day

in their scarlet cloaks. And always

the threatening cliff beckoned to them.

But not until Peleas

came, dividing them with his sceptre,
parting them, touching them

ever so lightly, could they rise up...

and kill their oppressors.

for that was the last straw for them,
for often the sum of misery

must only be rounded out by a fraction;
and then the blind sleep,

full of moaning with

prehistoric exhaustion, comes to an end.

Slowly and swiftly, unevenly,
waxes the moon and

wanes,
and all the while

evil is growing, and now

the last light falls on the last root

of Oedipus' house.

And when the great fall, they don't
fall alone; on a great multitude

they fall. As when, below us

on the Pontian sea, the winds of Thrace

blow wickedly in the salty night

to tear up a hut, and lifted from
the ground, it whirls along the dark

and disheveled shore,

and the groans roar from the stricken coast.

Hamon is coming, your youngest son, dismayed

at the loss of Antigone.

His young bride

lies stricken on her dread bride bed.

Son, there's a rumor you've come

to me for love of that young woman,
not to speak to your ruler,

but to your father, and if that's so

you've come for nothing.
When we returned from the battle,

which went well,
through blood and sacrifice,

she was the only one who did not
welcome us, begrudging our side

the victory.
She busies herself with one matter

and that one rotten.

Nevertheless, I come to you about
this thing and hoping that my father

should not hear with anger,
the familiar voice

which he has fathered, when to the ruler

it is the one that must bring bad news.

When a man brings up fresh children,

it can be said that his bedtime efforts

bring him only the laughter of his enemies.

You govern many people, but if you'll

listen only to good news, don't

lose any more sleep: let go

of the helm, like one
who doesn't want to steer, and drift!

The people are afraid of your name.
Therefore, when big fires

burn, you get small messages.

But there is this advantage to family ties:

we don't hold each other to account
so strictly. And many debts

are readily forgiven, and so we often

hear the truth from members of our family

because we can restrain our anger towards them.

My brother, Megareus, can't come to tell you

because he fought at Argos and has not come back

and doesn't know what fear is,
so I have to tell you.

Listen: there is deep
dissatisfaction in the city.

You listen:
when my flesh and blood turns rotten,

it nourishes my enemy. The uncommitted man

who doesn't know his mind tastes

dissent in every small annoyance.
One complains of taxes,

another wants an end to conscription --

but I keep them both
separated and in my power

because I have the weapons. But when

there are loopholes and the government

seems divided and wavers
and is indecisive, then

the stone can start rolling until it threatens

the house that's already surrendered.
Speak

but I'll listen only to him
whom I brought up and to whom

I taught the strength of the spear, my son.

There is some truth in everything.
There is a saying:

"Test the strength of thy tongue on
the anvil of truth." She

who didn't want the merciless dogs

to devour her brother: the city

is with her in this. Although they condemn

the dead man's crimes.

It's not enough. I call that weakness.

No, the filth that I've cut off
is not enough.

It must me done in public, so that other filth

will not forget how I cut off the filthy.

But you, knowing little of the case,

knowing nothing, you advise me:
watch your step,

look for alternatives,
talk to them in their terms,

as if authority could sway

the many-bodied masses
to difficult deeds by being

nothing but a small, cowardly ear.

But it saps the strength
to think up cruel punishments.

To crush the curse to earth,
until it curses, requires strength.

But the gentle uses of order can do much.

There are many orders,
but who gives the orders?

Do it your way,
but make it the right way.

Not knowing what I know,
you can't know what it is.

Are you my friend no matter how I do it?

I want you to do it so that I can be your friend.

But don't say that you alone
can be right, and no other.

He who cuts himself off from the others has

no thoughts or speech or soul like another, and

if we look inside such a man

we will find him empty --
but another kind of man

if there is such a wise man somewhere,
is not ashamed

to keep on learning and
not carry anything to extremes.

Look, when the rain-swollen brook

gushes past all the tress, how all those that

bend are spared, but the unyielding

are broken. Or when a laden ship

spreads out her sails and won't slacken,

bending back from the rower's bench,

how it must end in shipwreck.

Give in -- when the spirit demands it.
Give us change.

And change us. And if we shudder
in our humanity,

then shudder with us.

And the chained, shall we

present ourselves to the slave-driver?
Is that what you want?

And the chained

when the stench of death
reaches their nostrils

the drudgery driven may rise up and wonder

where they are being driven,
and driven so hard,

and drag us all down into the abyss
with all the wheels and chains.

Know that the city is torn by doubts.

What peace threatens, war deranges.

The war is over. Thanks for the instructions.

Then too, in preparation to celebrate the victory,

you intend to purge yourself
in a bloodletting of all those

in your house who have offended you.
This suspicion, I have

often heard.

By whom?

Your reward was here. Much greater

than if you choose only to be a spokesman,

babbling so suspiciously about suspicion.

Forget them.

Of the virtues of leadership

the most useful is called:
"forgive and forget."

Leave the old to be old.

Since I am so old

I find forgetting difficult.

But you,
couldn't you, if I ask you,

forget her whom you're defending

lest those who long for my downfall whisper,

"He seems to be that woman's comrade."

Not only hers, but of all
that's just, wherever I see it.

Wherever there's a hole in it.

Insults won't stop my concern for you.

Your bed is still empty.

I'd call that stupid if it wasn't
my father that said it.

I'd call that fresh if
it weren't a woman's slave who said it.

Better her slave than yours.

Now it's out and can't be retracted!

And it won't be.
You want to say everything

and hear nothing.

That's how it is. And now get

out of my sight. Go like the coward who

spares himself too, in the hour of decision.

Take that brat away. Quickly.

And I'll get away.
So that you need not look at a man

who is not afraid and makes you tremble.

Sir, he who went out angry is your youngest son.

But he won't rescue those women from death.

Then you're thinking of killing them both?

No, not the one who stayed away, you're right.

And the other one, how will you kill her?

Lead her out of the city,
where now the dances of Bacchus

are lifting the feet of my people.
Put her guilt

away where there are no people to see her,

alive, into a cave in the cliffs.
With millet and wine, the only meal

fit for the dead,
as though she were buried.

Those are my orders.

So that in the end my city shall not bring me shame.

But like the mountains from the clouds
this puts itself now before me,

that this is the hour when
Oedipus' child in her room

hears Bacchus in the distance and
prepares for her last journey.

Now he calls on his people,
always thirsting for pleasure;

and our city woefully gives him
the joyous answer;

for victory is great and Bacchus irresistible.

When he approaches the mourners
he hands them the drink of forgetfulness.

And the city discards the black robes
she was sewing to mourn her sons

and runs to the orgy of Bacchus
in search of depletion.

O lusts of the flesh, it is you

who win every battle! Even incestuous lovers

are overwhelmed by your urging.

He never feels empty who gives himself

over to be it, not only to feel it.
Possessed, he is at peace;

and he yields himself to the yoke

and bears his neck, not afraid

of the fumes of the salt-mines
or the ship

with thin walls on the black waters.
Alien skins

he mixes and tosses them
all together, yet never despoils

the bounteous earth with violent hands, but

peacefully from the first act of
creation is companioned with concord

and great conciliations.
Never warlike,

divine beauty joins him in the games.

But now I find myself

losing the rhythm and I can't

hold back the welling of tears for

now Antigone comes to receive

the gifts of earth, the wine and the millet.

Citizens of the city of my fathers--
look at me

take my last steps

and my last look at the sunlight.

And never again?

He beds us all alike, the god of death.

He is leading me alive

to the harbor of his river.

No wedding for me. For me

no wedding-song. Betrothed bride

of the Acheron, I am.

But your going is famous; praises go
with you, as you go

into this death chamber.

No illness consumed you, nor were you
the victim of hard labor for hard wages,

Such terms you would not accept.

Living your own life,
you go living

down into the world of the dead.

Oh no! They're making fun of me!

Yes, of me, and I'm not even dead yet,

and I still see the daylight.

My city! and oh, my city's

wealthy men! You must, yes, must

bear witness for me,
of how and why I go unmourned

by those who love me, and under what

laws into an unmarked grave

I go, into an unheard of grave. I,

who belong
neither to mortal men nor to the shadows

I, who belong to life not to death.

What comes of power,

it doesn't reflect upon. It has lost you,

the knowledge enraged by yourself.

O my father, O my unhappy mother,

of whom I was born in anguish,

and to whom I return cursed,
to lodge without a husband.

O, O my brother,
how sweet life is, and you've lost it.

Me too, I'm all that's left.

Draw me close down to you.

The body of Danae too had

in place of the light of heaven with patience

to endure the iron gate.
She lay in the dark prison,

though she too came of a mighty race, child.

And she counted there, for the creator of time,

the strokes of the hours of gold.

I've heard how pitifully the Phrygian girl,

Tantalos' daughter, died in the tower of Sipylos,

she would become immobile and,
like a stone bent beneath

wreaths of ivy, constricted

in their slow gathering;
and, with her, ever since,

as men say, the winter remains

and her throat is washed

with the snowbright tears of her eyelids.

It may be that I, like her,
go to a sanctified bed.

Her speech is holy, holy born

is she, while we are of this earth,
and earthly born.

Yes. You perish,
but greatness is yours and not

unlike a holy sacrificial victim.

And so you give me up for lost
with a sigh.

How piously you gaze upwards at
the blue heavens, but you don't look

me straight in the eye.
And yet, I've only done

what's holiest of holy.

They caught the son of Dryas loudly

and rapturously protesting
against the injustice of

Dionysus, and with stones

they stoned him to death and
he got to know

in his madness,
with his shrieking voice, God.

And it would be better too, if you

gathered together all the protests
against injustice and dried them

of tears and did something useful
with them. You don't look far enough.

But on the chalky cliffs with

the sea on both sides,
at the mouth of the Bosphorus,

there, near the city,
the war god watched as two

Phineans, who saw all too far,

had their eagle eyes

pierced through with spears,
and they were enveloped in darkness,

the circles of their brave eyes.

For the power of fate is frightful.

Neither riches, nor the war-god,

nor towers escape him.

Don't talk, I beg you, about fate.

I know all about that. Speak of him

who kills me, an innocent, he

has a visit coming from fate.
Don't think, that is,

that you're safe.
You're really the victims.

More mangled bodies

will be heaped up for you,
unburied as a cairn for those who

are unburied. You, who dragged Kreon's

war across distant frontiers, however many

may be for you happy battles, the last one

will destroy you.
You, who called for booty, you will not

see full wagons, but

empty ones. I mourn for you, survivors,

--what you will see

when my eyes will be filled with dust!
Lovely Thebes,

my homeland, my fathers' city!
And you, Dirsean River

that circles Thebes, where the wagons

draw up; oh, you woods!
...my voice falters to say

what will become of you!
You have spawned

the inhuman.
Therefore you must come to dust. Tell

any one who asks about Antigone that you saw

her escape into her grave.

Turned around and went,
with broad steps, as though she led

her guards. Across the plaza there

she went,
where the victory columns had already

been erected.
Then she went faster,

vanished.

But she too once

ate of the bread that was baked

by slaves in the dark cliffs.
In the shade of the prison towers

that shelter sorrow, she sat still
contentedly, till all that had

left the deadly doors of Labdacus' house

re-entered dead. The bloody hand

deals out to each his own, and they

don't just take it, they grab it.

Only thereafter she lay
rebellious in her freedom,

thrust into the good.

The cold awakens her.

Not until the last

of her patience was exhausted and the last

crime measured would Oedipus' unseeing child

remove the customary blindfold from her eyes

to look at the abyss that surrounds her.

Just as blindly now

Thebes lifts its feet and giddily

tastes the victory libation of highly-spiced

herbs concocted in the darkness

and swallows it, and exults.

Here comes Tiresias, the blind man,
the seer, driven no doubt

by rotten rumors of growing dissension

and the simmering unrest below.

Always go gently, child,
go steadily and be

untroubled by the dancers. You're

leading. Leaders

shouldn't follow Bacchus.

Inevitable is the fall
for he who, too high,

lifts his heels from the ground.

And look out for the
victory-columns. Victory!

they scream in the city,

and the city is full of fools!
And the blind follow

the seeing, but the blind,

one blinder still follows.

Why are you mumbling, mutterer,
about the war?

Because you are dancing, fool,
before you have won it.

Stubborn and senile, seeing

what doesn't exist, but

the columns that tower around us,
victorious,

you don't see those.

Can't see 'em. And my reason

is not twisted.
That's why I'm here,

dear friends. Same for the laurel

those thick leaves,
I don't recognize them,

before they are withered and rattle

or I bite into them and taste
the bitterness and I know that's laurel.

You don't like celebrations. That's why

you speak to us with a terrible tongue.

I have seen terrible things.
Listen to the bird-oracles and

what they portend for Thebes, drunk

with premature victory and by the droning

shouts of the Bacchus dancers deafened:
on the ancient

chair I was seated, before me a harbor full of birds.

And I heard a murderous turbulence
rise in the air above me.

And there was the lashing fury
of scratching claws as the

birds butchered each other. Frightened,

I quickly tested the newly-lit altars, but

not in a single spot
could I make a good fire. Only smoke

waltzing tearfully skyward and the
thighbones of the sacrificial ox

jutting out of the fat meant to cover it.

Very bad signs on the day of victory,

and news that kills joy.

This is the deadly meaning
of the sinister symbols:

it is you, Kreon, who cause
the city's sickness.

because the altars and hearths

are profaned by dogs and vultures
who are satisfying their hunger

on the body of Oedipus' son,
fallen, in a most disquieting way.

Therefore they don't sing
their song of good omen,

the birds,
since they have -- from a dead man --

eaten the flesh. But the Gods

don't care for the taste
of such smoke. Therefore

soften your heart towards the dead man,
and stop your persecution

of those who have gone away!

Your birds, old man,

fly very nicely for you.
I know all about that. They would

perhaps fly as nicely for me.
I am not altogether unschooled

in this business of the prophetic arts,

though I'm not so greedy. So pocket

your treasures from Sardis and your Indian gold.

But know this: I will not bury the corpse,

and I am not afraid of heaven's wrath.

Nothing human bothers the gods, that much I know.

But many fall, old man,

even the very powerful among the mortals

to an end that is very grim,
when they make up stories

that are very grim for the sake of profit.

I am too old to compromise myself
for the short time that's left to me.

No one is so old

that he doesn't want to grow older.

I know.

But I know more.

Say it, Tiresias.

Sir, let the seer be heard.

Say it, by all means, but let's make a bargain.

the prophet likes to profit
from his prophecy in silver.

I heard that that's what tyrants have to offer.

Even when they're blind,

they'll bite into the coin and they know:

that's silver.

I don't want you to offer me any

because in wartime no one knows what he'll keep,

whether it's silver, or sons, or power.

The war is over.

Is it?

I'll ask you a question!

Since, according to you, I know nothing,

I'll have to ask. Since into the future,

so you tell me, I can not see, I must

see into the present
and into the past to stay

within my art and
still be a seer. Of course, I

only see what a child sees:
that the victory-columns

are stripped bare of bronze!
I say that's because they're still

making spears.
And also that for the troops,

furs are being sewn.
I say: as if Autumn were coming.

And that fish are being preserved:
as if for winter rations.

I thought that was before the victory battle,

and is now discontinued.
Won't booty come

with metal and fish now from Argos?

And there are many guards,
and whether they guard much

or little, no one knows.
But there is much

confusion in your house and no amnesties granted

as is customary after happy occasions.
And it is said

that you son Hamon
left you in anger

because Antigone, his bride,

you have entombed in a cave,
because she wanted

to open a grave for her brother Polyneikes,

because you struck him down
and left him unburied,

because he turned against you, because

your war killed his brother, Eteokles.

That's how you're cruelly
bound up with cruelty.

And since I'm not silenced
by silver I'll ask

this second question:
why are you so cruel,

Kreon, son of Menokeus?
I'll make it easier:

is it because there's not enough
metal for your war?

What is it that you've done,
both mad and bad,

that now you must
compound both madness and badness?

You're thinking of the forked tongue,

though a half-tongue were worse.

But I'll give my double answer.
It is: none.

And I answer nothing with nothing
and say:

the bad economy cries out for great
men, and none are to be found.

The war goes away by itself
and breaks a leg.

Pillage comes from pillage and
the hard time need a harder time

and more needs even more
and comes in the end to nothing.

And so I have looked back,
and I have looked around,

you look ahead and shudder.

Sir, if our hair was still black,
it would have

turned white this instant.
The man, enraged,

has said bad things.

Don't say anything worse.

And I say: why bring us
what's better left unsaid?

Kreon, son of Menokeus, when

are the young men returning to
the city now empty of men, and how

goes your war,
Kreon, son of Menokeus?

Since that troublemaker
has directed your eyes

to this matter, I'll tell you:
that which perfidious

Argos made us wage, the war,
to its end

it hasn't yet come and isn't going

very well.
When I announced peace,

there was only one little detail
missing, and that only

because of Polyneikes' treason.

But he has been punished
and so has she who mourned him.

And this too

is not at an end: he has turned
against you, he who leads here at home

the strength of your spears,
the youngster,

Hamon your son.

I no longer want him

at all. Get him out of
my sight and yours;

he deserted me for trivial
thoughts of his bed.

My son Megareus still
fights for me. My son

sends endless cruel thrusts

against the weakened walls of Argos

with the armored youths of Thebes.

They are not expendable.

Kreon, son of Menokeus, we have always
followed you. And there was order

in the city, and you kept
far from our throats

our enemies. But now,
under the Theban roofs,

the thieves who have nothing
and thrive on war

and those who live on discord,
the rabble-rousers with

the empty stomachs and strong
lungs in the market place,

talking because they are paid or
because they are not paid,

now they are shouting again, and they
have some strong material too. Have you

started something too big,
son of Menokeus?

When I attacked Argos,

who sent me?
The metal spears went out

to bring metal from the mountains

at your request -- for you know Argos

is rich in metals.

And also rich in spears, it seems.
Some things,

evil things we heard here
and we dismissed them, trusting you

with the reports;
and we closed our ears,

fearing fear. And we shut our eyes
when more tightly

you pulled at the bridle.
Just one more

pull on the bridle
and one more battle

you said, that's all we need, but now

you are beginning to deal with us as you deal

with the enemy. How horribly

you lead your double war.

Your war!

You lead it!

If I had Argos,

it would be yours soon enough!
Enough of this!

So that rebellious girl

has stirred up all those who heard her!

Surely the sister was right to bury her brother.

Surely the commander was right to punish the traitor.

The naked truth asserts its right,
and right drives us right to our doom.

War makes new rights and wrongs.

And lives by the old ones.

War devours itself and those in need get nothing.

Ingrates! You'll eat the meat but

you don't like to see
the cook's bloody apron! The sandalwood

that I gave you to build your houses, where

the sound of sword is not heard,
was grown in Argos!

And so far no one has sent back the bronze-plate

that I brought you from Argos,
but you huddle together,

and babble about the blood-baths
and complain of my crassness.

I can expect yet more provocations
when the booty doesn't get here.

Man, how much longer will Thebes
still be without its men?

Until your men have conquered rich Argos for you.

Call them back, damn you before they all die.

Empty handed? That assignment,
will you confirm it?

Empty handed, or without hands, whatever
is left of our flesh and blood!

Certainly. Argos will fall,
then I will call them.

And my eldest son, Megareus,
will bring them to you.

And see to it that the doors and
gates are not too narrow and

only tall enough for such as walk bent down.

The shoulders of men of greater girth could

crash the palace door here
and break the doors of the treasury there.

And it may be there'll be such joyous embraces

at the reunion that your hands
and your arms shall be shaken

out of their sockets.
And when you press with passion

against the anxious breast
of their armour, mind your ribs!

Because on that happy day
you'll see more bare iron

than destitution.

Many reluctant victors

have been garlanded with chains
and danced on bended knees.

Evildoer, are you threatening
your own people? Are you ready

to set our own men against us?

I want to

discuss it with my son, Megareus.

Sir, bow your head!
I am a bringer

of bad news! Stop the hasty celebration

of a victory that was announced too early!

In a new battle,

your army at Argos has fallen and is in retreat.

Your son Megareus is dead. He lies mangled

on the hard ground of Argos. When you

punished the retreat of Polyneikes,

and the many in the army
who opposed you were arrested

and publicly hanged, and you yourself

hurried back to Thebes, we were ordered by

your eldest son to advance into a new battle.

The troops had not yet slept off
the bloodbath in their own

ranks. With tired hands they raised,

the battle ax, still wet with Theban blood,

against the men of Argos.
And all too many

faces turned around toward Megareus, who,

in order to seem fiercer than the enemy,

perhaps had urged them forward
in too harsh a voice.

And yet at first
the battle's luck was with us, for

every battle rouses its own battle fever,

and blood suffices,
be it ours or theirs,

and it intoxicates.
What courage cannot do,

fear does. Albeit the terrain

and the equipment and the rations
all play a part in it.

And sir, the people of Argos
fought with desperation.

The women fought and the children fought.

Pots and pans, long without food,

were filled with boiling water and

poured down on us.
Even surviving houses

were burned down behind us,
so that there were no prepared

positions to which we could withdraw.
Every household article and every house

became a weapon and a trench.

But still your son
drove us forward and drove us

further into the city, which, devastated,

now transformed itself into a grave.
Among the ruins

we were separated from one another;
smoke from all

occupied quarters, sheets of fire,

confounded our vision. Fleeing the fire

and seeking the enemy, we slew one another

and no one knows by whose
hand your son died.

The flower of Thebes. All gone.

And Thebes itself cannot last long,
because

the Argives are coming with men and wagons

into our streets. And I, who have seen it

am glad that it's over.

Woe!

Megareus, my son!

Don't waste

time grieving.
Gather the forces.

Gather nothing. Down the drain.

Drunk with the joys of victory

Thebes leaps up as the enemy approaches
to put her in the iron chains!

You sold us out
when you gave your sword away.

Now remember your other son:
call the younger!

Yes, Hamon, my last one!
Yes, my youngest son!

Come help me now in my great downfall; forget

what I said,
because when I was master of many

I could not master myself.

Hurry to the cliffside

and remove the grave walls quickly.

Free Antigone!

If I let her go

will you stand by me? You

agreed to everything when
you challenged nothing -- that

means you're committed!

Go!

The ax! The ax!

Stop the dancing!

Spirit of joy,
who is proud of the waters

that Cadmus loved,

come, if you want
to see her again,

your city. Travel swiftly and get here

before nightfall, because after that

she'll be gone.

This, O god of joy,

is your native city,
the Bacchanalian,

Thebes, where you lived,
at Ismenus' cold brook.

Here. the smoke of your sacrifices rising firmly

above the rafters of the rooves,
you have seen it.

From her many houses, no more fire

nor the smoke of the fire,
nor the shadow of the smoke, shall you see.

For a thousand years her children

saw themselves as masters
of the most distant seas,

but tomorrow they shall have,
and today they have

hardly a stone
on which to lay their heads.

At the cocytus, in your days,

god of joy,
you were seated with the beloved

in the woods of Castalia. And

visited the blacksmith and tested

with your thumb, smilingly,
the edges of the swords.

Often you followed the deathless
songs of Thebes

through the streets
when they still were merry,

Oh, their weapons have mauled their own flesh,

their strength was consumed by exhaustion.

Oh, violence is in need of a miracle,

and gentleness is in need
of a little wisdom.

And now the much battered enemy stands

at the gates of our palaces

and commands the bloody spears around

the seven gated mouth

and will not leave there

until our cheeks are filled with blood.

But here comes a girl

pushing her way through the crowd,
with news,

surely, of Hamon, whose father

appointed to lead our rescuing troops.

O wasted strength!
Oh, the last sword is broken!

Hamon is dead, bleeding by his own hand.

I was an eye-witness --
what happened earlier

I heard from the slaves
who went to their master

on that high plain where,
gnawed by the dogs,

the poor corpse of Polyneikes lay.

They washed him silently and
laid him out,

with fresh branches, as is the custom,

and a little shelter they carefully

built up from his native soil.

Pushing past all the others
the master approached

the grave in the cliff,
where we women were standing.

One of us heard a voice

and loud cries
from inside the chamber

and ran to the master to tell him.

He hurried,
and as he went he was surrounded

strangely by dark and pitiful voices.

Then, coming close, he called out
and cried pathetically

when he saw that the bolt had been
torn out of the wall, and said,

as though he believed what he said,
"That's not Hamon's voice. That's not

my child's voice."
Beckoning the call

of our frightened master,
we assembled. There,

at the back of the cave among the graves,
we saw

hanged by the neck, her, Antigone,

a rope made of cloth around her neck.

And he -- stretched out at her feet,

lamenting his bridal bed
and the abyss below

and his father's work.
And when he sees it

he goes into him and speaks to him:

"O come out, dear child,
I beg you on my knees."

Saying nothing, the son
looks at him coldly, staring at him,

and draws his double edged sword
towards him.

But when his frightened father
turns to flee,

he falters.
Without one more word,

standing upright, he slowly
pierces

the sword into his own body.
Wordless, he falls.

The dead lie with the dead. Bridal

fulfillment
is found somberly in the house

of the underworld.
Here comes my master himself.

The city has fallen,
habituated to the bridle and

without bridle. Leaning on women,
the defeated man comes, and

in his hands he carries
a great memento

of a stupid rage...

Look at what I've got.
It's the shirt. I had thought

it would have been a sword when
I went to get it. He, too soon for me,

died, my child. Just one more battle

and Argos would have surrendered!
But what there was

of courage and of excellence was
turned against me,

so now Thebes falls

and it should fall, should fall
with me, should be done with

and left to the vultures.
That's how I want it.

Turned around and went

--holding nothing more in his hands
than a bloodstained cloth,

all that was left of
the house of Labdacus--

into the tottering city.

But we,
we follow him still, and

it's all downhill.
It shall now be cut off,

so that it shall not strike again,

our obliging hands.
But she who saw it all

could only help the enemy who now

comes to destroy us entirely.
For time is short

and the unknown surrounds us;
and it isn't enough

just to live unthinking and happy

and patiently bear oppression

and learn wisdom only with age.

The human memory of past suffering

is short. Its imagination

for future suffering is more limited yet.

This is because humanity is menaced
by wars compared to which

those already past will seem
like pitiful attempts,

and without any doubt they
are going to happen,

if the hands of those who
prepare them in public

are not crushed.

subtitles: depositio

based on

Judith Malina's English translation of Brecht

and Danièle Huillet's French subtitles