Chapter: ACT III           Scene I

          PHAEDRA, OENONE


          PHAEDRA
          Ah! Let them take elsewhere the worthless honours
          They bring me. Why so urgent I should see them?
          What flattering balm can soothe my wounded heart?
          Far rather hide me: I have said too much.
          My madness has burst forth like streams in flood,
          And I have utter'd what should ne'er have reach'd
          His ear. Gods! How he heard me! How reluctant
          To catch my meaning, dull and cold as marble,
          And eager only for a quick retreat!
          How oft his blushes made my shame the deeper!
          Why did you turn me from the death I sought?
          Ah! When his sword was pointed to my bosom,
          Did he grow pale, or try to snatch it from me?
          That I had touch'd it was enough for him
          To render it for ever horrible,
          Leaving defilement on the hand that holds it.

          OENONE
          Thus brooding on your bitter disappointment,
          You only fan a fire that must be stifled.
          Would it not be more worthy of the blood
          Of Minos to find peace in nobler cares,
          And, in defiance of a wretch who flies
          From what he hates, reign, mount the proffer'd throne?

          PHAEDRA
          I reign! Shall I the rod of empire sway,
          When reason reigns no longer o'er myself?
          When I have lost control of all my senses?
          When 'neath a shameful yoke I scarce can breathe?
          When I am dying?

          OENONE
          Fly.

          PHAEDRA
          I cannot leave him.

          OENONE
          Dare you not fly from him you dared to banish?

          PHAEDRA
          The time for that is past. He knows my frenzy.
          I have o'erstepp'd the bounds of modesty,
          And blazon'd forth my shame before his eyes.
          Hope stole into my heart against my will.
          Did you not rally my declining pow'rs?
          Was it not you yourself recall'd my soul
          When fluttering on my lips, and with your counsel,
          Lent me fresh life, and told me I might love him?

          OENONE
          Blame me or blame me not for your misfortunes,
          Of what was I incapable, to save you?
          But if your indignation e'er was roused
          By insult, can you pardon his contempt?
          How cruelly his eyes, severely fix'd,
          Survey'd you almost prostrate at his feet!
          How hateful then appear'd his savage pride!
          Why did not Phaedra see him then as I
          Beheld him?

          PHAEDRA
          This proud mood that you resent
          May yield to time. The rudeness of the forests
          Where he was bred, inured to rigorous laws,
          Clings to him still; love is a word he ne'er
          Had heard before. It may be his surprise
          Stunn'd him, and too much vehemence was shown
          In all I said.

          OENONE
          Remember that his mother
          Was a barbarian.

          PHAEDRA
          Scythian tho' she was,
          She learned to love.

          OENONE
          He has for all the sex
          Hatred intense.

          PHAEDRA
          Then in his heart no rival
          Shall ever reign. Your counsel comes too late
          Oenone, serve my madness, not my reason.
          His heart is inaccessible to love.
          Let us attack him where he has more feeling.
          The charms of sovereignty appear'd to touch him;
          He could not hide that he was drawn to Athens;
          His vessels' prows were thither turn'd already,
          All sail was set to scud before the breeze.
          Go you on my behalf, to his ambition
          Appeal, and let the prospect of the crown
          Dazzle his eyes. The sacred diadem
          Shall deck his brow, no higher honour mine
          Than there to bind it. His shall be the pow'r
          I cannot keep; and he shall teach my son
          How to rule men. It may be he will deign
          To be to him a father. Son and mother
          He shall control. Try ev'ry means to move him;
          Your words will find more favour than can mine.
          Urge him with groans and tears; show Phaedra dying.
          Nor blush to use the voice of supplication.
          In you is my last hope; I'll sanction all
          You say; and on the issue hangs my fate.




Scene II


          PHAEDRA (alone)
          Venus implacable, who seest me shamed
          And sore confounded, have I not enough
          Been humbled? How can cruelty be stretch'd
          Farther? Thy shafts have all gone home, and thou
          Hast triumph'd. Would'st thou win a new renown?
          Attack an enemy more contumacious:
          Hippolytus neglects thee, braves thy wrath,
          Nor ever at thine altars bow'd the knee.
          Thy name offends his proud, disdainful ears.
          Our interests are alike: avenge thyself,
          Force him to love--
          But what is this? Oenone
          Return'd already? He detests me then,
          And will not hear you.




SCENE III
          PHAEDRA, OENONE


          OENONE
          Madam, you must stifle
          A fruitless love. Recall your former virtue:
          The king who was thought dead will soon appear
          Before your eyes, Theseus has just arrived,
          Theseus is here. The people flock to see him
          With eager haste. I went by your command
          To find the prince, when with a thousand shouts
          The air was rent--

          PHAEDRA
          My husband is alive,
          That is enough, Oenone. I have own'd
          A passion that dishonours him. He lives:
          I ask to know no more.

          OENONE
          What?

          PHAEDRA
          I foretold it,
          But you refused to hear. Your tears prevail'd
          Over my just remorse. Dying this morn,
          I had deserved compassion; your advice
          I took, and die dishonour'd.

          OENONE
          Die?

          PHAEDRA
          Just Heav'ns!
          What have I done to-day? My husband comes,
          With him his son: and I shall see the witness
          Of my adulterous flame watch with what face
          I greet his father, while my heart is big
          With sighs he scorn'd, and tears that could not move him
          Moisten mine eyes. Think you that his respect
          For Theseus will induce him to conceal
          My madness, nor disgrace his sire and king?
          Will he be able to keep back the horror
          He has for me? His silence would be vain.
          I know my treason, and I lack the boldness
          Of those abandon'd women who can taste
          Tranquillity in crime, and show a forehead
          All unabash'd. I recognize my madness,
          Recall it all. These vaulted roofs, methinks,
          These walls can speak, and, ready to accuse me,
          Wait but my husband's presence to reveal
          My perfidy. Death only can remove
          This weight of horror. Is it such misfortune
          To cease to live? Death causes no alarm
          To misery. I only fear the name
          That I shall leave behind me. For my sons
          How sad a heritage! The blood of Jove
          Might justly swell the pride that boasts descent
          From Heav'n, but heavy weighs a mother's guilt
          Upon her offspring. Yes, I dread the scorn
          That will be cast on them, with too much truth,
          For my disgrace. I tremble when I think
          That, crush'd beneath that curse, they'll never dare
          To raise their eyes.

          OENONE
          Doubt not I pity both;
          Never was fear more just than yours. Why, then,
          Expose them to this ignominy? Why
          Will you accuse yourself? You thus destroy
          The only hope that's left; it will be said
          That Phaedra, conscious of her perfidy,
          Fled from her husband's sight. Hippolytus
          Will be rejoiced that, dying, you should lend
          His charge support. What can I answer him?
          He'll find it easy to confute my tale,
          And I shall hear him with an air of triumph
          To every open ear repeat your shame.
          Sooner than that may fire from heav'n consume me!
          Deceive me not. Say, do you love him still?
          How look you now on this contemptuous prince?

          PHAEDRA
          As on a monster frightful to mine eyes.

          OENONE
          Why yield him, then, an easy victory?
          You fear him? Venture to accuse him first,
          As guilty of the charge which he may bring
          This day against you. Who can say 'tis false?
          All tells against him: in your hands his sword
          Happily left behind, your present trouble,
          Your past distress, your warnings to his father,
          His exile which your earnest pray'rs obtain'd.

          PHAEDRA
          What! Would you have me slander innocence?

          OENONE
          My zeal has need of naught from you but silence.
          Like you I tremble, and am loath to do it;
          More willingly I'd face a thousand deaths,
          But since without this bitter remedy
          I lose you, and to me your life outweighs
          All else, I'll speak. Theseus, howe'er enraged
          Will do no worse than banish him again.
          A father, when he punishes, remains
          A father, and his ire is satisfied
          With a light sentence. But if guiltless blood
          Should flow, is not your honour of more moment?
          A treasure far too precious to be risk'd?
          You must submit, whatever it dictates;
          For, when our reputation is at stake,
          All must be sacrificed, conscience itself.
          But someone comes. 'Tis Theseus.

          PHAEDRA
          And I see
          Hippolytus, my ruin plainly written
          In his stern eyes. Do what you will; I trust
          My fate to you. I cannot help myself.

 Left alone with Oenone after hearing that she is the new regent of Athens, Phaedra confesses that she shares Hippolytus' views on her ability to rule. She cannot even govern her own emotions; how is she to govern a great state? Oenone urges her to take up her duties and forget Hippolytus, but Phaedra says it is too late. She has confessed her love to Hippolytus, and Oenone has taught her how to hope. Oenone reminds her how scornfully Hippolytus has rejected her, but Phaedra is already interpreting the rejection in a more favorable light. Perhaps, she thinks, Hippolytus was simply surprised: After all, he had never heard words of love spoken to him before. Oenone doubts it: "He hates all women," she says somberly, but Phaedra, impatient, calls on her to "serve my passion, not my reason." She has a plan; if Hippolytus is not fond of women, he appears to find the regency of Athens attractive, and it is now at Phaedra's disposal. Oenone is to tempt Hippolytus with the information that if Hippolytus will take over the guardianship of Phaedra's son and Phaedra herself, the queen will cede him the crown. If an offer of love has not touched his heart, perhaps an offer of power may do so. Oenone departs to carry out her instructions, and Phaedra, left alone, implores Venus to cease tormenting her and to turn her vengeance rather upon the obdurate Hippolytus. Oenone returns almost immediately with shattering news. Phaedra must forget her plans: Theseus is alive; he is in Troezen. Instantly, Phaedra resolves not to live to see her husband's face. How can she greet him when Hippolytus will be looking on, with the memory of her declaration to him fresh in his ears? And Hippolytus will certainly tell his father what has passed. Bitterly she reproaches Oenone: If her nurse had allowed her to die that morning, as she wished, she would have died with dignity; now she will leave a dishonored name behind her, which will shame her race and her sons. Oenone immediately pleads with Phaedra: Her sons will certainly suffer, but if Phaedra consents, both she and her sons may be spared this shame and the satisfaction with which Hippolytus will savor it. How does Phaedra feel now about Hippolytus? Phaedra, seeing in him a reflection of her own dishonor, cries, "In my eyes he is a frightful monster!" and Oenone, satisfied, proceeds. Why should Phaedra not speak first and accuse Hippolytus of the same crime of which he is preparing to accuse her? Her story will be instantly believed; her previous dislike for him will be explained, and his sword is there as material evidence that he threatened her. Phaedra is horrified by this proposal, but Oenone assures her that Phaedra need do nothing. Oenone will speak and take the lie upon herself. Phaedra, stung by the remembrance of Hippolytus' rejection, consents.

